Appleby's Other Story

by Michael Innes

  ‘Tommy, if I’m coming in on this thing, don’t let me give the impression of being dragged in screaming. Treat me as straining at the leash. It will feel nicer that way.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I knew I could count on you.’ Pride was at once delicately uneffusive. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  They mounted the steps together. There was still a constable at the front door, and the saluting business was gone through with again. Pride seemed to feel that he ought to apologize for it.

  ‘Odd thing,’ he said. ‘I find myself not liking them doing that quite so smartly. Don’t approve of the police going para-military. Old-style copper, bringing his finger to his helmet in any wandering way he fancied, much more my idea of the thing. Don’t want Wellington Barracks all over again. But of course one has to keep such outmoded feelings under one’s hat.’

  ‘Very prudent.’

  ‘Don’t much care for having a chap at the door like that, either. Army of occupation, eh? But one has to think of the reporters and press-photographers, you know. They’ll be turning up any time now – all assurance and BBC English and old school ties. You have to have a stout fellow at the gate, or the impertinent bastards are all over the place. Of course it’s their living, poor devils. When I see them retreat baffled, I feel I’ve denied them a square meal.’

  ‘That’s very compassionate of you.’

  ‘But, John, I think I ought to warn you.’ They were now in Elvedon’s imposing hall again, and Pride had lowered his voice – less at being impressed by the surrounding splendours, perhaps, than from a realistic sense of their treacherous acoustic properties. ‘It may be rather a nasty business.’

  ‘Nasty?’

  ‘Sexual.’ Pride had lowered his voice still further, so that Appleby had a momentary dim vision of unspeakable depravities. ‘Spot of adultery going on here, it seems. Not a decent thing in a private house, at all. A hotel the place for that sort of thing among honest people, eh? Sorry to say it. But the whole damned mansion smells to me of pretty poor form.’

  6

  They went straight to the room in which Maurice Tytherton had died. Or in which – to make an elementary point – the dead body of Maurice Tytherton had been found. Since Elvedon was no Blenheim or Castle Howard, one consequence of its over-imposing hall had been the hoisting of a number of rooms of principal consequence up to the first floor. This seemed to Appleby to produce a slight sense of muddle, and must certainly conduce, as in a town house, to a good deal of laborious trotting up and down stairs. But as the main staircase was a singularly daring and graceful circular affair of finely poised masonry, perhaps that was no hardship. For footmen and housemaids of an earlier age, toiling with water, coal, and refreshment whether light or heavy on more constricted arteries virtually buried within a wall, it must have been a different matter. But then servants (as the philanthropic Miss Kentwell had remarked) are by a wise dispensation of providence created less sensitive than their employers. In this present age there was presumably a certain amount of mechanical conveyance in the form of hoists or lifts.

  What Tytherton had called, it seemed, his workroom was on the first floor, and looked down on the terrace before the south front of the house. It wasn’t particularly large or elaborately furnished, but this made all the more striking the fact that over the mantelpiece there was something really splendid: a three-quarter length portrait of a nobleman by Goya. Appleby noticed it with a start of surprise which had nothing to do with the late Maurice Tytherton and his affairs. He had owned a much-prized colour-print of it as a boy – at which time, he seemed to remember, the original had been in the possession of the Duke of Horton. Tytherton must have acquired it at the great sale at Scamnum. He must have been quite a high-flying collector if he went in for that sort of thing.

  But now Inspector Henderson had begun his narrative. He was, as Pride had said, an unassuming man, with plenty of experience which had yet not, perhaps, taken him into the neighbourhood of quite this kind of thing before. He addressed himself to Appleby, since what he had to say the Chief Constable was already familiar with.

  ‘What we have, sir, is a big house full of valuable things, where a moderately successful burglary is known to have been carried out a couple of years ago. Plenty left for all comers, if they care to have a go at it. So I drive up with this in my head, you may say, when I get word that the owner has been shot dead in the middle of the night.’

  ‘The middle of the night?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Perhaps a misleading expression. Late at night: some time after eleven o’clock.’

  ‘It sounds a little early for a burglary, even in the country.’

  ‘I quite agree. But I do have to have the possibility of robbery – of Mr Tytherton surprising one kind of thief or another, say – in my head from the start. It tells me I must waste no time before trying to discover whether anything notable is in fact missing, and whether there are signs of any breaking in. In a sense, you may say, the relations of the various people in the house will keep. But time may be of the essence of stopping valuable property from disappearing for good.’

  ‘Very true, Inspector. Any results?’

  ‘Entirely negative, so far. No positive sign of breaking and entering. But it’s not easy to arrive at certainty there when you’re dealing with a large place like Elvedon. Even without an accomplice in the house, a thief might well be able to prospect a means of entrance which it might take us quite some time to tumble to.’

  ‘Not a doubt about that. And the question of missing property?’

  ‘We’ve worked hard, but it’s early days to say. Elvedon’s not like a suburban villa, that you can check over with the owner or his wife in fifteen minutes. Then again, you see, there’s the question of who really knows.’

  ‘Walking inventory, eh?’ Colonel Pride interjected.

  ‘Quite so, sir. Mrs Tytherton seems the likeliest person to be well informed in the matter, but it wouldn’t be quite the thing to badger her about the details of the Elvedon pictures and porcelain and so on just at the moment.’

  ‘Absolutely right, Henderson. Very proper. Give her a chance.’

  ‘Then there’s the butler, Catmull. He has checked over what he calls his own province – meaning silver, and the like. He seems quite sound on that, and reports everything present and correct. But I can’t call him very co-operative over the larger scene.’

  ‘I see.’ Appleby considered. ‘What about Tytherton’s secretary – Ramsden, isn’t he called?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. He’s quite a young man, but seems to have lived at Elvedon for a good many years. Has the whole place under his thumb, if you ask me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The Chief Constable was alerted. ‘In some sinister way, do you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. But I have a feeling that he has gathered into his own hands rather more control of things than he cares to make evident. And he has been helpful enough. The valuable pictures, like this one on the wall here, are scattered around the house without too much regard to security. Mr Ramsden made a check which I could see was thoroughly well-informed and efficient. And he finds nothing missing.’

  ‘So it rather looks,’ Appleby said, ‘as if Elvedon’s unfortunate proprietor didn’t perish in defending his possessions against marauders?’

  ‘At a first glance, yes. But from the first, of course, I’ve had to think in terms of other possibilities as well.’

  ‘Suicide, for example.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Henderson gave Appleby a swift glance, perfectly aware that he was, in a sense, being tested out. ‘I don’t rule out suicide as being involved.’

  ‘Suicide? God bless my soul!’ The Chief Constable was impatient. ‘Every inch of this room has been searched. Do you suggest that the poor chap first shot himself and then swallowed the revolver?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Appleby s
aid. ‘But people have performed feats almost as remarkable in order to conceal the fact that they have made away with themselves. Remember Thor Bridge.’

  ‘What the devil is that?’

  ‘I see that the Inspector can tell you.’

  ‘One of the Sherlock Holmes stories, sir.’ Henderson smiled a shade indulgently. ‘The gun is tied to a stone, which is hung over the bridge. When it is let go–’

  ‘It is whipped over the parapet and into the river.’ Appleby had walked over to the window, opened it, and was looking out. ‘Only, it takes a tell-tale chip out of the parapet… Look at Hermes, Tommy.’

  Reluctantly, Pride looked at Hermes – a much-weathered statue on a pedestal immediately below.

  ‘On this occasion,’ Appleby went on, ‘the chip may have been taken out of his skull, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Absolute nonsense.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Appleby closed the window. ‘But the general point is valid. People have committed suicide and gone to strange and ingenious lengths to obscure the fact. People have committed suicide and other people have promptly undertaken the same obscuration on their behalf. Or there was the episode I think of as The Case of X, Y, and Z. It sounds like one of Holmes’, but I assure you it was one of my own. X killed himself, and when Y found the body he so arranged matters that Z was in danger of being convicted of murder. And all three may be described as having moved in good society.’ Appleby turned back into the room and sat down. ‘So one can’t too closely scrutinize one’s facts. Shall we begin?’

  ‘I think that should mean with the discovery of the body.’ Henderson had produced a notebook. ‘It took place in this room at approximately twenty past eleven last night, and the immediate circumstances were as follows. First: there was a small house party, only two members of which, a Mr Raffaello and a Miss Kentwell, were at all unfamiliar with the place. Second: Mr Tytherton excused himself to his guests round about ten o’clock and for some time the party appears to have drifted about a little restlessly here and there. Third: later on, the secretary, Ramsden, came in to join them, and noticed that Raffaello, who had been drinking, was making a bit of a nuisance of himself towards a woman called Mrs Graves. I get the impression that keeping an eye on embarrassments of this sort, and taking appropriate tactful action, is more or less part of Ramsden’s job.’

  ‘Odd state of affairs,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘Deplorable, eh?’

  ‘So Ramsden suggested that he should show Raffaello and Miss Kentwell – the comparative strangers, as I’ve said – one of the sights of the place. One of its nocturnal sights, you might say. You climb to the lantern on the roof, and on any clear moonlight night there’s a magnificent view.

  ‘Now, Fourth: this plan only partly fulfilled itself. Raffaello, who was more or less breathing down Mrs Graves’ cleavage – Mr Ramsden’s words these, sir – turned down the invitation out of hand, with the result that Ramsden was left stuck with Miss Kentwell, who was all in favour of the expedition. So he had to lead her away to no particular purpose. But he is a very gentlemanlike young man, and he seems to have done the thing in style, politely showing off this and that as they made their way to the top of the house. Fifth: the party as left downstairs broke up almost at once. Nobody has been willing to tell me much about this, but I think it possible that Mrs Graves – a very smart woman, she is, very fashionable indeed, sir – had to go off to bed to end Raffaello’s nonsense, and that then everybody else did the same. The feeling I get is that there was something uncommonly uncomfortable, or edgy, about the whole evening.’

  ‘Dubious crowd,’ Colonel Pride said. ‘It becomes clearer and clearer. Eh, John? Oughtn’t to have proposed to land you in it.’

  ‘Sixth: this dispersal was, from our point of view, neatly and awkwardly complete. There was nobody without his or her own room; and off they all went into privacy. And they remained like that until the murder – perhaps one had better say the fatality – was discovered.’

  ‘All,’ Appleby said, ‘except Ramsden and Miss Kentwell, innocently seeking, hand in hand, certain glimpses of the moon.’

  ‘Just so, sir. And, as you will realize in a moment, they are the only people with an alibi. You might say they hand each other alibis.’

  ‘Deuced fishy,’ Pride said.

  ‘Well, sir, it can be viewed that way. Put very formally, Mr Tytherton’s death may have been brought about by any single person in this house, with the exception of these two. These two would have to be conspirators.’

  ‘And what’s more likely. Eh, John?’ Colonel Pride might have been described as hot on the scent.

  ‘They sound an improbable couple. But it’s a possibility, I agree.’ Appleby paused. ‘But, Inspector, we’ve lost sight of the movements of the dead man. Not that dead men do move.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Henderson had received this witticism with civil respect. ‘Seventh: I have something fairly specific on the movements of the two people we’ve been discussing. On their way to the top of the house they came into this room – partly, it seems, to tell Mr Tytherton what they were about and suggest he go up to the roof with them.’

  ‘And partly, would you say, to show Miss Kentwell this Goya? But, come to think of it, I doubt whether she much approved her host’s activities as a collector. She had other plans for him.’

  ‘That’s rather what Mr Ramsden hints at.’ Henderson was impressed. ‘Anyway, they came in here, where Ramsden supposed his employer would be working. The lights were on, but there was no sign of him. So they waited for a minute or two, and came away again. Ramsden says he supposed Tytherton had gone to the lavatory. He says he had a notion that Miss Kentwell supposed the same thing, and was embarrassed by it. Anyway, off they went again, and climbed to the leads.’

  ‘I suppose there really was a moon?’

  ‘The moon isn’t one of the doubtful factors, sir. It was a beautiful night.’

  7

  ‘Then I don’t doubt the view was worth inspecting.’ Appleby had got to his feet again and returned to the window. He felt restless and knew why: this was the stage in an affair at which he wanted to get past the reports of competent subordinates and enjoy a run for his own money. But the immediate prospect didn’t conduce to bustle. A peacock had appeared and perched on the head of Hermes just below; it half spread out its tail as Appleby watched; then seemed to think better of the effort, and simply reposed in the sun. What was visible of the park was at present given over to a few head of cattle of a congruously superior sort. The tower of what must be Mr Voysey’s church stood off behind a belt of trees – hovering, one might say, to proffer its services if required, but without any disrespectful importunity. There was a little ripple on a corner of the lake. It was hard to extract from those appearances any effect of an imperative call to action. Appleby now spoke briskly, all the same.

  ‘Well, those two people went up to the roof. For how long?’

  ‘Long enough to smoke a cigarette.’ Henderson had consulted his notebook. ‘Ramsden’s words.’

  ‘Any proof that they did go there? Were they noticed by a servant – anything of that kind?’

  ‘No. They simply corroborate each other’s story.’

  ‘What about the cigarettes?’

  ‘Quite so, sir.’ Henderson was prepared for this question. ‘I found two butts on the leads myself – quite fresh, and of the kind Ramsden appears to carry around with him. They weren’t beside what’s called the lantern – which is no more than a rather grand skylight – but over in the north-west corner of the roof of the main building. And that corresponds with what they remember of their movements. The lantern is on an octagonal platform some feet higher than the rest of the roof. They climbed to that first, and then came down and circled the whole perimeter of the place, more or less close to the enclosing balustrade. Ramsden, still doing the host’s right-hand man, pointe
d out various landmarks. Then they descended by a second staircase, and more or less wandered back through the house and to this room.’

  ‘And then came the crunch?’

  ‘Just that. I get a feeling that Miss Kentwell was losing no opportunity of making herself agreeable to Mr Tytherton, and was proposing to say good night, if he was back in his workroom. That, and polite remarks about her little tour, no doubt. Anyway, for the second time within about twenty minutes, young Mr Ramsden ushered her in. And there’ – with an unexpected effect of drama, Inspector Henderson’s finger shot out and pointed at a writing-table – ‘the dead man lay sprawled.’

  ‘Shocking thing,’ Colonel Pride said. ‘A lady, I mean, being confronted with such a sight. Sounds a tiresome woman, I admit. Kind of professional sponger on the rich in the interest of large charities. Works on commission, likely enough. Odd, eh? Sorry for her, all the same. Unless, of course, these two really are the villains of the piece. Mustn’t lose sight of the notion. But it’s hard to see what interest they could have in common.’

  ‘Quite so, sir.’ Henderson had received these remarks respectfully. ‘And I suppose it’s possible that enquiry will reveal some concealed association. At the moment, however, I confess to seeing several more promising avenues.’

  ‘Then let us press on with them, my dear chap.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. But first I had better tell Sir John about the period immediately succeeding the discovery. This young Mr Ramsden seems to have behaved very efficiently – and the first efficient thing he did was to look at his watch. It was exactly eleven-twenty.’

  ‘I see.’ Appleby frowned suddenly. ‘Inspector, let me get this right. The first thing? Do you mean that Ramsden followed Miss Kentwell into this room, saw that his employer had been shot dead, or nearly dead – and instantly looked at his watch?’

  ‘Just that. He made a point of being precise about it to me.’

  ‘By way of airing or showing off his efficiency?’