perilously on the end of a crane, wore a shirt on which an advertisement for a nerve tonic was inscribed. London nineteen hundred and thirty-nine. And with an effort remembering what he was about Appleby hailed a taxi and opened Philip Ploss’ diary.
The last entry was for the Thursday – the day before Ploss died:
Chez Borer again. Tufton has gathered that I write verse and asks me if I know William Morris, a wild fellow with a beard. O more than reverend, O blessed Sweetapple to lead one to this haven.
Project: A Panegyrical Essay on Funk and Despair.
An odd thing on the train. Three fellows in the carriage and all pretty well mute until one starts haranguing on – of all things – poetry. How it began I scarcely noticed; my attention was caught by the name of Ploss. Fellow was spouting what he claimed to be Ploss. Only it wasn’t! And I couldn’t resist the temptation to interrupt and explain just why I knew he was mistaken. Foolish of me and I could see he didn’t like it – surprised him in a really nasty look. Some of the lines stick in my head oddly: indeed to the extent of making me take steps to discover the true author. Whole incident had an odd quality I haven’t at all troubled to get down. Borer rather a warning against diaries, anyway.
Luncheon with one of the Indians. He has studied Old Gothic and written a thesis on Wordsworth’s political sonnets. Decent little chap.
Business on the train ruining my day’s communion with Sweetapple. Keeps coming to mind. It was as if the spouter had guessed that I had guessed something – which I certainly hadn’t.
Later . A most disturbing notion has floated up. Fantastic if the road from Lark to this should have skirted anything like that . But there it is. 162543.
The taxi – like Philip Ploss’ diary – had stopped abruptly; Appleby looked out and found himself in New Scotland Yard. 162543… He paid his fare in a ruinous abstraction and went his way: a hall, a staircase, a corridor, an outer office…
‘Always the same,’ said a grumbling voice. ‘Nothing but London, London all the time. If you ask me–’ The man who had spoken, and who was going through a file of papers at a desk, stopped on seeing Appleby’s absent frown. ‘Sorry, sir. Nothing for you to bother with.’
Appleby crossed to the door of his own room. Then a long habit of patient inquiry asserted itself. He turned round. ‘What is always the same?’
‘Edinburgh and Glasgow. Let some wretched girl disappear in Tobermory or Tomatin and their one idea is that she’s come to a bad end under our noses here as we sit.’ The man at the desk flicked over a page of his file impatiently.
‘Some girl has disappeared?’
‘Yes, sir. Name of Grant – Sheila Grant. Up the Highland line.’
Appleby nodded and opened his door. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he asked idly, ‘that any poetry comes into it?’
The man at the desk looked at him round-eyed. ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘Something about poetry. That’s the funny thing.’
7: Sheila Meets Danger
The lights which had danced so long and painfully before Sheila’s eyes were taking on a centripetal movement. Like fragments of mercury they ran together and coalesced, forming a single flare as of a great torch. A great torch held aloft in a gigantic hand. In fact the Statue of Liberty. And the Statue spoke. ‘Say,’ it said, ‘are you all right?’
A pleasant voice, and with the accent which the Statue might be supposed to have. Only the sex was surely wrong, Sheila thought. And as this difficulty presented itself to her struggling mind the light slowly faded – at once faded and translated itself into a shocking headache. But the voice continued. ‘Say,’ it said softly and cautiously, ‘are you all right?’
Sheila lay quite still in the darkness – she appeared to be on some species of narrow bed – and tried to think. Her thoughts were punctuated by the voice – by the voice
The last entry was for the Thursday – the day before Ploss died:
Chez Borer again. Tufton has gathered that I write verse and asks me if I know William Morris, a wild fellow with a beard. O more than reverend, O blessed Sweetapple to lead one to this haven.
Project: A Panegyrical Essay on Funk and Despair.
An odd thing on the train. Three fellows in the carriage and all pretty well mute until one starts haranguing on – of all things – poetry. How it began I scarcely noticed; my attention was caught by the name of Ploss. Fellow was spouting what he claimed to be Ploss. Only it wasn’t! And I couldn’t resist the temptation to interrupt and explain just why I knew he was mistaken. Foolish of me and I could see he didn’t like it – surprised him in a really nasty look. Some of the lines stick in my head oddly: indeed to the extent of making me take steps to discover the true author. Whole incident had an odd quality I haven’t at all troubled to get down. Borer rather a warning against diaries, anyway.
Luncheon with one of the Indians. He has studied Old Gothic and written a thesis on Wordsworth’s political sonnets. Decent little chap.
Business on the train ruining my day’s communion with Sweetapple. Keeps coming to mind. It was as if the spouter had guessed that I had guessed something – which I certainly hadn’t.
Later . A most disturbing notion has floated up. Fantastic if the road from Lark to this should have skirted anything like that . But there it is. 162543.
The taxi – like Philip Ploss’ diary – had stopped abruptly; Appleby looked out and found himself in New Scotland Yard. 162543… He paid his fare in a ruinous abstraction and went his way: a hall, a staircase, a corridor, an outer office…
‘Always the same,’ said a grumbling voice. ‘Nothing but London, London all the time. If you ask me–’ The man who had spoken, and who was going through a file of papers at a desk, stopped on seeing Appleby’s absent frown. ‘Sorry, sir. Nothing for you to bother with.’
Appleby crossed to the door of his own room. Then a long habit of patient inquiry asserted itself. He turned round. ‘What is always the same?’
‘Edinburgh and Glasgow. Let some wretched girl disappear in Tobermory or Tomatin and their one idea is that she’s come to a bad end under our noses here as we sit.’ The man at the desk flicked over a page of his file impatiently.
‘Some girl has disappeared?’
‘Yes, sir. Name of Grant – Sheila Grant. Up the Highland line.’
Appleby nodded and opened his door. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he asked idly, ‘that any poetry comes into it?’
The man at the desk looked at him round-eyed. ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘Something about poetry. That’s the funny thing.’
7: Sheila Meets Danger
The lights which had danced so long and painfully before Sheila’s eyes were taking on a centripetal movement. Like fragments of mercury they ran together and coalesced, forming a single flare as of a great torch. A great torch held aloft in a gigantic hand. In fact the Statue of Liberty. And the Statue spoke. ‘Say,’ it said, ‘are you all right?’
A pleasant voice, and with the accent which the Statue might be supposed to have. Only the sex was surely wrong, Sheila thought. And as this difficulty presented itself to her struggling mind the light slowly faded – at once faded and translated itself into a shocking headache. But the voice continued. ‘Say,’ it said softly and cautiously, ‘are you all right?’
Sheila lay quite still in the darkness – she appeared to be on some species of narrow bed – and tried to think. Her thoughts were punctuated by the voice – by the voice
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