Appleby on Ararat (24 page)

“The first was just the grenade; that was the submarine.” He was looking sombrely back across the sea. “Wait.”

They waited. It was a matter of seconds before the second submarine went up too… The grey light of dawn was about them. But they were unconscious of each other, staring back at the island.

Glover stirred. “Better do a bit of baling,” he said quietly.

The dump went ten minutes later; explosion had wrought explosion with devastating effect. The dawn which they had supposed about them turned to darkness again. They were floating in a vast crepuscular region far into which struck light from one solid cliff of flame.

“Several birds with one grenade,” Appleby said. “Including our own SOS. Until daylight it will be visible quite an astonishing distance. We must just hope it will stimulate curiosity. Our own cruising range is pretty limited now. Just about enough to take us back to the island. And, if nothing turns up, back to the island we must go.”

“Back to the island?” Miss Busst turned from studying herself anxiously in a brass hand rail red from the distant fire. “Do you think they will all be – be dead?”

“Almost certainly not. We shall have to creep in by night and see what we can do in the way of stealing arms. Another whole cycle of adventure opening before us. Do you mind?”

Miss Busst considered. “I want to go home,” she said.

“Ah.” Mr Hoppo, charitably engaged in expressing oil from George, looked up roguishly. “But our friends may be doing their best to keep the home fires burning too, you know.” He giggled cheerfully at this grim pleasantry. “But I don’t say you’re not right.”

They sat silent. Ineffectively at first and then with increasing success the dawn organised its own counter-demonstration to the vast conflagration behind them. And as if loath to be outdone the fire grew and mounted; perhaps, wind-borne over the sandhills, it had got a grip of the jungle too. Miles out to sea though they were, it seemed incredible that they could not hear the roar and crackle of its progress, feel on their faces its dry, hot breath. Miss Curricle, who could be dimly seen to have returned by some magic to her everyday angularity, looked appraisingly back. After all, in this tremendous release of natural forces she really had some part; she could reasonably feel like an angel with a fiery sword. “The flames,” she said, “are gold and acid green and vermilion.”

“Vermilion?” said Hoppo. “I do not know that I can distinguish quite that shade. I am chiefly struck by the appearance of intense white heat at the centre. And the periphery is flecked with violet and blue.”

“Gold,” said Miss Curricle, “and acid green. But if anything predominates it is vermilion.”

Diana looked out with large vague eyes over the stern. “It’s awfully impressive. Like – like a great bush fire at home.” She sighed, suddenly as nostalgic as Miss Busst. “I never knew how nice the Yarra was, or the muddy old Murray, until I had all this boring and uncomfortable sea.”

The launch rose and fell softly on the waters. The sun was up. In the cabin there was a fuss of combing and powdering as broad daylight seeped disconcertingly in. The fire was still tremendous, and now there could be seen above it a great pillar of black smoke, vertical, massive, and tapering to a shallow capital, like the last standing column of some gigantic Doric temple ravaged by fire.

There was a smell of singeing; Mr Rumsby was emerging from the cabin, still bearing the evidence of his prowess in arson.

He walked to the stern and stared long at the pall which hung over the stricken depot, the ruined cunning machines, the bodies of dead men. He turned round, his face clouded with doubt. “I say,” he said, “I’ve found a tin of sardines: do you think we might have them for breakfast? Or do you think” – his eye went gloomily back across the sea – “we had better not?” Nobody answered. He shook his head – sadly, in some obscure acknowledgement of his own enormous unintelligence – and drifted away. The deck had begun to grow warm; Sir Mervyn Poulish dropped boldly overboard and bathed; Mudge rigged an awning. The sun climbed high.

It was noon. The island was below the horizon and there was no longer any sign of flame. Only the great shaft of smoke was taller, and at the top beginning to spread out like some swiftly burgeoning tree. There had been two meals of biscuit and water; somebody had started the gramophone and Miss Curricle had insisted that it be stopped again; everyone had become aware that the launch was overcrowded. Discomfort was in sight – and beyond discomfort the problematical. Appleby looked at the great crumbling tower of smoke. It was a magnificent signal still. But hours had passed – There was a shout from Diana; people were pointing, running to the rail. A note, a feather, a tiny cloud of smoke was on the horizon; it grew; there was a discernible form beneath it; it was a ship. A low, grey ship – and it raced towards the island, inquisitive, headlong, cutting its way between two gleaming walls of foam. It looked as if it would pass within yards of them; it was less than a couple of miles away and they would be under the gaze of binoculars now. There was a great deal of cheering and George stood up and wagged his tail.

“A destroyer,” Glover said; “can anyone make out the flag?”

“The flag is a White Ensign.”

“A White Ensign? I am inclined to think that it is an Old Glory.”

“The flag is a White Ensign.”

Diana patted George. “Anyway,” she said, “it’s a destroyer. So that’s alright.”

And Appleby sighed.

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?