Mr Campion's Fault (20 page)

‘More or less,’ he admitted. ‘It’ll be about Roderick Braithwaite. You’d better come inside.’

The Campion jury may have been undecided on his proficiency as a preacher but there was little doubt from the evidence of the interior of his Mission that Mr Chubb was an excellent carpenter. It was not a large Mission, though neither Rupert nor Perdita had any real idea of the average size of Missions, with wooden benches still smelling of fresh pine to seat no more than eight in comfort, ten at a squeeze. There was a varnished wooden table where an altar would have been expected and on it, a foot-high Calvary crucifix on a stepped base in sombre dark oak.

The Mission was essentially one room, but a portion of it had been clearly reserved for the preacher’s personal needs, an area delineated by what looked suspiciously like an old fire curtain from a theatre hung on a rail from the ceiling. Robin Chubb indicated that the Campions should ‘take a pew’ whilst he drew the curtain along its track, but not before his visitors had observed the outline of a sturdy pine bed.

‘Do you live here, Mr Chubb?’ Perdita asked.

Chubb completed drawing the heavy red curtain then turned to face the Campions, his hands down by his sides, palms outwards.

‘No, I live in Cudworth but occasionally feel the need to rest between meetings. Spreading the fragrance of the knowledge of the Lord can be an exhausting business and I have several missions to visit on my little circuit. That’s enough of me; you’ll be wanting to know about Master Braithwaite and his exorcism, I suppose.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Perdita. ‘We are rather concerned for the boy.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Chubb, his pale, deep-set grey eyes never leaving her face. ‘He asked me if I could perform an exorcism to get rid of a poltergeist. I told him to go home and look after his mother and wait for things to sort themselves out.’

‘I think he came to you because he was worried about his mother,’ Perdita said, returning Chubb’s stare.

‘I’m sure he was, but if the mother was troubled she could have come here and been saved through prayer. Prayer is the only way to defeat real evil; I’ll have no truck with the magic tricks brigade where they spray incense like mustard gas. You can’t just put on a show when you think you need one – you have to work hard at prayer. There’s plenty in this village, when they go to a church, can only think about getting home and putting the meat on.’

‘We have no opinion on the various brands of religious faith on offer in Denby Ash,’ said Perdita firmly, ‘or whether exorcisms work or cause more problems than they solve. We are only concerned about Roderick.’

‘I don’t rightly understand why,’ said Chubb. ‘I mean, you’re newcomers, aren’t you, from down south?’

‘We were told there were no secrets in Denby Ash,’ Perdita began lightly before turning serious, ‘but Roderick is a pupil at Ash Grange and he had already approached the school for help.’

‘Had he now?’ Chubb seemed surprised but so did Rupert, who wondered where his wife was steering the conversation.

‘Roderick confided in his English master, Mr Browne …’

‘The chap that got run over?’ Chubb’s grey piggy eyes flashed.

‘That’s right. We think he was trying to find ways to help Roderick, but then he had his accident. We don’t want the boy to think he has been abandoned.’

Chubb raised his hand to chest height and made a tent with his fingertips. ‘It’s comforting to see you have such concern for the lad,’ he said, ‘but he’s young and probably going through a phase. I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.’

‘Yet you told him the poltergeist would go away soon, didn’t you?

‘I could have. It’s a phase he’s goin’ through and phases pass, don’t they?’

‘Is it all right if I steal these, Miss Browne?’ Campion called out as he descended the stairs. ‘It’s a map of the area which is quite interesting and an essay from one of his pupils, which I can easily drop off at the school.’

‘I’m in here, Mr Campion.’

Mr Campion followed the voice into the front room of the house and stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Hilda Browne kneeling before a full-sized mannequin, her mouth full of pins, the hem of a garment in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. She had pushed all the furniture in the room back to the walls to give her space. It had the effect of turning the room into a small amphitheatre with her posing as the defeated gladiator and the mannequin as the imperious victor.

‘May I borrow these?’ Campion held up the map and the essay. ‘I will make sure they are returned.’

Hilda chewed on a pin and screwed up her eyes to focus on the papers. ‘Please take the map. It’s only clutter and you’d better let the Braithwaite boy have his stupid story back. I ask you, poltergeist and witches! And him supposed to be a star pupil. Hah! I never understood why he was such a favourite of Bertram’s. The boy’s addled. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ivy Neal didn’t put him up to it!’

‘Why would Ivy Neal do anything of the sort?’ said Campion severely.

‘Because she puts herself about as a white witch, a wise woman, the healer of the tribe, but some of us see through her.’

Campion controlled his breathing and his temper. ‘Did you know her well?’ he asked, watching for a reaction to his use of the past tense, but none came.

‘I wouldn’t let anyone think I associated with the likes of Ivy Neal. She’s no better than the gypsies who come with the Feast every year.’

Campion wondered if the woman had any idea what she looked like, speaking with those pins between her lips as if they were the points on the words she was spitting.

‘Mind you,’ she continued unabated, ‘I only spoke to her the once and then because I couldn’t really avoid it. I mean, she took me by surprise. I never expected to see her there and certainly not doing good works like I was.’

‘Where was this?’ Campion asked gently.

‘Wakefield Prison. Could have knocked me down with a feather when she turned up one afternoon and I asked her, straight out, “What are you doing here?” Bold as brass, she said, “Same as you.”’

‘And what were you doing – the two of you?’

‘Visiting. I’ve been a prisoner’s friend for years; it’s my charity work, bringing a bit of cheer to those miserable sinners. I had no idea Ivy Neal was doing good works as well.’

‘Very commendable,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Was this recently – when you ran into Ivy Neal, that is?’

Hilda frowned, remembering, and her mouth turned upwards, the pins in it taking on the menace of a boar’s tusks. ‘Earlier this year, perhaps three months ago.’

‘It must be interesting and rewarding work,’ said Campion. ‘Do you visit anyone in particular?’

‘No. Any lost soul who needs comfort.’

‘I hope they appreciate your dedication,’ said Campion, and then, because he could not put it off any longer, he added, ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier: is there a happy event in the offing?’

Hilda, still on her knees, followed his gaze to the mannequin towering above her and reacted as if she was seeing the garment she was working on for the first time.

‘What? This?’ She giggled girlishly. ‘This is my Helen costume for
Doctor Faustus
.’

Fitted snugly over the mannequin was an ivory satin Empire wedding dress with a lace collar embedded with fake pearls and flared sleeves.

To Mr Campion’s undiscerning and masculine eye, it was not a wedding dress which had seen active service, but that was a matter he had no wish to pursue.

He made his excuses and almost ran for the safety of his car.

It began to rain as Rupert and Perdita trudged back up Oaker Hill, but it did nothing to cool her temper.

‘What an awful man!’

‘Which one?’ asked Rupert.

‘All of them – well, the last two anyway. Cuthbertson-Twigg is senile and Chubb is … is just … weird.’

Rupert put an arm around his wife’s damp shoulders. ‘Weird in what way?’

‘His accent, for one thing. Didn’t you notice it? He doesn’t sound like a local.’

‘Well, he’s not, is he? He said he came from Cudworth.’

‘Cudworth’s not that far away – it’s still in Yorkshire. It’s not like Cudworth is the home of lost causes.’

‘My father always said that was Oxford,’ grinned Rupert, then recoiled as Perdita shrugged off his arm.

‘Be serious. Chubb didn’t have a Yorkshire accent – well, not a proper one. It sort of came and went, like he only did it when he remembered to.’

‘That’s hardly a crime, darling. Not even terribly suspicious.’

‘I tell you what is suspicious,’ said Perdita, poking Rupert in the chest with a stiff finger. ‘Chubb didn’t once ask us about Ivy Neal. Everybody else did – everybody except Chubb. In a place that thrives on gossip, that’s suspicious.’

F
or no good reason he could put a finger on, Mr Campion always expected prison governors to remind him of either a supercilious Greek master from his schooldays or the sarcastic sergeant-major who had instructed him in parachute jumping at Ringway during the war. Not once had his misgivings been justified, but he still lived in dread until he actually met Mr George Dennison, Governor of Her Majesty’s Prison Love Lane, Wakefield, and once again all his fears proved groundless.

‘Mr Campion, what a pleasure to greet you. We rarely get such distinguished visitors so highly vouched for and at such short notice.’ Governor Dennison greeted him with a smile and a handshake.

‘I do apologise for me popping up on your doorstep like a jack-in-the-box, Governor, and I am suitably embarrassed to have had to resort to pulling a few strings to get an interview with you.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ Dennison waved away Campion’s apology. ‘It’s always a pleasure to get a personal phone call from Commander Luke at Scotland Yard. After all, he does provide us with a steady stream of customers.’

Campion smiled. ‘He said he would give me a good reference, however much he might perjure himself. It was a rather sudden decision to try and visit you without notice, but I was in the neighbourhood and couldn’t resist. I phoned Charlie Luke from a call box at the station just round the corner. Cost me a fortune in sixpences, but I was lucky and caught him between promotions. He said he would phone ahead on my behalf and clear the way for me.’

‘He did so very graciously, speaking very highly of you,’ said Dennison, smiling also, ‘and he told me to point out that while his request was to welcome you
in
, he left the matter of letting you
out
entirely to my discretion.’

Now Campion laughed; not too nervously, he hoped.

‘Good old Charlie. He will have his little joke. He was joking, I take it? Good, well, I won’t take up too much of your time, Governor.’

‘Did you wish to inspect our facilities?’ Dennison offered.

Campion had no desire to inconvenience the governor more than was necessary and the inmates not at all. From outside the grim sooty walls he had deduced that the establishment dated from the early part of Victoria’s reign when there had been a burst of new prison building as the traditional transportation of convicts went out of fashion, or perhaps because Australia was deemed full. The Love Lane site had probably been chosen by that eminent Victorian Joseph Jebb, a noted expert on prisons and, coincidentally like the late Bertram Browne, an officer of the Royal Engineers.

‘I require a few moments of your time, on a trivial matter,’ said Campion.

‘Then you had better come into my office after you’ve signed in.’

Campion’s eyes twinkled behind the round lenses of his spectacles. ‘Can I take it that signing out will be as swift and painless?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Governor Dennison.

Campion followed Mr Dennison up an echoing iron staircase and along a corridor, passing through two grilled doors which were unlocked by a prison officer with sound effects supplied by Hammer films. Once seated on opposite sides of the governor’s leather-topped desk and once tea had been provided in solid, plain white china cups of impressive capacity, Mr Campion got down to business.

‘I am curious,’ he said, ‘about one of your female prison visitors.’

‘Not Hilda Browne, I hope. Not again.’

‘Not directly,’ said Campion suppressing his surprise, ‘although it was something she said which brought me to your door.’

‘You know the woman, then? You have my sympathy. Miss Browne tries hard to do good works … very hard. She sees her visits as comforting and uplifting for lonely prisoners, those who have no relatives to visit them. Yet very few, if any, of our loneliest, most abandoned, most depressed inmates have ever requested a second visit from her.’

‘That must put you in a difficult position,’ Campion sympathized.

‘It does, it does. I can’t very well turn down offers of Christian charity and I have no wish to deny our inmates the comfort of occasional contact with the outside world. But when prison visits appear to be adding to the punishment handed down by the courts rather than aiding or encouraging reform and a return to society, then …’

‘Quite,’ said Mr Campion, ‘but it was another of your prison visitors I was interested in, one whom Hilda Browne ran into here whilst she was doing her … social work … a Mrs Neal, Ivy Neal.’

Governor Dennison looked into his teacup as if seeking inspiration.

‘The name doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. Did she come with Hilda?’

‘I got the impression that she was quite surprised to see her here. She knew her from the village of Denby Ash. Would you have a record of Hilda’s visits so I could check a few dates?’

‘Of course we have,’ said Dennison. ‘I’ll have them sent up from the front gate. Just a minute, though – you did say Denby Ash?’

‘That’s right. Ivy Neal lived there and Hilda is connected to Ash Grange School where her late brother taught.’

‘Then you mean Doreen Bagley.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Denby Ash, that’s the connection. Perhaps you don’t understand, Mr Campion, but the most notorious prisoner at Love Lane was not a mass murderer or a gangster or a train robber, but an embezzler. A nasty petty crook called Haydon Bagley who stole from charities, schools and churches by cooking the books. He was famous, or rather infamous, locally, and he was from Denby Ash.’

‘And he received visits from … Doreen Bagley … a relative?’

‘His mother. She was the only visitor he ever had and she was from Denby Ash, I remember that. In fact, I remember her very well. Quite a card she was, offered to do the horoscopes of the guards and the other prisoners, tell their fortunes, that sort of thing. She would put on an act like she was at a fairground.’

‘Or a Feast,’ Campion said quietly. ‘And this was definitely Doreen Bagley?’

‘So she said, and to be honest, no one would own up to being Haydon Bagley’s mother if they weren’t. They’d get lynched, such was the bad feeling about Haydon locally.’

‘Was she a prisoner’s friend in the sense that Hilda Browne is?’

Mr Dennison leaned back in his chair. ‘You won’t find many within these walls who would call Hilda Browne a friend, but I know what you mean. And the answer to your question is “no”. Doreen Bagley only came to see Haydon Bagley, a personal, one-on-one visit.’

‘Often?’

‘No, two or three times during his sentence perhaps. I can check if it’s important.’

‘I understand that this local criminal mastermind, Bagley, was released not long ago,’ said Campion thoughtfully.

‘That is correct and there are concerns – we are all concerned – that he hasn’t been seen since he walked out of these gates.’

‘That concerns you?’

‘Of course. Any prisoner released from here who reoffends is a black mark against us all. It means we have failed that individual and failed society Of course, there are habitual criminals. In fact, Commander Luke said on the telephone that you were actually acquainted with several—’

‘I simply cannot imagine what he must be thinking of,’ Campion said innocently.

‘He mentioned,’ the governor said slyly, ‘something about a butler you had in your employ, an ex-cat burglar called Lugg …’

‘Good grief! Lugg would throw a fit if anyone called him a butler. He was, as he put it so succinctly, a “gent’s gent”, and as for cat-burgling, he hasn’t done any of that since he was a kitten and he certainly doesn’t have the girth or the flexibility for it any more. I’m surprised the newly promoted Commander Luke has not got more and better things on his mind than to think of old cons we have known and loved.’

‘Actually, when he was Detective Chief Inspector Luke, he used to check up quite regularly on certain inmates, ones he had been personally responsible for ensuring they enjoyed our hospitality here in Wakefield. In fact, he mentioned one of them on the telephone when he rang and even asked if your visit was connected in some way, as the name would be familiar to you.’

‘Whose name?’ Campion could not help but be intrigued.

‘A chap called Malcolm Maud. Does it mean anything? He was from down south.’

‘Quite a few of us are, I’m afraid,’ said Campion smoothly, ‘and yes, the name rings a distant bell. “Banger Maud” he was known as on the lawless streets of Canning Town. A safe-cracker, or to be accurate, a safe-blower who didn’t care how much damage he caused. He was one of Charlie Luke’s collars; got quite a hefty sentence, as I recall.’

‘Ten years and did them all, the last three of them here, but he was released six months ago.’

‘Charlie would have known that, surely?’

‘I would think so.’

‘So why mention him?’

‘I get the impression that Mr Luke, being a very professional policeman, doesn’t like loose ends.’

‘And you think he has unfinished business with Banger Maud?’

Dennison nodded. ‘I suspect he thinks Maud is unlikely to have been reformed by his incarceration and is quite likely to re-offend, although to be perfectly honest, he behaved himself well enough when he was one of our … er … guests. I remember he took to our carpentry classes like a duck to water. He spent hours in our woodwork room under very close supervision, given the sharp tools there and the obvious temptation to build a glider in the roof.’

Mr Campion grinned politely to show he had understood the Colditz reference. ‘Wouldn’t Luke be in a better position to know that rather than you whether Maud had relapsed into his old ways,’ he said, ‘if he was released six months ago?’

‘That’s the really curious thing, you see.’ Mr Dennison leaned forward, his elbows anchoring to the desk. ‘Malcolm Maud was supposed to be heading back to London on his release but he never did and nobody seems to know where he is. Just like Haydon Bagley.’

‘I’m sorry …?’

‘Haydon Bagley, Doreen Bagley’s son. He did the very same thing – just disappeared. I presume Mrs Bagley knows where he is.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Campion doubtfully. ‘As far as I know he hasn’t shown up in Denby Ash.’

‘How odd. It’s not unusual to lose track of ex-prisoners and, of course, they have done their time, paid their debt to society and all that. Still, two cell mates both dropping out of sight on release like …’

‘Cell mates?’ Campion interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, didn’t I say? Maude and Bagley shared a cell for nearly two years up until Maud got his release. Thick as thieves they were, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

‘So they got on well together?’

‘Splendidly as far as I could see, even after Maud got into religion in a big way. That happens in prison, you know: a prisoner sees the light and starts preaching to the other inmates. It can sometimes lead to ugly scenes when men are confined in a small cell, but Bagley seemed happy to go along with Maud’s Bible bashing. My officers nicknamed him the Disciple – and they called Maud the Preacher.’

As Mr Campion drove into Denby Ash that afternoon, the dark outline of the Grange Ash muck stack was fading into the glowering, darker sky, even though the illuminated dashboard clock told Campion that he would be at Ash Grange before school was out for the day.

Celia Armitage met him in the entrance hall and offered to show him to the room Perdita was using for her rehearsals. Rupert had, she reported, come in from his afternoon training session with the First XV and retreated to his rooms in the Lodge in search of a hot bath and dry clothing. Mr Campion tut-tutted sympathetically and said he would be fascinated to see Perdita putting her cast through its paces.

As she escorted Campion along corridors and up a flight of stairs, Celia urged him to hurry as the bell was about to go and, this being Friday, they could well be engulfed in a tidal wave of boys hurrying home for the weekend. Campion, who had no wish to become a piece of flotsam battered by satchels and prodded by adolescent elbows, kept pace with the headmaster’s wife and reached the appropriate door with seconds to spare.

‘And so Faustus gets dragged down to Hell by all you lot,’ Perdita was saying. ‘And you’ll all be wearing teachers’ gowns, so I want them flapping. It should look as if you’re a swarm of bats – or whatever the collective noun for bats is – descending on Faustus and carrying him off, but for goodness’ sake remember that Faustus has a poorly foot, so please be gentle with him, but make it look as vicious as possible. It’s called acting. Please remember that.’

She clapped her hands just as the school bell sounded.

‘That’s all for today, lads. Well done. Now put the chairs and desks back before you go.’

Amidst the crash of furniture and bustle of scrabbling boys eager to depart, Perdita sidled over to Mr Campion’s side and put a hand on his arm. ‘What do you think of my little company?’

‘You seem to have them well drilled,’ said her father-in-law, ‘though I didn’t see much. You seem to have the knack for teaching and the boys certainly approve of you. I suspect’ – Campion lowered his voice – ‘half of them are madly in love with you.’

‘How can you tell that? You’ve only been in the room thirty seconds,’ protested Perdita quietly.

‘I know teenage boys. I’m pretty sure I was one myself once. Oh, and by the way, it’s a colony.’

‘What is?’

‘The collective noun for a group of bats.’

‘Show off! What have you been up to today?’

‘Nothing much,’ Campion said lightly. ‘Had me dabs taken by the rozzers, so I did, cor blimey and luv a duck. Then I called on yer actual ’Elen of Troy, so I did and – stone the crows – ended up in chokey. God’s honest, I ended up in the nick.’

Perdita made a fist and punched Mr Campion lightly on the shoulder. ‘Now you’re setting a bad example for the boys, cheeking the teacher like that. I don’t know how Amanda puts up with you.’

Campion peered over the tops of his spectacles. ‘Now that is a genuine mystery, but one for another time. At the moment I’m hoping young Roderick can help clear up a different one.’

Roderick Braithwaite’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. He had been quietly straightening the desks and chairs to their proper classroom order and collecting dropped books, pencils and sweet wrappers – the sort of jetsam which follows in the wake of teenage boys.