The Primrose Pursuit

by Suzette A. Hill

  Absorbed by these thoughts and also wondering whether I should give the dog a treat for its supper, I was suddenly startled by the shrill blast of a bicycle bell and a voice from behind cried, ‘Why it’s Miss Oughterard, if I’m not mistaken. Walking all the way home? You should get one of these.’

  I turned, and smiling politely at the gnome crouched over the bike’s handlebars, said, ‘Actually, Mr Topping, I have a perfectly good motor car but I often choose to walk – it stimulates thought.’

  ‘How wise,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing like a good dose of country air to stir the old brain box – although,’ and he gave a light chuckle, ‘perhaps in your case one should say the paint box. An artist such as yourself must draw great inspiration from the tangibilities of nature. All those rambling sheep, rustic churches and enchanted moonlit ponds … nature seen in the raw must be vital to the muse!’ (Muse? I don’t have any muse. Hard graft, that’s what.) ‘Ah well,’ he continued, ‘if you will excuse me I must push on. Time and tide and the third-formers wait for no man.’ And with a brisk thrust to the peddles he sped off.

  I gazed after him. The ‘tangibilities of nature’ my foot! What extraordinary language these people used … And then I froze. What else had he said exactly? ‘All those rambling sheep, rustic churches and enchanted moonlit ponds.’ What ponds? I had never painted a pond in my life, least of all a moonlit one. Not one of my paintings featured such a thing, with or without enchantment! So was this simply part of his vacuous gush, or did the term hold a darker meaning, a sly reference to my presence on that fateful evening? Perhaps, as Nicholas had gaily hinted, I had indeed been observed and this was an oblique way of letting me know. I winced: not a happy thought … Still, I reasoned, it doesn’t do to be overly literal and one should always allow for poetic licence, especially with a smarmy type like Topping. Probably he had included the term randomly to evoke the bucolic style of my pictures. Yes, that was it surely: the term was merely figurative and contained nothing sinister at all. Clearly Emily’s revelation about the missing rosebud had made me unduly sensitive and I was seeing connections where none existed.

  Thus persuaded, I strode home where I was greeted by Maurice toting a mangled mouse. He wore that smug, self-satisfied look which invariably hints at further triumphs and whose remains are generally scattered in the kitchen. I entered cautiously. Two more bodies were laid out by the gas stove, their severed heads neatly arranged at their sides. I retreated to the drawing room, and with Carstairs in mind, poured a drink.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  My dear Agnes,

  You won’t believe this – but since my last letter the most extraordinary thing has befallen the school: Mr Carstairs, the maths master, has been found dead and decapitated at Chalk Hill dew pond. Yes, can you imagine! No, of course you can’t and neither can anyone else; but it has happened all right, and to prove it the police are swarming everywhere like flies or helmeted bluebottles. Mr Winchbrooke has turned a permanent shade of gangrenous grey, and Bertha Twigg, the gym mistress, has taken to her bed declaring that with this hanging over us she cannot possibly perform on the parallel bars. In my view no bad thing … the last time she ‘performed’ was sheer disaster and there have been complaints ever since. Anyway, the whole thing is very mysterious and very grisly.

  Now I come to think of it you are probably aware of it all, as I am sure dear Charles will have already informed you of the event. But speaking as one who is willy-nilly in the midst of things – or on the sands at Suez as young Harris and his cohorts keep bleating – I may be able to apprise you of the subtler details.

  One such detail is the new chief superintendent for Lewes police force, Alastair MacManus. Actually he is not subtle at all but rather imposing and has taken command in a most assertive manner. Primrose, needless to say, has taken against him, disliking both his manner and the fact that he is (allegedly) teetotal. ‘No good can come from such a person,’ she informs me periodically. But then, of course, she says the same about Mr Topping – who, as it happens, has turned out to be an absolute gem. Very good with the boys, universally useful and displaying a slightly roguish air which entirely captivates Fräulein Hockheimer. ‘He ist zo naice,’ she keeps intoning. Mind you, since the dreadful incident the roguish air has been somewhat displaced by a firm sobriety, and on at least two occasions I have overheard him reproving the boys for their ghoulish jokes and lack of respect for the departed. Personally, I feel that Erasmus House can only benefit from one of such sensibility.

  Whether Chief Superintendent MacManus has any sensibilities I am not sure but he certainly exudes an air of great competence. I can say this because today he actually took a hand in interviewing the school staff, including Yours truly. I gather from Sergeant Wilding that this is not normal practice, a fact that seems to cause him disquiet … well not so much disquiet as mild apoplexy. I think he had been looking forward to doing the job himself and clearly thinks MacManus’s intrusion highly irregular. Not being au fait with police protocol, I wouldn’t know. However, what I do know is that the chief superintendent is very stern and very searching. Indeed after my session with him I felt not so much ‘grilled’ as fried to a frazzle! At one point I ventured some light pleasantries but as these were met only with a grunt and a blank stare, I didn’t try again.

  Afterwards I mentioned this to Mr Topping who said that in his experience the police, particularly the top rankers, were not noted for their frivolity and that I mustn’t mind if my little banter had fallen flat. ‘Be assured,’ he had smiled, ‘your piquant wit is not lost on the rest of us.’ Evidently Mr Topping has some insight into police psychology and I have to say that I was most reassured, and indeed flattered, by his kind words. When I told Primrose this she laughed like a drain and said that piquant wit was not something she would readily associate with me and it was just conceivable that Topping had been pulling my leg. Really, at times she can be so cynical, not to say rude!

  Still, while the chief superintendent may not be blessed with much humour he certainly showed interest when I told him that I knew for a fact that Mr Carstairs had been in the habit of visiting his mother in Newhaven as he had said as much to me on more than one occasion. Yesterday I mentioned this to Primrose who immediately said the mother was bound to be a significant factor in the enquiry – and in this she seems to be right as Mr MacManus lost his grim expression and asked for the address. I explained that not having been on close terms with the deceased it was not, alas, something I could supply. He looked put out by that but wrote a few words in his notebook and said I had been most helpful.

  On that cheering note I assumed that was the end of things. Not a bit of it. The next moment he said, ‘Now tell me, madam, as school secretary I daresay you have access to quite a lot of correspondence.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘you have no idea how much we get: all those edicts from the ministry and the interminable circulars the governors insist on sending out, not to mention shoals of enquiries from the parents. A veritable avalanche! And then, of course, there are all the tradesmen’s bills to file, and—’

  ‘Not that sort of correspondence,’ he said rather curtly, ‘I am referring to letters for the staff. What is the system – are you responsible for their collection and distribution?’

  I confirmed that it was indeed my domain and that I was assiduous in personally inserting the letters into the staff pigeon holes. (Being of uncertain eyesight, my assistant Martha is apt to get muddled.)

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you would doubtless be aware of the volume and provenance of the deceased’s post.’

  I have to say, Agnes, that I couldn’t quite make out whether that was intended as a question or a statement but assumed the former; and nor was I entirely clear on ‘volume and provenance’ – but took it to mean how much mail did Mr Carstairs get and where did it come from. So I told him that having a demanding administrative schedule it really wasn’t something to which I had paid much attention. I don’t t
hink he liked that because I noticed one of his fingers beginning to twitch (though, of course, it might just be a congenital tic; Mother has one of those). ‘Well perhaps you could pay some attention to the matter now,’ he said. ‘Naturally my officers searched the deceased’s room but rather surprisingly they found no correspondence, either kept or discarded. So it would be helpful if you could recall when he last received a letter – or indeed whether there have been any subsequent to his passing.’

  I can’t say I was much struck by his tone which held a note of command rather too abrasive for my liking. Still, I suppose that is no bad thing in a policeman – after all they have to deal with some very peculiar types! But, as it happens, I knew I could give him a straight answer: ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘a letter arrived by the late post on the very day that we last saw him. I do remember putting it in his pigeon hole. Indeed who knows, it may still be there.’

  This piece of information had a startling effect on my interrogator and he leapt to his feet exclaiming, ‘Good God, woman, why on earth didn’t you tell me this before? We must get it immediately. Quick: conduct me to the pigeon holes!’ As a matter of fact I was feeling a little tired by this time, not to say a mite peckish having missed my usual elevenses; thus I was not especially eager to go traipsing all the way to the staff common room, whoever wished to be ‘conducted’. However, he seemed insistent so I did as I was bid.

  Was the letter there? No. Only a couple of the headmaster’s memos and Harris’s hundred lines: something about not catapulting the cat. MacManus asked if I was sure there had ever been such a letter, and rather coldly I told him that I had not been secretary at Erasmus House all this time to make a mistake like that, and that if he wanted my opinion, poor Mr Carstairs had probably retrieved it shortly before his death and dropped it along the way. (I gather his pockets were empty when found.)

  At that point, MacManus consulted his watch and said rather abruptly that in view of my heavy schedule he wouldn’t detain me any longer. I confess to being very glad about that as I was beginning to find the whole interview somewhat trying. Primrose’s remarks about him are unnecessarily scathing; but I would agree that his manner does lack emollience. Still, it is reassuring to know that the case is being handled by somebody of authority and purpose – unlike that idle type from Crawley we had a couple of years ago whose wife was had up for shoplifting and I don’t know what else! Yes, Agnes, I am sure that if anyone can get to the root of this disgraceful affair it will be the new broom of Chief Superintendent MacManus.

  Your good friend,

  Emily

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Cat’s View

  Settled in one of my favourite places, the hall window seat facing south, I lay musing upon my experiences of the previous night at Podmore. There was much to consider.

  However, I had not got far with my reflections when the dog appeared from the kitchen toting a brand new and assertively orange rabbit with blue waistcoat – clearly yet another toy P.O. had indulged him with. At least it had the merit of being clean. I hastily closed my eyes feigning sleep; not a notably successful tactic but always worth a try.

  I could hear him padding around, toenails clicking on the parquet, sniffing this and scratching that. Yet despite these mild irritants there seemed to be something missing which I couldn’t quite put my tail on. I opened one eye and shot a discreet look, but he seemed his usual self – tousled and aimless.

  I was about to shut the eye but it was too late, he had seen me. ‘What are you staring at, Maurice?’ he snorted, ‘thought you were supposed to be asleep.’

  ‘Just dozing,’ I replied casually. ‘But since you mention it, do you find that it is unusually quiet in here?’

  He frowned and shook himself from side to side, a noisy rat-a-tat action which was only too familiar. But today the racket seemed slightly more muted. ‘Where’s your collar?’ I asked. ‘P.O. doesn’t generally take it off till after supper.’

  ‘Wearing it,’ he said, ‘can’t you see?’

  I peered down trying to discern a glimpse of leather amidst all the fuzz. Yes, he was quite right, it was there. But in that case … ‘Aha,’ I mewed, light dawning, ‘Now I know what’s wrong. I’ve been wondering about that for some days: it’s your metal name tag, the one that always clinks against the collar studs. It’s not there. No wonder things have been a trifle more piano recently!’ Like my late grandfather’s, my ears are acutely sensitive – especially regarding anything connected with Dog. ‘P.O. must have taken it off.’

  He sat on his haunches and looked thoughtful. ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ he said slowly, ‘because now I come to think of it I have been feeling a bit odd these last few days … it’s as if something is missing, like I wasn’t quite all there. Do you know what I mean, Maurice?’

  ‘Actually, Bouncer,’ I replied, ‘I know exactly what you mean; I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ I raised a paw to my face to veil a smile. I think he was a little surprised at this ready agreement, so I went on quickly: ‘I wonder why she has removed it. Perhaps it needs polishing – it is amazing how such trivia will occupy humans.’

  ‘Hmm, don’t know about that,’ he growled, ‘but I want it back. I like the noise it makes, sort of friendly. And besides, it’s got my name on; people might not know who I am without it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ I assured him, ‘they know all right!’

  He sighed and looked bleak. ‘Even so, I still want it back. Doesn’t feel right without it.’ Then his ears cocked and he said hopefully, ‘Perhaps she is getting me another one, a bigger one. That’d be good.’

  ‘Would it,’ I remarked dryly. ‘And perhaps while she’s about it she will also buy you another mammoth rabbit – that one will be eviscerated within a week.’ I regarded the orange thing with distaste.

  ‘Huh,’ he snorted, ‘and bones could fly.’ Then he paused and added, ‘As a matter of fact, Maurice, I wouldn’t mind seeing a flying bone – brighten the day as you might say.’

  ‘Not my day it wouldn’t,’ I snapped. Really, as if normal ones weren’t bad enough, but the idea of an airborne bone was intolerable. Trust the dog to dream that one up!

  ‘Well I think it would be good sport, especially if it had an engine … almost as good as a souped-up cat.’ He spun round in a circle chasing his tail and then rushed into the garden roaring ‘Brroom-brroom! Brroom-brroom!’ at the top of his lungs.

  I closed my eyes and this time really did try to sleep.

  Alas, sleep is becoming almost as elusive here as it had been at the vicar’s. No sooner had I begun to nod off than I was disturbed by a loud screeching of tyres and the slamming of a car door. I raised my head, and saw sprawled on the gravel a low-slung black vehicle which I instantly recognised as belonging to the Type from Brighton. I sighed. One had seen quite enough of the Brighton Type when living in that other place and I had always placed him in the category of the Dubious and Dangerous. He had certainly led our master into some very fraught situations. But fortunately P.O. is more resilient than F.O. so I persuaded myself that his arrival here might prove less vexing than in the past.

  Vain hope! The moment he set foot in the hall and saw me on the seat he roared with laughter and said to P.O., ‘I see you’ve still got old Scrag-arse keeping sentry. And where’s the big fellow, burying bones?’

  I am not accustomed to being laughed at and even less to being described as ‘scrag-arse’. Thus I leapt to the floor, narrowed my eyes, gave one of the loudest hisses I could muster and stalked off tail at full mast. Disgraceful!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Primrose Version

  As planned, Ingaza came to tea and was moderately attentive to what I had to say about the Topping matter. Nevertheless his entry was not entirely welcomed by the cat who walked off in obvious ire. I think it was offended by the guest’s cavalier manner and to being referred to as ‘scrag-arse’; and once we were settled in the drawing room I did mur
mur a mild reproof: ‘It’s all very well for you, Nicholas, but you don’t have to live with these creatures. I do, and I can tell you they can be very sensitive, especially Maurice.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied indifferently, ‘that cat has a hide like the proverbial rhinoceros; tough as old boots. And what’s more it’s not something you’d want to meet on a dark night.’

  Actually I was inclined to agree, but said nothing and went instead to fetch the cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of Scotch.

  I could see that Ingaza was not enamoured of the grocer’s whisky but I had no intention of raiding Pa’s legacy of best malt. He would just have to make do. Besides, after the second glass it is amazing how quickly one becomes attuned.

  ‘So what do you think,’ I said eagerly, ‘is it really the same Topping that you knew at Oxford?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes, it’s him all right. Oddly enough he happened to come into one of the Brighton auction houses last week – only having a general browse, no serious intention. I was there bidding for a pal of mine and saw him at the far end of the room. Older, of course, as we all are, but he hadn’t changed really; just as dapper and pleased with himself. Still has those pink cheeks, which was what made me certain.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ I exclaimed, ‘he is obviously up to his fiendish tricks again down here in Sussex. Having been part of Messina’s mafia outfit he is bound to be involved in something murky. Leopards do not change their spots,’ I said firmly.

  Ingaza sipped his whisky, made a sour face and then giggled. ‘That’s what you said about me once.’