Appleby at Allington by Michael Innes Page B

worthy Goodcoal. You know Goodcoal, Sir John?’
    ‘Yes, I’ve been talking to him.’ A thought struck Appleby. ‘By the way, Mr Scrape, I don’t know how the bounds of your parish run. But would a man with the odd name of Leofranc Knockdown, living somewhere on the Potton side of Linger, be one of your flock?’
    ‘Ah, no. That is in a neighbouring parish. Potton-cum-Outreach. Nevertheless, I know the man. A simple fellow – scarcely with all his wits, indeed. But willing and reliable, entirely reliable. He has trimmed my hedges before now.’
    ‘I am sorry to say it was he who was found dead here last night.’
    ‘God rest his soul. I have, of course, heard about an accident. I believe it was yourself, Sir John, and Mr Allington – ?’
    ‘Yes, it was.’
    ‘Sad, very sad. And a great shock for Mr Allington.’
    ‘Not more than for my husband,’ Judith said. ‘Mr Allington didn’t know this dead man from Adam.’
    ‘Ah, I see.’ Mr Scrape had come to a sudden halt. The bathers were now visible, and he might have been assuring himself that no impropriety of demeanour or posture was to be obtruded by them on Lady Appleby’s refined regard. ‘I don’t know whether the unfortunate event has yet been made generally known. Will it be necessary, Sir John, to hold an inquest over the poor fellow?’
    ‘Most certainly it will.’
    ‘And there will be what is called an open verdict?’
    ‘I hardly suppose so.’ Appleby was surprised. ‘Death by misadventure will be the obvious conclusion.’
    ‘But surely it was very strange that this poor man–’
    ‘Not when one knows about certain of his interests. Perfectly innocent interests, I may say.’ Appleby spoke a shade impatiently. He felt that he had had enough of the Knockdown affair. ‘A very nice bathing-place, I see. I wish I could jump in myself.’
    ‘It wouldn’t do,’ Judith said. ‘These small boys, yes. But an elderly gentleman, no. It might bring a blush to the cheek of the young persons.’
    There were perhaps as many as a dozen boys, all told, swimming, and fooling around in the grass. Several of them, as Mr Scrape had forecast, were quite naked. The young persons, two little girls of perhaps eight and nine, had sat down on a bank hard by. They were in what could only be called party frocks, but these were of a plain and expensive sort which at once distinguished their wearers from the exuberantly befrilled and beribboned juveniles on the other side of the lake. Here – a discerning eye could at once determine – were either the Misses Barford or the Misses Lethbridge. They sat round-eyed before the unholy spectacle presented to them.
    The small boys were far from unaware of their audience – being prompted by it, indeed, to sudden guffaws and random apostrophes, weird caperings, irresolute advances and panic-stricken retreats.
    ‘Dear me!’ There was perplexity and even dismay in Mr Scrape’s voice. ‘Sandra and Stephanie, the Barfords’ delightful daughters. I wonder how they can have got here? I hardly think their mother–’
    ‘Pee,’ said a small boy’s voice from somewhere in Mr Scrape’s rear.
    ‘Po,’ said another voice.
    ‘Bum,’ said a third voice. This time the speaker was planted most impudently straight in front of Mr Scrape’s nose.
    ‘Bum!’ yelled several of the children together. ‘Pee, po, BUM!’
    ‘Belly, bottom, drawers !’ It was from some child safely up to his neck in the lake that this contribution to the amenities of the occasion came. Complete pandemonium had broken out. Sandra and Stephanie (surely well brought up girls, whom one might have expected to be much displeased) listened entranced.
    ‘Drawers!’ repeated a new voice. ‘Take yer drawers off!’
    There was a sudden awed silence. This was going a little too far. Mr Scrape saw his chance, and grabbed the offender.
    ‘Richard Cyphus,’ he said sternly, ‘be sure that Mr Pinn shall be told of this. And I shall recommend that you