Limbrick blew out a cloud of cigarette-smoke. ‘Huh,’ he said impudently.
‘Huh?’ Moody eyed Limbrick aggressively. Then, perhaps warned by some interior spasm, he reached for his pills again. ‘Huh,’ he said.
‘The point was this,’ Appleby went on. ‘The Cintio had appeared obscurely, and it had been changing hands obscurely. If it had left in its wake, so to speak, nothing more serious than a suicide, Mr Moody or some similar purchaser might have risked coming out into the open with it, after all. Once it was heard about, it would almost certainly be examined by experts, and the danger of its being proved a fake would be very real – so that once more Rood might be booked for trouble. Murder is a different matter. Once any strong suspicion that Packford had been murdered got abroad – once it was known that the police were seriously pursuing the possibility, and so forth – then it would become a very dubious and dangerous possession indeed, and its new owner would almost certainly keep quiet about it. Hence Rood’s new attitude. He lay in wait for me – I can now see – after Packford’s funeral, and began airing a theory of murder and robbery. Indeed he had already begun on that line with my colleague Cavill – expressing his conviction, for instance, that the message on the postcard was a forgery. Later he was to assure me that it was a brilliant forgery – which is a pretty enough instance of the operation of his very large conceit. And of course it was Rood who got yesterday’s evening papers to turn Packford’s death into a sensation and reveal that I had come down to investigate. Perhaps he knew, by the time he did this, that Mr Moody had actually arrived in England. And here, incidentally, we come to a yet more compelling reason for Rood’s turning Packford’s death into murder. There’s just nothing that Mr Moody likes better than that sort of thing. He has a remarkable collection of more or less blood-streaked relics. Isn’t that so, Mr Moody?’
‘Huh?’ Moody considered for a moment, and then appeared to resolve on speech. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘And the collection is growing all the time?’
‘Sure. I can get those things when I want them. I can get most anything when I want it.’
‘Exactly. That, if I may say so, is a most succinct statement of your position. And when you read in the English papers last night a lot of stuff about Lewis Packford’s having been murdered, you wanted his Cintio even more than you’d wanted it before?’
‘Sure. That’s only sense, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’ Appleby nodded with conviction. ‘In addition to all those scribblings by Shakespeare, the book would have this further associational interest. I believe that’s the term. And now we’re almost finished with Rood. But not quite.’
Canon Rixon shook his head. ‘And, meantime, the wretched man is finished with us. I am bound to say I think it’s to his credit. The Archbishop would no doubt disagree with me. And of course theological considerations must not be ignored. Still, Rood has, so to speak, taken himself off before a great deal of horrible degradation in courts of law. I admire his courage.’
Appleby was silent for a moment. ‘I at least admire his cleverness – and the less reluctantly, perhaps because it was, in a last analysis, of such a crack-brained sort. One can’t, in my line of territory, afford to admire anything at all in a really tiptop and thoroughly capable criminal. But those on the lunatic fringe one can extend a little charity to, even when their cleverness has drawn them into horrible crime. But that’s by the way. I now come to the second stage of my investigation.’
‘You certainly seem disposed to give us good measure.’ Edward Packford had risen to his feet and strolled to the window. Now he was surveying the whole company with a speculative eye. ‘There’s more to come? Something more lies behind Rood’s taking the course he did?’
‘What lies behind it,’ Limbrick said, ‘is presumably the good Sir John’s chasing him up – chasing him up with what I myself would still describe as a wonderfully convincing fantasy. Perhaps Rood judged it so convincing that he didn’t see much hope in the mere fact of its being a high-class policeman’s fairy-tale. And that would be too bad.’
Alice, who had continued mute during the further intricacies of Appleby’s exposition, was suddenly prompted to make a purely human remark. ‘All this would be a little less bad,’ she said to Limbrick, ‘if you kept your bloody mouth shut.’
‘I thoroughly agree,’ Prodger sat up so suddenly that a couple of startled moths flew out of his beard. ‘Limbrick, having been humilatingly exposed in reprehensible courses not many hours ago, ought in mere decency to be silent.’ He turned to Alice. ‘Nor, my dear young woman, need you blush at so legitimate a use of the resources of the vulgar tongue. Sir John, proceed.’
‘Thank you. Well, the final stage of the affair turns on the fact that Rood liked, as he expressed it to me, to be ready for all eventualities. Even, apparently, for tolerably unlikely ones. He may have got wind of the fact that Mr Moody – whose reputation and habits I discovered to be well known to him – was in this country. But when Rood returned to Urchins yesterday with Packford’s will and so forth, he can surely have seen only a remote chance of Moody’s actually being here or in the neighbourhood. Nevertheless Rood was prepared for that, as for other things. He brought two suitcases with him.’
‘So he did.’ Ruth Packford nodded. ‘I noticed them when we collected him from the railway station.’
‘Quite so. And you may have noticed something more. They were twin suitcases.’ Appleby smiled grimly. ‘And that is something which no Napoleon should provide himself with.’
‘Do you mean,’ Rushout asked curiously, ‘because they can get muddled up?’
‘Just that. But now I must say something about Mrs Husbands. I see she isn’t here in the library, so I can begin with a well-deserved compliment. Amid all these alarms, the household over which she presides continues to run very smoothly.’
Rixon nodded emphatically. ‘I quite agree. If the cook, for example, has been discomposed at any time the circumstance has never been allowed to impinge upon our host’s table. And that is truly remarkable, we shall all agree.’
Appleby nodded. ‘It is more immediately relevant to my own argument, however, that the house-maiding seems to remain equally efficient. My own suitcase was unpacked for me in the most orthodox way. But Rood’s was not.’
Edward Packford came back from the window and sat down again. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said mildly, ‘that’s it’s too late to apologize to him. But is the circumstance highly relevant?’
‘As it happens, it is. Yesterday evening, and by mere chance, I became aware of Mrs Husbands coming out of what later revealed itself as Rood’s bedroom. She came out as if anxious not to be seen doing so. That was rather odd. But much odder was the fact that she appeared to be in a state of shock, and even perhaps terror. I resolved to investigate the matter as soon as I had an opportunity. It was thus that I later came upon Rood preparing to go to bed. I had a conversation with him, which I found interesting in several particulars. But much more interesting was something I simply saw as soon as I opened the door. Rood was standing by one of his suit-cases, and fishing out a pair of pyjamas. Why hadn’t this job been done for him, as it had been done for me? There was an obvious answer. He had forgotten to unlock the suitcase containing his clothes. But this could scarcely in itself have had a shattering effect upon Mrs Husbands, who had presumably been going round the house to see that everything of that sort had been attended to. There must be some other explanation. And that other explanation was clear. Rood had failed to unlock the right suitcase simply because he had in fact unlocked the wrong one. Its contents had been unpromising, and the housemaid had retired baffled. But Mrs Husbands had investigated. And she had come upon something that completely shattered her. To put the point crudely, she did a little covert rummaging among Rood’s possessions – and her action was the proximate cause of Rood’s death.’
Edward Packford had stood up again. ‘It seems to me,’ he said seriously, ‘that this is a very
grave statement. If the matter is to be taken further now, I think Mrs Husbands should be present. Shall I fetch her?’
For a fraction of a second Appleby hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, do,’ he said.
Edward moved to the door. ‘I presume,’ he asked, ‘that you have already had some talk with her about this queer development?’
‘I had some talk with her very shortly after Rood’s death.’
‘And she admitted finding something shattering – I think that was your word – in the suitcase which Rood had so rashly unlocked?’
‘She did.’
Edward nodded. ‘She ought not to have rummaged. I’m surprised at her. Still, if it helps to clear things up – as you seem to think it does – nobody’s going to blame the lady. I’ll find her right away.’
Edward left the library, and there was a long silence. It was broken – rather nervously – by Rushout. ‘You say that Moody’s being here was an eventuality for which this unfortunate and bloody-minded solicitor had arrived prepared. And you have spun us this yarn about a right and a wrong suitcase. I take it he had brought the Cintio back with him? It was what Mrs Husbands stumbled on?’
‘He had certainly brought the Cintio back with him.’ Appleby spoke out of what appeared to be a profound and sombre abstraction.
‘Then I must say he had a nerve. He was proposing, if the opportunity offered, actually to do a deal with Moody here on the spot?’
‘Just that. When I told him that Mr Moody would be around in the morning, Rood said very happily that in that case he’d make bold to stop at Urchins a little longer than he had intended to. He and Moody, he said, would certainly have a chat.’ Appleby smiled faintly. ‘He was wrong about that.’
‘I can only repeat: he had a nerve.’
There was a long, awkward silence. Then Appleby appeared to rouse himself. ‘A nerve? Well, yes. He drew my attention to the fact that the faking of a suicide for Lewis Packford had been a palpably false step, likely to direct investigation into a very narrow field: that of persons who could conceivably bring off the forgery on that postcard. Or words to that effect. He was a bold criminal, without a doubt.’
‘Edward must be having difficulty in finding Mrs Husbands.’ Ruth spoke casually – but with one hand she was nervously tapping the arm of her chair.
‘Yes,’ Appleby said.
Limbrick made to light another cigarette, and then appeared to think better of it. Alice’s broadside had shaken him. Alice herself appeared to be uneasy – which was no doubt the reason why Canon Rixon had taken once more to a fatherly patting of her hand. Prodger was perhaps asleep. Moody was glancing about the library – warily, but at the same time with the assurance of a man who gets most anything he wants. And then the door opened and Mrs Husbands came in.
She was alone. She shut the door behind her, and looked round the room. She was carrying a book in an ancient leather binding. She walked up to Ruth and put the book down on a table beside her. ‘Mr Packford,’ she said, in a strained voice, ‘asked me to give you this. He asked me to say that of course it is yours – and that he is sorry it isn’t worth much.’
Ruth glanced at the book, and then swiftly from Mrs Husbands to Appleby. ‘But where is he?’ she asked. ‘Where is Edward?’
Nobody had a reply. And then, in the instant’s silence, in some distant part of the house, there rang out a single pistol-shot.
Alice was the first to spring to her feet. ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What was that?’
Appleby too rose. ‘I am afraid,’ he said quietly, ‘that it is another long farewell. The last.’
It was a couple of hours later, and Appleby and Ruth Packford were alone in the garden.
‘You let him go and do it,’ she said. ‘I think I admire that – taking the responsibility, I mean, of letting him go. But I suppose that, in a policeman, it wasn’t quite regular. You ought to have arrested him. And endless horrors ought to have followed. Do they hang people nowadays? I forget.’
Appleby made no reply. They walked on. The morning was faintly autumnal, and already sycamore and chestnut leaves were falling on the fringes of the lawn. ‘I wonder,’ Appleby said, ‘what happens to this place now? Is it all tied up, so that some distant Packford has to be found to take it over? Or does it come to you?’
‘Rood would know.’ Ruth made a long pause. ‘Why did he kill Lewis? It was madness. It was an absurdity.’
‘Yes, it was. And the only real answer is that he thought it clever. Of course he was going to make money out of Moody, and all that. But it was his own cleverness he was in love with.’
‘And Edward?’
‘He was devoted to Lewis. I remember, early on, a sudden fire in him when he said he wished he had been here when Lewis was killed. He meant that the mere intensity of his feeling would have directed him to be killed. And he said something even more revealing about his having a flair for summary justice. Or something of the sort. But one must realize – if one is to get the simple moral issues of this ghastly business straight – that Edward Packford committed precisely as grave a crime as Rood. He fancied himself as an embodiment of justice. Or, if you prefer it, he fancied himself as a public executioner. He judged Rood, and he put Rood to death. Well, he had no business to. He was a murderer. He would have been a murderer, even if his motive hadn’t been, in actual fact, vitiated and corrupt.’
‘You mean that Edward had a profit motive, as well as a notion of executing justice?’
‘Certainly he had. He was going to kill two birds with one stone – and feather his own nest on the proceeds.’ Appleby’s voice had an unwonted hardness. ‘He was lucky to be let blow his own brains out. And there’s an end to it.’
‘Very well. There’s an end of it. But there are still things I don’t understand.’
‘Not many, I imagine. You see, Rood had with him in that second suitcase what you might call his whole bag of tricks. Mrs Husbands may have seen the Cintio – but I doubt whether it would have conveyed much to her. What she certainly did see – as she admitted to me finally last night – was a notebook of Rood’s. It contained, jotted down in his hand, a number of appropriate Shakespeare quotations which might have been useful as last messages. Mrs Husbands opened the thing straight on Farewell, a long farewell. No wonder that she was staggered. She went straight to Edward and told him of her discovery. He went at once to Rood’s bedroom and found not only the notebook but the Cintio. This, I believe, was while I was having some talk with Alice. When I subsequently saw Edward, he was a changed man. He had realized almost the whole truth about his brother’s death. And presently he was to glimpse a tremendous tempation.’
‘The Cintio?’
‘Yes. Remember that Urchins isn’t at all flourishing, and that he was left with the task of keeping it up without his brother’s purely personal fortune, which comes to you. It was an inconvenient sort of inheritance. The precise nature of the book – Cintio’s Ecatommiti with its marginalia – was real news to him; and he at once understood its value. He also knew about Moody, who would give an enormous sum for such a thing even if it had to remain an absolutely secret part of his collection. Moreover he felt – Edward felt – that justice required that he, Edward, should have it. Edward, as we have seen, was very strong on justice. It’s what’s killed him.’
Ruth shivered. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I see that. But you know, he’d only have had to ask me for the damned book. Wouldn’t he know that?’
‘Apparently not. His case was – these were his own words to me – that you were entitled to anything you had a reasonable expectation of. And that didn’t include this enormously valuable discovery of his brother’s. So he avenged his brother and stole from him – or from you – in one and the same act. He killed Rood, left on his table the ripped-out page from the notebook, and made off with the Ecatommiti. He still didn’t know of course, that it was a forgery. And even when that disconcerting truth broke on him this morning, he still thought he was all right. It w
as only when he learnt I had got Mrs Husbands’ story that he realized it was all up with him.’
Ruth shook her head. She looked dazed and weary. They turned back towards the house. ‘At least it’s over,’ she said. ‘A ghastly story. Is there a moral to it?’
Appleby thought for a moment. ‘There’s no moral. There’s only a caution.’
‘And that is?’
‘When you’re in the middle of Italy, think twice when a voice calls “Come in”.’
Note on Inspector (later, Sir John) Appleby Series
John Appleby first appears in Death at the President’s Lodging, by which time he has risen to the rank of Inspector in the police force. A cerebral detective, with ready wit, charm and good manners, he rose from humble origins to being educated at ‘St Anthony’s College’, Oxford, prior to joining the police as an ordinary constable.
Having decided to take early retirement just after World War II, he nonetheless continued his police career at a later stage and is subsequently appointed an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, where his crime solving talents are put to good use, despite the lofty administrative position. Final retirement from the police force (as Commissioner and Sir John Appleby) does not, however, diminish Appleby’s taste for solving crime and he continues to be active, Appleby and the Ospreys marking his final appearance in the late 1980’s.
In Appleby’s End he meets Judith Raven, whom he marries and who has an involvement in many subsequent cases, as does their son Bobby and other members of his family.
Appleby Titles in order of first publication
The Long Farewell Page 18