‘There! I told you so!’ Allington was a little more than adequately delighted. ‘And nobody has thought of it before. Repton’s people must have dug up acres and acres of the park – creating a new rise here and a new vale there, grove to nod to grove, and all the perspectives and side-screens and distances as they should be. Look at all that tolerably mature timber. There’s hardly a tree that doesn’t stand where it does because Humphrey Repton pointed a directing finger at the spot. Clearly he found the treasure, slipped it into his waistcoat-pocket, and made off with it. How cross the first Mr Osborne of Allington would have been if he’d known.’
‘Would it have been legally his, if Mr Repton hadn’t got away with it?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Allington laughed easily. ‘And I’ve no idea what the position would be if the unlikely stuff were found today. What they call treasure-trove, I suppose. Morally, it ought to belong to the Queen.’ They were now retracing their steps along the terrace. ‘Or perhaps to some Stuart pretender. Is there one still? How ignorant one is!’
‘I wonder why it’s believed to be in the park?’ Judith was determined to make the subject last out until they had rejoined the crowd. ‘The castle, surely, was being closely invested by the parliamentary army. If something had to be buried, wouldn’t it have to be within the walls of the castle itself?’
‘Probably too risky. If it was known to exist, the Roundheads would have ransacked the place before setting fire to it. You’d decide it was more hopeful to creep through their lines in the night, and bury it where they’d never think.’
‘Or get it right away by wagon or on horseback?’
‘I don’t like that idea at all. It spoils the fun.’
‘Very well. They simply dropped it in the lake. Much quicker and quieter than digging a great hole and then obliterating all traces of it in the dark. And the stuff would be gold and silver. It wouldn’t come to any harm.’
‘There wasn’t much of a lake then.’ Allington was suddenly quite serious. ‘But I suppose there was quite enough for the purpose. The stuff would be in a chest or something, one imagines, and that would be deep in mud now, and probably rotted away. But the metal – gold and silver, as you say – would simply–’ He broke off. ‘Lady Appleby, what kids we are!’
‘Yes, indeed. But I’ll feel more grown-up when I’ve paid my half-crown and had some tea.’
‘Don’t soak yourself in it,’ Allington said. ‘There’s prescriptively a glass of sherry afterwards in the drawing-room. But I shouldn’t be positively astounded if it turned out to be a reasonable sort of champagne.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’ In fact, Judith thought it didn’t. A glass of champagne – not a particularly momentous object – best appears unheralded. ‘But oughtn’t you to keep it for the grand celebration?’ she asked.
‘But so I am. We celebrate the departure of all those worthy people, and the return of a year’s peace to Allington.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of the moment when you draw up all that lost wealth from the lake.’
‘Ah, yes – that will be a moment, certainly.’ Suddenly Owain Allington quickened his pace. ‘We mustn’t be too late for old Mrs Junkin’s meringues,’ he said. ‘Although I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s kept one or two back for myself and partner.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised, either,’ Judith said.
Appleby had bought a television set from William Goodcoal, and the proprietor of the Public Address System consequently received him with considerable respect – even going so far as to facilitate conversation by turning down the volume of the musical entertainment being discoursed from his van. Appleby was not in the same class as Lady Killcanon, and Mr Goodcoal would have been surprised to hear himself leading a cheer for him. But the gentleman at Long Dream paid his bills (which was more than the previous occupants, relations of the gentleman’s wife, had been able to do) and had a handle to his name: a combination of circumstances which Mr Goodcoal, a right-thinking man, accounted at its proper worth. Moreover it was agreeable in Sir John Appleby to come over and have a chat with him. Mr Goodcoal was glad to observe that Mrs Goodcoal (who had been a little put out as a consequence of being asked to wash tea-cups rather than hand them round) was so located as to have this distinguishing circumstance within her view.
‘A skilled job you have here, Mr Goodcoal,’ Appleby said, after having exchanged salutations. ‘A good many things to think of at once. I’m surprised you haven’t had to bring along one or two of your assistants. But no doubt you have plenty for them all to do.’ William Goodcoal, he hoped, was properly gratified by this unblushing conjuring up of a mythical corps of subordinates.
‘Well, sir, I won’t say the order books are not pretty full. And as for working single-handed – well, it’s the expertise that counts. That and the up-to-date character of the equipment, sir. Goodcoal Enterprises insist on having nothing but the best and latest thing. As far as this part of the country goes, I think I may say we are very competitive, Sir John – very competitive, indeed. And the same is true of our associated companies.’ Mr Goodcoal paused in order to make a hasty grab at one of the dials in front of him. A rather unpleasant wailing sound (as of a woman in trouble over a demon lover) had suddenly begun to issue from the antique loud-speakers above his head.
‘A very good tone, you have there,’ Appleby said. ‘A nice quality of sound. An excellent
timbre
. I’ve been hearing some criticism, in that field, of this big affair Mr Allington has had here during the last few weeks. Very coarse reproduction at times, it seems. The wiring all wrong. Synchronization defective. Fluctuating volume. Oscillation. Interference. Poor show.’
‘They’ve no conscience, them big London firms.’ Mr Goodcoal had given a snort of gratified contempt. ‘And no personal supervision. Now, sir, with Goodcoal Enterprises all installations are under the direct superintendence of the proprietor.’
‘I’m sure they are.’
‘Or the Managing Director, Sir John.’ If not very logically, William Goodcoal’s imagination was taking wing. ‘Or of the Chairman of the Board… Drat that thing!’ The machine in front of Mr Goodcoal had begun to emit loops and coils of magnetic tape in a displeasing fashion, and as a consequence something like an air-raid warning was sounding over the alarmed heads of the mild revellers in Allington Park. ‘Interval,’ William Goodcoal said resourcefully, and flicked a switch. An obedient silence fell.
‘I suppose, Mr Goodcoal, that you have a great many young lads eager to come into your business?’ Appleby spoke diffidently; he might have had several junior Applebys at Dream for whose apprenticeship to an honest trade he was beginning anxiously to cast around.
‘Queues of them, Sir John. I can absolutely take my pick among the school leavers.’ Mr Goodcoal’s imagination again soared. ‘All the most brilliant minds, sir, in Linger Secondary Modern. And I have the ear of the headmaster, Sir John. He knows where there is a future for his lads. Take it from me.’
‘I’m delighted to hear you say so.’ Appleby was in fact a little tired of taking it. ‘Boys can get quite mad about everything electrical. But what about rather older men, Mr Goodcoal? Are there any real enthusiasts in Linger, or round about?’
This was a topic upon which Mr Goodcoal proved to have much to say. Mr Goodcoal acted in an advisory capacity to numerous amateurs (some of them deep scholars, with letters after their names) as far afield as Snarl and even King’s Yatter. Others, of more humble station, were glad of corporate instruction once a week under the auspices of the local education authority. It was interesting work, responsible work. Lady Killcanon herself had spoken to him about it on the occasion when she did him the honour of calling him out to her car to fit a new battery in her electric torch (previously supplied by Goodcoal Enterprises Limited).
‘Are any of them eccentrics?’ Appleby asked.
‘None has ever mentioned it to me,’ Mr Goodcoal produced this reply after considerable thought. ‘Church, mostly, Sir John. My own connexion is largely Church. But, of course, there are Methodists and Baptists too.’
‘I see.’ Appleby betrayed no discomposure before this. When he next spoke, it was with the air of starting quite a different branch of the subject for discussion. ‘I suppose, Mr Goodcoal, there must be some without the intellectual equipment to tackle a difficult science like yours? Who get out of their depth, I mean.’
‘There do be that, sir.’ When aiming at
gravitas
, Mr Goodcoal’s idiom tended to turn rural. ‘And a tragedy it be to be observing of. That natural, now.’
‘A natural?’ Forty years of this sort of thing had taught Appleby’s scalp to tingle at the right moment. It tingled now. ‘Which would that be? Young Pescod? Or Mrs Pumphry’s boy? Or Billy Bubwith who’s always idling about the green at Drool?’
‘None of these, sir. None of these. Knockdown, Sir John.’
‘Knockdown?’ For a moment Appleby failed to acknowledge in this vocable a feasible surname even of the most rustic sort. ‘Somebody
called
Knockdown?’
‘Leofranc Knockdown, sir.’
‘Dear me! I haven’t heard of him.’ It seemed to Appleby that anyone so circumstanced in infancy as to emerge from it thus denominated could scarcely hope to have full possession of his faculties. ‘And he’s a natural?’
‘Simple, Sir John – simple, without a doubt. What the powers and wonders of electricity mean to Knockdown is no more, you might say, than sparks and flashes. He’ll do himself a mischief one day, mark my words.’
‘Is he in his mid-twenties, and with ginger hair?’
‘Ah, you’ve seen him around.’
‘Does he live with his family? Is he capable of looking after himself?’
‘He lodges with a couple of the name of Clamtree, just outside Linger on the Potton road. There’s somebody pays something, if you ask me.’ Mr Goodcoal had lowered his voice to the pitch in which it is appropriate to speak of improper matters. ‘A bastard, sir, I’d say.’
‘Would these Clamtrees miss him quickly?’
‘I’d reckon not.’ Mr Goodcoal, although his mind seemed marked by no great rapidity of movement, was beginning to look surprised. ‘Knockdown gets a bit of work here and a bit of work there, you see, and there will be times when he thinks a barn a good enough place to sleep in. And they do say his trouble waxes and wanes with the moon.’
‘Rather a lonely fellow, and with this obsession with electricity?’
‘Just that. Neither father, mother or brother that any ever heard of.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well, Mr Goodcoal. Because I’m afraid poor Leofranc Knockdown is dead.’
‘I suppose we can pack up now?’ Appleby asked hopefully. It was half-an-hour later, and he had succeeded in finding his wife.
‘Good gracious, no!’ Judith gave every appearance of registering shock. ‘It wouldn’t do at all.’
‘That old woman went away.’
‘That’s quite different. People who declare fêtes and sales and bazaars open always clear out early. It’s part of the ritual.’
‘Bother the ritual. I’ve discharged my mission.’
‘What do you mean – your mission?’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean. You dragged me over here to poke officiously into the great gazebo mystery. Well, I’ve poked – and naturally it’s a mystery no longer. I’ve just got to find your friend Tommy Pride’ – Appleby said this with considerable satisfaction – ‘in order to offer him a helpful word, and after that we can find Wilfred Osborne and clear out.’
‘John – you mean you know who the dead man was, and how he came to be killed?’
‘Yes, of course. He was the only thing he
could
be – as I saw clearly enough. A poor fellow who was mad about every sort of electrical gadgetry, but in a dim-witted – actually a mentally subnormal – way. He climbed into the wretched affair to glut himself with gaping, actually got to crawling around, and was unlucky enough to be killed instantaneously on the high-voltage part of the affair. He has no near relations, I’m glad to say.’
‘I thought it must be something like that.’
‘You did nothing of the kind. Or at least you didn’t
say
you did.’ Appleby was looking at his wife balefully. ‘In fact, you as good as announced that this fellow Allington had contrived some fiendish sort of murder.’
‘That was only a hypothesis.’ Judith appeared to feel that this dismissed the matter. ‘But, talking of Mr Allington, he’s had old Mrs Junkin keep you a meringue.’
‘I haven’t the slightest yearning for one of old Mrs Junkin’s meringues.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’ Judith was glancing over her shoulder. ‘There’s a long queue now, and you couldn’t very well jump it. Mr Scrape’s first session must be over. Yes, they’re still coming out of the marquee. But there will be more Bingo in half-an-hour. That’s when we’ll go.’
‘Bingo! Do you mean to say that the Reverend Mr Scrape’s gambling hell is nothing but a Bingo palace?’
‘Of course. But he’s said to be fearfully good at it, and quite to live for it from year to year. For one thing, it’s the only occasion on which he sees crowded rows of his parishioners in front of him. And there’s a strong ritual element in it, after all. You’ll see when we go. We’ll take Wilfred too.’
‘Judith, I will
not
sit under this dissolute priest for the purpose–’
‘Do be quiet, John. Here is Mr Scrape coming to talk to us.’
Mr Scrape advanced upon the Applebys, cordially smiling and energetically mopping his brow. He was a cleric of the stringy sort, such as one scarcely expects to drip at every pore. But it was this that he seemed to be doing. It would be very hot inside the marquee, and the deep Anglican calm which must characterize his common sacerdotal occasions was probably a poor preparation for the altogether more exigent patter required of him upon this red-letter day of his year. Now that he had emerged into the open air, Mr Scrape gave no hint of anything manic in his personality. His manner was bland. And he addressed Appleby, to whom he had already been introduced, in so soothing a fashion that Appleby almost taxed himself with evincing some unmotivated nervous agitation.