I was just taking a well-earned rest from my labours in the studio and from writing a thank-you note to Agnes Penlow when I was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. I was startled, not expecting anyone. Besides, who knocks rather than rings these days? Perhaps it was the second post with a delivery of paintbrushes from my London suppliers. Not at all. It was the looming figure of Chief Superintendent MacManus, last seen being tedious at the Penlows’ party.
After a polite greeting and clearing of throat, he thrust a carrier bag into my hands, explaining that it was a little gift from his wife. Knowing he would be in the area, she had apparently suggested he deliver it in person. ‘Books,’ he explained. ‘She has been clearing out the attic and thought you might find these helpful.’
‘Oh really?’ I said, doubtful of their use and fearing the worst. ‘How very kind.’
I do not dislike Mrs MacManus – one can hardly dislike a nonentity – and sympathize with her plight. To be married to a pompous bore like MacManus must be a trial … though who knows, perhaps the role of grey-clad lackey (Mrs M. always wears grey – albeit of different shades) was what she liked. After all, to be towed through life in the wake of one as assured and inflexible as the chief superintendent might be quite restful: no decisions, no demands, no responsibilities – a sort of languid limbo really.
However, what suited MacManus’s wife was hardly my concern, but the books she had foisted upon me were. I glanced at the three titles and shuddered: The Blithesome Palette: thoughts of an Art devotée; Learn to Paint in Six Easy Steps; Mr Titian’s Little Quiz Book. I stared dumbly at these offerings trying to muster a smile of gratitude.
It was a difficult process, and while I struggled, MacManus said, ‘Yes, she thought these might be your cup of tea. Could be quite inspiring, I daresay. I mean, I suppose you must get a bit bored with church towers and the backsides of sheep – or the front sides, come to that. Ho! Ho!’
Oh ho! Bloody ho! I thought. Sheep and country churches are what keep me in gin and allow me to live in a sizeable house in its own grounds and not in some faceless red box like his own. But naturally I refrained from making such a retort, and instead told him earnestly that the noble intricacies of church architecture were an endless challenge, and that (as obviously noted by Rubens) all posteriors were different, even those of sheep. It crossed my mind to include those of ostriches, but prudence prevailed.
Slightly to my surprise, having completed his mission my visitor seemed reluctant to leave and hovered awkwardly in the hallway. Really, I wondered, hasn’t he something useful to do at the police station such as patrolling the Rogues Gallery or serving a summons on someone? Evidently not. For, clearing his throat, he said, ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Oughterard, since I’m here I wonder if I might pick your memory about a little matter. It won’t take long.’
I froze. Pick my memory? Little matter? How little – my brother’s dispatch of Mrs Fotherington? I had always feared that case would be re-opened, and doubtless there was a hotline between the Surrey police and our Sussex squad. To quell panic I told myself that it was doubtless to do with my annual donation to the Police Benevolent Fund. Perhaps my subscription had lapsed. Yes, that would be it, and how typical of MacManus to seize on such a paltry thing. I flashed a dazzling smile, offered some bland beverage and ushered him into the sitting room.
When I returned from the kitchen it was to find him smoking a pipe (no by-your-leave, of course!) and staring fixedly at the dog snoring gently on the hearthrug. I set down the tray and made a bright and lying reference to Bouncer: ‘Such a sweet little treasure!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you have a doggie companion, Chief Superintendent?’
‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I am too busy.’
‘Oh, of course, of course,’ I agreed. ‘Catching all those criminals, it must take so much time and energy.’
‘It does,’ he agreed woodenly. ‘And that’s what I want to ask you about.’
My stomach muscles clenched and my smile stiffened. ‘So how can I help?’ I enquired benignly.
‘Doubtless you recall the recent Topping case – that Latin master found dead in the car on Beachy Head?’
Oh my hat! So not Fotherington but Topping. Relief and fear mingled as I composed my features into an expression of polite enquiry.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘we are not entirely sure that his death was due to a heart attack after all. It seemed obvious at the time and the coroner evidently thought so, but after a bit of probing we have certain reservations. In fact, it could conceivably have been something involving criminal activity and linked to the incident on Caburn Hill, that knife attack you may remember. It’s a possibility that the two deaths were not unconnected.’
In this of course he was right, but not in the way he may have imagined!
‘Criminal activity? Oh dear, how dreadful,’ I said, sounding suitably shocked. As a matter of fact, the shock was far from assumed. I was rattled to think that what I had feared, namely the enquiry into the Topping affair (and something I had decamped to Nice to escape) was still ongoing. But recalling Pa’s advice – when in a blue funk sit tight and smile – I did just that and offered the visitor some more tea.
He took a gulp, and then said, ‘You see, Miss Oughterard, we have a witness who seems to think that on the afternoon prior to the body’s discovery he saw the deceased heading in the direction of your house as if he was about to pay a call. Do you remember if he made that call, and if so, how would you describe his manner?’
Huh! I recalled Topping’s manner only too well: odious and malign, but I could hardly tell the superintendent that. I wondered what tiresome local had seen his approach and why this had not been mentioned earlier. Presumably because the witness had a defective memory and was unsure anyway. If that was the case then I would jolly well brazen it out – X’s word against P.O.’s: Primrose Oughterard’s!
I gave a thoughtful frown and shook my head. ‘Oh no. Pleasant though he was, I only saw Mr Topping on two or three occasions – we weren’t on visiting terms. And even if he did call, then I certainly wasn’t aware of it. Besides, dear Bouncer would have barked the house down; he gets excited by strangers and there would have been an awful racket!’
‘Hmm,’ MacManus said expressionlessly, ‘I see. Well, naturally these things have to be checked, you understand, all part of our routine enquiries. Normally I would have sent Sergeant Wilding, but as I was here with the books it seemed sensible to kill two birds with one stone, if you see what I mean. No point in wasting resources.’ He gave a sombre smile.
Two birds with one stone, my foot! What did he think I was – another ostrich? I felt like asking him how Bognor was these days, but naturally didn’t.
Instead, and on a sudden whim, I heard myself saying, ‘So awful about poor Mrs Travers, though her death does strike one as being rather odd. I mean to say, what on earth was she doing in the sea when she was known to dislike it so – or at least so one had gathered? And rather strange, don’t you think, that she should have been all on her own?’
If I had expected this to draw him into the subject I was disappointed. He looked utterly blank and then muttered something to the effect that people were full of oddities and presumably she had changed her mind, and that in his experience it was something that ladies often did.
Naturally there were a number of replies I could have made, but restricted myself to remarking sweetly that doubtless his experience ran very deep. If he had detected the veiled sarcasm he certainly did not show it. Indeed, he even gave a nod of agreement, before adding indifferently, ‘It’s always the way with sudden deaths – the public loves a mystery. And with all due respect I daresay you are no different in that way, Miss Oughterard. Just like my wife, she’s suspicious of everything!’ He emitted a loud and patronizing laugh. I gritted my teeth and gave a cheerless smile.
After a few stilted pleasantries he stood up to go and I took him into the hall. Here he paused and murmured, ‘Oh, by the way, I happened to be up at the Yard the other day and had a chinwag with Detective Inspector Samson, as he now is. He sends you his regards and says he hopes the cat and dog are settling to their new life after the reverend’s demise.’ He gestured towards the still recumbent form of Bouncer glimpsed through the open door. ‘It must have been difficult for them – and for you, of course.’
I can’t be sure whether it was my imagination, but he seemed to regard me intently – a look suggestive less of solicitude than of suspicion. ‘It was,’ I replied stonily. ‘And do reciprocate my good wishes to Mr Samson.’
He nodded and returned to his car.
As the noise of the engine faded I gathered the ‘art’ books and one by one dropped them into the wastepaper basket. And then with mounting fury I strode to my desk, wrenched open the top drawer and withdrew those absurd photographs. I stared at them grimly. ‘Well,’ I muttered, ‘try any funny business and these might just arrive at the office of our local newspaper.’ For a moment I was gripped by a savage pleasure, picturing the recipient’s face when confronted with the ursine capering of the chief superintendent. Hmm, that would settle the basket’s hash!
However, such pleasure was short-lived as my mind plunged back to MacManus’s words. Revenge is all very well, but what about the interim cost? If that cost revealed that I had been remotely connected with Topping’s demise, it could be embarrassing to say the least. Why, despite my undoubted innocence, they might even pin his fate on me. One assassin in the family is quite enough … which explains my disquiet at MacManus’s mention of the ghastly little Samson. During the investigation into Mrs Fotherington’s death, he had held the rank of detective sergeant and was the investigating officer’s sidekick. Subordinate he may have been, but with whippet-like tenacity he had pursued the case – and poor Francis – with paranoid zeal. I won’t say that the latter outwitted him (my brother’s calculations were not of the sharpest), but somehow he had managed to elude his clutches and the case had been shelved. Later, after Francis’s death, Samson was promoted to inspector and sent to the Yard, where doubtless that twitching nose is yielding all manner of truffles … Naturally one can be oversensitive, but I strongly suspect that his good wishes were far from well-meant and instead a sort of coded message to the effect that he is still excavating the past.
However, no one can accuse the Oughterards of being cowed by circumstance (even Francis had his moments) and I have no intention of letting oafish MacManus or the weevil Samson dictate otherwise. Neither will I allow their intrusions to impede my research into another issue: the curious Travers affair.
Despite MacManus’s casual dismissal, there is something decidedly bizarre about that drowning, and the more I glean of the matter the more I am convinced that it was not as it appeared. I have a nose for skulduggery (no doubt inherited from Ma, who, despite our elaborate smokescreens, invariably knew when her offspring were cheating) and I shall jolly well use it! But naturally caution must be the keynote. The last thing one wants is to have the chief superintendent muddying the waters. I mean to say one is all in favour of the ‘strong arm of the law’ (naturally standards must be maintained) but in my experience some of its representatives are more trouble than they are worth. The same might equally be said of the Church, whose officers when unchecked can be tiresome in the extreme … Bishop Clinker having been a case in point.1 However, in mitigation of foolish Francis, I have to say that as a cleric my brother was much respected by the Molehill congregation – and especially so after his heroic death rescuing that ninny Mavis Briggs from being hamstrung on the church gargoyle.
Ah well, it has been a long day, and as a prelude to bedtime I think a bracing walk with Bouncer would do us both good. The idle dog has been half asleep for hours. I shall take him across the fields and we can inspect the sheep … fore and aft.