His companion smiled at him. ‘You were damned lucky to come out of that as well as you did,’ he said. ‘You were always lucky.’
‘I’m very grateful to the boys for getting me out of it so quietly,’ murmured Campion with genuine gratitude. He sighed. ‘I was afraid I was going to get a medal.’
‘More kicks than ha’pence in our job,’ said the other. ‘It’s something to lay to your credit, though. There wasn’t a doubt that it was the right man. We’ve been tracing the sources of his income among other things. Marvellous!’ he remarked dreamily, leaning forward and knocking the ashes of his pipe out on the hearth.
Campion chuckled. ‘You ought to start a copybook, Stanis,’ he said. ‘But I really thought I was for it that time when I fell through the floor. I recited God Save the King, sang the old school song, muttered the family motto – “No Rubbish to be Shot Here” – and passed out. Any further developments in the Datchett case?’
‘Lugg told me I wasn’t to talk shop.’
The man from Scotland Yard looked round him nervously. Lugg, in his new role as hospital attendant, was a truly terrifying personage. As he was nowhere in sight the man continued softly.
‘I wanted to tell you about that,’ he said. ‘He went to pieces at his trial – I don’t suppose you’ve seen the papers. He got the limit. I don’t think there’ll be any appeal either. We got all the witnesses we wanted from the Maplestone Hall affair. There was no need to go into that other business.’
Campion glanced up sharply. ‘Swithin Cush?’
The other man nodded.
‘That was interesting if you like,’ he said. ‘In the house at Kensington there were masses of stuff dealing with all sorts of things. Wherever possible we bunged the papers back to the right owners and said no more about it. We’re not out to stir up scandals. We got our man where we wanted him, and that was right enough. But the old man had his secret all right. The last thing you’d guess in a thousand years. He wasn’t a parson.’
Campion stared at him.
‘He wasn’t a parson?’ he repeated blankly. ‘They’ve pulled your leg again, Stanis.’
‘No. It’s quite true.’ The other man shook his head. ‘An impersonation story fifty years old. There were two brothers – Swithin Cush just ordained, Welwyn Cush, too poor to take the ‘varsity course. Swithin died, apparently quite suddenly, from heart trouble. The two brothers were living alone together in rooms in Kensington. The dead man had just been appointed to his first curacy in a Norfolk village. The younger man had a great friend in the daughter of the house, and it was she, I fancy, who put the idea up to him. He allowed the dead man to be buried in his name, and took his job. There was only a year between the brothers, and they seem to have resembled each other very closely. No one appears to have doubted Welwyn for a moment and the years slipped by as they do in the country. The life was congenial to him, the vicar liked him, and he was a great favourite with the parishioners. Five or six years later he was appointed to Mystery Mile, and his history there I suppose you know much better than I do. The older he got the safer he was. The only person who knew his secret was the woman in Kensington. She died only about a year or so ago. Her name was Aggie Saunders, and very much the class of person you’d imagine.’ He glanced at Campion, who was sitting forward in his chair, his eyes goggling. He continued.
‘She could not resist reminding him from time to time of the power she held over him by deliberately referring to the secret in long rambling letters to him. He replied to these imploring her not to write anything so incriminating.
‘I fancy that she found that a letter on this subject invariably brought a reply from him, and therefore harped upon it shamelessly. When she felt that her time was drawing to an end she packed up all these letters of his and sent them to him, choosing, by extraordinary bad luck, the first week of Kettle’s appointment as postmaster.
‘Kettle simply pinched the letters and packed them off to Datchett. From which time the poor old boy you knew as Swithin Cush couldn’t have had a moment’s peace. How’s that?’
Campion was silent for a moment, lost in amazement. ‘Good Lord!’ he said at last, and repeated softly, ‘Good Lord!’
‘Blackmail is the filthiest of all crimes,’ said the man from Scotland Yard. ‘I’m glad Datchett got what was coming to him.’
Campion regarded his visitor awkwardly.
‘This raises a rather delicate question re Births, Marriages, and Deaths in Mystery Mile, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘What are your people doing with the letters?’
Detective Inspector Stanislaus Oates shrugged his shoulders. He seemed almost official in his vagueness. ‘Whatever criticism anybody ever makes about Scotland Yard,’ he said, ‘they can’t call us mischief makers. We protect the peace: that’s our job. I don’t fancy we shall go into it any further. It would make a lot of unpleasantness all round, and a scandal in the Church, which is always to be avoided. I’m not an authority on ecclesiastical law – I suppose it would be a case for the archbishop if it ever came out.’
At the words ‘ecclesiastical law’ Campion pricked up his ears. For the first time he realized the meaning of the mysterious phrase in Swithin Cush’s letter to Giles: ‘In the event of any serious trouble . . . send to Alaric Watts . . . who will know the correct proceeding.’ This was the serious trouble of which the old man had been afraid.
‘Of course,’ the inspector went on, ‘the authorities may decide to take the matter to the Church. I think it would only mean some sort of minor bill being passed. It’s not an important thing now, but it was serious enough for him.’
Campion did not speak. He realized more than anyone how serious it had been for the old man, so beloved by his bigoted congregation.
‘I suppose you’re very satisfied?’ The detective inspector dismissed the subject airily. ‘Apart from your wound and the old rector’s death you’re not sorry it happened. If you hadn’t got old Lobbett and his kids down to Mystery Mile a lot of things would never have happened.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said Campion, so thoughtfully that the other man glanced at him shrewdly.
‘What’s worrying you?’ he said.
‘I had such a nice death scene,’ said Mr Campion unexpectedly. ‘I feel that the curtain’s gone up and exposed me crawling off. No more fun until the next performance, Stanis, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather be in the stalls for that.’
‘A spot of brandy’ll put you right – that’s nerves,’ said the other cheerfully, but he had made a mistake in his diagnosis.
They chatted for some time longer, and eventually the Scotland Yard man took his leave. Campion lay back in his chair and reflected upon the tragic story of Swithin Cush.
‘As perfect a parson as ever lived,’ he reflected. ‘And a damned old fraud at the same time, God bless him!’
After some time he took an envelope from his dressing-gown pocket and reopened it. Biddy’s handwriting was not of the best. It might have been a schoolgirl’s letter. He re-read it slowly:
Home.
Sunday.
MY DEAR ALBERT:
Lugg tells me you’re allowed out, in a really marvellous epistle which begins ‘Dear Madham’ and ends ‘Well duckie, I must close now’. We’re coming up to see you again on Friday. Mystery Mile looks marvellous now, all the leaves turning and apples waiting to be picked. The D’arcy Spice that St Swithin planted in the courtyard is bearing this year. They’ll be just eatable when you come down, though why you ever wanted to convalesce in London I don’t know.
The new rector is a dear. Four kids, and an exceptional wife (for a parson). He’s going to officiate on the great occasion. Only a month now. Isopel’s going to have a short frock and I’m going to have a long one. A real country do, with a party for the village and George and ’Anry as sidesmen.
Giles is going to get an awful lot for the Romney, it seems. It’s impossible to believe that that ghastly man could have been right about anything, b
ut I’m not going to write about him or anything connected with that dreadful time, although of course if it hadn’t happened I shouldn’t have found Marlowe.
I’m bursting with happiness now, but I wish you were down here with us. Giles says that we shall have to watch you or you’ll come in a Boy Scout uniform to the wedding, but you won’t will you? He says you turned up as a Salvation Army General when Bunny Wright married Lady Rachel. You won’t do anything silly this time, promise, because I mean – oh, well, please don’t, anyway.
Cuddy’s daughter had her baby, quite a beauty. Mr Lobbett (I’m beginning to call him ‘Poppa’, which seems to be American for ‘Daddy’, ‘Daddy’ meaning something else) gave it the Bounty. And (this will please you) she wanted to call the poor little beast ‘Nuptial’ because of our weddings, but we persuaded her not to, so it’s going to be called ‘Bridget Isopel’ instead.
Addlepate has got a new collar because he got the old one off and ate it, or tried to, anyhow he did it in.
There doesn’t seem to be anything more to say, although such heaps of glorious things are happening. I miss old St Swithin dreadfully. He would have enjoyed this. Alice is looking after the new people at the Rectory. And do you know I do believe Cuddy is having an affair with the new postmaster who came when Kettle went. He isn’t married, or at least not now. He has two children that Cuddy is always washing for him.
And you did all this, you wonderful old thing. Marlowe and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts and so do the others. We’ll never forget it. All the best.
Lots of love, old dear,
BIDDY
There was a postscript on her letter, written in Marlowe’s precise, educated hand:
Coming to town with this abandoned woman, Friday. Everything O.K. The dad wants to know where he can buy some more port like that ’98 stuff in the cellar. The doc says it will give him gout. He says ‘What’s gout?’
Yrs ever,
M.K.L.
The other two had signed the letter. It was a family epistle. From time immemorial Biddy’s letters had been like that – frank, unconscious affairs which anyone might read.
Campion thrust the wad of notepaper back into his pocket, and glanced up to find Mr Lugg looking down at him with lugubrious interest.
‘That’s a warnin’,’ he said. ‘There’s a moral in that, there is. Find the Lady is a Mug’s game, that’s wot this ’as shown you, and don’t you forget it neither.’
Campion ignored him.
‘Two wedding presents,’ he remarked. ‘I shall have to send you out on to the tiles again, Lugg.’
‘I wish you would,’ said that worthy with unexpected vigour. ‘Buy, buy, buy – it gives me the ’ump. That letter’s from that girl you was rather sweet on, ain’t it? You know, wot you want, if you must ’ave a woman about the place, is a nice sensible ’omely ’ospital nurse. Someone who’ll do the washin’ up for us.’
‘Shut up, Lugg,’ said Campion. ‘What about those wedding presents? Silver, I suppose.’
Lugg was dubious.
‘Don’t ’ave it inscribed, whatever you do,’ he remarked feelingly. ‘Can’t pop it, can’t sell it, no one even wants to pinch it. It does silver right in, inscribin’ does. There’s a sight too much of it these days. I’ll think of something.’
Campion remained silent for some time. ‘Lugg,’ he said at last, ‘suppose I retired? This profession of mine puts people off.’
Mr Lugg’s expression silenced him. The old lag was staring at him, his eyes bulging, his jaw dropped.
‘You’ve ’ad a relapse. I’ll mix you something.’
‘Stop!’ Campion put up his hand. ‘Don’t be a fool, Lugg. I’m serious.’
‘That’s un’ealthy in itself,’ said Lugg, and trotted out of the room.
Campion sat down again. He took the letter from his pocket and threw it into the fire. Folding his hands on his knees, he watched it burn. Then he moved restlessly in his chair. Von Faber in Broadmoor, Simister dead – for the moment he felt like Alexander, sighing for new worlds to conquer.
At this instant Lugg returned. He appeared considerably subdued, and a little troubled. In his hand he held a card.
‘Not ’arf a funny bloke outside,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘A foreigner. Shall I chuck a brick at ’im?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Campion. ‘Let’s have a look at that.’
Lugg parted with the slip of pasteboard unwillingly. A glance at it brought a sparkle in Mr Campion’s eyes, and a flush of pleasure appeared in his cheeks. He swept past Lugg and threw open the door.
In a moment he reappeared with a man about his own age, dark and distinguished-looking, with a somewhat military carriage.
They were talking together with great animation in a tongue which Mr Lugg afterwards described as ‘monkey talk.’ It was evident that they had known each other for some time.
After the first moment or so the stranger produced a letter, a massive grey-white envelope, sealed and bound with crimson tape. He bowed and withdrew a pace or two as the Englishman cut it carefully open. The single sheet of paper within was crested with the arms of a famous European royal house, but the few lines were scribbled in English:
Salutations. My dear fellow, I am in despair. State Trip to Indo-China indicated. Fed to the teeth. Could you impersonate me, as before?
Yours ever, R.
P.S. – Trouble expected, if that appeals to you. For the love of Ike (I think you call him) come and help me.
Mr Campion folded the missive carefully, and dropped it into the fire after Biddy’s. He was obviously elated. He turned to his visitor and beamed. Crossing to his desk, he wrote a few words on a sheet of notepaper and slipped it into an envelope, which he sealed carefully. Then he exchanged a few more civilities with his visitor, and the stranger departed.
As the door closed behind him Campion turned to his inquisitive aide.
‘Lugg,’ he said joyously, ‘you may kiss our hand.’
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in 1929 by Jarrold
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