Appleby File

by Michael Innes

  ‘The car that prevented ours from getting through, I expect,’ Appleby said.

  ‘That may well be. And a perfectly decent fellow, I imagine. Yet I had an obscure impulse to get rid of him – or at least to murmur that Frape would fix him up comfortably–’

  ‘I should be very willing to, sir.’ Frape, who had been giving a little ritual attention to the appointments of the room, interrupted his employer. ‘And it’s not, I think, too late. Nothing very definite has been proposed.’

  ‘Thank you, Frape – but I think not.’ Darien-Gore had spoken a shade sharply, and now he waited until the butler had withdrawn. ‘Frape finds the fellow not quite qualified to sit on the dais, as one might say. No doubt he’s right. But of course he’ll dine with us. Under the circumstances, anything else wouldn’t be the hospitable thing. Perhaps I was put off when he told me his name was Jolly. Difficult name to live up to – particularly, of course, when your car has been stranded in the snow.’

  ‘I wasn’t terribly clear that his car was stranded,’ Appleby said. ‘He didn’t say anything to suggest it had broken down?’

  ‘I don’t recall that he did. Oh, by the way.’ Darien-Gore, who had appeared to be about to take his leave, now changed his mind, and walked over to a heavily curtained window. ‘I’m terribly sorry that, in the morning, you won’t find much of a view. This room simply looks out on the inner bailey – an enclosed courtyard, that’s to say. Perhaps you can see it now. The sky’s cleared a little, and there’s a moon.’ He drew back the curtain. ‘Step into the embrasure, and we’ll draw these things to again. No need to turn out the lights.’

  Appleby and Judith did as they were told. The effect was suddenly to enclose them in a small darkened room, one side of which was almost entirely glass. And as a moon had certainly appeared, they were looking out on a nocturnal scene very adequately illuminated for purposes of picturesque effect. Directly in front of them, the keep of the castle was silhouetted as a dark mass – partly against the sky and partly against the surrounding snows. It was a bleakly rectangular structure, at present encased in a criss-cross of metal and wooden scaffolding. This added to its grim appearance. It was like a prison that had been thrust inside a cage.

  ‘You seem to have quite a job of work on hand, over there,’ Appleby said.

  ‘Perfectly true. The weather has halted it for a time, but during the autumn we had masons all over the Castle. The Office of Works pays for most of it, I’m thankful to say.’ Darien-Gore laughed whimsically. ‘Odd, isn’t it? My ancestors built the place to defy the Crown, more or less. And now the Crown comes along, tells me I’m an Ancient Monument, and spends pots of money propping up my ruins.’

  ‘Is that the famous well?’ Judith asked. She pointed downwards. The inner bailey was a virgin rectangle of untrodden snow – part in shadow and part glittering in the moonlight. In the centre of it a low circular wall, about the size of a large cartwheel, surrounded a patch of impenetrable darkness.

  ‘Yes, that’s the well. I see you must really have been reading that guidebook, Lady Appleby. It’s certainly what everybody wants to see. We put a grid over it when the castle’s being shown – otherwise we might have a nasty bill for damages one day.’

  ‘But why is it famous?’ Judith asked. ‘Is there some legend connected with it?’

  ‘Nothing of that kind. What’s out-of-the-way about it is matter of sober fact. It oughtn’t really to be called a well. Think of it as a shaft – an uncommonly deep one – going down to a subterranean river, and you get the idea of it. The guide recites ‘Kubla Khan’ to them, you know. To the tourists, I mean.’

  ‘How very strange!’ Judith said. ‘Where Alph the sacred river ran?’

  ‘Exactly. And through caverns measureless to man. There’s some vast underground system there in the limestone. Ever been to those caves outside Rheims, where you walk for miles between bottles of champagne? It’s said to be like that here – only on a vastly larger scale. And, of course, no champagne.’

  ‘Can it be explored?’ Judith asked. ‘By the kind of people who go potholing – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not possible, it seems. Cast anything down my well, and it’s gone for ever. And that doesn’t apply merely to orange-peel and threepenny-bits. If you wanted to get rid of an elephant, and no questions asked or askable, the well would be just the place. It’s had its grim enough uses in the past, as you can guess.’ Rather abruptly, yet with a touch of achieved showmanship, Darien-Gore closed the curtains. ‘We dine at eight,’ he said. ‘Before that, people often gather for an hour or so in the gallery. At this time of year, it serves its original purpose very well. All sorts of games are possible, and we even manage a little archery. I don’t know whether either of you happens to be interested in that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve tried archery from time to time,’ Judith said. ‘And I’d like to improve.’

  ‘Then you must have a go under Robert’s instruction. He’s quite keen, I’m glad to say.’ Darien-Gore paused, as if uncertain whether to proceed. ‘As my small house-party consists of intimates, perhaps you will forgive me if I say something more about my brother. He is moody at times. In fact his nervous health has not been good over the past year, and allowances must sometimes be made for him. I think you will like his wife, Prunella. She’s a courageous woman.’

  ‘And who else is staying at the Castle?’ Judith asked. She had received with the appropriate mild concern the confidence just imparted to her.

  ‘Well, there’s Mr Jolly, whom you’ve heard about. By the way, we’ve put him in the room next to yours. My glimpse of him doesn’t suggest that he will be quite as entertaining as he sounds. Then there’s my very old friend Ned Strickland and his wife Molly–’

  ‘How nice!’ Judith said. ‘We know them quite well.’

  ‘That’s capital – and shows, my dear Lady Appleby, how well house-parties arrange themselves at Gore. The only other guest is a fellow called Charles Trevor, who does something or other in the City. We were at school together, and have been trying out a revived acquaintance. And now I’ll leave you. The bells do ring, by the way – and just at present there even appear to be young women who answer them. But I don’t know what my father would have thought of running Gore on a gaggle of housemaids.’

  ‘A gaggle of housemaids.’ Appleby was opening his suitcase with an expression of some gloom. ‘I suppose one might call that rather a territorial joke. Would you say I’d better put on this damned dinner-jacket?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And it’s lucky I brought a decent frock.’

  ‘Our fellow waif-and-stray, Mr Jolly, won’t have a dinner jacket.’

  ‘You’ll find that one or another of the Darien-Gores will keep him company by not dressing. But the other men will.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Appleby had little doubt that it would turn out just as Judith said.

  ‘We’re lucky to have hit upon such civilized people. And I look forward to seeing the Stricklands.’

  ‘My dear Judith, General Strickland is an amiable bore.’

  ‘Yes – but he’s a very old friend of the family. Get him in a corner, and he’ll tell you all about the Darien-Gores. I’m curious about them.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. But I doubt whether there’s a great deal to learn. I’ve a notion that Jasper was once a distinguished athlete–’

  ‘Yes, that rings a bell. Something aquatic – high diving or water-polo or–’

  ‘No doubt. And he’s simply lived on his rents ever since. As for the melancholic Robert, perhaps the less one learns the better.’

  ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ Having found the dress she wanted, Judith was shaking it out on its hanger. ‘You don’t think he’s mad, do you?’

  ‘I’d hardly suppose so. But when a chap like Jasper Darien-Gore starts apologizing for his brother in advance, one h
as to suppose there’s something rather far wrong. And I’ve an impression that Robert, and presumably his wife Prunella, aren’t simply here on a weekend visit. In some obscure way, Robert has taken refuge here. And you and I, my dear, butting in in the way we have butted in, have very precisely the social duty to discover nothing about it.’

  ‘Perhaps we have. Only it’s not in your nature, John, to refrain from looking into things – just as you’re doing now.’

  This was fair enough. Turning out his pockets as he changed, Appleby had come upon the binoculars he had first used in search of Gore Castle. He had drawn back a curtain and was using them now to take a closer look at the inner bailey. The moon was rising, and the sky had blown clear. Straight opposite, the keep was no longer a mere dark mass within its scaffolding. One could make out something of the detail of its surface, pierced by narrow unglazed windows. Below, the carpet of snow, untrodden even by the tracks of cat or bird, surrounded the sinister well.

  ‘Come along,’ Judith said. ‘We mustn’t skulk.’

  Appleby closed the curtain and put down the binoculars. They left the room together. A few paces down the corridor, there was a half-open door on their right. And it was true that Appleby could seldom refrain from looking into things. He did so now. A middle-aged man, sharp-featured and indefinably furtive, appeared to have turned back into the room when about to leave it. He was now transferring from a small suitcase to a jacket pocket what appeared to be a rather bulky pocketbook.

  ‘Well, well!’ Appleby had walked on for some paces before he murmured this. ‘Not only do we know the Stricklands. We know Mr Jolly as well.’

  ‘Nonsense! I took a glance at the man. I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘All right. But I know Mr Jolly quite well. Possibly he doesn’t know me.’

  ‘I don’t see how–’

  ‘I know him by sight, I ought to say. I’ve had the advantage of studying his photograph.’

  ‘You mean he’s a criminal?’

  ‘He’s thought to be. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to put it stronger than that.’

  ‘Then he’s in for a fright when he discovers who you are.’

  ‘I suppose he’s bound to do that. Yes, I suppose Darien-Gore is bound to tell him.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better tell Darien-Gore – I mean, that he’s sheltering somebody who may be after the family silver?’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ Appleby frowned. ‘Only, it mightn’t be altogether tactful. You see, Mr Jolly’s line happens to be blackmail.’

  ‘How revolting! But surely–’

  ‘I think,’ Appleby said, ‘we go up this staircase to reach the famous long gallery.’

  III

  ‘One moment, my lady, if you please.’ Frape had stepped forward rather dramatically out of shadow. ‘You would find it safer to come up by the staircase at the other end of the gallery.’

  ‘You mean that this one may tumble down?’ Judith looked in some alarm behind her. It had been a stiff climb.

  ‘Nothing of that kind, my lady. But to enter the gallery by this door–’ Frape broke off as a sharp twang made itself heard from the direction in which he was pointing. ‘That would be Mr Robert,’ he said. ‘Or it might be Mr Charles Trevor. Both draw a powerful bow. If that indeed be the correct expression among archers… Ah!’ The twang had made itself heard again.

  ‘I think I see what you mean,’ Appleby said. ‘It wouldn’t be healthy to get in the way of that.’

  ‘Precisely, sir. But in a moment the round – if they call it that – will be over. You and her ladyship can then enter. Meanwhile, sir, may I ask if you have seen anything of Mr Jolly?’

  ‘Yes – and I imagine he’s coming along.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, sir. It had occurred to me that he might be lingering awkwardly in his room.’ Frape turned to Judith. It was clear that he regarded her as worthier of the august confidence of an upper servant than was her husband. ‘To my mind,’ he murmured, ‘an error of judgement on Mr Robert’s part. Persons are best accommodated according to their evident station. Mr Jolly would have done very well in the servants’ hall. And I could have answered for it that there would be no complaints.’

  ‘I’m sure there wouldn’t,’ Judith said.

  ‘Precisely, my lady. My own service has always been in large establishments and among the old gentry. In such circumstances one becomes accustomed to entertaining odd visitors from time to time. Even chauffeurs are occasionally odd. And ladies’ maids, I am sorry to say, are becoming increasingly so – as your ladyship is doubtless aware.’

  ‘I haven’t had one since I came out. So I wouldn’t know.’ Judith spoke with a briskness that doubtless characterized – Appleby thought – the old gentry rather than the new. But now, from beyond the door over which the communicative Frape stood guard, there came a small sound as of polite applause. ‘They must have finished the end.’

  ‘The end, my lady?’

  ‘It’s called an end, Mr Frape, not a round.’

  Appleby, who would have addressed Frape as Frape, and who knew nothing about ends, felt that Judith had smartly scored two points at once.

  ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘we can go in.’

  ‘Exactly so, sir.’ And Frape, with a grave bow, opened the door of the long gallery.

  ‘As you’ll notice, we manage fifty yards – which is quite a regular ladies’ length. And there’s plenty of height, as you see.’ Prunella Darien-Gore was explaining this to Judith – and with a shade of desperation, Appleby thought. Her husband, who ought to have been giving these explanations, seemed to be sunk in a sombre reverie. ‘Mr Trevor, will you show Lady Appleby?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Charles Trevor was stout and flabby; one would have guessed that he was without either interest or skill in athletic pursuits. But now he slipped on brace and tips, and with a casual certainty sent one arrow into the gold and two into the red. ‘Robert?’ he said challengingly.

  Robert Darien-Gore came out of his abstraction with a start, and picked up his own bow without a word. Appleby, standing beside Robert’s wife, was aware of a curious tension in her as she watched. He spoke out of an impulse in some way to relieve this.

  ‘I know nothing about archery,’ he said. ‘But it’s my guess that your husband is pretty good?’

  ‘He used to be.’ Prunella, Appleby saw, was digging her nails hard into the palms of her hands. ‘It came second only to his rock-climbing.’ She gave a suppressed gasp, as if suddenly aware that she was thinking of her husband as somebody out of the past. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Robert is first-class. Watch.’ Her sudden faith in her husband was justified. Robert shot three arrows and bettered Trevor’s score. Into his final shot he appeared to have put unnecessary force. The shaft had buried itself deep in the heart of the target. In the middle ages, Appleby remembered, an arrow from an English long bow could pierce the thickest armour. And there was something alarming in this one. Its feathered tip was still quivering as he watched.

  ‘Capital, my dear Robert!’ General Strickland, who had been talking to Jasper Darien-Gore in a corner, set down a glass in order to applaud vigorously. ‘Let’s see if Trevor can beat that – eh? Just let me retrieve the things.’ He turned to Appleby. ‘We don’t manage two ends, you see. It would lose us five yards we can’t spare. So we shoot only from this end. Nobody do anything careless, please!’ He hurried off down the length of the gallery.

  ‘Ned isn’t in Robert’s class,’ Mrs Strickland said to Judith. ‘Nor in this Mr Trevor’s either. But he can give Jasper a good match. I’m very much afraid he may want to now. Aren’t you famished, Judith?’

  ‘Quite famished. I suppose we’re waiting for Mr Jolly.’

  ‘Mr Jolly – whoever is he?’

  ‘The other gatecrasher. He seems to have made the haven of Gore Castle ab
out an hour before John and I did.’

  ‘How very odd. I hope he isn’t keen on archery too. I find it tedious – and a little unnerving.’

  ‘Unnerving, Molly? I suppose it has a lethal background – or history. But–’

  ‘I think it’s that terrible twang – like something going wrong with a piano. But here they go again.’

  General Strickland had retrieved the arrows, and now Charles Trevor was again addressing himself to the target. He sent his first arrow into the gold.

  ‘There!’ Mrs Strickland said. ‘Didn’t you hear? Like something happening to the poor old family Bechstein – or perhaps to one’s grand-daughter’s cello – in the middle of the night. Have you never been wakened up by just that?’

  ‘I have.’ Appleby, who had been accepting a drink from Frape, paused beside her. ‘But, you know–’

  ‘Stop!’

  It was the vigilant Frape who had given this shout. And he was only just in time. As Trevor drew back the bowstring the door at the farther end of the gallery had opened, and Jolly had walked in. Not unnaturally, he stood transfixed, staring up the gallery at Trevor. And, for an alarming moment, Trevor himself oddly swayed, and with a queer and involuntary movement seemed almost to train his arrow upon the newcomer. Then he let his bow gently unflex. There was a moment or two of mild confusion, followed by introductions. These last were not without awkwardness. Jolly seemed indisposed to make any claim upon the social graces. He gave each of the women in turn what was no doubt meant for a bow, but had more the appearance of a wary cringe. His glance tended to go apprehensively towards Trevor – as it still well might – and then travel furtively towards Robert. Frape stood in the background. It was evident that the proceedings were very far from enjoying his approval.