The Daffodil Affair

by Michael Innes

  ‘We’ve been watched!’ The dusty man’s voice had risen to absolute despair. ‘Shadowed!’ He slumped down on a stool beside the grandfather clock; the door slid to; inside the bones rattled dryly, as if the whole were a nightmarish memorial of mortality and time. ‘After thirty years of respectable trading, much of it with the nobility and gentry of the county – to say nothing of the Dean and Chapter. It’s hard, sir; really hard.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘And the Metcalfes are well known to be most respectable folk.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The dusty man rose heavily, and from inside the clock the bones rattled again like a sepulchral aeolian harp. ‘Of course there is the old story about them. I’m a Haworth man myself and I’ve known it since a boy. I’m far from denying the queer sort of celebrity they’ve enjoyed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you say,’ asked Appleby gravely, ‘that as Haworth celebrities the Metcalfes have been rather outshone by the Brontës?’

  ‘The Brontës! Let me tell you, sir, that the Metcalfes were celebrated through the whole Riding when the Brontës were still hoeing potatoes in Ireland. Why, it was in 1772 that Hannah Metcalfe barely escaped being boiled in her own cauldron. And that was just fifty years after the last recorded execution for witchcraft in these islands. As for the cauldron, it’s just behind you. And now I ask you: do you blame me for giving five pounds for the lot? As a Haworth man, mark you, and not caring to see the antiquities of the district disappearing in a caravan.’

  Appleby turned round and examined the cauldron. It was a massive iron affair and would doubtless have accommodated Hannah Metcalfe comfortably; certainly Turks’ noses, lizards’ legs and similar prescriptive ingredients would have made but an inconsiderable bubble and boil in the depths of it. Appleby peered at it more closely. ‘It looks to me,’ he said unkindly, ‘as if it had been cast in Birmingham about fifty years ago.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ The dusty man was even more distressed than before. ‘No doubt there has been a certain element of showmanship involved. It’s common enough in such places, after all. The bed in which the great man was born: that sort of thing. And if you have a celebrated witch in the family, and people regularly paying sixpence to see her kitchen, you naturally do a little fitting up from time to time. Not but what I freely admit I ought to have had nothing to do with it. Hannah Metcalfe – this Hannah Metcalfe – is a bit strange by all accounts. She looked strange in the caravan. What with her and the horse–’

  ‘We must come to that. Now, I wonder’ – and Appleby laid a soothing hand on the dusty man’s arm – ‘if you would tell me the whole story? I’m not at all inclined to think you acted improperly in any way. But the whole story would be a great help – in something, you know, quite unconnected with the broom and cauldron.’

  The dusty man looked both relieved and perplexed. ‘Well, it must have been a week ago last Thurdsay, and I was just taking down the shutters when I saw this caravan coming down the street. And that, you know, was rather surprising in itself. For we’re a bit out of the way, and anything that turns down here is usually looking for something in particular. But from what followed in this case it didn’t seem to be like that.’

  ‘I see. But if the caravan was trying to slip through York in an unobtrusive way – might that account for it?’

  ‘I dare say it might, sir. Anyway, the thing was going past at a quiet walk and there were two men in front and suddenly one of them calls out. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Look at that shop.” “Which shop?” says the other, and the first man replies, “There: number thirty-nine” – which of course is myself. And it was then that the horse – a quiet-looking horse enough – began to behave queer. It stopped – and the fellow hadn’t pulled it up that I could see – and took to nodding its head like an idol. It went on nodding and the two men seemed to be having an argument. Then one of them shouted at me. “Hi,” he said, “you there; here’s something ought to interest you.” It wasn’t very polite, but then in these days’ – the dusty man shook his head mournfully – ‘it’s something to be taken any notice of at all. So I crossed the street. “Look here,” says the fellow, “you’ll have heard of Hannah Metcalfe’s cottage? Well, most of it’s here, and for sale.” And at that he reached behind him and outed with the broom. “We’ve got Hannah herself, for that matter,” he said, “only she’s already booked.” “She died a hundred and fifty years ago,” I said – for I thought it was some silly sort of joke. And at that there was a wildish kind of laugh from inside, and the young woman stuck her head out. It gave me quite a turn. And of course it was Hannah Metcalfe all right – the young one. “Good morning,” she said. And if I remember aright, sir, it was just then that the horse stopped nodding – sudden-like. I don’t mind saying that I was beginning to find it a bit strange.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Appleby was finding it a little odd himself. ‘About this witch’s cottage business – what are the facts on that? I gather the old Hannah Metcalfe was a celebrated witch?’

  ‘Just so, sir. And her descendants have always lived there and made a bit out of the old story – though respectable folk enough, as I said. Of course there’s the story that the witchcraft or whatever it is has been more or less hereditary, cropping up from time to time. It’s wonderful what people will believe.’ And the dusty man looked round rather nervously at the cauldron.

  Appleby eyed him curiously. ‘Yes,’ he agreed; ‘it is wonderful. And this younger Hannah had that sort of reputation too?’

  ‘Yes, sir – among the uneducated, of course. And I’m told she believed it herself. You see, she’s the last of the Metcalfes, and has been living alone in the cottage for years, showing the cauldron and all the rest of it. Such surroundings, you’ll agree, might well put uncanny ideas in a girl’s head. Anyway, here she was in this caravan, sticking her head out and laughing, while these two fellows argued about I couldn’t quite gather what.’

  ‘Ah – that’s a pity.’

  ‘Well, sir, roughly it seemed like this. They’d had orders to collect the young woman and seemingly they’d collected a good many of her effects, so to speak, as well. But now they’d somehow found out that these weren’t wanted, and when one of them saw an antique shop it had occurred to him to turn a penny by doing a deal. The other seemed to be suggesting that this would lead to trouble – but now young Hannah put in a word. “That’s all right,” she said. “You turn all that stuff into beer for all I care. I’m off to something different.” “There you are,” says the fellow who was trying to do the deal. “All fair and square, as you see. And you can have the lot for five pounds.” “All right,” says the other fellow, nodding approval. And, do you know, sir, the horse seemed to approve too, for it began stamping on the ground with one of its forefeet – just as if it were giving a round of applause.’

  ‘It sounds,’ said Appleby seriously, ‘as if the horse was bewitched.’

  ‘Very good, sir – very good indeed.’ The dusty man laughed with considerable uneasiness. ‘And that’s the whole story. This Miss Metcalfe might be behaving a bit strange, but she seemed nowise out of her wits and I knew her to be the owner of the goods. So it ended with my giving five pounds for the broom and the cauldron and two or three other things you can inspect. If the Metcalfe cottage was being broken up there seemed no harm in being in on the dispersal.’

  ‘None at all.’ Appleby was staring thoughtfully at a table weighed down with elephants’ tusks, snuff boxes and Dresden shepherdesses. ‘But tell me: did you have any further talk with Miss Metcalfe herself?’

  ‘No – or nothing with any sense to it. After the things had been brought out I did try to pass a conversational remark. “So you’re off to see the world?” I said – something like that. And she looked at me mockingly, as you might say. “That’s just it,” she said. “Did you ever hear of the isle of Capri?” And with that she disappeared inside the caravan and I saw no more of her.’

  Appleby frowned. ‘The isle of Capri?
It seems a far cry from Haworth. And not too easy to get to in these days.’

  ‘I think, sir, she might be speaking in what you would call a metaphorical way.’

  ‘Very probably.’ Appleby glanced at his watch and saw that he would have to hurry for his train. He did not want to miss it; Bodfish, Daffodil, and even the Assistant-Commissioner’s sister had taken on a much more beguiling colour in the past half-hour. ‘It is possible that you will hear more of this.’ He looked at the dusty man and remembered how outrageously he had intruded upon his little mystery. ‘And meanwhile I wonder if you could sell me a – a teapot?’

  But his choice was abstracted. The odd matter of Miss Hannah Metcalfe had pretty substantial possession of his mind.

  5

  The telephone wires rose and fell, and beyond them the dales swept past, fluid and subtly circling. It was on the white ribbons of road and lane that Appleby kept his eye – expecting always to see, symbolically receding, a caravan and a temperamental horse. There was little of reason in the expectation. But then neither had there been reason in what happened in York. Policemen rarely make long and expensive journeys in search of unimportant quadrupeds. They do not commonly come upon traces of their quarry in wholly unexpected places and in a wholly fortuitous way. And Sir Robert Peel himself still slumbered in the womb of time long after witchcraft had ceased to be matter of their serious concern.

  The witches have departed, leaving no addresses; the last of them is now somewhere diminishing into distance, headed for the fields of amaranth and asphodel – and with Bodfish’s Daffodil as an appropriate guide. Hannah Metcalfe has gone; down these receding vistas she has grown smaller and smaller, as did the Good Folk before her.

  And so much for the fantasy of the thing. What of its sober reason? One departs from one place because one designs – or because somebody else designs – that one should arrive in another. The witches, then, are arriving – at addresses which are yet to seek. And equally Daffodil is arriving, and the problem is to find out where. For behind the abductions, thought Appleby, there was enterprise, enterprise as well as – perhaps rather than – mere caprice. And efficiency. If the removal of Captain Somebody’s brute had been a piece of bungling, at least the error had been repaired with confidence and speed. And if you want to smuggle an undistinguished horse across country it is not a bad idea to clap it within the shafts of a caravan. Incidentally, you will need all the ideas you can think up. For England today is a country in which even slightly mysterious manoeuvres are singularly difficult to perform. At the top of that little church tower on the hill is the squire or the pub-keeper or the blacksmith, his imagination keyed up to suspect the ingenuities of enemy action in anything a bit out of the way. As far as interfering with Lady Caroline’s carriage exercise is concerned, or in point of persuading Yorkshire maidens that they are bound for the isle of Capri, the times could scarcely be more thoroughly out of joint. And so if the witches and the half-witted horses are arriving now there is likely to be some particular premium about their doing so… Appleby was groping round this obscure conception when the train ran into Harrogate.

  There is a pleasing element of the unknown in the approach to big hotels. They may contain an exiled court, the ghostly counterpart of a government department, a great London school, or even a thousand or so people busy making things. But Appleby found only what such an establishment normally holds out, and presently he was wandering across the Stray, somewhat at a loss. He must present himself to the local police and tactfully explain that he was the consequence of humouring earls’ daughters who inappropriately demanded the services of Scotland Yard. After that he was committed to visiting this exigent lady herself, and after that again would come the tiresome business of duplicating inquiries which had doubtless already been made in a thoroughly efficient way. Finally, he could not leave Harrogate without paying a duty visit to his aunt, a person of pronounced character and intimidating early associations.

  But this was his mission only in its original or diplomatic aspect. Unless – as was, after all, likely enough – the horse of Miss Metcalfe’s caravan was distinct from the horse of Bodfish’s open landau – unless this was so the case had taken to itself a certain body, a marked beguilement, in a wholly unexpected direction. Meditating this, Appleby decided to postpone the business of introductions until he had sought enlightenment on this prior point. So he consulted a notebook and made his way to the livery stables from which Daffodil had been stolen.

  The stables belonged – with the sort of muted absurdity which went with this whole business, Appleby felt – to a Mr Gee; and Mr Gee, an elderly man of cheerful appearance, was discovered in the middle of a yard, contemplating a sleepy dog with an air of the greatest benevolence.

  ‘A nice dog,’ Appleby said.

  Still benevolent, Mr Gee swung round. ‘Dish-faced,’ he said in a voice of unfathomable gloom.

  ‘Ah,’ said Appleby, rather at a loss.

  ‘And undershot,’ Mr Gee preserved his highly deceptive appearance. ‘Pig-jawed, in fact.’

  ‘Well, yes – I suppose he is, a little.’

  ‘She.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Cow-hocked. No feather. Apple-headed. Pily.’

  ‘Pily? I suppose she is. But still–’

  ‘Pily is the only good thing about her. Apple-headed. No feather. Cow-headed. Pig-jawed. What do you think of the stifles?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Appleby said modestly, ‘I don’t know anything about dogs.’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t,’ said Mr Gee gloomily. He continued to radiate the appearance of good cheer.

  ‘At the moment, as a matter of fact, I’m more interested in horses.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you knew much about them either. Taxis I should say was more your line.’ Mr Gee, maintaining his air of mild euphoria, began to move away.

  ‘And one horse in particular. I’ve come about Daffodil.’

  ‘Gawd!’ said Mr Gee, and quickened his step.

  ‘Did they try to buy Daffodil first?’

  Mr Gee stopped. ‘You mayn’t know a poodle from a chow,’ he said. ‘But you’re a sensible man. It took the others half an hour to think of that one. And of course they did. What would be the sense of all that stour to steal a horse you knew wouldn’t fetch above a ten-pound note? They offered me thirty.’

  ‘And you refused?’

  ‘Of course I refused. Do you think I want to be taken up? It’s contrary to the provisions of the Act.’

  Appleby, if he knew little about horses, had necessarily to know much about the law. And this particular piece of legislative wisdom was new to him. ‘You supposed it was illegal? I hardly think–’

  ‘It was contrary to the provisions of the Act.’ Mr Gee was obstinate. ‘Twenty pounds for nout is certain sure to be contrary to the provisions of the Act.’ He spoke as if from some depth of mournful experience. ‘I’d have been taken up. What else is the likes of you paid to go about after? Taking people up over the Act.’ Mr Gee’s beaming eye looked very shrewdly at Appleby. ‘Police everywhere,’ he said. ‘Gawd!’

  Appleby, feeling the shoe leather thicken under his feet and a shadowy metropolitan helmet hover on his brow, concluded that Mr Gee was a man to reckon with; he contrived to combine a mild mania with an accurate appraisal of men. ‘Well, Mr Gee, we’ll say you felt the thing to be irregular and would have nothing to do with it. And the result was that the horse disappeared. I don’t want to know how or when, for I’ve no doubt at all that has been gone over already. But I want you to tell me something about the horse itself.’

  ‘About Daffodil?’ Mr Gee’s cheerful face clouded, so that it was logical to suppose he was about to attempt a stroke of humour. ‘Well, I always suspected rareying with Daffodil – though, mind you, it may have been galvayning all the same.’ And Mr Gee stooped down and fondled the ear of the dish-faced dog.

  Appleby sat down placidly on a bench. ‘My dear sir, I quite realize that an erudite h
ippologist like yourself–’

  ‘’Ere,’ said Mr Gee, ‘civil is civil, I’ll have you know. And none of that language in my yard.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll say nothing at all.’ Appleby took out a pipe. ‘But I’m staying here until you give me a reasonable account of that horse.’

  Mr Gee looked deliberately about him, plainly searching for a particularly ponderous shaft of wit. ‘The trouble about Daffodil,’ he said at length, ‘was always in the carburettor. And for that matter I never cared for his overhead valves.’ And at this Mr Gee laughed so suddenly and loudly that the pily dog rose and took to its heels.

  ‘Come off it.’ Appleby filled his pipe. ‘A joke’s a joke, Mr Gee. But business is business, after all. And I may tell you I hate the stink of petrol. I mayn’t know about galvayning – but I’d take a cab every time, just the same.’

  The effect of this mendacious statement was immediate. Mr Gee sat down on the bench in a most companionable way. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said – and lowered his voice. ‘I never half liked that horse. There were old parties that liked him and would order him regular. They thought him almost ’uman. But if there’s one thing I like less than an almost ’uman dog it’s an almost ’uman horse.’

  ‘I see. By the way, how did Daffodil come to you in the first place?’

  ‘I had him of a man.’ Mr Gee spoke at once darkly and vaguely. ‘It would have been at Boroughbridge fair, I reckon.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything about his previous owner?’

  ‘I reckon I was told.’ Mr Gee was gloomily silent. ‘I suppose you come from London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ve heard of the Cities of the Plain? Well, add all the lies was ever told in London, mister, to all the hanky-panky Sodom and Gomorrah ever knew – and that’s a horse fair. So you may take it that anything I was told about Daffodil down Boroughbridge way isn’t what you’d call evidence. I’ve bought horses, man and boy, for forty years. And I shuts my ears and opens my eyes.’