Appleby's End

by Michael Innes

“Singularly little.” Appleby was wondering whether it was to his credit that he was now regretting having ceased to be dandled on the knees of an attractive girl. “But from the particularly inhuman way you look at one I could tell that it was art. And from the muscular force at your disposal in pushing people round I should judge that it is less likely to be just paint brushes than a hefty mallet and chisel. After all, I told you I’m a detective. You remember that Sherlock Holmes used to offer chance acquaintances similar treats.”

  “Glyptic work does take a certain amount of punch.” Judith spoke with a shade of complacency. “Really nice girls just mess about with clay, or dabble in oil where their grandmothers dabbled in water-colour. Incidentally, Leonardo da Vinci thought of it in the same feeble fashion. He called painting a liberal art, because you just sit and poke at a canvas in a gentlemanlike way. And he called sculpture a servile art, just because there’s honest sweat in it.”

  “Donnish,” said Appleby.

  “What’s that you say?”

  “I said that you too have your Dr Johnson.”

  “I’m only making polite conversation. But perhaps you would prefer mute communion?” Judith chuckled maliciously in her corner. “Shall I give your legs a dumb squeeze?”

  “Not at all.” Appleby spoke hastily. “I mean I’m most interested in what you say – about Ranulph Raven. A Victorian novelist. And enormously prolific.”

  “Ah – you’ve noticed Heyhoe.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Appleby, whose wits were somewhat frayed by the rigours of his journey, took this for a merely random remark.

  “Just like cousin Robert, isn’t he? And most of the servants are legacies like that, I believe. And the only legacies Ranulph left. You’d expect all these novels to have turned into a little capital, wouldn’t you? Not like madrigals and triolets. Naturally there wasn’t any cash in them. And we all seem to take to activities of that sort. Sculpture, for instance; there isn’t a bean in that. Which is why we all sponge on cousin Everard and his encyclopaedias and things.”

  Appleby felt mildly uncomfortable – partly because he turned out to be sitting on a broken spring, and partly because he was learning rather more about the Ravens than was necessary. “I think,” he said, “that you are a distinctly bald young woman.”

  Judith gave a startling yelp of laughter. “Judith Raven,” she said. “The Venus calva.”

  “I merely mean that you give a markedly unvarnished picture of your family.”

  “And why not? Pictures should be unvarnished. You can go on touching them up until you varnish them: didn’t you know? Not that the Ravens need touching up; we’re a classical group already. And I might as well tell you what you’re bound to find out, anyway, seeing that you’ve decided to come snooping round.”

  “Snooping round!” Appleby was horrified. “My dear Miss Raven, I assure you that only the merest accident–”

  “Nonsense. It’s perfectly clear that you put yourself cunningly in Everard’s way.” Judith Raven again paused for what seemed to be rapid calculation. “And a good thing too. I’ve felt for a long time that the whole business ought to be cleared up.”

  “The whole business?” Appleby felt slightly dazed. “Do I understand that you suppose me to have come down to clear up some family mystery?”

  “It’s as plain as a pikestaff. Only you’ll have the devil of a business. You see, it’s not so much a matter of clearing up the present as the past. Or so it seems to me. And at Long Dream there’s a lot of the past lying about. There must be something like eighty tons of it in my studio alone.”

  “Long Dream?”

  “That’s the name of our place. The village has disappeared long ago. Generations of Ravens picked it bare. And Ranulph polished off the skeleton.” Judith paused on this dark saying. “We’re Long Dream Manor.”

  “I see. And are you the lady of the manor?”

  “No. Aunt Clarissa is that – Ranulph’s half-brother’s daughter.”

  The carriage was now moving more slowly and with a jarring motion, as if Spot were being cautiously edged downhill. Appleby contrived to get one arm round a sack of potatoes and to ease himself a little off the broken spring. It was because she had herself become aware of this discomfort, it occurred to him, that Judith had decided on and achieved that nightmarish change of places. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I find your family very confusing. And I have every intention that it shall remain so. My business is in a place called Snarl. In Long Dream Manor and its inhabitants I take no interest whatever.”

  “Oh, you’ll soon find your way about. There’s a very helpful family tree in the hall. With Ravens legitimate and illegitimate perched all over it. And, mind you, they can be dangerous birds.” Judith paused. From outside there came a sinister murmur, as if Heyhoe were quarrelling with one of his employers on the box. “And isn’t it strange,” Judith said, “about our station being called Appleby’s End?”

  “A curious coincidence.”

  “Just that.”

  Appleby peered into the darkness, obscurely disturbed. Had there been some odd shade of compunction in this mysteriously attractive young woman’s voice?

  4

  With a bump and a lurch the carriage came to a stop. Some stray article of stores – it felt like a heavy, sharp-cornered tin – hit Appleby on the head and a nobbly sack tumbled over on his chest. It was evident that the whole Raven equipage had tilted over at an uncertain angle. A window had dropped open, and snowflakes and curses drifted in from the dark.

  “Would you say it was the axle?” asked Appleby. “Or just Spot casting a shoe?”

  “Neither. It’s the ford. We’re stuck in it.”

  “Good Lord! Are you sure?”

  Judith laughed what was now a thoroughly wicked laugh. “I am sitting,” she said, “in several inches of water. And from this, as your professional training will tell you, there is the inference–”

  “Can’t you get up? Let me try to give you a hand.” Appleby groped cautiously in the darkness and found himself clutching what seemed to be a bare arm. “Now, then–”

  “But that’s the nape of my neck!” Judith’s protest was vigorous. “Don’t you know about the man who picked up one of his children like that?”

  “I know nothing about him. Is the ford sometimes deep enough–”

  “The child was killed instantly. The man was fearfully distressed. And he had to explain it to the doctor. ‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘all I did was this.’ And he turned and picked up another of his children–”

  “Be quiet,” said Appleby. He himself now felt water up to his knees, and he was not at all disposed to sit back and listen to macabre stories. “I think I can just get my head out of that window.”

  With considerable effort he did so, and was rewarded with a series of unexpectedly clear observations. For the moon, as if unable to restrain its curiosity in this nocturnal tragi-comedy, had burst through the clouds and now hung, idle and gaping, over a snow-covered landscape through which wound a turbulent stream lined with gaunt trees. In the middle of the stream stood the carriage; the level of the water had risen above the hubs, and in front had almost covered the empty and down-trailing shafts. At this last appearance Appleby stared for a moment in mute astonishment; then he twisted his head and looked backwards at the bank. The figures of three Ravens were discernible. All were shouting and one of them – who must surely be Robert – was prancing up and down, waving his arms. And what they were yelling was clearly distinguishable. “Hey-hoe,” yelled the abandoned Ravens; “Hey-HOE-OH!”

  Appleby looked the other way. On the farther side were Spot and Heyhoe himself – the former tethered to a tree; the latter apparently sitting on a stump and contemplating the scene with calm. Appleby twisted back into the carriage. “Heyhoe,” he said, “seems to have cut the traces and got away wi
th Spot. They’re on the farther side.”

  “The horrid scoundrel!” Judith was justifiably indignant at this deplorable lack of fidelity in a family retainer and blood relation. “What’s he doing about it now?”

  “I rather think he’s filling his pipe.”

  “The disgusting old man! I hope Spot kicks him. But can you see the others?”

  “Yes, they’re on the other bank and in a considerable state of excitement – not at all like Heyhoe. Though I don’t know that at the moment they’re being any more useful.” Appleby spoke somewhat tartly. “Yelling like mad, all three of them.”

  “Three of them!” Judith was dismayed. “But there ought to be four. Three old ones: Everard, Luke and Robert; and one young one: Mark. Do stick your head out again and see.”

  Appleby did as he was bid. There was certainly a Raven missing. He was about to turn back and confirm this disconcerting intelligence when a voice spoke as if from the heavens above. “My dear sir,” said the voice – which was a hoarse and melancholy one. “My dear sir, we owe you our apologies for this deplorable misadventure. And may I trust that my cousin is not wholly submerged?”

  Unbelievingly and with considerable physical agony, Appleby directed his gaze upwards. A great oak with wide spreading branches overhung the stream and the carriage, and perched in this was what appeared to be a vast bird with folded black wings and cypress-green under-plumage. “I was on the boot,” Luke Raven said. As his perch was precarious he spoke laboriously, but evidently feeling that courtesy required some adequate explanation of his predicament. “And I was swept off by this branch just before the carriage stuck. I should be obliged if you would order Heyhoe to take some appropriate action. Let him fetch ropes. Let him bring a ladder. Let him call Colonel Jolys’ keeper, or young Shrubsole, or the lads from Murcott’s farm.”

  “Heyhoe is lighting his pipe,” Appleby said.

  “I understand that Everard has no objection to Heyhoe smoking – when in the open air, and not actually on his box. But at the moment the recreation is altogether untimely. Let him mount Spot and bring assistance from Willow Farm. Let him rouse the road-mender at the end of Noblet’s Lane. Or the Sturrock family at Great Tew. Let him–” At this point Luke Raven’s admirable plans for calling out the surrounding lower orders were interrupted by a rending noise and a resounding splash.

  “Whatever’s that?” Judith’s voice came apprehensively from inside the carriage.

  “I’m afraid it’s Luke falling into the stream. He was up a tree.”

  “Up a tree?”

  “A most reliable-looking oak. But something went wrong. I’m watching him; I think he’s going to be all right. Yes, he’s wading now. And the bank’s quite easy. He’s ashore.”

  “Which side?”

  “Heyhoe’s. He’s talking to Heyhoe. Heyhoe has produced a bottle. I think your cousin may be said to be upbraiding him.”

  “I should jolly well think so. Isn’t the water rising? It’s up to – to nearly my armpits.” For the first time Judith sounded really disturbed.

  “I think it is.” Appleby, though beginning to feel that the situation was not without positive danger, spoke cheerfully. “And these windows are unfortunately a bit on the small side. We must get a door open, and edge out one or two of these confounded sacks. Then we’ll be able to move; and perhaps they’ll serve as a sort of stepping-stones to the shallower water. Or we can get on the roof and wait till Heyhoe’s stirred to action. Here we go.” Appleby managed to wrench open a door; the current caught the bottom of it and flung it ajar; he made a big effort and pitched out first one and then another unwieldy sack. “And up you get.” He hauled Judith to her feet and then – rather more because he felt at odds with inanimate Nature than for any immediate need – he shoved out two further sacks. They stood up in the almost empty carriage with a sense of being kings of infinite space. “The potatoes won’t come to any harm, but about the cake for the cow I don’t at all know. And as for the books on reptiles and religion and resuscitation and all the other literae caninae–”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Appleby had an impression that Judith, who must be soaked to the skin from the waist down, was settling her hat at a correct angle on her head. “Do we wade or swim?”

  ‘Wade, I hope.” Suddenly he lurched against the side of the carriage. “Good Lord! I do believe–”

  He was right. Lightened of its load, the whole unwieldy conveyance had risen like an ark upon the waters. For a few seconds it spun as if it were a great top, so that they had to clutch each other and finally collapsed on opposite seats. By the time they were on their feet again the carriage was moving with the current and gaining momentum rapidly; a few seconds more and the stream was bearing it at a far brisker pace than Spot could have achieved. Momentarily the Ravens on the bank could be heard shouting with even greater vehemence. Then their cries died away.

  “Swim,” said Appleby soberly. “It’s only a few yards. But there’s an altogether surprising volume of water coming down.”

  “Better wait.” For a moment Judith took charge. “There’s a sharp bend. We’ll probably be washed on the bank. Here it is.”

  The moon had disappeared again and they could judge of their situation only from the movement of their queer craft. It had tilted sharply on its side, so that the open door banged to; but now it had returned to an even keel and its motion was difficult to judge. They waited for some seconds. “It certainly hasn’t grounded,” Appleby said. “What happens after the bend?”

  “Oh, then you come into the river.”

  “The river!”

  “The Dream. It gets quite broad here. Hullo, here’s the moon.”

  Once more Appleby peered out. They had made better speed than he had guessed, and the prospect around him was extremely disconcerting. Instead of a narrow and turbulent stream with banks only a few yards distant on either hand there was now a great expanse of water, smooth, slow-moving, and argent under the moon. “It’s absolutely grotesque!” Appleby said. “We might be on the Volga.”

  “Of course there isn’t much of it like this. It narrows again about a mile down.” Judith was looking calmly out of the other window. “Why don’t we sink?”

  “Heaven knows. But the sooner you and I stop being inside passengers the better. It’s either swim straight away or climb to the roof. If the first, get some of your clothes off; if the second, not.”

  “We’ll try the roof. Swing the door open and see if we can climb by that.” Judith Raven was perfectly collected in this strange situation. “And as for clothes, a wet skirt’s likely to be a nuisance in any case.” With surprising speed she divested herself of this garment. “You first.”

  Without great difficulty Appleby got on the roof and hauled Judith up. They lay for a moment panting heavily – and their panting brought home to them how utterly still was everything around. Not a lap or ripple of sound came from the fantastic forepeak of their vessel, and all about them was the oddly noticeable silence that belongs to falling snow. “I say,” said Appleby, “do you think your people are still hollering at each other across that ford?”

  “Sure to be. But we’ve got right away from them – and all chance of dinner. I think it’s rather restful – like the cinema before they invented all that nasty noise.” Judith laughed softly. “By the way – did Dr Johnson say anything useful about travelling like this?”

  “It’s more the sort of thing favoured by Shelley. Fantastic voyages in unlikely craft. Occasionally we shall meet a serpent or an eagle. And most of the voyage will be through a system of underground caverns. These tell us much about the psychotic condition of the poet.” Appleby was staring warily ahead down the glimmering river. “And I may say that you yourself are quite in the picture – providing we regard you as a personification of Hope, or Art, or Liberty. Only you ought to be dresse
d in something filmy and transpicuous.”

  “I don’t think I like Shelley as much as Dr Johnson. And my dress is not at the moment a suitable subject for conversation.” Judith stretched out her silk-clad legs in a sort of ironic exhibitionism. Then, finding this rather chilly, she hunched her knees up to her chin and clasped them in her arms. “Now if this were August,” she said, “it would be altogether romantic. I should look back and dream of my wonderful policeman. Our delights, I should recall, were dolphin-like. But his conduct was irreproachable and his conversation uniformly improving.” She sneezed violently. “As it is, I would swop you without a moment’s hesitation for a bowl of hot soup.”

  “And if the temptation came, I don’t say I wouldn’t part with you for a decent cigarette.” Appleby fumbled in an inside pocket. “Hullo, here are some, as a matter of fact. And quite dry. Matches too.”

  They smoked – and for two people who had met only an hour before felt most companionably inclined. The glow from her burning cigarette outlined Judith’s nose. Was it indeed by some millimetres too long? Undoubtedly she was a creature beautifully made – and for Appleby there was particular attraction in some enigmatic quality to her mind. She was looking at him now with a concentration that might – as in the railway carriage – be aesthetic and speak of her profession. The problem, conceivably, was how to modify the ears or relate the forehead to the plane of the jaw. Or was it some entirely different speculation that now occupied her mind?

  The river was narrowing again. Now etched in moonlight, and now altogether shadowy and obscure, there floated by on either hand delicate alders and stout, gesticulating elms. Willows, pollarded and rime-covered, overhung the river like frozen cascades; and presently a line of poplars, aloof and towering, cast great bars of shadow obliquely across the water on which snow still softly fell. The carriage as it floated smoothly through this wintry nocturne rotated slowly on its axis, so that the whole scene was like a chill kaleidoscope in white and black and silver and grey. Appleby found it increasingly difficult to look out for snags in the water. “If this roundabout-business gains momentum,” he said, “we shall presently be spinning like flies on a top. A pity there seems to be nobody abroad at this hour. We should become a legend that would cling about the countryside for generations, don’t you think?”