Appleby File

by Michael Innes

  There was another long silence, broken only by an inarticulate sound from Prunella.

  ‘We can accept that,’ Appleby said gently. ‘But you killed him, all the same.’

  ‘Jolly came to Gore Castle in the way of trade,’ Appleby said. ‘His own filthy trade. He had papers he was going to sell – at a price. I don’t know what story these papers tell. But it is the story that failed to see the light of day when Robert Darien-Gore had to leave the army. Jolly, I may say, made a sinister joke to me. He said he knew when he’d been given enough; he knew just how much he could take. He was wrong.’

  ‘This must stop.’ Jasper Darien-Gore spoke with an assumption of authority. ‘If there is matter for the police to investigate, then the local police must be summoned in a regular way. Sir John, I consider that you have no standing in this matter. And it is an abuse–’

  ‘You are quite wrong, sir.’ Appleby looked sternly at his host. ‘I am the holder of a warrant card, like any other officer of the police. And on its authority I propose to make an arrest on a specific charge. Now, may I go on?’

  ‘For God’s sake do!’ Prunella cried out. ‘I can’t stand more of this…I can’t stand it!’

  ‘My dear,’ Mrs Strickland said, and went to sit beside her.

  ‘Strickland – take the binoculars again, will you? Look at the keep. Got it? What strikes you about it?’

  ‘Chiefly the scaffolding round it, I’d say.’

  ‘Windows?’

  ‘There are narrow windows all the way up – lighting a spiral staircase, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Glazed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Imagine a skilled archer near ground-level on the near side of the bailey. Could he get an arrow through one of those windows?’

  ‘I suppose he could. First shot, if he was first c1ass.’

  ‘And on a flight that would pass over the well?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘That was what happened. That was the bow-shot I heard and Frape heard. The arrow carried a line – by means of which somebody in the keep could draw a strong nylon cord across the bailey, something more than head-high above the well.’ Appleby turned to Robert. ‘You had already killed Jolly – simply with an arrow employed as a dagger, I rather think. He was a meagre little man. You carried the body to the well, pitched it in, mounted the lip – and returned across the bailey on the cord. For a climber, it wasn’t a particularly difficult feat. Then the line was released at the other end, swung like a skipping rope until it fell near one of the flanking walls, and drawn gently back through the snow. There will be virtually no trace of it. It only remained to return the bow to the ascham here. The bow and one arrow. The second missing arrow is…with Jolly, I rather think.’

  ‘You know too much.’ Robert Darien-Gore had been sitting hunched in a chair, his right hand deep in the pocket of his shooting jacket. Now he sprang to his feet, brought out his hand, and hurled something in the direction of Appleby, which flew past him and into the fireplace. Then the hand went back again, and came out holding something else. The crack of a pistol reverberated in the gallery as Robert crashed to the floor.

  ‘By God – he’s dead!’ Like a flash, Jasper had been on his knees beside his brother. But now he rose, dazed and staggering – and with the pistol in his hands. He came slowly over to Appleby. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘my brother is…dead. Will you…see?’

  Appleby took a couple of steps forward – and as he did so, Jasper dived behind him. What Robert had hurled into the fireplace was Jolly’s pocketbook; it had missed the fire, and lay undamaged. Jasper grabbed it just as Appleby turned, and made to thrust it into the heart of the flame. Appleby knocked up his arm, and the pocketbook went flying across the gallery. Jasper eluded Appleby’s grasp, vaulted a settee with the effortlessness of a young athlete in training, retrieved the pocketbook, and turned round to face the company. He still had Robert’s pistol in his hand.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘Don’t any of you move.’

  ‘This is foolish,’ Appleby said quietly. ‘Foolish and useless. Your brother is indeed dead. And his last day’s work has been to involve you in murder. You knew nothing about Jolly when he arrived – except that you distrusted him. But Robert made you receive him as a guest, and by dinner-time Robert had persuaded you to his plot. Your own first part in it was to concoct that legend about the well. But your main part was to be in the keep when the arrow arrived. You face a charge of murder, just as your brother would have done. Nothing is to be gained by waving a pistol.’

  ‘All of you get back from that fire – now.’ With raised pistol, Jasper took a pace towards Appleby. In his other hand he raised the pocket-book. ‘What I hold here, I burn. After that, we can talk.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Darien-Gore, but it won’t do. Before you burn those papers, you’ll have shot a policeman in the course of his duty. And if–’

  ‘Permit me, sir.’ Frape had stepped forward. He walked past Appleby and advanced upon his employer. ‘It will be best, sir, that you should give me the gun.’

  ‘Stand back, Frape, or I shoot.’

  ‘As Sir John says, sir, it won’t do. So, with great respect, I must insist.’ And Frape put out a steady arm and took the pistol from his employer’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged to you.’

  For a fraction of a second Jasper looked merely bewildered. Then, as Appleby again advanced upon him, he turned and ran from the gallery.

  ‘Frape – help me to get him.’ Instinctively, Appleby addressed first the man who had proved himself. He was already running down the gallery as he called over his shoulder. ‘Strickland, Trevor – he must be stopped.’

  VIII

  The chase through Gore Castle took place in the first light of a bleak winter dawn. Judith Appleby, who had followed the men, was to remember it as a confusion of panting and shouting, with ill-identified figures vanishing down vistas that were composed sometimes of stately rooms in unending sequence, sometimes of narrow defiles through forbidding medieval masonry. It was the kind of pursuit that may happen in nightmare: in one instant hopelessly at fault, and in the next an all but triumphant breathing down the hunted man’s neck.

  They were in the open – plunging and kicking through snow. Suddenly, in front of Jasper as he rounded a corner, there seemed to be only a high blank wall. But he ran straight at it; a buttress appeared; in the angle of this stood a ladder, steeply pitched. Appleby and Frape were at its foot seconds after Jasper’s heels had vanished up it; but even as they were about to mount it, it came down past their heads. As they struggled to set it up again Judith could see that Jasper, with a brief respite won, was crouched down on a narrow ledge, and fumbling in a pocket. With trembling hands he produced a box of matches – and then Jolly’s fatal pocketbook. From this he pulled out a first sheet of paper, crumpled it, struck a match. But the match – and then a second and a third – went out. And now the ladder was in place again. There was no time for another attempt. Clutching the pocketbook, Jasper rose and ran on. He vanished through a low archway. He had gained the keep.

  It was almost dark inside. Judith was now abreast of her husband. As they paused to accustom themselves to the gloom, Jasper’s voice came from somewhere above.

  ‘Are you there, Appleby? I don’t advise the climb.’

  ‘Darien-Gore, come down – in the name of the law.’

  ‘This is my keep, Appleby. It was to defy the law – didn’t I tell you? – that my ancestors built it long ago.’

  The last words were almost inaudible, for Jasper was climbing again. They followed. Perpendicular slits of light spiralled downwards and past them as they panted up the winding stair. Quite suddenly, there was open sky in front of them, and against it Jasper’s figure in silhouette. In front of him was a criss-cross of scaffolding. One aspect of it they had seen from other angl
es already: a wooden plank, thrusting out into vacancy for some feet – and startlingly suggestive of a springboard. Beyond it, the eye could only travel vertiginously down…to the inner bailey, the well, the single set of prints across the snow.

  Jasper turned for a moment. They could see his features dimly, and then – very clearly – that he was holding up the pocketbook to them in a gesture of defiance. He thrust it into a pocket, turned away, measured his distance, and ran. it was not a jump; it was the sort of dive that earns a high score in an Olympic pool. In a beautiful curve, Jasper Darien-Gore rose, pivoted in air, plunged, diminished in free fall, and vanished (as they ceased to be able to bear to look) into the well.

  And from behind them came the breathless voice of General Strickland: ‘Good God, Appleby! Jasper didn’t better that one when he gained a Gold for England in ’36.’

  Poltergeist

  ‘Aunt Jessica has a poltergeist,’ Judith Appleby said, as she watched her husband pour drinks. John had got home from Scotland Yard after a hard day. High-powered criminals were very much abroad in the land, and he had conferred at length with half a dozen of his most major officers about one large-scale villainy or another. He deserved to be entertained with a little relaxing family gossip.

  ‘In that case your aunt had better keep a sharp eye on the new kitchen-maid.’ Appleby handed Judith her sherry. ‘Better ring her up and tell her so.’

  ‘There isn’t a new kitchen-maid. In fact kitchen-maids are no longer heard of.’

  ‘In the kind of household your Aunt Jessica runs to I’ll bet they are, although there may be a new name for them. In any event, what the old lady must look out for is an adolescent girl – preferably of worse than indifferent education, and necessarily of hysterical temperament. If poltergeists exist, it’s almost invariably when some such young person is around that they get busy toppling the furniture and chucking the china about the house. If they don’t exist, one has to conclude that dotty girls can develop surprising skill in putting on such turns themselves. The subject is a perplexed one. Para-psychologists are by no means in agreement about it.’

  ‘Isn’t that because there’s often such a mix-up of straight fraud and genuinely inexplicable happenings?’ Judith felt she was at least getting John’s mind off bank robberies and rapes and muggings. ‘For instance, a man finds he can make billiard balls roll about the table simply by glaring at them. Then he is investigated by professors and people who turn out to be an unsympathetic crowd. His powers begin to desert him in these new conditions, and soon he is doing it with magnets or something hidden up his shirt-sleeves.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the billiard-balls man.’

  ‘No more have I. I’ve made him up. But that sort of thing.’

  ‘I agree that there have been plenty of such cases. The ladies known as physical mediums are the best documented of them. But it’s more interesting when the thing operates the other way round. The professional stage illusionist makes a few passes, mutters some abracadabra, and the pretty girl in the box vanishes, it’s done with mirrors, as everybody knows. Then one day he does it once too often, and the girl really vanishes, never to be seen or heard of again.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that, John.’

  ‘Of course not. But – once more – that sort of thing. And now tell me more about your poor aunt’s predicament. I hope the manifestations are confined to the kitchen.’

  ‘They’re not. The poltergeist has managed to smash a white porcelain dish of the Liao dynasty. And that, you know, means a hundred years before the Norman Conquest.’

  ‘Good God!’ Appleby was genuinely shocked. ‘Anything else of that order?’

  ‘An eight-faceted vase of mei-p’ing shape. Underglaze blue with dragons in waves.’

  ‘That would be Yuan – and I think I remember it. This must be stopped. Has the old lady called in the police?’

  ‘She called in the vicar, and the vicar produced an ecclesiastical exorcist, specially licensed for the job by the Archbishop of Canterbury. There’s been bell, book and candle stuff all over Anderton Place. But the poltergeist hasn’t been incommoded so far.’

  ‘Then the good Lady Parmiter must be persuaded to try the local constabulary after all – and not just as a last resort.’ Appleby, far from amused, frowned at his untouched sherry. ‘It’s monstrous, Judith. A vast great country house, absolutely crammed with treasures waiting to be smashed to bits by some unfortunate child of disordered mind! And nothing done about it, you say, except in terms of clerical mumbo-jumbo? The old dear ought to be locked up.’

  ‘Don’t be so cockily rationalistic, John. Of course you’re right about the treasures. Acres and acres of the things. But acres and acres of utter junk as well. Aunt Jessica’s late husband was enormously wealthy. As a collector he was also as guileless and tasteless as they come. The result is that Anderton Place must be pretty well unique among the dwellings of men.’

  ‘But does your aunt know? What’s genuine and what’s fake, and so on?’

  ‘It’s impossible to tell – but she certainly likes living with the old higgledy-piggledy effect perpetrated by my uncle. Loyalty to the deceased, perhaps. Her trustees must have accurate inventories based on adequate expertises made by museum people and so forth. The insurance position would be chaotic without that. But Anderton Place itself is chaotic, as you’ve seen for yourself.’

  ‘Not so chaotic as it will be when this precious poltergeist is finished with it.’

  ‘That’s how it looks, I must say.’ Judith Appleby glanced at her husband with caution, and confirmed herself in the view that he had been working far too hard. There were even dark rings under his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And you’re quite right. It ought to be stopped. Why not stop it?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Aunt Jessica has a high regard for you–’

  ‘Judith, are you suggesting that I take time off to run this blessed poltergeist to earth? The idea’s absurd.’

  ‘You said yourself she ought to call in the police. And if there’s a policeman in the family–’

  ‘More sherry? It’s almost dinner-time.’

  ‘John, dear, don’t be evasive. And think of all that stuff. Sung and T’ang and heaven knows what. And only poor old Aunt–’

  ‘Poor old fiddlesticks. Your precious aunt is as formidable a dowager as any of her kind in England.’

  ‘Don’t you feel you could handle her?’

  ‘Of course I could handle her.’ As he uttered this boast Appleby caught his wife’s eye and grinned. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. And he reached out for the telephone beside him. ‘I’ll cancel things,’ he said. ‘Just for tomorrow, mind you. I can’t play truant for longer than that.’

  ‘The poltergeist may not last even that long with you on the job, darling.’

  And with this very proper expression of confidence uttered, Judith Appleby went to see about the dinner.

  It is well known that poltergeists, in common with other agents of the supernatural, frequently sulk when attracting the interest of persons sceptically inclined. Aunt Jessica’s poltergeist may have regarded the Applebys not as sceptical but merely as open-minded; certainly it lost no time in showing that it remained in business. Appleby hadn’t finished his polite inquiries about Lady Parmiter’s health – indeed the butler who had announced the visitors hadn’t left the drawing-room – when the unmistakable sound of breaking china announced the fact. From a high unglazed shelf crowded with the stuff, a medium-sized jar had tumbled to the parquet floor and exploded like a fragmentation bomb.

  Appleby strode over to the resulting small disaster and picked up a couple of the larger pieces. Although scarcely an expert on Oriental ceramics, he had no difficulty in identifying what had been destroyed. The Parmiter Collection – so enormous and so eccentrically miscellaneous – was the poorer by one of
those nicely manufactured pots in which one buys preserved ginger at rather superior shops.

  ‘Sometimes T’ang and sometimes Fortnum and Mason,’ he said rather grimly to Aunt Jessica. ‘Your visitant must certainly be described as having catholic tastes.’

  ‘As my dear husband himself had.’ Aunt Jessica produced this odd rejoinder with dignity. She certainly wasn’t at all an easy old lady.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Appleby spoke absently. Taking the freedom of a fairly close relation, he had scrambled on a chair and was investigating the shelf from which the jar had fallen. It stood close to a high window of which the upper sash was open. Nobody had been looking that way when the thing happened. Beyond this, there was nothing to be remarked. He got down again, collected a brush and shovel from the fireplace, composedly swept up the bits and pieces, and deposited them in a waste-paper basket. Performing this more or less menial action appeared to put something further in his head. ‘How many indoor servants have you got at present?’ he asked.

  ‘Fewer, certainly, than some years ago.’ For a moment Lady Parmiter seemed to feel that this was as precise a computation as she could fairly be expected to arrive at. But then she tried harder. ‘Seven,’ she said, ‘or eight? Not more than that.’

  ‘I suppose you can just manage,’ Judith said without irony. Unlike her husband, she had been accustomed to large establishments in youth. ‘I take it they are all reliable, and have been with you for a good many years?’

  ‘I fear not. The minds of domestic servants, Judith, are undeniably unsettled. I sometimes judge, too, that a nomadic habit is establishing itself among them. Their faces are frequently unfamiliar to me, so I think they must come and go. My housekeeper, Mrs Thimble, would tell you about that. I don’t, of course, include Mrs Thimble in the eight. She is almost a companion to me in her humble way. Unfortunately she is absent for a few days, owing to some bereavement in her family.’