The Long Farewell
The Long Farewell
First published in 1958
© Michael Innes Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1958-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Innes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 0755121015 EAN: 9780755121014
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
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Michael Innes is the pseudonym of John Innes Mackintosh Stewart, who was born in Edinburgh in 1906. His father was Director of Education and as was fitting the young Stewart attended Edinburgh Academy before going up to Oriel, Oxford where he obtained a first class degree in English.
After a short interlude travelling with AJP Taylor in Austria, he embarked on an edition of
Florio’s
translation of
Montaigne’s Essays
and also took up a post teaching English at Leeds University.
By 1935 he was married, Professor of English at the University of Adelaide in Australia, and had completed his first detective novel,
Death at the President’s Lodging
. This was an immediate success and part of a long running series centred on his character Inspector Appleby. A second novel, Hamlet Revenge, soon followed and overall he managed over fifty under the Innes banner during his career.
After returning to the UK in 1946 he took up a post with Queen’s University, Belfast before finally settling as Tutor in English at Christ Church, Oxford. His writing continued and he published a series of novels under his own name, along with short stories and some major academic contributions, including a major section on modern writers for the
Oxford History of English Literature
.
Whilst not wanting to leave his beloved Oxford permanently, he managed to fit in to his busy schedule a visiting Professorship at the University of Washington and was also honoured by other Universities in the UK.
His wife Margaret, whom he had met and married whilst at Leeds in 1932, had practised medicine in Australia and later in Oxford, died in 1979. They had five children, one of whom (Angus) is also a writer. Stewart himself died in November 1994 in a nursing home in Surrey.
Prologue in Italy
’Tis here but yet confused:
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.
— Othello
‘Come in!’
The summons was a cordial shout, and Appleby pushed open the door in the long, blank, wistaria-covered wall. It was a handsome pleasure-house, now in some decay, and all its windows were on the farther side, looking out westward over the lake. The sun was dropping towards Monte Caplone; Garda had turned from its midday blue to a white sheet of fire against which, for a moment, Appleby could see nothing except in silhouette. Even so, there was no mistaking Lewis Packford’s astonishing bulk as it heaved itself up from a desk – nor the bellow of surprised laughter by which the movement was accompanied.
‘Sir John, God save you!’
Sir John Appleby advanced and shook hands. He was well accustomed to Packford’s greeting him with these Falstaffian allusions. They were entirely inapposite, for in middle age Appleby was still as spare as a sprinter, and it was Packford himself who could fairly be described as a tun of a man.
But Packford’s humour was invariably pointless and boisterous. He knew Shakespeare by heart, and had a trick of quoting from him virtually at random. It would never enter your head that he was a man of intellectual capacity. He was vigorous and confident; he might well be clever; noticing that he appeared prosperous, you might suppose that he had somewhere built up a flourishing uncomplicated commercial concern. Actually he was a scholar, and there were people who maintained that he had one of the best brains in his field. Living privately – even rather secretively – and unhampered by such routine duties as fall to professors and their kind, he had achieved notable researches in the hinterland of Elizabethan literature, and time and again brought off some astonishing success. Commonly he contrived to give these a spectacular, even a sensational turn. There were some therefore who were inclined to shake their heads over Lewis Packford. He didn’t really quite securely belong – this wayward elusive man who delighted childishly in showing off, in casting miserably into the shade the labours of colleagues less theatrically endowed, in springing some queer, disconcerting and impregnably documented surprise in the particular little learned world he had chosen as a stamping ground. He ought to be doing something else.
All this made Appleby find Packford interesting, and disposed him to renew from time to time a casual acquaintance begun some years before. Appleby was not a scholar but a policeman. He had in fact recovered for Packford some valuable documents which had been made off with by a rather specialized sort of burglar. And Packford had been grateful. He was almost certainly, Appleby supposed, a genuinely warm and generous man. If the two ran into each other in the street, Packford’s large pale expanse of face would light up precisely as it had done now. And when Appleby had come to the top at Scotland Yard, Packford sent him a battered stave once carried – he declared – by that anonymous officer of the law whom the Lord Chief Justice had ordered to carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet.
‘Well, well! And what in faith make you from Wittenberg?’ Packford accompanied this question with a large clumsy gesture not at all suggestive of the cultivated Prince of Denmark.
‘A truant disposition, no doubt.’ Appleby smiled and threw his ancient Panama hat on a chair. ‘I won’t pretend that I left London with any idea of running you to earth.’
‘Didn’t you, now?’ Packford seemed to find this disclaimer oddly amusing. ‘You haven’t brought a warrant, eh – or extradition papers, or whatever they are called?’
‘Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid. And it’s less a matter of running you to earth than of running you to water.’ Appleby had walked over to a window. ‘Good lord, what a view!’
‘Splendid, isn’t it?’ Packford lumbered over to join him and stared out unseeingly. ‘You can just spot Sirmione from the terrace. Sweet Catullus’ all but island olive-silvery Sirmio. My God, Appleby –what a line!’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Appleby wasn’t inclined to dispute this literary judgement. Probably Tennyson had never juggled his vowels and consonants to better effect in his life. But there wasn’t the slightest reason to suppose that Packford possessed an atom of literary taste. That was part of the chap’s fascination. All his investigations were totally ungoverned by the slightest awareness of the actual substance of the stuff he dealt with to such triumphant effect. The lady who enunciated the classic proposition that art is beautiful was own sister to Lewis Packford. In aesthetic matters the man’s great bulk floated on a large full tide of vague enthusiasm. The stuff was by definition tiptop. Waving your arms, you received it with shouts of wonder and joy. And then you got down to a stiff bit of detective investigation next door to it. But even if the detective investigation hadn’t been as good as anything the CID turns up, Appleby couldn’t possibly have felt superior to Packford. The man rejoiced too much in the spirit of life that was in him.
‘I was uncommonly lucky to pick up this place for the summer. You saw the villa?’
Appleby nodded. ‘Your retainer in the kitchen told me you’d be down here. It’s a nice place.’
‘The villa’s modest, of course – very modest. But this summer-house affair belongs to another age. It’s rather grand, don’t you think? I like
grotteschi
on my walls. All these little nudes like amorous shrimps. No vice in them, but lively. And this is the best position on the lake, if you ask me.’
‘I think it well may be.’ Appleby continued to admire the prospect. It was precisely like Packford, he thought, to take his large innocent pride in his casual acquisition for a season.
‘Over there’s no good at all.’ Packford gestured vaguely towards the south-west. ‘A sort of riviera, nowadays. But on this side you get hardly anybody. Even the road’s the secondary one. German tourists coming over the Brenner tend to take it, of course, if they’re making for Verona. You know Verona?’
‘Yes – and I’m joining my wife there this evening.’ Appleby turned away from the view to glance at Packford. It was second nature to him to catch any shade of significance in the tone of a voice. Had there been a faint enigmatical reverberation in Packford’s as he named the city of the Montagues and Capulets? ‘Do you go there much?’ he asked.
‘To Verona?’ Packford looked extravagantly blank. ‘Oh, no – not at all.’
‘I’m told they filmed
Romeo and Juliet
largely in Siena. More undisturbed medieval settings than you get in Verona.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Packford again looked blank – but presently proceeded, almost conscientiously, to quotation. ‘
Two households, both alike in dignity
,’ he declaimed, ‘
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
. A wonderful idea, to open with a sonnet. And what a play!’ Packford paused – and suddenly his features seemed to transform themselves and sharpen. ‘But there’s a great puzzle there, you know.’
