Appleby and the Ospreys by Michael Innes

something, you see, that my father rather liked to do himself. He liked to stare out at that glorified puddle of ours in the dusk, probably taking satisfaction in thinking about generations of Ospreys having done the same thing. Which was rot, anyway. There’s nothing mediaeval or Tudor or what have you in this whole part of the dump. It’s what they call late Georgian. Somewhere or other there’s a date carved on it. 1815, I think.’
    ‘A notable year.’
    ‘Is it? I wouldn’t know. I don’t much care for history.’
    ‘And history may conceivably return the compliment. But go on. We’ve got to your father liking to close those curtains himself. He did so last night?’
    ‘Yes – but not without this odd spot of brouhaha.’
    ‘Of what? But never mind. Go on.’
    ‘He’d put out his hand to that tassel-thing you pull down to do the job. And the Minnychip was following him, jabbering. She’s that sort of female.’
    ‘No doubt. But then?’
    ‘My father – who has been a bit nervy of late – gave an odd sort of exclamation. It might have been of mere surprise, or it might have been of straight funk. And the Minnychip let off a yelp of her own. Between them they may be said rather to have startled the nobility and gentry waiting to be fed. Only my Uncle Marcus – Marcus Broadwater, you know – made a dash for the window. Marcus is only a bloody Cambridge don, but he does have some guts to him. My father, however, had given a vigorous tug, and the curtains took the hint. End of episode. Or not quite. My father turned and said, “Some damned intruder out there”, and the Minnychip chirped, “I had a glimpse of him, too.” She seemed to feel that she’d distinguished herself.’
    ‘Was there an immediate investigation?’
    ‘Lord, yes. Quite a fuss for a time. Bagot was going round with a decanter, topping people up with that tepid muck. My father told him to put it down, and go and investigate. Dear old Daddy was in a regular stew.’
    ‘Frightened, you mean?’
    ‘Just that. The Osprey blood in me was quite ashamed of him.’
    ‘And just how could Bagot have investigated?’ Appleby had walked over to the window and glanced through it. ‘There’s nothing out there except an odd sort of platform, and then the moat. Did Bagot part the curtains again and go outside?’
    ‘No, he didn’t. He was probably in a tizzy himself. He just bolted from the room – and came back after a time to say nothing had been discovered. Meanwhile, my father had come to his senses and played the thing down. He had several guests, you know, and I suppose he felt he was in danger of acting the poltroon before them. Rather a good word, poltroon.’
    ‘Just what did he say ?’
    ‘He said he must have made a mistake. I don’t think he believed he had. But then we all went in to dinner.’
    ‘Has Ringwood been told about this? It’s possibly highly significant.’
    ‘I haven’t a clue, Sir John. I certainly didn’t tell him myself.’
    ‘Then you ought to have.’ Appleby snapped this out. ‘I must see Miss Minnychip. She may have noticed whether the intruder, as she glimpsed him, appeared wringing wet. He could only have swum, or waded, across the moat. Or is there a boat?’
    ‘There’s certainly a small boat that people plouter about in. It’s kept in a shed on the other side of the moat.’
    ‘It must be examined at once. Thank you for telling me about it.’ And Appleby called in one of the constables and left the library.
     
    Back in the Music Saloon, he found Ringwood in conversation with a lady. But this is a somewhat neutral and uninformative description of what was going forward. The lady was Miss Jane Minnychip, and she was haranguing a Ringwood who, if not positively discomfited, was visibly nearer to that condition than was at all seemly in a senior officer of the police. Nor was Ringwood’s small cohort on the platform at the end of the room – although, doubtless, entirely in command of the