‘Yes, that’s the man. Put up at the Bell about six weeks ago.’
‘But am I not right in thinking that you told the Chief Constable yesterday–’
‘Pickering? Tiresome fellow. Do you think I’d admit to young Tommy Pickering that I’d been induced to pay a friendly call on a man who turned out to be eating one of my own ducks?’
‘But you’re admitting it to Sir John,’ Jean said. ‘And I’m very glad. I’d like you to go on and tell him all about it.’
‘Should you, my dear?’ Lord Ailsworth was calming down. ‘Why, there he is!’ He pointed ahead. A large – and, to Appleby’s eye, quite commonplace – duck had turned a corner and was coming sedately towards them. ‘Do you know, I think he’s struck up a friendship with the Sushkin’s Goose? Yes, I believe that is the explanation. Which is a great relief, I’m bound to say. Now, what were we talking about?’
‘Howard Juniper,’ Appleby said with emphasis.
‘Ah, yes. Well I’ll tell you all about him at lunch. Interesting chap, in a way. Tolerable, but for his disgusting feeding habits. Had a sense of adventure that’s not common nowadays. And intelligent. But that made it all the worse – wouldn’t you agree? Stands to reason he knew what that blackguard Keylock had served up to him. However, one oughtn’t to speak ill of the dead.’
‘The dead?’ Appleby was startled. ‘You have some reason to suppose that Professor Juniper is dead?’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, dear me, yes. Almost sure to be, I’d say. But here we are. I’ll show you where to wash, my dear Sir John. Madeira, Jean, would be the right thing, to my mind. Sherry-drinking is overdone these days. And didn’t I say something about Burgundy? Capital with nut cutlets. I’ll tell Cowmeadow to hunt up a bottle. This way. Water not hot, but privy does flush. Cowmeadow is my butler. My great-grandfather found a lad called Cowmeadow in his regiment of militia. Engaged him as a stable boy at once. And we’ve had them ever since. Wonderful name – eh? No towel? Too bad. Use my handkerchief.’
Lord Ailsworth was clearly in high good humour, and at the moment it seemed useless to try to penetrate the barrage of his hospitable talk. Appleby contented himself with observing as much of Ailsworth Court as came within his view. Jean’s description had prepared him to find the place a vast aviary, and he had rather looked forward to the queer spectacle of some splendid state apartment become the lodging place of the celebrated Tibetan Donkey Ducks. But although a faint persistent susurration in the air did suggest the presence in distant chambers of sundry breeds of lesser fowl, the house as a whole seemed normal in its rather decayed and neglected way.
There was dust but not much cobweb, the carpets were threadbare but not positively treacherous, the large gloomy canvases on the walls were no more indecipherable than they had probably been for a century or more. Cowmeadow when he appeared was indeed excessively shabby, and had much the same encrusted appearance as the bottles of Madeira and Burgundy which he successively produced. The Madeira was of incredible age; the Burgundy, although even half an hour later it was much too cold, could not be accused of the degeneracy that Lord Ailsworth had attributed to its species. The nut cutlets were not, of course, cutlets – but neither, blessedly, did they appear to be compounded of nuts. When Jean was at Ailsworth, Appleby suspected, its domestic economy in general, and its vegetarian diet in particular, were a little tuned up. Lord Ailsworth, although capable of adequately courteous attention to a guest, had little eye for these matters, and every now and then he seemed to withdraw into a dream-world of his own. It wasn’t, Appleby hoped as he ate his very reasonable Lenten meal, a dream-world haunted by the phantom savour of fowl hissing on the spit.
Getting back to the subject of Howard Juniper was not easy. Lord Ailsworth, although intermittently talkative on this and that, was elusive about what had happened at the Bell. For a time, indeed, Appleby was inclined to wonder whether his volte-face in point of what he had said to Colonel Pickering the day before might not be the product of a weird sense of humour, and his story of having met Howard Juniper at the inn be a sheer invention designed to baffle the second vexatious irruption of the police that Appleby’s visit represented. On the other hand, Lord Ailsworth’s invitation to lunch held no trace of anything other than entire good will. Appleby was wondering how to get farther – if indeed there was farther to get – when Jean came briskly and effectively to his assistance.
‘Grandpapa,’ she said, ‘you must tell Sir John all about Professor Juniper. You must tell him at once. Because it seems the matter is very important.’
‘The matter of the Garefowl is very important? I quite agree, my dear. But not to our guest. His interest in ornithology is somewhat below the normal, I should say.’
‘We don’t know what you mean about the Garefowl, Grandpapa. And what is important to Sir John is Professor Juniper. He has disappeared–’
‘Quite so. Of course he has disappeared. He couldn’t hope to do other than disappear.’
‘He has disappeared. And he was engaged, it seems, on very secret work.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Lord Ailsworth was increasingly impatient. ‘I know about that. He told me about it. He said, you know, that having to keep his own affairs secret was quite enough, and that he didn’t propose to respect similar humbug elsewhere. If they caught him, he said, they were welcome to take a pot-shot at him. That, of course, was nonsense. Or so I suppose. Perhaps if it happened in the dark, and they thought he had come out of a submarine, or something like that, they might shoot. Come to think of it, I suppose they would. But, you know, he’d never get there. He’d be drowned.’
Appleby had listened to this rambling discourse in steadily deepening astonishment. And what seemed chiefly astonishing was his luck. Unless this excessively eccentric peer was really making the whole thing up, he was on the track of Howard Juniper at last.
‘But that is neither here nor there.’ Lord Ailsworth seemed to be referring to the supposition that Juniper must have been drowned. ‘What startles me, Jean, is your saying that you don’t know what I mean by a Garefowl.’
‘I said nothing of the sort, Grandpapa. I merely said we didn’t know what you meant by starting talking about Garefowl in connexion with this Professor Juniper. I know very well that the Garefowl is the Great Auk. Why, I believe even Sir John knows that. It’s the Alca impennis of Linnaeus. And it’s extinct.’
‘Of course it’s extinct. It has been for more than a century. But it’s true that there has been this rumour. It had quite seized the imagination of this fellow Juniper. I was attracted by him on my afternoon visit, I must confess. But not, I need hardly say, later. Fellow who could devour one of my birds as served up to him by that reprobate Keylock would devour the Great Auk itself, if you ask me. Disagreeable topic, this we’ve hit on. Let’s change it.’
‘Not until you’ve given Sir John a systematic account of the whole affair.’ Jean was implacable. ‘Or let him ask you whatever questions he thinks necessary.’
‘Certainly, certainly. Let him fire away.’ Lord Ailsworth spoke with good humour, and turned to Appleby smiling.
Appleby – and it was for the second time – wasn’t sure he liked the smile. But at least it seemed as if he were going to get his facts. ‘It was specially to see you that Professor Juniper came down to Ailsworth?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t a doubt of it. Although – mark you – he didn’t let on that way. He’d heard, no doubt, that we don’t at Ailsworth welcome visitors indiscriminately. I ran into him when he was taking a stroll. He had a pair of binoculars and was watching some teal coming in from the estuary. All quite in order; the fellow wasn’t trespassing, or showing any signs of it. So I passed the time of day with him. Quite knowledgeable and keen, he turned out to be. I went in to take a cup of tea with him at the Bell.’
‘Why – I remember now!’ With a confirmatory nod, Jean turned to Appleby. ‘Grandpapa mentioned it in a letter – just that he had met somebody and talked birds with him over a cup of tea. It s
truck me as quite an event in his social calendar. As it would be, wouldn’t it, Gran?’ And she looked affectionately at Lord Ailsworth.
‘No doubt, my dear. But I soon saw that this fellow was after something. Being a very old buffer, you know, and having kept at it for a very long time’ – Lord Ailsworth offered a vague gesture which might have been meant to indicate modesty – ‘I’ve made myself something of an authority on the Alcidae. And that’s what Juniper had in mind. He thought he wanted my opinion. But what he really wanted was to be encouraged in his own. He’d set his heart, if you ask me, on this exploit; and he wanted me to say there might really be something to find at the end of it. Great nonsense, of course.’
‘Just what,’ Appleby asked patiently, ‘is great nonsense?’
‘The notion that Garefowl can have appeared and begun breeding on Ardray.’
‘Ardray!’ Involuntarily, Appleby sat up in his chair.
‘I can see you know about the place. Though I’d have thought, Sir John, it was the job of the Navy to guard it, rather than the police.’
‘It certainly is. And what started this notion, do you know?’
‘A young fellow doing a spell of duty there, I believe. He knew something about birds. And he swore to it. My guess would be that he simply saw some Razor-bills and misjudged the distance and the size. One or two might have aberrant markings above the bill. The lad was killed in a motor accident, shortly after spreading this story. That would give it greater appeal, no doubt. But you can see where the heart of the nonsense lies. Ardray is a prohibited island – rockets or something of the sort – and the story gets a romantic lift, you might say, from that. And it can’t be checked up on.’
‘But that’s monstrous!’ With a suddenness that surprised Appleby, Jean was alive with indignation. ‘They couldn’t exclude properly accredited ornithologists.’
Lord Ailsworth shook his head. ‘You forget that the story is nonsense. It must be nonsense. No learned society would badger the Admiralty about it. Only a crank would get excited at such a notion. This Juniper was a crank. Highly intelligent, as I said. Leading scientist in his own line. Very interesting line, too. He told me all about it. But a crank, all the same.’
Appleby considered this for a moment. ‘These birds,’ he asked, ‘have just died out?’
The effect of this seemingly harmless question was surprising. Indeed, it might almost have been called alarming. Lord Ailsworth sprang to his feet with a vigour totally unexpected in one of his years. He was quivering with nervous excitement and his eyes were blazing. ‘Died out!’ he exclaimed in a harsh, high voice. ‘Have you been reading the miserable Owen? Have you never heard of John Wolley? Are you unaware, sir, of the criminal folly of your own species?’
There was a moment of silence. Jean made no effort to calm her grandfather. She had gone pale, and was watching him with eyes in which Appleby thought he detected the same haunted expression as he had imagined lurking in them at their first meeting.
‘My dear Lord Ailsworth, I do apologize for my ignorance.’ There was nothing for it, Appleby decided, except to try to make some soothing remarks himself. ‘I quite realize that inept remarks must be very irritating.’
‘The apology must be mine.’ Lord Ailsworth had sat down again. He was reaching, with a movement that seemed curiously blind, for his Burgundy. But, when he picked up the glass, it was only to thrust it away with a hand that still trembled so violently that the wine was spilt on the table. ‘It is the most obstinate of vulgar errors. Sir Richard Bonnycastle, a naturalist almost as great as Wolley himself, exposed it more than a hundred years ago. The Garefowl was murdered, sir, like the Moa and the Dodo. And not by wretched natives seeking food – which was the state of the case with the Donkey Duck until providence allowed me to intervene. Unspeakable blackguards hunted it down in a miserable traffic of eggs and skins.’
‘I see,’ Appleby said. ‘And I can understand it’s making you very angry.’
And now Jean did speak. ‘There’s a vicious circle,’ she said, ‘in matters of that sort. When creatures are naturally scarce, specimens become valuable. Every beastly museum wants one to stuff and stick in a glass case. So the hunt becomes vigorous. And the fewer the individuals remaining extant, the higher the price it will command. The hunters’ effort is progressively stepped up, until not a single specimen is left alive. It’s not so bad nowadays, because reputable collectors keep off. But there are plenty of unscrupulous ones. Isn’t that it, Grandpapa?’
‘Yes, yes – that is it.’ Lord Ailsworth produced, with visible effort, the smile Appleby didn’t like. ‘Let us pass from the subject. Juniper, at least, had no lethal intentions. Or not against birds. But he had them – well, you may say against himself. He was proposing suicide.’
‘Suicide?’ In his turn Appleby reached for his Burgundy. He was finding Lord Ailsworth hard going. ‘Professor Juniper confided to you that he proposed to take his own life?’
‘It amounted to that. He had a plan for later in the summer. He proposed to make a dash for the north of Scotland, without letting anybody know, and to go out to Ardray by night. He knew, he said, where he could get hold of a dinghy with an outboard motor. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with that coast–’
‘I certainly am.’ Appleby spoke grimly. ‘It’s almost unbelievable that he should entertain such a crazy notion.’
‘But he was crazy.’ Again Lord Ailsworth smiled. ‘I’m a bit crazy myself, and I should know. There was something entirely freakish in the way the man’s mind worked.’
‘But didn’t you–’
‘I simply listened to him in the afternoon. I wasn’t quite clear that he was serious. The thing left me, however, very uneasy. That is why I went back in the evening – to do what I could to dissuade him. But, when I found him at that particular dinner, I naturally gave him up.’
Jean was looking at her grandfather in horror. ‘How perfectly awful!’ she said. She turned to Appleby. ‘Is he married? Has he any relations?’
‘He isn’t married. But he has a twin brother, Miles, who is a schoolmaster. At first I thought it might be Miles who had put up at the Bell. It seems they can pass for one another, they’re so alike. But it was the professor, after all.’
‘It’s a horrible story. Grandpapa, why ever didn’t you stop him somehow?’
Lord Ailsworth made no reply. He appeared to have fallen into a sombre reverie.
‘I don’t think your grandfather could have done much,’ Appleby said, ‘even if he hadn’t been put off by the unfortunate matter of the roast duck. Juniper was a perfect stranger to him, and simply revealed himself as entertaining this dangerous and irrational project. There was no means of restraining him. Lord Ailsworth couldn’t lock him up. If Howard Juniper has come to grief – and it looks very much as if he has – the disaster is his own fault.’
‘I suppose I could have locked him up.’ Lord Ailsworth emerged abruptly from his muse, as if lured by this attractive idea. ‘Of course I don’t sit on the Bench nowadays. But, after all, I am a magistrate. Yes, perhaps I could have committed him. Sent for that young fool Tommy Pickering and had Juniper gaoled for his own good. But there might have been legal repercussions. Things aren’t what they were – would you say?’
Appleby wasn’t much disposed to attend to this. He drained his wine – it was too good to sacrifice to any emergency – and then asked his host a question. ‘I wonder whether I might use your telephone? At once?’
‘Certainly, my dear sir. I have no doubt you will want to follow the matter up.’ Lord Ailsworth was at his most courteous and normal. ‘Indeed, you make me feel I have been very remiss. I could have done something, I am sure. Contacted the poor chap’s relations, for example. There is, you say, a schoolmastering brother.’
Jean looked up suddenly. ‘That wouldn’t be at a place called Splaine something?’
Appleby looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s right. Splaine Croft.’
‘I thought
so. I travelled down from Oxford in the same compartment as the schoolmastering brother only the other day. An old pupil of his, Arthur Ferris, was there too. He got Arthur into Rugby. Arthur told me all about him afterwards.’
Lord Ailsworth had risen. ‘Interesting but irrelevant,’ he said with surprising briskness. ‘I’ll take Sir John to the telephone.’
7
Appleby got back to London in the late afternoon, drove straight to Burlington House. Among the learned societies accommodated there, the one he sought was not particularly prominent, or even easy to find. But its rooms proved, when attained, to be of very adequate dignity. If the library was small, the books it contained were more than commonly ponderous – being, no doubt, of the resplendently illustrated kind customarily displayed, one at a time, and open upon an improbable lyre-bird, in the windows of the most expensive antiquarian booksellers. Busts and portraits of eminent deceased ornithologists were appropriately interspersed; there was a large glass case containing little piles of small bones – each pile with a handwritten label which had long ago faded into illegibility; over one chimney piece there hung a plaster cast of a fossilized pterodactyl; and over another was an oil portrait of a royal personage playfully holding out a finger to a macaw – the bird being tethered by an improbably massive chain to a black page-boy in the bottom left-hand corner. Appleby, left waiting for a few minutes among all this, thought that there was a smell of aviaries. But the impression must have been a matter of pure suggestion. He wondered whether misguided persons of the simpler classes ever penetrated to these august surroundings in the expectation of receiving a few practical hints on the ailments of budgerigars and canaries.
A little man with a large moustache came hurrying from an inner room. He rather answered to Appleby’s idea of Mr Walter Pater. He was dressed in clothes which he might have inherited from a father slightly bigger than himself round about the turn of the century.
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