Free The Primrose Pursuit by Suzette A. Hill Page A

her assailant.)
    I dressed hurriedly but dallied over breakfast, filling upon jam and black coffee while devising a pretext for visiting the school to see exactly what was going on. I sat and brooded, idly scanning the spines of the cookery books. And then suddenly a title caught my eye: Pen Scratches from Mongolia: An Artist’s Vision . I was perplexed. What an uninspiring title and whatever was it doing there? It certainly wasn’t one of mine for I had no desire to visit Mongolia, still less have a vision of it … And then, of course, I remembered: the book had been thrust upon me by Winchbrooke on my return from the Auvergne a couple of years previously. He had seemed to think the two regions held some similarity, though what I can’t imagine, and had presented it to me on a ‘long loan’. Well, long or short, I certainly didn’t want it cluttering up my bulging shelves: it should be returned to its owner forthwith. A splendid excuse. I leapt from the table, grabbed the book and my coat, and with mind ablaze with questions, set off for Erasmus House.
    Halfway there I bumped into Charles Penlow and his cairn terrier ambling towards me on the path leading from the school. ‘I say, Charles,’ I demanded, ‘have you just come from Erasmus and did you hear anything?’
    ‘What?’ he said, looking blank.
    ‘The school . Have you been there, and if so what’s going on?’
    ‘Er, well no actually – we’ve just been to the vet’s. Duster’s got something in his paw, a thorn I think. Roberts has mixed some stuff for it and I have to give the little blighter hot poultices until it starts to—’
    ‘Oh dear, poor dog,’ I said impatiently. ‘So you haven’t heard anything then?’
    ‘Heard what?’
    I started to relate my ghastly discovery but stopped abruptly. It doesn’t do to be precipitate in such matters; far better to stick to my original plan of simply making a casual appearance at the place and subtly absorbing what intelligence I could. Thus I gave dog and owner a ravishing smile and said I hoped they would both be better soon. I thought Charles looked a little puzzled but I hadn’t time to hang about and took off smartly.
     
    Entering the school gates, I crossed what they ambitiously call the quadrangle – a sort of flag-stoned yard with pots of ferns festering in dank corners. At the main door a miniscule child accosted me whom I recognised as Sicky Dicky – Richard Ickington, grandson of the high court judge of the same soubriquet. Dicky had been the proud recipient of a prize I had recently presented for the best junior painter of wildlife – newts principally – and he took his Fine Art studies very seriously.
    ‘I say,’ he piped excitedly, ‘you will never guess what we’ve seen up at the dew pond!’
    ‘Really?’ I enquired blandly, heart lurching.
    ‘ Yes , it’s super-duper! Gave us quite a shock I can tell you. You ought to go up there and take a look, Miss Oughterard. You’ll get a big surprise.’
    Like hell I would! … I gazed benignly at the little boy, trying to project an air of unruffled interest. Friends with children tell me one should never evince alarm or undue agitation with the young, it unsettles them. ‘And what would that be?’ I murmured.
    ‘Masses of them, the thing’s simply crawling. All over it they are!’
    ‘What thing ?’ I said sharply, revolted by his words.
    ‘The pond! All those tadpoles – hundreds of them and baby newts too. It’s chockers! We were there yesterday morning and Mr Cheesman says it’s the sudden warm weather, makes them hatch and grow you know.’ He beamed rapturously, and then plucking my arm added, ‘And what’s more I’m going to paint them – all in different sizes and in different patterns. Perhaps I’ll get a prize again. Grandpa would like that; he says I’m a right little Picasso. Do you think it’s a good idea, Miss Oughterard?’
    ‘Wonderful,’ I said faintly. He capered off, warbling Colonel Bogey,