Free The Primrose Pursuit by Suzette A. Hill Page B

while I sat down heavily on the porch bench and drew a deep breath.
     
    Collecting my thoughts I considered my next move: obviously a direct approach to Winchbrooke’s study flourishing book and gushing its praises … Foiled again. Fräulein Hockheimer clattered towards me garbed in a voluminous smock which she clearly thought had something to do with Renoir. I put my head down and scrabbled in my handbag, vainly hoping she would pass by.
    ‘Ach, Madame Hooterayde,’ she exclaimed, ‘what honour to zee you hi-er. I was just telling ze boys vat interesting talks ve hef hed at the party of Hoobat!’
    ‘Of who?’ I said.
    ‘Herr Topping. You remember ve spoke of—’
    ‘Ah … yes, indeed. And, er, tell me Fräulein , how is Mr Topping?’
    She looked a trifle downcast. ‘Alas, he ist gone.’ Too right he’s gone, I thought. ‘A big shame because he vas going to help me viz my picture framing but suddenly he disappear!’ I was about to enquire how suddenly when sheadded brightly, ‘But he certainly come beck tomorrow.’ Her faith was almost touching.
    ‘Well that’s nice,’ I said kindly. ‘Now tell me, have you seen the headmaster because I really need to speak—’
    ‘He is gone too.’
    ‘Where? To the police station?’
    ‘Oh no, they cancelled ze fine.’
    I regarded her with mild irritation. ‘I am not referring to Mr Winchbrooke’s misdemeanour on the A27, but his going to the police to report a crime.’
    ‘But he is not with ze police; he is in London with Herr Topping. Hoobat is going to present there a special paper, “ Vax Lyrical Viz Latin Syntax ”.’ She beamed. ‘He is very clever, you know. Now if you will excuse me I must go and “zound ze brass”!’ She pounded off, smock billowing; and the next moment my ears were rent by the crashing of the school bell. It was, I felt, time to leave.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    The Primrose Version
    I walked home in a semi-daze stunned by Hockheimer’s words. Could the woman be right? Was Topping really in London with Winchbrooke ‘vaxing lyrical’ with his Latin syntax? If so, what was he also doing up at the dew pond minus his head? Clearly the two conditions were incompatible. Assuming the art mistress was not totally addled (questionable), there were two possibilities: either the headmaster had slain his companion – or the thing I had seen the previous night had not been Topping at all but some other corpse.
    I reflected on this, bringing to mind the hastily noted details of build, jacket, signet ring, receding hair and, of course, the floating rose. Rather reluctantly I had to admit that the first four features were not necessarily the monopoly of Topping – a lot of men were below average height, wore brown-checked jackets with elbow patches, were growing thin on top and, albeit more rarely, wore signet rings. Thus I conceded that the victim could perhapsbe A. N. Other. But then what about the rosebud for God’s sake? Surely A. N. Other hadn’t been given to sporting one of those as well.
    I was just musing upon these matters and deciding that I should ring Emily immediately to verify if Winchbrooke and Topping were indeed in London, when I was startled (bludgeoned) by the blaring of a klaxon. Its provenance was a black vintage Citroën of Gestapo mien parked by the bridge. One sees few of such models these days, and indeed the only one that I know hails from Brighton and belongs to Nicholas Ingaza. I glared at the vehicle and was acknowledged by a languid wave from the driver’s window.
    Crossing the road I was torn between remonstrating about the noise and divulging my astonishing news. The latter seemed the more interesting. ‘I say, Nicholas,’ I said, manoeuvring myself into the passenger seat, ‘I’ve had the most ghastly experience, you’ve simply no idea.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ was the response, ‘the town clerk asked you to elope, has he?’
    ‘No, a different sort of ghastliness. I have encountered a headless corpse at