Mr Campion seemed perfectly convinced. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And very awkward, too. Have you had many of these attacks?’
‘No, not a lot,’ said Uncle William guardedly. ‘Not many. But I’m getting worse. The first time it happened was last June. By the way, Marcus, you’d better alter that statement. It’s not eighteen months, is it?’
‘No,’ said Marcus acidly. ‘It’s nine.’
‘Oh, well’ – Uncle William waved his hands – ‘you lawyer fellows are so exact. Well, last June I was walking down Petty Cury on a damned hot day. My mind went blank, and the next thing I knew I was standing outside the Roman Catholic church with a glass in my hand. I felt an absolute fool, and, naturally, rather alarmed. I didn’t know what to do with the thing. I noticed one or two people looking at me curiously. The glass didn’t tell me anything; ordinary tumbler, the sort of thing you’d get in a bar. I put it in my pocket finally and threw it into a field as I came out of the town. Most unpleasant experience.’
‘Most,’ said Campion gravely. ‘And has it happened since then?’
‘Twice,’ Uncle William admitted cautiously after some hesitation. ‘Once last Christmas, just when I thought there was nothing in it after all. We had a dinner party here one night, and when everyone had gone home I remember walking down to the gate with Andrew to get a breath of fresh air. I remembered nothing more until I found myself shivering in a cold bath. It might have killed me. I don’t take a cold tub now. When a man gets to my age he has to look after himself. Penalty of being an old athlete.’
Marcus, who knew that the sum of Uncle William’s athletic prowess was represented by the silver mug gained at a preparatory school in 1881, frowned on this unwarrantable assertion, but the older man rattled on.
‘I asked Andrew afterwards – cautiously, you know – if he’d noticed anything odd. He asked me what I meant. He was as drunk as a bargee at the time, so I don’t suppose he did notice anything.’
‘And the third time?’ said Mr Campion curiously.
‘And the third time,’ said Uncle William grudgingly, ‘was more unfortunate still. The third time was on the Sunday that Andrew disappeared – in fact, actually at the time that he did disappear. That’s what makes it so awkward.’
Marcus started violently. ‘Mr Faraday!’ he protested. ‘You didn’t tell me this.’
‘I’m not a man who talks about my ailments,’ said Uncle William, betraying a slight thickness of speech which had been vaguely noticeable throughout the interview. ‘Well, there you are. Now you’ve got it. I remember standing in the road leading to the Grantchester meadows arguing with Andrew about the right way to go home – idiotic subject – quite obvious which was the right way. I remember parting with him. I was very rattled, don’t you know, very upset, to think that a man could be such a fool. And that’s when I lost my memory. When I came to I was just walking in the front gate, and lunch was practically over.’
‘That was twenty-five minutes later than you said in your statement to the police,’ remarked Mr Campion unexpectedly.
Uncle William’s cheeks inflated. ‘Perhaps so,’ he muttered. ‘All this insistence on time is very confusing. Well, there you are. Now you know all about it.’
Marcus tried vainly to catch Mr Campion’s eye, but that young man remained polite and inconsequential, his eyes hidden behind his spectacles.
‘I hope you won’t think me unduly inquisitive, Mr Faraday,’ he said, ‘but why didn’t you tell one of the family of your illness? You were running a great risk. You might have got run over, for example.’
Uncle William, hunched up in his chair, refused to look at either of them.
‘I don’t like talking about family secrets in front of strangers,’ he murmured, ‘but, as a matter of fact, my mother is getting old.’ He paused, and taking out a huge pocket handkerchief, blew his nose violently. ‘She gets ideas into her head,’ he went on. ‘For some time lately she has suffered from a delusion that – well, not to put too fine a point upon it, that I drink. Of course,’ he continued, his voice rising gustily, ‘I’m not a teetotaller, and in my time – well, there was a period not so very long ago when I used to get so infuriated living with a pack of ill-natured fools that I used to drown my sorrows now and again.’ Uncle William managed to convey the impression that he regarded himself as a man confessing to a past peccadillo with a good grace. ‘Well,’ he went on, his confidence restored, ‘it came home to me, don’t you know, that if I told the family that I had been stricken with this affliction, having no medical knowledge at all, they might put it down to my having had a glass or two. Now you see how awkward it was.’
Mr Campion nodded, but it was Marcus who spoke.
‘But, my dear sir,’ he protested helplessly, ‘don’t you see the danger you put yourself in? Haven’t you told anyone? Is there no one who can bear out this story?’
Uncle William rose to his feet. ‘Young man,’ he said sternly, ‘are you doubting my word?’
Marcus seemed about to point out that he was only human after all when Mr Campion came to the rescue.
‘The state of your health must have alarmed you, Mr Faraday?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you feel like taking medical advice?’
Uncle William turned to him. His racing, muddled thoughts were reflected in his narrowed eyes.
‘Naturally,’ he said cautiously. ‘But I didn’t want to go to old Lavrock, telling him all my business. I don’t say anything against Lavrock’s discretion. He’s a good fellow, I have no doubt. But I didn’t want to go to the family doctor.’
‘It’s a great pity you didn’t go to someone,’ said Marcus, whose precise orderly mind was revolted by Uncle William’s astounding display of untidy thinking.
‘Oh, but I did,’ said the older man petulantly. ‘I did.’
Both young men stiffened. ‘Who?’
But Uncle William seemed loth to speak.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ Marcus’s tone was urgent. ‘Don’t you see the importance of this?’
Uncle William shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘It makes it more awkward than ever, but if you insist – Sir Gordon Woodthorpe, the Harley Street nerve man.’
Marcus sighed, an expression in which incredulity and relief fought with one another.
‘That makes it feasible, at any rate,’ he said. ‘When did you go to see him?’
‘End of June,’ said Uncle William, still grudgingly. ‘We won’t go into what he said. I never believed those fellows know as much as they’re supposed to. Well, that’s the truth, but I don’t see how it’s going to make any difference. I can’t ask him to confirm my visit.’
‘Why not?’ Marcus’s suspicions returned.
‘Because,’ said Uncle William, with great dignity, picking his words with elaborate care, ‘I thought it prudent to change my name for the occasion. I haven’t been able to pay him either – if you must hear all my private affairs. Oh, I dare say he’d remember my case,’ he went on as the other opened his mouth to speak. ‘But if you think I’m going to allow you to expose me to a lot of threatening lawyer’s letters or whatever these fellows take refuge behind, you’re wrong. I’ve said all I’m going to say.’ He shut his mouth obstinately and turned away from them.
‘But Mr Faraday, this is murder.’ Marcus planted himself before the old man and repeated the words savagely. ‘Murder. Don’t you understand? There’s nothing worse than murder. If you persist in carrying on like this, sir,’ he went on, with growing severity, ‘you’re liable to be arrested.’
‘You sign that paper,’ said Uncle William. ‘I’ll be all right then. I’ve been in several tight corners in my life, and always got out of them. And I shall do the same now. There isn’t a man alive who can call William Faraday a coward.’
‘Not to say a fool,’ muttered Marcus under his breath.
Uncle William glanced up at him. ‘Don’t mutter at me, sir,’ he said. ‘Speak out like a man.’
Marcus appealed to
Campion. ‘Can you explain to Mr Faraday the gravity of his situation?’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
‘Hang it! I know it’s grave,’ bellowed Uncle William, with unexpected violence. ‘Haven’t I lost a cousin, and a sister? You two seem to forget this family’s bereavements and come here worrying me about doctors. Let me tell you I’ve got to give evidence of identification at the inquest tomorrow, and that’s going to be a very painful, trying and tragic experience. I’m not the man to be worried about petty doctor’s bills.’
‘Inspector Oates will follow up any evidence, Marcus,’ said Mr Campion unpardonably.
Uncle William looked from one to the other of the two young men, opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He sat staring at them, grunting softly to himself like a simmering kettle. Quite suddenly he gave in.
‘I took my old friend Harrison Gregory’s name. Gave the club address, and called on the 27th of June,’ he said. ‘Now, you know, and I hope that satisfies you. It makes me look a fool, but then Mother keeps us so short. She doesn’t seem to realize that a man of my age must have a pound or two.’
Marcus was scribbling the name on the back of an envelope. ‘Levett’s Club, isn’t it, sir?’ he said.
Uncle William grunted. ‘Brook Street,’ he murmured. ‘Country member. Old Gregory’ll be touchy with me. He must have been hearing from that fellow.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘It seemed the best thing to do at the time.’
Marcus shot a horrified glance at Campion, who seemed to be quite unmoved by this recital.
‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’ Marcus put the envelope back into his pocket. ‘I should destroy this statement, if I were you,’ he added, tapping the sheet of paper upon the table. ‘In the circumstances, I think it might be misleading. Campion, I shall come up to see you in the morning if I may. Until we can confirm this interview with Sir Gordon Woodthorpe perhaps this story should be kept from the police, although I realize that it will have to come out sooner or later. I think Mr Faraday realizes that, too,’ he added, glancing in Uncle William’s direction.
Uncle William vouchsafed no reply, neither did he respond to Marcus’s ‘Good night’, but sat sulking in his chair until Mr Campion returned from the hall whither he had accompanied his friend. Then he rose to his feet and picked up the statement which Marcus had left upon the table.
‘Damned unobliging young pup,’ he observed. ‘I thought his father might be an uncivil old fool, but I didn’t think the boy would be so difficult. Oh, well, I suppose I shall have to let him ferret out all this silly business with the doctor fellow. I don’t particularly mind, of course. I only thought this was the easiest way.’ He dropped the paper into the flames and turned abruptly to Campion. ‘That policeman, Inspector Oates, came back here this evening,’ he said. ‘It was his harping on the exact time of the lunch on Sunday that made me realize that I’d better get this thing done if I was going to do it at all. That’s what made me go to see Marcus this evening. How was I to know he would put up such a show of obstinacy?’
He paused, and Mr Campion made no comment. Suddenly Uncle William sank back wearily into his chair. There was something almost pathetic in the glance he shot at the other man.
‘Do you think I’m in a devil of a mess?’ he said.
Mr Campion’s heart was touched. ‘You’re in a mess,’ he said slowly, ‘but I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks. I don’t know yet. Forgive me for saying so, but I suppose this story about Sir Gordon Woodthorpe is – well, bona fide?’
‘Oh, yes, that’s the truth, unfortunately,’ said Uncle William, who seemed to be incapable of grasping the importance of such a helpful witness. ‘Of course,’ he continued, with devastating frankness, ‘I couldn’t have done it, you know. I couldn’t have killed Andrew. I didn’t take a chunk of rope to church with me, I know that.’
His little blue eyes blinked reflectively. ‘Figure not being what it was, I wear a very tight overcoat. Very smart. Why, I can’t put a prayer book in my pocket without it looking like a hip flask. But a great chunk of rope! Someone would have noticed it. I should have, too. I may be forgetful, but I’m not feeble-minded, you know.’
It was evident that a great deal of what Uncle William said was pertinent.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Campion absently, ‘there’s very little to prove that your cousin was killed on the Sunday.’
‘Oh, well then,’ said Uncle William, with satisfaction, ‘that lets me out altogether. I know what I’ve been doing ever since then. I haven’t had an attack since that day, thank God, and, besides, the weather’s been so damned bad that I haven’t been outside the house half a dozen times. Between ourselves, it’s been so peaceful without Andrew that I haven’t felt much inclination to leave the fireside.’
‘The other thing,’ said Mr Campion slowly, ‘is the revolver. Ever had a revolver?’
The old man considered. ‘Had one in the service, in the war of course,’ he said. ‘I was stationed at Montreuil-sur-Mer – not that it’s on the sea. Inaccurate people, these foreigners. I – er – had a staff job.’
He looked at Campion fiercely, as though warning him not to ask for further particulars.
‘Yes, I had one then. I haven’t seen it since. Hang it all, it’s not a thing you want in private life.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Mr Campion. ‘What happened to the one you had?’
‘With my kit, I suppose. I seem to remember that I put the whole lot in a trunk in the old nursery. Yes, that’s where it would be.’
‘Let’s go and have a look,’ said Mr Campion, to whom the word ‘nursery’ had brought back the recollection of Joyce’s story of half an hour before.
‘What now?’ Uncle William seemed loth to stir. ‘I told the Inspector there wasn’t a gun in the house,’ he said, ‘and never had been. I resent this police catechizing.’
But Mr Campion was not to be denied. ‘They’re bound to find it sooner or later,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better go and look. I’m afraid they’ll be searching the house tomorrow.’
‘Searching the house?’ said Uncle William, aghast. ‘They can’t do a thing like that. Or has this Labour Goverment made that possible? I remember saying to Andrew: “If these blackguards come into power a gentleman’s home won’t be his own.”’
‘Once you call the police into the house – and you have to call them in in a serious case like this – I think you’ll find their powers are very great. In the nursery, did you say?’
Still grumbling, Uncle William got up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But we shall have to be quiet. The women are asleep, or ought to be. I don’t see why we shouldn’t wait till the morning. It’s darned cold at the top of the house. No fires in the bedrooms here unless it’s a case of illness. That’s the Spartan régime of the old school.’ He paused hopefully, but finding Mr Campion adamant, he helped himself to the last of the whisky and soda from the sideboard, and, tossing it off, led the way upstairs.
Campion followed his globular panting figure up the staircase into the darkness of the upper hall. All was silent and a trifle stuffy Uncle William turned the corner and climbed the next flight.
The second floor of the house was smaller than the others, a place of narrow corridors and slanting ceilings.
‘Servants sleep that side,’ whispered Uncle William, pointing towards that part of the house that was above Mrs Faraday’s room and the front hall. ‘The old nursery is down here. It’s really only an attic.’ He switched on a light, which revealed a passage like the one below, three windows on one side and three doors on the other. Here the carpets were worn, the paint was scratched and unpolished, and it occurred to Campion that it probably looked much the same as it had done in the days when the young William and Julia had chased one another down it towards a little wicket gate which barred the exit at the top of the back stairs.
Uncle William opened the first of the three doors. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘These two rooms have been knocked into one. There was a night nu
rsery, now used as a lumber-room, at the end.’
As he turned on the light a big dusty room leapt into sight. It was still furnished with the grim relics of a Victorian nursery. A worn red carpet covered the floor and brown painted cupboards and a chest of drawers stood stiffly against the atrocious blue and green wallpaper. There was a big wire guard over the fireplace and large steel engravings of a sternly religious character were interspersed by coloured texts on the walls. It was a depressing room. The iron bars of the windows, while useful, were hardly ornamental. Instinctively Campion glanced at the skylight. All was as Joyce described. A piece of cord hung down forlornly from the dusty window, and it was quite clear that a staple to which the other end had been attached had been jerked out of its position. The section of rope which remained was not unlike clothes-line, being thicker and coarser than the usual window cord.
William did not appear to notice this defect. He stood looking about him.
‘There’s the trunk,’ he said, pointing to an ancient leather contraption which stood crazily in one corner beneath a standard globe and a pile of books. He led the way across the room, treading silently with elaborate care. Campion followed him, and between them they removed the obstacles and Uncle William raised the lid of the case.
Campion peered in with interest. A faintly musty aroma greeted them, and a moth flew out. Upon investigation there appeared a pair of knee boots, a khaki uniform, a pair of riding breeches, two pairs of slacks, a Sam Browne belt and a ‘brass hat’. Uncle William took the garments out one by one and laid them on the floor.
‘Ah,’ he said, as the bottom of the trunk appeared, ‘here it is.’
Campion was before him. He picked up the holster and unfastened the stud. There were a couple of oily rags within, and that was all.
‘God bless my soul!’ said Uncle William.
CHAPTER 11
AND SO TO BED
BACK IN THE morning-room Uncle William began to show signs of coherent thought again. The motley of veins on his face had multiplied and he appeared to be on the point of exhaustion.
Police at the Funeral Page 13
