‘To you, Trumpington, my very dear friend, I left my books. You remember the promise I exacted, that you would try to read them all! Spoken half in jest, but I knew you wouldn’t forget. And the Boswell above all. How often has your unenvious soul envied me my books. I felt that I was safe in leaving my clue interred in the volumes of the Tour in the Hebrides. How soon did you reach it, I wonder? I made many attempts before I could get that crossword puzzle just right. Not too hard – but hard enough to defeat anyone else in the Close but yourself. To you, Mr. Dean, I left my Fabriano triptych – thus subtly, you see, have I appointed you and Trumpington the executors and trustees of my secret.
‘And what is this secret? Perhaps you have guessed it already.’
The Dean here paused for a moment, having come to the end of the page, and the crackle as he turned the stiff parchment over sounded electric in the heavy silence.
‘For many years Appledown has been blackmailing me. The secret on which he based his demands concerns my early life in India, and I do not propose to set out any of the facts here. When, for the prosecution of Appledown or any other purpose whatever, it becomes necessary to discover them, you will apply to Colonel Deighton at Room M.19 in the Special Branch at the India Office. I will say only this. I was entirely in Appledown’s hands, and I could not put an end to his power except by ending my life in Melchester – on the one hand by exposure, imprisonment, and disgrace, or on the other hand, by death.
‘I chose the latter alternative, fortified by the knowledge that I might use my death to good purpose – or rather that you, my good friends, might use my death for me. Have no scruple in doing so. For I tell you now, solemnly and sanely, that Daniel Appledown is the cruellest and most heartless scoundrel that I have ever met, and in the roving commission of my life I have met not a few. As I watch him, this benevolent white-haired old man, walking sedately about the Cathedral Close, he seems to me to be literally inhuman – amoral, if you want a grand word for it. He affects me so strongly as something altogether vile and unnatural that it is only with an effort that I can bring myself to talk to him, or be near him. If he were to touch me, even by accident, I should be sick. He is a venomous snake. And there is only one treatment for snakes – the heel of your boot. For make no mistake about this. I am not the only victim. I know as a fact that he is practising his vile trade on the second verger, Parvin. I am not quite sure what his hold over him is, but it concerns his wife. I give you this information in confidence and in the trust that you will not have to use it. I suspect that two – and perhaps three – more people in the Close are being victimised. You are so particularly defenceless in this Close community, aren’t you? One breath of scandal! And how Appledown knows it, and plays on it, to the satisfaction of his own cold-hearted lust and greed.
‘One last word. You, my trusted executors and executioners, now that I have presented you with your case, use it to the full, but – stir up as little of the mud as possible. I see no reason why anyone but myself should suffer. Except Appledown, of course …’
When the Dean had finished reading he laid the paper down on the table in front of him. The thick, triangular writing stood out firm and bold, with never a tremor to the end. Prynne voiced all their thoughts when he said, ‘That’s a type of courage which I can appreciate but could never aspire to.’
‘He played his part well,’ said Trumpington. ‘He must have been planning this for many weeks before the end.’
‘Months – not weeks,’ said the Dean. ‘Months or even years. His will was dated, remember, nearly six months before his death.’
The four men were silent again as they contemplated, with a feeling akin to awe, the relentless machinery which old Canon Whyte had built and set into motion – machinery which had not, even yet, ceased to turn. Trumpington was thinking of Whyte as he had known him in the last months of his life – struggling with The Times crossword or smiling at some happy pomposity of the great Boswell – a happy and harmless old clergyman, you would have said, but to those who really knew him there was something more than that – a deceptive quality, a lambent inner flame. And Trumpington remembered being surprised when Whyte had once expressed a very warm admiration for “the greatest Frenchwoman of all time.” He had supposed that Whyte meant Jeanne d’Arc.
‘No,’ said Whyte, ‘Charlotte Corday.’ And he had added in a tone which Trumpington had never forgotten, ‘She had the additional grandeur of complete failure.’
Again Prynne was the first to break the silence.
‘In a way,’ he said, addressing himself to Hazlerigg, ‘I suppose this simplifies matters, for it supplies what has all along been lacking – a convincing motive. And yet – well, I know it’s no part of your job to entertain any human feelings, but in your place I should not be too happy about hanging Parvin. I should be more inclined to congratulate him on doing a necessary and salutary job. When you think of the money that Appledown must have squeezed out; by the way, was he very rich?’
‘Yes,’ said Pollock, ‘we discovered that he had a lot of money, but it was mostly salted away.’
‘Must the real reasons for Parvin’s action be dragged into the light,’ said Trumpington. ‘You remember what Whyte said – that it somehow concerned Mrs. Parvin. She, anyway, could have had no hand in the murder – couldn’t she be left out of it?’
‘Look here,’ said the Dean, ‘this won’t do. We’re trading on a position of confidence to embarrass the inspector. He will, of course, have to do exactly what he thinks fit.’
And last of all Hazlerigg spoke. He had been silent for a long time. He sounded very tired.
‘You ought to know,’ he said, ‘that Parvin—’
And incredibly, for the third and last time, the interruption came. The quick crunching of feet on the gravel, the bang of the front door, footsteps in the passage heavy and hurried, the agitated voice of the Dean’s parlour-maid uplifted in protest, ‘But he’s with the detective gentleman from London – he wasn’t to be disturbed.’ A further rush of footsteps, a menacing cross-fire of whispers, and then a loud, imperious voice. ‘I tell you, I must see the Dean.’ Then the door burst open, revealing the wild figure of Doctor Smallhorn, and behind him, looking even more frightened, Vicar Choral Halliday.
‘Well, Dr. Smallhorn,’ said the Dean, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘Mr. Dean,’ said Dr. Smallhorn thickly. ‘It’s murder. It’s happened again.’
To obtain a correct idea of the events of that memorable Friday evening, we must follow Vicar Choral Halliday, whom we left on the Dean’s doorstep. Seven o’clock had struck and he was sitting in the senior classroom at the choristers’ school, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the dilatory members of his divinity class.
It really was a mistake, he reflected, having class so soon after the evening meal. The boys were sleepy, and one hadn’t the heart to chivvy them; however, there were limits.
‘Come on, boy – come on.’
A crimson infant, his mouth still bulging with currant cake, shot into the room. ‘Hewlett, of course, you beastly little pig. Empty your mouth before coming into class, can’t you? Now are we all here? Two still missing. Bird and Brophy. What are they doing? Still eating, I suppose.’
Hewlett, having disposed of a cubic foot of cake, opined that they were “turning.” He referred to the time-honoured custom by which two boys, on non-practice night, were allowed to visit the cathedral to prepare the music for the next day’s service – a task which a grown-up would have thought particularly onerous, but which, for some reason, appealed to the mind of youth as a desirable privilege.
‘All right.’ Halliday viewed with resignation his bloated and apathetic scripture class. Young Green would be asleep in a moment. Really, evening class was a mistake. ‘All right – we’ll start. Second Kings, chapter twelve – dash it, though, we can’t. I lent my Bible with all the notes in it to Brophy.’
‘It’s in his locker,’ screamed Hewlett, scenting a promising
distraction. ‘Shall I get it for you?’
‘Sit down, boy, sit down. I can perfectly well get it myself. Why is it that all you boys keep your lockers in such a horrible mess? Brophy, for instance, appears to be making a collection of used blotting-paper.’
His head disappeared deeper into the locker, and the form settled once more into apathy.
The sound of the door opening caused Halliday to extricate himself. ‘Ah, it’s you, Bird. You’re late – nearly ten minutes late – not the early bird this time …’
The jest was received with a complacent laugh by the rest of the form, but got no response at all from Bird. And his face looked strangely white in the strong unshaded light. Halliday hurried forward.
‘What is it?’ he said quietly.
‘It’s Brophy,’ said Bird. ‘He’s fainted or something – I fell over him as I was coming through the precinct gate—’
‘All right – nothing to be upset about. It’s probably the heat.’ The evening had suddenly got oppressively close, he noticed. ‘You run up to Matron. Tell her to get a bed ready. And she’d better look after you, too, my lad, if you feel upset. Horner, go and fetch the headmaster. And the rest of you – keep quiet.’
The senior divinity class, feeling that the whole affair had been staged expressly for their benefit, sat gripped with pleasurable excitement. Hurrying steps across the court – Dr. Smallhorn’s voice, quiet but perfectly audible, ‘Have you got a torch, Halliday?’ The click of the precinct gate. And then – listen as they would – complete silence. The minutes ticked by. And then a rather horrible sound – the shuffling footsteps of people who carry a heavy weight. Still no sound of talking. The footsteps passed down the passage, and the silence became distinctly unpleasant.
‘We found him lying on the grass, just inside the gate,’ said Dr. Smallhorn. ‘I’m very much afraid …’ he left the sentence unfinished.
‘You’ve got a doctor, of course,’ said the Dean.
‘The doctor’s with him now,’ said Halliday. ‘He didn’t hold out much hope. The back of the skull is cracked, you see; just like—’
‘No,’ said Dr. Smallhorn, so suddenly and fiercely that they all stared at him. ‘No – it can’t be – it’s just an accident, that’s all. He fell and hit his head on the gate-post. I see it now. It’s quite obvious. You mustn’t think, just because Appledown—it’s absurd—absurd even to imagine it. Why, he’s only a child, you know, Inspector. Scarcely thirteen. Who in the world could want to hurt him?’
‘It is horrible,’ said Trumpington. ‘And it makes one feel so helpless. I’d go over if there was anything I could do, but one would only be in the way.’
‘I suppose you realise,’ said Prynne slowly, ‘that this lets out Parvin – he’s the only single person in the whole Close who couldn’t possibly—’
‘Don’t.’ Dr. Smallhorn turned on him quite savagely. ‘Don’t keep saying that. What reason have you—what right have you—’
The telephone shrilled. The Dean picked up the receiver.
‘Yes. It’s the Dean speaking. Who are you … oh, yes. Doctor. The inspector is here – he’ll speak to you.’
Hazlerigg took the receiver and listened for a few minutes. He said nothing. He had not spoken since the interruption. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, and rang off. Then he turned and looked at the five men, dispassionately, as if he was seeing them for the first time, and weighing them up before he spoke.
‘Brophy’s dead,’ he said at last. ‘I have just spoken to the police surgeon. He tells me that there is no question of accident. That boy was murdered.’
‘But if Parvin—’ began Prynne.
‘Two murderers!’ exclaimed Trumpington.
Dr. Smallhorn said nothing. Since Hazlerigg had spoken he seemed completely dazed.
Once more the inspector considered his audience gravely before speaking.
‘Parvin escaped this evening.’ (Pollock gave a start of surprise.) ‘He asked to be allowed to go to the hospital to see his wife. Foolishly, perhaps, I consented. There were two policemen in the car and two more went into the hospital with him. The three of them were walking up the passage which leads to the room where his wife is being kept, when Parvin, as I understand it, simply jumped through an open door and slammed it behind him – and bolted it. In the few seconds before the door could be broken down he ran through a connecting door, climbed an interior staircase, and came out into the passage above. A nurse said later that she saw him crossing it, but mistook him for a patient. That was the last that was seen of him. Of course,’ he finished cheerfully, ‘it won’t be long before we have our hands on him again.’
‘Then he’s at large!’ exclaimed the Dean. ‘Good heavens, he may be lurking in the Close at this moment! You must give us a guard, Inspector—’
‘If he’s in the Close,’ said Hazlerigg grimly, ‘he won’t get out of it.’
‘He must be mad, I suppose,’ said Prynne.
Curiously enough this suggestion, which alarmed the others more than they would have cared to admit, seemed to afford Dr. Smallhorn a very slender ray of comfort. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The man’s mad, of course. I knew there could be no other reason for such a horrible, senseless, brutal thing.’
There was a great deal to do.
The least pleasant task the Dean naturally shouldered himself, as he had been quietly shouldering all the tiresome and unpleasant burdens in the Close for the last fourteen years. He called on Colonel Brophy, a widower, who lived in a big, rather empty house on the outskirts of Melchester. What the colonel said to him and what words he found for the colonel in that black hour will never be known, but it was well after midnight when Sergeant Brumfit heard the knock he had been listening for on the Close gate and hurried out with a torch.
‘I’m afraid I’ve kept you up,’ said the Dean in a very quiet flat voice. ‘It has got rather close again, hasn’t it? More thunder, coming, I think.’
‘Afraid so, sir.’
‘Good night, Brumfit.’
‘Good night, sir,’ said Brumfit in a fatherly tone of voice. He thought the Dean looked very tired.
The Dean was tired, but he didn’t go to bed. And for hour after hour a light shone out from the oriel floor window in the south corner, which was the Dean’s private sitting-room and, in time of need, his private chapel.
After the necessary formalities had been completed Hazlerigg and Pollock walked back to the Bear together. Pollock was badly on his dignity. It was some time before Hazlerigg appeared to notice that anything was amiss; then he suddenly suspended an eloquent discourse on the futility of judging by appearances, and peered at his subordinate.
‘What’s up, Sergeant? Swallowed a fish bone?’
‘There’s nothing up with me, thank you,’ said Pollock politely.
‘Then, if there’s nothing wrong,’ said Hazlerigg equally politely, ‘would you have the goodness to explain exactly why you are looking and walking like a constipated crab with tonsilitis.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pollock stiffly, ‘I had no idea—’
‘Good Lord – of course.’ The inspector slapped his leg softly. ‘You’re fed up because I never told you about Parvin’s escape. Gross lack of confidence in my subordinate, eh?’
Since that was precisely what had been annoying Pollock, he naturally hastened to deny it.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason why you should tell me any more than you want to—’
‘Don’t be an owl,’ snarled Hazlerigg. ‘There was just one excellent reason why I couldn’t tell you of Parvin’s escape. It never happened. As far as I know Parvin is safe and sound in Melchester police station, being tucked up and put to bed by Uncle Palfrey.’
‘Then, why—’
‘No, don’t ask stupid questions. Work it out for yourself. Do it out loud if you think that’ll help. It will be illuminating to see if your brain works as quickly as mine had to.’
Pollock gathered the scatte
red remnants of his wits. ‘I suppose,’ he began slowly, ‘that you never had any doubt that the same person did both murders?’
‘No doubt at all – same man, same method, same weapon. The doctor saw both bodies – he thought so, too.’
‘Well, then, the second murder simply couldn’t have been done by Parvin. Almost anybody else, but not Parvin. Therefore the murderer – the double-murderer – was somebody else in the Close. Somebody we hadn’t even dreamed of.’
‘Correct so far.’
‘That somebody must have been very happy when we suspected Parvin. Very happy indeed. Then why did he go and spoil it all by murdering a harmless and helpless little boy – putting his own neck into danger again, and letting out Parvin? He must either have had a very strong reason – or else, he’s mad.’
‘He’s not mad,’ said Hazlerigg..
‘Conceding that he’s not mad, he must have realised the new risk he was running from now on. He would have to be doubly, trebly careful. But all of a sudden …’
‘Yes?’
‘All of a sudden he hears that he has had an amazing stroke of luck. Parvin has escaped. Far from exculpating Parvin the second murder has redoubled suspicion on the wretched verger. Once again the real murderer can go on his way unsuspected. He relaxes.’
‘Before God,’ said Hazlerigg solemnly, ‘I hope he does relax, for if he doesn’t make a mistake soon I don’t think we shall catch him, and then Parvin will hang for the murder of Appledown – a murder he never committed.’
Close Quarters Page 19