The Long Farewell

by Michael Innes

  ‘I suppose not.’ Appleby, who didn’t much care for this manner of speaking of Alice, looked at Limbrick stonily. ‘But there does seem something rather precipitate in your proposal, all the same. Packford is barely buried. The contents of his will have not yet been communicated to the persons interested. And a library of that sort can’t, surely, be bought and sold by the yard? How on earth could you know, even approximately, what would be a fair offer for it?’

  Limbrick laughed carelessly. ‘I was prepared to go pretty high.’

  ‘I see. And the idea was a binding deal here and now?’

  ‘Just that, Sir John.’ Limbrick’s tone was faintly mocking. ‘One gets nowhere as a collector nowadays if one doesn’t act with speed. Too many Americans in the market. Confound them for a set of purse-proud devils!’

  Appleby didn’t, for a moment, find anything to reply to this. A man prepared to go pretty high in the matter of buying a large library the value of which could only be approximately known to him, and setting about the business by literally thrusting a cheque-book beneath the nose of a woman not a week widowed, seemed to have little title to asperse purse-proud devils, whether on one side of the Atlantic or the other.

  And Limbrick was – even in Appleby’s fairly extensive experience of men and manners – something new. Wealthy and fanatical collectors, actuated by mere acquisitiveness, are frequently found with a mania for jewels, and sometimes with a mania for pictures. But Appleby had never before met any who went after books and manuscripts in quite what appeared to be Limbrick’s spirit. He had indeed heard of their existence, and in the present state of affairs at Urchins he found the actual appearance of such a person a circumstance to ponder on. He also reflected that Professor Prodger was perhaps after all not without discrimination – even although he seemed inclined to confound under one judgement the surely harmless Canon Rixon and this far from agreeable customer. ‘You would like Packford’s whole collection?’ he asked civilly. ‘It isn’t just a matter of certain very important and interesting items, such as you could go after if the executors held a sale?’

  For the first time, Limbrick favoured Appleby with a glance which might have been called closely considering. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you may imagine that I’ve been trying to put over a fast one. That sort of thing is, I suppose, your job. But don’t waste your time. Even if that girl had signed on the dotted line, here and now on this table, there would have had to be a valuation for probate, and so on. I couldn’t really have got away with anything.’ Limbrick smiled insolently. ‘Or not, at least, with very much.’

  ‘If we discuss that sort of thing, Mr Limbrick, perhaps you’ll bear in mind that it was you who raised it, and not me. But there is one question I’d be curious to hear your answer to. Were you having a shot at securing only such books as are in this house at this moment, or were you proposing to buy any other book, in any other place, which may be legally part of the estate of the dead man?’

  ‘The second, naturally. With a collection like Packford’s, you see, there are always likely to be volumes away on loan, and other volumes away at the binder’s. So when one does buy an entire library – and it’s not so uncommon a proceeding as you appear to think, my dear sir – one takes care that such contingencies are allowed for. I think, by the way, that you may have rather an exaggerated idea about the value of books – of the sort of books, I mean, that are collected by a fellow like Packford.’

  ‘It is, at least, a very large collection.’

  ‘That’s perfectly true. There was a big library here before our late friend got going at all. It’s not particularly interesting or valuable. But I don’t myself despise it. In fact, I want it – as I’ve explained to you.’ Limbrick was now speaking with a great air of candour. ‘I’m quite a new man, you see, so far as this sort of thing is concerned. And what I possess, in the way of books, is a small and very tolerably choice collection. What is here at Urchins is, in the main, an extensive and representative sort of library, built up by a good many generations of cultivated people. And that’s something I’ll be glad to have. But now let me return to Lewis Packford’s own additions to it. What he has added is essentially the working library of a scholar. It’s fairly valuable, since he spent quite a lot of money, both knowledgeably and on a constantly rising market, over a long period of years. But don’t imagine that it contains anything fabulous. It doesn’t.’

  ‘I see.’ Appleby’s tone was that of one who is receiving instruction. ‘It certainly wouldn’t contain, say, the most valuable book in the world?’

  Limbrick began to laugh – and then swung round as his laughter was echoed on a shriller note behind him. Professor Prodger had appeared round the hedge. He peered first at Appleby and then – without any particular appearance of malevolence – at Limbrick. ‘A most interesting topic for discussion,’ he said. ‘The most valuable book in the world. Most interesting. But let us define our terms. Let us not propose to go back beyond the cradle of printing. Incunabula, yes. But manuscripts, codices, scrolls, papyri and the like, no. They are not our present concern, not our present concern at all.’ Professor Prodger sat down comfortably before the rustic table, and disposed the lower fringe of his beard over its surface. He seemed to feel that the afternoon was before them. ‘We can say one thing about the hypothetical subject of our discussion,’ he went on. ‘It is something that you, Limbrick, would like to possess. Eh?’

  ‘That depends.’ Limbrick appeared to find Prodger’s arrival disconcerting, and he spoke cautiously.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, my dear fellow. It precisely doesn’t. What the book was – apart from its being the most valuable book in the world – wouldn’t matter at all. What you would like to possess, you know, would be simply the particular object in this particular category of objects – to wit, printed books – that the other fellow would be prepared to give most money for. The other person being that fellow Sankey, or somebody like that.’

  ‘Sankey? I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘In Chicago, I believe. A meat-king, no doubt. But there are half a dozen others, I believe.’ Prodger turned to Appleby. ‘And Limbrick,’ he added with satisfaction, ‘is very small beer, compared with any of them. If the most valuable book in the world ever comes into the open market, it won’t be Limbrick who adds it to his collection.’ Prodger gave his guinea-pig’s laugh. ‘But what is it likely to be?’ He turned to Appleby. ‘Have you any opinion on the matter, Doctor?’

  Appleby shook his head. ‘I don’t know that I have. Not, that is to say, if it’s a matter of a printed book. I’d have thought something unique would be more valuable – although no doubt there are printed books of which only one copy is extant. But what about a diary, or something similar? A diary of Shakespeare’s, say, with jottings of his ideas for plays. Or his travel-diary. What about something like that?’

  For a moment this question met only silence, and Appleby wondered if he was right in instantly feeling something new and wary in the air. ‘Most interesting,’ Limbrick said presently. ‘And perhaps it was something that our late friend said that has put such a notion in your head? Poor Packford would have loved to discover something like that. Prodger, you agree?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly. And Packford had, you know, discovered something. And I wouldn’t positively say that he hadn’t hinted to me’ – and Prodger contrived to look extremely cunning – ‘that Italy somehow came into it. Limbrick, had you by any chance the same impression?’

  Limbrick appeared to be undecided whether he wanted to give an answer to this or not. ‘Packford’s talk was often misleading,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt, no doubt. And we are straying from our topic. A diary or commonplace-book won’t do. Our book must be in print. But, even so, its value may reside in something else. The possibility of marginalia suggests itself. For example, a printed book, every available margin of which has been scribbled over by Coleridge, is likely to be of very considerable value. Were the scribbler Milto
n, the value would be greater still. And were Shakespeare in question’ – Prodger’s appearance of vast cunning increased – ‘we should be, to use a commercial expression, right at the top of the market. Right at the very top, eh? And I couldn’t be absolutely certain that Packford wasn’t a little disposed to hint at something like that. Not your flight, my dear Limbrick. Not your flight at all. Sankey would be the man for something of that sort.’

  Appleby had listened in silence to this obscure sparring. But now he decided on a little exploration. ‘Packford’s solicitor,’ he said, ‘has made a similar suggestion to me. Packford, he believes, had come into possession of something very valuable – and of just the sort we have been considering. But Packford was being very close about it. Following an old habit of his, he was beginning to drop a few hints – but nothing really specific. I wonder whether you would both agree that, just before his death, there was a general sense among you that something of the sort was in the wind?’

  Prodger nodded his head, so that his beard slithered to and fro on the table. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘There can’t be a doubt about it. Limbrick, you would support me in that?’

  ‘Yes, I would. But, of course, Packford may have been a little less vague with some of us than with others.’

  Appleby thought for a moment. ‘The crucial point,’ he said, ‘appears to me to be this. The valuable object, if of the nature we have been considering, was not intrinsically and self-evidently valuable. An old commonplace-book or still more an old printed book with some writing in it, might have been acquired by Packford from somebody quite uninterested and unlikely ever to give another thought to the matter. And as long as Packford remained secretive about it, he was really in a position of some danger, simply as a consequence of that. Do I make myself clear?’

  Limbrick gave an easy laugh. ‘Of course you do. A criminal with the necessary specialized knowledge could murder Packford, steal this valuable object, and then simply turn up with it later as his own lawful property, having invented some plausible yarn as to how it came into his possession. There would be no one to challenge him about the thing. You mentioned Packford’s solicitor. Is that how his mind is working?’

  ‘I believe it is. But you can ask him tonight. I understand that he is coming down to Urchins with Packford’s will.’

  Prodger’s beard rustled again. ‘It occurs to me,’ he said, ‘that Packford, although he has spoken only in the vaguest terms of this supposed find, may have mentioned it specifically in his will. Or if not there, yet in some paper that is bound to turn up as a consequence of his death. So Limbrick’s criminal – in whose existence I am perfectly willing to believe, collectors being what they so notoriously are – must still be going through rather an anxious time. He cannot yet be sure that the precise nature of the pilfered object will not, in fact, be revealed through some such instrumentality as I have indicated. If it is, his crime will have been in vain, since the object will thereby cease to be safely negotiable.’

  ‘Even,’ Limbrick asked, ‘with collectors being what they so notoriously are? He could still get some sort of price, perhaps, on a clandestine basis. I doubt whether Sir John is entirely neglecting that.’

  Appleby nodded. ‘You are quite right. The most valuable book in the world would no doubt command a price even if it were drenched in blood. A murderer could, if he knew his market, get money for it readily enough. But so could a much less desperate fugitive from justice. Clearly one has to consider that.’

  8

  The autumn afternoon would soon be over, but Appleby continued his prowl round Urchins. He had decided to spend the night there if Edward Packford invited him. But he rather thought he would make off to the nearest pub for dinner, thereby relieving the household for a time of what was, after all, a somewhat awkward professional presence. Meanwhile he would complete his circuit of the building.

  It was thus that he came upon a stable-yard. Like many places of its kind, this now smelt not of horses but of oil and petrol. Along one side a row of loose boxes had been adapted to accommodate half-a-dozen cars, and there were in fact five standing side by side now. One was the ancient affair with which Ruth had met Appleby that morning, and some of the others presumably belonged either to Edward Packford or to the guests whom he had so amiably taken over from his dead brother. But presumably one must have been the property of Lewis Packford himself. Appleby was wondering which it might be – although the speculation didn’t seem very material – when the old gardener whom he had seen at the time of his arrival went past wheeling a barrow. Appleby spoke to him. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Now, which would have been Mr Packford’s car, and which Mr Edward’s?’

  ‘Mr Packford’s car?’ The old man shook his head. ‘We called ’un Mr Lewis here – them that had worked here man and boy as I han.’

  ‘Ah, yes – no doubt you knew his father. And which is his car?’

  The old man again shook his head – this time with a more pronouncedly negative suggestion. ‘Mr Packford never did have a car, sir. He was always one for fine horses, like.’

  ‘I see. But I mean Mr Lewis. Which is his car, and which is his brother’s?’

  For a moment the old man appeared to be regarding all this curiosity as uncivil. But then he extended a gnarled hand. ‘That be Mr Edward’s, sir – the green ’un with the dust still on it. Mr Edward, ’e did have ’un out this morning, and that young varmint Tom bain’t got round to it. But Mr Lewis’, sir, that be the big ’un with the good shine to it. It hasn’t been touched since the death, sir. Mr Edward’s special orders.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Appleby nodded and strolled away. But when the old man had departed he retraced his steps. Lewis Packford’s car was a large, undistinguished and fairly new saloon. Appleby went up and peered into it. He tried the doors and found that they were unlocked. He tried the boot, and found that this was unlocked too. He opened it and discovered that it contained a suitcase. He felt the weight of this. It certainly wasn’t empty. He shifted it to try the lid. The catches slid back. He had raised the lid and was peering inside when a voice spoke ironically behind him.

  ‘I suppose it’s your feeling that there will be a sale? Mr Limbrick will get the books, and you will get the old clothes. So you’re poking round: Is that the idea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call these old clothes.’ Appleby turned and confronted Ruth. She had put on an overcoat, and had the air of one who is prepared for an expedition. ‘It’s true they’re not new, but I wouldn’t call them shabby. And, even when they’re neatly folded like this, it’s possible to guess they came from a decent tailor. Have a look at them, will you?’

  Ruth came up and looked. ‘Well?’ she asked challengingly.

  ‘It’s not quite clear to me, you know, just how much domestic life you and your husband managed together. Would it run to your being able to identify his clothes? In fact, are these his?’

  Ruth took another look. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘They are certainly Lewis’. And so is the suitcase.’

  ‘And do you recognize the packing, as well as the things packed?’

  She turned and stared at him. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. Is that how Lewis Packford packed?’

  ‘Pecks of pickled pepper.’ Ruth offered this facetious response rather desperately. Then she shook her head. ‘No – it isn’t. And it isn’t how I pack, either.’

  ‘That is an additional point of interest, no doubt.’ Appleby poked at the topmost garments. ‘He didn’t keep a manservant. But perhaps Mrs Husbands, or a housemaid, packed for him. Would you say it’s like that sort of packing?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Ruth now spoke slowly. ‘It’s certainly not by Lewis, I’m sure. He would chuck things in anyhow. On the other hand, it doesn’t strike me as being by what you would call a professional. Not, you know, that I live in a world of valets and lady’s maids – as you, Sir John, no doubt do. So my opinion is not authoritative. It’s a careful job, but an amateur on
e. That’s my opinion – for what it’s worth.’

  ‘I should always value your opinion.’ Appleby said this with a courtesy that didn’t sound wholly ironic. ‘There’s a smaller case here as well. Shall we open it too?’ He lifted up a square leather case, not much bigger than a handbag.

  ‘We?’ Ruth looked at Appleby with some indignation. ‘I don’t know that I’ve taken on the post of your first assistant. But open away. It’s clear enough what it is: a useless little collection of brushes and bottles and things of the kind that some women travel with.’

  Appleby opened the case and confirmed this prediction. ‘I suppose you’re not,’ he asked coolly, ‘dissimulating the fact that it’s your property?’

  ‘Certainly not. I don’t traipse around with an affair of that sort.’

  ‘I don’t think Alice would be so scornful of it. In fact, at a guess, I’d say it was hers, and that she’s rather proud of it.’ Quite casually, Appleby shut down first the little travelling case and then the boot of the car. ‘So what does our discovery suggest?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ Ruth’s voice was steady, but her lip was slightly trembling. ‘And now I’d better go about my business. I’ve promised Edward to go and fetch this man Rood. I suppose you wouldn’t like the run?’

  Appleby was surprised. He was even – rather absurdly – pleased. ‘I’ll certainly come,’ he said. ‘But I’ll go in and see Edward first. It’s my notion to get a meal elsewhere, and then come back to Urchins for the night.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘I don’t grudge you a quiet grill and a pint of bitter. The Husbands cuisine is rather distinguished. But I’m bound to confess I’m getting a bit tired of the conditions under which I’m privileged to partake of it.’