A Family Affair by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online Page B

man in an Oxford college. Two were memories of matters once brought to the police but very little pursued – and certainly never before directly inquired into by Appleby himself. The fourth was in more or less the same category as the second and third, but had been after his time. There had, indeed, been more rigorous investigation on this occasion, Braunkopf having alleged so large a loss. But nothing seemed to have come of it. Braunkopf himself apart, there seemed to be no witness to tackle. Except, indeed, Professor Sansbury of Cambridge, who had set eyes not only upon the authentic ‘Nanna and Pippa’ but also, presumably, upon the mysterious confidential person who had produced it. As for tangible evidence – anything of the order that, in court, could be termed an exhibit – there was the copy of ‘Nanna and Pippa’. (At least it might be supposed there was that, still in the possession of Braunkopf.) And that was the lot. There didn’t seem much scope for manoeuvre.
    Appleby tucked the Braunkopf papers back in their file, and glanced round the dining room. The average age of those lunching (he had calculated on a previous occasion) was about five years short of the age at which those male persons die whose age at death is recorded by their sorrowing relatives in The Times newspaper. In the year 1968, that was to say, here was a roomful of people who were quite strictly to be defined as Victorians. But – Appleby had turned his head a little further – there was one surprising exception. Quite a young man had strayed into the club. He could conceivably have done so, of course, only as a guest – and indeed there was a more than reasonably elderly man at the same table with him. They were father and son, or uncle and son, or conceivably grandfather and son. And about the young man there was something familiar.
    It was no doubt only because his mind had been far away that Appleby was thus for a moment tardy in recognizing so recent an acquaintance as Lord Oswyn Lyward. For it was certainly he. Here, rather oddly, and dutifully sipping port in evident deference to his host, was the prime mover of Appleby in his present courses. Nor could there now be much doubt as to who was entertaining him. Father and son had been the correct conjecture. Here was Lord Cockayne himself.
    The young man glanced up, and caught Appleby’s glance. On his part, recognition was immediate. He jumped to his feet, and strode across the room.
    ‘Oh, I say, sir!’ he said. ‘What luck running into you in this mausoleum. Won’t you come over and meet my father?’

 
     
5
     
    Lord Cockayne stood up – an action which the difficulty of the operation rendered all the more gracious in this amiable nobleman. For Lord Cockayne was distinctly ancient; surprisingly so, indeed, for the father of an undergraduate son. Within his tweeds – which had once been of a peculiarly hairy variety, but were now worn smooth except in quite small patches – he creaked alarmingly as he moved. This was the more disconcerting in that, for the moment at least, Lord Cockayne appeared tolerably well oiled. He had lunched comfortably and was now taking no more than a second glass of port, but perhaps he was to be accounted among that class of elderly persons whose heads lighten as they age. It was with a certain vagueness of direction that he extended his hand.
    ‘How-d’y-do?’ Lord Cockayne said. ‘Glass of port?’
    Appleby agreed to a glass of port. He couldn’t recall having seen Cockayne in the club before, and he wondered whether he often favoured it with his presence. This speculation received, as it happened, an answer now.
    ‘Like to give Oswyn lunch here once in a way,’ Lord Cockayne said. ‘Good atmosphere, eh? Self-made fellows with plenty of effort in their lives: bishops, professors, top sawbones, smart chaps at the Bar. The boy should take their measure, you know. See what he’s up against. As my father used to say to my brothers: