The Primrose Pursuit (23 page)

Ingaza’s plan was outrageous, scandalous really. But as a means of emptying my studio of its wretched encumbrance and my life from the threat of awkward questions, it held a certain appeal. It also held a certain piquant irony which shortly will become clear.

When Nicholas finished unfolding his proposal I tentatively asked whether it might be sensible to get Eric to assist us. I can’t say I was enamoured of the prospect but various telephone encounters made me think he might have the brawn useful to such a venture. However, I was quite relieved when Nicholas said firmly that his friend had no head for heights, and that in any case he was in strict training for the next darts match and it was imperative he kept his right wrist in sound nick. When I said that there was a chance in a thousand of Eric’s right wrist being damaged by thrusting Topping’s corpse off Beachy Head, Nicholas replied that given the efficacy of sod’s law it was the thousandth chance that would be his undoing.

Yes, as might be guessed, it was the towering cliff above Eastbourne that was to secure the Latin master’s downfall; a site, which in view of his choice for my own disposal, seemed eminently fitting … Now, like my deceased brother, I am not especially attracted by danger, but dire situations require dire remedies. There are times when needs must – and this was just such a time. Topping needed to go, and go quickly. Thus distasteful though the whole thing was I readily fell in with Ingaza’s plan. The logistics were as follows.

We would put Topping into the back seat of Winchbrooke’s car, and with me following at a discreet distance, Nicholas would drive this up on to the downs at Beachy Head. At one point the road runs fairly close to the edge – in places only about two hundred yards away – and at a suitable spot (not terribly easy to find) he would park and assess the surrounding terrain. If this looked empty – on such a rainy night likely to be so – he would signal to me to leave my car and together we would then drive Winchbrooke’s to the point most favoured by suicides, that bit where the turf slopes downwards, facilitating desperate legs and closed eyes. Here we would drag Topping into the driving seat, engage the clutch, release the handbrake, leap out, and with a concerted shove from behind, set the vehicle in motion over the cliff. When car and man were eventually found there would, of course, be no injuries other than the effects from the fall itself. After all, it was not as if he had been murdered: his heart had failed, clearly the result of his suicidal drive over the cliff. Then with mission accomplished we would race back to my car and drive hell-for-leather down into Eastbourne and then home via the A27. From there Nicholas would
regain his own car and return at a respectable pace to Brighton.

But what about Bouncer’s tooth marks? I had enquired.

Ingaza shrugged. ‘A risk we must take. With luck they won’t be particularly noticeable, and actually from what I can make out there doesn’t seem to be anything much. It was the clothes he was ripping. I rather suspect that your hound favours sound and fury over actual butchery. Fundamentally he is a pacifist.’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t tell him that!’ I said in alarm. A thought struck me: ‘But what about the jacket and shirt? They are torn to shreds. Surely a cliff fall
within
a car wouldn’t do that?’

Nicholas sighed ruefully and said that had occurred to him and if I didn’t mind he would remove his own, put them onto Topping and borrow Francis’s old tweed coat he had seen hanging on the studio door. ‘Can’t think why you keep it,’ he said, ‘sentiment, I suppose.’

It was my turn to shrug. ‘Just be careful of it, that’s all … Oh and by the way would you mind awfully mopping up that nose bleed, those floor boards stain so easily.’

So that was the plan and that is how we proceeded. Up to a point. For like all best laid plans, events conspired to frustrate it.

The turning point came just as we had heaved Topping into the driver’s seat all poised for his lumbering exit over the clifftop. With gloved hand – oh yes, we had taken that precaution – I was just reaching to release the brake when there was an anguished cry from Nicholas. ‘Christ almighty, Primrose, stop! Look over there!’

I turned around, and through the now stinging sheets
of rain saw a blurred figure about three hundred yards off moving slowly in our direction. I froze. Oh my God who was it – a coastguard? An intrepid dog walker? Whoever it was I had no intention of being seen trundling Topping’s hearse to its destruction. And neither had Nicholas. ‘Leave it,’ he cried. ‘Just run!’

And run we did – like hell and in panting tandem, until sodden and gasping we gained the refuge of my car. Without a word I started the engine and off we sped.

For a while we drove in silence. And then puffing his cigarette as if about to devour it, Nicholas said faintly, ‘Bleeding strewth, I’m getting too old for this caper. You can expect another heart attack at any minute.’

‘Do try not,’ I replied, ‘one fatality on my property is quite enough.’

There was a further silence. And then he said thoughtfully, ‘You know, I am not sure that being with you isn’t worse than being with your brother. Fairly lethal, the pair of you.’

‘Really?’ I retorted, slowing to placate an oncoming police car. ‘It’s funny you should say “lethal” because that’s what Francis used to say about you – although from what I recall he added various other terms as well.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected a faint smile.

Wrangling gave way to earnest discourse as we set about exploring the likely repercussions. ‘Well,’ I observed, ‘at least Winchbrooke won’t have lost his precious car. He’s rather fond of it, I gather. On the other hand he will still have to endure the chore of looking for another Latin master, and I don’t think they’ve found a suitable Maths replacement yet.’

‘Actually, dear girl,’ Nicholas said, ‘that little problem has somehow passed me by. More to the point is the immediate upshot as it affects
us
. I don’t know who that creature was in the pelting rain or indeed whether he saw anything. But you can bet it will be he who discovers the car and reports it to the police … Who knows, perhaps even now the wires are buzzing and a posse of heavies are pounding up to Beachy Head.’

‘Let them pound,’ I said carelessly, ‘we shall be back in Lewes at any moment where I shall hit the hay and you can tootle off to Brighton.’

Somehow the prospect of soft sheets and hot-water bottle seemed to take precedence over everything else. In fact it was becoming increasingly urgent. So much so that when we arrived back I omitted to offer Nicholas a nightcap (though from his looks it was doubtful if he wanted one) or even to wave as the car sped away. Instead, not taking a blind bit of notice of the hovering animals, I marched straight up to bed and the relief of four aspirin.

‘Well, really,’ I exclaimed to Bouncer, ‘I consider that the height of ill-manners. After all, we did to thwart the intentions of that unsavoury creature and not a hint of recognition; we might as well have been part of the furniture!’

We had been sitting in the kitchen patiently awaiting P.O.’s return after she and the Brighton Type had heaved the corpse down the stairs and into the car. Naturally, at the time of such manoeuvres our mistress was in no state to acknowledge the crucial part we had played in her enemy’s downfall – well, other than some effusive nonsense about the dog to Ingaza; but you would have thought that with the lapse of hours she would have devised some
tangible
token of gratitude such as a cream junket for me and a double dose of those disgusting Chompies for Bouncer. But oh no: straight up to bed without a glance!

‘You’re right,’ Bouncer agreed, ‘I mean it sort of takes the biscuit, doesn’t it – or the haddock, as I suppose you would say.’

‘It takes a great deal more than that,’ I replied grimly. ‘Personally, I shall withdraw my favours for at least a week.’ I gave a forceful miaow.

The dog looked puzzled. ‘But you don’t do any favours, Maurice.’

‘Beside the point,’ I snapped. ‘These humans cannot be allowed to ride roughshod over their valiant companions.’

Bouncer burped. ‘I suppose that means over their brave mates. I’m one of those, aren’t I, Maurice? Cor, I didn’t half duff him up!’

‘Duff him up? Killed him you mean.’

‘
I DID NOT
!’ the dog shouted. ‘He was all right when I’d finished – when you called time from the window sill. It was
afterwards
that he snuffed it. I hadn’t laid another paw on him!’ He looked indignant and rattled his bowl with his snout.

I was about to observe that there was a blurred distinction between actively securing a death and being its indirect cause. But it occurred to me that if one followed that line of thought it could also be argued that as instigator of the proceedings I too could be held responsible … I changed tack immediately, and agreeing with the dog said that clearly the Latin master was physically weedy and that he had expired as a victim of his own turpitude.

The dog growled something about not liking the smell of turpentine, and then said brightly ‘But I was jolly good though, wasn’t I!’

I sighed. ‘Yes, Bouncer, you were jolly good.’ Nevertheless I couldn’t help adding, ‘But tell me, why did you sit down before launching the assault – cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you?’

I instantly regretted the question, fearing he might take
offence, and was relieved when he explained solemnly, ‘I was thinking, Maurice, that’s what I was doing: making an ass-ment as you would say.’ He hesitated with brows furrowed, and then clearing his throat said slowly, ‘Yes, making a sort of
CONSIDERED CAL-CU-LAY-SHUN
.’ A triumphant smirk passed over the tousled face and I was duly impressed. Thus I waved a gracious paw signalling approval of such verbal felicity.

However, as indicated, I was
not
impressed by P.O.’s cavalier attitude an hour earlier. And dwelling on this I was about to lapse into a sulk but was checked. ‘I say,’ Bouncer suddenly growled, ‘what do you think they did with the stiff?’

I shrugged. ‘Threw it away, I suppose. The Brighton Type would have had some bright idea, he generally has.’

I was about to get on with my sulk but was again interrupted. ‘All very well throwing things away,’ the dog muttered, ‘but supposing somebody digs him up. What then? Will the Prim get into trouble, and if so what about
us
?’ He looked anxious.

‘Not everyone has your mania for digging things up,’ I mewed in exasperation. ‘Now I suggest you jump into your basket and chew your bone, it will take your mind off things.’

‘Right-o,’ he barked, and with a leap fell upon his mess of bedding and did as advised. Alas, as I quickly realised, it was not one of my better suggestions for the sounds of grind and gurgle killed all concentration (essential for a good sulk), and thus with difficulty I settled for sleep.

After such alarms and excursions, the next day I thought it might be politic to keep a low profile – to wit, stay in bed. This I was able to achieve until five o’clock, when boredom, hunger and Maurice’s complaints brought me downstairs. Collecting the evening newspaper from the mat I went into the kitchen to make some Welsh rarebit and check that the animals hadn’t caused mayhem. Luckily all seemed well, and braced with an early gin and mountains of charred bread and melted cheddar I settled at the table and glanced at the paper … At least it started as a glance but my eyes became quickly riveted.

WOULD-BE SUICIDE THWARTED
, ran the headlines.
MAN’S INTENDING DEATH-PLUNGE AVERTED BY CORPSE IN PARKED CAR

I re-read the item and then looked at the cat who for some reason was wearing an expression of more than usual disdain. ‘Well, Maurice,’ I murmured, ‘it just goes to show, there’s always a silver lining for someone.’ He closed his eyes and swished an indifferent tail. I returned once more to the article and reflected.

I thought about Hubert Topping and wondered whether he would have been glad to know he had been the means
to another’s salvation. I rather doubted it. But personally I felt considerably bolstered by Mr Speedwell’s timely delivery; somehow it seemed to cast a slightly softer light upon events. A wave of moderate relief swept over me, and undeterred by the cat’s icy features I bent down and pulled him on to my lap. ‘Now, Maurice,’ I crooned, ‘this calls for a little celebration. You shall have some fresh salmon and I another snifter. How about that?’ He struggled at first but when he realised I was serious about the salmon, changed tack and even uttered a few purrs of approval. It is nice to be appreciated once in a while.

Having spent the day in bed I had had neither time nor inclination to enter my studio. But one cannot remain squeamish indefinitely and I knew that I really ought to tidy up and ensure that Nicholas had made a good job of swabbing the floor. Thus supper over and armed with mop and vacuum, I forced myself to re-visit that scene of threat and devastation.

Luckily the shambles wasn’t as bad as I had expected: the easel with its pond picture tipped on to the floor, a couple of other canvases on their faces and – I was glad to see – the bouquet of peonies strewn wildly in all directions. Other than that things were moderately shipshape. I flung open the windows, shoved the flowers, plus squashed rosebud, into the wastepaper basket, plugged in the machine and hoovered up all traces of my ordeal. In a way the cleansing was like a sort of exorcism and I felt almost sprightly once it was finished. Is that how vicars feel? I once asked Francis if he had ever had to conduct one. ‘No blooming fear,’ he had shuddered, ‘it’s bad enough having to cope with Mavis Briggs without parrying demons as well.’

Job over, I switched on the landing light, and had gone halfway down when I saw what looked like a crumpled envelope, its corner caught in one of the stair rods. I hadn’t noticed it earlier (no doubt blind to everything except the prospect of the task ahead) and assuming it to be a piece of litter dropped by the charlady, slipped it into my pocket and continued down to the kitchen. I was about to toss it into the bin when I saw the flap folded inwards and realised something was there. I opened it up, laid the contents on the table … and after a moment of blank shock, roared with laughter.

Impossible! Absurd! In front of me lay three small photographs: photos which tallied exactly with the ones Sickie-Dickie said he had seen displayed on Topping’s desk. I have to say that if the episode in my studio had been a nightmare then this was a dream of pantomime proportion. I gazed in disbelief. How on earth had they got here?

There could be only one answer: from Topping’s wallet. We had thoughtfully placed it in the pocket of the substituted jacket, and in the course of lugging him down the stairs it had slipped out. We had thrust it back but in our haste had obviously overlooked the fallen envelope. And so here it was, its contents ludicrous proof of the chief superintendent’s fondness for playing daddy bears with whip-wielding ostriches. Small wonder that Topping thought he might be immune from the policeman’s interest!

In some mirth I rang Ingaza. ‘You’ll never guess,’ I snorted, ‘something extraordinary has come to light!’

‘Really,’ was the dour response, ‘glad something amuses you. Personally, I am expecting to be hauled off to jug at any minute. I’ve been under the blankets all day and have instructed Eric to open the door to no one. My nerves are in
pieces and my tango steps adrift. It’s a bit much, Primrose!’

‘They can’t possibly be adrift if you’ve been in bed,’ I retorted, nettled by his lack of interest.

‘Oh yes, they can,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been trying to recreate the rhythms in my mind and instead of which all I can think of is heaving that bloody thing down
your
stairs.’

‘Frightful, isn’t it,’ I said sympathetically. ‘But you know it’s funny you should mention the stairs because that is
exactly
where I have just found …’ And before he could interrupt I rushed on to regale him with my discovery.

When I had finished, there was a long pause. And then he said thoughtfully (and I was glad to hear less sulkily): ‘If I were you I should hang on to those snaps. They may not be relevant to your friend any longer, but, who knows, they might just be useful to you one day. It’s always as well to be prepared, if you see what I mean.’ I did rather.

‘So do you think there’s going to be trouble?’ I enquired anxiously.

‘A bloody great brouhaha I should imagine. Personally, I would make myself scarce.’

‘How scarce?’

‘Very.’

Ingaza’s words had unsettled me. He was quite right, of course; there was bound to be a brouhaha of some sort. But I comforted myself with the thought that even if it emerged that Topping had been running the drug syndicate and had murdered Carstairs and Respighi, there was nothing really to link me with the matter or indeed with his demise … unless, of course, the schoolmaster had been observed turning into my drive from the lane. Or despite the precaution of gloves we had left other traces in Winchbrooke’s car, or hairs
were found from Bouncer’s coat or a tooth mark even. Or, inspired by his recent conversion, Mr Speedwell was struck by a mystical vision of Nicholas and me racing hell-bent across that rain-swept turf. Such things happen. One reads about them all the time in detective novels.

The more I brooded, the more windy I became. Perhaps Nicholas was right and I really should make myself scarce: a discreet withdrawal until things had died down would be the sensible course. But what about the cat and dog? Kennels? It seemed a little unfair. Perhaps Charles might take them; he was due back shortly and I could enquire when I returned Duster. Still, he would hardly want them for more than a few days and that wouldn’t be nearly long enough. It was all very tricky, and in my agitation I telephoned Ingaza again.

‘It’s the animals, you see,’ I lamented, ‘there’s nowhere to park them, not for any length of time there isn’t. It’s exceedingly difficult.’

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ he said casually.

‘But I
do
worry.’

‘But you wouldn’t worry if Eric took them, would you? He’s very fond of you, just like he was of Francis, and more to the point he dotes on furry animals.’

‘He might but you certainly don’t,’ I said, intrigued all the same.

‘Ah, but I shan’t be here. Off to Tangier for a few weeks. Given the circumstances it seems a suitable moment.’

‘You mean you’re bunking off as well?’

‘Not bunking off, dear girl, merely taking a well-earned rest. It’s the strain of aiding and abetting one’s artistic colleagues. Now if you take my advice you’ll do the same. Dump the animals with Eric for as long as you
like and take off, free as a bird. It’ll do you good.’

That Ingaza should consider my welfare was touching and I willingly accepted the offer, wondering wryly how Maurice would cope with the rumbustious Eric.

‘Good. Most sensible,’ he said breezily. ‘And when we both get back, doubtless the dust will have settled and we can swap holiday pics and settle up.’

I had been about to put the receiver down but stayed my hand. ‘Er, what do you mean “settle up”?’

‘Oh you know, square the old hypotenuse – a little bit of quid pro quo. Things are quite pricey in Tangier, I gather; and Eric’s an excellent zoo keeper, deserves recognition. Cheery-bye.’ The line went dead.

I sighed. There was one thing you could say for Nicholas Ingaza: at least he was consistent.