Appleby, after allowing himself to be for a moment diverted by this monstrous perversion of an edifying and ancient saw, thought to inquire of Hoobin whether he had any further information about Mr Ambrose Ashmore. Hoobin had. What had made the discomfiting experience of young Solo really awkward for Mr Ashmore and his honest supporters on the Bench was the well-known fact that Mr Ashmore had proved a man of somewhat violent temper on certain other and totally different occasions. As a younger man – much younger, it was true – he had stripped naked and then vigorously cleansed under a fire-hose a neighbouring gentleman who had chanced to offend him. This had taken place in the presence of ladies and at a hunt ball. Such conduct, it was generally felt, would have been appropriate and agreeable only at a farmers’ dinner. On another occasion it appeared that Mrs Ambrose Ashmore had outlandishly employed a cook of the male sex, and her husband had wasted little time before picking up this unnatural creature and pitching him through a window and into a flower-bed. Unfortunately the man had very cleverly contrived to break an arm as he fell, so there had been a good deal of fuss and a substantial bill for damages. The bill was no doubt the more awkward in that Mr Ambrose Ashmore was understood to be in circumstances so reduced that his wife, far from hiring a Frenchman with an absurd high hat, ought to have been at the kitchen range herself.
All this – if not in precisely such words – Appleby extracted from Hoobin between one bout of chain-sawing and the next. Hoobin also proved to have what might be termed genealogical interests. Rupert Ashmore of King’s Yatter was an elder brother of the violent Ambrose Ashmore of Abbot’s Yatter, and both were the juniors of the great Squire Martyn Ashmore of Ashmore Chase, a person of fabulous wealth whose grandfather had been one of the great men of the land in the famous times of Oliver Cromwell.
It appeared – Appleby thought – that the tortoise aspect of the Ashmores had bred quite a lively mythology of its own. And Rupert Ashmore, who had pleasantly expressed his attitude to his brother Ambrose by taking the savagely fustigated Solo Hoobin into his employment, was of course the father of Giles Ashmore, Appleby’s young guest of the evening before. And Giles’ father too had been reported as impoverished. Perhaps both younger brothers urgently required that the miserly Martyn should mount a rescue operation.
These reflections lasted Appleby through one of Hoobin’s leisured disappearances round the corner of the house with his barrow. His return, this time, was at a perceptibly quickened pace. This could only mean that he had displeasing intelligence to communicate. And so it proved. With a jerk of his thumb down the garden path he indicated that his employer had a duty to perform.
‘Company,’ Hoobin said with relish.
Judith had received two visitors in the drawing-room and was engaging them in civil conversation. But plainly she was only holding the fort, and their concern was with her husband. The first was young and the second elderly. The first Appleby recognized with some surprise at once; it was Jules de Voisin. The second had a vaguely familiar air, and he seemed to be claiming some uncertain sort of acquaintanceship with Judith. It came to Appleby suddenly that here was one of Martyn Ashmore’s brothers. And in this he proved to be right. It was Rupert Ashmore, father of the unimpressive Giles, who was paying this mysterious call.
De Voisin’s bearing was alert, watchful, and stiffly formal, so that one might have supposed something hostile about him. But Appleby felt that this would not be quite accurate; it was rather as if the young man was finding himself progressively involved in a situation which was far from agreeable to him. Rupert Ashmore, on the other hand, softly radiated a sympathetic manner. He might have arrived on some visit of condolence as such things were conducted in the Victorian era. But as the Applebys had not been bereaved this surely seemed inapposite, and it indeed presently transpired that Rupert Ashmore’s condolences were being offered to the universe at large. The universe was in the habit of behaving very badly, he seemed to say – as for example when it shoved forward into the regard of his son Giles a young woman so deplorably ineligible as the musical but impecunious Robina. Nevertheless the universe probably felt properly apologetic about such tiresome performances, so that it was impossible not to feel sorry for it.
Not that Mr Rupert Ashmore had anything to say about his son. He appeared unaware of Giles’ visit to the Applebys on the previous evening, and his concern was with his brother Martyn. It was very much a concern. His brother Martyn was worrying him greatly. This was the occasion of his venturing to introduce himself to Sir John.
‘But I think,’ Appleby said mildly, ‘that you may have mistaken my degree of familiarity with your brother. I have been to the Chase only once – as a trespasser, as a matter of fact, and only a couple of days ago. It is true that your brother was kind enough to entertain me to a most agreeable luncheon. And the same occasion gave me the happiness of making the acquaintance of Monsieur de Voisin.’ Appleby looked solemnly at Judith as he produced these well rounded phrases. He was defying her, more or less, to be improperly amused by them. ‘So I feel hardly qualified to assist you in any intimate family matter. Or perhaps I am mistaken? It certainly seems to me that it is something of the sort that is on your mind.’
‘But indeed it is!’ Mr Rupert Ashmore gave to this admission an air of handsome acknowledgement. ‘And of course neither Jules nor I would have dreamed of disturbing you, my dear Sir John, had you not been involved at the Chase – as Jules has informed me – in an unfortunate incident which you were so very kind as to pass over in your mention a few moments ago of meeting my brother Martyn the other day. After that meeting, I can hardly hope to suppose that the truth about Martyn is unknown to you. He is deranged – mentally deranged.’ Mr Rupert Ashmore made a helpless gesture. ‘It is, alas, an affliction of long standing. My brother did not have a very good war.’
‘That painful period,’ Jules de Voisin suddenly struck in in his impeccable English, ‘has left him a legacy of systematized delusions. It was in an endeavour to persuade him of their total lack of substance that I visited him the other day. Certain persuasions in which he has indulged have occasioned considerable distress to his relations in France. But I have myself a further reason to feel much concerned. I have the honour to be betrothed to Virginia, Mr Rupert Ashmore’s daughter.’
‘I see.’ Appleby looked candidly at the young Frenchman. ‘That certainly gives you more than a footing with any Ashmores who may be around. But I’m not quite clear how I myself can be of help to you – any more than to Mr Ashmore here, either. Would one of you perhaps explain?’
‘Mr Rupert Ashmore would like to have your sense – do I express myself correctly? – of what happened the other day. You will recall that I was not myself an actual witness of the incident. But it would appear that Mr Martyn Ashmore exercised a quite diabolical degree of ingenuity on this occasion.’
‘Ingenuity, Monsieur de Voisin? I can’t think what you are talking about.’
‘Let me interrupt.’ Rupert Ashmore had leant politely forward, offering a soothing gesture the while to the world at large. ‘My brother’s delusions – the belief that he is pursued by emissaries of some French underground organization which he offended long ago – inevitably attract less and less credence as the years pass. So this year there has been a fresh development. He actually contrived the appearance of a lethal attack in the presence of a witness. That witness, Sir John, was of course yourself. I am only anxious that you should realize what must have happened.’
‘I think I realize very well what must have happened.’
‘I feel greatly relieved to hear you say so. It would cloud the issue were we to begin supposing that Martyn’s life is actually in any danger.’
‘The issue is certainly sufficiently clouded already.’ Appleby was beginning to find this a very odd conversation indeed. ‘But, come to think of it, what, Mr Ashmore, precisely is the issue? Just what has to be decided?’
‘There can surely be no two answers to that.’ Mr Rupert Ashmore per
mitted himself a momentary expression of civil surprise. ‘It is a question of the kindest way to deal with my brother in his dreadful aberration.’
‘You mean the most respectable way to get him locked up?’
Mr Rupert Ashmore frowned. He was offended. Perhaps it was fortunate, Appleby reflected, that he was not Mr Ambrose Ashmore, who was on record as given to rash and sudden physical assault. But de Voisin struck smoothly in.
‘It is a matter of the stone,’ he said. ‘The suggestion is that it was dropped, or hurled, by someone lurking above the front door and concealed behind the parapet. But this of course is fantastic, as we are happily agreed.’ De Voisin paused for a moment, whether in obscure irony or evidently in the hope of securing Appleby’s assent. ‘After much thought, we have come to the conclusion that the front door itself is the key to the mystery. Or perhaps its key is the key.’ De Voisin paused again on this happy turn of phrase. ‘Would we be correct in supposing, Sir John, that Mr Ashmore unlocked and threw open his front door, and that it was in this very instant that the thing happened?’
‘I am not sure that there was not a sufficient interval for Mr Ashmore to utter a word or two. But your line of thought, Monsieur de Voisin, interests me very much.’
‘The stone had been delicately balanced on the parapet. The door beneath, when vigorously thrust open, produced sufficient rever-beration to bring it down.’
‘I see. But do you acknowledge that, upon this interpretation, your unfortunate English kinsman’s madness must extend to a perfect willingness to risk killing himself – or to risk killing a perfect stranger whom he couldn’t so much as have counted upon meeting at all?’
‘The matter has its perplexities, no doubt. Allow me to say that I am merely putting Mr Rupert Ashmore’s point of view.’ As he curiously shifted ground in this way, de Voisin favoured his fellow-caller with a formal bow. ‘My own concern has merely been to try to disabuse Mr Martyn Ashmore of the nonsensical notion he harbours – or appears to harbour.’ De Voisin made one of his pauses on this. ‘I owe him that duty, even as the most distant relative. Moreover his fantasies – whether they are pure fantasies or fantastically erroneous explanations of events actually occurring – are a reflection upon the humanity and good sense of my countrymen.’
‘And now we must not detain you further.’ Rupert Ashmore had stood up. He appeared not too pleased with his French relative. ‘My dear Lady Appleby’ – he had turned rather elaborately to Judith – ‘you will understand that the essential occasion of my call has been to apologize to your husband and yourself for the horrid occurrence at the Chase. And to express the hope that you will find it possible to let the matter rest. You may be assured that we shall all – our whole family, that is to say – deal tactfully but adequately with the consequences of my poor brother’s condition. It has been pleasant to meet again after so many years. I am glad that even this shocking business – my dear Appleby, if I may so address you – has enabled me to make your acquaintance.’
With this, Mr Rupert Ashmore fell to shaking hands, and Monsieur de Voisin to making precisely calculated bows. Within a couple of minutes, the visitors had gone.
‘Well, I’m blessed.’ Appleby, returning from the hall, sank into a chair. ‘What on earth was all that in aid of?’
‘Discreet exploration, I’d say. They wanted to discover just how hard you were taking the fact of nearly having had your brains dashed out. And what move, if any, you were making about it.’
‘Rupert is out to impugn his brother Martyn’s sanity. Is the Frenchman regretting having got engaged to the daughter of such a disgusting specimen? He didn’t seem to know quite what attitude to take to the whole thing. But he genuinely believes, surely, that the notion of murderous emissaries from across the English Channel is nonsense.’
‘I think he does.’
‘As for Rupert, I had an odd feeling that he was conscious of having made some utterly false move, and is wondering how to retrieve it. Is there any sense in that?’ Appleby looked at the clock. ‘Almost lunch time. No point in going out again to urge Hoobin on. Just ten minutes to have a look at The Times.’ He reached for the paper. ‘By the way, what has happened to those young men?’
‘Bobby and Finn? They’ve gone off to join Giles Ashmore again. They said they were going to be out to lunch and dinner, and back late. I expect they’re putting their precious plan into operation.’
‘They’re welcome to it. Only I can’t think what Bobby wants with such nonsense.’
‘It’s just that he’s interested in people.’
‘I suppose so.’ Appleby’s tone was already absent; he had opened the paper, and was applying himself to the court page. ‘Odd mistake,’ he said presently.
‘In The Times?’
‘Yes. Ashmores again. And muddled. Giles’ engagement to the beautiful Robina. They’ve got the family names muddled. They’ve printed–’ He broke off. ‘Well, I’m damned! Nothing of the sort.’
‘John, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘It’s not Giles. And not a mistake. I apologize to Printing House Square. Read that.’ He handed the paper to Judith. She read in silence the paragraph to which he had pointed.
Forthcoming marriages
Mr Martyn Ashmore and Miss Robina Bunker
The engagement is announced between Martyn Ashmore, eldest surviving son of the late Colonel Ayden Ashmore and of the late Mrs Ashmore (née Haut-Bages-Montpelou), of Ashmore Chase, and Robina, daughter of Mr and Mrs Bunker of ‘Golf View’, Pudsey, Yorkshire.
‘How odd,’ Judith said, ‘if you have a name like Bunker to call your house “Golf View”.’
‘Perhaps so.’ Appleby indicated, that he didn’t think highly of the relevance of this comment. ‘Possibly it’s a misprint for “Gulf”.’
‘I doubt whether there’s any gulf at Pudsey.’
‘There’s no doubt one between rich and poor, and these Bunkers live on one side or the other.’
‘We’re talking nonsense because this is nonsense.’ Judith put down The Times. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Not at all. It makes perfect sense. Ashmores have rather a habit of marrying a shade late in life. As a matter of fact, I had the cheek to ask Martyn whether he mightn’t have something of the sort in mind himself. And I’m not sure he didn’t receive the suggestion with a kind of malign glee. But it’s uncommonly odd that he should have pinched Giles’ girl.’
‘And Finn’s girl too, don’t forget. He and Giles considered themselves rivals for Robina Bunker’s hand. She must be a very efficient little gold-digger. And there’s another thing about Giles and Finn. Think of them last night – and Bobby too. The precious trio hadn’t a clue about this. I wonder whether they’ve seen the newspaper today.’
‘Probably not.’ Appleby chuckled. ‘They’re possibly fondly engaged in buying that claret from the grocer now.’ His expression changed. ‘But there’s another thing, and it introduces a new dimension into the whole affair. Ashmores don’t merely marry at an enormous age. They have a capacity – enviable, no doubt – for begetting children at an enormous age too.’
Part Three
Death at Ashmore Chase
9
Finn had been glancing at a newspaper. He dropped it casually behind the sofa on which he was sprawling as Bobby Appleby entered the bar.
‘Hullo, again,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But where’s our helpful friend? He’ll be late for opening time.’ Finn gestured at the metal grille which still shut off the business end of the room in which they were foregathering. ‘Not like Giles. He’s one of your six o’clock men.’
‘A bit of a drunk?’ Bobby asked. He didn’t feel that he had as yet got to know Giles Ashmore very well.
‘So so. Perhaps he’s having a quick one elsewhere, before mucking in with his pals.’
‘I hope not. He’ll need all his wits, it seems to me, if he’s really going to bring off this nonsense of ingratiating himself with his rich uncle. It
sounds just not on to me.’
‘You ought to know, Bobby.’ Finn sounded quite dashed on behalf of their missing companion. ‘Writing all that stuff must keep you clued up on how chaps tick.’
‘As a matter of fact, I gather Giles has merely gone hunting for his own particular brand of fags. He’ll join us here, and we’ll have dinner. But I doubt whether it’s a good idea.’
‘Dinner isn’t?’ Finn asked. ‘I’d usually call it the best idea of the day.’
‘This particular dinner, you idiot. Having it before paying the visit of reconciliation, or whatever, to the rich uncle. The old creature lives more or less alone, it seems. Three great oafs piling in on him in darkness may just scare him. Or at least he’ll find it very surprising.’
‘Good Lord, Bobby, we shan’t all three pile in! You and I will just give Giles a hand to the front door with his precious claret, and then melt into darkness. As for a surprise, it may be Giles who meets with that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’ Finn laughed abruptly, and then shook his head. ‘This Martyn Ashmore type just mayn’t want a virtually unknown nephew turning up with a Father Christmas act. He may simply turf Giles out.’
‘Nothing would surprise me less. But if you think so, I don’t see why you should encourage Giles in his ploy. He’s your pal, not mine.’
Death at the Chase Page 7
