Police at the Funeral (25 page)

‘Uncle William is a very attractive bad old hat,' said Mr Campion. ‘Stanislaus is only taking this attitude because it's the orthodox police attitude. They always take the most obvious line and follow it up. If it leads them nowhere they abandon it and take the next most obvious, and so on. That's why they're practically inescapable in the end.'

‘But you,' Marcus persisted, ‘what do you think?'

Mr Campion was silent. His own theorizing had been partially forgotten in the excitement of the past two hours. Now, however, his face grew grave as the possibilities of the case returned to him. Marcus was still waiting for an answer, and he
was only saved from an embarrassing situation by a knock on the door behind them.

‘Mr Campion, may I trouble you for your arm?'

It was Great-aunt Caroline, frail and vivid as ever, in a magnificent Maltese cap and fichu. She smiled at Marcus.

‘You will find Joyce in the morning-room,' she said. ‘I wish you would go and talk to her. I am afraid she has had a very trying afternoon with poor Catherine.'

These instructions were delivered with grace and something of regal condescension. The next moment Mr Campion found himself escorting the old lady to her sitting-room. He had to stoop a little to allow her small hand to rest comfortably upon his forearm.

Great-aunt Caroline did not speak until she was safely seated in her high-backed walnut chair, with Campion standing on the hearth-rug before her. She sat regarding him approvingly, her little bright eyes resting on his face, a slightly amused smile on her mouth.

‘Emily is quite right,' she said. ‘You are a clever young man. I am very pleased with you. You are handling this disturbing business very well, especially poor William. Poor William is a very difficult man – a very silly man – yet some of my husband's brothers were quite as foolish as he. The police, of course, still suspect him.' She glanced at the young man sharply and Mr Campion met her gaze.

‘I think they do,' he said, and hesitated.

She smiled at him. ‘My dear young man,' she said, ‘I shall say nothing, whatever you tell me.'

Mr Campion took off his spectacles and for the first time a little weariness was apparent in his face. He returned her smile.

‘I shall remember that,' he said, and added quietly, ‘my position here is invidious, as you know, and things are a little awkward. But this morning I obtained what I am perfectly certain will turn out to be positive proof of Mr Faraday's innocence. I haven't told this to anyone yet, and I do not want to, since I thought it might work out best for all concerned if the police went on in their own way at the moment.'

The old lady's expression was inscrutable. ‘That's very good news,' she said. ‘I won't ask you any more than that. By the
way, I am afraid I have been guilty of an indiscretion; concealing evidence.'

Her smile deepened at the expression on his face, and she continued in her soft small voice.

‘I have a letter here which came for Andrew some two or three days after his disappearance. I ought to have handed it over to the police, I know, but fortunately I took the precaution of reading it first, and as the writer has some little position in the world to keep up, and the letter did not seem to be very important, I thought it a pity that she should be dragged into this affair. So I kept the note, but it has been weighing on my conscience. Here it is.'

She unlocked a tiny drawer in the bureau and drew out a thick white envelope addressed to ‘Andrew Seeley, Esq.', in a precise feminine hand. Great-aunt Caroline unfolded the sheet it contained with little bony fingers almost as white as the paper itself.

‘I don't know if you follow the scholastic world at all,' she said, ‘but the writer of this letter is Miss Margaret Lisle-Chevreuse, Principal of the Templeton College for Women at York, one of the finest posts in the country. You will understand that hers is a position to which any sort of notoriety would be most injurious. She is a maiden lady, of course, and since I remember her here about twenty-five years ago she is now, I suppose, almost fifty. Perhaps you will read the letter. I think it speaks for itself. I had never any idea that she knew Andrew at all well.'

Mr Campion took the paper with a certain amount of embarrassment and began to read.

As he finished reading, Mr Campion folded the letter thoughtfully between his fingers. Aunt Caroline came to his rescue.

‘She will have seen about his death in the papers, poor soul,' she said. ‘Poor unfortunate Andrew! He seems to have been on the verge of behaving like a gentleman for once in his life – unless he was thinking of his future. But we mustn't be uncharitable. I hope you don't blame me for not turning this over to the police, “Mr Campion”. What shall we do with it?'

The young man glanced meaningly at the dancing fire. The old lady nodded.

‘I think so, too,' she said.

When the last remnants of the envelope and its contents had been consumed by the flames, Mrs Faraday sighed.

‘As you grow older, young man,' she said, ‘you will find that not the least surprising thing in life is the fact that every man, however unworthy, can engender an undying spark of affection in the heart of some unlikely woman. Well, I have nothing more to confess. I am very relieved by what you have to tell me concerning poor William. You see, I happen to know, beyond any doubt whatever, that he is not guilty.'

The last words were spoken with such conviction that Mr Campion started. The little old lady sat looking up at him, her black eyes smiling and very shrewd.

‘Good-bye until dinner,' she said. ‘Would you mind sending Alice in to me? I am afraid this bell is out of order. I don't know how I should get on without Alice.'

AUNT CAROLINE'S INDOMITABLE
spirit took her to church on the following morning in spite of the fact that she must have been well aware that her appearance would cause a certain amount of unwelcome interest from the gaping populace. Both Uncle William and Aunt Kitty kept to their beds to avoid the ordeal, but Campion and Joyce accompanied the old lady willy-nilly.

As Campion followed the dominant figure up the aisle to her pew he heard a faint stir among the congregation, the rustle of prayer-books, the swish of skirts. But Great-aunt Caroline progressed slowly and stiffly, no expression at all upon her face, her black stick scraping on the stones.

It was a nightmare service for Joyce, and she was grateful for Mr Campion's presence. He acquitted himself perfectly, finding the places in Aunt Caroline's prayer-book as though to the manner born. This was all the more extraordinary, for he was hardly aware of the proceedings in that great impersonal church. His mind was occupied by a theory so startling and terrifying that he dared hardly consider it. Ever since that moment in the night when he had awakened with the idea ready made in his mind and had lain piecing together the jigsaw fragments of the problem, the theory had fascinated him. At the moment it was too nebulous to be spoken. He could see the expression of shocked incredulity on Stanislaus Oates's face were such an eventuality pointed out to him. And yet, if it were true, if this monstrous notion were something more than a night thought, then he shuddered at the realization of the danger to all beneath the haunted roof of Socrates Close.

Marcus Featherstone was waiting for them at the house when they returned. Uncle William, also, had recovered sufficiently
to put in an appearance. The two men were sitting in front of the fire in the morning-room when Joyce and Campion came in. It was evident that their conversation had not been pleasant. Uncle William was sulky, sitting hunched up in his chair sucking disconsolately at an empty pipe, while Marcus, on whom the strain of the past three days was beginning to tell, was still flushed with exasperation.

He rose eagerly as they came in and went over to the girl and kissed her, an involuntary caress which startled them both nearly as much as it shocked Uncle William. Joyce was delighted, and Campion made a mental note of the fact that the disaster, however terrible, was at least rousing Marcus from that superior lethargy which had been so apparent in his letter. Uncle William, sensing an advantage, made use of it.

‘I suppose you must embarrass everybody?' he remarked. ‘Kissing before lunch is like drinking before breakfast, damned bad taste. The whole morale of this house seems to be in jeopardy. Once we old families start going downhill we go down pretty fast. Well, I suppose Mother got all the notoriety she wanted in church this morning. I wasn't going to be a party to it. I stayed in bed to get out of it. Matter of fact, I've a good mind to go to bed and stay there until this whole thing's been cleared up.'

Campion noticed that he had dispensed with his sling this morning, and, reducing the bandage to a minimum, kept his hand in his pocket as much as possible.

‘This young fool,' the old man went on, indicating Marcus with a jerk of his unrepentant head, ‘has been trying to chivvy me into telling some cock-and-bull story about being attacked. He says he's been to see Lavrock. Julia was poisoned. Goodness knows how much conium was found in the poor girl. If Lavrock had been a decent fellow I should have thought he might have kept that to himself.'

‘Mr Faraday' – Marcus's face was crimson – ‘I told you that in confidence, in an earnest and I am afraid foolhardy attempt to convince you of the danger of your position. The information was given me in confidence, and I particularly asked you to respect mine.'

‘More fool you,' said Uncle William unpardonably. ‘When a
man's beset by suspicious fools he's a fool himself if he respects any man's confidence. The whole conduct of this case has been a scandal. You'll find yourself in a very bad position when it's all over, my boy. Your reputation will suffer.'

Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it and permitted Joyce to lead him out of the room.

Uncle William chuckled. ‘That's put him in his place,' he said. ‘He's supposed to be our lawyer, not a prosecuting counsel. Well, Campion,' he went on, his sudden bravado vanishing, ‘what's going to happen to me?'

Mr Campion looked at him regretfully. ‘That cat story,' he said. ‘That's bad, you know.'

‘Best I could think of, my boy, in the time,' said Uncle William unexpectedly.

‘Well, it's not too late,' Campion observed.

Uncle William hesitated. Then he cocked an eye in the young man's direction.

‘Fact of it is, I'm blessed if I know what it was,' he said slowly. ‘I was a bit tight at the time. Something let out at me, I know that. On the whole, I think I'll stick to the cat. I'd tell you if I knew what it was,' he added ingenuously, ‘but I don't. As I told you, there's something queer going on here. I've been made fool enough in this business already. And I've learnt one thing: if you make a statement, stick to it. There's going to be the devil to pay over that specialist fellow. No, if I said it was a cat, a cat it was. That's my last word. Oh, Lord, here's Kitty,' he went on half under his breath, as the door opened. ‘I can't stand a snivelling woman.' And with singular ungraciousness he got up and walked out, pushing past his faded little sister, who turned and looked after him, indignation in her pale eyes.

Mr Campion remained on the hearth-rug and Aunt Kitty stood hesitating just inside the room, apparently trying to make up her mind whether to brave the devil she knew not, or to follow the one she did. She wore the same flat-breasted black frock in which Campion had first seen her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery and the thin curls round her face were dampish and dejected. At length she decided to come in.

She closed the door behind her, and keeping her eyes
modestly groundward, advanced towards the fireplace and stooped to poke the blazing coals.

From where he stood Campion could see her face. She was mumbling, her lips together as though forcing herself to speak. Quite suddenly she straightened and turned upon him with that air of drama which he had noticed in her before. She stood trembling, a curious little figure in her neat black, her crumpled cheeks flushed and the poker clasped firmly in her hand.

‘Mr Campion,' she said, ‘Mr Campion, you're not the police, are you?'

He did not smile. Behind his spectacles his eyes were watching every changing line in her face.

‘No,' he said gravely. ‘I am here on behalf of Mrs Faraday. Is there anything I can do for you?'

Aunt Kitty's courage seemed to be about to fail her again, but she recovered herself.

‘You mustn't believe a word William says,' she went on breathlessly. ‘I ought not to talk like this. I know he's my brother, but he's not to be believed.'