Appleby's End

by Michael Innes

  “Ah,” said Mr Liddell with distaste. “Booksy.”

  “Booksy?” said Everard with dismay. “What a dreadful word.”

  “Exactly so. All this odd echoing of Ranulph Raven’s stories–”

  “Is most absorbingly interesting,” said Mr Scott.

  “Interesting?” Mr Liddell shook his head. “To you and me – yes. I don’t mind saying that I shall be uncommonly intrigued to hear the explanation of it. But whether we could put it across – well, that’s another matter.”

  Everard Raven set down his glass. “Put it across? Really, my dear Liddell, I quite fail to understand you. Here is a series of unaccountable events, most distressing to us all – and our only concern must be to avoid a vulgar scandal. I realise your professional interest in the affair, but I am sure that as an old friend you will agree to view that matter in a different way from these newspaper people who have been crowding about all afternoon. Indeed, I am hoping that you may have sufficient influence with them to – well, to tone the affair down. Nothing would dismay us more than some horrible form of publicity.”

  “It would be most repugnant to us,” said Robert Raven – mildly and with a ferocious grimace.

  “Entirely contrary to our family traditions,” said Luke.

  Mark tilted his chin and emptied a glass of claret. “We should never hold up our heads again,” he said.

  “Oh, come, come.” Mr Scott looked alarmed. “You must all please take a rational view of the affair. Just what the explanation of all these odd happenings can be I don’t profess to know. But you must realise that the public is bound to be interested–”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Mr Liddell spoke with the gloom of a man who has rather rapidly reached the bottom of his first bottle. “I’m not at all sure about that. It’s complicated. And there’s what can only be called a strong intellectual element.” And Mr Liddell’s features assumed an expression of distaste which was only modified as Rainbird approached with a decanter.

  “The public can be made interested.” Mr Scott paused. “And we should be quite willing to acknowledge that as being in the nature of a service, my dear Liddell. In fact, there would have to be recognition – tangible recognition – of your part.”

  Everard Raven poised a spoon absently before Peggy Pitches’ bust. “I am entirely at sea,” he murmured.

  “We are all wholly bewildered.” Mark Raven grinned wickedly. “Judith, what can our unexpected guests be after? And can it be possible that your young man knows?”

  Mr Liddell was shaking his head thoughtfully. “I see the force of your argument,” he said to Mr Scott. “But can the thing be handled? That’s the question. And I say at once that something very much simpler would have altogether more appeal. That’s the opinion of the fellows out there.” He gestured towards the garden. “It’s got them guessing, I don’t mind telling you. So much so, that they’ve agreed to hold everything till tomorrow. They felt that if they rushed things the whole story would be in a muddle still when tonight’s papers were going to bed.”

  Mr Scott nodded with satisfaction. “So much the better. We have upwards of twelve hours to get the whole thing planned.”

  “Simpler?” Appleby interrupted once more. “Have you heard of the sorcery, Mr Liddell? It seems to have nothing to do with our affairs here at Dream, but you might be interested in it, all the same.”

  Everard Raven had produced a handkerchief and was mopping his brow. “I think,” he said, “that as we are squarely faced with our own untoward affairs we should stick to them and avoid distractions.”

  “I quite agree, Raven.” Mr Scott was emphatic. “If Mr Appleby would defer–”

  But Mr Liddell brushed his fellow guest aside. “Sorcery?” he asked curiously.

  Appleby nodded. “Only this afternoon I was visiting an old woman of the name of Mrs Ulstrup in a neighbouring village. And – would you believe it? – somebody crept in and stole a piece of cake from her for the purpose of some sort of sinister magic. The local vicar knows quite a lot about it, by the way. It would probably be worth your while to have a chat with him. And then, only a few hours ago, there has been the queer affair of Sturrock’s bull.”

  Mr Scott set down his knife and fork and glared at Appleby. “To get back to Ranulph Raven–” he began.

  But Appleby was explaining about the pins. And Mr Liddell listened with close attention. “Well, I’m blessed,” he said. “Bewitching the poor brute. And a bull, too – not a cow. There’s always a bit of appeal in a bull. Yes, that’s an uncommonly interesting thing.”

  Mr Scott shook his head vigorously. “Interesting? It’s quite stupid, if you ask me – and leads nowhere. Now, Heyhoe–”

  “Very definitely leads somewhere,” Appleby broke in. “But how many people know in just what direction? I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be as well to leave him alone until we find out.”

  Everard Raven, harassed but still mildly cheerful, glanced down the table. “John,” he said, “pray let Rainbird give you a little more pork.”

  It was a piece of hospitable care that was commonplace enough. But its effect was unexpected. Rainbird laid down his carving knife and advanced upon the diners. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “Beg pardon, marm.”

  19

  The small decorums are those the violation of which is most startling. The company stared at Rainbird as if suddenly whisked into the presence of Balaam’s ass. And in the momentary silence there could be heard from outside the curtained windows the roar of motor-car engines starting into life and the crunch of wheels gathering impetus on the snow.

  “It was the pork, sir.” Rainbird was apologetic. “It was your naming the pork, sir, that made me feel I’d better mention of it.”

  Everard Raven looked at his butler in astonishment. “Mention it, Rainbird? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Well, sir, nothing exactly in the world at all, if I may so express myself. Or half in the world, like.”

  Mark Raven turned round to scan the bottles and decanters, apparently suspecting that the explanation of this dark speech might lie in several surreptitiously consumed bumpers.

  “The witches, sir.” Rainbird’s voice sank dramatically. “They’ve been seen not an hour ago.”

  “The witches?” Miss Clarissa Raven raised a pair of lorgnettes as if to convince herself that this was still her valued domestic who stood before her. “What witches, Rainbird, in heaven’s name?”

  “Why, marm, them as was a-trying to sorcerise old Mrs Ulstrup and put the pins to Woolworth.”

  Everard Raven shook his head with an expression of unusual irritation. “Nonsense, my good fellow. These are simply old wives’ tales that have been going round the district.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but Inspector Mutlow says–”

  “Inspector Mutlow!” exclaimed Appleby. “Is he here again?”

  “Yes, sir. Waiting in the Scriptorium, sir. And Inspector Mutlow says, sir, that the Marquis was most emphatic.”

  Luke Raven, who had been continuing to eat roast pork with the degustatory concentration common in the melancholic, set down his knife and fork. “The Marquis!” he cried.

  “Just so, sir – and who could ask for a better witness than his lordship – unless it were the Duke himself from Scamnum?” Rainbird put this nice point in the law of evidence to the company at large. “The Marquis had arranged for a car to meet him at the Junction, it appears – at Linger, that is – and seemingly it broke down in the snow. Whereupon, sir” – Rainbird paused with satisfaction on this expression – “whereupon, sir, his lordship was pleased to step into the waiting-room. And there the witches was. A whole sabbath of them.”

  “A sabbath!” Appleby was incredulous.

  “Well, sir, at least three. There they was, sir, in Brettingham Scurl’s waiting-r
oom.”

  Judith Raven was looking at Appleby with a mingling of bewilderment and suspicion. “And what, Rainbird,” she asked, “were the witches doing in so disagreeable a retreat?”

  “If you please, Miss Judith, they were killing swine.”

  Mr Scott had sunk back gloomily in his chair. But Mr Liddell had jumped to his feet. “Do I actually understand–” he began. Appleby interrupted him. “I suppose, Rainbird, that the witches were provided with a cauldron?”

  “I understand they had something of the sort, sir.”

  “And they would be singing? Something like ‘Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble’?”

  Rainbird looked much impressed. “These are the very words, sir. Inspector Mutlow says his lordship noted them very particular. He had a kind of feeling, it seems, that he had once heard them in his childhood. But no sooner had his lordship entered the waiting-room than the witches ran out screeching and disappeared, and there was nothing left but the carcase of one of Scurl’s Gloucester Old Spots.”

  Mr Liddell was still on his feet, and looking round him wildly. “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that a nobleman of the county is actually prepared to swear that he has had an interview with witches?” He paused. “What was all that noise of cars?”

  “That would be the gentlemen of the press, sir – those that have been hanging about the grounds. A good many of them, it seems, have driven off to Linger Court.”

  “Where’s my hat? Find my coat!” Mr Liddell had thrown down his table napkin and pushed back his chair. “There hasn’t been a story like this–”

  “My dear fellow, pray compose yourself.” Everard Raven had risen too and was endeavouring to pat Mr Liddell back into his seat.

  “Have another glass of claret,” said Robert.

  “Wait for the port,” said Luke.

  “And the brandy too,” said Mark. “We should like you to compare it with what the Longers offer you later in the evening.”

  “Rainbird,” said Miss Clarissa, “I do not recollect one of our guests having called for his hat and coat before. Possibly it is customary in hotels. Pray gratify Mr Liddell’s wish.”

  “Really, Clarissa, I must beg you to be calm.” Everard was himself extremely agitated. “Liddell is naturally interested in what Rainbird has had to say, but I am sure he will not think of depriving us of his company in the middle of dinner. I am looking forward to offering him one of the Millennium people’s excellent cigars.”

  Mr Liddell, clearly much torn between professional instinct and social duty, finally sat down again. And Mr Scott, who during this commotion had been fortifying himself with a couple of glasses of claret, leant earnestly across the table and addressed him. “You must consider, my dear chap, that the Heyhoe affair has already made the late editions tonight. And some rattling good men have been working on it all evening. And I believe the newsreel people have been on to it. The thing’s as good as launched.”

  Mr Liddell shook his head sulkily. “It’s out of tomorrow’s dailies, I tell you. And if it’s not carried tomorrow evening it’s as good as dead. By the next morning nobody will remember anything about it.”

  “But consider.” And Mr Scott spread out his hands beseechingly. “Consider the whole extraordinary affair. A popular novelist who has been dead for something like half a century – and suddenly his yarns start coming true! Mr Luke Raven here received a tombstone straight out of a story called Paxton’s Destined Hour. Just think of that. Then, again, a story called The Medusa Head–”

  “Bad title.” Mr Liddell scowled gloomily at his empty glass. “Not point one per cent of the newspaper public could tell you who Medusa was.”

  “Never mind, man, never mind! At Tiffin Place the most extraordinary things have been happening, and are a good deal bruited about the district already. A valuable cow–”

  “We should have to be dam’ careful about Tiffin Place.” Mr Liddell, who had sent an enquiring glance in the direction of Rainbird and the decanters, turned to Mr Scott again and shook his head solemnly. “Fact is, the folk there are friends of our owner, Sparshott. Name of Farmer, isn’t it? And they aren’t after publicity.” Mr Liddell watched his glass being replenished. “Mind you,” he continued in a mollified tone, “I don’t criticise you people for wanting to look after yourselves. An affair like this doesn’t happen very often, after all.” His eye grew abstracted again. “But then, neither does witchcraft these days.”

  “Look after ourselves?” asked Everard Raven. “How confusing all this is! To a quiet-living scholar like myself, happily engaged on humdrum tasks–”

  “Quite so, Raven. Quite so.” Mr Scott waved a hand impatiently. “Now, my dear Liddell, it seems to me that perhaps a little private talk–”

  The end of Mr Scott’s sentence was drowned in a sudden uproar from the direction of the kitchens. There were shouts, a scream, the crash of much falling crockery. Then a door flew open and an arm appeared grabbing vainly after a hurtling object apparently compounded of mud, snow and rags. “Keep her out!” the object yelled. “I seen her, I tell you. Followed me right through the spinney, she did. Keep her–” The terrified jabber died away as the object discerned the august company into which his precipitate flight had taken him, and as a face at once awestruck and tearful was turned towards them it was possible to recognise Gregory Grope’s assistant.

  “William,” said Appleby, “whatever is the meaning of this? And what has been following you?”

  Apprehensively William glanced round the room and at the closed doors. His eyes widened as they fell on the resplendent compositions of Gawain and Mordred, and his nostrils perceptibly dilated at the aroma of roast pork. “Please, sir, it was the–” He gulped desperately and fell to snivelling.

  “William,” Appleby said, “has been out after rabbits and is undoubtedly hungry. We must give him a good square meal. But first perhaps he will tell us–”

  “It was the witch, sir.” With a great effort William contrived articulate speech. “Followed me right up to the kitchen door, she did, a-waving and a-screeching like anything. I thought I was a sure goner.”

  “I see. And I suppose she had her broomstick?”

  “Yes, sir.” William nodded, dark-eyed and breathing quickly. “Her hat and broomstick, sir. And she carried her great big brindled cat. That be how I knew she were the witch,”

  “Of course it was. And now–”

  Once more from outside there came the cough and purr of starting cars. And once more Mr Liddell leapt to his feet. But this time he made resolutely for the door. “Witches!” he cried. “Your whole countryside teeming with them. Stealing cake. Bewitching bulls. Killing pigs. Pursuing beautiful country boys. By heaven, it’s the greatest thing in a decade!” And Mr Liddell rushed from the room.

  There was a moment’s bewilderment, and then the rest of the company followed.

  “My tombstone!” shouted Luke.

  “Sir Mulberry Farmer’s marble milker!” called Robert.

  “Judith’s blind man!” cried Everard.

  “Heyhoe and the howling and hollering head!” roared Mark.

  “The Coach of Cacus!” screamed Mr Scott. He grabbed Appleby by the buttonhole and endeavoured to hurry him on. “And we didn’t tell you about this one,” he bellowed. “Appleby’s End, Liddell. appleby’s end!”

  Precipitately the Raven household rushed down the long hall, dodging as in some nightmarish obstacle race the impressive Tartars and Kurds. It was in vain. The front door stood open upon an empty lawn. Far down the drive several tail lights faintly glimmered – and even as they looked a large car shot out from the shelter of the east wing and with a wave and a whoop Mr Liddell was gone. There was a fitful moon. And from the remoter darkness about them came sounds of dispersed and uncertain tumult as the denizens of Sneak and Snarl, of Slee
p’s Hill and Boxer’s Bottom, of Drool and Linger and the nearer Yatters bestirred themselves about the greatest witch-hunt of the age.

  Everard Raven gazed out blankly upon the churned-up snow, the vacant lawn, the sprawling eaves and gables of Dream – mysterious, silent, and hung with little icicles that glittered in the moonshine. “A frost,” he said. “Scott, my dear fellow – an absolute frost.”

  Appleby mildly disengaged Mr Scott’s finger and thumb from his buttonhole and gave one gentle sigh of relief. He walked over to Judith and took her hand. “A frost, Everard? As a lexicographer, you ought to speak more accurately. What you mean is a close shave. But I think there’s a visitor coming. I wonder, will he make up for Liddell’s departure?”

  They looked down the drive once more. From some side path there had emerged a tall figure carrying a bulky Gladstone bag. He gave a friendly hail, and presently it was possible to recognise the Reverend Mr Smith. In the crook of his free arm nestled the dignified Hodge.

  “Good evening,” Mr Smith called out cheerfully. “Is the hour too unseasonable for a visit?”

  Everard Raven looked at him dazedly as he strode up the steps. “Not at all, my dear Smith; not at all. We are delighted to see you at any time. You are on your way home from your pastoral cares?”

  “Precisely so.” Mr Smith set Hodge down on the mat. “My evening’s activities – which have been not inconsiderable – could scarcely be better put. Rainbird, be so good as to take care of this bag. It contains – um – jam. Bless my soul! What ails the boy?”

  William, whose equanimity had been somewhat restored by the prospect of roast pork and who had ventured cautiously into the hall, was once more hollering. And the reason was plain. His eye was fixed on Hodge.

  Appleby patted him on the shoulder. “William,” he explained, “has just seen a witch. And, as it happens, she appears to have had a cat much like Hodge.”

  “Dear me!” Mr Smith picked up his cat and held it out before him. “William,” he asked gravely, “do you think this was the witch’s cat?”