The Primrose Pursuit (8 page)

I lost my bet. And, needless to say, Nicholas was scrupulous in exacting payment. However, such pedantry irritated me far less than learning that the headless ghoul in the pond was definitely not Topping. It was in fact one Dr Alan Carstairs whom the local newspaper assured us was ‘a much loved member of the Mathematics Department at Erasmus House’.

Personally I had never heard of Dr Carstairs and he certainly wasn’t in evidence at Topping’s little soirée; and neither was I aware that the school ran to a
department
– in maths or anything else. The term implied a scholastic grandeur which I couldn’t help feeling was not entirely commensurate with the institution’s status. However, this was a minor puzzlement compared with the identity of Carstairs.

My first line of enquiry was naturally Emily, who assured me that he did exist (or had) and that, as suspected, there was no such department but simply the arithmetical
teaching of Dr Carstairs – who as far as she was aware had not been especially loved anyway. I found that a trifle sad. I mean not to be much loved
and
to lose one’s head does seem a bit of a raw deal. Clearly Emily thought the same for she kept repeating, ‘So sad! So sad!’ … until I have to admit it rather set my teeth on edge. Lamentation is all very well but there comes a point when enough is enough. That point had long been reached and I told Emily so in no uncertain terms. She regarded me reproachfully and said that clearly I had no conception of the vileness of Dr Carstairs’ fate and that lacking an imaginative sensibility I was incapable of visualising his awful end. Feeling denial might be injudicious I refrained from telling her that I recalled every grotesque detail.

As previously explained, on the night of my discovery I was so exhausted by the experience that the prospect of raising the alarm had been too daunting. However, some might wonder why, as an upright member of our community and not one for shirking her civic duty, I did not march straight down to our local police station the following morning and furnish them with the essential data. The answer is simple: wisdom. Having had a murderer for a brother (and he a vicar), I do have some small insight into such matters. And part of that insight is the recognition that silence is golden, or at least moderately useful. Francis’s part in the Fotherington episode and its embarrassing aftermath might have turned catastrophic had he not exercised considerable verbal restraint. There is no point in thrusting oneself into the limelight unless such thrusting is to one’s immediate benefit. And given the circumstances I felt that my personal knowledge of Carstairs’ fate was unlikely to confer much of that. Indeed quite possibly the
reverse … It is amazing how quickly police and press jump to erroneous conclusions; and when all is said and done one does not care to be compromised by a severed head. Thus following parental advice I concluded that the less said the better.

However, it was not simply unease concerning the questionable acumen of the authorities that checked my tongue, but also unease concerning the perpetrators. Who knew what they might think – or more to the point
do
– were it to become known that Primrose Oughterard had been at the dew pond only minutes after the victim had hit the waters? I mean to say, they could have wondered what exactly it was that I had seen or heard. Luckily I had heard nothing other than my own retching into the gorse bush but they weren’t to know that. Thus to avoid any wrong assumptions on their part I deemed silence the best course.

Alas, it was a discretion I was unable to sustain. I had overlooked the fact of Nicholas Ingaza, and that in my initial anxiety I had been so foolish as to inform him of my experience. At the time it had rather piqued me that he had not accorded my account the respect it deserved; but
now
I fervently hoped he would forget about it altogether. A vain hope, naturally. Ingaza forgets nothing – particularly anything that might place him in a position superior to that of his confidant; something my poor brother learnt to his cost.

Thus just as I was deciding that silence was by far the best policy and that at least no one else should hear of my nightmare, the telephone rang and it was Nicholas himself enquiring whether I would care to accompany him to one of the Brighton Pavilion’s periodic
thé dansants
. Now, I was
under no illusion that it was the pleasure of my company that he sought, but rather an appreciative audience for the finer points of his tango routine. This routine is invariably slick, convoluted and subtly spectacular; and in the course of time I have developed a grudging admiration for the skill of its exponent. What Nicholas Ingaza may lack in prettiness of character is made up for (nearly) by prettiness on the dance floor.

My own skill being the ordered predictability of the foxtrot, it is not I who partners him in such movements but some leaden-faced girl called Mona. Other than the articulation of ‘cor’ and ‘that was a nifty one, Nick’, I have never heard Mona speak. In fact I rather doubt if Ingaza has either, their relationship
off-piste
being as frigidly distant as it is closely intimate
on
. The gulf between professional and private worlds can be wide, something which my brother’s troublesome victim had failed to grasp. Had she done so we might all have been saved a heap of vexation. Still, that was then. And
now
my immediate concern was what to wear when listening to tango rhythms at five in the afternoon and applauding the Ingaza gyrations.

But inevitably the sartorial question gave way to cynical suspicion. Was it sheer coincidence that Nicholas had issued his invitation on exactly the same day as the newspapers were at their most fulsome regarding ‘the butchered schoolmaster’? The item was front page and double-spread, and had even merited a reference on the six o’clock news. At the time of telling, Nicholas had received my bombshell with scepticism, not to say a bantering levity. But with the press luridly confirming my tale, his interest could have been spurred into wanting to re-hear the details – as confirmed from the horse’s mouth.

Well, I decided, the horse might just turn mulish and demand several cocktails plus dinner at the Grand before she re-spilt the beans. So with that settled I returned to the question of frock and earrings.

As things turned out my accoutrements were a great success. ‘My dear,’ Ingaza murmured, his sallow cheeks a little flushed after a rousing fandango with Mona, ‘I
love
the ensemble – so chic. And how those danglers match the colour of the formidable peepers!’

I narrowed the peepers. ‘This won’t get you anywhere, Nicholas,’ I said. ‘Pretty compliments butter no parsnips.’

‘It’s not parsnips I’m after, dear girl, merely information. Here have one of these.’ And he thrust an inevitable Sobranie my way. I took it and said nothing. He in turn shrugged, flicked the snake hips and, gesturing imperiously to Mona, resumed the floor.

I had to admit it was a masterly display; and the other couples, able though they were, seemed bland in comparison. I watched with pleasure and irritation. Francis had once dubbed Ingaza an adroit bastard. Both terms were apt. But mesmerised by those mercurial twists and flips, and despite agreeing with my departed brother, I couldn’t help recalling the bastard’s tears at the latter’s funeral … I sighed. Yes, I acknowledged, I’ll tell him every detail – and be glad of it. After all, the only other witness had been the dog and I could hardly discuss it with him.

Thus over supper,
not
dinner at the Grand, but nevertheless a fair menu and cocktails at the Old Schooner, we chewed the cud and assessed the situation.

‘I take your point,’ Nicholas said cheerfully, ‘your own
position is a trifle slippery. Some people would go straight to the authorities and demand police protection. But in my experience that is of dubious value. If they really want to get you they will.’ He smiled, and set about filleting his plaice with deft precision.

‘Always such a comfort, Nicholas,’ I said coldly. ‘And naturally you have knowledge of such matters.’

‘Oh not
personally
, of course, but I do know those who have.’ The left eyelid came down like a shutter.

‘Doubtless,’ I said tartly. ‘But honestly, Nicholas, who ever are these fiends? And what on earth had that faceless little maths teacher done to warrant their attention?’

‘Ah well,’ he replied darkly, ‘you can never tell with assassins. Take Francis for instance—’

‘Certainly not,’ I snapped. ‘Any such comparison is vulgar.’

He ignored that, and laying down his knife and fork said, ‘And have you got a story ready for the police?’

‘No idea,’ I began, and then stopped. ‘The police? What have they to do with it? I have just
told
you, I haven’t reported a thing.’

‘No but that doesn’t necessarily preclude their interest. They will probably want to interview everyone connected with the school, even visiting artists however worthy. Besides, you might have left a clue.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What sort of clue? A splodge of sick, I suppose. Really Nicholas you are being absurd.’

‘No, not the contents of your stomach but a set of tyre marks, for instance. You did say that you had revved up like hell in your haste to get away. A fine night admittedly, but it had rained heavily the previous day and the ground would have been quite soft – ideal terrain for leaving
tyre prints. Actually, now I come to think of it I seem to remember your dear brother having a little problem with tread patterns, quite a palaver, wasn’t it? But he foiled them in the end … with our help I fancy.’ He gave a dry smile, and then, scanning the room, gestured to the bar in the corner. ‘Do you know, if memory also serves me right, it was from that very stool that I suddenly saw him after a ten-year gap. He hadn’t changed, of course, just as awkward. Poor old Francis. Mind you, at that point there was something for him to be feeling awkward about, wasn’t there?’ He gave a sly wink.

‘Enough of this nostalgia,’ I said impatiently. ‘And, as it happens, I had parked on the road, not the grass; so kindly stop spreading alarm and despondency about tyre marks. You only do it to annoy.’

He shrugged. ‘Only partly; it’s mainly a friendly warning. Be prepared for a visit from the heavies, that’s all.’

Friendly or not, the warning had unsettled me, but I remained cool and replied that I was sure I could deal with the attentions of the police
were
it to become necessary.

Ingaza replied that he was sure I could but was I equally confident regarding the perpetrators? ‘After all,’ he said, ‘you have no proof that they still weren’t there when you stopped the car to walk the dog. It’s not inconceivable. Perhaps Chummy the Axeman was in the middle of sluicing down his weapon when you and Bouncer came blundering on the scene and he hid behind a tree and tracked your every movement.’

‘There are no trees on that part of the downs,’ I replied icily. ‘I certainly do
not
blunder, and you are making me sick. What’s for pudding?’

We scrutinised the menu, opted jointly for treacle
sponge and turned to the question of Carstairs alive.

‘Emily tells me he was very pleasant,’ I said, ‘but then Emily says that about a lot of people; it doesn’t mean a thing – merely that they haven’t caused her offence. An unreliable witness you might say.’

‘Pleasant or not, he had evidently caused offence to someone. Something that necessitated his disposal; though I have to say that the head-hacking does seem a trifle otiose: a whimsical afterthought perhaps.’

I shuddered. ‘Disgusting!’

‘Of course it may have been some form of further punishment, the product of vindictive pique.’

‘Some pique,’ I exclaimed, ‘they must have been mad.’

‘Dangerous certainly but not necessarily mad. According to the press reports the beheading was posthumous; which, if one discounts crude humour, suggests an act of calculated intent.’

‘What intent? Hardly to veil the victim’s identity; the head was left
there
, all primed for public exposure. It was propped against a stone.’

‘Exactly. So it was to make a point perhaps.’

‘Do you mean a sort of example, a warning?’

He nodded. ‘A kind of
memento mori
to deter others from intended transgression.’

‘Intended transgression? Gosh, you sound just like Francis after he had had one too many. Must have been that seminary you were both at: clearly the idiom gets into the bones. Anyway, what have you in mind – some Vatican revenge on one of its stool pigeons?’ I laughed loudly – not because I was in jocular mood but rather to deflect my mind from what Ingaza had said about the danger of my own situation. It was too bad: I had been seeking reassurance!
How naïve; one should have known better. Ingaza has the talent to perturb honed to a fine art.

It is an art that Maurice shares; for when I returned home it was to find the cat curled up in the open hat-box left on my bed. The hat had been delivered from Swan & Edgar only that afternoon and I hadn’t even had time to try it on. And now it was crushed and covered in cat hairs with Maurice snoring gently on top. Had Ingaza been a cat, it was exactly the sort of cavalier indifference he too would have shown.

‘You know,’ Bouncer said, ‘I’m not too sure about that Duster fellow, a bit cranky if you ask me.’ He gave a shove to his grub bowl, a gesture invariably indicative of smug assurance. It’s the clatter: I think he feels it clinches the point.

‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘I was not intending to ask; but since you raise the subject I should say he is pleasantly quiet and—’

‘That’s just it,’ the dog bellowed, ‘too blooming quiet! And he’s got this funny face, it always looks the same.’

‘If you mean he is restrained and not given to making gross and vulgar grimaces, then I would agree. He strikes me as being couth, Bouncer,
couth
.’

He looked puzzled. ‘What’s couth?’

‘It is what you are not; and the opposite of your erstwhile accomplice O’Shaughnessy.’ The Irish setter had been Bouncer’s bosom pal in Molehill; a creature of intemperate habits whose main aims in life had been to rev up ‘the craic’ and irritate
me
.

A wistful look entered the dog’s eyes and for a moment I regretted my words. Not for long, of course. It doesn’t do to be overly indulgent.

‘Well,’ I said briskly, ‘I am sure when you get to know each other a little better you will find Duster a most congenial playfellow. There’s probably more to him than meets the eye.’

‘Hmm,’ he grunted sceptically, ‘let’s hope so.’

‘Come now,’ I said, ‘it’s not like you to be so negative. Why this sudden wariness of the cairn?’

‘I met him the other day on his lead with the tall man. I was on my lead too with the Prim, and they hung about jabbering for ages. So while they were doing that I took a good look at the cairn. And do you know, he just stood there staring into space – well, into the hedge as a matter of fact. Personally, I don’t think it’s a very interesting hedge, not as hedges go that is. I mean there are some hedges which are just the job but—’

‘Job for what?’ I enquired with interest.

‘Most things,’ he replied vaguely.

‘And this one wasn’t?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that I could see but the cairn seemed to think so.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Uhm, you don’t think by any chance that he was trying to avoid your eye, and hence the fixation with the hedge?’

‘Avoid my eye, my arse!’ the dog barked. ‘Why should he want to do that? There’s nothing wrong with Bouncer’s eye!’

‘Nothing at all,’ I agreed hastily. ‘It’s a very fine eye, as is the other one.’ I was about to add
when
it can be seen through that mountainous fringe – but thought better of it.
‘But bear in mind that Duster being a cairn is quite small; and you as a woolly mongrel are quite large. You may have intimidated him.’

‘Done what?’ he said.

‘Perhaps you put the frighteners on him. He is probably shy.’

There was a silence while the dog digested this. And then a slow leer spread over his face and he said, ‘You mean, Maurice, that the cairn was
SHIT-SCARED
!’ The tail, which until then had been hanging loosely, began to wag rhythmically.

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ I began, ‘but—’

He emitted a low chortle. ‘But that’s what you mean I bet.’ The wagging accelerated.

Picking my words carefully I replied, ‘What I mean is that Duster may not possess your confidence and robust temperament. He may not share your – how shall I put it? – your
élan de guerre
.’

The dog frowned, evidently puzzled. And then after giving his bowl a few thoughtful shoves, looked up and said, ‘What you are saying is that I am tough and he is weedy.’

‘A slight simplification. Do not mistake silence and short legs for weediness. You may well find that he has remarkable qualities.’ I was slightly doubtful of this but it doesn’t do to encourage the dog’s prejudice. ‘Remember,’ I continued, ‘we are still new to the neighbourhood and it is rash to pre-judge or annoy the natives. Take my advice: cultivate the cairn. Ask him what he finds so fascinating about the hedge; enquire what type of bones he prefers. You may be pleasantly surprised by his response.’ I added one or two other
helpful tips, and smiled encouragingly, rather pleased with my little homily.

The dog scratched and then yawned. ‘Well I’m for a good kip. See you in the morning, Maurice.’ And seizing a couple of his hairy toys he settled into his basket and went to sleep … As a coda to my words of wisdom, this struck me as rather limp. I gave an indifferent shrug and prepared for my nightly prowl.

In fact it turned out to be a most productive prowl – longer than anticipated but very absorbing. I was just gliding quietly along the lane in the direction of Podmore Place when who should I meet coming from the opposite direction but the Persian, Eleanor. Since last cavorting with her amid the chimney stacks of the town brewery, I had been practising my steps for the Kit-Kat Trot – a caper much in vogue among the more fashionable of the Sussex
catarati
. And thus I was just about to enquire whether she might like to accompany me to the next rooftop gathering, when she said she had something rather intriguing to show me and would I like to follow her back to the Big House. ‘We shall be just in time,’ she said.

‘By all means,’ I replied, ‘but in time for what exactly?’

She gave a discreet miaow and said she couldn’t be sure
exactly
but there was definitely something afoot and that doubtless my probing mind would solve the mystery.

Modesty prevented me from agreeing about that, but I eagerly followed her to Podmore Place where she led me round to the old stables at the rear. ‘
He
lives over there,’ she said, gesturing with her paw to a far wing, ‘but he can’t see anything from that angle.’ She obviously meant the owner, the tall man whose cairn terrier had so exercised Bouncer.

Judging from their dilapidated state, these stables had obviously not been used for years. Nevertheless my sensitive nostrils quickly picked up the whiff of ancient horse. I have an aversion to these ungainly beasts, as I have to many things, and thus was not especially drawn to loitering within their habitat, however long deserted. But Eleanor seemed very keen that we should; and so despite my distaste I settled down beside her in the lee of a rotting wheelbarrow.

I was just about to ask her what on earth we were supposed to be doing when she gave a soft mew and lightly touched my tail with her claw.

I looked up. And in the far distance, coming down the disused drive, I saw the faintest glimmer of a light getting gradually nearer. It was a very wavering light and at times seemed to disappear altogether. I peered intently into the darkness, trying to discern its source.

‘Look away,’ Eleanor hissed.

‘What?’

‘Your eyes are too bright: like socking green fog lamps. He’ll fall off his bike if he sees them. Avert them instantly!’

I shut them tightly, too surprised to do otherwise. A few moments later she gave me a prod and said I could open them. When I did so the light had vanished, but instead there was the clear outline of a bicycle propped against the stable wall. Next to it, fumbling with what was evidently the lock on the door stood the familiar figure of a rather short man: Top-Ho.

‘Well if that doesn’t take the haddock,’ I murmured. ‘How very purrculiar.’

‘I don’t know about purrculiar,’ Eleanor whispered, ‘but it’s certainly curious because this is the fourth or fifth time
I have seen him doing that, and it is always at night and long after the birds have stopped their blathering. When I first noticed it going on, there was someone else with him also on a bicycle, but he doesn’t seem to have come lately: just this one on his own. And it’s always the same: he takes packages out of his saddlebag, disappears inside and then comes out about ten minutes later and rides back up the drive.’ She emitted a muted miaow and fluffed out her cheeks, an action that makes her look like the furriest mop I have ever seen.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘let us see if he follows the usual routine.’

We settled ourselves more comfortably in the grass, and I toyed with a dandelion while at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the stable door. This eventually opened and the Top-Ho person re-emerged.

Yes, just as Eleanor had predicted, both hands were now empty; and mounting the bicycle with its dying lamp, he wobbled off into the night whence he had come.

I thanked Eleanor profusely for her vigilance and for showing me yet another case of bizarre human behaviour. And responding to her quizzical gaze I said that it was something I should have to reflect upon more fully before assessing its meaning, but if she would care to partner me at the next rooftop revels I would then doubtless have an answer.

‘Right-o,’ she mewed, and brandishing that enormous tail, crashed into the undergrowth in pursuit of a passing mouse.

I wandered home in ruminative mood. It was interesting the way that this episode tallied with Bouncer’s tale of Top-Ho
cycling frantically to the telephone box. The destinations were different, of course, but both journeys had been solitary and both under cover of darkness. My immediate thought was to tell the dog of my adventure. But on second thoughts I think I may bide my time a little – it will only excite him and the barking will be excruciating. I shall wait a while and pick my moment.