Copyright & Information
Close Quarters
First published in 1947
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1947-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
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0755105060 9780755105069 Print
0755132173 9780755132171 Kindle
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This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
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About the Author
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime andmystery books ever published. “The plot,” wrote Keating, “is inevery way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatlydovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and asfull of cunningly-suggested red herrings.” It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series wasbuilt around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted)who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Othermemorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless andprepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for theiryounger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically uponreceiving a bank statement containing a code.
Muchof Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home tohis office in London: “I always take a latish train to work,” heexplained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble inwriting because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”. After retirementfrom the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘TheDaily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.
Gilbertwas appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen ofthe British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the BritishCrime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by theMystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievementaward at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
MichaelGilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and theirtwo sons and five daughters.
TO
CECIL HEWLETT
of Kelowna, Canada
in recognition of the fact that he is the only person mentioned by name
It must have been at about this time, or possibly a little earlier, that Mrs. Mickie had a fright. She was sitting by the fire darning a sock when she heard the front door open with a crash. The wind was now blowing great guns, and thinking that the servant had carelessly left the door unlatched she hurried into the hall. There she stopped in astonishment. Her husband – whom she had imagined to be quietly working in his study – was standing in the doorway, his hair dishevelled, a mackintosh flung loosely round his shoulders, and his face as white as death. He swayed on his feet, and for a moment she had a horrible suspicion that he had been drinking; then she realised, being a woman of some sense, that he had simply been badly frightened.
‘Why, Charles, my dear,’ she said quietly, ‘whatever has happened? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’
‘I have,’ said Mickie slowly.
HOUSEHOLDERS OF MELCHESTER CLOSE
The Rev. Canon Bloss
Late Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford (1st Class Lit. Hum.), 1895. Canon of Melchester and Prebendary of Rowstock Parva. One married daughter.
The Rev. Canon Beech-Thompson, M.A.
Queen’s College, Oxford. B.A., 1899, M.A., 1902. Author of Stained Glass in the Early English Period, Cromwell – Iconoclast, etc. Canon of Melchester. Married. No surviving children.
The Rev. Canon Trumpington, B.A.
Late Scholar of Wadham College, Oxford. B.A. (2nd Class Lit. Hum.), 1900. Principal of Melset Theological College, Canon of Melchester. Unmarried.
The Rev. Canon Fox
Educated privately. Edinburgh Theological College, 1902-4. Canon of Melchester. Married. Two sons, two daughters.
The Rev. H. H. Hinkey
Vicar Choral and Precentor of Melchester. Rector of St. Crispin’s in Melchester. Founder of and contributor to Cats at Home. Unmarried.
The Rev. M. J. Malthus
Vicar Choral of Melchester. Chaplain to the Judge in Assize. Hon. Treasurer of “Friends of Melchester Cathedral.” Married. Three children.
The Rev. A. G. Halliday
Vicar Choral of Melchester and assistant of Melchester Choir School.
The Rev. E. V. Prynne, M.C., M.A.
Late Scholar of Keble College, Oxford. B.A., 1914. Army Chaplain to the Forces, 1915-18. M.A., 1919. Vicar Choral of Melchester and assistant of Melchester Choir School. Married. One daughter. Wife died, 1930.
C. S. Mickie, Mus. Doc, F.R.C.O.
Organist and Choirmaster of Melchester. Until 1930 assistant organist, Starminster. Married. No children.
L. J. Smallhorn, B.A. Cantab.
Headmaster of the Choir School. Associate of the Society for the Preservation of Tombs and Catafalques. Unmarried.
G. H. Scrimgeour
Solicitor. Daniel Reardon and John Mackrell Prizeman. Clerk to the Chapter of Melchester. Late senior partner of the firm of Wracke, Spindrift, and Scrimgeour, Melchester and Starminster. Unmarried.
Mrs. E. A. Judd
Relict of J. D. Judd, D.D., Canon of Melchester, the celebrated author of Liturgy for the Millions, The Book of Common Prayer done into the Esquimaux Tongue, etc.
D. Appledown
Head Verger of Melchester. 1887-1900 Deputy Junior Verger. 1900-1 in S. Africa. 1905-14 Junior Verger. 1914 to date: Head Verger. O.B.E. (Civil Division, Coronation award). Unmarried. One brother.
P. H. Parvin
Second Verger. Appointed 1925. Married. One son.
R. Morgan
Third Verger. Appointed 1935. Unmarried.
H. K. Brumfit
Late Sgt. Royal Horse Artillery. Served India, Egypt, Palestine (191
5-18). Appointed constable of the Close, 1920. Married. Seven children.
The Dean of Melchester
1
DECANUS VIGILANS
The Dean, as he lay awake in bed that memorable Sunday night, pondered the astonishing vagaries of the weather. He felt, as a personal presence in the room, the oppression of the coming storm. His windows were wide open, and an occasional breath of hot air stirred the curtains. Heavy clouds had been stealing up since early evening, and by this time the night was pitchy black. The chimes, as Melchester cathedral clock struck the half-hour between eleven and midnight, seemed muffled and lethargic.
The Dean turned over in bed for the twentieth time and tried to compose his mind. But his mind refused most obstinately to be composed. And he had a feeling that the elements which troubled it were not entirely atmospheric. The approaching storm magnified and made more oppressive troubles which had been lying in wait, and which needed only this occasion to pop up their confounded heads. Feeling certain that he would get no sleep until the storm broke or passed on, the Dean reluctantly brought himself to consider affairs in general. What was wrong with the Close? In the fourteen years that he had been there he could remember no time of such concentrated irritation and unease. First and foremost, of course, this extraordinary persecution of Appledown, the head verger. It had started over a week ago with anonymous letters. These epistles, typewritten and uniformly abusive, had been received by most of the Close community. The Dean himself had not been favoured, but the Precentor had shown him one which he had found amongst his mail on the previous evening. It was a fair specimen of the anonymous writer’s style, and had stated in terms which, despite a liberal classical education, had caused the Dean to clear his throat rapidly, that Appledown was not only inefficient but also immoral – indeed, quite remarkably immoral, the Dean could not help thinking, for a man of nearly seventy.
The postmark had been Starminster – a small market town nearly thirty miles from Melchester – but that this was the merest blind had been made manifest by the disgraceful incidents of the previous Wednesday. The wolf was indeed within the fold.
Melchester, like most other English cathedrals, had its own resident choir school. The sixteen cathedral trebles were housed in two fine Queen Anne buildings standing in the south-west corner of the Close. Wednesday had been the Headmaster’s birthday. Such a day was traditionally an excuse, the Dean reflected morosely, for a good deal of unnecessary licence and excess. An extra half-holiday was inevitable; superfluous food was consumed and superfluous spirits were let off. However, the day’s proceedings usually began quietly enough. Morning prayers (weather permitting) were held in the forecourt, and at their termination the school flag (a curious confection of primary colours) was hoisted to the top of the flagstaff by the head boy. This impressive ceremony duly took place in the presence of the Dean, a scattering of Close worthies, and such errand boys as felt disposed to linger on their morning rounds, but was rather marred by the fact that when the flag floated out in the morning breeze it revealed – stitched in white bunting and painfully visible – the words “BOOZY OLD APPLEDOWN.”
Needless to say, this irreverent legend was taken in very good part by the younger members of the audience, and it was with obvious reluctance that they watched the flag being lowered whilst the offending stitches were cut away. It had been apparent to the Dean that the senior verger, worthy man though he might be, was not over popular with the cathedral choristers. But equally apparent to anyone who knew anything of the curious workings of a boy’s mind, was that none of them were accessory to the joke. Their surprise had been genuine and their appreciation entirely spontaneous.
There had been a further show at Evensong. The copies of the anthem, when opened, had shed a shower of leaflets, all typewritten, and all harping on the same note. “Appledown is past his job” had been the theme of the unknown letter-writer on this occasion. It was curious, the Dean reflected, the psychological effect which a manoeuvre of this sort produced. It had crossed his mind more than once in the past six months that Appledown was getting old for his work. It was a responsible post, being head verger of a cathedral, and in Parvin, the second verger, they had a younger man well trained to fill the position.
Immediately, however, the anti-Appledown campaign had begun, his feelings veered strongly. The natural reaction to such an underhand assault had been a strong caucus of pro-Appledown opinion. Sympathy and sentiment had united to condemn cowardly tactics, and far from weakening it the whole affair had strengthened the head verger’s position considerably. It might even, reflected the Dean grimly, result in Appledown keeping his post some years longer than he would otherwise have done – after he really was past it, in fact. This example of the working of Providence the Dean felt to be vaguely comforting, and he settled himself into a fresh position in bed.
There had been other troubles. Why did Malthus always want to be running off at a moment’s notice? Malthus was the second of the three vicars choral, and for two weeks out of every six it was his duty to sing morning and evening service in the cathedral. He had other jobs, of course, but what he did for four weeks was his own business. What the Dean objected to was his desertion of his post during the remaining two.
Of course, he had come and asked for permission, but that made it worse, in a way. Almost as if he were pushing the responsibility on to the Dean. Malthus had tackled him in the vestry after Matins that morning. Prynne wouldn’t mind taking Evensong for him, and Matins on Monday. His sister was ill, in the country. He must see her. He was sure Prynne wouldn’t mind.
The Dean himself was far from sure. In fact, he was pretty certain that Prynne would mind. A feature almost as disturbing to the Dean as the constant absence of second Vicar Choral Malthus was the constant presence of senior Vicar Choral Prynne. Whenever he thought of him – which was frequently – the Dean was reminded of the words in which Milton (his favourite poet) describes Belial at the council of the infernal powers:
“… whose tongue
Dropt manna and could make the worse appear
The better reason to perplex and dash
Maturest counsel.”
Decidedly Ernest Vandeleur Prynne, though an able man, as the Dean reluctantly admitted, had proved a sore trial to more than one member of their community.
‘Halliday will be back by midday on Tuesday,’ Malthus had gone on, ‘and he won’t mind taking over the services for the next day or two.’ Of course Halliday wouldn’t mind, or anyway he wouldn’t say so if he did mind. A bit rough on him though, having to cut short his holiday and come back to help Malthus out of a hole. Good chap Halliday, cut short holiday, Halliday’s holiday, holiday for Halliday, Halliday … holiday. Hobday … Halliday …
The Dean, despite the oppression in the atmosphere, which seemed, if possible, to have increased during the last few minutes, was on the point of dropping off when a vivid flash of lightning lit up the room and caused him to sit bolt upright in bed. It was not, of course (absurd!) that he was afraid of a thunderstorm, but from boyhood’s day he had been, as he put it to himself, more susceptible to their influence than most people. He had counted twenty as fast as he dared before the thunder rolled out, and comforting himself (for he was a firm believer in that particular piece of mumbo-jumbo) with the conclusion that the storm was still twenty miles distant, he lay down again and composed himself once more to sleep.
When all else failed he had still one card to play – one homemade panacea to try. Where other people wooed sleep by counting sheep jumping over a stile, the Dean had often found it efficacious to picture the members of his Chapter as they passed through the choir gates on their way to service. First came the inscrutable Canon Bloss. Canon Bloss had a peculiar aptitude (which the Dean had formerly imagined to be confined to Grand Lamas and Victorian ladies’ maids) of progressing without appearing to move his feet. Taken all in all, Canon Bloss was not unlike some Tibetan dignitary in appearance – perhaps some rotund and faintly huma
n idol of the middle Buddhist period, with a good deal of dignity and a number of superfluous stomachs and chins.
Behind him ambled Canon Beech-Thompson, demonstrating both by walk and carriage how inevitable it was that he should be known to a select circle as “Jumbo” Beech-Thompson.
It was with greater tolerance that his mind’s eye took in Canon Trumpington, third in the procession. He could not conceal it from himself that he liked Canon Trumpington, unprecedented though it might be for a Dean to entertain such sentiments towards another member of the Chapter.
‘Take him all in all,’ murmured the Dean, gagging a little, ‘as just a man as e’er my conversation coped withal. A sweet-faced man. As proper a man as one shall see in a summer’s day.’
After him Canon Fox appeared as rather an anti-climax. An indefinite person, Canon Fox. He appeared and disappeared as unostentatiously as his animal namesake. Of course he hadn’t been at Melchester very long, and no one knew much about him. Canon Fox. Shivering shocks. Iron locks. Box and Cox. The Dean was nodding again. Canon Fox (a deadly association of ideas flicked across his mind) hadn’t been there long. He had come … now when had he come? A year ago, no more. And why had he come? For a moment his sleepy brain refused to deal with the subject. Why should a new canon come to Melchester? At that moment an icy shudder ran down the Dean’s back. It was almost as if a real voice had whispered the answer: ‘He came because Canon Whyte had died.’
At that moment a second brilliant flash of lightning filled the room, throwing every detail into sharp relief. A moment later and the thunder again rolled out. Nearer and more menacing. But this time it seemed to be muttering, ‘Died … died … fell from the roof and died.’
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