Close Quarters Read online

  The Dean felt something roll down his cheek, and putting his hand to his forehead he found that it was wet.

  What, in heaven’s name, the Dean asked himself fretfully, had brought that business into his mind at such a particularly unsuitable moment? He was convinced now that he would get no sleep at all that night. The death of Canon Whyte had been very upsetting. Nothing mysterious or really sensational about it, mind you. Nothing – with considerable distaste the Dean formulated the exact word in his mind – nothing “police-court” about it. Just simply upsetting for all concerned, for Canon Whyte’s family, and his colleagues on the Chapter, and for Canon Whyte too, of course.

  It had all happened more than a year ago. Melchester Cathedral, like many others, was a great centre and an attraction for tourists, in the summer months especially. But the ordinary tourist had perforce to confine his attentions to the more easily accessible parts of the building: the nave, transepts, and choir; the beautiful Lady Chapel and the stately cloisters; the old Chapter House.

  But if you could induce one of the vergers to accompany you, you might penetrate the dark little door in the south-west angle and climb up a spiral of well-trodden stone steps. This brought you out on to the clerestory – further steps, and a very low doorway, and then you were outside, in a narrow gallery which had been originally built for the convenience of the workmen who put the first roof on Melchester Cathedral, more than five hundred years before. This gallery, invisible from below, ran right round the roof, and it was from this gallery one sunny morning in early September that Canon Whyte had fallen – a hundred and three measured feet – on to the flagstones in front of the newly erected shed which housed the electric motor which supplied the power for the famous Melchester organ.

  It was – the Dean thought of it with a grimace – the only time in the sixty-five years of a sheltered life that he had been brought face to face with the unpleasant reality of violent dissolution. His first thought had been that it was uncommonly messy. A scared and breathless verger with a message that Canon Whyte had fallen and hurt himself had brought him on the scene quite unprepared for the realities of the case. When he had rounded the corner of the Chapter House and seen what was to be seen on the sunlit stones, it was by a firm exercise of control that he had prevented himself from being actually sick. A moment of shock will sometimes etch a scene indelibly on the mind, and he had only to shut his eyes to see it again. The towering grey walls, dwarfing the little engine shed. The respectful but interested faces, of the three vergers; the flat grey stones; the huddled body; blood and the smell of warm tar. He didn’t want to think about that. Above them all, two incongruous pigeons preening themselves and cooing.

  Accidental death. Naturally. A coroner’s verdict had certified so. Canon Whyte very often took parties of adventurous visitors on a ramble round the outside gallery, pointing out the many interesting terminal carvings and gargoyles so characteristic of the period and the building. In fact he had made a special study of them. The coroner had been informed that he was writing a book on the subject. Well, not exactly a book – a brochure. Anyway, he was often up there alone or with visitors. The parapet was high, of course. The coroner had not been up there himself but he had some measurements. Four feet and four inches from the level of the leading. The jury would appreciate that this would come well up to the chest level of an ordinary man. But of course at such a height it was easy to lose one’s head. One got giddy. They had heard, no doubt, of people without much head for heights who could not bring themselves within many feet of the top of a precipice or cliff; they entertained a fear that a fit of vertigo brought on by the contemplation of a great depth beneath them might cause them to lose control. No doubt something of the sort had happened here.

  In answer to some tactful but obviously leading questions it was established that Canon Whyte had been perfectly happy. That he was an exceptionally sane and balanced man. No, certainly not, he had left no “note” or letter of any kind, or of course the jury would have had it read to them.

  The jury had felt strongly that they should assert themselves with a rider, and had toyed with a suggestion that a strong iron fence should be erected to raise the total height of the balustrade to six feet. However, realising that this was very unlikely to recommend itself to the authorities, they had contented themselves with a verdict of accidental death and a vote of sympathy for the children of the deceased.

  It was really surprising, reflected the Dean, how quickly the excitement had died down. Canon Whyte was a widower, and most providentially his two children were in any case due to have left Melchester in the near future, and had in fact done so shortly afterwards. The daughter, Joan, to be married, and the son to enter the diplomatic service.

  Downstairs in the Dean’s study stood a very handsome medieval Italian triptych. This had come to him under Canon Whyte’s will. The money, of course, had all gone to the two children, but most of his colleagues had been remembered with some small legacy in kind. Six fine oil paintings had gone to Hinkey, who was – or, who fancied himself to be – a connoisseur of the arts. And to his particular friend, Canon Trumpington, Whyte had left all his books. Not a large library, but some of the volumes were valuable – not the collection of a bibliophile but of a widely cultured man who bought books to read as well as for the pleasure of standing them on shelves. Trumpington had been the natural recipient for these. His friendship with Whyte had started with a common passion for The Times crossword puzzle, and ripened when they discovered in each other a mutual admiration for the works of Boswell.

  This more pleasant trend to the Dean’s thoughts had again made him sleepy. This time he really was on the point of dropping off when it seemed to his drowsy senses that someone had started working on a typewriter. Not a very expert practitioner, thought the Dean drowsily. Tap-tap-tappity-tap. Picking out the letters with one finger. A staccato pattering. The unseen typist was improving now, and the tapping became faster. A very vivid flash of lightning awoke the Dean to the fact that a succession of huge thunder drops were pattering on to the linoleum through his wide open window, and further to the realisation that the storm was on them at last. He climbed out of bed.

  Successive flashes were lighting the world outside with the clarity of full day. The rain was pelting down now and the thunder almost continuous. Looking up, he reflected, not for the first time, on the very real extent to which the people of Melchester Close lay beneath the shadow and protection of the Cross – the great bronze cross on the spire of the cathedral, which even now was attracting to itself the lightnings of heaven and conducting them safely to earth.

  As he lowered his eyes a particularly bright flash illuminated the whole Close, and the Dean saw a man standing in the road at the corner of the precinct wall, in front of and a little to the right of his front gate. A momentary impression, then darkness again. Impatiently the Dean waited for the next flash. He was moderately certain that he had recognised the figure. The lightning flared out again, but the roadway was empty. A moment after, however, a light went up in the front room of the cottage on his left. He had been right. Verger Parvin was up late.

  Leaving a fraction of the window open the Dean turned and made his way back to bed. His feet padded across the linoleum which entirely covered his rather spartan bedroom. He climbed into bed. He suddenly felt very tired. Despite the closing of the window the air was cooler now. But his mind would not rest – like a great dynamo that has been turning at frantic speed, but from which the motive power has been cut off, the process of his troubled thoughts continued of its own momentum but to a rhythm which slackened and grew slower. ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ said his mind. And then, ‘Something is rotten in the Close of Melchester.’ Verger Appledown, Vicar Choral Malthus, Vicar Choral Prynne, and Verger Parvin. Parvin was out late. ‘Men must not walk too late.’ Canon Trumpington, Canon Fox, Canon Beech-Thompson, Canon Bloss, and old Uncle Hinkey and all.

  Bloss. Thompson. Fox. Trumping
ton.

  Trumpington. Fox. Thompson. Bloss.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

  The wheels were slowing now.

  Outside, the rain streamed down and the thunder cracked and slithered about the darkened sky. The last light in the Close went out, and still the lightning flared and danced round the cathedral cross.

  The Dean slept.

  And as he slept he had a most disquieting dream. Appledown was running. Running for dear life across the wide cathedral lawn. Behind him glided the sinister figure of Canon Bloss, armed only with a huge typewriter on which he was typing a message. Against his will the Dean forced himself to look over Canon Bloss’ shoulder, but all he could see was a jumble of figures, numbers, exclamations, and percentage marks. This annoyed him so much that he put his lips quite close to Canon Bloss’ left ear and bellowed, ‘What does it all mean?’ Upon which Bloss turned into Vicar Choral Prynne and answered slowly, ‘It means anything you can make out of it – take it or leave it.’

  When the Dean woke next morning it was bright and cool. He remembered that he had had a disturbed night, but the details were blurred. He knew from experience that he would pay for his broken rest by an overwhelming lassitude at three o’clock that afternoon, but at the moment his mind felt particularly clear and vigorous. He viewed his troubles and found that they had shrunk.

  This cheerfulness lasted him over his solitary breakfast, and it was a summer morning’s face that he turned on the house-maid when she came to clear away the plates, and volunteered the information that “‘Ubbard was in the ‘all and would like to see ‘im.” William Lovejoy Hubbard, the Dean’s gardener and factotum, was a man of parts – a massive north-countryman and a native of the most phlegmatic county in England. He appeared to be faintly upset.

  Without a word he led the Dean out of the front door and across the lawn. A mellow wall, of the same grey stone as had made the cathedral, separated the Dean’s front garden on the east from that of Doctor Mickie, the organist. When he had reached the wall and adjusted his spectacles, the Dean fully understood his gardener’s distress. For painted on it, in great red letters nearly two feet high, was the legend:

  WHO FORGOT TO LOCK THE CLOISTER DOOR?

  APPLEDOWN, OF COURSE.

  Master and man digested this surprising sight in silence for some seconds.

  ‘It’ll take a deal of getting out,’ said Hubbard morosely.

  ‘Has anyone seen this?’ asked the Dean.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hubbard. ‘They will, though. I don’t see ‘ow they can ‘ardly miss it.’

  The Dean thought rapidly.

  ‘You must do your best to scrape it off,’ he said finally. ‘Cover it up for the moment as well as you can.’

  In his guilty haste he felt almost as if they were two Eugene Arams disposing of an unwanted body.

  ‘What a scandalous thing!’ Absent-mindedly he ran a finger over one of the vivid letters. The wall was still wet from the rain of the night, but the colouring was dry and set.

  With a profound sigh the Dean returned to the house and shut himself in his study. He acknowledged the crisis. Gently but very firmly had fate lain on the last straw.

  The foreboding of the night before, which had vanished for a moment at the touch of the morning sun, were back again now with a vengeance. Where was it going to end? asked the Dean. But all the time he had a most disquieting notion of how it might end.

  Appledown was an old man, and old people were at the same time more susceptible to the barbed shafts of this poisonous sort of persecution and more ready to take the easy way out. Illogically, perhaps, but unpleasantly, the Dean here thought of Canon Whyte’s crumpled body lying on the flagstones. He felt that action was demanded, and for the first time he faced the unpleasant thought of the police. They would have to be brought in – perhaps they should have been brought in before.

  His hand was actually stretched for the telephone when he had an inspiration. Bobby Pollock! Bobby was the Dean’s nephew, the youngest son of his youngest (and favourite) sister. Bobby had joined the Metropolitan Police Force, and not through the pleasant portals of Hendon College either. The Dean had not seen him for some years, but had heard that he was attached to Scotland and doing well.

  A lack of knowledge of police procedure caused the Dean a moment’s hesitation. Could one call in Scotland Yard over the heads of the local police? The Chief Constable of Melchester, the Dean remembered vaguely, was an ex-regular, with strong ideas on the importance of his own position and the necessity of closing licensed premises on the stroke of ten. He did not imagine him to be the sort of man who would take kindly to any usurpation of authority.

  But stay – why make it an official matter at all? Why should not Bobby take two or three days’ holiday and stop with his uncle? A discreet inquiry by a trained man would quickly settle the affair, and if not, at least it would frighten the practical joker, and it could all be extremely unofficial. The Dean reflected that he possessed at least one influential connection at the Home Office. He felt confident that the matter could be arranged.

  Leaving the telephone, therefore, he sat down to compose three letters. Firstly, an official invitation to Bobby to visit Melchester for a few days, which could, if necessary, be shown to inquisitive superiors. Secondly, a less official one, setting out for Bobby’s edification alone, the true facts of the case. Thirdly and lastly, a highly official one to Sir Marmaduke Felling, O.B.E., one of His Majesty’s Undersecretaries of State for Home Affairs.

  ‘And that,’ said the Dean, ‘shelves the matter for twenty-four hours at least.’

  The thought was premature.

  A letter came for the Dean that night. It was in a plain, un-addressed, rather cheap envelope, and an unknown hand pushed it through his letter-box some time after seven in the evening. It was written in a thin, unformed hand on cheap fined paper, and stated simply:

  Mr. Busybody Appledown has lived too long. Someone will get him soon if he doesn’t look out.

  But unlike the other effusions this one was signed with a bold “J.B.”

  2

  CLEARING THE GROUND

  The evidence of vice and virtue are not confined to famous accomplishments: Often some trivial event, a word, a joke, will serve better than great campaigns as a revelation of character.

  PLUTARCH.

  ‘Even a straw,’ concluded the Dean, ‘will show you which way the wind is blowing. And as there’s never smoke without fire—’

  ‘Nor bricks without straw,’ agreed Sergeant Pollock of the Criminal Investigation Department pleasantly. ‘Let’s have all the facts.’

  Uncle and nephew faced each other across the table in the Dean’s library-cum-study. It was a pleasant room – tolerant, not over-academic. Marcus Aurelius and Jeremy Bentham looked down from adjacent shelves. Benjamin Disraeli, the Dean’s large black cat, reclined across the round patch of sunlight which fell on the carpet and watched the two men with a deceptive leer.

  He was a knowing animal, incredibly wise in the ways of mankind, and he realised that these two beings – apparently addressing themselves briskly to the work in hand – were really engaged in the age-old pursuit of summing each other up, as he himself had summed up many a possible ally or potential rival in his moonlight rhodomontades and dark witches’ sabbaths.

  How the lad had grown, thought the Dean. The power of the young to grow was a constant source of surprise to him. It seemed a very short time ago that he had been visiting him at school with a half-sovereign. A few years in London had not only added inches to his stature – they had hardened him and refined him into something which looked to the Dean uncommonly like a man. He seemed competent. Not officious, exactly, yet very efficient. For a moment the Dean experienced the touch of disquiet. Here was no kindly nephew who would ask a few questions for his uncle and then retire discreetly, but a modern police officer. The sort of man who probably delighted in leaving no stone unturned. And underneath stones – large flat stones – e
ven the stones of Melchester, there lived all manner of slimy things. Would it not perhaps be better to send him back – now, immediately? Laugh the matter off. A foolish old uncle, making mountains out of molehills. It could be done. It would be so easy to say that the culprit had confessed, that the Chapter had decided, in the best interests of the cathedral, to hush the matter up. Give the boy a few days of real holiday. The Dean, had he known it, held a good deal of human happiness and unhappiness in his hands at that moment.

  Sergeant Pollock secretly approved of his uncle. Indeed, he admired in him several most worldly qualities which that cleric would have been the first to disclaim, but he was determined not to be put down by him. This was to be an ordinary routine job, quite uncomplicated by any considerations of affinity.

  It was going to be awkward enough without anything of that sort. Anonymous letters! Broadsheets! Unknown sign-painters and comic flags! The thing was miles removed from an honest job of police work. He was not even sure what particular crime or misdemeanour any of the incidents amounted to. Obscenity? Threats with intent to procure … what? That was the question. There must be some reason behind the silly business. Criminal libel? On the whole, it would be better to pin it to the letters. “Misuse of His Majesty’s mails” covered a multitude of sins. However, there were consolations. It should prove a respite. A real and badly needed holiday after that rather beastly affair which had been occupying his attention for the last two months. Melchester would prove a decided contrast to Kentish Town. Of course, even in that affair Hazlerigg had done the real work. Good old Hazlerigg. He was the man to have behind you on a nasty case. As solid as the Tower of London, with a first-rate brain behind that deceptively sanguine façade. The finest chief inspector at the Yard. Well, he could manage a little case like this off his own bat, thank you. As a dabbler in amateur psychology he had already classified the affair as “spontaneous social combustion,” the result of a community thrown too much into its own company. It would have been difficult for him to have been more completely wrong.