Thus to quiet my thoughts of Aston, that afternoon I had another go in the studio but it wasn’t terribly effective and, tired of ruminant sheep and playful rabbits, I went downstairs to look for the evening paper. To my irritation it wasn’t the Lewes Tribune, the usual one, but the Sussex Rattler, a publication I wasn’t enamoured of. How tiresome, presumably the paper boy was new. I glanced at it idly, not bothering to sit down, assuming it would be quickly discarded. In this I was wrong, for the headlines leapt at me and I read with rapt attention:
Police Raid on Mercers’ Music Hall
Following an unexpected police visit yesterday, the doors of Bognor’s historic vaudeville theatre have closed for the last time. According to Detective Inspector Spikesy, liaising with the Bognor police, the theatre has been under special surveillance and it has now been established that the premises have long been the hub of prostitution and other illicit activities.
Patrons of the hall’s legitimate programmes will be shocked at this revelation and sad to see it go. However, they will recognize that public standards must be maintained and that seemly pleasure must bow to the extinction of the gross and unsavoury. To this end the Sussex Rattler has always been dedicated and will continue in its pursuit of such matters.
An unconfirmed report reveals that a photographic record of those clients availing themselves of its dubious offerings has been kept by the theatre’s management. If such exists doubtless the data will be invaluable to the police in their continuing enquiries which we trust will be successful. As yet Lewes’s chief superintendent, Alastair MacManus, has been unavailable for comment – but our reporter did have a brief glimpse of the chief constable looking particularly cheerful. Meanwhile the Rattler will endeavour to keep its readers abreast of any fresh revelations.
Well, I gasped, here’s a turn-up for the books! What do you know! The Sussex Rattler is a frightful rag full of drivel and unctuous prurience. Normally I would have cursed the paper boy for his mistake, but this time I was grateful. I re-read the article, especially the bit about the photographic records. Interesting. Had they been the source of Topping’s snapshots now in my possession? It seemed likely. And if so, were there others of similar style? But either way, assuming that MacManus (and fellow punters) had been ignorant of such graphic records no wonder he was unavailable for comment! Perhaps, after all, my own data would be surplus to requirements and save me both postage and other costs! I grinned at the dog, who naturally took that to be an invitation for a walk and began to prance accordingly.
As Bouncer tugged me towards the field where he knew I would unleash him, I grappled with the new development as outlined by the Rattler. If indeed Spikesy had closed the place down, how would that affect Aston Travers – assuming he was still plying his cross-Channel trade, Operation Tarts Galore? Would he simply call it a day as arch-pimp and navigator and melt into the ether? Or was Spikesy already on to him and sharpening his sword for an imminent arrest? If the latter, would the charge be confined to his pimping activity of supplying goods other than bizarre underwear? Or in the course of interrogation might suspicions be aroused in another direction, i.e. to the murder of his mother? And should that be the case, where did that leave me? Silent or ready to play the upright citizen and report my ‘conversation’ with Alice?
Thinking of Francis and other complications I still inclined to the former, but it was a delicate problem and not helped by Bouncer’s bellicose roars as he confronted a thunderstruck heifer. In turn I yelled at him to come to heel. Stuck between the two of us Bouncer hesitated, looking from right to left as if torn between war and peace … Yes, we all have our moments of indecision. And exploiting the hiatus the heifer calmly walked away, an act of studied indifference which left the dog looking foolish.
As we regained the road I saw Sergeant Wilding trundling towards us on his bike. Hmm, presumably this was when he would stop me and try to fix that interview MacManus had so rudely threatened. I braced myself to be politely agreeable and wondered if I could persuade the sergeant to give a clue regarding the questions. I gave a friendly wave but felt rather tense.
He dismounted immediately, and with a broad grin exclaimed, ‘Well, Miss Oughterard, you had a fine time last night, I should say! Erasmus House lit up like a Christmas tree and you all in your fine togs shrieking and laughing, and I don’t know what. What you might call a night on the flipping tiles!’
I was taken aback, not only because his account seemed a trifle florid but because I had expected a sterner tone and the brandishing of a notebook.
‘Er, yes,’ I conceded, ‘I suppose it was rather merry. But still it’s nice for people to relax a little and I suppose it shows the Erasmus boys that we’re not all starchy has-beens.’ I gave a diffident smile wondering when the notebook would appear.
‘Starchy? No, I should think not.’ He laughed. ‘As it happens, I picked up two starched collars from outside the school gates only half an hour ago. Cor, things must have gone well! Why, even the chief looked under the weather this morning, very grim and silent he was. Didn’t want to speak to no one and just locked himself away in his office. Not like old Speakeasy – grinning like a Cheshire cat, he is.’ Wilding lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, he’s had a coup: buggered up that Bognor brothel and is on the heels of their chief supplier – and I don’t mean of hymn books!’ So saying, he mounted his bicycle and with a matey wave rode off.
I gazed after him relieved and perplexed. Were the effects of last night’s revels really the cause of MacManus’s morose silence (he had certainly been squiffy when he ordered the interview). Or was there another reason for his bleak manner: Spikesy’s raid on the brothel, for example? And if so, was his silence due to fear of being exposed as the lolloping bear or pique at his subordinate’s triumph and his own lacklustre record? But professionally links with the brothel would be the more shaming, and thus the more damaging … And what about Aston, for goodness’ sake? Was Spikesy really on his trail? It would be nice to think so, the nasty little creep! Yanking Bouncer’s lead, I started to stride back along the lane suddenly eager to resume my painting.
However, we were again detained, though this time by Louis Lionheart, Bouncer’s friend, and who last heard of had been ravaging the sweetshop and being sick over PC Wilding’s boots. But now the springer looked on sparkling form, as did its owners (well, moderately) and I was glad to pat the dog and chat with the latter.
I said I was sorry not to have seen them at the Erasmus ball, at which they flinched and explained that having endured the rigours of Urquart’s play they had lacked the strength for another function quite so soon. One saw their point. We turned to other things, and I suppose that because it had been on my mind I nearly asked if they had read about the Bognor business and the raid on the music hall. But I stopped short, suspecting that they took only the national newspapers and certainly nothing as virtuously grubby as the Rattler.
As we talked, the two dogs spent a sniffy time chatting each other up and vying as to which could wag its tail the fastest. It was a cheering sight, and not for the first time I wondered what on earth went on in those furry minds and what it was that animals said to each other.
Despite Bouncer’s liveliness with the springer, on our way home I thought he was looking a bit disgruntled and not showing his usual zest when I spoke or tossed his ball. Oh well, presumably a fresh bone would soon fix that.
I was right: the bone improved his mood straightway, as did Maurice who greeted him affably and for once seemed resigned to his growly attentions.