Death at the Chase (17 page)

‘The electric light was still on,’ Colonel Pride said. ‘I call that a sign that tells against foul play.’

‘Why?’ Appleby asked, and looked about him. This was not a room into which the dead man had taken him on that curious morning. The reason was perhaps that there were no portraits in it. But it was well furnished and there were various signs of a willingness to enjoy rational comfort: the fire had been a large one; books and papers were scattered around; on a side-table there was quite an array of bottles. Appleby strolled over and inspected the bottles. What he didn’t expect to see – sure enough – he didn’t see. He turned back to Pride. ‘But why?’ he repeated curiously.

‘Think of having killed a man in a lighted room like this. What would it be your instinct to do as you cleared out? Switch off the light.’

‘I see. Only heaven can peep through the blanket of the dark.’

‘And cry “Hold, hold!”,’ Finn said unexpectedly.

‘Too late to cry that when the brains are already out,’ Appleby murmured. He had walked to the window and was gazing at the terrace. ‘And they pretty well were out?’ he asked, without turning round. ‘I suppose I’d better go and look. But that was the state of the case?’

‘Yes – and it’s what worries my surgeon.’ Pride looked doubtfully at Finn; it wasn’t very clear to him why the young man should be there. ‘His first conviction was that there must have been a blow; that no simple fall could produce such damage. But he seems to have shifted ground now, and to be having doubts. Or say making reservations. He doesn’t want to be too positive one way or the other, if you ask me, until some chap much higher up in all that forensic stuff has given an opinion. I’ve asked for a real swell to be sent from town.’

‘Very wise.’ Appleby turned back into the room, nodding absently. ‘It’s a fact that these things can be very tricky. And various aspects of them can be pretty easily faked.’

‘My sawbones says that too.’ Pride pointed to the fireplace. ‘That big firedog on the left – the one tilted over, but with the charred log still resting on it. There was blood and hair on it. They were almost certainly–’ Pride hesitated. ‘Almost certainly his. Of course, there have to be tests. But my chap says that
they
could be faked. Or, alternatively, that they are the product of a fortuitous accident-like sequel to a deliberate and lethal assault.’

‘Always alternatives,’ Appleby said. ‘Lots of them. Common form. People fall with a very varying velocity, you know. And with very varying results. Their weight can be a factor. And sudden spasm of one sort or another. As for results – well, bones differ, skulls differ, old age takes one body one way and another quite another. How many expert witnesses have I heard debating such things in my time.’

‘No doubt, my dear – um – John.’ Colonel Pride appeared not to find this reminiscent note useful. ‘My fellow says all that. He also says one ought to begin by simply considering the most obvious and most natural thing.’

‘Quite right – and that’s what we’ll do. And – do you know? – we’ll ask Finn. The unprofessional angle is often the most productive. Finn, what is the obvious and most natural explanation of this unfortunate affair?’

‘I’ve been thinking, sir.’ Finn was less startled by Appleby’s sudden appeal than might have been expected. ‘When we did that Peeping Tom stuff–’

‘Can’t understand that,’ Pride interrupted gruffly. ‘Behaviour of mere louts. Most unaccountable.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Finn, properly humble, directed a cautious grin at Appleby. ‘But there we were; and there was Mr Martyn Ashmore, comfortably settled with a book – and rather close to what looked like rather a warm fire. He must have got up and had one prowl around, I’d say, because he seems to have noticed that the curtains were not properly drawn, and to have put that right. I think he probably went on reading for quite a time before anything happened–’

‘Not much doubt about that.’ Colonel Pride had interrupted again, and this time it was impatiently. ‘Whatever happened, the result was his pitching head and shoulders into that fireplace. But he wasn’t burnt or even singed. Fire must have been pretty well out. Hours after your last sight of him. Young man, go on.’

‘Well, sir. I’d say the room got a bit hot, and he simply fell asleep. Deep sleep and perhaps – as you say – for hours. Then he started awake and got confused, as old people are said to do. I expect, sir, you know the sensation.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’ Pride spoke with some asperity. ‘Continue.’

‘That’s about it. The poor old chap jumped up, stumbled, and went down with a crash. And that firedog thing cracked his head open. That’s the obvious explanation.’

‘Do you believe it?’

‘I don’t think that’s material, sir.’ Finn said this with some dignity. ‘I’m not an expert on smashed skulls or the – the physiology of senescence.’

‘I suppose not. But you were around this house last night when you had no business to be–’

‘I can’t quite agree to that, sir.’ Finn was unexpectedly firm. ‘We were led into something a bit silly. But we had a perfectly proper occasion for calling on Mr Ashmore.’

‘Quite right,’ Appleby said. ‘Don’t forget, Tommy, that my own boy was in on it. And Bobby would certainly not lend himself to any impropriety. Reflect on your knowledge of his mother’s character, my dear chap.’

‘Quite so, quite so.’ Somewhat to Appleby’s surprise, Tommy Pride allowed himself to be cautiously amused. ‘But Mr Finn has this uncommonly odd story about somebody knocking him down. Mark you, I accept it. The other story – the one about the fellow with the gun – seemed a pretty tall yarn to me. But, of course, it has been substantiated. The keeper Ibell admits to having fired the thing several times. A matter of warning shots, he says. Most improper, to my mind. Still, he behaved quite sensibly when he found the body.’

‘I haven’t gathered how he came to do that,’ Appleby said.

‘It seems that nobody except Ashmore has been sleeping in the house, and that Ibell has had the job of giving him a call at eight o’clock. Literally a call. Not coming into the house, but simply bellowing up at his window.’

‘Is that a usual sort of thing?’ Finn asked innocently. ‘I mean, among the rural gentry?’

‘Of course it is nothing of the kind, sir.’ Pride looked severely at Finn. ‘Mr Ashmore was plainly a most eccentric character. Just how eccentric, we perhaps don’t yet know. Well, Ibell failed this morning to get any response from his employer, and when he saw that there was still a light on in this room, he became alarmed, and entered.’

‘Entered?’ Appleby repeated. ‘Although he wasn’t allowed to come in and rouse Ashmore in a reasonable manner, he nevertheless had a key?’

‘Apparently not. He says that Ashmore believed he went round locking up everything at night, but never quite managed to complete the job. You could always find a way in, if you wanted to.’

‘I wonder whether many people knew that?’

‘I don’t see why they should.’

‘I bet I could have got in last night, if I’d wanted to,’ Finn said cheerfully. ‘A pity, really, that I didn’t do a little lawbreaking in a serious way.’

‘Mr Finn, I don’t advise you to cultivate that attitude of mind,’ Pride said. His disapproval of this young man appeared to be mounting. ‘And I don’t know that you can be of further help to us at the moment.’

‘I don’t at all object to getting out of this,’ Finn said. ‘I’ll take a walk in the park until Sir John’s ready for me.’

‘Just a moment, Finn.’ Appleby had picked up his hat. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. As a matter of fact, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.’

‘Oh, I say!’ Not surprisingly, Finn was indignant and alarmed. ‘Do you mean I’m being suspected of something?’

‘I mean no more than that you and I will go for a short run. If you will be so good, that’s to say. Only a matter of making a call somewhere.’ Appleby turned to Pride. ‘I expect Bobby over a little later in the morning,’ he said. ‘And with a companion, I rather hope. But Finn and I may be back by then.’

‘I’d rather hoped we might – um – confer,’ Pride said. He spoke a shade stiffly, and with a further glare at Finn.

‘I think that, by lunch time, we may have rather more to confer about.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Colonel Pride brightened visibly. ‘I’m bound to say I’d like to get this wretched affair cleared up quietly.’

‘I can’t promise quiet,’ Appleby said, and motioned Finn out of the room.

‘And the first thing is a telephone,’ Appleby said, as he climbed into his car. ‘Do you know that Martyn Ashmore’s line was cut off because he refused to pay what he said were exorbitant bills from the Postmaster-General? I don’t know how Pride’s coppers are getting along. Probably they have some sort of wireless.’

‘Probably,’ Finn said politely, and reflected that Bobby’s father didn’t sound quite with it in modern techniques of fighting crime. He’d let things slip rather, no doubt, since he retired. ‘There’s an AA telephone a quarter of a mile along the main road,’ he added helpfully. ‘I noticed it last night.’

‘Then we’ll make for that – before paying this social call.’ Appleby smiled benignly. ‘One mustn’t let a disturbance like this, you know, interfere with neighbourly duty.’

‘I suppose not.’ It suddenly struck Finn that old Appleby was actually a bit gaga. This perception embarrassed him, and he remained silent until after the telephone call had been completed.

‘I rang up my wife,’ Appleby said, as he slipped into gear again. ‘Bobby’s on his way over, but it won’t be after having collected Giles Ashmore. It seems that Giles departed for London on the midnight train.’

‘He’s bolted – Giles?’

‘Bolted?’ Appleby glanced curiously at Finn. ‘I suppose it could be called that. But the ostensible object of the exercise was to reproach the faithless Robina.’ Appleby paused. ‘What puts the idea of bolting in your head, Finn?’

‘Nothing sensible, sir, I suppose. Giles can’t have done in his uncle. That train was non-stop to Paddington. Or could he have pulled the communcation cord somewhere beyond Linger?’

‘My dear young man, do you really think that Giles Ashmore could murder somebody – any more than you could yourself?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. About myself, that is.’ Finn seemed rather offended at being taxed with too much of the milk of human kindness for effective homicidal action. ‘And one gets to suspecting everybody all round, it seems to me, when a thing like this happens.’

‘But you put to the Chief Constable quite a persuasive case for viewing Ashmore’s death as an accident.’

‘I refused to say I believed it.’ Finn spoke quite sharply. ‘Where are we going now, sir?’

‘To Abbot’s Yatter. You are going to ask if Mr Giles is at home.’

‘You’ve got it wrong, Sir John.’ Finn’s view of the twilight character of Appleby’s intellectual processes was confirmed. ‘King’s Yatter is Giles’ home – not Abbot’s Yatter.’

‘So it is, Finn. Nevertheless, I hope you will do as I suggest. Rather noisily, insistently, and obtusely, if possible. Do you think you could manage an effect of being obtuse?’

‘Oh, I say!’

‘Abbott’s Yatter is, of course, Ambrose Ashmore’s house. You’ve never been there?’

‘Never been near the place.’

‘And they won’t know anything about you – for example, that you realize there are two Yatters?’

‘I don’t think so. I gather from old Giles that not much information passes between the two Yatters. All the Ashmores detest each other, it seems. That’s what makes this such a funny business, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

‘Absolutely hilarious. Take this key’ – Appleby had contrived to reach into a waistcoat-pocket – ‘and unlock the glove-box. Fetch out what you find there.’

‘Oh, I say!’ For the second time within a couple of minutes, Finn was constrained to his prime conversational resource in moments of stress. ‘Is it loaded?’

‘Most certainly it is. Don’t touch the safety-catch.’

‘Am I to take it with me, sir?’

‘Heaven forbid. It is strictly for my personal use. I think we’ll make a detour here. No point in running into Bobby, and having to waste time stopping and explaining ourselves.’

‘But if you want to be up to something rather deep at Abbot’s Yatter, sir, wouldn’t Bobby be better than me?’ Finn suggested this on a note of naïve hope. ‘Bobby’s such a high-powered egghead type.’ Finn paused to consider this designation, and appeared to feel that it might be regarded as offensively derogatory. ‘Not that one would really notice it, of course,’ he added. ‘The world thinks of Bobby as a bloody good man behind a scrum.’

‘I hope Bobby is properly appreciative of the compliment. Have you met Giles’ father, Rupert Ashmore of King’s Yatter?’

‘I did meet him once, sir. Smooth type.’

‘Precisely. He is the man who stands to gain most, you know, by his elder brother Martyn’s sudden death. They were a very long-lived family, the Ashmores. Rupert might have reckoned on continuing to have an elder brother for anything up to thirty years. And Rupert is said to be rather impoverished. He has no doubt been wishing Martyn dead.’

‘Oh, I–’ Finn checked himself. ‘Do you think he picked up that fire-dog–’

‘Perhaps he did. But I have an idea that Rupert Ashmore’s mind moves more obliquely than that. Not necessarily less effectively.’ Appleby swung the wheel and turned into a narrow lane. ‘You know that Ashmores have a habit of marrying and propagating very late in life?’

‘Yes, sir. What might be called the Robina-complex.’

‘Just that. I have a feeling that Rupert Ashmore hasn’t much wanted his brother Martyn to marry and propagate.’

‘Obviously not. And that would go for Giles as well.’

‘Indeed it would. Incidentally, Finn, you yourself speak of Miss Bunker in what I’d call an aggressively hard-boiled way. Didn’t you–?’

‘That was all rot.’ Finn spoke with a sudden violent energy. ‘But perhaps you have me typed as seething with jealous rage against all Ashmores?’

‘Let’s stick to Rupert for a moment. He called on me yesterday, accompanied by the young Frenchman–’

‘Jules de Voisin. Equally smooth in his own way.’

‘Well, yes. I’m not sure that Jules wasn’t tumbling to things of which he didn’t approve. I first met him hot on the scent of something of the kind. But the main point is that Rupert would be for slow and devious courses. It seems to be otherwise with the third brother, Ambrose. I’ve been hearing about him. A picturesquely violent man. And probably quite mad.’