Police at the Funeral (23 page)

The Inspector walked gingerly round the yellow chair and peered at the glass.

‘Chalk, on the outside,' he announced. ‘The rain's coming the other way and hasn't touched it. What an extraordinary thing! Someone's playing the fool. Any marks under the window? I believe there's a flower-bed here.'

He raised the sash and leaned out. They heard him grunt softly, and the next moment he was back again, an incredulous expression upon his face.

‘Well, what do you make of this?' he said. ‘You look here.'

Campion and Marcus accepted his invitation with alacrity. Between the path which bounded the bowling-green and the wall of the house there was a narrow flower-bed, and in the centre of this, deep and distinct, as though it had been made in plaster, was the single imprint of an immense naked foot.

There was something ludicrous about it. It was a caricature of a footprint with great splayed-out toes, the whole thing of a size that impressed one at a glance.

Campion and Marcus looked at one another, the same thought uppermost in both their minds. Feet like these were not to be hidden. Campion grinned at the Inspector.

‘Looks like one of your boys,' he said. ‘Rather overdoing the plain clothes, I should say.'

Inspector Stanislaus Oates did not return his smile.

‘
IT'S ABSURD HAVING
a place of this size without a phone,' said the Inspector, walking up the drive after some cursory telephoning from a neighbouring house. ‘Of course that mark and footprint is a joke in very bad taste on somebody's part, or at least I hope so. These things usually take the form of anonymous letters. I don't like it when people start fooling round the premises. I shall have the print photographed and measured and I shall have a man out to search for others. That's routine, Mr Featherstone, and probably a waste of valuable time.'

‘Suppose it wasn't a joke?' said Mr Campion slowly, his long thin figure bent slightly forward. ‘Suppose it wasn't an evidence of bad taste? Have you ever seen a mark like that before, Stanislaus? Did it mean anything to you?'

The Inspector looked at him sharply. He had known the young man long enough to be sure that these casual remarks that Mr Campion occasionally let drop were never quite as fatuous as they sounded. He considered the question seriously, therefore.

‘I can't say I have,' he said. ‘On the face of it, it looks like a tramp mark, but none I've ever seen. A regular tramp usually carried two bits of chalk, one red and one white,' he explained to Marcus. ‘They make signs to warn each other about the neighbourhood. It's a sort of freemasonry. Of course this thing might be the figure eighteen, but that doesn't make sense either. Does it convey anything to you, Campion? You are an encyclopædia of odd information.'

The young man hesitated. ‘I may be potty, of course,' he said, ‘but I have a hunch that it's the letter “B”. I saw it before once, drawn by a child. She copied the whole alphabet like that, as though only the inside whites of the letters registered on her mind. The “A” was a triangle with a sort of square-cut croquet hoop underneath it, like this.' He took out an envelope and pencilled the figure on the back of it, which he held up for them to see.

Marcus was sceptical, but the Inspector, who was a doting father himself, was interested immediately.

‘Yes, it might be that,' he said. ‘I've heard of that before, now you come to mention it. But it's certainly not a kid in this case. Did you ever see a footprint like that? I'll have a cast made of it if it's only as a souvenir.'

By common consent they walked round the side of the house to take another look at the flower-bed. Stanislaus had previously covered the footprint with several thicknesses of newspaper, weighed by stones at the corners.

‘A man,' he said, looking at it. ‘And rather unusually heavy, I should say, although, of course, he was putting all his weight upon this foot to get at the window.'

‘It's so extraordinary it being bare,' Marcus burst out almost angrily. Like many men of his calling, the illogical irritated rather than attracted him.

The Inspector squatted on the edge of the gravel and peered forward. Then for the first time that afternoon he grinned.

‘He had a sock on,' he said, ‘but it doesn't seem to have reached past his instep. A sort of mitten. There are some shreds of worsted in this mud, I believe. We'll cover it up again if you don't mind.' He replaced the paper and straightened himself. ‘Looks like old Bowditch's lie-about,' he said.

‘Aha!' said Mr Campion. ‘The owner of the green hat. “Mysterious nomad signals to accomplice within House of Secrets.”'

The Inspector paused in the very act of rising as this new explanation, with all its possibilities, suddenly presented itself to his mind. For a moment his grey eyes met Campion's speculatively. Then he shook his head. ‘No,' he said, ‘that's not worth powder and shot. It's not that kind of show. Don't worry,' he
added, turning to Marcus. ‘We shan't neglect any clues. We shall follow everything up. That's routine – and a very slow business it is. I shall leave the fancy work to you, Campion,' he continued, grinning at him mischievously. ‘You think as much as you like, my boy. I called the fellows on guard off last night at about twelve o'clock, but I'll put them back. We can't have monkey tricks like this going on, and the last thing I want is to have this household alarmed unnecessarily. We're all kid-glove men now, you know.'

They entered the house by the side door, which led to a small passage running parallel to the staircase.

‘I came up originally to see Mr William Faraday,' observed the Inspector, watching the others remove their wet coats. ‘Is he about?'

A slightly embarrassed expression appeared in Marcus's eyes.

‘Mr Faraday isn't very well, as a matter of fact,' he said. ‘He's upstairs in his room. Is it important?'

The Inspector smiled, but stood his ground. ‘I think I'd better see him if you don't mind,' he said, and added deliberately, ‘I don't mind if you're both present at the interview. A man can always have his lawyer with him if he's questioned by us nowadays.'

Campion glanced at Marcus. ‘As we agreed before the inquest this morning,' he said, ‘I gave the Inspector all the information which Mr Faraday did not consider relevant at the first inquiry. I feel it would be in his interests to see the Inspector.'

Marcus's worried expression did not vanish. ‘He's up in his room,' he repeated. ‘I'll go and tell him. You'll take off your coat, won't you, Inspector? I see you're very wet.'

He hurried upstairs, and as Campion helped the Inspector off with his raincoat the older man chuckled.

‘You'll get yourself into hot water,' he observed. ‘It looks a bit like running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, but I suppose you've got your reasons.'

‘The best in the world,' said Campion. ‘Based on the time-honoured theory that when a man is innocent the more he talks the better. My good man, this old boy has gone through two campaigns, including the Great War, without killing so much
as a rabbit. He's not likely to have begun now. I admit he may know something, but he's no more guilty than I am.'

The Inspector grunted, but made no other comment, and presently Marcus reappeared.

‘Mr Faraday is in his room,' he said, ‘sitting before the fire in his dressing-gown. He tells me that he still feels very seedy, and although I advised him to see you, and I told him you were kind enough to say that Campion and I might be present at the interview, he still doesn't feel like coming down. I wondered if you would mind seeing him in his room?'

‘Not at all,' said the Inspector, relieved that the news was no worse. ‘I'll come up right away.'

Uncle William sat before his bedroom fire in a gaily coloured dressing-gown. His white hair stood on end and his moustache drooped dejectedly. He glanced up as they entered, but did not attempt to rise. He looked older and more pathetic than usual, his toes in his carpet slippers turned inwards, one pudgy hand resting on his knee and the other hanging in a black silk sling. He certainly looked ill. His skin was patchy and his eyes were slightly bloodshot.

Mr Campion caught the Inspector glancing furtively at the old man's feet and was unable to repress a grin of delight. Uncle William's little fat pads were quite incapable of being the origin of the colossal mark on the flower-bed.

The invalid smiled faintly at Campion and nodded brusquely to the Inspector.

‘What's the trouble now?' he said. ‘I'm a sick man and I don't want to be worried any more than I can help. I don't know if you can find yourselves chairs? I don't resent this intrusion, you know, but I'd like to get it over as soon as possible.'

They found themselves chairs, and the Inspector went over the points of Mr Campion's revelations of the morning. On the whole, Uncle William behave remarkably well. He admitted to the amnesia and the visit to Sir Gordon Woodthorpe. He was a little more touchy on the subject of the gun, but the Inspector was patient, even sympathetic, and Uncle William, finding that he had a good audience, forgot his trepidation and began to speak freely.

The interview progressed most favourably, Marcus carrying
his client with real skill over the embarrassing points of his story, and it was not until the Inspector cleared his throat and, prefacing his question with a word of apology, that Uncle William's obstinacy began to show.

‘That hand of yours, sir,' the Inspector began innocently. ‘I understand that there was a little trouble here last night. I wonder if you would tell me in your own words how you came to have such a wound?'

For the first time a dangerous expression came into Uncle William's little bleared eyes.

‘A most trivial business,' he said petulantly. ‘But I suppose even the silliest incident becomes important when you people get to work. It was the most simple thing in the world. I told Campion here and I told my young niece.' He cleared his throat and regarded the Inspector severely. ‘I sleep with my window open at the bottom, don't you know, and late last night I was awakened by a great hulking cat scratching about the place. I hate cats, so I hopped out of bed, caught the creature by the middle and pushed it through the window. In its resentment it scratched me. I went out to put some iodine on my hand, and unfortunately roused the house. That's all there is to say.'

Marcus seemed worried and Campion regretful, but the Inspector showed no change of expression whatsoever. He jotted down some hieroglyphics in his private note-book and then glanced up.

‘Can I see the hand, sir?' he said.

Uncle William blew out his cheeks. ‘That's rather irregular – er – officer, isn't it?' he demanded.

The Inspector ignored the gratuitous insult, and Campion experienced a return of the admiration he had always felt for this quiet, grave man with the penetrating grey eyes.

‘I'd like to see it, sir.' The Inspector's tone was at once respectful and commanding.

For one moment it looked as though Uncle William was about to refuse point-blank, but Marcus tactfully stepped forward.

‘Perhaps I can help you with the bandage?'

The old man looked up balefully. ‘All right,' he said. ‘Have
it your own way. But if you get into trouble from old Lavrock don't blame me. He told me I was lucky not to have cut an artery, and I didn't know,' he added, muttering the words under his breath, ‘that it was considered etiquette for a lawyer to assist the police in jockeying his unfortunate client in the very midst of a bereavement.'

‘It's a lawyer's duty to do all he can to protect his client's interests, sir,' said Marcus, with some asperity.

‘Huh!' said Uncle William ungraciously.

By this time the outer bandages had been removed, and with consummate care Marcus lifted off the strip of oiled silk which lay beneath. When he came to the lint matters proved more difficult, and it was not until warm water had been procured and gently applied that the wound lay revealed.

Stanislaus rose to examine it, and a certain sternness became evident in his manner.

‘Three stitches, I see,' he said. ‘One single cut. Thank you, Mr Faraday. That's all I want to see, Mr Featherstone.'

Uncle William, in spite of his indisposition, was quite sufficiently in possession of his wits to know that this display of his wound had not strengthened his story. He devoted himself ostentatiously to the business of rebandaging, and it was some considerable time before the wrappings were arranged to his satisfaction.

Meanwhile the Inspector waited, patient and polite. Finally, however, his moment came.

‘Would you mind telling me once more, sir, how you got that cut?'

A high-pitched squawk of exasperation escaped Uncle William. ‘Am I to spend the rest of my life repeating the story of a perfectly ordinary incident?' he said bitterly. ‘Are you in the full possession of your senses, sir? I told you, a cat came into my room last night and it scratched me. I don't know what this country is coming to. Damned incompetence, where-ever you go.'