Money from Holme

by Michael Innes

  ‘You devil!’ Cheel cast about in his mind for some last ditch in which to stand. ‘There’s Gregory Holme. He’s supposed to be alive. If it wasn’t the live Sebastian cashing Gregory’s cheques in England, then it was Gregory himself. But you won’t be able to produce him.’

  ‘Producing Gregory Holme is no responsibility of mine. And remember that he was a celebrated explorer. Such people can vanish for years without exciting much remark. Sometimes, they never turn up again. And now, Cheel, are you ready? You won’t need any possessions.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean? Are you off your rocker, and thinking of a little quiet murder on your own account? Of course I’m not going with you anywhere.’

  ‘In that case I must call the police. I noticed a telephone in the hall downstairs. So don’t think you can get away. Or not for those five years or so. It will be a remarkable case.’

  ‘You can do what you please. I’ve got money. I’ll fight.’

  ‘The sensation will be all the greater. You’ll even acquire fame of a sort, Cheel. Like that Dutch rascal, van Meegeren – whose own painting was hopelessly third-rate, but who forged Vermeers superbly.’

  ‘No – not that!’ Cheel’s voice rose in a scream. ‘Anything but that!’

  ‘Then come quietly. It is convenient that you have that powerful car at the door. We have some way to go.’

  ‘Blackheath and Shooters Hill,’ Rumbelow said, when they were in the Rolls. ‘The road having been made by the Romans – it is in fact Watling Street – remains very tolerable. We then continue down the A2 to Cobham. Were our expedition one of pleasure, we might visit the parish church there and inspect the brasses. They are perhaps the finest in the country. I am remarking the controls as you drive, by the way. You understand that I shall be returning alone.’

  Cheel was in no mood for antiquarian conversation. As for Rumbelow’s returning alone, he was wondering, on the contrary, whether he couldn’t turn down a deserted country lane, batter the old fiend’s head in, and bury him. But such crude crimes, he remembered, seldom pass undetected. Moreover there were those other people: Braunkopf, Hedda, the nasty Wuggles. He couldn’t liquidate the lot.

  These considerations obliged him to abandon any thought of violence as impracticable. This was a pity, since their eventual destination – which was, of course, Rumbelow’s retreat in the heart of Kent – held a dismal seclusion just right for crime. They got out of the car between a small wooden cottage and a large wooden barn. There was nothing else in sight.

  ‘The cottage,’ Rumbelow said, ‘is in some disrepair. The roof leaks – but not to any point of positive inconvenience. Ample water may be pumped from the well at the bottom of the garden.’ He led the way inside. ‘For cookery of the simpler sort, as you will see, the facilities are not unreasonable. It is possible that I may provide a second saucepan.’

  ‘What the devil do you think this has to do with me?’

  ‘These, Cheel, are your living quarters for the next two years. My age asks ease; and for the completion of my colossal canvases for the Wamba Palace of Industry I am constrained, unfortunately, to employ an assistant. This the Wamba authorities understand. I have explained to them that it was the practice of many Old Masters. You, Cheel, are to be my assistant. You will work strictly to my instructions – and, of course, on the more routine and detailed parts of the work. We will now go into the studio.’

  Numbly, and as a slave behind his master, Cheel followed Rumbelow into the barn. It had been provided with a large north light and a small oil stove, but appeared otherwise untouched. Down two of its sides were enormous canvases on elaborately braced stretchers. Rumbelow paused before the first of these.

  ‘Her Majesty the Queen,’ he said, ‘reading the Speech from the Throne on the occasion of the State Opening of Parliament. As you will see, most of the Lords are already completed. But some hundreds of Commons, standing at the Bar of the House, have yet to be filled in. Their photographs are available. Now look at the next. It is the new road bridge over the Firth of Forth, viewed from the east and through the cantilevers of the old railway bridge. I flatter myself that the design is intricate and pleasing. But, of course, the number of rivets requiring representation is almost burdensomely large. No doubt you will pass alternately between the rivets and the faces of the MPs. They are about equally expressive, after all.’

  Cheel was now weeping quietly.

  ‘But I can’t,’ he wailed. ‘I just can’t!’

  ‘Not at all. Your abilities are very respectable. If honestly applied, they shall receive suitable recompense. I shall, I need hardly say, impound your cash and your cheque-book. It would be foolish to encourage you in the futile notion that flight is a possibility open to you. Your provisions will be delivered by an old woman from the village. She is deaf as well as blind, I am sorry to say. But she finds her way about remarkably well. There will be unlimited bread, cheese and milk. Should your progress merit it, there may later be a small weekly supply of bottled beer. Nothing more, I think, need be said at present. Except to impress upon you, Cheel, that I act out of a reformatory as well as a punitive intention. In two years’ time I hope you will be a better man. At least you can hardly be a worse.’

  There was a long silence. Then Mervyn Cheel braced himself for one more struggle to make terms.

  ‘Please’ – he said piteously – ‘you won’t tell? That’s all I stipulate for.’

  ‘You are not in a position to stipulate for anything.’

  ‘It’s all I beg. That nobody should know.’ He pointed, blindly and not very tactfully, at the two vast canvases. ‘That nobody should ever know that I have set a hand to these things.’

  ‘Very well. There is no reason why my assistant – although his existence must be admitted – should not retain his personal anonymity. Therefore I agree – subject to your good conduct, of course.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Cheel was finding that rage and malignity appeared to have been battered out of him. His punishment – what this dreadful tyrant thought of as his punishment – was going to consist of discomfort, boredom and humiliation. Yet, staunch to himself, he was rational to the last. It was all very horrid. But it was better than being put in gaol.

  Five minutes later, he watched Rumbelow climb into the Rolls and drive away. Then he turned back to what Hildebert Braunkopf would have called the voonderble vorlt of art.

  Synopses of Michael Innes Titles

  Published by House of Stratus

  The Ampersand Papers

  While Appleby is strolling along a Cornish beach, he narrowly escapes being struck by a body falling down a cliff. The body is that of Dr Sutch, an archivist, and he has fallen from the North Tower of Treskinnick Castle, home of Lord Ampersand. Two possible motivations present themselves to Appleby – the Ampersand gold, treasure from an Armada galleon; and the Ampersand papers, valuable family documents that have associations with Wordsworth and Shelley.

  Appleby and Honeybath

  Every English mansion has a locked room, and Grinton Hall is no exception – the library has hidden doors and passages…and a corpse. But when the corpse goes missing, Sir John Appleby and Charles Honeybath have an even more perplexing case on their hands – just how did it disappear when the doors and windows were securely locked? A bevy of helpful houseguests offer endless assistance, but the two detectives suspect that they are concealing vital information. Could the treasures on the library shelves be so valuable that someone would murder for them?

  Appleby and the Ospreys

  Clusters, a great country house, is troubled by bats, as Lord and Lady Osprey complain to their guests, who include first rate detective, Sir John Appleby. In the matter of bats, Appleby is indifferent, but he is soon faced with a real challenge – the murder of Lord Osprey, stabbed with an ornate dagger in the library.

  Appleby at Allington

  Sir John Appleby dines one evening at Allington Park, the Georgian home of his acquaintance Owain Allington, wh
o is new to the area. His curiosity is aroused when Allington mentions his nephew and heir to the estate, Martin Allington, whose name Appleby recognises. The evening comes to an end but just as Appleby is leaving, they find a dead man – electrocuted in the son et lumière box which had been installed in the grounds.

  The Appleby File

  There are fifteen stories in this compelling collection, including: Poltergeist – when Appleby’s wife tells him that her aunt is experiencing trouble with a Poltergeist, he is amused but dismissive, until he discovers that several priceless artefacts have been smashed as a result; A Question of Confidence – when Bobby Appleby’s friend, Brian Button, is caught up in a scandalous murder in Oxford, Bobby’s famous detective father is their first port of call; The Ascham – an abandoned car on a narrow lane intrigues Appleby and his wife, but even more intriguing is the medieval castle they stumble upon.

  Appleby on Ararat

  Inspector Appleby is stranded on a very strange island, with a rather odd bunch of people – too many men, too few women (and one of them too attractive) cause a deal of trouble. But that is nothing compared to later developments, including the body afloat in the water, and the attack by local inhabitants.

  Appleby Plays Chicken

  David was hiking across Dartmoor, pleased to have escaped the oppressively juvenile and sometimes perilous behaviour of his fellow undergraduates. As far as he could tell, he was the only human being for miles – but it turns out that he was the only living human being for miles. At least, that is what he presumed when he found a dead man on top of the tor.

  Appleby Talking

  Arbuthnot is paying for a rash decision – he recently married a beautiful but slightly amoral girl whose crazy antics caught his rather cynical professional interest. His wife has taken a lover, Rupert Slade, and Arbuthnot wants nothing more than to see him dead – but the last thing he expected was that he’d walk into his living room and find just that!

  Inspector Appleby shares the details of this and many other fascinating crimes in this un-missable collection.

  Appleby Talks Again

  Ralph Dangerfield, an Edwardian playwright who belonged to the smartest young set of his day, kept a scandalous diary recording the intimate details of his own life and those of his friends. After his death, it was believed that his mother had burnt the incriminating evidence, but fifty years later, a famous collector of literary curiosities claims to have the diary in his possession and threatens to blackmail fashionable London with belated secrets about people now in respectable old age. Sir John Appleby reveals how he uncovered this unscrupulous crime and talks about his key role in seventeen more intriguing cases.

  Appleby’s Answer

  Author of detective novels, Priscilla Pringle, is pleased to find that she is sharing a railway compartment with a gentleman who happens to be reading one of her books – Murder in the Cathedral. He is military officer, Captain Bulkington, who recognises Miss Pringle and offers her £500 to collaborate on a detective novel. To everyone’s surprise, Miss Pringle is rather taken with Captain Bulkington – is she out of her depth?

  Appleby’s End

  Appleby’s End was the name of the station where Detective Inspector John Appleby got off the train from Scotland Yard. But that was not the only coincidence. Everything that happened from then on related back to stories by Ranulph Raven, Victorian novelist – animals were replaced by marble effigies, someone received a tombstone telling him when he would die, and a servant was found buried up to his neck in snow, dead. Why did Ranulph Raven’s mysterious descendants make such a point of inviting Appleby to spend the night at their house?

  Appleby’s Other Story

  During a walk to Elvedon House, palatial home of the Tythertons, Sir John Appleby and Chief Constable Colonel Pride are stunned to find a police van and two cars parked outside. Wealthy Maurice Tytherton has been found shot dead, and Appleby is faced with a number of suspects – Alice Tytherton, flirtatious, younger wife of the deceased; Egon Raffaello, disreputable art dealer; and the prodigal son, Mark Tytherton, who has just returned from Argentina. Could the death be linked to the robbery of some paintings several years ago?

  An Awkward Lie

  Sir John Appleby’s son, Bobby, assumes his father’s detective role in this baffling crime. When Bobby finds a dead man, in a bunker on a golf course, he notices something rather strange – the first finger of the man’s right hand is missing. A young girl approaches the scene and offers to watch the body while Bobby goes for help, but when he returns with the police in tow, the body and the girl are missing.

  The Bloody Wood

  An assorted party of guests have gathered at Charne, home of Charles Martineau and his ailing wife, Grace, including Sir John Appleby and his wife, Judith. Appleby’s suspicions are soon aroused with the odd behaviour of Charles, and the curious last request of Grace – who desires that upon her death, Charles marries her favourite niece, Martine. When Charles and Grace die on the same day, foul play is suspected.

  Carson’s Conspiracy

  Businessman Carl Carson decides to make a dash for South America to escape the economic slump, leaving his home and his barmy wife. But he has a problem – if his company were seen to be drawing in its horns, it wouldn’t last a week. His solution is his wife’s favourite delusion – an imaginary son, named Robin. Carson plans to stage a fictitious kidnapping – after all, what could be more natural than a father liquidating his assets to pay the ransom demand? Unfortunately, Carson has a rather astute neighbour – Sir John Appleby, ex-Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

  A Change of Heir

  George Gadberry, ‘resting actor’, packs his bags and heads for obscurity when the Tax Inspector beckons. Then he receives a mysterious invitation and a proposition that could lead to enormous riches. Wealthy imbiber, Nicholas Comberford, wants George to impersonate him in order to secure a place in the will of fabulously affluent Great-Aunt Prudence, who lives in a Cistercian monastery and won’t allow a single drop of liquor in the place. Gadberry’s luck seems to have changed – but at what cost?

  Christmas at Candleshoe

  When an American multi-millionaire is keen to buy an Elizabethan manor, she comes up against fierce opposition from a young boy, Jay, and his band of bowmen, who are prepared to defend the manor and its nonagerian owner against all comers. It seems likely that that behind a monumental, seventeenth-century carving, by the hand of Gerard Christmas, lies a hoard of treasure.

  A Connoisseur’s Case

  When John Appleby’s wife, Judith, sets eyes on Scroop House, she insists that they introduce themselves to the owners – a suggestion that makes her sometimes reserved husband turn very pale. When Judith hears the village gossip about the grand house, she is even more intrigued; but when a former employee is found dead in the lock of the disused canal, and the immense wealth of Scroop’s contents is revealed, Appleby has a gripping investigation on his hands.

  The Daffodil Affair

  Inspector Appleby’s aunt is most distressed when her horse, Daffodil – a somewhat half-witted animal with exceptional numerical skills – goes missing from her stable I Harrogate. Meanwhile, Hudspith is hot on the trail of Lucy Rideout, an enigmatic young girl has been whisked away to an unknown isle by a mysterious gentleman. And when a house in Bloomsbury, supposedly haunted, also goes missing, the baffled policemen search for a connection. As Appleby and Hudspith trace Daffodil and Lucy, the fragments begin to come together and an extravagant project is uncovered, leading them to South American jungle.

  Death at the Chase

  When master sleuth, Appleby, leaps over a stile during a country stroll, he is apprehended by an irate Martyn Ashmore, owner of the land on which Appleby has unwittingly trespassed. But when the misunderstanding is cleared up, eccentric, aged Ashmore reveals that he is in fear for his life – once every year, someone attempts to murder him. Is it the French Resistance, or a younger Ashmore on the make? When Martyn dies, Appleby sets o
ut to find who exactly is responsible.

  Death At The President’s Lodging

  Inspector Appleby is called to St Anthony’s College, where the President has been murdered in his Lodging. Scandal abounds when it becomes clear that the only people with any motive to murder him are the only people who had the opportunity – because the President’s Lodging opens off Orchard Ground, which is locked at night, and only the Fellows of the College have keys…

  A Family Affair

  Over a period of twenty years, a series of highly elaborate art hoaxes have been perpetrated at carefully time intervals, and in each case, the victim has a very good reason for keeping quiet. Inspector Appleby’s interest is kindled by an amusing dinner-party anecdote – when he enlists the help of his wife and son, the ensuing investigation is truly a family affair. The scenes shift swiftly between glorious stately homes and the not-so-glorious art gallery of the irrepressibly dubious Hildebert Braunkopf.

  From London Far

  As Meredith, an academic, stands in a Bloomsbury tobacconist waiting for his two ounces of tobacco, he murmurs a verse of ‘London, a Poem’ and is astounded when a trap door opens into the London Catacombs, bringing him face to face with the Horton Venus, by Titian. From then on he is trapped in a maze of the illicit art trade, in the company of the redoubtable Jane Halliwell.

  The Gay Phoenix

  When tycoon, Charles Povey, is killed in a bizarre boating accident, his corrupt, look-alike brother, Arthur, adopts his identity and his financial empire. But the charade becomes complicated when one of Charles’s many mistresses sees through the guise and blackmails Arthur. Enter retired detective, Sir John Appleby…