The Daffodil Affair Read online

  It was clear that on what the dusty man would call the provenance of Daffodil there was little to be discovered. Appleby tried another tack. ‘How was he almost human? Was he particularly intelligent?’

  Mr Gee shook his head emphatically. ‘Nowise. I don’t think I ever knew a horse more lacking in – well, in horse sense, if you follow me. And that’s what I said to the police when they first came after him. “The horse was half-witted,” I said, “and if he’s gone I’ll cut my losses.” And now I say it again. For who wants a half-witted, almost human horse?’

  Appleby looked in some perplexity at Daffodil’s late owner. Mr Gee seemed to be suggesting the same relation between human and equine intelligence as Swift had expressed in his celebrated fable of the Yahoos. And yet Mr Gee was far from being a person of literary mind – nor did the quality of his humorous sallies suggest a taste for the finer ironies. So Appleby tried again. ‘I find it difficult to picture this animal at all. Just how was he almost human?’

  Mr Gee looked cautiously round the yard – very much, Appleby recalled, as the dusty man had looked round at the cauldron. ‘He knew his numbers,’ said Mr Gee briefly.

  ‘How very strange.’ Appleby found it difficult to hide his satisfaction. ‘You mean that if, for instance, you happened to mention a number in Daffodil’s presence he would stop and nod or paw out the sum of the digits involved?’

  Mr Gee nodded. ‘You’ve got it. “How much to Starbeck?” a fare would ask Bodfish. “Five bob,” Bodfish would say. And, sure enough, Daffodil would nod five times. Unnatural, I call it.’

  ‘It sounds,’ suggested Appleby cheerfully, ‘as if Daffodil had once been a horse in a show.’

  ‘But that’s not all.’ Mr Gee laid a hand on Appleby’s arm. ‘Now, listen,’ he said. ‘Nobody believes in the uncanny nowadays, do they?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ The proposition was extremely doubtful, Appleby thought; but nevertheless it was judicious to agree.

  ‘Well, then, can you explain this? Daffodil knew the numbers you was thinking of – just as well as the others. Indeed, more accurate he was on them, Bodfish says. It would be like this. Bodfish would be driving someone to John’s Well, say. And “I’ll stick her for three bob,” he’d think to himself. And then Daffodil would pull up and do his three times nod or stamp. When he was driving Daffodil, Bodfish had to keep figures out of his head, he says. Now, what do you think of that?’

  Appleby thought it rather less remarkable than the first instance of Daffodil’s powers. But as explaining this would require something like a psychological and physiological treatise, he thought it better to refrain. ‘Mr Gee,’ he parried, ‘did it never occur to you that these peculiar powers made Daffodil an unusually valuable horse? Imagine the thing in a circus. Members of the audience are invited to come up, hold Daffodil by the bridle and think of a number. And then Daffodil taps it out. The trick would make any showman’s fortune.’

  ‘It so happens,’ said Mr Gee with dignity, ‘that I’m not a showman. But if Daffodil is valuable the way you suggest, then you know something about them in whose hands he was before. They weren’t show people, or they wouldn’t have let him go.’

  Appleby got up. ‘Mr Gee, you ought to have taken to my profession.’

  ‘There’s compliments you can return,’ said Mr Gee, ‘and there’s compliments you can’t.’

  6

  What they call a Parthian shot, Appleby said to himself as he made his way back to his hotel. And, as far as this evening was concerned, a coup de grâce: beguiling as the affair of Daffodil and the witches appeared, he had seen enough of it for that day.

  It was the violet hour, and across the Stray the last bath chairs were striving homewards. Conch-like and creeping, they choicely illustrated in their controlled diversity the beautiful social complexity of England. The coolie element was provided in the main by seedy old persons drawn from various strata of the deserving and undeserving poor; there was an admixture, however, of well-found private menials. These latter, Appleby noticed, tended to push, whereas the seedy old persons pulled. Pulling is more efficient, but its associations are quadrupled and lowering; in pushing alone can a certain dignity and aloofness be preserved. With traction and propulsion the seedy persons and the servants laboured towards their goals: hydropathics and hotels, guest homes, boarding-houses, apartments, lodgings, furnished rooms. And the bath chairs too had their hierarchies and orders; a system less of caste than of class – in which there is always the inspiring possibility of rapid rise and always the less cheerful probability of gradual decline. Here and there an enterprising person had contrived to smarten up his stock in trade; but more commonly these vehicles had come down in the world – the varnish cracked, the wickerwork prickly, the hood peeling, the horsehair and kapok coming out in wisps. And through this scene of struggle moved the haughty aristocracy of the kind; bath chairs, with doors and with elaborate windscreens of wood and glass, so that the occupants, dimly discerned, showed like dingy mezzotints in drear mahogany frames. The bath chairs, spoking outwards like a mechanized column deploying, bore away from the focal baths and pumprooms old women who clutched library novels, ivory sticks, triumphantly tracked packages of chocolate peppermint creams. And on the pavements, politely yielding place, were old men of respectable dress and tenuously maintained bank balances; these exercised dogs; prowled in quest of evening papers, of tobacco; cast ancient professional eyes at the multiform signs that even Harrogate stood to arms. England was carrying on.

  And Appleby was hurrying to dine. He would have an early meal and go to a cinema and see something really silly – something silly enough to make Daffodil and Hannah Metcalfe look comparatively sensible when he returned to them in the morning. Certainly no more of them tonight.

  ‘John,’ called a commanding voice from behind him, ‘come here.’

  He turned to face the roadway, and his heart sank at what he saw. It was – it could not be other than – an open landau. Two elderly ladies sat expansively and side by side on the principal seat. Opposite to them, and – although she had a whole side to herself – in a more contracted position, was a female figure in a mouse-coloured hat. And on the box, tightly wrapped in rugs like the young of some savage tribe, perched a fat man with a liquid, a frankly taproom eye.

  ‘How are you, aunt?’ said Appleby. ‘I was just on my way to call.’

  ‘No doubt.’ The disbelief of Appleby’s aunt was unoffended and matter of fact. ‘Lady Caroline, let me introduce my nephew, John.’

  Lady Caroline bowed. She was in the dilemma of those who must combine dignity with a bad cold; her nose and eyes were uncomfortably reddened and she had apparently chosen clothes to match: this gave her an alarmingly combustible look. ‘Maidment will make room,’ said Lady Caroline commandingly.

  ‘Miss Maidment,’ said Appleby’s aunt politely, ‘will you make room?’

  The mouse-hatted lady contracted herself yet further into a corner and Appleby realized with dismay that he was expected to embark. The landau smelt of horse and dust and eucalyptus; it moved off with a creak.

  ‘Miss Appleby,’ said Lady Caroline, ‘do not you think that Bodfish had better avoid James Street with that horse?’

  ‘Miss Maidment,’ said Appleby’s aunt, ‘Lady Caroline thinks that Bodfish had better avoid James Street. The horse.’

  Miss Maidment twisted round on her seat. ‘Bodfish,’ she said severely, ‘you had better avoid James Street with that horse.’

  Bodfish, without uttering or turning round, put up a hand and raised his hat some inches above his head. Lady Caroline turned an appraising eye on Appleby. ‘We are without confidence in the horse,’ she explained. ‘Particularly Miss Maidment. She had an experience with a horse. When young. Maidment – my bag.’

  There was a search for Lady Caroline’s bag. Miss Appleby took no part. But presently she spoke. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘remember how often you find it–’ She broke off and looked meaningfully at Lady Caroline.


  ‘Bodfish,’ called Miss Maidment sternly, ‘stop.’

  The landau was brought to a halt and Lady Caroline prized some inches from her seat. The bag had undoubtedly been beneath her. She got out a handkerchief and blew. The equipage drove on. ‘Mr Appleby,’ said Lady Caroline sternly, ‘you are from London?’

  ‘Yes. I came down today.’

  Lady Caroline blew again. ‘The tubes are congested,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. But not so badly as they were.’

  Lady Caroline frowned. ‘Young man, do I understand that you are a physician?’

  ‘Lady Caroline,’ explained Appleby’s aunt, ‘refers to her chest.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Appleby was quite unnerved by this misunderstanding. ‘I’m a policeman. I’ve come about Daffodil.’

  ‘You are the person’ – Lady Caroline looked at Miss Appleby and coughed – ‘you are the officer whom my brother was to send?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Caroline.’

  ‘Dear me. My dear’ – she turned to Miss Appleby – ‘I think Bodfish had better attend.’

  ‘Miss Maidment, Lady Caroline thinks–’

  ‘Bodfish,’ said Miss Maidment threateningly, ‘pray pay attention.’

  Bodfish raised his hat. The quieter streets of Harrogate ambled past with the jerkiness only experienced in cabs and ill-projected films. Appleby, jolting hip to hip with the Assistant-Commissioner’s sister’s companion, reflected that carriage exercise was not altogether a contradiction in terms. And Lady Caroline, having again blown, leant forward and tapped Appleby on the knee with a decorously gloved hand, ‘I must tell you that I have had more satisfaction from the Cruelty to Animals than from the police.’

  ‘To the Cruelty to Animals,’ said Miss Appleby, ‘one subscribes.’

  ‘No doubt. But one pays taxes for the police.’ And Lady Caroline fixed her glance severely on Appleby’s tie, an expensive one from the Burlington Arcade. ‘We support the police.’

  ‘In a sense,’ said Appleby mildly, ‘the police support your brother. So it evens out.’

  Miss Maidment contrived a nervous sound in her throat. And Lady Caroline sat back abruptly. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I believe your nephew has something of your own wit. But that he has your sufficient sense of decorum I will not at present venture to add. And now, what I was about to observe. The Cruelty to Animals have been most active. And they have arrived, so far, at the remarkable sum of one hundred and eighty-one pounds.’

  Appleby looked perplexed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

  ‘They have traced Daffodil through what may be described as a little Odyssey.’ Lady Caroline paused, as if reconsidering the propriety of this word. ‘What may be described,’ she amended, ‘as a veritable Chevy Chase. It appears that in the present posture of our affairs – Bodfish, are you attending?’

  Bodfish raised his hat.

  ‘It appears that in the present posture of our affairs–’

  ‘In wartime,’ said Miss Appleby inoffensively.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. It appears that, at present, moving a horse clandestinely about the country is a matter of substantial difficulty. This has made it possible to trace Daffodil at least some little way. And much expense seems to have been involved. Conveyances were bought and abandoned as part of a carefully contrived scheme. That sort of thing. I am informed that at least a hundred and eighty-one pounds was spent in this way before Daffodil reached Bradford.’ Lady Caroline looked suspiciously at Appleby. ‘But this is information which the police already possess.’

  ‘I haven’t seen the local men yet; I determined to see you first, Lady Caroline.’ Appleby, thinking this rather a happy stroke, allowed himself the ghost of a wink at his aunt. ‘But I am surprised the animal was taken to Bradford. I knew for certain that he turned up later at York – which is pretty well in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Daffodil was traced to Bradford, and from there some way on the road to Keighley.’

  ‘Keighley?’ said Miss Appleby suddenly. ‘There is something rather interesting in that. John, you are no doubt aware of it.’

  Appleby looked at his aunt with suspicion; there was that in her tone which recalled to him searching investigations into his historical and geographical knowledge long ago. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I can’t think of anything particularly significant about Keighley.’

  ‘No more there is. What is significant is that Daffodil should last be heard of going from Bradford towards Keighley. Because that, you know, would take him uncommonly near Haworth.’

  ‘Haworth!’ Appleby sat back so abruptly that his elbow almost dug Miss Maidment in the ribs.

  ‘Exactly so. I am glad you see my point.’ And Appleby’s aunt turned to Lady Caroline. ‘John is, of course, accustomed to putting two and two together. It is his profession. And when he brings his mind to bear upon our unfortunate loss – Bodfish’s unfortunate loss–’

  Bodfish raised his hat.

  ‘–he at once asks himself what is peculiar about Daffodil. And the answer is this: that Daffodil is a peculiar horse. A gifted horse. In fact, a queer horse.’

  ‘I cannot agree, dear Miss Appleby,’ said Lady Caroline with dignity, ‘that Daffodil is a queer horse. But gifted, certainly.’

  ‘We will say, then, that Daffodil has unusual powers. And Daffodil disappears. Observe what John does. He will put two and two together if he can. He turns to his files – Scotland Yard, as your dear brother will have told you, is full of files – and seeks for any context in which this disappearance of Daffodil may be placed. In other words: have there been any similar disappearances of queer or gifted horses recently? And if not of horses, then of queer and gifted creatures of any other kind? He makes one significant discovery. Recently, and in this district, a young girl has suddenly and unaccountably disappeared from her home – we all read of it, you know, in the local papers. A gifted and decidedly queer girl. In fact, a witch.’

  Lady Caroline blew. Miss Maidment made a noise as of muted alarm. Appleby merely gaped.

  ‘And this young female of unusual powers lived near Haworth. How impressed, then, was John when he heard that Daffodil had last been seen moving that way!’

  Lady Caroline frowned. ‘This is most peculiar. And certainly above Bodfish’s head.’

  Miss Maidment turned round. ‘Bodfish,’ she said judicially, ‘we do not require your attention longer.’

  Bodfish raised his hat.

  ‘But this,’ continued Miss Appleby placidly, ‘is only the first stage of John’s inquiries. He has consulted his colleagues; assistants have been turning over press cuttings’ – suddenly Miss Appleby opened her bag – ‘as I may say I have been doing myself.’ She paused, and Appleby was momentarily aware of an infinitely ironical glance. ‘John has been particularly struck by the case of Lucy Rideout, a young girl who recently disappeared – having been, as it would seem, procured for immoral purposes.’

  ‘Maidment,’ said Lady Caroline, ‘such things ought not to afford embarrassment at your mature years.’

  ‘Now, about this girl there is something very odd indeed.’ Miss Appleby consulted the first of her cuttings. ‘It appears, as the result of elaborate investigations carried out with great scientific skill by a Superintendent Hudspith, that Lucy Rideout represents a remarkable case of dissociation. She is not so much one person as two – or perhaps three – persons; and she must have been – um – correspondingly difficult to seduce. But seduced she was, having been led to believe, as it appears, that she was to be taken to Capri – a disagreeable resort, but one with romantic associations in the minds of the lower classes.’

  Appleby was looking round-eyed at his aunt – much as Sherlock Holmes must have looked at his brother, the remote and quintessential detective. ‘Capri,’ he said, ‘–to be sure. And did you say dissociation?’

  ‘Yes. What is sometimes called multiple personality.’

  ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’ said Lady Caroline. ‘Or consider
Miss Maidment. Maidment, suppose yourself passionately to desire some unlawful delight.’

  Miss Maidment wriggled on her seat – but not at all as if she were contriving to obey this injunction.

  ‘And consider yourself as having, at the same time, a conscience which forbids such indulgence. You are torn between conflicting forces. You are like the souls of the dead in the old stained-glass windows; the angels are tugging at your hair and the devils at your toes. You follow me, Maidment?’

  Miss Maidment made an indecisive noise; it acknowledged the theological trend of her employer’s remarks by being faintly devotional in tone.

  ‘The strain is great, and you let go. You let yourself go in the middle; and where there was one Maidment there are now two.’ Lady Caroline frowned, apparently finding this a displeasing thought. ‘But of course you still have only one body. The two personalities share it, each taking sole possession for a time. In this way the licentious and the puritanical Maidment each gets her turn, and a certain degree of nervous conflict is thus eliminated. You see, Maidment?’

  Miss Maidment again made a noise; then – unexpectedly – she contrived speech. ‘I don’t understand it at all. It sounds to me much more like being possessed by evil spirits.’

  ‘Lady Caroline’s description of the condition is excellent,’ said Miss Appleby. ‘But Miss Maidment too has made a significant observation. I have no doubt, John, that you will take account of it. Plainly, it has its place – as has another item on which you are certainly informed. I mean the Bloomsbury affair.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Appleby.

  ‘What the newspapers’ – Appleby’s aunt again consulted her cuttings – ‘have been calling the Mystery of the Absconding House.’

  ‘Miss Appleby,’ said Lady Caroline severely, ‘houses do not abscond. Dishonest servants abscond. You are confused.’

  ‘I do not think I am, dear Lady Caroline. This house has undoubtedly made off – and very possibly to Capri. Moreover, it is a haunted house. A most substantial eighteenth-century house in a Bloomsbury square. Dr Johnson once investigated a ghost there. And now it has been stolen.’