Appleby and the Ospreys

by Michael Innes

  Not unnaturally, this speech disconcerted Adrian.

  ‘You mean,’ he demanded, ‘that this beastly murder of my father will be cleared up today? Why, that fellow Ringwood in the Music Saloon seems determined to set up a kind of permanent secretariat. It’s as if he were going to be here till Christmas.’

  ‘For a good many years I was much involved in that sort of approach myself. Shall we sit down?’

  ‘Sorry, again.’ Adrian Osprey grabbed a chair and thrust it at Appleby. ‘My mother does a lot of fussing about getting people a pew. So I come rather short on it.’ With this handsome apology, the heir of Clusters sat down too. ‘But you gave it up? The sort of circus, I mean, that this chap Ringwood carries round with him.’

  ‘It gave me up. I retired – so now I have to rely simply on the little grey cells.’

  ‘Cells?’ It appeared that Adrian was puzzled by this. ‘Locking people up in quod?’

  ‘I have been involved in a certain amount of that too.’ The young man, Appleby saw, had the true Osprey innocence of the pleasures of literature, even in one of its lighter manifestations. ‘But don’t,’ he said, ‘underestimate Ringwood’s regiment. The fingerprint wallahs, for instance. It’s my bet that they’ll arrive any time now in a big way. They’ll dust through this whole room pretty thoroughly. Incidentally, they’ll certainly want your fingerprints. And, I suppose, mine too.’

  ‘Why ever should they do that?’ It was in something like alarm that Adrian asked this question. ‘I don’t see–’

  ‘Simply to eliminate us, my dear young man. As it’s so evident that neither of us murdered your father, they’ll want to ignore our fingerprints wherever they turn up.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ It was perhaps a shade suspiciously that Adrian glanced at Appleby for a moment. Then he laughed abruptly. ‘They’ll have a job,’ he said. ‘All those bloody books, for instance! I doubt whether they’ll turn out to be what are called well-thumbed volumes.’

  Appleby received this joke with concurring jocularity. It was the first indication, he reflected, that the new Lord Osprey might have a steak of cleverness in him. And the momentary relaxation ought to be seized upon.

  ‘Would you mind,’ he asked, ‘if I put a few questions to you?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ And Adrian sat back in his chair. ‘Fire away, Sir John.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that you are a pretty observant young man. So what I’d ask first is whether – over, say, the last few days – you have been aware of anything out of the way going on here at Clusters?’

  ‘I’d say not.’ Adrian’s features at once took on a look of pronounced perspicacity. ‘It wouldn’t be too much to say that nothing out of the way ever does take place at Clusters. It would be dead against the grain of the place, you know. It’s why I don’t spend much time in the old home. Home, sweet home, of course. But damned dull. Dull as ditchwater. Or as that bloody moat.’

  ‘But you intend to change that a bit? As the new owner, I mean.’

  ‘It would be an uphill job, Sir John. And I don’t know that I intend, just because my father has gone, to plant my bottom any more frequently in the family seat. Peers, of course, do have seats. It’s undeniable. The country seat of the young Lord Osprey! Balls to it.’

  This was clearly a dismissive remark, and Appleby moved on.

  ‘I am thinking, in particular, of the past twenty-four hours. Nothing occurred in them that strikes you as worth mentioning?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Or only the business of the lurking intruder, I suppose. You’d have to ask Jane Minnychip about that. The old cat came to dinner, you know. And, because of the fuss Ringwood is making about coming and going, she’s here still.’

  ‘I remember Miss Minnychip. Tell me about her, please.’

  ‘She’s a useful guest, who lives not far away. In a little house a couple of miles from what we call the dower house. Yesterday my mother found she’d muddled our dinner party – as she often does. We were a woman short, so the chaste Jane was summoned at short notice. She often is. And because the short notice is a bit against the polite rule book in such matters, she’s always asked to stay the night. That’s why she’s here still. Because of that, and then because of this Ringwood’s wanting everybody to stop on for a bit. The whole rotten little house-party is in a sort of deep freeze. All, that is, except my uncle Marcus. He’s gone fishing.’

  ‘I know he has. I met him on his way, and we had a word together. But go on telling me about Miss Minnychip and the lurking intruder.’

  ‘It’s really about my father and the lurking intruder. But he can’t tell you, and she did have a glimpse. We were all, or nearly all, in this room, drinking that eternal sherry. It was already dusk, of course, and the lights were on, but nobody had closed the curtains on that big French window. It was something, you see, that my father rather liked to do himself. He liked to stare out at that glorified puddle of ours in the dusk, probably taking satisfaction in thinking about generations of Ospreys having done the same thing. Which was rot, anyway. There’s nothing mediaeval or Tudor or what have you in this whole part of the dump. It’s what they call late Georgian. Somewhere or other there’s a date carved on it. 1815, I think.’

  ‘A notable year.’

  ‘Is it? I wouldn’t know. I don’t much care for history.’

  ‘And history may conceivably return the compliment. But go on. We’ve got to your father liking to close those curtains himself. He did so last night?’

  ‘Yes – but not without this odd spot of brouhaha.’

  ‘Of what? But never mind. Go on.’

  ‘He’d put out his hand to that tassel-thing you pull down to do the job. And the Minnychip was following him, jabbering. She’s that sort of female.’

  ‘No doubt. But then?’

  ‘My father – who has been a bit nervy of late – gave an odd sort of exclamation. It might have been of mere surprise, or it might have been of straight funk. And the Minnychip let off a yelp of her own. Between them they may be said rather to have startled the nobility and gentry waiting to be fed. Only my Uncle Marcus – Marcus Broadwater, you know – made a dash for the window. Marcus is only a bloody Cambridge don, but he does have some guts to him. My father, however, had given a vigorous tug, and the curtains took the hint. End of episode. Or not quite. My father turned and said, “Some damned intruder out there”, and the Minnychip chirped, “I had a glimpse of him, too.” She seemed to feel that she’d distinguished herself.’

  ‘Was there an immediate investigation?’

  ‘Lord, yes. Quite a fuss for a time. Bagot was going round with a decanter, topping people up with that tepid muck. My father told him to put it down, and go and investigate. Dear old Daddy was in a regular stew.’

  ‘Frightened, you mean?’

  ‘Just that. The Osprey blood in me was quite ashamed of him.’

  ‘And just how could Bagot have investigated?’ Appleby had walked over to the window and glanced through it. ‘There’s nothing out there except an odd sort of platform, and then the moat. Did Bagot part the curtains again and go outside?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He was probably in a tizzy himself. He just bolted from the room – and came back after a time to say nothing had been discovered. Meanwhile, my father had come to his senses and played the thing down. He had several guests, you know, and I suppose he felt he was in danger of acting the poltroon before them. Rather a good word, poltroon.’

  ‘Just what did he say?’

  ‘He said he must have made a mistake. I don’t think he believed he had. But then we all went in to dinner.’

  ‘Has Ringwood been told about this? It’s possibly highly significant.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, Sir John. I certainly didn’t tell him myself.’

  ‘Then you ought to have.’ Appleby snapped this out. ‘I must
see Miss Minnychip. She may have noticed whether the intruder, as she glimpsed him, appeared wringing wet. He could only have swum, or waded, across the moat. Or is there a boat?’

  ‘There’s certainly a small boat that people plouter about in. It’s kept in a shed on the other side of the moat.’

  ‘It must be examined at once. Thank you for telling me about it.’ And Appleby called in one of the constables and left the library.

  Back in the Music Saloon, he found Ringwood in conversation with a lady. But this is a somewhat neutral and uninformative description of what was going forward. The lady was Miss Jane Minnychip, and she was haranguing a Ringwood who, if not positively discomfited, was visibly nearer to that condition than was at all seemly in a senior officer of the police. Nor was Ringwood’s small cohort on the platform at the end of the room – although, doubtless, entirely in command of the computers and other gadgetry they had brought along with them – at all qualified to advance and support their commanding officer in an altercation with an indignant and vociferous gentlewoman. So the Detective-Inspector hailed Appleby with the mingled relief and deference which a hard-pressed field-commander might accord to a general turning up in a timely way at the head of something like an entire imperial guard.

  ‘Sir John,’ he said, ‘this is Miss Minnychip, one of Lord Osprey’s – of Lady Osprey’s, I ought to say – guests. Miss Minnychip lives in the next parish. And she is asking – demanding might express it better – police protection for herself and her property. But what the reason is, I just haven’t been able to get hold of. It’s almost as if she is apprehensive of suffering the same fate as Lord Osprey, and on similar grounds – whatever those grounds may be. Miss Minnychip’ – and Ringwood turned to the lady – ‘is that what you are saying? And perhaps you can make the matter clearer to Sir John than to me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt I can,’ Miss Minnychip said. ‘And much more appropriately. Sir John, good morning. Mr Ringwood, you may withdraw.’

  To this sudden assumption of grandeur the Detective-Inspector might have been expected to produce some distinctly crisp rejoinder, but at the ghost of a nod from Appleby he did turn to leave the room. And Appleby spoke at once.

  ‘Miss Minnychip, may I tax your patience by speaking for a couple of minutes to Mr Ringwood?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he followed Ringwood from the room, and shut the door behind him. ‘An odd piece of information,’ he then said, ‘which may turn out to be important. It seems that there is a little boat kept in a shed somewhere on the other side of the moat. Have it found, will you? What we want to know is whether there are any signs that it has been in the water quite recently. I’ll explain later. At the moment, I’d better not keep that woman waiting. She may have something important to say.’

  And with this, Appleby returned to the Music Saloon.

  7

  ‘My Dear Miss Minnychip,’ Appleby said soothingly, ‘I will, of course, be most happy to give you any help I can. But is your communication to be regarded as of a confidential sort?’

  ‘Most certainly it is.’

  ‘It has been my experience,’ Appleby went on more weightily, ‘that walls have ears – and particularly so where there has been any unfortunate affair, such as here at Clusters. So may I suggest that you and I take a walk through the gardens? Lady Osprey’s roses are always worth looking at, are they not?’

  This proposal commended itself to Miss Minnychip at once, and to the gardens the two accordingly made their way. The rose garden, in particular, afforded an admirable setting for private talk. It occupied a substantial part of the island site not taken up by Clusters itself, and when near the centre of it they could not be approached unobserved by anything bulkier than a pigeon or squirrel. Thus secluded, Miss Minnychip spoke at once, and to a mildly surprising effect.

  ‘My late father,’ Miss Minnychip said, ‘collected ancient coins. And his collection is with me in my small house now.’

  ‘I see. So your father and Lord Osprey were, in fact, fellow collectors. Did they hold much communication with one another over this interesting pursuit?’

  ‘Lord Osprey came, of course, very much later into the field, and my father did advise him from time to time. And I can recall my father, in the very last year of his life, occasionally comparing notes with Lord Osprey’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘With Mr Broadwater? But of course.’

  ‘Lord Osprey, I need scarcely tell you, was a much wealthier man than my father. But his interest in numismatics was not of any well-informed sort. It was, indeed, little more than a rich man’s whim, and I think it may have been instigated in the first place by Marcus Broadwater himself. Mr Broadwater is a scholar – and my father, Sir Philip Minnychip, included scholarship among his many distinctions. My father, as a young man, had risen rapidly in the Indian Civil Service. Its members, unlike the army people, were, more often than not, persons who had pursued classical studies at school and university, and were of wide cultivation in general. It is a fact you yourself may be unaware of.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Appleby said. ‘I am old enough to remember the high esteem in which the ICS was held.’

  ‘Quite so. My father, upon his retirement, was awarded the KCSI. He may well be styled a man of many talents.’ Miss Minnychip paused on this, as if debating whether to embark upon the wealth of scriptural reference which Appleby recalled her as being addicted to. But on this occasion she kept to the point. ‘Not unnaturally, my father had interested himself in the main in the coinages of the Orient. It is in that department of the subject that his own small collection is, I understand, of considerable importance. And let me say at once that the collection is small if compared with that of Lord Osprey. It is of very substantial monetary value now, nevertheless. Since my father’s death the value of such things in the salerooms has shot up in an astonishing fashion. But fortunately my own circumstances, although straitened, have never obliged me to think of parting with my father’s collection in that way. I hope that it may eventually go to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. My father was an Eton and Christ Church man.’

  ‘Was he, indeed?’ Appleby said respectfully, and paused to sniff at a rose. ‘But just how, Miss Minnychip, does all this affect our present situation?’

  Asked this question, Miss Minnychip was silent for a moment. It could be felt as a disapproving silence, as if the answer to it were so evident that it ought not to have been put to her.

  ‘We surely know,’ she then said, ‘that poor Lord Osprey has been done to death by desperate thieves who he came upon when they were attempting to make off with his collection?’

  ‘It is one conceivable theory, certainly,’ Appleby said. ‘Yes, I think you have hit upon something distinctly possible. In fact, I must congratulate you on putting it forward. I hadn’t thought of it. I don’t believe that Ringwood has thought of it either. And I must confess that I’ve myself been thinking of something rather different.’

  Miss Minnychip received this disingenuous speech with suspicion – as indeed she was abundantly entitled to do. Appleby hoped that her response stopped short there. Even a retired Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, dragged into a thoroughly messy business, ought not to give way to an impulse of sheer mischief. Nevertheless it was on this reprehensible note that Appleby lingered for a further moment.

  ‘What would you say,’ he asked, ‘about the possibility of its having been, on the contrary, a hideous domestic crime?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A hideous domestic crime, Miss Minnychip. They do happen, do they not? Even in the Bible. The ball was sent rolling when Cain killed Abel. And in modern times psychologists have had much to say about patricide, matricide, uxoricide, fratricide, infanticide, and so on. Again, some of the greatest modern novels turn on that kind of thing. For example, The Brothers Karamazov–’

  ‘Sir John, pray cease from inappropriate levity.
’ Miss Minnychip, having thus found her bearings, was suddenly formidable. And at once she turned to one of the rose beds. ‘Bessie Browns,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘And Mildred Grants. I think they are my favourite Hybrid Teas.’

  ‘Miss Minnychip, I do apologize. It’s simply that I’ve spent my entire working life jostling with crimes, and that I resent having my nose rubbed in another one in my old age.’

  ‘But you have come to Clusters, have you not, quite of your own free will, because of what has happened to poor Oliver Osprey?’

  ‘Yes, of course – and I do promise to be serious. I’ll try to find out who killed him. I’ll stick on the job until – until all those late roses droop and die, if need be.’

  ‘Will it take that long?’ There was now a hint almost of challenge in Miss Minnychip’s voice.

  ‘I hope not. Perhaps a couple of days.’ Appleby said this with some gravity, and it was with gravity that he looked at Miss Minnychip as he said it. ‘And, now, may we go back to Osprey’s collection – and conceivably to your father’s collection, as well? I’ve gathered that what has happened here has made you more than a little apprehensive that something equally out of the way may occur in your own house. And that is reasonable enough. If the Osprey Collection of coins has been under threat, so may the neighbouring Minnychip Collection well be.’

  ‘Exactly so, Sir John. It is why I feel that some police protection ought to be afforded to me in my own modest dwelling. But, now, please tell me. Have Lord Osprey’s coins been successfully stolen, or have they not?’

  ‘At this stage, Miss Minnychip, that question can’t be answered. We simply don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know!’

  ‘It certainly sounds absurd. But nobody seems to know just where Lord Osprey kept this very compendious treasure. Have you yourself ever seen it, by the way?’