me.’
‘Well, sir, I’m bound to say I did consider the point you raise. Old fragments of writing have been used in misleading contexts before now. I remember’ – Cavill smiled faintly – ‘your mentioning it in a lecture.’
‘Well, then – how do you meet the point?’
‘By believing the testimony of Packford’s housekeeper, who seems a perfectly respectable and reliable woman. It was she who heard the shot, and who ran to the library. Packford was slumped over his desk, and the postcard was on his writing-pad. The woman took a good straight look at it. And the ink was wet.’
Appleby took a long breath. ‘I don’t know much about your literature of baronets in libraries,’ he said. ‘But my guess is that you might search in vain for just that.’
But Cavill was unimpressed by this sally. ‘The point is this, sir,’ he said a shade didactically. ‘We have a confluence of improbabilities. That this scrawl of Packford’s is not Packford’s is an improbability, since we have the opinion of two of our own experts to set over against the opinion of Rood, who is a mere crank. That the scrawl does not refer to his intention of taking his own life is a second improbability, much more likely to turn up in fiction than in fact. And that the respectable woman I have mentioned should be either mistaken or telling a blank lie is a third improbability. All this adds up, surely, to a very big improbability indeed.’
‘But Packford’s bigamy is as big an improbability as any, my dear Cavill. And yet it is admittedly gospel. So we are reminded that highly improbable things do sometimes occur.’
‘That’s quite true, sir,’ Cavill – perhaps because he felt that he had really established his case – was now entirely patient. ‘And you’d find Urchins – if you went down there – pretty hard to believe in at the moment. But there it is. It’s a fact. And I’m not arguing that wildly improbable interpretations of evidence are not occasionally vindicated. But I am saying that this Packford business holds no further surprises. What they do about the dead man’s two wives and so forth is no business of ours – unless it becomes a question of whether the more recent of them knew what she was about. But that isn’t going to interest you or me.’
‘I agree with you there.’ Appleby had turned back to the window. ‘What was that you said about a collection of professors and such like?’
‘There was a sort of house-party, sir. People interested in Packford’s scholarly discoveries and so forth all gathered there by his invitation. That was the set-up when the thing happened. And Edward Packford has persuaded them to stay on for a little. The whole circus is there now.’
‘How very queer.’ Appleby had turned round again. ‘Cavill – you are sure the affair is closed? I mean – well, a fellow couldn’t go down and have another look?’
Cavill stood up and laughed. He laughed at the Assistant Commissioner with a pure affection that went to Appleby’s heart. It was one of those moments which, in a rather brittle, rather edgy organization, are worth living for. Then he picked up the file and placed it neatly in the centre of Appleby’s desk.
‘Good hunting, sir,’ Cavill said. And he went out of the room still laughing.
3
Neither Edward Packford nor the local police, when contacted by telephone, took any exception to the idea of further investigation. So Appleby went down by train next day – an antique mode of conveyance across England’s smaller distances for which he had a weakness that frequently cost him quite a lot of time. He changed trains at Sherborne and again at Little Urchins. When he got out at Deep Urchins a car was waiting for him. It seemed much as if he were paying the surviving Packfords a purely social visit.
The car was old and lethargic; the woman driving it appeared young and extremely brisk. She could hardly be the respectable housekeeper who figured
‘Well, sir, I’m bound to say I did consider the point you raise. Old fragments of writing have been used in misleading contexts before now. I remember’ – Cavill smiled faintly – ‘your mentioning it in a lecture.’
‘Well, then – how do you meet the point?’
‘By believing the testimony of Packford’s housekeeper, who seems a perfectly respectable and reliable woman. It was she who heard the shot, and who ran to the library. Packford was slumped over his desk, and the postcard was on his writing-pad. The woman took a good straight look at it. And the ink was wet.’
Appleby took a long breath. ‘I don’t know much about your literature of baronets in libraries,’ he said. ‘But my guess is that you might search in vain for just that.’
But Cavill was unimpressed by this sally. ‘The point is this, sir,’ he said a shade didactically. ‘We have a confluence of improbabilities. That this scrawl of Packford’s is not Packford’s is an improbability, since we have the opinion of two of our own experts to set over against the opinion of Rood, who is a mere crank. That the scrawl does not refer to his intention of taking his own life is a second improbability, much more likely to turn up in fiction than in fact. And that the respectable woman I have mentioned should be either mistaken or telling a blank lie is a third improbability. All this adds up, surely, to a very big improbability indeed.’
‘But Packford’s bigamy is as big an improbability as any, my dear Cavill. And yet it is admittedly gospel. So we are reminded that highly improbable things do sometimes occur.’
‘That’s quite true, sir,’ Cavill – perhaps because he felt that he had really established his case – was now entirely patient. ‘And you’d find Urchins – if you went down there – pretty hard to believe in at the moment. But there it is. It’s a fact. And I’m not arguing that wildly improbable interpretations of evidence are not occasionally vindicated. But I am saying that this Packford business holds no further surprises. What they do about the dead man’s two wives and so forth is no business of ours – unless it becomes a question of whether the more recent of them knew what she was about. But that isn’t going to interest you or me.’
‘I agree with you there.’ Appleby had turned back to the window. ‘What was that you said about a collection of professors and such like?’
‘There was a sort of house-party, sir. People interested in Packford’s scholarly discoveries and so forth all gathered there by his invitation. That was the set-up when the thing happened. And Edward Packford has persuaded them to stay on for a little. The whole circus is there now.’
‘How very queer.’ Appleby had turned round again. ‘Cavill – you are sure the affair is closed? I mean – well, a fellow couldn’t go down and have another look?’
Cavill stood up and laughed. He laughed at the Assistant Commissioner with a pure affection that went to Appleby’s heart. It was one of those moments which, in a rather brittle, rather edgy organization, are worth living for. Then he picked up the file and placed it neatly in the centre of Appleby’s desk.
‘Good hunting, sir,’ Cavill said. And he went out of the room still laughing.
3
Neither Edward Packford nor the local police, when contacted by telephone, took any exception to the idea of further investigation. So Appleby went down by train next day – an antique mode of conveyance across England’s smaller distances for which he had a weakness that frequently cost him quite a lot of time. He changed trains at Sherborne and again at Little Urchins. When he got out at Deep Urchins a car was waiting for him. It seemed much as if he were paying the surviving Packfords a purely social visit.
The car was old and lethargic; the woman driving it appeared young and extremely brisk. She could hardly be the respectable housekeeper who figured
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