The Primrose Pursuit (11 page)

I had spent much of the day in the studio grappling with recalcitrant sheep and ancient hedgerows. My sky was good but the grass poor, and despite the introduction of gambolling lambs and splodges of bluebells, the picture lacked animation. I sighed irritably, unable to settle to the thing. It was not so much that I was bored, but distracted – distracted by thoughts of Freddie Balfour and the likely consequence of his officious comments to the chief superintendent.

I do not like MacManus: his blend of ambition and sanctimony being far from my taste. Doubtless he is more competent than the last man we had here, and his height and jutting jaw seem to impress the more susceptible of our local ladies including, I suspect, Emily. But personally I find his manner wooden and charmless and I certainly did not relish the prospect of being interviewed by him. With luck, I thought, he might send a lackey. But since it was he who had personally appeared at the school, and indeed
questioned Emily, it was quite likely that I too might be accorded that dubious honour.

Yet it was not simply the prospect of Alastair MacManus that unsettled me: it was the idea of being interviewed at
all
. As explained, it was clearly in my best interests to steer well clear of any known involvement in so gruesome a matter. Thus to now learn that I was likely to be the object of police probing was distinctly disquieting.

However, as I wielded my brush over sheep and bluebells I told myself that I was becoming absurdly windy. The thing would be perfectly simple: lie like a trooper and tell MacManus or whoever that I had indeed been passing the dew pond in the early hours; and that no, I had not stopped, and that after a merry evening at the bridge table I had been only too glad to get home to my restful bed. Apart from one unsavoury detail this was, of course, entirely true. I could talk rapturously about the silvery moon and luminous sky, the scent of thyme wafting in through the car window and the little lights of Lewes twinkling merrily in the far distance … Oh yes, indeed, I would supply lavish descriptions of everything other than that awful balding head, yellowing teeth and staring eyes!

I cogitated and felt slightly better. The point was that other than Freddie Balfour’s loose-tongued tattling there was nothing to connect me with the crime scene at all … I could await the chief superintendent’s approach with relative ease. So with that settled I slung my brush aside and went out to walk the dog.

I say ‘walk the dog’ – the dog walks me. And I spent the best part of an hour stumbling and bawling in Bouncer’s wake as we scoured rutted fields and sodden paths searching for God knows what. Eventually the quest lost its urgency,
and with the dog tired and me exhausted we returned to the house to be met by Maurice screeching for his supper. I sometimes wonder how on earth Francis managed. He had never had much stamina (hence the dispatch of Mrs Fotherington), so how he coped with this pair I do not know. Ignored them, I suppose.

As predicted, the following morning I was telephoned by some police cleric asking when it might be convenient for the chief superintendent to call and ask a few routine questions. I was about to reply that if the questions were so routine why didn’t he send a minion, but thought better of it. It doesn’t do to ruffle their feathers. However, as a matter of principle I did make it clear that being extremely busy, no time was especially convenient, but that naturally I was willing to cooperate as best I could in this dastardly case. Thus an appointment was fixed and I waited.

In due course a black Wolseley rolled up; and leaving the driver in the car MacManus presented himself in my porch. After the usual formal pleasantries (I had no intention of producing coffee), we settled down to brass tacks, or rather he did.

‘Miss Oughterard,’ he began, ‘I gather from Mr Balfour of Hope Vale that you were playing bridge with his wife and a party of friends on the evening of the incident and that you left shortly after midnight. Is that correct?’

‘Oh yes,’ I enthused, ‘we had a splendid session and I actually did rather well. Do you play bridge, Mr MacManus? I should think that with your training and expertise it would be right up your street. It needs a sharp mind.’ I beamed encouragingly.

‘I dabble,’ he replied shortly. Dabble? That probably meant he missed every trick in the book – just like Freddie Balfour.

‘So you left after midnight … and then what did you do?’

‘Do? Well I drove home, naturally. Far too tired to hang about.’

‘And you passed the dew pond, of course.’

‘Of course, it’s the quickest route.’

He nodded, and after a pause said, ‘And I take it you didn’t stop or see anything out of the ordinary. No cars parked on the verge? There was nothing strange that caught your eye?’ Caught my eye? I suppose he meant like a beheaded corpse.

‘No, I am afraid I can’t help you there. Mind you,’ and I gave an embarrassed laugh, ‘I have to admit to not having my eye entirely on the road: it was such a glorious night and the stars were utterly magnetic!’

I was about to launch into further poetics, when Bouncer bounded in from the garden. But on seeing the visitor he stopped abruptly, flopped down and instantly fell asleep. It is amazing how discerning animals can be in judging the calibre of visitors.

‘And I suppose that’s Bouncer,’ MacManus said.

I agreed that it was and expressed surprise that he should know his name. He explained that Freddie Balfour had once mentioned the dog, disparagingly no doubt, and then stared thoughtfully at the heaving flanks.

‘As a matter of fact,’ I said brightly, ‘I haven’t had him for very long. He belonged to my late brother.’

‘Ah yes, of course, that vicar in Surrey – Molehill, wasn’t it? The one that flung himself off the church tower.’

I was enraged! But biting back caustic fury, I replied evenly that my brother had indeed been the
canon
of Molehill and that his sad death had been occasioned by his gallant rescue of a parishioner dangling from a gargoyle. ‘Francis,’ I added, ‘would never have
flung
himself anywhere, let alone while on church property.’ I looked suitably pained; while MacManus looked suitably abashed – as well he might.

‘Ah yes, yes, of course,’ he muttered; but then added, ‘Hadn’t he been a friend of that unfortunate woman found dead in the woods? I seem to remember—’

This was becoming irritating. Why on earth was this tedious man raking up things long since buried? It was too bad. Why didn’t he just stick to the matter in hand: Carstairs and his beastly cadaver? Thus I said rather curtly that ‘friend’ wasn’t quite the right term but naturally, being Mrs Fotherington’s rector, my brother had indeed known her in his professional capacity. I then enquired rather pointedly if he had any further questions.

‘Yes, I have actually,’ he replied. ‘Tell me, do you often go up to the dew pond, Miss Oughterard?’

I was puzzled by this and not a little unnerved. But I told him, truthfully, that I did visit the spot very occasionally, though not nearly as often as Francis and I had when children – and started to give a vivid account of our exploits there.

He cut me short, saying, ‘And your dog, does he go up there?’

‘My dog? Well, er … not without me he doesn’t. At least I shouldn’t think so, it’s rather a long way.’ I laughed nervously.

MacManus fished in his pocket and held out his hand.
In it there lay a small metal disc, a dog collar tag with the word ‘
BOUNCER
’ writ large.

I gazed nonplussed. ‘Wherever did you find that?’

‘Just by the deceased’s head,’ MacManus replied.

It was a blow all right. But unlike Francis I have the capacity for fairly quick thinking, and thus despite my shock I heard myself exclaiming: ‘Goodness gracious, so that’s where it got to. I’ve been looking for ages!’ Then giving a stage gasp, I cried: ‘But oh how dreadful – I mean it being found so close to the, er, well to the
remains
.’ I shuddered and rushed on before he could say anything. ‘You see we
had
gone up there about a fortnight ago and spent such a lively afternoon with all the other dogs. Bouncer enjoyed every minute – splashing about and rabbiting in the gorse; he was having a lovely time. So I suppose with all that rampaging it must have fallen off. Probably been loose for ages and I had never noticed.’

MacManus cleared his throat and placed the disc on the table. ‘So you think it dropped off the dog’s collar a fortnight ago and has been lying on that same spot ever since?’

‘Well yes, evidently; unless, of course, some sheep picked it up from under a gorse bush, and then wandered about and spat it out.’ There was I fear just a hint of ice in my tone. Whether MacManus had noticed I am not sure. But to compensate I said forlornly, ‘You know, Chief Superintendent, I really don’t think I want it back now. After all, it would always be such a ghastly reminder of that poor man’s fate!’ I endeavoured to look stricken.

‘Hmm,’ he grunted, and slipped the disc back into his pocket.

Little else was said, and after thanking me politely for my time he returned to the waiting Wolseley and was driven away.

The moment he had gone the dog woke up and shook itself. ‘Short commons for you this evening,’ I said, ‘how could you have been so crass!’ He looked blank and mooched off into the kitchen.

The morning after MacManus’s visit I had an unexpected encounter; not especially congenial but interesting all the same. I was in the queue at the baker’s, rather keen to get my hands on some of that new loaf he has just produced – the Lewes Lozenge or some such esoteric name – when I realised I was standing behind Bertha Twigg, the gym mistress at Erasmus. I had only spoken to her twice, neither time enlivening, but since I was eager to learn more of what was afoot with the Carstairs case, I made my presence known.

‘Why it is Miss Twigg, isn’t it? How nice to see you,’ I gushed. ‘I wonder if we are after the same thing, Mr Dexter’s exciting new recipe. Emily Bartlett tells me it is the best thing since Chelsea buns.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Bertha replied, ‘I only buy the rye wafers; bread of any kind is bad for the thighs.’ She wore the look of the stoutly righteous, and stealing a glance at her lower limbs I felt like murmuring something about
things past redress; but intent on my agenda instead asked if she would care to join me for a coffee at the adjacent bookshop.

This she did and I began to pump her about the situation at Erasmus House.

‘It must be dreadful for you all,’ I said, ‘especially for Mr Winchbrooke. I gather that two pupils have been withdrawn already. I hope there won’t be many more.’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ she replied. ‘Half-term has just finished and the parents will be gagging for a rest. Besides, those two were in line for expulsion anyway, so it saves a lot of messing about. As I always say, even the worst things can produce good results.’ She stretched for a chocolate biscuit, while I visualised Carstairs’ conveniently propped-up head.

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ I agreed doubtfully. ‘But then, of course, there is also the mother. Poor woman, she must be desperate – her only child I believe.’ I had a vision of the lonely widow in Newhaven bereft both of her son and the ritual of his weekly laundry, and did indeed feel sorry.

‘Oh there’s no mother,’ Bertha said briskly. ‘That was all my eye.’

‘But whatever do you mean? Emily Bartlett told me that—’

‘Yes, that’s what he told us all but when the police checked, there was apparently no trace; not a single trace. Mr Winchbrooke is very annoyed. If you ask me it was simply a ruse to get more time off than the rest of us.’ She eyed the biscuits indignantly and took another. It struck me that for one so solicitous about the condition of her thighs, Bertha Twigg was pretty sharp in the chocolate stakes.

‘But presumably Dr Carstairs must have had some sort of family or relatives. I mean, where did he come from?’

She shrugged. ‘Apart from the mythical mother he never spoke about anything like that; though now that you ask, I do remember he mentioned Australia a couple of times. Something about an ex-wife being there – but frankly I wasn’t very interested. As a matter of fact, I found him rather rude and stand-offish.’

‘Oh really? Why was that?’

Bertha Twigg’s face darkened. ‘Well,’ she said, planting her elbows firmly on the table, ‘he very rarely joined in with anything – you know like nature rambles and healthy hikes; and he certainly lacked what you might call
zeal
. For example, there was one time when the whole school was getting ready for Founder’s Day. It’s a most important occasion with prize-giving, tugs-of-war and all that sort of thing, including the ten-minute rugger scrum that young Mr Fairley organises. But the best part is the grand finale in the evening –the seniors’ gymnastic display for which, naturally, I am responsible. This is a very popular event and
much
appreciated by the parents.’ She paused, presumably allowing me time to absorb the fact.

‘I am sure it is,’ I murmured sceptically, wishing she would get to the point.

‘And, of course, as a prologue to the boys’ performance I always do a little display myself – it reassures the parents that their offspring are being instructed by a true professional.’ I wasn’t entirely convinced of that but said nothing.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘to this end I was in the gym one afternoon practising a backward flip on the horse – jolly difficult things to get right you know – when I realised
that one of its legs was a bit wonky and that if I wasn’t careful the whole thing might keel over. As it happens, Dr Carstairs was in the corridor, and since he didn’t seem to be doing anything useful I asked him if he wouldn’t mind kneeling on the floor and gripping the leg to anchor it while I did one or two quick vaults … And do you know what he said?’ I shook my head, a number of possibilities coming to mind.

‘He
claimed
that he had weak wrists and couldn’t possibly risk such a manoeuvre. I told him that holding the horse steady was hardly a manoeuvre; to which he replied that it all depended on the context – and walked off!’

‘Oh dear,’ I said vaguely, ‘that wasn’t very cooperative of him.’

‘Not cooperative? I should think not!’ Bertha snorted. ‘If you ask me it was downright ungallant, not to say disloyal.’

I was puzzled by the disloyalty bit and asked her what she meant. She explained that as someone doing her physical best for the honour of the school she should surely have been able to rely on support from a fellow member of staff, and that clearly Dr Carstairs had been indifferent to the athletic prowess of Erasmus House.

It crossed my mind that it was possibly less the honour of Erasmus House that Carstairs had been reluctant to support than the weight of those pounding and formidable flanks. However, such an observation might have been injudicious and I hastily changed tack: ‘But I think you mentioned he rarely joined in with things. Does that mean he didn’t have any cronies among the rest of the staff?’

She sniffed. ‘Well not until Mr Topping arrived he didn’t. They played chess and cleaned their bicycles together.’

‘Cleaned their bicycles?’

‘Oh yes. You know how men are about that sort of thing – they get obsessed. It was a sort of ritual: every Wednesday evening after Evensong. As a matter of fact, I found it rather tiresome.’

I asked her why and she explained that the ‘ritual’ often took place under her bedroom window just when she was engaged in her deep-breathing exercises, and that the sound of the men’s voices and the relentless scraping of mudguards had been most distracting. ‘In fact I looked out once to ask them to go elsewhere but there was rather a wind blowing and I don’t think they heard. But Mr Topping saw me and gave a charming wave; he is really most mannerly,
unlike
Dr Carstairs.’

‘So no wave from Dr Carstairs?’ I asked lightly.

‘Oh he just kept his head down. Typical!’

It was increasingly evident that Bertha Twigg harboured a simmering antipathy to the deceased. Had such dislike occasioned his unfortunate fate? An excessive reaction perhaps, but these days one does hear of people doing the most extraordinary things. It flashed through my mind that perhaps Hubert Topping was blameless after all … But surveying the figure opposite, I thought this unlikely. There was something wholesomely bovine about the gym mistress which would seem to preclude such an enterprise. Yes, Topping was definitely the surer bet.

I stood up, and murmuring blatant lies about pressing engagements, left her toying with the remains of the chocolate biscuits.

Out in the High Street I considered the news: admittedly not much but intriguing nevertheless. Why had Carstairs fabricated the mother in Newhaven? Was it really just a
means of ducking his professional duties as Bertha had insisted? If so, it did indeed put him in a rather feeble light. After all, why continue at an institution like Erasmus if he found its routine so distasteful? But if it wasn’t that then why the pretext for goodness’ sake?

A secret mistress? Doubtful; he had sounded too dull for that sort of caper. So what had he been doing in those absences, or whom had he been seeing? And then what about that curious liaison with Topping? What on earth had they had in common? Surely more than the compulsive cleaning of mudguards. Something else must have drawn them together. I thought of Topping’s smarmy bonhomie and very much doubted if it could have been a mutual chemistry. And according to Mr Winchbrooke several of the masters are keen on chess, so why should Topping have singled out Carstairs as his partner? It was obvious, I told myself, there was some
other
matter which had linked them: a matter which conceivably had led to Carstairs’ death … I walked down the hill feeling rather pleased with my deductions.

However, the pleasure was eclipsed by the sight of the chief superintendent emerging from the fishing tackle shop. He was in mufti and accompanied by a wan little woman whom I presumed was his wife. He strode ahead while she padded behind carrying a weighty shopping bag. Seeing him I was reminded that it was, of course, through police enquiries in the Newhaven area that the fiction of Carstairs’ mother had been exposed. I felt a prick of annoyance to think that MacManus had been in possession of such information well before I had it myself.

I wondered what he was making of it and what else he might have unearthed relevant to the case – other than
Bouncer’s wretched name tag, of course. Did he, for example, know of Carstairs’ friendship with Topping? Presumably only if the latter had volunteered such information, unless Bertha had told him. But I rather suspected that the gym mistress had not been among those interviewed. Had she been so, she would surely have told me during our recent conversation.