Chatting with Charles Penlow in the White Hart had been most pleasant and I like to think I had concealed from him the fact that my four-week absence from Lewes had been spent not in Baden-Baden, but in the south of France. It is true that earlier I had intimated my intention of visiting that spa to recuperate from spinal problems. But that had been a mere ploy to cover my actual reason for rather hastily quitting the area: fear of police harassment.
In the circumstances ‘back trouble’ had seemed as good an excuse as any, and thus the German spa had been the obvious place to which I might ostensibly de-camp. But given the strain of my recent imbroglio with that evil little Latin master from Erasmus House, the local prep school, and my abortive attempt with aide-de-camp Nicholas Ingaza, (my late brother’s erstwhile friend/accomplice), to tip his corpse over Beachy Head, I felt that a more lavish context was called for. Thus I had opted for the fragrant warmth of the French Riviera – Nice to be precise. This had proved an ideal choice. And many happy days were spent at its lucrative casino, basking on the warm pebbled beaches of La Grande Plage and recuperating with fearsome Sidecars in the lounge bar of the Negresco. Yes, it had all been extremely soothing and a splendid means of ridding my mind of the Lewes murders and my erstwhile fiendish adversary Hubert Topping … and my own (entirely innocent) part in the affair.1
It also took me far away from the officious attentions of Chief Superintendent MacManus, who, having failed to crack the case, was lugubriously sniffing at anything that came his way. And thus given my own inadvertent involvement and not wishing to be further disturbed, I had put away my paints, closed up the house and discreetly withdrawn the hem of my smock. With luck, I persuaded myself, by my return the fuss would have largely abated. Wisely, Nicholas Ingaza had also withdrawn – though in his case it had been to Tangier, a place rather more suited to his particular tastes than to mine.
Thus, holiday over and well refreshed, I returned to Lewes and carefully resumed my role of gracious lady-artist, being charming to all and sundry while daubing canvases with scenes of Southdown sheep and ancient rustic churches. ‘Daubing’ is perhaps an unduly modest term, for I have to admit that actually I do the job pretty well – or at least so the punters seem to think, especially the summer visitors. It is amazing the prices people will pay for what they fondly imagine to be local colour. My late lamented brother, the Reverend Francis Oughterard of Molehill, Surrey, once asked why my themes were so repetitive. I told him that if you had hit upon something that worked and from which money accrued, it was idle to waste time on experiments whose returns might be less solid. He had muttered something about the shadow of Mammon – which, given his own preoccupation with eluding the shadow of Mr Pierrepoint and his ready noose, I thought a trifle cheeky. (Fortunately dear Francis did elude the hangman and died heroically … but that, as they say, is another story.)2
Anyway, my two charges inherited from Francis – the cat Maurice and dog Bouncer – seemed moderately pleased to see my return, and for a day and-a-half I was accorded devoted attention. From the dog that is; the cat is devoted to no one. Still, even Maurice was minded to be polite for a while, a rare event. Emily Bartlett, school secretary at Erasmus House, also gave me an unusually intelligent reception and supplied titbits of local gossip.
When in the course of her narrative I asked casually how the chief superintendent was progressing with the hideous dew-pond drama and the subsequent incident at the foot of the Downs3, she said that as far as she was aware he wasn’t. Apparently the press was silent, and he and his cohorts stonily unforthcoming. I have to say that was a great relief for, as earlier indicated, I was none too keen on being dragged into that particular scenario again! Of course, should the worst occur and MacManus become overly tiresome in his investigations I do have something nestling up my sleeve which might just inhibit further enquiry, or at least enquiry as affecting me. But that is for another day and with luck the day may never come.
Meanwhile, I am intrigued with Charles Penlow’s news about Elspeth Travers and her chilly demise amid the swirling waters of Birling Gap. This strikes me as distinctly peculiar; for as I explained to Charles, she used always to declare how much she disliked the sea and was forever issuing dire warnings to those contemplating the pleasures of an ocean cruise. Indeed, I recall poor Peggy Mountjoy complaining bitterly that Elspeth’s gloomy predictions had cast a pall of fear over the whole of her maiden voyage.
Naturally Charles paid no heed to my scepticism and instead muttered something about the sister’s sad loss. Well, the sister may have sustained a loss but whether she finds it sad I rather doubt. As I observed to Charles, anyone could see the signs of their mutual antipathy (or at least I could; others are often less observant, especially Charles whose principal concern these days seems to be the renovation of Podmore Place, that dreary ruin he inherited). But as to the cause of the rift – well, it could be anything; although I suspect it stemmed from Elspeth being so much prettier than the sister and the latter being so much richer. Some sibling rivalries are of course inexplicable, just bred in the bone or fostered by a distasteful event in the cradle. Had perhaps one sleeping twin rolled on the other and never been forgiven? Or been beastly with its nappy? These days it seems fashionable to regard such trivia as being responsible for all manner of adult neuroses.
Fortunately, being five years apart, Francis and I had avoided such hostility – which isn’t to say that the wretched boy couldn’t be utterly maddening. I mean, fancy joining the Church and then being fool enough to erase one of his parishioners, that tiresome Fotherington woman! The consequences were most distasteful and caused mammoth inconvenience. It was just as well that Ma and Pa were no longer with us – they would have taken a very dim view and probably caved in under the strain. When I asked him why he had done it, he explained that she had been on his wick for some time and he had just wanted some peace and quiet. Well, I must say, that idea backfired all right! Still, it’s all water under the bridge now and mercifully he has his peace … while I have the dubious legacy of his domestic pets – and the even more dubious friendship of his erstwhile goad and ally Nicholas Ingaza (when he elects to return from Tangier).
As to Mrs Travers, yes, it is indeed all very unfortunate. But I have to say that the manner of her passing still strikes me as odd, and I may make a few discreet enquiries in that direction. With so much incompetence about one feels compelled to take the initiative occasionally.
Rather to my surprise, incompetence is not something that can be ascribed to Eric Tredwell, Nicholas Ingaza’s loud and louche companion. As with my late brother, periodically when trying to contact Ingaza in Brighton I have been forced to encounter this person via the telephone, and know the voice well though not the face. It is a voice of guttural timbre, grating vowels and unremitting good cheer. Indeed, it is good cheer of such relentless jollity that, with contact over, one is moved to seek respite in images of death or the more disheartening passages of the Bible.
Nevertheless, I have to admit gratitude to Eric, for it was his resolute good humour that enabled me to slip away to Nice free from concern for Bouncer and Maurice. Other than darts, beer and abetting Ingaza in the latter’s more opaque transactions, Eric’s particular passion is our four-footed friends. And it was this passion which prompted him to offer his services as their nursemaid while I was away. ‘They’ll be safe wiv me,’ he had bawled, ‘and what wiv His Nibs swanning off to Tangier, or gawd knows where, they’ll ’ave the run of the house. It’ll be Liberty Hall ’ere!’
The arrangement had worked surprisingly well, and prior to his own decampment Nicholas had been unusually cooperative in collecting not only the animals and their bedding, but even deigning to pack up their toys. And on my return from ‘Baden-Baden’ Eric had assured me that the three of them had spent a ‘luvverly’ time (although with Maurice as part of the trio I found that a slightly startling claim). When I suggested I should drive over to Brighton to retrieve the guests, he explained that owing to a vital darts match he could not be there but that he would get Phyllis to bring them to me the next day. When I asked who Phyllis was, he explained that she was his niece – ever so nice and that everyone knew her.
Thus, the following morning, I awaited with some curiosity the advent of the nice niece whom everyone knew. Eric had not said how she would arrive. By car or bus? Taxi from Lewes station? Not that it mattered really so long as she was punctual and delivered the creatures safely. Still, it’s as well to know these things.
I soon did. For at precisely eleven o’clock there came the whine of an acerbic engine, and from around the bend in the drive appeared a motorbike – plus sidecar. Its rider, swathed in leathers, scarf, gauntlets and goggles, was unrecognizable; the occupants of the sidecar only too familiar. The dog sat erect, its snout in Pointer mode, while the cat clung perilously to its neck, tail wafting in the slipstream. From the hall window I watched with some alarm as the bike seemed to gather speed, and then with a screaming of brakes and tyres come to a spectacular halt a few yards from the front door.
Cautiously I opened the door and gave a tentative wave of welcome. This was reciprocated by a curt salute and a muffled voice shouting, ‘Cor, that was a good ’un. A nice bit of drive you’ve got there, missus!’ Phyllis sounded uncannily like her uncle.
‘Er, yes,’ I agreed politely, ‘the gravel has only just been re-laid.’ I glanced at the now displaced pebbles and mangled border. However, the freight was delivered and the girl on time, thus who was I to cavil about a bulldozed terrain?
As the passengers hurled themselves from their carriage I enquired if she would like some refreshment – coffee perhaps or a dry sherry.
‘Nah, never touch the stuff,’ she said, unwinding her muffler, ‘but I wouldn’t say no to some pop.’
‘Pop?’
‘Yeah, soda pop – anything’ll do but I like that new Pepsi best.’
I explained that Pepsi was rather too exotic for me but that I did have some orange Kia-Ora.
‘That’ll fit,’ she said graciously, ‘but I don’t s’pose you’ve got some ice cream to shove in it? That’d be really good!’
As it happens, stuffed into the refrigerator’s cramped icebox was a block of vanilla Lyon’s Maid (a frozen offering from my friend Emily) and thus I was able to accommodate her request. It struck me as a peculiar mixture but it seemed to meet with her approval, and pushing up her goggles but remaining in the saddle, she demolished it with gusto.
‘You are one of those artists, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘I quite like pictures, the bright ones I mean – can’t stand that dismal stuff. Hey, just think, you could paint one of my Uncle Eric warts an’ all.’ She emitted a shout of mirth, a sound not dissimilar to those produced by her relative.
I explained that I didn’t do portraits, tending to specialize in churches and South Down sheep.
‘That’s all right,’ was the cheerful reply, ‘he can dress up as a woolly ram. He’d like that, it would suit him no end!’ There was a further guffaw followed by some violent revving. But before finally zooming off, she yelled, ‘Your dog and cat, they aren’t half cards … off their chumps if you ask me!’ With a wave and deafening blast of the horn she thrust her steed back up the new-laid drive, and I was left morosely contemplating the ravaged gravel.
Back in the house I encountered the pair of ‘cards’ sitting quietly by the hall table. They looked sinisterly docile. ‘Off your chumps, you are,’ I said. Bouncer wagged his tail, while Maurice emitted an almost courteous mew.