The Primrose Pursuit (19 page)

So that was the arrangement: Charles would deliver the cairn in the afternoon of the following day and then take off for London. ‘Goodness,’ I said brightly to my fellow residents, ‘aren’t you the lucky ones! We’re going to have a little visitor for a few days. Won’t that be fun? Now just make sure you treat him nicely.’ The news was greeted with blank indifference and they swiftly went to sleep.

The visitor’s arrival was prompt and decorous. That is to say, no offence was given and none apparently taken. The cairn slipped quietly into the house, sniffed the rugs in the hall and was greeted with uncommon grace by Bouncer and in silence by Maurice. Having expected noisy hub-bub I was much relieved, and leaving them to their own devices retired upstairs to the studio.

When I came down the cat had disappeared but I saw the two dogs in the garden trotting out of the shrubbery,
muzzles smeared in earth. Presumably Bouncer had been showing off his bone collection.

I started to prepare supper but was interrupted by the telephone. ‘I say,’ said Charles’s voice, ‘I am most fearfully sorry, Primrose, but would you mind awfully going over to Podmore to fetch Duster’s harness. I quite forgot to bring it with me. I know it’s a bore but if you wouldn’t mind—’

‘Why ever does he need a harness?’ I asked in surprise. ‘I mean he’s not exactly a leaping greyhound; seems pretty docile to me. Does he often wear one?’

Charles laughed. ‘Oh no, he doesn’t
wear
it, just sleeps with it. And the point is, if he doesn’t have it by him he won’t settle and makes a shindig all night.’

The prospect of the cairn making a shindig all night was not enticing. And thus amid further rueful apologies from Charles I assured him all would be well and that I would go over after supper and collect it from the downstairs cloakroom. I stared at the dog. ‘No one told me you were a blithering neurotic,’ I said irritably. Duster gave a sombre wag of his tail.

Supper over and after completing a corner of the crossword, I reluctantly rallied myself to fetch the wretched harness. Podmore being barely a mile away and the night clear and dry, I decided to walk. Stuck in the studio most of the day made me ready for exercise. Thus, taking a torch but eschewing the company of the two dogs I set out on my mission. Anything to keep the cairn quiescent!

In fact it was quite a pleasant stroll and there was enough moonlight not to need the torch. Podmore’s main gates were locked but Charles had directed me to the back entrance which would take me down the old east drive to the side door. Here I did need the torch as the path was
rutted and overhung with trees. Driving along it in daylight the previous week had been easy enough, but on foot and at night it was a different matter and once or twice I nearly caught my ankle in a pothole. However, I reached the entrance all right, and using the key let myself in. Pitch dark, of course, and I groped vainly for a light switch. I shone the torch and saw a door which I vaguely remembered as being either to the cloakroom or the kitchen … Yes, the cloakroom-cum-lavatory. Here I did find a switch and after peering about under the forty-watt bulb saw the dog’s harness hanging on a peg. I shoved it into my bag, switched off the light and prepared to leave.

But at that moment the silence was cut by a noise – the low purr of an approaching car, and through the high, narrow window I caught the glow of a headlamp. How strange. Who was calling on Charles at this time of evening? It was well past the supper hour, almost midnight. And anyway didn’t they know he was away? Would they ring the bell and if so should I answer it? My own presence though perfectly legitimate might seem odd – especially if I couldn’t find the light switches to welcome them in. I had an absurd vision of myself on the darkened threshold trying to explain who I was and what I was doing. But then what were
they
doing? Or could it possibly be Charles himself returned from London with a change of plan, or to collect some vital item he had left behind such as his cheque book or a file for one of his meetings?

I hovered uncertainly, standing on tiptoe to peek through the rather grimy pane. The car had stopped, its headlamps doused but sidelights still on. To get a better view I clambered onto the lid of the loo and cautiously opened the window a few inches. A door slammed, followed by the
sound of footsteps on the gravel; but rather to my surprise these did not seem to be coming towards the house but stayed crunching about where the car was parked in front of the old stable. I could just detect the murmur of voices and saw the sudden gleam of a cigarette.

I continued to squint through the window and then heard what sounded like a bolt being drawn back or the clank of a padlock. I screwed up my eyes and saw that the stable door had swung open and the car boot was gaping wide. Then in the next moment two vague shapes disappeared into the stable. I let out my breath which I realised I had been holding for a good two minutes … What on earth was going on? It hardly seemed that Charles had returned, and besides the car certainly wasn’t his (a low-slung Alvis which Agnes regularly cursed). This was much bigger, though from my vantage point it was impossible to discern the make.

As at other moments of tension I suddenly seemed to hear my brother’s voice.
Oh really Prim, nosy as always. I suppose the next minute you’ll want to go and take a closer look. Typical!
‘Actually,’ I mentally riposted, ‘that is exactly what I propose doing. I consider there is something deeply suspicious about all this, and as Charles’s friend it is my duty to investigate.’ Thus resolved, I found my way to the side door and slipped outside, quietly locking it behind me. For a moment I loitered in the shadows, assessing how best to approach in safety.

The corner of the stable was only a matter of yards: if I could get there I would have a clearer view while at the same time using it as cover. I started to move stealthily but stopped abruptly – the gravel seemed horribly loud! But there was a patch of thick grass to my left stretching as far
as the corner. I tiptoed on to this and stumbled my way to the lee of the wall.

Being now that much closer I had a clear view of the waiting car: very classy – a Humber Hawk. For a couple of seconds nothing impinged except the car itself, and then with a jolt I thought of Emily and her swearing blind that it had been a Humber she had seen bearing Topping towards Newhaven. Surely this couldn’t be the same, could it? I nearly let out a yell of triumph but curbed it just in time, for out of the stable came the tall figure of a man carrying what looked like a large box or case. He tottered towards the open boot, heaved the thing over the sill and then went back inside. Two minutes later he was out again with another load.

Fascinated, I gingerly inched my way along the wall to the shelter of a climbing magnolia from whose foliage I could peer out like the legendary Green Man.
Oh lor’ Primrose
, came Francis’s voice again,
do leave off. You are bound to be seen and then we shall all be in the cart!
Again I ignored his words and doggedly stood my ground, determined to get to the bottom of it.

Squeezed thus between the rough wall and the shrub’s branches I recalled a similar situation an age away, when as children we had spied on the neighbours, casting them as enemy agents
UP TO NO GOOD
. I smiled into the darkness; but the next instant froze, hearing voices again and then footsteps as this time both men re-emerged from the stable each now burdened by boxes. I strained eyes and ears trying to make out if the shorter was Topping but really couldn’t be sure. Certainly the height was the same but other features were shrouded by a mac and slouch hat. One of them spoke. ‘That’s it then. Let’s get the hell out of here. It’s cold. Hurry
up, I need a drink.’ (Hear! Hear!) There was a murmured response and I saw the lid of the boot being pushed down. The next moment they were in the car, and with headlights reignited the Humber trundled back up the drive; the sound of its engine gently fading into the night.

For some seconds I remained stock-still – like some playgoer surprised by the fall of the curtain and numbed by the sudden black silence. But I knew that this scene had been no make-believe. It had been real all right and I was jolly well going to find out more. Something very peculiar was afoot and I had a good idea of what it was. Thus disentangling myself from the magnolia’s branches I walked briskly towards the stable entrance.

The door was shut and, needless to say, had been re-padlocked. Curse! I wondered if there was a side entrance or even a window I might squeeze through, and was just about to make a reconnaissance when my foot clinked against something on the ground. Yes, miraculously it was the key … Hah, not so clever are we, I thought: fancy racing off and dropping that! Presumably it had been haste for the drink that had prompted such carelessness.

Shining the torch I saw that the ancient stable was just as one might expect – a filthy uneven floor, desolate loose boxes, broken hay byres, and here and there even bits of abandoned tack slung forlornly on rusting hooks. I looked up at the cobwebbed rafters and imagined bats; and then flashing the torch into grimy corners thought of rats. I flinched. There were bound to be some. But curiosity stifled distaste and I began to hunt around for some sign of the intruders’ purpose. If the shorter of the two men
had indeed been Topping then the reason for his being here humping boxes about could mean only one thing: the place was being used as a storage depot. And if Ingaza and MacManus were right then in all probability the goods were drugs – consignments of which were being regularly collected from the Newhaven docks.

I mooched about feeling increasingly cold and seeing nothing to suggest recent activity. The stable had that eerie static quality hinting of death and the decaying past. But then as I gave a final glance round I noticed a half-opened door in a far corner at the end of the row of stalls. Gingerly I pushed it wider and went in. The torch displayed a dingy narrow room, perhaps a place for forgotten grooms to sling their gear or clean their boots. There was a small table and a ramshackle set of shelves. Other than these the place was bare except for several cardboard cartons, a few on the shelves and others strewed haphazardly on the floor. In the pallid light I inspected these but all appeared empty and apparently hastily discarded. Some bore what looked like stamped numbers but otherwise there was nothing to indicate either contents or address.

Whatever had been stored here was obviously all gone; and judging from the earlier comings and goings it looked as if the place had been deliberately cleaned out – made redundant through change of requirement or plan. I stood there cold and dispirited. Sneaking about watching those two had been a strain, and yet despite my vigilance I had nothing to show for it. No proof had emerged either of the goods themselves or indeed the identity of their handlers. The Humber
might
have been the same one that had transported Topping the other evening, and the short man in the raincoat
might
have been him. And yes, the contents
of the cartons may well have been drugs – but then again for all I knew it could equally have been pots of jam. In Wilkie Collins’ parlance there was a distinct dearth of tangible evidence. Gloomily I started to make my way back to the main door, caught my foot in the sluicing gulley and fell flat on my face.

Amazingly, other than being badly shaken and with tingling knees I was moderately all right. However, to regain both breath and equilibrium I elected to stay temporarily on all fours staring furiously at the hard brick floor. And it was from this ungainly pose that I saw the packet. It lay by the stable door, a few yards from my nose and spotlit by the ray from the fallen torch.

Still on bruised knees, I gazed at it curiously, puzzled by the shiny whiteness of the wrapping. It had the neat, clinical look of something prescribed from a doctor’s surgery. I crawled forward and reached for both it and the torch; and on closer inspection saw that its cover wasn’t paper at all but cellophane, cellophane sealed tightly around what looked like white powder or castor sugar.

Starting to ache from top to toe and having had enough excitement for one night I was eager to leave and get home as quickly as possible. Thus I levered myself up from the floor, thrust the packet into my handbag, padlocked the door and – unlike the other visitors – slipped the key into my pocket.

The return journey seemed far longer than when coming, fatigue and painful knees taking their toll. But it gave me time to think and review matters.

The first thing I thought about was the packet at the bottom of my bag. Other than vital aspirin I knew nothing about drugs but vaguely recalled Nicholas referring to
cocaine as being ‘white goods in handy packs’. Was this the sort of thing he had meant? To me the description suggested self-raising flour, but not being abreast of the underworld and its terminology, who was I to cavil? The likelihood of some solitary addict wandering into the stable and negligently losing his supply seemed remote, and in any case it was far too clean to have been lying there long … It must surely therefore have slipped from one of the boxes the men had been carrying to the car.

The more I thought, the more certain I was of what had been going on. Unbeknown to Charles his disused stable had been commandeered as a drugs cache; and now for some reason it had grown surplus to requirements and what I had witnessed were the dealers making the final clearance. For a while I felt highly delighted. At least now there was a piece of tangible evidence. What luck!

But then an awful thought struck me … supposing Charles himself had known about it all the time, had perhaps sanctioned the whole thing! Or maybe he had hired out the stable for a business he had chosen not to confront; had taken the rent and conveniently turned a blind eye to its usage. And as to why the ‘clients’ should now decide to end the arrangement – well conceivably it was do with the projected orangery and his conversion plans. Had he given them notice on the grounds that nurture of oranges took precedence over storage of dope?