Mystery Mile

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Mr Cush left a letter for Mr Topliss,’ said Campion, pointing to the big yellow envelope on the desk. The policeman moved forward clumsily to take it, and the doctor sighed with relief.

  ‘I expect that’ll make it all very simple,’ he said. ‘I was afraid from the look of things there might be a lot of tedious questioning for you all. This’ll probably mean only a formal inquest.’

  The constable slipped the letter into his pocket. ‘I’ll ride out to Mr Topliss first thing,’ he said. ‘There’s just one thing, ’owever, if you don’t mind. Where was you all when the shot was fired?’

  ‘All together,’ said Giles, ‘in the drawing-room at the Dower House just across the green there.’

  ‘I see,’ said Peck, writing laboriously. ‘And the housekeeper, Mrs Broom, where was she?’

  ‘She was with us,’ said Giles. ‘She brought a message from St Swithin – I mean Mr Cush.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the constable with interest. ‘What was that?’

  Giles handed him the slip of paper and the countryman held it to the light. ‘“Giles and Albert come over alone,”’ he read ‘Albert – that’ll be you, sir?’ he said, turning to Campion.

  ‘Yes,’ the young man nodded. ‘As soon as we got the message we heard the shot.’

  ‘I see. And that was when you was over at the Dower House? That makes it seem very deliberate, don’t it, sir?’ said Peck, turning to the doctor.

  ‘There’s no doubt that it was deliberate.’ The medical man spoke emphatically.

  ‘And you two gentlemen found the body, I suppose?’ said Peck, coming to the end of his entries with relief. ‘No idea of cause or reason, sir, I suppose?’ he added, turning to Giles.

  ‘None at all,’ said Giles.

  ‘Mr Topliss’s letter will explain all that, be sure,’ said Dr Wheeler, pulling on his gloves with an air of finality. ‘I’ll go over to your sister now, Giles.’

  At this juncture the question of who was to remain with the body of the old rector became a pressing one. Giles and Campion sat down, one on either side of the fireplace, and prepared for the vigil, and would have stayed there alone in spite of Marlowe’s generous offer to remain with them, had not Alice, the old housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.

  She had got over her first outburst of grief, and the stolid stoicism of the countrywoman who accepts birth and death, spring and winter in the same spirit had come to her rescue. Her red face was set and unmoved.

  ‘You go to your bed, Master Giles,’ she said. ‘I’m staying.’ She waved aside his protestations. ‘I looked arter him in loife. I’ll look arter him in death,’ she said. ‘He’s old,’ she explained quaintly. ‘He wouldn’t loike nobody but me. Good night to you.’

  They accepted their dismissal.

  Campion was the last to leave, and some thought of the old woman alone with the horror passing through his mind, he turned to her and whispered a few words of warning.

  She looked at him, faint surprise showing in her small eyes. ‘I shan’t be afeard o’ him,’ she said. ‘What if there’s blood? ’Tis his, ain’t it? I looked arter him since I were a young woman, but no doubt you meant well. Good night.’

  He followed the others out into the drive. They walked in silence over to the Dower House, where the doctor was soothing the two girls in his brisk professional manner.

  Old Lobbett moved quietly over to Campion. ‘I’ll take my girl up to the Manor,’ he said. ‘I guess we won’t intrude on you people any longer. Get Miss Paget to go to bed. There’s nothing like sleep. Time for talking in the morning.’

  With the departure of the Lobbetts the affair assumed a more intimate aspect. Giles sat with his arm round Biddy. Campion stood on the hearthrug, one elbow on the mantelpiece.

  The doctor and Peck departed with the reassurance that all needful arrangements would be made.

  ‘Now,’ said Giles explosively, ‘what in the name of creation does it all mean?’

  Biddy turned to Campion appealingly. ‘What does it all mean, Albert? How did it happen? You know him almost as well as we did. Why did he do it?’

  Campion thrust his hand into his coat pocket and produced a bulky yellow envelope and handed it to them.

  It was addressed, ‘For Giles, Biddy, and Albert Campion’, and was marked in the corner ‘Confidential’.

  ‘This was lying on the desk beside the note for the coroner,’ he said. ‘I thought it best to keep it till we were alone. You open it, Giles.’

  The boy tore open the flap with unsteady fingers and drew out the contents. There was a second envelope marked ‘Giles’, a folded paper for Biddy, and something hard wrapped in a piece of notepaper for Campion. Giles handed them out gravely.

  Biddy glanced at her message. There were only two lines. The old man’s writing was shaky and almost illegible.

  Tell Albert about our longest walk [it ran]. God bless you, my dear.

  She handed the slip of paper to Campion, an expression of utter bewilderment on her face. ‘He must have suddenly gone mad,’ she said. ‘How horrible – over there in the dark.’

  Campion took the message from her and stared at it. Then he shook his head.

  ‘He wasn’t mad, Biddy. He was trying to tell us something, something that he didn’t want anyone but us to know. Perhaps this will help us.’ He began to unwrap the little package which bore his name. He drew off the paper and a murmur of surprise escaped him. He held out the little object in the palm of his hand.

  It was a single ivory chessman, the red knight.

  9 ‘In Event of Trouble . . .’

  ‘WHAT DOES IT mean?’ Biddy sat back in her chair, her eyes fixed upon the little ivory figure in Campion’s hand.

  Giles was startled also. ‘I recognize it, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s one of his best set – the ones we seldom played with. What do you think, Albert?’

  Campion dropped the chessman into his coat pocket. ‘Suppose you read your letter?’ he suggested.

  Giles ripped open the thick envelope he held in his hand. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  To everyone’s surprise he drew out two sheets of closely written paper upon which the ink was dried and black. The letter had evidently been written some time before. Giles read it aloud, his young voice husky in the chill room.

  ‘MY DEAR BOY:

  ‘If ever you read this letter it will be because I shall have committed a crime the magnitude of which I realize fully. If, however, it does come to this, I ask you to believe that it was because I preferred to go to my death with my health and sanity than to weary out a tortured existence in which I should be a burden to you all, and a wretchedness to myself.

  ‘I have known for a long time that I was a victim of a malignant and incurable disease, and my increasing fear has been that it would enfeeble not only my body but my mind. I ask you and Biddy to forgive me. I shall leave a note for the coroner which should relieve you from any ordeal in the court. However . . .

  ‘This is underlined,’ said Giles.

  ‘. . . in the event of any serious trouble arising directly after my death, send Albert Campion to my old friend Alaric Watts, the Vicar of Kepesake in Suffolk, who will know the correct procedure in this situation.

  ‘Something is crossed out here,’ said Giles, holding the paper up to the light. ‘The “this” has been put in afterwards. As far as I can see it looks as if he had first written “in so terrible a situation”. Then it goes on, getting very wobbly towards the end.

  ‘In any case I do most particularly ask your forgiveness and your prayers. My temptation was great. I succumbed to it. All my love to you, my children.

  ST SWITHIN.

  P.S. – My will, bequeathing my few belongings, is in my desk.’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Giles.

  Biddy broke the silence. There were tears in her eyes, but she spoke firmly. ‘Albert, the whole thing’s a mistake; it’s not true.’

  Campion looked at her thoughtfully. ‘How do you mean?’ he s
aid.

  ‘I mean’ – Biddy’s voice rose a little – ‘St Swithin was no more ill than you or I. He’s hiding something, or shielding someone, or –’ Her voice died away into silence.

  Campion took the letter from Giles and spread it out on the table in front of him. ‘It’s been written a long time,’ he said, ‘before we’d heard of the Lobbetts. Not long after your father died, I should say.’

  Biddy was sitting bolt upright, her eyes shining. ‘That doesn’t alter it,’ she said. ‘St Swithin’s never been ill in his life. I’ve never heard him complain even of a headache. He’s been moody lately, a little strange, but not ill. Besides, why did he chose such a curious time to kill himself? Just after that – that man was here.’

  The brother and sister looked at Campion. He sat regarding them, his pale eyes grave behind his spectacles.

  ‘My dear old birds,’ he said, ‘I don’t know him. You say you’ve heard of him, Giles?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes. From all over the county. I told you about Guffy, and a man who had a place round by Hadleigh spoke of him. He’s been going for several years, I believe, off and on. He turned up at Maplestone Hall on Christmas Day and was a great success. That’s when Guffy saw him.’

  ‘Maplestone Hall?’ said Campion, looking up. ‘Wasn’t there a bit of a row there a month or so ago? I thought I read something about it.’

  Giles nodded. ‘A libel case or something,’ he said. ‘Something fishy, anyway. Guffy had some rambling yarn about it.’

  Biddy leaned across the table and put her hand on Campion’s arm. ‘Albert,’ she said, ‘that man killed St Swithin.’

  ‘But my dear old girl,’ he protested gently. ‘We had watchers all along the road and the seven whistles came quite clearly. Besides, it was obviously a suicide. There’s no getting away from it.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Biddy spoke impatiently. ‘I know. I’m not saying that poor old St Swithin didn’t shoot himself over there in the dark, but it was the man who really did it. That terrible man with the little red beard. He told him something. While we were all sitting here laughing round the fire, he said something that made St Swithin go right out and kill himself. I know it, I’m sure of it.’

  Campion hesitated. ‘It’s too far-fetched,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think he was just an ordinary fortune teller?’ Biddy’s tone implied her opinion of the theory.

  Campion shook his head. ‘Oh no, I don’t believe that for a moment. That bird, whoever he was, was up to some most fishy stunt. Oh no,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘he was no ordinary gipsy’s warning. That neat little exercise in telepathy was a stout piece of work. A chap like that could earn a fortune. And yet, what did he get at Maplestone Hall last Christmas? Certainly not fifty quid. And what did he get tonight? Oh no, he was up to some really nasty nap and double. I can’t help feeling that he came to spy out the nakedness of the land.’ His hand closed over Biddy’s and he smiled at her wryly from behind his spectacles. ‘Dear old St Swithin was too small game for him, I think, Biddy.’

  ‘Then do you believe this?’ Biddy tapped the letter lying on the table.

  For some time Campion was silent. ‘Not altogether,’ he said at last. ‘Where is Kepesake, Giles?’

  ‘About twenty miles across country. It’s not far from Bury. It’s a tiny little village on the Larksley Estate. The story goes that an ancient Larksley, setting off to some war or other, left it to his mistress as a keepsake. I remember old Watts. He used to come over here and preach sometimes. He’s an authority on Church history, I believe. Quite a nice old boy.’

  ‘I think,’ said Campion, ‘that a visit is indicated. “In the event of any serious trouble” sounds ominous, without leading us anywhere.’

  ‘And the red chessman?’ said Giles.

  Albert Campion drew the ivory knight out of his pocket and set it on the table before them. It was small, beautifully carved, and of a slightly unusual pattern, the horse’s head being much more realistic than in most pieces. It was stained a bright scarlet and stood vivid and beautiful upon the polished walnut table. Giles picked it up and turned it over and then weighed it in his hand.

  ‘It’s too light to contain anything,’ he said. ‘Besides, that’s such a fanastic idea. I’m afraid he was quite right, Biddy. The old boy had some disease that was affecting his mind and suddenly it sent him clean crazy.’

  ‘That won’t wash.’ Biddy spoke vehemently. ‘If St Swithin had actually thought he was ill he would have gone straight to Dr Wheeler. He believed in doctors. When he got that lump on his foot that he thought might be gout he was off to Heronhoe within the hour. The Shrine of Aesculapius he used to call it, you know.’

  ‘How do you know he hasn’t been to Wheeler?’ Giles objected.

  Biddy shot a withering glance at him. ‘How could he, without us knowing? I should have had to drive him if he’d gone, and if Wheeler had come within a mile of the Rectory the village would have been full of it. That man – that man with the horrible red beard – I’m sure he is the real explanation. That chessman means something. The very fact that he sent it to Albert proves something.’

  Giles looked at Campion. ‘You think that fortune teller chap came here because of Judge Lobbett?’ he asked.

  Campion nodded. ‘It doesn’t seem unlikely.’

  ‘And yet,’ Giles persisted, ‘you said yourself that he was a brilliant man. Could he be an ordinary spy? I never heard that Guffy Randall’s fortune teller had a red beard. Straight, Campion, is there a chance that he could be Simister himself?’

  Campion raised his head and his pale eyes did not waver.

  ‘Well, there’s always a chance, isn’t there?’ he said.

  He got up and walked over to the fireplace and kicked a smouldering log in the grate. ‘That’s all there is to it for tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else to be done as far as I can see. Unless –’ he swung round, a frown upon his face – ‘I’d forgotten. Of course. Perhaps the most important thing of all. Your message, Biddy. What did it mean?’

  For an instant she looked at him blankly, she had forgotten the last of the three curious bequests. She took up the slip of paper from her lap, where it had been lying.

  ‘Tell Albert about our longest walk. God bless you, my dear.’

  ‘Your longest walk? Where was it? Where did you go?’

  Campion spoke eagerly, coming across the room to her and looking down into her face.

  The girl strove to compose her mind. ‘We’ve gone for so many walks,’ she began desperately. ‘We’ve walked all over the place together. We got lost on the saltings one night. Alice came out to meet us with a hurricane. That must have been the time,’ she went on suddenly. ‘We reckoned we’d done fifteen miles.’

  Campion shook his head. ‘That doesn’t tell us much. What else happened? Where did you go?’

  The girl struggled to remember. ‘We crossed the Stroud and went off on the farther saltings,’ she said slowly. ‘We went on for miles until we came to a belt of quick mud. Then we turned back. I remember it now. The sky grey and the water the same colour, the drab mud with the saltings brown beside it and the dykes cut out in red. Then there was the great pool of “soft”. That was all.’

  Campion was looking at her intently. ‘Think, Biddy,’ he said. ‘Think, my sweet. Was that all? How did you know when you came to the quick mud, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, there was a board up, you know. There always is.’ She spoke carelessly, but then an expression of horror spread over her face. ‘Oh, I see now,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The board said “Danger”, Albert.’

  10 The Insanity of Swithin Cush

  GILES AND JUDGE Lobbett walked one on either side of Dr Wheeler out of the long room at the thatched Dog and Pheasant, and down the flint road towards the green and the Dower House.

  It was still early. The inquest had taken scarcely half an hour and the village was still discussing the affair in the taproom.

  The morning was v
ery sunny, although it was cold for late May and the last of the May-blossom trembled in a chill wind.

  Dr Wheeler talked volubly. He found Judge Lobbet the best of audiences. The American had the great gift of being interested in everything with which he came into contact, and the doctor was only too anxious to give his opinions.

  ‘A significant case,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t like parsons as a rule. Too narrow. But Swithin Cush was an entirely different proposition, don’t you know. I’ve known him ever since I came to this part of the country thirty years ago. I attended him once only that I remember. A strained tendon in his foot. A more healthy, hearty-living old man I never saw. And yet he gets an idea into his mind, imagines all sorts of things, and then goes and blows his head off.’

  Judge Lobbett shot a bright sidelong glance at him.

  ‘Then there was absolutely no trace of any disease?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ The doctor spoke emphatically. ‘Just as I told Topliss in the court there. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have gone on living perfectly healthily for another twenty years. And yet it’s one of the most common forms of delusion,’ he went on. ‘I always put it down myself to the fact that the emotion of fear acts more noticeably on the digestive organs than on any other. Once a man is afraid that he has a malignant growth, he’ll have plenty of physical corroboration to convince him. A pity! He had only to come to me, and I could have reassured him. Poor Biddy!’ he went on. ‘She won’t take this easily, I’m afraid. They were great friends, she and the old man. He did his best to take your father’s place, Giles.’

  Giles did not reply, and Lobbett nodded.

  ‘My girl’s with her over at the Dower House,’ he said. ‘They get on very well together, those two.’ He stooped and threw a stone for Addlepate, who had waited in the bar for Giles during the inquest and now gambolled foolishly in the dust.

  ‘Remarkable what a durned fool that dog is,’ he observed, as the mongrel darted off in pursuit, changed his mind, and returned to walk sedately behind them, his nose very close to the road. The doctor looked back at him.