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. Unlike 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 thou
ght 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.
‘What do you mean “drop me off at Beachy Head”?’ I heard myself falter. ‘I don’t have any need to go there.’
‘That’s rather debateable,’ he answered silkily. But then his face suddenly darkened and took on the same malevolent look I had seen that time in Charles’s library. And still holding the penknife in one hand, with a swift movement he produced a revolver from his pocket.
I gazed transfixed at the two weapons pointed straight at me, their closeness – the muzzle of the gun, the point of the blade – were absurdly unreal. Frozen incredulity. Was this what Pa had felt, faced by that ogre looming down at him from the rim of the bunker? But I had no retaliatory bayonet …
‘Hurry up, would you,’ Topping said softly. ‘We haven’t got all day,’ and he gestured at me to walk ahead of him. But somehow I maintained my poise and said scathingly: ‘If you imagine that dropping me over Beachy Head is going to get you anywhere, you are much mistaken. Emily Bartlett knows all about you, Topping, and I can assure you she will immediately put two and two together and go straight to the police.’ I rather doubted the ‘immediately’ part, but in view of the circumstances it didn’t hurt to boost Emily’s acumen.
He gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Oh I think I can run a few circles around your worthy friend. There is no proof and she is hardly the sharpest adversary I have had to deal with.’
‘But she is not the only one,’ I murmured, thinking of Nicholas.
‘Oh you mean the upstanding Alastair MacManus. Yes, he’s been dutifully sniffing around but he’s not exactly Sexton Blake, is he? Besides, should he get too officious I happen to have a little something guaranteed to divert his attention. No man likes to look a fool, least of all our splendid chief superintendent. I don’t think he will be a bother once he knows what I have on him.’ He leered.
‘Actually I wasn’t thinking of him. There is someone else, someone you once knew – rather slicker than MacManus.’
For a moment he looked puzzled, and then said, ‘Ah, presumably you refer to the Ingaza spiv; I saw him with you in Brighton only recently. It quite shocked me really – I wouldn’t have expected the respectable Miss Oughterard to be consorting with that type. I remember him from Oxford: a good scholar but a touch unsavoury. Slippery, I should say.’
‘My God, that’s rich coming from you, Topping,’ I burst out, ‘Nicholas Ingaza is worth ten of you!’
He shrugged indifferently. ‘Nevertheless not the most upright of citizens, wouldn’t you agree? A police record and dubious business dealings: not exactly a useful ally, too much to conceal – and certainly not what the courts call a reliable witness. A good lawyer would soon root out his past.’ There was some truth in that I privately admitted.
Yet despite Topping’s casual dismissal of Nicholas I had the impression that my words had ruffled him. There was a silence while he appeared to reflect.
During the pause I heard a faint creaking and noticed that Bouncer had nosed his way in from the other door. His muzzle was encrusted with mud; obviously been after the rabbits again.
‘Bouncer,’ I commanded, ‘kill!’ The dog wagged his tail amiably and sat down. Typical.
Topping chuckled. ‘Not the best of guard dogs, I fancy.’ He moved closer, still smiling. ‘Come along, my dear.’
I am a good height and taller than Topping; so I was just wondering whether in spite of the weapons I could somehow floor him by superior inches, when from the far corner came an unearthly roar – and like a lion out of hell the dog had launched himself upon the man. There was a shot and a bullet hit the ceiling, and then the revolver and penknife went scudding across the floor.
The ensuing scene was not pretty, albeit perversely satisfying. But my initial relief quickly turned to fear – fear that the dog would go too far and that at any moment I should be faced with another decapitation. However, just when I thought the worst might occur, there was a fiendish howl from the open window and instantly the rampage ceased and the room fell quiet … Maurice insinuated himself over the sill and jumped lithely on to the floor.
I gazed mesmerised by the triptych before me: the man gasping and quivering on all fours, the dog scratching itself earnestly, and the cat crouched, watchful and purring. Yet given the dramatic ferocity of the attack I was surprised to see that Bouncer’s victim was relatively unscathed. A colossal nose bleed most certainly, his face glistening with sweat, and shirt and jacket torn to ribbons – but other than being in a state of abject collapse, Hubert Topping seemed broadly intact. I cleared my throat and enquired if he would like a glass of water. There was no response at first and
then a barely perceptible nod.
I picked up the weapons and left the room, debating my next move: a call to the police station reporting molestation by an intruder? But I hadn’t been molested, and in any case Topping would doubtless make pious denials and play the injured innocent: he had come to borrow a library book, had brought flowers and then was unaccountably attacked by the demented artist and her vicious dog.
But perhaps this was the time to reveal all: to come clean and tell the police of my suspicions and my dedicated pursuit of this glib and dreadful man … But even if I told them everything that Topping had just told me, would I be remotely believed? After all, the authorities can be so cynical! I hovered in the pantry next to the studio, mechanically filling a glass from the tap, my mind awhirl with ifs and buts.
Such deliberations proved irrelevant. When I returned bearing the water another scene met my eyes: Topping no longer on all fours but lying on his side in rigid foetal position, eyes wide and staring with teeth bared in a rictus snarl. He was very, very still. The room was utterly silent: not a hint of breath, the cat’s purring had stopped and Bouncer’s scratching stilled … I gazed down at the heap on the floor, fascinated and appalled.
‘Oh my God,’ I whispered, ‘he’s dead.’ No voice, least of all the victim’s, said otherwise. I glanced at the two animals now mute and intent like statuesque pointers, their noses riveted on Topping’s form. ‘They know,’ I muttered to myself and with shaking hand raised the glass of water to my own mouth.
The action must have galvanised Bouncer for the next moment he had padded over to the corpse’s raised shoulder and made to lift his leg.
‘Bouncer,’ I squeaked, ‘stop that! Show some respect!’
He had the grace to look mildly abashed and gave a sheepish wag of his tail. Maurice meanwhile had also moved back to the sill whence he had come. Seconds later, having rushed to the open window for air and to calm my spinning mind, I saw him sprawled on the flat roof sunning himself in the fading rays of a warm spot as if he hadn’t a care in the world – which presumably he hadn’t.
The Primrose Pursuit Page 22
