Appleby Plays Chicken (22 page)

Almost in the same instant Appleby raised a warning hand. Nobody had been going to speak, and now they all held their breath. From the dark line of trees beyond the turf on their right a figure had emerged. It paused in shadow, and then with slow caution took a few steps forward, apparently to get a clearer view of the house and tower.

‘Farquharson!’ Timothy breathed the name in Appleby’s ear. Appleby nodded but made no reply. The figure turned and glided back into the trees. Some seconds later it could be seen again, briefly emerging from them as if to get round an obstacle. There could be no doubt that Farquharson was taking a covert and circuitous route towards the buildings in front of them.

What seemed to be a long time passed. Appleby’s hand remained raised – like that of an umpire, Timothy thought, who indicates to a bowler that he mustn’t yet begin play. The owl hooted again, and this time was answered from a distance. Timothy could hear beside him Ian breathing lightly and with care. Probably Ian’s shoulder wasn’t feeling too good. He must be prevented from trying to climb that tower, if by any chance climbing it was part of whatever enigmatic programme lay before them.

Minutes passed in silence. And then, in a low voice, Appleby spoke. ‘Things aren’t going according to plan,’ he said. ‘I mean, according to
their
plan. The timetable’s all wrong. David’s late. Still, he may be welcomed all the same. We’ll let him carry on.’

‘Just what am I to do?’ David did no more than cautiously whisper the words.

‘Precisely what I say. Carry on. Forget that you ran out of petrol. Forget that we caught up with you. You’re alone. You’re fagged out and your judgement’s all haywire. Your head’s full of romantic nonsense–’

‘Oh, I say–!’

‘Your head’s full of romantic nonsense about a girl. And suddenly, just short of Farthing Bishop, you come upon this set-up: the deserted mansion, the ancient tower, the single light. Well, carry on. Do exactly as you’d do if we weren’t here. But do it under one limiting condition. You’re not to leave ground level until you hear my voice again. No other voice is to take you a step up that tower, for instance. Do you understand?
No other voice
.’

‘I understand.’

‘Then off you go.’

They watched David walk up to the low iron gate that opened on the drive. For some seconds he stood with his hands on the top bar, gazing at the house. He turned away, retreated, paused, and went back. He climbed the gate. And then in full moonlight he walked directly towards the house.

‘Come along.’ Appleby spoke softly, and vanished into shadow. They followed him for a few yards down a dry ditch. He scrambled through a fence and into the plantation which ran along the road. ‘We keep among the trees,’ he said, ‘and make as little noise as we can, particularly when we get near the tower. Don’t, any of you, do anything rash if our friends put on a turn. It will be for David’s benefit, not ours.’

They continued through the fringe of the trees. David was clearly visible, walking doggedly down the straight drive that led to the house. Once he stopped in his tracks and raised his head, as if glancing up at the solitary light. There was no sign of Farquharson, who had last been glimpsed among the trees dead opposite. The owls had fallen silent and the night was quite still, except for the sound of their own cautious progress towards the tower, and the faint drone of an aeroplane engine very far away. Then suddenly they heard a voice crying out – once, twice – from what seemed a distance almost equally remote or high. It was a woman’s voice – and unmistakably calling for help. David had frozen at the first sound. And now he was running headlong towards the tower.

‘This is where we hurry too – but still under cover.’ Appleby had broken into a run, dodging between tree and tree.

Pettifor, who was displaying surprising agility, was the next after him. ‘You haven’t been rash?’ he asked urgently. ‘The boy’s all right?’

‘Provided he obeys orders he’ll be all right.’ Appleby murmured this over his shoulder. ‘Or as right as we are. From this point I’d say we share and share alike.’ For some moments he hurried on, and then stopped and pointed. ‘There’s a doorway. It’s open. When we break cover we dash for the wall, hug it close, and then dodge in. David’s in already. Come along.’

Within seconds they had made their run for the tower and plunged through the doorway into darkness. Then they stood quite still, intent on controlling their breathing. A beam of light shot out. Appleby had produced a torch. They were in a square vaulted chamber with a flagged floor. It was quite bare. And David stood in the centre of it.

Appleby stepped forward, handed him the torch, and without a word pointed to a corner. It held the entrance to a spiral staircase. Appleby moved into the light, beckoned Timothy, and then from his pockets produced two small revolvers. The action was so matter-of-fact that they might have been a pipe and a tobacco pouch. He handed one to Timothy. ‘Not Service,’ he whispered. ‘But there’s the safety-catch. Simple as ABC.’ Then he turned to David. ‘Your show.’

They crossed to the staircase. David and the torch vanished. In the rapidly fading light Appleby’s lips could be seen moving. He might have been counting ten. He nodded and vanished too. Timothy followed, and then Pettifor. They were all climbing. Ian set his teeth and felt for the shaft of the staircase. Some sort of rail or rope would have been a good idea. But he could manage it as it was. He didn’t mean to be left down below.

The climb seemed quite as interminable as Ian had expected. At first it was in almost complete darkness, for only the faintest gleam of reflected light from David’s torch was visible. Then they came to an ascending series of lancet windows in the wall. They were obscured by the ivy, but dim moonlight filtered through. They passed two dark doorways: they must be to the first and second storeys of the ancient place. Although they were all moving slowly, Ian found that he was dropping behind. If he had tried to cram on speed he would have yelped. And presumably that wouldn’t do. Still, he would be in at the death – or whatever fate was going to provide for their being in at. And then with dramatic suddenness, the show was on. Voices sounded sharply from above. Ian took two steps at a time. And instead of yelping he managed simply to curse. A little extra row didn’t matter now.

But when he got to the top there was silence again. He tumbled straight into it. Silence and immobility. It was like a still outside a cinema. And it was gangster stuff that was showing.

This room at the top of the tower was as square and bare as the one at the bottom. It had small windows set in deep embrasures, and in one of these an oil lamp was burning. Part of the roof had vanished, and the greater part, too, of one of the walls. It was this missing wall that gave the final touch, Ian thought, to the theatrical character of the scene: when one turned that way one was facing a dim emptiness faintly powdered with stars, like a vast auditorium during some gala performance with tier upon tier of jewellery reflecting back the light pouring from the stage.

And the full cast – the full cast of those whom the action had not already seen despatched – was assembled in a sort of tableau. They might have been holding desperately to a pose during some hitch in the ringing down of the curtain. Only there was no curtain. And this wasn’t a play. It was an actual if bizarre crisis in quite a number of lives.

Dr Faircloth and Colonel Farquharson faced each other across the empty room. They had the appearance of having been standing thus, poised and wary, before the irruption led by David had taken place. Midway between them, but back by the window where the lamp burned, stood a girl. No doubt this was Alice, whose appearance and character had for a time occupied the exuberant fancies of Pettifor’s lot. She didn’t, somehow, look much like Faircloth’s daughter. She looked less like anybody’s daughter than like the orthodox bad woman of the show. But no doubt – Ian rapidly reflected – even the daughters of affluent retired clergymen can stray. And if David had at all fallen for her that morning he must have been in a disturbed state of mind. As for Timothy, he was putting up a very tolerably professional show with his revolver. So was Appleby. But then Appleby, Ian supposed, attended functions of this sort quite in the regular way.

It was Appleby who first spoke. ‘It seems that this particular devil’s broth won’t brew,’ he said. ‘Too many cooks.’

‘Perhaps you mean crooks?’ It was Farquharson who asked this. He didn’t speak with much cordiality. ‘You seem to be rather fond of thinking them up.’

‘Criminality in various degree is involved, I think.’ Appleby looked gravely from Farquharson to Faircloth, and then to the girl. ‘And now, as we are all present – or all, with one insignificant exception – it will be reasonable to begin.’

Faircloth, who had been standing quite still with the air of a man who is thinking hard, vigorously nodded his head. ‘I quite agree. And it must plainly be your first business, Sir John, to arrest the man Farquharson.’

Appleby appeared to consider. ‘You would advise that?’ he asked mildly.

‘But most certainly!’ Faircloth looked astonished. ‘Isn’t he the blackmailer at the bottom of all this, and have I not just tracked him now to this tower, where I have found him detaining this lady against her will?’

‘This lady?’ Appleby glanced at the girl again. ‘Your daughter, I understand?’

‘Certainly – my daughter.’ Faircloth produced this after what might have been a flicker of hesitation. ‘You know how I was rather anxious at Alice’s not having turned up. Then I had a reassuring telegram. Henchman saw it. Judge of my consternation when, later in the evening, I noticed that it had not been despatched from the place where Alice was staying, but from the village of Farthing Bishop! When I recalled all the violent events of the day, my alarm grew. I drove over to investigate, and was attracted by the light of this tower. I climbed up, and discovered my daughter locked in this very room. Then Farquharson arrived, and I had scarcely confronted him when you yourself made your timely appearance. My daughter will tell you how he had carried her off, being aware that, while driving over the moor this morning–’

‘Must we really listen to this?’ Taking a step forward, Farquharson interrupted angrily. ‘Don’t you perfectly well know–’

‘I could do with knowing a good deal more.’ Appleby’s mildness of manner continued. ‘We’ve heard Faircloth’s explanation of his being here – or at least we’ve heard him beginning to embark on it. Presently, it seems, this rather silent lady is going to take up the tale. But first, Colonel, we might perhaps have a word from you? Perhaps you would care to give your own explanation of your presence?’

‘Very well. I got a telephone call from Faircloth less than an hour ago, saying that he had found his daughter here in this tower, and in distressing circumstances. He begged me to treat his appeal as entirely confidential, and to come over at once. As you can see, I did so.’

‘Without telling anybody?’

‘Certainly. You yourself, Sir John, were not available. But I came – as I think you can guess – in a somewhat more wary manner than Faircloth reckoned on. That is obvious, I imagine, from the fact that I am alive now.’

‘I see.’ And Appleby turned to the girl. ‘Perhaps, madam, you have something to contribute?’

For a moment the girl neither spoke nor moved. David Henchman was staring at her round-eyed. Perhaps he was remembering his persuasion that she was an ordinary sort of girl – the kind one usually met. Then he flushed and looked quickly away. Silently the girl had shrugged her shoulders. It was a small, utterly revealing gesture. The girl wasn’t that sort of girl after all.

Appleby had paused for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if there is no further spontaneous testimony being offered, I suppose I must say one or two things myself. And I’ll begin with the documents in the case. They are three in number. One is no doubt in Dr Faircloth’s pocket: it’s his telegram. The second is in my pocket, and is best described as a significant fragment. The third is in Mr Pettifor’s pocket. It’s a letter, I think, from his late brother. And it represents the start of the whole series.’

‘Series?’ Pettifor took up the word dully.

‘The whole series of murders and attempted murders that have occupied a number of us since round about noon today.’

Slowly Pettifor had brought out his wallet, selected a paper, and handed it to Appleby. ‘Perhaps’, he said quietly, ‘it needn’t be read now. But I’ll tell you about it. Soon there will be nobody, I suppose, who reads a newspaper who won’t know the whole story of these unlucky deeds. What I was after, of course, was preventing that.’

Appleby nodded. ‘Quite so.’

‘This letter was sent across by Arthur from Tremlett yesterday morning. It must seem very strange to anybody who didn’t know the man. It was to ask me to be on the Loaf, and watching Knack Tor, at noon today. I was to wait for an hour, and I was to look not for people, but for a signal. If there was no signal, I was to go away. If there was a signal, I was to go across to the Tor, for Arthur would be needing my support badly. If I saw anybody other than Arthur, I was not to approach them.

‘All this was very strange – but my brother went on to hint an explanation. It concerned somebody called Redwine, of whom I had never heard. Redwine was making a demand on him. It was if he had strength to resist that demand that there would be a signal. If there was no signal, he would have given in – and this meant, he added, that he would be done for, although it was possible that nobody would ever know.’

Pettifor paused. And Faircloth looked across at Farquharson. ‘Blackmail,’ he said decisively.

‘Yes – blackmail.’ It was Pettifor who replied. ‘I could see no other explanation. As I have explained to Sir John, my brother was deeply sensitive about certain events in his earlier life, and there were some that he would have died rather than have made known. Even so, and even although my brother’s character was such that his strange letter was now wholly inexplicable to me, there was something in it that puzzled me. It was, I think, the sense it conveyed of some unknown degradation facing him, and of some moral issue that he must confront utterly alone. At least I knew him well enough to see that there was nothing I could do except carry out his instructions. I did so. Or I tried to do so. But unfortunately I failed.’