There Came Both Mist and Snow Read online

  ‘Known enemies.’

  ‘Blackmail…the past.’

  ‘Beneficiaries.’

  ‘Women…jealousy.’

  ‘Where were you when the shot was fired?’

  ‘Who last saw the…’

  The telephone bell rang shrilly in the lobby.

  10

  Anne Grainger was rather more than normally athletic; nevertheless there was something startling in the lithe speed with which she was out of the room. I wondered if Geoffrey, whose callousness was of the genuine and thoroughgoing sort artists sometimes develop, realized just how she had been waiting for that ring. For I was convinced that Anne, whatever her normal attitude to her guardian might be, had been sitting through this meal in a condition of intolerable strain. It was this that had given her talk – never wholly beautiful – its extravagant impropriety.

  She came back, quite slowly, her lips parted in an expression I had never seen before. ‘They have removed the bullet,’ she said. ‘He is still unconscious. Wale is on his way back. They think’ – she hesitated – ‘they think he may pull through.’

  Cecil offered up a pious ejaculation – loudly, as if quite determined to be heard in the right quarter. The rest of us were silent, and in the silence I found myself trying to interpret Anne’s voice. All but suppressed in it there had been a tone of incredulity. Perhaps she had until this moment shut out of her mind the mere possibility of such an issue. I tried to imagine in just what circumstances I should look like that, speak like that… And I told myself that it might conceivably be if I found some dream or nightmare come true.

  We had abandoned the dinner table; now Basil made for the door. ‘Those fellows in the study had better be told,’ he said. ‘And it is about time I had some conversation with them myself. Yes, Richards?’

  The butler had come in as if with a message; he was an old servant of the family to whom I was considerably attached; I was surprised to notice him glancing at me with mild disapproval.

  ‘Inspector Leader, Sir Basil, would be greatly obliged if Mr Ferryman would come to the study.’

  It was awkward and odd. The request was unaccountable in itself, and it had been issued from Basil’s study as the study’s owner had announced his intention of proceeding there himself. We were made abruptly aware that Belrive was no longer a self-contained, self-controlled community. It had become the business of the police to investigate our affairs. And they had their own way of setting about it.

  ‘I suppose I had better go,’ I said. The remark sounded rather fatuous; I might have been a small boy putting a jaunty face upon a summons before authority.

  ‘Leader must plainly see everyone, and arrange the interviews as he wishes,’ said Basil. ‘The rest of us had better go into the library.’

  ‘When it is Cecil’s turn,’ asked Geoffrey, ‘will he give them a little talk on what he calls Control?’

  On this I left the dining-room, and I confess I felt some need of control myself. I do not approve of the police. This may seem a foolish statement – and indeed I don’t doubt that if I were being robbed I should call out for the nearest constable lustily enough. I suppose I mean that I have no great fancy for the working out of human law. Nemesis is more expressive. At least I have an invincible repugnance towards that sort of ferreting which Geoffrey and Anne had been suggesting when the telephone rang. Walking to the study I felt that I must be on my guard against presenting an appearance of irrational hostility.

  Leader and Appleby were both standing when I entered: Leader studying something on Basil’s desk; Appleby staring at the floor with a frown which I hoped reflected a continued sense of the delicacy of his position.

  ‘The doctors think that Mr Foxcroft may live,’ I said.

  Leader grabbed a notebook – very much as if this were something which it would be helpful to commit to paper. Appleby, I thought, looked if anything a shade disappointed; it might be suspected that he regarded Wilfred’s possible recovery, attended as it would probably be by a simple denunciation of the criminal, as likely to dissipate a very pretty problem. Here was another strictly professional angle.

  ‘Mr Ferryman?’ said Leader.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Ferryman, Mr Foxcroft is a stockbroker?’

  ‘A banker.’

  Leader peered at the desk before him. ‘Margins,’ he said; ‘he was writing a letter about margins. I thought it sounded financial. But what exactly would they be?’

  I shook my head, feeling that this was distinctly a tangential method of investigation. ‘I have very little idea.’

  ‘One covers them,’ said Appleby helpfully. ‘They are something financial and one covers them. Make a note of that, Leader. And now we might experiment with the lights.’

  Leader scratched his chin. ‘You’re forgetting Mr Ferryman here.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Appleby seemed to be thoroughly in charge. ‘Mr Ferryman will help. Do you mind? Come over here. Don’t step in the blood. Please sit down at the desk.’

  ‘You struck me earlier in the evening,’ I said, ‘as quite a diffident person.’

  Appleby smiled the slightly absent smile with which a dentist receives the repartee of a patient. ‘Facing the window, Mr Ferryman. Yes, that’s just right. Leader, the switches are by the door. Only I don’t at all want to disturb those curtains. So do you mind waiting? I shan’t be a moment.’

  He disappeared. ‘Your colleague,’ I said, ‘has a brisk way with him.’

  In Leader’s eye I thought I detected a sympathetic gleam. He contented himself, however, with a nod; and then fell to his notebook. I had leisure to look about me. The room was large; looking at it with a fresh eye I reflected that it might best be described as a handsome apartment. The most noticeable piece of furniture was the great desk at which I now sat. It faced an embrasure, at present curtained, in which stood as I knew a large French window giving on the terrace: to judge from an icy wind which blew about me this window must be wide open. Behind me and to my left as I sat facing this was a low standard lamp; in the wall on my left was the fireplace with a sofa and chairs; in the opposite wall was the room’s only door. The walls were lined with Basil’s working books; there were a number of glass cases and sliding presses with geological specimens; a large table in a corner was littered with maps and charts.

  ‘Mr Ferryman is unmistakable.’ Appleby’s voice, coming from directly in front of me, made me start. He had gone out to the terrace, entered the room by the French window, and now stood a few yards away from me concealed by the curtains – through a crack in which he must be making his observations. ‘And now, Leader, the lights.’

  Leader crossed to the door and flicked at the switches. For a moment the room was in darkness save for the dancing light of the fire. Then the single standard lamp behind my left shoulder went on.

  ‘Mr Ferryman,’ came Appleby’s voice, ‘consider yourself to be writing a letter on margins. Is that a good light in which to do so?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ The soft illumination was picking out an arc upon the desk before me.

  ‘In a way,’ said Appleby – and I thought his voice sounded disappointed – ‘it’s not at all a bad light for shooting.’ There was a pause. ‘But only in a way. It would be all right if one felt that all one had to do was to shoot.’

  There was a rustle and his footsteps sounded on the terrace; Leader and I were left to a few moments’ sufficient meditation; then Appleby was once more in the room.

  ‘There’s not a doubt of it,’ he said. ‘We know that Mr Wilfred Foxcroft was shot, but we have no reason at all to believe that he was shot at.’

  ‘We have,’ I said, ‘this reason: that he was shot.’

  Appleby glanced at me sharply. Then he smiled. ‘Mr Ferryman, I have known for years that you have an exact mind. And here it is.’

  Leader, who might be judged not a reading man, looked puzzled and licked his pencil.

  ‘Thank you. But it’s clear enough.’

  �
��Yes. The fact that the man was shot is evidence that he was shot at. But evidence of what strength? Fire a revolver into a crowd in the dark and the weight of such evidence would sink to a cipher. Fire through these curtains at someone sitting between that standard lamp and yourself and the fact that a certain man is shot is weak evidence that it was that particular man you wanted to shoot.’

  ‘Particularly,’ said Leader as if inspired, ‘when he is sitting at another man’s desk.’

  ‘And is dressed’ – I was tempted to join in this not very stretching game – ‘in the sort of uniform that a dinner-jacket constitutes.’

  That the wrong man had conceivably been shot was a conception not in the circumstances very difficult to arrive at; I was disconcerted nevertheless at the speed with which Appleby had made the point. The little practical experiment too had rattled me. It was an eerie thought that sitting there in my own light I had been presenting just the silhouette which Wilfred had presented some three hours before. I glanced at the pool of congealing blood on the carpet at my right. The thing was becoming horribly real.

  ‘And now,’ said Appleby, ‘about Sir Basil’s habits with regard to this room. It is his study. Did he regard it as more or less private, or was it treated like the other living-rooms in the house?’

  ‘Really, that is the sort of point on which you might do well to apply to our host himself.’

  I thought this a neat reminder; Appleby however was not at all put off. ‘For example, Mr Wilfred Foxcroft came in here and started to write a letter at Sir Basil’s desk. One sees how important it is to know if that was unusual. If only Sir Basil was ever known to work here…’

  ‘The point,’ I said, ‘is not wholly obscure to me.’ And then, because I felt this attempt at irony to have been childish, I added: ‘It might be called slightly unusual. And I believe I know how it may have happened. Downstairs, people usually write letters in the library. But all the note paper there was used this afternoon for another purpose. I know Foxcroft had this letter to write. And finding all the library note paper gone he might very well have wandered in here.’

  ‘I see. Sir Basil works here a lot?’

  ‘I believe so. He was working here this afternoon. I remember him saying that he would probably be working here right through to dinner.’

  Leader’s notebook was poised in a flash. ‘Let me have the names, please, of everybody who heard him say that.’

  The ferreting had begun. And I realized that Leader, though less forceful than his metropolitan colleague, had the right instincts. I gave the information meekly. Basil had made this remark at luncheon and it had been heard by everybody staying in the house, by Richards, by Ralph Cambrell, and by Horace Cudbird. Getting all this on paper considerably slowed down the tempo of the investigation.

  ‘Who,’ said Appleby, ‘would wish to shoot Sir Basil Roper?’ He looked at me speculatively, and I was preparing to evolve a reply when I realized that the question was a rhetorical one. ‘But, again, who would wish to shoot Mr Foxcroft? For, after all, it is far from certain that the shot was fired, as we have been assuming, from behind the shelter of the curtains. The assailant may have been facing Mr Foxcroft boldly, and very well aware of what he was about. And there is a third possibility. The shot may have been intended for neither of these people.’

  ‘You mean,’ I asked, ‘that only accident may have been involved?’

  ‘If it was an accident,’ interposed Leader, ‘where is the gun?’ He turned to Appleby. ‘An accident with some element of criminal carelessness,’ he suggested. ‘Somebody is scared and makes off with the gun.’

  Appleby showed no enthusiasm for this reconstruction. ‘I was merely reflecting,’ he said, ‘that Mr Foxcroft might have been taken not for Sir Basil but for somebody else. At least, this is something which we must not exclude.’ He glanced rather vaguely from one to the other of us. I had a feeling that his mind was really occupied elsewhere.

  ‘May I ask,’ I said, ‘what has prompted you to call me in first in this way? I don’t at all mind, but I suspect that Sir Basil is a little puzzled.’

  Leader, to whom I addressed this question, appeared to think it possible that the answer might be found in his notebook. It was left to Appleby to speak.

  ‘Simply, Mr Ferryman, that you are the only person in this house about whom we have any information. You make a natural starting point.’ Young Mr Appleby met my slight frown with an amiable and deferential smile. ‘I understand that you are a relation, but a distant one. You will take an objective view. And – I needn’t hint – a penetrating one. An investigation of this sort is largely a matter of probing human conduct, of penetrating human character. Here you are our natural ally – and one of the most effective we could find in England, if I may be impertinent enough to say so.’

  I had no doubt of the sufficiency of his impertinence – nor that it was accompanied by considerable intelligence. He knew that flattery may usefully be applied to the most sophisticated, particularly if not laboriously dissimulated. As the sweet barb passes the intellect notes it for what it is; it strikes down nevertheless to that uncritical level where self-esteem is all. ‘If you need literary counsel,’ I said, ‘you would do better to co-opt Mrs Chigwidden.’ But I felt pleased all the same.

  Appleby treated my reply as a very good joke indeed, and was backed by Leader with a rather belated chuckle. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘you would wish to exercise a certain discretion in discussing people you know. On the other hand you will certainly want to help.’

  There was no certainty in it. I do not approve of the police. My desire was entirely that the whole horrible business should be hushed up. Nevertheless I heard myself say: ‘Of course I will help in any way I can.’

  The young man looked grateful. He had just that deference which I am accustomed to meet with from young critics at literary parties. It would not have been irrelevant had I remembered how some of these behave when they get home to their flats and portable typewriters.

  ‘Then,’ said Appleby, ‘let us sit down and get one or two matters clear.’

  I sat down. I think I may be said to have relaxed; I recall going so far as to begin filling my pipe. Whatever the traditional avocation of the Applebys in Stonegate, the manners of this wandering son were good. And in these times good manners are as soothing as the three or four perfect days an English summer provides.

  I sat down in an easy chair. Appleby moved towards the fireplace as if to sit down there. Leader continued to stand, his notebook supported on a hand as sufficient for the purpose as a lectern.

  ‘A quarter to eight,’ said Appleby. He was still moving away from me. ‘That’s the interesting time. Mr Ferryman’ – and he swung suddenly round – ‘what were you doing on the terrace then?’

  11

  I looked at Appleby and he looked at me. My impression was something that of contemplating an expensive camera. Indignation would have been the natural emotion to express at the perfidious way in which the question had been led up to; what I actually contrived must have been something very like dismay.

  ‘Was it anything,’ Appleby continued blandly, ‘which would have precluded your hearing a pistol-shot at this window?’

  I recovered myself. ‘If you mean was I letting off fireworks or playing the loud bassoon the answer is No.’

  Appleby turned to Leader. ‘There’s an idea: fireworks. But I suppose that is over in the district?’

  ‘Quite over. Plenty for a bit before the fifth of November and then a quick tail-off. I haven’t heard any now for weeks.’

  ‘Well then, the loud bassoon.’

  I believe Leader wrote ‘loud bassoon’ in his notebook; it was his instinct when at a loss.

  ‘The bassoon,’ continued Appleby gravely, ‘is a good suggestion of Mr Ferryman’s. Something of the sort was playing as I came up the drive: perhaps a Salvation Army band. But I doubt if it is quite what we want.’

  ‘What we want,’ I said, ‘is merely the gen
eral hubbub of traffic round the Priory. Motor bicycles on the hill, for instance, produce the filthiest racket. A revolver-shot would pass unregarded simply because the ear is so accustomed to that.’

  Appleby nodded triumphantly, as if I had thought of something very bright indeed. ‘That’s it!’ he said.

  ‘And then there is the additional fact that revolvers have been popping away all around us. Sir Basil has a range at which we have all been practising.’

  Leader looked as if he were going to inquire about revolver licences. Appleby glanced up sharply. ‘All of you? Including the two guests at luncheon – Cudbird and Cambrell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have yourself watched everybody having a turn?’

  ‘Yes. It seemed the civil thing. I’m not attracted myself.’

  ‘Fire-arms,’ said Appleby as if dictating to Leader’s notebook, ‘do not attract Mr Ferryman. But they attract Mr Foxcroft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You watched quite carefully? You could provide a fairly reliable estimate of each person’s degree of skill?’

  I was puzzled. ‘Yes, I believe I could. One or two things struck me. Geoffrey Roper, who has all the delicate muscular correlations necessary to a painter, is quite surprisingly bad.’

  ‘That is very interesting.’ Appleby was looking absent again. ‘By the way, just what were you doing on the terrace?’

  ‘I had been taking an evening stroll in the park.’

  ‘I see. I thought that when we met under the porch you were slightly disturbed. I have wondered if you had happened to hear or notice anything giving cause for uneasiness.’

  This sort of technique was doubtless going to be applied to everyone in the house. It was clear that this time the camera must be faced squarely. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing of the sort. When one is stopping in a house there is always a slight awkwardness in meeting a new guest on the doorstep.’

  ‘Would you mind,’ interposed Leader, ‘saying that again?’ I realized with something of a shock that he was scribbling away in efficient shorthand. I repeated what I had said. It sounded extraordinarily foolish.