Mystery Mile

by Margery Allingham

  The desk was set parallel to the fireplace, and the rector’s old chair with its dilapidated leather seat was pushed back from it as if he had just risen. The fire glowed dully in the grate.

  Giles looked round anxiously.

  ‘Where?’ he began, and Campion pointed silently to a door corresponding to the one through which they had entered, on the other side of the fireplace. Giles recognized it as leading to the tiny robing-room which a thoughtful ancestor of his own had built off the study. The door was closed, and from under it there issued a thin dark trickle of blood on the worn brown linoleum.

  Giles walked over and opened the door. He struck a match and held it high. The flickering light filled the tiny apartment for an instant and died out. His hand fell to his side. Then he shut the door unsteadily and turned to Campion. His face was very pale, and he moistened his lips with his tongue nervously.

  ‘His old shotgun,’ he said.

  Campion nodded.

  ‘In his mouth – tied a string to the trigger. It’s the usual way.’ The boy sank down in the chair. ‘Suicide?’ he said. ‘My God – old St Swithin!’

  Campion stood staring at the closed door. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘In the name of all that’s extraordinary, why?’

  A step in the hall startled them both. Alice Broom, the housekeeper, appeared on the threshold. Her black eyes fixed them questioningly.

  ‘He shot hisself?’ she burst out. ‘I saw the old gun was gone, but I never thought. Oh, dear Lord, have mercy on his soul!’ She flopped down on her knees where she was and covered her face with her hands.

  The sight of her helplessness brought Giles to himself. He and Campion lifted her up, and together they led her to the chair by the desk. She started away from it like a frightened sheep.

  ‘Not in his chair. I’ll not sit in his chair,’ she said hysterically. ‘The chair of the dead!’

  The unexpectedness of her superstition breaking through her grief startled them oddly: They sat her down in the armchair by the fireplace, where she sat sobbing quietly into her cupped hands.

  Campion took command of the situation.

  ‘Look here, Giles,’ he said, ‘we shall want a doctor and the police. You haven’t either in the village, have you?’

  Giles shook his head. ‘No. We shall have to get old Wheeler over from Heronhoe. The nearest bobby’s there, too. Campion, this is ghastly. Why did he do it? Why did he do it?’

  The other pointed to a letter propped up against the inkstand on the desk, next to the lantern. It was addressed in Swithin Cush’s spidery old-fashioned writing:

  HENRY TOPLISS, ESQ.

  ‘Who’s that? The coroner?’ he demanded. Giles nodded, and again the incredulous expression passed over his face.

  ‘He must have done it quite deliberately,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand it. You don’t think that fortune teller –’

  Campion put his hand up warningly. There was the sound of feet in the hall.

  Biddy came first, the others behind her. Her face was white and twisted with anxiety. She glanced round the room and her eye fell upon the closed door almost immediately. With a little cry she advanced towards it. Campion darted forward and drew her back.

  ‘No, old dear, don’t go in,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t do anything.’ The hand he held grew cold and the slender fingers bit into his flesh.

  Campion put his arm round her until Isopel Lobbett came up, and, slipping her hand through Biddy’s, led her to a chair by the fire.

  Judge Lobbett and Marlowe came forward and Giles explained the situation to them as well as he could.

  The old man was horrified.

  ‘This is terrible,’ he said. ‘Terrible! I –’ Words seemed to fail him, and he stood silent for a moment, rendered completely helpless by the shock. Gradually his old practical self reasserted itself. ‘Isopel,’ he said gently, ‘take Miss Paget back to the Dower House and stay there with her, my dear, while we see what’s to be done here.’

  Campion joined the two younger men. ‘Giles,’ he said, ‘if you and Marlowe would take a car and go in to Heronhoe and bring back a doctor and the police, that’s as much as we can do. I’ll get Alice up to her room. And then, if you don’t mind, sir,’ he added, turning to old Lobbett, ‘we’ll wait for them here.’

  The two younger men jumped at the chance of doing something, and hurried off.

  Isopel and Biddy went back to the Dower House. Biddy did not cry, but her face had not lost the strained twisted look which had been noticeable when she first came into the Rectory.

  Campion watched her out of the doorway and then turned his attention to Alice. The problem of her disposal would have presented untold difficulties had it not been suddenly solved by the unexpected appearance of George. The old man had heard the shot while watching in the Dower garden and had followed Judge Lobbett over.

  Hat in hand, his eyes goggling, he listened to the curt explanation Campion gave him.

  ‘Rector dead,’ he said, and repeated the words over and over again to himself, the horror and shock which he felt slowly becoming visible on his face.

  ‘I’ll take Al-us along,’ he said at last. ‘She’s my sister. My wife’ll take care o’ she. She’s looked after he so long this’ll come like a shock to her, like.’

  He helped the old woman to her feet and guided her with awkward elaborateness out of the room.

  ‘Good night. Good night,’ he said.

  Campion hurried after him. ‘George,’ he said, ‘don’t rouse the village, will you?’

  The old man turned on him.

  ‘No, sir. ’Tis best in time like this to keep the mouth shut till after police be gone.’

  With which unexpected remark he clumped off. Campion went back to the study and Judge Lobbett.

  The old man stood by the fireplace, one hand upon the heavy oak mantel. Campion lit the candles in the iron sticks on the shelf, and then sat down quietly on the other side of the fireplace and took out a cigarette.

  ‘This is a bad business,’ said the old man suddenly; ‘a terrible bad business. Death seems to follow me as gulls follow a ship.’

  Campion said nothing. He had thrown a log of wood upon the fire and the gentle crackling as the bark caught was the only sound of the big dimly-lit room. On the brown oilcloth behind him the thin stream of blood congealed slowly.

  Judge Lobbett cleared his throat.

  ‘Of course, you know,’ he began, ‘I’m not a fool. I know Marlowe’s got you to bring me down here. I didn’t say anything because I like this sort of life. But if I’d dreamed that I should bring a tragedy like this into the lives of such kindly homely folk, nothing would have induced me to come here. I feel it can’t be a coincidence,’ he added abruptly, ‘and yet there seems no doubt that it was suicide.’

  Campion spoke quietly.

  ‘It was suicide. No doubt at all, I think. He left a letter to the coroner.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The old man looked up sharply. ‘It was premeditated, then. Have you any idea why he did it?’

  ‘None at all.’ Campion spoke gravely. ‘This is the most astounding thing I’ve ever experienced. If I hadn’t seen that letter I should have said it was a brainstorm.’

  Crowdy Lobbett sat down in the chair opposite the younger man and rested his elbows on his knees, his big hands locked tightly together.

  ‘I reckon you and I ought to understand one another before we go any farther,’ he said. ‘Of course I remember you on board ship. That was a very smart piece of work of yours, and I’m more than grateful. But I feel I’ve been following your instructions without knowing where I’m going long enough. I meant to have a talk with you this evening anyhow, even if this terrible thing hadn’t made it imperative. Marlowe engaged you to look after me. I’ll say I know that much. You’re not a policeman, are you?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I believe I was recommended to your son by Scotland Yard, though,’ he added with a faint smile. ‘I’m not quite a private detect
ive, you know. I suggested that you come here because I believe that you’ll be safer here than anywhere, and that your family will run less risk.’

  Judge Lobbett looked at him sharply.

  ‘You can’t understand me letting Isopel into it, can you?’ he said. ‘Where else would she be safer than where I can watch over her myself?’

  Mr Campion offered no opinion.

  ‘Just how much do you know?’ said Judge Lobbett.

  The young man looked more thoughtful. ‘I know enough to realize that it’s not revenge pure and simple that they’re after you for,’ he said at last. ‘That’s patent from common or garden Holmic deduction. In New York they were trying to frighten you. That points to the fact that you had a line on them.’ He paused and eyed the other man questioningly. Lobbett signed to him to go on and he continued: ‘Then I think they must have decided that, had you a definite line, you’d have used it before,’ he said. ‘They decided to kill you. You escaped. One of the first things you did when you got to London was to consult MacNab, the cipher expert. That put the wind up them again. They want to know what you hold first, then they want your blood. I should say myself,’ he added, ‘that you’ve got a clue from one of Simister’s gang which you can’t decipher yourself as yet. Isn’t that so?’

  Lobbett stared back at him in astonishment.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you,’ he said, ‘that when I first saw you, Mr Campion, I thought you were the biggest goddam fool ever made; but I’m now beginning to wonder if you’re not some sort of telepathy expert.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll say you’re right, and I may as well tell you MacNab didn’t help me any, but he was the first man I felt I could trust to see what I had. I’ve got one end of the string, you see, but if any of that crowd should get wind of what it is they’d cut it higher up and then the one chance I’ve got of stopping this thing at the head would be lost for ever. As it is, the thing’s no more use to me than so much junk. And I daren’t and won’t confide in any of you youngsters.’

  The determined expression on the judge’s face and the obstinate lines about his mouth made the younger decide in an instant that, upon this point at any rate, he would be as stubborn as a mule.

  ‘You intend, I suppose,’ he said, ‘to stay here until you’ve found the solution to your crossword?’

  Judge Lobbett nodded. ‘I certainly had that idea,’ he said. ‘But after the terrible affair this evening I don’t know what to say.’ He glanced at Campion. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘In your opinion what sort of chance have I got of getting my man if I stay here?’

  The younger man rose to his feet. ‘One,’ he said, an unusually convincing tone in his voice. ‘You’re in England, and I don’t think it would be any too easy for our friend Simister to do anything on a very big scale. He couldn’t get half his best people out of your country, for instance, so there’s just one chance in a hundred that he’ll do the job himself. The mountain may come to Mahomet for once; and in that case I doubt whether anyone is in any real danger except yourself.’

  Judge Lobbett nodded to the closed door behind the younger man. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but what about that?’

  Campion remained silent for some moments, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  ‘I fancy,’ he said at last, hesitating as if he were weighing every word, ‘that there’s something more than ordinarily mysterious about that. Poor old boy!’

  8 The Envelope

  THE CHANGE IN the drawing-room in the Dower House was extraordinary. The cosiness, the peace had vanished. The fire had burned down to a few red and grey coals, the candles had shrunk in their sticks, and the room was cold and desolate.

  The two girls sat huddled together in the window-seat. Biddy was not crying; she sat up stiffly, her back against the folded wooden shutter. Her face was very pale, and the same twisted, suffering expression was still engraved upon it.

  The other girl sat close to her, her small hand resting upon her knee.

  ‘I can’t tell you how unbelievable it is,’ Biddy burst out suddenly, keeping her voice down instinctively as if she feared to be overheard. ‘It’s so unlike him. I didn’t think he had a care in the world, and no greater worry than the attendance at the Sunday school. Why should he have done this horrible, horrible thing?’

  Isopel could not answer her.

  ‘To think of it! He must have known when he said good night to me. He must have gone over there deliberately, written the letter to Mr Topliss, sent Alice over here with that note, and then gone into that little cupboard all by himself and – oh –’

  She leaned back against the shutter and closed her eyes.

  Isopel nodded. ‘I know,’ she said. The lashes drooped over her dark eyes and a sombre expression passed over her young face. ‘For the last six weeks I’ve lived in an atmosphere like this. I’m growing callous, I think. At first, Schuyler, father’s secretary. I’d known him since I was a kid. They found him in dad’s chair, shot through the head.’ She shuddered. ‘They must have shot him through the window from a block opposite. Ever since then it’s been one after the other. Wills – the butler; then our new chauffeur, and then Doc Wetherby, who was walking down the street with father. I was scared then. But afterwards, on board ship and at our hotel in London, I was so frightened I thought I should go out of my mind. And then when we came down here it seemed like an escape.’ She sighed. ‘That house of yours across the park, and this one – they were so quiet, undisturbed for centuries, it seemed that nothing terrible could happen in them. But now we’ve brought you this horror. Sometimes I feel’ – her voice sank to a whisper – ‘that we’ve roused the devil. There’s some ghastly evil power dogging us, something from which we can’t escape.’

  She spoke quite seriously, and the gravity of her voice, coupled with the tragedy which had overwhelmed her, infected the other girl with some of her terror.

  ‘But,’ said Biddy, struggling to regain her common sense, ‘St Swithin killed himself. There’s no doubt of that, they say. If it were a murder it wouldn’t be so horrible. Oh,’ she said irrelevantly, ‘I wish Giles would come back.’

  A gentle tap on the door startled them both. Old Cuddy appeared with a tray. The old woman’s hands trembled. She had been told of the tragedy and had reacted to it in her own practical way.

  ‘I’ve brought you both a cup of cocoa, Miss Biddy,’ she said.

  She set the tray down beside them and without further words began to make the fire and refill the emptying candlesticks. They drank the cocoa gratefully. The heavy stimulant soothed their nerves and they sat quiet until far away over the silhouetted hedge tops they saw the faint glow of headlights against the sky. The light came nearer until they heard the car whisper past the house. Then all was black again.

  ‘Who will they have got? The doctor and the sheriff?’ said Isopel nervously.

  Biddy shook her head. ‘It’ll be Dr Wheeler and Peck, the Heronhoe policeman, I suppose,’ she said; and quite suddenly she turned her face towards the shutter and wept.

  In the study across the green Dr Wheeler, a short, thick-set, oldish man with a natural air of importance, set his bag down upon the desk and took off his coat.

  Peck, the Heronhoe police-constable, red-faced and perspiring with unaccustomed responsibility, clutched his notebook unhappily.

  Giles and Marlowe had followed them into the room and now stood gravely in the doorway. Giles introduced Judge Lobbett and Albert Campion.

  The doctor nodded to them curtly.

  ‘This is bad,’ he said. ‘Terrible. Not like the old man. I saw him only the other day. He seemed quite cheerful. Where’s the body, please?’ He spoke briskly.

  Giles indicated the door of the robing-room. ‘We’ve left him just as he fell, sir. There was nothing to be done. He – he’s practically blown his head off.’

  The little doctor nodded. ‘Yes, quite,’ he said, taking the affair completely into his capable hands. ‘We shall need some light, I suppose. Peck, bring the lan
tern, will you?’

  His deference to their susceptibilities was not lost upon the others, and they were grateful.

  The closet door swung open and the doctor, stepping carefully to avoid the stream of blood, went in, the constable walking behind him, the lantern held high.

  Some of the horror that they saw was communicated to the four who now stood upon the hearthrug waiting. Dr Wheeler reappeared within a few minutes, Peck following him, stolid and unmoved.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Very nasty,’ he said quietly. ‘Death must have been absolutely instantaneous, though. We must get him out of there. We’ll need a shed door, and if you could get a sheet, Giles – How’s Biddy?’ he broke off. ‘Is she all right? Over at the Dower House? I’ll go in and see her before I go.’

  Giles explained that Isopel was with her, and the old man, who had known the brother and sister since they were children, seemed considerably relieved. Campion and Marlowe went through the dark stone kitchens of the Rectory. They let themselves into the brick yard, and lifting a toolshed door off its hinges brought it carefully into the house. Giles was upstairs in search of a sheet: they could hear him stumbling about on the uneven floors.

  With the constable holding the light, they assisted the doctor to lift the gruesome sightless thing on to the improvised stretcher. The doctor had thrown a surplice that had been hanging on the wall over all that remained of the old man before Giles returned with the sheet.

  They laid the stretcher on a hastily arranged trestle of chairs at the far end of the room. Campion swung the great shutters across the windows, and then without speaking they trooped off to the scullery to wash.

  Peck was particularly anxious to avoid troubling the Pagets and their friends any more than was absolutely necessary, and when he once more produced his notebook it was with an air of apology.

  ‘There’s just one or two things I’ll have to make a note of,’ he began, clearing his throat nervously. ‘You’d say the gun was fired by the deceased ’imself?’

  ‘Oh, yes, no doubt about that.’ The doctor was struggling into the coat Giles held for him. ‘You’ll go to Mr Topliss, Peck? Tell him I’ll ’phone him in the morning.’