Ampersand Papers (17 page)

But in fact Appleby covered the first part of his route at a very moderate pace. He couldn’t represent to himself that he was on any sort of urgent mission. He wasn’t going to make history in Budleigh Salterton by defusing the terrorist’s bomb or arresting the assassin’s knife. An afternoon call on an elderly lady was all that he had in mind, and there was no hurry about that. Even if he stopped at a pub for a late lunch he’d probably be a little early in terms of the ordinances of Budleigh Salterton society.

Yet he had hastened away from Treskinnick Castle. That young policeman – who could judge his man – might even have thought him hot on the scent, and this he couldn’t honestly claim was the case. He did, indeed, now believe that he knew how Dr Ambrose Sutch had died. The narrow truth of that matter had come to him as he stood contemplating that deceased scholar’s surprisingly deft performance with mallet and chisel on the floor of the muniment room. But the why and wherefore of the affair was still obscure to him, and he doubted whether the true history of the
Nuestra Señora
del Rosario
was going to clear it up. It was undeniable that the ill-fated galleon had rather notably hove up on his horizon that morning; had come grandly in, so to speak, with all sails spread. When he had shoved aside that (far from well-preserved) Monarch of the Glen the revelation beneath his nose had been a revelation authentic enough. But it was, his instinct told him, a little off-centre from the heart of the mystery, just as that peep-hole was a little off-centre on the floor of the muniment room. But what about Miss Deborah Digitt (to whom he had so abruptly been prompted to make his way) being positively peripheral? In point of mere physical remove that was certainly her station in the case. When, for instance, Ludlow had been aware of much mysterious coming and going, and of sundry nocturnal flickerings in the North Tower, it was scarcely to be supposed that this elderly spinster had broken into the castle and was up to mischief.

But at least Appleby had somehow received the impression that Miss Digitt had a lucid mind, and that she was interested in family history: neither of these being attributes with which it was possible to credit that family’s present head. Send her out on a country – or marine – walk, and she would probably know whether she had, or had not, seen a helicopter. Incidentally, did she at this moment know anything whatever about the existence, let alone the sudden death, of Dr Sutch? It seemed likely that nobody at Treskinnick would much bother to inform this obscure relation of the distressing affair. Or would Lady Grace Digitt have done so? Lady Grace had spoken as if Miss Digitt were yet to be tackled about those problematical papers. No doubt Sutch’s death-plunge had been featured in the press, but it wouldn’t have been with any prominence in the newspapers Miss Digitt was likely to read. It seemed conceivable that Appleby, like some messenger in high tragedy, was going to arrive with the news of totally unapprehended disaster.

It certainly wasn’t with this intention that he was climbing up to Dartmoor now. He wanted to receive information, not to disseminate it. And it was information about Adrian Digitt’s remains. Here, he saw, was the explanation of his having set out so rapidly to exchange the north coast of Cornwall for the south coast of Devon. He didn’t want that galleon creeping up on him. Or not to the exclusion, as it were, of the other side of the penny. He’d started out from those confounded papers, and he’d stick to them if he could. And Miss Deborah Digitt was likely to know more about them than anybody else – or than anybody else still in the land of the living. If they were extant, they might even be legally her property. And certainly not a dozen words of Adrian’s could be converted for the first time from manuscript into print without her permission being obtained. Or at least Appleby believed that to be the law. Of course judges – he thought gloomily, and on the strength of considerable acquaintance with their ways – can contrive to bring in any judgement they please upon any subject under the sun. It’s their way of vindicating natural justice, often enough, against the imbecilities of what they are appointed to administer. But the results can be disconcerting at times.

He had reached that point, a little short of Two Bridges, at which one can enjoy, if one wants to, an advantageous view of Princetown Prison. Another facet of the law, Appleby told himself – and accelerated as he did so. He had never much cared for penal establishments, and in his later years had even discovered a fondness for those detected criminals who contrive to meet with fatal misadventure or to make away with themselves rather than enter such dismal receptacles. What if this respectable if decayed female at Budleigh Salterton proved to have been master-minding (or mistress-minding) highly criminal activities in the abode of her ancestors, and had to be huddled into Holloway as a result of his own good offices? It seemed, indeed, highly improbable. But a detective’s life is full of nasty surprises. He wouldn’t like it a bit.

Budleigh Salterton, although no doubt provided with a base and brickish skirt somewhere or other, appeared on immediate view to consist of two large hotels, a single narrow street much impeded by motor cars of the more prosperous sort, and a scattering of villas of varying consequence straggling up a slope overlooking the sea. Among these last Miss Deborah Digitt proved to occupy what might be called a middling station, her house being less spacious but more elegant than those immediately adjoining it. There was a small garden at the front, and in it at the moment an elderly man of decent appearance was trimming a low box hedge which had the look of having been quite sufficiently attended to already. Appleby passed the time of day, and at this the elderly man straightened up and respectfully touched his cap. It was evident that, within the curtilage of Miss Digitt’s domain, antique ways prevailed. Appleby rang a bell, and it was answered almost at once by an equally elderly maidservant.

‘We don’t give at the door,’ this person said promptly.

‘Is Miss Digitt at home?’ Making this ritual inquiry, Appleby had charitably to assume that the eyesight of Miss Digitt’s retainer must be much impaired. He had to conjecture, too, that the superior inhabitants of Budleigh Salterton were constrained to cope, surprisingly, with a surge of mendicants against their gates. The maidservant, however, had now opened the door more widely and admitted him to a small hall. She then picked up a silver tray and positioned it accurately a couple of inches in front of the visitor’s chest.

‘I can take up your card,’ she said austerely.

Appleby produced what was thus demanded. As it was some years since he had done anything of the kind, the small oblong of pasteboard when deposited proved to be picturesquely yellowed round the edges. It occurred to him that this purblind guardian of Miss Digitt’s portal might almost mistake it for a butterfly. Without more ado, however, she turned away and disappeared up a narrow staircase, her joints audibly creaking the while. Appleby looked about him. There was nothing on view except a couple of spindly chairs (not conceivably capable of supporting a human frame), some blue-and-white china, a large aquatint of Treskinnick Castle, and an ornately illuminated genealogical table.

The creaking renewed itself; the aged retainer came painfully down the stairs, turned, and as painfully mounted them again: Appleby made bold to suppose that he had been given some sign to follow her. And all being indeed now in order, he was shown into Miss Digitt’s drawing-room.

Miss Digitt, having perhaps a little miscalculated the time at her disposal, was in the act of replacing a reference book on its shelf: it was to be presumed that she had been acquainting herself with the cardinal facts in the life of the stranger who had sent up his card to her.

‘Sir John Appleby?’ she said. ‘Pray sit down. I do not recall our having met before. Am I to take it that this is a business – or shall I say professional – call that you are making on me?’

‘Oh decidedly, Miss Digitt – and I must offer all the proper apologies. The more so, indeed, since the matter I come about is not of the most agreeable sort. I have driven over from Treskinnick, where I have been trying to assist – at the instance, I ought to say, of the Chief Constable – in elucidating an unfortunate occurrence which you may have heard about.’

‘I have heard of nothing of the kind, Sir John. I receive little news of my relations there – apart from what my very dear kinsman, Charles Digitt, judges may afford me amusement from time to time.’

‘I fear it isn’t anything amusing that I myself have to report, Miss Digitt. At the same time I must hasten to say that it is unlikely to affect you in any intimate manner.’ Appleby paused on this careful speech. He was finding Miss Deborah Digitt surprising in several ways. It was odd that she should have started off by according Charles Digitt that commendatory little chit. Appleby would somehow not have expected the young man to be anybody’s very dear kinsman. Then again, Miss Digitt proved to be not as old as he had been imagining she’d be – although this still left her far from young. And there was some further oddity about her in this area, although it was hard to pin down. He had a dim sense of her as being perhaps in unfamiliar clothes, and of these clothes as clashing with her years, whatever they were. But odder still was something yet more indefinable. Miss Digitt’s comportment and address, which were predictably on the stiff and formal side, were at variance with some state of feeling in her amounting, surely, to an inner excitement. Appleby had to remind himself that the Digitts as a family enjoyed a certain power to set one guessing.

‘If you have something unamusing to report,’ Miss Digitt said dryly, ‘I think I can undertake to be not amused. Pray continue.’

‘You may at least have heard that there has been much interest at Treskinnick of late in the possibility of turning up the papers of Adrian Digitt, whom I understand to have been your great-grandfather.’

‘I have certainly heard a good deal about that singularly futile project, Sir John.’

‘From Mr Charles Digitt, no doubt.’ Appleby was again conscious that Miss Digitt had employed a somewhat surprising form of words.

‘From Charles. Precisely.’

‘And I suppose you will also be aware that Lord Ampersand lately engaged the services of an archivist to look into the matter – in the person of a certain Dr Ambrose Sutch.’

‘The proposal was certainly made known to me.’

‘But you may not have heard that Dr Sutch is dead?’

‘Dear me, Sir John! I am a little astonished, I confess. I am aware of your standing, or late standing, in the Metropolitan Police. Is it possible that you have come all the way from Treskinnick to apprize me of this doubtless regrettable event?’

Appleby was about to say, ‘You have not answered my question, madam’. But he decided against this briskly policemanlike manner of approach to the conundrum Miss Digitt presented. For one thing Miss Digitt, who was seated beside the chimney-piece of her drawing-room, had put out her left hand in the direction of an antique bell-pull depending from near the ceiling beside it. She was clearly minded to give the thing a tug and have her creaking parlour-maid show Sir John Appleby out. Sir John Appleby found the spectacle instructive – almost as instructive as the fact that Miss Digitt had appeared to betray a moment of indecision before the last question put to her.

‘Not only is Dr Sutch dead,’ he said. ‘His death has taken place in circumstances that have engaged the curiosity of the police.’

‘Need they engage mine?’

‘Most assuredly, madam. There is a distinct possibility that the affair has its aspect of grave scandal, or worse. You must be anxious, I am sure, to have nothing of the sort reflect upon the credit and honour of your family.’

‘Do I understand you to be saying that this man Sutch met with foul play? That he has been murdered, in short?’

‘I cannot say that. The fatality is under close investigation now.’

‘I see.’ Miss Digitt paused. She in her turn might have been weighting a precise form of words addressed to her. ‘And what more have you to ask?’

‘I have to ask, among other things, whether you have ever heard of the
Nuestra Señora del
Rosario
?’

For the first time, Miss Digitt was at a loss. For a moment, indeed, she looked completely blank. It was not perhaps an unreasonable reaction to so completely inconsequent-seeming a question. Quickly, however, she recovered herself.

‘Of course I have, Sir John. There is an old family legend about that shipwreck and its sequel – but one completely forgotten, I should imagine, except by persons – and they are few – with some interest in our history.’

‘Would Lord Skillet be one of those?’

‘I understand Lord Skillet to be an entirely frivolous person. His only interests are likely to be disreputable.’

‘Or Mr Charles Digitt?’

‘I decline to discuss Mr Charles Digitt with you, Sir John.’ Miss Digitt had drawn herself up stiffly. ‘He happens to be the sole member of my family with whom I am on terms of intimacy. And with whom I would wish to be that.’

‘As you please, Miss Digitt. Let me only say, then, that in what may be called the Spanish treasure there is at present a certain amount of interest at Treskinnick too. There is the thought that it may have been hidden in a chamber in the North Tower; and that the circumstances of Dr Sutch’s death – how shall I put it? – interdigitate with that hypothesis.’

‘I judge, Sir John, that you have taken to speaking in riddles. Pray make the particulars of this man’s death known to me.’

This was a very reasonable request, and Appleby answered it, although confining himself to fact rather than inference. Miss Digitt heard him out.

‘The state of that staircase,’ she then said briefly, ‘is clearly to be deprecated. Or, rather, having this unfortunate man go constantly up and down it was censurable. I can see no graver scandal than that.’

‘Others, as it happens, had of late been going up and down it a good deal. Both Lord Skillet and his cousin, for example.’