The Secret Vanguard by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online Page A

‘Well, he has been in the cellars for some days. And dreadfully busy. A great deal of work on hand. I really wonder’ – the old lady’s nose twitched faintly, as if she was conscious that Appleby had not the right odour of old leather and drains and tea – ‘I really wonder if you could come back another day?’
    ‘Unfortunately I have rather urgent business. It was my friend Ambrose Hetherton who–’
    ‘Mr Hetherton of the Museum!’ The old lady was suddenly wreathed in faded smiles. She stood up – not without a cautious glance at the typewriter, as if it was liable to take advantage of her inattention to bound out of the room. ‘I am sure Mr Tufton would like to see you. Will you try the first floor?’ She burrowed amid a pile of papers, unearthed a teapot, and sat down again. ‘Though he really is very absorbed. Ever since Dr Borer died he has had a great deal of work on hand.’
    Appleby returned to the hall. The portrait of Dr Borer, he was startled to observe, was undoubtedly a Raeburn; Mr Tufton must have been busy for quite an uncommon length of time… He tackled the staircase. It presented considerable difficulties: amid these reefs of mouldering brown leather and breakers of scattered paper it was possible to feel that a stranger would have been the better for a chart. From above, the dingy skylight peered distrustfully down, as if doubtful of its ability to beacon the adventurer to port. On a shadowy landing halfway up, and while he was placing a foot carefully between two enormous folios, he was considerably disconcerted to see an indeterminate patch of faded leather stir before him; for an instant the faded leather became the mild and learned face of a Hindu gentleman; then the appearance faded once more. It was in an almost dreamlike state that Appleby reached the top and walked into the first room he found.
    It was filled with tobacco smoke. Through this he presently discerned a second Hindu gentleman perched high on a library ladder and holding a book open in each hand; he was glancing rapidly from book to book with the determined action of a person following fast tennis. Below him and at a small table yet a third Oriental was prosecuting similar literary studies: with the aid of a strong electric light he was subjecting to a species of X-ray examination the pages of a volume yellow with age. And at a desk in the middle of the room sat a man with a long white beard. Appleby advanced to this presiding figure and said: ‘Mr Tufton, I presume?’
    It was the man with the white beard who was smoking: the only objects other than books and papers on the desk were a tobacco jar and a fire extinguisher. Now he took his pipe from his mouth and said in a matter-of-fact way: ‘1837. I really believe we have got most of 1837 together at last.’ He looked at Appleby as one who has provided a definite conversational cue.
    ‘My name,’ said Appleby, ‘is Appleby. I have called–’
    ‘I believe,’ said Mr Tufton firmly, ‘that we have ’37 pretty well cornered.’
    Rather awkwardly, Appleby remarked that this was a capital thing.
    ‘And I hope,’ continued Tufton, ‘that we shall get some months into ’38 before the end of the present year. Of course it keeps one fairly busy. One feels–’ He glanced round the paper-littered room and hesitated for words.
    ‘One must feel,’ said Appleby, ‘that there is a great deal of work on hand.’
    Tufton, who appeared to be a person of somewhat sombre habit, brightened perceptibly. ‘You phrase it,’ he said, ‘very well. Dr Borer was an indefatigable collector, but I fear he sadly lacked system.’ He began to hunt vaguely about his desk. ‘Yes – I fear the truth is there. And since his death – it happened in ’77, you will recall – I confess that I have been hard at work. The Collection is now in pretty good order, I am glad to think – or will be in quite a measurable time. But then Dr Borer was a diarist too, a voluminous diarist’