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

– he sighed – ‘a most voluminous diarist, it would not be too much to say. I sometimes wish that it had occurred to him to keep his diary in books . Loose paper is really not a suitable vehicle for records of that kind. Particularly’ – something which was almost asperity crept into Tufton’s voice – ‘particularly if one is rather careless about inserting dates.’
    Appleby, sensing another cue, gave a comprehending murmur.
    ‘Dr Borer lived to a great age – you will remember that he was born in 1798 – and during his lifetime the papers got sadly mixed up. In arranging them we have to rely on internal evidence to a deplorable extent. Now here, for example–’ And once more Tufton rummaged about.
    ‘I have come in,’ said Appleby, ‘about Philip Ploss.’
    Tufton, about triumphantly to produce a paper, was checked by the name. ‘Ploss?’ he said, and held the paper suspended in air. ‘My dear Mr Ploss, we are glad to see you again. I had begun to fear that you were unwell.’
    ‘About Ploss. My name is Appleby and I am from the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. I have come in about Ploss. Ploss is dead.’
    ‘Dead?’ Tufton let the paper which he had laboriously secured slide back to its oblivion. ‘Dear, dear. The poets are all departing from us, I fear. Meredith gone, and that fat fellow Rossetti, and now this lad Ploss. Tempus edax rerum , Mr Appleby, Tempus edax rerum .’ And Tufton gently stroked his long white beard. He would have stood very well, Appleby thought, as an allegory of Time.
    ‘I understand, Mr Tufton, that Ploss had been working here of late?’
    ‘Yes – yes, indeed. On Dr Borer’s Sweetapple Papers. We gave him that desk in the corner.’ And Tufton pointed into the shadowy recesses of the room.
    ‘That desk?’ Appleby stared doubtfully in the direction indicated. Nothing was visible except a mass of papers breast high.
    Tufton changed his glasses, peered across the room, and sighed. ‘Dr Borer,’ he said, ‘was a copious correspondent. And he would not use letter-books. I believe somebody has been endeavouring to segregate over there the correspondence of ’57. I believe that is it.’ He peered again at the enormous pile of papers. ‘And probably of ’58 as well. If you would care to investigate–’ And Tufton got painfully to his feet, took his pipe in one hand and the fire extinguisher in the other, and slowly crossed the room. ‘Mr Ali, Mr Dasgupta, I wonder if we might have your valuable help?’
    They all searched. The corner of a desk was presently revealed. ‘Do you think,’ asked Appleby, ‘that Ploss would be likely to leave private papers here?’
    Tufton considered. ‘ De mortuis ,’ he said, ‘ nil nisi bonum . Nevertheless, I will venture to say that Ploss was not a very tidy person.’ He sighed. ‘I detest untidiness above all things… Yes, I judge it not unlikely that he would leave property of his own from visit to visit.’
    They continued to search. And they found eventually a briefcase stamped P P, a sheaf of notes, a fountain pen, and a diary. ‘May I take these?’ Appleby asked. ‘I will give you a receipt.’
    Tufton nodded sombrely and moved with his visitor towards the door; it seemed to have recurred to him that there was a great deal of work on hand. But on the landing he paused, as if suddenly impelled to confidence. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that I sometimes have nightmares?’
    ‘Nightmares?’
    ‘I dream that Dr Borer is still alive. Making collections. And keeping diaries. And engaging in correspondence.’ With his pipe and the fire extinguisher Tufton made a single sweeping gesture at the mouldering leather and the cliffs of papers and the learned Hindus. ‘And that we shall never catch up.’
    He stroked his beard and turned away. And, delicately, Appleby picked his way downstairs.
     
    Sunlight on London. Just beyond the square a building was coming down. A workman, perched