Hamlet Revenge!

by Michael Innes

  The Duchess laughed. ‘I hope so; my sympathies won’t stretch further than Giles and Nave this morning. But I don’t believe it. You’re word-perfect already and obviously going to write an astoundingly wise report. And now, as you kept saying to everybody yesterday, please go on.’

  ‘Clay got rid of the camera, then, and no doubt burnt the bogus document, just as Miss – but that is irrelevant. Then he waited to put across the great performance of his career. There, sitting by herself in the front row and isolated from the audience, was the Dowager Duchess, a very old lady constantly nodding off to sleep. And beside her was Bunney’s machine, purring away – so to speak – and ready to record anything murmured into it. And several people had gone to speak to the old lady; it didn’t seem to count at all as communicating with the audience. So Clay waited till she had nodded asleep again after Biddle’s draught, walked over the front stage, sat down solicitously beside her, made scraps of soothing conversation that the nearer people could hear – and meanwhile, bit by bit, read the whole document to Bunney’s contraption. He would hold the paper, I suppose, concealed in a programme – and the whole effect to the people behind would be that of two or three minutes’ courteous attention to an old lady. Presently he went away and came back with old Mr Cope – a beautiful completing of the effect. Then he simply put the document in the scroll where it would presently be found. If Bose had not found it Clay, no doubt, would have done something about it himself.

  ‘But he had by no means got clear yet. For the Duke, despite the belated discovery of the document, still took precautions. He sent the audience away, without allowing any communication between them and the players. And then he kept the players in the hall until I arrived from London. By that time Clay had slipped the cylinder out of the machine – to do that unnoticed would not, with his peculiar abilities, be difficult – and was walking about with it. And by this time he guessed there would be a search. It is dreadfully humiliating to have to record that he thereupon got the thing away effortlessly under my nose. He simply dropped it in an empty coffee-urn which Bagot, quite automatically, would take away when bringing a full one – and which the constable at the door would, equally automatically, let through. It was all rather fantastic – too fantastic for me, certainly, as I stood there on the stage solemnly watching Bagot’s exit. But remember, again, that Clay was not a common spy prosaically anxious to filch securely and make his money; he was a reckless and inspired creature playing the game of his life.

  ‘And so the first act ended. There had been, from Clay’s point of view, two unforeseen turns to it: the Merkalova had shot Lord Auldearn not from the shelter of the curtains but from right out on the rear stage itself; and the substance of the document was now, of all places, on a wax cylinder in a coffee urn somewhere in the Scamnum offices. And the first of these unforeseen turns gave Miss Sandys her chance and the second gave Lady Elizabeth hers.

  ‘The Merkalova was not quite first-class; she was not quite worthy of Clay. She was liable to muff things slightly. For instance, when she made that descent on us in Mr Crispin’s room she went wrong twice. She was a little too pat, so that I had an obscure feeling that it was a put-up job. Not that that did any harm; it merely kept my thoughts centring for a little longer on the fictitious Crispin–Merkalova conspiracy. A more serious slip was a story she let fly about Miss Sandys; it was a serious slip because it tended to keep the spy idea alive. She was liable, then, to muff things slightly and one is not surprised that Clay charged her with letting Lady Elizabeth through their trap last night when actually Lady Elizabeth was not very far away.’

  ‘I’m pleased with Elizabeth,’ said the Duchess. ‘It was intelligent.’

  ‘It was genius. But the point is that the Merkalova was afraid of missing. And that’s what Miss Sandys got to. While Giles and I were finding fine theories to account for the murderer stepping right out of cover and under the possible observation of Bose – the iron-cross, gloating-avenger, Fate-in-Les-Présages theory, and all the rest of it – while our minds worked like that Miss Sandys’ worked like this: Why break cover to get closer? Because you’re afraid of missing. And then she asked: Why are you afraid of missing at that comparatively close range? And she answered – with incomparable brilliance and disinterestedness if you consider her feminist attitude: Because you’re a woman. And then she went further in what has been the purest detective process in the case. The revolver had been found. There would be no fingerprints on it. How does one avoid leaving fingerprints? Either by wiping the object afterwards or by wearing a glove. A glove is best, because one mightn’t succeed in rubbing prints off adequately if pressed for time. The men had no gloves but the women had: they came straight to the hall to change from what had been rather a grand dinner. After the search they left mainly in their player things. Gloves would still be in the hall. So she broke into the hall with Mr Gylby, found the Merkalova’s gloves, and convinced herself and myself – if nobody else – that the right-hand glove smelt ever so faintly of gunpowder – as in the circumstances it might just conceivably do. Miss Sandys had us beaten badly there and the wise report you speak of will have to say so.

  ‘Now the other point – the cylinder in the coffee-urn. Clay knew the ways of big houses and knew that no footman up at two a.m. was going to clean out such a thing; it would be put by for the appropriate maid or boy in the morning. And he knew, roughly, where he could find it in the small hours. What he didn’t know was the severe nature of Mr Rauth, who likes to lock things up. As a consequence of that he had to break into the pantry where it was and so leave traces of himself. And to avert suspicion from what he had really been after he broke open a tin of biscuits, filled his pockets with them, and later transferred them to the box in his bedroom. And that was his undoing. For Lady Elizabeth, who was familiar with the precise dispositions in these matters imposed, again, by the excellent Rauth, knew at once that he must have been the raider of the pantry. And Clay made the slip of denying it.

  ‘Now review the position yesterday morning. Clay had the cylinder: later in the day he managed to hide it in the cowhouse. The danger arising from Bose’s having seen the Merkalova shoot was over, for the simple reason that he had killed Bose. What, then, had he now to do? Nothing but sustain if possible the impression that the whole affair was one of private vengeance. Did the police, indeed, any longer suspect anything else? He got his answer to that when he looked out in the morning and saw that the house was closely guarded. He knew then that we had some substantial suspicion. He may have guessed that we had intercepted a message we had in fact intercepted: the message promising delivery of the goods. If, then, we knew that there were spies his best course was to persuade us that they had been unsuccessful. And to that end he contrived another intercepted message. I had ensured that no long message could be flashed out from Scamnum in the night. But for this purpose only three or four words were necessary. And they went – a few flicks of a shaving mirror – from Piper’s bedroom window to Horton Hill. And so the second message was got deliberately into police hands: the spies had been unsuccessful; the murders were quite another affair; all chance was gone. He had to send the message from Piper’s room; it was the only one available to him that commanded the hill. But it was a big risk, the sort of risk he loved. For Piper, if a shade slow, has a brooding and analytical eye. And – in fact – hours afterwards Piper saw.

  ‘To substantiate the particular picture of the crimes he was trying to build up he had risked dragging Bose’s body about the house. And now he had only one substantial anxiety. When he had delivered one of the messages through Bunney’s box he had not foreseen what part the box was later to play. And at any time now there might occur to someone the possibility of investigating the voice which Bunney held recorded. I doubt if he cared two pence for that in itself. But it involved another danger. For as soon as Bunney was given his box in order to put this idea into practice he would discover that the final cylinder r
ecording the interrupted play was missing. At all costs that must be avoided until the cylinder with the document was got safely away. Hence the attack on Bunney. Clay boldly broached the matter at breakfast and then made sure that for twenty-four hours at least Bunney would be silent. Of course be stole the “curious message” cylinder. Doing so killed two birds with one stone; it removed any possible danger of the identification of his voice; and it gave a motive for the attack on Bunney that offered no suggestion of a connexion with the spy-theme. And there, incidentally, was the one thing I positively stuck at in Giles’ theory: that Bunney had been mistaken for me. And I was just trying to work out the implications of that – that it must be a conspiratorial crime, that it might be a spy crime after all – when, well, when the final whirlwind overtook me.

  ‘Clay made one other move to keep up the Revenge theory. He had the habit of strolling into people’s rooms and yesterday evening he strolled into Nave’s. Nave was in his bath. And on the table was a Shakespeare open at the play-scene. Nave, you see, had tumbled to the anagram-business before anyone else; trust a psychologist for that. He knew somebody was out to incriminate him and he wondered what more might come. And he found himself going over his Shakespeare in a fascinated sort of way, noting “ravens”, “revenges”, and so forth. He had just looked at this most apposite of all lines – almost fatally, he had just laid his finger on it – when Clay came in and saw it. The temptation was overwhelming; he sent the sixth message over the telephone from the Raven’s own room.’ Appleby paused. ‘And that was a definite move to get Nave hanged. In other words, Clay was a cowardly scoundrel as well as a very, very able man.

  ‘And now I must go and say goodbye to Giles. Death at Scamnum Court has not made good hunting for either of us. It has been Ladies’ Day. Miss Sandys got the Merkalova. Lady Elizabeth got Clay.’ Appleby rose. ‘And the Duchess of Horton, in the middle of a very terrible night, remembered how to tell a story as the Duchess of Horton can.’

  Jean was packing suitcases into the back of Elizabeth’s cars; Elizabeth was packing dogs into the front. And the talented author of Death at the Zoo and Poison Paddock came rather dubiously down the steps.

  ‘Straight away, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Straight away. They’ll run for Kincrae early, I think, and I’m going ahead. By paternal decree. The affair must be blown away from the maidenly mind.’

  ‘I wish it could be blown away. I’ve made a most frightful–’

  ‘Giles, is Nave annoyed?’

  ‘No. The unkindest cut of all is there. It’s all matter of scientific interest to him. I don’t believe, ideologue though he be, that he’s capable of one flicker of enmity towards any living creature. And we’re going for a walk together after tea to talk it all over. Think of that.’ Gott’s fingers strayed nervously through his hair; he looked shyly at Elizabeth. As Nave had said: painful lack of knowledge how to proceed. ‘It’s nice to see you with a whole skin, Elizabeth – praise heaven and Piper.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘Piper was all right. And I owe him an idea too.’

  ‘An idea?’

  ‘Yes; if he hadn’t tried to make fun of you at breakfast yesterday – about Pygmalion and his statue, you remember? – I should never have thought of the Pandemian Venus.’

  Elizabeth climbed into the car. Then she sighed – her mother’s sigh. ‘Giles, it’s such a pity. That it wasn’t true, I mean. It was such a good story.’

  ‘I say, don’t pile it on.’

  ‘But it was. It ought to have been true. And you can tell Nave I think so when you take your walk.’ Elizabeth turned to see Jean safely stowed; pressed the self-starter.

  ‘Good-bye, Elizabeth. And I hope you’ll truly blow it out of mind – our play and all that followed.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have the play again, Giles.’ Elizabeth slipped into gear.

  ‘You’d be Ophelia again – even if I produced it?’

  ‘Even if you played Hamlet, Giles – mad, mad Hamlet.’ Elizabeth let in the clutch; the car glided forward. And Gott stepped back.

  ‘Nymph, in thy orisons,’ he said, ‘be all my sins remembered.’

  Note on Inspector (later, Sir John) Appleby Series

  John Appleby first appears in Death at the President’s Lodging, by which time he has risen to the rank of Inspector in the police force. A cerebral detective, with ready wit, charm and good manners, he rose from humble origins to being educated at ‘St Anthony’s College’, Oxford, prior to joining the police as an ordinary constable.

  Having decided to take early retirement just after World War II, he nonetheless continues his police career at a later stage and is appointed an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, where his crime solving talents are put to good use, despite his lofty administrative position. Final retirement from the police force (as Commissioner and Sir John Appleby) does not, however, diminish Appleby’s taste for solving crime and he continues to be active, Appleby and the Ospreys marking his final appearance in the late 1980’s.

  In Appleby’s End he meets Judith Raven, whom he marries and who has an involvement in many subsequent cases, as does their son Bobby and other members of his family.

  Appleby Titles in order of first publication

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. Death at the President's Lodging Also as: Seven Suspects 1936

  2. Hamlet! Revenge 1937

  3. Lament for a Maker 1938

  4. Stop Press Also as: The Spider Strikes 1939

  5. The Secret Vanguard 1940

  6. Their Came Both Mist and Snow Also as: A Comedy of Terrors 1940

  7. Appleby on Ararat 1941

  8. The Daffodil Affair 1942

  9. The Weight of the Evidence 1943

  10. Appleby's End 1945

  11. A Night of Errors 1947

  12. Operation Pax Also as: The Paper Thunderbolt 1951

  13. A Private View Also as: One Man Show and Murder is an Art 1952

  14. Appleby Talking Also as: Dead Man's Shoes 1954

  15. Appleby Talks Again 1956

  16. Appleby Plays Chicken Also as: Death on a Quiet Day 1957

  17. The Long Farewell 1958

  18. Hare Sitting Up 1959

  19. Silence Observed 1961

  20. A Connoisseur's Case Also as: The Crabtree Affair 1962

  21. The Bloody Wood 1966

  22. Appleby at Allington Also as: Death by Water 1968

  23. A Family Affair Also as: Picture of Guilt 1969

  24. Death at the Chase 1970

  25. An Awkward Lie 1971

  26. The Open House 1972

  27. Appleby's Answer 1973

  28. Appleby's Other Story 1974

  29. The Appleby File 1975

  30. The Gay Phoenix 1976

  31. The Ampersand Papers 1978

  32. Shieks and Adders 1982

  33. Appleby and Honeybath 1983

  34. Carson's Conspiracy 1984

  35. Appleby and the Ospreys 1986

  Honeybath Titles in order of first publication

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. The Mysterious Commission 1974

  2. Honeybath's Haven 1977

  3. Lord Mullion's Secret 1981

  4. Appleby and Honeybath 1983

  Synopses (Both Series & 'Stand-alone' 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.
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  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, who 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.