Mr Campion's Fault (26 page)

‘And this Mr Big killed Ivy Neal?’

‘I can’t prove it but I’m sure of it.’

‘Why?’

‘If our Mr Big is Malkey Maud, Ivy Neal was the one person in Denby Ash who could identify him. She’d met him when visiting Haydon in prison and he’d mentioned a “Malcolm” in his letters. Perhaps he said something in that last letter …’

‘The one we can’t find.’

Campion nodded, his helmet torch beam slashing the musty air, which made him feel rather ridiculous.

‘The one he
did
find, when he killed her? Haydon could have been telling her things were going to look up and life get better now he was coming out. Didn’t Mrs Bagley – the real Mrs Bagley – say as much last night?’

‘Maybe the old witch was trying to negotiate a bigger share for her son,’ said Ramsden.

‘Could have been, though I’ve a feeling she was a loose end which needed tying off. Eight jobs, eight safes. Perhaps Bagley only knew of eight suitable targets. The job was done and he was dead; so was Bertie Browne. The gang were pulling out, intending to disappear. Ivy Neal was the last link in a very nasty chain.’

‘Let’s go topside,’ said Ramsden wearily. ‘I must have a cigarette before I take a look at that body on the stack.’

They walked back down the tunnel to where the track ended at the cage and one of the rescue team miners made sure they were secure before starting them on their ascent.

As the cage started to rise, both men turned off their headlamps, the darkness of the shaft holding fewer fears for them now they were heading for that grey lozenge of daylight which marked the surface.

‘So how do we flush out this Malkey Maude when we don’t even know what he looks like?’ asked Ramsden.

‘I might be able to help you there,’ said Campion lightly, swallowing hard to relieve the pressure in his ear. ‘You see, I may not have the resources of a modern police force but I do have a Lugg.’

M
r Magersfontein Lugg had performed many unusual tasks for Mr Albert Campion over the years, several of them perfectly legal and none of them at all ‘common’.

His current task was to catch an early morning train heading north, take a first-class seat, equip himself with all the more outrageous Sunday newspapers and avail himself of any breakfast facilities on offer as frequently as he so desired. In case of a sudden alteration to Campion’s plans, it might be wise to bring an overnight bag of essentials such as pyjamas and toothbrush. It would not be necessary to pack knuckle-dusters, wigs, false moustaches or any form of firearm. He would be met at Wakefield Westgate station (the one nearest the prison as Campion was sure he knew) and taken to a rural location for a few minutes’ work, after which he would be able to sample the local ale to his liver’s content and at Mr Campion’s expense. He was not, on any account, to scream, sulk or throw a fit when he was met at the station by a police car.

As he sat in the back of a black cab en route to King’s Cross, Mr Lugg allowed himself to release a stream of quiet invective, the content of which ranged widely over numerous subjects yet always returned to the iniquity of liberties being taken on loyal retainers who really should be allowed a lie-in on a Sunday morning and not be turned out of a warm bed before the pigeons had rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

By Peterborough he was somewhat mollified by several cups of British Rail tea and distracted by the misfortunes of the high and mighty as chronicled in the salacious British press, and by Grantham had summoned up enough enthusiasm to devour a pair of kippers and half a loaf of toast in the dining car. At Doncaster, the sky darkened as though the morning had had enough and given up, and the rain rained. By Wakefield, the rain had eased to a light drizzle but the sky and his mood were in perfect harmony; both were glowering.

He stepped from the train on to the platform, sniffed loudly and planted his large, highly polished black brogues on either side of a Gladstone bag which could have been a Victorian doctor’s holdall or an exhibit in a particularly gruesome murder trial. He buttoned up his dark blue overcoat, unfurled his umbrella and held it high above his bowler-hatted head.

In that position he remained as immobile as a sentry at Buckingham Palace despite the curious stares of the few other passengers who came and went about their business. Eventually a uniformed policeman appeared at the ticket barrier, exchanged words and gestures with the inspector there then marched down the platform towards him.

Lugg took a mischievous delight in the fact that the policeman had been forced to buy a platform ticket.

The bell of St James’ the Great was tolling over Denby Ash as the Campions gathered in the car park of the Green Dragon. Mr Campion’s car was the only vehicle there, there still being a godly hour and more to go before opening time, and he was behind the wheel concentrating on the Common across the road through his Zeiss ‘opera glasses’ as Perdita parked her Mini Cooper parallel to the Jaguar.

‘Bird-watching?’ Rupert asked as he opened the car door for his father.

‘Cat-watching, actually,’ Mr Campion replied, offering Rupert the binoculars. ‘Over there, on the roof of Ivy Neal’s caravan.’

Rupert raised the glasses, following the direction of his father’s pointing finger. ‘That shaggy beast is a cat? Are you sure? It looks more like a lynx.’

‘That’s Hecate and I do hope someone is feeding her, though I am sure she can forage for herself. How did the big match go yesterday?’

‘Predictably,’ sighed Rupert. ‘With Andy Ramsden out injured we were bound to lose, but I didn’t expect by quite so many points.’

‘Best not to ask for any details,’ said Perdita, winding an Ash Grange school scarf around her throat. ‘The match report in the school mag will make pretty depressing reading. We hear you had a far more successful day. A quiet stroll in the countryside indeed! Amanda always said you were a big fibber!’

Perdita cosied up to Campion, stood on tiptoe and planted a chilly kiss on his cheek.

‘The village grapevine again?’ he asked with a smile.

‘And the jungle drums and the smoke signals. Fun and games up at Grange Ash: police called, bodies found – two thugs from somewhere called Cudworth, a place I’m sure I’ve heard of before – laid out, motorbikes exploding and goodness knows what else.’

‘I think that just about covers my day,’ Campion said smoothly. ‘How was yours?’

‘Nightmare-ish,’ said Perdita. ‘Oh, not having to watch my darling husband tear his hair out on the touchline. That was quite fun. It was having to put up with Hilda Browne for three hours, though it seemed a lot, lot longer.’

‘I didn’t have Miss Browne pegged as a rugby fan.’

‘She’s not. I’m sure she didn’t have a clue what was going on on the pitch. That wasn’t the point. She
had
to be there to represent her brother and had to be seen doing it in front of the local gentry. She’s a terrible snob and quite mad, and of course I got lumbered with her because of
Faustus
, which I am truly dreading.’

‘I’m sure it will be all right on the night,’ Campion beamed. ‘But to take your mind off things, I have a surprise for you both.’

He nodded towards the police car which had just pulled off the Wakefield road and into the car park. It stopped a few yards from their vehicles and a policeman got out, scurried round to the passenger-side door and opened it. With some ceremony and a fair portion of dignity, a large bowler-hatted figure emerged and looked around as if waiting for applause.

‘Lugg!’ cried the junior Campions together. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was told there would be ale!’ boomed Lugg, opening his arms to embrace them both.

‘Not just yet, old fruit,’ said Mr Campion as the bell of St James’ struck again. ‘First we have to go to church.’

He comes! He comes! The judge severe.

‘What sort of an ’im is this?’ hissed Lugg. ‘There’s no tune to it.’

‘It’s one of Wesley’s and I think it rather apposite,’ whispered Campion. ‘And there’s no music because there clearly isn’t room for a harmonium in here.’

The three Campions and Lugg had almost doubled the size of the congregation in the Mission hut, the other participants being half-a-dozen elderly women in headscarves, though Preacher Robin Chubb seemed unaware of his sudden popularity and went about his business of leading the faithful in prayer.

There was another hymn and then a psalm, all spoken not sung, and prayers which Chubb declaimed, with convincing sincerity, whilst standing on a solid pine stool. In one hand he held a leather-bound Bible and with the other he would casually stroke his pointed beard as though a philosopher composing his next great thought.

Lugg, squeezed uncomfortably into one of the pews between Mr Campion and Perdita, kept his head bowed and concentrated on the bowler hat perched on his knees. He could not resist, as Chubb commenced another prayer, to say to Perdita out of the corner of his mouth: ‘They don’t go in for bells ’n smells ’ere, do they?’ and Perdita choked back a giggle.

As the prayer ended, Chubb opened his Bible and addressed the congregation. His eyes widened as if he had only just discovered there were other people in the building.

‘Dear brothers and sisters,’ he began, ‘I take Matthew chapter twenty-four, verse thirty-six as the inspiration for my sermon today.’

Campion nudged Lugg with an elbow – an elbow which made only a minimal indentation in the combined padding of overcoat and fatty tissue which acted as a natural defence mechanism against such warranted intrusions.

‘Get ready, you couldn’t have a better cue,’ whispered Campion.

‘We must all be ready at all times,’ said Chubb in a conversational rather than preachy tone, ‘for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.’

Mr Campion’s elbow bounced off Lugg’s torso a second time.

‘That’s delicious. You’re on, old son.’

Mr Lugg rose ponderously to his feet with all the grace of a walrus mounting a bicycle, settled his feet a comfortable distance apart and slapped his bowler hat to his chest roughly where his heart should be.

‘Malkey Maude,’ he declaimed in a booming baritone, ‘as I live and breathe! You are Malkey Maude and I claim my five pounds. I bring greetings from your nearest and dearest in Canning Town, though in truth they ain’t what yer might call well-wishers. Still, they’ll be pleased to hear you’ve seen the light, though I almost didn’t recognize you, me old china, what with that Bible in yer ’and an’ that poncey beard. Not sure the face fungus suits you, Malkey …’

Preacher Chubb abandoned any pretence of preaching, his face a mixture of shocked recognition and sheer panic. Dropping his Bible as though it burned, he jumped down from his small podium and raced through the startled congregation towards the door of the Mission.

Rupert struggled to his feet and made a grab for him, but Chubb was too quick. He made the door of the hut, ripped it open and continued running straight into the arms of Chief Inspector Ramsden and three constables waiting outside.

‘
Now
is it time for ale?’ asked Lugg, to no one in particular.

‘So what have you been up to?’ Lady Amanda asked gently, then her voice hardened. ‘And please don’t try your usual flannel. You know I know what a terrible liar you are, plus I have spies everywhere.’

‘You are omnipotent and omnipresent, my darling, and I would not dare to deceive,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I have spent the last few days driving up into the beautiful Dales, where I acquired a Wensleydale cheese which probably does not meet health regulations but I am sure will be delicious. It appears to have been made in a lady’s nylon stocking, though I couldn’t identify the denier.’

‘Albert!’

‘I do not lie, darling – I really did buy a cheese, which the hotel is kindly keeping for me in a refrigerator, and I really have been seeing the sights: the parsonage at Haworth, Fountains Abbey, Rievaulx Abbey, Jervaulx Abbey and I even discovered a magical little place called Masham. It’s spelled with a “sh” but it’s pronounced “Massam”. There’s a brewery there where they brew a beer called Old Peculier
and that’s “peculier” with an “e” not “peculiar” with an “a”, which is in itself peculiar.’

‘Albert, I won’t tell you again.’

‘That sounds a very Yorkshire thing to say, my dear.’

‘It is. Perdita taught me it. She said all the mothers here use it on husbands and naughty children alike.’

Campion put down the knife and fork he had been using to dissect a perfectly delicious Barnsley chop and poured some more wine into his wife’s glass. They were dining at the George Hotel, Amanda having arrived by train in Huddersfield that evening prior to her starring role at the Ash Grange Speech Day and end of term celebrations.

‘My dear, I swear on everything I hold dear – which is to say you – that since Monday I have been doing nothing more strenuous than a crossword puzzle.’

‘And prior to Monday?’ Amanda asked, her eyes cold but still beautiful.

‘Mingling with the locals, studying the flora and fauna … the usual …’

‘Bringing Lugg up north is not “usual”, Albert. I don’t know who to feel more sorry for – Lugg or Yorkshire.’

‘It was a flying visit and he thoroughly enjoyed himself,’ said Campion stoutly.

‘He had a terrible hangover when I saw him on Monday evening,’ countered his wife.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Campion meekly. ‘He was taken on a tour of the flesh pots of Huddersfield by some grateful policemen. Apparently there are flesh pots in Huddersfield and they are open on Sundays.’

‘The pair of you! You are incorrigible, untrustworthy and possibly insane. You clearly deserve each other and I don’t know why I worry so much.’

‘Oh, yes you do,’ said Mr Campion softly, reaching out to take his wife’s hand, ‘but there really is no need. I have been exploring, broadening my horizons and meeting some fascinating people. I’ve been made an honorary member of a working men’s club and even bought myself a rather stylish flat cap to go with my new donkey jacket. I have walked uphill and down dale and even been down a coal mine. That was quite scary, I admit, but perfectly safe.’

‘And that’s all you’ve been up to?’ Lady Amanda put her head on one side and narrowed her eyes. Even when highly suspicious, Mr Campion still felt hers was the most beautiful face he had seen.

He was stroking his wife’s hand and considering the magnitude and whiteness of the lie he was about to tell when a welcome distraction arrived. Their waitress, a homely middle-aged woman wearing a smart black dress with white apron, collar and cuffs approached their table and waited politely before speaking in a hushed tone so that fellow diners could not overhear.

‘There’s a gentleman in Reception, sir – says he would like a word with you if it’s convenient, that is. He said the last thing he wanted to do was spoil your dinner but he had a bit of news for you.’ The waitress leaned in closer as if to impart a vital secret. ‘He’s a policeman,’ she said knowingly.

Lady Amanda slipped her hand from underneath Mr Campion’s and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘How interesting and yet somehow unsurprising,’ she murmured before turning her face to the waitress. ‘Do ask him to join us.’

If Chief Inspector Ramsden noticed the slightly cool atmosphere at the table or the fading blushes on Mr Campion’s cheeks as the introductions were made, he was professional enough, and well-mannered enough, not to mention it.

‘I’m so sorry to intrude,’ he said, shaking Amanda’s hand, ‘but I’m going off-duty and thought I’d catch you tonight before the fun and games at the school tomorrow.’

‘You will be present, I assume,’ said Mr Campion.

‘Absolutely. Andrew’s getting a prize for his rugby and of course we’re all keen to hear Lady Amanda’s address.’

‘So is Lady Amanda,’ said Amanda. ‘Do you have official business with my husband, Chief Inspector? Should I avert my ears?’

‘No need for that, Lady Amanda,’ he said apologetically. ‘I just wanted to update your husband on a couple of things. It is sort of official, but not confidential or sensitive.’