The Long Farewell (19 page)

‘Certainly.’ Rood sounded offended. ‘I take a considerable interest, you know, in the field of scholarship with which we are involved. Rushout edits
The Elizabethan and Jacobean
.’

‘Exactly. So there is one man who knew, well before Packford died, just what Packford had got hold of. And there’s another. For Rushout passed on the information – I fear not entirely properly – to an American collector called Moody.’

‘Moody? God bless my soul!’

‘I see you know something about him too. But what you probably don’t know is that both Rushout and Moody are within a couple of miles of us at this moment.’

‘You greatly surprise me, Sir John.’ Rood contrived his usual effect of implying that he really wasn’t surprised at all. ‘It bears out the adage,’ he added, ‘that one ought be be prepared for all eventualities.’

‘No doubt. Certainly we must be prepared to see both these people turn up at Urchins tomorrow morning: Rushout to represent confidentially to Edward Packford the very great value of something conceivably just lying about the house, and Moody to flourish a cheque-book far, far bigger than our compatriot Limbrick’s.’

‘I presume you have told Edward Packford about this, Sir John?’

‘Certainly. And I understood he was going to tell his sister-in-law before he went to bed. He at once pointed out that the Cintio, being simply part of his brother’s personal property, would go to her.’

Rood nodded. ‘That is incontestable. And he realizes, I suppose, that this book is likely to be worth more than Urchins itself and everything else it contains?’

‘I’m sure he does. And he too, by the way, has heard of Moody. His brother, it seems, had anecdotes about him.’

‘I can well believe it, Sir John. As a collector, Moody might be described as notorious rather than distinguished. Still the cheque-book is there. Should the book turn up, I doubt whether Mrs Packford will get as good a price in any other quarter.’

‘What do you think of Mrs Husbands?’

‘Mrs Husbands?’ If Rood was startled by this abrupt question he did nothing to betray the fact. ‘I cannot say that I have ever addressed my mind to the subject of our late friend’s housekeeper. What she says of the ink on that postcard I suspect of being nonsense. Apart from that, she seems an entirely competent person. And she gets a small legacy.’

‘Only a small one? She has clearly been very much affected by her employer’s death; and I have wondered whether the connection might be a close or long-standing affair. You have had no private conversation with her?’

‘Dear me, no.’ Rood appeared to be genuinely surprised. ‘But of course I will have a word with her before I leave. That will be only civil.’

Appleby got up to go. He had learnt something during this little interview – although it hadn’t been precisely from Rood’s conversation. ‘And when in fact are you leaving?’ he asked.

‘It was my intention to leave quite early tomorrow morning. But now I think I shall venture to stay rather longer.’ Rood gave his singularly mirthless smile. ‘Yes, I think I shall make so bold as to stop on till lunch-time. You say that Rushout and Moody will be coming to Urchins. Rushout I already know. But I should like to make the acquaintance of Moody, and I don’t mind a later train. One’s plans should always be flexible, as I think I have remarked before. Moody, from all accounts, is not perhaps a person to admit to one’s intimacy without a good deal of thought. But a short chat is another matter. I shall certainly have that with him.’

At half-past eleven Appleby entered the library. It was a modestly unobtrusive entry, effected only with the aid of a tiny pencil of light from a pocket torch. He picked up a couple of cushions from a chair, climbed the spiral staircase, and seated himself in as comfortable a fashion as he could contrive in the small gallery. It afforded an excellent view – or would have done so, had there been anything but a pit of darkness beneath him. He had always had a fancy, he told himself, for the front row of the dress circle. Only on this occasion there was no very definite promise that the curtain would go up. He was fairly sure that there had been a performance on at least one previous night. But it mightn’t repeat itself now. There are some activities which tend to be inhibited by the presence of the police in the house.

And in any case he would probably have a wait of an hour or two. To a marauding mind it is the small hours that seem most secure. It wouldn’t do not to take up his own position early – but it almost certainly meant a long and unentertaining vigil. He had kept a good many of them in the past, and sometimes in positions vastly more uncomfortable than this. No doubt it was wholesome a little to renew his youth in this fashion… Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight. And it had scarcely ceased when there was a sound below. The library door had opened.

Appleby felt a faint shiver run down his spine. Yes – it was like old days. Not, it was true, like any of the old star occasions – but certainly like quite a number of endearingly humdrum ones… A light had now been flicked on down below: the soft light of a single reading-lamp. Well, you could call that curtain-up. He himself was still securely shrouded in shadow. He leant forward to distinguish the play.

It was – somewhat against his expectation – old Professor Prodger who held the stage. He was swathed in a thick woollen dressing-gown. Viewed from this angle, his bald head set above his white beard suggested a large poached egg. He was standing in the middle of the floor and appeared to be pointing at one of the rows of bookshelves. So decided was this impression that Appleby peered round the library in search of a second intruder whose gaze Prodger might be directing in this way. But then Prodger’s hand and extended finger moved in a series of short jerks. He was counting. And presently, having achieved this to his satisfaction, he toddled over to a particular shelf and began taking down the books and examining them one by one.

Well, that was that. That precisely such a process had been going on in Lewis Packford’s library lately had been the conjecture formed by Appleby as a consequence of his own careful inspection of the shelves. But Prodger was somehow a surprise. However, he was now going to receive a surprise himself. Appleby was about to lean forward from the gallery and address the venerable person below, when he saw Prodger suddenly straighten himself and turn round. He had clearly heard something to alarm him from outside the room. The next moment, and with astonishing agility, he had reached over the back of a sofa to the reading-lamp and plunged the library back into darkness. A bare second later, the door opened.

Appleby chuckled to himself. Perhaps it was Edward Packford. Perhaps it was the vigilant Mrs Husbands. In any case, it would be amusing to see Prodger detected and embarrassingly exposed… Again a light flicked on. It was the same subdued light from the same lamp. Prodger, by some continued gymnastic skill, had contrived to vanish. In the middle of the room – also in pyjamas and dressing-gown – stood Canon Rixon. He looked more extravagantly ugly than ever, so that Appleby found himself wondering whether so villainous an appearance was really compatible with the elevated moral character which its owner in all other regards seemed to evince. Appleby was just recalling this as an issue which had been raised in an interesting context by Socrates, when the room below him once more vanished abruptly into darkness. Rixon had acted precisely as had Prodger – and presumably for the same reason. A third visitor was turning up.

This time it was Limbrick – who had rather been the subject of Appleby’s expectation in the first place. And Limbrick was bolder. He switched on the main lights in the library, so that Appleby had hastily to edge himself more securely out of sight. But it was possible to see that Rixon was now as invisible as Prodger – and that Limbrick had gone straight to a far corner of the room and begun the same sort of examination as Prodger had been engaged upon when interrupted.

Limbrick worked in silence, and in silence Appleby regarded him. The whole situation was like something in a farce – a farce that has gone hopelessly wrong and is playing itself to a mute and baffled theatre. Prodger and Rixon were presumably cowering behind some of the larger pieces of furniture, and each proposing so to remain until he had the library to himself again. But that looked as if it might be a long time. Limbrick had the air of a man who means serious business, and there was no reason to suppose that he mightn’t work till dawn. For there could be very little doubt about what all this was in aid of. Without perhaps knowing specifically what they were looking for, each was cherishing the hope that Lewis Packford’s last and most enigmatical discovery was something that could be run to earth carelessly thrust away between one book and another. It was a supposition that squared quite well with much in the known habits of the dead man. But Appleby thought rather poorly, all the same, of the chances of these devoted and nocturnal researchers. And he didn’t feel that he himself was, after all, learning very much. It might be a good idea if the audience now gave the players a token round of applause and then went off to bed. Appleby was just about to make himself heard to this effect when there was a fresh development. Once more the library door had opened – this time without any preliminary awareness on the part of the intruder already holding the field. And the person who appeared framed in it was Alice.

A second later, Limbrick turned and became aware of her. ‘Oh, hullo,’ he said coolly. ‘What are you doing here, my girl?’

‘I’m looking for something.’

Alice, who had not undressed, said this in a perfectly commonplace way. Nevertheless Appleby leaned sharply forward to get a better view of her. And Limbrick, too, seemed to look at her with closer attention. He returned a book to its shelf. ‘Looking for something? Well, so am I, so we can count ourselves in the same boat. And just what are you looking for, may I ask?’

‘I don’t know.’

Limbrick laughed rather uneasily. ‘Don’t you, indeed? I’d suppose that to be rather unusual. But it applies, oddly enough, to myself. I’m damned if I know what I’m looking for. However, I shall know it when I see it – if I’m not a greater fool than I suppose myself. So go about your business, my dear, and leave me alone. I don’t mind your poking around, as long as you don’t make a row.’ He made to turn back to the shelves, and then paused. ‘Are
you
going to recognize what you’re looking for, when
you
see it?’

‘I don’t know that either.’ This time, Alice’s voice was troubled. She looked round the room. ‘Is this,’ she asked, ‘a public library, or something?’

‘What’s that?’ Limbrick laid down another book and looked at her sharply. ‘Have you been drinking? Or are you just being damned silly?’

‘That isn’t a thing any gentleman ought to say to a lady.’ Alice was angry, and she had raised her voice. ‘No perfect gentleman would say that about drinking.’

‘Be quiet! Do you want to wake the whole house, you little idiot?’

What next happened was surprising. Alice had moved, in a curiously hesitant fashion, to a table upon which stood a small bronze statuette. Now she picked this up and threw it at Limbrick, with astonishing force. It flew past his head and crashed into a shelf of books beyond. Thwarted in this attack, she was looking round for another missile – and Limbrick, correspondingly, seemed to be preparing to make a rush at her – when Appleby called out loudly but calmly from his gallery. ‘That will do, I think. Alice, sit down and be quiet. Limbrick, stay where you are.’

‘And now, I wonder if you’d all emerge?’ Appleby had come down the spiral staircase and placed himself close to Alice. He turned to Limbrick. ‘You’ve had quite an audience, you know. Prodger, for instance. Professor, may we have a word with you?’

This summons was obeyed. Very composedly, Prodger emerged from behind a stack of books at the end of the room. He had a pair of spectacles on his nose and was carrying a bulky volume. ‘Did I hear voices?’ he asked mildly. ‘Dear me, Dr Appleby! You too, perhaps, have the habit of nocturnal research. There is much to be said for it. There is a great deal to be said for it. The quiet of the night is conducive to concentration, is it not?’ He held up his book. ‘I have been refreshing my mind on the subject of conditional-concessive clauses in Old English prose. An important topic – but intricate, undeniably intricate.’ He paused. ‘But do I see Limbrick? Pilfering, I presume. Looking round, I should judge, for some small and unconsidered trifle to carry off as a memorial of our poor friend Packford. One of the rarer quarto editions, perhaps, of an Elizabethan play. A thing eminently convenient to slip into the pocket. Well, well. Well, well, well!’ Prodger made his guinea-pig’s noise. ‘And now I suppose we ought to go to bed.’

‘We ought certainly to do so quite soon,’ Appleby said. ‘But first, perhaps, we should conduct a little more research into what you call nocturnal researching. Dr Rixon, might it not be a good idea if you were to join us?’

Canon Rixon had been behind a sofa, and this was so placed that his emergence had to be on all fours. But he seemed no more perturbed than Prodger had been. ‘I haven’t found it,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it doesn’t greatly matter. Perhaps we can rely on the discretion of whatever person it falls into the hands of. Alice, my dear, you look a little strained. I think it might be as well to get you off to sleep. You will feel much better in the morning. So, for that matter, shall we all.’

‘Do I understand,’ Appleby asked, ‘that you came down to hunt for a recent and very valuable acquisition of the late Lewis Packford’s, Dr Rixon? And, if so, was it – well, discreet?’

‘It would have been most indiscreet, had I been doing anything of the sort, Sir John. But my quest was for something quite different. I believe you have heard about Bogdown?’

‘The imaginary antiquarian you all had some joke about? Well, yes – I have.’

‘I judged that it would be just as well to possess myself of our transactions. The transactions, that is to say, of the Bogdown Society. They were in poor Packford’s keeping. Judged strictly as a matter of private diversion, they are not unentertaining. But there is undeniably an element of lampoon in them. They make injudiciously free, in places, with the names and reputations of some of our colleagues. Publicized in any way, they might occasion pain. Which would be deplorable, would it not? So I decided to look round for them, here in poor Packford’s library, and remove them into safe-keeping. And, naturally, it wasn’t a matter with which I wanted to trouble our present host.’