Appleby's End

by Michael Innes

  “Rainbird,” said Billy relentlessly, “Rainbird did say in haystack.”

  “Quite so. Surprisingly warm.”

  “Ur,” said Billy. “Ur, ur!” And he turned to stare at Appleby with unaffected admiration and awe.

  “My good fellow” – a touch of feudal distance, Appleby thought, might usefully be given to the conversation – “what should put it in your head that your master and his brothers could possibly have anything to do with the death of Heyhoe?”

  “Carriage were gone, weren’t it?” Billy’s normally slow speech had turned even slower, as if it had occurred to him that Appleby, despite a masterful way with him in haystacks, was not in full enjoyment of his faculties. “‘Carriage be gone,’ they’d say. ‘And in cart Billy Bidewell do manage Spot as well as Heyhoe.’ And then: ‘Here be snowdrift,’ they’d say. ‘Let uns set t’old devil in.’” And Billy nodded his head – sagely and with evident approval of this drastically conceived act of liquidation.

  “Do you expect to be set in yourself one day – say when Spot is finally put out to grass? Or that you and Spot will be set in together?” This part of England, Appleby was almost coming to believe, had its own peculiar customs outrivalling those of darkest Africa.

  “Ur,” said Billy Bidewell.

  “And can you tell me why they should choose just that rather noticeable way of despatching Heyhoe? Why should not Mr Everard and Mr Robert and Mr Luke have pitched him in the river?”

  “Because Ravens ’ud do nowt like other folk. And maybe because of the story.”

  “The story?” Appleby sat up so abruptly that the reins jerked in Billy’s hands and Spot paused from his labours and looked round reproachfully. “You mean one of Ranulph Raven’s stories?”

  “Ur!” Billy offered his favourite ejaculation seemingly by way of a contemptuous negative. “One of Gammer Bidewell’s stories, in course.”

  “Gammer Bidewell? Do you mean a relation of yours?”

  “Grandmother. Her tale of the howling and hollering head.”

  Billy announced this with considerable gusto. Perhaps, Appleby thought, making one’s flesh creep was an appetite which all Fat Boys share with their immortal prototype in Pickwick. “A tale of a fearful maid,” added Billy – this time with a rolling and inexpressible relish. “And how she came on a howling and hollering head.”

  “Well,” said Appleby, “how did she?”

  “This fearful maid, as young and tender as any in the parish, was walking through squire’s ash spinney.” Billy’s voice had risen a pitch, presumably in imitation of Grandmother Bidewell. “It was spring and the stinkweed was rife in the ditches, ruddocks were like little leaping flames in every hedge, from across the meadow the bawcock and the blubberbird–”

  “Leave them out,” said Appleby. “Drop the stinkweed and keep to the maid.”

  “Well” – Billy was rather put to a stand by this – “she came round a bend and there was the head. Lying on the ground, it was, just as if tumbled there by a scythe. And it rolled its eyes and foamed at the mouth and the maid was trembling like the aspen and then the head hollered and howled like the souls of all the damned. It was the head of squire himself and it lay there in a little clearing among the ash trees and squinnied at that fearful maid. And her wits left her, poor tender peat, and she never spoke again. But sometimes she would holler and howl just as squire’s head had done. And squire was offended at that, and turned her and hers out of parish.”

  Appleby stared at Billy Bidewell. “You mean the same squire – the one who had lost his head?”

  “He had no more lost his head than I have.” And Billy tapped his round and innocent cheek with great satisfaction. “It was all the doing of a great doctor famous in those days. A mint of strange cures, he had. He would shut you up with the cows–”

  “Dear me,” interrupted Appleby. “Beddowes did that. A very well-known physician about the beginning of last century.”

  “There!” said Billy in triumph. “If that isn’t to show that Gammer Bidewell’s stories were truer nor parson’s by a long way. But another of the cures, and the one he was trying on squire, was the earth bath. And an ash spinney, he believed, was the sovereign place for that. So squire was set there regular by valet. Only this time valet had forgot and tarried too late in pub.”

  “I see. In fact, a perfectly rational story. Just another case of the footman stealing port.”

  “Gammer Bidewell said nowt of footman.” Billy looked perplexed. “But it do be terrible to think of that fearful maid.”

  The cart, had turned a corner and between Spot’s leisurely-bobbing ears there appeared first a church tower and then the straggling vista of a village street. Snarl was achieved at last. Appleby began to divest himself of the leopard-skin rug, which had obscurely impressed him as a particularly incongruous habiliment for a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Under this was an excessively black and enveloping greatcoat of Luke Raven’s – and this too after a moment’s deliberation Appleby discarded. In the suit of Mark Raven’s shapeless tweeds which stood next revealed it might be possible to make a more or less colourable appearance, and when Appleby had filled a pipe with his last scrap of dry tobacco he felt tolerably equipped for return to the normal world of police investigation. “Billy,” he said, “about that story of the squire’s head: would many people know it round about these parts?”

  “Ur.” Billy delivered himself of his most emphatic negative. “Gammer never told that story to nowt but me.”

  “I don’t see how you can know that.”

  “She said she never told it to nowt but me. She kept it for I because I did so like to be thinking of that fearful maid.”

  “Then,” said Appleby, “it doesn’t seem as if Mr Raven or his brothers could know of it.”

  Billy Bidewell shook his head darkly. “They know of most things. They say Mr Everard has got all the knowledge in all the world all writ out on little slips of paper in his room. And what could be more freakish than that? Nowt – but setting Heyhoe because of the old story. And it do be terrible” – ghoulishly Billy reiterated his master theme – “to think of that fearful maid.” Then a new thought seemed to strike him. “Mister,” he said, “you must know a powerful deal about maids.”

  Appleby looked at Billy Bidewell in astonishment – and realised that a shadowy haystack was hovering before this dreadful youth’s inward eye. “Billy,” he said firmly, “I think you had best stop here. I’ll walk to the inn.”

  The exterior of the Farmers’ Arms was chiefly distinguished by an enormous escutcheon upon which lions, leopards and griffons ramped and rambled in surprising profusion. In a community in which the aged were so picturesquely disposed of as Heyhoe, it seemed not impossible that the yeomanry gave themselves to raising such exotic cattle – nevertheless, Appleby regarded it with fleeting surprise as he passed inside and was shown to a fly-blown room in which were closeted a military man in pepper-and-salt and a uniformed officer of police. These proved to be Colonel Pike, the Chief Constable of the county, and Inspector Mutlow from Yatter. Before the inspector was a large notebook, and before the Chief Constable were several glasses of port. These respective possessions they contemplated with an equal gloom, and this contemplation – somewhat intensified – they now transferred to Appleby. “Awkward business this,” said Colonel Pike. “Have a port.” He looked critically at the line of glasses before him and with a stubby forefinger suddenly advanced one out of the ranks. “Any port in a storm,” said Colonel Pike – and looked balefully at his subordinate.

  Inspector Mutlow made a toadying noise in his throat – indicative of mirth at once irresistible and respectfully restrained. “An awkward business,” said Inspector Mutlow.

  Appleby looked from one to the other. “I haven’t been told anything about it,” he said. “Or only that it’s rather odd. What�
��s happened?”

  “Happened?” Colonel Pike frowned. “Mutlow, what has happened?”

  “Quite so, sir. What has happened? Very nicely put.”

  “Man’s an ass,” said Colonel Pike. “Might be useful as a damned dictaphone, but doesn’t earn his feed in the police. Though for that matter nothing much has happened. Simply that Mulberry’s fussed over it. Wouldn’t have expected it of him. About dam’ all. And must have us bring a feller down from London.” Colonel Pike looked at Appleby with convinced distaste.

  “Well, sir” – the misprised Mutlow ventured upon a tone of mild reproach – “there is a boy missing.”

  “Rubbish – half-witted boy – nothing more.”

  “Would that,” Appleby asked, “be Hannah Hoobin’s boy?”

  The two men stared in astonishment. “Well I’m blessed,” said Colonel Pike. He looked appraisingly at Appleby. “Not a friend of Mulberry’s, by any chance? He has some deuced odd ones.”

  Appleby shook his head. “I don’t know Mulberry,” he said politely.

  Colonel Pike drowned what was evident outrage in a swig of port. “I’m talking of Sir Mulberry Farmer. Lord Lieutenant. Big man down here. Old friend, too. Wouldn’t have asked them to send you down else.” Colonel Pike looked from Appleby to Mutlow and his expression of disgust deepened. He looked from Mutlow to Appleby and it became appraising once more. “Think I’ll take you over to luncheon with him. You seem perfectly presentable.”

  “Thank you very much,” Appleby said.

  “Mutlow, you can go away. No further use for you. No – stop. Give Mr Appleby your appreciation of the situation. Avoid prolixity, incoherence and irrelevant detail.”

  “Very good, sir.” Mutlow put his hand in a pocket much as if to reach for a stiletto – in which case, thought Appleby, justifiable homicide would be the only decent verdict. But all that emerged was a large handkerchief with which the harassed inspector proceeded to mop his brow. “It’s an affair of statues, like,” he said.

  “Of statues?”

  “And a waxwork,” interjected Colonel Pike.

  “A waxwork!” Appleby sat up very straight.

  “Dictaphone habit catchin’,” said Colonel Pike.

  “And seems to me,” continued the inspector, “all to have come of Sir Mulberry’s getting a litter of pigs.”

  “Gloucester Old Spots,” said Colonel Pike.

  “Ah,” said Appleby. “From Brettingham Scurl at Linger, no doubt.”

  This was a great success. Colonel Pike set down his port glass and stared at Appleby much as if he were in the presence of the preternatural. Then he relieved his feelings on Mutlow. “Mutlow,” he said, “how matters seem to you must often be admitted as of considerable psychological interest. But its relevance to police investigation is invariably nil. Proceed.”

  “Sir Mulberry got this litter of pigs a good time back, and one of the pigs was a male pig–”

  “Man means a boar,” said Colonel Pike.

  “Thank you, sir; that would be the technical word, no doubt. Well, Sir Mulberry has a great eye for swine, it seems, and is uncommon fond of ’em. And that brings me to the fact that he’s a close friend of Colonel Pike’s here – by which I mean to say that when this queer thing happened he told the Colonel about it at once.” Mutlow’s face was extremely wooden. “For this particular boar, you see, he thought a world of – and if you’re to believe his men about the place he’d be across and visit it most every morning. Then one day when the brute was full grown and Sir Mulberry had gone over as usual to have a word with it he found that it had been spirited away in the night. Only something else had been left in its place: a great boar in marble or some such stuff that must have weighed pretty well a ton. Did you ever hear of such a crazy thing? Just no sense in it. And soon the story was going round among the servants that it was the hand of God laid heavy on Sir Mulberry for his wicked pride in his pig. There had been a judgement in the night and the brute been ossified.”

  Colonel Pike pushed two empty port glasses into the rear file and brought forward a full one. “Means petrified,” he said.

  “Ossified,” said Mutlow with dignity, “I understand to have been what was popularly said; but petrified, of course, is right. The pig was petrified, so to speak; and so was Lady Farmer’s dog.”

  “Lady Farmer’s dog!” Appleby was again reduced to the dictaphone habit.

  “Certainly.” Colonel Pike deferred broaching the last of his ports in order to interrupt. “Everything round poor old Mulberry turning to stone. Lot of nonsense – but worries him, it seems. Keeping it as quiet as possible, but asked to have you sent down. Met you here to talk about it in an unobtrusive way. Glad to know how you explain it.” And Colonel Pike looked up at Appleby in a sharply interrogative fashion.

  “I’m quite unable to explain it, I’m afraid. It sounds nonsense to me too.”

  “Pity. Disappointin’.” Colonel Pike frowned with disfavour at Appleby. “Should have asked for an older man. Feller with more experience no doubt put us wise at once.”

  “Very probably,” said Appleby.

  “However, presentable at least. So come along.” Colonel Pike drained his last port and stood up. “Possible that when you have a dekko at Mulberry the truth will dawn. Car outside. Mutlow, go away.”

  Mutlow went away. Appleby followed Colonel Pike to the inn yard, in which a Daimler sleekly reposed. They climbed in. “Good feller, Mutlow,” said Colonel Pike thoughtfully. “Thoroughly reliable man. Think a world of him. Where’s Blight? Blight, you fool, wake up and drive us to Tiffin Place. Don’t lose the way. Remember Kerrisk’s cows on Nottle Common. And don’t go honking through Little Boss again and scaring Major Molsher’s colts.”

  A few snowflakes were falling. Billy Bidewell, Spot and the cart had disappeared – and presently Snarl too was fading into distance. “Had Blight for years,” said Colonel Pike. “Trustworthy. Great joy.”

  With infinite discretion the Daimler was skirting the paddocks beyond Little Boss. “Stopping with the Ravens?” said Colonel Pike. He shifted some inches further from Appleby, as if to gain a vantage ground for fresh social appraisal. “Know them? Of course I do. Important family down here. But went to pot rather – about a generation back. Writer-feller came into the estate. As a family, a bit given to all that sort of thing. Bishops – no harm in that. But painters and professors and what-not too. No real harm, I dare say. Don’t mean to be disrespectful to friends of yours.”

  “The writer was very popular in his time,” Appleby said. “One of his brothers was a sculptor.”

  “That so,” said Colonel Pike civilly.

  “The whole place is full of vast marbles: bears, stags, Lord knows what.”

  “So it is. Dine there about once in the twelvemonth. Nice girl.”

  “Very,” said Appleby.

  “Distracts the eye. But remember all that sculpture perfectly. Some very decent sportin’ prints in the old gun-room.” Colonel Pike appeared to consider that what was going forward was a little cultivated talk. “Used to think myself rather knowing in that sort of thing. Acquainted with Havell, by any chance? Got one or two rather nice efforts of his myself. Pheasant shootin’. Autumn tints. Very decent dogs.” Colonel Pike sheered abruptly off this aesthetic debauch. “Turnips ought to do well,” he said.

  “Very.” Appleby looked out intelligently over unintermitted expanses of snow. “About this turning-to-stone business at Tiffin Place: do you think it might be a joke with a sort of symbolical twist to it? What about Sir Mulberry – might he be described as a bit petrified himself?”

  Colonel Pike shook his head decidedly. “Mulberry,” he said unexpectedly, “is less like a stone than a cloud. Plenty of him one minute, and then he’s sort of drifted away the next. Must have been rocky enough in his time, I don’t doubt. Contempo
rary of my own. But a provincial governor and all that when I was just foolin’ about between up-stations and Poona. Might apply to Mary, though – that’s Lady Farmer. Once heard that young Mark Raven call her a stone-in-the-rain. What would you make of that?”

  “A joke of the boldly borrowed kind. It means a mackintosh and a shooting-stick and the gaze fixed upon beagles or harriers in the distance.”

  “That’s Mary all right.” Colonel Pike seemed much impressed by the power of this image as now explained. “Still, it hardly seems a reason for all those rum goings-on. You haven’t heard all of it yet. After the dog-business – But here we are. And – good Lord! – look at that.”

  The car, which had been sweeping up a long curved avenue, had now rounded a final arc and was approaching a broad balustraded terrace behind which stood a solid seventeenth-century mansion, admirably reposeful in its ordered infinity of square mullioned and transomed windows. At intervals the long line of the balustrade was strengthened by massive vacant pedestals. And upon one of these an elderly man, orthodoxly attired after the manner of the country gentry, stood posed in the dramatic attitude of the Marsyas of Myron.

  “Yes,” said Colonel Pike in answer to Appleby’s enquiring glance. “That’s Mulberry. As you see, the business is rather weighing on his mind.”

  10

  Sir Mulberry Farmer’s greetings were entirely without embarrassment. “Queer thing,” he said when he had ascertained that his guests would stop to luncheon. “To start with, I was filled with apprehension. There’s no accounting for that.”

  “I can imagine that it is a very disconcerting experience.” In talking to a country gentleman who stood under threat of petrifaction, Appleby supposed that it was desirable to be soothing. “There’s nothing out of the way in your coming to feel some sinister design in it, and being worried.”

  “Is that so?” Sir Mulberry looked at Appleby with discernible irony. “Perhaps the quiet sort of life we bumpkins lead counts. Unprepared for anything which might be fancied to have a hazardous side. Now come and look at the pig.”