Ampersand Papers (8 page)

Dr Sutch delivered himself of one of his grave bows, which was his way of being non-committal in face of his client’s adventures into learning.

‘Every ancient building of this character,’ he said, ‘has its hiding-places, the location of which may have passed out of memory. But exhaustive studies of military architecture contain many specific references to them. The volumes I seek may well do so in relation to Treskinnick, or at least may suggest fruitful lines of inquiry. One goes round measuring things.’

‘The devil one does!’

‘And takes soundings, and so on. And taps.’

‘Good heavens!’ Lord Ampersand was aghast. ‘Do you mean you want to go tip-tap all through the castle? It would take you a month of Sundays, Dr Sutch. I never intended…’

‘It may prove desirable. At the moment, however, I shall merely study the matter in the authorities I suggest.’

‘Then go ahead, go ahead.’ Lord Ampersand made a gesture comprehending the entire contents of the library, and at the same time jumped up and walked to the door. This tiresome interview had gone on quite as long as was tolerable. And it was once more time to walk the dogs. ‘Good day to you,’ he said. ‘Leave you to it.’ He bolted from the room.

It is to be presumed that Dr Sutch then worked on at his leisure. Certainly it was at an unusually late afternoon hour that he made his way back to the Ampersand Arms. He did so, moreover, by an unusual route: one perhaps affording particular opportunity for solitary meditation. If one descended to the shore by a path half a mile to the west of the castle and then turned east it was possible to round the castle over the tumble of rock beneath it, and then walk for a long way across firm sand to a point at which there was an answering ascent to the inn.

It was a cloudless evening, and there was still warmth from the declining sun. Dr Sutch, although no doubt aware of the beauties of external nature, and willing (like Byron) to find rapture on the lonely shore where none intrudes by the deep sea, moved slowly forward, as one lost in thought. From this abstraction he emerged only when actually beneath the castle and on the tricky stretch of his path. Here, indeed, he paused and looked up. There, high above his head, was the North Tower, scene of his present devoted services to scholarship. And there was that imbecile staircase. It would, of course, have been scarcely less hazardous had it made its way up another face of the building, since a fall to the inner ward would presumably be as fatal as one to the spot on which he now stood. But it was certainly more striking. The assumption had to be that the birdwatching Lord Ampersand had owned an eye for picturesque effect.

So thoughtfully, for the moment, was Dr Sutch’s attention directed above that he was unaware of something happening below. Where immediately before there had been nothing but the bare face of the cliff there now stood a man of about Dr Sutch’s own age. His sudden presence was completely mysterious. He wore a tin hat, had an electric torch strapped to his chest, and carried a small hammer.

‘A beautiful evening,’ this person said. ‘How lucky I am to have emerged in time to view the sunset.’

‘Emerged?’ It has to be recorded that Dr Sutch repeated the word blankly – but a moment later his powerful intelligence had grasped the situation. ‘Sir,’ he said courteously, ‘am I to understand that you are a speleologist?’

‘Most certainly.’ The stranger must at once have gathered from Dr Sutch’s ready command of this erudite word that he was in the presence of a fellow
savant
. ‘My name,’ he added, ‘is Cave.’

‘How do you do?’ Dr Sutch refrained from making what, to Mr (or might it be Professor?) Cave, must have been a sadly familiar joke. ‘I am Ambrose Sutch, and I may describe myself at present as archivist to the Marquess of Ampersand, under whose walls you are doubtless aware that we are standing now. May I say that it is a privilege to meet one in the great tradition of Monsieur Martel.’

‘My dear sir, I should like so to think of myself. Martel was undoubtedly the founder of my science, such as it is. Before his time, the exploration of caverns, grottoes, and the subterranean regions of the earth in general was treated as a mere sport, or as affording material for writers of romance. You will recall
A Journey to the Centre of the Earth
. I confess that it a little touched my imagination as a boy.’

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Cave. I myself remember being much struck by
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
. It fell short, however, of inducing me to make my career in submarines.’

Thus, under the rugged and louring mass of Treskinnick Castle, did these two learned persons agreeably converse. It transpired that Mr Cave actually intended to spend the night at the Ampersand Arms. He was engaged, he explained, on a very brief speleological survey of the region. It had proved so potentially rewarding that he proposed to make a more extended visit in a few weeks’ time. Dr Sutch said a few words on his own manner of work, and the two men then fell into step together in the direction of their hostelry.

‘Is there anything much close to Treskinnick itself?’ Dr Sutch asked. ‘You had the appearance, if I may say so, of having bobbed pretty well out of the bowels of the place.’

‘Indeed, yes. Precisely so.’ Mr Cave was delighted by this interest in his activities. ‘There are several interconnecting caverns, the farther recesses of which must actually extend beneath the castle itself. It is my preliminary impression that they have been very little explored. The more accessible parts may have been utilized by smugglers at one time. And by pirates, if one cares to be romantic.’

‘There was a Digitt in the late sixteenth century who was little better than a pirate, Mr Cave. Digitt, as you may know, is the family name of the Ampersands. And Narcissus Digitt was an associate of the celebrated Sir John Luttrell, whom it might be decent to describe as a corsair. It is curious to reflect that Narcissus may have anchored his craft, its hold full of booty, hard by in yonder cove.’ As he made use of this poetical expression Dr Sutch made an equally poetical gesture to a spot a quarter of a mile ahead of them.

‘He could have come right up to the castle, for the matter of that,’ Mr Cave said. ‘It is a point of some geological curiosity that there is a deep-water channel extending almost to the spot at which I had the pleasure of encountering you.’

‘Most interesting! You and I might very well construct our own romance, don’t you think? Shall we have a secret passage, for instance, winding up from the recesses of one of your caves into the very castle itself?’

‘A splendid fancy! We entertain one another like schoolboys, do we not, my dear Dr Sutch? We must give Narcissus Digitt a parrot and at the same time deprive him of a leg, so that he shall be a perfect Long John Silver.’

The Ampersand Arms was in sight before these two devoted scholars had tired of thus recreating themselves. They then had a drink together, and they dined together later on. Their talk, naturally, was much of the present state of knowledge and similar philosophical matters. These, in the poet Milton’s phrase, were speculations high and deep. And it was perhaps only once or twice that each detected in the other a glance speculative in a different sense.

Sir John Appleby now appears on our scene. It is quite fortuitously. He knows nothing whatever about Treskinnick Castle and its inhabitants: not even what a guidebook or work of reference might have told him. He is on his way to visit friends near St Ives, and has judged that he may be going to arrive inconveniently early. So he has parked his car, walked to the edge of the cliff, and observed a convenient declivity by which it is possible to reach a mile-long beach. The beach is deserted; the sea is tranquil; it is a good place for a walk. He scrambles down. Although elderly, he remains of an active habit. It won’t be at all difficult to scramble up again. He will poke at seaweed, examine shells, He rejoices at this peaceful prospect.

Yon castle hath a pleasant seat
… Appleby has become aware of Treskinnick in the middle distance, but he has left his map in the car and is unable to identify it. Rather vaguely, he compares it in his head with Tantallon in Scotland. It is protected by the sea in just the same way. But Tantallon is a ruin, and this place appears to be inhabited. It even runs to a flag-staff, but no flag flies. So perhaps the owner is not in residence. Appleby reflects that, were his wife accompanying him on this present expedition, they would undoubtedly assault the seemingly impregnable pile and effect an entry – whether by bribery or charm. Being alone, he will simply walk on, stare up at the frowning mass of masonry, retrace his steps, and continue on his way.

And now he is aware of the North Tower, and of that mildly astonishing staircase. A bird – a gannet and not a temple-haunting martlet – is perched on top of it. The gannet rises, plunges, and disappears like a minute depth charge into the sea. Had the gannet miscalculated, it would have bashed itself on rock. Appleby walks on, stops, does his gaping act. There is really nothing much to be seen. There is now sheer cliff more or less in front of his nose, a glimpse of the tower in violent foreshortening on top of it, a glimpse, too, of the skimpy wooden affair, which at its lower end must take some turn into an outer court of the castle. Appleby himself turns, and gazes out over the sea. An empty sea with no craft in sight. From the top of the tower behind him there must be a tremendous view. It is all very splendid, tranquil, silent.

The silence is broken. There is a rending sound, a crash, a rush of air past his face; then a momentary effect as of explosion and of debris falling and fallen everywhere in front of him. He has very nearly been killed.

And somebody
has
been killed. It is the staircase that has crashed. It lies in fragments all around him, and in the middle of the wreckage is sprawled the body of a man. The man’s head is so disposed that there cannot be a moment’s doubt as to his condition. He is as the gannet would have been had the gannet been careless about its fishing.

Appleby is never reckless; were he so, he would himself have been killed by one or another lethally disposed character long ago. For some seconds he stays put. There may be another instalment of the collapsed staircase to come. Then he risks it, advances, kneels down by the body. It doesn’t take him long to confirm that the man is indeed dead.

There is another man. Quite suddenly, there is another man – standing beside him and endeavouring to produce articulate speech. He succeeds only in mumbling. He is shocked, terrified. No doubt he is quite unused to this sort of thing. He can’t be merely another casual stroller on the shore, since he is wearing a tin hat, has a large torch strapped to his chest, and carries tucked into a belt a variety of implements appropriate to some pursuit Appleby doesn’t pause to identify.

‘Did you see this happen?’ Appleby asks.

‘No – no, I didn’t.’ The man has achieved speech. ‘I was in the cave. My name’s Cave.’

Appleby (like Dr Sutch some weeks previously) may have found this homonymous information odd, but it wasn’t something to pause on. Gently, he turned the body over.

‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘Do you know him?’

The man called Cave gave a weak cry.

‘It’s Dr Sutch,’ he said. ‘From the castle.’

‘Certainly from the castle. Are you familiar, sir, with these parts?’

‘Slightly. Yes. I’ve been exploring them.’

‘Very well. Go and get help. Contact the police, who will know what to do.’

‘Is that the right thing?’

‘Of course it is. My name is Sir John Appleby, and I’ve been a policeman myself. Tell them so; it may hurry them up. I shall stay here, since the body must not be abandoned. And get rid of all that gear, Mr Cave. It will only impede you. Although there’s nothing to be done, it’s only decent to make haste.’

‘Yes, of course. How distressing this is!’ Cave scrambled out of his impedimenta obediently. ‘I’ll have to go back for some way along the beach,’ he said. ‘It will take a little time.’

‘Then do so. Tell them there will have to be a stretcher-party.’

‘Yes, of course. What a hideous accident!’

‘Quite so. And now, sir, be on your way.’

Thus urged, Mr Cave departed. Appleby produced a clean handkerchief and laid it over the dead man’s face. Then he looked about him.

Mr Cave had emerged from a cave. Perhaps he had heard the crash, and had hurried out to investigate. He was presumably a habituated prowler in caves and potholes. It was an addictive pursuit. Or perhaps he was a person of some scientific standing in that sort of thing. But where was this particular cave? Appleby found it quite quickly, although its entrance was masked by an outcrop of rock. The sea ran into it through a channel so narrow that one could step over it. It appeared to be of a considerable depth, and on one side there was a broad platform of rock almost as smooth as a flagged pathway. Feeling some curiosity about its extent, Appleby possessed himself of Mr Cave’s torch and made a brief exploration. He didn’t venture far, since he was unwilling to abandon his wake over the unfortunate Dr Sutch’s dead body.

Even so, he found something. As far as the beam of his torch could penetrate the cave was empty and showed no sign of being put to any use, save for one particular alone. Perhaps fifteen yards from the entrance, there lay a coil of rope. It was a long coil of rope, and extremely neatly disposed, so that at a glance it might have seemed an enormous rubber tyre. And beside it lay a coil of stout cord with a similar effect of precision. Hard-by a seaboard, there was nothing particularly out-of-the-way about these exhibits. Appleby looked at them in some perplexity, all the same. He stooped down and examined them. They were dry, and showed no sign of ever having been otherwise. They might, he told himself, have come straight from the shop.

He moved on a little farther. The cave took a turn, a second turn, and then bifurcated. It looked as if it might be part of an extensive system of caverns – a fact which would explain why the eponymous Mr Cave was interested in it. But there seemed to be no point in his proceeding farther himself. He turned back and regained the open air. Cave had disappeared, so he must be making reasonable haste. Appleby saw that he was in for rather a long vigil, nevertheless; in the end he might even have to ring up his friends in St Ives and announce a late arrival. Without disturbing Sutch’s body, he poked about amid the debris of the staircase. It must have collapsed under the poor chap – and its condition had plainly been such that this was not wholly surprising. Much of the woodwork was actually rotten. It occurred to Appleby that if Dr Sutch had been in any manner an employee of whoever owned the castle, awkward claims for compensation might result from the fatality. The staircase must have been eccentrically hazardous when first constructed; if you had hired a man to go up and down it in its latter-day condition you were risking being booked for trouble.