Appleby Plays Chicken (21 page)

‘He suddenly had this awful idea that it might have been poor old Faircloth’s precious Alice that he had encountered in that car this morning. You see, she was supposed to be motoring over from friends in Hampshire. She might quite easily have taken the road over the moor, and have stopped to picnic near Knack Tor. And so it would have been her car that David’s pursuers stole. And that would account for her not turning up in Nymph Monachorum.’

Pettifor interrupted. ‘It would only account, surely, for her not turning up in the car.’

‘But you see, sir, David realized that there might be an even more sinister side to it. These chaps were pursuing him simply to prevent their ever being identified by him and connected with what had happened up on the Tor. Well the girl must have had a perfectly clear sight of them when they bagged her car. So anything might happen.’

‘It might, indeed,’ Appleby said. ‘And that was as far as David’s thoughts got in his bath?’

‘Yes. And then at dinner there was old Faircloth, quite relieved in his mind. As far as Alice was concerned, I mean. Of course he was upset about all the horrors of the day. But he’d had this telegram from the girl, saying she was stopping in Hampshire a bit longer. So that seemed all right. And then David went to bed.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t stay there. What got him out again?’

‘He’d happened to notice the name of the post office where the telegram had been handed in. It was Farthing Bishop. And suddenly, just as he was dropping off to sleep, he remembered seeing Farthing Bishop on the map – the local map – and being told something about it. It’s not in Hampshire; it’s quite close by. No doubt Faircloth hadn’t noticed. It’s not a thing one always does notice on a telegram. But it meant the message must be false. Alice had been kidnapped or something by the enemy gang. David came and explained it all to me.’

‘Explained is precisely the word. And then?’

‘Well, we boggled over it rather. It seemed possible and not possible. We wondered whether we should search out old Faircloth and reveal our suspicions. I was rather for doing that. But David seemed to feel it was up to him personally to go right in and find the girl. He had a notion he’d rather let her down. So we decided to borrow Leon’s bike and go and reconnoitre Farthing Bishop.’

‘And David is presumably there now. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Nothing at all. But Colonel Farquharson was saying something about it yesterday – I think that the manor house is untenanted.’

‘Quite right.’ Pettifor, who had remained for the most part sunk in sombre silence, contributed this. ‘People called Hotchkiss. They departed some years ago, being too hard up for the place, and have never been able to find a tenant. Indeed, it’s partly ruined, and there’s a tower of great antiquity.’

‘It sounds’, Appleby said, ‘a striking object in the landscape, even by moonlight. Owls and ivy, I suppose, and everything thoroughly romantic.’

‘No doubt. But I never heard there was anything romantic about the Hotchkisses. They were city people. I never knew them, and I don’t think I know anybody in the neighbourhood either.’

‘David and I’, Ian said, ‘wondered whether Colonel Farquharson did. I mean, whether he knows people near there. Because he shot past us.’

‘What’s that?’ Appleby’s question came sharply.

‘On this road, and just before I had to give up because of my shoulder. He overtook us in his car, going at a good lick. We’d drawn into the side, so he didn’t see us.’

‘I say! Do you think it was just coincidence?’ Timothy put this question with lively interest. ‘It seems to me there’s a general convergence on this Farthing Bishop.’ He appealed to Appleby. ‘Don’t you think so, sir?’

‘I certainly do.’ Appleby’s tone was grim. It was clear he hadn’t greatly liked the news about Farquharson.

‘Nobody missing except old Faircloth.’

‘Faircloth? You needn’t worry. He certainly got there some time ago. He was making for the place when he passed us.’

‘Passed us?’ Timothy was bewildered.

‘My dear lad, the car that nearly ran into us as we were approaching Tremlett was certainly Faircloth’s.’

At this Pettifor sat forward. ‘Appleby, what was that? Faircloth at Tremlett! Whatever should he be doing there?’

‘He had some quiet business to transact.’

‘Business!’

‘Yes. But, oddly enough, its true nature wasn’t clear to him.’

‘Indeed.’ Pettifor didn’t receive this enigmatic statement very patiently. ‘But no doubt it is perfectly clear to yourself?’

‘Well, yes – as a matter of fact it is. And I hope to explain it to Faircloth quite soon. There isn’t, you see, much mystery left in this affair. Only danger. And I was saying to David Henchman this morning that danger’s not really so interesting. However, we must try to cope with it when it turns up.’

There was danger, Timothy thought, simply in the pace they were travelling. And it was almost possible to believe that Appleby was relieving some state of nervous tension by talking at random. Timothy took a sidelong glance at him in the dim light. His face was set and stern.

Suddenly Timothy found himself lurching towards the wind-screen. Appleby had braked powerfully, and now he brought the car to a halt. Timothy looked at him in surprise – and was yet more surprised to see that he was smiling broadly. ‘Well,’ Appleby said, ‘that’s that. Didn’t you see?’

‘See, sir?’

Without answering, Appleby switched on a spotlight at the tail of the car and reversed. They ran back for about thirty yards, with Timothy staring out into the moonlight. By the side of the road a wheel came into view. And then a motorbike. And then, standing by the machine and scowling furiously, David Henchman.

Timothy had lowered a window. Appleby leant across him. ‘Can we give you any help?’ he called out cheerfully.

David stared at them. It was a second before he made them out. ‘It’s stopped,’ he said. ‘It won’t go. I’ve been here for ages.’

‘Perhaps we might take you on tow?’ Appleby’s voice held something that puzzled Timothy for a moment. And then he realized that it was simple joy. It was almost as if he hadn’t expected to see David again.

‘A tow? Don’t be stupid.’ David was obviously dead tired as well as feeling a fool. ‘It’s the beastly ignition. The thing won’t fire.’ There was a moment’s silence as David fiddled again with the machine. ‘Oh, good lord!’ he said.

Appleby laughed aloud. ‘Petrol?’

‘Yes. The tank’s bone dry.’ David turned to him. One could see in the moonlight that he was flushed and furious. ‘Can you let me have some?’

‘I could – certainly.’ Appleby was now quite grave again. ‘And then you could proceed on your own. And to the moated grange, I suppose.’

‘What do you mean – the moated grange?’ David peered into the car, and spotted Ian as well as Timothy. ‘What have these great idiots been saying?’

‘They’ve been helping me to piece things together, I admit. And now you turn up like a bad penny. It’s most satisfactory. Quite suddenly, this whole messy business comes under control. I think you’d better leave your friend’s motorbike – it will be safe enough where it is for an hour – and get in here. It would be a shame if you never saw that grange at all.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ David still sounded sulky. But he was opening the door of the car and getting in beside Timothy.

‘Haven’t you been told that Farthing Bishop boasts a highly romantic deserted manor house, which even incorporates a lofty and ancient ivy-clad tower?’

‘Yes, I did remember something of the sort, when I started thinking about the place. I must have heard it talked about lately. But I don’t see–’

But Appleby had let in the clutch. ‘We must be getting on,’ he said. ‘My own curiosity about Farthing Bishop grows. You know, there’s been a lot of artistry in this affair.’

Pettifor leant forward sharply from the back. ‘Artistry? Just what do you mean?’

‘Perhaps I ought to say a great deal of inspired improvisation. David jumping on Ian’s horse, for instance, and then thinking to get himself smuggled away in an ambulance.’

David laughed. His sulking fit wasn’t proof against this memory. ‘It didn’t work,’ he said.

‘Quite so. And there’s a lot more that isn’t going to work, either.’

They drove on for some miles. ‘The house is on this side of the village,’ Timothy said, looking up from the map. ‘And it’s marked in Gothic lettering. So it must be an antiquity.’ He turned round to Pettifor with a cheerful grin. ‘We ought to have brought the whole lot, sir. You could have expounded it to us.’

Pettifor didn’t seem to think much of this as a sally. And Timothy, suddenly remembering about Arthur Pettifor, was much abashed.

‘I should imagine it’s just the tower that’s the antiquity,’ Appleby said. Suddenly he took a hand from the wheel and pointed. ‘And there it is.’

There, certainly, was the tower. A turn of the road had revealed it set boldly against the skyline, with the moon almost directly above it. And a moment later they could see the bulk of the house. Pettifor leant forward curiously. ‘I believe the tower is all that remains of a small medieval stronghold, and that it is in some reasonable state of preservation. Everything else is gone. No doubt the present mansion was quarried out of the ruins.’

Appleby was slowing down. ‘An interesting sight,’ he murmured. ‘Calculated to strike the imagination at once. David – don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And isn’t that a light – a very faint light, high up? I think it is. Even if there’s glass up there, I don’t think a trick of moonlight would give that effect. Exciting, David – wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, shut up!’ David appeared to feel that his day’s adventures with Appleby entitled him to this amount of free expression. But then he continued, politely but urgently. ‘I don’t believe you understand, sir. It may be most frightfully critical. You see–’

‘I understand, all right.’ Appleby had brought his car to a stop. ‘And there’s still a job for you to do.’ He paused, as if this utterance had brought up a fresh consideration. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to say to you all.’ He had switched off the engine and there was suddenly complete silence all around them. It was preserved until Appleby spoke again. ‘This has been a perplexed business. I think I’ve seen my way through it. But one man’s notion isn’t much to take into court. Certain action, therefore, is necessary, if we are to be sure of seeing it satisfactorily cleared up…Mr Pettifor, the centre of all this is, of course, your brother’s death. Will you give me your assurance that you want the circumstances of that death fully elucidated?’

There was a long silence, in which Pettifor’s pupils might have been felt as going stiff with astonishment at this strange question and the blankness which succeeded upon it. But at length Pettifor spoke. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I give you that assurance.’

‘Thank you. And now we all get out.’ Appleby spoke briskly. ‘Except Dancer. He’d better stay put.’

‘What utter rot!’ Ian was indignant. ‘I can get along as well as anybody. It was only that bloody bone-shaking bike.’

‘Very well. It’s your own affair.’ Appleby gave the young man an appraising glance. ‘Only understand this: we are walking into a situation in which it may be desirable to be tolerably able-bodied. Got that?’

‘I’ve got it.’ And Ian climbed from the car with elaborate ease.

Timothy jumped out too. ‘Sir,’ he said challengingly, ‘just what
is
the situation?’

Appleby smiled. ‘I’m not able to be too precise. Some friends of ours are here, I don’t doubt. There’s the retired clergyman of ample means, and there’s the admirer of England’s young manhood. There may be others as well. But their relative situations at the moment I’m afraid I can’t describe. We now advance on foot.’

Ian took a few experimental steps. ‘Nothing in it,’ he said. ‘I could do a mile.’ His dark eyes flashed in a face drained of colour by the moonlight. ‘Is this an attack?’

‘It’s a surprise attack, if that can be managed.’ Appleby pointed to the side of the road. ‘Single file, and as much in shadow as possible. No talking. There’ll be a drive. We’ll stop there to reconnoitre.’

‘Do you mean’, David asked, ‘that we’re all going together? You said there was a job for me. Do you mean just in the crowd?’

‘No, I don’t. I mean something rather risky. You might call it One Man Chicken.’

‘I see.’ David was now too seasoned a campaigner to greet this with pleased excitement. ‘An infant Ogg turn? Valley-of-death stuff?’

‘Certainly not as bad as that. Remember their prize marksman’s dead. And now – straight ahead.’

They walked silently down the road, with Appleby leading. Both house and tower had disappeared behind a line of trees on their left, and presently they passed a lane running off to their right, with a signpost announcing that the village of Farthing Bishop lay half a mile in front of them. The trees grew thicker and seemed to stretch interminably ahead. And then suddenly there was a gap, with a plain iron gate, and beyond it a straight drive that ran directly to the house across a broad expanse of turf bathed in moonlight. On either side of this the trees ran backward in shallow curves, and encircled by these the grass shimmered like water in a great basin of dark rock. The house was entirely in darkness. But behind it the tower once more rose clear against the sky, all grey stone and dark ivy, and once more a single light shone at the top of it. The whole scene was irresistibly dramatic; it had the simple effectiveness of a well-contrived stage set.

They had come to a halt without a word being spoken. The shadows around them were soft and ambiguous; very faintly, the moonlight seemed still to swim in them. But the party was secure from observation where it stood, and for a time nobody moved. The curiously theatrical effect didn’t diminish on a longer view. It was as if the dark curtain of the trees had rolled back on some expected piece of decor which had been for some time held in reserve, and which now announced with a satisfactory decisiveness the denouement of the play. And like an admonitory tap upon the boards, an owl hooted rapidly three times.