Appleby Plays Chicken (23 page)

David interrupted. ‘You mean, sir, you were on the Loaf?’

‘No. I took the road to the north of the moor – not that by which you yourself approached Knack Tor – and during the run my car broke down. It took me, being a poor mechanic, more than half an hour to put it right. When I began my walk across the moor, I was still much behind my time. And then I saw what could only be Arthur’s signal. It was a thin column of smoke going up from the summit of the Tor. I felt an immense sense of relief. Obscure as the whole matter was, I recalled that Arthur never misused words. If he had declared that a signal would mean that he had found strength to resist something wrong, then it was so. But if he had declared that he would then sorely need my support, that was so also. I hurried on. The smoke faded and vanished when I had still nearly a mile of heavy going before me. When I reached the summit, it was to find my brother dead. He had been shot through the forehead. But there was no weapon to be seen.

‘Strange as it must seem, I acted before I allowed myself to feel. I hurried, that is to say, to the farther verge of the summit, and scanned the moor. I was just in time to see two figures vanish along the track.’

‘In fact, sir, you saw Redwine and his assistant going after me.’ David said this hesitantly. He didn’t much like to interrupt.

‘No doubt. Well, then I did feel. I was overcome with grief and horror and bewilderment. I sat by my brother’s dead body for a very long time.’

Appleby, who had been standing quite immobile during this narrative, stirred slightly and asked a question. ‘Really a very long time? Sometimes one can feel that quite a short interval is that.’

‘Certainly for more than an hour. Slowly, during that interval, my mind became capable of intellectual operation. Uncertainly at first, and then with full conviction, there came to me a sense of what lay at the bottom of the tragedy. Arthur’s signal, I saw, had been something more than a signal. It had itself been an honourable deed. And he had paid for it with his life. Yet in the world’s opinion his death would be a disgraceful one. I saw that I had a duty – to my brother and to our name. But a duty can be one thing, and any practical means towards fulfilling it may be quite another. I was brooding on my problem – for I had, thank God, seen that I
had
a problem – when I was startled by voices at the base of the rock. They were the voices of two men.’

‘Sir John and me!’ David blurted this out.

‘No, no. This was hours before that.’ Pettifor smiled faintly. ‘I doubt whether you had yet possessed yourself of Ian’s famous horse.’

‘Did you recognize either voice?’ Appleby asked.

‘No. It would not, in my alarm, have been easy to do so. And perhaps my immediate action was unaccountable. But I felt instantly that here was danger – and danger which I could do no good by facing. I ran to the farther side of the summit, descended with what speed my small skill permitted, and concealed myself as best I could at the bottom. Virtually simultaneously, the new arrivals were scaling the other side, and presently – although very faintly – I could hear them talking again above. I realized that they were quarrelling. And then there was a shot…and silence.’

Pettifor had paused, and for a moment nobody said a word. Then Faircloth once again gave his decisive nod. It was as if he felt a clear picture to be building itself up in his mind. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘thieves – or blackmailers – were falling out.’

Pettifor nodded, but not as if he had much attended to the words. ‘I remained hidden’, he said, ‘for ten minutes or more. There continued to be no sound from above, and at length I resolved to climb back to the summit. What I found there, you can guess. There was now another dead man. I was so staggered that for some minutes I could do nothing to the purpose. Then I crossed to the farther verge. A single figure was retreating from the Tor – much where I had seen the two figures running rather more than an hour before. But this figure was merely walking rapidly away.’

Appleby glanced from Faircloth to Farquharson. ‘But you couldn’t identify it?’

Pettifor shook his head. ‘My sight is no longer very good at distances. And now I come to that part of my narrative which I would most willingly spare myself the recital of. I would beg you to remember that my moral position was a very difficult one. It is possible that what I did cannot be justified by any moral considerations – as it certainly cannot be in law.’

‘My dear sir’ – Faircloth spoke with easy benevolence – ‘you may be assured of our sympathy in anything you have to relate.’

‘Thank you.’ For a moment Pettifor appeared bewildered, and then he went on. ‘The two bodies – my brother’s and the stranger’s – lay, or had been disposed, in a manner suggesting a gunfight or duel – with a pistol in, or near, the hand of each. The third man, that is to say, had killed his companion, and left this appearance of an affray between that companion and my brother. I saw no comfort in this contrivance. And suddenly my resolution was taken. I must get my brother’s body away. I had already known, indeed, that my duty lay there. And now, under the stress of this new and fantastic situation, a bold plan came to me. I too could contrive the appearance of something. If Arthur’s body was found in its present situation – indeed, if it was ever found at all – nothing could prevent scandalous revelation and speculation. Therefore it must vanish. And I very well knew where, not half a mile away, it
could
vanish – and for ever. I remembered too that my car, although unpretentious, could be got over the moor. It had been given me by Arthur, who had used it on his own land. It would not be indecent, I concluded, to employ it as his hearse. So I set off to see if I could, in fact, bring it up to the Tor. The task proved surprisingly easy. I climbed again to the summit. I removed the small pistol which had been set in Redwine’s hand, and substituted for it that which had been set in my brother’s – and from which had come, of course, the shot with which Redwine had been killed. What I should leave on the summit, therefore, was simply the appearance of a suicide. It was utterly unknown to me, remember, that David had been on the summit and actually seen – perhaps even recognized – my brother’s body.’

‘I certainly didn’t recognize him,’ David said. ‘I’d never met him. But he did seem vaguely familiar. I suppose it was a family likeness.’

‘My plan, so hazardous in the conception, was turning out to be surprisingly simple in execution. There was one very bad moment, which I can hardly bring myself to mention. I had no means of lowering Arthur’s body to the ground. I had to enforce upon myself, therefore, the clear distinction between what was merely mortal in his remains and what of a higher and immaterial nature I was concerned to preserve: his reputation after death. I threw the body down.’

‘And then – according to your view of the matter – all went well?’ Appleby asked this a shade hastily.

‘Certainly. There was a little difficulty later in getting the body far enough into the bog I had chosen. But I managed it. Arthur was of a spare physique.’

‘I see. That, of course, was fortunate.’

Pettifor nodded – and the vein of fanaticism in him appeared oddly in the gesture. ‘I had, of course, stripped the body. It was thus that I was able to motor immediately to Tremlett and contrive the appearance of the drowning accident. When I returned to Nymph Monachorum, and found Faircloth proposing a visit to Knack Tor, I was naturally rather startled at first. But on second thoughts the proposal commended itself to me. I should be present at the discovery of Redwine’s body, and be a witness to the marked appearance of suicide. But the affair of the man in knickerbockers, and the revelation of David’s adventures, showed me that all was not to be plain sailing after all. And the situation, as you know, was soon entirely out of my control.’

‘Fortunately it isn’t out of the control of the police.’ Faircloth contrived to say this not at all like a man who is being steadily covered by a revolver. ‘May we now hear something about what has been called the third exhibit?’

Appleby turned to him. ‘Most certainly. The third exhibit was discovered by me in the fireplace of the late Mr Arthur Pettifor’s study at Tremlett. It is a typescript communication, partly consumed by fire. But there is no obscurity about its meaning. It is an attempt to extort a large sum of money from Arthur Pettifor by menaces. And it makes an appointment on Knack Tor.’

‘Most interesting – most significant.’ Faircloth paused. ‘And is there any means of telling where this blackmailing letter came from?’

Appleby nodded. ‘Certainly there is. It was typed on Colonel Farquharson’s machine, which is now in his room at the George. I think it’s not too much to say that we have a clear case.’ And Appleby turned to Farquharson. ‘You agree?’

Farquharson considered this impassively for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I certainly agree. But there’s a little more to mention, is there not?’

‘There is.’ The revolver was very steady in Appleby’s hand. ‘The typescript fragment purports, of course, to have been written yesterday, at the latest. But – as I have explained to the Colonel – it was in fact produced on the machine late this evening.’

‘Fantastic!’ Faircloth’s voice rose in a sudden shout.

‘Not at all. The typeface bears the trace of a small but unmistakable mutilation which I effected myself, with my penknife and in the presence of two witnesses, scarcely a couple of hours ago.’

There was a moment’s dead silence. It was broken not by a voice, but by a sudden shattering of glass. With a single swift movement the hitherto immobile girl had hurled the oil lamp to the floor.

What followed, followed in a flash. Open to the night though it was, the room seemed for a moment quite dark. Appleby sprang to bar the way to the staircase. Timothy made for Faircloth and bumped into David, who switched on the torch. The girl was standing where she had stood before. Pettifor had hurried to the gap in the farther wall and was peering queerly out and down. Faircloth had vanished.

‘He hasn’t jumped?’ Appleby shouted this from the door.

‘No, no – the ivy…he’s trying to climb down.’ Pettifor was leaning far out. ‘Stop, man!’ he called. ‘It’s tearing…keep still…Faircloth, quick…my arm…grab, man…
grab
!’ He leant out further. There was a rending sound, a despairing cry from Faircloth, and then silence. Pettifor had gone. Where he had been a moment before there was only dust, drifting up and in from the ivy, dancing in the cold pale light from the moon.

Appleby was at the George not long after breakfast next day. He found David Henchman sitting wanly in an obscure corner of the garden. He sat down beside him. ‘Ian Dancer not too bad?’ he asked.

‘Not too bad. He’s had to have a doctor again. But he’s up.’ David poked idly at the ground with his toe. ‘Ogg’s taken it very well.’

Appleby nodded. ‘Ogg’s all right.’ It pleased him to remember that this had been Pettifor’s opinion too.

‘Shaved off that beard. Says he must do the fair thing by the tenants, and get their confidence. They might distrust a beard in so young a squire.’

‘Good lord!’ Appleby felt suddenly rather old. It was a feeling one got sometimes, when confronted with the incredible resilience of the young.

There was a long pause. ‘Did he know?’ David asked.

‘Did Pettifor know about Faircloth – that he was the man ultimately responsible for his brother’s death? Yes, he’d tumbled to it, all right. But it didn’t make any odds, when it came to stretching out an arm to a falling man.’

‘No.’ David considered. ‘Rather a good show,’ he said.

‘Eh? Oh, yes – decidedly.’ Appleby looked at David curiously. The boy seemed quite unaware of any echo in his words. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘at least it’s all cleared up. That’s what I came out to tell you…to tell all of Pettifor’s lot. The girl talked.’

‘Oh – the girl.’ David said this very coldly.

‘And we’ve got last night’s insignificant absentee – the First Assistant, or whatever we called him. But he doesn’t know much.’

‘It really was spy stuff?’

‘Decidedly. What Faircloth and Redwine were after wasn’t, of course, money. That cropped up only in the typewritten scrap faked and planted by Faircloth, after I’d told him a whopping lie about Farquharson being a notorious blackmailer. It was a crude trap. But Faircloth fell right in.’

‘It wasn’t money? It was secrets?’

‘Yes. Arthur Pettifor, as a high-up man with a scientific back-ground, had access to a lot. I got on to that quickly enough. What he was told to bring to the Tor was…well, you can call it a document of state. And they planned to get lots more out of him too. But he rallied. He sent that document up in smoke pretty well under Redwine’s nose – and then told him to publish and be damned. Redwine instantly saw that he was ruined. If Arthur Pettifor defied him and went to the police, Redwine’s whole game would be uncovered and he’d go to jail. So he shot Pettifor out of hand. Then, together with First Assistant, he went after you. But Faircloth, who was the real boss, and who was lurking around – he’d been brought, you know, by the girl he passed off as his daughter – Faircloth pulled Redwine out of the chase, leaving it to First Assistant and the man in knickerbockers. Faircloth felt in no danger, for you hadn’t spotted him. He took Redwine back to the Tor, I imagine, because he didn’t trust his story. And quite soon his distrust mounted to a point at which he decided poor Redwine would be better liquidated. So he shot him there and then, arranged the appearance of that obscure affray, and made off. He hadn’t much else to fear. But he knew you mustn’t get another sight of the girl. That really meant that you must be liquidated too. Hence his spurious telegram, which he trusted to your spotting was spurious, and the subsequent trap he improvised for your romantic temperament. At the same time he sent his appeal for help to Farquharson – whom he still believed to be, by the greatest good fortune in the world, a blackmailer notorious to the police. It was you who were to fall from the top of that tower – and Farquharson too. But I’d told Farquharson quite a lot. And you, by the grace of God, ran out of petrol. So the scheme failed. In a way, it deserved to.’