Mr Campion's Fault (13 page)

He had insisted that Rupert and Perdita join him for dinner at a suitable ‘local watering hole’ and had selected the Green Dragon on the recommendation of Brigham Armitage, not at all because it was near ‘the scene of the crime’.

‘It wasn’t much of a crime,’ said Perdita as she closed her faux-leather bound menu, ‘and yes, they really do give you a whole chicken, though it’s quite a small one, more of a
poussin
,
really.’

‘Now don’t be modest, my dear,’ said her father-in-law. ‘I’ve being doing my prep all afternoon. Rupert briefed me on the basic facts and Mrs Armitage added much useful background, both medical and sociological, with the various denizens of the staff room contributing amusing, if unnecessary, local colour.’

‘Perdita’s right, Pa,’ said Rupert. ‘There really wasn’t much to it, just a bit of old-fashioned bullying.’

‘Didn’t the choice of victims strike you as suspicious: the son of a policeman and the victim of a poltergeist? Even as a complete outsider, knowing only the very little I have gleaned so far, that strikes me as a touch odd.’

‘“Odd” being your stock in trade?’ Perdita asked with a grin.

‘A lifelong pastime, I admit, but no more than a minor hobby. Other gentlemen of my advancing years revert to their potting sheds or their rose gardens, but I have always preferred a different form of pottering – one that involves less compost.’

‘So you’re exchanging compost for coal dust?’ Rupert closed his menu decisively. ‘Well, you’ll find plenty of that round here. I’m having the chicken, by the way, and we have to order at the bar.’

‘Scampi in the basket for me,’ said Perdita.

‘That sounds good,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I don’t think I could manage a whole fowl unless I could devour it Henry VIII style, tossing bones over my shoulder to the wolfhounds.’

‘They do have table manners here,’ chided Perdita.

‘Of course they do, my dear. I was implying that it was I who was lacking them. Do we go for white wine?’

‘Best stick to the ale,’ whispered Rupert. ‘I’ve already discovered the wine list here comprises a Barsac and Sparkling Blue Nun.’

‘Useful local intelligence, my boy. You can never have too much, and I intend to add to our stock of it by pottering around and meeting some of the fascinating inhabitants of Denby Ash you have told me about.’

‘You mean you’re going snooping,’ grinned Rupert.

‘Pray, do not call it that,’ said Mr Campion, feigning outrage. ‘I am a retired gentleman of leisure. I potter, I ramble, I rove, I may even loiter, but I no longer “snoop”. That is an activity dear old Lugg always regarded as “common” and I’m surprised he let me get away with it for so long.’

M
r Campion had never put much faith in the saying ‘Know Your Enemy’. He remembered fondly a post-prandial discussion with a military historian of some repute who had told him that while the popular story that Montgomery won at El Alamein because he had a photograph of Rommel above his bed was an excellent piece of morale-boosting propaganda, his victory in the battle was more probably due to his extra six hundred tanks. If anything, Campion had always found it more useful to adopt the maxim ‘Know Your Friends’ and he was hoping to find a new one in Huddersfield’s new police headquarters, even though his hopes were pinned on a second-hand conversation between his son and a stranger on the edge of a windswept rugby pitch.

Rupert had not played him false. Detective Chief Inspector Ramsden, it turned out, would be delighted to see Mr Campion even though he had not been expecting him.

‘To what do we owe the honour?’ the policeman asked warmly as Campion was ushered into the offices of Huddersfield CID.

‘Far from an honour, more a nuisance really,’ said his visitor as they shook hands. ‘I see from this morning’s
Yorkshire Post
that your local plague of robberies continues, which means your plate must be almost as full as mine was at breakfast.’

‘I cannot discuss ongoing investigations, I’m afraid, not with …’

‘Mere members of the public, like little old me,’ said Campion with a broad grin. ‘Quite right too, Chief Inspector. I am little more than a tourist and my nose has no business in your business. As it happens, I am staying at the George and cheekily thought I would pop in to ask how your son Andrew was.’

Ramsden took a moment to consider not the question but why it was being asked. ‘His wrist was broken but he’s recovering well. He’s young and fit; and the hospital says he’ll be wearing a plaster cast for six weeks or so but he’s back at school, though not on the rugby pitch.’

‘Much to my son’s dismay,’ said Mr Campion. ‘It sounds to have been a very nasty incident.’

‘Nasty, vicious and unprovoked but not exactly uncommon – young bikers out looking for trouble after a pint or two … Andrew and his friend were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘And you are happy that is all it was?’

‘Do you know any reason why it was more than that, Mr Campion?’

‘I know very little about anything, Chief Inspector,’ said Campion affably, ‘but I suffer from incurable, possibly terminal, curiosity. I am the cat that curiosity will undoubtedly do for one day, but my enquiry about the health of your son is a genuine one for
my
son tells me Andrew is a key part of the school rugby team. I would go so far as to say vital.’

Ramsden’s shoulders straightened as he failed to contain his obvious paternal pride. ‘Kind of you – and the other Mr Campion – to say so; are you a rugby man yourself?’

Mr Campion pressed a forefinger to his chin as if a momentous decision was required. ‘I realize that in this part of the world my answer may contribute to the schism that some say has ruined the beautiful game of rugby, but I will be honest and declare that though I believe the schism resulted in
two
great games – Union and League – my allegiance has always been to Rugby Union. My experience, in a long-forgotten youth as a school and varsity winger, could best be described as overenthusiastic amateur but my fondest memory was as a spectator, not a player, watching England beat the All Blacks at Twickenham in 1936.’

‘You were there? You saw the Flying Slav’s try?’ There was undisguised admiration in Ramsden’s voice.

Mr Campion smiled demurely. ‘Yes, I saw everyone’s favourite Russian émigré Prince Obolensky score that famous try, but it was the England Captain, Bernard Gadney, who started the move and dominated the whole show. It might have been Obolensky’s try but it was Gadney’s game.’ His smile turned into a wicked grin. ‘But isn’t it high treason or something to even have heard of such things in these parts?’

‘You are not wrong there, Mr Campion,’ Ramsden agreed. ‘This is League country and if you don’t follow Fartown then it has to be Wakefield Trinity or, at a pinch, Featherstone Rovers.’

‘I promise to do my best not to show my ignorance and embarrass my Yorkshire hosts,’ said Campion.

‘I doubt you ever show your ignorance, Mr Campion, unless you’ve got a damn good reason for doing so,’ Ramsden said in a voice which reminded Mr Campion that he was in the presence of a policeman.

‘I shall take that as a compliment, Chief Inspector, and will answer your next question before you ask it, if that does not sound presumptuous.’

‘It sounds like what we call straight talking in Yorkshire.’

‘I hope it is. You were about to ask me what I am doing here – not just in your office, but in the West Riding.’

‘If that hadn’t been my next question it would have been the one after. This is not your usual stomping ground, is it, Mr Campion?’

Campion held up the palm of his hand, slightly self-conscious that he appeared to be impersonating a traffic policeman making a ‘Stop’ sign. ‘I like to think I rarely stomp anywhere, but in essence you are correct; I cannot say that I know the lie of the land here, at least not yet.’

‘And what’s the answer to my question? The one I haven’t asked yet.’ Ramsden spoke firmly but politely, giving Mr Campion a clear signal that their verbal sparring should reach a conclusion.

‘What am I doing here? I take it that is the question,’ said Campion, ‘and it is one I asked myself on the drive up here. By the way, should I give you a sensible answer, would you be good enough to pass it on to my wife and son? They also seek enlightenment on the matter.’

Ramsden smiled broadly at that then rummaged around the papers on his desk until he located a packet of cigarettes, which he opened and offered to his guest.

‘No, thank you,’ said Campion. ‘Not allowed anymore, but let me give you a light.’

He reached into his jacket pocket, produced a silver Ibelo Monopol lighter and flicked it into life.

‘Nice lighter,’ said the policeman with the standard policeman’s eye usually reserved for stolen goods.

‘A present from my dear wife,’ said Mr Campion, holding it so that Ramsden could see the engraved inscription. ‘It says
To A from A, Polite Use Only
, which reminds me I can offer to light the cigarettes of others but not one of my own.

‘Now, back to my interrogation as to what I am doing hereabouts. The truth is I am not sure, Chief Inspector. I can only refer you to my previous answer: curiosity, the nemesis of our feline friends. As a man with copious amounts of time on his hands these days, almost anything sends sparks between the old curiosity antennae and when two or three sparks follow in quick succession the static electricity produced raises a full pelt of hairs on the back of my neck. Not exactly what you would call hard evidence for anything, I know, and perhaps no more than an old man’s affectation.’

Ramsden kept his eyes on his guest, inviting him to say more.

‘The death of Bertram Browne raised the first hair.’ Mr Campion patted the air in front of him with the palms of his hands as if quashing a rising hope. ‘I know, I know, it was a road accident, but as I understand it the vehicle involved has not been identified and no driver charged.’

‘That is not uncommon – sadly,’ Ramsden admitted. ‘Mr Browne died instantly and the driver kept going; the very definition of a hit-and-run.’

‘Quite, but why didn’t Bertram Browne run?’

Ramsden’s brow furrowed and he leaned forward in his seat. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘I have done a bit of checking up on him with his old army unit. He was in the Royal Engineers, a Sapper, as I’m sure you know, and he had a very good war record. Highly thought of, decorated, bravery under fire and all that. Plus we know he played rugby, so one presumes he kept himself fit. Why didn’t he get out of the way?’

‘It was dark,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Perhaps the whole thing happened too fast for him.’

‘Which raises a second hair. Browne doesn’t sound to have been the sort who was scared of the dark and he was indeed walking on a stretch of road which was dark. I drove down that road last evening. The stretch between the school and that stone bridge just before the Sun Inn seems to be just about the only piece of road in the West Riding which isn’t festooned with street lights. The rest of the village is lit up like an airport runway at night; goodness knows how many sixpences the local council has to put in the meter every day …’

‘Yes, it was dark and the road was unlit. What’s your point?’

‘Why didn’t Browne see any headlights coming towards him? And did he not hear an engine, which would have given him some warning? That road runs alongside the school playing fields, which he knew well, and not along the edge of a precipice or anything. He could easily have got out of the way.’

‘Perhaps he was distracted, his mind elsewhere,’ countered Ramsden.

‘It almost certainly was,’ said Campion with relish. ‘I believe he had just come from witnessing the effects of a poltergeist haunting when the … accident … happened. I must say, that alone would cause a third hair to stand to attention. And when I heard that a certain policeman was investigating the black sheep of Denby Ash …’ Mr Campion removed his large, round tortoiseshell spectacles, produced a white handkerchief square and began to polish the lenses, ‘… and that the son of that policeman and the son of the woman visited by the noisy Germanic ghost had been jointly assaulted by vicious, unknown thugs – well, by that time the back of my jolly old neck felt in need of a crewcut.’

Mr Campion replaced his spectacles and slowly twisted his neck and head to emphasize his point.

Ramsden smiled weakly across the desk. ‘Mr Campion, I am a policeman, not your barber. The death of Mr Browne was a road traffic accident, on that the coroner has pronounced in the absence of any concrete evidence to the contrary. The police do not, as a rule, investigate a supernatural phenomenon, especially where none has been reported to us, and the thugs who assaulted my son and Roderick Braithwaite are not necessarily unknown to us. We have, as you might say, our suspicions, although no proof.’

‘Local lads, are they?’ tempted Campion.

‘Not as we would call ’em. A pair of tearaway cousins called Booth, from a place called Cudworth which you’ve probably never heard of, but round here that’s not a thing to be proud of. Both the Booth boys have records for minor bits of villainy and they’ve done a spell in New Hall Camp – that’s our local detention centre for young offenders. They now work at one of the pits in Denby Ash and are supposedly going straight, but an eye is being kept on them.’

‘Do I get the feeling that justice may be meted out vigilante-style?’

‘I could never condone that.’ Ramsden was emphatic and then he raised his eyebrows. ‘If I knew about it, that is. Stranger things have been known to happen in Denby Ash, though, which is a consideration you should bear in mind, Mr Campion.’

‘I should? What exactly is it that my tiny and already overstuffed mind should take on board?’

‘That you are not from around here; you are stranger, a foreigner, an incomer to Denby Ash,’ Ramsden said seriously. ‘You are from a different place, a different class and possibly a different time.’

‘Oh, come now, Chief Inspector, I may be a pampered southerner and here as no more than a tourist, but I am hardly an alien invader from outer space.’

‘In Denby Ash, you might as well be, unless you can prove your father was a miner.’

‘That,’ said Campion softly, ‘is not remotely possible, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t worry, neither was mine, which gives them another reason to steer well clear of me, as well as being a bobby. Did you know that on the census forms they used to put “Hewer-of-coal (underground)” as the occupation for a miner? They’re proud of that description in Denby Ash – fiercely proud. And they take care of their own. Denby Ash does not like outsiders, Mr Campion, and whatever you’re fishing for you won’t get anything out of the locals because as far as they’re concerned, it’s none of your business – whatever “it” is.’

‘You mean no one in the village will talk to me?’ Campion asked innocently.

‘I shouldn’t think so. Good Lord, they hardly speak to me, even when it’s official police business. Oh, they’ll be friendly enough and they’ll talk, they just won’t tell you anything.’

‘Even the local witch?’ Campion feigned surprise. ‘How disappointing; I’ve always wanted to meet one and I’d hate to think I had driven all this way for nothing. You see, I had an uncle who always claimed to have met three witches one night on Salisbury Plain and they assured him that he was going to go far in his chosen profession. Of course, we all told him that someone who was already the Bishop of Devizes shouldn’t really go around saying such things, but I don’t think – deep down – anyone really believed him.’

The chief inspector shook his head slowly. ‘Mr Campion, are you serious?’

‘As rarely as possible,’ replied Mr Campion. ‘Now, tell me all about your witch.’

Chief Inspector Ramsden had not been the first and would not be the last to advise Mr Campion that his natural charm might not be enough to enable him to integrate fully into the community of Denby Ash. Whilst waiting for Rupert and Perdita to wash and change before taking them out to dinner the previous evening, Campion had been escorted by Brigham Armitage on a guided tour of his personal Vasari corridor of paintings, all linked by a proud Yorkshire provenance if not subject matter. In between admiring glances and appreciative murmurings, Mr Campion had gently steered the conversation to include the history and sociology of Denby Ash.

It had been, the headmaster had informed him, a pet theory of the late Bertram Browne that the people of Denby Ash were inextricably linked, economically and philosophically, to the seams of coal which ran under the village. With his background as a Sapper, the late Mr Browne had naturally taken an interest in matters geological and the ‘black gold’ on which the prosperity of the local population depended and whose bounty had been, in a way, responsible for the existence of Ash Grange School. There were those who found it whimsical that the long, subterranean solid rivers of coal were known as ‘Flockton Thick’ and ‘Flockton Thin’. Indeed, certain habitués of the staff room, who really should have known better, used the expression to describe formal gatherings of the Mothers’ Union, but not Bertram. He knew that Flockton Thick referred to twin seams each two-feet thick, whilst Flockton Thin was a fifteen-inch layer of coal of the very highest quality. Neither were laughing matters, for down there, six hundred feet underground, the men of Denby Ash (and, a century ago, not a few women and children) had lost their lives harvesting them.