William once more controlled his snivelling. “Oh, no, Mr Smith.”
“Ah,” said Mr Smith. “Well, well! And I wonder if I might ask Peggy Pitches to give Hodge a saucer of milk?”
20
The departure of Mr Scott was civil but prompt; he shook hands with Clarissa and Everard and walked off austerely into the night. For some moments the owner of Dream rather ruefully watched the dim figure receding down the drive. Then he turned round with resolute cheerfulness. “Well, well. It would have been pleasant to have our friends for a little longer. But perhaps it is even nicer to be just ourselves again. Smith, my dear fellow, you know that I count you as one of the family whenever you care to drop in. And now let us see whether Rainbird can give us coffee in the Scriptorium. And when Peggy Pitches has found Hodge his milk she will give William his roast pork. Yes, we shall make quite a snug evening of it.”
“In conversation,” said Luke sepulchrally, “with this Inspector Mutlow.”
“Dear me – I had quite forgotten him.” Everard was dashed. Then he brightened again. “But John, I am sure, will be able to manage all that. And, Mark – you had better go to the library and fetch the Millennium people’s cigars. They may help. And brandy. Tell Rainbird to bring the brandy with the coffee. And I wonder if this Inspector Mutlow would care for a pie? Gratifying the physical man is important on these occasions.” And Everard Raven as he made this tactful disposition of things beamed with an innocent cunning.
“I am inclined,” Appleby said, “to advise against the pie. But the brandy and cigars can do no harm. What can do harm is indiscreet speech. So take your cues from me – and from Mr Smith.”
“From Smith!” Everard was startled. “I hardly see–”
“We must all regard ourselves as hares.” Appleby had stopped in the hall and now looked round the group of his future relations. “That’s what we are – little hunted hares. And Mutlow is a whole pack of beagles in full cry. And Mr Smith, here – and his two sons if I am not mistaken – are fellow hares who have been obliging enough to cross the scent. But the situation is critical still. Now, come along.”
The Scriptorium was a room almost as large as Judith’s studio, and consisted for the most part of long tables covered with galley proofs, of innumerable filing cabinets, and of shelves of reference books prominent among which were encyclopaedias in half a dozen European languages. The general effect was efficient but markedly drear – and much as of some unholy cross between a scholar’s study and a prison workshop. Had not a spark of rebellion, Appleby reflected as he glanced round, been among the first things he had marked in Everard’s eye? Here was the explanation. But the farther end of the room had a less bleak appearance; here there was a circle of sofas and chairs before a large fireplace; and in front of these Inspector Mutlow restlessly paced.
Appleby walked straight forward, and the Ravens somewhat uncertainly followed him. “Mutlow,” he said, “it was good of you to come over again. But I really don’t know that you ought to have spared the time. This is a bad business that has started up around you.”
“It certainly is.” Mutlow looked peculiarly solemn. “When once country folk get imagining things about witches–”
“Quite so. And the trouble is that you can never be quite sure that there isn’t something in it. Mr Smith, you agree with me? Anyhow, with the inspector as preoccupied as he is going to be, it is a good thing that the Tiffin Place and Heyhoe affairs have been cleared up.”
“Cleared up?” The dictaphone habit came irresistibly upon Mutlow as he glanced with his familiar air of suspicion round the Raven circle. “I haven’t heard of that, now, Mr Appleby.”
“Well, virtually cleared up. I hope you won’t go away quite yet. For we really need your help in talking the whole matter out.”
“And,” said Everard Raven, “you must have a glass of brandy. Robert, bring a rummer.”
“And a cigar,” said Mark. “Don’t hesitate to pick and choose.”
“Sugar, Mr Mutlow?” Clarissa dabbled with her Queen Anne silver. “So intelligent of Rainbird to secure a supply of coffee. A most reliable man.”
Appleby sat down near the fire. “I have to explain to you all,” he said, “that this afternoon Inspector Mutlow made a most penetrating analysis of the case. Perhaps I should say of the cases, for it was not until he had worked upon the matter that it became apparent that the whole affair was properly one. And now” – and Appleby looked gravely round – “I am sure none of you will want me to mince matters. It will be best that we have the whole truth at once.”
“I really think,” began Everard apprehensively, “that the presence of the family solicitor–”
“Not at all!” The astuter Robert interrupted sharply. “Let us have the whole truth at once by all means.”
“The whole truth,” corroborated Luke. “Ruat coelum.”
“The whole truth?” Mr Smith sat back comfortably in his chair. “Here will be novelty, indeed. For I do not recall ever having encountered anything of the sort. Half the truth – yes. Even three-quarters is common enough. The whole truth, however – But I am encroaching upon Inspector Mutlow’s time, which is now more valuable even than commonly. Mr Appleby, pray proceed.”
“The truth is this.” Appleby’s voice had become even graver. “Inspector Mutlow found very good reason for the darkest suspicions against this whole family. The death of old Mrs Grope, followed by that of Heyhoe, as also by some obscure plot against the unfortunate youth known as Hannah Hoobin’s boy–”
“Old Mrs Grope?” Everard Raven was completely bewildered.
“The woman who is thought to have fallen down a well. Certain circumstances – family circumstances into which, at the moment, I need not enter – made it advantageous to you, Everard, and to the family in general, that first this old Mrs Grope, and then Heyhoe, and then the boy, should be – well – liquidated.”
“Good heavens!” Everard was staring aghast.
“Liquidated?” Luke was so astounded that he positively ceased to look melancholy.
Robert put the brandy decanter down on a table. “This is very serious,” he said quietly.
“Quite so. It appeared, I say, that two crimes and one obscure attempt at a crime might be charged against you all. The subsidiary mystifications, such as the affair of Luke’s tombstone and the proposed exploiting of a chance encounter with a person named Appleby; all these, it appeared, might be no more than so many false trails. What the inspector, in fact, brilliantly called the extra needles in the haystack.”
“The haystack?” said Judith, startled.
Mutlow looked confused. “Yes, Miss Raven. I don’t know what put such a figure in my head.”
“But now another possibility struck the inspector.” Appleby reached forward and replenished Mutlow’s rummer. “It set a wholly new interpretation upon the affair, and accounted for the known facts a good deal more adequately. Mutlow saw that it was more probably – indeed, almost certainly – the old man Heyhoe himself who was at the bottom of the whole thing.”
“Did I? Well, I suppose I did.” Mutlow was looking at once mollified and harassed. “And that the burying of Heyhoe in the snow was – was poetic justice.”
“Poetic justice?” said Clarissa unexpectedly. “Boiling oil would have been poetic justice for that old wretch.”
“Really, Clarissa!” Everard was much distressed. “Have a cigar. I mean, pray take another cup of coffee.”
“For when we reviewed the whole run of the case we found one wholly discrepant factor. The false trails were not really false trails. They were – again in Inspector Mutlow’s phrase – spotlights. And they were spotlights playing upon Ranulph Raven and his books – particularly upon the odd way in which his writing had come to be regarded as having a prophetic slant to it. Now, if the family circumstances to which I have allu
ded were as we believed, it would be utterly against your interests as a family to have any attention drawn to Ranulph, and you would certainly not proceed to liquidate old Mrs Grope and the rest amid a profusion of circumstances gratuitously tending to cast that spotlight upon Ranulph’s life. On the contrary, it would be in your interest to keep Ranulph well buried. With Heyhoe, however, just the reverse held. These family circumstances were such – or he suspected them to be such – that it was to his advantage that the widest notoriety should be given to Ranulph and his biography. Heyhoe, in fact, wanted public interest in this forgotten writer thoroughly aroused and his whole history dug up. And with the cunning of an uneducated, half-senile but extremely formidable old man, he took the extraordinary way to it that he did. Queer things began to happen which would be bound very soon to unearth the whole Ranulph Raven legend; the newspapers would be sure to take it up and, from right back in the last century, his whole early history would be laid bare. And this, I say, because of certain circumstances, Heyhoe had reason to believe would be to his advantage. Mutlow, I think I have more or less done justice to the series of deductions by which you have solved this case?”
Mutlow was staring open-mouthed at Appleby. At length he spoke with difficulty. “Certainly,” he said. “I think you put it very well.” His confidence grew. “Very well indeed, Appleby.”
But Everard Raven was gaping too – as indeed was the whole family. “Really,” he said, “I can’t make head or tail of it. Except that it seems too dreadful – too dreadful for words. Robert, Judith – whatever have we done? If only–”
“And so there is the truth of the whole matter.” Appleby cut briskly in. “And, fortunately, there is now really no criminal case to pursue. I say fortunately because this extraordinary and very serious affair of witchcraft and sorcery is likely to occupy all the inspector’s energies for some time. I am sure you will all agree that his handling of it is likely to be such that he will gain the greatest credit.”
“Certainly.” The Reverend Mr Smith was emphatic. “When Inspector Mutlow runs the weird sisters to earth, his career will most assuredly be made.”
Mutlow looked about the company with a mixture of bewilderment and caution. “I’m not sure,” he began, “that in this case–”
“Ah, very true.” Appleby again replenished the rummer. “Your exposure of Heyhoe’s tricks might well make your reputation. Only the matter of Hannah Hoobin’s boy was a little unfortunate. There is no doubt that you were led into an error of judgement in not insisting upon a vigorous enquiry earlier. As I said before, the Home Secretary–”
“I suppose you’re right again, Mr Appleby.” Mutlow’s voice was reluctant. He rose to his feet and drained his liqueur brandy in a fashion that made Mark Raven visibly shudder. “And I certainly do want to get on to this witchcraft and sorcery business. Crowds of newspaper men are scouring the country over it already, it seems. And if I can just get the hang of it–” He moved towards the door, while the Raven family watched him breathless. He stopped. “I’m sure I have got it right about Heyhoe,” he said. “But it seems to me the law ought to take an interest in what Mr Appleby called these family circumstances. After all, a good deal of property may depend–”
“The whole matter will be thoroughly enquired into.” Appleby was suddenly authoritative. “But at the moment it is not a matter for criminal investigation.”
Mutlow nodded. “Then the whole Heyhoe business and all the freakish things he did had better lie quiet. I’m sure Sir Mulberry will be best content to have it that way. But wait a minute” – and Mutlow’s brow suddenly darkened – “there is a criminal matter still, I think you’ll agree. There’s that poetic justice. For how I understand it is this: Heyhoe had been playing all these queer pranks out of the books by way of stirring up folk to go and enquire into the life of this Ranulph – you know why.” Mutlow looked suspiciously round the Raven circle. “You know why – and the truth there will have to out sooner or later, I don’t doubt. Half-wit or no half-wit. But what I’m saying now is this: Heyhoe was up to all that devilry, and you found him out. You found him out, some or all of you, and you hoist him with his own–”
“Petard,” said Appleby.
“Just that. Poetic justice. You made one of this Ranulph’s tales come true about him, so to speak. The tale of the fellow buried so as he looked just like a decapitated head. Now I don’t question but that Heyhoe was dead already, for the doctors are sure of it. But then you took the body and did that to it. And I’ll tell you I think it was a right nasty thing to do.” Mutlow was suddenly indignant. “And it’s criminal, what’s more. So I’m afraid it will be either a summons or a warrant in the morning.”
Everard Raven gave a groan of despair. “But my dear officer, if you would only consider–” He fell silent as Robert’s hand fell warningly on his shoulder.
Appleby had risen and was imperturbably choosing a cigar. “Mutlow,” he said, “that is the one particular in which you went wrong. And I don’t doubt that it was my fault. It seemed as if one of the people here present must have been responsible for burying the old fellow – or it seemed so because the notion fitted in so well with this picturesque if rather unlikely idea of poetic justice. Heyhoe’s monkeying with Ranulph’s stories had been found out – and by way of revenge his body was, as it were, thrust into one of the stories. But is it really plausible? If one pauses only for a moment one sees that it is not. The thing would be utterly pointless. And one doesn’t exercise poetic justice on corpses, after all. So where did we go wrong? Consider first just what has to be accounted for.”
“An old man buried in a snowdrift after a fashion he couldn’t have contrived himself.” Mutlow was decided. “That’s what we have to account for.”
“Exactly. But if we go on from that to seek the man – or woman – who did the burying we skip a point. Or say that we neglect another figure in the drama. Spot.”
“Spot, Mr Appleby?”
“Yes, indeed. For consider the situation. Here is Heyhoe wandering round in the snow, with a bottle of gin in one hand and Spot’s bridle in the other. He sits down still clutching the brute; he drinks, is bemused, falls half asleep or into a stupor. Very presently he is dead. But still he is clutching Spot’s bridle – and I suppose you know what a dead man’s clasp can be like? The horse is uneasy, tries to wander off – and presently bolts, terrified. He drags the dead man through the snow, makes for the bridle-path leading to his stable, skirts a snowdrift, but drags the body right into it and is pulled up short. He rears and prances in a panic, scattering snow everywhere, obliterating his own traces. Then something snaps or slips and he makes for home. And there is Heyhoe’s body, tugged with the animal’s full might into the snowdrift. Presently there is another considerable fall – Miss Raven and I walked through it – which is quite sufficient, together with the trampling of the searchers and those who dug out the body, to obscure any signs of what had actually happened. The whole thing amounts to no more than that: an unfortunate accident.”
Everard Raven, who had been agitatedly moving his glasses from one part of his long nose to another during this recital, now laid them down and momentarily buried that organ in a rummer. Fortified thus, he managed to address Appleby. “And you really suppose that this was the manner of Heyhoe’s end?”
Appleby turned to Mutlow. “What do you think?”
“There’s not a doubt of it!” Mutlow, now conscientiously relieved from the unnatural necessity of hounding the local gentry, was suddenly expansive. “And it shows how careful one should be about – about testing one’s hypotheses. And I’m not sure it wasn’t you yourself, Mr Appleby, who was a bit hasty there.”
“Undoubtedly it was.”
“Now, what I’ve always said–” Mutlow sat down again and his eye seemed to go in quest of the brandy bottle. “What I’ve always saidis–”
From somewhere out in th
e darkness first a long, low howl and then a series of rising and bloodcurdling screams nipped Mutlow’s discourse in the bud. Everybody sat up or leant forward, startled and listening. Again the same sounds were heard, and this time was added to them a vast and hideous yowling as of some gigantic, demented and supernatural cat. Mr Smith, who had a few moments before strolled over to a window, came back to the fireside and placidly stroked Hodge. “Dear me,” he said, “what an extraordinary din.”
“It’s the witches!” Mutlow had sprung up in great agitation. “And they’re not a quarter of a mile off. I–”
“The witches?” Everard Raven looked even more bewildered than usual. “It sounds to me the sort of noise young men make at night in the streets of Oxford when they’re celebrating having been out with the drag.”
“There it is again!” Mutlow was looking round hurriedly for his hat. “And – good heavens! – listen to that.”
The uncanny sounds had been repeated, though now a little farther away. And this time they were followed by other sounds unmistakably human – the angry shouts, cries and halloos of a pursuing mob. And Mark Raven was following Mutlow to the door. “Won’t you stop for another brandy? How sorry we are! Put a few cigars in your pocket instead… Dear me, the man’s gone!”
Appleby had crossed over to Mr Smith. “You don’t think,” he said in a low voice, “that there’s any danger if they catch up with them? It sounds a pretty angry crowd.”
Mr Smith chuckled comfortably and gave Hodge’s whiskers a friendly pull. “My dear sir, the witches are no more than two lads in flannel trousers and tweed jackets, perfectly well known in the district, who are taking an evening stroll in the snow. They can change from hunted to hunters instantly at need. In addition to which, Charles is a Rugger Blue and Arthur is likely to be amateur middleweight champion of England.” Mr Smith rose to his feet again, with the air of surveying his own gigantic person from his white hair to his cracked and ancient shoes. “We are an old-fashioned family, Mr Appleby, and muscular Christianity is our métier.” Mr Smith tickled Hodge on the ear and his expression grew serious. “I fear that you have unpleasant news for our friends, and that I myself bring the confirmation of it. But at least we have avoided the catastrophe which their levity has nearly brought upon them.”
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