Read Online Appleby And Honeybath by Michael Innes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Innes
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wholeheartedly rational. Really, I begin to harbour doubts. Coma, now. One hears a lot about coma nowadays. How close to actual death can its appearances be?’
‘Deep waters, Mr Honeybath. It used to be assumed that death invariably happens in a breath. One moment alive; the next, not. Nowadays there’s a different view. And whether this man was really dead is something – to be frank with you – that I have to keep an open mind about. But of one thing I’m confident. If he was merely in deep coma when you came on him, he could nevertheless be in no condition simply to stand up and walk out of the room a few minutes later. Alive or dead, he was carried out. Somebody lugged the guts into the neighbour room.’
This literary flight on the part of Inspector Denver quite startled Honeybath. But he saw that a real analysis was going forward.
‘There’s another question,’ Denver said. ‘Agree that you were correct in deciding the man was dead. Did any suggestion of the cause of death occur to you then and there?’
‘I’m afraid it didn’t. I can’t recall holding any internal debate on the matter.’ Honeybath was aware of this as rather a pedantic form of words. ‘But you see what that means,’ he suddenly added. ‘I must have been taking it for granted that the chap had just died in a perfectly natural manner. As Appleby has pointed out to me, most people do. And at times very suddenly, if I’m not mistaken. A totally unheralded cerebral disaster. One has been harbouring a treacherous aneurysm – I believe that’s the word – inside one’s head, and quite suddenly it goes bust.’
‘But you didn’t, at the time, actually find yourself thinking along those lines?’
‘Assuredly not. I was simply extremely shocked.’
‘Quite so, Mr Honeybath. Nothing could be more natural. Of course if you had happened to think of something entirely different – some form of violent death, I mean – you would probably have spared a moment or two to investigate before going for help.’
‘No doubt. And if there had been any substantial and overt sign of violence I’d surely have been aware of it. If the man was murdered, in other words, it wasn’t in any strikingly gory fashion.’
‘Exactly. No blood here, and none next door – where you and Sir John had those two odd experiences.’
‘Two experiences?’
‘Oh, decidedly. Signs of an unobtrusive squatter in a country house like Grinton were uncommonly curious in themselves. And then finding that the signs had vanished was more curious still.’
‘A vagrant,’ Honeybath said hopefully. ‘A kind of new style tramp. Or an enterprising hippie, perhaps with a little van. He has been quite snug here. But something sinister happens, and he takes alarm and bolts.’
‘Dear me!’ Denver was staring at Honeybath in what might have been charitably regarded as admiring astonishment. ‘I’d almost suppose you to be a scientist, sir, rather than an artist. I believe fertility in the field of hypothesis to be the hallmark of your top scientific man.’ Having allowed himself this frivolity, Denver again took up his pen. ‘Just a brief recital of facts,’ he said. ‘That you can put your signature to. Not a deposition, you understand, in any legal sense. Just to help us along.’
Honeybath helped along, and then withdrew from the library. His own duty in the matter he could now consider to have been discharged, and it was unlikely that anyone would bother him again. Nevertheless he continued to feel something vexatious about the whole affair. He had come to Grinton to cope with a mystery, since that is what painting the portrait of another human being involves. Or painting a kitchen chair or an old pair of boots, for that matter. You have to love the things, and achieve an obscure act of possession, and the result is that you have brought a minute speck of light into the vast darkness in which we move and have our being. Honeybath had preserved this
‘Deep waters, Mr Honeybath. It used to be assumed that death invariably happens in a breath. One moment alive; the next, not. Nowadays there’s a different view. And whether this man was really dead is something – to be frank with you – that I have to keep an open mind about. But of one thing I’m confident. If he was merely in deep coma when you came on him, he could nevertheless be in no condition simply to stand up and walk out of the room a few minutes later. Alive or dead, he was carried out. Somebody lugged the guts into the neighbour room.’
This literary flight on the part of Inspector Denver quite startled Honeybath. But he saw that a real analysis was going forward.
‘There’s another question,’ Denver said. ‘Agree that you were correct in deciding the man was dead. Did any suggestion of the cause of death occur to you then and there?’
‘I’m afraid it didn’t. I can’t recall holding any internal debate on the matter.’ Honeybath was aware of this as rather a pedantic form of words. ‘But you see what that means,’ he suddenly added. ‘I must have been taking it for granted that the chap had just died in a perfectly natural manner. As Appleby has pointed out to me, most people do. And at times very suddenly, if I’m not mistaken. A totally unheralded cerebral disaster. One has been harbouring a treacherous aneurysm – I believe that’s the word – inside one’s head, and quite suddenly it goes bust.’
‘But you didn’t, at the time, actually find yourself thinking along those lines?’
‘Assuredly not. I was simply extremely shocked.’
‘Quite so, Mr Honeybath. Nothing could be more natural. Of course if you had happened to think of something entirely different – some form of violent death, I mean – you would probably have spared a moment or two to investigate before going for help.’
‘No doubt. And if there had been any substantial and overt sign of violence I’d surely have been aware of it. If the man was murdered, in other words, it wasn’t in any strikingly gory fashion.’
‘Exactly. No blood here, and none next door – where you and Sir John had those two odd experiences.’
‘Two experiences?’
‘Oh, decidedly. Signs of an unobtrusive squatter in a country house like Grinton were uncommonly curious in themselves. And then finding that the signs had vanished was more curious still.’
‘A vagrant,’ Honeybath said hopefully. ‘A kind of new style tramp. Or an enterprising hippie, perhaps with a little van. He has been quite snug here. But something sinister happens, and he takes alarm and bolts.’
‘Dear me!’ Denver was staring at Honeybath in what might have been charitably regarded as admiring astonishment. ‘I’d almost suppose you to be a scientist, sir, rather than an artist. I believe fertility in the field of hypothesis to be the hallmark of your top scientific man.’ Having allowed himself this frivolity, Denver again took up his pen. ‘Just a brief recital of facts,’ he said. ‘That you can put your signature to. Not a deposition, you understand, in any legal sense. Just to help us along.’
Honeybath helped along, and then withdrew from the library. His own duty in the matter he could now consider to have been discharged, and it was unlikely that anyone would bother him again. Nevertheless he continued to feel something vexatious about the whole affair. He had come to Grinton to cope with a mystery, since that is what painting the portrait of another human being involves. Or painting a kitchen chair or an old pair of boots, for that matter. You have to love the things, and achieve an obscure act of possession, and the result is that you have brought a minute speck of light into the vast darkness in which we move and have our being. Honeybath had preserved this
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