‘It’s a load,’ said Drummey. ‘But we’ll make it…if this darn wind shifts.’
‘I wonder’ – Meredith was troubled – ‘whether we are justified in taking this particularly venturesome course? After all, we need only–’
‘We’re going right across.’ Drummey was again impassive. ‘Britain delivers the goods – remember that one? What you used to stamp on the crates when you sent on Lend-Lease pepper-pots and grand pianos to guileless neutrals. But it’s America delivers the goods this time. John and Joe and I propose to hand you back your effects. Might make a little round trip of it: London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris.’
‘I’m not sure’, said Jean, ‘that I wouldn’t like to take Castle Moila and Carron Lodge in passing.’
‘Likely enough’, said Drummey, ‘we’ll be going that way.’
It was freezing, but the three young men were sweating as well as heavy eyed. The constellations had gone and with them the moon. Only just above the horizon northwards there was a faint white light, the faintest aurora, as if another moon was rising there. Meredith had learnt the meaning of the altimeter and the artificial horizon. The flying-boat was going down.
‘Ought to have a crew of six,’ growled Joe. ‘The old goat liked things on a tidy scale. But he liked economies too… Going down? Sure we are.’
‘In that case hadn’t we better jettison some of those bronzes and marbles?’
‘America delivers the goods.’ Drummey’s voice was resolute. ‘But we’re not going down willy-nilly – or not yet. It may be less dirty just skimming the big drink.’
‘You really go as low as that?’
‘Just so as to clear the smoke-stack of the Queen Mary. Eh, Joe?’
‘Sure.’
‘And the rollers. If the moon comes through you’ll see them any time now. Rather flattened out when viewed from above. But not what you could call harmless-looking, all the same.’
‘Wonderful guys, those on the ferry services,’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Nerve. And not just nerve. Nerve this week and nerve next. Chronic nerve, like some folks can run to chronic alcoholism or chronic love… What was that?’
‘I thought’, said Jean, ‘that it was a wave. At least it was green, and watery, and it rolled.’
Drummey nodded. ‘Matter of fact, it was two waves – and us between. Ship’s going crank. Nothing for it, I’m afraid, but to let a couple of tons of marble go after all. Jean, do you and Mr Meredith act as selection committee.’ His eyes were fixed on the dials before him. ‘And don’t deliberate too long.’
‘Folks,’ said John suddenly – and Meredith awoke with a start – ‘what’s the height of Ben Nevis?’
‘Four thousand, four hundred, and six,’ said Jean promptly.
Drummey swung round, and for the first time his voice was sharp. ‘John,’ he said, ‘d’you mean that?’
‘Cloud by night and fog at dawn’ – John’s tone was disgusted – ‘so what can I do? Fifty miles one way or another all round the compass. We may be over land by now.’
‘Then get out more of those marbles. Stop short only when you come to Myron and Praxiteles. We need another three thousand feet.’
Meredith considered. ‘There are two more that we might reasonably spare. One appears to be a St Bruno by José de Mora, a very strained piece of Baroque piety–’
‘Turn it out.’
‘The other is probably rather good – an allegorical group I can’t quite make out, by a living Yugoslavian sculptor.’
‘If he’s living he won’t mind help keeping us alive too. And he can chisel another one. Send it down.’ Drummey was silent for some moments. ‘There!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Climbing like a bird.’
‘And, jiminy, there’s the sun!’ John grabbed his instruments. ‘I’ll have us sitting on the Clyde in under a quarter of an hour. Mr Meredith, you can be in London in time for dinner, same as the old goat was going to be.’
‘London?’ Meredith was again almost asleep. ‘Well, it began there…and with scraps of poetry–’
‘Or almost poetry.’ Jean dug for the last piece of barley sugar.
‘Resolved at length, from vice and London far,
To breathe in distant fields a purer air–’
Drummey shook his head. It was the first movement undirected to flying his craft that they had seen him make. ‘Purer air? It’s not distance will get you that. It’s altitude… Look at this.’
The flying-boat had risen from fog to cloud and from cloud to clear sky in which the dawn was breaking over endless vistas of blue and grey and gold. Drummey looked all round, loosened and threw off his helmet, set back his head:
‘Before the starry threshold of Jove’s court–’
Meredith came quite wide awake in his surprise. For all three young men were chanting in unison, and they were as beautiful as singing angels by Botticelli – or as any picture that Don Perez had ever stolen.
‘Before the starry threshold of Jove’s court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered
In regions mild of calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call earth…’
Drummey had Jean’s hand in his; he was looking now at Meredith and now at his instruments with an eye which had lost its strained look and taken on a glint of mischief. ‘One of the advantages of the American language’, he said, ‘is its reams of poetry.’
‘Dear me! I never heard before that Milton was an American.’
‘He would have made not a bad one. But airmen, you see, must have a great deal of poetry by heart if they’re not going to go to sleep. That’s why between us we beat the Luftwaffe. They didn’t have nearly enough poetry to keep awake on. Not even when they stretched a strict Aryan point or two and included Heine… And now for the bonny banks of the Clyde.’ Drummey was silent for several minutes. ‘About Neff,’ he said. ‘Do you know, all that thieving and hoarding is beginning to make me feel mad?’
‘And I, on the contrary, am coming to view it rather dispassionately.’ Meredith looked at the young men, and at Jean, and smiled. ‘All he stole was museums, after all. And although museums are important, they are not what is really important. What is really important is – well, what is going on. It’s only if the museums help there that they begin to pay for what we spend on the lighting and the heating and the attendants.’
‘But you can’t get on without a tradition,’ said Drummey, ‘and a tradition has to be embodied in these material things.’ He jerked a thumb towards the piled and ranked rows of pictures behind him. ‘Neff tried to steal it and keep it to himself. That’s what makes me mad – kind of ashamed to be an American.’ He sat frowning into air. And then his brow cleared.
‘Of course,’ he said slowly, ‘there’s this to it. It all came of you people over here – all of you, from the Tagus to the Volga – getting in a mess. You couldn’t help it, I dare say. But – well, you lost it and we brought it back.’
Meredith sighed. The flying-boat was dropping to a calm estuary and he was tired and well content. ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘there’s something in that. It isn’t easy to bring back even now. But it would have been a hundred times more difficult if you hadn’t come along… And what about Jean? Is she going to be restored to us too?’
Drummey appeared to consider. ‘Didn’t somebody say something about Neff being a dragon? And isn’t my craft bringing back the stolen treasure? You know what happens to the princess in stories like that.’
Epilogue
A long, melancholy wail rose, hung for a moment strident upon the ear, ebbed rapidly away. ‘Tibbie,’ cried Miss Dorcas Macleod, ‘can this possibly be the second Thursday of the month?’
‘Of course it is the second Thursday,
Dorcas. And it is much to be hoped that Mrs Cameron has not forgotten the capers. She has been something disturbed since this distressing matter of Shamus. Pray hurry and welcome Captain Maxwell by the Seaway. I will meet you in the base-court, so that what we have in mind to show him we may go to at once.’
The throb of the Oronsay’s engine reverberated from the anchorage; sheep baahed and a dog barked; overhead the gulls screamed round a Flying Fox which hung, rusty and already derelict-seeming, above the ramparts. And Captain Maxwell, his formal salutation given from the bridge, stepped ashore and advanced with serious mien up the Seaway and past the grille to the precincts of Castle Moila. Miss Dorcas received him with hurried words, to which he listened with close attention, silent and unsurprised.
‘…So it would seem’, said Miss Dorcas, ‘that the blackest magic must be in question once more. We had been given to understand that her power would not extend over water, but now we fear that Mr Properjohn’s Foxes – which appear to have been out of order for some time – must have formed a fatal link.’
They walked to the base-court. ‘We connect it, too, with the visitors who were here a month ago. They disappeared most unaccountably, after telling a strange story of how we were virtually besieged. Tibbie will say little about them, but it is my opinion that they were trolls.’
Captain Maxwell looked at Miss Dorcas doubtfully. ‘I can’t be saying that the lassie looked to me just like a troll.’
‘But, Captain, have you ever seen a troll?’
‘That I have not.’
‘Then it is surely hardly possible for you to express an opinion.’ Miss Dorcas paused momentarily over this small logical triumph. ‘And what is more likely than that Patuffa should have commerce with trolls? At her great age she must be far advanced in her arts. And it was the lad Shamus, we fear, who was first brought under a spell – on the very day marked by the appearance of our uncanny visitants. At first our opinion was this – that Shamus must have had an experience.’
‘An experience?’ asked Captain Maxwell uncertainly.
‘A religious experience. He returned to the island much changed. Already we think that Patuffa had tried to ensnare him in that way. Some months ago – I do not know if we told you – a small statue was found in the Great Ditches. It was classical – indeed, it would be better to say pagan – in character; but whether a fawn or satyr I cannot tell. My Uncle Archibald, who was a virtuoso, and for long resided in–’
‘Aye,’ interrupted Captain Maxwell hastily, ‘I’ve heard tell o’ him many a time.’
‘And it seemed to us that Patuffa must have sent this object – which was indelicately posed – with the intention of subverting Shamus’ moral character and religious convictions. Now, of course, our speculation is confirmed. Having failed to wean him to paganism she has endeavoured, and we fear successfully, to convert him to popery – and by a similar resource. But here we are.’
They had arrived at a corner of the base-court, where Miss Isabella was already standing before a white marble figure which had been propped in the corner formed by a buttress and an ivy-covered wall. The representation was of a monkish person in an attitude of agonized piety, and anyone familiar with the art of the Counter-Reformation might have recognized it as the work of José de Mora. Captain Maxwell scrutinized it thoughtfully. ‘Aye,’ he said at length, ‘there’s no doubt that it’s in the spirit o’ them as is given to idolatry and false devotion. But we maun no’ be ower-critical o’ the lower forms o’ Christianity. Only a few days syne the Reverend Wooley was saying to me–’
‘And we have reason to believe’, said Miss Dorcas in a low voice, ‘that Shamus has been praying to it.’
Captain Maxwell shook his head. ‘Have I no’ always said’, he asked, ‘that ye hae but to take a Highlander outside the reformed Kirk and scratch him, and straightway ye come to a coarse Catholic creature underneath? Begging your pardon, Miss Macleod.’
The hereditary Captain of Castle Moila looked darkly at the writhing St Bruno. ‘It is now some generations’, she said, ‘since our family has embraced the Protestant faith in its Presbyterian branch. And, of course, all our retainers have done the same. For instance, there is Mrs Cameron. She has just completed a sampler of the great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns. Naturally, she is very perturbed. And so I fear there is only one solution.’ Miss Isabella compressed her lips. ‘Our brother must act decisively. It is, of course, an unpleasant thing to happen in a family. But there is no help for it. Great-aunt Patuffa must be burned.’
‘Burned!’ exclaimed Captain Maxwell.
‘Certainly – and as soon as the necessary store of faggots can be collected. This may take a little time. For our countryside, as a visitor of some distinction remarked in the late age, is sadly deficient in timber. He is said to have been apprehensive lest we should steal his walking stick.’
Slowly Captain Maxwell drew a newspaper from his pocket. ‘Miss Macleod,’ he said, ‘there’s an auld proverb to the effect that it never rains but it pours. And I’m thinking that there’s been more dropping from the skies than your uncanny kins-woman could contrive. Do you ever see the Oban Argus? As a journal o’ opinion, it may be a wee bit more circumscribed than the Scotsman or The Times, but I’ve never had occasion to question the accuracy o’ its reporting. So be pleased to listen to this.’
Captain Maxwell drew a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, inserted them between his bushy eyebrows and abundant beard, and read with slow emphasis:
‘The death is reported, in obscure circumstances, of Mr Properjohn, senior, of Carron Lodge, Glen Carron. The deceased, who was an invalid of independent means residing with his nephew, Mr Amos Willoughby Properjohn, was found dead in bed on the morning of the 14th inst., having been crushed beneath the immense weight of a large marble statue which appears to have crashed with irresistible violence through the roof of the building. A fatality at once so mysterious and so awful has naturally aroused much speculation, but as no certain intelligence has yet been communicated by the investigating police we refrain from comment, and would at the same time warn our readers against giving any rash credit to the irresponsible conjectures of our sadly misnamed national Press.’
Captain Maxwell paused in his reading. ‘It’s no’ a bad one, that,’ he said. ‘But now listen to this:
‘Mr Nigel Fairbrother of the Scottish National Gallery, who chanced to be on holiday in the district, was called to Carron Lodge, and upon being shown into the dead man’s study was surprised to observe a painting by the celebrated Jan Vermeer of Delft which, he declared, was indubitably the property of the Duke of Horton. It is believed that any explanation of this curious circumstance must await the return of Mr Properjohn, jnr, who is absent upon business believed to be connected with the box-making industry. Mr Fairbrother then proceeded to the scene of the fatality, and was the first to notice that at the moment of his death the deceased had apparently been reading Der Untergang des Abendlandes of the German idealogue, Oswald Spengler. Mr Fairbrother then identified the statue. It proves to be by a well-known contemporary Yugoslavian sculptor, and is an allegorical group known as the Europa Rediviva, or Europe Restored.’
Captain Maxwell took off his spectacles and folded the paper. ‘What they ca’ The Decline of the West,’ he said. ‘And then Europa Rediviva. Now, would ye no’ be thinking there was some inwardness in that?’ He shook his head. ‘Awfu’ times, Miss Macleod. Dances on Larra, and a Judgement in Glen Carron. Awfu’ times, indeed.’
Synopses of Innes Titles
(Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’ Titles)
Published by House of Stratus
The Ampersand Papers
While Appleby is strolling along a Cornish beach, he narrowly escapes being struck by a body falling down a cliff. The body is that of Dr Sutch, an archivist, and he has fallen from the North Tower of Treskinnick Castle, home of Lord
Ampersand. Two possible motivations present themselves to Appleby – the Ampersand gold, treasure from an Armada galleon; and the Ampersand papers, valuable family documents that have associations with Wordsworth and Shelley.
Appleby and Honeybath
Every English mansion has a locked room, and Grinton Hall is no exception – the library has hidden doors and passages…and a corpse. But when the corpse goes missing, Sir John Appleby and Charles Honeybath have an even more perplexing case on their hands – just how did it disappear when the doors and windows were securely locked? A bevy of helpful houseguests offer endless assistance, but the two detectives suspect that they are concealing vital information. Could the treasures on the library shelves be so valuable that someone would murder for them?
Appleby and the Ospreys
Clusters, a great country house, is troubled by bats, as Lord and Lady Osprey complain to their guests, who include first rate detective, Sir John Appleby. In the matter of bats, Appleby is indifferent, but he is soon faced with a real challenge – the murder of Lord Osprey, stabbed with an ornate dagger in the library.
Appleby at Allington
Sir John Appleby dines one evening at Allington Park, the Georgian home of his acquaintance Owain Allington, who is new to the area. His curiosity is aroused when Allington mentions his nephew and heir to the estate, Martin Allington, whose name Appleby recognises. The evening comes to an end but just as Appleby is leaving, they find a dead man – electrocuted in the son et lumière box which had been installed in the grounds.
The Appleby File
There are fifteen stories in this compelling collection, including: Poltergeist – when Appleby’s wife tells him that her aunt is experiencing trouble with a Poltergeist, he is amused but dismissive, until he discovers that several priceless artefacts have been smashed as a result; A Question of Confidence – when Bobby Appleby’s friend, Brian Button, is caught up in a scandalous murder in Oxford, Bobby’s famous detective father is their first port of call; The Ascham – an abandoned car on a narrow lane intrigues Appleby and his wife, but even more intriguing is the medieval castle they stumble upon.
From London Far Page 32