‘And do you think that Crabtree’s return was really for the purpose of making capital out of being Daphne’s father?’
‘Perhaps it was. Perhaps he merely had a natural desire to see the child and be in some sense acknowledged; or perhaps what was chiefly in his mind was something totally different. Two things were evident at our encounter with him. He did have some position or intention that he wasn’t concerned should appear. And something had puzzled or disconcerted him.’
‘At least he contrived to do a good deal of disconcerting himself. His coming upon Mrs Coulson and Dr West was pure chance. But almost everybody else in the affair appears to have been badly bothered by him in what might be called a meaningful way.’
‘Quite so. But the question is: which of them was brought to the pitch of murder, and why? If everybody is to have a favourite suspect, who is yours?’
‘Oh, Alfred Binns.’ Having convinced herself that John was now as near possessing the solution of the mystery as made no matter, Judith spoke without much feeling of responsibility. ‘Daphne is really more than a daughter to him, not less. He believed Daphne to be ignorant of the truth, and he believed that she would find it shattering. He was prepared to do anything rather than have it raked up.’
‘It’s a tenable theory. Of course, Daphne was shattered; so shattered, despite her previous knowledge, that one can imagine her doing almost anything. To be publicly viewed as the offspring not merely of an adulterous relationship, but of an adulterous relationship with a servant: that was the unbearable thing. The poor child possesses no sort of background or education to stand up to it.’
‘She might take some comfort from the Crabtree Tomb. There were Crabtrees centuries before there were Binnses. And the peasant Seth Crabtree, for that matter, had a certain fineness not to be distinguished in the bourgeois Alfred Binns.’ Judith was silent for a moment. ‘But my speculations on the case are over,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where to begin, and I think you do.’
‘Yes, I know where to begin. With the barge.’
‘The barge, John?’ Judith was entirely at a loss.
‘The beautifully carved little barge which Crabtree made long ago.’
‘That is important?’
‘Its disappearance from beside Crabtree’s body is.’
Judith thought for a moment.
‘It contained a missing will – something like that?’
‘Nothing so melodramatic. It might simply have reminded somebody of a significant and awkward fact.’
15
The company gathered in the library of Scroop House was a large one. There was a corresponding largeness about the tray with glasses and decanters which was being brought in by a parlourmaid. And Bertram Coulson, although he wore a preoccupied air, turned to her disapprovingly.
‘These things are too heavy for you, Jane. You ought not to be single-handed. Where is Hollywood?’
Jane looked disconcerted.
‘If you please, sir, Mr Hollywood is nowhere to be found. And Mrs Roberts said I had better bring the things myself.’
‘Then Mrs Roberts was quite right. But surely it isn’t Hollywood’s evening off?’
‘No, sir. But nobody can find him.’
The parlourmaid fled. Bertram Coulson turned back to his guests with an air of having to apologize for having thus aired a purely domestic matter.
‘Sir John is in charge,’ he said. ‘And I see no need for any preliminaries. We are all known to each other. Except, possibly, this gentleman? And Coulson turned rather dubiously towards the innkeeper from the Three Leggers.
‘David Channing-Kennedy, sir’ Mr Channing-Kennedy had thought it proper to put on a purple velvet smoking jacket of Edwardian suggestion to visit Scroop, and he was thus in a much grander turnout than anybody else. ‘Herefordshire Channing-Kennedys, as a matter of fact. And, of course, the jolly old RAF. Run the pub at Nether Scroop now, as a matter of fact. Never brought you along some letters of introduction. But delighted to drop in in this informal way.’ Mr Channing-Kennedy smiled affably behind his enormous moustache. But his eyes were not those of a man in whom delight is in fact a predominant emotion.
‘Very pleased to have you,’ Bertram Coulson said a shade stiffly. ‘But we mustn’t pretend that this is a social occasion. Sir John Appleby is in charge, as I have said. Sir John.’
Thus formally charged, Appleby stood up.
‘We are met,’ he said, ‘to clear up Seth Crabtree’s death. Perhaps some explanation is needed of my asking one or two people to come along. Mr Channing-Kennedy, as he has just mentioned, manages the Jolly Leggers, in which Crabtree spent some of his last hours. Dr West’ – Appleby paused for a fraction of a second – ‘happened to have a certain stretch of the canal under his observation during part of yesterday afternoon. So, as it happened, did Colonel Raven, who–’
‘Who saw nothing at all.’ It was the Colonel himself who had thus firmly interrupted. ‘I have felt it as my duty to come along, as a neighbourly act to Coulson’ – the Colonel’s tone became yet firmer – ‘and Mrs Coulson. But I saw nothing at all.’
‘And moreover,’ Appleby went on smoothly, ‘Colonel Raven’s memories of this part of the country extend a fairly long way back. So he may be useful to us. These, I think, are the only preliminary remarks needed. We can now clear the matter up.’
‘What do you mean by clearing the matter up?’ It was Dr West who spoke. ‘Simply discovering who killed this old man?’
‘Just that, sir. Who killed him, and why. We have no other topic of inquiry before us. I think it is a fact, Dr West, that you saw Crabtree yesterday afternoon?’
‘Certainly. It must have been a little before half past one. He appeared to have crossed the canal by the lock, and to be taking a look at the old boathouse.’
‘He went inside?’
‘I think not. I believe it is commonly kept locked. But I cannot be certain, since I was merely walking past.’
‘Thank you. Mrs Coulson, I believe it so happens that you can confirm this?’
‘Yes, Sir John. I had taken a walk through the park, and I did just glimpse somebody who was probably Crabtree.’
‘Am I right in thinking that this doesn’t quite square with something your butler said earlier today?’
‘Yes, indeed. Hollywood described us as engaged together in examining the table linen. But in fact he was thinking of the day before, and I failed to notice the confusion.’
‘Quite so.’ Appleby nodded calmly. ‘Such confusions may, of course, be unfortunate when related to criminal occurrences. But it is unlikely that this one need bother us again. We now have Crabtree observed close to the lock – and alive not very long before his body was discovered in it. We have to deal with only a short span of time. And now let us consider the matter more at large.’ Appleby looked round with the appearance of a kind of innocent vagueness. ‘Why should anybody want to kill him?’
‘Wasn’t he coming back to this place after a great many years – and proposing to tell tales about happy times gone by?’
It was Channing-Kennedy who offered this suggestion – smiling agreeably round the company as he did so.
‘That is a most interesting suggestion.’ Appleby seemed much struck by the novelty of the idea Channing-Kennedy had produced. ‘But tales about whom? We might go round this gathering and try to discover. And we might begin almost at random. Say, with Mr Peter Binns.’
‘With me?’ Peter Binns, who had been staring gloomily round the room, sat up with a jerk.
‘Yes, Mr Binns. Would you say that Crabtree had a tale to tell about you?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Rather surprisingly, Peter spoke straight out.
‘To your discredit – which I take to be Mr Channing-Kennedy’s general idea?’
‘Yes, to my discredit, all right.’
‘Grave discredit?’
‘I don’t think I’d call it that. It began when I was a kid, and – and went on for a bit. Something abo
ut money. Not terribly nice, I’m afraid.’
‘But not something that would have prompted you to smash in this old man’s head?’
There was a startled silence.
‘Oh, no,’ Peter Binns said simply. ‘It wouldn’t be my sort of thing.’
‘That seems a reasonable point.’ Appleby nodded, not unkindly, at the young man. ‘So let us next consider your sister. In the context, I mean, of Crabtree’s telling tales. Miss Binns, could Crabtree have said or revealed anything at all which could in any way reflect discredit on anything you ever did?’
‘No, he couldn’t.’ Daphne Binns had taken a deep breath by way of response to the dexterity of Appleby’s question.
‘Thank you.’ Appleby turned to Alfred Binns. ‘Mr Binns, I think the matter is rather different in your case?’
‘I agree.’
‘You had once been uneasy about Crabtree’s influence over your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not to an immoderate or irrational degree?’
‘I think not.’
‘You know now, I think, that Crabtree had been blameworthy in putting a certain temptation to dishonesty in Peter’s way when he was quite small?’
‘I do.’
‘It is a subject which we can dismiss, I think – although, of course, it was your uneasiness from long ago that brought you down here yesterday. So far, then, we don’t appear to be making a great deal of progress – except in rather a negative way. And it now seems as if our host is the only person whom it remains to question in regard to Mr Channing-Kennedy’s conjecture. Mr Coulson, I think I am right in supposing that you set eyes on Crabtree for the first time in your life not much more than a couple of hours before his death?’
‘That is so.’
‘So there doesn’t seem much possibility that Crabtree had returned bringing trouble for you?’
‘That doesn’t follow, I’m afraid.’ Bertram Coulson had shaken his head decidedly. ‘No – that doesn’t follow at all.’
‘Crabtree’s turning up as he did,’ Bertram Coulson went on, ‘made me very uneasy. He was civil, but I had an obscure sense that he had some unconfessed aim. This might have had nothing to do with me. But I was alarmed. In giving an account of my meeting with him yesterday, I have to confess that I was not frank about that. What is in question is the validity of my title to Scroop.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn,’ Appleby asked, ‘that Crabtree got drunk in Mr Channing-Kennedy’s inn the evening before he came to see you, and swore that he could have you turned out of Scroop if he wanted to? Mr Channing-Kennedy, that is more or less what you reported to me?’
‘Quite right.’ Channing-Kennedy did not speak without a shade of hesitation. ‘Sorry to say anything that may be upsetting. But that was the kind of talk this old rascal was putting up.’
‘That surprises you?’ Appleby repeated, turning to Coulson.
‘Well, yes – it does. Not that I quite know why. For I have always, you see, had a slight uneasiness about being here. There was another Coulson you may have heard of – Miles Coulson – who was commonly expected to be Sara Coulson’s heir and successor. What has always been in my head is something like this. At a certain point the old lady left the place to me. Later, and when entirely in her right mind, she made a will leaving it to Miles. But right at the end, and when decidedly eccentric, she hid it away where it has never been found. Something like that. Now Crabtree was in some obscure way in her confidence, and it was not improbable that he would know where this instrument was concealed. So his appearing at Scroop stirred up an old anxiety in my mind.’
‘What utter nonsense!’ It was Alfred Binns who spoke impatiently. ‘A little knowledge of the law–’
‘That is what my husband said.’ Judith interrupted in her turn. ‘But I wanted to point out to him that the law wasn’t the point. Mr Coulson has a very high sense of responsibility about Scroop. He would feel absolutely bound to honour a wish of old Mrs Coulson’s, even if it were found to have no legal force.’
Dr West suddenly leant forward in his chair.
‘Isn’t this very great nonsense?’ he asked acidly. ‘If Mr Coulson is the sort of person who has these delicate feelings about the ownership of his estate, then he certainly didn’t kill Crabtree on the off-chance that Crabtree was bringing him trouble in the matter. It seems to me that this inquiry is getting nowhere. We may still be sitting here at midnight.’
‘Midnight is my deadline, as a matter of fact,’ Appleby said easily. ‘But I hope we shall all be asleep by then. Or nearly all of us.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Channing-Kennedy said heartily. ‘Brandy and shut-eye will be just right by me. Can’t help feeling all this is rather a lot of fuss about an old peasant. Hope I don’t speak out of turn.’ He looked round affably. ‘Anybody care for a drop of anything now?’
This odd importation of Mr Channing-Kennedy’s professional character into the library of Scroop House appeared mildly to surprise Bertram Coulson. He fetched Channing-Kennedy a drink, looking at him a little wonderingly as he did so.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Daphne Binns said suddenly, ‘let’s get on.’
‘Then may I make a fresh start?’ Appleby looked round to gather the attention of the company. ‘I want to forget about a hypothetical missing will, and consider something else that I myself know to be missing. I mean a small carved model of a canal barge, the work of Seth Crabtree when he was quite a young man. Mr Channing-Kennedy ought to know what I mean, for the thing apparently stood on a chimney piece in his inn for a great number of years.’
‘I think I’ve noticed what you mean.’ Channing-Kennedy sounded puzzled and uneasy. ‘But I’ve never had the thing in my hands. Only been here a few years, you know. Herefordshire’s my part.’
‘Crabtree took it with him when he left your inn yesterday. It was his property, and he presumably felt entitled to do so. But when his body was found, the little barge had disappeared. Careful search has failed to bring it to light. So the only possible conclusion is that the murderer took it away with him.’
There was a baffled silence.
‘It couldn’t be valuable?’ Peter Binns asked.
‘I think not. Still, it was very beautifully made. And that is the point.’ Appleby stood up and turned to Bertram Coulson. ‘I wonder whether I might have your leave for Hilliard’s people to bring in an exhibit?’
‘An exhibit?’ Coulson was startled. ‘Anything you like.’
Amid another baffled silence Appleby crossed the library and threw open the beautiful double doors which were its main entrance. He stood back, and there was a sound of heavy movement outside. Then four constables entered. They were carrying with effort a large oblong wooden crate. They lowered it carefully to the floor and withdrew.
‘How did you come by that?’ Channing-Kennedy asked the question.
‘From close by the Jolly Leggers, as a matter of fact. It was on a punt, some twenty yards inside the tunnel.’
‘How damned odd.’ Channing-Kennedy drained his glass and stood up. He gave Bertram Coulson his affable smile. ‘Have another of these, old boy, if you don’t mind.’ He strolled over to the table with the decanters, which stood in a window embrasure. ‘And what’s inside?’
‘Inside the crate?’ Appleby paused. ‘Do you know Mr Coulson’s butler?’
‘Of course I don’t know Mr Coulson’s butler.’
‘I thought you might. His name’s Hollywood. And what is inside the crate is Hollywood’s dead body.’
This time, the silence was a stunned one. It was broken by Mrs Coulson, who gave a low cry.
‘In a manner of speaking, that is to say.’ Appleby looked straight at Channing-Kennedy. ‘Put it that what is in that crate means that Hollywood is as good as a dead man. Or say a hanged man. Quite prosaically, what the crate contains is something – or something looking like – what would be called a chinoiserie-decorated Chinese lacquer kneehole writing table of Serpentine
shape.’
These fantastic words had an instantaneous and equally fantastic sequel. There was a crash of glass, and Channing-Kennedy disappeared into the night.
Outside, the engine of a car burst into life, whistles blew, there was some shouting. Appleby turned back into the library. His racing and chasing days were over; all that was somebody else’s job.
‘Exit Channing-Kennedy,’ he said. ‘If he comes back, it won’t be as Channing-Kennedy. It will be as Miles Coulson.’
‘I knew it.’ Bertram Coulson had stood up. ‘When he offered my brandy round, I knew in my heart that it was he.’
16
‘May I go back a little?’ Appleby asked. The uproar of flight and pursuit had faded into the night. ‘The little barge was beautifully made. And that was the point. Seth Crabtree was an admirable carpenter, well able to make clever little hiding places for Mrs Coulson in her last years. But he was more. He was a superb natural craftsman. When her choicest pieces needed repair, Crabtree did the job. He was the Grand Collector’s right-hand man. And remember that Sara Coulson was the Grand Collector.’
‘Ormolu and OMs,’ Colonel Raven said. ‘Pottery and prima donnas.’
‘Precisely. And two things stick out about Scroop House, all through the record. Sara Coulson filled it with the very finest things from cellars to attics. And all this has been preserved in situ. The house was let furnished immediately she died. Later, Mr Bertram Coulson took over, and kept everything as it was. Just as – well, just as an antique shop, the place was a treasure house of the first order. Crudely put, the furniture was worth a fortune.’
‘And so it is,’ Bertram Coulson said. ‘I have the valuation for probate. And I’ve been told that the market value of the stuff has increased fantastically since then.’
‘Quite so. A few weeks ago, a Louis XV black and gold lacquer commode fetched $48,000 in New York. Do you mind, Coulson, if I have in those Bobbies again?’
The constables returned. They lifted the lid of the crate. Regardless of litter, they removed a good deal of wood wool. And then they produced a piece of furniture.
A Connoisseur's Case Page 17