The Primrose Pursuit (3 page)

On the whole, she’s not bad: quicker than F.O. – more on the
ball
you might say; and when we were out on the downs just now she walked along at a good old lick which meant that I didn’t have to keep turning round to see where the hell she had got to. (You have to keep an eye on them because so long as you are in their sights they
think
they are in control. They’re not, of course, but it stops them bawling your name all over the place and getting ratty.) Mind you, she got a bit edgy when we passed some sheep – obviously thought I was going to duff them up. Nah, not worth it: sitting ducks! They stare at you blankly, then bleat their soppy heads off and fall on their rumps running away. It was fun when I was a puppy but now that I’m a big dog I’ve got better things to do like stalking the rabbits, for instance. Now
they
can be a challenge. Some are easy, of course, but there are others that are real buggers. Cocky with it. And from what I can make out there’s an awful lot of ’em down here – much more than in our other place, and that’s
saying something. Yes, Bouncer’s going to have his work cut out keeping them in order! Still, this afternoon with the Prim I was as good as gold and hardly moved a muscle, just sniffed the wind and made a crafty recky. But once I’m really dug in here I’m going to sneak out one evening and make an
ONSLORT
and then they’ll know it!

I tell you what though, when we were coming home we met someone just outside the house, a smart little geezer with a sort of pink plant stuck in his jacket. When he got level with us he raised his hat and started muttering. I’m not too good at understanding what humans say: I mean there are some things that are easy enough – like ‘who’s a good dog then?’ or ‘get out of the way, you little blighter’ – but for the most part they gabble and you really have to strain your ears. But it’s specially tricky grasping what they’re spluttering about when they lower their voices. And this chap’s voice was pretty low –
pi-haa-no
as the cat would say.

Anyway, the man went burbling on and P.O. had the sort of look that the vicar often had, especially if he was with Mavis Briggs; the look that says, ‘For Christ’s sake, get to the point because I want my gin!’ Well, I think he did get to the point because she started to smile and said something like, ‘How very kind of you Mr Top-Ho. Yes, I would love to come. A little party, how charming!’ Can’t say that she looked very charmed – leastways not when we had got back inside, because the first thing she did was to kick off her shoes, light a gasper and say to Maurice, ‘Well really, that’s all one needs!’ No response, of course: the cat was in one of his po-faced moods, knackered by the soft-soaping earlier, he can only keep it up for so long. Then she started to shove her face in the newspaper and made awful
crackling and rustling noises. I have noticed that human beings often do this when they are feeling ratty (which is quite often); they don’t seem to
read
anything, just make a rumpus turning the pages.

Then with another blast of crackle she threw the paper down and went to the blower in the hall. I didn’t know who she was phoning but someone was getting an earful all right, and this time it wasn’t F.O. More’s the pity? Dunno. Let sleeping dogs and vicars lie. That’s what the cat says, and I expect he’s right. After all, the master always did like lolling about so he’s probably having a fine old time. A good long kip: just up his street!

As it happens, by that time I felt like having a kip myself and started to stretch out on the floor, but I could see that Maurice was fidgeting and had begun to twitch his right ear, a sure sign of something in the wind. ‘Ay, ay,’ I thought, ‘he’s on the prowl.’ And he was too – nipped off the pouffe and slunk after her into the hall. He likes doing that: listening to them when they’re bawling down the blower, says it’s a challenge to his wits (very keen on his wits is Maurice). Not too good at it myself. It’s all that sitting still; makes me lose the thread and I get muddled – and besides it’s not as if they talk about anything useful like grub or bones.
BORING!
Still, if the cat has anything to report he’s bound to tell me … unless, of course, he gets one of his sulks. Then he’ll shut up for hours: give us all a bit of peasanquart as F.O. used to say.

Personally, I found it all very peculiar. Topping threw this party at his lodgings and for some strange reason wanted to include me. Well naturally I was far from inclined, but not one to be churlish, graciously accepted. I suppose he wanted to establish himself with his colleagues and presumably felt the local artist would add kudos to the event. A little presumptuous I thought, but there we are … Emily seemed full of enthusiasm and told me he was thinking of holding it in the garden – an absurd notion at this time of year. Fortunately it rained incessantly so one was spared that particular penance.

Anyway, for the most part things proceeded as anticipated; with poor drink and indifferent conversation. At one point I felt like suggesting that we all play charades, but knowing the headmaster’s aversion to theatricals (including the annual school play), doubted if the idea would be well received. However, in the event
there was enough drama as it was, or at least so I judged. A drama based on the most remarkable coincidence.

You see two days prior to the party, I happened to be in Lewes High Street when who do you think I bumped into?
Ingaza
. Yes, Nicholas Ingaza, the Brighton art dealer, last seen at my brother’s funeral tearfully hogging the sandwiches and guzzling brandy from a furtive hip flask. In the past Francis and I had had a certain amount to do with Ingaza, including a rather trying trip with him to the Auvergne
1
, but since the funeral I had heard nothing. The silence was not uncongenial, for, and as Francis would often lament, Ingaza is somebody of whom one is never quite
sure
, although I have to admit that my own dealings with him had been less fraught than Francis’s. He needs a firm hand, which alas, Francis did not have.

If anything he looked thinner than when last seen, but observing an even bigger diamond glinting in his tie pin I assumed business was brisk.

‘Well, what do you know? Primrose Oughterard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Wonderful to see an old face, dear girl.’

‘Enough of the old face,’ I snapped. ‘What are you doing here, Nicholas? I cannot imagine that the ancient stones of Lewes have much to offer you.’

‘No,’ he leered, ‘but something else has. All rather productive really …’

‘You’ve made a killing,’ I said.

‘Oh not a killing as
such
. Shall we say that certain things have rather played into my hands and—’

‘And now you are on the way to the bank to deposit the
spondulicks before your client gets cold feet or asks too many questions.’

He contrived to look pained. ‘You know, Primrose, you are just like poor Francis,
so
cynical!’

‘He had some cause,’ I retorted dryly.

He gave a wide but wistful smile. ‘Perhaps, perhaps …’ and slicking the brilliantined hair added quietly, ‘one misses him you know.’

I did know and for once took his words at their face value. However, I had no intention of swapping personal nostalgia with Ingaza, least of all in the middle of Lewes’s Kasbah, so instead enquired after his execrable Aunt Lil.

‘Huh! No change there. Says she’s bored and wants a fancy man. I ask you!’

‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘most enterprising at eighty-six, shows she’s still alive.’

‘Too bloody alive,’ was the grim response.

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but just think, with a fancy man in tow it would let you off the hook from your weekly jaunt to the Eastbourne bandstand. It’s an ill wind that—’

‘Like hell. That would make two of the beggars to cart around!’

I sighed. ‘Oh well, Nicholas, we all have our crosses to bear. My current one is to be charming at a party given by one of the prep school masters. A man called Topping. He’s new and apparently thinks it a good idea to ingratiate himself with the headmaster and the locals, or at least one particular local, me.’

At those last words Ingaza sucked in his breath. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘he’ll have a task on his hands there, like clawing at granite.’ And he gave one of those maddening slow winks.

I ignored that and was about to make my excuses and move off, when he said, ‘I knew a Topping once, a year below me at Merton; a quiet little chap and a first-rate Greek scholar. Good at ingratiation too – used to hang on to Professor Gilbert Murray’s coat tails like grim death.’

‘Really? Well I doubt if this man is first-rate, and it’s Latin he does, not Greek.’

He shrugged. ‘They tend to go together. Still, despite its illustrious name, it’s unlikely that Erasmus House would interest my chap. He went far.’

‘How far?’

‘Became a croupier at Christoff’s.’

‘Became a
croupier
? At Christoff’s! You mean that frightful place in Malta, the one the Messina brothers are rumoured to have run?’

He nodded. ‘That’s it. I gather he did rather well. Chemmy was his thing, though I think he had a hand in various other of the Messina specialities – the girls and such. It’s amazing what a classical education can do for you.’ He gave another slow wink, made an absurd flourishing bow and slithered off in the direction of the bank.

Yes, I thought acidly, Ingaza’s own classical education had resulted in his being ejected from the theological college once attended by my brother, and into clink for conduct unbecoming in a Turkish bath. However, such misfortune had done little to inhibit his rise through the less scrupulous echelons of Brighton’s art world, or indeed to acquire the dubious reputation of being the south coast’s prime ‘fixer’. From Hastings to Hayling Island the name of Nicholas Ingaza was synonymous with slick acquisition and quiet discretion. I gazed after the spare figure with the tango hips and natty chalk-stripe
suit … and then thought of Francis, gangling in his baggy flannels and ill-fitting clerical collar. They had been an incongruous pair and not just sartorially. The sharper had survived; my brother lay prematurely to rest, safe from snares.

Turning on my heel, I marched smartly to the butcher’s to harangue the girl for muddling my order.

Harangue over and chops retrieved, I returned to the car – conveniently parked in the space liberated from the town clerk – and drove home. On the way I thought of Hubert Topping and his soirée and debated what I should wear. I also thought of Ingaza’s tale of the other Topping, consorting with the sordid Messina brothers and fleecing gullible punters in Malta. Not pretty. But a curious coincidence both being classicists … And then another thought struck me and I crashed the gears.
How
had Ingaza described him? ‘A quiet little chap,’ those had been his words. How quiet? How little? I tried to fix the new master’s age. Yes, presumably about the same as Ingaza’s, fifty give or take, which could indeed make him a contemporary. The broad similarities certainly increased the coincidence but I am not fool enough to mistake similar for same. Oh no. After all, Primrose Oughterard is not like the Mavis Briggses of this world: vacant.

Nevertheless it doesn’t do to be slack in such matters, so the moment I had got home and fed the cat I picked up the phone and called Brighton. At first I feared I should be greeted by the raucous Eric, Nicholas’s ebullient companion, but luckily was spared the grating bonhomie … No doubt out playing darts or frightening the horses.

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘this Topping person you were telling me about, how tall was he?’

‘Tall? Oh I don’t know, not very; about five foot six – a bit less perhaps. Why?’

‘And what was his voice like?’ I asked, ignoring the question.

‘Softish. One couldn’t always catch what he said; he had a habit of dropping the last word at the end of a sentence. Some people do that; damned irritating I always think.’

‘I see … I don’t suppose he also had the habit of wearing a pink rose in his buttonhole?’

‘No, not at all. Now, my dear Primrose, if you don’t mind, would you kindly get off the line. I am expecting a call from a client and, with the greatest respect, his enquiry is likely to be somewhat more useful than yours.’

‘So he didn’t wear a pink rose?’

‘What? No, of course not. Didn’t I say? It was yellow, always yellow. Now do go away dear girl!’

I replaced the receiver and gazed out at the ridges of the downs, absorbing Ingaza’s words. I knew it! Clearly in the intervening years Topping’s aesthetic taste had softened and pink had replaced yellow as the preferred shade … Short,
sotto voce
, with a penchant for ancient languages and floral buttonholes, the two Toppings were obviously one and the same; and from what Nicholas had said about the Maltese activity, clearly not to be trusted a single inch. Vindicated! I knew he had to be watched and watch him I would!

The dog wandered in. ‘Well, Bouncer,’ I said, ‘you are very lucky to have such an astute mistress. It’s not many owners who can spot a fake at 500 yards.’ He looked a
bit vacant at first and then beamed – at least I suppose it was a beam: the tail wagged and the face took on a kind of furry smirk. I addressed him again. ‘And now as a little celebration I shall have a sherry and you a biscuit, and then we’ll go for a nice walk and inspect the cows.’ He likes doing that. There was an explosive woof which startled the cat, and the dog rushed into the hall, returning immediately with lead in mouth. I had never seen that happen before and was slightly taken aback. However, I rewarded him with two biscuits in place of the promised one, and sherry finished we set off at a brisk rate. I had much to think about.

The following day was Topping’s soirée. I had arranged to collect Emily en route and picked her up at six o’clock. She was clearly in festive spirit and kept twittering on about the food and drink. I told her it was bound to be awful – which, of course, it was. Emily is one of those kindly but mistaken people who see good in most things. I have tried to break her of the habit but to no avail. Thus she laughingly said I was an incorrigible pessimist and that she was sure everything would be ‘topping’ – and then collapsed into paroxysms of mirth. Having a passenger heaving about uncontrollably in the front seat does not aid concentration and I nearly had us in the ditch. However, we got there in one piece and were greeted by the headmaster who had arrived a little ahead of us. Like Emily, he too was in genial mood (having, I later learnt, contrived yet again to fox the auditors) and hustled us up the stairs to join the others.

On the landing we were greeted by our host – a sort of Peter Lorre figure wearing, if you please, a pair of
two-toned, co-respondent shoes and a cream ‘tuxedo’ (as I believe the Americans style it)
with
, of course, the inevitable pink buttonhole. Not the sort of attire our little town is accustomed to, and even the headmaster looked startled. The usual courtesies were exchanged and Topping welcomed me as if I were some long lost soulmate and enthused about my pictures. Naturally, I was suitably responsive but asked him rather pointedly if he had seen any good American films recently. He said that he hadn’t. I nearly added that my own favourite was
The Maltese Falcon
; however, not wishing to get a knife in my back, thought better of it. It also occurred to me that in the course of polite chit-chat I might mention my recent painting expedition to Sicily via the Straits of Messina, but in view of what Ingaza had said about the gangster connection, feared that that too might prove hazardous. Thus I accepted his putrid sherry and went to mingle with the other guests.

I was glad to see John Rivers there, the music master being one of the brighter of Winchbrooke’s staff. We generally find something to talk about, mainly I suppose because we share so-called artistic talents – though I am not sure that artistry has much of a chance at Erasmus House, rugger and nature walks seeming the preferred activities. The gym mistress does her best to bring diversion but that doesn’t take us very far. Anyway, seeing Rivers reminded me of Bouncer. I think the dog finds my rural water colours small beer in comparison to listening to Francis belting out Liszt and boogie-woogie on his ancient upright. In fact judging from its response when last invited into the studio – a sniff at the easel and tentative lift of the hind leg – I should say the hound has no visual sensitivity at
all. Still, I
am
its guardian and I owe it to Francis to see to its interests. Thus I asked Rivers if he would mind if I occasionally brought Bouncer over to sit in on his piano practice, explaining that the dog has a keen ear and would be an attentive listener. Rivers looked curiously blank and then turned the conversation in another direction.

Well, if he imagined he could slip out of it as easily as that he had another think coming. I said nothing but resolved to use a more subtle approach next time, i.e. arriving on his doorstep unannounced bearing flowers
plus
dog, and suggest he give us a tune. That would fix it.

My second glass of sherry was worse than the first. Strange really, one usually gets inured to the base. So I moved on swiftly to the German wine: dreadful. Our host must have bought it in flagons from the off-licence; but since cold mint tea was the only alternative I had to stick with it … And talking of things German, at that moment
Fräulein
Hockheimer sidled up looking smug as usual and prattling on about ‘ve artists’. Other than teaching the boys how to distinguish the colours in their Winsor & Newton paint boxes, I cannot see that she contributes one jot to the cause of art. However, one tries to be gracious, especially to foreigners. So I enquired kindly if she had succeeded yet in getting anything accepted for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition. She looked rueful and said alas she hadn’t. Thus I gave her a few useful tips and murmured something to the effect of ‘onward and upward’ as Bismarck could have said – or indeed a more recent German chancellor whom she might possibly recall. Either way I don’t think the exhortation was understood for she continued to hover with a fixed smile and perplexed Teutonic brows.

I was just wondering how I could extricate myself from the
Fräulein
when there was the faint sound of a telephone ringing somewhere along the passage. At the same time I happened to notice Topping in the act of decanting sherry into a jug. He dropped the jug, turned dead white and rushed from the room. Well, jostled really but he would have rushed if he could. The unctuous smile worn since our arrival was replaced by a glazed grimness. I have seen a similar expression on the face of the cat when baulked of some treat or purpose, so knew that something was amiss. Thus curiosity stirred and more than bored by Hockheimer, I decided to trail our host and see what was cooking. (Francis once accused me of nosiness – bossiness too I recall – but as I told him, enlightened interest in the affairs of others can save a deal of trouble. And as to bossiness, well
someone
has to take a hand!)