Mystery Mile (6 page)

Isopel clung to her hand as they said good-bye. After the terrible experiences of the last few months this pleasant sleepy old house with its young untroubled owners was very comforting. ‘I'm so glad you're here,' she said impulsively. The other girl shot her a swift comprehending glance.

‘Don't worry,' she murmured. ‘You don't know Albert.'

Mr Campion and the Pagets walked down the gravelled drive and passed over the village green where the pump stood to the Dower House. A high yew hedge hid it from the green, and all the main windows faced the other side of the house, looking over an old walled garden.

Mr Campion looked greatly relieved. ‘Thank goodness the old bird fell for the house!' he said. ‘Naturally I couldn't get him to agree to take the place for any length of time before he'd seen it, but we couldn't have him running up and down to town setting our homicidal pal on his track immediately. What do you think of them, Giles?'

‘Nice old boy,' said Giles. ‘Not unlike the Governor, only American. Same direct way of looking at you and saying exactly what comes into his head. I didn't have much talk with
young Lobbett, but he seemed all right. But oh boy! what a girl!'

Biddy and Mr Campion exchanged glances. ‘Yuth! Yuth!' said she. ‘I like her. She must have been having a nerve-racking time.'

Giles nodded. ‘I was thinking that,' he said. ‘Time there was someone to look after her.'

‘That's the spirit,' said Mr Campion, adding with sudden gravity, ‘Biddy, I wish you'd clear out. Old Cuddy has lived at the Dower House so long she'll be able to look after us without any trouble.'

Biddy shook her head. ‘You still expecting excitement?'

Mr Campion nodded. ‘We can't escape it,' he said. ‘Won't you go and leave us to it, old dear?'

Biddy was determined. ‘Find something else to be inane about,' she said. ‘As I said before, I'm with you to the death.'

Mr Campion did not smile. ‘I wish you wouldn't say that,' he said. ‘It puts the wind up me – all this harping on mortality. Whenever I see a white flower nowadays I think, “Albert, that might be for you”.'

‘Would you say her eyes were blue or brown or a sort of a heather mixture?' said Giles.

THE DRAWING-ROOM AT
the Dower House, small, cosy, and lined with white panelling, was lit that evening with candles only, and their flickering light was kind to the faded rose tapestry and the India carpet which had once been the pride of a great-great-grandmother of Biddy's. There was a fire in the old-fashioned grate, and the whole room looked particularly inviting when they came in from dinner.

Swithin Cush and Judge Lobbett were talking enthusiastically as they followed the young people. They had delighted each other with a mutual display of archaeological fireworks all through dinner and were still engrossed in their subject.

The rector had appeared in his Sunday clothes in response to an urgent message from Biddy, and his venerable green-black clerical coat of ancient cut enhanced his patriarchal air.

They had been discussing the Royal Letter which entitled the incumbent of the Mansion to be styled Lord of the Manor. Old Lobbett was deeply interested, and the two elder men bent over the faded parchment, sharing their enthusiasm for the relic.

Biddy and Isopel sat side by side on the high-backed settee while the three younger men talked together on the far side of the fireplace.

‘By the way,' said Marlowe, ‘we had a visit from a deputation this afternoon. Two old fellows came up to see us, apparently representing the villagers, with an extraordinary yarn about free beer that was apparently doled out at this time of the year. It was something about “Owl Friday”, as far as we could gather.'

Biddy and Giles exchanged glances. ‘I bet that's George,' said Giles. ‘Disgusting old cadger!'

‘That's right,' said Marlowe. ‘George and a man apparently called “'Anry”. But George was the head man.'

Biddy began to apologize. ‘They're dreadful,' she said helplessly. ‘They're inveterate beggars. I hope you sent them away.'

Marlowe shook his head. ‘The old boy rather liked them,' he said. ‘It showed they were friendly, anyway. They were talking about old customs practically all the afternoon. At least, George was. 'Anry's comments were unintelligible.'

‘Henry's a bokel,' said Biddy. ‘That was father's word. It means half a barmy, half a yokel.'

After a while the conversation died down and the little party sat in that pleasant silence which is induced by warmth and well-being. And then, from far away over the marshes came a sound, almost lost and diffused in the air – a soft, long-drawn-out whistle.

No one appeared to hear it, but Mr Campion's pale eyes flickered behind his spectacles, and he shifted slightly in his chair, his ear turned to the window.

Within ten seconds the sound came again, a little nearer, more distinguishable. Still no one spoke in the warm peaceful room, but the atmosphere of security had vanished for one of the party at least. Again the whistle sounded, still far away, but appreciably nearer.

Suddenly Isopel looked up. ‘An owl,' she said. ‘Did you hear it?'

Giles listened. ‘Yes, there it is again,' he said. ‘It's flying this way,' he added, as the sound was repeated, this time no farther away than the park.

Mr Campion rose and walked over to the window, and it did not escape Biddy that he stood at the side of the sash, so that he could not be seen easily from without. For the sixth time the unearthly sound was repeated.

And then, while they were all listening, a curious sense of apprehension stealing over every one of them, a sudden blood-curdling wail was uttered somewhere within the garden, long-drawn-out like the others, but with a definite quaver in the middle.

‘God bless my soul!' said Swithin Cush, sitting up suddenly. ‘What was that?'

Mr Campion turned from the window. ‘That, if I am not very much mistaken,' said he, ‘is a visitor.'

Hardly had the words passed from his lips than a loose wire creaked uneasily somewhere over their heads and the next moment a bell pealed hollowly, echoing noisily over the house.

No one moved or spoke. In the hall outside they heard the sound of feet and the click of the lock as someone opened the door. Then there was a murmur of voices, a soft insidious tone mingled with the strident Suffolk accent. Then the door of the room in which they sat opened and old Cuddy, flustered and excited, appeared on the threshold.

She was a spare, scrupulously tidy old lady, with a round red face and a lot of combs in her scant hair. She wore a black apron over a particularly vivid magenta woollen frock.

She came in, and striding across the room handed Biddy a card on a small brass platter. The girl took it in astonishment, Mr Campion coming up behind her.

She read it aloud:

‘
MR ANTHONY DATCHETT, PALMIST
'

‘ANTHONY DATCHETT?' SAID
Mr Campion, reading over Biddy's shoulder. ‘Not a gate-crasher, I hope. I personally superintended all the invitations. He can't come palming at this time of night.'

Giles looked relieved. ‘Oh, that's
the
palmist?' he said. ‘He must be rather a character. I met Guffy Randall at the Dog Trials last week; he was telling me about him then.'

‘A fortune teller?' said Judge Lobbett, joining in. ‘That's interesting. A gipsy?'

‘Oh no, sir!' Old Cuddy was startled out of her silence. ‘He's a gentleman, with a car as big as yours, sir.'

‘Yes, that's right,' said Giles. ‘He's an extraordinary chap. Apparently he turns up after dinner at country houses and shells out the past and present for five bob a time. Anyway, that sort of thing. Rather funny: he told Guffy Randall that a beautiful creature was going to throw him over and he was going to be pretty seriously hurt by it. Guffy was quite rattled. He didn't ride to hounds for a fortnight, and it wasn't until Rosemary Waterhouse broke off their engagement that he realized what the chap meant. He was awfully relieved.'

Marlow Lobbett laughed. ‘Let's have him in,' he said, and glanced at Campion questioningly.

The young man in horn-rimmed spectacles was lounging against the back of the settee where the two girls were sitting.

‘Since Owl Friday falls on a Wednesday this year,' he said, ‘and that, I understand, means trouble anyhow, we may as well see him and hear the worst.'

Cuddy bustled off. Then the door with its faded tapestry portière swept open, making a quiet rustling sound. Everyone sat forward instinctively, and a sudden cold draught from the open hall door passed through the room.

On the threshold a man stood smiling at them. As they looked at him the vague feeling of apprehension which had descended upon them when they heard the warning cry over the marshes now grew into a reality, and yet there was nothing in the stranger's appearance that was obviously alarming.

Small, slight, immaculately dressed in well-cut tails, he might have been any age. His face was covered with a reddish-brown curling beard; sparse and silky, it formed two small goat curls at the point of his chin, and above it his lips appeared, narrow and shapely, disclosing even teeth.

The face would have been attractive had it not been for the eyes. They were small, slightly oblique, and of a pale indeterminate colour with extremely small pupils.

The stranger came forward. ‘I am so glad that you decided to see me,' he said, and for the first time they heard clearly the voice that had been a murmur outside. It was low and soft, peculiarly insinuating, and yet not altogether unpleasing.

Mr Campion regarded him speculatively.

‘Perhaps I had better introduce myself more fully,' the stranger went on. ‘My name is Anthony Datchett. I am an itinerant palmist. It is my custom to tell fortunes for a small fee –' He paused and glanced round the room, his curious eyes resting at last upon Giles. ‘I should be delighted if one or two of you would consent to let me give a reading. If I do, I can promise you one thing. The truth.'

He was still looking at Giles as he finished speaking, and the others were surprised to see the boy get up immediately and cross over to him. He was not mesmerized; there was no suggestion of any trance or coma, yet he seemed completely subjected to the stranger.

Giles held out his hands. ‘Tell me,' he said.

The stranger glanced towards the deep window-seat at the far end of the room. ‘Certainly,' he said. ‘Shall we go over there? I don't like an audience for my readings,' he explained, smiling at the others. ‘It prevents one from being frank, I feel.'

‘The only man who ever told my fortune,' said Mr Campion, ‘was an income-tax collector.'

The stranger turned. ‘Did he tell you about the Seven Whistlers?' he said.

No flicker of surprise appeared upon Mr Campion's rather foolish face, and the stranger glanced round swiftly, but nowhere had the thrust gone home. He walked over to the window-seat with Giles beside him, and was presently engrossed in the boy's hand.

Mr Campion perched himself beside Biddy on the arm of the settee in a direct line between the fortune teller and Judge Lobbett.

‘The time has come,' he began, the fatuous expression returning to his face, ‘when I think our distinguished visitors ought to hear my prize collection of old saws, rustic wisecracks, and gleanings from the soil. After years of research I am able to lay before you, ladies and gentlemen, one or two little gems. Firstly:

Consider the simplicity of that!' he continued with complete seriousness. ‘The little moral neatly put, the rustic spirit of prophecy epitomized in a single phrase. And then of course:

That needs no comment from me.'

They laughed, eager to escape the tension of the last few minutes. At the far end of the room the murmur of the fortune teller went on steadily.

Mr Campion continued. He chattered without effort, apparently completely lost to the rest of the world.

‘I knew a man once,' he said, ‘who managed by stealth to attend a Weevil Sabbath at Mould. He went prepared to witness fearful rites, but when he got there he found it wasn't the genuine thing at all, but the yearly outing of the Latter Day Nebuchadnezzars, the famous grass-eating society. He didn't see a single weevil.'

He would have gone on had not Giles suddenly returned to
the group. His expression was one of incredulous amazement.

‘This is astounding,' he said. ‘The chap seems to know all about me – things I hadn't told to anybody. Biddy, you must get him to tell your fortune.'

Some of the uneasiness the occupants of the room had felt at the arrival of their strange visitor began to disappear, but all the same there was no great eagerness on anyone's part to hurry over to the strange slight figure in the window-seat whose eyes seemed to be gazing at them all impartially.

It was at this moment that the attention of the party focused upon the rector. He had not moved nor spoken, but a change had taken place in his appearance. Biddy, glancing at him casually, was appalled by a look of great age which she had never noticed before. His jaw seemed to have sunk, his eyelids became grey and webby.

To their surprise he rose to his feet and walked a little unsteadily across the room to the fortune teller, who appeared to be waiting for him.

As the soft murmur began again Giles began to talk enthusiastically about his experience. ‘He's an amazing chap,' he said quietly.

‘What did he tell you?' said Campion.

‘Well.' Giles was childlike in his mystification. ‘What really got me was when he said I was thinking of entering a horse for the Monewdon Show next month. I know, of course, that's fairly obvious. But he told me I wouldn't send my favourite mare as I'd intended, but I'd send a hunter. That's really most extraordinary, because I went down to look at Lilac Lady just before dinner and I made up my mind that I couldn't get her into really decent condition in the time. I was wondering if I wouldn't enter St Chris, or let it go this year. I hadn't mentioned that to a soul.' He laughed. ‘It's crazy, isn't it? He also told me the usual bunk – to beware of wagging tongues, and so on. He hinted at some sort of scandal, I thought. I didn't quite get it. I wonder what he's telling old St Swithin.'