Mystery Mile

by Margery Allingham

  Mr Campion turned to the rector. ‘Bring your influence to bear, St Swithin. Tell her that this is stern stuff – no place for the tender sex.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘In the words of the poet, “I do remain as neuter”,’ he said. ‘Personally, I always obey her.’

  Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘You’re making it very awkward for me,’ he said. ‘I’d never have done it if I’d dreamed that I was bringing you into it, Biddy.’

  The girl laid her hand upon his knee. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘You silly old dear, I’m with you to the death. You know that.’

  Mr Campion almost blushed, and was silent for an appreciable space of time. The rector brought him back to the subject on hand. ‘Let us be specific,’ he said. ‘No doubt you have your own dark secrets, Albert, but what are we expected to do?’

  Mr Campion plunged into the details of his scheme. ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to keep the old boy here. And that means we’ve got to keep him interested. St Swithin, I rely on you for the archaeology and whatnots. Show him the village trophies. Get out the relics of the witch burnings and polish up the stocks. Make it all bright and homely for him. Then there’s the doubtful Romney in the drawing room. Get his opinion on that. He’s a delightful old cove, but obstinate as sin.’

  He hesitated. ‘What he’s really interested in,’ he went on after a pause, ‘is actual folk-lore and superstition. Haven’t you any prize yokels who know a few ancient wisecracks? – old songs and that sort of thing?’

  Giles glanced up. ‘Plenty of those,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you, Biddy, I set George to cut down that dead thorn at the end of the home paddock this morning? When I passed by at lunchtime he grinned at me, as pleased as Punch – he’d been all the morning at it. “How are you going, George?” said I. “Foine, Master Giles,” he said, “I can cut that down quicker than that took to grow.” When I said, “So I should hope,” he seemed quite offended. We might pass him off as the original Old Saw himself.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing,’ Campion agreed. ‘But I warn you to go carefully. The old boy’s no fool. This sort of thing’s his hobby. You’d be surprised how much more the average American knows about England than we do.’

  The Reverend Swithin Cush coughed dryly. ‘There is enough here to interest a genuine antiquary for some time,’ he said. ‘How long do you expect him to stay? Is the length of his visit indefinite?’

  Mr Campion became suddenly vague. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. I’ve cracked up the place a lot, but he may give us one swift look and go home, and then bang goes little Albert’s fourpence an hour and old Lobbett’s sweet young life, most likely. Oh, I forgot. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready in time, Biddy?’

  The girl sighed. ‘Just,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a bit of a camp at the Dower House.’

  They sat discussing their plans until after midnight, when the old rector rose stiffly out of his chair.

  ‘Biddy, I’ll have my hurricane,’ he said. ‘You ought all to be in bed now if you’re going to move tomorrow.’

  The girl fetched the storm lantern, and they watched him disappearing into the darkness – a gaunt, lonely figure, his white hair uncovered, the lantern bobbing at his side like a will-o’-the-wisp.

  As they came back into the shadowy hall, Mr Campion grinned. ‘Dear old St Swithin,’ he said. ‘You’ve known him since you were muling and puking in Cuddy’s arms, haven’t you?’

  Biddy answered him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s getting old, though. Alice – that’s his housekeeper, you know – says he’s gone all Russian lately. “Like a broody hen,” she said.’

  ‘He must be hundreds of years old,’ said Albert. ‘There’s an idea in that. We might pass him off as the original St Swithin himself. Dropped in out of the rain, as it were.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ said Biddy. ‘The machinery wants a rest.’

  Up in the chintz-hung bedroom the oak floor was sloping and the cool air was fragrant with lavender, toilet soap, and beeswax. Mr Campion did not get into the four-poster immediately, but stood for some time peering out into the darkness.

  At last he drew a small, much-battered notebook from an inside pocket and scribbled ‘St S’. For some time he stood looking at it soberly, and then deliberately added a question mark.

  4 The Lord of the Manor

  ‘ALTHOUGH YOU’RE A foreigner, which can’t be helped, and therefore it ain’t loikely that you’ll be used to our ways, all the same we welcome you. We do ’ope you’ll live up to the old ways and do all you can for us.’

  The speaker paused and wiped round the inside of his New-gate fringe with a coloured handkerchief. ‘Now let’s sing a ’ymn,’ he added as an afterthought.

  He was standing by himself at the bottom of his cottage garden, his face turned towards the meadows which sloped down sleekly to the grey saltings. After a while he repeated his former announcement word for word, finishing with an unexpected ‘Morning, sir,’ as a thin, pale-faced young man with horn-rimmed spectacles appeared upon the other side of the hedge.

  ‘Morning, George,’ said Mr Campion.

  George Willsmore surveyed the newcomer thoughtfully. He was a gnarled old man, brown and nobbled as a pollarded willow, with great creases bitten into his face, which was surrounded by a thick hearthbrush of a beard. As the oldest able member of the family of which the village was mainly composed, he considered himself a sort of mayor, and his rural dignity was enhanced by a curious sententiousness of utterance.

  ‘You come upon me unawares,’ he said. ‘I was sayin’ over a few words I be goin’ to speak this afternoon.’

  ‘Really?’ Mr Campion appeared to be interested. ‘You’re thinking of making a speech of welcome, George?’

  ‘Summat like that,’ conceded the old man graciously. ‘Me and the rector was ’avin a talk. ’E was for singin’. And me bein’ churchwarden, seems only right, seems, I should do the greetin’. Him bein’ a foreigner, ’e mightn’t understand the others.’

  ‘There’s something in that, of course,’ said Mr Campion, who had followed the old man’s reasoning with difficulty.

  George continued.

  ‘I put on some new clo’es. Seems like ’tis a good idea to look smart. I be a wunnerful smart old man, don’t you think?’

  He turned himself about for Mr Campion’s inspection. He was dressed in a pair of tight corduroy trousers which had once been brown, but were now washed to creamy whiteness, a bright blue collarless gingham shirt, and one of his late master’s white waistcoats which hung loosely round his spare stomach. His straw hat, built on the Panama principle, had a black ribbon round it and a bunch of jay’s feathers tucked into the bow.

  ‘How’s that?’ he demanded with badly concealed pride.

  ‘Very fine,’ agreed the young man. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t make your speech if I were you, George. I was coming down to have a talk with you about this business. Aren’t there some customs, maypolings and whatnot, suitable for this afternoon?’

  The old man pushed back his straw hat, revealing an unexpectedly bald head, the crown of which he rubbed meditatively with the edge of his hat.

  ‘Not give the speech?’ he said with disappointment. ‘Oh well, sir, I reckon you know best. But I’d ’ave done it right well, that I would. I do be a powerful talkative old man. But the time for maypolin’s past,’ he went on, ‘and Pharisees’ Day, that ain’t come yet.’

  The young man sighed. ‘None of these – er – feasts are movable?’ he suggested hopefully.

  George shook his head. ‘No, you can’t alter they days. Not for nobody,’ he added with decision.

  Mr Campion regarded the old man with great solemnity. ‘George,’ he said, ‘take my advice and make an effort. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you could think of some sort of turnip-blessing ceremony. You’re a smart man, George.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the old man with alacrity, and remained in deep thought for some time. ‘No, there be no
thin’,’ he said at last. ‘Nothin’ but maybe the Seven Whistlers.’

  ‘Seven Whistlers?’ said Mr Campion with interest. ‘What’s that? Who are they?’

  The old man studied his hat intently for some time before replying. ‘Seven Whistlers, sir,’ he said at last. ‘No one knows if they be ghosts or Pharisees – that be fairies, if you take me. You ’ear ’em passin’ overhead about this time of year. Whistlin’. Least, you only ’ears six on ’em. The seventh’s got a kind o’ whoop in it, trailin’ away like a barn owl, terrible to ’ear, and when you ’ears that, that’s the end of the world. Only no one’s ever ’eard it yet.’

  ‘That sounds all right,’ said Mr Campion. ‘But it doesn’t get us more forrarder, does it, George?’

  An unexpectedly crafty expression appeared upon the old man’s venerable face. ‘Toime was,’ he said, ‘when the old squoire used to give a barrel o’ beer for they Seven Whistlers. Just about round this time of the year it was, now I come to think on it.’ He paused and looked at Mr Campion hopefully.

  ‘For the Seven Whistlers?’ said the young man dubiously.

  The old man broke into hasty explanations.

  ‘’Twas so, only they Seven Whistlers they never came to drink it, so it had to be drinked up by the poor, for fear of that goin’ sour.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Campion, who had begun to comprehend. ‘The poor, I suppose, were the villagers?’

  ‘Aye.’ George paused, and remarked after some consideration, ‘Master Giles and Miss Biddy most likely wouldn’t know anything about it if you asked ’em. Doubt not they ’eard o’ the Seven Whistlers, but not of the beer. You understand, sir?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Mr Campion. ‘It occurs to me, George, that you and I might get on very well together. You have the flair, if I may say so. You’ve got a brother, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh ’Anry?’ said Mr Willsmore with contempt. ‘I’m the clever one. ’Anry is not. I’m the man for you, sir.’

  Mr Campion regarded him gravely. ‘I believe you are,’ he said.

  They remained deep in conversation together for some time.

  When the young man walked back over the rough grass he was considerably easier in his mind than before. As he approached the house he was surprised to see a long black Daimler outside the oak door. He hurried forward. Biddy met him in the hall.

  ‘Albert, he’s a dear,’ she said. ‘They’re in the library with Giles now. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. They’ve been here nearly an hour. We’ve shown them all over the house and they’re just charming about it. The boy’s awfully handsome, don’t you think?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Mr Campion. ‘You should see me in my new moustache. Quite the latest thing, my dear. Only ten-three. Illusion guaranteed. I’m being ringed for it. Mother need never know.’

  ‘Jealous!’ said Biddy. ‘Come and see them.’

  He followed her down the stone-paved corridor to where the library door stood ajar.

  Judge Lobbett stood looking out across the lawn. The sun glinted on his face, on the pictures let into the panelling, and on the sherry glasses on the table.

  ‘It’s a lovely place,’ he said, turning as Albert and Biddy came in. ‘Good morning, Mr Campion. I congratulate you on your choice on our behalf.’ He turned to the young people. Biddy had crossed over to her brother and they stood together with their backs to the fireplace, looking wonderfully alike.

  ‘Seems I’m turning you out of your homestead,’ he said bluntly. ‘Are you sure you want to let?’

  Biddy smiled at him, her brown eyes meeting his gratefully.

  ‘It’s awfully nice of you to say that,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got to let. Did Albert warn you, you’ll be taking over half our responsibilities as far as the village is concerned? We just couldn’t do it as Dad did before the war. The money won’t go so far. Being squire at Mystery Mile is rather like being papa to the village.’

  The old man smiled at her. ‘I’ll like it,’ he said.

  Biddy sighed. ‘You don’t know what a relief it is to know that someone’s got the house who really likes it.’

  Judge Lobbett turned to his daughter, a slim little figure wrapped in furs. ‘If you don’t think you’ll find it too quiet –’

  Isopel glanced at him, and a faint scared smile passed over her face. ‘Not too quiet?’ she said meaningly, and a sigh escaped her.

  Meanwhile Marlowe Lobbett had crossed over to Mr Campion and the two young men stood talking together.

  ‘You weren’t followed?’ Mr Campion spoke softly.

  Marlowe shook his head. ‘I think they were waiting for us,’ he said. ‘Your policemen held up a car directly behind us. The chauffeur you found us is a genius. We got out of the city in no time. Anyone following us would have had an almighty job.’

  Biddy’s voice broke in upon their conversation. ‘We’ll leave the place to you now. You’ll find Mrs Whybrow’s prepared everything for you. She’s a wonderful housekeeper. You’ve all promised to come to dinner with us this evening, haven’t you?’ she went on, turning to Isopel. ‘The Dower House is only just across the park. Old Mr Cush, the rector, will be there. In his Sunday clothes, I hope. You ought to meet him.’

  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.

  5 The Seven Whistlers

  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 delig
hted 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.