The Primrose Pursuit (13 page)

There was an agitated telephone call from Erasmus House, from Emily. ‘Oh Primrose,’ she breathed, ‘you couldn’t possibly do the headmaster a favour, could you? It’s all rather tricky.’

‘Rather depends,’ I replied guardedly. ‘What is it?
Fräulein
Hockheimer struck with German measles and someone is needed to take her art classes?’

‘Not so simple,’ she said. ‘You see it is poor little Dickie Ickington, he’s been left in the lurch and he was
so
looking forward to everything.’

‘Looking forward to what?’ I enquired.

‘Being taken out by his grandfather Mr Justice Ickington. They have a rendezvous every half-term. But this time the judge is caught up in some complex fraud trial and simply can’t get here and the parents are away on the Riviera so there is no one to give the little chap a treat. He is being awfully brave about it, which somehow makes it worse. I don’t suppose you could take him off our hands for the
afternoon, could you? I mean now that you have Bouncer and Maurice I expect you are quite good at that sort of thing …’ Her voice trailed off hopefully.

What on earth did she expect? For me to throw the child a bone and a piece of haddock? Kind though Emily is, she sometimes has the strangest notions. ‘Er, possibly,’ I replied, ‘if you are sure it’s only for the afternoon. I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment and can’t spend too much—’

In a trice the plaintive note had vanished to be replaced by brisk assertion. ‘Excellent,’ she cried. ‘Meet him at the school gates at two o’clock and take him to Drusilla’s the children’s zoo at Alfriston. Bring him back at five.’ The line went dead.

So that was my brief: to entertain Sickie-Dickie for three scintillating hours feeding the llamas and chimpanzees, taking multiple rides on the model railway and staring endlessly at the repellent denizens of the reptile house …
And you can damn well put a brave face on it too
, I heard Pa’s voice say sternly.

In fact my charge turned out to be quite companionable: polite and enthusiastic, and chattered authoritatively on a whole range of topics from Hornby rolling stock and the mating habits of moths to Bertha Twigg’s serge gym knickers. ‘They’re awfully big,’ he confided. And then after demonstrating his skill at plunging head first down all three slides while I dutifully clapped, he suddenly remarked breathlessly: ‘I say Miss Oughterard, do you know anything about hacked-off heads – you know like what happened to Dr Carstairs at the dew pond? I bet he got a shock! I wonder what size axe they used, a pretty big one I should think.’ He gazed at me, seeking enlightenment.

I told him that I had no idea and it really wasn’t something one talked about in polite company. He protested that we weren’t in polite company as it was just him and me (!)

‘Yes, Dickie,’ I said, ‘but it’s still not a very nice subject and it was obviously done by someone very wicked involved in something very wrong.’ I glanced at the sky, hoping to point out an odd shaped cloud. There weren’t any.

The little boy nodded solemnly: ‘Oh yes, bound to be dope I expect. Grandpa says there’s a lot of it about these days.’

‘Really?’ I said mildly. ‘Well I suppose he would know. He probably has to deal with quite a number of those nasty drug smuggling people.’

The child nodded again. ‘Grandpa says he hates the bally buggers and he’d string ’em up given half a chance and it wouldn’t be by the neck either.’ He frowned. ‘How else would he string them up, Miss Oughterard?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said hastily. ‘Now Si – er, Dicky, why don’t we go and have some nice ice creams? They do some very tasty vanilla cones at that little tea shop.’ I smiled indulgently.

The smile faded somewhat when he explained that on the whole he would prefer a Knickerbocker Glory – a whopping big one with chocolate fudge, cream, cherries and a long spoon, as that was the kind that he and his grandfather always ate when they visited Drusilla’s. I felt like telling him that he would do no such thing and that he could eat a fourpenny cone like any other child. However, not wishing to fall out with the judiciary I bought him a small sundae – with a short spoon.

As it happens, it was quite a useful move since it entailed our sitting at a table and ordering lemon squash and tea.
Not only did this take the weight off my feet and delay gazing at yet another baboon’s bottom, but more to the point it allowed me to ply Sickie with some subtle questions, such as what was his opinion of poor Dr Carstairs and nice Mr Topping?

This produced the answer that he had thought Dr Carstairs pretty stupid because he hadn’t liked baked beans and that Mr Topping wasn’t nice anyway.

‘Really?’ I asked eagerly. ‘And why is that I wonder?’ I splashed more squash into his mug and considered whether I should order him another sundae, but stayed my hand. Bribery can be overdone – as I am sure Mr Justice Ickington would have agreed.

‘Well,’ he began, licking his spoon, ‘for a start he doesn’t laugh at my jokes, says they’re silly. I think that stinks because I tell jolly good jokes. They are some of Grandpa’s, and
everyone
laughs in court when he cracks one, even the fellow in the dock. Shall I tell you a few, Miss Oughterard?’

‘Not just now,’ I said hastily. ‘Er, but you were saying about Mr Topping and his lack of humour … Is that the only thing he lacks?’

The boy looked thoughtful. ‘Reverence,’ he announced earnestly.

‘
What?
’

‘Reverence – you know, it’s how you’ve got to behave in church.’

I was intrigued. What on earth was the child talking about? And how had Topping flouted the laws of churchly convention – orgies in the vestry? Card-sharping in the organ loft? My mind whirled with curiosity.

‘Oh I cannot imagine Mr Topping not showing respect in church. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said stoutly, ‘I saw them at it.’

I cleared my throat, and then rather cautiously asked at what exactly.

‘Passing notes; him and Dr Carstairs when we were singing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. They weren’t joining in at all, just scribbling away and shoving these bits of paper at each other.’ Sickie-Dickie looked indignant. ‘I mean if
we
pass notes in class we get lines and a cuffed ear. It’s not fair, is it? And after all, this was in the middle of
chapel
! I think that’s a bit sneaky, don’t you, Miss Oughterard? I mean telling us off and then doing the same thing yourself – it’s what Grandpa would call hyp, hypo something or other.’

‘I am sure your grandfather is right. But it may have been something rather urgent or conversely rather trivial, or perhaps simply comments on the excellence of the choir’s singing.’

He shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so, not with old Travers conducting. The writing was all in Latin anyhow.’ He glanced around, eyeing the cake counter. ‘They look pretty good,’ he said pointedly.

‘In Latin?’ I exclaimed, ignoring the cakes. ‘How do you know that?’

‘What? Oh Dr Carstairs dropped one when we were marching out, so I picked it up. I was going to give it to him and say, “Oh, sir, I think you’ve just dropped this piece of paper that Mr Topping passed to you when we were saying our prayers after that nice hymn.” But he was moving too fast and I missed him … Anyway, like I said, it was only a bit of old Latin.’

‘So what did you do with it?’ I enquired softly.

He screwed up his face in an effort to remember.
Chucked it away I feared. ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘it could be in my hymn book or p’raps my blazer pocket.’

There was a long pause as I surveyed the child opposite me. ‘Do you mean,’ I said casually, ‘the blazer you are wearing now, the one with those smart stripes?’

He gave a surprised toothy grin. ‘Oh
yes
, that’s it, I’d forgotten all about it! It was ages ago.’ He dug his fingers into the top pocket and drew out a screwed-up piece of paper. ‘Yes, this is it, it’s still here. Do you want it?’ He pushed the paper across the table while again casting a speculative eye towards the cake counter.

This time I summoned the waitress. ‘Two cream buns for the young man,’ I said. My request was no bribe, merely a token of gratitude …

Back at home and the child safely returned to the school, I unfolded the crumpled note. It was indeed in Latin and its hasty scrawl did little to aid translation. In any case my own memory of the language was sparse to say the least. How maddening – and how typical of Topping to communicate in this way. Smug little showman! I stared irritably at the pencilled words, one or two striking distant chords –
navalia, ad tempus, onus
– and then to my surprise I discerned the name
Caesar
. What on earth had he to do with anything! I studied the other three terms: something to do with a dock and a punctual burden? Unlikely, as the only other word I recognised was
mater
: mother. Perhaps the wretched man had coded it as well. There was only one thing for it: the dubious help of Nicholas Ingaza. With a first in Classics (
and
, as Charles had let drop, at Bletchley during the war) he would surely crack the thing in an instant.

I dialled straightaway and was answered by Eric. Ingaza’s telephone voice is silkily wary; Eric’s has the subtle lilt of a costermonger.

‘Wotcha!’ he roared.

‘Good evening,’ I began, ‘this is Primrose Oughterard. I wonder whether—’

‘Well stone the crows,’ he exclaimed, ‘if I haven’t just put money on you!’

‘I
beg
your pardon?’

‘Yes, five good smackers at Kempton Park. Miss Primrose, fifty to one. A blooming outsider, of course, but with a name like that you never knows your luck, do yer?’ He gave a dark chuckle. ‘Yes, the moment I saw that one among the runners I said to His Nibs, “That’s my girl. I’ll back her any day!”’

‘Oh really?’ I said, feeling faintly flattered. ‘And what did His Nibs say?’

‘Ow he didn’t say nuffin’, just gave one of those looks. Know what I mean?’

‘I do indeed,’ I replied dryly. ‘And where is Nicholas? I need to speak to him rather urgently.’

Eric explained that his friend was out closing a deal, after which he was due for a tango lesson. ‘Been shortlisted for the South Coast Latino Cup,’ he said with pride, ‘so he don’t want to miss a trick.’

‘I am sure he rarely does,’ I murmured.

‘You can say that again!’ was the bellowed response.

Thus it was eventually agreed that unless I heard to the contrary, Nicholas would meet me in the lounge of Brighton’s Old Schooner at eleven o’clock the following day. And with that settled and feeling a trifle fatigued after parleying with
Eric, I sat down and toyed with a gin. Haunted by the insistent rhythms of ‘Hernando’s Hideaway’, I mused upon Ingaza’s passion for fancy footwork and glanced again at Topping’s note. Really, was there to be no end to this Latin nonsense!

As arranged, and not having heard otherwise, the next morning I drove over to Brighton, managed to park the Morris on the seafront and strolled along to the Old Schooner. My companion was already there, lounging in an armchair and looking rather smug. At my approach he stood up and executed an extravagant bow.

‘Getting in the mood for the Latino Cup, are we?’ I asked.

‘But of course. Just wait, by the end of next week the title will be seen everywhere. “Ingaza of the Plaza”, that’ll be me!’ He smirked.

‘How nice. And what about your partner, Mona – what will she be?’

‘Much the same I imagine: Mona the Moaner.’

I sighed. ‘I don’t think you are nice to know, Nicholas. Now hurry up and get me a drink, I have an important matter to discuss and I need your wits if you can spare them.’

When he returned I told him about my session with Sickie-Dickie and produced the note. He scanned it quickly, and then said, ‘Yes, the Latin’s easy enough, but as to what it actually
means
is anyone’s guess. Presumably it would have been perfectly clear to Carstairs.’

‘He is not in a position to be asked,’ I said. ‘So what does it say?’

‘It says: “Caesar arrives with the stuff on Wednesday night at nine. I can’t be there as have to see the others in the usual place, so it is up to you. Be at the dock promptly. If necessary tell them your mother is ill again.”’

I frowned. ‘What do you mean “stuff” – where do you get that from?’ He explained that it was his version of
onus
. ‘There’s a whole gamut of meanings – load, burden, tax, freight, cargo. Indeed even—’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently, ‘I don’t need a Latin lesson, “cargo” will do. So this Caesar person was going to arrive laden with a load of stuff and expecting to be met on some quayside by Carstairs …’ I paused, and then yelped in triumph, ‘who was spinning a line that his
mother
was ill. It’s obvious …
Newhaven
– that’s where he had to be, somewhere down on the port!’

Ingaza raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so,’ I cried. ‘Carstairs had a mythical mother in Newhaven!’

He looked puzzled. And I explained what Bertha Twigg had told me about the police having pursued that line of enquiry and drawn a blank. ‘So there was no mother and thus the redoubtable MacManus will have to think again,’ I said this with a tinge of satisfaction. ‘In my view he doesn’t have the liveliest brain. In fact, frankly, if ever I do get proof of Topping’s villainy I shall think twice before laying it on
his
desk.’

Nicholas gave a faint smile. ‘Actually, Primrose, he is brighter than you think – and possibly a little more flexible too.’

‘Huh, he hasn’t struck me as flexible – wooden features, wooden mind.’

‘I don’t mean mentally flexible, I mean morally.’

‘Oh really? Like you?’ I asked.

‘Or Francis,’ was the quick retort.

I nearly upset my drink. ‘Francis was
not
like you. He was under considerable strain as well you know, and was simply not up to coping with taxing situations – some of which were your devising!’

‘Perhaps,’ he admitted smoothly, ‘but not, you must agree, the first one.’