Sky High
Sky High
(The Country House Burglar)
First published in 1955
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1955-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105117 | | 9780755105113 | | Print | |
| | 075513205X | | 9780755132058 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132424 | | 9780755132423 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
"The plot,"
wrote Keating, "
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings."
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
"I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.".
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
Armado:
The sweet war-man is dead and rotten: Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed he was a man. But I will forward with my device.
The choir rehearses and the quiet life of Brimberly village goes on. Yet sinister undercurrents simmer beneath the surface. It starts to emerge that the respectable choir members may not have been entirely honest about their pasts. The usual peace and tranquillity of the village is threatened. The rifling of the church poor-box may not be unprecedented, but then there is an explosion . . .
THE CHOIR REHEARSES
Boyet:
‘The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the
maskers come’
‘Christ,’ said Mrs. Artside pleasantly. ‘Not Kerr-rist.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Artside.’
‘That’s all right, Lucy. It’s a difficult word to sing. Jesus is much better, and, of course, Jesu is easiest of all, but we’ve got to take what the hymnographers give us. Let’s do it again from the beginning.’
She sat down at the bench, which protested a little under her weight, and laid her thick, wrinkled fingers on the keys of the portable harmonium. The choir once more attacked Charles Wesley’s great morning hymn.
‘That’s not bad,’ said Mrs. Artside at the finish. ‘Not bad at all. There’s no need to look quite so down in the mouth, Maurice, when you’re singing “dark and cheerless is the morn”. I’m all in favour of expression, but you needn’t act it. That covers the hymns for the next two weeks, so now—’
‘What’s the last hymn next Sunday, Mrs. Artside?’
‘Hundred and sixty-six. Old Hundredth. You all know
that.
We’ll have the treble descant for verse three. “O enter then His Courts with praise.” All right, Rupert?’
Rupert Cleeve nodded sombrely. Beside the three Hedges boys, thought Mrs. Artside, he looked like a greyhound puppy in a litter of collies. Where they were slow, shaggy-brown, and already thickening out into small replicas of their huge father, Rupert was thin, pale, and a bundle of controlled nerves. Dress him in a frilly collar and a satin suit and he would take the shine out of any Hollywood Fauntleroy. Even in a plain flannel suit he looked good enough to eat.
‘All right, then.’
‘What about the psalms?’
‘Plantagenet, Llandudno and Snagge,’ said Mrs. Artside rapidly. ‘It’s no good getting ambitious if we’re to make time for an anthem. After all, it’s the first one we’ve done since the Christmas before last. Hand the sheets round would you, Tim?’
The thick young man in flannel jacket and corduroy trousers distributed the anthems and the choir, from Ellen, the youngest Hedges girl to big Jim Hedges himself, in his best black, stared with dutiful curiosity at the symbols spread out before them, symbols which their unstinting efforts had but three weeks to turn into a river of liquid harmony.
Only Major MacMorris, the Cantoris tenor, seemed unperturbed. He glanced in quick, professional manner, through the score and bent across to say something to Sue Palling, the Cantoris Alto.
Tim Artside noticed the movement but did nothing about it. There was five yards of vestry floor between them, and in church and directly under his mother’s eye was not the best place to start a fight.
‘”Come, ye thankful people, come”,’ said Mrs. Artside. ‘We can’t run to first and second trebles, so I think, on the whole, we’ll stick to first. The tenor solo – that’ll be safe enough—’
Major MacMorris exposed his white teeth in a smile. He assumed, correctly, that the compliment was being paid to him. Tim Artside chalked that one up, too.
‘I’d better do the bass voluntary – “ere the winter storms begin” – unless—’ she looked politely at Jim Hedges, who grinned and said that on the whole he thought Mrs. Artside would do it better than him.
‘There’s no alto solo—’
‘Thank heavens,’ said Sue Palling and Lucy Mallory in most perfect unison.
‘I suggest we take it straight through. Start on the tenth beat – like this—’ She sketched the introduction nimbly on the harmonium, and at the appropriate moment burst out with the word ‘COME’ in her resonant bass.
‘All right – once more then – I want you all to come in this time – plenty of attack. Da dum diddy dee—dum dum—dum dum—COME—yes, what is it?’
‘May I leave the room?’
‘I should have thought you could have lasted four pages of music without—all right, all right—we won’t argue about it. You ought to know.’
Rupert walked sedately from the vestry and closed the door behind him. All his movements were composed and unselfconsciously neat.
‘Whilst we’re waiting for Rupert we might run through the treble part. All ready? On the down beat. “Come ye thankful people come. Raise the song of Harvest Home.” Oh dear. That wasn’t very good, was it?’
It was evident that the trebles leaned on Rupert.
‘Try it once more. Well. That’s a little better. Perhaps if the altos backed you up this time—’
‘Come to God’s own temple come. Raise the song of Harvest Home.’
The thin wailing drew to a close.
‘Wouldn’t raise the price of beer,’ said Jim Hedges. He spoke with the authority of one who was not only the father of five-sixths of the trebles, but also owned and drove the only taxi in Brimberley.
‘It hasn’t got much attack,’ agreed Mrs. Artside. ‘It’ll get better with practice, I expect. Here’s Rupert, at last. Try it once more.’
It went better this time. The bass, which consisted for the most part of a repetition of the words ‘Harvest Home, Harvest Home’ was safe enough in the hands of Jim Hedges who, in forty years, had sung every part in Brimberley choir from treble and wobbling alto through green-stick tenor down to the comfortable depths of bass. Major MacMorris made child’s play of the tenor, rebelliously followed by Tim Artside, who was reliable if he had someone to help him start but had no idea of striking the initial note. Lucy Mallory and Sue Palling were, at best, moderate altos.
‘I think we shall make out,’ said Mrs. Artside at last. ‘We’ve got two more Tuesdays before the big day, and I’d like one private run with the trebles. Friday? No, that’s Institute Night. Next Monday then. It’ll save opening the church up if you can come to my house.’
On behalf of five of the trebles, Jim Hedges agreed that Monday was as good an evening as any. Rupert said he would find out.
‘Come to that I can ask your father to-night,’ said Mrs. Artside. ‘He’s driving over to collect you. Thank you, Lucy. If you’d just put the psalters back in the choir stalls. You’ll want them all on Sunday. I’ll take the anthems home with me for next Monday. Would you lock up, Tim? I’ve got to hurry back home and put the coffee on. Are you going to be in this evening? The key goes back to the Vicar. If he isn’t in you can put it through his letter box, but I think he must be in, it’s Confirmation Class.’