Appleby And Honeybath (21 page)

‘For a start,’ Appleby said, ‘I must ask you to bear with me while I say a word about what, in a court of law, might be described as the two principal documents in the case. I shall have to emphasize, incidentally, that there is a radical difference between them.

‘We must begin, strangely enough, by carrying our minds back to the middle of the seventeenth century, and considering the career and personality of a certain Ambrose Grinton, who flourished during the period of the Restoration. Our authority here is a book called
Reliquiae
Grintonianae
, compiled by a certain Simon Upcott within a century of Ambrose’s death. It was privately printed and is no doubt very scarce, although there will almost certainly be copies in the great national libraries. And one copy, which I have had the advantage of consulting, is in the possession of Mr Burrow, Mr Grinton’s butler. The relevant facts we learn from it are these: Ambrose travelled in France and Italy; he was interested in the fine arts; he was a collector, not always of too scrupulous a habit; and in Rome he acquired, and presumably brought home, a substantial collection of drawings and watercolours by Claude Lorrain. These have never been heard of since. If discovered, they would be worth a very large sum of money.

‘So much, for the moment, for Ambrose Grinton. We come now to Jonathan Grinton – Ambrose’s grandson, as I suppose him to have been. Jonathan’s interest lay in literature, and he was even something of a writer himself: only half an hour ago, Miss Arne was good enough to tell me that in 1715 he published a book called
Divers Private Recreations
, no copy of which appears to have survived. He also kept a journal. For many years it seems to have lain hidden in this very library. But eventually – no doubt during renovations or the like – it was destroyed.’

At this point in his expository effort, Appleby paused and glanced at Terence Grinton. But Terence again had nothing to say. He may well have been totally at sea amid all this antiquarian matter.

‘Fortunately,’ Appleby resumed, ‘certain excerpts from Jonathan’s journal had been made by Mr Burrow, who takes an informed and – if I may say so – scholarly interest in the Grinton family. They show that Jonathan himself owned a lively pen – and also, perhaps, that something of his temperament has been inherited by at least one later Grinton. What we learn from one of these excerpts is this: Alexander Pope, while still a very young man but already of some celebrity as a poet, was entertained by Jonathan here at Grinton; the two men fell out and there was something of a violent quarrel; Pope was expelled from the house, or at least left in a hurry – but not before he had composed a virulent satire (as we may suppose it to have been) upon Grinton and the Grintons. This satire he virtually flung at Jonathan, apparently as a hint of what he might one day commit to print. This he never did. But Jonathan preserved – here in this library, he actually asserts – what he regarded as a criminal composure, thinking in some hazy way that it might on some future occasion afford useful evidence of the dastardly nature of the young poet’s character.

‘And now to that difference between the Ambrose record and the Jonathan one. Of the probable continued existence here of the Claude drawings and paintings there is evidence for anybody who happens upon a copy of
Reliquiae Grintonianae
. Of the existence – and the probable continued existence – of the Pope satire there is no evidence whatever except that preserved in Mr Burrow’s purported transcript.’

‘
Sir!
’ Burrow exclaimed.

‘I do beg your pardon, Mr Burrow.’ For the first time, Appleby spoke with strong emphasis. ‘It is, in the first place, a purely legalistic point. Only if we are all unhappily landed in court is there the slightest likelihood of the integrity of your testimony being challenged. But the material fact is this: your transcript from Jonathan Grinton’s journal is the only channel through which Pope’s satire can have come within the notice of anybody. And that brings us to Professor Hagberg – unfortunately the late Professor Hagberg.’

‘Hagberg!
’ Terence Grinton produced this as a kind of alarmed shout. It might almost have been said that he had turned pale, like some Shelleyan abstraction that hears pronounced the dreaded name of Demogorgon. ‘Hasn’t the fellow cleared out? Damned awkward thing. Not quite above-board, perhaps. But these are devilish hard times, you know.’

‘He certainly hasn’t cleared out in the sense you intend.’ Appleby seemed unsurprised by the deepening incoherence of his host. ‘The body in this library was Hagberg’s, without a doubt. But before discussing that, let us pause for a moment to clarify our ground so far. We have to conceive of the presence, here at Grinton, of two totally distinct lures or prizes: a batch of minor works by Claude Lorrain, and a hitherto unknown and unsuspected satire by Alexander Pope. They are by no means prizes of equal monetary value, but Professor Hagberg – to come back to him – would certainly have preferred to stumble on the poem rather than the pictures. He was a prime authority on Pope – so Mr Denver has discovered with his admirable expedition – and he came to Grinton in the first place simply because of Pope’s known association with the house. I have, of course, no doubt that Mr Grinton received him with complete civility…’

‘Rubbish!’ Giles Tancock interrupted rudely. ‘The old ruffian would have kicked him through the door.’

‘But unquestionably’ – Appleby continued, disregarding this – ‘the professor experienced a sense of impasse. He was, in fact, discomfited, and his discomfiture was remarked by Mr Burrow. Mr Burrow has a high regard for the amenities, and particularly as they should be pursued at Grinton. He therefore entertained the professor in his own part of the house. And being aware, as a consequence of his extensive studies, of the professor’s overriding interest as an English scholar, he afforded him a view of the transcript to which I have referred. This was only a few months ago. And from then until this very day, Mr Burrow and Professor Hagberg were presumably the only people in the world to have heard of this particular satire by Alexander Pope.’

Appleby paused for a moment, as if deliberating with himself how best to proceed. He was at least assured of the entire attention of his auditory.

Dolly Grinton had ceased being bright, and had an apprehensive look. Miss Arne was concentrating upon what she heard just as she must have concentrated in her time upon hundreds and hundreds of disquisitions by pupils less accomplished than the retired Commissioner of Police.

Mrs Mustard, although presumably much occupied with the Further Beyond, was nervously chewing her nails. All the gentlemen, including Burrow, looked as if they had plenty to think about. Even Demetrius and Florinda, although provided with pencil and paper for the purpose of quarrelsome games of noughts and crosses, were gazing at Appleby open-mouthed.

‘Presumably as a result of his exciting meeting with Mr Burrow,’ Appleby resumed, ‘Professor Hagberg returned to Grinton on the following day, and had what appears to have been a more fruitful discussion with Mr Grinton. But to just what effect, I confess myself to being a little in the dark. So it will be very helpful to us if, at this stage, Mr Grinton will tell us about it. Terence, would that be agreeable to you?’

For a moment it didn’t look as if it would be at all agreeable. Terence muttered something about confounded nonsense and sending for his solicitor. Appleby murmured in turn his conviction that all this was merely a family affair and a private one at that.

‘Oh, very well,’ Terence said. ‘Great confidence in you, John. Vast experience, and all that. So here it is.’

‘Hagberg,’ Terence Grinton said, ‘appeared out of the blue. He knew nothing about this satire-thing we’ve been hearing about. What he was after was letters. Letters written in historical times, at that. Did you ever hear such nonsense? Who would keep letters about the Spanish Armada and the Norman Conquest and so forth? And he was on about this Pope – so where were they? Hagberg seemed to think I’d have them right at hand, like the bills Burrow brings along from the butcher and baker. Of course, John, I was completely civil, as you rightly say. I just told him to bugger off.’

‘And he did?’ Appleby asked.

‘Yes – and I knew nothing about his having a little chat with Burrow. No reason why he should not, if he had a fancy that way. But the next day he was back again, and singing to a different tune. Switched scents, you might say. He said he had a great deal of sympathy for the plight of the English landed classes, and that he had an ancestor who knew George Washington. It seems that Washington came of very decent people in Northamptonshire. Getting on for the best of the Shires, to my mind. Tiptop hunting country.’

At this point Terence seemed in some danger of losing his thread, and had to be prompted by Appleby.

‘And just what,’ Appleby asked, ‘did Hagberg propose to do about the plight of the landed classes?’

‘He said that if you were hard up you looked around for this and that to sell in an unobtrusive way. I knew what he meant, of course. Capital Gains Tax. I have some piece of rubbish – say an old Chinese chamber pot or the like – and you flog it to some lunatic for thousands of pounds. Then along comes a tax blighter and filches the cash from you. So softly, softly was the thing, he said. And particularly with books. There was probably no end of books scattered around this library that were worth a packet. He quite surprised me.’

‘And he offered to find them and feed them quietly on the market?’ Appleby thought it injudicious to modify Terence’s view on the operations of the tax man. ‘Perhaps for a trifling commission?’

‘Just that. Quite a businesslike chap, really. But it all had to be thoroughly hush-hush. He oughtn’t to be seen regularly coming and going at Grinton. So he thought of this ploy. Camping on the scene of operations, you might say. Ingenious idea, eh? And with quite a bit of spunk to it. I liked that.’ At this point Terence chuckled happily. ‘Not even Burrow would know about it. And Burrow knows about damn nearly everything. That right, Burrow?’

‘I endeavour to keep in touch, sir.’

‘Well, there you are. It would all take time, Hagberg said. A lot of poking around to do.’

‘Decidedly,’ Appleby said.

‘And the next thing, the blasted man has gone dead on us. And what he has been after all the time is this confounded satire. Found it, too, if I understand what you’ve been saying, John. And I’ve been following you very closely – very closely indeed. It needs a clear head. But I’ve never been short of that, thank God.’

Terence Grinton sat back, having manfully done his duty. Either because impressed or because stupefied, the assembled company was momentarily silent. And then Appleby spoke again.

‘So far as the satire goes,’ he said, ‘– but don’t forget about Claude – there is only one other preliminary trail to follow. It concerns Mr Grinton’s son-in-law, Mr Giles Tancock. What nobody had any notion of, except perhaps in a dim way Mr Grinton himself, is that Mr Tancock too was interested in the books in this library. Just as a matter of family entitlement, you might say, he had fallen into the habit of removing a useful-looking volume every now and then. As a matter of fact, it appears that he became quite systematic about it. He knows about books; all the antiquarian booksellers’ catalogues come to him; he found them useful as a guide to what to look out for. Mr Tancock, would you care to confirm me in this?’

‘Not in so far as it suggests a misrepresentation.’ Tancock, who had gone pale, said this very carefully. ‘You ought to have stressed that my father-in-law knew about it. I suppose he was aware that I am as hard-up as he is. And – to put it crudely – he didn’t want a rumpus. He’s scared of the women, you know. He’s that sort of chap.’

‘It’s not, perhaps, a line of inquiry we need pursue further at the moment.’ Appleby said this a shade grimly. ‘For we have arrived at a crucial moment yesterday afternoon. Mr Tancock makes one of his predatory visits to this room. He finds Professor Hagberg – of whose existence he has known nothing – in it. The professor has Pope’s satire – of which, again, Mr Tancock knows nothing – in his hands. And the professor is dead.’

This time, the silence was prolonged. It was Appleby himself who broke it.

‘And now,’ Appleby said, ‘we can turn to Claude Lorrain. Two of the present small house party at Grinton are here solely because of him. In fact they got themselves severally invited down simply in the hope of getting a sight of Ambrose Grinton’s little collection. Or at least let us express it like that just for the moment. And remember that the continued existence here at Grinton of these valuable works of art might be inferred by anybody who had happened upon one of those rare copies of
Reliquiae
Grintonianae
. One of the two was Mr Hallam Hillam.’

‘It’s a lie!’ Hillam said – or, rather, shouted. ‘It’s a disgusting fabrication, and most certainly an actionable slander.’

‘Mr Hillam,’ Appleby continued, unheeding, ‘is by profession an art historian. He presumably came on the book in the course of research into connoisseurship in England in the seventeenth century. To act on the information it gave was decidedly to take a long shot, and Mr Hillam may well have been rather despondent about his enterprise. But then he came upon a little Claude watercolour hanging amazingly on the drawing-room wall. That must have cheered him up no end. But of course he can have had very little notion how to proceed. He knew about the deserted and disorganized state of this library, and if the bulk of the drawings were anywhere they were probably here. But as to just where, he had no information at all. It was otherwise with Mrs Mustard.

‘Mrs Mustard, incidentally, is an actress.’ Appleby hadn’t paused. ‘She has retired from the stage – although whether it has really been in favour of spiritual pursuits, I don’t know. In the theatre, I can hardly doubt that she had a distinguished career. Her profession, however, is of less significance than that of her husband. For here another professor enters our story. Professor Mustard’s subject is the history of English architecture, and in the course of his researches he undoubtedly came upon James Gibbs’ working drawings for a library at Grinton Hall. Gibbs was a Classical man. He believed in symmetry – not fearful, as in William Blake’s celebrated poem, but comfortable and at times unobtrusive.
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother
, as Pope himself somewhere has it. And the same thing should go even for concealed doors. So we can be sure that his drawing for this library reveals just what you are looking at now. There, in fact, in that masked cupboard, was a convenient repository either for junk or treasure. Just where the Claudes had knocked around in Ambrose’s time, we don’t know. But it wasn’t a bad bet that this was where they now reposed. Jonathan Grinton, for example, may have been a little uncomfortable about his grandfather’s depredations in Rome, and may have shoved some of his loot into this whimsical hidey-hole. So you can see that Mrs Mustard was a long way ahead of Mr Hillam.’