Appleby Talking by Michael Innes Page B

Housewives, he said, should look to their linen. In other words, it’s dangerous to drop a magic handkerchief – and particularly in the neighbourhood of a dead body.”

 
     
THE CAVE OF BELARIUS
    “This year’s fête,” said the Vicar, “seems to have been even more devastating than usual. There was everything from a grand historical pageant of Sheercliff history down to a jumble sale. The first distracted the schoolchildren from their work for a month, and the second has induced my wife to make the most outrageous raid upon my scanty personal possessions and habiliments. Don’t you detest the fête?”
    Appleby nodded. “Certainly. I regard it as being distinctly of the kind that is worse than death.”
    The Vicar considered this seriously. “A pardonable exaggeration,” he presently pronounced. “Do you know that the enormously popular roundabout – you can see them dismantling it now – turns out to have been operating for purely private profit? Deplorable – quite deplorable. You agree, Professor?”
    The Professor looked around him with caution. “I have quite clear views upon such occasions, I must confess. But about yesterday’s fête my lips are sealed. Your townsfolk did my wife the honour of asking her to open it.”
    “And you went along too?”
    “I have to admit that I cut it.” The Professor was apologetic. “The afternoon was lovely, and I simply slipped out of our hotel and went for a tramp. For some time I’ve wanted to see your celebrated cave on the other side of the hill.”
    “The cave of Belarius?” The Vicar was interested. “You had a look at it?”
    “I did.” The Professor hesitated. “And – do you know? – I had a look at Belarius too.”
    “You mean you took a copy of Cymbeline along with you and read the later acts on the spot?”
    The Professor shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean that. I mean that I had an adventure…and rather a queer one. Perhaps you would care to hear the story. It illustrates an interesting mechanism of the mind.”
    “Appleby and I are all attention.” The Vicar smiled. “And whether the mind be indeed a mechanism is something we can talk about later.”
    “In itself as you know, the cave isn’t terribly exciting,” the Professor began. “It starts off as a mere cleft in the rock, becomes an arched chamber of no great size, and then narrows again to a cleft which, by dint of stooping, one can follow for another fifty feet. If Shakespeare’s banished lord had really brought up two young men in it they would certainly have been a quarrelsome couple through sheer irritation at their cramped quarters.
    “Nevertheless, I explored the place faithfully enough. Caves are always fascinating. If you are superstitious, you may believe them to be tenanted by the ghosts of your remote ancestors who once inhabited them. If you are a scientist, you know that these ghosts do, at least, still haunt the inside of your own head; they are slumbering there, and special circumstances may at any time prompt them to wake up and walk about. Enter a cave by yourself, therefore, and you have to be pretty strong-minded to remain entirely convinced you are alone. You agree?”
    The Vicar nodded. “Certainly. And it was so on this occasion?”
    “Not at first. As I explored the place my mind behaved in a thoroughly rational fashion. I wondered how the cave came to be associated with Cymbeline , and I recalled what I had read about prehistoric remains found in the district – that sort of thing. Then, upon coming out, I sat down on a boulder in the sun. It’s a pleasant spot, with the cave giving upon a broad, grassy platform on the side of the hill. I reflected that here, perhaps, was the source of the association with Shakespeare’s play, since the effect is very much that of a stage. The sunshine was delightful, and I felt lazy and relaxed. I certainly had no sense of anything unusual or paranormal as being about to