asked, but naturally he couldn’t open the urn. “It’s sealed,” he said. “With Scotch tape.”
“Naturally. Even a tin of biscuits…”
“I would like to take a sample for analysis.”
I was becoming rather cross[40] by this time. I said, “If you think I am going to let you play around with my poor mother in a police laboratory…”
“I can understand how you feel, sir,” he said, “but we have rather serious evidence to go on. We took some fluff from the man Wordsworth’s pockets and when analysed it contained pot.”
“Pot?”
“Marijuana to you, sir. Likewise Cannabis.”
“Wordsworth’s fluff has got nothing to do with my mother.”
“We could get a warrant, sir, easily enough, but seeing how you may be an innocent dupe, I would rather take the urn away temporarily with your permission. It would sound much better that way in court.”
“You can check with the crematorium. The funeral was only yesterday.”
“We have already, sir, but you see it’s quite possible – don’t think I’m presuming to suggest your line of defence, that’s a matter entirely for your counsel – that the man Wordsworth took out the ashes and substituted pot. He may have known he was being watched. Now wouldn’t it be much better, sir, from all points of view to know for certain that these are your mother’s ashes? Your aunt told us you planned to keep it in your garden – you wouldn’t want to see that urn every day and wonder, Are those really the ashes of the dear departed or are they an illegal supply of marijuana?”
He had a very sympathetic manner, and I really began to see his point[41].
“We’d only take out a tiny pinch, sir, less than a teaspoonful. We’d treat the rest with all due reverence.”
“All right,” I said, “take your pinch. I suppose you are only doing your duty.” The young policeman had been making notes all the time.
The detective said, “Take a note that Mr. Pulling behaved most helpfully and that he voluntarily surrendered the urn. That will sound well in court, sir, if the worst happens.”
“When will I get the urn back?”
“Not later than tomorrow – if all is as it should be.” He shook hands quite cordially as if he believed in my innocence, but perhaps that was just his professional manner.
Of course I hastened to telephone to my aunt. “They’ve taken away the urn,” I said. “They think my mother’s ashes are marijuana. Where’s Wordsworth?”
“He went out after breakfast and hasn’t come back.”
“They found marijuana dust in the fluff of his suit.”
“Oh dear, how careless of the poor boy. I thought he was a little disturbed. And he asked for a CTC before he went out.”
“Did you give him one?”
“Well, you know, I’m really very fond of him, and he said it was his birthday. He never had a birthday last year, so I gave him twenty pounds.”
“Twenty pounds! I never keep as much as that in the house.”
“It will get him as far as Paris. He left in time for the Golden Arrow, now I come to think of it, and he always carries his passport to prove he’s not an illegal immigrant. Do you know, Henry, I’ve a great desire for a little sea air myself.”
“You’ll never find him in Paris.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Paris. I was thinking of Istanbul.”
“Istanbul is not on the sea.”
“I think you are wrong. There’s something called the Sea of Marmara.”
“Why Istanbul?”
“I was reminded of it by that letter from Abdul the police found. A strange coincidence. First that letter and then this morning in the post another – the first for a very long time.”
“From Abdul?”
“Yes.”
It was weak of me, but I did not then realize the depth of my aunt’s passion for travel. If I had I would have hesitated before I made the first fatal proposal: “I have nothing particular to do today. If you would like to go to Brighton…”
Chapter 5
Brighton was the first journey I undertook in my aunt’s company and proved a bizarre foretaste of much that was to follow.
We arrived in the early evening, for we had decided to spend the night. I was surprised by the smallness of her luggage, which consisted only of a little white leather cosmetics case which she called her baise en ville[42]. I find it difficult myself to go away for a night without a rather heavy suitcase, for I am uneasy if I have not at least one change of suit and that entails also a change of shoes. A change of shirt a change of underclothes and of socks are almost an essential to me, and taking into consideration the vagaries of the English climate, I like to take some woollens just in case. My aunt looked at my suitcase and said, “We must take a cab. I had hoped we could walk.”
I had booked our rooms at the Royal Albion because my aunt wished to be near the Palace Pier and the Old Steine. She told me, incorrectly I think, that this was named after the wicked marquess of Vanity Fair[43]. “I like to be at the centre of all the devilry”, she said, “with the buses going off to all those places.” She spoke as though their destinations were Sodom and Gomorrah rather than Lewes and Pathcam and Littlehampton and Shoreham. Apparently she had come first to Brighton when she was quite a young woman, full of expectations which I am afraid were partly fulfilled.
I thought I would have a bath and a glass of sherry, a quiet dinner in the grill, and an early bedtime, so that we would both be rested for a strenuous morning on the front and in the Lanes, but my aunt disagreed. “We don’t want dinner for another two hours,” she said, “and first I want you to meet Hatty if Hatty’s still alive.”
“Who is Hatty?”
“We worked together once with a gentleman called Mr. Curran.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Forty years or more.”
“Then it seems unlikely…”
“I am here,” Aunt Augusta said firmly, “and I got a card from her the Christmas before last.”
It was a grey leaden evening with an east wind blowing on our backs from Kemp Town. The sea was rising and the pebbles turned and ground under the receding waves. Ex-President Nkrumah looked out at us from the window of the waxworks, wearing a grey suit with a Chinese collar. My aunt paused and regarded him, I thought a little sadly. “I wonder where Wordsworth is now,” she said.
“I
was becoming rather cross – (
began to see his point – (
