A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 11

The three old men sat around the kitchen table and alternated between looking at each other disconsolately and staring at the cupboard even more disconsolately, for before Clarence and Harold had gone off to bed, Clarence had locked the cupboard and with it the brandy and champagne. (“Drink water!” he had said cruelly before going to his rest. “It’s good for you!”)

“Good for us!” Briggs said, and made a face. There was silence for several moments, then — “I wonder,” Briggs said in a more thoughtful tone. The other two looked at him questioningly. “Well, I mean,” he went on a bit querulously, “can he do that to us? Kick us out into the night, so to speak? After all, he kidnaped us, or anyway you and me, Billy-Boy. That gives him some degree of responsibility, don’t you think?”

“You mean like the Chinese?” Simpson said. “If you save a man’s life, you’re responsible for him. But,” he added, thinking about it, “this Clarence didn’t really save our lives, did he?”

“For a few meals he did, or rather Harold did,” Briggs maintained.

Carruthers considered the idea and shook his head regretfully. “I rather doubt it would stand up in court. A good barrister would put holes in it in a minute.”

They fell into silence. Then Briggs seemed to perk up again.

“Or maybe we ought to go the other way. Threaten to report him to the authorities for holding us against our will. That’s definitely against the law, and it’ll give him pause, at least; make him think. It ought to gain us a few more days here,” he said, in an optimistic tone that did not truly reflect his feelings, “and by then maybe we can think up something else.”

“No,” Carruthers said sadly. “He certainly isn’t holding us against our will at the moment. Nor did he ever actually hold us against our will. Certainly not me.”

“But if he thought he did—” Simpson said hopefully.

“No. Clarence is far too smart for a mistake of that nature. Nor would any policeman in the world buy it. Holding people against their will by feeding them brandy and champagne? And Harold’s coq au Quentin?” Carruthers sighed and shook his head.

“How about the money Harold owes us?” Briggs said, never one to give up easily. “I know he doesn’t have it, but he could go out and rob a greengrocer or someone, couldn’t he? It’s a legitimate debt, after all...”

“A legitimate debt? Playing with marked cards? Stop it, Tim,” Carruthers said sternly. “No, we must take our medicine like little men. It’s over, but let’s try to look at the bright side. It was a short reprieve from pauperhood, it’s true, but it was a reprieve, none the less.”

“Great!” Briggs said in disgust. “You had three whole days of it; I only had one.”

“I came a bit late, didn’t I?” Simpson said. There was no envy in his voice, for envy did not exist as a Simpsonian sin; there was merely recognition that for some unknown reason God had arranged it so when it was raining soup, the Clifford Simpsons of the world would be out there in the street with forks. “Still,” he added, thinking back on it, “I did manage one drink, didn’t I?”

It was a rhetorical question and one nobody chose to answer.

“What I want to know,” Briggs said in a small voice, his anger suddenly drained from him, “is what do we do now? Go back to starving in a gentlemanly manner?”

That question also seemed to require no answer, or if it did, it was an answer none of them could think of. They sat in dejected silence until Billy-Boy Carruthers heaved himself to his feet. He tried to smile bravely at the others.

“What was it Sir Percival always used to say?” he asked. “Faith and patience, patience and faith. That’s what we require. Something will turn up, I’m sure.”

“Our toes, most likely,” Briggs said glumly.

“Quite,” Simpson said, agreeing sadly. He glanced at the kitchen cupboard once again. “If only we could get into that without making too much noise—”

“No way,” Briggs said positively. “I’ve been looking at it. It’s built to last. And that Clarence is probably the snide type to be a light sleeper.”

“But if we could,” Simpson said hopefully, “at least we would be able to leave here with a few bottles to help us through the first few days at the club...”

“My advice,” Briggs said cruelly, “is not to think about it.”

“I suppose not,” Simpson said, and suppressed a yawn. He came to his feet. “I’m off to my rest,” he said. “At least when I’m sleeping I’m not thinking of food or drink.”

“I agree,” Carruthers said, and turned toward the bedroom. “Coming, Tim?”

“No,” Briggs said dourly. “I’m in no mood for sleep. I think I’ll read a bit, first.”

“As you will. Well, ta—”

“Ta,” Briggs said dispiritedly, and got up to move into the library.

When Josephus Avery the First first brought his bride across the threshold of the Avery farm back in the year 1748, she made him promise that while they both knew he was an uneducated son of the soil and condemned by his economic position to remain so, there was no reason why any son of his should also so remain. And to further this worthy purpose, Mrs. Avery began to buy books as soon as she felt the stirring within her that was eventually to become Josephus Avery the Second. Josephus, Junior, ended up getting the education his father had been denied, graduating in due course with honors from Oxford with a degree as an Itinerant Egyptologist, the first but certainly not the last of the Avery clan to go onward and upward in the field of higher learning.

And, as the Averys continued to beget generation after generation and continued to worship the golden calf of education, each ensuing one added to the library, until at the time of which we speak, the Avery collection of tomes had become, if not impressive in quality, at least large. The farm, of course, had continued to suffer from the mismanagement those with higher degrees from University tend to display toward granges, and although Josephus Avery the Ninth attempted to stay this decline by studying animal husbandry at both Eton and Cambridge, the fact was that by the time he took his honors the last of the farm animals had starved to death, and the land was being whittled away for taxes. The result, coming many years later as these things often do, was that in the year 1921 Josephus Avery the Twelfth had been forced to put the farmhouse itself up for hire to who would have it, and it had remained rental property for all the many years since.

But the library had never been sacrificed and remained one of the outstanding examples of literary mishmash in a country where libraries of confused collections are far from unknown, for the Averys, like other Englishmen dedicated to books, were of various shades of literary taste. And it was for this reason that Timothy Briggs, studying the shelves in search of something that might induce slumber, or at least bring on the degree of lethargy necessary to allow him to forget his sea of troubles, was both surprised and pleased to see one of his own epics, written lo! these many years before, among the jumble of titles that faced him above his head from the library walls.

He stared at the book almost reverently for several moments before pulling up a stool to climb up and take the book down, but as he did so he appeared to disturb something behind the volume, because there was a brief movement of some sort and then some object detached itself from its alcove in the gloom behind the Briggs opus, and tumbled to the floor. With a frown Briggs climbed down from his stool, put aside his own book, bent, and picked up the object, bringing it closer to the light.

It was a rolled-up bit of material Briggs guessed was parchment from the rather boardy feel of it — he had once had a pair of kid shoes that had also gotten stiff, although from rain, not age — tied about with a faded and brittle ribbon, and covered with the dust of generations. In a sudden wonder that he might have inadvertently stumbled upon something valuable, Briggs took a deep breath, blew the dust away, sneezed violently several times as a result, and then carefully untied the ribbon, laying it aside. He unrolled the parchment gingerly, and found himself facing this:

When Timothy Briggs had gone to school in Newcastle-on-Tyne as a child, Latin was among the dozen or so studies not offered to the children of miners, but he had seen enough of the stuff in hymn books and on doctor’s walls at least to recognize it for what it was. He frowned. Clifford Simpson, he knew, and William Carruthers, he suspected, had had classical educations, and it was but the work of a moment to reroll the scroll, tuck the ribbon carefully into his pocket, and make his way to the bedroom.

Although both Carruthers and Simpson were in their respective beds, neither was sleeping. Billy-Boy, decked out in the horoscopic nightmare Briggs had brought him for pajamas, was lying atop his bed looking like an advertisement for a color-blind fortuneteller. Simpson in his long underwear, looking like a cotton-covered carpenter’s rule folded at the knees, was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. Briggs got right to the point.

“Cliff,” he said, “do you read Latin?”

“Of course,” Simpson said, surprised. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t, for one,” Briggs said shortly, and unrolled the scroll, holding it out. “What do you make of this? It looks older than God. Has it any value?”

“Let me see—” Simpson draped himself over the edge of the bed and took the parchment from Briggs, while Carruthers got up on one elbow to watch interestedly. Simpson held the parchment flat beneath the lamp while he studied it. “Well,” he said at last, “it goes on and on, as these things usually do — one would think they were paid by the word — but what it’s trying to say is simply that a certain J. Avery the Ninth, whoever he might be, completed all the studies necessary to obtain a degree from Cambridge in the field of pig-farming, on a date in June of the year 1895.” He frowned. “I didn’t even know they taught pig-farming at Cambridge. Oxford, yes, but Cambridge—?” He looked up. “At any rate, is that what you wanted to know?”

“A diploma! A bloody diploma!” Briggs said in disgust. “For a bloody pig-farmer, yet! And I thought I might have stumbled on something that could put a quid or two in the bank for us!”

“I’m sorry,” Simpson said contritely.

“That’s all right,” Briggs said, trying to sound magnanimous, but finding it difficult to hide his disappointment. “I suppose it really wasn’t your fault.” He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Ah, well, back to the library again. Believe it or not, I found a copy of one of my old books on the shelves there. It’s called Mayhem on Monday, if any of you recall it. I think I’ll read it again, and see how smart I was in those distant days.”

“Hold it!” Carruthers said suddenly, and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Why hold it?” Briggs asked curiously. “I don’t believe it was all that bad a book. It’s about this Irish washerwoman, you see, who was found drowned in one of her tubs — the rinse one, as I recall. It seems—”

“No, no!” Carruthers said impatiently. He was in the process of ridding himself of the pajamas. He drew his shirt on over the money belt, pulled on his trousers, and tucked himself in. “That parchment — that diploma. May I see it?”

“Of course,” Simpson said, mystified by Billy-Boy’s attitude, and handed it over. Carruthers paused in the task of buttoning up, allowing his trousers to slide to the floor as he took the old scroll and unrolled it, holding it apart as he studied it. He considered the face of the scroll for several moments and then turned the parchment over, studying the back. The presence of a few small lines, tiny cracks occasioned by the age of the ancient document, seemed, for some unknown reason, to please him inordinately. He smiled broadly and put the parchment down long enough to allow him to complete his buttoning and suspendering, after which he returned to the scroll, studying it intently.

“What’s the matter?” Briggs asked curiously. “D’you think it’s a fake or something? Do you suspect this J. Avery the Ninth never got his degree in slopping pigs?” He suddenly snapped his small fingers, his tiny eyes alight, the ex-writer in him coming to the surface. “That’s it! There’s an idea! The truth is that Josephus Avery the Ninth was on the verge of failing his thesis in sow-scrubbing, or wart-hog wallowing, or piglet-priming, or whatever made up his final examinations, and he knew if he came home without his diploma, his father—” He paused for the briefest of moments to reconsider. “No, make that the buxom daughter of the wealthy pig-farmer next door — would never allow him to hold hands with her again—”

“Which would have broken his heart, since she owned a Poland China sow and he had a Tamworth boar, and he had always dreamed of a double ceremony,” Simpson went on, taking up the story, his imagination charging along at top speed, “so he went to this local forger for a false diploma, and luckily for him the man happened to be a Latin forger, since all the forges in the neighborhood had originally come from Milano, in Italy. And when—”

“Quiet, you two!” Carruthers said sharply. “Beyond demonstrating why we can no longer get published — and raising the question of how we ever did in the first place — this matter happens to be serious!”

“Of course it’s serious,” Briggs said, his tiny eyes twinkling. “Look at the condition of this farm! It’s simply disgraceful. But if J. Avery the Ninth can marry the rich girl next door, it will not only handle the matter of the overdue mortgage payment, but it will start a new dynasty, and we all know how dynasty books sell!”

“Like nappies at a seaside creche,” Simpson said, inspired.

“Like peanuts at a children’s zoo,” Briggs said.

“Like ale at a busman’s picnic,” Simpson offered.

“Like spaghetti at a convention of nearsighted sparrows—”

“Like—”

“Quiet!” Carruthers cut in sharply, frowning. “I’m trying to think!”

“What’s the matter?” Briggs asked curiously, suddenly sober. “Do you think it might have some value after all?”

“Do you consider a few bottles of brandy and the same of champagne to have value?” Carruthers demanded.

“We do!” It came as a chorus.

“Then this scroll might indeed have value,” Carruthers said, and smiled enigmatically. “Tim, does this vaunted library where you happened to unearth this relic, happen to also boast so mundane a volume as an encyclopedia?”

“It must have,” Briggs said, mystified. “It had about everything else. Why?”

“Because I’m beginning to get an idea,” Carruthers said, “and about time, too.” He shook his head in disgust. “Imagine! Kidnaped by a rank amateur, and then made to endure the ultimate in ignominy — being booted out into the cold!”

“It really isn’t all that cold,” Simpson said, thinking about it. “When I left London, the temperature—”

“Cliff!” Simpson fell silent. “Suffice it to say the situation is not to be tolerated. Cliff, get dressed. Get your bag packed. Tim, you do the same. I’ll just throw these things of mine into my bag—” He did just that and fastened the latch. “There! Now, let’s all go into the library. Might as well take our bags with us—”

“We’re leaving?” Briggs asked, astounded. “Of our own free will?”

“You’re complaining about being kicked out tomorrow, so we’re leaving tonight?” Simpson asked, baffled by the logic, or the lack of it. “I don’t understand.”

“You plan on leaving before breakfast?” Briggs asked, incredulous, “knowing as you do Harold’s artistry with an egg, not to mention his skill with bacon? Are you feeling all right, Billy-Boy?”

“Never better,” Carruthers said expansively. “Blood rushing through the brain a mile a minute, like... like—” He was instantly sorry.

“Like water through a fire hose at a four-alarmer?” Simpson asked.

“Like Piccadilly Pete running from Inspector Morrison just after he heisted the Charity diamond?” Briggs asked, and could not help but add a bit modestly, “That was from one of mine, you know. It was called Smothered on Saturday—”

“Stop it!” Carruthers said sharply. “Tim, you and Cliff gather up our effects. Let’s move to the library.”

“But what has this to do with getting into the cupboard?” Briggs asked.

“Patience,” Carruthers said, and his smile became even more enigmatic, if such a thing is possible. “Patience and faith...”

He led the way into the library, saw where the ancient scroll had tumbled from, stood on tiptoe to inspect the dusty niche, and nodded in satisfaction. Had he invented a dusty niche for an opus of his own, he could scarcely have done better than the one facing him. The alcove was also nicely noticeable, and he made sure it remained that way, like a gap tooth in an otherwise even set of plates, by tucking Tim Briggs’s epic onto another shelf out of sight.

This portion of Carruthers’ plan completed, Billy-Boy now searched for and found the shelf containing reference material while his two friends watched with ill-concealed mystification. Here he located a Britannica and brought it forth, noting with pleasure that it was not the new Micro-Macro unintelligible edition, but an older, more comprehensible one. He ran his fingers along the spines, found the volume that purported to cover subjects ranging from P to Plastering, and brought it down. He opened it, leafing through the pages, and then paused dramatically, his thick finger resting on an entry.

“John Avery,” he read aloud, and looked up, his finger holding his place. “That, my friends, is what I meant by patience and faith. I thought the name Avery sounded familiar. When I was at work — admittedly some time back — on a book of mine called Skulling on the High Seas, I did quite a bit of research on the miscreants who flew the pirate flag, and the name Avery was rather prominent among them. It is true that Morgan and Blackboard and Kidd and that crew got most of the publicity — and eventually suffered thereby, which should be a lesson to us all — but the really important buccaneers were men such as John Avery, Bartholomew Roberts, Captain Mission, the French corsair, and others of that ilk. John Avery may or may not have been related to the Josephus Avery branch of the family — in fact I rather doubt it — but no matter.” He looked about. “Now, who has a fountain pen?”

“A fountain pen?” Simpson asked, now thoroughly confused.

“Exactly!” Carruthers said, pleased to have been understood the first time.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Billy-Boy?” Briggs asked in a worried tone, but he brought forth his fountain pen just the same.

“I’m fine,” Carruthers said, and added hastily, “and please do not give me a litany of comparisons.” He acknowledged the pen. “Thank you, Tim. Now, my friends, a bit of x-marks-the-spotting...” He suited the action to the word, placing his x near the intersection of two of the fine lines on the back, his enigmatic smile becoming positively fiendish, which made it, of course, no longer enigmatic. “Now, a bit of dust to hide the fact that this judicious x has not weathered the ages — dust of which, I am pleased to see, the room has more than ample supply...”

He rubbed the spot with dust and stood back to check his work.

“Excellent! What else? Ah, of course, the encyclopedia — back into place and a little more dust to disguise the fact it had ever been disturbed...” He checked everything once again, and, satisfied, beamed at his companions.

“Billy-Boy,” Simpson asked, worried, “would you like to lie down?”

“Later,” Carruthers said. “Much later, in most probability.”

“But, Billy-Boy,” Briggs said imploringly, “what has this to do with the cupboard holding the brandy and champagne?”

Carruthers held the two of his companions with his glittering eye; the Ancient Mariner would have been hard-pressed to come in second in a contest with him.

“Everything!” he said. “And now, my friends, this is exactly what we must do...”