Police at the Funeral (32 page)

‘I wasn't doing anything,' he began, revealing the familiar mendicant whine. ‘You didn't ought to 'ave touched me. I can get you into trouble for this.'

‘Shut up,' said Mr Campion from the sink where he had been putting his head under the pump, and from which he now emerged rubbing himself vigorously with a towel. ‘Is your father about, Christmas?' he murmured. ‘I don't want to wake him if we can help it.'

‘Oh, no, sir, that's all right. It'll take more than this to disturb the old 'un.' Young Christmas seemed convinced on this point, and Mr Campion was satisfied.

Their visitor, who was growing momentarily more and more disturbed, began to whine again.

‘I can 'ave the police on yer if yer touch me again,' he said.

‘I am the police,' said Mr Campion fiercely. ‘Ever heard of a plain-clothes man? Well, here is one. You're under arrest, and if you don't talk I'll see that you're strung up. You're wanted. We've been waiting for you.'

A crafty light appeared in the stranger's face. ‘You can't tell me,' he said. ‘I know a “busy” when I see one. I 'aven't been on the road for thirty years without gettin' inside once or twice. You're no policeman. Besides,' he added triumphantly, ‘I know every “busy” from 'ere to York.'

‘I am Chief Detective Inspector Campion of Scotland Yard,' said the young man brusquely. ‘I am down here to investigate the murder of Andrew Seeley on a footbridge over the Granta on Sunday 30 March. I have reason to believe that you are the
man I want. But I am going to give you a chance, although your confederate has already been arrested. He has told his story, and unless yours tallies with it in every detail, you'll find yourself in the dock before you know where you are.'

The man who had listened to this harangue in silence and had clearly understood about half of it, sucked in his breath noisily.

‘You 'aven't cautioned me yet,' he said suspiciously.

‘Cautioned you?' said Mr Campion, with consummate contempt. ‘We Scotland Yard men don't behave like lock-up sergeants. You're coming across with all you know and you're coming across immediately. Ever heard of the third degree?'

‘I got a friend,' the other answered sullenly. ‘A proper gentleman ‘oo knows about these things. And 'e says the third degree ain't allowed any longer. I can 'ave my lawyer if I like.'

‘Your friend George Faraday is under lock and key,' said Mr Campion truthfully. ‘That's where his erroneous information has taken him. Look here, my man, do you want another fight?'

The young man's threatening attitude, together with his uncanny knowledge of his visitor's acquaintance, had their effect. The disreputable old bundle fidgeted uneasily.

‘Do you want another thrashing?' the young man repeated, entirely disregarding the other's anthropoid physique.

‘No,' said the stranger. ‘And I'm not sayin' nothin', see?'

Mr Campion consulted young Christmas's washing book, which he had taken from a shelf by the sink.

‘Let me see, we have your name,' he said. ‘Address none. Alias Old Bee.'

‘That's not an alias,' said the bundle, falling into the trap. ‘That's a sort of nickname – you know, among friends. I'm Thomas Beveridge, and I'm registered at Warley Workhouse in Kent, and there's nothin' known against me.'

‘We know all about that,' said Mr Campion, having apparently appointed Mr Christmas, junior, as a member of His Majesty's Police Force. ‘Now then, before I take you down to the station I'll have your statement here. You are charged, together with George Makepeace Faraday, whose statement we
already have, with wilfully murdering Andrew Seeley by shooting him, afterwards binding his body and hurling it into the River Granta. Now what have you got to say?'

It was Mr Campion's manner, together with the terrifying and unfounded charge brought so suddenly against him, which undermined Mr Beveridge's morale.

‘I never!' he said indignantly. ‘'Ere, you got this all wrong. George never told you that.'

‘The police draw their own conclusions,' said Mr Campion loftily. ‘Are you coming clean or have I got to beat it out of you?'

‘I'd like a cup o' coffee,' said Mr Beveridge unexpectedly. ‘I've been man'andled – that's wot. And I'd like my boots, too. I took 'em orf by the gate – wishin' not to disturb anyone. Can't say fairer than that, can I?'

‘Fetch me that bit of bike tyre,' said Campion to young Mr Christmas.

‘'Ere!' protested Mr Beveridge hastily, ‘wait a minute. Wait a minute. I 'aven't said I won't say nothin'.'

Mr Campion raised his hand with a magnificently conceding gesture, and young Christmas, who was proving himself a resourceful assistant, stopped in his tracks and returned to the table.

Mr Beveridge spread out his immense and dirty hands. ‘I don't know anythink, and I want my boots,' he said. ‘Matter of fact, I was at Norwich that Sunday.'

‘What?' said Mr Campion, with scorn. ‘Don't waste my time, my man.' He leant across the table and his hard, grey eyes fixed his victim's. ‘You dare to put forward a statement like that when you came into this garden tonight wearing the hat of the murdered man?'

This unparalleled piece of bluff was Mr Beveridge's last straw. He crumpled.

‘I didn't kill 'im,' he said. ‘George and I didn't touch the gun till afterwards, that's a fact.'

Mr Campion heaved a sigh of relief and consulted the washing book again.

‘I suppose you realize,' he said coldly, ‘that you've said either too much or not quite enough?'

The great form in the little wooden chair shivered and his dirty eyelids drooped.

‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll tell you. But it wasn't me – so 'elp me Gawd, it wasn't George nor me.'

AFTER ALICE HAD
placed the can of hot water on the washstand and carefully covered it with a towel, she crossed the room, pulled up the blind and paused at the end of Marcus Featherstone's bed. Having allowed him sufficient time to awaken and recall his unhappy thoughts, she made her announcement.

‘Mr Campion isn't in his room, sir. His bed hasn't been slept in. I thought perhaps I'd better tell you instead of Mr William. And old Mr Christmas, the mistress's coachman, came into the kitchen just before I came upstairs, to say that his son must have got up and dressed in the night, for there's no sign of him.'

Marcus sat up in bed in Uncle William's voluminous and exotic pyjamas and reviewed the situation.

‘Campion gone?' he said. ‘Half a minute and I'll put on a dressing-gown and come along.'

He slipped on the multi-coloured bathrobe, another evidence of Uncle William's hospitality, and followed the woman across the hall and down the corridor to Mr Campion's room. No one else seemed to be stirring. George and William's rooms were silent, and apart from the cheerful domestic clatter below stairs the house was still sleeping.

Alice led the way into Campion's room. It was neat. Campion's portmanteau lay on the luggage-rack, his dressing-gown hung over the monstrous arm-chair, and apart from the fact that the window was wide open at the bottom and the bed was unslept in, there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.

Marcus looked round sleepily. ‘What an extraordinary thing,' he said. ‘Oh, well, Alice, I suppose he knows what he's doing. How about Mr George Faraday? Have you been in to him yet?'

‘No, sir. The door was locked. I've knocked, but I can't make him hear. I expect he's sleeping heavy after – well, after last night, sir.'

‘Very likely,' agreed Marcus grimly. ‘Wait a minute. I put the key in my pocket, I think. Mr Campion and I locked him in last night. Look here, you go and mix him up a stiff Worcester sauce and I'll get the key.'

‘Oh, don't you trouble, sir. All the keys on this floor fit. I'll mix Mr George the same as Mr Andrew used to have.'

‘I'll wait for you here,' said Marcus. ‘I think I had better take it in.'

As the woman went off down the corridor to the service stairs he strolled over to Campion's window and stood looking out. He was a man who hated mysteries, and he felt unduly resentful at what he could only feel was an unnecessary piece of theatre. After all, there was no reason why Campion shouldn't have said he was going out. In one way, Marcus was glad. It would give him an opportunity to wake the nauseous George himself. No man is at his best on the morning after such an indulgence, and Marcus was young enough to enjoy the prospect of seeing Cousin George a little sorry for himself, and perhaps, even, of using a little unnecessary force in waking him.

When Alice returned with a tray, on which stood a glass containing an unappetizing brown concoction, he took it from her, and detaching the key from Campion's room, fitted it in the lock of George's door. He knocked and listened. There was no response from within, and he knocked again. Receiving no reply, it was with some satisfaction that he turned the key, and, throwing open the door, went in, Alice at his elbow.

He was confronted by the yellow gleam of electric light, and his irritation increased. He thrust out his hand and switched off the current as a smothered scream from Alice made him spin round to find her staring horror-stricken at the sight before them.

The room was in chaos. Books, garments, bedclothes were strewn recklessly over the floor. In the midst of them, lying face downwards, his body contorted in the most horrible and unnatural position, was Cousin George.

There was no doubt that he was dead. His body seemed to have been petrified in the midst of some terrible convulsion.

Marcus, dazed and a little sick, stepped forward unsteadily, and as he bent over the body there came to him the strong unmistakable smell of bitter almonds. He drew back and turned to Alice, who, white-faced and grim, had closed the door behind her with commendable presence of mind. She laid her fingers to her lips.

‘Hush, sir,' she whispered. ‘Don't frighten the house. What is it?'

‘He's dead,' said Marcus stupidly.

‘I can see that,' said Alice. ‘How did he come by it?'

‘Poison, I think,' he said huskily. ‘I don't know. We must get the police, Alice. Good God! Another murder!'

The realization of it came to him in a sudden chaotic vision. The whole ghastly procession of the law presented itself to his mind: the police in the house again, the endless questioning, the inquest, the Press campaign, Kitty in the witness-box, William in the witness-box, Joyce and Campion, all of them questioned, cross-questioned, perhaps even suspected.

Alice's voice cut into his jumble of thoughts. ‘You mustn't frighten the mistress. What shall we do, sir?'

‘Telephone to the police station,' said Marcus. ‘Inspector Oates is still in the town, I believe. Yes, that's right, Alice, telephone.'

‘We haven't got the machine in the house, sir. Shall I go down to Mrs Palfrey's? We've been borrowing hers lately.'

This trivial difficulty sobered the young man more quickly, perhaps, than anything else would have done. He began to think clearly.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘we'll relock this door and I'll go and dress. You go down to Mrs Palfrey's and ring up the police. Inspector Redgrave is in charge, I expect, at this time. Ask him if Inspector Oates is still in the town, and if so tell him from me that I should be very much obliged if he would come down here, as something most unexpected has occurred. If you are sure that no one of the Palfrey household is within earshot, tell him what has happened. Anyway, get him to see that he must come at once. Can you do that?'

She nodded, and he felt suddenly grateful for her wonderful stolidity. She turned on the electric light.

‘What are you doing that for?'

‘We'll leave it just as it was if you don't mind, sir. Come along.'

He followed her out of the room, relocked the door, and returned the key to Campion's room.

‘I'll go and dress now, then,' he said, and stopped abruptly. Alice had already gone.

As he struggled into his clothes he experienced that sudden clarity of mind which so often comes just before the nerves reach their breaking-point. Another murder had been committed. Therefore a murderer was at large. In the business of the inquest he had rather lost sight of this all-important point, but the question remained. If Uncle William had no stain upon his character, who had? George had come to the house with a story which no one but Mrs Caroline Faraday appeared to have believed. George had made an accusation. He had stated that he knew who had murdered Andrew. Now he was dead. Was it possible that Julia's hitherto motiveless murder could be explained by the fact that she knew something? The ranks were getting thin.

He found himself reviewing Kitty's position, and then old Mrs Faraday's. The older woman alone had credited George's story, yet she had been driving home in her four-wheeler with Joyce at the time when Andrew was presumed to have met his death. The same excuse applied to Kitty. Even though Julia was dead, there was still young Christmas to prove that she had not left the car from the time she had come out of church to the moment when he set her down at Socrates Close.

Marcus's mind returned to William. Mrs Finch, of ‘The Red Bull', had proved to everyone's satisfaction where William had been at the time of Uncle Andrew's death, if Andrew had died from the shot which the cottager on the Granchester Road had heard. But supposing Andrew had not died at that time? Then the whole exasperating problem began all over again.

And now there was another murder. It never occurred to Marcus to put any other construction upon the fate of the terrible twisted thing in the wrecked room. He felt dizzy. His
orderly mind revolted at the inexplicable. His father's words returned to him with startling force: ‘I wondered when the bad blood in that family was going to tell.' What bad blood? Whose bad blood? It was as though the old house was cracking up under his eyes.