Appleby at Allington

by Michael Innes

  Appleby accepted whisky. Pride did the same, and then thought better of it. The thought had no doubt come to him that he was a police officer on duty. Judith was politely drinking what looked like ginger ale. Wilfred Osborne sat quietly in a corner, with folded arms. He looked unhappy. He had been born in this house, after all, and its park and lake had been his playground as a boy. He was taking a little hard what was so rapidly becoming its murderous character.

  ‘I concur in your view that we are not confronting three accidents,’ Appleby said to Allington. ‘But I’m not very sure that our agreement will stretch much further. May I ask how you class Scrape’s death?’

  ‘It’s fairly clear, isn’t it?’ Allington set down the decanter, and raised his own whisky-glass as if for appraisal. ‘The poor fellow made away with himself. Two deaths, one on top of the other, were too much for him. He was an unbalanced man. Indeed – and this is something I’ve never mentioned to anybody before – I was coming to a strong suspicion that he was no longer in his right mind. You’ll hardly believe this, but he had a fantastic notion of building a complete Cistercian abbey. Only – so far as I could gather – without any Cistercians.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that.’

  ‘You know about it!’ Allington seemed really startled.

  ‘My wife and I were entertaining Scrape to tea within what was to prove a couple of hours of his death. He mentioned his plans.’

  ‘Then there you are.’ Allington spoke incisively. ‘You agree – you both agree – that he was off his head?’

  ‘In a limited sense, yes. It doesn’t follow that he made away with himself. May I ask whether you still hold to the view that your nephew met his death as the consequence of some sort of international conspiracy?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Allington paused, perhaps to note that Appleby was startled in his turn. ‘I have found myself obliged to re-think the whole thing.’

  ‘Meaning your nephew’s death and Knockdown’s?’

  ‘Precisely so. And Scrape’s, indeed, in the sense that I have had to get it clear that his unfortunate end has been purely peripheral. Perhaps I can put it best by saying that I have approached the problem as a scientist. I have no doubt – Pride, you will support me in this – that the police nowadays pursue what they would call scientific methods.’

  ‘They are scientific methods.’ Pride was suddenly roused to something like anger. ‘Not much my sort of thing, I’ll admit. But I have a thoroughly up-to-date crowd. Complete confidence in them.’

  ‘My dear man, you mustn’t mistake me. I have no doubt that your men will apply their techniques with diligence, and eventually be in a position to declare that they have arrived at an explanation. And the same holds of Appleby, whom we all so much admire. Only I doubt whether, in this particular case, they will really get quite all the way. The method is one thing. The mind behind it is another. And I may say I have had to think quite hard about the problem myself.’

  ‘To arrive at the true and final solution?’ It was with some natural astonishment that Appleby had received the sudden flash of arrogance in Allington’s speech. ‘Do I understand that, as a consequence of powerful cerebration, you have arrived at the truth about these obscure events?’

  ‘Certainly. I am saying just that.’

  ‘And that your view now is that the final score – or the score to date – is two accidents and a suicide?’

  ‘My dear Sir John’ – Allington spoke with a sudden urbane courtesy – ‘you will forgive me if I say that I do not judge it necessary to discuss the matter with you further.’

  ‘Very well.’ Appleby put down his glass. Judith and Osborne were already on their feet. ‘You are perfectly in order, and I do not disapprove of what you say in any way. We will leave you with the Chief Constable at once, and you can tell him what you know.’

  ‘I have no intention of telling Pride anything.’

  There was a moment’s blank silence – in which Rasselas, most unexpectedly, emitted the faintest of contented sighs. The creature had been visited, perhaps, by a pleasing dream. Wilfred Osborne was the first to speak.

  ‘I say, Allington – isn’t this getting a bit off the rails? Here is your own nephew come to an unhappy end, and you saying you have got to the truth of the affair. As good as saying, for that matter, that you are the only person who will get to the truth of the affair. You can’t withhold your information from the police.’

  ‘I am not withholding information. I am withholding speculation and inference. Call them scientific speculation and inference. I am certainly not obliged to communicate these to anybody.’

  ‘But be reasonable, my dear Allington! What justification can you have for holding back what may be helpful? We’re not all engaged in a competition, or a battle of wits.’

  ‘I don’t want to offend you, Osborne. I am beholden to you in a number of ways.’ Allington was suddenly presenting the appearance of a man in real distress of mind. ‘And I know you have a high sense of duties of hospitality. Well, I will say only this. I am deeply sorry that I have implicated somebody – somebody whom I am not prepared to name – in this luckless and tragic business. I decline to be an occasion of further distress – to that person, and to others. And I therefore intend that this whole business stop here. Martin had an accident with his car. The inquisitive Knockdown meddled with something carelessly left lethal, and paid for it. The unfortunate Scrape, overwrought by these fatalities, drowned himself. This may not be what I believe. It is what I have declined to discuss. And it is as much as all the Queen’s coroners, and all her policemen too, are ever likely to arrive at.’

  This time, the silence in the library prolonged itself. Not even Rasselas relieved it with another faint woof. And then – faintly at first but in rapidly mounting crescendo – pandemonium appeared to break out in Allington Park. It had nothing to do with the bizarre attitude and utterance of the owner of the mansion. It appeared to break out first on a bedroom floor, and then to come tumbling rapidly down the main staircase.

  A moment later, the library seemed suddenly filled with Lethbridges and Barfords. But in fact it was only the parents who had come tumbling in.

  ‘The kids!’ Ivon Lethbridge shouted. ‘All four of them. They’ve vanished. They’ve been carried off. Without so much as climbing into their beds!’

  ‘Murder!’ The sudden scream came from Faith Barford. ‘Murder, murder, murder!’

  9

  For some moments the distressing character of this scene was enhanced by Hope Allington, who had come briskly into the drawing-room and at once addressed herself to smacking her sister’s face. Although a time-sanctioned treatment for hysterical behaviour, it lacked amenity as a family spectacle. But at least it had some effect. Faith Barford stopped screaming and subsided into quiet sobs.

  She was not altogether to be blamed, Appleby thought. The atmosphere at Allington Park was now such that any untoward event was likely to be accorded a sinister interpretation. In any well-regulated English mind three unaccountable deaths add up to the probable presence of a maniac about the place. Within such a context the sudden disappearance of four children might well disturb anyone.

  ‘Miss Allington,’ Appleby asked, ‘where is Mr Travis now?’

  ‘Back in Oxford.’ Hope snapped this out frankly enough. ‘We decided that it was no go. Either way – whether it’s still there or not – there’s nothing in it for us.’

  ‘My dear Hope,’ Owain Allington said, ‘whatever are you talking about? This is no time to speak in riddles.’

  ‘Isn’t that just what you’ve been doing yourself?’ Appleby said. ‘And I don’t think there’s much of a riddle in what Miss Allington tells us, anyway. But we’d better get back to the children. I think, Miss Allington, that Mr Travis had some talk with them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He told them the story of the siege. Good Cavalier and Roundhead stuff. They loved it. Tristram said afterwards that he thought he could make historians of Eugene and Digby.’
>
  ‘Historians!’ The natural agitation of Ivon Lethbridge modulated into indignation before this. ‘Cavaliers and Roundheads? Damned nonsense! History is all bunk, as Winston Churchill said.’

  ‘I think that Mr Lethbridge is perhaps confusing his authorities,’ Appleby suggested mildly. ‘But again we must stick to the point. The children had better be found at once. But there is probably very little mystery about them. Miss Allington, may I take it that Mr Travis amused himself by telling them the wonderful story of the treasure as well?’

  ‘It’s quite likely – and why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Why indeed? But here are two high-spirited boys bored stiff by top-spin’ – Appleby had to hold up a hand to check the just indignation of the Lethbridge parents before this appalling remark – ‘and along with them two admiring girl-cousins. I have very little doubt that they’re having a wonderful time in the castle at this moment. If not there, then somewhere else around the place. I suggest that some of us go and see.’

  ‘It’s pitch dark by now,’ Judith said. ‘And there will be no moon for hours.’

  ‘We’ll want as many electric torches as can be found.’ Appleby said. ‘We’ll also want a certain discretion. There’s no need to alarm them with the effect of a hue and cry.’ He turned to Allington. ‘And do you think we might venture to disturb Rasselas? He might be quite a help.’

  ‘You’re right about not alarming them,’ Wilfred Osborne murmured to Appleby as the expedition set out. ‘If I had children as young as these at Allington, I’d put the castle out of bounds.’

  ‘The ruins are dangerous?’

  ‘I think they must be called that. There are one or two places with an ugly drop to the moat. And one or two others where masonry might come tumbling during a scramble.’

  ‘I see. It’s something the clever Mr Travis might have thought of before putting ideas in the children’s heads. Judith was wrong about its being pitch dark. It’s a perfectly clear sky, and starlight counts for something, when one’s eyes get used to it. Still, the children are almost sure to have torches themselves, and that should help. Just catch a glimpse of one of them, and we can begin making friendly and unalarming noises.’

  ‘John, is that you?’ Judith’s voice came out of the darkness, and in a moment she had joined them. ‘Aren’t we rather a crowd?’

  ‘Yes, we are. But one could hardly expect anyone to stay behind.’ Appleby glanced at the straggle of torches around them. ‘Ten of us, I think. It’s a bit intimidating. Do you think we should split up?’

  ‘I think the castle can be left to the others. Tommy Pride will keep them in order. This is just his sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes – not quite what he calls a recce, but an operation of a related sort.’ Appleby suddenly made up his mind. ‘We three will go down the drive. Wilfred, do you agree?’

  ‘Certainly, my dear John. I was going to suggest it, as a matter of fact. If the children know where their uncle Martin was drowned–’

  ‘I have an idea there isn’t much they don’t know.’

  ‘Quite so. Well, the end of the lake may, at the moment, have a morbid fascination for them.’

  ‘A romantic fascination as well,’ Judith said. ‘If young Mr Travis spun them a yarn about the treasure, he may have told them that it is at the bottom of the lake, somewhere near the bridge. If he has checked out as a treasure-hunter himself, it might amuse him to turn Eugene, Digby, Sandra, and Stephanie on to the job. He wouldn’t see anything irresponsible in it.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Appleby had turned in his tracks. ‘I’d rather like a fourth in the person of Rasselas. But I think he’s leading the cavalcade to the castle.’

  ‘Yes,’ Judith said – and murmured, ‘Here’s a fourth, all the same.’

  It was Owain Allington, who had caught up with them unseen. He flashed his torch briefly by way of identifying them.

  ‘A change of plan?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going down the drive,’ Appleby said. ‘The one by the lake. As far as the road and the bridge. We think it’s possible they may be down there.’

  ‘I can’t think why. But I’ll come with you, all the same. Not that I feel this commotion is necessary. There are no criminals lurking round Allington–’

  ‘It wasn’t your former view,’ Appleby said.

  ‘Never mind my former view. These children are certainly out on a prank, as you have said. No harm is likely to befall them.’

  ‘Osborne says that the castle is rather dangerous ground. And I’m not sure the same isn’t to be said of the deeper part of the lake.’

  ‘That is true.’ Owain Allington’s voice sounded indifferent in the darkness. ‘But Eugene and Digby are perfectly sensible boys. They are even intelligent boys – which is surprising, when you consider their imbecile parents.’ The voice was now contemptuous. ‘They won’t run the little girls into anything foolish. Or not intentionally. Of course, one can’t insure against sheer chance. It is possible to set someone to a fatal prank – without knowing what one is about.’

  Silence succeeded upon this odd remark of Allington’s. They were now on the drive, and making good speed towards the high road. Glancing back over his left shoulder, Appleby could see the flickering and waving torches of the other party now approaching the castle – which itself showed in barely perceptible silhouette against the night sky. Appleby halted, and turned to look directly back up the drive. The form of the house too ought to have been visible, but was obscured behind the curved line of lights on the terrace. He told himself that he was looking straight at the heart of at least Martin Allington’s mystery. But he had known this for some time. Unfortunately the knowledge was of no use to him. It would remain of no use to him until one final piece of the jigsaw puzzle turned up and was fitted into place.

  ‘I think I hear something,’ Wilfred Osborne said.

  ‘And I think they’ve got a camp-fire.’ Judith had come to a standstill. ‘It seems almost a shame to break in on them.’ She laughed softly. ‘John, our own children used to do just this sort of thing.’

  ‘And your grandchildren,’ Osborne said, ‘will be doing it in no time.’ He put a hand on Judith’s arm. ‘And the grandparents will be more alarmed than the parents are.’ He paused comfortably on this bachelor’s wisdom. ‘Allington, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I know no more about parenthood than you do.’ It was with a sudden harshness that Owain Allington’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘But these children are up to some devilry which must be stopped.’

  ‘Yes,’ Appleby said. ‘I’m against devilry. And it’s not all devilry that gets stopped in time.’

  It was a very jolly little camp-fire. Among its materials Appleby could discern several of those hurdles which the detective police are fond of carrying around for the purpose of screening the sites of mysterious or unseemly occurrences from the public view. On either side of it sat one of the Misses Barford. Sandra was in a nightdress and jodhpurs. Stephanie was wearing a cricket-shirt and a pair of shorts so much too big for her that they must certainly have been borrowed from one of her cousins for the occasion. Digby was standing by the edge of the lake. Unlike the companions of the reprehensible Richard Cyphus on the previous day, he was decorously clad in a bathing-slip. He was also clad in an unbelievable amount of mud. From the lake itself came splashing and gasping sounds. Then out of it emerged first the dripping head of Eugene, and then Eugene’s right arm, raised triumphantly aloft. He was grasping what appeared to be an old boot, and with this he scrambled up the bank and tumbled panting on the grass. He too was wearing a bathing-slip, and he too was coated in mud. But one day, Appleby saw, he was going to be a beautifully proportioned youth. The prison-house of Wimbledon, in fact, lay ineluctably in front of him. He would vault the net to shake hands with his defeated foe. He would duck his head at royalty as he left the Centre court. He would make awkward and modest remarks to television interviewers thereafter. But at the moment he was a boy, and diving for treasu
re.

  ‘Hullo,’ Appleby said cheerfully. ‘Found anything much as yet?’

  ‘Everything’s over here.’ It was Digby who replied, since Eugene lacked the breath with which to do so. Perhaps in the absence of his robust parents, Digby was quietly polite and wholly composed. ‘It’s not much so far, but we think it rather hopeful.’

  The treasure-trove to date was ranged neatly on a bathing-towel. There was a dead fish. There was a horseshoe – which Digby picked up and exhibited with gravity, remarking that it might do quite well second-hand. There were several other iron objects of indeterminate shape. Eugene, coming up a little apprehensively, was of the opinion that these had undoubtedly formed part of the treasure-chest itself. There were some bottles, which seemed extremely old, and might therefore be sold to a museum. There was a whistle, which unfortunately didn’t look as if it could antedate the police force or the Boy Scout movement, and into which Digby blew vigorously but with an inaudible result. There was a single coin which Sandra was cleaning vigorously. When it was handed to Appleby, he was a good deal impressed to find that it was an Elizabethan shilling-piece.

  ‘That’s certainly a find,’ he said. ‘Really enough for one night, don’t you think? And deep-sea divers never work more than rather short spells. And here’s Rasselas come to take you back to the house.’

  It was true that Rasselas had arrived. The normally stately creature, indeed, had come racing down the drive at high speed. Presumably he had deserted the Chief Constable and his band – whose torches could now be clearly seen, moving about among the castle ruins.

  ‘We’d better let them know that all’s well,’ Wilfred Osborne suggested. ‘I’ll walk over at once.’

  ‘A good idea,’ Appleby said. ‘And perhaps Judith will go back to the house with the explorers and Rasselas. More treasure-hunting tomorrow, perhaps. I’d like to see Eugene and Digby diving. They must be better than some older boys I know. Allington and I will perhaps just have a final look round.’