Carson's Conspiracy (22 page)

‘It is certainly most remarkable.' Appleby's chief concern was not to look with open commiseration at this girl, so blithely proposing to bear Cynthia Carson's grandchildren. ‘And I hope you will be very happy.' It occurred to him that he had better shake hands with Robin Hood again, and felicitate him as well. And this he managed to do. He wondered what on earth could have been the young man's history: the origin, growth and progress of the weird deception in which he had been involved. He'd never know. Nor, for that matter, did he much want to. He wondered whether he ought to say something to Cynthia Carson about the husband she had just, in effect, so comfortably buried. Far from being dead, Carl Carson was probably in South America by now, comfortably awaiting the arrival of his smuggled fortune. Appleby decided to say nothing. It would spoil the party.

‘I'm only sorry dear Peter Pluckworthy isn't here,' Mrs Carson was saying. ‘I don't know why, but he had to go away in a hurry.'

 

Sir John Appleby was a conscientious man, and it was midnight before he arrived home at Dream. As not at Garford, the house was in darkness. Judith would long before have gone to bed. He put the car away, entered the house quietly, and made his way upstairs. He was already in his pyjamas when he heard the telephone ring below. Cursing inwardly, he went down and answered it.

‘Detective-Inspector Davidson speaking,' a formal voice said. ‘I have the Chief Constable's instructions, even although the hour be inconvenient, to speak to Sir John Appleby.'

‘Speaking, Mr Davidson.'

‘We found the body, sir, this afternoon.'

‘The body! Whose body?' For a moment – for it was after a long day – a most improper irritation overcame Appleby. ‘What the devil do you mean?'

‘The body of the man Carl Carson, sir. I had a hundred men searching every inch…'

‘Of course you had. Well?'

‘I drafted in another hundred, and extended the radius of the search. It paid off.' For a moment there was a hint of satisfaction in the matter-of-fact voice on the line. ‘They found the well.'

‘The
well
?'

‘Or rather the whole obsolete system, Sir John. Empty cisterns and exhausted wells. It appears that, many years ago, there was a large-scale attempt to divert the water through the chalk. That kind of thing.'

‘Yes?'

‘There are five wells in all. I had a man down every one of them. The body was at the bottom of the last and deepest of the lot. Carson had been shot through the back of the head. And then through the body – which accounts for the large effusion of blood.'

‘It would.'

‘Formal identification will take place tomorrow. But, of course, there is no doubt about it. None whatever.'

‘There wouldn't be, no.' Appleby felt that this wasn't a particularly bright remark. Detective-Inspector Davidson was being extremely respectful. He knew the almost legendary person to whom he was talking. But he might very well be telling himself that the old boy was probably a bit past it. And perhaps he was right. Appleby felt that he ought to have kept better tabs on the gentleman referred to by Tommy Pride as Peter Pluckworthy Esquire. ‘And have you anything further to report?' he asked – and was at once conscious that ‘report' hadn't been quite right. He was being kept informed.

‘Yes, Sir John. A telephone message from London only half an hour ago. They've got him.'

‘Pluckworthy?'

‘Yes. In his flat. He'd just got back there, and was packing up like mad. If it can be called packing. Just enormous sums of money. The picture's pretty clear, isn't it? He was this Carson's accomplice all the way through. Had been, indeed, what you might call his confidential agent for some years. Would he have been the master mind, would you say, in this entire swindle?'

‘I'd say you have yet to find out.' Appleby was cautious. ‘But he certainly came within an ace of bringing off a pretty piece of treachery in the end. He'd have managed it, Mr Davidson, but for your very efficient conduct of the operation. I congratulate you.'

‘Thank you, Sir John.'

‘I'll be seeing the Chief Constable fairly soon, no doubt. Please give him my compliments, meanwhile.'

‘Certainly, Sir John.'

‘And a message. Tell him that Mycroft has retired.'

‘Sir?'

‘That Mycroft has retired.'

‘Very good, Sir John. Message understood.'

 

 

John Appleby first appears in
Death at the President's Lodging
, by which time he has risen to the rank of Inspector in the police force. A cerebral detective, with ready wit, charm and good manners, he rose from humble origins to being educated at 'St Anthony's College', Oxford, prior to joining the police as an ordinary constable.

Having decided to take early retirement just after World War II, he nonetheless continued his police career at a later stage and is subsequently appointed an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, where his crime solving talents are put to good use, despite the lofty administrative position. Final retirement from the police force (as Commissioner and Sir John Appleby) does not, however, diminish Appleby's taste for solving crime and he continues to be active,
Appleby and the Ospreys
marking his final appearance in the late 1980's.

In
Appleby's End
he meets Judith Raven, whom he marries and who has an involvement in many subsequent cases, as does their son Bobby and other members of his family.

 

 

 

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

 

 

 

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

 

 

 

Published by House of Stratus

 

The Ampersand Papers While Appleby is strolling along a Cornish beach, he narrowly escapes being struck by a body falling down a cliff. The body is that of Dr Sutch, an archivist, and he has fallen from the North Tower of Treskinnick Castle, home of Lord Ampersand. Two possible motivations present themselves to Appleby – the Ampersand gold, treasure from an Armada galleon; and the Ampersand papers, valuable family documents that have associations with Wordsworth and Shelley.

Appleby and Honeybath Every English mansion has a locked room, and Grinton Hall is no exception – the library has hidden doors and passages…and a corpse. But when the corpse goes missing, Sir John Appleby and Charles Honeybath have an even more perplexing case on their hands – just how did it disappear when the doors and windows were securely locked? A bevy of helpful houseguests offer endless assistance, but the two detectives suspect that they are concealing vital information. Could the treasures on the library shelves be so valuable that someone would murder for them?