Appleby's Answer (7 page)

But the congregation rose to the challenge, lustily exhorting the whales, the fowls of the air, the beasts and the cattle, to praise their Creator and magnify Him for ever.

 

And quite soon it was over – because the rector, evidently a sensible man, had decided against a sermon. So the tortoise took round a bag – with a gloomy reserve, but nevertheless as one acknowledging that here at last was an activity which at least made sense – and the rector, having pronounced the benediction, disappeared into the vestry, bearing the alms of the faithful with him. By the time that Miss Pringle had reached the door, however, he had reappeared in a quasi-secular character outside the church-porch, clearly for the purpose of conversing with anybody who appeared conversable. But the squire and his lady, together with the embrocation-woman, conscious of having been properly exact in the public discharge of their religious duties, were in full career for the manor house with the air of persons feeling they had earned their sherry. The choir, too, had not stood upon the order of its going; from round a bend in the village street fading but raucous laughter suggested that some wholesome recovery of nerve was going on. This left the organist – an elderly woman, flushed from her exertions, whom Miss Pringle at once distinguished as belonging to some intermediate order of society – together with Captain Bulkington and his pupils, and Miss Pringle herself.

Miss Pringle thus stood in a position of some embarrassment. Probably the rector was as astounded as the tortoise had been at the appearance of a total stranger in his congregation, and only good manners were enabling him to conceal the fact. Miss Pringle, therefore, as she shook hands, felt that it was incumbent upon her to explain herself. But what explanation was she to give? She could hardly announce that she had come to Long Canings in the hope of more precisely acquainting herself with a maniacal streak in the composition of Captain A G de P Bulkington of ‘Kandahar'. For one thing, the Captain himself was now standing within a couple of yards of her, with an expression of vague puzzlement on his face. Perhaps he was merely waiting to take a civil farewell of his ghostly counsellor, and to put his pupils through the same obligatory routine. But perhaps he had dimly recognised Miss Pringle, and was determined not to go away until he had recalled where he had seen her before. Miss Pringle was not clear whether or not she wanted the next phase of the affair to inaugurate itself in that way.

‘So good of you to come,' the rector was saying, much as if he had been giving a party. ‘On such a fine morning, too.'

These might have been judged inane remarks as addressed to a strange sheep which had presented itself, as it were, baaing at the fold. But Miss Pringle was not deceived. Dr Howard (she had now managed to glimpse the name on the church notice-board) was tall and dark, aquiline and ascetic; he was young rather than middle-aged; and although he hadn't yet been recruited to the higher clergy it seemed probable that this might happen at any time. It was true that he had been a little astray in the matter of that first hymn, but absent-mindedness was probably licensed among bishops, just as it was among professors. Moreover Howard (as Miss Barbara Vanderpump, with her keen historical sense, would have pointed out to her friend at once) was a very grand English surname indeed. Miss Pringle responded to Dr Howard's civilities graciously but unaffectedly. (These would be the words.) ‘I have always wanted to see this part of the country,' she added vaguely, ‘and I shall take a little run through it this afternoon. I believe you have a most interesting White Horse near Calne.'

‘Whites and bays and greys and roans and sorrels,' Dr Howard said unexpectedly. ‘And all, it seems, extremely interesting. One hears a great deal about them in these parts. Sir Ambrose' – he made a restrained gesture in the direction of the Big House – ‘has whole platoons of them. I always try to find him lessons in which something four-footed is getting around. “He saith to the war-horse ‘Ha-ha'” and that sort of thing. You would scarcely believe it, but it livens him up no end. Pity he can't be told to read the hundred and forty-seventh psalm. “He hath no pleasure in the strength of an horse: neither delighteth he in any man's legs.” I doubt whether Sir Ambrose would believe his eyes.'

A narrow mind might have found some impropriety in a beneficed clergyman's offering these pleasantries to a stranger. But Miss Pringle was impressed. Dr Howard had an air which made it all seem quite in order. And now he had turned to Bulkington.

‘Good morning, Captain,' he said, robustly rather than cordially. ‘These young men of yours going to be hunting this season? Cubbing, I suppose, due to start any day now.'

‘Hope not, 'pon my soul, padre. Hard work must be the order of the day. Scholarship class, these two, you know. Not a doubt of it. Jenkins, Waterbird – pay your respects to the rector.'

Jenkins and Waterbird, thus admonished, advanced and shook hands with what might have been called – it seemed to Miss Pringle – decently if inexpertly dissimulated hostility. They then stepped backwards, with that ghost of a glance between them.

‘Must be getting along,' Captain Bulkington said. ‘Set them to a spot of prep before lunch, eh? While Miss Pringle and I have a glass of madeira. Miss Pringle is lunching at the old shop. Can't tempt you to come along, padre?'

‘Thank you, but I must get back to Gibber.'

‘Too bad. Ready, Miss Pringle? We must be making tracks, then. Things to talk about, eh? Morning to you.'

And Captain Bulkington laid a kindly hand on the elbow of the astonished Miss Pringle, and led her away.

The walk, of course, was a short one – since of an evening, at least, the shadows of the peaked gables of ‘Kandahar' must play hide-and-seek among the tombstones through which Miss Pringle was now being conducted. The two young men – for she now realised that neither could be short of nineteen – walked ahead. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other. Their communion, if deep, was of a silent sort.

 

 

Miss Pringle had been taken by surprise. Resolved to spy out the ground unobtrusively before acting (which was Inspector Catfish's habit), she had found herself not a little confused by the bold initiative adopted by her erstwhile travelling companion. It could not positively be said that, in blandly announcing that she was to lunch with him, Captain Bulkington had not taken an unwarrantable liberty. But then, in proposing this prowl round Long Canings, she had asked for it, after all. The Captain, moreover, was crazed. On just
how
crazed, the feasibility and desirability of the dim plan that had come to her must wholly depend. And the next hour, she felt, would reveal much.

‘Is it for the university,' she asked, ‘that you are preparing Mr Jenkins and Mr Waterbird?' Conversation had to be made, and this seemed as good a topic as any.

‘Certainly. Balliol Scholarships are what I have in mind for them.'

‘That is most interesting.' Miss Pringle was perplexed. Her nephew Timothy had been a Scholar of Balliol, and Messrs Jenkins and Waterbird struck her as young men of quite a different sort. But appearances could be deceptive. Captain Bulkington, even though a bit mad, must have some sort of professional expertness as a coach. Fond parents, or perplexed trustees, were paying quite a lot for the privilege of sending these youths to ‘Kandahar'. They could hardly have failed to make reasonable enquiries about what they were going to get for their money. ‘Do you concentrate on that sort of thing?' Miss Pringle asked.

‘Lord, no – nothing of the kind. Whatever comes along. Common Entrance, GCE–'

‘Quite small boys?'

‘If I can get hold of them. Competition fairly keen, you know. But older fellows, as well. Ordination, for instance. There's something in preparing men for that. Serious characters. Dull, I'm afraid. But give no trouble.'

‘I see.' Miss Pringle was again perplexed. It was true that Captain Bulkington had been revealed to her as a devout churchgoer. There was something surprising, nevertheless, in the idea of his preparing young men for Holy Orders.

‘And then, of course, there's the police. Entrance is very tough there – much tougher than for Balliol – but I take a particular interest in it.'

‘As part of your interest in crime?' It was with admirable forthrightness that Miss Pringle put this question.

‘Crime?' Captain Bulkington looked surprised. ‘No, no – not an
idée fixe
of mine, 'pon my conscience. Jack of all trades, you might say. Army brings one up to it. Turn your hand to this or that. One moment, though! Give these men their orders. Jenkins, Waterbird!'

‘Sir?'

The two young men had turned and spoken on one note. Inanity, indeed, marked the features of Jenkins, and ferocity those of Waterbird. There was something twin-like about them, all the same.

‘The principal families of Siena in the sixteenth century. Get them up.'

‘We've had that one.' Jenkins spoke helplessly. ‘And there's nothing about Siena in the house.'

‘Vienna, yes. Siena, no.' Waterbird was warily truculent. ‘But Vienna didn't go in for principal families. I looked.'

‘Very well.' Captain Bulkington was not disconcerted. ‘
The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World
. By Sir Edward Creasy. Distinguished chap. Made a capital judge in India in my grandfather's time. History books, top shelf, far left. Battles three, eight, and twelve, without fail, by six o'clock.' He nodded in a military manner. ‘Cut along.'

Jenkins and Waterbird cut. They would have been not unwilling, it seemed to Miss Pringle, to take a swipe at their preceptor as they did so. But they had been brought up, no doubt, to respect their elders and take it out of their juniors instead.

‘Ugly louts,' Captain Bulkington said.

‘I beg your pardon?' Miss Pringle was startled.

‘I said they were nice lads. Come this way. Care to wash? Fetch my housekeeper. Capital woman – has all that at her finger-tips. And then we'll settle down to our chat.'

‘Time for a peg, eh?' In what he referred to as his sanctum Captain Bulkington was standing before a well-appointed tray. ‘Brandy and soda? Brandy and belattee pawnee, we used to say. Can't remember why. Tamil, perhaps. Or was it Teligu? Recollection not too strong on all that.'

‘I believe you mentioned madeira.' Brandy before lunch was, to Miss Pringle's mind, definitely an indulgence for gentlemen.

‘To be sure. Here it is. And now, my dear, about our little project.' The Captain, as he made use of this startlingly familiar form of address, thrust a glass into Miss Pringle's hand, and waved her to a chair. ‘Deuced glad you've come round to it. Have a lot of fun, eh? Cunning ways of going about the thing. That's what we're after. Put our heads together.'

‘The thing?' Miss Pringle had been at once thrilled and startled by what she judged to be a maniacal glint in Captain Bulkington's eye. ‘Murder?'

‘Murder?' The Captain was a little doubtful. ‘Rather gone off that, as a matter of fact. Not much money in it, if you ask me. What I've been thinking about is kidnapping. What would you say to that?'

‘Kidnapping?' Miss Pringle felt a momentary sense of disappoint-ment, which no doubt betrayed itself in her tone. Infirmity of purpose in Captain Bulkington must be countered, if anything at all was to come of her grand design. This interview had taken her by surprise, and it was only slowly that her mind was becoming at all clear on what ought to be her line. But she saw it now. Captain Bulkington's promisingly criminal vision must be encouraged and – so to speak – canalised. ‘I'm afraid,' Miss Pringle said, ‘that kidnapping wouldn't interest me very much. I'd scarcely consider myself competent to work out anything of the kind, or to give you an effective hand at it. Murder is another matter. I could put you on the rails there.'

‘Ha, ha! Deuced odd conversation this, eh? Our just thinking about writing a book, I mean.' Captain Bulkington was suddenly looking at Miss Pringle with broad and unspeakable guile. ‘But we understand each other, wouldn't you say?'

‘I am sure we do.' Miss Pringle was a little surprised by the effect of dark double-meaning she had contrived to lend these simple words.

‘And you are the expert, my dear. I shall be delighted to work at murder, if that's how you feel. Just a matter of finding the right victim, and going ahead. Or victims, for that matter. What about Jenkins and Waterbird? Much to be said for murdering
them
.' The Captain frowned, as if conscious of having gone rather badly off the rails. ‘Very jolly fellows, eh? Good families, too.' He paused, and shot a sharp glance at Miss Pringle. ‘Pinkerton, now – what would you say to him?'

‘Pinkerton?'

‘Sir Ambrose. Fellow who read the lessons. Baronet, and all that. We might well think of Pinkerton.'

‘As somebody to be murdered?'

‘Or kidnapped. Bound to say my mind comes back to that.'

‘But what would be the point of kidnapping Sir Ambrose?' Not surprisingly, Miss Pringle's head was beginning to swim.

‘Give him a bad time.' Captain Bulkington's reply was alarmingly prompt. ‘And his wife would be no good. Nobody would give twopence to get
her
back.'

Miss Pringle restrained an impulse to rise and bolt. Of Captain Bulkington's substantial madness there could now be no doubt whatever. He existed, as Barbara Vanderpump had averred, in a dream of unachieved crimes. Whether this could be called a hopeful circumstance, Miss Pringle was by no means sure.
He is a dreamer
– she almost heard herself saying with Julius Caesar –
Let us leave him: pass
. But one couldn't be certain. His bite
might
be as bad as his bark. Miss Pringle (who was already becoming the victim of her own splendid imagination) thought it was worth continuing to take a chance on.