Gay Phoenix (21 page)

This reception quite cheered Appleby up. It was in his nature to hate what might be termed a walkover, and now he knew at once that nothing of the sort was on offer. He might end up with something abject on his hands, but meanwhile there was going to be a fight. The chap
was
tough: not a doubt of it. Or at least – Appleby added as an afterthought – he was quick-witted and resilient, which came to approximately the same thing.

‘I’ve just met Mrs Povey,’ Appleby said. ‘Driving away.’

‘Ah, yes. I suggested it.’

‘And also – you’ll forgive me – what looked like your entire domestic staff as well.’

‘Their annual outing, that. Quite a good idea, really. And falls out conveniently, as it happens. Spare me a bit of gossip, and so on. The fact is, Sir John, I find myself with something of a crisis on my hands. A business crisis. Comes a fellow’s way every now and then in my wretched walk of life.’

‘Then I’m intruding, and must take myself off. I’m so sorry. We must meet again when you are more at leisure. I do apologize. Goodbye.’

‘Nothing of the kind. Won’t do at all.’ Mr Povey had perceptibly squared his shoulders. ‘That sort of thing mustn’t interfere with the civilized social thing, eh? Do please come in.’ And Mr Povey turned briskly and decisively towards the house.

‘That’s awfully kind.’ Appleby – whom nothing would in fact have induced to quit Brockholes at the moment – lost no time in accepting this development. He followed his host into a large square hall. It was sheathed, not very appositely in view of the spuriously mediaeval exterior of the dwelling, in chilly white marble. They moved on from this into a library which, on the other hand, was of the most orthodox and impressive country house order. It was a good background for Mr Povey, were he proposing a last-ditch projection of himself as orthodox and impressive too.

‘I suppose you’ve seen
The Times
today?’ Povey asked. He didn’t make the mistake, Appleby noted, of speaking with any sort of casual air.

‘Not yet. I usually keep it till after lunch.’

‘It has the whole bag of tricks – in a restrained way. Other papers – I see none of them – will certainly be splashing the thing.’

‘The thing?’

‘But won’t you sit down, Sir John? And take a glass of sherry?’

‘Thank you.’ Appleby sat down. ‘But no sherry, thank you very much. It’s a shade early.’

‘So it is.’ Povey concurred in this sound judgement without fuss. ‘As for the thing – well, it’s hard to estimate its dimensions at the moment. But I don’t mind telling you this. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if you’d turned out to be the Official Receiver.’

‘Dear me! I’m extremely sorry to hear it.’

‘Figuratively speaking, of course. I don’t suppose he potters about the countryside with a briefcase. Still, it looks precious near to ruin. One must just face up to it.’

‘Manfully.’

‘Just that.’ Mr Povey had given Appleby a sharp look. ‘The truth is that I’ve been let down badly by a host of subordinates. But I mustn’t complain, Sir John. I have nobody to blame but myself. Fact is, my mind has been more and more on other things. I’d like you to see my pedigree herd. Pictures, too. Latest accession is a rather nice Caravaggio. But there won’t be any more of that. No regrets, however. I’m much occupied, to tell you the truth, with philosophical and religious questions. Natural, you know, as one grows older. I shall be wholly content if, at the end of this shindy, the fellows who clear it up leave me the most modest competence. It’s still perfectly possible to live quietly on ten thousand a year. Eight, if need be.’

‘Or even seven.’ Appleby contributed to this Dutch auction with entire gravity. ‘And I’m most interested – most interested and edified, if I may venture to say so – to hear of your increasingly serious and elevated cast of mind. Would you ascribe the change to any particular circumstance in your life?’

‘No, I hardly think so.’ Appleby was conscious of receiving another sharp glance. ‘Simply a matter of years bringing the philosophic habit along. It’s mentioned by Wordsworth – always my favourite poet. I’m very fond of nature, and so forth.’

‘Ah, yes. I was thinking, I suppose, of your brother’s death in such tragic circumstances. Such an experience might well have a profound effect on a man. I forget your brother’s name?’

‘Arthur.’ Mr Povey gave this information with perhaps a shade of unnecessary emphasis. He paused, and then added, firmly and quietly: ‘I’m absolutely clear as to that.’

These were surprising words. Pondered, they even became bewildering. If the man who had uttered them was indeed Charles Povey, they were of course literally true. But their truth was of an order which no sane man could feel prompted to enunciate. Nobody can be other than clear about a brother’s Christian name, whether that brother be dead or alive. If, on the other hand, the man now present in this library was Arthur Povey, he had backed up his lie in a singularly inept fashion.

Confronted with these facts, Appleby felt what he acknowledged to be a rather childish relief. It
wasn’t
a mare’s nest, and in pushing around Brockholes in a suspicious way he at least couldn’t be charged with making a simple ass of himself. A few minutes ago, the only irreducible fact had been that the financial affairs connected with the name of Charles Povey were in a singularly bad way; that a surprising number of persons had absented themselves abruptly from Brockholes as a consequence; and that one of these, Povey’s wife, had produced what was at the very least a surprising slip of the tongue. It was now certain that there existed an authentic mystery beyond all this; and that the mystery ultimately turned on a problem of identity precisely as he had supposed it must. That this clarification of the affair had been brought about by six words deliberately uttered by a man to all appearances fully in control of himself was a fact that required pondering. Meanwhile, however, something had to be said.

‘Arthur, of course,’ Appleby murmured blandly. ‘My wife, by the way, remembers both of you. She was a Raven, you know.’

‘Yes, of course. I look forward to meeting her when all this is over, Sir John. A notable family in these parts.’

‘Quite so. You no doubt recall something of Judith’s uncles, Everard and Luke. What was notable about them was a vein of very considerable eccentricity, after all.’

‘Yes. That’s to say, I may have heard so.’ Povey paused. ‘By Jove, yes! Wasn’t there a famous business of lighting a beacon fire on the church tower at Dream?’

‘There was, indeed. But that was long before my time. You must have been no more than a boy.’

‘Perfectly true.’ Mr Povey had the air of a man prepared, even in a crisis of his affairs, to indulge a casual visitor in garrulous reminiscences.

‘But that’s all water under the bridge, wouldn’t you say? I think we must have a few common acquaintances of much more recent date.’

‘Possibly so.’ Just perceptibly, Mr Povey tautened himself on his chair.

‘Professor Budgery, for example.’

‘Budgery?’

‘The doctor who attended you in Australia after your terrible experience.’

‘Yes, indeed. Efficient chap. I was most grateful to him.’

‘He once told me the whole story. The whole astonishing story.’

‘Did he, now? Stretching things a bit, wasn’t he, if he did that?’

‘He was very discreet. It has naturally – you’ll forgive me – made me very interested in my new neighbour.’

‘Kind of you, Sir John.’ This came from Mr Povey with an irony that was impressively subdued. ‘Do you know, I’d much like to meet Budgery again myself – and have him tell
me
the story?’ Suddenly and unaccountably, Povey appeared genuinely agitated. ‘You see, my own memories of it all are quite oddly confused. There was more to it, you must understand, than the shock of Charles’ death. Arthur’s death, I mean.’ Povey broke off. ‘Ah! You see how muddled I can get. But – since you’ve been told the whole medical history of the affair – you must have some idea why.’ Povey’s was now again a completely relaxed smile. ‘There was more to it than just that dreadful accident – with a certain amount of subsequent privation and so forth thrown in. The fact is, I got a bit of a bang on the head myself. The consequences were rather astonishing for a time, as you justly observe.’

‘You believed yourself to
be
Arthur?’

‘Just that.’ Povey made another pause. He had a good sense of timing. ‘However, those Australian leeches – Budgery and his crowd – successfully bullied me out of it.’

‘Brutally put, you were a bit mad?’

‘Exactly so.’ Povey, although he had raised his eyebrows, amicably concurred. ‘And periods of confusion still turn up on me from time to time.’

‘In which you again believe yourself to be Arthur?’

‘Not very precisely that.’ For the first time, Mr Povey had hesitated. ‘But a great deal of amnesia, and that sort of thing.’

‘Dear me! Most inconvenient.’

‘Convenient, Sir John?’ This time, Povey’s eyebrows had really shot up.

‘Inconvenient was the word I used.’

‘Yes, of course. Damnably inconvenient, from time to time. This fellow Alcorne, for example, that they’re making such a devil of a fuss about. There’s a lot I don’t clearly remember about him.’

‘Ah, Alcorne.’ Appleby had the wit to load with significance his repetition of this name. It was in fact entirely new to him.

‘Yes, Alcorne. I had a lot to do with him a number of years ago. Naturally I remember
that
.’ Povey laughed easily. ‘We were partners, you know, and in a very big way. We were partners in several very large enterprises indeed. The enterprises they’re now all going crazy about.’

‘They?’ Appleby said.

‘All those chaps who are talking about fraud and conspiracy and God knows what. The chaps who are determined to bring me down.’

‘They
have
brought you down, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, they have.’ Mr Povey appeared to face it. ‘Red ruin, without a doubt.’

‘To the extent that your own wife, and that secretary of yours, and your whole staff for that matter, have pocketed what they can and bolted?’

‘It looks like just that. But it’s Jasper Alcorne I’m worried about – and particularly this business of not being able to remember things quite clearly. It might look bad.’

‘Yes, Mr Povey, I agree. It might look
very
bad.’ Appleby was feeling his way into this mysteriously sensitive area. ‘The Alcorne affair was pretty bad at the time, wasn’t it?’

‘So I’ve gathered. I mean, yes – I do remember that. There we were, the two of us, as closely associated as could be. And
he
bolted, you know, just like that damned woman this morning, and with no end of securities and everything else. It turned out he’d been as crooked as they come. And I’d known nothing about it! We had the hell of a time putting a bold face on it. We had to sail pretty close to the wind ourselves, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘We?’

‘Oh, myself and various close associates at that time. Assets had vanished in a big way. That kind of thing. Alcorne has never been seen since, and the scandal was forgotten about, more or less. But now, because of my present difficulties, those brutes in the City are all on to it again, digging away like mad. God knows what they may turn up.’

‘I can tell you, Mr Povey.’ Appleby suddenly sensed that the moment of truth was now very close indeed. He also felt that it might be hurried along by one or two thumping lies.

‘I suppose you realize that this isn’t – to be quite honest – any sort of social call?’

There was a moment’s silence in the library of Brockholes. It seemed a very long moment. Appleby had time to wonder whether Povey
had
realized this pretty obvious fact or not. He felt no certainty in the matter. It depended on the truth about Povey’s present mental state, and this was something entirely enigmatical. The man was deploying a good deal of cunning: there could be no doubt about that. Sometimes he seemed so baselessly confident of the sufficiency and success of all this guile that he must be judged as mad as a hatter. At other times he seemed entirely sane. Appleby told himself that one could be certain of only a single fact. The man with whom he was closeted was Arthur Povey. And Arthur Povey was very hazy about Jasper Alcorne for the simple reason that he had never got a grip on what appeared to have been a crucial episode in Charles Povey’s career. Hence all this stuff about amnesia. It was as simple as that. And now Appleby went ahead.

‘So let me be quite straight, Mr Povey. I’m a retired man now, but you know what my job has been. The unsolved mystery about your partner Alcorne lay on my desk for months. We had our own ideas about what might have happened to him – and I much doubt whether you can have
forgotten’
– Appleby put a vicious sarcasm into the uttering of this word – ‘the pretty nasty time we gave you. But we lacked proof. Well, all that has changed now. And – since it was all under my hand at the time – I’ve been asked to return and clear it up for good. That’s why I’m at Brockholes this morning, Mr Povey. And for no other reason at all.’ As he produced this tissue of outrageous falsehoods Appleby leant forward threateningly and remembered to offer a ferocious scowl. No star of Scotland Yard in some television fantasy of criminal investigation could have been more magnificently intimidating. ‘So now we’ll have the truth, Charles Povey. And nothing but.’ Perhaps for the first time in his life, Appleby had risen to a hideous snarl.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Suddenly Povey sprang to his feet, trembling and as white as a sheet. He was a man horribly transformed.

‘But indeed you do. How could this man Alcorne simply vanish – so utterly as to elude the search of every police force in the five continents? The very idea is nonsensical. And where did all those assets go? They went into your own pocket, Charles Povey. Because you were desperately in need of them. And I think it’s true, isn’t it’ – Appleby’s voice had dropped suddenly into a kind of spine-chilling caress – ‘that the Poveys always had a violent streak in them? Your brother Arthur for one. And certainly yourself.’