The Primrose Pursuit (21 page)

After lunch, I went up to the studio and continued my assault on the latest commission. I worked steadily for a good hour, grimly refusing to dwell on the morning’s upset.

However, eventually I paused and assessed my handiwork: not bad on the whole, not bad at all. A touch more light over the trees wouldn’t have come amiss, and had that sheep needed to look quite so moronic? I leant forward to make an adjustment but instead put the brush aside. Concentration had lapsed, for despite my resolve I couldn’t stop my mind from returning to that meeting on the High Street … There was no doubt about it: he had known damn well what was in the packet! I recalled that silent scrutiny, the slight frown of surprise and its replacement by a flush of anger and the grim stare as I took it from his hands. Oh he had known all right. But what the hell was he going to do with that knowledge? Carstairs’ head loomed before me … I flinched and, hastily banishing the image, grasped the brush again.
But as I did so a voice sounded from the hall:

‘I say, anyone at home? Are you there, Miss Oughterard?’

I jumped, nearly upsetting the easel, and then remembered I had left the side door open when letting the dog out. So who was this arriving in the middle of the afternoon? There was certainly no tradesman scheduled and the vicar had called only the day before. Yet even as the question flashed upon me I knew the answer.

‘Just a minute,’ I called back to Hubert Topping, ‘I’ll be straight down.’ I marched on to the landing half-fearful, half-fascinated. He certainly didn’t hang about!

Descent was forestalled for he was already mounting the stairs – bearing a large bunch of crimson flowers – peonies to be precise.

‘Please do excuse my intrusion,’ he said a trifle breathlessly, ‘one hesitates to disturb the artist but I have been deputed to take the headmaster’s car to the garage in Eastbourne for its annual service, and as I was passing it seemed an excellent opportunity to drop these in.’ He thrust the flowers into my surprised arms. ‘Miss Dunhill’s garden is not discernibly aesthetic but it does boast the most lavish display of peonies – roses among the thorns you could say. Such a shame to waste them and with luck they are to your taste. I know that some find them rather vulgar, but I thought that you being an artist would appreciate their delicious ebullience.’

‘Er, yes,’ I said, utterly wrong-footed, ‘yes, yes, of course. How kind.’ And then standing irresolute, cradling the peonies, I added, ‘You had better come up into the studio and I’ll find a vase.’

He followed me in and gazed around at the mess of painting debris and half-finished canvases. ‘Ah,’ he
exclaimed, ‘so this is where it all goes on: the vital hub of all vision and endeavour!’ By this I assumed he meant that this was where I earned the dosh for jaunts to Europe and other gaieties. Leaving him pressed to the window rhapsodising about the view, I slipped next door to find a container for the flowers.

When I returned, he was inspecting one of the canvases, not the one on the easel but another stacked against the wall. It was my most recent – and as mentioned to Albert at the Masons’ Arms, the only one ever to depict a stretch of water, let alone water in moonlight.

He contemplated it thoughtfully and then said casually, ‘You’ve got the chiaroscuro awfully well, all shadow and pale shimmer; and that curve of the far bank is exactly how it is. My compliments: a most evocative rendering of Chalk Hill dew pond.’ I tensed but nodded politely. And then, raising his eyes from the scene, he added softly, ‘But it seems to me that there is something missing, not perhaps an especially pretty feature but one that is nevertheless authentic … that is to say authentic at the time when we were both last there.’ The tone was suave but the amiable features had become coldly expressionless. He regarded me steadily, all bonhomie vanished.

I swallowed hard, hearing the wood pigeon’s call from childhood,
Keep cool, you fool, keep cool
…

‘Really?’ I asked lightly. ‘And when would that be?’

There was a pause, and then he said even more softly, ‘Oh I think we both know that, don’t we? As does your distasteful cur.’

That did it. ‘Bouncer is not distasteful,’ I cried, ‘and he is certainly no cur! He is a totally pure bred mongrel. I have no idea
what
you are talking about and I think it is
time you continued on your way to Eastbourne – and you can take those footling flowers with you!’ I glared angrily while at the same time imagining my brother’s voice,
Oh Primrose, you’ve put your great hoof in it now!

With a shrug he drew out a cigarette case, wafted it vaguely in my direction and then helped himself. ‘You are becoming irksome, Miss Oughterard,’ he sighed, flicking his lighter. ‘First you intrude on our little business at the dew pond and perchance may have witnessed who knows what. You then lurk tediously outside my house in the depths of the night and—’

‘But you couldn’t have known that: you weren’t there!’ I blurted out.

‘Really? And what makes you so certain?’ he enquired mildly.

‘The place was obviously deserted; there wasn’t a sound and no lights anywhere.’

‘A hasty assumption if I may say so. Absence of light does not mean absence of occupant. As it happens, I came home about ten minutes before you arrived and was annoyed to find I had to undress in the dark. Southern Electricity in its wisdom had elected to cut the power. It was off for at least two hours. Most tiresome; I couldn’t even make a cup of tea. Then as I was fumbling my way to bed I saw you drive up … not that I knew it was you but when someone parks their car close to the house and stays there for ages without getting out, one does become a trifle curious. So using my binoculars I ascertained the car’s make and number. I watched you for some time. I also watched PC Plod drive up and, like you, sit without moving.
Un
like you he eventually got out and started to prowl around – indeed if I’m not mistaken I think he approached your vehicle.
Anyway, you suddenly revved up, rather noisily I fear, and zoomed off. Not long afterwards he went too.’

Topping gave a dry chuckle: ‘I must say, what with all that toing and froing anyone would think that the quiet little lane outside my cottage was Piccadilly Circus. Quite a cabaret! Still, having two spies skulking about in one night is a bit much and my vigil was rather tiring. It was a great relief when the electricity came on again and I could make that cup of tea.’

I stared at him stonily, feeling a complete fool. To think that I had gone through all that palaver unaware that the whole procedure was being monitored by the little squirt with his binoculars. But that was irrelevant compared to what he had just brazenly acknowledged: that he had done something unspeakable to Dr Carstairs. I had been right all along!

But my sense of triumph was more than eclipsed by desperate fear. Nevertheless I remained po-faced and said bitterly, ‘It’s dope, isn’t it, that’s what it is all about; you have been using your school teaching as a convenient cover for the most dastardly—’

He nodded. ‘Yes, you picked up on that all right. In fact I have to admit that when you produced that packet on the High Street this morning I was quite taken aback. You see I identified it immediately by the green spot. It marks a special grade which we store only at Podmore – or rather we
did
until tiresome Penlow came along with his grandiose conversion schemes. I couldn’t think how you had got hold of it, still can’t really.’ He looked at me enquiringly.

‘You dropped it, or your accomplice did. I was there last night and found it after you had gone,’ I told him woodenly.

Topping gave a genuine laugh. ‘Good lord! So you were
there stalking us, were you? Amazing. Now you really do impress me. Who’d have thought it!’

I shrugged indifferently. ‘And I suppose Carstairs had been involved in your sordid drugs racket.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, the fool had been trying to double-cross us, thought he could embezzle some of the takings. Once he started on that game I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. As I told Respighi, he was a potential squealer. He had to be checked.’

‘But you hacked his head off!’ I cried. ‘It was monstrous, obscene!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said smoothly. ‘Obscene: exactly my own sentiments – and totally unnecessary.’

‘Why the hell do it then?’

‘But my dear, Miss Oughterard, I didn’t. I merely put the bullet through his heart. Although I say it myself, I am rather a deft shot; he died instantly. No, I fear it was Respighi who did the dirty work. As a youth, he had a penchant for that sort of thing when he was with us in the old Messina days. I had rather hoped he had grown out of it but, alas, I learnt otherwise.’ Topping shook his head and looked rueful, while I gazed speechless.

However, recovering my tongue I said, ‘So Respighi just happened to have an axe in his pocket, did he? How convenient.’

‘Well not in his pocket, in the van. Naturally, had I known it was there I should have objected, though it is doubtful whether he would have taken any notice; he had always been wayward and enjoyed the ritual. It had first been enacted on Malta just after the war when our little group was being compromised by some rather dangerous ruffians from Gozo.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I think they
called themselves the Gozo Gondoliers – can’t think why, unless one of them came from Venice. Anyway, whatever their name, they were queering our pitch and had to be taught a lesson. Respighi rather took to the technique.’

I swallowed, and enquired if the technique had also entailed the careful distancing of the head from the body.

He gave a disdainful sniff. ‘Respighi’s idea of artistry, but then culture was never his strong point.’

‘I see. So was that why you killed him too?’

‘Surely, Miss Oughterard,’ Topping laughed, ‘you don’t think me as fastidious as all that, do you? No, I killed him because the fool was a liability. He knew his drugs all right but not much else. Oddly enough, and despite his treachery, Dr Carstairs and I got on quite well; he wasn’t the most magnetic of types but perfectly passable and rather surprisingly was a good amateur locksmith. Indeed it was through him that we were able to fabricate a key to the stable. Nevertheless he had to go, I am afraid: one can’t allow people to step out of line …

But Respighi was a different kettle of fish – or
caccabus
piscium
as one might instruct the third-formers.’ He smirked, while I fixed him with a cold eye. Not being a third-former I could do without his beastly instruction.

‘In what way “different”,’ I enquired, ‘other than his crude artistry?’

‘Ideas above his station. He thought he could supplant me and take our little business into his own grasping hands. Imagine! I mean to say, one needs finesse for this sort of operation, a cool nerve and delicate touch. Respighi had none of those; a veritable thug really.’

And you are not? I was tempted to ask but thought better of it. Wiser to indulge his vanity.

‘But, as a matter of fact,’ he continued, ‘it was the beheading farce that really fried his bacon. It was utterly crass and turned what might have been a local nine-day wonder into a gross drama of national interest. Never underestimate the value of discretion, Miss Oughterard. I realised immediately that such theatricalities could endanger the whole scheme, upset the rather lucrative gravy-boat, and I certainly wasn’t having that. Respighi was a loose cannon we could do without. Thus I squared it with our London people and took the appropriate action.’

‘I see,’ I murmured, ‘a tiresome encumbrance whom you discarded.’

‘Exactly, my dear lady, I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He beamed; and then still with the smile on his face, added, ‘And as I fear I shall have to do with you.’

He must have seen my muscles tighten for he said, ‘Oh don’t worry, I don’t mean at this very instant. And besides, your disposal can hardly take place in this immediate locality which is acquiring what some might call a surfeit of stiffs. Or should that be a charnel of corpses? These old idioms are so interesting.’

‘How about a basket of bastards?’ I suggested acidly.

‘Oh just a
trifle
crude, don’t you think? I am sure someone of your creative invention could contrive a more elegant phrase.’

I said nothing and thought of Pa in his shell hole with the Boche bearing down on him. Pa had stood his ground and so would I! I also thought of my brother. Francis had been in many tight corners, and yet despite not being noticeably assertive he had somehow managed to escape. What the younger brother could do, so surely could the older sister.

However, before such resolve could be acted upon, to
my fury he had approached my easel and with his forefinger started to scrape away at the paint on the canvas. ‘Not of the best quality if I may say so, texture’s too thin. You should go to Lerner’s in London, pricey but certainly the best,’ he remarked.

‘Now look here, Topping,’ I said fiercely, ‘take your greasy hands off that picture. What do you think you are doing?’

‘Just testing,’ he replied. And putting his hand into his back pocket he slid out a small penknife, clicked it open and flourished it in front of the painting. ‘My dear Miss Oughterard,’ he smirked, ‘I am sure that neither Lewes nor the London cognoscenti will regret the loss of this particular piece. Personally, I consider that all ham art should be cut up and consigned to the dustbin.’ He made a swoop with the knife but stopped in mid-air. ‘Tut! One must curb such urges. Besides, this isn’t the moment for indelicate horseplay, there are more pressing matters.’ He gestured towards the chair where I had slung my coat: ‘Now put that on, we are going for a little drive. As said, I have to deliver the headmaster’s car to the Eastbourne garage. But there is still time to drop you off at Beachy Head. A bit out of the way admittedly but it shouldn’t take too long.’

I stared aghast, enraged less by the imminent vandalism than by the man’s disgraceful words. How dare he disparage my work in that way! But then my fury turned to stunned disbelief as the import of that last remark stuck home.