Mr. Campion's Abdication

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Technically, the land now belongs to the farmer, Thomas Spark, but he hasn’t cleared the trees or anything, he’s kept the area around the Barrow pretty much as it was and doesn’t mind the locals walking their dogs there.’

  ‘Has Farmer Spark not been tempted to go treasure hunting on the site?’ said Campion, his spoon hovering twixt bowl and lip.

  ‘Thomas Spark’s father, sadly no longer with us, was one of the volunteer diggers organized by the vicar of Sweethearting and Thomas swears blind his father never found a thing of value there except for some bits of pottery which the museum in Ipswich got excited about but nobody else did. He said the most interesting thing about the original excavation – the only interesting thing – was the visit of the prince and Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘So he was an eyewitness,’ murmured Campion.

  ‘According to Spark family tradition, he was, and he knew them well enough from previous visits. Of course, everyone was sworn to secrecy, or at least discretion, as the visit was very unofficial, and of course Wemyss-Grendle as lord of the manor would have laid down the law on that as he and the prince were great pals when it came to point-to-pointing.’

  ‘Came to what?’ spluttered Precious Aird through a mist of breadcrumbs.

  ‘A sort of horse racing for amateurs,’ said Campion, grateful for an excuse to lay down his spoon. ‘You’d probably call it steeplechasing, but I am no student of the turf. And neither, as I remember, was Gerald Wemyss-Grendle, or at least not a very good one. Do we know if he is the only surviving eyewitness to that visit back in ’thirty-five?’

  ‘Apart from yourself, Albert,’ said Lavinia, threatening to reach for the tureen. ‘More soup? There’s only more bread and some mousetrap cheddar for dessert, though I’ve got jam … but no butter.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ Campion said quickly, ‘and I was not here when the prince was; I was merely the advance party. In fact, I was the advance party for the advance party, making sure the rooms were aired, the bedsheets not damp and there were enough fish forks to go round, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then you may well be right about Wemyss-Grendle,’ Oliver agreed, ‘as he was their host after all, though he wasn’t forthcoming on the subject.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him? I’m told he’s still in the land of the living, or at least in Frinton. I mean, he can’t be that old.’

  ‘Seventy-seven, something like that, but he hasn’t grown old gracefully.’

  Precious Aird’s lips formed a perfect O and allowed an almost silent whistle to escape. Mr Campion did his best to furrow a brow in her direction.

  ‘Why, that’s no age at all, but as I recall the Mad Major never did anything gracefully.’

  ‘You limeys! There you go again!’ exclaimed Precious. ‘You can’t decide on a name for your archaeological find, you have kings called David and Albert but you call them Edward and George, and now you have this Captain Gerald guy and suddenly he’s a major. Who promoted him?’

  ‘I suppose we must be very confusing for the foreigner,’ Campion said cheerfully, ‘which is why I’m here.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Of course. Not so much for your benefit, Precious, but to advise the film crew who will be descending upon us tomorrow. You see, they’re Italians – and what do Italians know about archaeology?’

  ‘Film crew? Tomorrow? But we’ve only just scratched the surface of the site,’ wailed Precious Aird. ‘Literally, my diggers are still clearing the underbrush and I really should get over there to help out, having had my morning disturbed by playing chauffeur for certain persons.’

  Mr Campion studied his soup bowl, suitably shamefaced.

  ‘We all had a disturbed morning, one way or another,’ Lavinia observed through tight lips.

  ‘Pity you weren’t here, Albert,’ said her husband. ‘I called the police station in Heronhoe to report the break-in and they sent one of their finest in a smart new Panda car. He made a few squiggles in a notebook, though he didn’t actually appear to know which was the business end of his pencil, and said it was probably a local tearaway or a biker boy. We do have them in Heronhoe, you know, but I couldn’t give him a decent description. The bobby said it was a pity I hadn’t used a twelve-bore instead of my little .410. That way there might have been a blood trail to follow.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Campion mused. ‘I’m not sure I approve of that advice. However, I have, purely by chance, been told by an old friend that, should there be any further incidents, the man to talk to is Inspector Robert Chamley of Suffolk CID.’

  Campion and Precious exchanged meaningful glances across the dining-room table – the sort of glances which signalled that all there was to say about Mr Campion’s friend had been said.

  ‘This film crew of yours,’ said Lavinia, eyeing Campion carefully, ‘we’re not expected to feed and house them as well, are we? Precious and her three diggers are of course very welcome to camp in the Orangery. That was agreed at the start, but we weren’t expecting …’

  Mr Campion put down his spoon as if lowering a dumbbell. ‘My dear child, worry ye not. My film people do not have any Hollywood airs or graces about them and they have found suitable digs in Heronhoe. There are only three of them – a cameraman, a soundman and a director, and they have their own transport, which could be useful until my wife allows me the use of my car again.’

  ‘I don’t mind driving you around in the VW microbus,’ said Precious, ‘that is, if you don’t mind being seen riding in it.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Campion. ‘It seems to be the perfect vehicle for transporting the diggers to and from the site and, as for myself, I rather like the idea of being mistaken for an ageing hippy.’

  ‘I’m sorry we don’t have a car to put at your disposal, Albert, but the running costs are beyond us at the moment. Lavinia and I get around on bicycles in the summer …’

  ‘And in the winter months we simply don’t go anywhere,’ Lavinia said with a grimace, ‘except to the shops.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Mr Campion, rising from the table. ‘May I borrow your telephone?’

  ‘Of course, it’s in the study.’

  ‘If it’s still connected,’ said Lavinia, adding a weary postscript to her husband’s offer.

  ‘What I meant to say,’ said a blushing Oliver, ‘was that it was a good thing you thought of hiring that VW for Precious and her gang, otherwise they would have had a torrid time pushing wheelbarrows and their shovels and things over to Sweethearting and back every day.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t hire it,’ said Campion, walking out of the room, ‘Precious’ father had the foresight to buy it for her. Not sure how he did it but it was waiting for her, properly taxed and insured, keys in the ignition at Heathrow the moment she stepped off the Jumbo last month. He was really very generous when it came to kitting out his daughter. Those rather unflattering boots she wears are the latest issue for US airborne forces, I’m told, though I had no idea they did them in small sizes for such dainty feet. Very intelligently, she wore them on the flight over rather than attempt to pack them in her suitcase. Now please excuse me for a moment; shan’t be a tick.’

  There was a moment of heavy quiet in the dining room after Campion had made his exit. Precious Aird could tell from the way Oliver and Lavinia were staring at her that something she had done had brought down the embarrassed silence which lay across the dining table like a fog. She tried a weak smile while frantically thinking of something to say that did not involve her shoe size, but Lavinia saved her.

  ‘You came over on the Jumbo Jet?’ she said with awe.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Precious breathed again, ‘it was the first one to land in London. Caused quite a stir, I understand.’

  ‘It was on the news,’ said an enthusiastic Oliver. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘The flight? Oh, kinda long because there were delays in New York before we took off. Sure were a lot of people on board.’

  ‘Was it expensive?’ Oliver
asked and then winced under his wife’s warning glance.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ answered Precious, listlessly stirring her cold soup with her spoon. ‘Pop fixed it all up for me. He’s kinda rich and knows people in the airline business, people like Al’s wife.’

  ‘Al?’

  ‘Albert – Mr Campion. His wife Amanda and my father are on the boards of some of the same companies. I guess that’s how Albert got to hear about my interest in archaeology and thought of me when this project came up. Pop stumped up for the plane ticket, topped up my allowance in your pounds sterling rather than dollars and bought me the VW with strict instructions to remember to drive on the left and to ask for petrol rather than gas at a filling station.’

  Anxious to change the subject from the generosity of fathers, Lavinia asked, ‘So where did you qualify, Precious?’

  ‘Gee, I’m not qualified, leastways not in archaeology.’ She winked at Oliver in a most unseemly way, thought his wife. ‘I spent last summer in Navajo territory in New Mexico helping out on some hogans – the mud huts the Indians lived in – or what was left of them. It was completely different to what you do over here. I mean, trowels and spades and mattocks, whatever they are … Out in the desert all we had to do was a bit of dusting with a paint brush.’ She smiled at the Bells, showing off her perfect American teeth. ‘This “digging” everyone talks about sounds like real hard work.’

  ‘I’m sure the boys will do all the heavy lifting,’ said Lavinia. ‘Simon and David are from good local farming stock and used to working outdoors, and Catherine—’

  ‘She prefers to be called Cat.’

  ‘Catherine,’ Lavinia continued, uncorrected, ‘is a studious girl who has hopes of going to university and thinks this will look good on her application. I’m sure she’ll pull her weight. Are you all settled in in the Orangery?’

  ‘There was one thing,’ Precious hesitated, ‘and I guess it’s up to me to tell you as I seem to be in charge of the hired hands.’

  ‘We haven’t hired them,’ said Lavinia quickly. Then she glanced at Oliver. ‘Have we?’

  Her husband coughed nervously.

  ‘I believe Albert is paying them a small stipend. Pocket money, if you like, just as he’s making a small donation to our running costs. So what’s the problem, Precious? Are they going on strike for a pay rise?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s just all three of them are locals – they have families in Heronhoe.’

  ‘Yes, we know that – we know their parents.’

  ‘Well, thing is all three of them are thinking of staying at home and just coming here during the day, to dig. The say it’s warmer at home and the food’s better.’

  ‘Well, really!’ breathed Lavinia. ‘You’ll have to tell Albert and hope it doesn’t spoil his plans.’

  ‘I hear my name taken in vain,’ said Mr Campion, re-entering the room, ‘which is always a good sign as it is so tiresome to be forgotten so quickly, but now I’m back, so please continue talking about me. Oh, and Oliver, thank you for the use of the telephone, and Lavinia, would you be so good as to be here tomorrow morning, probably just before noon. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering in a few hampers of iron rations to keep us going for a few days.’

  ‘Rations?’

  ‘Just a few basics to help out feeding the workers, stock the larder, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And they’re being delivered here?’ Lavinia looked as if she was waiting for a translation rather than an answer.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Harrods are very good that way.’

  At least Rupert had stopped drooling, thought Perdita, although he was still breathing through his mouth and had not taken his eyes off the striking blonde woman. He was acting the village yokel seeing a horseless carriage for the first time, or the schoolboy caught smoking behind the Fives Courts, or at least she hoped he was acting.

  The woman who stood before them – auditioning them, inspecting them? – was certainly impressive in every sense of the word. She impressed herself on the younger couple, her presence dominating the shabby room just as she would, no doubt, dominate a cocktail party in a Venetian palazzo or, come to think of it, a stage. But that was Perdita’s home ground.

  ‘I do not believe,’ she said with crystal clarity, holding out her right hand, palm downwards, as if expecting it to be kissed, ‘that we have been formally introduced, Signora. My name is Perdita Browning.’

  ‘So you have already said, and this most handsome young man must be Rupert Campion.’ She shook rather than kissed the proffered hand but her eyes and her smile never left Rupert, whose name she positively purred as ‘Rooopert’.

  She took a step to her left so that she was directly in front of ‘Rooopert’, far closer than was necessary as far as Perdita was concerned, but at least the woman resisted the temptation to click her booted heels in salute even if her bosom was standing to attention.

  ‘You are the son of a lady,’ said the woman, tilting her head to one side as if to get a better view of Rupert’s face.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Rupert with a nervous smile, though not, his wife thought, quite nervous enough.

  ‘I mean a lady with a title, of course. Lady Amanda, yes? I, too, where I come from, have a title. I am Donna Daniela Petraglia.’

  ‘Are you from the costumiers?’ Rupert blurted and Perdita glowed with loyalty and pride and just a twinge of jealousy that she hadn’t thought of that first.

  Donna Daniela, already as tall as Rupert in those heels, drew herself higher, as if a rope travelling up her spine and through the top of her head was being pulled taut.

  ‘I,’ she said breathily, ‘am your film director.’

  ‘I love Italian cinema,’ said Rupert.

  You little liar! Perdita glared at her husband, who seemed not to notice.

  ‘I am a great fan of the films of Fellini, Rosellini and Pasolini …’

  Rubbish! You had trouble following A Fistful of Dollars.

  ‘Have you worked with any of them?’

  The blonde woman turned her head slowly as if easing an ache or strain in her neck.

  ‘I did work for Mario Bava once but now I do more serious work: documentaries for television.’

  Donna Daniela planted her fists on her hips and bent forward even closer to inspect Rupert’s face from the left and then the right. The only sound in the room was the creaking of her long black leather coat, which Perdita was later to say she could hear over the thunder of her husband’s breathing.

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman firmly, ‘you will do perfectly.’

  ‘We come as a pair,’ said Perdita.

  The woman reached out her right hand and gently cupped Perdita’s chin, angling it so she could study her profile.

  ‘And you will do too,’ she murmured, ‘with make-up and a benign camera.’ She released Perdita’s chin and clapped her hands, applauding them.

  ‘Si, si, perfetto! Now get changed and please do not spoil or stain the clothes and do not wear them again until we are on location. You have a car? You can drive to this ’Eronhoe?’

  ‘Yes, we have our own transport,’ said Rupert, ‘but no one has said anything about where we will be housed.’

  ‘Housed?’

  Donna Daniela leaned her face in towards Rupert’s with the curiosity of a cat wondering why the mouse it had been tormenting had suddenly stopped wanting to play.

  ‘Accommodation,’ squeaked Rupert. ‘Where will we be staying?’

  ‘There will be no need for hotels. You will drive up from London on the days you are required, and that depends on the natural light and the weather. It is not the best time of the year, so we are in the hands of the gods.’

  ‘Do we get petrol money?’ sniped Perdita.

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Travelling expenses.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I mean, no. Your agent, Signor Berlins, said that would not be necessary as television would be good exposure for your careers.’

&
nbsp; ‘But we do get paid, right?’

  ‘Of course. Signor Berlins was quite insistent about that. You will get the agreed union rate for the days when you are filmed.’

  ‘And when will filming start?’ Rupert intervened before his wife could ask a more sensitive question.

  ‘In perhaps two or three days’ time.’

  ‘And we will be required for how many days?’

  ‘One day, if the sun shines. But in this country …’ she shrugged her shoulders, her leather coat creaking in protest, ‘… we have allowed for two.’

  ‘When do we see the script?’ Perdita asked professionally.

  ‘Script? There is no script. I am the director. I will tell you where to stand. You are actors. You will act.’

  Mr Campion had not meant to give a lecture, not even a pep talk. He did, however, feel obliged to give his digging team something of a background brief and, as he had arrived at the Sweethearting Barrow, as he preferred to call it, armed with Thermos flasks of hot, sweet tea and packets of chocolate biscuits, his diggers were more than happy to take a break from their labours.

  Precious and her three young assistants – Simon, known as Si, Dave and Catherine, or Cat, rather – had all cheerfully downed tools and crouched in a circle in the bracken and sparse grasses around Campion on the top of the Barrow. Having borrowed an ancient and slightly pungent duffle coat and a pair of Wellington boots from Oliver Bell at the hall, Mr Campion had no illusion that he was delivering the Sermon on the Mount despite the attentiveness of his audience. He was realistic enough to appreciate that these days young people would prefer any brief distraction to the thankless task of chopping and hacking back the undergrowth covering a bump of earth in the corner of a windswept Suffolk field, even if it included an address by (in their eyes) an ancient schoolmasterly type. The tea and biscuits did help, though.

  So Campion told them the story of the Sweethearting Barrow which had given rise to the legend of the Heronhoe Horde, which was, of course, pure fantasy, probably created in the wake of the discovery of the much more famous Sutton Hoo ship burial in 1939. Now that was a horde of archaeological treasures to be sure, as it had clearly been a royal boat burial, arguably the rather elaborate grave of a king – the king of the East Angles, from which was derived East Anglia and, in the final analysis, the English. There had been no body in the burial chamber constructed in the Sutton Hoo ship – as that had dissolved into the sandy soil, and there had been no convenient sign or inscription stating who it was who ‘lies here’; the identity of the noble deceased had been a matter of some controversy, though the hot favourite was always the seventh-century Angle king called Raedwald.