Silence Observed by Michael Innes

had been clamped to the wall. It hadn’t been in position very long.
    Appleby looked up at the trapdoor before which it ended. The fall of the roof was such that he saw this could scarcely give upon a further enclosed space accommodating a cistern or the like. It must take you out on the leads. And that was sensible enough. There was a very real risk of fire in an old place like this. And if fire broke out when you were high up in the building, it might well be that your best line of retreat would be to get up yet higher and escape by an adjacent building. Anyway – Appleby told himself – always go on till you’re stopped. He put a foot on the lowest rung and went on.
     
    The trapdoor was bolted from the inside. That was only prudent, if any precautions against burglary were to be taken at all. He pushed back the bolt. It moved very easily. He pushed up the trapdoor. That moved very easily too. And from the narrow ledges upon which its perimeter rested no dust fell. Not uninstructed by all this, Appleby mounted higher and shoved his head into open air. It was raining hard. But that couldn’t be helped.
    He was in a sort of broad lead gutter between sloping roofs. Water gurgled merrily over his shoes in a little river which seemed to run contentedly the whole length of the street. Nowhere were there any attic windows opening inwards upon this long tiled valley. Only here and there were chimney stacks. And at more or less regular intervals – raised a foot above the level of the gutter to avoid flooding – were trapdoors similar to the one through which he had emerged. No doubt they would all be bolted too. If he were really a fugitive from some ghastly conflagration, he would presumably have to cool – and wet – his heels up here until somebody came along and rescued him.
    But, of course, there was a job to do – and for a moment he thought half-heartedly of summoning Constable Henry James to do it. But he himself was already rather wet, and Henry James was presumably still thinking. So he might as well carry on himself. He advanced to the next trapdoor and tried to lift it.
    Of course it wouldn’t budge. As one might expect, it was secured from below. He moved on and tried the next. At least there was nobody who could possibly detect him in this odd procedure. This one was immovable also. He went on and tried a third. And up it came.
    At this he had to pause and take thought. Being the most law-abiding of policemen, he might have paused and taken thought for longer, if only the rain hadn’t now been getting down his neck. There was a perfectly good ladder at his feet – although, unlike the one by which he had ascended, it was of a sloping wooden sort, approximating to a rudimentary staircase. He climbed down, and let the trapdoor close above him.
    He saw at once that this building – three along from Trechmann’s – had in some way been remodelled so far as its interior went. Its roof-line was uniform with those on either side of it – hence his unimpeded progress along the gutter. But he was now standing in a single attic room which was both loftier and larger than any of Trechmann’s. It was quite empty, and it lay in a clear cold light from one big northward-facing window. In one corner a space had been partitioned off. He crossed over to this, and found himself in one of those small indeterminate apartments, dubiously hovering between bathroom and kitchen, and with an unappealing lavatory beyond, which in London entitles a set-up of this sort to describe itself as a self-contained flat. He crossed to the only other door and found that it gave directly upon a staircase leading down to the next floor. There was nothing else up here. This big room and its adjacent chopped-off hutches occupied the whole area of the building.
    The emptiness of the place was almost unnatural. There wasn’t a wisp of straw, a match end, a cigarette butt negligently cast aside by the last removal man who had bundled the last