Ampersand Papers

by Michael Innes

  7

  It was on the following day, Tuesday, that Dr Sutch sought an interview with his employer – or with his secondary employer, as the matter should perhaps be expressed, bearing in mind his primary obligation to the Royal House of Windsor. It was not altogether easy to achieve, since Lord Ampersand had by this time come to regard his learned hireling as an unmitigated pest. Lord Ampersand, in whom a certain infirmity of purpose was sometimes to be remarked, was on the verge of abandoning the notion that there was money in Sutch – or in Sutch’s burrowings in the North Tower. He reminded himself that Skillet had on the whole remained thoroughly sceptical about the entire project. And that Skillet was a smart chap was a fact that sundry small family episodes, some of them not of the most edifying sort, had borne in on him from time to time. Once or twice he even meditated giving Sutch what he would have termed a week’s wages in lieu of notice, and bundling him out of the castle. But Lady Ampersand had discouraged him in this drastic proposal, pointing out that such an admission of fiasco might lead to ridicule on the part of her husband’s friends and neighbours. At this, Lord Ampersand, a sensitive man, had growled that he’d give the fellow his head, and pay for his oats and hay at the Ampersand Arms, for a further month. After that, they’d see.

  The situation was the more annoying in that Sutch had come to conceive himself as enjoying the freedom not only of the North Tower but also of the castle as a whole. He prowled around the place in an irritating way. On several occasions he had been known to accept a glass of port from Ludlow’s pantry, gossiping with him the while. This was something which Lord Ampersand would sometimes do himself. He seldom made himself at all agreeable to his butler (as he did, it will be recalled, to the younger maidservants), but he held feudal notions of what was proper from time to time in point of condescending behaviour to his more senior retainers. But in Dr Sutch the thing was shockingly unbecoming.

  It was Ludlow who acted as an emissary. He presented himself to his master in the library (in which, in fact, Lord Ampersand had formed the habit of going virtually into hiding) and announced that Dr Sutch presented his compliments, and begged the favour of a few words with his lordship. So there was nothing for it. The man had to be let in. Dr Sutch entered, and made a remarkably formal bow.

  ‘I hope I do not make a troublesome request,’ he said. ‘But I should be grateful if I might borrow your lordship’s copy of Mackenzie’s The Castles of England.’

  ‘Ah, um,’ Lord Ampersand said.

  ‘It has excellent illustrations. And might I have, too, Clark’s Medieval Military Architecture – which you will recall as being in two volumes – and Oman’s Art of War in the Middle Ages?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly, my dear sir.’ Lord Ampersand felt awkwardly placed. As he lived in a castle, and as that castle had a substantial library, it seemed probable that he was indeed the proprietor of the works mentioned. And as he was at this moment sitting in the middle of that library, it might no doubt be expected of him that he could rise, take a few confident steps in the right direction, and produce Mackenzie, Clark and Oman as at the drop of a hat. But it was a dilemma not too difficult to resolve. ‘Please take anything that interests you,’ he said. ‘The catalogue will guide you. That is, if there is a catalogue. And I do seem to remember one.’

  Dr Sutch received these candid remarks with another bow.

  ‘Certainly there is a catalogue, my lord, and I shall gratefully avail myself of it in a moment. But a word of explanation is perhaps necessary – if you are so obliging as to afford me the time.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do sit down.’ Lord Ampersand, although disapproving of Sutch’s manner of talking as it were out of an etiquette book, managed to be reasonably civil. ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘You will remember the unfortunate events that succeeded at Treskinnick upon the death of the second marquess.’

  ‘Ah, um.’

  ‘The third marquess had never been favourably disposed towards Adrian Digitt, and had resented his father’s harbouring him. When he came into the title he insisted that Adrian be never mentioned again in the family. He regarded him as one who had formed deplorable associations.’

  ‘A bit uncharitable, eh? Natural, though. Those poets, and so forth.’

  ‘The question is, how might this attitude have affected the disposal of Adrian Digitt’s doubtless abundant literary remains? We have been acting on the supposition, I think it may be said, that they were simply neglected and then forgotten about. What has been brought together in the North Tower are essentially papers so treated. But there are other possibilities. I disregard one of these as barely conceivable. I refer, of course, to the third marquess’ making a bonfire of everything that Adrian had left behind him. I would not disgrace myself, my lord, by believing that any Digitt could do quite that.’

  Lord Ampersand could not repress a frown – or scowl. He disliked this orotundity; he disliked being continually addressed as ‘my lord’ as if by a flunkey; and he disliked what had certainly not been a tactful use of the word ‘quite’. But he continued to restrain himself.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what more?’

  ‘There is the possibility that the papers were very deliberately and carefully stored away; hidden, in fact, somewhere in the castle where no casual search would find them. By adopting such a course, the third marquess would effectively have got rid of papers which he probably regarded as scandalous, and at the same time would not have had on his conscience the actual destruction of what were, after all, valuable literary documents.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t have been all that valuable then, would they?’ Lord Ampersand felt that he had stumbled upon an acute question. ‘And we were quite well-off in those days – not scraping round after sixpences and shillings, you know. If the chap disliked the stuff, I’d expect him just to put a match to it. Unless matches hadn’t yet been invented, that is.’ This further precision of thought on his own part so pleased Lord Ampersand that he glanced at Dr Sutch almost with cordiality.

  ‘Adrian Digitt’s papers would even then have been widely regarded as valuable, my lord, even if not notably so in a pecuniary sense. Scholars and men of letters would have a great regard for them. You will remember the disfavour visited upon those among Byron’s friends and associates who took it upon themselves to effect a similar, though limited, act of destruction.’

  ‘Ah, um. But what has this got to do with fishing out books about castles and motes and places? Treskinnick was originally a mote, you know. Not a doubt about that. Once looked into it myself.’

  Dr Sutch delivered himself of one of his grave bows, which was his way of being non-committal in face of his client’s adventures into learning.

  ‘Every ancient building of this character,’ he said, ‘has its hiding-places, the location of which may have passed out of memory. But exhaustive studies of military architecture contain many specific references to them. The volumes I seek may well do so in relation to Treskinnick, or at least may suggest fruitful lines of inquiry. One goes round measuring things.’

  ‘The devil one does!’

  ‘And takes soundings, and so on. And taps.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Lord Ampersand was aghast. ‘Do you mean you want to go tip-tap all through the castle? It would take you a month of Sundays, Dr Sutch. I never intended…’

  ‘It may prove desirable. At the moment, however, I shall merely study the matter in the authorities I suggest.’

  ‘Then go ahead, go ahead.’ Lord Ampersand made a gesture comprehending the entire contents of the library, and at the same time jumped up and walked to the door. This tiresome interview had gone on quite as long as was tolerable. And it was once more time to walk the dogs. ‘Good day to you,’ he said. ‘Leave you to it.’ He bolted from the room.

  It is to be presumed that Dr Sutch then worked on at his leisure. Certainly it was at an unusually l
ate afternoon hour that he made his way back to the Ampersand Arms. He did so, moreover, by an unusual route: one perhaps affording particular opportunity for solitary meditation. If one descended to the shore by a path half a mile to the west of the castle and then turned east it was possible to round the castle over the tumble of rock beneath it, and then walk for a long way across firm sand to a point at which there was an answering ascent to the inn.

  It was a cloudless evening, and there was still warmth from the declining sun. Dr Sutch, although no doubt aware of the beauties of external nature, and willing (like Byron) to find rapture on the lonely shore where none intrudes by the deep sea, moved slowly forward, as one lost in thought. From this abstraction he emerged only when actually beneath the castle and on the tricky stretch of his path. Here, indeed, he paused and looked up. There, high above his head, was the North Tower, scene of his present devoted services to scholarship. And there was that imbecile staircase. It would, of course, have been scarcely less hazardous had it made its way up another face of the building, since a fall to the inner ward would presumably be as fatal as one to the spot on which he now stood. But it was certainly more striking. The assumption had to be that the birdwatching Lord Ampersand had owned an eye for picturesque effect.

  So thoughtfully, for the moment, was Dr Sutch’s attention directed above that he was unaware of something happening below. Where immediately before there had been nothing but the bare face of the cliff there now stood a man of about Dr Sutch’s own age. His sudden presence was completely mysterious. He wore a tin hat, had an electric torch strapped to his chest, and carried a small hammer.

  ‘A beautiful evening,’ this person said. ‘How lucky I am to have emerged in time to view the sunset.’

  ‘Emerged?’ It has to be recorded that Dr Sutch repeated the word blankly – but a moment later his powerful intelligence had grasped the situation. ‘Sir,’ he said courteously, ‘am I to understand that you are a speleologist?’

  ‘Most certainly.’ The stranger must at once have gathered from Dr Sutch’s ready command of this erudite word that he was in the presence of a fellow savant. ‘My name,’ he added, ‘is Cave.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Dr Sutch refrained from making what, to Mr (or might it be Professor?) Cave, must have been a sadly familiar joke. ‘I am Ambrose Sutch, and I may describe myself at present as archivist to the Marquess of Ampersand, under whose walls you are doubtless aware that we are standing now. May I say that it is a privilege to meet one in the great tradition of Monsieur Martel.’

  ‘My dear sir, I should like so to think of myself. Martel was undoubtedly the founder of my science, such as it is. Before his time, the exploration of caverns, grottoes, and the subterranean regions of the earth in general was treated as a mere sport, or as affording material for writers of romance. You will recall A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. I confess that it a little touched my imagination as a boy.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Cave. I myself remember being much struck by Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. It fell short, however, of inducing me to make my career in submarines.’

  Thus, under the rugged and louring mass of Treskinnick Castle, did these two learned persons agreeably converse. It transpired that Mr Cave actually intended to spend the night at the Ampersand Arms. He was engaged, he explained, on a very brief speleological survey of the region. It had proved so potentially rewarding that he proposed to make a more extended visit in a few weeks’ time. Dr Sutch said a few words on his own manner of work, and the two men then fell into step together in the direction of their hostelry.

  ‘Is there anything much close to Treskinnick itself?’ Dr Sutch asked. ‘You had the appearance, if I may say so, of having bobbed pretty well out of the bowels of the place.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Precisely so.’ Mr Cave was delighted by this interest in his activities. ‘There are several interconnecting caverns, the farther recesses of which must actually extend beneath the castle itself. It is my preliminary impression that they have been very little explored. The more accessible parts may have been utilized by smugglers at one time. And by pirates, if one cares to be romantic.’

  ‘There was a Digitt in the late sixteenth century who was little better than a pirate, Mr Cave. Digitt, as you may know, is the family name of the Ampersands. And Narcissus Digitt was an associate of the celebrated Sir John Luttrell, whom it might be decent to describe as a corsair. It is curious to reflect that Narcissus may have anchored his craft, its hold full of booty, hard by in yonder cove.’ As he made use of this poetical expression Dr Sutch made an equally poetical gesture to a spot a quarter of a mile ahead of them.

  ‘He could have come right up to the castle, for the matter of that,’ Mr Cave said. ‘It is a point of some geological curiosity that there is a deep-water channel extending almost to the spot at which I had the pleasure of encountering you.’

  ‘Most interesting! You and I might very well construct our own romance, don’t you think? Shall we have a secret passage, for instance, winding up from the recesses of one of your caves into the very castle itself?’

  ‘A splendid fancy! We entertain one another like schoolboys, do we not, my dear Dr Sutch? We must give Narcissus Digitt a parrot and at the same time deprive him of a leg, so that he shall be a perfect Long John Silver.’

  The Ampersand Arms was in sight before these two devoted scholars had tired of thus recreating themselves. They then had a drink together, and they dined together later on. Their talk, naturally, was much of the present state of knowledge and similar philosophical matters. These, in the poet Milton’s phrase, were speculations high and deep. And it was perhaps only once or twice that each detected in the other a glance speculative in a different sense.

  Part Two

  Criminal Investigation at

  Treskinnick Castle

  8

  Sir John Appleby now appears on our scene. It is quite fortuitously. He knows nothing whatever about Treskinnick Castle and its inhabitants: not even what a guidebook or work of reference might have told him. He is on his way to visit friends near St Ives, and has judged that he may be going to arrive inconveniently early. So he has parked his car, walked to the edge of the cliff, and observed a convenient declivity by which it is possible to reach a mile-long beach. The beach is deserted; the sea is tranquil; it is a good place for a walk. He scrambles down. Although elderly, he remains of an active habit. It won’t be at all difficult to scramble up again. He will poke at seaweed, examine shells, He rejoices at this peaceful prospect.

  Yon castle hath a pleasant seat… Appleby has become aware of Treskinnick in the middle distance, but he has left his map in the car and is unable to identify it. Rather vaguely, he compares it in his head with Tantallon in Scotland. It is protected by the sea in just the same way. But Tantallon is a ruin, and this place appears to be inhabited. It even runs to a flag-staff, but no flag flies. So perhaps the owner is not in residence. Appleby reflects that, were his wife accompanying him on this present expedition, they would undoubtedly assault the seemingly impregnable pile and effect an entry – whether by bribery or charm. Being alone, he will simply walk on, stare up at the frowning mass of masonry, retrace his steps, and continue on his way.

  And now he is aware of the North Tower, and of that mildly astonishing staircase. A bird – a gannet and not a temple-haunting martlet – is perched on top of it. The gannet rises, plunges, and disappears like a minute depth charge into the sea. Had the gannet miscalculated, it would have bashed itself on rock. Appleby walks on, stops, does his gaping act. There is really nothing much to be seen. There is now sheer cliff more or less in front of his nose, a glimpse of the tower in violent foreshortening on top of it, a glimpse, too, of the skimpy wooden affair, which at its lower end must take some turn into an outer court of the castle. Appleby himself turns, and gazes out over the sea. An empty sea with no craft in sight. From the top of the tower behind him
there must be a tremendous view. It is all very splendid, tranquil, silent.

  The silence is broken. There is a rending sound, a crash, a rush of air past his face; then a momentary effect as of explosion and of debris falling and fallen everywhere in front of him. He has very nearly been killed.

  And somebody has been killed. It is the staircase that has crashed. It lies in fragments all around him, and in the middle of the wreckage is sprawled the body of a man. The man’s head is so disposed that there cannot be a moment’s doubt as to his condition. He is as the gannet would have been had the gannet been careless about its fishing.

  Appleby is never reckless; were he so, he would himself have been killed by one or another lethally disposed character long ago. For some seconds he stays put. There may be another instalment of the collapsed staircase to come. Then he risks it, advances, kneels down by the body. It doesn’t take him long to confirm that the man is indeed dead.

  There is another man. Quite suddenly, there is another man – standing beside him and endeavouring to produce articulate speech. He succeeds only in mumbling. He is shocked, terrified. No doubt he is quite unused to this sort of thing. He can’t be merely another casual stroller on the shore, since he is wearing a tin hat, has a large torch strapped to his chest, and carries tucked into a belt a variety of implements appropriate to some pursuit Appleby doesn’t pause to identify.

  ‘Did you see this happen?’ Appleby asks.

  ‘No – no, I didn’t.’ The man has achieved speech. ‘I was in the cave. My name’s Cave.’

  Appleby (like Dr Sutch some weeks previously) may have found this homonymous information odd, but it wasn’t something to pause on. Gently, he turned the body over.