Free The Weight of the Evidence by Michael Innes Page B

thousands of years old. Let him try his hand at something which is as fresh as paint.’
    ‘As blood,’ said Pinnegar. ‘For what is inscribed on the meteorite? Presumably particles of Pluckrose. Parts, pieces, portions, pashes. Or should one say petals? Death’s fading rose.’
    ‘Rose leaves,’ said Marlow, ‘when the rose is dead–’
    Tavender giggled, even more good-humouredly than before. He was, Appleby provisionally decided, a displeasing old person. And Marlow and Pinnegar were displeasing young men. At least they would read as that if one wrote their talk down and read it out in court. Perhaps they were sensitive little souls and mildly hysterical. That isn’t nice in young men, but then again it isn’t criminal. Perhaps they had imaginations and very little guts and they didn’t like the Pluckrose business at all… Appleby, who did in fact have a constantly growing dossier in his pocket, had another look at Tavender. Tavender quite liked the Pluckrose business. He would like anything which showed large potentialities for the creating of discomfort, malice, and all uncharitableness. For Tavender these things made the world go round. Poor old Hissey, thought Appleby. Coming to Nesfield and finding himself provided with so displeasing an assistant. But of course this might be quite wrong. In such matters even talented young detective officers can make mistakes.
    ‘Monsieur Dupont’, said Pinnegar, ‘has discovered that it was Prisk whom it was understood to murder. But the call on the telephone missent itself and Pluckrose seated himself in error and the meteorite precipitated itself upon him with the violence enormous. Now, one addresses himself to trace the projectile. Monsieur Dupont will radio-diffuse an appeal tomorrow.’
    Tavender, because all this was plainly meant to be droll, stopped giggling and contrived to look serious and sad. ‘It is a possibility,’ he said. ‘The murderer asks the switchboard for Prisk and the operator proceeds to give two rings. But Pluckrose happens to be by the machine – perhaps just about to make a call – and he picks it up on the first ring and says “Hullo”. There is nothing much to a Hullo, and the murderer thinks he has got Prisk. “Come into the court and have a chat,” he says; “there’s a nice bit of sun.” “Right,” says Pluckrose and rings off. Pluckrose goes out and the murderer goes up. Pluckrose finds nobody, so he sits down and waits. The murderer peers down from the tower; his man seems to be there; he drops what he has ready to drop. The theory is possible, and it has its appeal.’
    ‘Its appeal?’ said Appleby. Suddenly he felt almost affectionately disposed towards Tavender. The man spoke clearly, consecutively, and to the point. Which – in this particular society – was like a good deed in a naughty world. ‘Its appeal?’ said Appleby. ‘My name is Appleby, by the way. And I’m a policeman, all right.’
    Tavender bowed and rubbed his hands. ‘It means’, he said, ‘that Prisk is still on the list. If at first you don’t succeed, shy, shy again.’
    Marlow laughed. Pinnegar looked sulky; he was not going to be amused by others if others were not to be amused by him. Appleby glanced across the room at Nesfield’s professor of Romance Languages. Could Prisk really be in danger? Would they, perhaps, tie him up in his own invisible bag and chuck him into the fountain? Would a few Provençal place names bubble to the surface, and that be the end? Appleby frowned. The mental habits induced by this learned environment were extremely frivolous. ‘But you wouldn’t maintain’, he said gravely to Tavender, ‘that all this is at all probable?’
    ‘Of course it isn’t probable. If murder was a probable contingency among us it would be merely alarming. All this is wildly improbable. Who would ever have thought we should all have the chance of whispering criminal suggestions about each other?’ Mr Tavender rubbed his