‘Not a sign of it, Campion,’ he said huskily. ‘There’s some very dirty work going on here.’
His companion tactfully refrained from observing that so much must have been obvious for some time, and the older man continued.
‘There were some cartridges up here, too,’ he said. ‘I remember now. They were lying loose at the bottom of the trunk. I shall get into hot water, I suppose, when the police hear about this.’ He lowered his voice and peered at Campion, his little blue eyes watery with apprehension. ‘Do they know what sort of a bullet killed Andrew?’ he said. ‘Haven’t you heard? This is terrible – terrible.’
He sat down in his green leather chair and shot a hopeless glance at the whisky decanter. His worst fears were realized and he turned away again.
‘I wish I knew where that blackguard was skulking,’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘I thought Scotland Yard could find anyone in a day?’ He pulled himself up. ‘Still, I mustn’t talk about George, I suppose. Just because I mentioned his name to that policeman I had half an hour’s pi-jaw from the old lady. Makes me furious,’ he went on, his face suffusing with angry colour. ‘Why should I be put to all this worry and anxiety just to cover up the tracks of a blackmailing scoundrel who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life? He must have walked into the house, got the gun and laid in wait for Andrew. That is, of course, if Andrew was shot with my gun. That isn’t proved yet, is it?’
‘It doesn’t follow,’ said Mr Campion mildly. ‘Even if he was shot with an army bullet, there must be several hundred thousand army service revolvers kicking about the country.’
Uncle William brightened. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he said. ‘Still, I bet it was George. Extraordinary way he came in to dinner that Saturday night. No one let him into the building, you know. He may have been skulking about the house for hours. That’s the sort of ruffian the fellow is. Treats the place like his own when he’s here, though I must say Mother always gets rid of him. There’s a touch of the Amazon about the old lady still, in spite of her age.’
He paused for a moment, rumbling speculatively. Suddenly he went on again.
‘It turned my stomach over when he came in just after the clock weight fell. A silly transpontine appearance. Reminded me of the sort of melodrama I used to see as a boy. And now the old lady’s trying to shield him, that’s what annoys me.’
Mr Campion, who possessed the gift of self-effacement to an extraordinary degree, stood placidly leaning against the mantelpiece while the old man continued.
‘She lives too much in the past,’ Uncle William insisted. ‘The scandals of the past matter more to her than any catastrophe that might happen now. I don’t suppose this fellow George holds anything very important over her, but there’s no way of telling. Look at the reason why she cut Andrew out of her will.’
Mr Campion appeared interested. ‘A storm in a teacup?’ he inquired.
‘I thought so,’ Uncle William confided. ‘After all, the governor, God bless him, can’t be irritated now. Yet it was that book of Andrew’s that did it. Hypocrites, or the Mask of Learning. A rotten title. I told him so.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Mr Campion.
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Uncle William brutally. ‘I don’t suppose it sold half a dozen copies. I told Mother it wasn’t worth worrying about, but she never takes any notice of me. It showed old Andrew’s impudence, though,’ he added savagely, ‘and it served him right. Fancy a fellow living on his aunt’s charity while he wrote a blackguardly attack on his dead uncle!’
‘An attack on Doctor Faraday?’ inquired his companion.
William nodded. ‘That’s right. Old Andrew noticed that there was a great boom in memoirs – old wallahs retelling their club stories and getting their own back generally – and it occurred to him that he might make a fiver or two by having a smack at the governor. Anyway, he wrote the thing. Silliest piece of work I ever read, and I’m not a literary man.’
‘It was published?’ asked Mr Campion.
‘Oh, yes. Some little tin-pot firm brought it out. Thought there might be a sale on the governor’s name, I suppose. Andrew got six copies and nothing else, and yet I should think the publishers were out of pocket. Even then it wouldn’t have mattered,’ he continued, with rising indignation, ‘but as soon as he got his six copies old Andrew wrote a flowery inscription on the fly-leaf of each and presented us all with a copy. There was one over for the spare room. Mother got Joyce to read the book to her. A nice little girl that, by the way,’ he remarked. ‘Only woman of any tact in the whole household. Yes, well, then the fat was in the fire. I haven’t seen Mother so angry since – oh, well, a long time ago. Of course, in the ordinary way we should have sued for defamation of family character, I suppose, but you can’t get damages from a relative living on your own charity. Very awkward. Mother took the only weapon left to her. She sent for old Featherstone and altered her will. I was reading a book about an Italian fellow who sells beer in America at the time, I remember. I borrowed a phrase from it. I said to Andrew, I said: “Laugh that off, won’t you.” He sat in that chair over there. I can hear him swearing now.’
‘I’d like to see the book,’ said Mr Campion.
‘Would you?’ Uncle William was eager to placate this young man, who, he realized, was the only person of influence liable to be even remotely friendly towards him. ‘I’ve got a copy, as a matter of fact. The old lady destroyed all those she could get hold of, but I kept mine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I believe it was half true. We Faradays aren’t saints. The governor was human, like the rest of us.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I expect you’ll turn in now?’ he said. ‘I’ll get the book. You might keep it in your bag. It’s got my name in it.’
The two men went upstairs together and Campion stood in the doorway of Uncle William’s room while the old man rummaged among the books which stood on the shelf beside his bed. Campion got the impression of a vast, untidy room, as littered and rambling as its owner’s mind. He had not much time for observation, however, for Uncle William returned to him almost immediately with a slim volume covered with brown paper.
‘I labelled it “Omar Khayyam” in case it was noticed on the shelf,’ he murmured. ‘Well, good night, and – er – er – I say.’ He laid a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder, peered into his face and spoke with deadly earnestness. ‘I’m telling you as one man to another. I’m going to cut out the glass. Not another drink until this business is over.’ He nodded portentously and disappeared into his own room, shutting the door behind him.
In view of the empty decanter downstairs, Mr Campion felt this statement somewhat unnecessary. However, he said nothing, but withdrew to his own room two doors down the passage.
It was now almost midnight, and for a reason which he was loth to admit, he did not feel like leaving the house until the morning. Anyhow, he reflected, Stanislaus could do nothing that night.
The guest-room at Socrates Close was one of those large, comfortable apartments furnished with pieces that no one could possibly have brought for his own use. An ornate rosewood suite, a misshapen arm-chair, a remarkable wallpaper upon which the botanist had been at work again, and an assortment of pictures which took, Mr Campion considered, his religious beliefs too much for granted, made up an apartment at once comfortable to the flesh and disturbing to the spirit.
Campion undressed, got into bed, and, switching on the reading lamp, examined Uncle Andrew’s mess of pottage. The inscription on the fly-leaf was in highly questionable taste in view of the subject matter of the book.
‘To my Cousin William Faraday, a true son of his father, and from a close study of whose disposition I have gained much of my insight into the complex character of the subject of this book. With the Author’s thanks.’
There was a frontispiece, an old-fashioned photograph of Doctor John Faraday. It was not a pleasant face; stern, and unrelieved by any sign of humour. Long, spoon-shaped side-whiskers increased the narrowne
ss of the jaw and the mouth was drawn and puckered like the mouth of a string bag.
Mr Campion began to read. Uncle Andrew’s style was not distinguished, but it had the quality of vituperance. He wrote with an urge and a spitefulness which made him eminently readable. Campion found himself amazed that any firm should have risked the publication of such an attack, and reflected that Andrew had probably represented his influence with the family as something more than it actually was. Doctor Faraday, stripped of his academic honours, emerged as a narrow-minded, self-important man who hid his shortcomings beneath a hypocritical cloak of sanctity and his wife’s charm. Several slightly discreditable stories of his youth had been unearthed or invented by the industrious Andrew, and the learned Doctor appeared as little more than a pompous Victorian humbug with unexpected twists of character for which the modern psychologists have long and unpleasant names. Andrew knew most of the names and used them freely.
By the time Mr Campion had read the first three chapters and glanced at the end, he closed the book feeling a little sorry for the defunct dignitary, whatever his private character might have been.
He switched out the light and lay down to sleep, having decided to call upon the Inspector at the earliest possible moment on the morrow.
It was some time later when he woke up suddenly and sat up in bed, listening. The heavy curtains over the window shut out all light, so that the darkness was almost tangible, like black cotton wool filling the house. Campion was one of those people who are immediately in possession of all their thoughts and faculties the moment they open their eyes, and a feeling of apprehension seized him instantly. He caught a fleeting impression of the house as some sick, many-petticoated creature crouching frightened in the unrelenting darkness. There was now no sound at all to be heard, yet he knew that something had awakened him. He had a vague idea that it had been the gentle closing of a door.
For some time he remained where he was, his eyes closed, his ears strained to catch the least movement. At length, somewhere far off, he heard wood knocking gently against wood.
He sprang out of bed and crept towards the door, letting himself out without a sound.
The moonlight was streaming through the windows into the corridor and the ghostly light was comforting after the appalling blackness of his room. For an instant he stood rigid. Then something moved in the hall at the far end of the corridor, a furtive rustling.
He strode swiftly towards it, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet. Just for a moment it occurred to him that his behaviour was somewhat questionable for a quest on his first night in the house, but at the mouth of the corridor he stopped abruptly.
Standing in the centre of the small hall, the moonlight falling directly upon him, was the pyjama-clad figure of Uncle William. His eyes were bulging and there was a look of terror upon his face. His right arm was held stiffly away from him, and Campion, catching sight of it, was conscious of a sudden shock.
A stain, black in the moonlight, covered the hand and wrist and dripped terrifyingly from the finger-tips. At the instant that Campion himself caught sight of this apparition the door of Aunt Kitty’s room directly across the hall burst open and a little tousled figure appeared upon the threshold. Her eyes lighted upon William, and a thin scream of terror echoed through the slumbering house.
The old man wheeled round, his hand thrust hastily behind him. He swore violently, entirely forgetting his erstwhile efforts to keep quiet. The house echoed with his voice. Doors began to open on the floor above, and Joyce appeared from her room on the other side of the hall. She was half asleep, and her hair fell over the shoulders of her dressing-gown.
‘What is it? What’s the matter? Aunt Kitty, what are you doing?’
The little figure in the fussy flannelette nightgown tottered out into the moonlight.
‘His hand! His hand!’ said Aunt Kitty breathlessly. ‘Look at his hand! Someone else has been murdered!’ And again the high hysterical shriek broke from her lips.
It was at this moment that the door of Great-aunt Caroline’s room opened and a figure, infinitesimally small shorn of its petticoats, stepped out towards them. Great-aunt Caroline’s night attire was as dainty as were all her other clothes. She was swathed in filmy Shetland shawls, and her little dark face peered out from beneath an immense lace bonnet, which tied under her chin. Even at such a moment she dominated the entire proceedings.
‘What is all this disturbance?’
The sound of her voice effectively silenced Aunt Kitty, who appeared to be on the verge of yet another hysterical outburst.
‘William, what are you doing? Joyce, go back to your room.’
Uncle William said nothing. He stood goggling, his mouth hanging open, his hand still thrust behind him, a grotesque absurd gesture in the circumstances.
‘Answer me, sir.’ Great-aunt Faraday’s voice was as commanding as ever.
Mr Campion started forward, and William, hearing someone behind him, spun round, revealing his hand to the rest of the group. Campion heard Joyce’s quick intake of breath, and old Mrs Faraday came farther out of her doorway. Campion caught Uncle William just as he slumped on to the floor.
‘Switch on the light, someone,’ he said.
It was Joyce who obeyed him. The light shot up and Campion bent over the older man with a sigh of relief. There was nothing seriously wrong with Uncle William, and he was making a valiant effort to pull himself together.
‘I’m all right,’ he said thickly. He raised his arm in his attempt to get up, and his hand came into view again. Instantly the horror was explained. There was a deep ragged wound from the knuckles to the wrist, but the terrifying stain which had dripped from the fingers was nothing but iodine, a whole bottle of which he seemed to have upset over himself.
It was at this moment that the second incident occurred.
‘This I won’t have! Madame, you’ll catch your death of cold.’
A strident voice from the top of the staircase made them all turn. A powerful figure in a long white calico gown was striding down upon them. Campion only just recognized in this commanding form the homely, pleasant-faced Alice, whom he had last seen bearing sustenance to Uncle William in the morning-room. Her hair, scraped back from her forehead, was plaited into a tight pigtail, and anger and concern had entirely altered her face. She turned on the group as if they had been so many lunatics.
‘You’ll kill her,’ she said fiercely. ‘That’s what you’ll do, dragging her out on to this cold landing with your screams and noise. Hasn’t she enough to worry her without being disturbed in the middle of the night? She’s the one I’m thinking of.’
‘Alice!’ Great-aunt Caroline’s voice, raised in protest, was lost in this cyclonic outburst.
Alice strode past Uncle William without glancing in his direction and now towered above her mistress.
‘Will you get into your bed, ma’am?’ she demanded.
Great-aunt Faraday did not speak, but neither did she move, and the other woman, who seemed to have become even larger and more elemental now that she stood amongst them, picked up her mistress as if she had been a child and carried her into the darkness of the bedroom beyond.
This move was done with such extraordinary ease that it struck Campion as being an amazing feat of strength. It was as though Alice had picked up a recalcitrant kitten in her progress.
As the door of Aunt Faraday’s room shut firmly, the general interest returned to Uncle William. Campion helped him to his feet, where he stood shaking violently, his mouth still hanging open. The young man turned to Joyce.
‘You get your aunt back to bed,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll see to Mr Faraday.’
The girl nodded and moved over to Aunt Kitty, who was standing helplessly in the middle of the hall wringing her hands, tears streaming down her puckered old face.
Campion supported Uncle William back to his room, where he sat on the edge of his bed swaying backwards and forwards, mumbling unintelligibly. Had the old man been a w
oman, Mr Campion would have diagnosed faintness as result of shock. As it was, he put the seizure down to some hitherto unsuspected cardiac trouble.
His eye lighted again on the wound and all his apprehension returned. It was no ordinary scratch, but a deep ragged cut like a knife-thrust that had gone astray. The iodine had added to its horrific appearance, whilst staunching the blood. The longer Mr Campion looked at it the more the unpleasant thought was forced upon his mind that the end of the series of outrages at Socrates Close had not yet come.
‘How did you do that?’ he demanded, indicating the wound.
Uncle William thrust his hand behind him. An obstinate gleam shone in his watery blue eyes.
‘Mind your own damned business,’ he said, speaking with a viciousness engendered by fright.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Campion. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll be all right now?’
As he turned towards the door, Uncle William thrust out his left hand appealingly.
‘Don’t go, for heaven’s sake, old man,’ he said. ‘Must have a drink. I’ll be myself again when I’ve had a drink. I’ve had a bit of a shock, between ourselves. Ask Joyce – yes, that’s right, ask Joyce. She’ll get me a brandy. The old lady trusts her with the keys.’
Fortunately for Mr Campion he encountered Joyce in the hall. She was white and frightened, but eminently practical.
‘All right,’ she whispered, in response to his request. ‘You go back to him; I’ll bring it along. Did he say who attacked him?’
This sudden question, which fitted in so well with his own hastily formed theories, startled the young man.
‘He won’t say anything,’ he whispered back.
She paused and seemed to be about to speak, but changed her mind and hurried down the stairs without saying another word. Campion went back to Uncle William.
He was still seated on the edge of his bed, his unslippered feet resting on the thick woollen carpet. He looked ill and curiously frightened, but as he caught sight of Campion he stiffened and forced a smile.
Police at the Funeral Page 14
