Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  ‘I thought I’d find you two here guarding the silverware,’ he said impassively, for it had always been difficult to discern whether Elsie Corkran had ever possessed a sense of humour.

  ‘Elsie,’ said Luke and Lugg together, as if testing the hypothesis.

  ‘Been in the wars, have we?’ added Lugg, indicating the twisted blackthorn walking stick, ‘or is that for self-defence when the party gets out of hand?’

  Corkran glanced down at the stick as if it had appeared in his hand by magic.

  ‘Oh this? Spot of gout, that’s all. One of the hazards of owning a bit of property in the Douro region; still, it’s provided me with the perfect birthday present for Albert. I’ve sent him a case of the ’55, one of our vintage years. What did you get him?’

  ‘A corkscrew,’ said Lugg, keeping his face straight.

  ‘Yes, Albert’s not the easiest person to buy presents for,’ Elsie agreed, with an air of pedantic innocence. ‘I thought of buying him a book but …’

  ‘He’s already read one,’ quipped Lugg, ignoring the impact of Charlie Luke’s elbow in his ribs.

  ‘No, not to read, a book to write in. You know, one of those leather-bound journals with blank pages, so he could jot down his thoughts and memories. We used to call them commonplace books at school, didn’t we?’

  ‘You might have; we didn’t have them at my school,’ said Lugg.

  ‘Your school didn’t have books of any sort,’ snapped Luke, ‘but that’s not a bad idea, Elsie. Funnily enough, we were just talking about Albert’s memoirs and what scandals they could reveal.’

  Lugg leered in agreement. ‘Nice juicy scandals, I ’ope.’

  ‘And therein lies the problem, as I know to my cost. Albert and I both signed the Official Secrets Act thirty years ago and, as men of our word, that oath we swore, for it was a loyal oath to our generation, still stands. It’s all very well to spread all those rather colourful stories about him helping the police out when they’re baffled.’ Elsie caught the warning lights flashing in Luke’s eyes. ‘I mean, in stories like that, the police are fair game, aren’t they? But it’s different when it comes to security matters, and especially Campion’s war work. There are lots of stories there which will probably never get told, regardless of this Thirty-Year Rule business.’

  ‘I ’appen to know that his nibs is rehearsing a speech about his distinguished career – that’s his word, not mine, by the way – up in his room at this very moment,’ said Lugg, ‘but I don’t know if he’ll be mentioning the war as he’s got this top-drawer German coming; a Freiherr, no less, which I’m told is a title and not an occupation.’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ said Elsie. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know this German chappie’s name?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do, ’cos it’s Ringer, which is Kraut for “wrestler” – a career I once considered pursuing when I was in my prime.’

  Luke scowled at the fat man. ‘To maintain diplomatic relations, can we refrain from calling people Krauts, Huns or Jerries for the rest of the evening? And when you were in your prime, I think you’ll find they were called gladiators – and a centurion was a rank, not a tank.’

  ‘Oh, hark at you, the laughing policeman.’ Lugg recoiled in faux indignation. ‘I know how to behave, thank you very much. Mr C. made it clear that this Ringer might be a German, but he’s a gentleman and deserves to be treated as such. What’s so special about him anyway?’

  ‘Well, if memory serves,’ said Elsie, whose expression confirmed that it did, ‘that would be the same Robert von Ringer who, during the war, tried to kill Albert Campion. At least twice.’

  TWO

  Many Happy Reorientations

  ‘Your French is better than mine,’ said Perdita, arming herself with a second cocktail.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Rupert, ‘but I do speak almost fluent mountaineer, so you’ll have to take the French lady. Don’t worry; as long as you make the effort to speak French and not just shout at them in loud English, the Froggies don’t mind how bad you are, they just appreciate the effort. Though you’d better not refer to them as Froggies.’

  ‘You are wasted on the stage, darling, as the notices often say. You should have been in the Diplomatic Corps. Of course, I won’t call her a Frog, but what has mountaineering got to do with anything?’

  ‘There, behind the French lady coming out of the lift. The chap in tweeds hovering on one foot, giving a masterclass in looking uncomfortable in the presence of other human beings. Which, incidentally, he is; or so I have been forewarned. That’s Jonathan Eager-Wright, the famous mountaineer. He’s retired now, of course, but still prefers the company of a sheer rock wall or an ice shelf to anything resembling the warmth of human contact. He’s a man who has contempt for society but also the manners not to display it in public.’

  ‘You’re quoting your father, aren’t you?’

  ‘They’re old friends,’ Rupert confessed. ‘Had a few adventures together before the war. During the war as well, if the gossip is to be believed.’

  ‘Gossip?’ Perdita gasped in mock horror.

  ‘Well, rumours, tittle-tattle and the odd unguarded word rather than gossip. Pop has never talked about what he did in the war, and of course I was nobbut a nipper, as they say in Rep, but I picked up a few clues along the way. Whatever he did it was pretty secret stuff.’

  ‘You mean he was a spy?’ Now Perdita’s surprise was genuine.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Rupert, ‘more a sort of counter-spy, I think. He worked for L. C. Corkran, the old boy over there chatting to Luke and Lugg, who was something senior in what they call “Security”.’

  ‘He doesn’t look anything like James Bond,’ said Perdita with a small pout.

  ‘The best spies never do, but forget about all that ancient history, we’re supposed to be on duty. Come on, let’s get this party started, or at least point people to the bar. I’ll take the antisocial mountaineer and talk about crampons and pitons and other fascinating stuff; you take the nice French lady and discuss shoes or Paris fashions. I have to say she looks quite stylish.’

  ‘All Frenchwomen do,’ Perdita said in a low growl, ‘and I’m sure we can find something slightly more intelligent to talk about. I think she looks about the right age to have been your father’s lover. I think I’ll start by asking if she was.’

  ‘I say, steady on, Perdita!’ Rupert gasped, but his wife was already striding purposefully across the lobby.

  ‘Madame Thibus? Bienvenue à Londres.’

  The older woman’s reply was in English, and as elegant and silky as the evening dress which sheathed her figure.

  ‘How charming to be welcomed personally, although I do not believe we have met, have we? Please forgive me if we have, but I could surely not have forgotten such a pretty face.’

  Perdita nipped the end of her tongue between her teeth, an actor’s trick to prevent blushing, she had been taught, although she suspected it was more an old wives’ tale than an old thespian’s.

  ‘I am Perdita Campion,’ she said, proffering a hand, which was taken graciously.

  ‘You are the daughter of Albert?’ She pronounced it Alberr and made it sound as sultry as only a Frenchwoman could. ‘Then you should call me Corinne.’

  ‘Daughter-in-law, actually; Rupert Campion is my husband. We have been recruited to greet the guests and keep them happy.’

  ‘Is Albert not here?’ The Frenchwoman raised her head and looked around.

  ‘He and Lady Amanda are in their suite getting changed, so that he can make a dramatic entrance when everyone is assembled.’

  Madame Thibus smiled briefly. ‘Yes, that would be just like him, but it must be rather boring for you having to make conversation with all us old folk.’

  ‘Madame is surely not including herself with the senior generation?’

  ‘I have always lived and worked among older men,’ Corinne Thibus said casually, ‘so their company does not intimidate me, and I see
few ladies of my age here.’

  Perdita considered that the Frenchwoman had a point, and frantically tried to work out her age, angrily realizing that she was doing exactly what most of the males in the hotel had probably already done. Madame Thibus was certainly older than Perdita, though not as old as Lady Amanda, the distance between them being no more than fifteen years either way. This would put her in her very early forties, though with more flamboyant eye make-up, curls in her short blonde hair and some tie-dyed casual tops and a shorter skirt, she could probably pass for thirty. But then, Perdita reasoned, why should she have to? In her figure-hugging long yellow silk dress with its pattern of large red flowers – almost certainly by Givenchy – and bright red sling-back high heels, she looked supremely confident in herself. That was the trouble with Frenchwomen: they looked chic at any age. Her accessories gave no further clues, for she wore no jewellery apart from a small square Rolex watch on a thin white leather strap and carried a practical tapestry-weave handbag over her arm.

  ‘The party arrangements are very informal,’ said Perdita, ‘so please stay close to me and my husband. Allow us to entertain you, rather than having to put up with some of the old buffers who will be here tonight who only want to talk about the war.’

  She had spoken lightly and with a beaming innocence, but Madame Thibus responded in all seriousness.

  ‘But my dear,’ she said, patting the front panel of her handbag, ‘that’s exactly what I am here for.’

  ‘I say, well done for capturing the Abominable Snowman, young Campion!’

  Rupert had introduced himself to the solitary figure of Jonathan Eager-Wright – that noted misanthrope who was said to actively avoid contact with any human found below the snow line – and was attempting with some difficulty to make conversation. It was not that the short but muscular white-bearded man was unwilling to talk, it was that he was only willing to talk about a planned expedition (which he clearly expected Rupert to be conversant with) to climb something called the Great Trango Tower in a place called Gilgit-Baltistan, and the devilish unfairness of the fact that he had been forbidden to participate in the 20,000-foot ascent on the grounds of his age! After five minutes of what was more a lecture than a conversation, during which time he had managed to narrow the geography down to northern Pakistan, Rupert was delighted to be interrupted by the deeply fruity tone of a jovial voice belonging to Mr Augustus Randall, land-owner, countryman and, for income tax purposes, farmer of Monewdon in the country of Suffolk.

  ‘Evening, Guffy,’ said Eager-Wright, frowning in annoyance at being cut off in mid-exposition of the geology of Kashmir, ‘you’re looking … ample. Mary, you’re as delightful to look at as ever.’

  Mary Randall, née Fitton, was now sixty, and although her hair had lost all the familiar family fire, she still exuded the natural Fitton grace.

  ‘I couldn’t agree with Mr Wright more, Aunt Mary,’ said Rupert, leaning in to dutifully kiss the cheek being offered.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re taking lessons on how to charm women from old Eager-Beaver,’ chortled Mr Randall, for whom the word ‘ample’ was a perfect description of how he filled his dinner suit. ‘He gave up on women years ago when it became clear your mother had set her bonnet at Albert.’

  ‘Don’t be rude, or crude, Guffy,’ scolded his wife. ‘Delighted to see you Jonathan, you are looking extremely well. All that mountain air clearly agrees with you. And Rupert, you remain my favourite nephew, and one day I am sure we will be coming up to town to see you and the lovely Perdita gracing the West End stage. If, that is, I can ever tear Guffy away from his pigs or his pigeon shooting.’

  One of the reasons Mr Augustus Randall had fallen head over heels in love with Miss Mary Fitton some thirty-seven years previously when he had first seen her in the village of Pontisbright, was that she had ‘none of the modern nonsense about her’ and shared Guffy’s love of the countryside, estate management and long-haired dogs with uncontrollably friendly natures. They were living proof that a marriage could be made and sustained on fresh air, long walks in wellingtons across dew-soaked fields, ostentatious displays of support for the local church, harvest festivals and village fetes, making their own cider and, in Guffy’s case, taking a slice of Suffolk ham, rather than bacon, with his eggs for breakfast every morning.

  Rupert was fond of Guffy, and he could have nothing but affection for Mary, as she was a mirror image older version of his mother Amanda, albeit a far more serious and unadventurous reflection. He knew the stories of how the Fitton sisters, and their younger brother Hal, had first met with Mr Campion and Mr Randall and indeed Mr Eager-Wright when in their younger, carefree – and in Guffy’s case, less well-padded – days before the war. He knew that Guffy’s slightly tart remark about Eager-Wright’s relationships with women were very near the mark, as he had it on good authority (from Perdita, who had heard it from Amanda herself) that Eager-Wright had been initially quite smitten by the teenage Amanda, only slowly realizing that Amanda had set her sights, and fixed them, on Albert Campion.

  ‘As soon as we get top-billing,’ Rupert smiled at his aunt, ‘then there will be front-row seats in your name, though Perdita’s more likely to fly solo than I.’

  ‘Long as it’s not Shakespeare,’ said Guffy. ‘Never got on with the fella at school; too many strange words for my tin ear.’

  ‘I’ve told you time and again, Guffy,’ said his wife, ‘just think of the dialogue being spoken in a Suffolk accent by a farmer staggering home from the pub, and it will all make perfect sense. And you, Rupert, don’t you dare put yourself down, although I admit Perdita is very talented. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘She’s over there,’ said Guffy, rising unsteadily on tiptoes in order to look over Rupert’s shoulder, ‘talking to a very stylish piece of feminine pulchritude.’

  ‘Oh Guffy, you sound just as ridiculous as you always did,’ chided Eager-Wright although he, like the others, had sneaked a glance in Perdita’s direction.

  ‘He is ridiculous, Jonathan,’ said Mary, ‘but he’s also right; she is very stylish and very attractive for her age. She’s not English, is she?’

  Rupert had long since ceased to be amazed at the instinctive radar embedded in the female mind.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, she’s French,’ he said, and Mary Randall nodded in confirmation. ‘She’s Madame Corinne Thibus and she was added to the guest list at the request of the French Embassy at the last minute.’

  ‘Really? Do we know who she is?’ Mary enquired, before turning on her husband. ‘You can stop ogling now, Guffy: remember your blood pressure.’

  ‘Sorry, old gal,’ muttered Mr Randall, hiding his face in his champagne cocktail.

  ‘I have no idea, Aunty, that’s why I sent Perdita on ahead to scout the land. All I know is that Pop approved her inclusion on the list, saying it was a pleasant surprise as he hadn’t seen her since the war.’

  ‘Goodness, she must have been young,’ Mary murmured to herself.

  ‘Sure he didn’t say before the war?’ Guffy Randall grasped the shoulder of Mr Eager-Wright, who had shown no particular desire to bolt for the fire exit. ‘I mean, we did do quite a few trips to France before the war, when we were all bachelors gay, of course. Down south mostly: Nice, Monte, Mentone. Good trips, although I seem to recall you always wanted us to head for the Alps or the Pyrenees so you had something to climb.’

  Eager-Wright stared quizzically at Guffy as if wondering what point he was trying to make.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ said Rupert, ‘there’s another French person coming tonight, Monsieur Fleurey from Nice.’

  Guffy’s face lit up in the way it did, Mary was to say later, when one of his sows won a rosette at the Suffolk show.

  ‘Fleurey did you say? Not old Étienne Fleurey of the Beauregard in Mentone? Goodness, we had some rum times there, I can tell you.’

  ‘No, this is Joseph Fleurey, the son. He’s in the same line of business but in Nice, and when Perdita and
I stayed there he looked after us extremely well. He said something about repaying a debt of honour for something Pop had done at some time or other, but I didn’t pay too much attention, I’m afraid. I was too busy keeping Perdita out of the casino.’

  ‘Tricky things, casinos,’ murmured Guffy. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that they fixed the odds in favour of the house.’

  ‘And I suspect they see punters like you coming a mile off,’ observed Eager-Wright with thinly veiled sarcasm.

  ‘Which is why Augustus is not allowed within two miles of one,’ said Mary, ‘and that includes the bingo stalls on Yarmouth pier.’

  Mr Randall sighed wearily, as if this burden had been his birthright.

  ‘That’s Joseph Fleurey over there,’ said Rupert, nodding in the direction of a tall, smartly dressed and really quite dashing young man talking enthusiastically with an even younger, equally attractive, fresh-faced blonde female wearing a chiffon ‘little black party dress’, with the emphasis on the ‘little’, in that it had a hemline so high there was nowhere else to go but down.

  Rupert realized he had been looking at the couple – who seemed to have introduced themselves perfectly well without any external assistance, apart from that minidress – for perhaps longer than was diplomatic, considering Perdita was in the same room.

  ‘He’s chatting to Precious Aird. She’s American, the daughter of a friend of Mother’s and a bit of an archaeologist. We met her up in Sweethearting earlier in the year; she’s quite something.’

  ‘Young Monsieur Fleurey certainly seems to think so,’ said Mary Randall. ‘They seem to be hitting it off.’

  ‘Precious seems to get on with everyone,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Just the sort of girl every birthday party needs.’ Even as she spoke, Mary was aware that the three males in her audience were all looking at her quizzically. ‘Because she’s young. There are too many old fogeys here; we need the young ones to remind us this is a party. I rather hope she behaves disgracefully.’

  ‘Rupert here used to be the life and soul of any party when he was in short trousers,’ said Guffy, as if imparting confidential information. ‘Whatever the occasion – birthdays, Christmas, even funerals – there was Rupert running around like a dervish shouting “Happy Reorientations”, without fear or favour, to anyone who’d listen. Never had a clue what you were on about, but you did it with such charm and innocence that nobody clipped you round the ear, not even Lugg.’