The Open House (7 page)

‘But I didn’t. I came to make sure that no successful imposture takes place. For some years, I don’t think people had a clear notion of what you were about on this annual occasion. But now, as I happen to know, the whole neighbourhood has more or less got the hang of it – and it may well have spread a good deal farther than that. The very least that you must expect sooner or later is either some tiresome joke, or the much worse annoyance of a kind of Tichborne Claimant. I believe that imposture of that kind, my dear chap, has to be killed at once and on the ground. Let it take the air, and the devil’s own mischief may follow. Sir John, you would again agree with me?’

‘Certainly.’ Appleby was allowing himself to look with some astonishment at the vicar. ‘And you feel, sir, that you are the man to make that early kill?’

‘I could have a pretty good shot at it. And if anything of the sort is a possibility, I judged that Beddoes would be the better of a friend standing by. I was supposing, you know, that there would be nobody else here – except, perhaps, that fellow Leonidas. So I decided that Beddoes’ invitation should be accepted.’

‘You would nevertheless agree that, if somebody is indeed at supper in the dining-room at this moment, he is much more likely to be the genuine Adrian Snodgrass than a pretender?’

‘Oh, dear me, yes! I merely claim that there must be some substantial possibility of vexatious foolery, or of deception. Beddoes, I hope you are not upset by these cautions and suspicions of mine?’

The Professor, it seemed to Appleby, was less upset than bewildered. He had stood up to Absolon stoutly enough, but – if only obscurely – his confidence could be felt as flickering. Or was it rather that the vicar’s unexpected onslaught had caused him to lose command of a role, so that he was searching round to recover it? Flushed, whether with indignation or alarm, he made only an unsuccessful attempt at utterance. Before he could try again, the library door had opened as library doors can only open under the hand of a trained manservant. The figure revealed was heavily bearded, and he was not dressed as butlers are dressed in the advertisements. Nevertheless Appleby was instantly assured that this stiff and ponderous figure was Leonidas, who had been received into the service of an eminent retired military historian on account of his name’s recalling the hero of Thermopylae.

If Leonidas was surprised to find that his employer had company, nothing of it showed on features which were at once professionally impassive and so unprofessionally hirsute. If his glance did pause on Appleby, it was for no longer than was wholly decorous. And then he addressed Professor Snodgrass with an impassive formality.

‘Mr Snodgrass is in residence, sir,’ Leonidas said.

The first reaction to Leonidas’ announcement came, oddly enough, from the Reverend Doctor Absolon, so comfortably relaxed over his port and his cigar. It took the form, indeed, of no more than a flicker of the eyebrows, directed at Appleby. For a moment Appleby supposed that what was being suggested was merely a sense of mild amusement at a form of words which might have been deemed more appropriate to the movements of a duke or marquess than of one so addicted as Adrian Snodgrass appeared to be to the role of a very private gentleman. But then Appleby divined that it was something quite different that Absolon wanted to convey. Leonidas, he was indicating, had taken the identity of the new arrival for granted. Adrian Snodgrass was totally unknown to him, so here might be, as it were, the Tichborne Claimant in person. And the Claimant had won his first small round. A preliminary assumption was established. Professor Snodgrass had only to behave in as dotty a fashion as he appeared abundantly capable of, and the fellow might get away with goodness knew what.

But Absolon was very tolerably dotty himself. Beneficed clergymen of the Church of England ought not to drift around scattering bizarre suspicions among their parishioners. And the suspicion was, of course, fantastic. Something quite sufficiently surprising had happened. Adrian Snodgrass was indeed in residence.

‘Quite so,’ the Professor was saying. ‘Precisely so, Leonidas. My guest and I heard Mr Snodgrass arrive. You have presented yourself?’

‘Yes, sir. I came over to the Park at the time you directed, and very shortly afterwards Mr Snodgrass rang the dining-room bell. I found him at table, sir. I uncorked the champagne.’

‘Excellent! And he appears to be in good spirits?’

‘Decidedly, sir. Most affable, he was. A jocose gentleman, if the word may be permitted me. I followed your instructions, explained that I was in your service at the Old Dower House, and that you had said I was to venture to wait upon him. He asked at once if I would consider being employed by himself at what he termed a stiffer screw. I took this as evidence of a facetious disposition. He then told me to put a second bottle of champagne on the ice.’

‘The devil he did!’ It was Dr Absolon who uttered this unclerical ejaculation. ‘Well, well!’

‘The which I did at once.’ Leonidas looked with a kind of respectful disapproval at the vicar. ‘I presume Mr Snodgrass had it in mind that he would presently be joined by the Professor. In fact, he indicated as much.’

‘Good!’ Professor Snodgrass said. ‘Capital! Just what did he say, Leonidas?’

‘Verbatim, sir?’

‘Certainly verbatim. I am most anxious to hear the dear lad’s words.’

‘He said, sir, to send the old fellow along at any time. I understand myself to be following the injunction – if that be an agreeable term, sir – now.’

Not unnaturally, this piece of information produced a small pause. Appleby wondered whether Professor Snodgrass was experiencing a certain difficulty in swallowing it. He also conjectured that Leonidas had taken the suggestion of changed employment and a higher wage seriously. This would account for a certain cautiously menial insolence which the bearded butler was permitting himself.

‘Adrian appears affectionately disposed,’ Absolon offered dryly. ‘He does not propose to stand upon ceremony.’

‘But first,’ Leonidas continued with satisfaction, ‘he invited me to take a glass of madeira. I was honoured, and complied.’

‘Quite right,’ Professor Snodgrass said. ‘The gesture was a very proper one on my nephew’s part. Did he say anything else, Leonidas?’

‘Well, yes.’ Very rapidly, Leonidas gave his employer what Appleby found himself judging a wary glance. ‘He asked me whether I knew who the girl was.’

‘The girl, Leonidas!’

‘He said he had glimpsed a female person, sir. As he entered the house.’

‘Did he happen to say anything,’ Appleby interposed, ‘about the female person’s being in white?’

‘No.’ Leonidas looked at Appleby with open disapprobation. ‘Mr Snodgrass did not animadvert upon the person’s attire.’

‘Have you yourself glimpsed this woman?’

‘No.’

‘Or anybody else, since you came over to the Park?’

For a moment Leonidas made no reply. Instead, he looked at his employer as if reproaching him for having suddenly descended to keeping low company. Then he brought himself again to glance at Appleby.

‘No,’ Leonidas said.

There was another pause.

‘Dr Absolon,’ the Professor said pacifically to his butler, ‘has been aware of what might be called suspicious movements out in the park. And so, it appears, nearer the house, has Sir John Appleby. Sir John, by the way, Leonidas, is a new neighbour. It is a little worrying, you know. We did have that alarm at this time last year. But, of course, the lights keep actual burglars, and so forth, away.’

‘I am afraid that has never been my opinion, sir. Contrariwise, indeed.’ Leonidas’ disaffection appeared to be growing. ‘A residence like this, all lit up and deserted, has never made sense to me, I’m bound to say. I wouldn’t do it myself, not for a single night, I wouldn’t, not for a waggon-load of nephews, or monkeys either. It’s asking for suspicious happenings, it is. And when suspicious happenings happen, it’s the servants that get the worst of it. In good service, such oughtn’t to happen at all. To my mind, if I may be permitted to obtrude such a thing.’

This highly improper speech naturally produced adverse reactions in the three gentlemen to whom, indifferently, it had been proffered. Dr Absolon’s glance contrived to express the conviction that, if one did employ a pampered butler, it was exactly this sort of impertinence that one must expect sooner or later. Appleby found himself wondering whether here was not so much a pampered butler as a clever rogue. And Professor Snodgrass himself appeared to feel that some mild rebuke was requisite.

‘Thank you, Leonidas, you may go,’ Professor Snodgrass said – for all the world like an employer in a Victorian novel. ‘In fact, you may retire to bed.’

It is probable that, upon this command, Leonidas gave a cold bow. But only probable, since nobody was ever actually to know. For, much as if the Professor’s words had been a cue-line in some old-fashioned melodrama, they had been instantly followed by a sudden deluge of darkness. The library remained, indeed, faintly lit by the dying fire. But throughout the room, as also in the corridor beyond the open door where Leonidas still stood, every light had been simultaneously extinguished. All Ledward Park was again as Appleby had first encountered it: a mere realm of Chaos and Old Night. Of Chaos in particular. For upon the inky gloom there immediately succeeded what might have been a nicely calculated crescendo of alarming, even of spine-chilling, sounds. First there was an angry shout, then pounding feet, a crash of splintering glass, a woman’s high-pitched scream, the shattering reverberation of a firearm discharged in a confined space. And then silence was entire again.

THE SMALL HOURS

It could at least be said of Leonidas that, in this emergency, he had his wits about him. He had stepped swiftly across the library, and within seconds lit the candles in a three-branched candlestick.

‘On this side of the house, that was,’ he said. ‘The drawing-room, it might have come from. I suppose, sir’ – he had turned to Professor Snodgrass – ‘you wouldn’t have that old revolver of yours handy in this room?’

‘Of course not, Leonidas. But there are four of us, and we must tackle whatever mischief is afoot. William, you agree with me?’

‘Most certainly – and I can see that Sir John does. The question would appear to be whether we scatter, or go forward in a body. I am inclined to think that we may
be
bodies, if we advance together along that very awkward quadrant corridor. For I suppose that robbery with violence is what confronts us.’

‘That seems probable enough.’ Appleby had taken the candelabrum from Leonidas, and was walking towards the door. ‘But, if so, the robbery is likely to be over, and the robbers to be departing rather rapidly now. I propose returning to the hall. Leonidas, if I call to you from there, you are to come out and make your way to the switchboard, wherever that may be. It is probable that somebody has merely thrown out the main switch. Get it in again. Or, if fuses have been tampered with, do what you can. Professor Snodgrass, I would ask you and the vicar to remain here for the moment.’ Appleby was making no bones about taking charge in the emergency. It was his sort of thing, after all. ‘But I think I noticed a telephone in this room. If so, be so kind as to call the police at once. Tell them there has been shooting. It will get them out of bed. Right? Now I’ll take a look around.’

He walked rapidly down the corridor. It wasn’t a place in which to loiter. But almost immediately he heard footsteps behind him – footsteps and a muted
tap-tap
which he knew to be produced by Professor Snodgrass’ rubber-tipped stick.

‘I would really rather you remained in the library,’ he said, without looking round. ‘Situations like this are quite familiar to me, you know.’

‘I think it probable that I have been under fire quite as often as you have.’ There was a surprising snap in Snodgrass’ voice, so that momentarily he sounded a much younger man. ‘And I have to know what has happened to Adrian.’

‘Very well.’ Appleby was looking fixedly ahead of him. It was still into nothing but absolute darkness. He remembered that the corridor gave not directly on the imposing colonnaded hall, but on a room of moderate size which came in between. And here it was, floating glimmeringly into view through an open door. He hadn’t paused on first passing through it, and he didn’t pause now. Only he saw from its glimpsed furnishings that it would probably be known as the music room.
Facing the music
, he told himself, and in half-a-dozen further strides was in the hall. The Professor was now shoulder to shoulder with him – which was remarkably good going on a stick.

The two men stood between two of the columns that soared to the scarcely visible ornate ceiling. Merely between these, there would have been room without crowding for four or five men more. Who had once talked, Appleby asked himself, of feeling like a mouse in a cathedral? Here – holding aloft these three wax candles – one felt more like a glow-worm in a forest: an enchanted forest, in which the tree trunks were a frozen honey and the foliage hammered gold. A cold breath blew through the forest. Appleby wondered why.

‘The drawing-room,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’ll try that first.’

The dead man lay prone on the floor, with his head in the drawing-room and his heels in the hall. Even by candlelight his deadness didn’t seem arguable, since a bullet had emerged – not tidily – through the back of his head. His left arm was crumpled beneath him; his right was outstretched as if to reach into the room, and in its hand was grasped a heavy brass poker. It was from the cavernous darkness beyond the body that the small chill breeze was blowing.

Appleby had set the candelabrum down on the marble floor – inconsequently aware, as he did so, of its decorous Georgian elegance. This damned house, he reflected, is full of loot. His hands busied themselves expertly with the body. He straightened up.

‘If he were on the operating-table at this moment,’ he said to Snodgrass, ‘there wouldn’t be a hope for him. But we must still keep our priorities right. I’ll give Leonidas that shout.’