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The Ampersand Papers
First published in 1978
Copyright: Michael Innes Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1978-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Innes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
1842328719 9781842328712 Print
0755117867 9780755117864 Pdf
0755119541 9780755119547 Kindle
0755120744 9780755120741 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Michael Innes is the pseudonym of John Innes Mackintosh Stewart, who was born in Edinburgh in 1906. His father was Director of Education and as was fitting the young Stewart attended Edinburgh Academy before going up to Oriel, Oxford where he obtained a first class degree in English.
After a short interlude travelling with AJP Taylor in Austria, he embarked on an edition of Florio's translation of Montaigne's Essays and also took up a post teaching English at Leeds University.
By 1935 he was married, Professor of English at the University of Adelaide in Australia, and had completed his first detective novel, Death at the President's Lodging. This was an immediate success and part of a long running series centred on his character Inspector Appleby. A second novel, Hamlet Revenge, soon followed and overall he managed over fifty under the Innes banner during his career.
After returning to the UK in 1946 he took up a post with Queen's University, Belfast before finally settling as Tutor in English at Christ Church, Oxford. His writing continued and he published a series of novels under his own name, along with short stories and some major academic contributions, including a major section on modern writers for the Oxford History of English Literature.
Whilst not wanting to leave his beloved Oxford permanently, he managed to fit in to his busy schedule a visiting Professorship at the University of Washington and was also honoured by other Universities in the UK.
His wife Margaret, whom he had met and married whilst at Leeds in 1932, had practised medicine in Australia and later in Oxford, died in 1979. They had five children, one of whom (Angus) is also a writer. Stewart himself died in November 1994 in a nursing home in Surrey.
Part One
Literary Research at Treskinnick Castle
1
Who knows what may be buried in his back garden? Only the man who has cultivated the whole area to a considerable depth. If his spade strikes on something out-of-the-way – the golden helmet, perhaps, of some Roman general, or an Anglo-Saxon scramasax exquisitely inlaid with copper, silver, niello and bronze – it is likely to be what the law describes as treasure trove. No owner can conceivably be discovered for it, but this by no means makes it the property of the finder. The finder, indeed, must hasten into the presence of the Coroner (popularly supposed to deal only in corpses) and produce his discovery. The Coroner will then sit on it. He will hold an inquest on the object, that is to say, and pronounce upon whether it be treasure trove or no. To hold on to one’s find and say nothing is an indictable offence. Or it is so in England. In Scotland natural cupidity and possessiveness is more mildly regarded, although at the same time more portentously dealt with, since those charged with weighing the matter include the Procurator-fiscal and the Queen’s and Lord Treasurer’s Remembrancer. In both countries there is, of course, a spot of dead letter about all this. The affair ends up – it may be crudely put – by everybody getting his whack.
Precious things have often been buried or entombed in a big way, with results more or less strikingly apparent on the earth’s surface. One thinks of the pyramids. Or of that oddly shaped hummock near Woodbridge in Suffolk which proved to follow the lines of a buried ship: a clinker-built ship very like another ship found at Nydam in South Jutland. One had to go back to the year 481, it turned out, before anything like the splendour of the Sutton Hoo treasure had been buried anywhere in Europe.
Lesser treasures have been found in odder places. Particularly ‘literary’ treasures. In 1930, for example, at Malahide Castle near Dublin, somebody unearthed in a cupboard a box supposed to contain croquet equipment: it proved to harbour, among other things, the manuscript of James Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LLD. To one section of the learned world this discovery was quite as exciting as Sutton Hoo had been to another.
These historical or antiquarian remarks are perhaps a shade on the portentous side as a prelude to some account of the Ampersand affair. But there is a link at least with the recovery of the Boswell Papers in that a certain element of obscurantism – even philistinism – in the landed classes is common to both. So is a castle. Lord Ampersand lived in one. He lived in it in increasing discomfort, since he was increasingly hard up.
The Digitts – for that was the family name – had been for many generations perfectly ordinary and unobtrusive English folk. They had owned, that is to say, fairly large estates in the West Country (and numerous mines and quarries as well); they ventured with some regularity into the Army and the Church; occasionally one would take a fancy for politics, and occupy one or another of the parliamentary seats within the family’s control. Ministerial office tended to elude these, surely the most public-spirited, Digitts. One, however, had become Under-Secretary of State for the Colonies in a rather short-lived administration towards the close of the nineteenth century. There was a tradition that another had declined the distinction of being appointed Postmaster-General by Mr Lloyd-George, but nobody had ever found means of either verifying or confuting this claim.
The Digitts, however, produced (like the Coleridges, and numerous other respectable families) an occasional black sheep. Some had even dabbled in poetry – Dick Digitt, for instance, who in the mid-eighteenth century had drawn through rhyme’s vexation a good deal of well-bred minor impropriety in the manner of Matthew Prior. And from time to time other Digitts, although not themselves creative, had been inclined to take up with literary, and even positively artistic, people. Nobody much minded; the morals of these eccentrics had no doubt been impaired by keeping such company; but it wasn’t like gaming in a big way, or wrecklessly debauching young women in good society, with all the awkwardness between family and family, interest and interest, which can result from that sort of thing. But this minor strain in the Digitts, although it did frequently bob up, is very little documented, or indeed so much as mentioned by way of digression in such biographies and obituary notices as better-conducted Digitts attained to every now and then. It might almost be said that the Digitts
in general, although aware of these occasional aberrations in their midst, had never totted them up; if they had, they would have discovered that they had seldom been without at least one such odd bod for more than a generation at a time.
And then somebody produced a little book about them. Or not quite as bad as that. The book was called Some By-ways of English Literature, and just one of the by-ways was them. ‘A Step towards Parnassus’ – that was the title of the relevant essay – was about a succession of Digitts who had briefly skirmished with the Muses, mostly in Youth. It was all rather twaddling, and it wasn’t well-informed, and sometimes it was flatly inaccurate. The few serious journals that noticed Some By-ways condemned it as amateurish and belletristic: a hang-over from an age before scholarship had begun, so to speak, to give English literature the works.
Nevertheless this harshly assessed volume (the labour of a clergyman’s widow, fond of books) alerted more competent persons – university professors and the like – to something they ought to have spotted and got on to long before. At one period and another, straying Digitts had hobnobbed, if only casually, with half a dozen major English writers or artists, and with countless minor ones as well. Lord Ampersand began to receive letters from members of the investigating class – most of them with American addresses – the general tenor of which was that his family had lately been discovered to merit regard. So would he kindly answer this question and that – and could he undertake to be at home in his ancestral seat or stately residence throughout the month of August, during which the writer would be vacationing in England. The writer’s university, partly as a result of the writer’s tireless efforts that way, was seriously considering the establishing of an archive in which the cultural life and affiliations of the Digitts would figure with proper prominence. And a visit to Treskinnick Castle might further this proposal quite notably.
Lord Ampersand was totally without experience of this sort of thing; he was conscious only of monstrous and unaccountable impertinence on the part of these grossly presuming persons; it was to be a quite astonishingly long time before the crucial penny dropped. He invariably replied that the multiplicity of his engagements precluded his entering into correspondence with the writer, and that he never spent the month of August other than in Scotland. (There was another family castle in Scotland, but even more than Treskinnick it was a mere rat-hole of a place, surrounded by moors as denuded of grouse as of Great Auks and Dodos.) Occasionally there were more awkward because more circumspect approaches from indigenous learned persons: fellows of Oxford (or at least Cambridge) colleges who opened fire with letters of introduction from men Lord Ampersand knew quite well. To these impeccably accredited pests Lord Ampersand caused Lady Ampersand to reply, saying something about her grave anxieties over her husband’s health, and their hope that something might be contrived by way of meeting in a twelve-month’s time.
Then people began actually to turn up on the doorstep (or beneath the portcullis) of Treskinnick totally unheralded. Several even got into Lord Ampersand’s presence, and had therefore to be treated with courtesy – or what Lord Ampersand considered to be that. It was altogether vexatious and insupportable. Lord Ampersand, after serious consultation with his son-and-heir Lord Skillet (Lord Ampersand was the sixth marquess), gave orders that his personal standard was no longer to be flown from the West Tower to apprize the world that he was in residence. But this measure proved to carry no great effectiveness, since only the nobility and gentry (and of course the local people generally) had the significance of such a flag at all securely lodged in their heads. However, the servants were instructed simply to tell any unfamiliar visitor that neither his lordship nor her ladyship was at home. This produced at least a breathing-space in which the beleaguered marquess could set his mind to work.
These people were all after what they called the family papers, and it was true that there was a litter of such stuff all over the castle. The library, which its owner thought of merely as the place in which he occasionally consulted Burke’s Peerage and similar essential works of reference, and to which he also repaired from time to time for a quiet read of Country Life or Horse and Hound, contained stacks of letters and bills and out-of-date inventories and rent rolls which had been thrust unregardingly into capacious chests and cupboards over a good many generations of Ampersand activity or its reverse. But that wasn’t all. There were, indeed, few rooms in the castle that didn’t harbour in desk or drawer or wardrobe minor accumulations of the same sort. So a radical clear-up would be the thing. Get whatever could conceivably be intruded upon by persons in the researching way bundled together and lodged in some forbidding and virtually inaccessible resting-place: a dungeon, perhaps, or something like that.
It seems probable that at this point Archie Digitt (Lord Skillet, in fact) again took a hand in considering the problem. There was undeniably something a shade freakish about Archie; it might even have been said that as an Ampersand he wasn’t entirely sound. Archie had some very odd friends, and interested himself from time to time in wholly incomprehensible business enterprises. He also had a penchant for rather brutal practical jokes such as might have gone down very well among cronies during the reign of Edward VII, but which tended to render an archaic effect in the more anaemic age of the second Elizabeth. Archie cast his eye on the North Tower.
The North Tower of the castle was the one that pretty well jutted out over the sea a long way below. It had been so built, one imagined, in the joint interest of defence and sanitation. Behind the battlements crowning it there was a lead roof in very tolerable order, but apart from the large chamber thus protected it was substantially derelict. The staircase – a spiral staircase in the upper ranges – had largely crumbled into impassable rubble long ago. But this didn’t mean one couldn’t reach the top storey, and indeed the roof. Lord Ampersand’s father had in his later years developed an interest in birds, as it is perfectly proper for a country gentlemen – or a great landed proprietor – to do. The situation of Treskinnick Castle being as it was, sea-fowl had become his more particular study, and it had occurred to him that the top of the North Tower would be a peculiarly advantageous perch from which to pursue this avocation. But how to reach it? The fifth marquess was a man alike of means and of resource. Carpenters were requisitioned from here and there about the estate, and they constructed for his lordship a wooden staircase, vaguely akin to those external fire-escapes that run up the outer walls of multi-storey buildings, which began in the inner ward of the castle, presently made a right-angled turn, and then rose to an aperture admitting to the top floor of the tower. From this in turn a trap-door gave access to the roof. The fifth marquess had an excellent head for heights; as he went up and down his new staircase it didn’t at all trouble him that only a skimpy handrail interposed between himself and vacancy; nor that the whole structure, being somewhat amateurish in design, wobbled a little when in use. His wife was terrified of the whole affair, and wouldn’t have dreamt of trusting herself to it. But the fifth marquess saw a good deal of his marchioness, one way and another, and enjoyed a certain sense of security in his new aerie.
The sixth marquess took no interest in birds – unless, indeed, he was squinting at them along the barrel of a gun. He had never climbed to the top of the North Tower in his life, and saw no reason to do so simply because he had become its proprietor. It therefore fell wholly out of use, and the wooden staircase became an ill-maintained, rickety, and treacherously slimy structure. The foot of it had even been encased in a tangle of barbed wire, since it would be annoying if some foolhardy visitor to Treskinnick tumbled off the thing and into the sea.
What Lord Skillet had thought of seemed itself attended with an element of risk. Why not constitute that large upper chamber something that could be called a muniment room; fix over the entrance to it, in a temporary way, one of those rope-and-pulley affairs used to hoist things up into warehouses; and then deposit in it by this method all the Ampersand pape
rs that ever were? The sort of people who devoted themselves to antiquarian pursuits and crackpot researchings would certainly not be of a temper to remain undaunted by so arduous – indeed perilous – a path to knowledge. They’d take one look, and thereafter give Treskinnick a wide berth.
Lord Ampersand was at first rather shocked by the levity of his son’s proposal. But as well as being funny, there was something faintly malign about it that appealed to the arrogant side of his nature; he indulged in a ludicrous fantasy of a wretched professor of something or other losing his nerve on that staircase, and being unable to budge whether up or down. Like the famous Duke of York, Lord Ampersand thought. He was recalling, with characteristic inaccuracy, an old song.
So this bizarre plan was actually put into effect. Everything that the Ampersands judged anybody might get nosy about (and the appearance, at least, was of there being several tons of it) was bundled into large skips and baskets, and then hoisted to its new home. Lord Ampersand, who didn’t inherit his father’s fondness for cliffs and chasms, directed operations from ground level. Lord Skillet ascended the staircase and surveyed results. Not being quite satisfied that an adequate effect of disarray had been achieved, he ordered the superimposition upon sundry stacks and crates of paper of a variety of objects not commonly to be found in repositories of the written word. An anchor and anchor-chain, a worm-eaten dinghy, and a decayed fishing-net together with some lobster pots witnessed to the marine situation of Treskinnick Castle; there were numerous stuffed animals – deer and badgers and foxes and otters and beavers – such as contemporary taste no longer judged agreeable in public rooms; and a good deal of furniture which had been more or less broken up by fractious children and disaffected servants during the preceding two or three centuries.
Ampersand Papers Page 1
