The China Governess

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Are you indeed? Quite a client!’ He was openly envious. ‘There’s gold in them thar quarters. Oh well, good luck to you. You’re welcome to everything we’ve got – at the right price, of course. Happy to oblige you. But in this particular case we don’t want to work with you. We’ve come out and we’re staying out, especially after this morning’s performance. That kind is decadent and dangerous. It never pays to take a youngster out of his normal environment and bring him up in something plushy.’

  ‘Do we know what his normal environment was? I thought that was the object of the exercise.’

  ‘We know he came from a vicious slum.’

  ‘Do you? Is that established?’

  Joe began to look sulky and his father’s mantle showed as far too large for him. The old man had built his business on fact and proof and not on this type of sophistry.

  ‘He went to Angevin by bus with a lot of other people from Turk Street and he was abandoned, which is a Turk Street trick if ever there was one. He’s a violent young brute, anyhow.’

  Mr. Campion rose. ‘I still don’t see why you connect him with the wrecking?’ he observed mildly.

  ‘You don’t think.’ Joe was didactic. ‘You don’t use your headpiece. I’m sorry, but look at it. Who else stands to gain? Who else cares if Reg uncovered something about the foundling? As soon as I heard about that message on the looking-glass telling Reg to get out I saw it must be the kid himself. It was obvious.’

  ‘Is that really all you’ve got to go on?’ Mr. Campion sounded relieved.

  ‘It’s enough for me.’ The head of Stalkey & Sons was adamant. ‘I don’t go in for fancy stuff as you do, Campion. I just see the obvious when it sticks out a mile and I get by all right. Today when the lout set on Ron I was proved pretty right, I think.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr. Campion appeared to have no other comment. ‘I shall receive a modest account from you, I suppose? Trade rates, I take it?’

  Joe began to laugh. ‘You’ve got something,’ he conceded. ‘The grand manner, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what. I’ve been thinking. We might come to something sort of reciprocal in this. You wouldn’t like to take the boy off our hands now?’

  Mr. Campion stared at him.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘Downstairs in the washroom as a matter of fact. Don’t get excited. He’s all right but he needed cleaning up of course, and we couldn’t very well send him home. There’s a funeral there this afternoon, isn’t there?’

  ‘A funeral?’

  Joe Stalkey shrugged his loose shoulders.

  ‘It’s in your Times, in the deaths there. I thought you were holding it like that to remind me. It’s not one of the family, but he felt he couldn’t turn up with two black eyes and a cut lip. It’s someone employed there. There it is: “SAXON . . . whilst visiting this country with her bereft friend and employer, Geraldine Telpher. Interment today in Harold Dene Cemetery, etc.’ A governess, I think the boy said she was.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Justifiably Angry Young Man

  THE WASHROOM UNDER the old building where Stalkey & Sons had their offices had been converted somewhat casually from what might well have been an air-raid shelter and was in fact a wine vault, relic of more spacious days. The ceiling was low and arched, the floor stone-flagged, and the ventilation unsuccessful. The row of wash-basins, installed about 1913, managed to look strikingly modern in the grim surroundings.

  There was a rug-covered camp-bed at one end of the cavern and when Mr. Campion entered, Timothy Kinnit was seated upon it, clad only in singlet and shorts. His bloodsoaked shirt was lying on the stones before him and when the visitor appeared he raised his battered face in which only the fierce grey eyes were still splendid.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I know you. You’re Albert Campion. Surely you’re not a part of this outfit of lunatics? Where’s that damn fool with my clothes?’ He was speaking painfully because of the swelling of his lips but he was not sparing himself. His mood came across to Campion in a wave. He was so angry he was out of himself altogether.

  Mr. Campion glanced behind him. ‘I appear to be alone,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Joseph Stalkey has paused to speak to his brother, who is undergoing repairs in the annex. If it’s any comfort to you he too has a few souvenirs of the encounter. He was armed, I take it? May I look?’

  The young man got up unsteadily. ‘My face’ll clear up,’ he said, reeling slightly as he bent towards a looking-glass. ‘But I don’t know if there’s an actual hole in my skull. It’s at the back here, rather low down. Can you see?’

  ‘Yes. Dear me. Wait a minute. Turn to the light, can you?’

  The examination was nearing completion when Joe Stalkey came in. Nervousness had increased his restless clumsiness. His big feet splayed awkwardly and his hands and huge wrists were prominent as he walked.

  ‘He’s all right,’ he said, making it sound as convincing as he could to himself. ‘He’s all right. That’s all superficial stuff. There’s nothing to worry about there. These things do happen.’

  The man in the horn-rimmed spectacles raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not surprised to hear it if your brother does the family’s errands wearing a knuckleduster and armed with a tyre-lever,’ he observed mildly.

  ‘It’s not a tyre-lever. Just an ordinary, old-fashioned life preserver; we all carry one.’ Joe conveyed that the fact made it respectable. ‘Be reasonable. A man must have some means of defending himself. Ron expected trouble this morning; don’t forget that. He was going back into the area. He realized that the young thugs who would wreck an old people’s flat in that peculiarly brutal way merely to warn Reg off an inquiry, would be on the look-out for any return. That’s why, when the attack did come, he was ready for it.’

  ‘But there was no attack!’ Timothy’s explosion was due as much to fury at crass stupidity as to pain and outrage. ‘I simply walked out from behind the counter where I was waiting, talking to the cobbler, and asked the man if he was the chap who was making the inquiries about Turk Street just before the war, and if so who was employing him. He went for me with a cosh like a lunatic, and naturally I defended myself.’

  ‘But how did you get here?’ Mr. Campion demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. I went out like a light – I suppose from this wallop on my head.’

  ‘Ron brought him along in his car,’ Joe Stalkey said, avoiding Mr. Campion’s eyes. ‘He intended to turn him over to the police, naturally, but as it turned out —’

  Mr. Campion coughed. ‘A wallet happened to slip out of his pocket, spilling an old envelope with his name upon it, no doubt?’

  Joe’s big washed-out eyes met his own reproachfully.

  ‘Well, things like that do occur, as you must know as well as anybody,’ he said testily. ‘Anyhow, you can’t blame Ron for being nervous. Reg had simply seen the quality of that damage to the flat, and he threw up the case and cleared out to Canada for a rest, remember. So this morning when an attack was made on Ron he was prepared for it. You’ll never shake him on that.’

  Mr. Campion shook his head. ‘No, I don’t suppose one ever could,’ he admitted. ‘What’s the matter with Ron? Flatulence? Never mind. Where are Mr. Kinnit’s clothes?’

  ‘In the next room. He had a bit of a nose-bleed and they got smothered. Ron took them to discover if anything could be done about tidying them up. So Mr. Kinnit could go home in them, you see?’

  Mr. Campion’s lips twitched. ‘Only too well. The error becomes more apparent at every turn. Ron has my sincere sympathy.’

  ‘I wish you’d all stop blethering and just get me a pair of trousers,’ Timothy said wearily. There was something of the helpless dignity of the sick child or the very old man in his appeal. His colour was bad and he was still very unsteady. He stood looking at Joe for a moment, debating his next statement.

  ‘I’ve nothing against your brother,’ he said at last. ‘I shan’t make any complaint. But I want the answer to my original questi
on. Who was employing you all? Who is trying to find out about me?’

  Mr. Campion took the young man by the arm and lowered him gently on to the bed again, and Joe came a step nearer.

  ‘So you knew you came from Turk Street?’

  ‘No. I knew that some evacuees went to Angevin from there. I don’t know now that I was one of them. Who was employing your brother?’

  Joe Stalkey still hesitated and it occured to Mr. Champion that he was showing uncharacteristic delicacy. ‘You’re asking us to divulge the name of a client, you know,’ Joe protested at last.

  Timothy sighed. ‘Then there is a client.’ He sounded oddly resigned. ‘I went to look for Turk Street because my old nurse mentioned that name in front of my fiancée and I got the story out of her. I found a young bobby down there and chummed up with him and he told me a private detective had been chased out of the district for making inquries. He put me on to the old man who had had the detective as a lodger and he put me on to the cobbler. You say the detective was your brother, so you can tell me what I want to know. Who is employing your family?’

  Joe passed one ungainly hand over his chin.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm, because we’re not working for them now,’ he said. ‘We’re, turning the whole thing in. It’s not our sort of business at all, thank you. As a matter of fact my brother Reg was working for Miss Alison Kinnit and Mr. Eustace Kinnit. They approached us just before Christmas.’

  The battered face of the young man on the bed grew slowly dusky red and as slowly drained again. He was sitting forward, his head raised towards Joe’s. His eyes were very dark.

  ‘Are you sure Eustace was in it?’

  ‘Of course. I saw him myself. It was my duty to warn them that there was very little chance of us having much success. My father undertook the original inquiry in 1944 or 1945 when the question of regularizing the position of Mr. Kinnit’s guardianship arose. My father had to confess failure then and I have to do it again now. I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about, young man.’

  The sneer passed clean over Timothy’s head. He seemed completely shattered.

  ‘Twice!’ he said. ‘Get me some clothes for Heaven’s sake, there’s a good chap, and let me get out of here.’

  He got up and staggered dangerously. Mr. Campion caught him.

  ‘I really think you’d better come along with me,’ he said. ‘There’s only one expert I know of who’ll get you presentable in a reasonable time. Joe, send your secretary for a taxi and lend us a raincoat.’

  They went to Mr. Campion’s old flat in Bottle Street. The Police Station which used to be next door had gone and time and rebuilding had changed most of the other landmarks, but the pleasant shabby four-room hide-out remained much as it had always been.

  Timothy sat in a faded wing chair before a gas fire, Joe Stalkey’s trench coat still covering his bloodstained clothes, and glanced dully round walls cluttered with souvenirs. Although the apartment was only just off Piccadilly, it was astonishingly quiet and somehow remote and even secret in the afternoon.

  The sound of a key in the lock of the door was unexpected and Mr. Campion put his head out of the kitchen, kettle in hand.

  ‘Lugg?’

  ‘’Ullo?’ There was an upheaval in the narrow hall and the panelled wall shuddered. The newcomer was breathless and his accent London at its thickest.

  ‘We have a customer.’

  ‘Reely?’ The sitting-room door opened at once and a huge old man whose personality was as definite and obtrusive as an odour appeared in the opening. Even in an era when individuality in dress is a cult, his clothes were noticeable. He was wearing a hard hat of the low round kind favoured by hunting men, and with it a black duffle-coat lined with white. His large pale face and heavy moustache were alive with interest and curiosity. He glanced at Timothy twice; once casually, and then with a long hard stare from small, unexpectedly shrewd eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d bin fightin’ at first,’ he remarked. ‘Knuckle-dusters, eh? Where you been, son?’

  Mr. Campion came in and gave him a brief explanation.

  ‘Stalkey!’ Lugg was contemptuous. ‘It was only ’is name give ’im the idea of being a detective at all. It was a cheap ad for ’im and ’e wouldn’t waste it. Any family more kack’anded in their trade you couldn’t find. The ole man was nothing but a jaw-fountain and all the children go orf ’alf cock!’ He appealed to Timothy. ‘Wot a way to treat a client’s nevvy. You could ’ave died and then where would they be? Standin’ wiv the bill in their ’ands, not knowing where to send it.’

  His scorn was magnificent but Timothy did not respond. He sat like a sack, his eyes still dark and shocked. It occurred to Mr. Campion, who was watching him, that eccentrics must be a commonplace in his young life. It was an off-beat age into which he had been born and absurdity as an escape-mechanism had been in fashion for some time now. The youngster’s condition worried him a little. He was more shaken than his physical injuries warranted. Suddenly, as if in answer to his unspoken question, the young man glanced up at him and spoke abruptly.

  ‘And who are you working for?’ he demanded. The question came out brashly and he flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to be offensive and I’m helplessly grateful to you. But why are you interested in this tatty old business of my paternity?’

  The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable and the older man responded to it involuntarily.

  ‘My dear fellow, don’t take it like that!’ he protested. ‘I’ll tell you all I know, which is little enough, in a minute or two as soon as we’ve got you patched up a bit. Meanwhile, what’s all this Joe Stalkey told me about you being due at a funeral this afternoon?’

  The sudden flicker of emotion, irritation, or perhaps even unease in the battered face took Mr. Campion by surprise; in an instant it was wooden again.

  ‘No, I’m not due at it,’ Timothy said. ‘I don’t imagine anyone expected me to attend. I said I thought I ought not to turn up to the house in the middle of it looking like this, though, and Stalkey agreed with me.’

  ‘As well ’e might!’ Mr. Lugg, who had removed his coat, now took off his hat and thrust it at his patient. ‘See that? The idea of this is to pertect yer ’ead from an ’orse’s ’oof. If you’re goin’ to keep stickin’ your bonce into trouble you ought to buy yerself one. I’ll give yer the name of the place. Now let’s see this ’ere depressed area of yours. Keep still.’

  He made a long and careful exploration of the damage and finally sighed. ‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Ron Stalkey can say ‘is prayers. ‘E’s lucky ’e’s not up before the beak for that lot.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ Mr. Campion made it clear he was consulting an expert.

  ‘I seen wuss; and in this room. ‘E’ll live ter break someone’s ’eart. Come on into the barfroom mate and we’ll start the beauty treatment.’

  An hour later he was still talking. Timothy, who was looking much more like himself, was wrapped in a bathrobe of his host’s while Lugg considered his ruined clothes.

  ‘No,’ he said regretfully, turning over the torn and bloodsoaked flannel trousers. ‘Not reely. Not for a funeral. It would be ’eartless and not quite the article. ’Oose is it? Someone yer know?’

  ‘Hardly at all. She was a stranger. Just an elderly woman staying in the house.’

  The young man appeared to be defending himself and Mr. Lugg’s bright eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yus?’ he encouraged. ‘Wot’s ’er name?’

  ‘Miss Saxon. I hardly knew her, I’m afraid, but the funeral was announced in The Times this morning. Joe Stalkey pointed it out to me. Eustace must have made the arrangements and put the advertisement in automatically. It’s just what he would do, of course, although no one knew her over here. She came from South Africa with our – or rather Eustace’s – relative, Mrs. Telpher. She was helping her with the child, you see.’

  Mr. Lugg managed to convey without offence that he did not see at
all and his patient was forced to elaborate.

  ‘Mrs. Telpher brought her child to England for medical treatment. It’s in hospital now and Miss Saxon came with them to help. They’ve been staying in the Well House for about six weeks. I had no idea the old lady had heart trouble.’

  The fat man stood looking at him, his large head held slightly on one side.

  ‘She died sudden, did she?’

  ‘Yes. In her sleep last Sunday night. I’ve been down in Ebbfield most of the time since then.’

  ‘Persooin’ your private investigations?’

  ‘Well, yes. You could call it that, I suppose.’

  Mr. Campion, who was sitting at a bureau desk in the far corner of the room, heard the interrogation going on mercilessly, and marvelled at his old friend and knave. He pulled no punches in his social skirmishes.

  ‘’Ow sudden was it?’ he was inquiring with disarming interest. ‘Did yer ’ave a ninquest?’

  ‘No. She’d been under the doctor since she came here. Eustace Kinnit called him at once and he gave a certificate.’

  ‘Any reason why ’e shouldn’t, son?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. Can I have my shirt?’

  Campion felt it was time to intervene. He turned round in his chair and his pleasant high voice cut into the conversation.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘But I telephoned Mrs. Broome at the Well House about half an hour ago and asked her to bring you a change. She should be here at any moment.’ He was unprepared for the effect of the words in his visitor. His brows came down and the dusky colour shot over his face. Campion regarded him in astonishment. ‘I thought it would be the easiest way,’ he said defensively.

  Timothy was controlling himself with a visible effort. ‘What is all this? What do you know about Mrs. Broome? You’re very kind, but just who has invited you into this? Aunt Alison I suppose! My God! Who else is involved?’

  Mr. Campion leant back and crossed his legs.

  ‘I do apologize,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d tell you all I know; here it is. I have an old friend whom you know. His name is Anthony Laurell.’