Mr Campion's Fault (8 page)

He shook raindrops from his fringe and realized that the afternoon was waning quickly. Did dusk fall rapidly in these northern latitudes, or was that the tropics? Perhaps he should ask a geography teacher, even one as anti-social and grumpy as Wing Commander Bland. The memory of his encounter with the inhabitants of the ‘Dragons’ Den’ suddenly reminded him that he was now supposed to be a teacher himself and that he had over a dozen increasingly muddy boys in his charge.

Fortunately the boys on the rugby field were clearly capable of managing without adult supervision and were following the instructions being bellowed by the boy Ramsden with the authority of one of Cromwell’s field commanders. And following them quite well judging by the applause of the spectators – spectators of which Rupert had been totally unaware until that moment.

Admittedly there were only two spectators, standing at either end of the pitch as far apart as physically possible so they could hardly constitute a crowd. The more vocal of the two, given to shouting clipped instructions such as ‘Swerve!’ ‘Pass it!’ and ‘Get into ’im!’ was a squat, pepper pot of a man wearing a thick donkey jacket with leather shoulder pads, dark trousers tucked into wellington boots and a brown flat cap with its peak pulled over his eyes to deflect the shards of icy rain which Rupert, his teeth chattering, was now sure were falling horizontally.

Jogging across the field as much to keep warm as to have any effect on the game in progress, Rupert paused at the shoulder of a mud-spattered boy down on one knee retying a wayward bootlace. ‘Who is that chap over there?’

‘That’s Rufus, sir,’ the boy answered wearily. ‘Rufus Harrop, the groundsman. He’s always mithering about the way we cut up
his
field.’

‘I suppose I’d better go and introduce myself,’ Rupert said to the crown of the boy’s head, for the boy was concentrating intently on de-knotting his rogue lace.

‘Don’t be surprised if he swears at you, sir,’ the boy advised without looking up. ‘He’s got a tongue the colour of a dolly blue, or so me Mum says.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

Making a mental note to ask Perdita for translation advice, Rupert loped across the pitch towards the flat-capped figure that seemed to shrink down into his coat as a tortoise would retract into its shell as he approached.

Rupert did not blame him, for had their positions been reversed he knew he would have shrunk from the gangling figure in a soaking tracksuit and mud-encrusted boots which flapped ever closer as if doing a Rag Week impersonation of Joyce Grenfell.

‘Hello there. You must be Mr Harrop.’

The flat-capped head tilted upwards just enough to show a grey face displaying badly shaved white stubble, a wide nose that had clearly been broken at least once and small, piggy eyes set into dark sockets.

‘No must abaht it, but Harrop I am,’ said the smaller man, ‘an’ you’ll be t’new fella replacing Mr Browne.’

Rupert strained an ear in an attempt to tune in to the low, quiet voice which had the timbre of slow-moving gravel.

‘Only temporarily, until the end of term, and then there will be a new master starting after Christmas.’

‘That’ll be a relief, then. Summ’on else can see t’arrangements.’

‘Arrangements?’ Rupert enquired, latching on to words that he understood clearly.

‘Fick-sures.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Games – proper uns – versus other schools,’ said the grizzled groundsman with a blatant tone of despair.

‘Oh,
fixtures
… er … yes, I do believe we have some. My name’s Campion, by the way.’

‘’Course it is – I was told as much by t’eadmaster. Any road, I ’ave to tell yer that coach’ll be ’ere at nine sharp a week tomorrer to take team to Kwegs.’

Rupert glanced around in dumb desperation but help came there none. All the boys in his charge had found renewed enthusiasm for their wet and muddy practice game and every youthful eye was making sure it did not catch his. Even the only other spectator – a man with his hands deep into the pockets of a gabardine raincoat and a green trilby on his head – seemed to have floated conveniently out of range and was now leaning a shoulder against one leg of the whitewashed H goal post at the other end of the field.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Rupert began apologetically, ‘but I’m not exactly following you …’

‘Well, yer wouldn’t, would yer, you bein’ a toff from down south, yer mawngy bugger,’ growled the gnomic figure under the cap.

Wrong-footed by this unprovoked aggression, if that indeed was what it was, Rupert recalled his father once suggesting that the Campion family motto really should be
Numquam scienter contumeliam –
or
‘
Never Knowingly Insulted’ if he had remembered his Latin correctly (which he doubted). For his current situation, it seemed a good philosophy to adopt.

‘You’re absolutely correct to assume I am from points south of here,’ he said graciously, ‘and therefore in need of as much help and guidance as your charity will allow, but please remember to use small, slow words.’

The gaunt, weathered face tilted upwards from under the peak of the flat cap and Harrop’s bullet-hole eyes regarded Rupert with the unblinking stare which in Yorkshire passed for curiosity. And then the granite face fissured into a crack of a smile, or perhaps a smirk.

‘Aye, well then,’ said Rufus Harrop, as if about to announce the state opening of something, ‘it’s like I said. Coach is booked for nine sharp next Saturday morning.’

‘Coach?’ said Rupert vaguely.

‘Coach – charabanc – bus,’ Harrop said slowly, ‘to take t’team to Kwegs for t’match.’

‘I’m sorry to be southern, but what are Kwegs?’

‘Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar School – Q-E-G-S – in Wakefield.’ Harrop sighed loudly as if in relief at having got the words out.

‘Oh, I see!’ Rupert exclaimed, a penny having finally dropped. ‘We have an away game – a fixture.’

‘What I said, weren’t it?’

‘You probably did,’ Rupert admitted. ‘And I have to take the boys to Wakefield, do I?’

‘Not all of them, just the First XV and any of ’em that’s daft enough to say they’ll run the lines. Any road, bus driver’ll know where to go and the boys’ll know what they’re doing, even if you don’t. That’s all I ’ad to say. Tha’d better get them into the showers and off home – it’ll be dark before long. It gets dark quicker up here, tha knows.’

Rupert wanted to agree, having felt distinctly in the dark for some time already, but before he could say anything the small man turned on his heels and stomped away, leaving Rupert to decipher the initials ‘NCB’ in large white letters on the back of his donkey jacket.

‘Don’t worry about Rufus Harrop – he’s got a full bag of chips on his shoulder. Takes against anyone he thinks is posh or votes Conservative or comes from south of Cudworth.’

Rupert had blown two shrill blasts on his whistle, calling a halt to the practice game, and ordered the boys to get showered and changed at the double. It was as he trudged after the column of boys trotting towards the brick pavilion (rugby in winter, cricket in summer), that the spectator in the green trilby strode over the mangled, muddy grass and engaged him in conversation.

‘Then I’m probably thrice damned in his eyes, though I’m not awfully sure where Cudworth is,’ admitted Rupert.

‘I wouldn’t lose sleep over that. My name’s Ramsden, by the way. That was my boy out there in the ruck – the one doing all the shouting.’

Rupert wiped his hand across the chest of his tracksuit top before shaking the one offered.

‘Andrew Ramsden? He’s my captain, I think.’

‘Well, he was Mr Browne’s pick,’ said the proud father, ‘and the team’s done well enough this term.’

‘Then I’m certainly not going to change a winning formula,’ said Rupert firmly. ‘In any case, I’m only a stopgap until the end of term, so if Andrew can put up with me I’ll be more than happy to put up with him.’

‘So you’ll be doing just the two games? Pocklington at home and then QEGS?’

‘I believe so,’ said Rupert with more certainty than he felt. ‘That would be Queen Elizabeth’s in Wakefield … wouldn’t it?’ He became aware that Andrew’s proud dad was now looking at him with curiosity mixed with sympathy.

‘That’s right, that’s the last fixture of term. Tomorrow Pocklington sends a team here and all you have to worry about there is putting on a sandwich lunch for the visitors; the match itself shouldn’t be a problem.’ Ramsden paused in his briefing. ‘Unlike the one in Wakefield, when QEGS will give us a real run for our money. Could be a tough game.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ Rupert grinned. ‘Do you get to the matches?’

‘Not as often as I’d like.’

‘Policeman’s lot and all that?’

The policeman in question raised an official eyebrow. ‘There are no secrets in Denby Ash, are there? I suppose you got an earful from Rufus Harrop about me. Round here they like bobbies about as much as they like southerners.’

‘Or toffs,’ said Rupert amiably, ‘but our beloved groundsman didn’t mention you as such. One of Andrew’s masters did.’

‘Could I ask in what context?’

Another of Mr Campion Senior’s maxims sprang into Campion Junior’s mind: that policemen are rarely, if ever, off-duty.

‘A pastoral context and done with the best will in the world. It seems your presence here in Denby Ash is not – shall we say – fully appreciated by the locals and their resentment may rub off on Andrew. I have no idea of the details, of course, and naturally I said I would keep an eye on him, though as far as I can make out he seems perfectly able of taking care of himself.’

‘Thank you for being so frank,’ said Ramsden, ‘and you are right, Andrew is a capable boy on and off the rugby field, but I would appreciate it if you would keep an eye on him.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Rupert, slowing his pace as they neared the pavilion building. ‘Your investigation here – it’s nothing dangerous, is it?’

‘Not at all, just routine checks really, but Andrew lost his mother two years ago.’ Ramsden’s voice collapsed into a whisper and he turned his head left and right to make sure he would not be overheard. ‘Cancer,’ he said, almost mouthing the word, making it an obscenity.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Rupert. ‘The boy must still be sensitive.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s sensitive all right, though like most teenage boys he won’t show it. That’s not what I’m worried about, though; it’s Andrew being close to Roderick Braithwaite. They’ve always been friends and they have a lot in common. Andrew lost his mum and Roderick lost his dad years ago, and he’s a credit is the lad.’

‘So where’s the problem?’ Rupert prompted gently.

‘It’s just things have gotten strange lately, what with all the talk about ghosts and spirits and exorcisms.’ The policeman’s voice tailed off in embarrassment.

‘Is that all to do with the
Doctor Faustus
production? If so, that’s my wife’s department. I’d be happy to have a word with her if it would put your mind at ease.’

Dennis Ramsden shook his head violently, sending a carousel of spray from the brim of his hat. ‘It’s nothing to do with the school play; it’s to do with the haunting of Ada Braithwaite’s house. Roderick’s obsessed with it and he’s got our Andrew fixed on it as well.’

‘A haunted house? Here in Denby Ash?’

‘Bertram Browne believed it, according to the boys, and Ada Braithwaite says he actually witnessed it the night he was killed.’

The word ‘killed’ instead of ‘died’ had an immediate sobering effect on Rupert.

‘I thought Bertram Browne was the victim of a road accident, a hit-and-run.’

‘He was, but it happened no more than half an hour after he experienced a poltergeist. Makes you think.’

‘It certainly does, I suppose, but I’m not quite sure why you are telling me this.’

‘Thought you’d be curious; thought curiosity ran in the family. Something like this should be right up your street if you’re a Campion. You are related to Albert Campion, aren’t you?’

‘I am, and you were right, Mr Ramsden,’ said Rupert thoughtfully, ‘there are no secrets in Denby Ash.’

Dear Aged P’s, Rupert’s letter began, at which Mr Campion huffed ‘Cheek!’ before continuing to read.

Here, as promised (under duress) is our first Situation Report from the front line in the Frozen North. (Mother was right about the thermals, by the way.)

Ash Grange School, as opposed to Denby Ash the village or Grange Ash the colliery (yes, there is a lot of ash around here), is not the Dickensian nightmare you wanted it to be. The school is not nearly old enough for that, though many of the staff could be.

Perdita tells me not be cruel, so I will say that in the main they are not bad, just odd. Our hosts – bosses, I suppose – the Armitages are decent people, but I think I must be the only male member of staff of who doesn’t go by a commissioned rank. The physics master turns out to be an army chaplain and wears a dog collar, though he’s not the local vicar – that’s a sour old stick we met yesterday, and the music teacher’s wife is a staunch Methodist of one ilk or another, all of which means that nobody seems very keen on this ‘Faustus’ show that Perdita has been sweet-talked into taking on. They all seem to think that doing a play about conjuring up spirits and demons is the next best thing to actually conjuring them and they’re convinced Perdita will be messing about with books, bells, candles, pentacles and a sacrificial cockerel or two.

It does seem, however, that their fears are far from irrational as there is a well-authenticated case of supernatural possession – is that the right word? – not of a person, but of a house where a poltergeist has taken up residence. It’s a perfectly ordinary house, one of a row of twenty or more identical ones in a long terrace, built for miners’ families by the local mine owner before the Great War. Only the one house seems to have been invaded by the poltergeist and then only at certain times. Thursday evenings seem the most popular time for the spooky curtain to go up and, as far as we’ve heard, the Noisy Ghost (I think that’s the correct translation from the German, but you’d know) doesn’t go in for matinees.

This is all quite exciting because the haunted house is the home of a bright lad called Roderick Braithwaite who plays – you’ve guessed it – Dr Faustus in the production Perdita is struggling to put on. Roderick was also a particular favourite (I suppose I should say ‘star pupil’) of the late Bertram Browne, whom I have replaced on the rugby field, though not necessarily successfully. Not only that, but Bertram Browne apparently witnessed the poltergeist in action
chez
Braithwaite on the night he was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Spooky, to say the least.

Naturally, polite after-dinner conversation round here (and they really do call lunch ‘dinner’ and dinner ‘tea’ and I’m not being a snob, whatever Perdita thinks) turns to exorcism, or how to chuck out the pesky ghost. Despite being rather overstocked with churches, chapels and clerics of various hues, no one seems keen to volunteer. Our physics master, the Rev. Stanley Huxtable says it’s out of his jurisdiction whereas the local incumbent, whom we met at Holy Communion yesterday (all school staff are expected to attend and it’s fairly High so they call it ‘Mass’), is called Cuthbertson-Twigg and is said to run and hide at the very suggestion.

He is fairly ancient and a dry sort and has been here for ever, I think. I only mention him because one bit of staff-room gossip is that he was once cursed by the local witch!

Now I have your attention(!) I can reveal that Denby Ash has a witch in residence. She doesn’t live in a sugar candy house, which would make her popular with the boys here, but a beat-up caravan parked on a piece of common grazing ground known as Pinfold Lane. I have learned that ‘Pinfold’ is the old term for a village pound or animal enclosure, and the locals seem quite happy for her to be there. At any rate, no one has said anything about an angry mob carrying pitchforks and torches trying to drive her out.

Of course, we haven’t actually crossed broomsticks with this witch, who is called Ivy Neal, we’re told, as we have yet to venture out of school grounds and into the village proper. However, we will be mounting an expedition tonight so do think of us as we venture forth into enemy territory as Perdita takes me for a night out in the local working men’s club.

Actually, it’s business rather than pleasure as she has to meet the musicians who will perform in
Faustus
. They’re members of the Denby Ash Brass Band and all miners. The bandmaster is a cove called Arthur Exley, a big cheese in the miners’ union, whose
nom de guerre
is ‘Trotsky’, which might give you some idea of his political persuasions. Wish us luck!

One local character we have met has heard of you, though I can’t tell if he’s a paid-up member of the AC fan club or not as he’s a policeman, a DCI called Ramsden. He’s hanging around Denby Ash, where he’s clearly not appreciated, looking for a con-man recently released from Wakefield Gaol. I think he’s worried that this chap, who conned everyone in the village out of their hard-earned apparently, might be in line for some rough vigilante justice should he show his face round here. It seems a bit of a waste of police time if you ask me, as all the local papers and the local television news (a breezy little programme called
Calendar
) are going overboard on the crime wave sweeping the West Riding. It seems there’s a highly organized gang operating in the county, robbing mills and factories and department stores by stealing their safes, invariably when they contain the week’s wage packets. Not, you’ll note, stealing
from
their safes, but taking the entire metal box! Now you have to admit that takes cheek, as well as a fair amount of upper body strength. The press is calling it the biggest, most outrageous act of thievery since Robin Hood rode through these green woods – when there were green woods and not collieries round here.

Funnily enough, legend has it that Robin Hood is buried not that far away at a place called Kirklees. I’m not sure that’s true, so perhaps we should ask Lugg as he’s bound to be a descendant of one of Robin’s Merry Men.

Closing now to catch the post and to get ready for our meeting with militant brass bandsmen down ‘t’club’, as it’s known. If Perdita behaves herself and doesn’t spark the Revolution, then I’m treating her to a fish supper at Willy Elliff’s chip shop, which everyone says is absolutely top-notch and one of the main, if not the only, tourist attractions of Denby Ash.

More anon,

Yours, near Ilkley Moor without a titfer,

Rupert

‘Well, Rupert seems to be having a high old time,’ said Mr Campion, folding the letter back into its envelope and propping it against the marmalade dish. ‘Ghosts, ghoulies, vicars, thieves, policemen and militant trade unionists all on his doorstep.’

‘He doesn’t say how Perdita’s managing amidst all that chaos,’ said his wife from behind the pink pages of the
Financial Times
.

‘Perdita is perfectly capable of handling a battalion of spotty schoolboys and any amount of Bolshie brass bandsmen, and I’m sure her production of
Faustus
will bring the house down. It’s the current West Riding crime wave which interests me.’

‘Albert …’ Lady Amanda’s voice was gentle, but the warning it carried was strong enough and the pink screen of newspaper quivered in her grip.

‘I was only thinking …’

‘Please don’t think, darling. You know I worry so when you
think
.’

Mr Campion removed his tortoiseshell-framed spectacles and polished the lenses unnecessarily on his perfectly pressed, snow-white napkin.

‘It made all the papers, you know. Not the ones you read, my dear, but the comics I glance at down the public library where I often pop in for a bit of a warm or to get out of the rain while I’m waiting for the Darby and Joan Club to open.’

‘Don’t play the fool,’ said Amanda, lowering the paper so that her husband got the full benefit of her admonishing, though slightly twinkly, glare. ‘You may be a Darby but I’ll be no Joan, and that’s a promise.’

‘And
that
,’ said Mr Campion with a wide grin, ‘is almost a quote from
She Stoops To Conquer
, isn’t it? Goldsmith in all his glory.’

Amanda nodded her head graciously and Campion, not for the first time (not even the first time that morning) noted with genuine admiration that his wife was still a beguiling beauty even after almost thirty years of married breakfasts.

‘In any case,’ Amanda said dryly, ‘no Darby and Joan Club would have you as a member.’

‘Would I join a club who had people like me as a member?’

‘Now you are almost quoting Marx – Groucho that is, not the other one that Perdita has to deal with.’

‘Rupert said it was Trotsky, not Marx,’ said Campion airily. ‘I’ve read about him too: Arthur Exley, the firebrand union activist. He’ll be sitting in a smoke-filled room in Downing Street before long, negotiating for a pay rise and shorter hours with the Minister for Power, or whichever minister it is that handles coal. Does that make me sound like a reactionary old fuddy-duddy?’

‘It does indeed, darling. The socialists have been in power for five years now and nobody has actually tried to bundle you into a tumbril for the guillotine they have no doubt erected in Parliament Square.’

Mr Campion replaced his glasses and raised himself just enough so that he could peer over the top of his wife’s newspaper. ‘You always could soothe my nerves when it came to politics,’ he said sweetly.

‘Politics are not a suitable topic for conversation at the breakfast table,’ said Amanda without looking up.

‘Absolutely right, darling. Now let me tell you about these robberies …’