The Dean consulted his diary.
‘We’d better take the letters first,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid most of the recipients destroyed them as soon as they got them, but I’ve collected two for you. And mine makes a third. As a matter of fact it was only when the business became public property that I discovered about some of them. As far as I can make it out the sequence was as follows; Canon Hinkey, our Precentor, got the first – it came on the morning of September the ninth. Two days later Canon Bloss got one. Then Parvin got one, on the fourteenth. A very unpleasant little letter accusing Appledown of consorting with Mrs. Parvin. He naturally brought it to me, and actually that was the first one I saw. I advised him to burn it and forget about it. I’m afraid,’ added the Dean parenthetically, ‘that a good deal of valuable evidence was destroyed in that sort of way, but I suppose that’s always the way at the beginning of an affair like this.’
He referred again to his diary.
‘Canon Trumpington got one on the fifteenth, and Canon Fox got one the day after. Neither of them said anything to me at the time, and I’m fairly certain that both letters were destroyed. Mrs. Judd was the next. She was very upset about it and brought the letter over immediately. It was then that I made inquiries and found out about the earlier ones. There was a lull after that, but I have a note that Canon Prynne showed me one he had received on the morning of Monday the twentieth. He seemed rather pleased about it than otherwise and proposed publishing it in the Diocesan Gazette. However, I dissuaded him from such an unseemly course, and he handed it over to me. That was the last letter.’
Pollock checked over the notes he had made.
‘Before we go on,’ he said, ‘I had an idea that you had only four canons at Melchester.’
‘That is correct,’ agreed the Dean.
Pollock looked puzzled, and referred again to his notes.
‘You have already mentioned five,’ he said.
‘I might have mentioned eight,’ said the Dean kindly. ‘Let me explain. We have four principal canons. But the Precentor in this foundation is a minor canon, as are also the three vicars choral. They are all referred to as canons indiscriminately.’
‘I see,’ said Pollock guardedly, ‘then which are your four canons-in-chief?’
‘Canons residentiary,’ corrected the Dean gently. ‘Bloss, Trumpington, Beech-Thompson, and Fox. Hinkey is Precentor and minor canon. Prynne, Malthus, and Halliday are the vicars choral and minor canons also. Their job is to sing the services. They are on duty for a fortnight at a time – or are supposed to be,’ he added, as the defection of Canon Malthus crossed his mind.
Pollock did not accept the gambit, but simply remarked: ‘That doesn’t sound as if they were overworked.’
‘Of course, they have other jobs as well – chaplaincies in the town. Prynne and Halliday both teach at the choir school.’
‘Choir school,’ said Pollock, looking up sharply, ‘I didn’t know you kept schoolboys in the Close. You don’t think perhaps that they may have been responsible—’
‘Certainly not,’ said the Dean firmly. ‘The tone of some of the letters! Most improbable. You’ll understand when you read them.’
‘Still, it’s a possibility,’ persisted Pollock, who worked in a district of London where “small boy” was synonymous with all the dirtier and more tiresome types of mischief. ‘Please go on.’
‘The headmaster, Dr. Smallhorn, has a house next to the school. The boys sleep in the school building itself. There are only sixteen boarders – all choristers – besides a few day boys. A most respectable type of lad,’ he added severely, for Pollock’s unworthy suspicions still rankled. ‘Many of them sons of the clergy of the diocese. Canon Fox’s eldest son has just entered the school,’ he went on, in the tone of one who plays a trump card.
‘Masters?’ suggested Pollock, with a vague idea of an irresponsible undergraduate element in the Close.
‘Only a visiting master who comes in the morning,’ said the Dean, ‘and, as I said, Prynne and Halliday help with the teaching. The musical side is run by our organist, Dr. Mickie – he has the house next to mine, by the way. I’ll take you out and point out the lie of the land in a moment. The vergers, Appledown, Parvin, and Morgan, all have cottages.’
The Dean paused, and Pollock, who had been scribbling desperately but methodically, looked up.
‘By the way, who was that massive warrior who saluted me at the gate when I came in?’
‘Sergeant Brumfit,’ said the Dean. ‘The Close constable. A most reliable man. I am sure he’ll give you any help you want. Anything that he can do, that is,’ he added more doubtfully. Somehow, excellent though he was with hawkers, canvassers, and circulars, he did not see Sergeant Brumfit tracking an anonymous letter-writer to his lair. ‘He has a cottage just inside the gate – and that completes the roster. No—wait a moment; I’m sure I’ve missed somebody. Oh, yes. Scrimgeour. He’s the chapter clerk. A real old-fashioned solicitor. He has the little house next to Mickie’s, and that really is the lot.’
One of Pollock’s chief assets was an almost photographic memory.
‘Mrs. Judd?’ he suggested, without apparent reflection.
‘I was coming to her,’ said the Dean reluctantly. Rather in the manner of one who dis-cupboards a tiresome skeleton. ‘Her position here is really most irregular. We are not a residential Close, in the sense of Canterbury or Salisbury. We are not large enough. The accommodation is very limited, and the houses are allocated by rule. Mrs. Judd is the relict of old Canon Judd. You may have heard of him. A great scholar. His life’s work was the translation of the Book of Common Prayer into the Eskimo tongue. When his publishers complained that it would have a very limited sale in England he did a re-translation into English to accompany it – a distinct improvement on the original in many places, I believe. Well, when he died there happened to be a cottage vacant and we allowed Mrs. Judd to move in – just for a few weeks, whilst she looked round, you know. That was twelve years ago. We tried everything short of force, but she just wouldn’t go. She’s a very determined old lady, though getting a bit shaky now.’
Pollock conducted a rapid mental roll-call.
When he had found all present and correct he asked a question which the Dean had been expecting for some time.
‘Is there any reason,’ he said, ‘for confining our attention to the inhabitants of the Close?’
The Dean smiled complacently; this was naturally a point to which he had devoted a good deal of thought, and he was not averse to a little disquisition.
‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘you will concede that it would be natural to look for the author of such an attack amongst Appledown’s – I won’t say friends – nearer acquaintances. Some of the letters show that the writer was quite familiar with his private affairs, and you may have noticed that many of the attacks are directed against him in his official capacity, imputing failure to do his duty as a verger.’
‘Not quite the usual anonymous dirt,’ agreed Pollock.
‘But there are far stronger reasons,’ went on the Dean. ‘Reasons which, taken together, amount to a certainty. First, the flag which was tampered with. It’s kept in a locker with several other flags and pennants in a shed in the school yard. The shed is not locked, so I suppose it’s just conceivable that a stranger might have got hold of it, but less likely that he should have known where it was kept.’
‘When was that particular flag used last?’ asked Pollock.
That the Dean could not tell him. He passed on to the anthem incident.
All the music was kept in cupboards in the vestry. Any visitors to the cathedral might have slipped in and inserted the offending notices, but the Dean implied that he thought the contingency most unlikely, and Pollock was inclined to agree with him.
A thought struck him.
‘Surely,’ he said, ‘no outsider would know in advance what anthem was going to be sung at any particular service.’
‘I’m afraid that wo
n’t do,’ said the Dean regretfully. ‘A list of the anthems and services is made up a week in advance and posted in the porch; it also appears in the local paper.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘there is a third point which is, I think, decisive. After seven o’clock it is impossible to get in or out of the Close unobserved.’
He waited complacently for some expression of incredulity, but Pollock contented himself with saying, ‘Surely you mean very difficult – not impossible.’ He had observed the high smooth stone walls and the massive gate. Also, he knew something of the medieval regime of a Close.
‘Nothing is impossible,’ agreed the Dean, ‘but I suggest that entry to this Close after dark is so nearly impossible that you may rule it out of your considerations altogether.’
‘I was impressed by your walls,’ agreed Pollock, ‘but even for twelve-foot walls you only need a twelve-foot ladder – and a little luck.’
‘It’s more complicated than that, I fear,’ said the Dean. ‘On the east of the Close lies the Bishop’s palace. The Bishop, by the way, is at the moment in Switzerland – for his health.’ (The Dean’s explanation was not entirely unsatirical.) ‘The palace is shut up. That is the most inaccessible side, since an intruder would not only have to climb two walls – the outer Close wall and the palace garden wall – but at the foot of the outer wall runs the river, which is both swift and deep at that point owing to the constriction of the water between the wall and an embankment on the other side. I think we may rule out the south approach. To the north and west and south the walls give on to well-lighted public roads. This is the residential quarter, and innumerable front parlour and bedroom windows overlook every inch of the perimeter. All three roads are patrolled regularly by the police. To my mind it is quite inconceivable that anyone could come along, plant a ladder against the wall, climb up, and pull the ladder up after them, unobserved. And if he had been observed you may be very sure we should have heard about it the very next morning – with embroideries and additions.’
‘I don’t think it’s impossible,’ said Pollock slowly, ‘but I agree with you that no one could rely on doing it and getting away with it – which is good enough from our point of view.’
He shifted his ground.
‘When are the gates shut?’ he asked.
‘Evensong,’ explained the Dean, ‘finishes at about six-thirty. People leave from all three gates – south gate, bishop’s gate, and the main gate; that’s the one you came in by. When Brumfit thinks that everyone has had plenty of time to get clear he walks across to the south gate, warning any people who may be loitering about.’ (The Dean was referring tactfully to half a dozen brace of lovers – hardy amorists who pursued their courtship on the benches which the Dean and Chapter had so thoughtfully set up in the precincts for admirers of early English architecture.) ‘When he has shut the south gate and shepherded the last straggler out of bishop’s gate and shut that too, he comes back up the east path to the main gate, arriving there a few minutes before seven. He has a little office attached to his house, facing the gate, and he’s “on duty” in it until eleven, when he locks up and goes to bed. If you want to get in after that time you have to ring the bell and he will come down and open the gate for you.’
‘He must have rather a disturbed night,’ suggested Pollock.
‘Why?’ queried the Dean innocently. ‘We are generally in bed by eleven, you know, and we don’t visit much outside the Close.’
Reflecting that those few simple words told him more of the community into which he had strayed than hours of questioning. Pollock went on to his next point.
‘Do you mean to say,’ he said, ‘that Brumfit sits solidly at his post from seven-thirty till eleven, keeping such a watch on the gate that no one can possibly slip in unobserved?’
‘He has seven active and vigilant assistants,’ explained the Dean. ‘I don’t say that the good sergeant doesn’t take his ease in front of the fire with a pipe, but if he does so you may be sure that one or other of his seven children is on sentry-go, doing Father’s work for him. Not that they look on it as work, of course. In fact, I believe it is a great privilege in the Brumfit family to “take the gate.” Anyone who wants to go out or in after seven simply signs in the book, crossing out their name when they come back. So Brumfit can see at a glance if any of the residents are still out when he locks the gate.’
Considering this arrangement critically – and admitting to himself that the vigilance of childish eyes was often the most difficult to escape – Pollock was fain, for the moment, to accept the impregnability theory.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that two of the incidents – the two which concern you – must have taken place after seven o’clock.’
‘There’s no doubt about that,’ said the Dean. ‘My letter-box is cleared by the maid at seven o’clock after the evening delivery. She takes out all the letters and puts mine in my study. The letter wasn’t there then. I found it myself at about ten past eight. As regards the other business, it’s more mysterious still. I was in my garden, talking to Mickie, until after half-past seven; I remember now, it was the evening of the storm, and very hot and sticky. I dined with the windows wide open. And no one could possibly have come into the garden or painted that disgraceful message until quite a late hour, or I should have been certain to have noticed them.’
‘Did you, in fact, see anybody in or near your garden?’ asked Pollock.
‘Yes,’ said the Dean, ‘I did.’ And he told him what he had seen in the storm. ‘It looks as if Parvin might have to explain his movements.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Pollock. ‘You never actually said that you saw Parvin. First a flash of lightning – a figure standing on the road outside. Then darkness for some minutes. Then the light goes up in Parvin’s front room. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
‘It was Parvin, all the same,’ said the Dean stubbornly. At this juncture a remarkably pretty house-maid announced lunch.
After lunch Pollock inspected the letters, but could make little of the first two. They simply confirmed his opinion that people read too many detective stories, being efficient products of the only really foolproof style of anonymous communication in which letters and words are cut from a printed page and pasted on to paper. The third – the Dean’s letter – was much more interesting. It was written in a thin characterless scrawl, yet not an illiterate hand, Pollock would have said. Most probably disguised. But what gave him great hopes was that he fancied that he could detect a faint and smudgy print on the glossy surface of the envelope. It might be the Dean’s, of course, and then again, it might not. It seemed, on the face of it, incredibly careless of the writer to leave his sign manual on his work, but in Pollock’s experience wrongdoers often were just that – incredibly careless over the things that really mattered.
He laid it carefully aside and asked to be shown the celebrated garden wall. Here he had yet another demonstration of the Dean’s unrivalled ability as a destroyer of evidence. Hubbard had carried out his orders faithfully, and a raw and roughened area was all that remained to mark the scene of the crime. A hope which he had entertained, of taking a sample of the paint and having it analysed, faded.
The Dean appeared quite impenitent over his unprofessional conduct; indeed, his chief feeling seemed to be one of gratification at the prompt removal of such a public display of bad taste.
‘Now that we’re out here,’ said Pollock resignedly, ‘perhaps you could point out where these people live. I may have to go round and see some of them this afternoon. By the way, do they know who I am and why I’m here, and all that sort of thing?’
‘The Chapter know,’ said the Dean. ‘I mean, of course, the lesser Chapter, my four residentiary canons.’
‘Of course,’ said Pollock, ‘I suppose you had to consult them about getting me down here.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed the Dean smoothly. He did not feel it incumbent on him to explain that he had consulted his Chapter after the event – as he
did on most matters of importance. ‘But everybody,’ he went on, ‘must know by now about the Appledown business. And I’m sure that they will be as helpful as they can; we all deplore it deeply.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Pollock, wondering not for the first time whether he was a bigger fool than his uncle took him for. ‘And now that you’ve given me such a very clear “Who’s Who,” perhaps we might have a “Who’s Where?”’ Pollock extracted from his pocket a printed plan. It had come from the front of a little book called Residential Closes of England, and he had already subjected it to considerable study during his journey down. As the Dean talked he filled names into the outlines in his neat script.
‘Starting at the main gate,’ said the Dean, ‘we have Sergeant Brumfit’s cottage, and facing it across that small dividing lane is Scrimgeour’s house. He’s a bachelor and lives with his sister; they’ve both been away for more than a month, but I think they’re due back next week. Between Scrimgeour’s house and mine is Mickie’s. He is married but has no family. That big outbuilding you can see at the back is the practice room which the choir use on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday nights – other practises are in the cathedral. Those two cottages in the north-west corner belong to Mrs. Judd and Parvin.’
‘Parvin’s being the southern one, I suppose,’ said Pollock.
‘A deduction,’ smiled the Dean, ‘based on the fact that I could see his front windows from my bedroom.’
‘Correct,’ agreed Pollock with a grin. ‘Has Parvin any family?’
‘His wife lives with him – I think there was a boy, but he’s grown up and gone. The first of the three big houses on that side is Hinkey’s – he’s a bachelor. I can’t imagine how he manages to use all that rambling great place. He has three cats, and they used to say that each one had his own bedroom, sitting-room, and bathroom. The middle house is Fox’s, and the farther one belongs to Trumpington. By the way, they are known officially as the West Canonry North and the West Canonry South. Trumpington’s a bachelor. Fox is our family man; he’s got four children – two small girls, a small boy – and the older boy, as I told you, at the choir school. The little cottage next to West Canonry South – you can just see it – is Appledown’s, and the house beyond that is Halliday’s. Halliday is another of our bachelors.’
Close Quarters Page 3