“The fog’s lifting.” Diana’s voice spoke from behind him. “Don’t you think perhaps they’ll wait till it’s gone before going in?”
“They’re going in now. Can’t you smell anything?”
“Fog. And – and smoke.”
“Just that. In fact, we’re not a mile from Heaven’s Hermitage Hotel. We’re just off shore and running between it and the dump. You remember it’s deep water at the dump, and with no reef beyond it. The light’s clearer. They’re flashing it from up on top, just about where we picknicked. Is that Mudge?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“She’ll be berthing in a minute. We must haul in until we’re as close as we dare go. You’ll take over; it’s the sort of cast you’re practised at. From the stern, I think, because the colonel and I will scull her round for the get-away as soon as we’re in position. Diana, as soon as the tow-line slackens next you tell us and then make for the cabin. No one’s to come out. For whatever happens there will be a bang quite uncomfortably close. Everybody quite clear?”
They waited, listening to each other’s breathing – and to their strained sense it was not unlike the vast respiring of the whales. To starboard was the deeper darkness of some near-by solid thing; before them was only fog and the shreds of night and occasional indecipherable sound. Suddenly Diana whispered, padded across the deck, and they felt the way of the launch slowly cease. It was motionless and they could see nothing – but when the fog cleared there would be the half-light of dawn. Appleby had the rope and was pulling gently in; there was more sound now – a clank and rattle and the calling of commands. Then the fog parted.
The fog parted like a contrivance of the theatre and close before them was the tail of the submarine. It lay berthed with its starboard flank rubbing the port fenders of a second submarine. And to starboard of that must be the dump. Arc lights of cold blue were slung from the conning-towers and from hatches aft rose a warmer glow. Men were moving on the decks, silently. And then from the shore – startlingly – there came a sudden laughter, deep and short. The sound served like some closing couplet on a stage. The scene shut as it had opened, and there was only fog.
They had been holding their breath – for it had seemed impossible that they had not been seen as clearly as they saw. But there was no sound of alarm; only from the shore a faint waft of singing, and now a muffled business-like voice from one of the decks in front.
But another break in the fog would be fatal. For already there had been a grey light, not that of electricity, over the momentary scene. Appleby murmured to Glover and they began with an infinite caution to turn the launch. The movement lost them distance and they had to pull her awkwardly, stern first, towards the submarine. They could see the hull now, and the glare of the arc lamps beyond – and now they could see the light that beat up from the hatch.
Mudge was standing in the stern, something unfamiliar in his silhouette. They crept nearer. A voice spoke sharply, soberly: “Gestorben?”
There was a murmured reply, with here and there a word distinguishable: “…eine Granate…gestern abend…” Somebody hearing about Dunchue.
Mudge had his right arm flexed by his side. They sculled the launch yet closer and shapes loomed on the deck of the nearer submarine. The fog was shifting. Mudge waited. And suddenly the singing came clearly from the shore, rich, beautiful in the darkness.
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
Wie schön sind deine...
Diana felt Appleby tremble beside her. And then the fog had gone again and the submarine was very close and on the conning-tower was an officer turned away from them. And Mudge was shouting, “Submarine ahoy!”
From somewhere a light flashed on him. He was standing in British naval uniform – a crumpled uniform made for a younger man; the light caught at his feet, swept upward to his collar with its braid of the Nile and Trafalgar. Another beam sprang out, ran along the submarine’s deck, flooded its after part with light. Men were shouting. Mudge’s arm went circling in air. And Glover and Appleby drove with their sculls.
The explosion took the launch and bounced it on the sea like a ball; they were all tumbled against the thwarts and rolled in green water. But Mudge was at his engine and it had leapt to life. Waterlogged, they were running out to ocean.
Diana looked back and saw through the clearing fog a thin tongue of flame. It was half a mile away now, she thought…and then the same thing happened again. The launch leapt and shuddered; the roar of a vast detonation blasted them; the tongue of flame had become a waving curtain of fire. She turned to Appleby and shouted. She could not hear herself and shouted again. “What was that?”
“The first was just the grenade; that was the submarine.” He was looking sombrely back across the sea. “Wait.”
They waited. It was a matter of seconds before the second submarine went up too… The grey light of dawn was about them. But they were unconscious of each other, staring back at the island.
Glover stirred. “Better do a bit of baling,” he said quietly.
25
The dump went ten minutes later; explosion had wrought explosion with devastating effect. The dawn which they had supposed about them turned to darkness again. They were floating in a vast crepuscular region far into which struck light from one solid cliff of flame.
“Several birds with one grenade,” Appleby said. “Including our own SOS. Until daylight it will be visible quite an astonishing distance. We must just hope it will stimulate curiosity. Our own cruising range is pretty limited now. Just about enough to take us back to the island. And, if nothing turns up, back to the island we must go.”
“Back to the island?” Miss Busst turned from studying herself anxiously in a brass hand rail red from the distant fire. “Do you think they will all be – be dead?”
“Almost certainly not. We shall have to creep in by night and see what we can do in the way of stealing arms. Another whole cycle of adventure opening before us. Do you mind?”
Miss Busst considered. “I want to go home,” she said.
“Ah.” Mr Hoppo, charitably engaged in expressing oil from George, looked up roguishly. “But our friends may be doing their best to keep the home fires burning too, you know.” He giggled cheerfully at this grim pleasantry. “But I don’t say you’re not right.”
They sat silent. Ineffectively at first and then with increasing success the dawn organised its own counter-demonstration to the vast conflagration behind them. And as if loath to be outdone the fire grew and mounted; perhaps, wind-borne over the sandhills, it had got a grip of the jungle too. Miles out to sea though they were, it seemed incredible that they could not hear the roar and crackle of its progress, feel on their faces its dry, hot breath. Miss Curricle, who could be dimly seen to have returned by some magic to her everyday angularity, looked appraisingly back. After all, in this tremendous release of natural forces she really had some part; she could reasonably feel like an angel with a fiery sword. “The flames,” she said, “are gold and acid green and vermilion.”
“Vermilion?” said Hoppo. “I do not know that I can distinguish quite that shade. I am chiefly struck by the appearance of intense white heat at the centre. And the periphery is flecked with violet and blue.”
“Gold,” said Miss Curricle, “and acid green. But if anything predominates it is vermilion.”
Diana looked out with large vague eyes over the stern. “It’s awfully impressive. Like – like a great bush fire at home.” She sighed, suddenly as nostalgic as Miss Busst. “I never knew how nice the Yarra was, or the muddy old Murray, until I had all this boring and uncomfortable sea.”
The launch rose and fell softly on the waters. The sun was up. In the cabin there was a fuss of combing and powdering as broad daylight seeped disconcertingly in. The fire was still tremendous, and now there could be seen above it a great pillar of black smoke, vertic
al, massive, and tapering to a shallow capital, like the last standing column of some gigantic Doric temple ravaged by fire.
There was a smell of singeing; Mr Rumsby was emerging from the cabin, still bearing the evidence of his prowess in arson.
He walked to the stern and stared long at the pall which hung over the stricken depot, the ruined cunning machines, the bodies of dead men. He turned round, his face clouded with doubt. “I say,” he said, “I’ve found a tin of sardines: do you think we might have them for breakfast? Or do you think” – his eye went gloomily back across the sea – “we had better not?” Nobody answered. He shook his head – sadly, in some obscure acknowledgement of his own enormous unintelligence – and drifted away. The deck had begun to grow warm; Sir Mervyn Poulish dropped boldly overboard and bathed; Mudge rigged an awning. The sun climbed high.
It was noon. The island was below the horizon and there was no longer any sign of flame. Only the great shaft of smoke was taller, and at the top beginning to spread out like some swiftly burgeoning tree. There had been two meals of biscuit and water; somebody had started the gramophone and Miss Curricle had insisted that it be stopped again; everyone had become aware that the launch was overcrowded. Discomfort was in sight – and beyond discomfort the problematical. Appleby looked at the great crumbling tower of smoke. It was a magnificent signal still. But hours had passed – There was a shout from Diana; people were pointing, running to the rail. A note, a feather, a tiny cloud of smoke was on the horizon; it grew; there was a discernible form beneath it; it was a ship. A low, grey ship – and it raced towards the island, inquisitive, headlong, cutting its way between two gleaming walls of foam. It looked as if it would pass within yards of them; it was less than a couple of miles away and they would be under the gaze of binoculars now. There was a great deal of cheering and George stood up and wagged his tail.
“A destroyer,” Glover said; “can anyone make out the flag?”
“The flag is a White Ensign.”
“A White Ensign? I am inclined to think that it is an Old Glory.”
“The flag is a White Ensign.”
Diana patted George. “Anyway,” she said, “it’s a destroyer. So that’s alright.”
And Appleby sighed.
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 continued his police career at a later stage and is subsequently appointed an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, where his crime solving talents are put to good use, despite the 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.
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.
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.
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