Close Quarters (16 page)

14

BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH

‘Let it be enjoined that those who kill themselves by sword, poison, precipice or halter, or by any other means bring violent death upon themselves, shall not have a memorial made of them … nor shall their bodies be carried with Psalm to burial …'

‘Check,' said Halliday regretfully, ‘and it really is mate this time.'

‘Nonsense, Halliday. I can still move back. Oh, your knight, I see. So it is.' The Dean collected the remaining pieces from the board. ‘We'll start again, and I'll take black. You've plenty of time for another game, haven't you?'

‘Afraid not. No late choir practice tonight, and that means evening class. Scripture, Second Kings. Such an embarrassing book. I always prepare two chapters ahead. I promise you your revenge tomorrow evening.'

As Halliday was letting himself out of the front door he saw Pollock and Hazlerigg coming up the path, and forthwith regretted his own conscientiousness. If only he had stayed five minutes longer, he reflected, he might have heard the very latest titbits of news about Parvin – and no one in the Close appreciated early and exclusive news more than Halliday. However, he supposed it would look a bit odd if he turned back again, so he flung the two policemen a reproachful ‘Good evening,' and trudged off into the darkness.

‘Sit down Inspector … a cigarette – and you, Bobby?'

Business over, status of nephew resumed, thought Pollock, and lit his pipe.

‘I asked you to come round here tonight,' went on the Dean, ‘so that we could talk things over quietly, and see whether something couldn't be done to make things a little easier for—well—you know what I mean. There's no need for Mrs. Parvin to suffer unnecessarily …'

‘Parvin—' Hazlerigg was beginning when the maid arrived to build up the fire, and there ensued one of those silences which arise all the world over, when the movements of domestics suspend private conversation.

‘I can scarcely believe it even now,' continued the Dean when the maid, having done her best to put out a perfectly good fire by emptying a scuttle of coal on it, had at last removed herself. ‘Parvin was a man who had, perhaps, a certain weakness for the bottle in his hours off duty; scarcely what one looks for in a verger, but apart from that—'

‘I was going to tell you,' said Hazlerigg patiently, ‘that Parvin—'

Again he was interrupted. They had not heard the bell, but now the sound of trampling feet in the hall announced the unceremonious arrival of Trumpington and Prynne. One glance at their faces brought all three men to their feet.

Trumpington was spokesman.

‘Something very important has happened,' he said – and in a quiet voice he explained to them the chain of circumstances which had resulted in the discovery of Canon Whyte's last message. When he had finished the silence was broken unexpectedly by Hazlerigg.

‘Who was Canon Whyte?'

‘Why,' said the Dean guiltily, ‘didn't I tell you about Canon Whyte? I was sure you'd heard about Canon Whyte. Such a distressing business. He fell from the roof of the cathedral – practically on the spot where Appledown—'

His voice died away. Pollock thought Hazlerigg was going to explode. But when at last the inspector found his voice its very softness was more explosive than violence.

‘Three days,' he said. ‘Three days, everyone under suspicion of murder, and some of you in actual danger of your lives, and you never thought it worth your while to tell me the one thing that really mattered. Never mind, it can't be helped now. With your permission, Mr. Dean, we'll open that triptych.'

The Dean, feeling obscurely guilty, fetched a paper-knife and prized up the thin matchboarding which formed the back of the right-hand volet of the triptych. Between the wood and the figured panel, and exactly fitting into the cavity, lay a flat envelope of oiled silk, of the type much used by lawyers for the preservation of deeds. The Dean removed this, and seeing that it was sealed handed it after a moment's hesitation to Trumpington.

‘I think it was meant for you,' he said. Trumpington looked from the Dean to Prynne, who was openly grinning; to Pollock, desperately interested, but simulating a polite unconcern; to Hazlerigg, impassive as ever.

Then, ‘Excuse me,' he said, as simply as if he had been at his own breakfast-table, and slitting open the envelope he drew out the one sheet of notepaper which it contained – a large sheet, folded twice, and covered back and front with Canon Whyte's neat handwriting.

He read carefully for a few moments, gasped, scrutinised a line or two ahead, then said in a choking voice: ‘You'd better all see this. I suppose it's—I mean to say—'

He turned to the Dean. ‘Look here, sir, would you read it out to us? It's addressed to you as well.'

The Dean looked inquiringly at Hazlerigg, who said, ‘Please do.' So he took the paper from Trumpington's outstretched hand, and started to read without more ado in his quiet unemphatic voice:

‘Dear Trumpington, and you, Mr. Dean, and others who may be present at these my last obsequies and rites. When I decided to end my life, I was determined on two things. The first, that there should be no shadow of an idea in anyone's mind that my death was premeditated. This was important for many reasons. Principally, because my dear daughter was about to be married, and my son, may God bless him and help him, was on the point of entering on his career in the diplomatic service. The news that I had destroyed myself might have been disastrous to both of them in a number of easily imaginable ways. I am sure that they will forgive me this innocent deception, should it be necessary to tell them of it.

‘Now to my second resolution. It was that the cause of my taking this step, though hidden at first, should eventually be known in the proper quarters (and there alone).

‘Faced as I was with this dual problem, you will wonder why I did not employ the device of leaving a message – to be opened at some definite period after my death. The answer is that the mere fact of having done so would have aroused those very suspicions which I was most anxious to avoid. A lawyer, left with such instructions, must, I understand, open a confidential letter if he suspects a breach of the law – for
felonia de se,
remember, in this enlightened country of ours, is a crime. No. What I wanted was some device by which the message I had to leave might be dispatched, but
delayed
from reaching its destination – hidden away until the time was ripe – and then falling into the right hands. You will perhaps agree that I showed some little ingenuity in my dismal task.

‘To you, Trumpington, my very dear friend, I left my books. You remember the promise I exacted, that you would try to read them all! Spoken half in jest, but I knew you wouldn't forget. And the Boswell above all. How often has your unenvious soul envied me my books. I felt that I was safe in leaving my clue interred in the volumes of the
Tour in the Hebrides.
How soon did you reach it, I wonder? I made many attempts before I could get that crossword puzzle just right. Not too hard – but hard enough to defeat anyone else in the Close but yourself. To you, Mr. Dean, I left my Fabriano triptych – thus subtly, you see, have I appointed you and Trumpington the executors and trustees of my secret.

‘And what is this secret? Perhaps you have guessed it already.'

The Dean here paused for a moment, having come to the end of the page, and the crackle as he turned the stiff parchment over sounded electric in the heavy silence.

‘For many years Appledown has been blackmailing me. The secret on which he based his demands concerns my early life in India, and I do not propose to set out any of the facts here. When, for the prosecution of Appledown or any other purpose whatever, it becomes necessary to discover them, you will apply to Colonel Deighton at Room M.19 in the Special Branch at the India Office. I will say only this. I was entirely in Appledown's hands, and I could not put an end to his power except by ending my life in Melchester – on the one hand by exposure, imprisonment, and disgrace, or on the other hand, by death.

‘I chose the latter alternative, fortified by the knowledge that I might use my death to good purpose – or rather that you, my good friends, might use my death for me. Have no scruple in doing so. For I tell you now, solemnly and sanely, that Daniel Appledown is the cruellest and most heartless scoundrel that I have ever met, and in the roving commission of my life I have met not a few. As I watch him, this benevolent white-haired old man, walking sedately about the Cathedral Close, he seems to me to be literally inhuman – amoral, if you want a grand word for it. He affects me so strongly as something altogether vile and unnatural that it is only with an effort that I can bring myself to talk to him, or be near him. If he were to touch me, even by accident, I should be sick. He is a venomous snake. And there is only one treatment for snakes – the heel of your boot. For make no mistake about this.
I am not the only victim.
I know as a fact that he is practising his vile trade on the second verger, Parvin. I am not quite sure what his hold over him is, but it concerns his wife. I give you this information in confidence and in the trust that you will not have to use it. I suspect that two – and perhaps three – more people in the Close are being victimised. You are so particularly defenceless in this Close community, aren't you? One breath of scandal! And how Appledown knows it, and plays on it, to the satisfaction of his own cold-hearted lust and greed.

‘One last word. You, my trusted executors and executioners, now that I have presented you with your case, use it to the full, but – stir up as little of the mud as possible. I see no reason why anyone but myself should suffer. Except Appledown, of course …'

When the Dean had finished reading he laid the paper down on the table in front of him. The thick, triangular writing stood out firm and bold, with never a tremor to the end. Prynne voiced all their thoughts when he said, ‘That's a type of courage which I can appreciate but could never aspire to.'

‘He played his part well,' said Trumpington. ‘He must have been planning this for many weeks before the end.'

‘Months – not weeks,' said the Dean. ‘Months or even years. His will was dated, remember, nearly six months before his death.'

The four men were silent again as they contemplated, with a feeling akin to awe, the relentless machinery which old Canon Whyte had built and set into motion – machinery which had not, even yet, ceased to turn. Trumpington was thinking of Whyte as he had known him in the last months of his life – struggling with
The Times
crossword or smiling at some happy pomposity of the great Boswell – a happy and harmless old clergyman, you would have said, but to those who really knew him there was something more than that – a deceptive quality, a lambent inner flame. And Trumpington remembered being surprised when Whyte had once expressed a very warm admiration for “the greatest Frenchwoman of all time.” He had supposed that Whyte meant Jeanne d'Arc.

‘No,' said Whyte, ‘Charlotte Corday.' And he had added in a tone which Trumpington had never forgotten, ‘She had the additional grandeur of complete failure.'

Again Prynne was the first to break the silence.

‘In a way,' he said, addressing himself to Hazlerigg, ‘I suppose this simplifies matters, for it supplies what has all along been lacking – a convincing motive. And yet – well, I know it's no part of your job to entertain any human feelings, but in your place I should not be too happy about hanging Parvin. I should be more inclined to congratulate him on doing a necessary and salutary job. When you think of the money that Appledown must have squeezed out; by the way, was he very rich?'

‘Yes,' said Pollock, ‘we discovered that he had a lot of money, but it was mostly salted away.'

‘Must the real reasons for Parvin's action be dragged into the light,' said Trumpington. ‘You remember what Whyte said – that it somehow concerned Mrs. Parvin. She, anyway, could have had no hand in the murder – couldn't she be left out of it?'

‘Look here,' said the Dean, ‘this won't do. We're trading on a position of confidence to embarrass the inspector. He will, of course, have to do exactly what he thinks fit.'

And last of all Hazlerigg spoke. He had been silent for a long time. He sounded very tired.

‘You ought to know,' he said, ‘that Parvin—'

And incredibly, for the third and last time, the interruption came. The quick crunching of feet on the gravel, the bang of the front door, footsteps in the passage heavy and hurried, the agitated voice of the Dean's parlour-maid uplifted in protest, ‘But he's with the detective gentleman from London – he wasn't to be disturbed.' A further rush of footsteps, a menacing cross-fire of whispers, and then a loud, imperious voice. ‘I tell you, I must see the Dean.' Then the door burst open, revealing the wild figure of Doctor Smallhorn, and behind him, looking even more frightened, Vicar Choral Halliday.

‘Well, Dr. Smallhorn,' said the Dean, ‘what's the matter?'

‘Mr. Dean,' said Dr. Smallhorn thickly. ‘It's murder. It's happened again.'

To obtain a correct idea of the events of that memorable Friday evening, we must follow Vicar Choral Halliday, whom we left on the Dean's doorstep. Seven o'clock had struck and he was sitting in the senior classroom at the choristers' school, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the dilatory members of his divinity class.

It really was a mistake, he reflected, having class so soon after the evening meal. The boys were sleepy, and one hadn't the heart to chivvy them; however, there were limits.

‘Come on, boy – come on.'

A crimson infant, his mouth still bulging with currant cake, shot into the room. ‘Hewlett, of course, you beastly little pig. Empty your mouth
before
coming into class, can't you? Now are we all here? Two still missing. Bird and Brophy. What are they doing? Still eating, I suppose.'