Appleby File (3 page)

‘I’d hardly suppose so. But when a chap like Jasper Darien-Gore starts apologizing for his brother in advance, one has 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.’

‘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 about 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.

‘Lady Appleby,’ Jasper was saying. ‘And Sir John Appleby. Sir John is–’

‘How do you do?’ Without too great an effect of abruptness, Appleby had cut explanations short. ‘We’re in the same boat, you and I. My car got stranded behind yours. Was it just the snow held you up, or did you have engine trouble?’

‘A little bit of one thing and a little bit of another.’ Jolly, whose address was no more polished than his manner, eyed Appleby narrowly. ‘Acquainted with these people here, are you?’ he asked.

‘I happen to know General Strickland and his wife. But not the others.’

‘I’m a stranger here myself. They invited me to stay the night. Affable, you might say. Not that they could well do anything else. Plenty of room in a place like this.’

‘Clearly there is.’

‘And no need to stint, either. Money in a big way, eh? And a touch of real class as well. I’ve a fancy for that. High aristocratic feeling. Sense of honour and so on.’ Jolly gestured at the line of family portraits which hung in the long gallery. ‘Eyes of one’s ancestors upon one, eh? There’s something I like about that.’

‘No doubt you find it professionally advantageous. By the way, I gather you’ve met Mr Trevor before?’

‘Trevor?’ Jolly was startled. ‘Who is he? Never heard of him.’

‘He’s the man who was about to shoot when you came into the gallery. I got the impression that you were looking at each other with some kind of recognition.’

‘Nothing of the kind. What I recognized was that he very nearly killed me.’

‘I don’t know that he did quite that. But it was an awkward moment, certainly. It was natural that he should be agitated – that he should be a little agitated. I think I must go and have a word with him.’

‘Does one require a licence,’ Appleby asked casually, ‘to play around with bows and arrows?’

‘Good Lord, no!’ Charles Trevor glanced at Appleby in surprise – and also, perhaps, with a faint impression of quick alarm. ‘Why ever should one?’

‘It has occurred to me that the things are just as efficient weapons as pistols and revolvers – more efficient than some. I’ve seen that you can put an arrow through the pin-hole – isn’t it called? – on that target. I doubt whether you could do the same thing with an automatic.’

‘I’ve never handled a pistol in my life, so that’s no doubt true.’

‘Ah! Now, suppose that incident a few minutes ago had really resulted in an accident. Suppose you’d fired – or does one say shot? – dead at this fellow Jolly. You’d actually have transfixed him, wouldn’t you?’

‘Really, my dear sir! I don’t know that it’s very pleasant to–’

‘He’d have been pinned to the wall, like a living butterfly that some cruel child–’

‘Dash it all–’ Not unreasonably, Trevor appeared outraged by this macabre before-dinner chat.

‘I was only thinking, you know, that if one had sufficient cause really to hate a man, an arrow might be a more attractive weapon than a bullet. But you must forgive me. I’m a policeman, remember. My mind runs on these matters from time to time. And – do you know? – I can almost imagine that some people
would
hate Mr Jolly – quite a lot. I’d say he’s a type one rather likes to forget about. Supposing when one
had
forgotten him–’

‘I care nothing for this fellow Jolly. And I certainly don’t think him worth talking about.’

‘I was going to say that when the Jollys of this life
do
bob up again, the desirable thing is probably to keep one’s head. As for talking – well, he’s at least not a very conversable character himself. Look at him now.’

Jasper and General Strickland were competing against each other, though in rather a casual way. The others were engaged in desultory conversation behind them. Jolly, however, had retired to a window-seat at the side of the gallery. And he began, as Appleby looked, to fumble in a pocket. He might have been hunting for a cigarette-case or a box of matches. But what he brought out was a dark, bulky pocketbook. It was familiar to Appleby already. He had seen it, through the open bedroom door, going into Jolly’s pocket earlier in the evening. Having produced it, Jolly did nothing more. He simply sat immobile, with the thing in his lap.

Appleby turned back to the others. He was just in time to catch a swift impression of the Darien-Gore brothers, momentarily immobile, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then Jasper drew back his bow-string, and there followed the twang to which Molly Strickland took such exception. The shaft flew wide. There was a moment’s silence in the gallery. It was broken by Frape.