I was just making a list of the clothes I would need for Baden-Baden when the back doorbell rang. I went to answer, assuming it was the butcher boy with the weekly lamb chops. Not at all. To my surprise it was the diminutive figure of Mrs MacManus.
‘I do apologize for not using the front door,’ she twittered, ‘but your cat was in the porch and I thought he looked a bit – well, you know – uhm, threatening. I’m afraid I am not too good with animals so thought it safer to come to the side. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not,’ I said in some puzzlement, and noting the slightly windswept appearance enquired if she had walked all the way from the town. She explained that she had – partly because she enjoyed a ‘little constitutional’ but also because her husband’s car was being repaired and that in any case he was still recovering and thus incapable of driving anywhere.
‘So tiresome!’ she tutted. ‘I mean, the other evening I could have missed my sewing class in Bognor. But I was determined to be there and took the bus – not a pleasant experience! And so you see,’ she continued brightly, ‘I’ve had to bring you these myself.’ A large carrier bag was thrust at me and my spirits drooped for I could guess its contents.
Naturally I had to invite her in and my fears were confirmed as I looked glumly at the first title of the pile of books, A Posy of Pictures. I offered coffee and thanked her for the kind thought, and then nervously enquired if she had any more at home. To my relief she explained this was no longer the case as the Reverend Egge had just accepted the last few for the church fête. ‘I did take them to that art gallery in Brighton near the sea front but the owner didn’t seem very keen. In fact, it was he who suggested that you might like them. Naturally I told him you had already had the pick of the best, but he seemed to think you would be glad to have one or two more.’
‘How thoughtful of Mr Ingaza,’ I said with feeling. Oh, the bastard! And then an uneasy thought struck: supposing she expected to see ‘the pick of the best’ displayed on my bookshelves or lying idly on a coffee table (instead of languishing in the local rubbish dump)? Hmm, tricky. Oh well, if pressed I could always say they were in my studio at the top of the house. And, quickly changing the subject, I asked after her husband, murmuring sympathy about his accident.
‘Oh, he’s all right. You know what men are like – such babies at times!’ She smiled sweetly but I thought I detected a note of irritation. Well, little wonder living with the tedious MacManus! But then, still smiling, she added, ‘Although as a matter of fact I rather doubt if it was an accident.’
I blinked. ‘Really? But I thought he was hit by the speeding Travers man and knocked sideways – literally.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t make it an accident. A mistake perhaps but not necessarily an accident.’
Oh, honestly! Was the woman a verbal pedant? I cleared my throat. ‘Er, I’m sorry if I appear dense but I can’t quite see the difference. I’m afraid I don’t—’
‘The crash itself was unlikely to have been accidental; the mistake was in not killing him … I fear Mr Travers was not as clever as he thought – or as deft. Probably took his foot off the throttle at the last moment.’ To emphasize her point, Mrs MacManus gave a brisk nod, and then folding her hands in her lap, gazed out of the window – while I stared at her in shocked surprise.
‘Do you mean to say that Aston Travers had deliberately tried to mow down your husband?’
She withdrew her gaze from the window. ‘Well, yes, on the whole I think he did,’ she said simply.
‘Goodness! But why?’
She frowned and looked thoughtful. ‘Because he hated him.’ She paused fractionally. and then in a tone of mild apology murmured, ‘And between you and me, Miss Oughterard, I fear that I may have been the cause of his action.’ My shock must have shown for she added, ‘Well, yes. You see, I think it was something I had said – about Alastair, I mean – and this may have put the idea in his head.’
I blinked, and then more than a little intrigued asked her to explain.
She gave a delicate cough. ‘As a matter of fact, I said I could murder him.’
Even in my astonishment I could see her point, but other than lifting a quizzical eyebrow made no response.
‘Naturally,’ she went on, ‘my words were a mere façon de parler and a little jest – Alastair can be so exasperating! – but I fear the remark may have set Travers thinking. Still, it’s all over now and one will never know … And anyway, he missed.’
It may just have been my imagination, but I thought those last words held a faint note of regret. Mechanically I offered her some more coffee, curious to learn how she had known Aston Travers. As I returned her cup, I suddenly recalled doing the same with my last unheralded visitor, Alice Markham. The present one occupied the same chair. But now no gun was in evidence, toy or otherwise, and at least the lack of car would spare any further assault on my driveway and gateposts. And besides, in contrast to the previous lady this one seemed marginally sane.
‘Ah – so how was it you knew Mr Travers?’ I enquired politely.
‘It was his silver ostrich costume; some of the feathers had come off. I am a good seamstress and it didn’t take a jiffy to fix.’
I closed my eyes, wondering if my hearing was defective. ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘Alastair has always had a love of theatricals, particularly romping around as a pantomime bear. I think it gave relief from his police work. Personally it didn’t appeal to me, but anything to wean him off those dreary Mongolian stamps. So for a little while I complied and played the part of Goldilocks. But you know I did get rather bored and then when my bunions started to play up I thought enough is enough and I told him he would have to find another partner.’ She paused, and then lowering her voice, added, ‘Besides, things started to become a trifle unsavoury – you know what men are – and I really felt I had nicer things to do of an evening.’
Vaguely I wondered what those nicer things were – carding wool? – but was too engrossed to enquire. Instead I asked how the problem had been resolved.
The small voice became quite animated as she explained that at first he had been shirty and accused her of being a killjoy, but that one day he had returned home all smiles and announced he had found the very person: a young man of similar thespian bent and who, having exceedingly long legs, specialized in dressing up as an ostrich.
‘And this was Aston Travers?’ I asked faintly.
She nodded and said she had first encountered Travers when she and MacManus had called at Needham Court some months previously to thank Elspeth for her large donation to the Police Benevolent Fund. They had been passing and stopped on the off-chance that the lady would be there. She was not, but the son was. ‘Apparently he was down for the weekend and invited us in and offered sherry. I can’t say I liked him particularly – rather condescending, if you know what I mean – but Alastair seemed to approve. Anyway, a few weeks later Alastair indicated that I could forget my role as Goldilocks as this Aston was keen on ostriches and in his spare moments found it amusing to dress up and engage in tomfoolery.’
I tried to keep a straight face and enquired soberly where such tomfoolery took place.
‘Well, at first they used the spare bedroom, as we had used to, but I complained because the noise was too much – nothing but deafening thuds and loud growls. It was really annoying!’ She pursed her lips in recollection. ‘But fortunately Aston said he had found a better place – somewhere outside Lewes, I think, though I couldn’t say where. Alastair muttered something about a drama group in one of the coastal towns – Worthing or Bognor or some such. I didn’t bother to enquire. To be perfectly honest it was quite a relief to have some time to myself of an evening and not have to be constantly searching for his lost stamps or cooking those interminable marrows.’
As I listened to that whey-faced, grey, little woman I was reminded of the extraordinary ways in which some people choose to conduct their lives! However, what really intrigued me was her allusion to Aston’s first crash not being an accident. Other than the lady’s jocular façon de parler, what had prompted him to make an attack on MacManus? After all, it was Spikesy who had been on the case, not MacManus. In fact, MacManus had appeared quite indifferent, even hostile to the investigations – which given his brothel high jinks was hardly surprising.
‘But why—’ I began.
‘Why do I think he wanted to kill Alastair? Because I believe he saw my husband as a threat. Alastair had begun to get bored with the bear antics and felt increasingly that such nonsense might reflect badly on him should it ever get about – people have such suspicious minds, don’t you agree? – and so he started to distance himself from the young man, indeed began to show an active dislike. I fear he is not the most tactful.’
She could say that again! I thought acidly.
‘And then when Mr Spikesy arrived and started to investigate that disgraceful place in Bognor and implicating Aston in all manner of dubious goings-on, Aston wrongly assumed that the whole thing was being directed by my husband. He was furious and actually had the nerve to telephone and told him to lay off – or else. Quite what that was supposed to mean I am not sure – doubtless the spreading of distasteful rumours or perhaps even a violent attack.’ Mrs MacManus sniffed loudly, and in a tone of righteous satisfaction added, ‘Well, the or else didn’t work, did it? And as I always say, pride comes before a fall!’ The smug face almost lit up.
I reflected on that last comment, thinking that in Travers’ case it had been not so much a fall as an elevation. And in Francis’s case – well while there had certainly been a spectacular fall, of pride there had been little evidence … However, such musings were interrupted by her next words.
‘I expect you would like to know why I have so many art books,’ she said brightly. Having seen the samples I didn’t, but smiled obligingly. Oh lord, when would she go? ‘You see, when I was a girl at school I was awfully good at drawing and was sure that one day I would become a famous artist. Silly really, but when you’re young you have these fancies. So I started to collect helpful manuals, and what with one thing and another never bothered to get rid of them. Anyway, that fad was replaced by another – the combustion engine.’
She must have seen my startled expression, for she continued, ‘Oh yes, it was motor cars that took my fancy, not the driving but their insides. I dearly wanted to become a lady mechanic and started to practise.’ She tittered. ‘Rather racy, really. I mean, can you imagine me flat on my back under a car chassis or bent double tinkering with its sparking plugs?’
‘Er, no, not really,’ I said, trying hard to conjure the vision.
She tittered again. ‘But yes, that’s what I used to do until I met Alastair. Gearboxes were my speciality. But brakes too – oh yes, I was a dab hand at those …’ She smiled in happy reminiscence. And then the face clouded and she said something about never knowing what lay round the corner and that life was full of surprises. Yes, well, if MacManus had been the surprise round the corner then I could understand the rueful look.
When she had gone, which did eventually happen, I made some more coffee and sipped thoughtfully. From what she had been saying it seemed that Mrs MacManus had no idea of her husband’s visits to the brothel and still assumed that his relationship with Travers had simply been a sort of quirky game enjoyed by overgrown schoolboys. Well, for her own sake one hoped the gullible woman would remain in ignorance …
But then as I continued to brood on our conversation and her surprising interest in car mechanics, my mind suddenly jolted and I began to wonder if she was as gullible as all that … or as innocent. It seemed that, unless the police diverted their interest in Operation Tarts Galore to the more anodyne antics of apple-scrumping schoolboys, Aston Travers had threatened to expose MacManus’s ursine dalliance and penchant for whip-wielding ostriches – games which even without the brothel link would have made him a laughing stock and hardly helped his career. While his wife may not have suspected the whole truth, her view of Travers was less than positive: she had never liked him and latterly she had reason to fear him. He was dangerous: perhaps physically but definitely socially. Had the ‘or else’ preyed on her mind and had she done something about it? ‘Brakes too, I was a dab hand at those,’ she had laughed. The words chimed with others – Sergeant Wilding’s comment as overheard by Freddie Balfour. ‘And I don’t suppose the dicey brakes helped,’ he had said.
Oh lord! Surely the woman couldn’t have tampered with them, could she? But if so, when, where? She had twittered something about having to go to Bognor on the bus for a sewing class. Was it likely that Aston had been in the habit of keeping his car there? In that car park belonging to the theatrical costumier’s, perhaps? I thought of the nosy way she had reported seeing me and Bewley together a couple of times. Sharp eyes, sharp mind – did the woman know more than she was letting on?
I was gripped with a sudden excitement and, discarding my packing list, bounded to the telephone.
‘Nicholas,’ I gasped, ‘I have it on good authority that the frightful Travers was the ostrich in the brothel photographs, and what’s more I think that MacManus’s wife may have screwed him up, i.e. fixed his brakes! The woman may seem all meek and mealy but I think she is dangerous. This needs pursuing, don’t you agree?’
There was a sigh and a long pause. And then he said, ‘Do you want my advice?’
‘Yes,’ I cried eagerly.
‘Have a large gin and paint another sheep, you’ll feel better.’
‘But I—’
‘Listen, Primrose – just because the Spikesy chap has endorsed your views of the Travers’ drowning and you were spot on about Hubert Topping does not confer bloodhound status. Forget the MacManuses – he’s dead wood anyway. Look after Number One, keep in with Spikesy and go to Baden-Baden tout suite! The change will do you good. Now there’s a good girl … Oh, and if you come back too soon I’ll charge you extra for dog food. Bysie-bye.’
The line went dead and I was left staring into space, or rather into the querulous eyes of Maurice. He emitted a tired mew not unlike Ingaza’s sigh. I took the hint, picked up my list and dutifully went upstairs to pack.