The Primrose Pursuit Read Online Free Page B

More’s the pity? Dunno. Let sleeping dogs and vicars lie. That’s what the cat says, and I expect he’s right. After all, the master always did like lolling about so he’s probably having a fine old time. A good long kip: just up his street!
    As it happens, by that time I felt like having a kip myself and started to stretch out on the floor, but I could see that Maurice was fidgeting and had begun to twitch his right ear, a sure sign of something in the wind. ‘Ay, ay,’ I thought, ‘he’s on the prowl.’ And he was too – nipped off the pouffe and slunk after her into the hall. He likes doing that: listening to them when they’re bawling down the blower, says it’s a challenge to his wits (very keen on his wits is Maurice). Not too good at it myself. It’s all that sitting still; makes me lose the thread and I get muddled – and besides it’s not as if they talk about anything useful like grub or bones. BORING! Still, if the cat has anything to report he’s bound to tell me … unless, of course, he gets one of his sulks. Then he’ll shut up for hours: give us all a bit of peasanquart as F.O. used to say.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The Primrose Version
    Personally, I found it all very peculiar. Topping threw this party at his lodgings and for some strange reason wanted to include me. Well naturally I was far from inclined, but not one to be churlish, graciously accepted. I suppose he wanted to establish himself with his colleagues and presumably felt the local artist would add kudos to the event. A little presumptuous I thought, but there we are … Emily seemed full of enthusiasm and told me he was thinking of holding it in the garden – an absurd notion at this time of year. Fortunately it rained incessantly so one was spared that particular penance.
    Anyway, for the most part things proceeded as anticipated; with poor drink and indifferent conversation. At one point I felt like suggesting that we all play charades, but knowing the headmaster’s aversion to theatricals (including the annual school play), doubted if the idea would be well received. However, in the eventthere was enough drama as it was, or at least so I judged. A drama based on the most remarkable coincidence.
    You see two days prior to the party, I happened to be in Lewes High Street when who do you think I bumped into? Ingaza . Yes, Nicholas Ingaza, the Brighton art dealer, last seen at my brother’s funeral tearfully hogging the sandwiches and guzzling brandy from a furtive hip flask. In the past Francis and I had had a certain amount to do with Ingaza, including a rather trying trip with him to the Auvergne 1 , but since the funeral I had heard nothing. The silence was not uncongenial, for, and as Francis would often lament, Ingaza is somebody of whom one is never quite sure , although I have to admit that my own dealings with him had been less fraught than Francis’s. He needs a firm hand, which alas, Francis did not have.
    If anything he looked thinner than when last seen, but observing an even bigger diamond glinting in his tie pin I assumed business was brisk.
    ‘Well, what do you know? Primrose Oughterard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Wonderful to see an old face, dear girl.’
    ‘Enough of the old face,’ I snapped. ‘What are you doing here, Nicholas? I cannot imagine that the ancient stones of Lewes have much to offer you.’
    ‘No,’ he leered, ‘but something else has. All rather productive really …’
    ‘You’ve made a killing,’ I said.
    ‘Oh not a killing as such . Shall we say that certain things have rather played into my hands and—’
    ‘And now you are on the way to the bank to deposit thespondulicks before your client gets cold feet or asks too many questions.’
    He contrived to look pained. ‘You know, Primrose, you are just like poor Francis, so cynical!’
    ‘He had some cause,’ I retorted dryly.
    He gave a wide but wistful smile. ‘Perhaps, perhaps …’ and slicking the brilliantined hair added quietly,