Stop Press

by Michael Innes

  ‘I envy you.’ Appleby looked thoughtfully at Rupert. ‘I mean, of course, from a strictly professional point of view.’

  Rupert lounged nearer. ‘Young man, keep your back-chat for the scribblers. And when I’ve told you about this André you can go about your business. He came to me this morning with some piece of foolery he’s getting up for tonight. An elaborate mumming, apparently. After what has been happening nothing could be in worse taste; one would think they might at least let the party fade out quietly. But it has a tradition of fatuous revelry and this little beast is determined to put it through. I expect he gets a commission from Wedge. And I hope there’s no more to it than that.’

  ‘Just what a sort of revelry did he propose, Sir Rupert?’

  ‘Something based on one of my cousin’s books. He talked me silly about it, apparently expecting me to lend a hand. I listened as civilly as I could: he’s a guest here, after all. Whatever it is, in my opinion it’s something to keep an eye on. And now I recommend you to be off on your hunting again.’ Rupert looked at Appleby with momentary veiled calculation. ‘I’d be inclined to try the other corridor if I were you. You might get quite a lot of information. I’ll leave you to find your own way. I’ve a lot of work on hand.’ And Rupert, in whom Appleby had been noting an interesting predilection for the first personal pronoun, vanished into the corridor about his own affairs.

  A curious episode, which had drifted into being unsought. Of all the dark views taken of the Spider’s party Sir Rupert Eliot’s seemed to be the darkest; the still-elusive Mrs Timothy Eliot, if her own atrabilious vision was to maintain its sovereign character as described by Bowles, had a notable rival to overgo. Appleby wondered if Rupert, like this cousin Archie, combined with his austere social disapproval of the Spider’s rackety party a tendency to unamiable pranks of his own.

  The corridor was gloomier than before; Appleby walked to the end and looked through a dormer window. Directly below him a small formal garden presented its bleak winter decency to an overcast sky; beyond, a long brick wall hinted delusively at the sun. To the west a fleck of light was climbing laboriously up a knoll in the park; it faded while it climbed, as if the effort had overtaxed its slender resources. The fate of the day had been decided by an army of leaden clouds marching from the south. Presently it was going once more to rain and rain.

  Appleby moved cautiously along the farther corridor, noticing anew that this part of the house must rely on candles or oil lamps. There was still no sign of Mrs Jenkins; he saw nothing for it but the boldest exploration, and pausing before a likely door he knocked. It was a knock which he might have felt on reflection a shade too positively allied to an injunction to open in the name of the law; perhaps the long empty corridor gave it unexpected resonance. The answer was prompt. A harsh voice from within said, ‘Who the devil is that?’ With the fleeting impression that Rupert had slipped ahead and was playing him a trick, Appleby pushed upon the door and walked in.

  The room faced a little courtyard to the north and was even gloomier than the corridor; a lamp was burning on a table near a low fire. From the shadows beyond a tall figure – undoubtedly female – rose and approached him with an upraised stick. ‘How dare you, sir,’ said the harsh voice, ‘intrude upon the privacy of a gentlewoman?’ The female form, for a moment revealed as that of a handsome old lady with a beard, became a threatening bulk between Appleby and the oil lamp. ‘God bless my soul!’ said the gentlewoman with continued unexpectedness. ‘To secure a decent seclusion must I resort to fisticuffs?’

  Appleby looked at the heavy ebony stick and decided that the situation required address. ‘Madam,’ he said loudly, ‘do not be alarmed. The danger is abated. The fire has been got under control.’

  This mendacious statement was successful to an unexpected degree. Mrs Timothy Eliot halted and her gruff voice took on the warmth which one accords to a bearer of good news. ‘A fire,’ she said; ‘there has been a fire?’ She half turned round and called towards some inner apartment, ‘Jenkins, it has happened. Did I not warn Sir Herbert of the folly of it? A pretty fool he’ll look now! Young man, you say the danger is over?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ From the fact that Sir Herbert Eliot must have been beyond the reach of folly a good thirty years Appleby made a rapid guess at the extent to which this ancient but vigorous person was behind the times. ‘It began in the stables. The horses, however, have all been got out, and now the fire is virtually extinguished. There is a distinct smell of smoke in the room’ – Appleby believed in efficient detail ‘but it need not cause you any uneasiness.’

  Mrs Eliot sniffed. ‘Jenkins,’ she said, ‘open the doors and a couple of windows to the north; it will clear the air. As for you, young man, I don’t know who you are. But you may sit down. Jenkins – confound that woman! – Jenkins, the luncheon cake and a decanter of port wine.’

  Appleby sat down on a straight-backed chair and regarded his new hostess with justified apprehension. His tenure, outrageously secured, was more than tenuous. He was momentarily established in her retreat, but not at all in the character of an enquirer into departed family affairs.

  The port wine was handed with ceremony – a capital port which suggested that Mr Eliot’s benevolence extended to sending the best in his cellar to this half-forgotten outpost of Rust. Mrs Eliot sipped and suddenly chuckled. Appleby was again startled by the impression that he was in the presence of Rupert: Mrs Eliot, he remembered, was an Eliot by blood as well as marriage. The old lady sipped and chuckled anew. ‘Fire,’ she said with great appreciation. ‘Is my brother-in-law, Sir Herbert, by any chance injured?’

  ‘Sir Herbert is quite undisturbed.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mrs Eliot was frankly disappointed. ‘But it will be a lesson to him not to disregard the advice of the men who know. He would dabble with electrical devices for obtaining light. When I have repeatedly told him that my uncle Rupert has had it from Mr Faraday himself that the invention is distinctly dangerous in any domestic application.’

  ‘Mr Faraday?’

  ‘Mr Michael Faraday, a projector of such things. My uncle Rupert has always been interested in the progress of natural science. He has more than once been privileged to discuss the subject with the prince.’

  ‘The prince?’

  Mrs Eliot frowned. ‘Young man, are you a foreigner? I refer to the husband of our dear queen. My uncle Rupert is also interested in poetry. He is said to have been instrumental in obtaining the poet laureateship for dear Mr Tennyson when old Mr Wordsworth died. I may say that I myself do not remember poor Mr Wordsworth. He died in the year in which I was born. Mr Faraday, however’ – Mrs Eliot’s conversation showed some disposition to wander – ‘believed that his discovery might one day have its practical uses. A young man in the colonies – I think by the name of Edison – is said to have made some strides that way.’

  It seemed to Appleby that Mrs Timothy, if one made allowance for her private chronology, was a well-informed and intelligent person – too intelligent, probably, to believe for long in an imaginary conflagration. So he made a bold avowal. ‘Mrs Eliot, there has been no fire. The suggestion was – ah – a joke.’

  With great deliberation Mrs Timothy put down her glass. ‘Jenkins – damn the woman – Jenkins, close the doors and shut down the windows.’ For one who lived perpetually in the twilight of Queen Victoria the old lady allowed herself an oddly vigorous vocabulary; Appleby was preparing to receive a shattering application of it to himself when he perceived that she was once more chuckling – this time an appreciative and indulgent chuckle. ‘I suppose’, she said, ‘it is another joke of little Rupert’s. I wonder why he didn’t tell me himself; I’m usually in all his plots; we have great fun together. It gave his father a nasty fright, I’ll be bound. Little Rupert is always up to something. He is very like my own dear uncle Rupert in that regard.’ Mrs Timothy fell into a muse from which she presently emerged to say with startling suddenness, ‘And who the devil are you?’ She peered searchingly at he
r visitor. ‘You seem considerably too old to be a playmate of the boys. How dare you, a perfect stranger, come bursting in on me in this way? Jenkins – confound the woman – where is my stick?’

  Crisis had disconcertingly repeated itself and seemed to demand renewed prevarication. ‘Mrs Eliot,’ said Appleby hastily, ‘I am the new tutor. Sir Herbert thought it proper that I should come up and introduce myself. My name’ – the fragment of veracious statement struck him as peculiarly shameful, but policemen must not be particular – ‘is Appleby.’

  Old Mrs Eliot abruptly assumed a new and benignantly informative attitude. ‘Mr Appleby,’ she said, ‘it is only fair to tell you that your employer is dishonest.’

  ‘Dear me.’

  ‘It may also be useful to you to know that he drinks.’

  ‘I am very sorry–’

  ‘You will quickly find him to be of a peculiarly mean spirit.’

  ‘Really–’

  ‘And his personal cleanliness leaves much to be desired. I hope that you will have a very pleasant sojourn at Rust.’

  Mrs Timothy rose, plainly intimating that the interview was over. Appleby, whom this absurd situation rendered momentarily as uncomfortable as if he had been hearing the character of a living and substantial employer, was almost glad to retreat. Bowles had not erred when he indicated this old person’s inclination to take a dark view. And her memories, weirdly enough, were of a period somewhat too remote to be helpful in the investigation. Nevertheless Appleby, rising to take his leave, tried one more shot. ‘I wonder’, he asked, ‘if you have any advice to give me with regard to my pupils?’

  ‘You will find Rupert a delightful little fellow; his father is most unjust to him, simply because he always has some piece of boyish mischief on hand. If you keep much money by you, incidentally, I advise you to lock it up. Rupert sometimes plays at being a thief.’

  ‘Rupert steals?’

  ‘He plays at being a thief – a healthy, sportive lad. His cousin Richard I don’t trust. He is a quiet creature, always reading or scribbling or play-acting in a corner – distinctly a morbid temperament; it is surprising that he and a robust fellow like Rupert are such close companions. Richard is mild and I detest mildness. It is to be hoped–’

  Mrs Eliot, who had taken it upon herself to see her visitor to the door, unaccountably paused, and Appleby had leisure to reflect that this otherwise intelligent old lady took a distinctly prejudiced view of her nephews. It was clear that Rupert –

  Appleby’s mind halted in its turn. A clock was striking in some inner room. And Mrs Eliot, as she opened the door, showed that a large vagueness on the centuries was not incompatible with an exact grasp on the hours. ‘Jenkins,’ she called, ‘how dare you, you impertinent wretch, interfere with that clock? You didn’t? Stuff and nonsense! Did you ever hear it strike twelve before when it was only eleven?’

  4

  ‘A dull day,’ said Wedge. ‘You must come and look us up some time in Gordon Square.’

  Winter, gazing absently over the countryside through the legs of grandfather Richard’s bull, amused himself by guessing at the connexion between these observations. Wedge’s house in Gordon Square could hardly be other than decently dull itself in exterior appearance, but no doubt it was all glorious within. It would be bright – at least the party rooms – with a brightness that renewed itself once or twice a year. Periodically the latest young man in the interior decorating line would be let loose on it; the Brancusis and Mestrovics would come and go like bric-à-brac; a shock-headed world would marvel at the resources of the house of Wedge. ‘Yes,’ said Winter, concluding these superior conjectures, ‘a dull and colourless day.’ Urban souls both, they started before them with eyes unsuspicious of their own insufficiency. ‘I sometimes think’, continued Winter, ‘that Cambridge would have made a different man of me.’ He had business with Wedge, but he was in no hurry. ‘All that warm brick – I should have mellowed like a peach against a wall.’

  Wedge, who did not remember meeting before a don who sighed after peach-bloom, wondered if there might not be in Winter anything between forty and a hundred and fifty pounds. He contemplated his companion with interest. Twopences and threepences – he was fond of remarking with an amusing illustrative anecdote – do mount up. ‘Peaches?’ he said. His train of thought, through momentary, had been absorbing and he had forgotten just how the fruit came in.

  ‘Consider’, said Winter, pushing on with his own reflections, ‘the grisaille monotony of Oxford. Cinereous colleges, ashen churches, and nowadays a number of miscellaneous ecclesiastical edifices which are precisely the colour of mud. A Gothic sprawling from slate through neutral to dun; watered by glaucous rills, haunted by leaden vapours, and canopied by livid, lowering, low-toned clouds. When I look over the city I sometimes feel I could take it up and squeeze it till it gushed red like a fig at the fissure.’

  Wedge took cautious soundings. ‘Have you ever thought’, he asked, ‘of writing these impressions down?’

  ‘And if we are to speak thus of Oxford what words have we left for the grey and dismal core of urban England? Thrice happy, my dear sir’ – and Winter nodded fleetingly to an Appleby who had just strolled up – ‘the Nero with a modern technique; the Nero who has thermite to assist his labours before sitting down to compose a rhapsody on the Pleasures of Pyromania! To make the soot-swathed slums to kiss the ground, the grimy factories to fall apart amid a leaping of scarlet and gold and vermilion–’

  ‘You sound’, Appleby managed to interpolate, ‘as if you were waiting to be fed. Have you met Kermode? He talks just like that when hungry – only perhaps a dash less style.’

  ‘And finally’ – Winter was evidently determined not to have his concoction truncated – ‘oneself to combust last of all, burning with a hard gem-like flame… How well, my dear Appleby, you understand the springs of human motive.’ He glanced at his watch.

  Wedge plunged. ‘Would you’, he asked, ‘consider a contract?’

  ‘A contract? Do you want me to turn novelist?’

  ‘Oh no; not necessarily anything of that sort.’ Wedge appeared anxious to deprecate any offensive suggestion. ‘Memoirs, perhaps. Anything conveying the notion of scholarly relaxation. Dust-wrapper of yourself against a background of nicely tooled books. And I would advise dictation; it captures the natural speaking voice. I could get you–’

  Winter was shaking his head. ‘I am no writer,’ he said, ‘and I have the grace to know it. Pray, my dear Wedge, against such enlightenment spreading – it would mean that those machines of yours would indeed stop dead.’

  Wedge sighed. ‘And all you would need is a dictaphone. It seems a great pity.’

  Winter caressed grandfather Richard’s bull. ‘Our friend’, he said to Appleby, ‘possesses unslumbering machines that call constantly for food. He prowls in their interest. He would even take his hungry presses poetry if you could guarantee a Wordsworthian output. By day and night he prowls. He gets you in the dark corner and wishes authorship on you.’

  Under this extravagant raillery Wedge amiably grinned; being accustomed in the way of business to suffer conversation a great deal odder than Winter’s he was not at all put off. ‘A man must live,’ he said. ‘And – as Winter now knows – a machine must turn.’

  ‘At any hour of the twenty-four’, proceeded Winter, ‘he is more likely to be going after a manuscript than not. Name any hour and I’ll bet you five shillings he was hard at work. We’ll trust him to be umpire.’

  ‘A quarter to twelve last night,’ said Appleby. He was amused. Winter’s manoeuvring for position had been quite wantonly elaborate. But amateurs can afford to fool about.

  ‘Wedge shook his head evasively. ‘A quarter to twelve last night? How am I to remember amid all this whirl of gaiety just what I was doing then?’

  ‘I can tell you, approximately.’ Winter’s voice was slightly bored, as if the silliness of his bet had presented itself to him and irked him. ‘You were hiding in a cupb
oard with a person unknown – quite the place to stick somebody for a book. Who was it?’

  ‘Peter Holme.’ Wedge turned to Appleby. ‘Do you always take round an apprentice like this?’ He smiled happily at Winter’s discomfiture. ‘Holme will swear to me as I to him. We were practically hugging each other all the time. Holme chose me out himself. He’s nervous of being put in the dark with matrons or even misses. Actors have to be so careful, poor dears… Well, well, I expect you’ll be wanting to move down your beat.’ He strolled away, paused, turned. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘Winter wins five shillings.’ He disappeared into the house.

  ‘After all that rhetorical effort’, said Appleby,’ I’m afraid it was a very meagre harvest. Are you going round the whole household doing this sort of thing?’

  Winter seemed as near confusion as a very self-possessed man can get. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. It seems a line.’

  ‘Bless you, everything’s a line. The art is in choosing the straightest and therefore the quickest. You’re fascinated by the fact that we were all hiding in pairs. Well, why were we? Either because one the joker is Archie or some other odd person who wasn’t hiding, or two the joker had some trick which enabled him to give his partner the slip, or three two paired people were in collusion. Your line, in fact, is one to fall back on if several others fail. I think myself that the best line is the telegraph line.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘But – as we’re on the topic – whom were you paired with?’

  ‘The little translator fellow, André. He chattered steadily and I made decent responses. As Kermode likes to say, you’ve got nothing on me… By the way’ – Winter’s transition was deliberately abrupt – ‘did you know that Chown goes in for medical hypnotism?’