Police at the Funeral (26 page)

She paused and then fired another unexpected question at him.

‘Do you believe in the supernatural, Mr Campion? I mean,' she went on, taking a step nearer and speaking with terrifying intensity, ‘do you believe in the power of Evil?'

‘Yes,' said Mr Campion.

Aunt Kitty seemed satisfied, for she nodded reassuringly to herself.

‘You ought to be afraid to stay here,' she remarked. ‘I'm not afraid, not really, because I'm a religious woman, and I've got the armour of religion to protect and help me. But the others haven't, and there is no way of escape for the wicked. They shall perish, just as Andrew perished. But,' she continued, the poker trembling in her hand, ‘Evil doesn't perish. The active spirit of Evil is abroad. It's in this house.' She lowered her voice. ‘Did you see that mark on the window in the library? That's the beginning. When I saw it I recognized it. Andrew told me once that if he died first he would come back and haunt us. Well,' she finished triumphantly, ‘he's doing it.'

Mr Campion, who had stood many ordeals in his life, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, but Aunt Kitty's tongue was loosed.

‘I couldn't go to church this morning,' she said, ‘because I felt that as soon as I set foot in that sacred building the contamination which I have suffered here would show in black upon my face. This house is Evil. William says a cat attacked him. That was no cat, Mr Campion. William was attacked in his sleep. In the darkness Lucifer stretched out his hand and made a mark upon him, warning him.'

She was nearly exhausted now, but the prophetic fire still flickered.

‘If William turned his heart and confessed that an Evil power struck him in the dark he might be saved yet,' she said. ‘But he won't. He likes to think it was something tangible, something of this world. He likes to think it was an animal, a poor dumb thing. Andrew was a wicked man, Mr Campion. I sometimes think,' she added, her voice sinking again to a whisper, ‘that Andrew was possessed. No, it's not the police we need in this house. It's the clergy. This sinful building should be exorcised. When a man dies of fever they have the house fumigated. When the wrath of God overtakes Andrew we do nothing except call in the police to find out who His agent was. I'm a silly old woman, I know, but I'm warning you, young man. You keep away from here. Andrew brought Evil into the house and the black wing is over it still.'

She stopped and suddenly became aware of the poker in her hand. Its presence seemed to embarrass her, and she dropped it noisily into the fireplace. The clatter it made brought her to earth.

‘Oh,' she said, with a guilty glance towards the door, ‘I ought not to have done that. Mother does so dislike a noise.'

She took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes with it. The metamorphosis was complete. From a sibyl in prophetic ecstasy she had become once again the down-trodden poor relation.

Mr Campion never quite forgave himself for his next remark.

‘And your sister?' he murmured.

Aunt Kitty burst into tears. ‘Poor misguided Julia,' she
whispered, ‘she was only selfish.' And added, with terrible in-consequentiality, ‘God is a jealous God.'

The luncheon gong relieved the tension, and after an agonizing meal Mr Campion once more visited Great-aunt Caroline.

She received him in her little sitting-room, as usual, and listened to his request in amused silence.

‘You want me to leave my house?' she said at last, when he had finished. ‘Certainly not. My dear young man, at my age physical danger, that is to say the danger of death, is ever present wherever I am. I ceased to worry about that long ago. In fact,' she went on unexpectedly, ‘my position now is that of someone waiting on a platform for a train already overdue. No, I am afraid that whatever you tell me I shall remain where I am.'

Campion took his defeat calmly. He looked very young, standing on the hearth-rug before her. He had removed his spectacles and all trace of his lackadaisical and inconsequential manner had vanished.

‘If I were only sure,' he said, ‘it would be different. I should insist. But I am not sure. There is an explanation of this affair which frightens me. If it is the truth, no one in this house is safe. As it is, you will see that I can't possibly make any accusation, now, but I beg you to leave yourself.'

Great-aunt Caroline sat back in her chair, her hands folded.

‘No one in this house is safe,' she repeated. ‘Almost my exact words to you, young man, if you remember. But I shall not stir, and you may do as you please about the others. Personally, until you are certain I should let them remain where they are. If Nemesis is to overtake them, you know, it will. However, I feel rather differently about Joyce. Does she come within the scope of your rather sweeping suggestion?'

‘Certainly,' said Campion emphatically.

‘Then Joyce shall go,' said the old lady with decision. ‘If you will send her to me I will see that she raises no objections. She will want to stay with Miss Held, I suppose: a charming girl, quite unusually intelligent. And you yourself, Mr Campion – what a curious name that is; I wonder why you chose it? – what do you propose to do?'

Campion looked hurt. ‘I remain where I am, if I may,' he
said. ‘But I wish you would go yourself. I suppose it's no use my reopening the subject?'

Her small mouth set in a firm obstinate line. ‘None whatever,' she said shortly.

Mr Campion realized that he had heard the literal truth.

THE GAIETY AND
warmth of Ann Held's unacademic study seemed only half-hearted when its owner and Mr Campion sat one on either side of the fire at half-past five on Monday, waiting for Marcus and Joyce to return from the inquest on Aunt Julia. Ann, who had cheerfully shouldered half Joyce's troubles, smiled at the bespectacled young man opposite her.

‘Of course I'm awfully glad to have you,' she said, ‘but why didn't you stay for the verdict?'

Campion turned a mournful face towards her. ‘I couldn't bear Stanislaus's cold and slightly unchristian attitude any longer,' he said. ‘He's an old friend of mine, and contrary to the best traditions of the amateur sleuth, I have put my foot in it rather badly with him. It's most unfair, too,' he went on. ‘I gave him the broadest possible hint; in fact I told him that if he visited every public-house between the Grantchester meadows footpath and Socrates Close he would find Uncle William's alibi. But just because I didn't go further and mention that I had already interviewed the redoubtable Mrs Finch, of “The Red Bull”, who had assured me that she could state on her oath that Mr William Faraday, dazed and a little queer, had entered her establishment at fifteen minutes to one and left it in an aimless fashion half an hour later, he is quite ridiculously annoyed with me. I consider myself down-trodden. Did you ever read a book called
Misunderstood
?'

Ann Held began to laugh. ‘I always thought that child deserved all he got,' she remarked.

‘He did,' said Mr Campion. ‘So do I. That's where the tragedy
comes in. They're late,' he went on. ‘The jury must have taken longer to make up their minds than I expected. The coroner is a first-class man. He knows what he is about, and he seems to be able to write faster than most of his tribe.'

‘I don't see what that has to do with it,' said Miss Held.

He enlightened her. ‘Everything said in the court is taken down by the coroner in longhand. That's why witnesses are encouraged to be short and snappy. We are extremely lucky to get this inquest over in one day,' he added, ‘although of course there was precious little evidence of any kind to be given.'

Ann curled up in her chair. ‘This is a most remarkable business,' she said, ‘and of course I'm an outsider, so I may easily make a fool of myself. But it seems to me that this is obviously a matter for – well, a medico psychologist, or whatever you call them.'

Mr Campion stretched his long thin legs to the blaze and the firelight flickered on his spectacles.

‘It is,' he said. ‘But what's the good of that? The difficulty about psychology is that it hasn't any rules. I mean, if one person can imagine the state of mind in which another might perform certain acts, then those acts are sound psychology. In other words, given a person's batty enough, there is nothing he or she may not do. That's as far as anyone seems to have got at present.'

‘Batty,' said Ann Held. ‘You've said it. I suppose they'll bring this in a verdict of murder.'

‘Oh, no,' said Mr Campion. ‘At least, I hope not. No one will be more surprised than my ex-friend Inspector Oates if they do. Of course they may do anything. There's a problem in psychology for you. Why does the collective mind of twelve men work more irrationally, more prejudicially than that of any of those same twelve men taken separately? Hullo, here they are.'

He swung round in his chair and rose as Joyce and Marcus entered. Joyce looked exhausted, and she sank wearily into a chair. Campion looked inquiringly at Marcus.

‘Open verdict?' he asked.

The young man nodded. ‘Yes. “The deceased met her death by conium poisoning, but there is not sufficient evidence to
show whether it was self-administered or not.” They were away for some time. I think there was a strong vote in favour of suicide. Ann, you're a heroine to put up with us like this.'

‘You sit down,' said his hostess. ‘I'm making tea. Joyce, you look all in.'

There was a welcome pause while the little brass kettle on the hob was persuaded to boil and the tea brewed. Joyce took off her hat and passed her hand over her hair.

‘It's wonderful to be back here after that terrible room,' she said. ‘I hadn't realized it was going to be so public, and I loathed the people who came to watch. What's it got to do with them, anyhow? They tell me I shan't be needed tomorrow. I'm so glad. Ann, I don't know what I should do without you.'

Miss Held smiled at her across the teacups. ‘Mr Campion was saying they are lucky to get it over so soon,' she remarked.

‘We are,' said Marcus. ‘By the way, I thought the coroner was splendid. He's a first-class man.' He paused, recalling the scene to his mind. ‘Uncle William came out unexpectedly well,' he remarked. ‘I hope he has the same luck tomorrow when the inquest on Andrew is resumed.'

‘It is extraordinary,' said Joyce slowly, ‘what a different person Uncle William is in public. It's just as though he's able to put over the impression one always feels he's trying to create at home.'

Marcus smiled sourly. ‘He'll have Campion to thank if he doesn't make an extremely awkward impression tomorrow at the inquest on Andrew,' he said. ‘But I think that alibi will save his bacon altogether. By the way, I had a line from Sir Gordon Woodthorpe this morning. He's going to be a very decent old boy over the business. Uncle William really has been a first-class lunatic. Still, it's the alibi which is really important. It's rather odd that the police, by concentrating on the time of Seeley's murder, have punctured what case they had against William completely. Why did you wait until today to tell the Inspector, Campion?'

‘That's what Stanislaus says,' said that young man regretfully. ‘In fact, he's very rude about it. Yet I gave him every hint I could. You see, I wanted him to concentrate on Uncle William, because,' he added slowly, ‘I believe that Uncle
William has the key to the whole problem in his hand if he could only realize it.'

The three looked at him questioningly, but he offered no further explanation, and something in his manner prevented them from pressing him. Joyce shivered.

‘When that expert gave evidence that there had been a trace of conium in Aunt Julia's cup, I was waiting for a verdict of murder,' she said. ‘Then of course that long rigmarole about the patent medicine we found came out. That cleared Aunt Kitty. But they didn't say they had found any trace of conium in the paper which held the medicine.'

‘No,' said Marcus. ‘That's why there wasn't a murder verdict. There wasn't any trace. But it doesn't take much imagination to see that that was the way the stuff was administered. The drug must have been soaked into one of the pellets which was then recoated. It probably looked exactly like the others.'

Joyce nodded. There was a far-away look in her brown eyes.

‘Albert,' she said, ‘we're all being indiscreet, and thank goodness it doesn't matter here. Did you ever find out about the rope?'

He nodded. ‘It was identical,' he said. ‘This isn't to be broadcast, of course, although it'll all come out tomorrow. Yes, it was obviously the same stuff. That takes us straight back to the house again. We haven't accounted for the clock weight yet, either.'

The girl leant back and closed her eyes. ‘I'm ashamed to say it,' she said, ‘but when Aunt Faraday insisted that I should leave the house yesterday I was glad. I never thought I was a funk before, but I am. That ludicrous footmark, the attack on Uncle William, the dreadful atmosphere of something dark and awful going on right under one's nose, it got me down. Poor Aunt Kitty! Is she all right? She looked so little and helpless in the box.'

‘I think of all the people in that house,' said Mr Campion judicially, ‘Aunt Kitty's position is the safest. But I'm glad you're out of it.'

Once again they looked at him inquiringly, and it was Ann Held who put the question.

‘When?' she said. ‘When will you know?'

To their astonishment he rose to his feet and strode restlessly up and down the room. Neither Marcus nor Joyce had ever seen him so agitated before.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘My theory is only a theory. I have no proof. I have only an idea that came in the night. Look here, my children, I must go back. I shall see you all tomorrow.'