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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Primrose Oughterard, an eccentric artist living in East Sussex, has recently taken custody of her dead brother's cat and dog, Maurice and Bouncer. The brother - the Revd Francis Oughterard - has had the misfortune to murder one of his parishioners, and (aided and abetted by his pets and sister) had devoted much of his time to concealing the crime and escaping the gallows (which he did). Following his heroic death rescuing another parishioner from impalement on a gargoyle, his sister feels duty-bound to take responsibility for the two animals. The arrangement results in a number of questionable entanglements including the usual mishaps of murder, foiled intentions, concealment of evidence - plus a peculiar manoeuvre on the cliff at Beachy Head.
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Seitenzahl: 406
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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The Primrose Pursuit
SUZETTE A. HILL
To the memory of Alexander Wedderspoon, who had a soft spot for Primrose
Contents
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
The events of this tale are set in the Lewes area of Sussex towards the close of the 1950s. Primrose Oughterard is the assertive sister of the late Revd Francis Oughterard who, when living in Molehill, Surrey, had the misfortune of inadvertently slaying one of his parishioners, the cloying Elizabeth Fotherington. This caused the amiable vicar some consternation, and severely intruded upon his hitherto quiet and blameless life. Thus for several years he lived in constant fear of the hangman’s noose – and the officious attentions of his episcopal superior, Horace Clinker. His fumbling efforts to elude both are recounted in A Load of Old Bones and in his four subsequent diaries, the final being A Bedlam of Bones. Following his death (not on the scaffold but in an equally distinctive context), Primrose commandeered his dog and cat – the intrepid Bouncer and fiendish Maurice – and has taken them to live with her in her Sussex home. Meanwhile, her brother sleeps securely in the Molehill churchyard, his misdemeanour undetected by the police and his reputation intact.
CHAPTER ONE
My dear Agnes,
Of course I am awfully fond of Primrose, she’s such a brick. But there are times when she is what you might call ‘overpowering’ … well she overpowers me at any rate! As I think she did that brother of hers: the vicar Francis Oughterard – he who died falling from the church tower rescuing that tiresome Briggs woman from being impaled on a gargoyle. Naturally, poor Primrose was terribly cut up at the time, but as you might expect she has coped bravely with the event and has actually taken custody of those slightly disturbing pets her brother would insist on keeping – Maurice, the cat is called, and that distinctly dubious mongrel dog Bilious or Bouncer or some such; begins with a ‘B’ at any rate.
Still, the point is not so much the animals as their new custodian, our dear friend Primrose. Sheisbehaving a little oddly – odder than usual I mean. Or at least it is not so much her behaviour that is odd as her words: she has been saying some rather strange things about the school’s new Latin master, Hubert Topping. You may remember my telling you about him: arrived in mid-term to replace old Appleyard who went gaga and had to be put away. Topping’s application was a godsend – there was nobody else – and the headmaster, Mr Winchbrooke, appointed him immediately. We were all very relieved, as grappling with Latin verbs has a most constructive effect on the third-formers. At that stage – when they know they are about to transfer to the big school – they become so bumptious, and a dose of classical rigour cuts them down to size. Topping has been doing that most successfully and we are all extremely grateful.
So I was somewhat taken aback when Primrose announced to me across the tea-table that she proposed keeping her eye on him. When I asked why on earth she should want to do that, she replied that it was not a case of her wanting to but that it formed part of her civic duty.
Well, as you can imagine, I had no idea what she meant! I don’t know about you, Agnes, but personally I have never associated civic duty with Primrose Oughterard … You will recall for example that awful fracas with the council over the town clerk’s allocated parking space: declared she had parked there all her life – since living in Sussex anyway – and had no intention of yielding her rights to ‘pettifogging public functionaries and that he must take his chances with the rest of us’.Shegot her way too! As she did in the matter of the proposed rates rise to fund the aldermanic robes: refused point blank to cough up, saying she didn’t toil away all day at her easel just to subsidise the mayor and his penchant for dressing up in a garb which made him look like a demented mushroom. Personally, I think that was fair comment – though had he looked less like a mushroom, demented or otherwise, and more like Errol Flynn I wonder if her views would have been the same?
Well one thing is for sure, nobody could mistake Hubert Topping for Errol Flynn; a less swashbuckling man it would be hard to find. However, the boys seem to like him – which is why I cannot understand Primrose’s current concern. It has, I gather, something to do with the tone of his voice and the fact that he reads the Manchester Guardian: the first is too soft and the second too pink. But when I said, ‘My dear Primrose, you can hardly hold pink reading matter and a quiet voice against him,’ she said, ‘Oh yes, I can,’ and added darkly that there were other things too.
What other things I failed to learn, as at that moment the new dog shambled into the room and all attention was directed to its bone, its basket, the type of dog food it should be supplied with, the state of its toenails and my views on whether it would look best in a blue or a red collar. As its facial features were largely obscured by fronds of matted fur and a cascading fringe, I thought the question immaterial. However, wishing to be tactful I said that since she was the artist I would leave such aesthetic choices toher, but whatever she selected it was bound to add to the creature’s undoubted charm. (NB My father used to say that if one were going to tell a lie it should be an absolute whopper – no point in sinning by halves.)
Anyway, rather frustratingly the dog palaver diverted us from the school’s most recent appointee; though doubtless the topic will be resumed. As you know, unlike her late brother, Primrose has an impressive faith in her own judgement, and once she has a bee in her bonnet few things will dislodge it. Such a bee is evidently mild Mr Topping and her conviction that his surveillance is to form part of her social responsibility. I shall be rather glad when you and Charles return from Tobago. Charles has a firm hand which on the whole I think Primrose rather respects. She defers to few people but your husband is one of them.
How nice it will be to see you both back here in May with the first call of the cuckoo and the boys at the nets. I am already planning my new series of nature walks – those South Down rambles are such an education for the London boarders and even our local boys seem to enjoy them, or so they tell me (though in my experience a measure of sharp scepticism rarely comes amiss when dealing with the young). I wonder if I can get Mr Topping to join our jaunts – a means of escape from P’s vigilance perhaps? … Heigh-ho, bring on the summer I say. Won’t be long now!
Your good friend,
Emily
CHAPTER TWO
The Primrose Version
Curbing the dog may be a problem. I do not mean quelling the racket he makes in the garden or indeed persuading him to remove his bones from the conservatory … No, it is simply that he will keep on staring: occasionally at the cat, but principally at me. Not being used to others in the house I find such scrutiny unsettling and wonder whether he did the same with my brother. I daresay. But then Francis may not have noticed, his mind usually being otherwise engaged – largely with the matter of Elizabeth Fotherington, his tiresome victim (or at any rate with the police and how to foil their intrusive curiosity). Well thank goodness one has seen the back of that palaver! Death does have its compensations, and dear Francis has gone to his grave without a stain besmirching the family name. One must be thankful for such mercies. Indeed that is largely why I have seen fit to adopt his companions Maurice and Bouncer. Under the circumstances it was the least I could do. I think Francis would have approved, and it is a way of giving thanks that Ma and Pa continue to rest easy in their own graves, reputations untainted by one of their son’s more unfortunate gaffes …
I wonder if the dog stares because it is expecting me to sit down and play the piano as its master used to. I gather it rather enjoyed the ritual. Well I am afraid there is no piano in this house – though I suppose the creature could come and watch me paint if it wanted to. However, a musical ear is no guarantee of a discerning eye – least of all with that fringe! – and it might feel short-changed. Perhaps I could persuade the prep school band to come in once a month and give a little display. Would that suit it? I can hardly ask. And what about Maurice? Does he have preferences? Francis would recite long catalogues of the cat’s phobias but it was never made clear what it actually liked. Not much I suspect, except for haddock and making mischief … Though I must say that so far it has been strangely civil – too civil really. In fact like the dog’s, its behaviour is slightly unnerving. Just now, for instance, after I had come down from the studio, there it was sprawled in the middle of the hall rug mewling like a kitten and waving one of its paws in the air (the one with the white glove). ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘what’s up with you?’ Whereupon it leapt up, twirled round in circles and then slowly approached me doing what I can only describe as a feline version of a rumba. Then with a sort of falsetto purr it parked itself on my foot and wouldn’t budge until I had ruffled its ears. I am not used to such mateyness from Maurice. During my visits to the vicarage the cat would spend most of its time on the top stair looking poisonous; and on the few occasions that Francis brought the pair of them down here to Lewes it stalked about in calculated disdain. I find the current warmth slightly sinister.
And talking of sinister, I am not enamoured of the new Latin master at Erasmus House: Topping by name but not topping by nature – not in my book anyhow. There’s something about him that I know to be pure fake. Pa was awfully good at spotting fakes, human ones at any rate (couldn’t tell a Landseer from a Lautrec of course), and it is something I have inherited. I mentioned my doubts to Emily and she seemed bemused. She often is I have noticed. Now I am fond of Emily, but I have to say that while she may be a very sharp school secretary (the headmaster would be lost without her) I sometimes feel she is not entirely on my wavelength … though that may be said of a number of people. Curious really. Ah well, it takes all sorts. And it must be admitted that Francis and I were not always at one; but we did share a kind of stumbling empathy and now that he is gone I feel oddly naked.
Still, it’s no use looking backwards as Pa would say; not that his forward looking was especially clear. The great thing is to grasp the nettle, carpe the diem, gather the rosebuds and stride ahead … Which takes me back to Hubert Topping. A man who makes a fetish of wearing a rose in his buttonhole every day is immediately suspect, particularly as the colour is invariably the same: pink. Goes with the shade of his newspaper presumably. Besides, where does he get such things at this time of year? Flown in from Madeira? Especially cultivated at Kew? If so, he must have a great deal of money to afford such daily indulgence – and in that case what is he doing teaching Latin declensions in a minor prep school on the south coast? Perhaps he is a shopwalker manqué, or a stockbroker gone bust and spending his final shillings on frippery, or a retired actor keen to retain the thespian mode (was that the flash of a crêpe sole I saw in church the other day?). Well whatever he is, a bona fide schoolmaster he is not. Apart from anything else the voice is too quiet – you need strong lungs to deal with those little Turks, as I know to my cost when I go there periodically to judge their questionable daubings. I arrive home so hoarse I can barely swallow the gin. So I doubt that his dulcet mumbling of ‘amo, amas, amat’ can do much for their education.
Emily asked me recently whether I was being a mite pernickety. ‘Certainly not,’ I replied, ‘you need your wits about you in this life.’ And I reminded her that had I been less pernickety with the town clerk his dastardly requisition of that parking space would have gone unnoticed. Fortunately with my intervention he lost it within the week. It also occurred to me – though naturally I didn’t say this to Emily – that had poor Francis been a little more pernickety about his choice of woodland walks he might never have encountered Elizabeth that fatal day, and thus been spared the distasteful consequences …
However, as said, it doesn’t do to dwell on the past; one must look forward, such as to an aperitif and then a downland ramble with the dog. I just hope he doesn’t alarm our Sussex sheep as he did the goats in the Auvergne … but they were French, of course, and couldn’t cope.1
1 See Bones in High Places
CHAPTER THREE
The Cat’s View
Being of a sensitive nature I have found these last few days somewhat trying. Our master’s untimely, and characteristically careless, demise was an unsettling experience for all of us, and the period following his spectacular plunge from the church tower was not only vexing to the spirit but also bad for my digestion. One gets used to certain humans – even one as insane as the vicar – and naturally his sudden loss occasioned some dismay. But being deprived of our customary victuals for at least two days was, I consider, the height of ill-manners: a disgraceful oversight which only goes to show how thoughtless the human species becomes when faced with the unexpected.
Oh I do not mean that they left us to starve exactly, but their idea of a suitable diet was far from satisfactory. Would you believe it – they resorted to tins. Even F.O. in his wildest moments would have baulked at that. However, all is not lost, for today the vicar’s sister, Primrose, arrived to take us to live with her near Lewes in Sussex. Naturally, I reserve my optimism as it doesn’t do to anticipate things. Nevertheless during our previous visits here I had found the territory not uncongenial and so like to think that there is an even chance of things being acceptable. We shall see …
In my kittenhood I was regularly reminded by my illustrious great-uncle that circumstances alter cases. He was a fund of sage observations and I clearly benefited from his tutelage. It has made me the cat I am: shrewd, practical and well versed in the inanities of human psychology. However, I have to say that in this particular instance Great-Uncle Marmaduke’s dictum may have been a trifle flawed. You see, while our circumstances are undoubtedly changed following our master’s loss, as far as I can make out the case of Bouncer remains resolutely static. Since our arrival I have watched the dog closely in the vain hope of seeing some improvement; but alas, as yet there is not one sign of alteration. Brazen, loud and barbarous, the dog and its manners remain much the same in the sister’s domain as they had been in the brother’s. There is a faint chance that the Sussex air and coastal winds may have some ameliorative effect but on the whole I suspect the odds are against. No, I have to admit that contrary to Marmaduke’s pronouncement, cases do not always alter – however shifting the circumstances.
Take today, for example. He had made his first visit to the rabbit hutch in the garden, or at least his first since our arrival – there had been an unfortunate previous encounter with these creatures as noted in my past memoir – and the result was disastrous. For the inmates, of course. You would think that our transfer from Surrey to Sussex being permanent the dog would be on its best behaviour and ready to bury old hatchets (or bones). Not one bit! He came racing back to the house whooping and roaring, and telling me what a fine fellow he was for having ‘buggered up’ the chinchillas’ morning. Apparently Karloff had collapsed in dazed stupor and Boris had flown into a rage of gothic frenzy, a fact that afforded Bouncer much merriment. I was less amused – indeed, I remonstrated with him fiercely.
‘Really, Bouncer,’ I protested, ‘has it not occurred to you that we are no longer mere guests in Primrose’s household but residents? It doesn’t do to antagonise the natives, there could be unfortunate repercussions.’
For a moment he looked puzzled, and then said, ‘You mean if I badger them enough the bunnies might go even more bananas?’
‘Exactly,’ I said, glad that he had grasped the point.
‘Whah-ho!’ was the response. And with tail flailing like a manic windmill he floundered off into the kitchen in search of food.
I closed my eyes in despair; but opened them quickly for at that moment P.O. had appeared draped in one of her paint-spattered smocks (not unlike F.O.’s surplice, though the defacements on his had tended to be cigarette burns). She carried a brush in one hand and a turpentine bottle in the other and was evidently on her way to or from the studio.
I dislike the smell of turpentine, ranking it little better than the odour of incense for which her brother had such a penchant, but nevertheless emitted a winsome miaow and made gestures of approval. She looked startled but I persisted, going so far as to make a couple of playful pirouettes and to show interest in her left shoe. You may wonder at such antics, but again I am in debt to the wisdom of Uncle Marmaduke. ‘Never compromise with humans,’ he had warned, ‘unless it be to your advantage.’ The advice has been invaluable and I have followed it faithfully. Thus in view of Bouncer’s crass goading of the chinchillas I thought it politic to affect an air of silken deference – a temporary device naturally, but necessary to secure our acceptance in the new ménage.
This ménage I may say is not without its merits, having a large, ill-kempt garden, a warm stone wall and no immediate neighbours. Admittedly the shrubbery does harbour two hedgehogs but so far they have been suitably respectful – though what will happen once the dog gets wind of them I am uncertain. And while our late master’s cabaret of blunders had been a source of painful amusement it is reassuring to think that life in the artist’s household will be less ruffled than that of the vicarage. It will certainly be more regular for I am glad to note that our new mistress is timely in serving my meals, a courtesy her brother could never quite grasp – but then efficiency never was his strong point. Ah well, nil nisi bonum … And to give him his due, as human beings go, he was a kindly creature. Just absurd.
Mind you, absurdity is not the prerogative of vicars, for in my experience many are so afflicted: tabby cats, field mice, writers, gravediggers, schoolmasters, pedigree dogs, mongrel dogs, policemen, vets, squirrels, most dog owners, all speckled hens, elderly bicyclists, youthful bicyclists, beards (male or female), bell ringers and bishops … The list is endless but its repetition a useful way of inducing sleep on the rare occasions when such aid is needed. Not that I expect insomnia in our new environment – unless, of course, P.O. were so foolish as to follow F.O.’s example and eliminate one of the locals. (A merry jest and one that I must remember to tell Bouncer!) Yes, I think I can confidently predict that my days here will be passed in leisured sanity, untrammelled by the disruptive practices at Molehill and of our previous associates. There is one problem that remains, of course: the dog. If I can curb him all will be well.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Dog’s View
I am getting the hang of this place now and it’s better than I thought, much better in fact. True, we don’t have the vicar’s graveyard to race around in and I do miss him pounding the old ivories; but the swirls of fag smoke are much the same, and his sister, Primrose, has given me a brand-new basket and a really fancy rug to go with it. Mind you, I was a bit miffed about that at first and didn’t go near either of them. I mean it’s quite a shock for a fellow to have his special hairy bedding taken away and to be told to kip in something all fresh and foreign. For a start it smelt different … No, that’s not right, it didn’t smell at all! What do you think of that? Not nice, I can tell you. In fact I took a leaf out of the cat’s book and went into a SULK. You didn’t think Bouncer could do that, did you? Well yes, it did seem a bit strange at first, but I’ve seen Maurice doing it often enough and thought I would have a go too. So I crawled under her kitchen table, made god-awful panting noises and didn’t touch my grub for a WHOLEDAY! Maurice told me I was in a trormer (or some such word) due to loss of basket. I told him I didn’t care what I was in but that I jolly well wasn’t going to have my kit interfered with!
Anyway, unlike F.O., P.O. seems to notice things and she soon twigged that I was out of sorts. And do you know what she did? Went to the dustbin, fished out my old rug and put it on top of the new. I thought that was quite sporting and so made it clear that I could manage a little food after all. Don’t suppose F.O. would have done that: just effed and blinded and crunched his humbugs.
But you know, it still feels a bit off without him; though I’m not too sad as Maurice says he has gone to where all good dogs and vicars go: to the wondrous kennel in the sky, full of gin and bones and really good smells like rotting rabbit and that smoky stuff he used to spray the church with which made me sneeze. Oh yes, he’ll be fine up there all right. In fact I expect I’ll join him one day; you never know, it could be pretty good fun. But meanwhile there are important things to do down here, i.e. get the lie of the land and the measure of our new owner.
You see it’s all right for Maurice (so far as anything ever is right for the cat) because he has already had one lady owner – the Fotherington woman who the vicar did in. So I suppose he knows a bit about mistresses. But I’ve only had masters, so having the Prim to deal with may be tricky. Maurice says the thing to do is to watch closely and keep quiet. He says it’s all about making the right … uhm … ass-ment or some such, and then acting accordingly. I’m not too good at keeping quiet myself – never seen the point of it – but I think I can make an ass-whatsit all right, it just needs concentration. The great thing is to keep a guard on your rear. F.O. was always having to guard his, so I expect I’ve learnt a bit from him. Besides, I’ve got what the cat hasn’t: sixth sense. Maurice doesn’t like me talking about that, says he doesn’t believe in it and it’s all non-sense. But I know what I know, and it comes in pretty handy, I can tell you. So I’ll use some of it to get P.O.’s number … A bit of the old dog-nous beats cat-craft any day!
And talking of getting numbers, I went to inspect the chinchillas this morning, the same ones that were here when we came before – Boris and Karloff. They got a shock all right. I was just strolling casually up to their cage door (well, not strolling exactly – sort of charging), when I heard Boris say, ‘Oh my arse and whiskers, there’s that’s blithering dog again!’ ‘Which one?’ its mate asked. ‘The bouncing bugger,’ roared Boris, ‘take cover!’ And that’s what they did: scuttled into the back of their hutch and stayed there like stuck hedgehogs. All I could see were those pink mad eyes glowing in the dark.
Ho! Ho! I thought, three can play at that game! So I sat down on my haunches and waited patiently, pretending to be Maurice. In fact I even tried doing one of the cat’s special miaows (you know the sort, those awful rump-freezing ones), but somehow I couldn’t quite get the hang of it and it came out sounding a bit odd – odder even than when Maurice lets fly. Still, it seemed to do the trick as the next moment there was a great thumping and squeaking from inside and I knew it was Karloff having the vapours. And then Boris broke cover and hurled himself against the mesh shouting ‘Swine!’ Personally I thought that was what the cat would call ‘common’ and told him to calm down otherwise he might trip over one of his stupid lugholes. (I mean what self-respecting rabbit has ears that sweep the ground? Plain daft I call it.) I could see he didn’t like that as he started tearing chunks out of his soppy carrot and spitting them on the ground. A right old mess he was making, and I pointed out that if I made that sort of mess in the kitchen I’d get the slipper. He squeaked back that he had every right to make a sodding mess if he wanted and that if he were my human owner it wasn’t a slipper I’d get but a socking great boot. I thought that was RUDE.
Just goes to show, anyone can see that these chinchillas are ‘not used to polite society’ as Maurice would say. Still, they are better sport than that Mavis Briggs person who used to plague the vicar; so all in all I think I could get to like it here. As the cat says, it’s just a question of waiting upon events … or as I would say, cocking your ears (or leg for that matter) and sniffing the wind. NO FLEAS ON BOUNCER!
CHAPTER FIVE
My dear Agnes,
Delighted to hear how well things have been going in Tobago and that Charles’s horticultural researches are a success. What fun it will be to see Podmore Place quite transformed with the new plantings once you are back. How brave to tackle its total restoration!
Meanwhile, life here jogs along in its customary way: hacking coughs among the juniors – I often think they put it on just to get into the san; Erskine Minor’s parents being difficult as usual; the penance of the Spring Fair (why will Miss Twigg insist on a gym display? It’s not as if anyone enjoys it, least of all the participants); the termly tests with the usual rows over cheating – not my domain fortunately; and young Mr Cheesman, who, having attended a half-day course on child therapy, has come up with the scintillating idea of each boy being assigned a pet rat to look after. I ask you! He says it would be good fortheirpsyches (the children’s not the rats’). It certainly won’t help my psyche to find one of those little beasts leering at me from the office filing cabinet! Thus I told Mr Cheesman that while it was a most inventive plan I rather doubted if the headmaster would sanction the cost – pointing out that rats were noted for their voracious appetite. He looked most crestfallen and murmured something to the effect that money was of small account compared with the nurture of a child’s soul … You know, I rather suspect that he doesn’t intend staying with us much longer: better suited to being a Jesuit or a zoo administrator perhaps.
So, my dear, nothing of great moment to report – unless you count Primrose’s growing antipathy to our new arrival Mr Topping. She is absolutely convinced that he is not what he seems – a perfectly inoffensive little Latin master with a pleasing smile and polite manners. He also plays bridge rather well, so when you get home you might find him useful for making up an occasional four. Though just remember not to include Primrose as his partner.
Incidentally, she rang me last night in high dudgeon, complaining she had just bumped into Topping taking an evening stroll, and that he had invited her to a little ‘in-house’ soirée he is giving, and that as such a notable local artist and one of the judges for the school’s annual painting competition, her presence would be most agreeable. Being Primrose, she seemed to see his overture as some sort of insult – ‘presumptuous’ she kept muttering. So is she going? Of course she is, if only to have her prejudices confirmed!
Anyway, I must fly – we have a visitation from the auditors tomorrow and you know how that affects the headmaster. (Must remember to ask Matron about the aspirin supplies.) Will resume this on Wednesday and regale you with news of the Topping event.
Wednesday Night
Unusually good weather for early April – really warm in fact. Indeed so warm that it rather went to Mr Topping’s head and he had let it be known that should we be graced with a mild evening he might hold his soirée in the garden. Rather thoughtlessly I mentioned this to Primrose who practically had an apoplectic fit. ‘Outside?’ she fumed, ‘he must be mad.’ I was slightly startled by the vigour of her response, and said vaguely that after the trials of winter a little cocktail en plein air might be rather nice … Not a good idea. She gave me one of those withering looks and said that drinking ropey sherry in the teeth of midges and a howling gale was bad enough in summer, but to attempt it in a spring dusk was sheer lunacy and that only one as questionable as Hubert Topping would suggest such a thing. I was a trifle bemused by this and said that I couldn’t recall having encountered midges in howling gales, least of all in spring, and in any case how could she be sure the sherry would be ropey. She replied that regarding the latter she wasn’t sure but wouldn’t mind taking bets; and as to the former, it was clear that her experience of al fresco gatherings was considerably wider than mine. Well I thoughtitbest not to argue, and as things turned out the matter never arose: it rained. Heavily.
Thus huddled in Topping’s flat – the one in that cottage Miss Dunhill lets out at those outrageous prices – we smiled politely and sipped amontillado and warm Piesporter. Primrose sampled both, made the most awful I-told-you-so faces and continued to imbibe at the rate of knots. She was wearing that rouched taffeta frock, which I have to admit rather suits her, plus the dangling jet earrings inherited from her mother and those stilt-like heels her brother gave her (goodness knows why: I don’t think Francis knew anything about clothes – or women). The effect, as you might guess, was quite striking; and being tall, even without the shoes, she towered over Topping, making him look like a benevolent gnome.
Less gnome-like, but equally benevolent, was the headmaster. We had passed the auditing test with flying colours and I rather suspect that his consumption of the Piesporter was a mere stomach-liner for something more abrasive when he got home. Anyway, he was certainly on good form and was heard to murmur to Hutchins (Geography) that the school was fortunate in having such a generous member of staff. Hutchins, not noted for his prodigality, observed that the next time the new member chose to put his hand in his pocket he might consider atlases rather than alcohol … There is something rather Stygian about Hutchins (a common trait with geographers perhaps?) but Mr Winchbrooke affected not to hear and just smiled. He has Not Hearing down to a fineart– surely an invaluable asset in a headmaster, particularly at Erasmus House.
Thus things were progressing fairly well – the theme of juvenile imbecility getting its usual airing and glasses being quaffed with genteel abandon: rather unwisely guests had been invited to help themselves from the sideboard. But then I noticed the absence of our host. Nothing odd in that you might think, probably popped to the kitchen for some more crisps. But neither was there any sign of Primrose, seen only moments previously being condescending to the German art mistress. As you know, Primrose does not exactly melt into the shadows of a room and she was definitely no longer amongst us. Intrigued by the coincidence of the double displacement and bored with Mr Neasden’s lugubrious banter, I slipped from the room ostensibly en route for the lavatory, where in any case I might have found Primrose and we could have had a little pow-wow.
I had just moved a few feet along the passage when I was brought up short by seeing her pressed squarely against the study door in what can only be described as ‘listening mode’. ‘Primrose,’ I gasped, ‘what are you doing?’ There was no answer except the furious mouthing of, ‘Shut up!’ Then re-applying her ear to the panel she signalled me to go away – which I did in some haste. Back in the drawing room I avoided Neasden, sought out the peanuts and thought the more.
A minute later Primrose reappeared, scowled at me, beamed at everyone else and engaged in animated conversation with Hutchins. Actually that is notquiteaccurate as animation is not Hutchins’ forte. It was, you might say, a unilateral engagement. Then two minutes after that Topping returned; and also beaming, including at me, bustled about replenishing drinks and being generally obliging. The noise waxed, the drink waned and little Milly Hopkins got one of her migraines and had to be taken home ….
Yes, on the whole it was a successful evening and one which certainly enabled the new member of staff to win nodding approval from amongst his colleagues: a sort of self-baptism by grape I suppose … But approval, nodding or otherwise, was hardly Primrose’s view; or at least, judging by her extraordinary behaviour at that door it wasn’t. I cannot think what she was doing there, and am unlikely to learn until I have returned from the Isle of Wight. Yes, my periodic pilgrimage to mother is nigh, and Mr W. is sanguine in his assumption that things will run smoothly in my absence. They won’t.
So, my dear Agnes, it seems we have a little mystery on our hands; and I just hope that on my return it will not be to hear that our dear friend has been ferried away by the white-coated ones for ‘tests’ – as I believe incarceration is termed.
Your good friend,
Emily
CHAPTER SIX
The Dog’s View
On the whole, she’s not bad: quicker than F.O. – more on the ball you might say; and when we were out on the downs just now she walked along at a good old lick which meant that I didn’t have to keep turning round to see where the hell she had got to. (You have to keep an eye on them because so long as you are in their sights they think they are in control. They’re not, of course, but it stops them bawling your name all over the place and getting ratty.) Mind you, she got a bit edgy when we passed some sheep – obviously thought I was going to duff them up. Nah, not worth it: sitting ducks! They stare at you blankly, then bleat their soppy heads off and fall on their rumps running away. It was fun when I was a puppy but now that I’m a big dog I’ve got better things to do like stalking the rabbits, for instance. Now they can be a challenge. Some are easy, of course, but there are others that are real buggers. Cocky with it. And from what I can make out there’s an awful lot of ’em down here – much more than in our other place, and that’s saying something. Yes, Bouncer’s going to have his work cut out keeping them in order! Still, this afternoon with the Prim I was as good as gold and hardly moved a muscle, just sniffed the wind and made a crafty recky. But once I’m really dug in here I’m going to sneak out one evening and make an ONSLORT and then they’ll know it!
I tell you what though, when we were coming home we met someone just outside the house, a smart little geezer with a sort of pink plant stuck in his jacket. When he got level with us he raised his hat and started muttering. I’m not too good at understanding what humans say: I mean there are some things that are easy enough – like ‘who’s a good dog then?’ or ‘get out of the way, you little blighter’ – but for the most part they gabble and you really have to strain your ears. But it’s specially tricky grasping what they’re spluttering about when they lower their voices. And this chap’s voice was pretty low – pi-haa-no as the cat would say.
Anyway, the man went burbling on and P.O. had the sort of look that the vicar often had, especially if he was with Mavis Briggs; the look that says, ‘For Christ’s sake, get to the point because I want my gin!’ Well, I think he did get to the point because she started to smile and said something like, ‘How very kind of you Mr Top-Ho. Yes, I would love to come. A little party, how charming!’ Can’t say that she looked very charmed – leastways not when we had got back inside, because the first thing she did was to kick off her shoes, light a gasper and say to Maurice, ‘Well really, that’s all one needs!’ No response, of course: the cat was in one of his po-faced moods, knackered by the soft-soaping earlier, he can only keep it up for so long. Then she started to shove her face in the newspaper and made awful crackling and rustling noises. I have noticed that human beings often do this when they are feeling ratty (which is quite often); they don’t seem to read anything, just make a rumpus turning the pages.
Then with another blast of crackle she threw the paper down and went to the blower in the hall. I didn’t know who she was phoning but someone was getting an earful all right, and this time it wasn’t F.O. More’s the pity? Dunno. Let sleeping dogs and vicars lie. That’s what the cat says, and I expect he’s right. After all, the master always did like lolling about so he’s probably having a fine old time. A good long kip: just up his street!
As it happens, by that time I felt like having a kip myself and started to stretch out on the floor, but I could see that Maurice was fidgeting and had begun to twitch his right ear, a sure sign of something in the wind. ‘Ay, ay,’ I thought, ‘he’s on the prowl.’ And he was too – nipped off the pouffe and slunk after her into the hall. He likes doing that: listening to them when they’re bawling down the blower, says it’s a challenge to his wits (very keen on his wits is Maurice). Not too good at it myself. It’s all that sitting still; makes me lose the thread and I get muddled – and besides it’s not as if they talk about anything useful like grub or bones. BORING! Still, if the cat has anything to report he’s bound to tell me … unless, of course, he gets one of his sulks. Then he’ll shut up for hours: give us all a bit of peasanquart as F.O. used to say.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Primrose Version
Personally, I found it all very peculiar. Topping threw this party at his lodgings and for some strange reason wanted to include me. Well naturally I was far from inclined, but not one to be churlish, graciously accepted. I suppose he wanted to establish himself with his colleagues and presumably felt the local artist would add kudos to the event. A little presumptuous I thought, but there we are … Emily seemed full of enthusiasm and told me he was thinking of holding it in the garden – an absurd notion at this time of year. Fortunately it rained incessantly so one was spared that particular penance.
Anyway, for the most part things proceeded as anticipated; with poor drink and indifferent conversation. At one point I felt like suggesting that we all play charades, but knowing the headmaster’s aversion to theatricals (including the annual school play), doubted if the idea would be well received. However, in the event there was enough drama as it was, or at least so I judged. A drama based on the most remarkable coincidence.
You see two days prior to the party, I happened to be in Lewes High Street when who do you think I bumped into? Ingaza. Yes, Nicholas Ingaza, the Brighton art dealer, last seen at my brother’s funeral tearfully hogging the sandwiches and guzzling brandy from a furtive hip flask. In the past Francis and I had had a certain amount to do with Ingaza, including a rather trying trip with him to the Auvergne1, but since the funeral I had heard nothing. The silence was not uncongenial, for, and as Francis would often lament, Ingaza is somebody of whom one is never quite sure, although I have to admit that my own dealings with him had been less fraught than Francis’s. He needs a firm hand, which alas, Francis did not have.
If anything he looked thinner than when last seen, but observing an even bigger diamond glinting in his tie pin I assumed business was brisk.
‘Well, what do you know? Primrose Oughterard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Wonderful to see an old face, dear girl.’
‘Enough of the old face,’ I snapped. ‘What are you doing here, Nicholas? I cannot imagine that the ancient stones of Lewes have much to offer you.’
‘No,’ he leered, ‘but something else has. All rather productive really …’
‘You’ve made a killing,’ I said.
‘Oh not a killing as such. Shall we say that certain things have rather played into my hands and—’
‘And now you are on the way to the bank to deposit the spondulicks before your client gets cold feet or asks too many questions.’
He contrived to look pained. ‘You know, Primrose, you are just like poor Francis, so cynical!’
‘He had some cause,’ I retorted dryly.
He gave a wide but wistful smile. ‘Perhaps, perhaps …’ and slicking the brilliantined hair added quietly, ‘one misses him you know.’
I did know and for once took his words at their face value. However, I had no intention of swapping personal nostalgia with Ingaza, least of all in the middle of Lewes’s Kasbah, so instead enquired after his execrable Aunt Lil.
‘Huh! No change there. Says she’s bored and wants a fancy man. I ask you!’
‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘most enterprising at eighty-six, shows she’s still alive.’
‘Too bloody alive,’ was the grim response.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but just think, with a fancy man in tow it would let you off the hook from your weekly jaunt to the Eastbourne bandstand. It’s an ill wind that—’
‘Like hell. That would make two of the beggars to cart around!’
I sighed. ‘Oh well, Nicholas, we all have our crosses to bear. My current one is to be charming at a party given by one of the prep school masters. A man called Topping. He’s new and apparently thinks it a good idea to ingratiate himself with the headmaster and the locals, or at least one particular local, me.’
At those last words Ingaza sucked in his breath. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘he’ll have a task on his hands there, like clawing at granite.’ And he gave one of those maddening slow winks.
I ignored that and was about to make my excuses and move off, when he said, ‘I knew a Topping once, a year below me at Merton; a quiet little chap and a first-rate Greek scholar. Good at ingratiation too – used to hang on to Professor Gilbert Murray’s coat tails like grim death.’
‘Really? Well I doubt if this man is first-rate, and it’s Latin he does, not Greek.’
He shrugged. ‘They tend to go together. Still, despite its illustrious name, it’s unlikely that Erasmus House would interest my chap. He went far.’
‘How far?’
‘Became a croupier at Christoff’s.’
‘Became a croupier? At Christoff’s! You mean that frightful place in Malta, the one the Messina brothers are rumoured to have run?’
He nodded. ‘That’s it. I gather he did rather well. Chemmy was his thing, though I think he had a hand in various other of the Messina specialities – the girls and such. It’s amazing what a classical education can do for you.’ He gave another slow wink, made an absurd flourishing bow and slithered off in the direction of the bank.
Yes, I thought acidly, Ingaza’s own classical education had resulted in his being ejected from the theological college once attended by my brother, and into clink for conduct unbecoming in a Turkish bath. However, such misfortune had done little to inhibit his rise through the less scrupulous echelons of Brighton’s art world, or indeed to acquire the dubious reputation of being the south coast’s prime ‘fixer’. From Hastings to Hayling Island the name of Nicholas Ingaza was synonymous with slick acquisition and quiet discretion. I gazed after the spare figure with the tango hips and natty chalk-stripe suit … and then thought of Francis, gangling in his baggy flannels and ill-fitting clerical collar. They had been an incongruous pair and not just sartorially. The sharper had survived; my brother lay prematurely to rest, safe from snares.
Turning on my heel, I marched smartly to the butcher’s to harangue the girl for muddling my order.
