Death at the Chase by Michael Innes Page A

climbing into the back of Bobby’s car, cursed as the crate of wine dug him in the ribs. He gave it a shove, and then – entirely cheerfully – cursed again.
    ‘The ruddy thing must weigh a ton,’ he said. ‘Is it really just a dozen of claret?’
    ‘Well, no.’ Giles Ashmore, wrapping himself in an aged college scarf, spoke rather reluctantly. ‘As a matter of fact, I had the chap put half a dozen bottles of champagne in the bottom. I rather forgot how heavy they are. It’s because of the very thick glass.’ He turned to Bobby, who had found it necessary to get his head under the bonnet of the Mercedes. ‘Do you think that’s all right?’
    ‘It sounds to have become rather a massive investment to me. If it’s no go, man, you’ll have been put back twenty quid, and nothing to show for it. More, if the champagne is drinkable.’
    ‘I don’t suppose it’s very drinkable.’ Giles was rather dashed. ‘Non-vintage – the stuff you get at weddings and garden-parties.’
    ‘Always drunk it with satisfaction myself,’ Finn said. ‘And the old don’t notice these shades, anyway. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, you know.’
    ‘And sans everything,’ Bobby added. ‘I always thought that must be the worst – being sans everything. Just think of it.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ Giles sounded a little vague before this philosophical proposition. He watched Bobby bang down the bonnet and straighten up. ‘I say, Bobby, do you know the way?’
    ‘I expect so. Yell out, if you think we’re going wrong.’ Bobby took his place at the wheel. ‘Wind makes a bit of a row, you know. And I’ll be opening up, when we get on the downs. Claret, champagne and all, you’ll be with Uncle Martyn in a jiffy.’
     
    If this confident prediction did not entirely fulfil itself, it was Bobby Appleby’s own fault. They were off on a futile and absurd trip – he told himself as he drove out of the yard – but one wouldn’t in so many words say so. What one would feed through one’s typewriter would be not the object in view, or even the thoughts and feelings of his two companions and himself. Only what was tangible and visible must be treated as relevant. And perhaps what one could smell as well. The Mercedes, being ancient, did produce occasional wafts of hot oil, and sometimes one caught a whiff of well-worn leather upholstery too. He liked these smells, and thought they could probably be given a job to do. But the main thing was the movement of the wheel which set a faint light from the instrument panel caressing its two spokes; this, and the quivering needles, and the perplexing flicker near the accelerator which was in fact moonlight coming in over his left shoulder, and his own two knees and his gloved hands: these were the immediate materials for making actual the microcosmic life of the travelling car. And then there was what lay out there in the void, flowing past and protean as it flowed, as it slipped from low moonlight into the glare of his headlamps and out again…
    Professional reflections of this nouvelle écriture kind caused Bobby to miss a signpost – a fact which Giles Ashmore, who ought to have been alert in the matter, tumbled to only a couple of miles later. The mistake made Bobby impatient, and impatience resulted in his presently overshooting the drive to Ashmore Chase as well. But the mild accident which then followed was not his fault at all. Swinging round a bend at an entirely appropriate speed, he became aware of the headlights of an approaching car. He slackened his pace further, and drew into his proper side of the road. Whereupon the other car, which should similarly have moved in towards its left, moved out towards its right instead. Bobby had just time to say to himself ‘yellow lights – French car – forgotten how we drive’ when there came a jolt and a nasty sound of crumpling metal. Both cars were at a halt.
    It didn’t seem to Bobby that there was any occasion to make a scene.