‘But presumably Dr Carstairs must have had some sort of family or relatives. I mean, where did he come from?’
She shrugged. ‘Apart from the mythical mother he never spoke about anything like that; though now that you ask, I do remember he mentioned Australia a couple of times. Something about an ex-wife being there – but frankly I wasn’t very interested. As a matter of fact, I found him rather rude and stand-offish.’
‘Oh really? Why was that?’
Bertha Twigg’s face darkened. ‘Well,’ she said, planting her elbows firmly on the table, ‘he very rarely joined in with anything – you know like nature rambles and healthy hikes; and he certainly lacked what you might call zeal. For example, there was one time when the whole school was getting ready for Founder’s Day. It’s a most important occasion with prize-giving, tugs-of-war and all that sort of thing, including the ten-minute rugger scrum that young Mr Fairley organises. But the best part is the grand finale in the evening –the seniors’ gymnastic display for which, naturally, I am responsible. This is a very popular event and much appreciated by the parents.’ She paused, presumably allowing me time to absorb the fact.
‘I am sure it is,’ I murmured sceptically, wishing she would get to the point.
‘And, of course, as a prologue to the boys’ performance I always do a little display myself – it reassures the parents that their offspring are being instructed by a true professional.’ I wasn’t entirely convinced of that but said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘to this end I was in the gym one afternoon practising a backward flip on the horse – jolly difficult things to get right you know – when I realised that one of its legs was a bit wonky and that if I wasn’t careful the whole thing might keel over. As it happens, Dr Carstairs was in the corridor, and since he didn’t seem to be doing anything useful I asked him if he wouldn’t mind kneeling on the floor and gripping the leg to anchor it while I did one or two quick vaults … And do you know what he said?’ I shook my head, a number of possibilities coming to mind.
‘He claimed that he had weak wrists and couldn’t possibly risk such a manoeuvre. I told him that holding the horse steady was hardly a manoeuvre; to which he replied that it all depended on the context – and walked off!’
‘Oh dear,’ I said vaguely, ‘that wasn’t very cooperative of him.’
‘Not cooperative? I should think not!’ Bertha snorted. ‘If you ask me it was downright ungallant, not to say disloyal.’
I was puzzled by the disloyalty bit and asked her what she meant. She explained that as someone doing her physical best for the honour of the school she should surely have been able to rely on support from a fellow member of staff, and that clearly Dr Carstairs had been indifferent to the athletic prowess of Erasmus House.
It crossed my mind that it was possibly less the honour of Erasmus House that Carstairs had been reluctant to support than the weight of those pounding and formidable flanks. However, such an observation might have been injudicious and I hastily changed tack: ‘But I think you mentioned he rarely joined in with things. Does that mean he didn’t have any cronies among the rest of the staff?’
She sniffed. ‘Well not until Mr Topping arrived he didn’t. They played chess and cleaned their bicycles together.’
‘Cleaned their bicycles?’
‘Oh yes. You know how men are about that sort of thing – they get obsessed. It was a sort of ritual: every Wednesday evening after Evensong. As a matter of fact, I found it rather tiresome.’
I asked her why and she explained that the ‘ritual’ often took place under her bedroom window just when she was engaged in her deep-breathing exercises, and that the sound of the men’s voices and the relentless scraping of mudguards had been most distracting. ‘In fact I looked out once to ask them to go elsewhere but there was rather a wind blowing and I don’t think they heard. But Mr Topping saw me and gave a charming wave; he is really most mannerly, unlike Dr Carstairs.’
‘So no wave from Dr Carstairs?’ I asked lightly.
‘Oh he just kept his head down. Typical!’
It was increasingly evident that Bertha Twigg harboured a simmering antipathy to the deceased. Had such dislike occasioned his unfortunate fate? An excessive reaction perhaps, but these days one does hear of people doing the most extraordinary things. It flashed through my mind that perhaps Hubert Topping was blameless after all … But surveying the figure opposite, I thought this unlikely. There was something wholesomely bovine about the gym mistress which would seem to preclude such an enterprise. Yes, Topping was definitely the surer bet.
I stood up, and murmuring blatant lies about pressing engagements, left her toying with the remains of the chocolate biscuits.
Out in the High Street I considered the news: admittedly not much but intriguing nevertheless. Why had Carstairs fabricated the mother in Newhaven? Was it really just a means of ducking his professional duties as Bertha had insisted? If so, it did indeed put him in a rather feeble light. After all, why continue at an institution like Erasmus if he found its routine so distasteful? But if it wasn’t that then why the pretext for goodness’ sake?
A secret mistress? Doubtful; he had sounded too dull for that sort of caper. So what had he been doing in those absences, or whom had he been seeing? And then what about that curious liaison with Topping? What on earth had they had in common? Surely more than the compulsive cleaning of mudguards. Something else must have drawn them together. I thought of Topping’s smarmy bonhomie and very much doubted if it could have been a mutual chemistry. And according to Mr Winchbrooke several of the masters are keen on chess, so why should Topping have singled out Carstairs as his partner? It was obvious, I told myself, there was some other matter which had linked them: a matter which conceivably had led to Carstairs’ death … I walked down the hill feeling rather pleased with my deductions.
However, the pleasure was eclipsed by the sight of the chief superintendent emerging from the fishing tackle shop. He was in mufti and accompanied by a wan little woman whom I presumed was his wife. He strode ahead while she padded behind carrying a weighty shopping bag. Seeing him I was reminded that it was, of course, through police enquiries in the Newhaven area that the fiction of Carstairs’ mother had been exposed. I felt a prick of annoyance to think that MacManus had been in possession of such information well before I had it myself.
I wondered what he was making of it and what else he might have unearthed relevant to the case – other than Bouncer’s wretched name tag, of course. Did he, for example, know of Carstairs’ friendship with Topping? Presumably only if the latter had volunteered such information, unless Bertha had told him. But I rather suspected that the gym mistress had not been among those interviewed. Had she been so, she would surely have told me during our recent conversation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Dog’s View
I visited that pair of droop-eared wonders yesterday, Boris and Karloff. Hadn’t seen them for a bit and thought it was time to remind them who’s boss. So I was just sneaking up to their cage to give ’em a fright, when from inside I heard the most awful racket: Boris on the rampage – and he hadn’t even seen me! When I got to the wire there was Karloff’s fat face pressed up against it. He looked a bit put out.
‘What’s up,’ I asked, ‘P.O. poisoned your mangy carrots?’
‘No,’ he snarled, ‘but I wish she would poison those poxy foxes. They were here again this morning and with their screaming cubs; dancing and barking and making a hell of a shindig. We couldn’t sleep a wink.’
‘Tough,’ I said, and wagged my tail.
He narrowed those pink eyes and had the cheek to say, ‘If you were a proper dog you would see them off. But not being a proper one I suppose you’re not able to.’
Me not a proper dog? What did the bastard mean! I stood on my hind legs and rattled his cage. ‘Don’t you come that with me,’ I roared, ‘Bouncer can fix any poxy fox!’
‘Do it then,’ the rabbit said all
hoity-toity, and lolloped into the rear to shut up its mate.
At that moment I saw Maurice skulking in the long grass so I told him what had happened. He seemed to find it very funny. ‘Well, Bouncer, there’s a challenge for you: a chance for Bouncer the Bold to show his mettle.’ I didn’t know what he meant by mettle – one of his foreign words, I suppose. But he had given a sarky miaow so I knew he was being RUDE. I had had enough of rude for one day, so I was just about to bite his tail when he snatched it away and said, ‘As a matter of fact, dear friend, there is a rather bigger challenge to deal with and one much more satisfying than poxy foxes.’
‘Oh yes?’ I said. ‘You mean like beating up snooty cats?’
He pretended not to hear and stared at a butterfly. And then he said, ‘What I mean is getting to the bottom of this Top-Ho mystery. Our mistress is getting increasingly agitato and—’
‘Agi-what?’ I said.
He sighed and batted the butterfly. And then I twigged it: the agi thing is cat-speak for buggered up.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, ‘she’s that all right. Do you know, she left some extra Dog Chocs in my bowl last night – masses; couldn’t believe my luck. Generally she’s pretty stingy with ’em. Just goes to show her mind’s not on the job; probably keeps thinking of that grinning bonce I found.’ I barked, thinking of the Dog Chocs …
‘Control your lungs!’ the cat hissed. ‘Do you want those two loons in the hutch to hear us? This is not for everyone’s ears, least of all theirs.’
Personally, I couldn’t see why it should matter a hoot what the idiots heard, but the cat is a secretive sod and likes to keep things to himself. In fact I’ll give you a jolly good example of how cagey he is. You see it was only yesterday that he was good enough to tell me about his evening visit to the tall man’s house, the place where Duster lives. Yes, he had sneaked off without a miaow to anyone and met Mop Face. And do you know, they had an ADVENTURE without ME! I can tell you I was a bit fed up about that and nearly cut up rough, but he said that it was quite by chance that the adventure had happened and that in any case he had been going to tell me but he had needed to get his mind straight first. Huh! That’ll be the day. If you ask me, Maurice’s mind is about as straight as a knot of barbed wire.
Anyway, I lowered my voice to a nice growl and said that I had a jolly good idea – JOLLY good.
‘Oh yes,’ the cat said, ‘and what might that be?’
I told him that we should enlist Duster; that since the cairn lived at the place which seemed to interest Top-Ho, he could do some useful spying for us. He could be ‘Our Dog in Podkennel’ or whatever it’s called, and report back whenever he saw the weedy one come snooping towards the stable. ‘You see,’ I went on, ‘because Duster is titchy and twitchy, like you, his master has made him a special cairn-flap so he can go out and about any time he wants. That could be pretty handy for spying.’
At first I thought I had made a gaffe by calling Maurice titchy, because he flattened his ears and narrowed his eyes. But then he suddenly beamed and said, ‘Well done, Bouncer. That is a most useful suggestion. Kindly alert Duster immediately.’
Well, howzat! You don’t often get a pat on the head from Maurice. If he had been normal I would have offered him a bit of my bone to gnaw; but not being normal, I just tweaked his tail which he secretly quite enjoys.
So that’s what I am going to do: talk to the cairn and tell him that he’s got to make himself useful. I’ll put on my Great Dane voice; that should do the trick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Cat’s View
‘Phew,’ the dog panted, ‘it’s getting a bit hot these days; time I had my coat clipped. I wonder if she’ll remember.’ He shook himself and blew out his jowls.
‘It would be more to the point,’ I said, ‘if she gave you a bath. You have not had one since we arrived.’
He wagged his tail. ‘You’re right; I could do with one of those.’
Unusually Bouncer is partial to being bathed and invariably converts what for most is a prosaic ritual into a theatrical performance of epic scale. At the vicarage such events were fairly rare as I do not think F.O. had the necessary stamina, but when they did occur the dog would be in his element. Thus for his delectation and my relief I hoped that our new owner would soon put her mind to the canine ablution.
But what if she didn’t? Obvious: sad for Bouncer and smelly for me. Perhaps I could devise some subtle hints. The matter required careful thought and to this end I retreated to my usual place under the dining-room table, being mindful to tuck my white paw well into my chest out of sight of intrusive eyes.
An hour later I emerged, pleased with my plan and ready to activate proceedings at the earliest convenience – that is to say my convenience. In the meantime I thought I would take a stroll up to the school to see what further intelligence might be gleaned regarding the Top-Ho specimen: a reconnaissance of the kind my grandfather would have termed ‘a pry and a prowl’. The route to the school is not short, but having no immediate engagements and the weather being fair I looked forward to the walk. The scent of cow parsley and the tantalising hint of butterfly wings would lend pleasant distraction, and there was, of course, always the chance of a brisk skirmish with a passing field mouse … Thus filled with such prospects I set off on my mission with sprightly step.
On arrival, I picked my way carefully and kept my head well down – not so much out of fear of being seen than of being hit. These human kittens are not noted for the accuracy of their aim whether with ball or conker, and when in their midst it is wise to move with caution. Luckily, it being early in the day there did not seem much midst about and I was able to proceed on my prowl unmolested.
With Top-Ho’s recent bicycling escapade in mind I thought that my first port of call should be the bike shed. I do not mean the general one for the boys but the small one assigned to the pedagogues. As mentioned, I am not keen on bicycles – dangerous contraptions – but I felt that by inspecting the vehicle I might learn a little more of its rider. My grandfather always taught me that if you wanted to make an assessment of human beings you had to examine their kit – ‘helps you get the feel of the buggers’ he had said. Over the years this has proved sound advice; and thus suppressing instinctive distaste I slipped in through the open window.
There were several of the machines slung about and at first I was a little confused. But not for long. Slightly apart from the others and distinguished by its lowered handlebars and smart appearance – the others were dull and battered – stood the one that surely belonged to Top-Ho. I noted too the large saddlebag attached to its rear: exactly the same as the one observed on my stroll with Eleanor. Yes, this was undoubtedly his, and I commenced my inspection.
I circled the wheels, sniffed the tyres, flicked the spokes with my claw and pawed the pump. Then with an agile leap I landed upon the saddle. This exuded a smell of polished leather and old trouser. Shifting my paws carefully I was able to get at the saddlebag. This was open and apparently empty. Nevertheless I am nothing if not thorough, and thus with a little craning was able to stretch down and thrust my head inside. My nostrils were met by an unfamiliar smell. But I had no time to give thought to this, or indeed to indulge the sneeze which had just assailed me, as the next moment there was a crash as the shed door was flung open, and hastily withdrawing my head I was confronted by the figure of Top-Ho.
In a trice I had leapt to the floor only to be met with a hail of abuse: ‘Get away from that frigging bike you effing little toad!’ he snarled, and lunged towards me.
Well really! For one who made a fetish of flaunting a rosebud on his lapel and wearing obsessively polished shoes, I considered his outburst disgraceful. I mean even Bouncer doesn’t use language like that. I slunk into a corner and emitted one of my more poisonous hisses; and then with nice judgement shot between his feet and out through the door.
Gaining the sanctuary of a large holly bush, I crouched quietly and brooded. Either the specimen was morbi
dly fond of his bicycle or he had an aversion to my own species; and if the latter then it was certainly reciprocal. Admittedly some of their kind are tolerable. But the majority – such as my erstwhile mistress of whom the vicar so clumsily disposed – are crass or obnoxious. Quite clearly Top-Ho was of the larger category. I studied a rummaging beetle and considered my next move. The simplest would be to turn tail and return home. But I was so incensed by the man’s behaviour that I was determined to stay and see what else might be unearthed. Thus I bided my time until he reemerged from the shed, and then with utmost stealth and keeping a good distance, followed him back to the school building.
At the door I slipped in behind him, and was just slinking along the corridor keeping his heels well in sight, when there was a sudden splutter of noise and the overpowering waft of sausage and lavender; and the next moment I had been swept up into the arms of some human female. She gabbled excitedly in a tongue utterly foreign to me. But as I struggled to get free she screeched something that I did comprehend: ‘Oh Herr Topping, do stop. Look what I have found – ein sweet little katze. Do come and stroke him. He ist zo naice!’
Top-Ho turned and walked back towards us. ‘You are mistaken Fräulein Hockheimer,’ he said smoothly, ‘I suspect the creature is far from agreeable and I advise that you keep your distance from it. After all, you wouldn’t want a flea in your ear, would you?’ He smirked, while I glared.
A flea indeed! I wondered whether I should pee on his rose. When a kitten I could have done it with ease, but age restricts both range and impact; so instead I gave a couple of sharp scratches to the arm of my captor, and as she shrieked, jumped down and sped to the open door.
The Primrose Pursuit Page 12
