Mr Kettle got up, picked up his bowler hat, and walked quietly out of the room.
Campion turned to Isopel and Marlowe and spoke with genuine contrition. ‘Will you forgive me for making you listen to all that?’ he said. ‘But I had to do it to find out how much the local Sherlock knew.’
‘Then what do you make of these?’ Marlowe indicated the soaking garments.
‘An extraordinary bad fake on somebody’s part,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I never saw such amateur work. This isn’t your New York friends: it looks more like home product to me. I suppose you haven’t been offering a reward by any chance?’
‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘But you can’t get away from it, Campion,’ he broke out. ‘That’s the suit he was wearing.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Campion. ‘That’s the only thing that makes it interesting. I think if you’ll excuse me I’ll go down to the village and make a few investigations.’
‘Are you going to interview Kettle again?’ Biddy spoke curiously.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Mr Campion. He smiled at her. ‘He’s not the only interesting character in the place.’
16 The Wheels Go Round
GILES AND ISOPEL were sitting in the window-seat in the morning-room, holding hands.
The sunlight poured in upon them, and the village of Mystery Mile was as peaceful as if nothing untoward had ever happened upon the whole island. They were alone. Biddy was at the Dower House, and Mr Campion off once more upon his investigations in the village.
The rustle of car wheels outside on the drive startled the two, and Isopel, who caught a fleeting glance of a putty-coloured body and crimson wings, turned to Giles looking uttery dismayed.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘He’s come back!’
‘Who? Your father?’ Giles was ever more physically than mentally alert.
‘No. That was Mr Barber.’
The young squire bounced to his feet.
‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘What cheek that chap has! I’ll kick him out.’
He advanced towards the door, but it was opened before he reached it. Mr Barber, complete with satchel and the most important smile imaginable, appeared upon the threshold.
‘Mr Paget,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you.’
Giles, taken completely off his guard, reddened and glanced sheepishly at Isopel.
‘I don’t know how you knew –’ he began. But Mr Barber was still talking. ‘My boy, I have the proof – the proof positive. The thing’s genuine. I should like to arrange for the sale with you.’
It was only at this moment that Giles realized that he had been mistaken and that Mr Barber was not talking about the all-important subject of which his own mind was full.
Isopel slipped her arm through his. ‘It’s the picture, dear,’ she whispered.
‘Of course I’m talking about the picture,’ said Mr Barber testily. ‘Come and see it for yourselves.’ He bustled out of the room as he spoke, leading them into the cool drawing-room on the other side of the house.
The portrait hung over the mantelpiece: a long-dead Mistress Paget, who smiled at them with foolish sweetness from out of her monstrous gold frame. She wore a diaphanous scarf over her golden hair, and one slender hand caressed a little white dog who nestled in the folds of her oyster-coloured gown.
Mr Barber was visibly excited. ‘As soon as I saw it,’ he said, his eyes watering profusely, ‘I said to myself, “This is the moment of my career. Here is an undiscovered Romney, one of the finest I have ever seen.” I must see Judge Lobbett immediately and make my report. I’m afraid my little Cotmans sink into obscurity beside this master.’
‘Look here,’ said Giles, managing to get a word in when Mr Barber paused to breathe, ‘this is all very fine but you don’t seem to understand. We can’t be bothered with little things like this just now. You don’t appear to have grasped the fact that Mr Lobbett has disappeared. Naturally we can’t consider doing anything till he’s found.’
‘Disappeared?’ said Mr Barber, the fact apparently dawning on him for the first time.
‘Yes,’ said Giles irritably. ‘And his blood-stained clothes were found in a pool yesterday.’
The effect upon Mr Barber was extraordinary. His mouth fell open, his eyes bulged, and he sat down suddenly upon the edge of a chair as if his feet would not support him.
‘I didn’t believe you,’ he said blankly. ‘I thought you were all joking with me. So many people are afraid of anyone who might want to sell them a picture. I thought Mr Lobbett was away on some visit. When Mr Campion and young Lobbett gave me the slip in London they were joking. Campion jokes so often. This is terrible – terrible! Where are the police?’
Giles hesitated, and then spoke stiffly. ‘We decided that there was no need for them at present.’
Mr Barber raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, then, I see you know where he is?’ he said. ‘You thought it would be best for him to disappear for a little while?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Giles. ‘But we’ve the finest – er – private detective in the world investigating for us.’
Mr Barber appeared to be quite as much bewildered as before. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘But in these circumstances, for whom am I acting? I mean,’ he added a little helplessly, ‘what is my position here?’
The easy-going good-tempered Giles relented. ‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Suppose you go back to town tomorrow and send me in a list of your expenses?’
‘But the Romney?’ said Mr Barber, his voice rising to a squeak.
A hint of the long line of independent landowners behind him was apparent in Giles just then, as he stood squarely under the picture, his brows contracted. ‘It’s hung there for the last hundred years, and it can stay there a year or so longer if necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you, sir, that I can’t be bothered about it now.’
‘But it’s worth a fortune,’ objected Mr Barber.
‘I don’t care what it’s worth,’ said Giles stubbornly. ‘I shall have to wait until all this is settled before I think about anything else. I’ll write you then. Will that do?’
It was evident that Mr Barber felt that he was dealing with a lunatic. ‘You must forgive my insistence,’ he said with dignity, ‘but the commission. If you would allow me to take the picture –’
‘No, I’m hanged if I will,’ said Giles, his irritation returning.
‘Then let me take more photographs. There are so many people who will be interested. The expert’s tone was supplicating. I can prepare the market. Surely, surely you will not forbid me to do that?’
‘Oh, do what you like,’ said Giles, ‘only don’t move the picture.’
He put his arm through Isopel’s and was leading her out of the room when they met Marlowe in the doorway.
His dark handsome face was more than usually serious.
‘Seen Biddy?’ he asked.
‘She’s down at the Dower House,’ said Giles. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘No. That’s all right.’ Marlowe did not stop, but hurried on his way, leaving the young man engrossed in Isopel and Mr Barber standing before the Romney, his pudgy feet well apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and upon his face an expression of rapt, almost idolatrous, admiration.
Fifteen minutes later found Marlowe striding across the park, where he encountered Mr Campion. The pale foolish-looking young man came along thoughtfully, whistling plaintively to himself.
‘Hullo,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve just thought of something. Listen –
As Sir Barnaby Rowbotham died,
He turned and he said to his maid,
The Albert Memurrial
Is the place for my burrial,
The first on the left, just inside.
There’s uplift for you. It’s the message that counts.’
Marlowe did not appear to have heard. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘have you seen Biddy?’
Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘No
soul for Higher Things,’ he murmured. ‘No, I’ve been sleuthing about the village, and I believe that I have lighted upon something.’ He paused. ‘You’re not listening to me,’ he said regretfully.
‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘I’m sorry, Campion, and I don’t want to make a fuss, but I can’t find Biddy anywhere. She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
Marlowe glanced up to find Campion staring at him. His vacuous face was transformed by an expression of puzzled consternation and incredulity.
‘Absurd,’ he said at last. ‘How long have you been looking for her?’
‘All the morning,’ said Marlowe. ‘The fact is,’ he went on, the words blurring a little in his embarrassment, ‘she’d promised to meet me. We were going down to the Saddleback Creek. But this isn’t – ordinary caprice. She’s not that sort of kid.’
Mr Campion shot him a swift glance.
‘No,’ he said quietly, and was silent.
‘But she’s gone. I tell you I’ve been everywhere. I’ve asked everybody. She hasn’t been seen all the morning. Cuddy says that she last saw her after breakfast when she went into the drawing-room to write letters.’
‘Letters?’ Campion spun round on the word. Behind his spectacles his pale eyes had become narrow and hard. ‘Are you sure?’ he said, and his voice was more serious than Marlowe had ever heard it.
‘Why, yes,’ he went on. ‘Cuddy says that she went straight in to her desk first thing after breakfast. Why –’
‘Come on,’ said Mr Campion. He was already heading for the village at a brisk trot.
‘Ought to be shot!’ he said breathlessly to Marlowe as they raced over the slippery turf together. ‘Never dreamed they’d act so soon. Was coming back to hold a committee meeting. Taking my time over it.’
When they reached the park gates he came to a halt.
‘I think, just to make sure that we’re not making fools of ourselves, we’ll drop into the Dower House,’ he said. ‘Cuddy may have made a mistake. This looks very nasty, Marlowe.’
They hurried across the green and into the Dower House where Cuddy met them in the hall. The old woman was red-faced and annoyed.
‘Have you seen Miss Biddy, sir?’ she said, fixing on Campion. ‘She was coming into the kitchen to give me a hand with the huffikins at twelve o’clock,’ she said, ‘and here have I been waiting with my oven hot and the dough spoiling for the last three-quarters of an hour. I suppose I’d better get on with them alone.’
The apprehension in Mr Campion’s pale eyes deepened.
‘I was looking for Biddy, myself, Cuddy,’ he said. ‘When did you see her last?’ Marlowe had gone on into the drawing-room, and the old woman glanced after him.
‘I told Mr Lobbett,’ she said: ‘not since just after breakfast.’ Her quick eyes took in Campion’s expression, and she came a little closer to him. ‘Looks like you ain’t goin’ to have no chance,’ she said, dropping her voice confidentially. ‘Be more serious-like. You can’t tell what’s goin’ to please a girl.’
Campion did not smile. ‘May the best man win, you know, Cuddy,’ he said with apparent gravity.
‘Yes, and I’m afraid he will,’ said she. ‘When you see Miss Biddy tell her I couldn’t wait no longer.’
She bustled off, and Campion hurried after Marlowe.
‘She must have been writing here,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the open inkstand, the sheets of notepaper carelessly strewn about, and the empty stamp book lying on the polished wood. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Campion, if anything happens to that girl, I’ll commit murder.’
‘That,’ said Mr Campion, ‘is the spirit. Come on.’
17 ‘Gent on a Bike’
THE INTERIOR OF Mr Kettle’s shop, which was also the post office of Mystery Mile, provided one of those scenes of mingled profusion and constriction which can be equalled only by any other English village general shop. The whole place was hardly more than ten feet square, a little low room into which customers stepped down some inches from the garden path.
The wide counter divided the room in half, and over it, from floor to ceiling, the entire stock of bacon, hardware, boiled sweets, flypapers, bread, and groceries were displayed without any attempt at order.
The post office consisted of a wired-off enclosure at one end of the counter, the iron rail of which was decorated with licencing notices and pension forms.
An open doorway at the back of the shop revealed a glimpse of a small neat room decorated with a particularly unlovely grey-and-green wallpaper, a pair of aspidistras, and a model of a white horse given away with a whisky advertisement.
It was through this doorway that Mr Kettle advanced upon Campion and Marlowe as they stepped down into the shop.
A change in him was apparent immediately.
His pallor was even more striking than before, and there was a slightly shifty, troubled look in his pale eyes.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he said, the nervousness in his voice unmistakable. Marlowe leaned across the counter, when a touch on his arm restrained him.
‘Miss Paget left her purse in here, she thinks, Mr Kettle,’ said Campion pleasantly. ‘We shall have to have all this cleared away, you know’ – he waved his hand at the miscellaneous collection round him, and rambled on foolishly. ‘Where’s the exit in case of fire? Most dangerous, all this litter about the place. Now where’s that purse?’
‘She didn’t leave anything ’ere, sir.’ Mr Kettle’s voice was emphatic.
‘Fine!’ said Campion with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Now we know where we are. Is she still in the house?’
Mr Kettle did not look at him, and Marlowe suddenly noticed that he was squinting horribly. He was standing perfectly still, his great flabby hands spread out upon the counter. Campion bent a little nearer and repeated his question softly.
‘Is she still in the house?’
A thin stream of saliva trickled out of the corner of Mr Kettle’s mouth, and Marlowe, who until now had been utterly bewildered, realized with a shock that the man was paralyzed with terror. The sight nauseated him, but Campion was less impressed.
‘Don’t be a fool, Kettle,’ he said sharply. ‘We’ve only got to turn you over to the police. Better save a lot of bother and take us to her at once.’
The effect of this threat upon the man was as startling as his terror had been. He started back from them with an angry sound that was midway between a snarl and a hiccough. His fear had turned to a peculiarly vindictive type of satisfaction.
‘That’s right! Bring in the police!’ he said with unexpected violence. ‘Search the ’ouse! Turn me ’ole shop upside down. Stick your noses into every ’ole and corner of the place. And when you’ve finished that I shall ’ave something to say to the police. Where’s Mr Lobbett, eh? ’Oo ’ushed up the parson’s suicide? Why didn’t you show them clothes to the police? You daren’t bring the police ’ere! You . . .!’
The outburst came to an end at last, and a transformed Mr Kettle stood glaring at them across the two feet of worn counter. Gone and forgotten was his servility.
Mr Campion seemed entirely unmoved. He stood, his hands in his pockets, looking if anything a little more strikingly inane than usual. ‘It wouldn’t be the Heronhoe police,’ he said. ‘I think the county people would be interested.’
Mr Kettle remained unimpressed. ‘No police will worry me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing ’ere to ’ide.’
‘Good!’ said Campion. ‘Now we understand one another better than ever.’ His next remark seemed entirely casual. ‘You sell biscuits, I see, Mr Kettle?’
Marlowe glanced at his friend questioningly, only to find that he was regarding the postmaster fixedly. The young American was not prepared for the third change in Mr Kettle: his terror returned, and he looked at the pale young man before him in blank astonishment.
‘There, there,’ said Mr Campion soothingly. ‘Here’s a nice old lady coming down the path, Kettle. Pull yourself together. She’ll want
to be served. No self-respecting woman will buy a stamp off you if you squint like that.’
He had hardly finished speaking when Alice Broom came rustling into the shop. She nodded to the two young men.
‘Soda, please, Mr Kettle,’ she said. ‘Nice after the rain, isn’t it? How’s your pore feet today?’ She was evidently in a talkative mood, and Campion seemed disposed to pander to it.
‘I’ve been telling Mr Kettle he doesn’t look any too bobbish,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Alice? Excitement isn’t healthy, is it?’
‘I don’t know what excitement he’ll be gettin’ down ’ere,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with un, too,’ she added, the thought suddenly occurring to her. ‘I sent round last night askin’ for a box to keep my rarebits in. ’E wouldn’t let I have un, an’ I seed he this mornin’ packin’ off crate after crate into that biscut van.’
Campion turned to Marlowe. ‘Another Old English custom for you,’ he said. ‘We have our biscuits here by the crate.’
Alice shook her head at him. ‘’E’s makin’ game on you, sir,’ she said. ‘Biscuts come in tins. Yes, biscuts come in tins.’
She repeated the phrase with a certain amount of satisfaction, and waddled out of the shop with a cheerful ‘Good-day, sirs.’
Campion beamed at Mr Kettle. ‘Biscuits come in tins,’ he said. ‘And Mr Kettle returns the empty crates. That’s very interesting. I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t send a special van from London for them, eh?’
Mr Kettle moistened his lips. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been ’earing –’ he began desperately.
Campion grinned. ‘Our Albert hasn’t been hearing anything – he’s been seeing,’ he said. ‘Suppose we go into that artistic little room through there, and go into the whole question peacefully and without fear of interruption?’
Mr Kettle did not move, nor did he make any protest when Marlowe lifted the counter flap and the two young men walked into the inner room.
‘Come in,’ said Campion pleasantly, holding the door open for him.
The postmaster followed them silently. Campion shut the door behind him and set a chair. ‘I don’t suppose the windows will open,’ he observed. ‘What a pity, Kettle! You’d have got the smell of chloroform out by this time. As it is, I should think it would linger for days.’
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