Death at the Chase Read Free

same. And this was signalized by the words – wholly surprising words – with which he greeted Appleby’s first puff.
    ‘What’s that stuff you’re smoking?’
    ‘John Cotton 1 and 2.’
    ‘I thought so.’ The old gentleman hesitated. A new species of agitation appeared to have possessed him. ‘I think I’ve got a pipe in the house,’ he said.
    ‘Then may we go and find it?’ Appleby turned to walk on, but then paused until the old gentleman had come abreast of him. It was like dropping in on Treasure Island and coaxing Ben Gunn with an offer of Parmesan cheese. He wondered whether his host – as it suddenly seemed reasonable to term this curious old creature – was quite fantastically impoverished. The house they were now approaching certainly suggested it. So did the wild garden they had entered through a gate from the small park with its ill-repaired wall. Appleby took a cautious sideways glance at his companion. He wore a knickerbocker suit of antique cut. It was piped and patched at appropriate points with stout leather, and the cloth seemed of a quality that would last forever anyway. The outfit might well have been tailored for the old gentleman’s father round about the time of the Boer War. It carried a strong suggestion of the earliest days of cycling. Anything much in the way of shape had long since departed from it. But it was quite clean.
    ‘My name is Ashmore,’ the old gentleman said abruptly. He had come to a halt – and this time it was he who appeared to look Appleby steadily in the eye. If there was something wild in his gaze, there was something uncommonly penetrating as well. ‘You’ve heard of me,’ he said.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite–’ Appleby broke off. It was, he supposed, as a local magnate that the man called Ashmore presumed he must be known to his visitor. But the name rang only some faint and elusive bell. Unlike Judith, Appleby hadn’t the knack of regarding anybody within fifteen miles as a close neighbour. If Judith had talked about this ancient Mr Ashmore as among the attractions of the neighbourhood her husband had been most culpably not listening to her. Nevertheless it was awkward to have to deny something that Ashmore had so dogmatically assumed, and Appleby was for a moment at a loss. Ashmore himself resumed the conversation.
    ‘Don’t think I’m a fool,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’m an old fool, or a bloody fool, or even just a born one. Didn’t you say your name was Appleby, and talk about the police? I’ve placed you, you know. It’s taken me a minute or two – but that doesn’t mean my wits are wholly decayed. Mind you, they may be, but this isn’t evidence of it. You’ve been an important man – Sir John, isn’t it – but not all that important. So it takes a little thought to sort you out. And of course you’ve heard of me. Nobody in your position could have failed to.’ Ashmore paused. ‘Did you use to see those plays by that fellow Bernard Shaw?’
    ‘Decidedly I did.’
    ‘There’s a man in one of them who goes around handing out his card. Mr X, the Celebrated Coward . Just like that. Well, I’m Martyn Ashmore, the celebrated ditto.’ Ashmore laughed harshly. ‘So now we are introduced. Can I have a fill of your tobacco, all the same?’

 
     
2
     
    Judith – Appleby reflected – would have landed him in precisely this absurd situation. It was again the principle of going on till you are stopped. He recalled the occasion, for example, upon which she had insisted upon their ‘exploring’ – which meant simply breaking into – a house seemingly even more derelict and untenanted than this which confronted him now. There had been a moat round it, and owls had been appropriately hooting. It seemed incredible that any other human being had approached it for years. So they had climbed in through what had once been a window. They had hazardously ascended and descended tottering staircases. They had doubtfully