Appleby File (25 page)

‘Yes, of course. By the time that The Coy Mistress was found to be perplexingly innocent after all, the whole trick would have been successfully accomplished. But once I tumbled to what was the real plan, every car was of course searched thoroughly, and the whole piece of trickery defeated. In fact, The Coy Mistress should have been called The Decoy Mistress. That’s not a very good joke. Unworthy, really, of what was rather an ingenious conspiracy.’

‘And do the Poynts still live here?’ I asked Appleby, as we stood together with a little crowd of potential sightseers on the steps of Poynt Hall.

‘Yes, they do. It’s part of the attraction of the place – that it’s still more or less lived in by the original family. Although what Richard Poynt in fact has done is to carve a small modern flat out of one wing. To try and use the whole house would be pretty comfortless, I imagine. It dates from a time when you put on your warmest clothes to go indoors.’

‘You know this present owner?’

‘Barely. We are more or less neighbours, as you can see. But I’ve done no more than pass the time of day with him, and I don’t think he’ll recognize me. Richard Poynt is a retiring sort of fellow, and goes about very little. His earlier life is said to have been marked by some obscure misfortune – “tragedy”, as people say – from which he has never really recovered.’

I was surprised.

‘But didn’t you say,’ I asked, ‘that we’ll see him as part of our money’s worth now?’

‘It’s quite probable. He often takes a party round himself. I’ve noticed that a number of people who show their houses seem to think it the courteous thing to do. And Poynt has quite a turn for showmanship. Particularly in the matter of the priest’s holes.’

‘Ah, yes.’ I pricked up my ears. For I had been told about these unusual attractions of Poynt Hall.

The Poynts were a Roman Catholic family, and Poynt Hall was chiefly famous because one of Richard Poynt’s ancestors had expended fabulous ingenuity in constructing hiding-places for the priests who, at the risk of their lives, had gone secretly about the country in the time of the Penal Laws.

‘I think you said there are twelve?’ I asked.

Appleby nodded.

‘Yes, you’ll see twelve. And there’s a thirteenth that is never shown.’

‘Because thirteen is an unlucky number?’

‘Not exactly. If Richard Poynt takes us round, he’ll explain. He makes quite a little drama out of it.’

And it was in fact the owner who showed us over Poynt Hall. He was in late middle-age – grey-haired, tall, and distinguished. He collected our entrance money without a shadow of awkwardness, and then at once began a pleasantly informal but clearly well-practised outline of the place’s history. His sentences dropped from him easily and with little pauses that gave a great effect of leisure. He might simply have been our host, responding to our interest in his house, but careful not to obtrude upon us more information than was desired.

There were almost a dozen of us – sightseers of the slightly specialized sort that makes its way to the remoter and smaller show places of England. But only one of our number, an elderly American who appeared to be by himself, showed much sign of any relevant knowledge, whether architectural or historical. He was following Richard Poynt’s remarks closely, and more than once I found myself glancing at him with curiosity. I had the impression that there was something obscurely familiar about his cast of features.

We were half-way up a shallow wooden staircase when Poynt stopped and tugged at one of the treads.

‘And here,’ he said, ‘is the first of the places you have perhaps particularly come to see.’

It was certainly an extremely clever hiding place – a small square chamber concealed beneath a sort of trapdoor constituted by two of the steps. The American pressed forward and regarded it curiously.

‘I guess this one would have been the first to be constructed?’ he asked.

‘We believe that to be so.’ Poynt seemed slightly surprised, and then went on with his explanations. It struck me now that beneath his courtesy there lay a deep reserve; that here was, in fact, a singularly proud and sensitive nature. Appleby, I concluded, had shown tact in not claiming Poynt’s acquaintance upon this faintly commercial occasion.

The tour continued. Poynt Hall, although impressive for its antiquity and mellow beauty, was not really a large place, and it was possible to linger pleasantly in its comparatively few principal chambers. Its compactness rendered all the more remarkable the sequence of hiding places which were revealed to us.

And they were a great success with the little crowd of sightseers. As a panel slid back, a solid bookcase turned on a pivot, a fireplace revealed the rungs of an iron ladder, there were gasps of admiration and surprise. It was like stuff out of a boy’s adventure story. I thought how strange it was that Richard Poynt’s ancestor should have combined with the grim and honourable business of protecting the priests who came to him this sheer virtuosity and exuberance in adding priest’s hole to priest’s hole.

The American went on asking intelligent questions and even offering relevant information. He seemed to make Richard Poynt a shade restless – and at the same time to be himself a little nettled by Poynt’s particular blend of courtesy and reserve. But he was, at the same time, quite as much a man of breeding as our
cicerone
was. I felt it to be a curious confrontation.

Presently the twelfth priest’s hole – a very small one in the floor of a privy – had been revealed to us.

‘And that is all,’ Richard Poynt said, ‘so far as those strange hide-outs are concerned. There is in fact a thirteenth such refuge. But it is never disclosed. An interesting family tradition – at least, interesting to me, ladies and gentlemen – attaches to it. When religious tolerance had been established, and those of us who belonged to the older faith no longer needed such places for the protection of their priests and chaplains, the head of my family decided that one should nevertheless remain secret, and with its whereabouts known only to one Poynt in each generation. I am permitted to tell you that it is a small square chamber with just room for a chair in which a man can sit. But the tradition forbids me to show it to you.’

‘I can’t say I ever heard of this before,’ the American said.

‘Possibly not, sir.’ Poynt was displeased. ‘But so, nevertheless, it is. The idea was, of course, that one cannot tell what revolutions history may bring about. The time might always come when an inviolate hiding place would again be useful. The thought was not wholly an idle one.’ Poynt paused, having spoken with some warmth of feeling. And the American at once asked another question.

‘And when, sir, do you figure it that this tradition began?’

‘It dates from the end of the seventeenth century.’

‘Now, I find that a surprising thing. For it smacks more of the beginning of the nineteenth century to me – when folks got around to reading Sir Walter Scott’s novels. Most ancient family traditions in England date from about then, I guess.’

Poynt made no reply to this mild gibe – which, as I happened to know, historians of literary taste would have had to accept as fair enough. The two men had now definitely got across each other. Our party moved on into a bedroom, handsomely equipped with Tudor furniture. Against one wall was an unusually large
prie-dieu
, elaborately carved.

‘That’s very fine,’ the American said, and stepped over to it. Poynt watched him, and gave a curt nod.

‘Yes,’ Poynt said, rather dryly. ‘It has often been admired.’

And now something wholly surprising happened. The American studied the
prie-dieu
, frowning slightly. Then he put out both hands, and gave a quick twist to a pillar. The whole massive object – complete with a handsome breviary or missal displayed on it – moved sideways. We were looking into a small square chamber with a single chair. And slumped in the chair was a human skeleton.

There was a moment’s silence – and then somebody screamed. I glanced at Poynt, who had gone deathly pale. Then Appleby stepped forward, grasped the
prie-dieu
, and swung it into place again.

‘That,’ he said firmly to the company at large, ‘is simply rather a macabre joke which Mr Poynt prepares for overcurious visitors. We move on.’

Later, Appleby explained. He had had a brief talk with the owner of Poynt Hall.

‘Our American friend,’ he said, ‘is a Poynt. Once you are informed of that, you see the family likeness at once. His branch of the family left England centuries ago, but he takes a keen interest in his English connections. He knows all about the architecture of the Hall and its various priest’s holes. And, of course, he was quite right about the thirteenth hole. The tradition about keeping it secret is a comparatively recent affair. But it proved very useful to Richard Poynt when, years ago, his younger brother Edwin, a ship’s officer, who was thought to be dead, came home in some deep disgrace, and then died in the night.’

I was astounded.

‘You mean–?’ I began.

‘Just that. It was something about a sinking ship. Edwin simply ought not to have survived. But now, by an extraordinary chance, he had died of some injury he had received, and before anybody except his brother Richard knew of his arrival. So Richard simply put the body where he was quite sure it couldn’t be discovered. So Edwin had
not
unworthily survived his disaster – or so it could be maintained – and the family honour was saved.’

‘But afterwards?’

‘Richard could simply never bear to go back to the thirteenth priest’s hole.’

For a moment I considered this extraordinary revelation in some bewilderment.

‘And now,’ I said, ‘nothing much need be done?’

‘Well, I suppose poor Edwin’s bones must now be laid more decently to rest.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Appleby,’ I said after a moment’s silence, ‘would you say that, as a policeman, you have acted in a wholly regular way in this matter?’

But Appleby didn’t seem impressed by this question.

‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘it’s obvious that one must back up a neighbour. Incidentally, however, this shocking affair has a moral. However commodious one’s cupboards, it’s wise to clear out the family skeletons from time to time.’

John Appleby first appears in
Death at the President's Lodging
, by which time he has risen to the rank of Inspector in the police force. A cerebral detective, with ready wit, charm and good manners, he rose from humble origins to being educated at 'St Anthony's College', Oxford, prior to joining the police as an ordinary constable.

Having decided to take early retirement just after World War II, he nonetheless continued his police career at a later stage and is subsequently appointed an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, where his crime solving talents are put to good use, despite the lofty administrative position. Final retirement from the police force (as Commissioner and Sir John Appleby) does not, however, diminish Appleby's taste for solving crime and he continues to be active,
Appleby and the Ospreys
marking his final appearance in the late 1980's.

In
Appleby's End
he meets Judith Raven, whom he marries and who has an involvement in many subsequent cases, as does their son Bobby and other members of his family.

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels