‘The silly part about that is,’ he said, ‘that I don’t believe he can smell a thing.’
Lobbett laughed. ‘He’s Campion’s dog, isn’t he?’ he said.
The doctor nodded. ‘They say like dog, like master,’ he observed dryly.
As they reached the Dower House they saw Mr Campion’s little car standing outside the gate. The young man himself was bending over the open bonnet, flushed and heated. Marlowe and Biddy stood with Isopel in the porch watching him.
‘Hullo, he’s back!’ said Giles, hurrying forward to where Addlepate was already prostrated before the car, all four legs waving in the air.
As the two older men advanced more slowly towards the group a figure emerged from the thatched post office and village shop and hurried towards them. He was a large white-looking man with fair hair so closely cropped that he appeared almost bald.
This was Mr Kettle, the village ‘foreigner’: that is to say, he was not a Suffolk man, but had been born, so it was believed, as far away as Yarmouth, a good forty miles off. His excessive politeness and his superiority made him the most unpopular man in the village community. He lived with his daughter, a sour-faced young woman, white and flabby as himself, and between them they managed not only the post office but the only shop for six miles.
He came through the long grass of the green at a dignified amble and bounded on to the road two or three paces ahead of the judge and the doctor.
‘Letter, sir,’ he said breathlessly, disclosing a Norfolk accent, over which a certain veneer of ‘refeenment’ had been spread. ‘The second post ’as just come. And popping my ’ead out of the door, sir, I said to my daughter, I said, “there’s the new squire”.’ He laid an unpleasant unction on the last word, and his attempt to curry favour was sickeningly transparent. He gasped again for breath, and hurried on. ‘And my daughter, sir, she said, “Take it over to him, dad”. And so I did.’
He handed the square white envelope to the judge as he finished speaking and stood squelching his white hands together, a ridiculous smirk on his face.
‘We ’ave a very nice little shop ’ere, sir, and any time you’re wanting anything up at the Manor ’all, sir, we shall only be too ’appy to send it up.’
The judge, who had listened in some bewilderment to this oration, his ears unaccustomed to the two distinct accents, the one affected and the other natural, felt in his pocket, having come to the conclusion, in common with so many other visitors to Europe, that the safe rule is, ‘When in doubt, tip’.
Mr Kettle, who had determined to be obliging at all costs, refused the coin magnificently. ‘Oh no, sir,’ he said. ‘Only too ’appy to do anything for you. Any time of the night or day, sir.’ And turning, he ran off through the long grass, flapping his hands against his sides as he ran.
The doctor went to join the others. They were gathered round Giles.
‘Yes, “Suicide during temporary insanity”,’ he was saying as the doctor came up. ‘Topliss was very decent, I thought. It didn’t take very long. Alice was there, very cut up. George’s wife took her home. I’ve brought the doc. in to lunch, Biddy. How long has Albert been back?’
‘Only about ten minutes.’ It was Campion himself who spoke. ‘The bit of sardine tin that keeps my carburettor from leaking into the mag. has slipped its bootlace. I shall be a minute or so. Some of the rigging has come adrift.’
Giles went over to him, and together they bent over the miscellaneous collection of hairpins and string that seemed to make Campion’s car go.
‘Well?’ he murmured. ‘Did you see him – Alaric Watts, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Campion, producing a small fountain of petrol from the carburettor, ‘but there’s no lift in the fog in his direction. He was very grieved at his old pal’s death, but that’s about all. He knows no more than we do.’
‘That means, then,’ said Giles, ‘that St Swithin was really insane when he wrote us.’
‘Yes,’ said Campion thoughtfully, ‘either that or else –’ He glanced at his friend over the top of his spectacles. ‘Or else the “serious trouble” has not yet arisen.’
Giles did not reply. Campion straightened his back and stood looking after the others, who, at Biddy’s invitation, were disappearing into the house.
‘Giles,’ he said suddenly, ‘do you like that American chap?’
‘Marlowe? One of the best. I like him immensely. Biddy and I were talking about him this morning. She admires that type, you know.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Campion. ‘Now if I were to grow a beard,’ he went on with apparent seriousness, ‘what colour would you suggest? Something with lure, to cover all this up?’ He indicated his face with a gesture. ‘Let’s go in, shall we? I hate to be out of anything.’
They reached the morning-room, where they were all gathered, drinking sherry as an aperitif. Judge Lobbett was speaking as they entered.
‘I’m real sorry about this. I forgot every word about my letter to this firm. The picture got me interested, and as Miss Biddy had suggested it I wrote to them asking for the expert to be sent, directly before we all came over here that night. The things that happened after that put it right out of my mind.’ He put a typewritten letter down upon the table. ‘This note says their expert will arrive here by car tomorrow afternoon. I can easily put him off. I should feel it kind of ungracious to have him around at a time like this.’
‘Is that about the pseudo-Romney?’ Biddy came forward. ‘Because if so, please don’t let this – this terrible thing make any difference. St Swithin never disobliged anyone in his life and I know he’d hate to do it now.’
She spoke quietly, but with such conviction that it made it impossible for the old man to refuse her.
Giles nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Biddy’s right about St Swithin. How I feel about it is: we can’t do anything. Let’s get away from the horror of it if we can.’
Marlowe picked up the letter. ‘It says here, “The famous international expert, Mr A. Fergusson Barber”!’
‘Eh?’ said Mr Campion.
Biddy turned to him with interest. ‘Do you know him?’
Mr Campion sighed. ‘I’ve met him,’ he said. ‘He was on the Elephantine. As far as pictures are concerned he may be the Big Bezezuz himself, but as a guide, philosopher, and friend he’s a menace.’
Marlowe grinned. ‘He’s a bore?’
‘A bore?’ said Mr Campion. ‘He’s worse than a movie star’s confessions.’
11 The Maze
THEY WERE HAVING tea on the lawn at the Manor the following day. Judge Lobbett had insisted that his ‘landlords’, as he called them, should be present when the art expert arrived. The old man was anxious to do all he could to dispel the gloom which had settled over the Dower House, and since Giles himself had expressed the desire to carry on as usual, he was all the more eager to help.
Mr Campion had accompanied the twins as a matter of course, and Addlepate escorted them.
They had sat long over their tea and it was almost six o’clock when they arose. The sun was dropping behind the house, the last blaze of yellow light shone over the garden, gilding the green leaves and warming the pale browns of the tree stems. Some of the peace and contentment of the evening settled upon them.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Isopel spoke enthusiastically.
Campion followed her gaze round the wide shrub-encircled lawn, through the high trees to the parkland beyond.
‘Charming,’ he said. ‘I knew a man once, though, who said the country wasn’t the country without paper bags. He was a millionaire at the time, having made all his money in the jellied-eel business. The only country he knew was Burnham Beeches and Epping on a bank holiday. When he had made his fortune and bought a big estate in Surrey he wasn’t at all satisfied with it. The staff was in an awful stew until one of the secretaries imported half a ton of orange skins, a few peanut shells, and a gross or so of paper bags. That transformed the place, and the old boy’s lived the
re very happily ever since. It’s all a question of ideals, you know.’
Judge Lobbett rose from his deck chair. ‘How about a walk round the estate?’ he said. ‘George tells me there’s a maze over on the east side of the park.’
‘So there is,’ said Giles. ‘Though I’m afraid it’s not in very good condition. It hasn’t been clipped for the last year or so.’
‘It’s still there, though,’ said Biddy. ‘Shall we go and have a look at it?’
They trooped off over the lawn to the narrow paved walk which, enclosed by low hedges, led through the parkland to a second and larger orchard and kitchen garden on the east side. At the far end of a wide strip of grass in which fruit trees stood they saw the maze before they reached it – a great square of yew, the dense bushes, which had once been trimmed as square as a marble block, now overgrown and uneven.
‘It’s quite big,’ said Biddy. ‘It stretches down the rest of the field on one side, and there’s the road at the end. We used to play here a lot when we were children.’
She turned to find herself speaking only to Mr Campion. Judge Lobbett had gone on a little way in front. Giles and Isopel lagged behind. Marlowe had not come with them.
When she saw him her expression changed. She linked her arm through his. ‘You haven’t found out anything – about St Swithin, or the red chessman?’
Campion’s arm gripped hers. ‘Biddy,’ he said softly, ‘promise me. Never, never, never say anything about the red chessman to anyone. Never. Promise me.’
She looked at him sharply, a suggestion of fear in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, old dear. Nothing to get the wind up about. But you must give me that promise.’
He did not attempt to disguise the seriousness of his tone.
‘I promise,’ she said, ‘and Giles –?’
‘That’s all right,’ said Campion; ‘he’s wise. He won’t even mention it amongst ourselves.’
Mr Campion allowed his vacuous expression to fade for an instant. ‘I say, Biddy, can you ever forgive me for getting you into this?’
She shot him one of her sharp inquiring glances. ‘Then you think St Swithin had something to do with this – this other affair?’
Mr Campion did not look at her. ‘How could he?’ he said. But he spoke dully and without conviction.
‘Is this the entrance?’ Judge Lobbett’s shout made them both look up. The old man was standing against the yew hedge, his light flannel suit outlining him sharply against the sombre background.
‘That’s right,’ Biddy shouted back. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to push your way through, here and there. Do you want to know the key?’
‘No, I’ll find my way myself.’ He disappeared into the green walls on the last word. ‘It’s going to be easy,’ he called, his voice only slightly muffled by the hedges.
‘My own tour,’ said Mr Campion, ‘which our impetuous friend has missed, will be personally conducted by the greatest living authority on Barratry, Trigonometry, and the Kibbo Kift. I shall charge a small fee –’
Giles coming up with Isopel shouted, ‘Found the centre, Mr Lobbett?’
‘I’m just on it.’ The reply came back from the middle of the dense square of yew. ‘It’s not very overgrown. There ought to be a lot of birds’ nests here.’
‘They’re not fond of yew,’ Biddy remarked.
‘I don’t believe it’s got a middle,’ came the judge’s voice. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Righto.’ It was Giles who called back. ‘But the key is, turn to the left whenever possible.’
Mr Campion looked at him coldly. ‘Cheating,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget the old college, Brother. What would the boys of St Agatha’s say? Remember our proud school motto, “Floreat Fauna”, which being translated means, of course, “Grow, you little beasts”.’
Giles was about to retort when Biddy, who had been looking in the direction from which they had come, interrupted him.
‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘He’s arrived.’
They looked round to see Marlowe coming down the path towards them, and beside him, smiling, self-important, and talking volubly, was Mr Fergusson Barber.
An expression of dismay appeared on Isopel’s face. ‘Oh, I remember him now,’ she said. ‘He was the bore at our table on the Elephantine. Look at Marlowe.’
The others smiled. The young American’s disgust was evident. His keen dark face wore a dubious look, and he made no attempt to interrupt Mr Barber’s flow. The expert carried a large flat picture case under his arm, but it did not hamper the freedom of his gesticulations.
‘Hullo!’ Campion murmured to Giles. ‘He’s brought some pictures to sell. I bet he says they’re Cotmans. Whenever I see a leather case like that I say, “Hullo. The Great Defunct has been at it again.”’
By this time Marlowe and the expert were upon them. Mr Barber bowed gravely to the ladies, and recognizing Campion, greeted him as a brother.
‘We meet again, my friend,’ he rumbled. ‘You think I don’t remember you,’ he continued in the same gusty bellow, ‘but I never forget a name or a face. Nothing ever escapes me. No, no, don’t remind me. You told me your name just as you were leaving, I remember. Ah, yes, I have it. Mr Memorial – Albert Memorial.’
Everyone looked at Campion accusingly. That gentleman seemed not in the least abashed.
‘How absurd of me,’ he said. ‘I gave you my address by mistake. My name is Campion. Albert Campion. You see how the error occurred.’
Although his gravity was perfect the others were not successful, and the Oriental glanced at them suspiciously. Biddy reddened, and kicked Mr Campion gently to relieve her feelings.
‘You want to see Judge Lobbett, don’t you?’ she said, turning to Mr Barber. ‘He’s exploring the maze. I’ll call him.’
Mr Barber appeared interested. ‘In the maze?’ he said. ‘Ah, yes, I see now. He is in the bush, as the Australians say.’
‘Well, we’re all a little up the garden this afternoon,’ said Mr Campion.
Marlowe introduced the others hastily, and Giles inquired politely if the visitor had had a good run down.
‘Magnificent!’ Mr Barber threw out a fat hand. ‘I did not realize it was so far. That is why I am a little late. Then I was held up by a police trap just on the far side of the road that joins this place to the mainland. I saw no sense in it. I told the policeman so. On a main road, yes, but at the beginning of a tiny village which leads nowhere, there is no point in it. Unless, why, of course’ – his face broadened into a grin – ‘I understand. They are there to protect Judge Lobbett.’
As soon as he had spoken he realized the bad taste of his remark. He opened his mouth and was about to make bad worse by apologizing when the situation was saved by Mr Campion.
‘Had you got your licence?’ he said. ‘It means rather a lot to us,’ he went on with embarrassing earnestness. ‘Police funds are rather low, and we need a good fine or two to set us on our feet again. Even a five-bob touch would help,’ he added wistfully.
Mr Barber laughed uproariously. ‘What a joke, what a joke!’ he said. ‘I was all right. I could not be touched, in either sense of the word. I too make jokes,’ he added, a little proudly.
‘Well, where is Dad?’ said Marlowe. ‘He must have had enough of the maze by now. Hullo, Dad! Half a minute!’
His voice sounded clearly over the still sunlit garden. There was a echo at the point where he stood, and his own words came back mockingly across the fields. There was no reply.
‘He’s foxing,’ said Isopel. ‘He’s got lost.’
‘Let’s go in and get him out,’ said Biddy. ‘I bet he hasn’t found the centre.’
‘But he must have done,’ said Giles. ‘I shouted the key to him. Call again, Marlowe.’
‘Here, Dad! seriously’ – Marlowe’s voice rose. ‘Here’s a visitor to see you. You must come out.’
Once again the echo was his only reply.
A faintly scared expression flic
kered into Isopel’s eyes. ‘I suppose he’s all right?’ she said.
Her alarm passed from one to the other of them. The smile left Campion’s face, and he hurried forward to the opening in the yew hedge.
‘Mr Lobbett,’ he shouted, ‘answer us, please. You’re scaring us.’
They listened with more anxiety now, a growing presentiment of danger becoming more and more firmly fixed in their minds.
‘He does not answer,’ said Mr Barber idiotically.
Biddy hurried forward. ‘Come on, Giles,’ she said. ‘We can find our way through the place. I’ll go straight to the centre, you go down the blind alleys.’ She disappeared into the green fastness, Giles at her heels. The others congregated at the mouth of the maze, listening breathlessly. Isopel called suddenly, her voice shrill and appealing.
‘Daddy! Daddy! Answer me.’
Marlowe’s face grew very pale, and he put his arm around the girl.
‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘He must be there. There’s no other way out, is there?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Campion spoke with unaccustomed seriousness. ‘A maze never has a second door.’
Biddy’s voice silenced him. ‘I’m here at the centre,’ she said. ‘There’s no sign of him, Giles.’
‘Half a moment,’ the boy’s voice answered her. ‘No luck yet. Try that false exit from the centre.’
The search went on in feverish silence. Mr Campion, who had hitherto been standing rather foolishly before the entrance to the maze, now turned to Marlowe and Isopel. ‘You go round to that side,’ he said, ‘and I’ll cut round this. He may have found some opening.’
‘What shall I do?’ said Mr Barber.
‘You stay here and give us a call if you see anyone come out,’ said Campion, and started off round the east side of the maze. He climbed the hedge with some difficulty and scrambled along the ditch by the field. The minutes passed quickly. Campion met Marlowe in the road which skirted the fourth side of the yew puzzle. Their expressions betrayed their lack of success.
Mystery Mile Page 8