Stop Press

by Michael Innes

  Appleby, who had not infrequently shared impenetrable darkness with very desperate persons indeed, thought of the puppies and was positively alarmed. He was rescued by Belinda. ‘Mr Appleby’, she said lightly but decisively, ‘is the newest visitor and is going to hide with me.’ Before anyone could question the logic of this she had swept him from the room.

  ‘We are in a very strong position,’ Belinda said gravely as they hurried along a corridor. ‘I know Rust better than anyone except perhaps Timmy, and Timmy thinks it rather beneath his dignity to play this sort of thing well. He hides where he’s sure to be caught first and then he retires to the library and drinks whisky – which he detests – and agrees with Rupert about its being a damned bohemian crowd.’

  ‘And you?’ Appleby was interested in Belinda.

  ‘I’m glad’ – Belinda’s answer was discreetly oblique – ‘you haven’t had to hide with that fat Miss Cavey. But I don’t think one should be impatient with a party of this kind. Most of them, of course, are of no importance. But one never knows. In twenty undistinguished writing folk there may always be lurking one original literary mind. How exciting to stumble upon a Blake or a Lawrence.’

  A very serious young lady indeed, thought Appleby. In fact a little too serious to be true – and he glanced at Belinda warily, suspicious of mockery. But she was looking in a businesslike way about the upper corridor to which they had attained, as if one precise half of her mind were being given to the prosecution of the game and the other to the discussion on hand. He contented himself with the suspicion that there were several Belindas – as there were almost certainly several Mr Eliots – and that one of them rode a high literary horse indeed. It was pleasant to reflect on this Belinda suffering a score of Mr Wedge’s goats on the problematical chance of their sheltering one unrecognized sheep.

  ‘Timmy’, pursued Belinda, ‘is rather intolerant.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Of course, he’s very young, and he tends to pick up those gun-room, man-of-the-world attitudes from Rupert. He makes fun of the whole thing, but he really believes that it is a disgraceful invasion of the decent calm of Rust. Timmy is a little country-gentleman-to-be; and that sort has always talked of damned bohemian crowds.’ She considered carefully. ‘I don’t mean that Timmy isn’t all right. As it happens, I like him very much.’

  This was no doubt what Mrs Moule distinguished as the modern tincture in Belinda’s mind; in Mrs Moule’s day brotherly and sisterly love was obligatory, like family prayers. ‘Yes,’ Appleby agreed gravely; ‘he seems all right. But his tutor – Winter, isn’t it? – appears to think of him not so much as a country-gentleman-to-be as a person of literary inventiveness that might-have-been. By the way, is this another game played in the dark?’

  ‘Not exactly. At least we have to hide somewhere in the dark, but the body of the house remains lit up. We’ll leave the light on in this corridor. And here is the place I’m thinking of.’

  They were in the oldest part of the house and Belinda had stopped before an oak-panelled wall. She pressed on a piece of carving, gave a vigorous sideways shove, and a whole panel slid creakingly back to reveal a dusty cavity of uncertain dimensions.

  ‘Good lord,’ said Appleby; ‘how very much to the taste–’ He was going to add, ‘of the Spider.’ But remembering the severity of Belinda’s mood he said vaguely instead, ‘of the occasion.’

  ‘There’s another one downstairs, and possibly one or two more that we don’t know about.’ She glanced appraisingly at Appleby’s dimensions. ‘We’ll fit nicely.’

  Appleby peered in without enthusiasm. The priest-hole or whatever it was looked uncommonly grubby. ‘Don’t you think’, he said, ‘that it will rather – well, stain your new brocade?’ He looked at her trailing party frock.

  If anything, Belinda appeared pleased to be reminded of her namesake in Pope. ‘My dear John – may I call you that? – housemaids nowadays simply will not dust secret passages as they ought. You may remark that from the ceiling’s beams spiders have spun their webs for many a year.’ Chanting this obscure blank verse she glanced at him with what he was now assured was mockery. ‘In you go. Pretend you’re hiding under the platform at a political meeting.’

  Protesting indignantly that activities of the sort were not his policemanly line, Appleby allowed himself to be thrust inside. With some heaving and banging Belinda contrived to close the panel from within. Save for a single streak of light which came through a crack from the corridor they were in complete darkness. Appleby, who had been stooping, straightened himself and bumped his head. ‘Damn,’ said Belinda, sympathetically doing his swearing for him, ‘I ought to have told you about that. But it’s not cold and there are a couple of three-legged stools. We really shan’t do badly. If we don’t talk we can’t possibly be found.’ She paused and fumbled for the stools; in the restricted space they were not hard to find. They sat down side by side. ‘But I think we’ll talk all the same.’ Her voice from the darkness, though subdued to address an ear some four inches off, was crisp and businesslike again.

  ‘It seems a good opportunity’, Appleby agreed solemnly, ‘for secluded conversation. More than commonly what is called tête-à-tête.’

  ‘You pick up habits very quickly, John. You’ve already taken to literary tags, and now you’re talking like Gerald Winter.’

  ‘Gerald Winter. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s Timmy’s contribution to an elucidation of the mystery – or rather part of it. The other part is Herbert Chown. And you are Patricia’s and mine. We’re backing you.’

  ‘Thank you. Are there any other contributions, do you happen to know? For instance, does your father himself take any active steps?’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘I suppose’, said Belinda inconsequently, ‘that Eliots have played romantic make-believes in these hiding-holes for generations. Timmy and I did.’ She turned to this question. ‘He doesn’t take any steps now. When Mrs Birdwire was burgled daddy was really angry and made a fuss and we had a lot of awful policemen–’ Belinda checked herself. ‘Local policemen, of course,’ she amended.

  ‘Belinda, all policemen are exactly the same at heart. I warn you of that at the beginning.’

  ‘We had policemen and no end of a fuss. But then daddy grew shy about it. It was so awkward – the thing being all mixed up with his stories. And since the business of the manuscripts and the noises he’s been inclined to regard it as a species of visitation. Sometimes, as you’ve gathered, he contrives to persuade himself that it’s a subject for comfortable philosophical chat. But on the whole I believe him to be bewildered and increasingly scared.’

  There was a longer silence. Appleby listened for any sound of an approaching hunt outside; just what was the point of this particular game he had not enquired. The whole house seemed to have fallen quiet; he had leisure to reflect on the curious site which the competent young person sitting in the darkness beside him had chosen for their conference.

  ‘Of course,’ said Belinda – and her voice was almost self-consciously practical – ‘it mayn’t be a bad thing.’

  ‘That your father should be bewildered and scared?’ Appleby was startled; this was a degree of modernity for which he himself was unprepared.

  ‘No; not exactly that. Simply that it should be rather bothersome for a bit. It might give him resolution to defy all these interested folk and snap out of the whole thing. I mean that he might feel that the best course was to kill off the Spider and forget about him. I was saying this afternoon that daddy would be far happier if he could swap Spiders for pigs.’

  ‘You feel strongly that the Spider industry should be liquidated?’

  ‘Of course I do. We all do. If the Spider doesn’t die a decent death soon he’ll linger on indefinitely and – and expire a driveller and a show.’

  Appleby was getting used to fragmentary bombardments of eighteenth-century verse. But it was very odd that Mr Eliot’s harmlessly entertaining c
reation should have so got under the skin of Mr Eliot’s household. ‘It seems to me, Belinda Eliot,’ he said, ‘that you and your brother and perhaps the lot of you have spiders in the bonnet. These sustained jokes may have got on your father’s nerves particularly, but they’ve got on yours too.’

  ‘I’m no doubt fussed.’ Appleby could imagine Belinda’s severely intellectual little head allowing itself a petulant toss in the darkness. ‘And of course I don’t really a bit mind daddy going on to make his century if he’s set on it. Still’ – he could imagine a frankly wrinkled nose – ‘it’s very tiresome.’

  ‘And particularly worries your brother. Of course, as you say, he’s very young.’

  Belinda was reduced to a meditative pause. Appleby glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. ‘Ten to twelve,’ he said.

  Silence prolonged itself. Appleby, knowing nothing of the history of Rust Hall, speculated on silences that might have been maintained in this lurking-place in the past. There rose up before his mind – vividly because of the darkness – a picture which had hung in his bedroom as a child. When did you last see your father? He wondered if that celebrated tableau of investigation had first set his infant mind in the direction of its present activities. Cavalier Eliots, perhaps, had ensconced themselves in this retreat during just such Roundhead visitations as that old picture illustrated. Or the family may have held to the old religion and sheltered here in the musty darkness some hardy Jesuit from Reims or Douai. For a moment Appleby almost believed that he heard the rustle of priestly skirts beside him; then a little waft of perfume – illusive as from the toilet of the first Belinda – told him that he was wool-gathering in a most unprofessional way. Wondering just how late were the hours the party kept, he returned to business.

  ‘What we are faced with so far is a mild persecution of the Eliot: no more than that. Perhaps the most useful thing we can do is to hunt about for likely motives. Why should such a thing be sufficiently attractive to drive a joker to a good deal of trouble – to say nothing of into real physical danger? If one can think of motives one may then be able to find people likely to be impelled by them. But of course your knowledge of the family situation and so on may enable you to take a short cut and hit on a likely person straight away.’

  A rustle told that Belinda had again shifted in the darkness. ‘We’re a curious household,’ she said circumspectly. ‘And then again daddy’s in a curious position. I expect you will have learnt already that it generates envies and enmities which he probably never thinks of.’

  ‘I’m picking up impressions, as you say. And I have a notion, too, that the thing may be infectious. By the way, has it had any publicity? It occurs to me that these queer tricks on the author of the Spider stories must be what is called news.’

  ‘It’s had hardly any publicity so far. The Birdwire business was pretty well smothered – I don’t quite know how.’

  ‘I see. There’s something very picturesque in the notion of a popular writer’s chief character coming mysteriously alive on him and following him round with a clarinet. If it did get publicity there would be plenty of people to say that it was a smart stunt.’

  Belinda’s stool scraped sharply on the floor. ‘John,’ she said, ‘you have an abominably lucid mind. That particular horror hadn’t occurred to me.’

  ‘Of course it mightn’t be a bad thing. That was your phrase, wasn’t it? From what I’ve seen of your father I should imagine that nothing would be more likely to make him walk out for good. Which is what you and Timmy appear to want.’

  ‘At least a scandal of that sort wouldn’t be good for Timmy’s idiotic diplomacy.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. You’re rather confounding the diplomatic, perhaps, with a fussy and exclusive club. And I gather you don’t approve of it anyway. Long-lived Spiders on the one hand and infant ambassadors on the other: they’re both tiresome?’

  The stool scraped again. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. There – that’s just what the suspects say in the books. But I suppose you go round everyone like this?’

  ‘I don’t get everyone into a nice, quiet, dark, secret chamber. But – roughly – yes. I told you about policemen. And now let’s talk about publisher Wedge.’

  ‘Let’s, for the lord’s sake… I knew we’d never be found in here… Of Wedge, what?’

  ‘These parties are his idea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they’re manipulated into a mild form of publicity?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s very tire – It’s mildly annoying.’

  ‘Suppose this funny-business piled up a bit more and were splashed in the national press. Would that be good for Wedge and the books?’

  ‘Oh, dear! John, this is this most depressing. You’re not nearly so cogent when aiming at Wedge as when circling deftly round my poor father’s children. Daddy has to be kept in the public eye, but I don’t think Wedge would in the least relish a sensation. The result would be much too problematical. With somebody just less than moderately successful it might be worth taking a chance on, but not with a smooth-sailing best-seller. And you must consider the effect of the business on daddy. Is it likely that Wedge would risk driving one of his most valuable assets half crazy? And Wedge, though fond of playing the buffoon at times, is tremendously astute. He’s been far more the making of Spider, really, than daddy has. These are facts. And I’m strongly of the opinion that he is honest as well. In fact, John Appleby, think again.’

  ‘Certainly. Let’s take–’

  Belinda stood up – and bumped her head. ‘Damn,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Thank you. I was going to listen. I’m not sure I didn’t hear that idiotic secretary’s stick. Don’t you think this game is taking an awfully long time?’

  ‘Having no idea of what the game is I can’t form an opinion. Let’s go back to where we started.’

  ‘All right.’ Belinda began fumbling with the panel.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. With this discussion.’

  Belinda sighed. ‘Patricia has introduced a fiend to Rust. But carry on.’

  ‘Let us hope’ – Appleby spoke soberly – ‘that nobody has introduced a fiend to Rust – or will introduce one anywhere else.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the authentic cryptic note. Just what do you mean?’

  ‘There’s nothing cryptic about it. So far this persecution, which appears curiously haphazard, has confined itself to Rust. Is it going to confine itself to Rust and your father in the future, or is it going to propagate itself elsewhere and to other Eliots? I take it you haven’t had any trouble at Shoon Abbey?’

  ‘Not a spot.’

  ‘It would be a good place for trouble,’ said Appleby with mild professional glee.

  Midnight was distant only a few minutes, and by this time boredom – were boredom possible to a scientific abstraction – would have overtaken Dr Chown’s observer in his elm tree. There had sprung up a faint, cold wind. It sighed through the bare branches with just power enough to brush the last pendent rain-drops from the twigs; they fell to earth with a sound which sharpened itself in the silence to the semblance of distant pattering feet. Nothing else stirred. The lights from the living-room glowed steadily and reassuringly behind their curtains; others higher up marked windows giving on corridors. The house was to be imagined as one large well of light from which winding tunnels of light radiated out through darkness; all other illumination had been extinguished by the exigencies of what was going on within. Once, twice a fluttering shadow passed across one of the dimly glowing upper windows, as if a flake of incumbent night had detached itself and drifted to the dark below – bat or owl brushing, circling Rust. An owl hooted. Then across the farthest living-room window a larger shadow moved with superior deliberation; for a moment light shone naked, as if a curtain had been withdrawn. Once more the shadow moved, swift and assured. And after that, nothing; the episode, if episode it were, seemed closed. In the upper branches the wind sighed louder and the tree stirred uneasil
y, as if a storm were coming.

  In the priest-hole the conversation had drifted. ‘There’s going to be a grand visit to the Abbey,’ Belinda was saying. ‘I’m going to smuggle you in. You don’t know Jasper?’

  ‘No.’ Appleby chuckled. ‘One day I hope to arrest him.’

  ‘Arrest Jasper!’

  ‘When one is young’ – Appleby’s tone was provocatively fatherly – ‘one may want to liquidate Spiders. When one gets on one thinks it wouldn’t be a bad idea to liquidate the Shoons.’

  ‘But, John, he’s a nice old party in his queer way. And I don’t believe people as wealthy as he is are ever arrested.’

  Appleby sighed. ‘Well, not often. But one day we may get him. He’ll run a gun or two to the wrong people – say on the fringes of British India – and somebody will lose patience and the important people will be tipped to get quietly off his boards and we may be told to sail in. It’s an improbable fantasy, but I like it. I don’t suppose you’ve burrowed much into the economic foundations of Shoon Abbey?’

  ‘I know’ – Belinda was petulant again – ‘that Jasper thinks me worth eight pounds a week.’

  ‘Yes. Patricia was awfully cheered when you joined her there. He began to pay her that too.’

  There was a pause: it represented Belinda thinking. ‘But, John, surely she got that before? Why, Patricia took a better degree than I did.’

  ‘Belinda Eliot, you are a child of privilege – didn’t you know? Friend Shoon is a very wealthy man, and he felt that he couldn’t give the daughter of another very tolerably wealthy man less. The feeling may be called plutocratic solidarity. But being, I gather, graceful in little matters, he pushed up Patricia to the same screw. She was shoutingly pleased and has begun doing her shopping in different streets.’

  ‘I do think this interminable game–’ Belinda stopped and appeared to think better of evasion. ‘And do all policemen specialize in these chastening asides? Consider me as feeling small. And tell me more about poor Jasper.’