‘You seem to have a very distinct visual memory. I wonder if your other kinds of memory are as good. Can you tell me, for instance, whether any of the houses you went into had any particular smell? Especially 10, 12 and 14?’
‘Smell, sir?’ The policeman closed his eyes to stimulate recollection. ‘Why, yes, sir. Number 10, where the two ladies live, that had a sort of an old-fashioned smell. I can’t put me tongue to it. Not lavender—but something as ladies keeps in bowls and such—rose-leaves and what not. Pot-pourri, that’s the stuff. Pot-pourri. And Number 12—well, no there was nothing particular there, except I remember thinking they must keep pretty good servants, though we didn’t see anybody except the family. All that floor and panelling was polished beautiful—you could see your face in it. Beeswax and turpentine, I says to meself. And elbow-grease. What you’d call a clean house with a good, clean smell. But Number 14—that was different. I didn’t like the smell of that. Stuffy, like as if the nigger had been burning some o’ that there incense to his idols, maybe. I never could abide niggers.’
‘Ah!’ said Peter. ‘What you say is very suggestive.’ He placed his finger-tips together and shot his last question over them:
‘Ever been inside the National Gallery?’
‘No, sir,’ said the policeman, astonished. ‘I can’t say as I ever was.’
‘That’s London again,’ said Peter. ‘We’re the last people in the world to know anything of our great metropolitan institutions. Now, what is the best way to tackle this bunch of toughs, I wonder? It’s a little early for a call. Still, there’s nothing like doing one’s good deed before breakfast, and the sooner you’re set right with the sergeant, the better. Let me see. Yes—I think that may do it. Costume pieces are not as a rule in my line, but my routine has been so much upset already, one way and another, that an irregularity more or less will hardly matter. Wait there for me while I have a bath and change. I may be a little time; but it would hardly be decent to get there before six.’
The bath had been an attractive thought, but was perhaps ill-advised, for a curious languor stole over him with the touch of the hot water. The champagne was losing its effervescence. It was with an effort that he dragged himself out and re-awakened himself with a cold shower. The matter of dress required a little thought. A pair of grey flannel trousers was easily found, and though they were rather too well creased for the part he meant to play, he thought that with luck they would probably pass unnoticed. The shirt was a difficulty. His collection of shirts was a notable one, but they were mostly of an inconspicuous and gentlemanly sort. He hesitated for some time over a white shirt with an open sports collar, but decided at length upon a blue one, bought as an experiment and held to be not quite successful. A red tie, if he had possessed such a thing, would have been convincing. After some consideration, he remembered that he had seen his wife in a rather wide Liberty tie, whose prevailing colour was orange. That, he felt, would do if he could find it. On her it had looked rather well; on him, it would be completely abominable. He went through into the next room; it was queer to find it empty. A peculiar sensation came over him. Here he was, rifling his wife’s drawers, and there she was, spirited out of reach at the top of the house with a couple of nurses and an entirely new baby, which might turn into goodness knew what. He sat down before the glass and stared at himself. He felt as though he ought to have changed somehow in the night; but he only looked unshaven and, he thought, a trifle intoxicated. Both were quite good things to look at the moment, though hardly suitable for the father of a family. He pulled out all the drawers in the dressing table; they emitted vaguely familiar smells of face-powder and handkerchief-sachet. He tried the big built-in wardrobe: frocks, costumes and trays full of underwear, which made him feel sentimental. At last he struck a promising vein of gloves and stockings. The next tray held ties, the orange of the desired Liberty creation gleaming in a friendly way among them. He put it on, and observed with pleasure that the effect was Bohemian beyond description. He wandered out again, leaving all the drawers open behind him as though a burglar had passed through the room. An ancient tweed jacket of his own, of a very countrified pattern, suitable only for fishing in Scotland, was next unearthed, together with a pair of brown canvas shoes. He secured his trousers by a belt, searched for and found an old soft-brimmed felt hat of no recognisable colour, and, after removing a few trout-flies from the hat-band and tucking his shirt-sleeves well up inside the coat-sleeve, decided that he would do. As an afterthought, he returned to his wife’s room and selected a wide woollen scarf in a shade of greenish blue. Thus equipped, he came downstairs again, to find P.C. Burt fast asleep, with his mouth open and snoring.
Peter was hurt. Here he was, sacrificing himself in the interests of this stupid policeman, and the man hadn’t the common decency to appreciate it. However, there was no point in waking him yet. He yawned horribly and sat down.
***
It was the footman who wakened the sleepers at half-past six. If he was surprised to see his master, very strangely attired, slumbering in the hall in company with a large policeman, he was too well-trained to admit the fact even to himself. He merely removed the tray. The faint chink of glass roused Peter, who slept like a cat at all times.
‘Hullo, William,’ he said. ‘Have I overslept myself? What’s the time?’
‘Five and twenty to seven, my lord.’
‘Just about right.’ He remembered that the footman slept on the top floor. ‘All quiet on the Western Front, William?’
‘Not altogether quiet, my lord.’ William permitted himself a slight smile. ‘The young master was lively about five. But all is satisfactory, I gather from Nurse Jenkyn.’
‘Nurse Jenkyn? Is that the young one? Don’t let yourself be run away with, William. I say, just give P.C. Burt a light prod in the ribs, would you? He and I have business together.’
***
In Merriman’s End, the activities of the morning were beginning. The milkman came jingling out of the cul-de-sac; lights were twinkling in upper rooms; hands were withdrawing curtains; in front of Number 10, the house maid, was already scrubbing the steps. Peter posted his policeman at the top of the street.
‘I don’t want to make my first appearance with official accompaniment,’ he said. ‘Come along when I beckon. What by the way is the name of the agreeable gentleman in Number 12? I think he may be of some assistance to us.’
‘Mr. O’Halloran, sir.’
The policeman looked at Peter expectantly. He seemed to have abandoned all initiative and to place implicit confidence in this hospitable and eccentric gentleman. Peter slouched down the street with his hands in his trousers pocket and his shabby hat pulled rakishly over his eyes. At Number 12 he paused and examined the windows. Those on the ground floor were open; the house was awake. He marched up the steps, took a brief glance through the flap of the letter-box, and rang the bell. A maid in a neat blue dress and white cap and apron opened the door.
‘Good morning,’ said Peter, slightly raising the shabby hat; ‘is Mr. O’Halloran in?’ He gave the r a soft continental roll. ‘Not the old gentleman. I mean young Mr. O’Halloran?’
‘He’s in,’ said the maid, doubtfully, ‘but he isn’t up yet.’
‘Oh!’ said Peter. ‘Well it is a little early for a visit. But I desire to see him urgently. I am—there is a little trouble where I live. Could you entreat him—would you be so kind? I have walked all the way,’ he added, pathetically, and with perfect truth.
‘Have you, sir?’ said the maid. She added kindly, ‘You do look tired, sir, and that’s a fact.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Peter. ‘It is only that I forgot to have any dinner. But if I can see Mr. O’Halloran it will be all right.’
‘You’d better come in, sir,’ said the maid. ‘I’ll see if I can wake him.’ She conducted the exhausted stranger in and offered him a chair. ‘What name shall I say, sir?’
Left to himself, Peter sat still, noticing that the hall was remarkably bare of furniture, and was lit by a single electric pendant almost immediately inside the front door. The letter-box was the usual wire cage the bottom of which had been carefully lined with brown paper. From the back of the house came a smell of frying bacon.
Presently there was the sound of somebody running downstairs. A young man appeared in a dressing-gown. He called out as he came: ‘Is that you, Stefan? Your name came up as Mr. Whisky. Has Marfa run away again, or—What the hell? Who the devil are you, sir?’
‘Wimsey,’ said Peter, mildly, ‘not Whisky; Wimsey the policeman’s friend. I just looked in to congratulate you on a mastery of the art of false perspective which I thought had perished with van Hoogstraten, or at least with Grace and Lambelet.’
‘Oh!’ said the young man. He had a pleasant countenance, with humorous eyes and ears pointed like a faun’s. He laughed a little ruefully. ‘I suppose my beautiful murder is out. It was too good to last. Those bobbies! I hope to God they gave Number 14 a bad night. May I ask how you come to be involved in the matter?’
‘I,’ said Peter, ‘am the kind of person in whom distressed constables confide—I cannot imagine why. And when I had the picture of that sturdy blue-clad figure, led so persuasively by a Bohemian stranger and invited to peer through a hole, I was irresistibly transported in mind to the National Gallery. Many a time have I squinted sideways through those holes into the little black box, and admired that Dutch interior of many vistas painted so convincingly on the four flat sides of the box. How right you were to preserve your eloquent silence! Your Irish tongue would have given you away. The servants, I gather, were purposely kept out of sight.’
‘Tell me,’ said Mr. O’Halloran, seating himself sideways upon the hall table, ‘do you know by heart the occupation of every resident in this quarter of London? I do not paint under my own name.’
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘Like the good Dr. Watson, the constable could observe, though he could not reason from his observation; it was the smell of turpentine that betrayed you. I gather that at the time of his first call the apparatus was not very far off.’
‘It was folded together and lying under the stairs,’ replied the painter. ‘It has since been removed to the studio. My father had only just had time to get it out of the way and hitch down the “13” from the fanlight before the police reinforcements arrived. He had not even time to put back this table I am sitting on; a brief search would have discovered it in the dining room. My father is a remarkable sportsman; I cannot too highly recommend the presence of mind he displayed while I was hareing around the houses and leaving him to hold the fort. It would have been so simple and so unenterprising to explain; but my father, being an Irishman, enjoys treading on the coat-tails of authority.’
‘I should like to meet your father. The only thing I do not thoroughly understand is the reason of this elaborate plot. Were you by any chance executing a burglary round the corner, and keeping the police in play while you did it?’
‘I never thought of that,’ said the young man, with regret in his voice. ‘No. The bobby was not the predestined victim. He happened to be present at a full-dress rehearsal, and the joke was too good to be lost. The fact is, my uncle is Sir Lucius Preston, the R.A.’
‘Ah!’ said Peter, ‘the light begins to break.’
‘My own style of draughtsmanship,’ pursued Mr. O’Halloran, ‘is modern. My uncle has on several occasions informed me that I draw like that only because I do not know how to draw. The idea was that he should be invited to dinner tomorrow and regaled with a story of the mysterious “Number 13”, said to appear from time to time in this street and to be haunted by strange noises. Having thus detained him till close upon midnight, I should have set out to see him to the top of the street. As we went along, the cries would have broken out. I should have led him back—’
‘Nothing,’ said Peter, ‘could be clearer. After the preliminary shock, he would have been forced to confess that your draughtsmanship was a triumph of academic accuracy.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. O’Halloran, ‘the performance may still go forward as originally intended.’ He looked with some anxiety at Peter, who replied:
‘I hope so, indeed. I also hope that your uncle’s heart is a strong one. But may I, in the meantime, signal to my unfortunate policeman and relieve his mind? He is in danger of losing his promotion, through a suspicion that he was drunk on duty.’
‘Good God!’ said Mr. O’Halloran. ‘No—I don’t want that to happen. Fetch him in.’
The difficulty was to make P.C. Burt recognise in the daylight what he had seen by night through the letter-flap. Of the framework of painted canvas, with its forms and figures oddly foreshortened and distorted, he could make little. Only when the thing was set up and lighted in the curtained studio was he at length reluctantly convinced.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s like Maskelyne and Devant. I wish the sergeant could a’ seen it.’
‘Lure him down here tomorrow night,’ said Mr. O’Halloran. ‘Let him come as my uncle’s bodyguard. You—’ he turned to Peter—‘you seem to have a way with policemen. Can’t you inveigle the fellow along? Your impersonation of starving and disconsolate Bloomsbury is fully as convincing as mine. How about it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘The costume gives me pain. Besides, is it kind to a p.b. policeman? I give you the R.A., but when it comes to the guardians of the law—Damn it all! I’m a family man, and I must have some sense of responsibility.’
The Sands of Thyme
Michael Innes
Michael Innes’ amusing and ingenious first detective novel, Death at the President’s Lodging (1936), set in a thinly disguised version of Oxford University, announced the arrival of a major crime writing talent. The book introduced John Appleby of Scotland Yard, and in the course of a long investigative career, Appleby rose through the ranks to become a Commissioner, receiving a knighthood in the process. Innes (1906–1994) was, under his real name, John Innes Mackintosh Stewart, a distinguished academic and accomplished author of mainstream fiction, but he seems destined to be remembered as a writer of intelligent, light-hearted, and occasionally fantastic detective stories.
Two Innes novels involved impossible crime situations: There Came Both Mist and Snow (1940) and the late and less well-known title Appleby and Honeybath (1983), in which a dead body disappears from a locked library. Impossible crimes also crop up in two crisp entries in the collection Appleby Talking (1954). One of the stories is ‘A Derby Horse’; this is the other.
***
The Sea sparkled and small waves splashed drowsily on the beach. Donkeys trotted to and fro bearing the children of holiday-makers who themselves slumbered under handkerchiefs and newspapers. On the horizon lay the smoke of a Channel steamer, on a day trip to Boulogne. And at all this the vicar glanced down with contentment from the promenade. ‘Fastidious persons,’ he said, ‘would call it vulgar.’
‘I like a deserted beach myself,’ said the Doctor.
Appleby looked up from his novel. ‘Do you know Thyme Bay?’ he asked. ‘No? It’s as lonely as you could wish, Doctor.’
The Vicar removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘You have a story to tell us,’ he said.
Appleby smiled. ‘Quite frankly, Vicar, I have!’
***
I was there (said Appleby) on special duty with the Security people at the experimental air station. It was summer, and when the tide allowed it I used to walk across the bay before breakfast.
Thyme is a tremendous stretch of sand; y
ou may remember that in the old days they held motor races there.
But the great thing is the shells. Thyme is the one place I know of to which you can go and feel that sea-shells are still all that they were in your childhood. Both on the beach itself and among the rocks, you find them in inexhaustible variety.
On the morning of which I’m speaking, I was amusing myself so much with the shells that it was some time before I noticed the footprints.
It was a single line of prints, emerging from the sand-hills, and taking rather an uncertain course towards a group of rocks, islanded in sand, near the centre of the bay. They were the prints of a fairly long-limbed man, by no means a light-weight, and more concerned to cover the ground than to admire the view. But I noticed more than that. The tracks were of a man who limped. I tried to work out what sort of limp it would be.
This had the effect, of course, of making me follow the prints. Since the man had not retraced his steps, he had presumably gone on to the rocks, and then found his way back to the coastal road somewhere farther on. So I continued to follow in his tracks.
Presently I was feeling that something was wrong, and instead of going straight up to those rocks I took a circle round them. No footprints led away from them. So I searched. And there the chap was—tall, heavy, and lying on his tummy…He was dead.
I turned him over—half-expecting what, in fact, I found. There was a bullet-hole plumb centre of his forehead. And a revolver was lying beside him.
But that wasn’t all. Suicides, you know, are fond of contriving a little décor of pathos.
On a flat ledge of the rock a score or so of shells—the long, whorled kind—had been ranged in straight lines, like toy soldiers drawn up for battle. Beside them lay an open fountain-pen, and a scrap of paper that looked as if it had been torn from the top edge of a notebook. There was just a sentence: ‘As a child, I played with these for hours.’
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