Appleby Talks Again

by Michael Innes

  Appleby took a hand from his trousers pocket – it was clear that no five shillings would be called for – and contrived a polite bow. “Good morning, sir. But I don’t think–”

  “How quickly these things get about nowadays. I am most surprised. But, of course, your Society is always on the qui-vive – decidedly on the qui-vive.”

  “I’m really afraid I don’t know what Society you are talking about.”

  “Come, come – frankness, my dear sir, frankness.” The old clergyman shook his head disapprovingly, so that his silver locks shimmered in the thin clear sunlight which flooded the hall. “The lady and yourself indubitably come from the Society for Psychical Research.”

  “You are wholly mistaken. If I come from anywhere, it’s from the Metropolitan Police. But my visit here is entirely private – and, I’m afraid, unauthorised. My wife” – and Appleby looked at Judith with some shade of malice – “is keenly interested in old houses.”

  “We must get to work.” The old clergyman appeared to make very little of Appleby’s remarks. “But first let me introduce myself. My name is Buttery – Horace Buttery – and I have been the incumbent of this parish for many years.”

  “How do you do.” Appleby presented Mr Buttery to Judith with appropriate formality. “I wonder if you will tell us what it is that you suppose to have got about?”

  “I’m bound to say that I had come to regard it as a vanishing legend. For good or ill, these old stories are dying out.”

  Mr Buttery advanced to the chimney-piece and peered up at the carving. “The date is about right, you must agree.”

  “The date is certainly about right.” It was Judith who replied, and Appleby realised with misgiving that she was determined to probe the intentions or persuasions of the old parson before them. “Today is the tenth of June.”

  “Quite so.” Mr Buttery, much gratified, nodded so vigorously that his spectacles appeared likely to fly from his nose. “But I have heard very little talk of it, you know, of recent years. Only now and then, and from the older cottagers. The younger people – and it is they, mark you, who are often out late at night, human nature being what it is – the younger people never report anything. Perhaps because they don’t expect anything – eh?” Mr Buttery glanced at Judith with an air of great acuteness. “But then, of course, I’m bound to say I didn’t expect anything myself. It was entirely a surprise. My mind, naturally, was entirely on the gamekeeper.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Judith was puzzled.

  “No matter, no matter.” Mr Buttery might have been supposed momentarily confused. “The point is that I have seen it with my own eyes. And so I feel bound to get to work.” He turned back to his wooden box. “As you do too. Well, our purposes are not the same, but there need be no conflict – no conflict at all. A great deal in our present ills, if you ask me, proceeds from this disastrous notion of a necessary conflict between religion and science. I have a very cogent sermon on the subject, and I find that there is unfailing interest in it, year by year. I am not without the thought, indeed, of printing it and sending a copy to the Bishop. Between you and me, it might do him good. But here we are, here we are.” Mr Buttery was now rummaging in his box. “Bell, book, candle – surely I didn’t forget the candle? No – here it is.”

  Judith advanced and peered into the box. “You are proposing some sort of exorcism?”

  “Precisely. Not that I consider the manifestation as serious.” Again Mr Buttery glanced up with an air of great acuteness – which had, somehow, the comical effect of exhibiting him as a very innocent man. “I am not at all sure that a single White Paternoster might not very adequately meet the case. Still, one ought to be on the safe side. My reading inclines me to the view that we are dealing with goblins. A really populous affair like this is commonly a matter of goblins. I have little doubt that we shall get the better of them.”

  “Do I understand” – Appleby in his turn had come forward – “that you yourself have lately seen at Water Poole a considerable concourse of what you took to be disembodied spirits?”

  “My dear sir, you are perfectly justified from your scientific point of view in beginning your inquiry in this purely objective fashion. But I am persuaded that you know very well what I saw here last night.”

  “Can you put a name to it?”

  “Of course I can. It was the Naseby Ball.”

  “Exactly – the Naseby Ball. And – as you can imagine – we are extremely interested.” Appleby gave Judith a swift glance which might have been an injunction to accept without more ado the role of psychical researcher. “It would be invaluable if you were good enough to give us a full account of your experience.”

  “By all means.” Mr Buttery picked up his bell, gave it what appeared to be an experimental tinkle, and then addressed himself courteously to meet this request. “The historical background of the legend is no doubt familiar to you. In the summer of 1645 Lady Elizabeth Poole – she was a daughter of the Earl of Warmington – gave a magnificent entertainment here at Water Poole. On any sober calculation, of course, it was no time for anything of the sort, and the ball was clearly intended as a gesture in the grand manner. The Pooles prized nothing more highly than their reputation for being both resourceful and gay – and indeed they are said to be so still. But it took this great aristocratic lady, perhaps, to light that particular beacon against the darkness that was then closing in on the King’s party.” Mr Buttery paused. “One admires it, does one not?”

  “And remembers it.” Judith glanced down the hall as if attempting to picture the scene. “And that is the point, I imagine? Lady Elizabeth’s entertainment became legendary?”

  “So it would appear. On the stroke of midnight, the story goes, a messenger arrived from Prince Rupert. He announced that Sir Thomas Fairfax was marching with the New Model army upon Northampton, and that in a few days a critical battle must be joined. The ball ended instantly with a loyal toast, there was a bustle of martial preparation, and at daybreak the gentlemen rode away.” Again Mr Buttery paused. “How vividly one sees it: the candles growing pale in the dawn, the women ashen under their paint and jewels, the men all assurance and arrogance and inflexibly maintained courtesy, but with thoughts only for their horses and weapons and accoutrements. Among those who departed were Richard Poole and his two sons. As you no doubt know, none of them came back.”

  “And the family never recovered?”

  Mr Buttery nodded his venerable head. “It is perhaps true to say that the family never completely recovered – although Pooles lived on, the unquestioned masters of this place, into the present century. In the Kaiser’s war the old history repeated itself after a fashion, for a father and two sons were killed, and the estate became impossibly burdened with debt. No Poole has lived here regularly since then. During the last war, when remote places were at a premium, Water Poole was let out and partially occupied for a time. But now it scarcely appears that it can ever be lived in again, and I am sorry to say that the shooting and fishing have been leased to some very unpleasant people – commercial folk, no doubt – from London. The present owner of the house is almost unknown to me. He is a young man in his early thirties – a Richard, as most of the lords of the manor have been christened – and I believe he has gone on the stage.”

  “I wonder what Lady Elizabeth Poole would make of that? To think of one of her descendants become a common player would probably make her turn in her grave.” Judith looked at Mr Buttery with sudden indiscreet mischief. “But perhaps it’s that sort of thing that Lady Elizabeth is by way of doing – turning in her grave, or even rising from it on stated occasions to dance a pavane or a saraband?”

  Mr. Buttery shook his head. “No, no, my dear madam. That is an error – I am bound to say a grave error.” He picked up his bell again and tinkled it, as if here was something in itself calling for the rite in which he proposed to engage. “We must not suppose that the souls of virtuous persons, or their bodies either, engage in any such
pranks. We are not in any sense confronted with true apparitions. Goblins are the explanation. I have not the slightest doubt of it.”

  “It is a most interesting supposition.” Appleby interposed this with gravity. “But just what do they explain? You haven’t yet told us that. We have only gathered, so far, that last night you witnessed something remarkable. How did it happen? Were you called out to it?”

  “Not precisely.” For the third time Mr Buttery tinkled his bell, but on this occasion what appeared to prompt the action was mild discomfiture. “The fact is that, round about midnight, I was on the river. For purposes of meditation, and on a fine summer night, it may confidently be recommended.”

  “Particularly when there is no moon?”

  “Oh, most decidedly so. There is a great deal of distraction in a handsome moon.”

  “I see.” Appleby felt constrained to conclude that – astonishing as the fact must seem – this reverend old parson’s nocturnal occasions were not unconnected with possessing himself of other’s people’s trout. Perhaps Mr Buttery was an instance of the shocking poverty of the rural clergy prompting to a life of crime. Perhaps he simply derived entertainment from outwitting, with arts learnt in boyhood, those unpleasant commercial people from London. “And being on the river, sir, you saw this spectral ball?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “I believe you said that the occurrence of something of the sort is a traditional belief among some of the older people in these parts. Perhaps you had been thinking of it yourself?”

  “Decidedly not. My walk from the rectory to the river is by a path from which there is some view of the back of the house, and I could just dimly distinguish its outline against the sky. I recall simply reflecting how lonely and deserted it seemed.”

  “There were no lights?”

  “None. Anything of the sort would have attracted my attention and interest at once. For the astonishing spectacle which I saw later I was utterly unprepared. It came upon me, indeed, with the suddenness of a coup de théâtre.” Mr Buttery paused upon this phrase with some satisfaction. “I was dropping quietly – I may say very quietly – down the stream in my dinghy. My thoughts were occupied with – um – entirely other matters. In fact I was meditating” – Mr Buttery, who seemed to feel that verisimilitude and conviction called here for more specific statement, visibly paused for inspiration – “I was meditating upon the mutability of human affairs.”

  “A very proper subject for reflection, sir. And then?”

  “I came round the little bend that brings Water Poole into view. It was all lit up.”

  “All?”

  “Certainly this hall and its adjacent apartments. And there were lights on the terrace and – I think – the lawn. I was extremely startled.”

  “Naturally. And what was your first thought?”

  Mr Buttery considered. “It must appear very absurd now – but undoubtedly it was of my own situation. I was struck by the impropriety and – er – inexplicability of my dropping down, at that hour, upon some private occasion. And then I realised that there could be no private occasion. For Water Poole, as you have yourselves seen, is an empty shell. Indeed, there could be no natural explanation whatever. And as soon as I had made this reflection, I noticed the peculiar character of the light. It was not that of a normally illuminated mansion.”

  “Have you ever seen this particular mansion lit up before?”

  “Certainly – although it is now long ago. As you may notice, there is an old electrical installation of sorts. But the light last night was utterly different.”

  Appleby had walked to a window and was looking out thoughtfully over the lawn and the stream beyond. “Can you describe it?” he asked.

  “A low, soft, golden light. The effect was strikingly beautiful.”

  “I see. And you have reason to believe that goblins command that sort of thing?” Appleby put this question with gravity. “I am myself inclined to think of goblins as restricted to glow-worms. But glow-worms would scarcely be equal to the job.”

  “Decidedly not. Glow-worms could not possibly illuminate a large party of ladies and gentlemen.”

  “And that was what you saw?”

  “That was what I appeared to see. And I need scarcely remark that their costume was Caroline. It would not be correct to say that the effect was as of a canvas by Van Dyck – since, you see, from my point of view, it was all in miniature and in open air. But if you may suppose Van Dyck to have painted something in the manner of Watteau’s fêtes champêtres you have the impression exactly.” Mr Buttery smiled ingenuously over this triumph of precision. “I may perhaps be permitted to mention that I possess a great love of the visual arts.”

  “No doubt.” Appleby was looking at the old clergyman in some perplexity. “Did you think to study this particular example at closer quarters?”

  “I must confess that I did not. There they were – Caroline ladies and gentlemen strolling on the terrace and across the lawn. Behind them – here in this hall – I had an impression of dancing, and strains of music were definitely detectable. My mental state was peculiar. I recollected the circumstances of Lady Elizabeth’s ball but not, oddly enough, the legend of its periodical re-enactment. As is so frequently the case during an actual encounter with supernatural appearances, no thought of the supernatural formed itself clearly in my head. I accused myself of inebriety.”

  “It is a thought that might come to anyone. But I am sure there was no justification for it.”

  “Reflection shows me that there was not. It is true that I had ventured upon a glass of burgundy at dinner, followed by a little madeira. But I hardly consider–”

  “Plainly it is not a supposition with which you need distress yourself.” Appleby contrived a stern glance at Judith, who was displaying some signs of amusement at this exhibition of her husband’s professional manner. “Did you think of anything else?”

  “Certainly. I thought of those two Oxford ladies – learned and sensible women, they appear to have been – who believed themselves to have had an adventure with time at Versailles. You no doubt recall their story. They saw Marie Antoinette. It seemed possible that I had met a similar kink in the centuries and was back with the real Lady Elizabeth Poole.”

  “I believe there’s decidedly something in that.” It was Judith who interposed, and she spoke with decision. “It goes with what I felt myself when I entered this hall. It goes with what I still feel.” She gave her husband a glance of some defiance. “Time has been squashed up like a concertina, and it’s only just expanding again to the dimensions familiar to us. I fancy that – ever so faintly – I can hear that music now. I fancy I can hear those people: the sound of their voices and the rustle of their silks. And I know I can smell them.”

  “Smell them?” Appleby was positively startled by this primitive assertion.

  “Yes, John. The powdered hair. The scents – their scents. And their mere seventeenth-century humanity too. Mr Buttery caught them and we just missed them. I’m sure of it.”

  “I think Mr Buttery was not without a feeling that they might catch him.” Appleby offered this rather dryly. “Isn’t it so, sir?”

  For a moment Mr Buttery looked quite startled. And then he blandly smiled. “I must confess to having been under that uneasiness. I should hate to be caught. By goblins, that is to say. Not unnaturally, they are particularly malevolently disposed to persons of my cloth.” He produced a box of matches and lit his candle. “But I fancy that we can get decidedly on top of them now.”

  Mr Buttery was evidently about to open his campaign. Whether the manner of his announcing this constituted an invitation to participate was obscure, and Appleby appeared to feel that it was rather a tactful withdrawal that was indicated. The proper deportment for spectators during a ceremony of exorcism is not easy to hit upon impromptu, and his decision was perhaps occasioned merely by this. Judith, whose natural bent was for trying anything once, followed him from the hall with some reluctanc
e. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” she presently asked.

  “Part of it, at least – or part of it as he believes it to be. Presumably he simply turned his dinghy round and stole away. And now with daylight and the paraphernalia collected in that box he’s nerved himself to come back again. Or at least that’s the obvious picture. And I can’t think he’s making up that queer vision. Certainly you didn’t seem to think he was.”

  Judith frowned. “I believe – I don’t know why – that all these people were here.”

  “Did I say you ought to have become a historical novelist? Perhaps you ought to have become a detective. Would you care to be one now?”

  “Assisting Scotland Yard?” She glanced at him cautiously, for it was not always easy to tell when John was being serious. “I don’t mind having a go.”

  “Then just keep an eye on our reverend friend while I make another cast round the place.”

  Judith was puzzled. “Does the old gentleman really need keeping an eye on?”

  “I don’t quite know. He may be nothing more than an endearing clerical eccentric, much beloved by all the parish. But I have my doubts.”

  “Very well. I expect he’ll relish a bit of an audience.” And Judith slipped back into the hall.

  Water Poole would take some time to explore systematically, and Appleby contented himself for the moment with a prowl through some of the neighbouring rooms. The place was none of his business. He had been decidedly aware of this as Judith had driven him up to it, and he told himself that nothing had happened since to alter this basic fact. Even a policeman should be ready to admit that not everything enigmatical is necessarily nefarious. Even if Mr Buttery was a poacher, it was not a matter of which an Assistant Commissioner from Scotland Yard need take any very active notice. Nor ought he to concern himself with investigating an elaborate joke; to do so, indeed, was only to invite annoyance or ridicule. But yet…