I was about to observe that there was a blurred distinction between actively securing a death and being its indirect cause. But it occurred to me that if one followed that line of thought it could also be argued that as instigator of the proceedings I too could be held responsible … I changed tack immediately, and agreeing with the dog said that clearly the Latin master was physically weedy and that he had expired as a victim of his own turpitude.
The dog growled something about not liking the smell of turpentine, and then said brightly ‘But I was jolly good though, wasn’t I!’
I sighed. ‘Yes, Bouncer, you were jolly good.’ Nevertheless I couldn’t help adding, ‘But tell me, why did you sit down before launching the assault – cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you?’
I instantly regretted the question, fearing he might take offence, and was relieved when he explained solemnly, ‘I was thinking, Maurice, that’s what I was doing: making an ass-ment as you would say.’ He hesitated with brows furrowed, and then clearing his throat said slowly, ‘Yes, making a sort of CONSIDERED CAL-CU-LAY-SHUN.’ A triumphant smirk passed over the tousled face and I was duly impressed. Thus I waved a gracious paw signalling approval of such verbal felicity.
However, as indicated, I was not impressed by P.O.’s cavalier attitude an hour earlier. And dwelling on this I was about to lapse into a sulk but was checked. ‘I say,’ Bouncer suddenly growled, ‘what do you think they did with the stiff?’
I shrugged. ‘Threw it away, I suppose. The Brighton Type would have had some bright idea, he generally has.’
I was about to get on with my sulk but was again interrupted. ‘All very well throwing things away,’ the dog muttered, ‘but supposing somebody digs him up. What then? Will the Prim get into trouble, and if so what about us?’ He looked anxious.
‘Not everyone has your mania for digging things up,’ I mewed in exasperation. ‘Now I suggest you jump into your basket and chew your bone, it will take your mind off things.’
‘Right-o,’ he barked, and with a leap fell upon his mess of bedding and did as advised. Alas, as I quickly realised, it was not one of my better suggestions for the sounds of grind and gurgle killed all concentration (essential for a good sulk), and thus with difficulty I settled for sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The Primrose Version
After such alarms and excursions, the next day I thought it might be politic to keep a low profile – to wit, stay in bed. This I was able to achieve until five o’clock, when boredom, hunger and Maurice’s complaints brought me downstairs. Collecting the evening newspaper from the mat I went into the kitchen to make some Welsh rarebit and check that the animals hadn’t caused mayhem. Luckily all seemed well, and braced with an early gin and mountains of charred bread and melted cheddar I settled at the table and glanced at the paper … At least it started as a glance but my eyes became quickly riveted.
WOULD-BE SUICIDE THWARTED, ran the headlines. MAN’S INTENDING DEATH-PLUNGE AVERTED BY CORPSE IN PARKED CAR
Joseph Speedwell, of no fixed address, said he had been on his way across the downs at Beachy Head to perform his final act, when through the driving rain he had noticed the shape of a saloon car poised at the cliff’s edge.
‘I was a bit taken aback,’ Mr Speedwell remarked, ‘after all, it isn’t what you expect to see at a time like that … I mean it was parked just on the spot from where I was going to take a running jump. It would have meant re-jigging my whole tactic.’
Asked what had stopped him from re-jigging his tactic, Mr Speedwell explained that it had been partly the corpse in the driving seat and partly the word of the Good Lord. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘seeing that poor b-gg-r staring out to sea like that gave me a bit of a jolt and I knew there and then that it was meant, that I had been given a sign from On High to take courage and be a man!’ Prompted to explain what exactly that had entailed, he said that he had lit a cigarette and walked back down into the nearest pub. Beyond that he couldn’t remember much.
Since the incident the Eastbourne Gazette has learnt that several local churches have approached Mr Speedwell offering him posts ranging from sexton to sidesman. He is busy making his choice and thanking God and his lucky stars for his good fortune.
I re-read the item and then looked at the cat who for some reason was wearing an expression of more than usual disdain. ‘Well, Maurice,’ I murmured, ‘it just goes to show, there’s always a silver lining for someone.’ He closed his eyes and swished an indifferent tail. I returned once more to the article and reflected.
I thought about Hubert Topping and wondered whether he would have been glad to know he had been the means to another’s salvation. I rather doubted it. But personally I felt considerably bolstered by Mr Speedwell’s timely delivery; somehow it seemed to cast a slightly softer light upon events. A wave of moderate relief swept over me, and undeterred by the cat’s icy features I bent down and pulled him on to my lap. ‘Now, Maurice,’ I crooned, ‘this calls for a little celebration. You shall have some fresh salmon and I another snifter. How about that?’ He struggled at first but when he realised I was serious about the salmon, changed tack and even uttered a few purrs of approval. It is nice to be appreciated once in a while.
Having spent the day in bed I had had neither time nor inclination to enter my studio. But one cannot remain squeamish indefinitely and I knew that I really ought to tidy up and ensure that Nicholas had made a good job of swabbing the floor. Thus supper over and armed with mop and vacuum, I forced myself to re-visit that scene of threat and devastation.
Luckily the shambles wasn’t as bad as I had expected: the easel with its pond picture tipped on to the floor, a couple of other canvases on their faces and – I was glad to see – the bouquet of peonies strewn wildly in all directions. Other than that things were moderately shipshape. I flung open the windows, shoved the flowers, plus squashed rosebud, into the wastepaper basket, plugged in the machine and hoovered up all traces of my ordeal. In a way the cleansing was like a sort of exorcism and I felt almost sprightly once it was finished. Is that how vicars feel? I once asked Francis if he had ever had to conduct one. ‘No blooming fear,’ he had shuddered, ‘it’s bad enough having to cope with Mavis Briggs without parrying demons as well.’
Job over, I switched on the landing light, and had gone halfway down when I saw what looked like a crumpled envelope, its corner caught in one of the stair rods. I hadn’t noticed it earlier (no doubt blind to everything except the prospect of the task ahead) and assuming it to be a piece of litter dropped by the charlady, slipped it into my pocket and continued down to the kitchen. I was about to toss it into the bin when I saw the flap folded inwards and realised something was there. I opened it up, laid the contents on the table … and after a moment of blank shock, roared with laughter.
Impossible! Absurd! In front of me lay three small photographs: photos which tallied exactly with the ones Sickie-Dickie said he had seen displayed on Topping’s desk. I have to say that if the episode in my studio had been a nightmare then this was a dream of pantomime proportion. I gazed in disbelief. How on earth had they got here?
There could be only one answer: from Topping’s wallet. We had thoughtfully placed it in the pocket of the substituted jacket, and in the course of lugging him down the stairs it had slipped out. We had thrust it back but in our haste had obviously overlooked the fallen envelope. And so here it was, its contents ludicrous proof of the chief superintendent’s fondness for playing daddy bears with whip-wielding ostriches. Small wonder that Topping thought he might be immune from the policeman’s interest!
In some mirth I rang Ingaza. ‘You’ll never guess,’ I snorted, ‘something extraordinary has come to light!’
‘Really,’ was the dour response, ‘glad something amuses you. Personally, I am expecting to be hauled off to jug at any minute. I’ve been under the blankets all day and have instructed Eric to open the door to no one. My nerves are in pieces and my tango steps adrift. It’s a bit much, Primr
ose!’
‘They can’t possibly be adrift if you’ve been in bed,’ I retorted, nettled by his lack of interest.
‘Oh yes, they can,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been trying to recreate the rhythms in my mind and instead of which all I can think of is heaving that bloody thing down your stairs.’
‘Frightful, isn’t it,’ I said sympathetically. ‘But you know it’s funny you should mention the stairs because that is exactly where I have just found …’ And before he could interrupt I rushed on to regale him with my discovery.
When I had finished, there was a long pause. And then he said thoughtfully (and I was glad to hear less sulkily): ‘If I were you I should hang on to those snaps. They may not be relevant to your friend any longer, but, who knows, they might just be useful to you one day. It’s always as well to be prepared, if you see what I mean.’ I did rather.
‘So do you think there’s going to be trouble?’ I enquired anxiously.
‘A bloody great brouhaha I should imagine. Personally, I would make myself scarce.’
‘How scarce?’
‘Very.’
Ingaza’s words had unsettled me. He was quite right, of course; there was bound to be a brouhaha of some sort. But I comforted myself with the thought that even if it emerged that Topping had been running the drug syndicate and had murdered Carstairs and Respighi, there was nothing really to link me with the matter or indeed with his demise … unless, of course, the schoolmaster had been observed turning into my drive from the lane. Or despite the precaution of gloves we had left other traces in Winchbrooke’s car, or hairs were found from Bouncer’s coat or a tooth mark even. Or, inspired by his recent conversion, Mr Speedwell was struck by a mystical vision of Nicholas and me racing hell-bent across that rain-swept turf. Such things happen. One reads about them all the time in detective novels.
The more I brooded, the more windy I became. Perhaps Nicholas was right and I really should make myself scarce: a discreet withdrawal until things had died down would be the sensible course. But what about the cat and dog? Kennels? It seemed a little unfair. Perhaps Charles might take them; he was due back shortly and I could enquire when I returned Duster. Still, he would hardly want them for more than a few days and that wouldn’t be nearly long enough. It was all very tricky, and in my agitation I telephoned Ingaza again.
‘It’s the animals, you see,’ I lamented, ‘there’s nowhere to park them, not for any length of time there isn’t. It’s exceedingly difficult.’
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ he said casually.
‘But I do worry.’
‘But you wouldn’t worry if Eric took them, would you? He’s very fond of you, just like he was of Francis, and more to the point he dotes on furry animals.’
‘He might but you certainly don’t,’ I said, intrigued all the same.
‘Ah, but I shan’t be here. Off to Tangier for a few weeks. Given the circumstances it seems a suitable moment.’
‘You mean you’re bunking off as well?’
‘Not bunking off, dear girl, merely taking a well-earned rest. It’s the strain of aiding and abetting one’s artistic colleagues. Now if you take my advice you’ll do the same. Dump the animals with Eric for as long as you like and take off, free as a bird. It’ll do you good.’
That Ingaza should consider my welfare was touching and I willingly accepted the offer, wondering wryly how Maurice would cope with the rumbustious Eric.
‘Good. Most sensible,’ he said breezily. ‘And when we both get back, doubtless the dust will have settled and we can swap holiday pics and settle up.’
I had been about to put the receiver down but stayed my hand. ‘Er, what do you mean “settle up”?’
‘Oh you know, square the old hypotenuse – a little bit of quid pro quo. Things are quite pricey in Tangier, I gather; and Eric’s an excellent zoo keeper, deserves recognition. Cheery-bye.’ The line went dead.
I sighed. There was one thing you could say for Nicholas Ingaza: at least he was consistent.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
My dear Agnes,
Well my dear, all I can say is that life here has been quite extraordinary of late; in fact so much so that I am beginning to wonder whether you and Charles have made the right decision in electing to remain in Sussex. Kensington might be far safer.
For example, Mr Topping the Latin master I have been telling you about has been discovered dead on the brink of Beachy Head – sitting at the wheel of a car facing out to sea. Whose car? Mr Winchbrooke’s, if you please. Yes, our dear headmaster’s! As I wrote to Mother, three deaths in such a short space takes some beating. Needless to say, Mother didn’t think so and launched into some interminable ramble about the Crumbles murders in the twenties … Anyway, the headmaster had delegated Mr Topping to deliver the school car for its annual service at Caffyns’, Eastbourne’s best garage. He normally takes it there himself but since the little upset on the A27 he has become paranoid about traffic police ‘skulking in hedges’. Thus the arrangement was for Mr Topping to drive the car over to Eastbourne and then take the train back to Lewes, leaving the garage to deliver it to the school the following day. Evidently Hubert had decided to take the longer scenic route across the downs, as he had driven right up to the cliff edge – presumably to admire the sea view – and then promptly had a fatal heart attack. He was discovered by some intending suicide who now says he has found God – and is making a pretty penny telling his tale at every opportunity.
It has all been very unfortunate and Mr Winchbrooke is most upset. And when I pointed out that at least his beloved Rover was safe he said that was all very well but Latin masters were like gold dust and what the hell was he supposed to do now. There was no immediate answer to that but I daresay I shall find one.
Meanwhile the town continues to enjoy the novelty of the two murders, and Chief Superintendent MacManus marches about looking stern and grimly purposeful, though whether that signifies actual progress one cannot be sure. Bertha Twigg certainly seems to think so. As I was passing the gym yesterday, she bounded forth with bursting blouse, grabbed my arm and declared, ‘Be assured, Mrs Bartlett, murder will out and the law take its course!’
‘Well that’s nice,’ I said, and moved on quickly.
Alas, such optimism is not shared by our uplifting Mr Hutchins who, true to form, repeats incessantly and with great confidence that the law and its minions is an ass, and that with two members of staff already cut off in their prime he is bound to be the third. I gather from Matron that young Harris (he with the dreadful uncle) wants to know if he can open a book on it and does she reckon ten to one on a fair price. Really!
Well, as you may deduce, things have become more than a little trying. Neither have they been helped by Fräulein Hockheimer traipsing along the corridors in floods of tears demanding that a memorial plaque be erected to Topping and sited under the school motto in the chapel. You may not recall the motto but it is semper nobilis – ever noble. I think she sees some kind of connection between the words and the deceased. Between you and me, pleasant though Mr Topping was, I cannot help feeling the link just a trifle excessive … Perhaps there is something in the German psyche which persuades them to take things to unnecessary lengths. Anyway, I know that the headmaster isn’t too keen as his only concern seems to be whether such a plaque would be tax deductible.
I happened to mention the idea to Primrose who remarked caustically that she was surprised Hockheimer hadn’t suggested a posthumous Iron Cross, something which in her view would be immeasurably more fitting anyway. Since Primrose has never been well disposed to our German friends – and certainly not to poor Topping – I suspect this was not intended as a compliment!
And talking of Primrose, when I told her the good news that you would be returning within the fortnight and that we must have a little ‘Welcome Home’ celebration, she said that she was terribly sorry but couldn’t possibly attend and would send her apologies via Charles. When I asked her why on earth not, she said s
he was going away – for quite some time apparently. I was a little surprised as she certainly hadn’t mentioned this previously. I assumed it was some painting project but she said oh no, it was to do with her health. ‘Your health?’ I exclaimed. ‘Whatever’s wrong with it? You look remarkably hale to me.’
She then explained that it wasn’t so much physical as mental, that it was all to do with Dr Carstairs’ head and she needed a rest from it. I fear I couldn’t help smiling as Primrose has never stuck me as the sensitive type – far from it. And after all it’s not as if she had actually seen the gory thing! In fact I was about to say as much but thought better of it. She had that steely look in her eye (you know the one) so I changed the subject and asked instead what she was going to do with the animals and surely they would miss her. ‘Oh no,’ she assured me airily, ‘I have excellent friends who are only too eager to take charge.’ Frankly, Agnes, I cannot imagine who they might be, certainly no one we know. It would take a very tough hide indeed to deal with that pair. And when I asked her where she proposed going she looked vague and muttered something about taking the waters at Baden-Baden. Considering her scepticism of all things Gothic I find that rather hard to believe. However, I didn’t press the point.
Well at least there is one bright spot amidst the gloom – apart from your own imminent return. What a triumph that the planners have at last sanctioned Charles’s orangery project at Podmore. You must be so relieved. He, of course, is cock-a-hoop, and despite what poor Mr Topping urged about waiting and then adapting the stable’s original structure, talks excitedly not only about bulldozers but, if you please, employing dynamite too. It always amuses me the way our menfolk so love explosions. My own husband was just the same – couldn’t keep his hands off matches and lethal fireworks. Anyway, with luck the eruption will have happened before you arrive … And then, when dear Primrose elects to return from her salubrious sojourn, we must hold a little inaugural ceremony in honour of the first orange pip. Meanwhile, bon voyage!
The Primrose Pursuit Page 24