A Connoisseur's Case (16 page)

‘It doesn't,' Judith interposed, ‘explain his death. Or does it?'

‘Some additional facts might. Suppose that somebody else had known about the hiding place – and had rifled it already. And suppose Crabtree to know who that person must be. There might be a motive of sorts there for killing the old man. But we don't really want suppositions. We want a few more hard facts.'

‘Quite so.' Bertram Coulson nodded. ‘And I can't help hoping – with all respect to you, Appleby – that by this time that excellent fellow Hilliard has found them. Simply by following up whatever suspicious characters may have been wandering casually through this countryside yesterday.'

‘And with a disposition to take a swipe at a defenceless old stranger, on the off-chance of his having a few pounds in his pocket? Well, that's been in our minds before.' Appleby paused. ‘And I share your hope. It might save quite a lot of trouble.' He smiled at Coulson. ‘Including hunting Scroop for those hiding places.'

‘I don't think I'd mind that.'

‘Perhaps not. But I've been in this sort of business for a long time, Coulson. And I know that one hidden thing has a nasty trick of leading to another.'

 

Having taken their leave, the Applebys walked for some way in silence across the park.

‘Wasn't that,' Judith asked, ‘rather a stiff crack you took at him at the end?'

‘I simply meant what I said. One digs up the relevant horror only by disinterring a lot of irrelevant ones as well. You know that. It's something I assure you of to the point of boredom.'

‘All sorts of thronging horrors among the respectable landed gentry? Skeletons swinging on every family tree? You've been reading too much Ivy Compton-Burnett. Do you think, to begin with, that Bertram Coulson has some dark past?'

‘I'm not sure that Hollywood wasn't going obliquely about putting something of the sort in my head. I suspect that he was providing what you might call the
one
two, knowing that I'd presently come upon the
other
two to put it together with. A deep one, is Hollywood.'

‘Aren't you convinced that they're all deep ones in this affair?'

‘Yes, I am – absolutely.'

‘Well, that's candid, at least. But go back to this nice Bertram Coulson, who's had all that difficulty in persuading himself that he's adequate in the role of a perfectly ordinary country gentleman. Do you think he has some frightful past?'

‘I think he may have a frightful future.'

‘Don't be tiresome, John.'

‘Well, at the lowest he's a man beset by some very queer doubt. And it can't simply be, “Am I really like the dear old squire?” There may be a small element in the man of something of that order. Because he isn't one of the English Coulsons, and so forth. But he's had the same sort of breeding as the folk he calls “the county” – or as near as makes no difference. So the thing doesn't make sense. No – if he's a man in some way undermined, it's by a doubt of some quite different quality.'

‘Might it be a doubt about his wife? Remember Uncle Julius' queer impression of her.'

‘I remember my own impression.' Appleby spoke soberly. ‘A good sort of woman, I thought. But I did find myself thinking other things as well. What's the house like, by the way? William Chambers going strong?'

Judith nodded.

‘Rather lovely,' she said. ‘The
chinoiseries
aren't quite up to a tiptop place like Claydon, say. But they're pretty good. And Bertram is terribly proud of everything. Yet it's a mix-up, in a way, rather as
he
is. Half a dozen rather good eighteenth-century paintings and a really fine range of the watercolourists. But two or three modish modern things he's obviously been told indicate enlightened patronage today. Some superb French pieces, but even more ultra-shiny, high-grade reproduction antique. A gunroom with far too many guns. The wrong sort of dogs–' Judith broke off in high indignation as her husband suddenly shouted with laughter. ‘Of course if you won't be
serious
–' she began.

‘Perhaps it
is
impossible for a mere colonial gent to become an English one. Too many guns – what a solecism! Pug dogs–'

‘Of course they're not–'

‘Or at least dogs that are almost human. How very shocking! Damme, sir, the fellow's a mere counter-jumper. Cockney accent, too. Comes from Australia, they say. Calls himself a Coulson, and I suppose he was vetted by the old gel – Sara, did they call her? – who was straight out of the right stable, bless her. But there's a touch of convict blood in this fellow, if you ask me.'

‘Don't be a buffoon.' Judith, with some satisfaction, continued to be furious. ‘You remind me of the odious Channing-Kennedy.'

‘Ah – Channing-Kennedy.' Appleby was suddenly completely serious. ‘Judith – I wonder whether, perhaps, it's rather useful to be reminded of him?'

 

 

‘Of course, they're a philistine crowd round here.'

Colonel Julius Raven pronounced this judgement as he stood before his sideboard and carved, with a connoisseur's care, a choice chunk of cold salmon for his niece. Although himself a soldier and of simple mind, he was the head of a family so prolific in poets, painters, sculptors, scholars and madmen generally that he was thus prompted at times to speak of his rural neighbours with this sort of benevolent condescension.

‘Even at Scroop?' Judith asked.

‘Oh, dear me, yes. Bertram Coulson is all piety, as you've seen. But he wouldn't have cut much of a figure among the Souls, and all that lot. Arthur Balfour, now. I never did much care for that fellow. All intellect and sensibility and amateur professor on the one hand. But look at his handling of Ireland on the other.' Colonel Raven had one of his vague moments. ‘My dear, what am I talking about?'

‘The people at Scroop.'

‘Ah, yes. Bertram Coulson must be a man of ability, you know. Mayonnaise? I don't recommend it. Tea-shop stuff at the best, if you ask me. Small drop of vinegar?'

‘Small drop of vinegar, Uncle Julius.'

‘Vinegar? A very good idea. Excellent. I'm delighted you thought of it, my dear. Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Young Coulson at Scroop. Able man. Stands to reason. Cattle in a big way in the colonies, and so forth. But only the local backwoodsmen visit at Scroop. Decent fellows and all that. But no brains, bless them. No taste, if the truth be told. Not as in the old girl's time. Lion and the lizard, don't you know. Haunting the courts where the other fellow had cut rather a figure. Good poem. Loaf of bread beneath the bough. Drop of hock? Only thing I ever touch in the middle of the day. Should be almost frozen, and then allowed to return to cellar temperature. Something that that dunderhead Tarbox discovered. Clever chap.'

‘Uncle Julius, do you know anything about Miles Coulson?'

‘Miles?' Colonel Raven looked seriously at his niece and shook his head. ‘He used to be there quite a lot. Had an odd profession for a Coulson. Ominous, you might say, from the start. A mummer.'

‘Miles Coulson was an actor?'

‘Actor?' Colonel Raven appeared to have difficulty in placing this word. ‘Quite correct, my dear. Stage player. Talented, I've been told. And, of course, old Sara had all sorts round the place. Hicks. And the fat fellow who was in
Chu Chin Chow
. Anyone at his own particular top. So Miles would usually have some of his own kidney.'

‘There was some idea that this Miles Coulson might inherit the place?'

‘Yes, I believe so. But it didn't happen that way. Perhaps the old girl found out something to his discredit. Or perhaps she simply preferred the sound of Bertram Coulson, out in the Antipodes with all those wholesome sheep and cattle. And Miles may have taken it a little hard.'

‘What does Miles do now?'

‘I've no idea, my dear. I've never heard him mentioned for years. Went off the rails, they say. But I don't know how badly. Sad thing, when a decent family produces a rotter. Came across it once or twice in the Regiment. Honoured name, you know. And then suddenly you have a boy forging a cheque or cheating at cards. Embarrassing.' For a moment Colonel Raven looked extremely serious. Then he brightened. ‘But I see that Tarbox has let us have the Stilton,' he said. ‘Dig into it, John. It's really not bad – not as Stilton goes nowadays.'

Appleby did as he was bidden.

‘No – no more hock, thank you,' he said. ‘We had to drink a glass of Madeira with the Coulsons. Something Bertram Coulson had read about in a book, I felt. But I judged him an interesting chap. He took Judith over the house.'

‘And his wife?'

‘Well – an interesting woman.' Appleby smiled. ‘But she went on sick parade halfway through our call.'

‘Did she, indeed?' Colonel Raven sounded concerned. ‘Would you say, John, that she seemed to have had a shock?'

‘Well, yes. I think that the death of this old man so close by had affected her.'

‘The death of an old man?' For a short but unmistakable moment, Colonel Raven was quite at sea. ‘Ah, Crabtree,' he then said. ‘Yes, of course.'

Appleby looked curiously at his host.

‘It was something else you had in mind?'

‘Oh, no. Oh, dear me, no. Stilton, Judith? Or there's this Italian stuff, if your taste lies that way.'

Judith took some of the Italian stuff. And at Colonel Raven's board there was a silence of a totally unfamiliar sort. For – incredibly – Colonel Raven had somehow failed in candour. He had even given his niece and her husband what could only be called a furtive look. The thing was as astounding as if he had himself produced a pack of cards with six aces. Appleby knew that he had to speak. But he found himself taking a deep breath before doing so.

‘Colonel – you remember our talk about the Coulsons at dinner last night?'

‘About the Coulsons?' Colonel Raven repeated the name with a vagueness that seemed in part genuine and in part an embarrassing continuation of his sudden odd behaviour. ‘Ah, yes – we talked about them, of course.'

‘You said something about Mrs Coulson that you were then reluctant to enlarge on or even to stand by. Not exactly about her moral character, but about – well, perhaps her disposition in that general area of conduct.'

‘Did I, my dear John? I'm sorry to hear it. Comes of neglecting the drill, wouldn't you say? Never knew a decent Mess where a fellow was allowed to name a lady at dinner.'

‘No doubt.' Appleby didn't wholly manage to exclude a certain impatience from his reception of this. ‘But what I want to know, Colonel, is this: was there anything in the recent past that prompted you to that particular line of comment on Mrs Coulson?'

‘Really, John, I don't, if I may say so, care for this at all. My fault, clearly. Talking out of turn in the most shocking way. Can I have had a glass too much of that burgundy, would you say? But I think we'll drop the subject, if you don't mind.'

‘But I do mind.' Appleby was inexorable. ‘I repeat my question. Have you, just lately, come upon Mrs Coulson in any relation or situation that might have prompted what slipped from you about her last night?'

‘My dear John, you surprise me.' The Colonel said this in evident distress. At the same time he got to his feet with a decision that somehow suggested a very senior man's severe rebuke. ‘Coffee will be in the library, I think.'

‘But please consider, sir.' Appleby sat tight. Judith, he saw, was watching this unexpected collision with detached interest. ‘My question might not, in normal circumstances, be one which it would be decent to press if you considered it improper. But remember its present context. A context of murder. Flat murder. Make no mistake about that. Has Seth Crabtree gone out of your head?'

‘Crabtree?' From being severe, Colonel Raven appeared to have relapsed upon being confused. ‘Of course I haven't forgotten Crabtree. Crabtree may have been the figure that I–' He checked himself, stiffened, and then spoke with an entirely regained composure. ‘It won't do, John. There are things a gentleman doesn't tell.'

Appleby again felt himself taking a deep breath. A gentleman, he was thinking, had to be both a gentleman and in his later seventies in order to speak about a gentleman in quite this grand manner. And certainly Colonel Raven didn't make a habit of it. He had said something which he might live to be ninety without ever saying again.

‘Thank you,' Appleby said. He gave Judith a glance which was a semi-comic acknowledgement of defeat. ‘And coffee in the library, of course.'

 

‘He routed you,' Judith said with mild malice, as they took an afternoon walk. ‘Uncle Julius routed you. You were enjoying the Stilton. But you left a chunk of it on your plate.'

‘You always were observant in these small domestic matters.' Appleby paused to light his pipe. ‘But did you keep your eye on your uncle as well? What was our little
contretemps
all about?'

‘It was about being a gentleman.'

‘Yes, I rather gathered that. What gentlemen do do, and what they don't do. They may say something about a woman being a bit of a girl, but will draw back from anything one might call an actual aspersion on her character. We had all that last night. Today we had something further and different. A gentleman won't tell of seeing something it wasn't his business to see. Even if it was something that ended in murder.'

Judith was startled.

‘John, you're letting your imagination run away with you. Uncle Julius has no notion of anything he may have seen as ending in murder. He doesn't, for one thing, put two and two together all that quickly. Not now. He sees one thing at a time. I think he saw Mrs Coulson – perhaps actually yesterday – in what he judged was a compromising situation. And that prompted him to speak rather unguardedly last night. But actual telling tales is something he's incapable of – even with a top policeman booming away at him over his own table about a context of murder. That's all.'