Appleby File

by Michael Innes

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘Indeed, isn’t it on record as rather well-attested?’

  ‘Yes, it is – although I don’t know what a court of law would make of it. And it looked as if a court of law would have to try. Because Donald Strachan’s story was simply that, in the middle of the night, and after their abortive quarrel, he had heard Andrew calling. He said he somehow knew at once that it was a calling in this rather special sense. And as he was aware that Andrew had gone up the glen to Dunwinnie, he got up and made his way there himself, convinced that there had been an accident or a fatality. And he hurried so recklessly through the darkness that he had his own utterly disabling fall.’

  I digested all this for a moment in silence.

  ‘It would certainly have been a hard nut for a judge and jury,’ I said. ‘But what did you think yourself?’

  ‘I saw another possibility. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it had the merit of not involving the supernatural. Donald, I supposed, had crept into Andrew’s cottage in the night, battered him to death, and then lugged the body to the one spot in the neighbourhood where the appearance of a fatal accident could be made credible. And he’d never have been suspected if he hadn’t had his own tumble among the rocks.’

  ‘But had you any evidence?’

  ‘There was one piece of evidence.’ Appleby paused again. ‘And it was I,’ he went on rather dryly, ‘who pointed it out to the local police. The Strachans were both wretchedly poor, and their clothes were little better than rags. And that did rather obscure what was nevertheless clear when one looked hard enough. Andrew’s body was fully dressed. But his jacket was on inside out.’

  ‘So you concluded–?’

  ‘I concluded that his body had been shoved into it, and probably into the rest of his clothes, in the dark.’

  ‘It was certainly a fair inference. In fact, my dear Appleby, I can’t think of any other explanation.’

  ‘Ah – but remember the Solar System. Holmes might conceivably have been caught out by his ignorance of it. And I was being caught out by – well, by my ignorance of those popular superstitions of the Highlands. You remember my telling you that up that glen there was a shepherd whose possession of the Evil Eye was a terror to the district?’

  ‘Certainly I do.’

  ‘Well, it seems there are more ways of averting the Evil Eye than by offering a drink of milk. You can avert it – at least from harming your own person – simply by wearing any of your garments inside out.’

  ‘Widdershins!’

  ‘Yes, indeed – that’s the general name for such behaviour. And nobody up there would dream of going through the Glen of Mervie without taking that precaution. So you see the police – and my host, for that matter – distinctly had the laugh on me.’

  ‘It was no laughing matter.’

  ‘That’s true. But there was clearly no case against Donald Strachan. He just had to be believed.’

  Death in the Sun

  The villa stood on a remote Cornish cape. Its flat roof commanded a magnificent view, but was not itself commanded from anywhere. So it was a good spot either for sunbathing, or for suicide of a civilized and untroublesome sort. George Elwin appeared to have put it to both uses successively. His dead body lay on the roof, bronzed and stark naked – or stark naked except for a wrist watch. The gun lay beside him. His face was a mess.

  ‘I don’t usually bring my weekend guests to view this kind of thing.’ The Chief Constable had glanced in honest apology at Appleby. ‘But you’re a professional, after all.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Appleby gazed down dispassionately at the corpse. ‘What kind of a chap was this Elwin?’

  ‘Wealthy, for a start. But – as you can see – retaining some unassuming tastes.’ The Chief Constable had pointed to the watch, which was an expensive one, but on a simple leather strap. ‘Poor devil!’ he added softly. ‘Think, Appleby, of taking a revolver and doing that to yourself.’

  ‘Mayn’t somebody have murdered him? A thief? This is an out-of-the-way place, and you say he lived here in solitude, working on his financial schemes, for weeks at a time. Anybody might come and go.’

  ‘True enough. But there’s £5,000 in notes in a drawer downstairs. An unlocked drawer, heaven help us! And Elwin’s fingerprints are on the gun – the fellow I sent along this morning established that. So there’s no mystery, I’m afraid. And another thing: George Elwin had a history.’

  ‘You mean, he’d tried to kill himself before?’

  ‘Just that. He was a hypochondriac, and always taking drugs. And he suffered from periodic fits of melancholy. Last year, it seems, he took an enormous dose of barbiturate – and was discovered just in time, naked like this in a lonely cove. He seems to have had a fancy for death in the sun.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer it to death in the dark.’ As he said this, Appleby knelt beside the body. Gently, he turned over the left hand and removed the wrist watch. It was still going. On its back the initials G E were engraved in the gold. Equally gently, Appleby returned the watch to the wrist, and buckled the strap. For a moment he paused, frowning.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d rather like to have a look at his bedroom.’

  The bedroom confirmed the impression made by the watch. The furnishings were simple, but the simplicity was of the kind that costs money. Appleby opened a wardrobe and looked at the clothes. He removed a couple of suits and studied them with care. He returned one, and laid the other on the bed.

  ‘Just what did you mean,’ he asked, ‘by saying that Elwin was always taking drugs?’

  ‘Ambiguous expression nowadays, I agree. He kept doctoring himself – messing around with medicines. Just take a glance into that corner-cupboard. Regular chemist’s shop.’

  The cupboard was certainly crammed with medicine bottles and pill boxes. Appleby took rather more than a glance. He started a systematic examination.

  ‘Proprietary stuffs,’ he said. ‘But they mostly carry their pharmaceutical name as well. What’s tetracycline for, would you suppose? Ah, it’s an antibiotic. The poor chap was afraid of infections. Do you know? You could work out all his fears and phobias from this cupboard.’

  ‘A curious thought,’ the Chief Constable said grimly.

  ‘Various antihistamines – no doubt he went in for allergies in a big way. Benzocaine, dexamphetamine, sulphafurazole – terrible mouthfuls they are.’

  ‘In every sense, I’d suppose.’

  ‘Quite so. A suntan preparation. But look, barbiturates again. He could have gone out that way if he’d wanted to. There’s enough to kill an elephant, and Elwin’s not all that bulky. Endless analgesics. You can bet he was always expecting pain.’ Appleby closed the cupboard door, and glanced round the rest of the room. ‘By the way, how do you propose to have the body identified at the inquest?’

  ‘Identified?’ The Chief Constable stared.

  ‘Just a thought. His dentist, perhaps?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, that wouldn’t work. The police surgeon examined his mouth this morning. Teeth perfect – Elwin probably hadn’t been to a dentist since he was a child. But, of course, the matter’s merely formal, since there can’t be any doubt of his identity. I didn’t know him well, but I recognize him myself, more or less – even with his face like that.’

  ‘I see. By the way, how does one bury a naked corpse? Still naked? It seems disrespectful. In a shroud? No longer fashionable. Perhaps just in a nice business suit.’ Appleby turned to the bed. ‘I think we’ll dress George Elwin that way now.’

  ‘My dear fellow!’

  ‘Just rummage in those drawers, would you?’ Appleby was inexorable. ‘Underclothes and a shirt, but you needn’t bother about socks or a tie.’

  Ten minutes later the body, still supine on the roof, was almost fully clothed. The two men looked down at it so
mbrely.

  ‘Yes,’ the Chief Constable said slowly. ‘I see what you had in mind.’

  ‘I think we need some information about George Elwin’s connections. And about his relatives, in particular. What do you know about that yourself?’

  ‘Not much.’ The Chief Constable took a restless turn up and down the flat roof. ‘He had a brother named Arnold Elwin. Rather a bad-hat brother, or at least a shiftless one, living mostly in Canada, but turning up from time to time to cash in on his brother George’s increasing wealth.’

  ‘Arnold would be about the same age as George?’

  ‘That’s my impression. They may have been twins, for that matter.’ The Chief Constable broke off. ‘In heaven’s name, Appleby, what put this hoary old piece of melodrama in your head?’

  ‘Look at this.’ Appleby was again kneeling by the body. Again he turned over the left hand so that the strap of the wristwatch was revealed. ‘What do you see on the leather, a third of an inch outward from the present position of the buckle?’

  ‘A depression.’ The Chief Constable was precise. ‘A narrow and discoloured depression, parallel with the line of the buckle itself.’

  ‘Exactly. And what does that suggest?’

  ‘That the watch really belongs to another man – someone with a slightly thicker wrist.’

  ‘And those clothes, now that we’ve put them on the dead man?’

  ‘Well, they remind me of something in Macbeth.’ The Chief Constable smiled faintly. ‘Something about a giant’s robe on a dwarfish thief.’

  ‘I’d call that poetic exaggeration. But the general picture is clear. It will be interesting to discover whether we have to go as far as Canada to come up with–’

  Appleby broke off. The Chief Constable’s chauffeur had appeared on the roof. He glanced askance at the body, and then spoke hastily.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but a gentleman has just driven up, asking for Mr Elwin. He says he’s Mr Elwin’s brother.’

  ‘Thank you, Pengelly,’ the Chief Constable said unemotionally. ‘We’ll come down.’ But when the chauffeur had gone he turned to Appleby with a low whistle. ‘Talk of the devil!’ he said.

  ‘Or, at least, of the villain in the hoary old melodrama?’ Appleby glanced briefly at the body. ‘Well, let’s go and see.’

  As they entered the small study downstairs, a lanky figure rose from a chair by the window. There could be no doubt that the visitor looked remarkably like the dead man.

  ‘My name is Arnold Elwin,’ he said. ‘I have called to see my brother. May I ask–’

  ‘Mr Elwin,’ the Chief Constable said formally, ‘I deeply regret to inform you that your brother is dead. He was found on the roof this morning, shot through the head.’

  ‘Dead?’ The lanky man sank into his chair again. ‘I can’t believe it! Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Chief Constable of the County, and this is my guest Sir John Appleby, the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. He is very kindly assisting me in my inquiries – as you, sir, may do. Did you see your brother yesterday?’

  ‘Certainly. I had just arrived in England, and I came straight here, as soon as I learned that George was going in for one of his periodical turns as a recluse.’

  ‘There was nobody else about the place when you made this call?’

  ‘Nobody. George managed for himself, except for a woman who came in from the village early in the morning. His manner of life was extremely eccentric. And solitude was the very last thing that a man of his morbid temperament should have allowed himself.’

  ‘It was a suicidal temperament?’

  ‘Of course it was. And what point is there in dodging the thing? George had made one attempt on his own life already.’

  ‘That is true. May I ask whether you had – well, a satisfactory interview with him?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. George and I disagreed. So I said good day to him, and cleared out.’

  ‘Your disagreement would be about family affairs? Money – that kind of thing?’

  ‘I’m damned if I see what business it is of yours.’

  There was a moment’s silence, during which the Chief Constable appeared to brood darkly. Then he tried to catch Appleby’s eye, but failed to do so. Finally he advanced firmly on the lanky man.

  ‘George Elwin–’ he began.

  ‘What the deuce do you mean? My name, sir, as you very well know, is Arnold Elwin, not–’

  ‘George Elwin, by virtue of my commission and office I arrest you in the Queen’s name. You will be brought before the magistrate, and charged with the wilful murder of your brother, Arnold Elwin.’

  Appleby had been prowling round the room, peering at the books, opening and shutting drawers. Now he came to a halt, and spoke with distinguishable caution.

  ‘It may be irregular,’ he said to the Chief Constable. ‘But I think we might explain to Mr Elwin, as we can safely call him, just what is in our minds.’

  ‘As you please, Appleby.’ The Chief Constable was a shade stiff. ‘But be good enough to do it yourself.’

  Appleby nodded, and then spent a moment in thought.

  ‘Mr Elwin,’ he said gravely, ‘it is within our knowledge that Mr George Elwin, the owner of this house, was, or is, subject to phases of acute melancholia. Last year, one of these attacks led him to an actual attempt at suicide – to which, indeed, you have just referred. That is our first fact.

  ‘The second is this: the wrist watch found on the dead man’s hand was not fastened as it would normally have been fastened on the wrist of its owner. The dead man’s is a slimmer wrist.

  ‘A third fact connects with the second. The clothes in this house are too big for the dead man.’ Appleby paused. ‘But the Chief Constable and I are obliged to reflect that they would fit you very well.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ the lanky man got to his feet again. ‘There’s not a word of truth–’

  ‘I can only give you what has been in our minds – emphasize the tentative nature of what I am advancing. Having said so much, I come to a fourth fact. George and Arnold Elwin were not readily distinguishable. You agree?’

  ‘Of course I agree. George and I were twins.’

  ‘Or Arnold and you were twins – for we must continue to bear an open mind. And now, what I shall call our hypothesis is as follows: you, George Elwin, living in solitude in this house, were visited by your brother Arnold, just back from Canada. He demanded money or the like, perhaps under some threat of damaging disclosure. There was a violent quarrel between you, and you shot him dead – at hideously close quarters.

  ‘Now, sir, what could you do? The wound was compatible with suicide. But who would believe that Arnold had arrived here, gained possession of your gun, and shot himself?

  ‘Fortunately there was somebody who would readily be believed to have committed suicide, since he was known to have made an attempt at it only a year ago. That somebody was yourself, George Elwin.’

  Appleby paused for a moment – not, it might have been perceived, for the sake of effect, but in the interest of achieving concentrated statement.

  ‘So you, George Elwin, arranged the body of your brother Arnold, and arranged the weapon you had used, in such a way as to suggest something fairly close to a repetition of that known attempt at suicide. You strapped your own watch to the dead man’s wrist. The clothes in the house would hang loosely on him – but he would be found naked, sunbathing in a fashion you were known to go in for – and who would ever be likely to notice the discrepancy with clothes tidily laid away in their wardrobes and drawers?

  ‘The dead body, maimed in the face as it was, would pass unquestioned as yours: as George Elwin’s, the owner of this house, that is to say. And that’s all! You had abruptly lost your true identity. And, ceasing to be George, you had lost what is probably a substan
tial fortune. But at least you had an identity to fall back on – that of your brother Arnold, whom you had killed – and you weren’t going to be charged and convicted of murder.’

  ‘But it’s not true!’ The lanky man seemed to be in blind panic. ‘You’ve framed me. It’s a plot. I can prove–’

  ‘Ah,’ Appleby said, ‘there’s the point! If you are, in fact, George pretending to be an Arnold who is really dead, you’ll have a very stiff fight to sustain the impersonation. But if, as you claim, you are really Arnold, that’s a different matter. Have you a dentist?’

  ‘Of course I have a dentist – in Montreal. I wander about the world a good deal, but I always go back to the same dentist. At one time or another he’s done something to nearly every tooth in my head.’

  ‘I’m uncommonly glad to hear it.’ Appleby glanced at the Chief Constable. ‘I don’t think,’ he murmured, ‘that we ought to detain Mr Arnold Elwin further. I hope he will forget a little of what has been – well, shall we say, conjectured?’ He turned back to Elwin himself. ‘I’m sure,’ he said blandly, ‘you will forgive our exploring the matter in the interests of truth. You arrived, you know, when we had not quite sorted out all the clues. Will you please accept our sympathy on the tragic suicide of your brother George?’

  ‘You mean to say,’ the Chief Constable asked half an hour later, ‘that I was right in the first place? That there was no mystery?’

  ‘There was none whatever. George Elwin’s gloom was deepened by the visit of his useless brother, and he killed himself. That’s the whole story.’

  ‘But dash it all–’

  ‘Mind you, up to the moment of your charging that fellow with murder, I was entirely with you. And then I suddenly remembered something that didn’t fit – that £5,000 you found here in an unlocked drawer. If George had killed Arnold and was planning to become Arnold – or anybody else – he’d certainly have taken that money. So why didn’t he take it?’