Appleby's Answer

by Michael Innes

  ‘It will be interesting to see if the Captain can put us right in the matter. Ah!’ – Appleby had glanced at a sign-post – ‘Long Canings: 1 mile.’ He slowed the car, and brought it to a halt at the side of the road. ‘Judith, would you describe yourself as having your bearings in this affair?’

  ‘Of course not. There are no bearings to have.’

  ‘I admit they’re not numerous, but they do exist.’ Appleby appeared to have turned serious. ‘Let me start from the beginning – my beginning, that is. I go to that dinner of all those detective-story people, and two women are introduced to me. We now know them as Miss Pringle and Miss Vanderpump. Miss Vanderpump is very keen that Miss Pringle should tell me about an amusing incident during a railway journey. Somebody whose name now turns out to be Captain Bulkington spotted her identity – Miss Pringle’s that is – and tried to pump her on hopeful techniques of murder. That’s all I gathered from the two ladies at the time – for the reason that Miss Pringle didn’t want to play. She choked off her friend Miss Vanderpump, and talked about something else for the remaining minute or so that I was with them. Now, that’s odd.’

  ‘I don’t see that it’s odd, at all. Miss Pringle may simply have felt that the story, if expanded, would exhibit her in rather a foolish light.’

  ‘It’s conceivable. But, somehow, that wasn’t the feel of it. Consider this for a start: that the two ladies were led up to me twittering.’

  ‘Are you telling me, John, that it was the most exciting moment of their virginal lives?’

  ‘On that, of course, I can have no information. But pitch it just a little lower. I was the evening’s guest of honour, and known to have held a job which probably features in Miss Pringle’s stories as positively an august one. In the circumstances, it would have been Miss Pringle’s impulse – if I’m not quite astray about her character – to exhibit herself in an interesting light. And here, to hand, was this business of Captain Bulkington and the railway journey.’ Appleby glanced enquiringly at his wife. ‘Now, why did she shut up about it?’

  ‘Because she’d seen in the incident the basis of a plot for her next novel. And it would be her habit to keep very mum about anything of that kind.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, of course.’ Appleby was a little dashed by this rapid common sense. ‘But let me go on. At the same dinner, by sheer coincidence, I hear of a rather similar incident – and this time I hear it from a very capable woman indeed. This time, Bulkington – or call him just the Bulkington figure – is interested not in homicide but in blackmail. He is doing a little research, in fact, into hopeful ways of getting blackmail going. What would you say this total picture suggests?’

  ‘An eccentric: probably harmless, but just possibly dangerous.’

  ‘Top marks. The next thing we discover is that this fugitive encounter in a railway compartment has, in fact, blossomed into a relationship. Miss Pringle has come nosing around these parts, has acquainted herself further with the mysterious crammer, has apparently met his pupils, and has even cultivated some of his neighbours. Now, what’s all that about?’

  ‘Same thing. Collecting copy for some piece of nonsense she proposes to write.’

  ‘Well, writing something certainly comes into the picture – but it is to be in the form of a collaboration between our two chance-metrailway travellers. Or so Miss Vanderpump believes. Miss Vanderpump, incidentally, is our final puzzle for the moment. She feels that Miss Pringle has been writing to her disingenuously about the relationship. And she has herself actually come down to investigate, staying with your unwitting friend Miss Anketel for the purpose. I find that odd. Miss Vanderpump might well take a more or less prurient interest in some supposed developing romance or liaison between Captain Bulkington and her friend. But surely she wouldn’t give time to downright spying if that was all that was in her head? And plainly it isn’t. Her head is full of confused nonsense about possible sinister interpretations of the affair. Bulkington is leading Miss Pringle into a trap which is not merely – or perhaps at all – of the matrimonial order.’

  ‘Or it might be the other way round.’

  ‘Top marks again. One gets the feel, indeed, of its having been Miss Pringle who took the initiative in following up the encounter on the train. And finally, there’s the bizarre notion of basing the most improbable and implausible collaboration on the imagined murder of a local bigwig, Sir Ambrose Pinkerton. Or not quite finally. For perhaps Sir Ambrose will really be murdered. Perhaps Bulkington is an authentic homicidal maniac, perhaps Miss Pringle hasn’t (or has) taken his true measure, perhaps some dodge that ought simply to be tipped into a thriller is, so to speak, going to break loose and rampage around, greatly to Sir Ambrose’s inconvenience. Something of that sort floats in the good Miss Vanderpump’s vision.’

  ‘The good Miss Vanderpump is a fool. And the good Miss Pringle sounds like a fool too.’

  ‘Ah!’ Appleby started the car again, and drove on. ‘It is, unfortunately, a statistical probability that anybody one meets is a fool. But that’s no reason for simply slapping the label around. I’m rather inclined, as a matter of fact, to suspend judgment about both these ladies… Good Lord! That must be “Kandahar”. What a brutally ugly house.’

  12

  Enquiring parents might have been very much an everyday affair with Captain Bulkington. He greeted the Applebys courteously, yet with the ghost of a suggestion that only the inflexibility of that courtesy (proper in one holding Her Majesty’s commission) dissimulated the fact that they were on something of a conveyor belt. Captain Bulkington was not quite certain there was a vacancy at ‘Kandahar’, and to determine this point consulted a large register on his desk – rather in the manner of a reception-clerk in a high-class hotel. This happily produced a favourable result, and he turned back to his visitors with a brisk cordiality – not unbalanced, however, by more than a hint that, of necessity, a pretty stiff inquisition lay before them.

  ‘Mr Appleby, I think you said, sir?’

  ‘Quite right. Antony Appleby.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Captain Bulkington began majestically filling in what appeared to be a very large form. ‘May I enquire your profession?’

  ‘I am a member of the Stock Exchange.’

  Captain Bulkington greeted this with a restrained but respectful bow. Judith Appleby greeted it with a compression of the lips. Being retired, she thought, was more and more going to John’s head. A freakish and irresponsible strain was liable to erupt in him from hiding-places fifty years deep, and the result was something unknown at Scotland Yard. Probably you could be put in jail for claiming to be a member of the Stock Exchange: it was surely an utterly heinous species of false pretences. No doubt that made it strike John as all the funnier.

  ‘And you have brought up the young man?’ Captain Bulkington inquired. ‘He is perhaps waiting in your car?’

  ‘No, we haven’t brought Ambrose… Arthur, that is to say.’ Judith produced this. She couldn’t, after all, refuse to play. ‘Arthur is rather a nervous boy.’

  ‘Yes, yes – to be sure.’ Captain Bulkington nodded in a sympathetic and heartening manner. ‘It is unfortunate, all the same. I like candidates to have a look round the place before anything definite is arranged. Fact is, ma’am, I’m keen – really deuced keen – on consulting the – um – sensibilities of the young. Moreover, if you had brought Arthur with you, it might have been possible to receive and enrol him at once. Particularly to enrol him, which is the important thing. However, we can perhaps proceed as far as registration. There is a small fee. A merely formal matter.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Appleby went through the motions of a stockbroker about to produce an outsize cheque-book.

  ‘All in good time, Mr Appleby.’ Captain Bulkington had raised a dignified hand. ‘Do I understand it to be your wish that Arthur should be prepared for entry to one of the ancient universities?’

  ‘Yes – to Oxford. We have Christ Church in mind – or perhaps New College. T
he present Warden of New College, as it happens, is Arthur’s uncle. And the Senior Tutor is his first cousin, and the Tutor for Admissions is his godfather. I also know the Chaplain, and give him a square meal from time to time.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Captain Bulkington recorded all these striking particulars on the form before him. ‘I think I can recommend New College strongly. Just at the moment, the moral tone is particularly good there. Better than at Christ Church, I should say – although that is very good too.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Appleby said. ‘And I am reminded that we are particularly anxious that Arthur’s convictions should be considered.’

  ‘His convictions?’ There was sudden misgiving in Captain Bulkington’s tone. ‘If anything like that is in question, I’m afraid there would have to be a certain amount of special provision, and – um – a special fee. It doesn’t normally come my way, Mr Appleby. Not that I am prejudiced. I hope I bear a thoroughly open mind. My liberal views are no doubt the occasion of that damned woman at the Hall putting it about that I take Borstal boys from wealthy families on parole. Not a word of truth in it. But if your son–’

  ‘I fear you mistake me. Arthur’s religious convictions were in my mind.’

  ‘Odd misunderstanding – eh? Ha-ha!’ Without any appearance of being disconcerted, Captain Bulkington made another entry on the form. ‘Religious instruction, by all means. Twice a week, or three times. It’s an extra, of course. But I can supply it at a very high level, a very high level indeed.’

  ‘And have you a good vicar here?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Rector, ma’am, in these parts. Fellow of the name of Howard. Gentleman, I’m glad to say. And knows his drill thoroughly. Make a point of parading my lads before him every Sunday. Smarten up on the devotional side. Capital thing.’ As he offered these edifying remarks, Captain Bulkington raised his pen in the air, as if to emphasise their purport by pointing heavenwards. It turned out, however, that he was merely proposing to hand the instrument to Appleby. ‘Bottom right-hand corner, my dear sir,’ he said casually. ‘And it might be as well for you to initial the small print on the back as well.’

  ‘I think we’ll look round first.’ The business instincts of Mr Antony Appleby, pillar of the London Stock Exchange, not unnaturally asserted themselves at this juncture. ‘See your young men at work, and so forth.’

  ‘Certainly. Excellent thought, in fact.’ Captain Bulkington rose with a dignified alacrity and moved towards the door of his sanctum. ‘We may suitably begin with the Oxford and Cambridge Scholarship Class – who are the lads who will be delighted to recruit – um- – Arthur to their number. Today, unfortunately, they are a somewhat diminished band. Only a couple of them here, I’d say at a guess. The other half-dozen have gone off to Cambridge. They are to be interviewed by um – um – the Provost of King’s College, who is a very old friend of mine.’

  The guess proved accurate. In a large and otherwise deserted classroom two young men sat sprawled behind small, untidy desks. The eyes of each were closed, presumably as an aid to intellectual concentration. When Captain Bulkington ominously coughed, however, their eyes opened with surprising speed, and at the sight of Judith they shambled to their feet. One of them glowered at the visitors, and the other gaped. Between them they represented, it was to be supposed, what might be called the working capital of ‘Kandahar’ as a tutorial establishment. They didn’t strike Appleby as likely to make the reputation of the place.

  ‘Mr Jenkins and Mr Waterbird,’ Captain Bulkington said formally. ‘Mr and Mrs Appleby. But no intention of interrupting your work, my dear lads. Fugit thingummy tempus – eh, Waterbird?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Mr Waterbird, although he was a ferocious-looking youth, answered like a lamb – although a lamb, indeed, in a bad temper.

  ‘Carpe diem, then Waterbird. An observation of Horace’s. You might look up Horace. Note his dates, and so on. Jenkins!’

  ‘Sir?’ The jaw of Jenkins, which appeared naturally recessive, receded yet further upon challenge.

  ‘Be so good as to repeat the definite article in Greek.’

  ‘Hoeheetoe.’ Jenkins produced these magic syllables at top speed; he might have been, so to speak, catching them by the forelock before they faded in a middle distance.

  ‘Very good, Jenkins. There are, of course, further parts – but in practice they were seldom used. Not, that is to say, in Greek of the great classical period. Eh, Mr Appleby? Brings it all back to you, I dare say. What a grind we thought it all – but how rich was the reward! Jenkins, make a note of that. And then go on to tupto. I judge you quite ready for tupto now.’ Captain Bulkington turned apologetically to Judith. ‘Learned matters to discuss before a lady, ’pon my soul! Waterbird and Jenkins, carry on.’ The Captain paused meaningfully. ‘You understand me, Waterbird?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jenkins, do as Waterbird tells you… And, now, let me see.’ Ushering his guests from the room, Captain Bulkington moved slowly down a corridor, rounded a corner, and paused by a window. ‘Next, I feel, the Army Class. Yes, you might well find that interesting. First, however, I would have you admire our view. Influences of nature deuced important in forming the character of the young, wouldn’t you say? “Earth has not anything to show more fair.” I make them learn that by heart. Spoken by the poet Wordsworth, when on the brow of the mighty Helvellyn. Remarkable poet. 1770–1880. Great believer in dates, ma’am. Not for the ladies, of course, but capital discipline for the masculine intellect… Ah!’

  The party was passing a closed door, and as they did so the proprietor of ‘Kandahar’ raised an alerting finger. From beyond the door sounded many voices, surprisingly deep in tone, and producing something uncommonly like a Gregorian chant.

  ‘The Modern Side,’ Captain Bulkington said brilliantly. ‘Elocution, and so forth. Most important. But we won’t disturb them, eh?’

  ‘It would be a great shame to do that,’ Appleby said.

  The Army Class at ‘Kandahar’ consisted, at the moment, of two youths, viewed somewhat in shadow, and from behind. Their fellows, it seemed, were out on a field day, since Captain Bulkington was a firm believer in the practical aspects of a military training. Similar considerations applied to the scientists, who were engaged in active geological work. As for the pupils of artistic inclination, they were abroad sketching on the downs.

  ‘But we mustn’t fatigue Mrs Appleby,’ Captain Bulkington presently said with courtly solicitousness. ‘Satis – eh, Mr Appleby?’

  ‘Very true. Id arbitror adprime in vita esse utile–’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘ut nequid nimis,’ Appleby concluded gravely. And – in a most unpolicemanlike manner – he blithely forgave himself for earning a sudden suspicious glance.

  ‘We must discuss it all with Arthur,’ Judith said hastily but firmly, ‘and let you know.’

  13

  ‘Thirty years of chequered connubial experience,’ Judith said from the driving-seat of the car, ‘and I discover myself to be married to a clown.’

  ‘Very true. But just move round the first bend of the drive, and stop. I think we’ll take a stroll in the grounds.’

  ‘I’d have thought that nequid nimis applied.’ Judith set the car in motion, and carried out her husband’s tiresome instructions. ‘John, the only excuse you could possibly advance for poking around in the peculiar life of this locality is a lively persuasion that something really sinister is blowing up. And that’s surely nonsense. Unless Bulkington is an inspired actor, he’s the next thing to a harmless lunatic.’

  ‘Harmless?’

  ‘Harmless so far as any kind of plot or machination is concerned. His deceptions are so childish that nobody could possibly be taken in by them.’

  ‘That is certainly the impression he has – well, offered us. And offered us, as they say, very much on a plate. But who knows? Certainly not you or I. More facts are required. Let’s get out and walk.’

  They got out and walked
. ‘Kandahar’ owned a large, rambling, and extremely neglected garden, full of tall untrimmed hedges and hypertrophied shrubs. It appeared long since to have been abandoned by anything higher in the scale of creation than snails and slugs. At almost every step on the overgrown paths, indeed, an invisible snail crunched gruesomely under their feet. Although the house itself made up in height for what it lacked in any other form of imposingness, they were quite invisible from it as they moved around.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say,’ Appleby asked mildly, ‘that the learned and gallant Captain really wants Arthur?’

  ‘The answer to that one is your own: it was the impression he offered us.’ Judith paused to brush a cobweb from her face. ‘What about trying it out?’

  ‘Trying it out?’

  ‘Coming back in a day or two, and bringing Arthur with us.’

  ‘My dear Judith, you forget. You have a number of grown-up children, and if you like I’ll run over their names. But young Arthur isn’t among them. To put the thing brutally, Arthur Appleby doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Oh, but we could borrow him! A young man or boy, I mean. Or hire one. From a drama school, perhaps. Then we could see whether our military friend was merely disconcerted.’

  ‘That’s very true.’ Appleby had to speak as one impressed by his wife’s resource. ‘The cramming establishment is distinctly in a vestigial state. Perhaps it really is a cover for something else. Perhaps Messrs Waterbird and Jenkins are not genuine pupils at all, but skilled accomplices in organised crime.’

  ‘I did have a sense that they were oddly under Bulkington’s thumb. It seemed natural enough in Jenkins’ case, because he has the air of a pretty dim youth. But Waterbird struck me as potentially truculent and tough.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Bulkington discusses not merely the techniques of murder during railway journeys. He discusses the techniques of blackmail as well.’

  ‘I didn’t gather that to be at all certain. It depends on whether, at that dinner, it was about the identical person that you were told two distinct stories.’