Ancestral Vices (36 page)

In short he had resigned himself to himself as being the only certain thing in an otherwise capricious world. Not that he could be entirely sure even of himself. His lingering passion for Rosie Coppett was a salutary reminder of his own irrational impulses, but at least they were his own to cope with as best he could. To that extent prison life suited him down to the ground. He wasn’t expected to be good. On the contrary, as the only
murderer in Ragnell, and a psychopathic one at that, he was expected to be extremely nasty. Certainly the warders found his presence useful and it was only necessary to hint to some bloody-minded embezzler that if he didn’t behave himself he’d be sharing a cell with Yapp for the fellow to obey prison rules and regulations to the letter.

As a result of this horrible reputation Yapp’s lectures were well attended, prisoners handed in their essays on time, and in the recreation room he was listened to without the overt boredom he had produced in the common-room at Kloone. There were other benefits to prison life. It was practically non-hierarchical except in the most abstract sense (Yapp’s dwarf-killing put him at the top of the criminal league) and entirely without discrimination in matters of food and accommodation. Even the wealthiest stockbrokers and extradited politicians had the same breakfasts as impecunious burglars and deviant vicars, and wore identical clothes. They all got up at the same time, followed the same routine and went to bed at the same hour. In fact Yapp’s sympathies were reserved for the warders and ancillary staff, who had to go home to nagging wives, dubious suppers, financial worries and all the uncertainties of the outside world.

He had even reached the stage where he rejected the ‘cabbage effect’ of indefinite sentences and had come to view prison life as being the modern equivalent of the monastic vocation during the Dark Ages. It was
certainly so in his own case. Secure in the knowledge that he was entirely innocent, his spiritual assurance was complete.

It was therefore with some irritation that he followed the warder to the Governor’s office and stood grimly in front of his desk.

‘Ah, Yapp, I’ve some excellent news for you,’ said the Governor. ‘I have here a communication from the Home Secretary in which he states that the Parole Board have decided that the time has come for your release under licence.’

‘Under what?’ said Yapp.

‘Under licence. You will naturally have to report . . .’

‘But I don’t want to leave,’ said Yapp. ‘I’ve settled in here very comfortably and I do my best to help the other prisoners, and . . .’

‘Which is doubtless why the Parole Board have come to their decision,’ said the Governor. ‘I have repeatedly emphasized in my reports that your conduct has been exemplary and for my own part I may say I shall be sorry to see you go.’

And in spite of his protests Yapp was taken back to his cell and an hour later was ushered through the prison gates clutching a small suitcase. He was accompanied by a substantial Prison Visitor in tweeds.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ she said briskly as they walked towards the car. ‘There’s nothing like starting a new life on a fine day.’

‘New life, my foot,’ said Yapp – and for one mad
moment considered returning to his old one by hitting the damned woman. But his natural ineffectuality got the better of him, and besides, his feelings for Doris were reasserting themselves. She alone had remained constant in her loyalty. At least, he supposed so, and with all the new material of his personal experience with which to programme her it might yet be possible to discern some rational pattern in the apparent chaos of events.

‘I shall return to my research at Kloone,’ he said, and climbed into the car.

The computer was on Croxley’s mind too. He had always known it would supersede him and, with the accession of Frederick, it had. That the late Lord Petrefact had done his legal damnedest to prevent his son’s succession had been of little moment. The family had congealed around Frederick like some immensely influential swarm about a queen and Croxley had revenged himself on his late master by disclosing the full extent of his mental instabilities. And now he was rewarded by being offered the managership of the Mill at Buscott. For a moment he had been tempted, but discretion prevailed. Whatever had happened at Buscott it had not been to Yapp’s advantage, and Frederick resembled his father too closely to be trusted. Instead Croxley had used his last few days at Petrefact Consolidated to put several ‘patches’ into the computer. It would take some time to find them and by then he would be a rich man. It was, he felt, a fitting
tribute to the deviousness of the late Lord Petrefact, and one the old devil would have appreciated.

At the New House Rosie Coppett was busy in the kitchen making pastry for a rhubarb pie. Through the window she could see Miss Emmelia among the cloches. By the back door Annie was gossiping with the milkman. Something about old Mr Jipson selling his tractor. Rosie wasn’t interested. She would never be any good with mechanical things. Besides, it was a nice day, and Miss Emmelia had said she could have a rabbit in a hutch if she promised not to let it loose among the lettuces.

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