The Primrose Pursuit

by Suzette A. Hill

  Once home and unsated by the pub’s cold collation I stirred the stew and pondered Ingaza’s tale of Polly’s speedy delivery to her house. Clearly, if anyone had been hidden in that silent vehicle outside Topping’s cottage it had not been her. Had the superintendent been alone there after all and, as I had originally surmised, intent on some perfectly legitimate police business – business which necessitated prowling around and peering into innocently parked cars? Presumably. Yet according to Melinda he had sent his wife home after the dinner saying there were mountains of urgent paperwork awaiting him at the station. But if that were so, and not, as assumed, a pretext to dally with Polly, why had he been knocking on my car window at midnight and not sitting at his desk toiling over reports?

  I took a ruminative sip of wine and addressed the dog: ‘You know what, Bouncer? I think he was on the Topping trail, and just like us was there to spy out the land. Perhaps he had received a sudden tip-off. What about that phone call to the hotel, for instance?’ The dog gave a gormless stare and then promptly went to sleep. So much for animal empathy.

  I have to admit to being annoyed at the thought of MacManus conducting the same speculative vigil as myself, and wondered irritably whether he had learnt anything. What had happened, for instance, after my hurried departure? Had Topping and accomplice turned up staggering under the weight of drug-laden cargo conveniently shouting out words of triumph? Or had the prey returned empty-handed and alone, slipped quietly through his front door and retired meekly for the night? Or had he not appeared at all? Or had the waiting MacManus grown impatient and driven off to the comfort of his bed, and like me none the wiser? I sighed. It was all very frustrating.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Primrose Version

  Thursday brought the Erasmus House Founder’s Day dinner, an event from which Winchbrooke excluded all staff but assiduously invited the patrons and local notables – presumably in the hope that their presence might bring fiscal benefit. Since I had donated a couple of my paintings to the school – and I suspect was marked down for more – my own name featured on the guest list; as did that of Chief Superintendent MacManus. I rather doubted whether the latter’s presence would be of pecuniary value but assumed he had been invited to confer a whiff of legal probity should the Inland Revenue turn wayward.

  Being taken up with an expectant daughter in London, Mrs Winchbrooke was unable to play hostess, and thus Melinda Balfour, escorted by ubiquitous Freddie, had been asked to deputise. To my distaste – and given our last encounter some slight unease – I found myself seated next to MacManus. Why Melinda had decided to place me so I cannot imagine; she knew very well my lack of sympathy for the man. Doubtless revenge for my having trounced her at the last bridge supper. Anyway, whatever the reason, there I was being charming in the teeth of a bleak challenge.

  ‘Tell me, Chief Superintendent,’ I began earnestly, ‘now that you are well established in our neighbourhood, how are you finding things? It is a lovely part of Sussex but new places always take some getting used to, however attractive. Wouldn’t you agree? … Or perhaps you miss the bright lights of London,’ I added vacuously. ‘I fear we are a little dull down here.’

  There was a pause while he seemed to consider. And then after an unduly protracted sip of his soup, he replied, ‘I wouldn’t go so far as that, Miss Oughterard, not with this current tragedy still looming over us. From my observations, it is not something that the majority of Lewes’s residents would term “dull”. But, of course, you being an artist might think it small beer in comparison with some of the bohemian excesses one hears of these days.’ He gave a wintry smile and I felt justifiably rebuked.

  ‘Oh no,’ I gasped in horror, ‘of course I didn’t mean that, far from it! Naturally, we are all appalled by this dreadful business and are only too anxious for the villains to be found. I suppose I really meant generally speaking, that is to say, in your recreational time.’

  He observed soberly that as a senior police officer he had little time for recreation and that the current case in particular was absorbing most of his energies. ‘But it will be resolved I assure you, Miss Oughterard, have no doubt of that. These things just require tenacity and patience – and, of course, the cooperation of the public.’ He gave me a hard look. ‘Some people take their civic duties rather lightly.’

  ‘Oh I am sure they do,’ I agreed quickly, ‘so thoughtless!’ (Oh God, was he still brooding on Bouncer’s wretched name tag? Did he really suspect that I had witnessed something?) I turned smartly to my neighbour; but before I had managed to catch the attention of the colonel’s deaf ear, MacManus said abruptly, ‘And how is Bouncer?’

  ‘Bouncer? Oh he’s always all right.’

  ‘That’s not what you said the other night. I gather he had been poorly which is why you had taken him to that field below Barking Wood. One of his favourite haunts you said.’

  I gave a smile of lying agreement, wondering nervously what this was leading up to. Was he suspicious of the excuse I had given (true, exercising the dog did seem pretty limp) and suspected some other motive for my being there? Quite possibly. But then I still couldn’t make out what he had been doing since amatory dalliance was evidently not the reason. Perhaps my earlier notion was correct and he really had been staking out Topping’s cottage, lurking around in the hope of surprising his quarry. If so then he was sharper than I had given him credit for. It was, I supposed, just conceivable that this stiff-necked man was streets ahead of me in the affair, had everything sewn up and was on the brink of busting Topping. Was he perhaps already anticipating his triumph and the prospect of another rung up the chief constable ladder? Well, I thought sourly, if he was so damn clever then he didn’t need the help of Primrose Oughterard. I turned again to my other neighbour and this time did manage to get his attention. ‘How’s tricks, Colonel?’ I asked gaily.

  ‘Damned godawful,’ was the growling reply, ‘and so is this claret. Can’t think where they get the stuff!’

  We spent an amiable ten minutes disparaging the claret, the price of coal and most other things. But such pleasantry could not be sustained, for when the colonel stooped to retrieve his fallen napkin I received a light tap on the elbow from MacManus, who with no preliminaries said: ‘By the way, Miss Oughterard, how often do you and your dog go wandering in Barking Wood?’

  ‘We do not wander, we march,’ I replied curtly, puzzled by his interest. ‘And as to how often, I really couldn’t say.’ I fixed him with a cool stare, stung both by the question and its bald delivery. Really, anyone would think we were down at the police station rather than in the headmaster’s dining room.

  He must have sensed my annoyance for he said quickly, ‘One doesn’t like to talk shop on such occasions, but you see with your local knowledge there’s something you might be able to help me with.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Something in the wood.’

  ‘In the wood? Whatever do you mean?’ I exclaimed.

  He cleared his throat and dropped his voice further. ‘Yes. You see there is an old shed there, a disused charcoal burners’ hut which according to local legend was used by smugglers to store their contraband. Of course that’s all history now but we have reason to believe that recently it has been used for storing something else equally illicit.’

  ‘Absinthe, not brandy?’ I quipped.

  ‘Of a similar potency,’ he said solemnly, ‘cocaine.’

  I was startled. Ingaza in talking of Topping’s onus had certainly surmised the existence of a drug dealing ring in the area, but it had been mere speculation. Yet here was the chief superintendent voicing the same theory – although coming from such a source it was less likely to be theory than fact.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ I replied, ‘but I really cannot see what that this has to do with Bouncer and me; we are not familiar with drugs.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ he replied, ‘but you might be able to supply information all the same.’ (Possibly not? The cheek of the man!) ‘You see as you and Bouncer f
requent that area I thought you may have seen something untoward, persons hanging around the shed, for instance.’

  Since I had never taken Bouncer anywhere near the wood before that evening, the question was irrelevant. However, having fabricated the lie I was bound to stick with it. Thus I frowned, trying to give the impression of deep thought. ‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘I am afraid I can’t help you there. I don’t recall seeing anybody on our little walks, not a soul.’ I endeavoured to sound regretful. And then a thought struck me: ‘But have you asked Mr Topping, that nice Latin master from the boys’ school? Living so close he may well have seen something.’ I beamed helpfully.

  MacManus gave a non-committal nod and after a pause said, ‘I expect you were wondering what I was doing there on that Wednesday night. Sorry if I startled you.’

  I shrugged. ‘Not really. Presumably some police matter …’

  ‘Exactly. We had had a tip-off that there might be activities at the hut that evening; but other than seeing you in your car, there was nothing.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I murmured, ‘a false trail.’

  ‘Hmm. You could say that I suppose.’

  He didn’t sound especially convinced and seemed to be regarding me with an unnecessarily fixed gaze – at least so it seemed; but perhaps that was simply the effect of the heavy eyebrows which rather got in the way of things. It occurred to me afterwards that perhaps he suspected I was one of those ‘persons hanging around’.

  Anyway, at that moment I was dug in the ribs by the colonel, who in a rasping stage whisper said, ‘I say, my dear, if you are not going to eat any more of that trifle you can pass it to me. Our host’s puddings are considerably better than his wines.’ Thankfully, I turned away from MacManus and gave the colonel my plate.

  After the cheese we broke for the port – the men for the port, we women to gossip in Mrs Winchbrooke’s bedroom followed by coffee in the drawing room. I always feel glad of such interludes. I mean if one has been grappling with some ponderous type like MacManus it is very refreshing to be amidst the scent and idle chatter of one’s girlfriends.

  However, nothing lasts and once we were all reassembled sipping liqueurs, to my annoyance I again found myself sitting next to MacManus. (I really must have a word with Melinda regarding the logistics of such matters.)

  I didn’t think the port had done him any good. He looked flushed and his voice had taken on a distinctly conspiratorial tone.

  ‘I expect you are wondering where my wife is,’ he said.

  ‘Er, not really,’ I replied indifferently.

  ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘she has gone to stay with her mother.’

  ‘How nice,’ I said vaguely.

  ‘Yes, in Norfolk.’

  I was about to quip ‘very flat, Norfolk’ but thought better of it. I mean what on earth was the point?

  And just as I was thinking that I was sitting next to the biggest bore in Christendom he suddenly said, ‘I met a friend of yours recently.’

  ‘How nice,’ I said again. ‘And who would that be?’

  At first the name Sidney Samson meant absolutely nothing to me. And it was only when MacManus cleared his throat and added, ‘Chief inspector as he now is,’ that it suddenly struck a chord. That was the name of the beastly little detective sergeant who had been so irksome to Francis during the Fotherington débâcle. He and his superior, March, had been most persistent, and while the latter was civil enough his ferrety sidekick, Samson, had been obnoxiously tiresome – and dangerous. After the shelving of the case and Francis’s death, I heard he had gone to Scotland Yard – destined for higher things apparently. Judging from this new title he was progressing briskly.

  As these memories stirred, I sensed that MacManus was regarding me intently. I smiled vaguely and took a bolstering sip of Benedictine. ‘I do remember but I don’t think “friend” is quite the right term, we met once, that’s all.’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh just a façon de parler you might say.’ (No actually, I wouldn’t bloody say I thought savagely.) ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I was up at the Yard recently and we happened to bump into each other and had a chinwag about old times. He remembers you from that unsolved case in your brother’s parish. Says you were very sharp – says you were both very sharp in fact. Uncommonly so.’ Frankly I don’t think that I had ever heard Francis described as ‘sharp’ – although since he had succeeded in foiling Detective Sergeant Samson at a crucial stage of the investigation some might regard him as such.

  ‘I am flattered,’ I replied. ‘But I’m even more surprised that the chief inspector should remember me.’

  ‘Oh our Sidney remembers everything, particularly people. That’s useful really, very useful – especially in our line of work.’ He gave a flaccid smile and a puff at the cigar someone had been fool enough to offer him. ‘Yes,’ he mused, ‘it’s amazing the role memory plays in unravelling forgotten cases.’

  If he was trying to unsettle me he had certainly succeeded. What the hell was the wretch getting at?

  ‘Now,’ Freddie Balfour suddenly bellowed from across the room and clapping his hands, ‘we are all going to play Murder in the Dark. Chop, chop, everybody! No excuses!’ I don’t think the headmaster had been expecting that and I saw him crumple as if hit by a cricket ball.

  ‘Just up your street, Chief Superintendent,’ I said winsomely, and promptly volunteered to play the victim.

  Later in bed that night and worn out with being the corpse, I reflected on my conversation with MacManus. Normally this might have sent me off to sleep pretty quickly. As it was, it kept me staring at the ceiling, irritable and worried. The allusion to Samson was a shock. It would suggest that the two had been discussing the details of the Molehill murder. Hearing of the Sussex killing and perhaps recalling that Lewes was where the Revd Oughterard’s sister lived, Samson may have been moved to speculate about all manner of things with MacManus. I could picture the pair of them hunched over a table in some drab office: the Whippet, as Francis had always called Samson, still sallow and scrawny and his nicotined fingers rolling the inevitable fag, while our ‘handsome’ Sussex gauleiter grimly lapped up his every hint and suspicion.

  I sighed and switched off the light. The things one has to put up with! I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, having a murderer in the family is not something one is especially anxious to shout from the rooftops. And the fact that Francis escaped detection, and indeed died a hero’s death, makes it no less tricky: one is so vulnerable to officious enquiry. Naturally, I know that the foolish boy simply lost his head and blundered, but others might not see it in that light, least of all Alastair MacManus. Thus it was with considerable disquiet that I eventually slipped into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Cat’s Views

  Bouncer continues to be useful(!) and I like to think that he is at last benefitting from my example. His approach to the cairn at Podkennel has been productive and Duster has presented his first report. This was brought by Eleanor, Duster being entrapped by his master who had insisted he accompany him to the dentist. Apparently the tall man has a pathological fear of dentists and always takes the dog as a kind of moral support; says he likes to see a familiar face when he is pinioned in the chair. The cairn is scathing of this and complains that anyone would think he was a frigging teddy bear … a view with which, despite the language, I have some sympathy.

  Anyway, as said, Duster’s observations were relayed to us by the Persian. Lavish of face, Eleanor is also lavish of word and gesture. Thus we were treated to an operatic version of Top-Ho’s movements. This required close attention as it was not easy to discern hard content amidst the florid delivery. However, after a careful sifting of ornament from fact it transpired that the man’s midnight visits to Podkennel were becoming more frequent and that on the last occasion he had been accompanied by another person, long and lanky and on foot. This person had arrived before Top-Ho and skulked about filing his nails until the other turned up on his b
icycle. The latter removed several bulky packets from his cycle bag, and carrying these they entered the building and shut the door.

  Naturally, I enquired if the cairn had followed them into the stable. Eleanor said she had asked the same question but that Duster had looked shirty and answered that since he was neither a beetle nor a ghost the task would have been difficult. The Persian seemed to find that very funny, so for five minutes we were treated to a hail of spit and spluttering merriment. I think even Bouncer found that a trifle prolonged as in the middle of it he nipped off for a quick pee.

  Once Eleanor was recovered and Bouncer returned, she told us there was something else in Duster’s report. We cocked our ears expectantly but being theatrically disposed the Persian kept us waiting while she twirled around and played with her tail, what I believe is known as a dramatic pause. Performance over, she announced that there had also ‘been words’.

  ‘“Words”? What do you mean,’ I asked, ‘a quarrel?’

  She said that was what the cairn had inferred because Top-Ho had looked very angry and said something that sounded like ‘you are becoming a liar bubble and I’m not having it and neither will headquarters. They don’t like your brand of humour; this isn’t a pantomime you know, so just watch it!’

  ‘Liar bubble?’ I expostulated. ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean? The cairn must be mad or deaf.’ Eleanor shrugged and replied that she wouldn’t know about that but it was what he had definitely said.

  I began to ponder but was interrupted by Bouncer who suddenly barked: ‘LIABILITY, that’s what.’

  I gazed in astonishment. ‘You don’t know a word like that!’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ he growled, ‘it’s what F.O. used to say about me – “A blooming liability, that’s what you are, Bouncer.” He was always saying it, especially when I had chewed his cigarettes.’