This was a proposition in which it didn’t take Appleby and his assistants long to concur. Whether accompanied by the bitch or not, the tough gentleman had forced his way into Allington’s flat. There had been a rough house, including a certain amount of shooting. The intruding force had then departed – perhaps in triumph or perhaps in defeat. Allington had then tried to shoot himself, and had made rather a mess of the job. He had been in a panic, one had to suppose.
At this point the police surgeon had announced, with no particular satisfaction, that the wounded man was going to survive, after all. It was a simplification, and a further simplification followed. Allington appeared to have fired three shots – the last of them being into his own person. Appleby started a hunt for the other two bullets. They were found almost at once, embedded rather high up in one of the walls of the room. It was extremely improbable that they could have done any mischief on their way there, so one didn’t have to worry about the possibility of another wounded man somewhere around London in consequence of this fracas. As a Secret Agent (if that was the formal way to describe him) Martin Allington appeared to be a singularly poor buy.
And the affair had ended there – shockingly in hugger-mugger, as such things may do. Nobody was brought before a magistrate, and the security of the realm was no doubt vastly fortified as a result. Appleby was not at all pleased with having had anything to do with it, and no further information ever came to him. It seemed natural to suppose that it had ended with young Allington out of a job. He had mixed up his professional affairs – it was the only possible interpretation – with some shady project of his own; had made a mess of this; and had been so convinced that the consequences were going to be disastrous to him that he had shot himself in a blind funk. The probability was that he deserved to be in gaol at this moment. Yet he might simply have ended up with promotion. At this very moment, he might positively be Colonel Carruthers’ white-headed boy. The Carruthers world was quite as crazy as that.
And Appleby’s chief memory of the business was an uncomfortable one, which he would have wished to forget. He had disliked Martin Allington. Martin Allington had been merely a supine figure under a grey blanket, a blanched and bloodied face, a racked figure fighting for life. Appleby had been repelled by him, nevertheless. It was a nasty thought.
‘Martin is a delightful chap.’ It was with a start that Appleby recovered from his retrospection on hearing these words. Owain Allington was again looking expectantly at Rasselas, rather as if he wanted the sagacious creature to offer some remark supporting this solid family line. ‘And I’m sure he will enjoy meeting you again.’
‘I think I may have misled you,’ Appleby said. ‘I’ve met your nephew, after a fashion, but I’m not sure he can be said to have met me. He had – well, passed out.’
‘Dear me!’ If Allington was startled by this odd remark he didn’t show it. ‘Martin does drink a little too much at times, no doubt. And that reminds me–’ He broke off – perhaps because Appleby had shown signs of getting to his feet, or perhaps because Rasselas had actually done so. Rasselas must suddenly have decided it was time to speed the parting guest, for he was no sooner on his paws than he gave Appleby a challenging glance and moved rapidly to the door of the library. ‘I can see we have whisky,’ Allington went on, ‘but I’m sure you like ice.’ He leant forward and pressed an electric bell. ‘It’s something Enzo regularly forgets. Italians are pleasant enough in their way, but far from being as reliable as English servants in the old style.’
‘I’m quite sure I don’t want ice.’ Appleby, now unchallengeably on his feet, glanced towards a side-table. ‘But a very little whisky, and a splash of soda, will be just right. I’m afraid it’s shockingly late, and I hope you won’t blame Enzo if he’s already in bed.’ Allington, Appleby was reflecting, was rather more fussy about services than a man of presumably intellectual habit ought to be. ‘And Rasselas is ready for bed as well.’
‘He’s proposing to see you to your car.’ Allington poured whisky, and the two men drank. ‘You must be right about that lad who was supposed to wait up,’ Allington said, after some minutes passed. ‘He’s gone to bed. But I don’t expect it’s beyond me to find you your coat.’
‘I haven’t brought a coat,’ Appleby put down his glass. ‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening.’
They left the house together and walked down a long terrace. Rasselas vanished into the soft darkness. The night was rather warm and completely still.
‘If we go down these steps,’ Allington said, ‘we’ll find your car just round a corner.’ He flashed a torch which he had picked up in the hall. ‘Can you see? The auditorium, as I suppose it should be called, is straight ahead. And over to the left is the control point for the whole show. I wonder whether the juice is still on? I could give you a private performance.’
Appleby didn’t want a private performance; he wanted only to get home and go to sleep. But Owain Allington’s hospitable zeal had unfortunately renewed itself, and there was nothing to do except follow him across a broad expanse of turf. Presently what appeared to be an improbably vast wall rose up before them in uncertain silhouette against a sky dimly powdered with stars. It was tier upon tier of seats raised over scaffolding.
‘The house and the castle,’ Allington said, ‘and the end of the lake in between. You get all that from anywhere up there. But you get it from this affair too. Naturally, the chap who twiddles the knobs has to have his eye on the whole thing. Do you mind the short ladder? It’s quite safe.’
Appleby didn’t mind a short ladder, and he put on a decent show of climbing with alacrity. There was a strain of naivety, he had decided, in this eminent retired scientist. Allington was as proud of his
son et lumière
as a small boy with a new model railway. And he was determined to show it off before letting his guest go.
‘You might call it a gazebo,’ Allington’s voice said from up above. He had climbed first. ‘Hold hard, and I’ll see if the electricity’s really on. No go if it isn’t. Ah!’
There had been a faint click. Appleby emerged into a glass-sided chamber now faintly visible in a low amber light.
‘It might be the cockpit of an air-liner,’ Allington said. ‘Or the place from which they conduct the business of a battleship. Almost frightening, in a way. All in the interest of a ninety-minute
divertissement
. We live in a very artificial age.’
It was a surprisingly roomy place to be perched in air as it was, and in addition to the elaborate equipment for projecting the spectacle there seemed to be much miscellaneous lumber flung into corners and stuffed under benches. In the dim light Appleby could also just distinguish a small table with punctured beer cans, crumpled sandwich papers and empty cigarette cartons.
‘They seem to have made it a home from home,’ he said.
‘They certainly do. I had them put up in the local pub, which is said to be thoroughly comfortable. But they camped here most of the time. Rather a long-haired crowd, and I can’t say that I took to them. The top man gave himself artist’s airs in a big way. He might have been taking time off from producing grand opera at Covent Garden.’ Owain Allington laughed contemptuously in the near-darkness. ‘But he knew his stuff, all the same. Handled all these dials and switches in a genuinely sensitive and loving way. He reminded me of a cathedral organist, as a matter of fact. And – do you know? – the show improved night by night.’ Allington’s pride in the
son et lumière
was again peeping through. ‘As it was all prefabricated and sent down from London in boxes, you’d hardly suppose that to be possible. But, of course, there’s a certain scope for nuance in fading the different bits and pieces in and out. Have a go.’
‘Take a stab at all this stuff?’ Appleby was amused. ‘I hardly think so. The most dreadful things might happen.’
‘I can promise you nothing will blow up.’ Allington spoke lightly. He sounded rather offended, all the same. It was as if he had offered a treat to a small boy – to hold the wheel, to perch on the saddle – and had it turned down. Appleby felt that, at least for a minute or two, he must accept this absurd role. And Allington, who had been investigating, spoke again. ‘I’m afraid the sound is off. They’ve taken out the tapes.’ He was clearly disappointed. ‘But the lighting’s in order.’
Appleby looked through the sheet of glass in front of him. To his left he could just distinguish the house, which was in darkness except for half a dozen outdoor lamps which he knew followed the curve of the terrace.
‘The switches are simple on-and-off affairs,’ Allington said encouragingly. ‘The knobs with the calibrations are rheostats. Did you ever hear of composing symphonies out of colours instead of musical notes? There was some aesthetic character who had the notion of it years ago. But he hadn’t the technical know-how. It could be done now, with a contraption rather like this. Let’s have at least a sonata, Appleby.’
Appleby put out a hand and flicked a switch – a shade impatiently, since he was beginning to think all this pretty silly. All that happened was that the arc of lights on the terrace vanished.
‘Try again, my dear fellow.’ This effect of defeated expectation appeared to have amused Allington very much, for he was laughing loudly. ‘We’ll call that the tap of the conductor’s baton, calling the orchestra to order. And over the audience a hush descends. Now carry on.’
‘All right – and we’ll begin by having those back again.’ Appleby flicked the same switch, and the lights on the terrace reappeared. ‘Now we’ll try the one next door… How very odd!’ This time, instead of vanishing, the sickle of lights had played a sort of leapfrog over the arm of the lake which separated the house from the castle, so that they now appeared far to Appleby’s right.
‘Interesting,’ Allington said, ‘–although not one of the designed effects. Shove in that button just above.’
Appleby shoved in the button, and at once the lights changed colour and form. They were now flickering and ruddy.
‘That’s it!’ Allington was delighted. ‘Torches, you know. A curved line of torches in front of the castle when there was a grand outdoor masque to amuse Queen Elizabeth. There was a complete sea-battle on the lake, culminating in the appearance of Neptune and a lot of tritons. Neptune made a speech in praise of Her Highness and in celebration of English valour. In 1589, that is. In 1967 we didn’t manage the ships or the mythology. But we had the gunfire, and the voices of both Neptune and the Queen. It was a great success.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ Appleby manipulated another switch. This time, the effect was spectacular. The whole castle had appeared in a blaze of light. ‘Well, I’m blessed!’ Appleby said. ‘Castle Dargan’s ruins all lit.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just some poem by Yeats. The Electricity Board, by the way, must have had quite a business bringing you all that juice.’
‘They’re going to send in the devil of a bill. Try the one to the left.’
The one to the left set the castle on fire – or presented a very colourable appearance of that. The flames leapt and flared in the night. The Roundheads, it was to be presumed, were burning the place down. Appleby flicked the switch again. The fatal conflagration instantly vanished.
‘It’s all most ingenious,’ he said. He was now dreadfully sleepy, and indisposed entirely to conceal the fact. ‘But I’m not sure there isn’t more fun in fireworks.’
Allington accepted this hint of satiety, and made a movement to depart.
‘I think I’m a bit of a showman,’ he said. ‘So I get rather fascinated by this sort of thing. Still, I’ve had enough of it. So let’s go. Unless, of course, you’d like me to turn on the part about the treasure.’
‘It might set me digging in your park in the small hours. So I think I’d better call it a day.’ Appleby moved towards the trapdoor guarding the ladder. ‘It seems to me, by the way, that they’ll be pretty smart if they get this whole installation away by noon tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to say by noon today.’
‘I rather agree – although I’ve told them they must be at work at first light.’ Allington took a final glance around. ‘There’s an uncommon lot of junk even up here. What’s that bundle of stuff in the corner?’
Appleby followed Allington’s glance. Gazing out, as they had been doing, at a succession of illuminations, they still saw little by the low amber light in which they stood.
‘Surely–’ Appleby said, and broke off. He reached the corner in three strides, stooped down and suddenly went very still. It was the better part of a minute before he straightened up again. ‘It’s not a bundle of stuff,’ he said. ‘It’s a man.’
‘It’s
what
?’ Allington spoke on a note of mingled bewilderment and sharp alarm.
‘It’s a man,’ Appleby repeated grimly. ‘And I think he’s dead.’
However it may have been with Owain Allington, Appleby had seen too many dead men in unexpected places and mysterious circumstances to be particularly staggered upon the present occasion. He even detected himself as reflecting that, had he been sufficiently strong-minded to decline this poking around the scene of the
son et lumière
, he would not have got himself thus tiresomely involved with whatever unfortunate thing had happened.
He also found time to be thankful – and rather brutally to tell Allington that he should be similarly thankful – that he wasn’t dead himself. For what had taken place was presently fairly clear. This ridiculous elevated box, with its mass of electrical equipment, had been casually left by the persons responsible for it in a highly dangerous state. Or – for it would be necessary to be very fair in the matter – in a state that was decidedly far from fool-proof. And this chap had climbed in and got himself electrocuted.
It could hardly be anybody’s excuse that he was trespassing, and that nothing of the kind was to have been expected. The
son et lumière
at Allington Park must have been the talk of a dozen surrounding villages, and curiosity about this structure was as natural as if it had been a tripod arrived from Mars. Appleby’s brow darkened as he reflected that half a dozen venturesome children might have gone scrambling up that ladder in the dark.