Death at the Chase by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online Page B

in that. It’s as if they want to break his nerve – just as it was once broken by some hideous secret police long ago. So far, it looks as if this old man – who is an old man, and destined by some freak of heredity to go on getting yet older for a long time – allows himself to get worried for about twenty-four hours in the year. They want really to get him down. And then, I suppose, they’ll end up that series of near-misses, and contrive a square hit. It’s not at all nice. I didn’t scare Pride, but I’m glad to think I’ve alerted him. He feels he may have rather rashly discounted this Martyn Ashmore’s seemingly incredible yarn. He’s making inquiries. As a matter of fact I expect him to drop in this evening.’
    ‘John, do you believe this fantastic tale?’
    ‘I believe in that hunk of stone. And so would you, my dear, if you’d felt the wind of it on your left ear.’
    ‘I believe in it too.’ Judith looked seriously at her husband. There had been plenty of times when she had sat over two poached eggs round about 9 p.m., trying not to wonder whether she would ever see John again. She didn’t like this story of sudden and insane danger during a day’s ramble from Long Dream. ‘But I don’t at all know what to believe about your young Frenchman. Of course it’s true that Martyn Ashmore has French relations.’
    ‘His father married a de Voisin?’
    ‘His father – Ayden Ashmore – married ages ago a bonne bourgeoise called Annette Dupont. Very much the haute bourgeoisie , as they say. Related to all sorts of people, however, with much grander names.’
    ‘How you contrive–’
    ‘I knew some of them when I was almost finished for good at that ghastly French school. Before I ran away to the Slade. Before I met my glorious policeman.’
    ‘No doubt.’ Appleby sat down again, and with conscious complacency finished his tea. ‘And you also know all about this rash of Ashmores who appear to be our near neighbours at the other end of the county. I think I’ll want to know about them too… Judith, why aren’t you listening to me?’
    ‘Of course I’m listening to you.’ But Lady Appleby’s ear had been quite detectably attuned to the outer world. ‘But Bobby’s coming for the weekend. I thought I heard what might be his car.’
    ‘Fine. You’ll be able to talk to him about Simone de Beauvoir.’
    ‘Bobby thinks the Beaver and Sartre and all that fearfully old-hat. Bobby belongs to the anti-roman school. What he goes in for is called la nouvelle écriture .’
    ‘He hasn’t given up hope of educating me.’ Appleby picked up a book. ‘I’ve been told to read this, by a chap called Alain Robbe-Grillet. It’s described as a novel, but a great deal of it seems just to be describing a house. The first paragraph is about a veranda. Listen.
     
    Since its width is the same for the central portion as for the sides, the line of shadow cast by the column extends precisely to the corner of the house; but it stops there, for only the veranda flagstones are reached by the sun… At this moment the shadow of the outer edge of the roof coincides exactly with the right angle formed by the terrace and the two vertical surfaces of the corner of the house .’ [1]
     
    Appleby put down the book. ‘Odd, don’t you think?’
    ‘It ought to appeal to you. It’s by rather an observing kind of person.’
    ‘That’s undeniable.’ Forgetting about Monsieur Robbe-Grillet, Appleby walked to the window. He too was hearkening to the outer world. He was commonly as relieved as Judith when their youngest child’s alarming car was heard to come safely to a stop in the drive. Bobby Appleby had once been a useful youth in the middle of the front row of a scrum. He had then surprisingly transformed himself into an even more useful scrum-half. In that position he had played a very decent game against the All Blacks. Appleby believed that he himself concealed behind an impenetrable mask his satisfaction in