There Came Both Mist and Snow

by Michael Innes

  We were retracing our steps across the park and a light night wind was now blowing the snow in our faces. My instinct was to get Appleby off the premises and crawl to bed. Nevertheless I could not resist an impulse to continue the debate. ‘Anne had some plan to fire off a revolver up in the gallery – a plan which Basil vetoed. She may have brought the revolver up to the house for that, and felt after the shooting that it was an embarrassing thing to have about. Her method of returning it would be melodrama, as you say.’

  ‘I gathered that she and Geoffrey Roper were not accusing each other; their clipped talk was a sort of review of possible accusations from elsewhere. And more was meant than met the ear.’

  ‘They talk,’ I said, ‘in a very affected way.’

  ‘No doubt. But – do you know? – they remind me a little of the people in your books.’

  I said nothing. It was a piece of detection which I did not relish.

  ‘Which is a compliment to them, of course. They can play that verbal game only because they are exceptionally aware both of each other and of the world around them. Of the possibilities in this shooting – of how this or that may be made of it – they are likely to be masters. And they have certainly penetrated to the very heart of the mystery.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘they are better up than we are in mist and snow.’

  Appleby laughed. ‘That, as you know very well, is simply a matter of a lost association in my own mind.’ His voice became serious and convinced again. ‘I say they touched the very centre of the thing.’

  We walked in silence, the torch picking out our path. Behind us Cudbird’s bottle had given over for the night; the cessation of its flicker on the snow before us made the night feel colder than before.

  ‘Can I get out,’ Appleby asked, ‘without coming back to the house?’

  I told him that there was a sort of postern near by which would take him out on the main road; we turned off our path and found it without difficulty. ‘A Yale lock,’ said Appleby; ‘but not locked. So at night anyone may stroll into the park?’

  ‘You will find that, though the tram line is hard by, this actually gives on a little cul-de-sac. It is so quiet that I suppose nobody troubles about locking up. Turn to the right and you will come to the main road just opposite Cambrell’s mill.’

  Appleby put his hand on the latch. ‘How simple,’ he said, ‘for Cambrell to slip in here and do any shooting required.’

  ‘No doubt.’ I was somewhat startled at the casual manner in which Appleby threw out this suggestion.

  ‘Well, I must be off.’ He opened the door. ‘By the way, is Cecil a liar?’

  This nicely contrived change of theme had its effect; the torch jerked in my hand.

  ‘Geoffrey Roper asked that. Is Cecil a liar? And perhaps that is where you can interpret. To what would he be referring?’

  I hesitated. Here was something that I had refrained from communicating to Appleby earlier. And in this chilly situation I scarcely felt like it now. But I saw that – whatever my own belief – it was something which Appleby would not consider irrelevant to his investigation. Which meant that he would get at it himself sooner or later. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that I can give a guess.’

  Appleby said nothing. But he closed the door. I had extinguished the torch. We might have been in a darkness calculated for purposes of the confessional.

  ‘Wilfred, as you know, is Anne’s guardian; originally he was joint-guardian with my father. He has always been the business man of the family. But he was, of course, somewhat too young to be a suitable person to act alone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘When my father died no further arrangement was made. Anne had no property of her own; her future was largely a matter of the discretion of her wealthy remaining guardian.’

  ‘So much I’ve gathered.’

  ‘There is really nothing more except Cecil’s gossip. I am afraid Cecil’s feelings for his brother Wilfred are unkindly. The other evening he took me for a stroll in the park here and confided to me that he did not consider Wilfred’s relations with Anne – or rather his intentions towards her – as at all proper.’

  ‘And that, I take it, does not cover a desire on Wilfred’s part to marry his young ward?’

  ‘Cecil assures me that Wilfred is a confirmed bachelor.’

  I thought I heard what might have been a sigh come from Appleby. ‘Only let somebody be shot,’ he said, ‘and this sort of stuff comes up. What is your own opinion of the business?’

  I hesitated. ‘Anne has a mocking way with her. Once or twice she has hinted at Wilfred’s burdening her with unwanted sentiment. But a guardian who is perfectly properly disposed may be slightly jealous of his ward’s suitor. And if ward and suitor consider themselves entitled to some sort of settlement from him out of hand friction may easily grow up. The resulting situation I can imagine Cecil misconstruing readily enough.’

  ‘Anne, in fact, being due to tell Geoffrey that Cecil is a liar indeed.’

  ‘Yes. It is very distressing to have to explain all this.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for keeping nothing back… Good night.’

  He was gone. And as I returned to the house I found myself wondering if there had been something faintly mocking in his voice.

  16

  Breakfast on the following morning was an unusually punctual affair. That this was due to our having slept soundly seems unlikely: most of us, indeed, showed signs of a contrary experience. Nor was much appetite evident. Curiosity was the motive which brought the house party so promptly round Basil’s eggs and bacon. And of this curiosity I was myself the centre.

  I can see now that Appleby had thought this out. He had affected to enlist me as an assistant on the ground that I possessed more than common insight into human character. Actually, he was proposing to use me as a sort of long-handled spoon. His technique consisted largely in a vigorous stirring-up of the human elements in his problem. And he stirred with me.

  The choice was not without art. People of my sort – imaginative workers in rather a wire-drawn kind – are commonly an unhappy mingling of diffidence and ability. We tend to sit in a corner and feel that our talents entitle us to a larger share of attention than we get. Not content to rest in the consciousness of a respectable fortune in the bank, we have an itch to make a show by jingling the loose change in our pocket. To receive some attention not for what we printed last year but what we are saying and may be thinking now: this is something under which we expand. I fear I expanded more than was discreet.

  Hubert Roper was the first person to speak. ‘Cecil,’ he said disapprovingly, ‘you’ve changed colour.’

  Geoffrey looked up from a plate of porridge. ‘Interesting, isn’t it? Greenish tones showing through. He reminds me of the doubtful Vermeer at Brussels.’

  It was certainly true that Cecil had turned pale, though an untrained eye had to take the greenish tones on trust. He crumbled a piece of toast and gulped coffee with an effort, an altogether different man from the Cecil who had been taking roast duck in his stride the day before. Whether he would have replied to the badinage directed at him did not appear, for Hubert had now turned to his sister Lucy. ‘You look off colour too, my dear. Those tiresome policemen, no doubt, ignoring all the principles of the craft. Don’t your sleuths exhaustively question everyone on the spot? But except for Arthur here and a word with Basil those fellows last night took no interest in any of us.’

  ‘A most mistaken impression.’ I spoke abruptly, so that everyone swung round. Hubert Roper was a person for whom I had never entertained very strong feelings either of dislike or approval; at this moment, however, he had aroused considerable irritation in me. ‘Basil’s new friend Appleby is a most pertinacious young man and takes the liveliest interest in us all. Your studio, Hubert, quite absorbed him.’

  ‘My studio! What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘He inspected it on the pretext that his colleague Leader is something of a connoisseur. H
e sniffed at your bottles much as if you had been the Borgias’ poisoner, and as for your sketches – well, he studied them as if they might prove the cardinal documents in the case.’

  It would be idle to deny I enjoyed the sensation which this revelation caused. I had an irresistible impulse to cap it with another. ‘Cudbird was interested too. I believe there might be a commission or two in him when it comes to decorating’ – my eye went to Basil at the head of the table – ‘his skating-rink, his fun fair, his crèche–’

  ‘His concert hall,’ said Basil dryly, ‘and his maison de danse. I have been afraid, Arthur, that all that might be a blow to you. But, for what I am after, it seemed the best way.’

  ‘A blow?’ said Anne. ‘At the moment Uncle Arthur seems less contused than contusing. Hubert staggers.’

  It was true that Hubert appeared startled. ‘Cudbird?’ he said. ‘Has that little tyke been up in the attic too?’

  ‘Yes. Although he confesses that his taste is rather for the photographic. He associates photographs in some way with last night’s wretched affair. His precise line of thought is obscure to me – as are a good many other things. But I am convinced that Appleby hopes to clear up the whole affair in time.’

  ‘As for the interrogations Hubert hankers after,’ said Basil, ‘I don’t doubt they will take place today. I expect Leader back at any time – and Arthur’s young friend as well. Unless, of course, Arthur has been left in charge.’

  ‘Am I mistaken,’ asked Geoffrey, ‘in distinguishing a doggy smell in this room now? After all, Arthur was virtually kennelled with the bloodhound for hours on end.’

  ‘Not entirely kennelled, Geoffrey,’ I said. ‘We took the air.’

  Geoffrey looked blank, but Anne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it conceivable,’ she asked, ‘that Uncle Arthur also takes the biscuit?’

  I recognized this as a fair enough description of my conduct in the ruins some nine hours before. ‘It would not be an exaggeration,’ I replied, ‘to say that I fairly took the cake. I mean’ – I looked round the table – ‘that I helped Appleby to eavesdrop on Geoffrey and Anne. A somewhat barren discussion of their riddling talk followed.’

  This time the table was stupefied. But I do not think that I was now talking for effect; it seemed to me that the least I could do was to be reasonably frank.

  ‘The doggy smell,’ said Hubert, ‘seems to be about the mark.’

  I flushed. ‘You needn’t think I am eager for a blood-hunt. Far from it. Wilfred, I hope, will recover and the whole thing be forgotten. Or forgotten by everyone but the perpetrator of last night’s folly.’

  ‘Folly?’ said Sir Mervyn Wale. He was evidently in his blandest mood again, and now spoke for the first time. But mild as his interjection was, I noticed that it made Cecil start.

  ‘Folly,’ I repeated. ‘Criminal folly, if you like. I believe the memory of it will be’ – I hesitated – ‘will be punishment enough. I see little sense in any of us going to prison.’

  There was silence. My auditory was shocked. It was also a little impressed.

  ‘I cannot agree with you,’ said Wale presently. ‘These Tolstoian positions ignore the brute fact of bent and habit. Repentance and amendment might follow. But more probably what would follow would be a second attempt. Foxcroft’ – he turned to Cecil – ‘does your experience with youth not bear me out?’

  Cecil’s reply was inarticulate; I had the impression that he had gulped coffee the wrong way down. And Geoffrey interrupted Wale’s speculative excursion. ‘Tolstoian or not, the fact remains that Arthur chummed up with the hound and went padding about. And we are all agog to know what happened.’

  I shook my head. ‘Very little happened. We reconstructed the crime–’

  Lucy Chigwidden put down her cup with a clatter. ‘Really Arthur, it makes me feel quite queer. I have so often–’

  ‘A single pistol-shot,’ said Geoffrey, ‘rang through the startled hall: will this at least cure Lucy of all that? It would be nice to feel that Wilfred’s sacrifice had not been in vain. Why not try historical fiction, Lucy? You could always let off a musket or matchlock if you felt a trick of the old rage. A single bombard reverberated in the base-court; a blunderbuss boomed in the buttery.’

  ‘We reconstructed the crime,’ I repeated, ‘and prowled about. There was some tentative exploring of alibis. For instance, I had gone out for a stroll – no alibi at all. Cecil was engaged in prayer.’

  ‘Prayer?’ said Anne. ‘One feels that if Cecil prayed one would hear him at it. Sir Mervyn, had you joined him?’

  Wale smiled a very properly chilly smile. ‘I was resting in my room. Another instance of what Ferryman calls no alibi at all. It is to be hoped that in the course of his devotions Dr Foxcroft didn’t forget you.’

  Geoffrey Roper’s chuckle was interrupted by Cecil. ‘Basil,’ he said loudly, ‘I am sorry to say that I have to leave.’ He held up a letter which had been waiting for him on the breakfast table. ‘A conference.’ He stuffed the letter in a pocket. ‘An important conference which I dare not miss.’

  ‘A chilly time of year for conferences,’ said Wale. ‘Where is it to be held?’

  Cecil took another gulp of coffee. ‘There is some – ah – last-moment doubt. I shall receive a telegram at – um – Crewe.’

  ‘Cecil,’ said Anne, ‘has had a very Serious Call.’

  Abruptly, Cecil set down his table-napkin. ‘I shall pack while you are finishing breakfast.’

  We stared at him in astonishment. ‘Do I understand,’ asked Basil, ‘that you are proposing to go away leaving no address?’

  ‘What about my picture?’ demanded Hubert.

  ‘And what,’ said Anne, ‘about the police? If they can’t prevent his going they will certainly have him shadowed. Wherever Cecil travels he will be followed by a large man in a bowler hat. A ’tec. Observation will pursue him in his most intimate moments. The ’tec will watch and Cecil will pray. Or perhaps the police will employ Uncle Arthur once more.’

  ‘It would be most injudicious,’ said Basil. ‘I hope, Cecil, that you will be able to change your mind.’

  Cecil sank back in his chair. Whatever terror possessed him, I think it was overborne by the prospect of being followed about by a man in a bowler hat. Presently a thought seemed to strike him. ‘A lawyer,’ he said. ‘Basil, I want a lawyer; have you a lawyer here?’

  ‘Certainly I have. Man named Cotton.’

  ‘In the telephone book?’

  ‘Of course. Clement Cotton. Firm is Cotton and Cotton.’

  At this Cecil sprang up and retreated in the oddest backwards fashion from the room – much like one of his own charges having reason to apprehend a kick on the behind. In the baffled silence which followed his voice could be distinguished speaking urgently in the lobby. ‘He’s got on to Cotton,’ said Geoffrey. ‘One wonders is what on?’ He laughed confidently at his jingle.

  Wale stood up. ‘We must have Beevor,’ he said with conviction.

  ‘Beevor?’ Basil, who was addressed, looked somewhat blank. It took a lot to move Basil’s masterful calm, but I think he was beginning to feel the situation as getting beyond him.

  ‘I ought to say that I have been Dr Foxcroft’s medical attendant for some time. Now he appears to have lost confidence in me. But before resigning the case I consider it my duty to call in Beevor. With your permission, Roper, I will go to the study.’

  So while Cecil summoned Cotton, Wale summoned Beevor. The rest of us remained in the breakfast-room in silence which was presently broken by a sniff and a sob. It was Lucy Chigwidden. She had begun quietly to cry. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she said; ‘I just can’t understand a single thing!’ She put a handkerchief to her eyes and composed herself. ‘You must forgive me, Basil; but it really is very upsetting indeed. So bewildering all round…’

  I realized that Lucy’s professional vanity was mortified. The mystery which surrounded us she was as little able to penetrate as anyone else.

 
There was another pause. ‘The relationship between this Wale and Cecil,’ said Hubert, ‘has been problematical from the first. For who would cleave to Cecil? The puzzle is there.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Anne, ‘Wale undoubtedly clave. Vénus toute entìere à sa proi attachée is about the measure of it. But we neglect the narrative of Uncle Arthur.’

  We do not greatly uncle and aunt in our family; I regarded Anne’s Uncle Arthuring me as an irritating affectation. ‘My dear Anne, there is little narrative to give. Appleby detected you returning a revolver to the range; he listened to your talk with Geoffrey; he made certain acute observations upon your character; and then he went away.’

  ‘Returning a revolver?’ said Basil with severity. ‘Anne, what is this?’

  ‘Please, I brought a revolver up to the house to play a joke on Lucy. After the shooting I felt it might be an awkward companion, so I took it back. Geoffrey followed me and I promised to explain at breakfast. Now I’m explaining. Of course I know’ – she mimicked Basil outrageously – ‘that it was most injudicious.’

  I have always felt slightly responsible for Anne; it was my instinct now to say something by way of diversion. ‘Appleby,’ I remarked, ‘is acute and pertinacious. But in one or two particulars he seemed to me to lack discretion. I have mentioned that we came upon Cudbird in Hubert’s attic. He and Appleby – they appear to be old acquaintances – exchanged somewhat enigmatic observations. And then – if I am not mistaken – they made some sort of bet as to who would get at the truth of the matter first. I could see that Leader disapproved.’

  Basil – whose reactions were often unexpected – laughed for the first time since the shooting. ‘My dear Arthur,’ he said, ‘do you know that in your composition there is a touch – just the faintest touch – of Cecil? Lurking in you is the feeling that certain things are not done.’ He paused. ‘Priories, for instance, are not sold.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘But consider this affair on its merits. Appleby wants the truth. Cudbird, who is a clever fellow with the instinct of scientific curiosity, is moved to hunt for the truth too. Why should they not spur each other on with a bet? If they had wagered, say, on the chances of Wilfred’s recovering I would be prepared to join Leader in disapproving heartily. Of Wilfred’s fight they can only be spectators. But in solving the mystery then can be agents. That makes all the difference.’