The Long Farewell by Michael Innes Page A

chained-book mentality.’
    Professor Prodger paused as if to let laughter subside; this must have been a quip he was accustomed to offer his students. Appleby took the opportunity to get in a word. ‘What do you think about the mystery yourself?’ he asked.
    ‘It was almost certainly another of Packford’s Shakespeare discoveries, I should say. And something quite big. Important new light, perhaps, on the chronology of the plays. Or information on how Shakespeare was occupied during his twenties. There are nearly ten blank years to fill in, you know – nearly ten blank years.’
    ‘Packford was hinting he was on to something big?’
    ‘Certainly. It was no doubt the occasion of his bringing us together. He liked to work up excitement, poor fellow, by dropping a word here and there.’
    ‘I’ve already gathered there was something of the sort in the wind.’ Appleby paused. Edward Packford, he was thinking, was taking rather a long time to appear. ‘But when you spoke of the mystery, Professor, I thought you were referring to the circumstances of Packford’s death. Would you judge them to be mysterious?’
    ‘He is said to have shot himself, poor fellow. But I suspect foul play, Dr Appleby. One must expect trouble, surely, if one has shady characters about the place.’
    ‘Shady characters?’
    ‘Certainly. Limbrick and Canon Rixon, you know. It is true that they have been members, more or less, of our small informal group for some time. But it is a different matter having them under one’s own roof – eh? It is very clear, to my mind, where the finger of suspicion points.’
    ‘You suspect one of these two – Limbrick or Rixon – of having murdered Packford?’
    ‘Both of them, I should say. I would not care to settle the proportion of iniquity between them.’
    ‘This is a very grave suggestion, Professor Prodger.’ Appleby didn’t manage to speak with much conviction. It seemed impossible not to conclude that this old person was merely raving. There had been force in Cavill’s implication that he would find a mild madness pervasive at Urchins.
    ‘As a matter of fact, we have had the police here. They began, very properly, to make inquiries. But they seem to have gone away again.’
    ‘If it’s any satisfaction to you, they’re back.’ Appleby said this firmly. ‘I’m a policeman myself.’
    ‘You astonish me, my dear sir.’ Prodger said this not at all like a man who is astonished. ‘I understood you to say that you were a student of bibliopegy. But no matter. Ah, here is our host.’
    Appleby rose from his chair and turned to meet Edward Packford. And for a moment he experienced a species of confusion which he found it hard to account for. It was like being unexpectedly confronted with a disturbing ocular phenomenon. Edward Packford seemed to exist in some abnormal relationship with physical space, like a figure set by a primitive painter in an imperfectly organized perspective scene. But in another second the explanation of all this turned out to be quite simple. Edward was an almost exact miniature reproduction of his dead brother. He had the same features, the same chunky proportions, and the same way of carrying himself. But he was quite small. So he presented himself to Appleby’s vision as farther off than the available space permitted.
    ‘How do you do?’ Edward advanced and shook hands. He even had Lewis Packford’s rather clumsy movements and scattered manner. But he had quite a different eye. It was keen and briskly purposive – the eye, Appleby told himself, of a man ruled by the practical intellect. And he certainly wasn’t under the illusion that his visitor dealt in bibliopegy. ‘I am very glad you have come down,’ he said. ‘I am far from satisfied about the manner of Lewis’ death.’ He turned to Prodger. ‘Sherry in the library, Professor.’
    ‘Ah! There is much to be said for that. There is much to be said for a glass of sherry before lunch.’ And Prodger,