The Primrose Pursuit

by Suzette A. Hill

  I tore my gaze away from the distant downs, now misty from gathering rain, and surveyed the awful reality within. I closed my eyes … My dog had just savaged and given Hubert Topping a fatal heart attack, and on my premises! What the hell next, for God’s sake?

  The answer was immediate: for the silence was suddenly rent by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Even on the second floor there is no mistaking its querulous screech. Like the Macbeths I froze, petrified by the rasping sound … Then hastily sidestepping the thing on the floor I returned to the window and cautiously craned my neck to get a view of the visitor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Primrose Version

  Neither before nor since have I been so relieved to see the figure of Nicholas Ingaza – or rather the unmistakable form of his battered Citroën slouched on the gravel. I had no idea why he was here and didn’t care, but rushed downstairs and threw open the front door.

  ‘Huh,’ he sniffed, ‘you took your time. A chap could die of thirst standing in this porch.’

  ‘Nicholas,’ I gasped, hauling him inside, ‘something ghastly has happened and I need your help!’

  He looked startled, unused to seeing me so obviously perturbed, but responded with the usual nonchalance. ‘Really? How flattering: always nice to be wanted. So what is it – no more deadheading I trust?’

  ‘Not as such,’ I replied grimly, ‘though as good as. It’s Topping – he’s upstairs on the floor of the studio. Dead. He came to threaten and probably murder me at Beachy Head and the dog bit him and gave him a heart attack when I was fetching some water and then when I came back into the room, there he was dead as a doornail!’ The words came out in a flood and for once Nicholas was visibly shaken.

  ‘My God, Primrose,’ he protested, ‘I drop by for a cosy drink and you throw this at me. You almost put Francis in the shade!’

  For some reason the reference to Francis sobered me and I regained my customary aplomb: ‘He is already there, and don’t be facetious,’ I snapped. ‘I trust you are not insinuating that I am in any way responsible. The man brought it entirely upon himself. You had better come and have a look.’ I started to lead the way up the stairs.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, ‘I have no intention of looking at anything, least of all Topping’s corpse, unless I am armed with strong drink. Do fetch some whisky, dear girl, and not your usual grocer’s stuff. This calls for the real thing.’

  I was inclined to agree, and went off to fill two large glasses with Pa’s ancient malt. Given the situation I don’t think he would have objected.

  When I returned, Ingaza was sitting on the stairs puffing a Sobranie and talking to the dog who had followed me down, alerted by the noise. ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he grumbled, ‘stupid hound. You’ll give us all bloody heart attacks!’

  Bouncer gave a sort of snort and placed a matey paw on Ingaza’s knee. The latter took the whisky and regarded the paw. ‘Oh I suppose that’s his opening tactic – soften them up first and then go in for the kill.’ The dog wagged its tail.

  ‘I’ll have you know,’ I exclaimed indignantly, ‘that that “stupid hound” has just saved my life. As I have told you, Topping was actually planning to shove me off the top of Beachy Head or something equally dastardly. If it hadn’t been for Bouncer I could be floating among the breakers by now or being dashed to pieces on the lighthouse rocks.’

  ‘Rather an ambitious challenge I should have thought,’ Nicholas observed dryly.

  ‘Ambitious or not, that was his intention and Bouncer has foiled him!’

  Perhaps embarrassed by this spate of rare praise the dog removed its paw and ambled off into the kitchen from where could be heard the creaking of his basket followed by loud snores. Worn out by his exertions presumably.

  We continued to sip our drink while I apprised my visitor of Topping’s revelations and his killing of Respighi. ‘He admitted everything. Brazen, he was!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Hmm … The point is, Primrose, there will be repercussions and you’re going to be in the thick of it all with a lot of explaining to do, and things could get—’

  ‘Exactly. Things could get tricky. Do you imagine I haven’t thought of that? Apart from anything else MacManus’s nose is already beginning to twitch about poor Francis and the Molehill case; it would be frightful if it were re-opened – I mean, as his sister I could easily be dragged in. And my being present at Topping’s shocking demise will hardly help matters. They’ll pursue anything if they think it will give them a lead. And as it is that prig will insist I have Bouncer put down. So you see it is essential I have your help! We’ve got to think of something!’ I took him by the arm and added firmly, ‘Come on. The sooner seen, the better.’

  Ingaza sighed and made a plea for some more whisky. Further fortified, we mounted the stairs.

  Corpses in nightmares disappear on waking. And as I cautiously opened the studio door I suppose that is what I had been hoping: to see the whole grisly scene magically transmuted back to the bland and wholesome, the room cluttered with its usual paint paraphernalia but minus anything jarring in the foreground.

  Alas, no such luck. He was still there all right, just as last seen; the only difference being that the blood from his nose was beginning to congeal. But with a start I noticed something previously overlooked: a mangled pink rosebud lying by his right foot. Any stirrings of sympathy were instantly crushed. I saw its replica bobbing daintily on moonlit waters, and once more my mind was filled with the image of Carstairs’ sodden torso and adjacent head. Oh yes, the hand of Nemesis indeed!

  I experienced an improper sense of triumph. No doubt about it, my suspicions had been spot on and I was glad (and still am) that I had pursued this wretched man to expose his fakery and nefarious conduct … Unfortunately such pursuit had generated a number of unforeseen problems which, if I wasn’t careful, could rebound embarrassingly. Failure to assist the police in their enquiries by lying about one’s presence at the crime scene doesn’t look good, especially if it is also revealed that one has bribed with cakes the grandson of a high court judge to extract crucial data pertaining to such crime … and then kept it for one’s own use. Just think, I might be seen as some sort of accessory after the fact – or fore and aft if one counts Respighi. It is amazing the absurd conclusions people jump to.

  As a professional artist and a single woman living on her own, I do have my reputation to consider. Thus it was essential, and remains so, that nothing should surface from the Topping pursuit to start tongues wagging … let alone to rekindle enquiries regarding my brother’s wretched gaffe at Molehill. I remember when we were children Pa incessantly intoning, ‘Keep mum and guard your rumps.’ Sound if indelicate advice and which I proposed to follow.

  So with that in mind I smiled plaintively at my companion shuffling on the threshold looking slightly yellow and said, ‘I say, Nicholas, you really will help me, won’t you?’

  There was a long pause as his eyes scanned the room; its ceiling, the canvases, the corpse, the open window with its now darkening clouds, and finally me. I suspect I wore something of the look that Mother wore when trying to convince Pa that all was for the best – anxious yet adamant.

  ‘I might,’ he said slowly, eyes becoming more hooded than usual. ‘But if you don’t mind the enquiry, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘For you, Nicholas?’ I asked in some surprise. ‘Well I imagine the satisfaction of knowing you have helped an old friend out of a tight spot.’

  ‘One that the old friend has thrown herself into. Had you been less meddlesome none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have chummy here splayed on your floor.’

  ‘Hardly splayed,’ I retorted. ‘He’s doubled up, the victim of sudden heart failure.’

  ‘Brought on by your dog.’

  ‘Brought on by his own beastliness!’

  We regarded each other in silence. Me wondering how best to appeal to his better nature (there somewhere presumably); he doubtless weighing
up the odds and formulating some bargain.

  A faint smile creased the thin features. ‘You know me,’ he said mockingly, ‘a right little knight errant; can never resist a lady in distress.’ Like hell, I thought. ‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement. It’s all a question of a quid pro—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently, ‘a quid pro quo. That’s exactly what you used to say to poor Francis.’

  ‘Indeed I did and he found the arrangement invaluable.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I muttered dryly.

  I suddenly felt very tired, and at that point would have agreed to anything if only the heap on the floor could be shifted and the whole matter disposed of. Frankly, I was in a tizz – not a state I am accustomed to – and if Nicholas Ingaza could help me resolve the problem, then whatever the penalty, so be it.

  ‘So what do you propose?’ I asked.

  ‘Initially another tot of this delicious Glenfiddich. It’s not often one gets the chance and I rather think we may need it.’ He presented me with his empty glass and meekly I went downstairs to bring up reinforcements.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Primrose Version

  Ingaza’s plan was outrageous, scandalous really. But as a means of emptying my studio of its wretched encumbrance and my life from the threat of awkward questions, it held a certain appeal. It also held a certain piquant irony which shortly will become clear.

  When Nicholas finished unfolding his proposal I tentatively asked whether it might be sensible to get Eric to assist us. I can’t say I was enamoured of the prospect but various telephone encounters made me think he might have the brawn useful to such a venture. However, I was quite relieved when Nicholas said firmly that his friend had no head for heights, and that in any case he was in strict training for the next darts match and it was imperative he kept his right wrist in sound nick. When I said that there was a chance in a thousand of Eric’s right wrist being damaged by thrusting Topping’s corpse off Beachy Head, Nicholas replied that given the efficacy of sod’s law it was the thousandth chance that would be his undoing.

  Yes, as might be guessed, it was the towering cliff above Eastbourne that was to secure the Latin master’s downfall; a site, which in view of his choice for my own disposal, seemed eminently fitting … Now, like my deceased brother, I am not especially attracted by danger, but dire situations require dire remedies. There are times when needs must – and this was just such a time. Topping needed to go, and go quickly. Thus distasteful though the whole thing was I readily fell in with Ingaza’s plan. The logistics were as follows.

  We would put Topping into the back seat of Winchbrooke’s car, and with me following at a discreet distance, Nicholas would drive this up on to the downs at Beachy Head. At one point the road runs fairly close to the edge – in places only about two hundred yards away – and at a suitable spot (not terribly easy to find) he would park and assess the surrounding terrain. If this looked empty – on such a rainy night likely to be so – he would signal to me to leave my car and together we would then drive Winchbrooke’s to the point most favoured by suicides, that bit where the turf slopes downwards, facilitating desperate legs and closed eyes. Here we would drag Topping into the driving seat, engage the clutch, release the handbrake, leap out, and with a concerted shove from behind, set the vehicle in motion over the cliff. When car and man were eventually found there would, of course, be no injuries other than the effects from the fall itself. After all, it was not as if he had been murdered: his heart had failed, clearly the result of his suicidal drive over the cliff. Then with mission accomplished we would race back to my car and drive hell-for-leather down into Eastbourne and then home via the A27. From there Nicholas would regain his own car and return at a respectable pace to Brighton.

  But what about Bouncer’s tooth marks? I had enquired.

  Ingaza shrugged. ‘A risk we must take. With luck they won’t be particularly noticeable, and actually from what I can make out there doesn’t seem to be anything much. It was the clothes he was ripping. I rather suspect that your hound favours sound and fury over actual butchery. Fundamentally he is a pacifist.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t tell him that!’ I said in alarm. A thought struck me: ‘But what about the jacket and shirt? They are torn to shreds. Surely a cliff fall within a car wouldn’t do that?’

  Nicholas sighed ruefully and said that had occurred to him and if I didn’t mind he would remove his own, put them onto Topping and borrow Francis’s old tweed coat he had seen hanging on the studio door. ‘Can’t think why you keep it,’ he said, ‘sentiment, I suppose.’

  It was my turn to shrug. ‘Just be careful of it, that’s all … Oh and by the way would you mind awfully mopping up that nose bleed, those floor boards stain so easily.’

  So that was the plan and that is how we proceeded. Up to a point. For like all best laid plans, events conspired to frustrate it.

  The turning point came just as we had heaved Topping into the driver’s seat all poised for his lumbering exit over the clifftop. With gloved hand – oh yes, we had taken that precaution – I was just reaching to release the brake when there was an anguished cry from Nicholas. ‘Christ almighty, Primrose, stop! Look over there!’

  I turned around, and through the now stinging sheets of rain saw a blurred figure about three hundred yards off moving slowly in our direction. I froze. Oh my God who was it – a coastguard? An intrepid dog walker? Whoever it was I had no intention of being seen trundling Topping’s hearse to its destruction. And neither had Nicholas. ‘Leave it,’ he cried. ‘Just run!’

  And run we did – like hell and in panting tandem, until sodden and gasping we gained the refuge of my car. Without a word I started the engine and off we sped.

  For a while we drove in silence. And then puffing his cigarette as if about to devour it, Nicholas said faintly, ‘Bleeding strewth, I’m getting too old for this caper. You can expect another heart attack at any minute.’

  ‘Do try not,’ I replied, ‘one fatality on my property is quite enough.’

  There was a further silence. And then he said thoughtfully, ‘You know, I am not sure that being with you isn’t worse than being with your brother. Fairly lethal, the pair of you.’

  ‘Really?’ I retorted, slowing to placate an oncoming police car. ‘It’s funny you should say “lethal” because that’s what Francis used to say about you – although from what I recall he added various other terms as well.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected a faint smile.

  Wrangling gave way to earnest discourse as we set about exploring the likely repercussions. ‘Well,’ I observed, ‘at least Winchbrooke won’t have lost his precious car. He’s rather fond of it, I gather. On the other hand he will still have to endure the chore of looking for another Latin master, and I don’t think they’ve found a suitable Maths replacement yet.’

  ‘Actually, dear girl,’ Nicholas said, ‘that little problem has somehow passed me by. More to the point is the immediate upshot as it affects us. I don’t know who that creature was in the pelting rain or indeed whether he saw anything. But you can bet it will be he who discovers the car and reports it to the police … Who knows, perhaps even now the wires are buzzing and a posse of heavies are pounding up to Beachy Head.’

  ‘Let them pound,’ I said carelessly, ‘we shall be back in Lewes at any moment where I shall hit the hay and you can tootle off to Brighton.’

  Somehow the prospect of soft sheets and hot-water bottle seemed to take precedence over everything else. In fact it was becoming increasingly urgent. So much so that when we arrived back I omitted to offer Nicholas a nightcap (though from his looks it was doubtful if he wanted one) or even to wave as the car sped away. Instead, not taking a blind bit of notice of the hovering animals, I marched straight up to bed and the relief of four aspirin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Cat’s Views

  ‘Well, really,’ I exclaimed to Bouncer, ‘I consid
er that the height of ill-manners. After all, we did to thwart the intentions of that unsavoury creature and not a hint of recognition; we might as well have been part of the furniture!’

  We had been sitting in the kitchen patiently awaiting P.O.’s return after she and the Brighton Type had heaved the corpse down the stairs and into the car. Naturally, at the time of such manoeuvres our mistress was in no state to acknowledge the crucial part we had played in her enemy’s downfall – well, other than some effusive nonsense about the dog to Ingaza; but you would have thought that with the lapse of hours she would have devised some tangible token of gratitude such as a cream junket for me and a double dose of those disgusting Chompies for Bouncer. But oh no: straight up to bed without a glance!

  ‘You’re right,’ Bouncer agreed, ‘I mean it sort of takes the biscuit, doesn’t it – or the haddock, as I suppose you would say.’

  ‘It takes a great deal more than that,’ I replied grimly. ‘Personally, I shall withdraw my favours for at least a week.’ I gave a forceful miaow.

  The dog looked puzzled. ‘But you don’t do any favours, Maurice.’

  ‘Beside the point,’ I snapped. ‘These humans cannot be allowed to ride roughshod over their valiant companions.’

  Bouncer burped. ‘I suppose that means over their brave mates. I’m one of those, aren’t I, Maurice? Cor, I didn’t half duff him up!’

  ‘Duff him up? Killed him you mean.’

  ‘I DID NOT!’ the dog shouted. ‘He was all right when I’d finished – when you called time from the window sill. It was afterwards that he snuffed it. I hadn’t laid another paw on him!’ He looked indignant and rattled his bowl with his snout.