Police at the Funeral (33 page)

This, then, was what Campion had been afraid of. Yes, and where was he? It was not like Campion to disappear, to go off without any word of explanation. He struggled into his coat and went downstairs.

As he entered the hall he ran into Alice. She seemed relieved to see him.

‘Oh, sir,' she said breathlessly, ‘I was just coming up. I've been on the phone. Inspector Redgrave is coming down right away, and so is Inspector Oates. And, oh, sir, I spoke to Mr Campion.'

‘Campion? Where?' said Marcus in astonishment.

‘Oh the phone, sir. He was at the police station. Mrs Palfrey's maid was in the hall, so I didn't like to say what had happened, but when the Inspector realized I was hesitating, he said “Wait a minute”, and then I heard Mr Campion's voice. And oh, sir' – she looked at Marcus with genuine mystification in her brown eyes – ‘Mr Campion seemed to expect something, for he said “Quick, Alice, who is it?” And so I just said “Mr George, sir.”'

‘Yes,' said Marcus eagerly. ‘What did Campion say?'

‘He said “Thank God”, sir,' said Alice.

MARCUS WAS STILL
in the hall when Inspector Oates's red two-seater, followed by the official police car, drew up outside the front door, and Campion, backed by Oates, Inspector Redgrave and the police doctor, came hurrying in. In spite of his apprehension and the cold feeling of doom which had taken possession of him, Marcus was a little shocked by Mr Campion's appearance. He wore a raincoat much too large for him,
smacking strongly of the police, which was buttoned up to his throat, and he was the possessor also of a remarkably fine black eye. For the rest, he was hatless and his fair hair was dishevelled.

There was something in his manner, however, which suggested triumph rather than despair. He took Marcus's arm.

‘Who knows yet?' he said.

‘No one except Alice and I,' said Marcus.

‘That's splendid. Where did it happen. In his room?'

Marcus nodded. He was bewildered. As Alice had said, it was rather as though Mr Campion had expected this appalling development.

Inspector Oates, he noticed, did not share Mr Campion's air of suppressed satisfaction. He came forward now and spoke quietly.

‘If you'll go first, Mr Featherstone, we'll go straight up to the room. The household will have to be told immediately, but I don't want to alarm anyone.'

As they mounted the stairs Marcus turned to Campion. ‘Where have you been?' he whispered.

‘Brawling,' said Mr Campion. ‘I don't want to raise your hopes, but I think we know now. I'll tell you about it later.'

He stumbled on the top stair, and Marcus, suddenly catching sight of his face by the light of the upper hall, realized that he was almost dropping with fatigue.

As the procession came to a full stop outside George's room, Uncle William's door opened, and a pink and military figure in a dragon-infested dressing-gown appeared upon the threshold. For some seconds he stared in astonishment, but as he caught sight of the Inspector fitting a key into George's door an expression of satisfaction spread over his face.

‘So you've seen the wisdom of my suggestion at last and sent for the police,' he said. ‘It's high time that fellow was under lock and key, the drunken scoundrel. God bless my soul, Campion. What have you done to your face? Had a scrap with the bounder?'

With his hand on the door the Inspector paused irresolute. He had no liking for William, and now, he felt, was no time for explanations.

‘I shall have to ask you to remain in your room, sir, for a few minutes at any rate,' he said, adopting his most official tone, ‘and I should like to have a few words with you later.'

Uncle William stared at him, his pink face growing slowly puce with indignation.

‘D'you realize you're ordering me about in my own house?' he said. ‘I didn't know the police could bully a man in his own house at eight o'clock in the morning. You attend to your duty, my man. There's your quarry, in there.'

He retreated into his room, slamming the door behind him.

The Inspector sighed, and turned the key in the lock of George's room. The little procession followed him. He paused just inside the door and the others edged in behind him. Not until the door was closed did he speak.

‘Is this exactly how you found him?'

‘Exactly,' said Marcus. ‘I didn't go much nearer than this. You see – well, can't you smell anything?'

‘Cyanide,' said the little doctor, who stood on the Inspector's right. ‘It's very strong. Tell it a mile off. Precious little I can do for you, Inspector. Can I make my examination right away, or do you want to take photographs?'

Stanislaus Oates turned to Campion. ‘Here's your chance, my lad,' he said. ‘If you're right, prove it now.'

Campion stepped forward cautiously, avoiding the debris with which the floor was littered.

A sudden frenzied knocking on the door checked him as Aunt Kitty's voice, shrill and imperative, came to them through the panelling.

‘What is it? What's happened? I demand to know.'

Campion turned to Marcus. ‘Go and quieten her, there's a good chap,' he said. ‘And don't let her get in, for God's sake.'

Marcus had no choice but to obey, and he went unwillingly from the room. Inspector Redgrave edged the door open for him and held it firm, so that any sudden rush from the distracted woman without might be withstood.

As Marcus came out into the corridor Aunt Kitty fell into his arms. Her blue woollen dressing-gown was fastened up to her throat, and it seemed that she had been alarmed in the midst of her hairdressing, for although the front curls were
released from their papers and neatly arranged, the back was in disarray.

‘Marcus,' she said, ‘what's happened? What are they doing to George?'

Gently, but exerting a certain amount of force nevertheless, Marcus led the old lady back towards her room, doing his best to calm her piteous outbursts. As they passed William's door his choleric face appeared again. Seeing no more formidable person than Marcus and his sister, he emerged and joined them.

‘If that scoundrel is putting up any opposition,' he began, ‘I'd be glad to do anything I could. What's happened, my boy? Won't the ruffian stir?'

Marcus was debating what would be the best way to break the news, which after all must come out sooner or later, when Great-aunt Caroline's door opened and Joyce came hurrying out.

‘What's the matter?' she demanded. ‘What's happened? Great-aunt wants to know.'

They were standing in the upper hall now, and Aunt Kitty would be denied no longer.

‘I must know,' she said. ‘Some other horror is upon us. I can feel it. I warned that young man. . . .' She began to cry again.

‘Oh, Aunt Kitty, darling!' There was a hint of exasperation in Joyce's voice, but she put an arm round the older woman soothingly. ‘Now then, Marcus,' she said, ‘what is it?'

‘Cousin George is dead,' said Marcus baldly, forgetting his intention to break the news gently.

‘Dead?' said Uncle William, his jaw dropping open. ‘Good God!' It took him some seconds to assimilate this information, but when the first shock was over he suddenly smiled. ‘Fell down in a drunken fit, I'll be bound,' he said. ‘And serve him right. Damned good job. Save us no end of trouble.'

Aunt Kitty, who held the belief of her generation that death immediately sanctified the most unredeemed of rogues, began to sob afresh. Joyce caught Marcus's arm just as he was turning away.

‘Is that true?' she demanded. ‘Did he die naturally, or . . .?'

‘Poisoned, I think,' said Marcus, whose finesse had left him entirely. ‘Don't be frightened.'

The girl drew back from him, her face working. ‘Another,' she said huskily. ‘Where's it going to end?'

‘Eh?' said Uncle William, whose slower wits had only just grasped the inference of Marcus's last remark. ‘Poisoned? You don't mean to say that someone gave the fellow a dose of something? Not another mystery? This is too much. It's damnable. Someone'll get into a lot of trouble for this.' He stopped abruptly, his mouth hanging open. ‘Good God!' he said again.

Aunt Kitty emitted a sound which indicated that she would have screamed had she had sufficient strength to do so. But chronic hysteria is exhausting and, having dwelt in that state for well-nigh a fortnight, her nerves were numbed, and she hung limply on Joyce's arm crying weakly, strands of thin grey hair straggling over her blue dressing-gown.

A heavy step behind them in the corridor made them turn to find Inspector Redgrave approaching them, his good-tempered, square-cut face alight with friendly interest.

‘Mr William Faraday and Mr Marcus Featherstone,' he said, ‘we should be very much obliged if you would step along to the bedroom down here, gentlemen. Inspector Oates has a question to ask.'

Marcus shot an inquiring glance at Joyce, and she nodded. ‘We'll be all right,' she said.

The atmosphere of the late Uncle Andrew's bedroom was singular for a chamber of death. Inspector Oates, his grey face flushed, stood in the centre of the room looking down at something which the doctor held in a white handkerchief. Cousin George's body lay upon the bed covered with a sheet. But the atmosphere was not the one of constraint and terror which Marcus expected. The faint air of triumph, of finality, which had been noticeable in Campion's demeanour earlier that morning was here intensified. It had spread to the others. Nor was Cousin George the object of interest which one might have expected in the circumstances.

As Marcus and William entered, the Inspector was speaking, and they caught his last words.

‘Well, we know now,' he was saying. ‘There's just this last point. Ah, Mr Faraday, here you are.'

Uncle William, who was bearing up wonderfully considering
the shock he had just received, stumbled into the room, his gaze resting fascinated upon the shapeless mass on the bed.

Campion, who had been seated listlessly in a chair on the far side of the room, now rose. At a sign from the Inspector he spoke.

‘Uncle William,' he said, forgetting in his eagerness the more ceremonious form of address, ‘we are on the last lap of this mystery, and we appeal to you, all of us, for your assistance and co-operation.'

This was hardly the way Inspector Oates would have put it, but he was forced to admit that it probably saved a lot of time. Uncle William rose like a salmon to a fly.

‘My boy,' he said warmly, ‘you can count on me. This is a bad business – a very bad business. George was a bounder. Ought to have been hanged. But I don't like to see him lying dead under my own roof, poor fellow.'

‘That cat,' said Mr Campion wearily. ‘You were in here, in your Cousin Andrew's room, weren't you, when it scratched you?'

Uncle William's little round eyes flickered as his mind fluttered round the possible ramifications contained in this direct question. However, as he said himself, when beaten Uncle William was a sportsman.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, I was.'

‘When you came in here that night, letting yourself in with the key from your own door, you did not turn on the light, did you?' the tired voice continued.

‘No,' said Uncle William cautiously.

‘Exactly what happened, then?' said Mr Campion.

Uncle William hesitated and glanced about him, and Inspector Oates made haste to reassure him.

‘No word of what you tell us will ever go beyond this room, I give you my word, sir,' he said.

It was unfortunately typical of Uncle William that he should accept this extraordinarily handsome concession as though he were conferring the favour and not the policeman.

‘Very proper,' he said. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Campion, my boy, I was a bit rattled that night, if you remember, and
when a man's rattled he needs a drink. I believe I said something to you about it just before I went to bed?'

‘You did,' said Mr Campion, tactfully refraining from reminding him of the exact nature of his remark.

‘Good,' said Uncle William, and paused, considering how best to get over the more delicate parts of his story. ‘After I had undressed,' he began at last, ‘I felt I must have a night-cap. I knew that the decanter downstairs was empty, and I didn't want to go stumbling about waking the household, don't you know. Then I suddenly remembered that old Andrew, my cousin, who was a bit of a toper, between ourselves, had a parcel of trick books among this lot over here.' He waved his hand to the bookcase opposite him. ‘They were brought from America and were made to conceal cigarettes and flasks and other odds and ends.'

He paused, gratified. The others were listening to him with breathless attention.

‘In one of these copies,' he continued, ‘that big brown book over there, I think, Andrew used to keep a spot of brandy. There's a sort of box inside the book, if you understand me. Well, it just occurred to me that old Andrew might possibly have left something in that flask, and realizing that he wouldn't need it any more, poor fellow, I thought I'd come in and get it. The key of my door fits this door, so I let myself in quietly. I didn't switch the light on because I didn't want to alarm the policemen who I understood were posted in the garden. The curtains were drawn, but you never know when a chink's going to show.'

He glanced at them belligerently, on guard for any sign of a smile, but they were all much too interested in his story.

‘You came in here in the dark, then,' said Campion. ‘Did you go over to the bookcase?'

‘Yes,' admitted Uncle William. ‘I thought I could find it in the dark. I knew where it was, you see. I came quietly across the room, like this.'

He imitated his progress, advancing gingerly towards the bookcase. When he was within a couple of feet of it he stopped and turned to them.