Appleby's End (22 page)

“It is that, Mr Appleby. And I would like to be well rid of it, I don't mind telling you. But this sorcery–”

“And now, Heyhoe.” As the little car hummed through the late evening Appleby was settling down to something like a review of the case. “Again there is a correspondence with a Ranulph Raven story – or something like. But first you must realise this: just as these recent events hitch on to Ranulph stories, so often do the stories themselves hitch on to events in the past. Ranulph, that's to say, wrote up actual incidents and sensations round about him. There's nothing odd in that. But sometimes he wrote up fantasies: the things actual people whom he met confessed to him they dreamed of. As a consequence of this we have something much more remarkable:
Ranulph Raven stories sometimes had the appearance of coming true
. Put it like this. He wandered about this countryside, and he had a certain power of reading people's
futures
. He would get at bents, plans, ambitions, some of which would be sinister or sensational. Some of these he would write up. And some of these again – very few, but enough to attach notions of the uncanny to him – would later actually fulfil themselves. Now, Heyhoe–”

“Wait a minute!” There was a quite new sharpness in Mutlow's voice. “Was he proud of this? Did he make a business of it?”

“Yes – or at least I fancy so.” Appleby glanced with unusual interest at his companion.

“He would like this notion of a yarn coming true. It would amuse him to think of such a thing happening long after he was dead. And what is happening? What that old fellow Smith said. Something just like a Ranulph Raven story. And it's happening in his own family. An honest Victorian story of doubtful heirs and – yes, by heaven! – secret marriages. Lord knows what sense can be in all the details, Mr Appleby. But the core of the thing is clear. Ranulph was
married
to Mrs Grope; and Heyhoe, therefore, was legitimate. Heyhoe was
married
to Mrs Hoobin. That's it! A perfect Raven yarn. Hannah Hoobin's boy is the legitimate heir of Dream.”

“Well, well!” Appleby's voice held considerable respect. “You mean that there is probably a Raven story that runs on these lines, and that it amused Ranulph to plan for its coming true bang in the next generation of his own family? Decidedly a sardonic humour he must have had. But it's not impossible. It's not impossible, at least, that his own valid marriage was with Heyhoe's mother, and that he had a mind perverted enough to take pleasure in the idea of complications resulting some day. But he certainly could not have had any hand in planning the legitimacy of Hannah Hoobin's boy – who was begotten by Heyhoe some twenty or thirty years after Ranulph's death. There's a snag there.”

“Maybe so. But scrap the notion of malice or design on Ranulph Raven's part and simply put it like this, Mr Appleby. As a young man he was foolish enough to marry the woman who later became Mrs Grope. Somehow he kept it quiet, and the man we call Heyhoe, who was really his heir, lived at Dream as a servant. Eventually Heyhoe married – also for some reason clandestinely. He married this woman who is now Mrs Hoobin and there was born to them the half-witted boy. You see what that means. A place like Dream is entailed to legitimate issue, no doubt. So the present squire, Mr Everard, and all the crowd of Ravens who live with him, have no real right to the place at all. Very well. Suppose now, they find out that old Mrs Grope knows the truth–”

“In that case, wouldn't she have proclaimed it long ago? If she knew herself to have been Ranulph Raven's wife, and her son Heyhoe entitled to rank as a gentleman, surely she would sooner or later have come forward with it.”

Mutlow shook his head. “We don't know the early circumstances. Ranulph may have been Mrs Grope's first lover. Conceivably she may have believed herself to have been seduced by means of a mock marriage, and only later have discovered that it was valid – by which time she may have been scared of the Gropes. But as an old woman she would become independent again, and perhaps try blackmailing the folk at Dream. Whereupon she fell down a well.”

“And then?”

“The Ravens got busy and ferreted out the fact that the half-wit too was legitimate. So both he and Heyhoe had to go.”

Appleby laughed. “They had to go. But the boy didn't go. He stopped in a pig-sty. As for Heyhoe, he went all right – but not at all after the fashion of his mama. Mrs Grope had an accident on a dark night. Heyhoe too was out on a dark night. But instead of having an accident which might get two or three lines in a local rag, he dies in conditions so fantastic that tomorrow morning every national paper will very likely be splashing them. Moreover he is found under circumstances that directly parallel a Ranulph Raven story.” Appleby frowned. “No, that's not right. He is found under circumstances which recall some actual happening in the neighbourhood long ago. Billy Bidewell's grandmother told him of it – the story of a fearful maid who came upon what appeared to be a severed head grimacing upon the ground. Ranulph may have known the story, but seemingly he never wrote it up – for the Heyhoe affair doesn't suggest any part of his writings to Miss Raven, and she knows them well. So where are we – if your theory is sound? The Ravens have decided on eliminating their legitimate relation, Heyhoe – and they do it after a sensational fashion, reminiscent of a story Ranulph didn't write, and of a kind certain to attain the widest notoriety. Moreover, they have already set an authentic Ranulph story –
The Medusa Head
– in operation at Tiffin Place, seemingly as part of a plot against Heyhoe's half-wit son. This too will be sure of publicity now, and it is linked in turn with tricks they must simply have perpetrated upon themselves: notably the
Paxton's Destined Hour
trick, seemingly directed at Luke Raven. They make all this pother – and to absolutely no purpose. Or rather what is achieved is exactly the reverse of what they could conceivably be expected to desire. For the boy is unharmed – he has had to survive nothing worse than roast pork three times a day in a pig-sty – and a veritable spotlight of publicity is thrown upon the Raven family history over three generations. Now the Ravens, my dear Mutlow, are able people. That they should make such an absurd hash of preserving their property is incredible. Intellectually incredible. But your theory is psychologically incredible too. The Ravens are not the sort of people who bother about property – which is why it fades out on them. They're the artistic sort, who mildly and intermittently feel that it's nice to have money about, and who are prepared to use their wits occasionally to get it. But none of them would push an old woman down a well, or refrigerate a half-brother to death. Yours is as ingenious a theory as a colleague has ever presented me with. I congratulate you on it sincerely. But it won't do. Not only are there parts not built in–”

“Needles, Mr Appleby. The needles put into the haystack to serve as red herrings.”

Appleby shook his head. “I don't think so – for the simple reason that they're
not
red herrings. They're not drawn
across
the trail; they're
on
it. They lead back to Ranulph Raven and his stories. They've made us keep our eye on Ranulph and his kind of yarn, and so set us on this notion of legitimate marriages and so forth within twenty-four hours of our really getting to grips with the case – within twenty-four hours of Heyhoe's death. The blind man – have I told you about that? – and
The Coach of Cacus
and
Paxton's Destined Hour
and
The Medusa Head
and the gentleman who took an earth bath in his spinney: all these are not red herrings; they're spotlights. We'll get at the truth if we just stick to that.”

Mutlow laughed – with unexpected heartiness and satisfaction. It seemed as if Colonel Pike's harassed henchman was taking hold of the notion that there could be simple joy in the chase. “Mrs Ulstrup's cake,” he said; “I don't know that there's much spotlight about that. On the other hand, it's certainly a part not yet built in. And I dare say you're right, Mr Appleby – or I don't say you're not. And there'll be a spotlight on us, sure enough; let's hope we cut a decent figure in it. Which means finding the villain of the piece and laying him by the heels.”

Appleby considered. “We may find him,” he said carefully. “But I doubt whether we shall lay him by the heels.”

Mutlow drove for some seconds in silence. “It would be hard to tell just what you mean by that.”

“What if the villain of the piece died last night?”

“Heyhoe! How in the world could he be responsible for all this? But, if so, he's escaped justice all right.”

“Undoubtedly. Except perhaps the poetic kind.”

“Now, Mr Appleby, that's another queer saying. You really think Heyhoe was responsible for all those freaks?”

Appleby turned up his coat collar against the chill evening air. “I wouldn't mind betting,” he said, “that you'll be convinced of it before the night's over.”

 

 

“Half past seven,” said Mutlow. “You'll be glad to get back to a bit of dinner and the young lady, I don't doubt.”

“Decidedly,” said Appleby.

“And, however it may be about Heyhoe” – Mutlow was encouraging – “I shouldn't be surprised if you get the whole business finally sorted out in the morning. For you must be called a fast worker, Mr Appleby, if we may judge by the speed with which you've hitched yourself up.”

“Miss Raven has had her part.”

“Of course she has.” Mutlow, whose feelings were now evidently of the friendliest, switched from jocoseness to tactful understanding. “I quite well remember how it is. Would you have any idea when you would be getting married?”

“I haven't discussed the point. But if required to guess, I should say Thursday or Friday.”

“Is that so, now?” Mutlow seemed somewhat awed. “It shows that as often as you step on a train or a bus you just don't know. In the midst of life–”

“I hope it won't be as bad as that. By the way, it looks rather as if Dream is on fire.”

“Good heavens!” Mutlow stared ahead and pressed his foot on the accelerator. “I believe you're right, Mr Appleby. And here's the avenue.”

The car swung off the road and now straight ahead of them a bright glow lit the sky. From somewhere ahead, too, came the roar of a powerful engine and the raucous hoot of a siren. Appleby leant forward, frowning. “Odd,” he said.

“Odd? It's that blasted Hoobin boy again, take my word for it. You ought to have let me clap him in gaol, Mr Appleby, indeed you ought. But that engine's coming this way…
Look out!
”

A powerful car, with blazing headlights and screaming siren, had hurtled round a curve of the drive and shaved past them, making for the high road. Mutlow swore and pressed the accelerator again. But Appleby sat back. “It's not a fire,” he said. “Whatever it is, it's not a fire. The light's too steady and too yellow. Here comes a motorbike. And a second one following. Is he coming through our windscreen? No, he's just got past… Good Lord!”

They had swung round a final bend and now the ancient manor house of the Ravens lay sprawled in front of them. And on a broad, snow-covered lawn before the house a circle of cars was parked, each with its headlights blazing. In the pool of light thus created something like a random camp had been pitched. Folding chairs and tables lay about singly and in groups; at these men sat scribbling in notebooks or tapping at typewriters; at a larger table near the centre there was something like a buffet or bar. Hard by this, too, a species of scaffolding was being erected, while two men from amid a huddle of movie cameras shouted directions to the workmen. Engines roared, typewriters clattered, men shouted – and now there was a rush of the particularly quick-witted towards Mutlow's car. The doors were flung open; flashlights spluttered and flared; camera shutters clicked.

“It's not Dream that's being set on fire,” Appleby said. “It's the Thames.”

Robert Raven stood in the hall, outglowering the Tartars and the Kurds. Scattered about the floor lay a litter of evening papers, and these the manservant Rainbird was endeavouring to clear up. Whereupon Robert Raven would repossess himself of each in turn, briefly scan its front page, toss the paper in air, dust his fingers lightly against each other, and wait for the next. “Billy Bidewell is drunk,” he said. “Peggy Pitches has been given eighteen pairs of silk stockings and had her head turned into the bargain. Mark knocked down a man who had got into Judith's studio with a camera – with rather too vigorous a punch, apparently, so that he's lucky not to be in gaol. Judith has announced that she's going to be married to you on Wednesday. Everard approves, but Clarissa says that we must insist on the Archbishop of Canterbury's imposing a decent delay.” Robert advanced upon Appleby as if meditating some sudden privy injury to his person. “I congratulate you most heartily and hope you will be very happy. Tomorrow morning I'll start working you a firescreen. Unless you'd prefer a couple of water-colours of the west wing? I'm rather pleased with the way I get the ivy sometimes. It's stuff with a texture much easier to handle in oil.” Inconsequently, Robert snatched another paper from Rainbird. “folklorist tells,” he read.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It means Billy Bidewell. body in snow. folklorist tells. Some rubbishing story of its once having been quite the thing to bury people in that way. Listen to this.
‘The victim once chosen,' said Mr Bidewell, ‘it was only a question of waiting for a heavy fall of snow. Then they would set 'un.' Mr Bidewell added that his late grandmother, also a well-known folklorist, had frequently told him of an
incident which has come to be traditionally known as ‘The Tale of the Fearful Maid'. Unfortunately, before being able to recount this anecdote, Mr Bidewell, who is a thoughtful young man with
something of a scholar's stoop and evidently of a delicate physique, was taken ill and had to retire to his room.'”
Robert Raven broke off. “Means dead drunk.
‘It is hoped, however, that Mr Bidewell, whose antiquarian knowledge should be of considerable assistance to the police in their investigations, will be well enough to be further interviewed tomorrow.'”