Mystery Mile (10 page)

Campion was looking at her intently. ‘Think, Biddy,' he said. ‘Think, my sweet. Was that all? How did you know when you came to the quick mud, for instance?'

‘Oh, there was a board up, you know. There always is.' She spoke carelessly, but then an expression of horror spread over her face. ‘Oh, I see now,' she said breathlessly. ‘The board said “Danger”, Albert.'

GILES AND JUDGE
Lobbett walked one on either side of Dr Wheeler out of the long room at the thatched
Dog and Pheasant
, and down the flint road towards the green and the Dower House.

It was still early. The inquest had taken scarcely half an hour and the village was still discussing the affair in the taproom.

The morning was very sunny, although it was cold for late May and the last of the May-blossom trembled in a chill wind.

Dr Wheeler talked volubly. He found Judge Lobbet the best of audiences. The American had the great gift of being interested in everything with which he came into contact, and the doctor was only too anxious to give his opinions.

‘A significant case,' he was saying. ‘I don't like parsons as a rule. Too narrow. But Swithin Cush was an entirely different proposition, don't you know. I've known him ever since I came to this part of the country thirty years ago. I attended him once only that I remember. A strained tendon in his foot. A more healthy, hearty-living old man I never saw. And yet he gets an idea into his mind, imagines all sorts of things, and then goes and blows his head off.'

Judge Lobbett shot a bright sidelong glance at him.

‘Then there was absolutely no trace of any disease?'

‘Not at all, sir.' The doctor spoke emphatically. ‘Just as I told Topliss in the court there. There was no reason why he shouldn't have gone on living perfectly healthily for another twenty years. And yet it's one of the most common forms of delusion,' he went on. ‘I always put it down myself to the fact that the emotion of fear acts more noticeably on the digestive
organs than on any other. Once a man is afraid that he has a malignant growth, he'll have plenty of physical corroboration to convince him. A pity! He had only to come to me, and I could have reassured him. Poor Biddy!' he went on. ‘She won't take this easily, I'm afraid. They were great friends, she and the old man. He did his best to take your father's place, Giles.'

Giles did not reply, and Lobbett nodded.

‘My girl's with her over at the Dower House,' he said. ‘They get on very well together, those two.' He stooped and threw a stone for Addlepate, who had waited in the bar for Giles during the inquest and now gambolled foolishly in the dust.

‘Remarkable what a durned fool that dog is,' he observed, as the mongrel darted off in pursuit, changed his mind, and returned to walk sedately behind them, his nose very close to the road. The doctor looked back at him.

‘The silly part about that is,' he said, ‘that I don't believe he can smell a thing.'

Lobbett laughed. ‘He's Campion's dog, isn't he?' he said.

The doctor nodded. ‘They say like dog, like master,' he observed dryly.

As they reached the Dower House they saw Mr Campion's little car standing outside the gate. The young man himself was bending over the open bonnet, flushed and heated. Marlowe and Biddy stood with Isopel in the porch watching him.

‘Hullo, he's back!' said Giles, hurrying forward to where Addlepate was already prostrated before the car, all four legs waving in the air.

As the two older men advanced more slowly towards the group a figure emerged from the thatched post office and village shop and hurried towards them. He was a large white-looking man with fair hair so closely cropped that he appeared almost bald.

This was Mr Kettle, the village ‘foreigner': that is to say, he was not a Suffolk man, but had been born, so it was believed, as far away as Yarmouth, a good forty miles off. His excessive politeness and his superiority made him the most unpopular man in the village community. He lived with his daughter, a
sour-faced young woman, white and flabby as himself, and between them they managed not only the post office but the only shop for six miles.

He came through the long grass of the green at a dignified amble and bounded on to the road two or three paces ahead of the judge and the doctor.

‘Letter, sir,' he said breathlessly, disclosing a Norfolk accent, over which a certain veneer of ‘refeenment' had been spread. ‘The second post 'as just come. And popping my 'ead out of the door, sir, I said to my daughter, I said, “there's the new squire”.' He laid an unpleasant unction on the last word, and his attempt to curry favour was sickeningly transparent. He gasped again for breath, and hurried on. ‘And my daughter, sir, she said, “Take it over to him, dad”. And so I did.'

He handed the square white envelope to the judge as he finished speaking and stood squelching his white hands together, a ridiculous smirk on his face.

‘We 'ave a very nice little shop 'ere, sir, and any time you're wanting anything up at the Manor 'all, sir, we shall only be too 'appy to send it up.'

The judge, who had listened in some bewilderment to this oration, his ears unaccustomed to the two distinct accents, the one affected and the other natural, felt in his pocket, having come to the conclusion, in common with so many other visitors to Europe, that the safe rule is, ‘When in doubt, tip'.

Mr Kettle, who had determined to be obliging at all costs, refused the coin magnificently. ‘Oh no, sir,' he said. ‘Only too 'appy to do anything for you. Any time of the night or day, sir.' And turning, he ran off through the long grass, flapping his hands against his sides as he ran.

The doctor went to join the others. They were gathered round Giles.

‘Yes, “Suicide during temporary insanity”,' he was saying as the doctor came up. ‘Topliss was very decent, I thought. It didn't take very long. Alice was there, very cut up. George's wife took her home. I've brought the doc. in to lunch, Biddy. How long has Albert been back?'

‘Only about ten minutes.' It was Campion himself who
spoke. ‘The bit of sardine tin that keeps my carburettor from leaking into the mag. has slipped its bootlace. I shall be a minute or so. Some of the rigging has come adrift.'

Giles went over to him, and together they bent over the miscellaneous collection of hairpins and string that seemed to make Campion's car go.

‘Well?' he murmured. ‘Did you see him – Alaric Watts, I mean?'

‘Yes,' said Campion, producing a small fountain of petrol from the carburettor, ‘but there's no lift in the fog in his direction. He was very grieved at his old pal's death, but that's about all. He knows no more than we do.'

‘That means, then,' said Giles, ‘that St Swithin was really insane when he wrote us.'

‘Yes,' said Campion thoughtfully, ‘either that or else –' He glanced at his friend over the top of his spectacles. ‘Or else the “serious trouble” has not yet arisen.'

Giles did not reply. Campion straightened his back and stood looking after the others, who, at Biddy's invitation, were disappearing into the house.

‘Giles,' he said suddenly, ‘do you like that American chap?'

‘Marlowe? One of the best. I like him immensely. Biddy and I were talking about him this morning. She admires that type, you know.'

‘That's what I mean,' said Campion. ‘Now if I were to grow a beard,' he went on with apparent seriousness, ‘what colour would you suggest? Something with lure, to cover all this up?' He indicated his face with a gesture. ‘Let's go in, shall we? I hate to be out of anything.'

They reached the morning-room, where they were all gathered, drinking sherry as an aperitif. Judge Lobbett was speaking as they entered.

‘I'm real sorry about this. I forgot every word about my letter to this firm. The picture got me interested, and as Miss Biddy had suggested it I wrote to them asking for the expert to be sent, directly before we all came over here that night. The things that happened after that put it right out of my mind.' He put a typewritten letter down upon the table. ‘This note says
their expert will arrive here by car tomorrow afternoon. I can easily put him off. I should feel it kind of ungracious to have him around at a time like this.'

‘Is that about the pseudo-Romney?' Biddy came forward. ‘Because if so, please don't let this – this terrible thing make any difference. St Swithin never disobliged anyone in his life and I know he'd hate to do it now.'

She spoke quietly, but with such conviction that it made it impossible for the old man to refuse her.

Giles nodded. ‘That's true,' he said. ‘Biddy's right about St Swithin. How I feel about it is: we can't do anything. Let's get away from the horror of it if we can.'

Marlowe picked up the letter. ‘It says here, “The famous international expert, Mr A. Fergusson Barber”!'

‘Eh?' said Mr Campion.

Biddy turned to him with interest. ‘Do you know him?'

Mr Campion sighed. ‘I've met him,' he said. ‘He was on the
Elephantine
. As far as pictures are concerned he may be the Big Bezezuz himself, but as a guide, philosopher, and friend he's a menace.'

Marlowe grinned. ‘He's a bore?'

‘A bore?' said Mr Campion. ‘He's worse than a movie star's confessions.'

THEY WERE HAVING
tea on the lawn at the Manor the following day. Judge Lobbett had insisted that his ‘landlords', as he called them, should be present when the art expert arrived. The old man was anxious to do all he could to dispel the gloom which had settled over the Dower House, and since Giles himself had expressed the desire to carry on as usual, he was all the more eager to help.

Mr Campion had accompanied the twins as a matter of course, and Addlepate escorted them.

They had sat long over their tea and it was almost six o'clock when they arose. The sun was dropping behind the house, the last blaze of yellow light shone over the garden, gilding the green leaves and warming the pale browns of the tree stems. Some of the peace and contentment of the evening settled upon them.

‘Isn't it lovely?' Isopel spoke enthusiastically.

Campion followed her gaze round the wide shrub-encircled lawn, through the high trees to the parkland beyond.

‘Charming,' he said. ‘I knew a man once, though, who said the country wasn't the country without paper bags. He was a millionaire at the time, having made all his money in the jellied-eel business. The only country he knew was Burnham Beeches and Epping on a bank holiday. When he had made his fortune and bought a big estate in Surrey he wasn't at all satisfied with it. The staff was in an awful stew until one of the secretaries imported half a ton of orange skins, a few peanut shells, and a gross or so of paper bags. That transformed the place, and the old boy's lived there very happily ever since. It's all a question of ideals, you know.'

Judge Lobbett rose from his deck chair. ‘How about a walk
round the estate?' he said. ‘George tells me there's a maze over on the east side of the park.'

‘So there is,' said Giles. ‘Though I'm afraid it's not in very good condition. It hasn't been clipped for the last year or so.'

‘It's still there, though,' said Biddy. ‘Shall we go and have a look at it?'

They trooped off over the lawn to the narrow paved walk which, enclosed by low hedges, led through the parkland to a second and larger orchard and kitchen garden on the east side. At the far end of a wide strip of grass in which fruit trees stood they saw the maze before they reached it – a great square of yew, the dense bushes, which had once been trimmed as square as a marble block, now overgrown and uneven.

‘It's quite big,' said Biddy. ‘It stretches down the rest of the field on one side, and there's the road at the end. We used to play here a lot when we were children.'

She turned to find herself speaking only to Mr Campion. Judge Lobbett had gone on a little way in front. Giles and Isopel lagged behind. Marlowe had not come with them.

When she saw him her expression changed. She linked her arm through his. ‘You haven't found out anything – about St Swithin, or the red chessman?'

Campion's arm gripped hers. ‘Biddy,' he said softly, ‘promise me. Never, never, never say anything about the red chessman to anyone. Never. Promise me.'

She looked at him sharply, a suggestion of fear in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Don't worry, old dear. Nothing to get the wind up about. But you must give me that promise.'

He did not attempt to disguise the seriousness of his tone.

‘I promise,' she said, ‘and Giles –?'

‘That's all right,' said Campion; ‘he's wise. He won't even mention it amongst ourselves.'

Mr Campion allowed his vacuous expression to fade for an instant. ‘I say, Biddy, can you ever forgive me for getting you into this?'

She shot him one of her sharp inquiring glances. ‘Then you think St Swithin had something to do with this – this other affair?'

Mr Campion did not look at her. ‘How could he?' he said. But he spoke dully and without conviction.

‘Is this the entrance?' Judge Lobbett's shout made them both look up. The old man was standing against the yew hedge, his light flannel suit outlining him sharply against the sombre background.

‘That's right,' Biddy shouted back. ‘I'm afraid you'll have to push your way through, here and there. Do you want to know the key?'

‘No, I'll find my way myself.' He disappeared into the green walls on the last word. ‘It's going to be easy,' he called, his voice only slightly muffled by the hedges.

‘My own tour,' said Mr Campion, ‘which our impetuous friend has missed, will be personally conducted by the greatest living authority on Barratry, Trigonometry, and the Kibbo Kift. I shall charge a small fee –'