As things turned out, the dog was obligingly well behaved – sickeningly so in fact. He made sheep’s eyes at all and sundry, rolled gaily on his back, and at the advent of the cocktail sausages even performed some creditable begging tricks. Consequently he was stuffed with food and cooed over unceasingly. Gross.
The evening developed well. As hoped, Freddie Balfour was mercifully absent, the cards lively and my own efforts sound. We left just after midnight, dog sated and owner pleased … Yes, I mused, Melinda Balfour had been lucky to have me as a partner and she would notice the difference when Blanche Swithin returned next week (‘Oh what a falling-off there’ll be!’ – Shakespeare, more or less, I think). I patted my handbag containing the proceeds and addressed my companion. ‘Well, Bouncer, that’ll get me a new bottle of Chanel and you a fresh bone – perhaps even a toy rabbit if you are very good.’ He remained silent, being engrossed in the moving shapes of the gorse bushes as we trundled along the rutted track to the road that winds across the downs and into the valley.
As I drove still amused by my lucrative bridge skill – a legacy from Pa – I was put in mind of Hubert Topping suavely bankrupting the martini set at Christoff’s … Yes, one could just see him in the role of croupier: dapper in dinner jacket, raking the counters while purring words of cheer and consolation to gullible punters. And afterwards? Doubtless slipping with cronies into some curtained recess to split and toast the evening’s spoils. And in the dawn light did he perhaps retire with a cup of delicate Lapsang and a volume of Horace … or with volumes of vodka and a sultry showgirl? I contemplated the possibilities. But not for long as my reverie was halted by the dog: it wanted to get out.
‘Oh really, Bouncer,’ I protested, ‘can’t you wait? Lie down and be a good boy.’ He didn’t lie down but squirmed in the seat emitting reproachful grunts. Reluctantly I stopped the car and shoved him out. The night was clear with bright stars and a waxing moon, and I was persuaded to take the air with a cigarette and imbibe the silence. Far off, the lights of Lewes twinkled. But up on the ridge, apart from the dog shuffling in the gorse, all was still and tranquil.
I drew on my cigarette, and glancing to the right realised I had parked by the old dew pond, a favourite spot with children and local ramblers. Indeed as children ourselves – and although denizens of the eastern Weald – we had come up periodically to sail toy boats and splash in its shallows. On one occasion Francis (typically) had fallen in, and there was an awful hullaballoo because he had refused to come out. I smiled at the memory, savouring my cigarette and gazing at the gleaming waters and the abandoned years … And then I stopped gazing and instead stared hard. There was something floating there, long and solid; a distinct blot on the smooth surface. A discarded bundle of rubbish? A couple of logs or— ‘Christ almighty!’ I yelped, and leapt back in appalled disbelief … Legs, not logs. It was a body: a body on its front, half in and half out of the water; but worse than that, a body minus something. Its head.
For a few dazed seconds I convinced myself the thing was a battered shop mannequin discarded by a disgruntled floor walker; or perhaps the girl guides had been up there with a stuffed dummy practising their first aid and in an access of experimental zeal had been too free with the scissors. When one’s own body is struck with horror it is remarkable how active the brain becomes in seeking palliatives. But the images of invention dissolve and there remains the raw reality. Thus I stood transfixed in the clawing silence, numbed by that reality, my hands stiff and feet riveted to the turf.
Then suddenly from the depths of lost years I heard the shrill voice of my brother: ‘Let’s play cops and robbers! I’ll lie down and pretend to be dead and you’ve got to come and examine my corpse with the magnifying glass. Hurry up, Prim, do!’
Thus mechanically but minus magnifying glass, I dutifully edged towards the pond and craned forward to get a closer look; and despite the dark and revulsion registered certain features. The form was fairly slight and short but seemed to be male and was clad in what looked like a brown-checked sports jacket with patches on the elbows; a pallid hand flung sideways from the water displayed a signet ring on the little finger … Then, scrutiny over and now thoroughly yanked back to the present, I was about to dash to the car when two further details confronted me. One was the rosebud floating primly on the lucent waters; and the other was an additional accoutrement – the severed head. It lay a few feet from the pond’s edge, propped against a piece of flint, battered and balding … This time I closed my eyes and refrained from inspection.
I have to say that the whole experience was exceedingly monstrous and disgusting, and I felt far from well. The dog, of course, was in its element, prancing around in slavering delight emitting the most sordid noises and with tail wagging non-stop. Typical. I was neither prancing nor slavering (being sick in a gorse bush actually). And on reflection I can definitely say that it was not something my brother would have approved, his own dispatch of Mrs Fotherington having been the essence of discretion. I mean, this was so messy!
It was perishing cold up on those downs and if Bouncer thought I was going to hang about just to indulge his morbid appetite he had another think coming. So I clipped the lead onto his collar, hauled him back to the car and took off pretty damn quick. By the time we gained the main road the dog had ceased its clamour and sat meekly on the front seat presumably lost in its own thoughts. As I was in mine. Who was it for the good Lord’s sake? Could it really be him?
It was not pleasant reviewing the evidence, particularly of one so truncated; but such things tend to stick in the mind and it required no effort to recall the details. They were there already assaulting my eyes, rearing and jostling in the driving mirror: brown-checked jacket, short, smallish frame, receding hair (I winced), signet ring on right hand, and above all the confounded rose. There was little doubt: the corpse must surely be that of the recently appointed Latin master to Erasmus House, the county’s most favoured prep school. Singular to say the least …
What a relief to get back to the outskirts of Lewes and see the beckoning lights of my house. I felt better immediately, and once inside mixed a more than liberal pick-me-up. Despite the warmth of the drawing room I was chilled to the bone – shock, I suppose. So I put on all three bars of the electric fire and stood in front of it, throwing down the drink and seeing that awful head. Fortunately by the third glass the head started to diminish, but my attention was caught by Bouncer and the cat. They seemed to be behaving rather oddly: standing facing each other with muzzles almost touching and just staring. The dog’s ears were cocked, the cat’s flattened and each was slowly waving its tail. They must have sensed that I was watching for in the next moment, amid yowls and growls, there was a flurried exodus to the kitchen and I heard no more … I don’t really understand animals but Mrs Fobbs from the sweetshop swears blind that they use a form of private speech. It’s amazing what people will believe.
Anyway, to return to the head – and the torso for that matter: clearly Topping had not engineered his own decapitation, so someone else must have had a hand. Not, I thought, the headmaster because despite what Emily had said regarding their dispute over the timetable clashes, Winchbrooke is one who will do anything for a quiet life, or so Emily assures me, and going so far as to murder one of his own staff would surely defeat the object. Such urges can backfire – as my poor brother once found to his cost. No, surely someone else was the culprit.
I reflected upon the rose. For a bloom that had been in the pond for some time you would expect bedraggled petals or none at all. But from what I recalled the thing had looked perkily pristine, which rather suggested that Topping’s committal to water had taken place shortly before my arrival. Whether the gory coup de grâce had been struck in situ or at an earlier stage, or indeed whether it had been delivered pre- or post-mortem, were not aspects I cared to pursue: the fact that the committal, in whatever mode, was likely to have occurred just minutes prior to my being there was more than enough. Just think, it could ha
ve been happening at the very time I was scooping that fourth trick from under Daisy Wingate’s nose!
I downed further fortification and after which began to feel distinctly queasy – though whether the effects of squeamishness or overindulgence I couldn’t be sure. Possibly the brandy itself: our wine merchant’s stock is notoriously poor. (Must remember to order from Berry Bros in future.) But nausea apart, it was now past two o’clock and time for bed. On my way up I looked in on the kitchen where to my surprise I saw both animals curled up in Bouncer’s basket. I had never seen that before and Francis used to tell me they couldn’t abide each other’s sleeping quarters. Strange … but then so was Topping and his lost head. I had always said he spelt trouble. Bloody man!
As I undressed, it crossed my mind I should apprise the police of my startling find; a quick call to the station should have them up and running all right. I pictured Sergeant Wilding at the duty desk bellowing his cohorts into action with truncheons primed and walkie-talkies jabbering – and somehow the scene plunged me into even greater weariness. I paused irresolute, envisaging the pandemonium; and with stocking in one hand and pyjama top in the other, weighed the pros and cons. Police or sleep? The latter was the more enticing. And thus with dawn only four hours hence I decided to shelve the matter. After all, it was not as if the body had been found in a river and thus liable to float away: one cannot proceed far in a dew pond. And even in these urban times, here in Sussex there still lurks a random shepherd or two, and doubtless such a one would make the same discovery. A hue and cry would ensue while I could remain at a safe distance, i.e. in bed, and thus be spared the tedium of a nocturnal visit from the investigating authorities.
Yes, I told myself, when in doubt wait and see – one of Pa’s more practical dicta. Luckily the condition of doubtfulness rarely afflicts me, unlike it did Francis, but when such moments do befall, staying one’s hand is no bad thing.
The hand, however, was not stayed for long as curiosity got the better of me. Thus with the first note of the blackbird I flung back the bedclothes wildly agog to learn more of Topping’s misadventure and the cause of such malice – for malice there had most certainly been. Naturally, the man must have done something pretty dire to inflame such an attack. My earlier suspicions were entirely justified, spot on surely; though I have to say that I had not foreseen him as a victim, rather the reverse. Nevertheless it just went to show that he had been far from kosher, however good his Latin. I mean if he had been above board he wouldn’t have got murdered, would he? (Admittedly no one could have accused Mrs Fotherington of not being above board, but then she had been a special case … as was her assailant.)
I dressed hurriedly but dallied over breakfast, filling up on jam and black coffee while devising a pretext for visiting the school to see exactly what was going on. I sat and brooded, idly scanning the spines of the cookery books. And then suddenly a title caught my eye: Pen Scratches from Mongolia: An Artist’s Vision. I was perplexed. What an uninspiring title and whatever was it doing there? It certainly wasn’t one of mine for I had no desire to visit Mongolia, still less have a vision of it … And then, of course, I remembered: the book had been thrust upon me by Winchbrooke on my return from the Auvergne a couple of years previously. He had seemed to think the two regions held some similarity, though what I can’t imagine, and had presented it to me on a ‘long loan’. Well, long or short, I certainly didn’t want it cluttering up my bulging shelves: it should be returned to its owner forthwith. A splendid excuse. I leapt from the table, grabbed the book and my coat, and with mind ablaze with questions, set off for Erasmus House.
Halfway there I bumped into Charles Penlow and his cairn terrier ambling towards me on the path leading from the school. ‘I say, Charles,’ I demanded, ‘have you just come from Erasmus and did you hear anything?’
‘What?’ he said, looking blank.
‘The school. Have you been there, and if so what’s going on?’
‘Er, well no actually – we’ve just been to the vet’s. Duster’s got something in his paw, a thorn I think. Roberts has mixed some stuff for it and I have to give the little blighter hot poultices until it starts to—’
‘Oh dear, poor dog,’ I said impatiently. ‘So you haven’t heard anything then?’
‘Heard what?’
I started to relate my ghastly discovery but stopped abruptly. It doesn’t do to be precipitate in such matters; far better to stick to my original plan of simply making a casual appearance at the place and subtly absorbing what intelligence I could. Thus I gave dog and owner a ravishing smile and said I hoped they would both be better soon. I thought Charles looked a little puzzled but I hadn’t time to hang about and took off smartly.
Entering the school gates, I crossed what they ambitiously call the quadrangle – a sort of flag-stoned yard with pots of ferns festering in dank corners. At the main door a miniscule child accosted me whom I recognised as Sicky Dicky – Richard Ickington, grandson of the high court judge of the same soubriquet. Dicky had been the proud recipient of a prize I had recently presented for the best junior painter of wildlife – newts principally – and he took his Fine Art studies very seriously.
‘I say,’ he piped excitedly, ‘you will never guess what we’ve seen up at the dew pond!’
‘Really?’ I enquired blandly, heart lurching.
‘Yes, it’s super-duper! Gave us quite a shock I can tell you. You ought to go up there and take a look, Miss Oughterard. You’ll get a big surprise.’
Like hell I would! … I gazed benignly at the little boy, trying to project an air of unruffled interest. Friends with children tell me one should never evince alarm or undue agitation with the young, it unsettles them. ‘And what would that be?’ I murmured.
‘Masses of them, the thing’s simply crawling. All over it they are!’
‘What thing?’ I said sharply, revolted by his words.
‘The pond! All those tadpoles – hundreds of them and baby newts too. It’s chockers! We were there yesterday morning and Mr Cheesman says it’s the sudden warm weather, makes them hatch and grow you know.’ He beamed rapturously, and then plucking my arm added, ‘And what’s more I’m going to paint them – all in different sizes and in different patterns. Perhaps I’ll get a prize again. Grandpa would like that; he says I’m a right little Picasso. Do you think it’s a good idea, Miss Oughterard?’
‘Wonderful,’ I said faintly. He capered off, warbling Colonel Bogey, while I sat down heavily on the porch bench and drew a deep breath.
Collecting my thoughts I considered my next move: obviously a direct approach to Winchbrooke’s study flourishing book and gushing its praises … Foiled again. Fräulein Hockheimer clattered towards me garbed in a voluminous smock which she clearly thought had something to do with Renoir. I put my head down and scrabbled in my handbag, vainly hoping she would pass by.
‘Ach, Madame Hooterayde,’ she exclaimed, ‘what honour to zee you hi-er. I was just telling ze boys vat interesting talks ve hef hed at the party of Hoobat!’
‘Of who?’ I said.
‘Herr Topping. You remember ve spoke of—’
‘Ah … yes, indeed. And, er, tell me Fräulein, how is Mr Topping?’
She looked a trifle downcast. ‘Alas, he ist gone.’ Too right he’s gone, I thought. ‘A big shame because he vas going to help me viz my picture framing but suddenly he disappear!’ I was about to enquire how suddenly when she added brightly, ‘But he certainly come beck tomorrow.’ Her faith was almost touching.
‘Well that’s nice,’ I said kindly. ‘Now tell me, have you seen the headmaster because I really need to speak—’
‘He is gone too.’
‘Where? To the police station?’
‘Oh no, they cancelled ze fine.’
I regarded her with mild irritation. ‘I am not referring to Mr Winchbrooke’s misdemeanour on the A27, but his going to the police to report a crime.’
‘But he is not with ze police; he is in London with Herr
Topping. Hoobat is going to present there a special paper, “Vax Lyrical Viz Latin Syntax”.’ She beamed. ‘He is very clever, you know. Now if you will excuse me I must go and “zound ze brass”!’ She pounded off, smock billowing; and the next moment my ears were rent by the crashing of the school bell. It was, I felt, time to leave.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Primrose Version
I walked home in a semi-daze stunned by Hockheimer’s words. Could the woman be right? Was Topping really in London with Winchbrooke ‘vaxing lyrical’ with his Latin syntax? If so, what was he also doing up at the dew pond minus his head? Clearly the two conditions were incompatible. Assuming the art mistress was not totally addled (questionable), there were two possibilities: either the headmaster had slain his companion – or the thing I had seen the previous night had not been Topping at all but some other corpse.
I reflected on this, bringing to mind the hastily noted details of build, jacket, signet ring, receding hair and, of course, the floating rose. Rather reluctantly I had to admit that the first four features were not necessarily the monopoly of Topping – a lot of men were below average height, wore brown-checked jackets with elbow patches, were growing thin on top and, albeit more rarely, wore signet rings. Thus I conceded that the victim could perhaps be A. N. Other. But then what about the rosebud for God’s sake? Surely A. N. Other hadn’t been given to sporting one of those as well.
I was just musing upon these matters and deciding that I should ring Emily immediately to verify if Winchbrooke and Topping were indeed in London, when I was startled (bludgeoned) by the blaring of a klaxon. Its provenance was a black vintage Citroën of Gestapo mien parked by the bridge. One sees few of such models these days, and indeed the only one that I know hails from Brighton and belongs to Nicholas Ingaza. I glared at the vehicle and was acknowledged by a languid wave from the driver’s window.
The Primrose Pursuit Page 6