“You can’t have the law on me.” Brettingham Scurl was standing sulkily by the parapet of what appeared to be a sizeable pig-sty. “You can’t have the law on any of us for transacting lawful business on private premises. Indeed, you’re trespassing; that’s what you’re doing. Policeman, are you? Let’s see your warrant card. And let’s see your warrant for stepping in here unasked too.”
“He be asked, all right.” Mr Hoobin was breathing heavily. “He be asked in to cast thee out, Brettingham Scurl. And I’ll have the law on thee for what that foul mouth of yourn did say afore witness.”
Brettingham Scurl began waving his document again, whereupon Mutlow snatched it from his hand and read it by lantern light. “Well,” he demanded. “Where’s the pig?”
Triumphantly Brettingham Scurl pointed into the recesses of the sty. “There he is,” he said. “Hark at him.”
There was a moment’s silence in which a deep porcine grunting could be heard through the darkness. Mrs Hoobin began to flap her arms wildly. Mr Hoobin, now gloomy and uncertain, glowered at everybody in turn. “He’s been before the magistrate,” said Mutlow to the Hoobins. “And he’s got his order – though he has no business to be serving it himself.”
Brettingham Scurl’s triumph was redoubled – and so was the grunting from the sty. Mrs Hoobin had gone pale in the lantern light; Mr Hoobin’s glance was circling the yard warily, much as if in search of a weapon. “What’s it all about?” asked Appleby mildly. “Have they taken his pig?”
“It’s the time-payments.” Brettingham Scurl was suddenly and politicly civil. “They’ve failed on their time-payments on one of my pigs.”
Appleby stared at him. “You mean to say you sell Gloucester Old Spots on the instalment plan?”
“Certainly, sir. And Middle Whites. There’s a lot of folk round about here has my Middle Whites that way. The Gloucester Old Spots are mostly for selling outright to the gentry. They would suit you very nicely, sir, if I may say so. These Hoobins bit off more than they could chew when they paid a deposit on one of them, And now I’m going to take my pig.” And Brettingham Scurl swung one leg over the wall behind him.
Mrs Hoobin, a woman of displeasing articulation, let out a squawk which represented a new low in sheer vocal hideousness; Mr Hoobin was tapping urgently on the roof of the sty; and from the darkness the grunting was now like the ticking of a clock. Appleby stepped forward. “One moment,” he said. “Mr Scurl, I’m interested in what you say, and I believe a Gloucester Old Spot would suit me very well. What’s the sum owing to complete the deal? I’ll pay, and the Hoobins and I can come to some arrangement later.”
This was too much for Inspector Mutlow, who thrust his hands in his pockets and contrived to give what is so much rarer in life than in literature – a hollow laugh. The Hoobins conferred together in whispers. But Brettingham Scurl had no hesitation in pronouncing the suggestion excellent. And presently, stuffing a considerable sum of money into a greasy pocket-book and giving his late creditors a wide berth, he faded into darkness and was presently heard heading for Linger on a motor bicycle.
Mrs Hoobin was now weeping noisily; Mr Hoobin swore under his breath; and as the clatter of the engine died away the grunting from the interior of the sty was somewhat uncertainly resumed. Appleby took up the lantern. “We’re well rid of that Scurl,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t at all care for the man. And now let’s look at the creature we’ve rescued from him.” And Appleby made as if to step over the wall in his turn.
With a yell of despair, Mrs Hoobin threw herself forward and had to be collared by Mutlow. Mr Hoobin turned to her sullenly. “Peace, woman!” he said. “There’s noobut to get ’un out.” He banged on the roof of the sty. “Come out, thou,” he bawled. “Come out on it and show thyssen.”
From the sty came a last dejected grunt and then a stirring as of a lithe and active body in straw. Appleby held the lantern at arm’s length over the wall – and was hardly able to suppress a cry. In the low doorway there had appeared a chaos of heavy yellow locks, unkempt and dirty; beneath these, and on either side of a long nose, were eyes which were at once amused and crazy; and beneath these showed a shapeless mouth and a twisted grin. Far from looking half-witted, Hannah Hoobin’s boy looked wholly mad – which is a very different thing. He also – Appleby realised with a sudden tingling of the spine – looked exactly like a juvenile and uncouth version of Mark Raven.
Hannah Hoobin’s boy stood up and shook himself like a dog come out of water; then he swung on to the wall and perched astride it, evidently both scared upon discovery and delighted at being the centre of attention. Unlike either his blubbering mother or his sullen putative father, Hannah Hoobin’s boy was a not unattractive specimen of his species. When brought before a bench of magistrates given to the conscientious reading of scientific little books on juvenile delinquency, he would stand every chance of getting away with a good deal.
Before this crazy and feral charm, however, Inspector Mutlow showed no present sign of going down; instead he started forward with something like a howl of rage. “I’ll learn you, you beastly little brat,” he bellowed; “I’ll learn you, you young scoundrel!”
Hannah Hoobin’s boy looked momentarily downright frightened; then (with what, in one possessed of his wits at least, would have been considerable moral courage) he gave a low, deep grunt, eminently evocative of the very spirit of Gloucester Old Spots.
Mutlow helplessly spluttered. “Where’s the pig?” he demanded inconsequently. “Where’s Scurl’s pig?”
Hannah Hoobin’s boy took his hands from tattered pockets, picked several straws from his hair, and then luxuriously and expressively stroked his belly. “Ate ’un,” he said. “Breakfast, dinner, supper. Breakfast, dinner.” He looked at his mother. “Supper?” he asked hopefully.
Mrs Hoobin, convinced that her son was about to be hauled off to gaol, fell to blubbering again upon this pathetic question. The elder Hoobins, it seemed to Appleby, were both of markedly low intelligence. This might explain a good deal. For it seemed clear that some fantastic deception must have been imposed upon them. “Well, well,” he said amiably. “I’m sure the boy is much more interesting than a Gloucester Old Spot. I’m quite glad I have a share in him. And now we’ll all go inside and have a little talk about it.”
They returned to the Hoobin kitchen, Hannah Hoobin’s boy shedding straws as he went and Mutlow bringing up the rear, muttering. The displeasure of Mutlow was easy to explain; he had experienced another encounter with the unexpected, and there was nothing of which he more strongly disapproved. Old Mrs Grope had fallen down a well and Heyhoe had been found buried in snow; heredity therefore required that the disappearance of Hannah Hoobin’s boy should have an issue at once more sinister and conclusive than this of his discovery alive, well, and lavishly dieted on pork in a pig-sty. Had the boy been found quartered, cured, smoked and hanging in joints from the maternal rafters Mutlow would have been altogether more pleased.
Appleby, on the other hand, who had been tired and dispirited at the end of his day’s tour among the curiosities of the Linger country, was now discernibly in good spirits. He watched with a benevolent eye while the boy, tattered as the prodigal in the painted cloth and equally fresh from the swine, applied himself to such victuals as Mrs Hoobin could provide. And he studied the family. Mr and Mrs Hoobin, he concluded again, were extremely stupid – and what is called “sane”. The boy was as undoubtedly crazed – but his mind was as quick as it was aberrant. And that he traced his descent from a Raven it required only half an eye to see.
“Well,” said Appleby, “how did all this happen?”
“Yes,” said Mutlow, “how did it happen? Out with it, before you’re off to the county gaol.”
Mr Hoobin cursed; Mrs Hoobin wept; the boy quickened the pace of his eating, as if distrustful of the adequacy of prison fare.
“Oh, com
e,” said Appleby. “They didn’t constrain the boy to live in a sty, you know. And they’ve fed him well. I don’t believe a charge of neglect would stand for a moment.”
“Neglect!” Mutlow sputtered indignantly. “These people have compounded a felony; that’s what they’ve done.”
“What felony?”
“Well, a misdemeanour. Turning cows and things to marble. They’ve obstructed me in the execution of my duty.”
“My dear inspector, when you came here previously to enquire for the boy, did you explain that it was in pursuance of a criminal investigation? Did you tell them of these various odd happenings that Sir Mulberry didn’t want advertised?”
“Of course I didn’t. I simply demanded to know the whereabouts of this brat.”
“And the Hoobins refused to give you any information. They were legally entitled to do so.” Appleby chuckled. “Take them before a magistrate and they may very well say that they regarded you as an unsuitable associate for their boy.”
Mr Hoobin nodded. “That’s right,” he interjected with large, stupid cunning. “That’s it, mister. We didn’t like ’un. There’s always plenty about a countryside that’ll take advantage on a half-wit. And we didn’t like the look on ’un.”
“And now I think we’ll have the truth.” Appleby turned to Mrs Hoobin: “What frightened you?”
Mrs Hoobin hesitated. Then, slowly and without speaking, she turned to an untidy dresser behind her and rummaged in a drawer. From this she presently produced a much-thumbed scrap of paper which she handed to Appleby. Printed on it in bold letters and a staring red ink was this injunction: something has happened at tiffin place they will take the boy again hide him a friend.
“And what does the boy say?” Appleby tried a direct approach to the bright-eyed, gobbling youth at the table. “What did you make of it, Mr Hoobin?”
The eyes of Hannah Hoobin’s boy rounded at this mode of address. “Mischief,” he said decidedly.
“I’m sure you weren’t far wrong. And who do you think this message came from?”
“Fairies,” said Hannah Hoobin’s boy. His voice was as decided as before.
“Ah.” Appleby looked abstractedly at Mutlow, who – despite his weakness for witchcraft and sorcery – was displaying at this suggestion all the indignation of an aggressive rationalist. Then his glance turned to Mrs Hoobin, but he continued to address the boy. “Do you know the folk over at Dream? Do you know an old man called Heyhoe?”
“I know ’un. He be purple.”
“Purple?” Appleby was puzzled.
Hannah Hoobin’s boy, who appeared to have formed a high opinion of this stranger’s abilities, looked surprised. “The air about him be purple when he moves,” he explained. “I be purple too. But most folks hereabouts be yellow.” The boy paused and then jerked his head at Mutlow. “He be mucky green – which is what I’ve never seen before.”
“Is that so?” Appleby was perfectly serious. “A mucky green aura is something quite out of the way?”
The boy nodded, equally serious. “Only pigs be mucky green,” he explained.
Mutlow breathed heavily. Appleby picked up the scrap of paper again – with exaggerated caution, as if it were a dangerous charm. “You’ve none of you had anything stolen from you recently?” he asked. “Anything that could be taken to a witch or a sorcerer?”
Blank silence greeted this question. Then the elder Mr Hoobin spoke. “Old Gammer Umbles that lives Tew way be a witch,” he said informatively. “But us never had nothing to do with hern.”
“That’s very wise of you.” Appleby rose, patted Hannah Hoobin’s boy amiably on the shoulder, and moved towards the door. “Let him sleep in his bed again,” he said. “Whatever happened at Tiffin Place had nothing to do with him, so nobody’s going to take him.” He paused. “Tomorrow, by the way, it’s possible you’ll have quite a number of visitors.”
“Visitors?” Mrs Hoobin looked obscurely alarmed, and her glance travelled about the untidy kitchen – conceivably in search of the broom of which Brettingham Scurl had declared himself to see no evidences. “Us be to have visitors?”
“Several of them. Very pleasantly spoken gentlemen who will want to have quite a lot of talk. Well, talk away – and particularly the boy.” Appleby chuckled. “But not free.”
Mr Hoobin was staring open-mouthed. “There be money in it?”
“Decidedly. Don’t you, my dear sir, make the mistake of talking just for beer. Make it a fiver before you open your mouth to anyone. And another fliver if they want to take photographs.”
In the Hoobin pantomime it was Appleby himself who was the Good Fairy after all. His aura must have been golden – and now, with Mutlow following him, he withdrew while still surrounded by it. Mr Hoobin accompanied him through the untidy little garden. And at the gate Appleby asked a final question. “That boy,” he said. “Are you his father?’
Mutlow was starting his car. Mr Hoobin stood silent for a moment, and there was no sound except the spluttering of the engine. Then he spoke. “Be I the one that got t’half-wit?” he said.
“That’s what I’m asking.”
Mr Hoobin considered. “Mister,” he said heavily, “did ’ee ever see a saw?”
“Dear me, yes.”
“And would ’ee ask which tooth cut board?”
15
Darkness had fallen and it was snowing again; snowflakes danced in Mutlow’s headlights; far away a melancholy hoot told of Gregory Grope chugging between Snarl and Linger, dreaming of the Flying Scotsman, the Golden Arrow, the Berlin–Constantinople Express. Linger Court, Tiffin Place, Dream Manor, the rectory of the Reverend Mr Smith, Mrs Ulstrup’s cottage, the hovel of the Hoobins: England in all its venerable and grotesque stratifications had crept under a single blanket. The scattered lights that appeared and disappeared as the car ran through the hedgerows told of labourers’ wives stirring porridge, of butlers coaxing up the temperature of claret, of parlour-maids disposing respectable silver on carefully patched damask, of anomalous proceedings in the kitchens and dining-rooms of the dissipated, the simple-lifers, the artistically inclined… Gregory Grope’s engine hooted again – this time from farther away. “It ought to come together,” said Mutlow irritably.
“Of course it ought. Only there’s rather a lot to fit in.” Appleby, huddled still within Mark Raven’s baggy tweeds, tapped the modest row of gauges on Mutlow’s dashboard. “Look at these. You could wire them up in a number of ways and get some very odd results. This affair’s like that. Any number of little wires, and if we just get a terminal or two wrong the final report will be grotesque. Or – what’s worse – it may be both incorrect and specious. Have you any kids?”
“Four boys.” Mutlow spoke with all the casualness of the proud father.
“Well now, suppose you got out the Meccano and made a pretty elaborate crane. Then suppose you took it to pieces again and handed just those bits to your boys and told them to make a crane. Each boy would produce something different, and each would have a few bits over, which they’d have to use up just anyhow. We’ve been given just such an assortment of bits – but we don’t even know whether they should make up into a crane or a windmill or a bridge. For instance, why am I here? Why did your precious Chief Constable get me down? What am I supposed to be investigating?”
Mutlow slowed down and carefully negotiated a bend. For a moment he seemed nonplussed by this batch of questions. “Certain events at Tiffin Place–” he began heavily.
“Events? What do you mean by events? Practical jokes? Would you say it was my business to go chasing about the countryside after a practical joker?”
“The cow was valuable.” Mutlow paused on this, as if acknowledging that it was a somewhat lame rejoinder. “And that boy had disappeared. It looked as if there might be something sinister about that.” Mutlow was confid
ent again. “I tell you frankly, I never expected to see the lad alive.”
“Don’t you mean that late this afternoon, and when you had heard of certain other matters, you started not expecting to see the Hoobin boy alive?”
“I wouldn’t say you were wrong in that, Mr Appleby.”
“But you think it’s improbable that we’re any longer investigating anything in the nature of a series of practical jokes?”
“I do.” Mutlow was wholly decided. “We’re investigating murder – and perhaps attempted murder as well.”
“But you won’t murder somebody by persuading him to hide in a pig-sty.”
“There’s that Heyhoe.”
“Um.”
“And old Mrs Grope. I suppose you’ll agree” – Mutlow was massively sarcastic – “that you do murder somebody if you persuade him to fall down a well.”
“But old Mrs Grope’s falling down the well never roused the faintest suspicion of foul play. It’s merely that certain facts the authenticity of which is still extremely doubtful have suggested to us one possible interpretation of these facts. Can you imagine yourself asking your local coroner to reopen the inquest on Mrs Grope – just on the strength of that interpretation?”
“No, Mr Appleby, I cannot.” Mutlow, though not perhaps distinguished by any talent for seeing life whole, had a capacity for seeing minute sections of it with tolerable steadiness. “But the point is that Mrs Grope was Heyhoe’s mother. And you can’t get away with Heyhoe.”
Appleby's End Page 16
