Appleby's End (16 page)

“That's Grope,” said Mutlow. “He's whistling at old Amos Sturrock's goats.” The car rounded a bend and a long curve of railway line lay before them. “But he's not going from Sneak to Linger. He's going from Linger to Sneak. He's forgotten Murcott's milk, if you ask me, and now he's coming back for it.”

“We'll stop him. Draw up.”

The train was now approaching. Its engine, it occurred to Appleby, might be of considerable interest to the compiler of the
New Millennium
encyclopaedia, since it had every appearance of being closely related to that Stourbridge Lion which delighted the hearts of the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company on the 9th of August 1829. Behind the engine were two closed trucks, and behind these was a carriage of the stubby or truncated proportions commonly found in nurseries. And this completed Gregory Grope's charge. Appleby stood up and waved vigorously. “Stop!” he shouted. “
Stop!
” And Inspector Mutlow, after what was evidently a moment's indecision and even disapproval, got up and did the same. “
Stop!
” they both shouted, and their gesturing arms collided in air. It was a vigorous demonstration that took on positive drama from the silent, snow-covered fields about them.

And now Gregory Grope himself was visible. He leant out of his cab and waved. Appleby and Mutlow continued to gesture wildly. Gregory Grope, much pleased, took off his cap and waved that. The train puffed slowly past. Mutlow, urged by Appleby, started the car, turned it, and followed. Appleby continued to wave. So did Gregory Grope – as also a youthful assistant, who now appeared beside him, brandishing a shovel. In the little carriage at the back a window was lowered and an old man with a white beard joined the orgy of salutations. The engine whistled with unexpected power. Mutlow, in a spasm of excitement, gave a long blast on his horn. In the closed trucks sheep bleated and cattle lowed. And then a look of pleased comprehension came over Gregory's features; there was a hiss of steam and clanking of buffers; and quite suddenly the little train was at a dead stop.

Mutlow and Appleby crossed to the line, and were received with the cordial hospitality that characterises the English railway system at its best. “Jump in, sir,” said Gregory; “jump in, whichever gent is coming.” He turned to his assistant and gestured towards the furnace. “Another passenger, William. Better have a bit more steam. And now, sir, which way would you be wanting to go?”

This implied so accommodating a spirit that Appleby found it difficult not to beg to be wafted to Sneak forthwith. But professional austerity triumphed. “As a matter of fact,” he answered, “neither. What I want is a word with you about your grandmother – if you can spare the time, that is to say.”

The assistant put down his shovel, produced a catapult, and climbed from the cab. Gregory looked disappointed for a moment, but then leant out and squinted up at the red, wintry sun. “Running nicely to time,” he said. “And it's wonderful the head of steam William can get up if we're a bit late. So go right ahead.” He gave a wave to the old gentleman with the beard, who was taking the air still at his window while meditatively filling a pipe. “Signals up on grandmother, sir, right down the line.”

“Do you remember your grandfather?” Appleby asked.

Gregory nodded vigorously. “It was Grandfather,” he said, “that started me off.”

“Started you off?”

“Gave me the
Wonder Book of Trains
. After that I never looked back.”

“Ah.” Appleby was philosophic. “Many a man's ambition has been fired by the gift of a book, Mr Grope.”

“That's it, sir.” Gregory Grope patted some worn but shiny brass contrivance in his cab. “Fired and stoked it, as you might say – and here I am. And we're not standing still either.”

“Is that so?”… The old man with the beard had now got his pipe going and was puffing placidly at the landscape. The bleating and lowing of the freight had subsided. William – whether proposing a brace of rabbits or merely a little quiet tormenting of old Amos Sturrock's goats – had altogether disappeared. “Not standing still,” said Appleby. “That's capital.”

“There's talk of a branch line to Slumber.” Gregory paused dramatically. “There's even talk of electrification, from time to time.” His eye swept the half-dozen fields and the little valley which separated Sneak from Linger. “Like on the Chicago, Milwaukee and St Paul run.”

“Capital,” repeated Appleby. “And no doubt even heavier traffic will be the result. Wake some people up, too. Brettingham Scurl will have to clear those pigs out of the waiting-room at Linger.”

This was a great success. For Gregory, it was clear, took railways seriously – even if he was a little weak on the timetable side. Conversation became both amiable and intimate. The early sex-life of a grandmother is not a theme upon which any man can speak at first hand, but Gregory was able to provide a certain amount of family tradition upon the subject – which was one on which Appleby, despite the silent disapproval of Inspector Mutlow, displayed a positively prurient interest. When old Mrs Grope married Gregory's grandfather her reputation for virtue had not been outstanding. Indeed, she had several times disappeared for considerable periods on end, so that it was supposed that she was on somewhat easy terms with members of the local gentry. On this Gregory had several stories, altogether unedifying in character, to which Appleby listened with the closest attention. His interest, indeed, only slackened when Gregory came to the middle phases of his grandmother's career; and it quickened again as the narrative approached the old lady's last years. Long after age had brought her to a merely contemplative habit Mrs Grope, it seemed, had maintained a keen interest in sexual psychology and erotic science in general. And just as the great Sir Francis Bacon, climbing out of his carriage to stuff a dead hen with snow, died a martyr to Knowledge, so had Mrs Grope in her humbler sphere ended her life in the disinterested pursuit of her studies. For having gone out one night to make certain observations in a nearby dingle much frequented by local lovers, she had allowed an unexpected wealth of material to blind her to the fact of an approaching storm – and when the storm in fact descended it was supposed that she had recourse to the fortifying effects of a bottle of gin which she commonly carried upon her person. This – together with somebody's regrettable carelessness with the cover of a well – was judged to have been the end of her. When brought up with the bucket she had been very decidedly beyond the reach of interrogation.

Questioning elicited a few further facts. Old Mrs Grope had not been given to book-learning. Like another natural philosopher, Charles Darwin, she was markedly without literary interests or linguistic abilities. Her husband, however – the same who gave grandson Gregory his
Wonder Book of Trains
– had been a reader. He had taken a particular interest in the works of the eminent local author, Ranulph Raven.

This was coming near the heart of the matter. “Did you ever,” Appleby asked, “have any dealings with an old fellow from Dream by the name of Heyhoe?”

“I know 'un,” said Gregory. “Surly old bastard.”

“Bastard?” said Appleby hopefully.

“Bastard?” echoed Gregory – evidently puzzled. “Oh,
bastard
. Well, I don't know as to that.”

“He's dead, as a matter of fact. Somebody buried him in a snowdrift last night.” Appleby paused. “Set 'un, so to speak.”

“Set 'un?” Gregory was mildly interested – but suddenly went off at a tangent. “More snow coming,” he said with satisfaction. “William and me are like to have the snowplough out, come Wednesday. Come and see us, if you're anywhere near the line.”

“I'll make a point of it.” Appleby was extremely cordial. “But this Heyhoe–”

“But it's in America they have the champion snowploughs.” Gregory's eye had kindled. “There's a picture in the
Wonder Book–”

“So there is. I remember it very well. And so does Inspector Mutlow here. Somebody told me this Heyhoe had once worked on American railroads.”

Gregory opened his eyes very wide. “I never heard tell of that, now! He'd worked all his days for the Ravens, to my thinking. Except when he went off – the shameless old brute – and lived on that wench over Tew way. Before the hussy married t'other fellow. Heyhoe and his Hannah was a regular scandal about these parts, I've been told.”

“
Hannah
?” It was now Appleby who was wide-eyed. “Do you mean the woman who's now Hannah Hoobin?”

“That's right. And didn't you say something about bastards? Well, there you are. Hannah Hoobin's boy – the half-wit, that is – is this dirty old Heyhoe's son.”

 

 

William was now returning through the snow; in one hand he dangled his catapult and in the other – mysteriously – the carcase of a domestic fowl. The old man with the beard, having knocked out his pipe and deposited it unexpectedly in the band of his hat, was placidly consulting a large silver watch. Gregory Grope himself seemed perfectly agreeable to conversation both indefinitely prolonged and enigmatical in intention – but Appleby felt that the time had come to set the local railway system in operation once more. Reiterating, therefore, his lively expectation of pleasure from the snowplough come Wednesday, he climbed down from the cab, with Mutlow following. William, having deposited his fowl in a box labelled
First Aid
, fell to raking cinders and shovelling coal, and Gregory, by dint of much tugging at a lanyard above his head, produced a very creditable whistle as the engine got slowly under way. Gregory waved and William waved; the old man with the beard raised his hand in a gesture at once economical of effort and expressive of the most patriarchal benignity; the sheep bleated and the cattle lowed. And so Gregory Grope's care and pride steamed away – incidentally, in the direction whence it had come, so that it had to be presumed that the matter of Murcott's milk was in abeyance once more. It steamed away most purposefully, nevertheless. Were the paint only a little brighter, Appleby thought, and the impression of speed more convincing, the whole would have been virtually indistinguishable from the more moderately priced sort of Hornby Train. Almost one expected a vast but juvenile Hand to descend from the heavens and transfer the complete outfit to a neatly compartmented cardboard box.

Appleby turned round and tramped towards Mutlow's car. “Well,” he said, “what do you make of it all?”

“Very much what I was beginning to make of it before.” Mutlow's response was prompt and decided. “This business of the old man Heyhoe at Dream links up with the queer doings at Tiffin Place. At Sir Mulberry's the boy Hoobin disappears and there's a waxwork left instead. That's strange enough. At Mr Raven's Heyhoe gets buried alive in snow. That's strange enough too – and uncommon nasty as well. And now it seems the boy we've called Hoobin may be the old fellow Heyhoe's son. Mark my word, Mr Appleby, there's a tie-up between them somewhere.”

They climbed into the car. “If I may say so,” said Appleby, “your district seems to be a hotbed of sexual immorality. The people are as promiscuous as old Amos Sturrock's goats.”

“Amos Sturrock's goats are not promiscuous.” Mutlow was suddenly indignant. “They're uncommonly carefully bred.”

“No doubt. And so, perhaps, are Kerrisk's cows and Major Molsher's colts.” Appleby was feeling cold, slightly hungry, and definitely depressed. “So let's say rabbits. Round about here you behave like rabbits, and the fact that one man is reputed another man's illegitimate son is scarcely a tie-up at all.”

“Old Mrs Grope fell down a well – which is what you might call a fatality, Mr Appleby. And Heyhoe was
her
son. Heyhoe has been buried in a snowdrift – which is another fatality, I'm sure you'll agree. Now, Hannah Hoobin's boy was
his
son. Hannah Hoobin's boy has been turned into a waxwork–”

“Which is undoubtedly a fatality too.” Impatiently Appleby slammed the door of Inspector Mutlow's car. “So drive to Mrs Hoobin's now. And, if possible, take old Mrs Ulstrup on the way.”

“Mrs Ulstrup?”

“The maid who milked the marble cow, my dear man.”

Mutlow let in his clutch. “So many folk come into this that one fair loses count of them.” He was silent for several minutes. “You don't seriously suggest that these affairs aren't connected up together?”

“Of course not.” Winter light was dying from the afternoon sky, and the snow-covered landscape had gone bleak and ugly. Appleby stared sombrely out at it. “Of course not. Indeed, I've got further evidence that it is so. The waxwork and all that marble rubbish which has been turning up at Tiffin Place: it comes from Dream Manor.”

Mutlow sat up abruptly over his wheel. “From Dream! But surely, then, the Ravens must have known?”

“I don't think necessarily so. Their place is as full of junk as a badly overcrowded museum. A lot could vanish without being missed. Anyone could have stolen it. Heyhoe, for instance.”

“Well, I'm dashed!” Mutlow looked at Appleby with a mixture of distrust and respect. “And I'm not surprised that you were a bit reluctant to see the whole thing as hitching up. A thoroughly unpleasant business for your friends.”

“My friends?” Appleby frowned, absent and perplexed. “Oh, that! At midday yesterday I didn't as much as know that any of these Ravens existed.”

“But Billy Bidewell says–”

“Bother Billy Bidewell for a great gossiping booby. The Ravens are interesting and rather pleasing folk, and I would be sorry to see them involved in a vulgar sensation.”

“It looks like being that, all right.” Mutlow spoke with unconcealed satisfaction.