Appleby's End (20 page)

“Beagling? I've been out with beagles, from time to time.”

“Ah. It occurred to me to wonder if you were familiar with the habits of hares.”

Inspector Mutlow's car chugged competently through the dusk. “I agree with you,” said Appleby. “I agree with you entirely. Sorcery is the last straw. For what may we predict as a consequence of its intervention? Far greater complexity and confusion; obscurities such as our case had not shown hitherto.”

Mutlow groaned. And what would you be thinking of that old parson, Mr Appleby? A bit touched, if you ask – if I'm not mistaken.”

“I should describe him as intelligent, learned and impulsive. And possibly as being wise as well. Consider his attitude to Mrs Ulstrup. The poor woman has taken refuge from some nervous conflict in the notion that she is a cow. On that basis she is getting on very nicely. Now, I suspect that theology disapproves of people imagining themselves cows–”

“There was Nebuchadnezzar,” interrupted Mutlow unexpectedly. “Yes – and I've no doubt that he was badgered and told that it had all happened because of his sins. But Mr Smith in this instance keeps his theology in his pocket, and acts as if dropping in on an old cow and taking tea with her were an everyday affair. He spoke very cautiously of sorcery. Nevertheless, I think we may add unorthodoxy to his attributes.” Appleby paused. “Intelligent, learned, impulsive, wise and unorthodox. What do you make of that?”

“It sounds like one of those old-fashioned tombstones. By the way, what was that he said about Mr Luke Raven and a tombstone? I didn't follow that at all.”

“Somebody sent Luke Raven a tombstone, complete with the date of his death in the then near future. It didn't come off.”

“It would be chiselled on.”

“What?”

“If it didn't come off.”

Appleby groaned in his turn. “Our brains are turning to train-oil and will be useful only to Gregory Grope. I mean that Luke Raven didn't die.”

“Of course he didn't die. He's alive.” Mutlow took one of his swerves towards the ditch. “I always think one gets sleepy driving through the evening air.”

“Then you had better recite poetry in order to keep awake. It's what the airmen do.”

“I don't know any poetry.” Mutlow made this statement simply. “I never liked it much.”

“What do you read?” Appleby was somewhat inclined to give rein to the field-naturalist's instincts when adventuring among his rural colleagues. “For instance, did you ever read any of Ranulph Raven?”

“Yes. Mother had some books of his, and I remember reading a story or two sometimes on Sundays when it was wet.”

“Of course. And did you ever read
Paxton's Destined Hour
?”

“No.”

“Or
The Coach of Cacus
?”

“No.”

“Or one about a fearful maid who came upon a gentleman buried up to the neck in a spinney?”

“No.” Mutlow's voice was wholly unresponsive. “But I remember reading one called
The Medusa Head.”

“Called
what
?” Appleby's question was almost a shout.

“
The Medusa Head
. I don't know why. It was about a family portrait that seemed to have the power of paralysing any living creature that looked at it. First it was the owner's canaries, which had been hung in a window in the picture gallery. One morning they were found stiff and dead, staring at this portrait. Then it was his dog. It was found staring at the portrait too, cold and as stiff as a statue. Then the owner's wife was found there, staring at the thing in the same way – and as you might say turned to stone. After that–”

“I see. And would you say that it was interesting?”

“Interesting?” Mutlow's voice was puzzled. “How could it be interesting – just a lot of rubbish in a book?”

Appleby sighed. They drove in silence through the gathering dusk.

“But about that sorcery, you know,” said Mutlow; “I think there may be something in that. And it's serious when that sort of thing starts up in a countryside. Leads to trouble.”

“Ah.”

“Probably nothing to do with this Tiffin Place affair. But I would like to look into it, all the same.”

“I judge that you will be invited to pursue it.”

“What's that?” Mutlow was suspicious once more.

“Nothing at all.”

Again they drove in silence. “Hoobin's,” said Mutlow briefly.

And Hoobin opened the door. It had not occurred to Appleby that there might be a Hoobin; he had thought of the household in terms simply of Hannah Hoobin and the vanished Hannah Hoobin's boy. But not only was there a Mr Hoobin; at the moment there was a visitor as well – and an irate visitor at that. The Hoobin home was small – and even in the darkness discernible as squalid – and it echoed to angry voices. Mutlow frowned as he listened, convinced that altercation among the labouring classes calls for immediate police intervention. “Now then, now then,” he said. “What's all this?”

“It be thee, be't?” Hoobin, who was an elderly man contorted like a thorn tree, held up a candle and viewed Mutlow with sullen distrust. “Hasn't found t'half-wit?”

“No, we haven't.”

Hoobin's brow cleared slightly. “Two on you, be there? Come in and turn 'un out.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Summat for you to do for your money besides feedin' your fat bellies,” he added more expansively. “Come in and turn t'pig man out.”

“What big man? What are you talking about?”

“T'pig man. Scurl. Hark at 'un.”

From within the cottage voices were growing louder – a high-pitched man's voice and a higher-pitched woman's. “Look at it again,” said the man's voice. “Look at it as long as you like. It's the law, I tell you, and it'll take more than your ugly mug to change it.”

“Get out on here,” said the woman. “Get out on here afore I take the broom to you.”

“Broom?” The man's voice was elaborately scornful. “Your dirty hovel hasn't seen a broom this twelvemonth.” There was the sound of somebody displeasingly spitting on the floor. “Why don't you keep the brute in here and let him feel homelike?”

“Get out on it, I say.” The woman's voice rose to a crazy scream. “Come back come Easter and I'll let you have the chitterlings to choke on.” She paused. “But they'll have taken you up by then, Brettingham Scurl. They'll have taken you up for the Abbot's Yatter alms-box.”

Hoobin had turned round, and now Appleby and Mutlow followed him into an untidy kitchen which compared most unfavourably with Mrs Ulstrup's. “Aye,” said Hoobin. “And for Dr Whitehead's chickens.”

“And for what happened to little Sarah Pounce,” said Mrs Hoobin.

“And for what George Potticray told his mother.”

“For what you did in the Shrubsoles' byre.”

“For the way they found–”

Brettingham Scurl, who was a diminutive creature in a suit of cheap townee clothes, interrupted this increasingly mysterious invective with a yell of rage. “Give him up!” he screamed. “I've got the law on you and you know it. Give it up or pay the money now. I'll have you before the Sessions. I'll have you gaoled. You never had the money. It's fraud. It's conspiracy between the two of you.” He brandished a document in air and advanced threateningly upon Mrs Hoobin. “You!” he howled. “You and your fire-bug bastard! You rakes, you jakes, you lousy callet–”

Mr Hoobin took a step forward and seized Brettingham Scurl by the ear. “Out on thee!” he roared.

With surprising power, Brettingham Scurl twisted himself free and hit Mr Hoobin hard on the jaw. Then he snatched up a lantern which was burning smokily on the table and made for a farther door. “I'll out with it,” he cried. “And you'll be in for assault if you try to stop me. For I've the law on you. Assault and battery is what it'll be, you slut, you trollop, you great cuckoldy booby of a Caleb Hoobin.” And Brettingham Scurl disappeared in darkness. Whereupon both the Hoobins pursued him, roaring and screaming the while with inexpressible rage and dismay.

The emotions of Inspector Mutlow were scarcely less extreme. That such a scene should transact itself within the very ambit of the law outraged him profoundly. Bellowing angrily, and rather – Appleby thought – like the elephant Babar when disposed to smash everything to bits, Mutlow pursued the ill-conducted peasantry into a muddy and malodorous yard. It scarcely seemed a trail likely to lead to the heart of the Ranulph Raven Mystery; nevertheless, Appleby followed in time to see his colleague, by some titanic exertion of policemanship, momentarily dominating the situation. “Explain yourselves,” Mutlow was saying; “explain yourselves, or it's the lock-up for the lot of you.”

“You can't have the law on me.” Brettingham Scurl was standing sulkily by the parapet of what appeared to be a sizeable pig-sty. “You can't have the law on any of us for transacting lawful business on private premises. Indeed, you're trespassing; that's what you're doing. Policeman, are you? Let's see your warrant card. And let's see your warrant for stepping in here unasked too.”

“He be asked, all right.” Mr Hoobin was breathing heavily. “He be asked in to cast thee out, Brettingham Scurl. And I'll have the law on thee for what that foul mouth of yourn did say afore witness.”

Brettingham Scurl began waving his document again, whereupon Mutlow snatched it from his hand and read it by lantern light. “Well,” he demanded. “Where's the pig?”

Triumphantly Brettingham Scurl pointed into the recesses of the sty. “There he is,” he said. “Hark at him.”

There was a moment's silence in which a deep porcine grunting could be heard through the darkness. Mrs Hoobin began to flap her arms wildly. Mr Hoobin, now gloomy and uncertain, glowered at everybody in turn. “He's been before the magistrate,” said Mutlow to the Hoobins. “And he's got his order – though he has no business to be serving it himself.”

Brettingham Scurl's triumph was redoubled – and so was the grunting from the sty. Mrs Hoobin had gone pale in the lantern light; Mr Hoobin's glance was circling the yard warily, much as if in search of a weapon. “What's it all about?” asked Appleby mildly. “Have they taken his pig?”

“It's the time-payments.” Brettingham Scurl was suddenly and politicly civil. “They've failed on their time-payments on one of my pigs.”

Appleby stared at him. “You mean to say you sell Gloucester Old Spots on the instalment plan?”

“Certainly, sir. And Middle Whites. There's a lot of folk round about here has my Middle Whites that way. The Gloucester Old Spots are mostly for selling outright to the gentry. They would suit you very nicely, sir, if I may say so. These Hoobins bit off more than they could chew when they paid a deposit on one of them, And now I'm going to take my pig.” And Brettingham Scurl swung one leg over the wall behind him.

Mrs Hoobin, a woman of displeasing articulation, let out a squawk which represented a new low in sheer vocal hideousness; Mr Hoobin was tapping urgently on the roof of the sty; and from the darkness the grunting was now like the ticking of a clock. Appleby stepped forward. “One moment,” he said. “Mr Scurl, I'm interested in what you say, and I believe a Gloucester Old Spot would suit me very well. What's the sum owing to complete the deal? I'll pay, and the Hoobins and I can come to some arrangement later.”

This was too much for Inspector Mutlow, who thrust his hands in his pockets and contrived to give what is so much rarer in life than in literature – a hollow laugh. The Hoobins conferred together in whispers. But Brettingham Scurl had no hesitation in pronouncing the suggestion excellent. And presently, stuffing a considerable sum of money into a greasy pocket-book and giving his late creditors a wide berth, he faded into darkness and was presently heard heading for Linger on a motor bicycle.

Mrs Hoobin was now weeping noisily; Mr Hoobin swore under his breath; and as the clatter of the engine died away the grunting from the interior of the sty was somewhat uncertainly resumed. Appleby took up the lantern. “We're well rid of that Scurl,” he said cheerfully. “I didn't at all care for the man. And now let's look at the creature we've rescued from him.” And Appleby made as if to step over the wall in his turn.

With a yell of despair, Mrs Hoobin threw herself forward and had to be collared by Mutlow. Mr Hoobin turned to her sullenly. “Peace, woman!” he said. “There's noobut to get 'un out.” He banged on the roof of the sty. “Come out, thou,” he bawled. “Come out on it and show thyssen.”

From the sty came a last dejected grunt and then a stirring as of a lithe and active body in straw. Appleby held the lantern at arm's length over the wall – and was hardly able to suppress a cry. In the low doorway there had appeared a chaos of heavy yellow locks, unkempt and dirty; beneath these, and on either side of a long nose, were eyes which were at once amused and crazy; and beneath these showed a shapeless mouth and a twisted grin. Far from looking half-witted, Hannah Hoobin's boy looked wholly mad – which is a very different thing. He also – Appleby realised with a sudden tingling of the spine – looked exactly like a juvenile and uncouth version of Mark Raven.

Hannah Hoobin's boy stood up and shook himself like a dog come out of water; then he swung on to the wall and perched astride it, evidently both scared upon discovery and delighted at being the centre of attention. Unlike either his blubbering mother or his sullen putative father, Hannah Hoobin's boy was a not unattractive specimen of his species. When brought before a bench of magistrates given to the conscientious reading of scientific little books on juvenile delinquency, he would stand every chance of getting away with a good deal.

Before this crazy and feral charm, however, Inspector Mutlow showed no present sign of going down; instead he started forward with something like a howl of rage. “I'll learn you, you beastly little brat,” he bellowed; “I'll learn you, you young scoundrel!”