A Connoisseur's Case Read online

  ‘Miles Coulson? And then?’

  ‘She made one of those simple wills that are perfectly valid, although done without lawyers. And she got Crabtree to construct one of his hiding places for it. So, ever since her death, it has been in Crabtree’s power to have this will unearthed, and Bertram Coulson dispossessed in favour of Miles or whoever was named in it. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think it suggests that the meeting of Bertram Coulson and Crabtree yesterday morning wasn’t at all the kind of affair Crabtree described to us. It presents your dear old Seth, strayed out from Under the Greenwood Tree or wherever, as a very respectably cunning old rascal.’

  ‘Well, yes. But then we have to consider everything. You keep on saying that. And you made quite a point of feeling or believing that Crabtree had something to conceal.’

  ‘That’s true. So Bertram Coulson killed Crabtree in order not to be turned out of Scroop House?’

  ‘Just that.’ Judith nodded gravely. ‘You’ve seen how madly attached to the place Bertram is. He’d do anything rather than risk losing it.’

  ‘True again. But I think there are certain difficulties which your theory must face.’

  ‘Of course there are. I don’t believe Bertram Coulson to be at all that sort of man.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s not. But there is still a difficulty, even if he is. For, whatever his moral nature, there can be no doubt of his having a reasonably good practical intelligence. He packed meat, or whatever it was, sufficiently successfully to tell us that. So he must know very well that an English landed proprietor is in singularly little danger of being deprived of his estate on the strength of a twenty-year-old will. Particularly when that will would seem to have been made by an old woman whose chief concern was to hide it away from all human ken except that of one of her menservants. No court would look seriously at a document with so daft a provenance.’

  ‘I think I could guess that. But your argument neglects one significant–’ Judith broke off, having become aware that a stranger had entered the lounge and was making his way through it to the inn’s only staircase. She waited until he had disappeared. ‘I was going to say–’ But again she broke off, this time on catching sight of her husband’s expression. ‘My dear John, what on earth is it?’

  ‘Am I goggling and gaping? How very unprofessional. But that was Alfred Binns, the father of your enfants terribles, who was so sure that he was doing no more than hurrying through this part of the country last night.’

  ‘He must be Channing-Kennedy’s wealthy guest, who’s actually going to have a bottle of wine.’

  ‘So he must. I wonder–’

  This time it was Appleby who fell abruptly silent. For the figure which had disappeared upstairs was now coming down again. It was certainly Binns. And the object of his return to the lounge immediately declared itself. Without pausing at the foot of the stairs, he walked straight over to Appleby.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Appleby rose. ‘May I introduce you to my wife?’

  Alfred Binns produced a formal bow.

  ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘The fact is, Lady Appleby, that your husband and I ought to have a little conversation.’

  Judith, although not precisely habituated to the role of the little woman who scurries from the room when the menfolk broach business, produced a very colourable impersonation of something of this sort now.

  ‘I think I’ll take a teeny toddle along the canal,’ she said. ‘But don’t be too long, darling.’ And with this Judith withdrew.

  ‘Lady Appleby has a sense of humour,’ Binns said. He didn’t sound too pleased by the discovery.

  ‘Well, yes – and of a freakish sort at times.’

  ‘Perhaps I made my suggestion a little baldly, Sir John. But I do think we must talk. For your better information and for my better safety.’

  ‘Your better safety, sir?’ Appleby sat down again. ‘I don’t know that I follow you.’

  ‘I doubt that. Here I am, hanging around what must be called the scene of the crime. And last night it was perfectly apparent, wasn’t it, that you were listening to a pack of lies?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’d say a pack, Mr Binns. But some lies, certainly.’

  ‘Including a big one.’

  ‘I agree. You asserted that it was a mere matter of chance that you were in this part of the world at the time of Crabtree’s death. That wasn’t true.’

  ‘Exactly. And it was an untruth in a damned dangerous area. That’s what I mean by considering my own better safety now. Of course, if I’d actually killed that old man myself, I’d scarcely have barged in on Raven as I did. I’d have beaten it.’

  ‘In that rather obvious car. Do you know that I saw the Rolls, with yourself presumably in it, within a few hundred yards of that lock and within twenty minutes, or thereabouts, of Crabtree’s being killed?’

  ‘I said we should talk.’

  ‘We’re talking. You say, or imply, that you didn’t kill Crabtree. Perhaps you’re afraid that one of your children did?’

  The sudden brutality of this question sent the blood from Alfred Binns’ face. But it produced nothing unguarded from him.

  ‘It’s certainly about my children that I want to speak, Sir John. For there is something to tell about them, as there is about myself. And, thinking over the gravity of this affair, I have seen how essential absolute candour is.’

  Appleby didn’t show himself as much impressed by this very proper speech.

  ‘It is my impression,’ he said, ‘that you knew about what you call the gravity of this affair before you turned up upon Colonel Raven last night. Truthfully or untruthfully, you declared that you were unaware of Crabtree’s death. But something had shocked you badly, all the same.’

  ‘Crabtree’s death.’ Binns’ voice was steady. And his gaze was steady too. ‘I think I was probably the fourth person to be aware of it.’

  ‘The fourth person?’

  ‘First – necessarily – the murderer. Then you and Lady Appleby. And then myself. It seems to take some explaining, does it not?’

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘Crabtree, as you probably know, was in my employment for a number of years during my tenancy of Scroop. Perhaps five years. Towards the end of that period I judged that he had become an undesirable influence upon my small son, Peter.’

  ‘Gravely undesirable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was this a matter of some definite depravity – say a sexual depravity?’

  ‘Not at all. It was an indefinable influence – and only the more disturbing because of that.’

  ‘I see. Would it have been accurate to describe Crabtree as a sinister character?’

  ‘Again – not at all. He was an attractive man.’

  ‘Attractive to women?’

  Binns hesitated. He might have been checking a recollection.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so. Be that as it may, I decided that we should be better without him. We parted amicably enough.’

  ‘You dismissed him because of something ill-defined, unsubstan-tiated and discreditable – but he went off amicably, all the same?’

  ‘There was no breach. I gave him a substantial sum of money to enable him to settle overseas.’

  ‘Dear me!’ Appleby looked curiously at Binns. ‘You must have been uncommonly anxious to get rid of him. Looking back over the situation afterwards, did you continue to feel that your alarm about his influence over Peter had been justified?’

  ‘I did. Naturally enough, in subsequent years Crabtree was seldom mentioned in my household. But when he was – well, there was something. Perhaps I express myself obscurely. My son was being reminded of something not grateful to him.’

  ‘What about your daughter? Had the man had some ill influence over her?’

  ‘Daphne?’ Binns seemed startled. ‘Certainly not. She can have been no more than four or five when Crabtree went abroad.’

&
nbsp; ‘But a moment ago, Mr Binns, you implied that it was both your children that you wanted to speak about.’

  ‘That, in a way, is true. Although Peter and Daphne do not always appear to get on very well, they are much in one another’s confidence. The troubles of one would be the troubles of the other.’

  ‘I see.’ Appleby wasn’t, in fact, sure that he did see. ‘And what follows from all this? Just how does it hitch on to yesterday – and to our present conversation?’

  ‘I had a letter from Crabtree, announcing his return to England, and saying that he expected to be at Scroop in a couple of days time.’

  ‘Could it have been called a threatening letter?’

  ‘I think not. Although I confess that I read into it some obscure attitude that I didn’t like. I have, of course, preserved it. You can see it.’

  Appleby was silent for a moment. He realized that this must be true.

  ‘But I don’t see,’ he said, ‘that this was any great concern of yours. Did the letter mention your son and daughter?’

  ‘Yes. Crabtree said he hoped he would have an opportunity to see them.’

  ‘He had known them as children. Apart from that old distrust of the man, there was really nothing to alarm you in a perfectly natural wish?’

  ‘There ought not to have been, I agree. Perhaps I am a pathologically anxious parent. I was, in fact, alarmed – or disquieted, at least.’

  ‘Where were Peter and Daphne at this time?’

  ‘I had understood that they were visiting an aunt in Wales. When I found that this was not the case, I guessed that they had come to Scroop. They have a standing invitation from the Coulsons. My uneasiness grew.’

  ‘I’m bound to say I find this a little odd. But I suppose you telephoned or wired Scroop to find out?’

  ‘No. I decided to run down. You will wonder with what object. I can only answer: reassurance. I wanted to be certain that there was not some threat to Peter in Crabtree’s return.’

  ‘After fifteen years?’

  ‘It seems strange. But I suppose most people have these irrational impulses at times. Of course my subsequent behaviour – which is really what I have to tell you about – was more irrational still. That is the – well, the awkwardness of it. I decided not to call on the Coulsons. It is a long time since I have done so, and I felt some reluctance about renewing our acquaintance. So I decided to approach the house from across the canal and through the park. I felt I should probably see some sign of the children if they were in fact at Scroop. Does this sound incredible, Sir John?’

  Appleby shook his head.

  ‘I can’t say that it does. Not, that is to say, as a course of conduct which some unknown person might adopt. It doesn’t entirely, if I may say so, cohere with my sense of your own character, Mr Binns. But I have been coming across a good deal in this affair where similar considerations apply. And your plan didn’t succeed?’

  ‘I scarcely gave it a chance to. I drove along the road south of the canal, and came to a stop not far from the lock, with the plan I have mentioned to you still in my mind. Then, suddenly, I thought better of it. My children would find my visit, and the manner of my visit, strange. It was scarcely possible that Crabtree’s return really constituted any threat to my son. I decided that I had been foolish, and I drove on.’

  ‘There seems nothing very surprising in that.’ Appleby said this rather dryly. ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I changed my mind once more. Frankly, I was in a state of nervous irresolution. I turned round, drove back, left the car, and walked up to the lock. And there you were: yourself, Lady Appleby, and the body of Seth Crabtree. I turned and walked away again.’ Binns looked at Appleby with faint amusement. ‘And you didn’t notice me.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Appleby was suitably abashed. ‘Of course, I was preoccupied, and so was my wife. But I had noticed you earlier, or at least I had noticed your car. You got near enough, by the way, to recognize Crabtree – and after those fifteen years?’

  ‘Yes…no.’ Binns appeared honestly uncertain. ‘Say that the thing flashed on me. I just knew.’

  ‘And then?’ Appleby thought he had caught a ring of truth in this. ‘You drove away and thought it over? And it had been a terrific shock? And, later, all you could think of was blundering in on Colonel Raven with that story of passing through – your hope being to find out whether your children actually were at Scroop?’

  ‘Just that, Sir John. Afterwards, I come back to this inn and put up here. I couldn’t bring myself to clear out.’ Binns paused, and then looked full at Appleby. ‘Have you the slightest reason to believe that I am telling the truth?’

  ‘Well – yes, I have. Or at least some of it.’

  ‘You mean having seen my car at a time and place that fits?’

  ‘Of course, there is that. And at a time and place, Mr Binns, that would fit with a good deal. But there’s more than that. Your story has a very odd shape to it. But I can fit at least one loop of it, so to speak, into the jigsaw.’

  ‘There is a jigsaw?’ Binns spoke swiftly. ‘One, I mean, that is beginning to show a pattern?’

  ‘Dear me, yes. I’ve been looking into this affair, you know, for more than twenty-four hours now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Alfred Binns received this sudden shocking piece of arrogance almost humbly.

  ‘And I’m under a sort of contract, as a matter of fact, to clear it up by midnight. By the way, when your son was quite small, and when you had Crabtree about the place, was there any one thing about the boy that particularly worried you?’

  Binns suddenly passed a hand rather wearily over his forehead.

  ‘It seems strange,’ he said. ‘But that’s just the sort of thing I can’t remember.’

  ‘For example, did the boy sometimes seem to have more pocket money than seemed accountable?’

  Alfred Binns stared.

  ‘Why, yes,’ he said. That’s true. It was a worry. I used to wonder whether he was going to his mother’s purse. She…we parted, you know, when Peter was about fifteen. But up till then.’

  ‘I see. And later? Have there been later occasions, I mean, upon which Peter has seemed oddly flush?’

  Binns frowned.

  ‘Perhaps there have. There was his second car. It looked remarkably expensive. Peter said he’d traded in his old one in some advantageous way. But I remember feeling that there was something to account for.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Appleby nodded gravely. ‘I ought to say that, in the nature of the case, your son remains just as much a suspect as you do. Rather more so, perhaps – since I could provide a motive of sorts for his killing Crabtree. I shall probably be in a position to provide one for you too. But it may take just a little thinking out. You are a slightly more mysterious figure to me, Mr Binns, than your son is. In fact, I see nothing that is mysterious about Peter. Your daughter, however, is another matter.’

  Binns had received the first part of this speech impassively. But its conclusion brought him to his feet.

  ‘Daphne has nothing to do with this,’ he said. ‘She has no part in it at all. I’ll thank you to leave her alone.’

  ‘I hope I shall be able to. But has what you have told me, Mr Binns, really been entirely dictated by a sense of what you called your own better safety? Are you quite sure that Daphne’s better safety hasn’t been a little in the picture too?’

  For a moment Binns was silent. When he spoke, it was with a sudden vehemence which bore every appearance of spontaneity.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘live up to your boasting. Find who killed Crabtree. And find him by midnight. I can’t stand much more of this.’

  13

  Judith Appleby’s teeny toddle had not, in fact, been along the canal. That – she discovered – was a route she never wanted to take again. It was the route, after all, that had led from Seth Crabtree alive and conversable to Seth Crabtree dead and battered. She had therefore turned in the other direction on leaving the inn and tak
en the narrow lane down which the disagreeable van man had retreated with his rejected piano. She would explore the hamlet of Nether Scroop.

  It didn’t look as if this enterprise could occupy her for long. There was a small church which might, or might not be of interest; there was a village shop which was also a post office; there was a scattering of cottages round an uncertain demarcated green; and behind hedges there were two or three houses of slightly larger pretension. Just emerging from the garden gate of one of these last was the only figure visible in the scene. It was that of a woman who, seeing Judith’s approach, first hesitated and then waited for her to come up. As she did so, Judith realized that it was Mrs Coulson.

  For a moment Judith couldn’t recall why this encounter took her slightly by surprise. Then she remembered.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad that you are better.’

  ‘Better?’ Mrs Coulson looked vague. Then she smiled. ‘These small attacks never last. I was only sorry to have to go and lie down during your call.’ She hesitated. ‘You are looking round the village? Shall we walk together to the church? There is one rather lovely Elizabethan tomb.’

  ‘Yes, I should like to see that.’

  Mrs Coulson took a step forward. As she did so, the garden gate by which she had been standing swung to, and Judith saw that it carried a small brass plate:

  BRIAN WEST MB, BS

  PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON

  It was to be presumed that Mrs Coulson’s indisposition had prompted her to visit her doctor. This being no subject for comment, Judith moved forward, and the two women walked towards the church together.

  ‘Your husband is not with you?’ Mrs Coulson asked.

  ‘He is talking to somebody in the inn. I must go back there in ten minutes or so.’