Close Quarters (8 page)

Surprisingly there was quite a long silence. Prynne was looking at him for the first time with a hint of admiration in his cold blue eyes.

‘I got an impression that you disliked him the very first time you mentioned his name,' went on Hazlerigg. ‘It's a thing we're trained to listen for. Not very difficult to detect.'

‘Singular perspicacity! Well, I admit the charge.'

‘Any particular reason?'

‘Nothing to put into black and white,' said Prynne slowly. ‘And, mind you, Appledown was a very popular man. Perhaps some people thought that he was getting a little past his job, but he was such a complete “faithful old retainer” that no one would have dreamed of mentioning it for fear of hurting his feelings. But to my mind he was much too complete, too benevolent and too benign. In fact, altogether too good to be true. And the choristers didn't like him, you know.'

‘Did they say so?'

‘Not to me – or in as many words. But you can take it from me that such was the feeling. I don't think they had much against him except that he sometimes used to make them run tiresome little errands for him – the sort of petty pilfering of their liberty which often annoys boys more than downright tyranny.'

‘By the way, you and Halliday teach at the choir school, I understand – is that a private arrangement between you and Dr. Smallhorn?'

‘It is a bit unusual,' agreed Prynne. ‘All the minor canons are supposed to lend a hand with the boys' education – God help them! But it usually seems to devolve on Halliday and myself, as “Kinkey” simply refuses to have anything to do with it and Malthus is always too busy – or says he is. Malthus is one of those supremely efficient people who can organise anything except their own daily existence.'

‘Another of your dislikes?'

‘Well, anyway,' said Prynne with a smile, ‘I didn't trouble to conceal it that time.'

As Hazlerigg rose to leave, Prynne added apropos of nothing in particular: ‘When I was going into the cinema last night I stopped for a few minutes to talk to the commissionaire at the door.'

‘Did you now?' said Hazlerigg. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.'

Hazlerigg had one or two matters of routine to look to, and Evensong was over by the time he reached the cathedral. He made a half circuit of the cloisters, pushed through an iron gate into the celebrated slype with its tessellated pavement and broad swing-frame windows, and found himself in the Chapter House (one of the lesser glories of Melchester Cathedral). Pollock was already in possession, seated at a table with the results of his afternoon's work spread out in front of him.

‘The Dean,' he announced in answer to a question from Hazlerigg, ‘was splendid. We had a very large congregation tonight; as Halliday remarked to me, ‘It's wonderful how calamity brings out the religion in people' – or maybe it was just the herd instinct. I don't think anyone else could have said the things he did without seeming sacrilegious.'

‘I hope he didn't say too much.'

‘No, no. He was the model of discretion. He began with a sort of appreciation of Appledown – a devoted worker – “good and faithful servant,” and so on. Then he led up to his death; “foully struck down in the course of his duty,” with a rather impressive bit out of Genesis about “blood-guilt,” which made people sit up and eye each other. When he had got them all worked up he rubbed it into them that it was their solemn duty to tell the authorities anything which might have any bearing on the matter, with the implied threat of hell fire if they hung back (to say nothing of several years of penal servitude as accessories after the fact).'

‘I see. And has anyone responded?'

‘The response,' admitted Pollock regretfully, ‘has so far been disappointing. As yet no one has come forward to admit that they did it – or even that they know who did it.'

He had barely uttered the words when footsteps – audible on the cloister flags – came pattering towards them in a brisk determined rush.

‘The harbinger of the fates,' muttered Pollock involuntarily.

The steps paused, the door was thrust open, and Mrs. Judd appeared, out of breath but as resolute as ever.

As usual she came to the point without preamble.

‘I have two things to tell you, Inspector. I forgot them both last time I saw you. My memory isn't what it used to be. Though I wouldn't have you think that it was failing. I had a cold bath every morning until my husband died.'

‘You have an addition to make to your previous statement?'

‘Yes. First I should have told you that whilst I was having my supper I heard people talking in Parvin's house. Mrs. Parvin – and a man.' An indescribable look came into Mrs. Judd's aged eye, malevolent yet impotent. ‘That dirty slut, the moment her husband's back was turned. The other thing I had to tell you was about Dr. Mickie. I was looking out of my window at a few minutes past nine and I saw him. He was wearing an old mackintosh over his shoulders; I saw him go down the path to the engine shed. I couldn't see him for more than a moment because the path goes out of my sight.'

‘You're absolutely certain that it was Dr. Mickie?'

‘Yes,' said Mrs. Judd. ‘I saw his face by the light of the lamp at the corner.' This quiet, matter-of-fact statement was strangely convincing. ‘And I didn't see him come back again,' she added. ‘I think someone should ask him what he was up to.'

She made one of her unobtrusive exits and they heard her feet tap-tapping down the corridor.

‘If she's telling the truth,' said Pollock, ‘the case is over. I suppose we must see Mickie.' He felt little elation at the prospect.

‘So you see,' said Hazlerigg firmly, ‘you must tell me what you know. We've been very fair with you, I think. We might have held up Mrs. Judd's statement and used it against you at'—delicacy shied at the word “police court,” so he finished up lamely—'at a later stage.'

The two men faced Dr. and Mrs. Mickie across the remains of their evening meal. What a miserable business it was, thought Pollock, hating it. Hazlerigg was immovably polite.

‘Mrs. Judd saw you going down the path towards the cathedral. She admits that she lost sight of you after that. Then we have a set of footprints – there can't be much dispute that they are your footprints – running across the lawn, from the engine shed to your house.'

He paused invitingly, but still Dr. Mickie did not speak. His face was a ghostly colour, but he had himself well under control.

‘Have you nothing to say, Mrs. Mickie?' Hazlerigg turned to the woman.

‘Yes, I have, but I don't promise that you'll like it.' There was a surprising amount of spirit in her tone. ‘You've no right to ask these questions. My husband has said that he knows nothing and that he never left the house last night, and now I suppose you'll make it your business to bully him until he says something different. Those footprints might have been made by anybody – you said so yourself – and as for Mrs. Judd, she's mad. She's been mad for years, as anyone in the Close would have told you, if you'd taken the trouble to ask them.'

The affair seemed to have reached a deadlock, when Mickie surprised them all by breaking into a wan smile.

‘It's no good, dear,' he said, ‘but thank you all the same. I think the truth's the thing. After all, I've nothing very much to be ashamed of, except that I ran away from a ghost.'

‘We all do that,' said Hazlerigg.

‘Well, I did go to my study at eight-fifteen, as I told you, and started working. I suppose I worked for about three-quarters of an hour, but my conscience was worrying me. I had felt for some time that there was something wrong with the electric transmission in the organ – a sort of powerlessness on some of the stops; it had been particularly noticeable at service that evening, and I knew – or thought I knew – where I could lay my hand on the trouble. Still, it was nine-o'clock at night and raining into the bargain, and it could easily have waited over till next morning. But as it happened there was a matter of private honour at stake. You know how it is when you funk a thing once, you can't rest easy until you've done it – if it's only to prove to yourself that you aren't a coward. I'm sorry if that sounds a bit cryptic, but I'll explain in a moment.

‘Well, the long and short of it was that I put on a mackintosh and let myself out of the front door. It was raining very hard. I went along the road and into the precincts by the pillar-box entrance. It was light enough for me to see my way along the path to the corner of the Chapter House, and the cathedral was pretty black. I felt my way along it with my fingers on the wall, cursing myself for not bringing a torch. A few yards short of the door I stopped for a moment to get my keys out of my pocket; by that time my eyes must have got more used to the dark, because quite suddenly I found myself looking at a body. It lay crumpled up on the ground in front of me, so near that I could have stretched out my foot and kicked it.'

As he paused for a moment they could see him re-enacting the shock and nausea of the moment.

‘I think my heart turned right over. I don't know how long I stood there without breathing. It seemed like hours, but was probably a fraction of a second. Then a large raindrop fell on the back of my neck, and I turned and ran. I must have climbed the wall, but I can't remember anything more until my wife met me in the front hall.'

As he paused, Pollock could not resist the temptation to ask the question which was uppermost in his mind. ‘The body you saw,' he said, ‘was it bare-headed, or had it a hat?'

Both Mickie and Hazlerigg looked surprised. The organist answered, but without any confidence, ‘Bare-headed, I think. It was very dark, I could scarcely see more than a blurred shape on the ground.'

‘Yet you knew it was a body.'

‘There's something very unmistakable about a body,' said Mickie dryly.

‘So that's the truth at last,' said Hazlerigg. ‘I think you might have given it to us sooner and saved us a lot of trouble. There's one thing, though, that puzzles me. Admitting that it was an unpleasant shock to stumble across Appledown's body under such conditions – lonely place, awkward time of night – anyone might have been excused for taking to their heels, but once you were safe and sound back in your house, do you mean to tell me that you took no steps to inform anyone of what you had seen? That's rather odd, isn't it? Why, for all you knew the man you'd seen might not even have been dead. He might have been badly injured – in need of help.'

‘It's difficult to explain,' said Mickie slowly, ‘but I was quite sure in my own mind that what I had seen was a hallucination – not of this world. I had some reason for thinking so. A month ago I went over to the organ shed on a similar errand and at about the same time at night. It was raining then, I remember, and as God's my witness I saw then – what I saw last night.'

8

NIGHT THOUGHTS AT THE BEAR

‘What did you make of that?' asked Hazlerigg.

‘I don't think he was lying,' said Pollock. ‘If he was, then he did it remarkably well. I've no doubt he saw Appledown's body last night and ran away just as he described. He kept quiet this morning for fear of implicating himself – until he saw that we knew too much.'

‘And the body he saw a month ago?'

‘Hallucination. A figment of the imagination. What Dr. Smallhorn would call “the artistic temperament.”'

‘I don't believe in ghosts,' said Hazlerigg. ‘We shall find a more rational explanation for that disappearing corpse. Good evening, Sergeant.'

‘Good evening, sir.' Sergeant Brumfit emerged from his cubbyhole by the main gate. ‘Shall we be expecting you back again this evening?'

‘I hope not,' said Hazlerigg. ‘Sincerely I hope not.'

‘Good night, sir.'

‘Good night.'

The two men passed under the thick stone arch, and the gate clanged shut behind them. It was eight o'clock, and the pavements were nearly empty. Melchester was eating its evening meal, and the second house was not yet out from the cinema.

In the lounge of the Bear Hotel, that comfortable Georgian hostelry, they found two young men awaiting them – two young men looking more than ever like intelligent Cairn terriers.

Pollock felt a slight misgiving at the sight of them. In kindness to the Dean, and in order to expedite their departure from his premises, he had offered them a statement, an exclusive statement – this offer he now felt some difficulty in implementing. Hazlerigg, however, when he learned that they were reporters, appeared almost excessively gratified. He ushered them into the coffee-room, and whilst dinner was being served he talked. It seemed to Pollock rather a curious, lopsided talk, though his listeners found it satisfying enough. There was a good deal of insistence on the campaign of anonymous letter-writing, and full descriptions of the incidents of the anthems, the flag, and the garden wall. The poison pen. The heartless practical joker. Police inquiries into the origin of the letters (I suppose we
have
inquired? thought Pollock). The culminating idea – the theme song, as it were – of this remarkable performance was that “the authorities were confident” that if only they could trace ‘the perpetrator of these scurrilous missives' they would have no difficulty in solving the mystery of Appledown's death.

‘No,' said Hazlerigg, when their visitors had departed, ‘I wasn't pulling the journalistic leg. Not entirely, though I don't think it's quite as simple as I made out.'

‘Rather an odd aspect of the case you put to them.'

‘Didn't it convince you, Sergeant?'

‘I think it convinced
them,'
said Pollock diplomatically.

Then it may serve its turn – start some more hares. Keep the old ones running. I understand that the
Melchester Times
has a wide circulation, here and in Starminster. Pass the salt.'

In a private sitting-room upstairs, an hour later, the serious business of the evening began. Papers were spread out, pipes were lit, and the committee of two went into session.

‘First these canons,' said Hazlerigg. ‘I spent most of my afternoon with them – seeking the bubble reputation, as you might say – and this is what I got. Canon Beech-Thompson was at Evensong; you probably saw him. He wasn't in residence, but feels it to be his duty to go as often as possible as an example to the younger clergy. He meant Prynne, whom he can't stand at any price. He got back at six-thirty and sat with Mrs. B.-T. until seven-thirty. He was preparing a sermon. She was painting in water- colour.
Aequabiliter et diligenter.
Next came nice Canon Trumpington. He was not at Evensong. He spent four-thirty to six-thirty at the Foxes, having tea and helping to bath the baby. Left the Foxes at six-thirty, picked up Bloss, and took him home for a chat. When Bloss left him at seven-fifteen, he was dressing for dinner. He was going to dinner with the Beech-Thompsons, whither he duly proceeded (at seven-thirty approximately). Left for his own house a little before ten. Bloss, you remember, had departed from “chez Trumpington” at seven-fifteen. He went straight home to his own evening meal, which was served by his ancient female retainer at half-past seven. After dinner – say eight o'clock – he fell into a profound meditation on the Inner Causes of Action (a meditation which he obligingly retraced for me in detail). As far as he can recollect it would seem that he returned to the surface about half-past nine, made a few careful notes on “Hibernation in the Hive,” and retired to rest. Canon Fox, as I have told you, had Trumpington to tea. After he left at half-past six, Mrs. Fox put the rest of the brats to bed, and Canon Fox read a detective story for half an hour. Dinner in the Fox household is seven o'clock. Coffee was taken in the drawing-room at about ten to eight, and at five past eight the two Foxes trotted off to visit Halliday, where they drank further coffee and played contract bridge. Is that all clear?'

‘Beautiful,' said Pollock in the enraptured tones of an artist appreciating a piece of rare virtuosity. ‘Simply beautiful. They practically cancel each other out. Barring a complete canonical conspiracy, the only person not vouched for the whole time by at least one independent witness is Canon Bloss – from eight o'clock onwards. Of course, if Canon and Mrs. B.-T. were in league—'

‘Don't forget that they were two of the very few people who couldn't have had anything to do with the writing on the wall. I think that's important.'

‘Then Canon Fox may have slipped out whilst Mrs. Fox was bathing the children. He had half an hour.'

‘Not he,' said Hazlerigg. ‘The sensible man sat in the dining-room, and the maid was in and out every other minute, laying the table.'

‘Anticipating trouble?'

‘It's funny that you should say that,' murmured Hazlerigg. He told Pollock of his conversation with Prynne and of the latter's peculiar insistence on the rather obvious alibi afforded to him by the cinema commissionaire.

‘We shall have to check it, of course.'

‘It does seem a bit too good to be true,' agreed Pollock. ‘If you can't be good, be careful – that sort of idea. Well, now, I'd better give you an outline of my afternoon's work.'

He dealt in some detail with Dr. Smallhorn, Junior Verger Morgan, Vicar Choral Halliday, Second Verger (acting head verger) Parvin, Mrs. Parvin, and Precentor Hinkey, and the long hand of the clock flew round, and quarter after quarter chimed out – faint but distinct – from Melchester spire.

‘Very good,' said Hazlerigg at last. ‘Very good indeed. I think we can feel our way forward a little now. Stop me if you disagree. Evensong on Tuesday finished almost on the stroke of six-thirty. Most people were clear of the cathedral within the next five or ten minutes. Mickie was one of the last away at twenty to seven. Appledown finishes clearing up, turns out the lights, locks the doors, and walks over to his own house. Time, a quarter to seven. Witnesses, Prynne and Mrs. Judd. He goes into his front room – his custom being, according to that brother of his, to smoke a quiet pipe after the day's labours. Very nice and natural. Did anyone come to see him then? We don't know. Next definite information shows that Appledown has moved into the kitchen and is “pecking and picking” at his supper – witness, Parvin.'

‘Parvin, by his own account, left Appledown's cottage at about ten to eight—'

‘That's been checked,' said Pollock, ‘after a fashion. The local force have been busy, and amongst other reports'—he picked up a paper from the table—'we have Mr. Silas Begg of the Victoria and Albert. He remembers Parvin coming into the public bar at eight o'clock. It appears that Parvin made some jocular allusion to the hand being exactly on the hour.'

‘Oh, Lord, another of them,' groaned Hazlerigg.

‘Furthermore, he swears that his clock is the last word in accuracy. Rather unusual for a pub clock, don't you think?'

‘If you want to know what I think, I should say that that whole issue collaborated in murdering the poor old man, having first taken care to provide themselves with carefully interlocking alibis – like a silly novel I once read. Never mind, let us persevere with Appledown's movements. At a minute to eight he has finished with his dinner and leaves by the front door, first pinning up a note for his brother. Witness – the whole choir. By process of reasoning (I think your deductions from Halliday's evidence were sound on that point) we know that he turned to the left outside his front gate, and then he walks out of our ken. Not for long, though. He was dead before ten past eight.'

He paused.

‘I don't think we need indulge in any fancy speculation about the next bit, when the explanation is so plain. Someone or other had induced Appledown to meet him behind the organ shed. He kept the appointment and was killed.'

‘That's how it happened,' agreed Pollock. ‘I've never felt much doubt about it. And I think I can give you a little bit of corroboration. The murderer did the job with an ordinary walking-stick, possibly one with a rather heavy knobby head. Whilst he was waiting for Appledown he stood behind the opened shed door, and he must have been a little bit nervous, because every now and again, as he waited, he drove the ferrule of the stick into the hard earth behind him. He himself was standing on the asphalt and left no footmarks, but I found the marks of his stick this morning.'

‘Well done,' said Hazlerigg, ‘you must be right. And when Appledown shut the door he would present the right side and back of his head. A sitting shot, eh?'

‘Rather a cool customer, your murderer.'

‘Cold-blooded and efficient. I've thought that all along. Well, now, allowing time for Appledown to walk round the cloisters, we can put the murder at not before eight-five, and certainly not after eight-ten, when the rain started. There's no means of telling exactly how long the murderer had been waiting for his victim – say ten minutes at least. Allow him five minutes afterwards to get back home. That gives us an overall period of approximately twenty minutes between five to eight and a quarter past eight. We might do worse than start by checking over the people without definite alibis for that period. I'll tell you what; let's chalk them in on that plan of yours. It's always easier to see a thing if you write it down.'

‘I've done that roughly,' said Pollock. ‘Here you are. Bloss was in meditation, Hinkey somewhere in the country, Prynne in the cinema (I don't entirely trust that commissionaire), Malthus in the train – so he says – and Morgan at home, and alone. Mickie has only his wife to vouch for him from a few minutes to eight and onwards. According to the doctor the women are out of it The only two resident men-servants in the Close are Artful Appledown, who was with his brotherhood in Windsor – I've had a check up on that – and Hubbard, the Dean's gardener, who was being the life and soul of the saloon bar at the Cock.'

‘At first sight not a very likely collection,' assented Hazlerigg, but Pollock could tell by his voice that something had pleased him. ‘I'll take them separately. Malthus is rather a special case. I'm expecting a phone message about him, so we'll leave him for the moment. First, Canon Bloss. He has an ancient retainer, as I told you – a lady of some four-score years, a little tottery on her pins but still extremely sound and sensible in her observations. She says that “the master” retired to his study at about eight o'clock. Pressed further, she said not quite eight o'clock. It's a bit of a squeeze but he might have done it. Hinkey has no sort of alibi, but we do know he was out of the Close—'

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

‘Yes,' said Hazlerigg into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes.' And, ‘You don't say!' … ‘No, not at all.' After a long period, during which the instrument buzzed and crackled inanely, he added, ‘Thank you very much. We'll expect that in writing some time tomorrow. Good night.'

‘Malthus!' he said simply. ‘Listen to this. As soon as I had finished with Prynne I telephoned the Bournemouth police, gave them the address of Malthus' ailing sister, and told them to get on with it. Their report, which they phoned back to the station here, is in front of you. Nothing doing. Miss Malthus seems to have been surprised but firm – unconvincing but unassailable. Then I had another bright idea from something I saw in the evening paper. So I again telephoned Bournemouth and told them to get on to the railway authorities. That was the result which came in just now.'

He rubbed his hands on over the other in a general, circular motion, but his eyes were hard.

‘There was an accident on the Bournemouth-Overton branch line yesterday evening. Nothing serious; the up line was blocked by a fall of earth. Train services were held up, though. The six o'clock from Bournemouth didn't reach Overton until after nine o'clock.'

‘So,' said Pollock, ‘and yet Malthus managed to catch an eight fifty-five connection. How very agile of him.'

‘Some explanation would seem to be needed,' agreed Hazlerigg. ‘How do you work it out then?' asked Pollock. ‘Suppose that Malthus did catch an earlier train – an afternoon train – the four-fifty, for instance, which gets in at six. He wouldn't know about the hold-up on the line then, unless he happened, like you, to see it in the paper. What does he do next? Let me see. Why, of course, he walks in through the gate unobserved – it's still open – and he lurks about behind the cloister wall. Appledown has been asked to meet him there on some pretext or other. He kills him according to plan at some time after eight, and then …' He paused.

‘And then,' went on Hazlerigg helpfully.

‘Why, then he finds what we have got to find – a way out of the Close! After that he returns by back streets to the station, where he has left his bag – collects it, and walks down as if he had come by the eight fifty-five.'