Police at the Funeral (14 page)

Another oddity was of a more cheerful variety.

Directly facing Mr Campion, hung unsuitably beneath a large steel engraving of Ely Cathedral, was a red plush frame, in which reposed a coloured enlargement of a photograph of a bewhiskered gentleman in the regalia of some obscure and patently plebeian order or society. Mr Campion noticed with
delight that this gentleman's hand rested upon a large pewter mug from the top of which there emerged much painted foam. It was not at all the trophy which one would have associated with Great-aunt Caroline or her household, and he wondered how it had come there.

When at last the meal came to an end the company trooped into the great drawing-room, the famous drawing-room of Socrates Close of the ‘eighties. Although its style of decoration had not been altered since that time it was still a beautiful room. Faded brocades and fussy ornaments abounded. The furniture was hard, misshapen and uncomfortable. But like everything that is perfectly in period, it had a charm of its own.

Aunt Caroline sat down beside an occasional table and turned to Aunt Kitty.

‘I think we will play chess as usual, my dear,' she said.

Aunt Kitty sat down obediently while William advanced solemnly towards a bureau whose panels displayed two bouquets, painted, Mr Campion felt, rather by a botanist than a garden lover. From this cupboard William produced a chessboard and a box of carved ivory men.

Mr Campion realized that he was looking upon a nightly ritual, and waited, not without apprehension, to see where he himself fitted into this ceremony.

Uncle William was showing signs of anxiety. He did not sit down, but stood watching his mother as her tiny white fingers set the red chessmen into line. At last he spoke.

‘I thought Campion and I might smoke a cigar in the library, Mother?' he said inquiringly.

Great-aunt Faraday raised her little black eyes to her son's face.

‘Certainly, William,' she said. ‘Mr Campion, if I should have retired by the time you return, the rising gong rings at a quarter to eight. Have you everything in your room that you require?'

Mr Campion, who had risen to his feet the moment that she addressed him, bowed instinctively.

‘Everything is most charming,' he said.

Mrs Faraday seemed to consider that he had made the right reply, for she smiled at him and nodded to William, who,
grateful at the release, which seemed to be unexpected, hustled Campion out of the room.

‘The morning-room's more comfortable,' he said in a rumbling whisper. ‘Library always reminds me of the governor, God bless him. Never saw him at his best in the library.'

They crossed the hall, therefore, and entered the morning-room, in which a bright fire still burned.

‘Sorry I can't offer you a drink,' said Uncle William, blowing a little in his embarrassment. ‘The key of the tantalus has been removed again, I see. When people get old, you know, they get ideas in their heads. I'm no drinker myself, but – well, anyway, have a cigar.'

He produced a box from the sideboard and when the little ceremony of lighting up had been completed he sat down again in one of the green leather arm-chairs and looked across at Campion with hunted little blue eyes, incongruous in such a large pink face.

‘Andrew used to sit in that chair you've got,' he remarked suddenly. ‘I suppose the funeral will take place on Monday? Not a lot of flowers about at this time of year.' He checked his meandering wits sharply and took refuge in a suitable sentiment. ‘Poor Andrew,' he said, and coughed.

Mr Campion remained silent, looking more vague than ever in a blue haze of cigar smoke. Uncle William's thoughts were racing tonight, however, leading him a fantastic dance from one subject to another, and presently he spoke again.

‘Damn bad-tempered, evil-minded fellow, all the same,' he said angrily. ‘No insanity in the family, thank God, or might have suspected a touch of lunacy – kindest thought.' He paused and added with a grotesque droop of a baggy eyelid: ‘Drank like a sponge, under the rose.'

There was no cosiness in the breakfast-room. The lights were not shaded, but sprouted unadorned from a brass water-lily floating upside down in the white expanse of ceiling and their cold blaze presented an atmosphere of hygienic chill which even the bright fire could not dispel.

Mr Campion began to understand Marcus's remark of the previous evening: ‘If I lived in that house I might easily feel like murder myself.' That atmosphere of restraint which is so
racking in adolescence was here applied to age, and Campion experienced a fear of stumbling upon some weak spot where, beneath the rigid bond of repression, human nature had begun to ferment, to decay, to become vile. There was no telling what manner of secret lay hidden in the great house rising up over his head, yet he was acutely conscious of its existence.

He was brought down to earth again by the entrance of the stalwart Alice, who bore a silver tray with glasses and a decanter and siphon. She set it down on the table without a word and he noticed that she did not glance at either of them, but hurried out again as noiselessly as she had entered. Then he caught sight of the other man's face and humour was restored.

Uncle William evidently regarded the intrusion as some sort of apparition. His astonishment was only equalled by his delight, and he rose to do the honours with an almost child-like satisfaction.

‘The old lady doesn't forget when we've got guests in the house, thank the Lord,' he said, sitting down again with his glass. ‘Hang it all! when a fellow's gone through what we've gone through today he needs a drink. I'm going out for a walk in a moment. You'll be all right, I suppose?'

He looked at Campion hopefully and appeared relieved at the other's hearty reassurance. He swallowed a large whisky and soda and was about to make some final remark when Joyce reappeared.

‘Hullo,' she said in surprise, ‘going out?'

Uncle William coughed. ‘Thought I'd just have a constitutional,' he said. ‘Haven't had any exercise today. That damned policeman kept me in all this morning chatting.'

Joyce looked astounded, but she said nothing, and when the old man went out she took his seat, and Campion noticed that she held a cigarette-case. He took out his own hastily.

‘I say, is this allowed?' he said, as he gave her a light. ‘Permit me to cure you of the tobacco habit in five days. Taken in curry, no one can tell my secret preparation from garlic.'

Joyce laughed politely. ‘This is an indulgence,' she said. ‘I'm allowed to smoke occasionally by a special dispensation. Authority winks its eye. As a matter of fact it's rather sweet. Every evening after dinner Great-aunt Caroline tells me I may
go upstairs to write my letters. I didn't understand it at first, but she told me that she had heard that young people nowadays enjoyed a suitably scented cigarette. It's quite respectable, you see. Even the Queen smokes sometimes, they say. But she thought I ought to have my cigarette in private, so as not to set a bad example to the aunts.' She paused and shot a quick level glance at him. ‘It's all rather beastly, isn't it?' she said.

‘It's queer,' he said guardedly. ‘I suppose this is the last household in England of its kind?'

The girl shuddered. ‘I hope so,' she said. ‘Dinner was pretty dreadful, wasn't it? It's like that every night, only usually, of course, the – the others are there, too.'

‘I enjoyed my dinner,' said Mr Campion valiantly. ‘But my etiquette book rather let me down. It says that light conversation may be effectively introduced while passing the cruet. In this, of course, I was frustrated, as we all had our own cruets. Otherwise, no doubt, I should have been the life and soul of the party.'

Joyce reddened. ‘Yes, those salt-cellars are an awful admission of uncharitableness, aren't they?' she said. ‘They were Andrew's fault. Some time ago, just after I first came, in fact, there was a disgraceful scene one night when Andrew refused to pass Julia the pepper; pretended not to hear her. Finally, when she insisted, he sulked like a child and said she had quite enough in her composition, without adding any more. Julia appealed to Aunt Caroline and there was a sort of nursery row. The next day everybody had their own condiments, and it's been like that ever since. It's one of those silly stupid petty little things that are a constant source of irritation to the flesh.'

Mr Campion was more shocked than he cared to admit by this slightly comic revelation, and he took refuge behind a barrier of cigar smoke. The girl went on holding her cigarette limply in her fingers as she stared into the fire.

‘I suppose you noticed that photograph of Uncle Robert, too?'

‘Who?' said Mr Campion, appalled at the possibility of yet another implicated relative.

A faint smile passed over the girl's face. ‘Oh, you needn't be
alarmed,' she said. ‘He's safely dead, poor darling. He was Aunt Kitty's husband. And my mother's brother,' she interpolated a little defiantly. ‘That photograph was taken when he was a young man. It was probably considered funny then. He was president of some early frothblowers' association, or something.' She paused and eyed Mr Campion squarely. ‘The family always considered that Aunt Kitty married beneath her. She didn't, though, as a matter of fact; not in my opinion, anyhow. Uncle Robert was a doctor with a poor practice. Well, Aunt Kitty kept that photograph and had it enlarged. Uncle Robert was rather proud of it, I believe, and it used to hang in his den. And when he died Aunt Kitty brought it here with her. Nothing would ever have happened about it if Uncle Andrew hadn't found it. He was like that, you know; always poking about into other people's things. He saw it on her dressing-table one day and insisted that it should be hung in the dining-room. He was so clever about it that Aunt Kitty was rather flattered. It was the first time that anyone had ever shown any enthusiasm for Uncle Robert and she was pitifully fond of him, poor darling.' She sighed. ‘Everyone else saw, of course, just what Andrew meant them to see, another evidence of Uncle Robert's vulgarity. Uncle Andrew used to call it “the mortification” when Aunt Kitty wasn't in earshot.'

‘And no one took it down?' said Mr Campion.

‘Well, no. You see, Uncle Andrew had made Aunt Kitty rather proud by hanging it there. You can see what a silly old dear she is. She doesn't see half that's going on around her. Great-aunt Caroline never seemed to notice the photograph, but Andrew enjoyed the annoyance it gave to everyone else. I know it's wrong to talk about him like this now he's dead, but you can see the sort of man he was.'

‘Not a beautiful soul,' murmured Mr Campion.

‘He was a beast,' said the girl with unexpected vehemence. ‘Fortunately the others combined sometimes to keep him quiet. He had a devil, if you know what I mean,' she went on, speaking earnestly. ‘If he had been allowed to have his own way he would have driven everyone off their heads. As it was, he moved even the meekest of us to a sort of frenzy of loathing at times.'

She was silent for some moments and her mouth twitched nervously. It was evident that she was making up her mind to a confession of some sort. Suddenly it came.

‘I say,' she said, ‘I'm terribly frightened. After all, when a thing like this happens, ordinary family loyalty and restraint and things like that don't count much, do they? I'm afraid one of us here has gone mad. I don't know who it is. It might be a servant, it might be – anybody. But I think they're made in the – well, you know, the modern secret way, and they've killed Andrew because they couldn't stand him any longer.'

‘Aunt Julia?' inquired Mr Campion gently.

She lowered her voice. ‘That's it,' she said. ‘That's what's terrifying me. If it was just Andrew, somehow I don't think I should care awfully, now that I know what's happened to him. But now that Aunt Julia's – been killed, it shows that the thing I've been afraid of all along has started. If a lunatic starts killing he goes on, doesn't he? Don't you see, it may be anyone's turn next?'

Campion glanced at her sharply. This was the second person in the family who had put forward this suggestion.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘you'd better go and stay with Ann Held.'

She stared at him, and he wondered whether she was going to laugh or be angry and was relieved to see her smile.

‘Oh no,' she said. ‘I'm not afraid for myself. I don't know why it is,' she went on calmly, ‘but I feel that it's all nothing to do with me. This is the older generation's affair; I just don't count. I feel that I'm just looking on at something that is working itself out. Oh, I can't explain!'

Mr Campion threw the stub of his cigar into the fire. ‘I say,' he said, ‘I ought to have a look at those two bedrooms tonight. Uncle Andrew's and Aunt Julia's. Do you think you could fix it?'

Joyce glanced at him sharply, a hint of alarm in her eyes. ‘We could sneak up now,' he said. ‘There's a good hour before Great-aunt goes up to bed. Hullo, though, I forgot. The police locked the doors.'

The pale young man before her grinned. ‘If you could find me a hairpin,' he said, ‘I don't think we need let that worry
us. Don't be alarmed. I've got permission from my celebrated detective friend, the Arch Hawk-Eye himself.'

Joyce looked at him in astonishment. ‘You don't really mean that, do you?'

‘A hairpin or any piece of wire would do,' said Mr Campion. ‘This house is probably full of hairpins. Aunt Kitty's crowbar variety would do nicely. Your own are a bit flimsy, I should think.'

Joyce rose to her feet. ‘Come on then,' she said. ‘I know it sounds silly, but you'd better creep upstairs, because the servants are rather alarmed already. There are one or two plain-clothes men still hanging about the garden, you know, and, anyway, the staff has been put through a minor inquisition this evening.'