by Mike Ripley
‘No, sure, I can make myself scarce but it’s gonna cost you when you eventually take me to a pub that’s open.’
‘It’s a deal, though I have a feeling that might prove to be an expensive exercise.’
‘Is this old friend of yours the priest or the vicar or the padre or whatever you call them?’ asked the girl, accelerating as the stone-and-flint church tower came into view.
‘Oh, no,’ said Campion. ‘Much better than that. He’s a policeman.’
THREE
In a Country Churchyard
Though he had known him for many years, Mr Campion was always slightly surprised how tall Charles Luke was when standing next to him. From any distance at all, the width of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest gave him the appearance of a much shorter stature, a physicality which must be an irritant when purchasing his shirts.
Campion was thinking this as he walked up the path to the church because his friend now seemed even shorter than usual, his rain-coated figure bent over a gravestone. Campion had no need to guess whose grave the policeman was visiting.
As Campion and Precious Aird approached him, Luke drew himself up to his full height and turned to face them as he spoke.
‘Traded in your car for something more youthful, have you, Albert?’
Campion’s head turned automatically to the road where Precious had parked – rather casually – the lime-green Volkswagen campervan.
‘Needs must, Charlie, needs must. Amanda has the Jaguar this week, showing some bigwigs round a factory in Bristol or Birkenhead or somewhere beginning with “B”. Didn’t think I’d need transport of my own once I was snuggled in at Heronhoe, but then I got your message yesterday and fortunately I was able to thumb a lift with this charming young lady. Allow me: Precious Simcox Aird, this is Commander Charles Luke of New Scotland Yard, though there is absolutely no need for you to curtsy.’
Luke pulled off his trilby and held out a hand for Precious Aird’s far daintier one to disappear into. Campion noted that the girl, with her American height and self-confidence, was not in the least intimidated or overawed as the pair locked eyes.
‘Sincerely pleased to meech-ya, sir,’ announced Precious, showing off her perfect teeth. ‘Albert here has told me how you’re the top cop in all the land and the Queen’s personal bodyguard.’
‘I have told you no such thing!’
‘My point exactly,’ said Precious smugly. ‘You’ve told me nothing and I’ve driven you halfway across the county.’
‘It wasn’t halfway,’ Campion said quietly. ‘It just seemed like it, but you’re quite correct, I have been unforgivably rude. Charles is indeed one of our top cops as you so succinctly put it, but despite that he happens to be an old and distinguished friend and we both have fond connections to Pontisbright.’
‘I see that now,’ the girl said respectfully, pointing a long forefinger at the gravestone Luke had stepped away from. ‘Was Prunella your wife?’
The big policeman seemed to deflate slightly inside his raincoat.
‘Briefly,’ he said, ‘but it’s been a while now.’
Campion took a moment to observe the American girl. She had quickly spotted the marble headstone and its unsentimental inscription: Prunella Luke (née Scroop-Dory), Wife and Mother, 1931–1962.
The girl was sharp. ‘Mother?’ she asked.
‘We had a daughter – Hattie.’
‘The same pretty name Oliver Bell has given to his harpsichord,’ said Campion, ‘and the one bright thought in this rather melancholy venue. I’m afraid Charles and I have many – too many – friends and acquaintances in this churchyard.’
‘It’s a sure sign of old age,’ said Luke, ‘when you meet at a church for more funerals than weddings.’
‘In my case perhaps,’ said Campion, ‘but you’re still a spring chicken, Charlie, and Miss Aird here is hardly out of the eggshell.’
‘I’m almost twenty,’ pouted Precious, ‘which makes me old enough to try one of your English pubs, doesn’t it, Mr Policeman?’
‘This is something of an idée fixe with my young friend, Charles. Perhaps we should drop into The Gauntlett when we’re done here. That should cure her.’
Luke grunted in agreement.
‘There’s still a good half-hour to wait till opening time,’ he said without consulting his wristwatch, ‘and that’s if they’re operating on Ipswich licensing hours. From what I remember of the landlord when I first came here, he opened when he felt like it, and that was neither regular nor often.’
‘Honesty Bull,’ said Campion dreamily. ‘That was his name, but that was fifteen years ago. He’s probably retired by now.’
‘Or he’s taken up residence here.’ Luke waved an arm indicating the crop of gravestones.
‘Hey, look, you guys have catching up to do and I’ve got my orders about three being a crowd, so I’ll get my camera out of the wagon and take a few pictures inside the church to send back to Mom and Pop, show them I’m behaving myself.’ Precious pulled on the hood of the padded parka she was wearing. ‘At least it’ll be warmer inside the church than out here. Nobody told me it would be this cold in England.’
As she strode off, Campion took a pair of leather gloves from his overcoat pockets and pulled them on while Luke jammed his hat back on his head.
‘I’m afraid Precious is drastically underestimating the hardiness of the average congregation as well as the ambient temperature in an English country church,’ said Campion. ‘I hope she keeps her coat on. Shall we take a stroll among the tombstones?’
‘Is her name really Precious?’
‘Apparently so, and it took me by surprise because stupidly I never checked. Her father kept saying “my precious daughter”, or so I thought. Turns out he meant “my daughter, Precious”. Not that it matters. She’s a lovely girl, knows her own mind, is resourceful and she can do the job.’
‘And her job,’ said Luke, sounding like the policeman he was, ‘is what exactly? Driving you around East Suffolk in that hippy-mobile? Is that your idea of going undercover, Albert?’
‘Ah, yes, the campervan – they call them Dormobiles, don’t they?’ said Campion as if he was observing the VW for the first time. ‘Yes, I believe they are quite popular among the young and free-spirited. I certainly wasn’t expecting Miss Aird to turn up in it but I’m jolly glad she did. It comes in very useful for transporting my merry band of archaeologists and their tools, and it has a little cooker in there which runs on bottled gas – very handy for making tea.’
‘You are not an archaeologist, Albert,’ said Luke firmly.
‘Never said I was, old chum, just that I have a happy band of them; in my employ, you might say. But then, you’re not here for the brass-rubbing, are you?’
Luke plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets as they rounded the corner of the church, which brought them head on into chill wind.
‘First place I thought of to meet. I like to call on Prune now and then but it seems we always end up here when we come to Pontisbright.’ He nodded towards the far corner of the graveyard. ‘We were here when they put Minnie Cassands over there next to old Uncle William Faraday and again when Tonker followed her last year.’
‘It was so sad about Minnie,’ said Campion, remembering the extrovert owners of The Beckoning Lady. ‘Was it really three years ago?’
‘Nearer four, and Tonker started to fall apart bit by bit. Minnie’s death took him hard, and that surprised a lot of people given that their relationship had been pretty stormy over the years. There were times Tonker drove her to distraction and nobody would have blamed her if she’d planted ’alf a brick in his skull but, by heaven, he missed her badly.’
Campion felt a twinge of compassion for his friend; compassion which he knew must not come across as pity.
‘Nobody knows what goes on in a marriage, Charlie, least of all the people in it. They were an odd pair but they were certainly a pair. Minnie left me a painting, you know, a real, genuine M
iranda Straw in oils painted on what appeared to be one side of an old tea chest. It was her heart, wasn’t it, in the end? I never got a chance to talk to Tonker properly after Minnie went.’
‘Heart attack following pneumonia and high blood pressure according to Tonker, but the doctors said cancer. Tonker just couldn’t bring himself to say the word.’
‘People are strange that way. It has an evil ring to it: say it and you get it is what many folk still think. It got Tonker in the end.’
‘Technically what got Tonker were complications following an operation for lung cancer, brought on by him smoking eighty untipped ciggies a day since he was about twelve. He used to boast about it.’
‘He could be very stupid at times,’ said Campion. ‘Still, neither of them were any serious age. And don’t look at me like that, Charlie Luke. They were both younger than me, so I am allowed a morbid moment or two.’
‘Feeling your years, are we?’ Luke grinned. ‘I knew the day would come when you’d be flicking through retirement homes’ brochures.’
‘Don’t be cheeky! I have not yet reached my three-score-and-ten. Well, not quite yet, still a few months to put up with. Anyway, wise old owls like me don’t retire; people just stop consulting them.’
They had walked the length of the church, and like well-drilled soldiers they wheeled left around the bell tower perfectly in step. The gravestones were older here, white-pitted by the weather and more than one stone angel leaned at an obtuse angle.
‘You once asked me,’ said Luke thoughtfully, ‘and I think it was here in Pontisbright, if it ever occurred to me that nothing you did in your meanderings among the criminal fraternity could not be done better by the police.’
‘I do remember,’ said Campion, ‘and I remember being rather hurt by the alacrity with which you replied that of course it had.’
‘But I qualified that by saying you were a sort of expert – someone people or the police could consult, like a doctor or a pathologist. The question is what exactly your expertise is and who is consulting you over in Heronhoe?’
‘Those are very good questions. The first, regarding my magical expertise – well, that has mystified man since the dawn of time and to give it a name would smack of a professionalism I would be most unhappy with, for it would be claiming something under very false pretences. As to your supplementary question – my business in Heronhoe – well, I rather think that is my business and mine alone unless, of course, this is an official interrogation, in which case I demand my full civil rights, the telephone call one is always allowed in American films, several lawyers, a copy of Teach Yourself Law for when I fire them and a pint mug of police station tea. Milk and four sugars, unless you have Earl Grey, in which case, just the lemon.’
‘Finished?’
‘Exhausted but ready to do a bit of trading. You tell me why my little holiday in Heronhoe is of interest to Scotland Yard and I’ll spill the beans. Straight up, guv, I’ll do meself up like a kipper and slip the bracelets on me wrists meself.’
Luke stopped walking, turned his back to the wind and faced his old friend. The two men, one tall and broad, the other thin and not quite as tall, their coats tightly buttoned and their hats firmly secured, would have appeared a pair of mismatched bookends from a distance.
‘You know the expression “don’t shoot the messenger”? Of course you do,’ said Luke. ‘You probably know the Latin for it.’
‘I seem to recall it had its origin in Plutarch, or perhaps earlier with Sophocles, and it probably referred to beheading rather than shooting, but I totally understand the sentiment. You have been tasked with delivering bad news and you have my sympathy, but my ears are always open to you, Charlie.’
‘Then pin those lug-holes back and pay attention because I don’t like playing the second-hand messenger boy.’
‘Second hand?’
‘The message comes from a highly respected source via Augustus Breeze.’
‘Lord Gus? The millionaire property developer and television socialist?’
‘The same; and not my favourite person, either,’ grunted Luke.
‘Can’t say I know him,’ said Campion, ‘though I can see a thread beginning to unravel here because I’m actually staying with Lord G’s daughter and her hubby over at Heronhoe Hall. But you implied that the message I promise not to shoot you for delivering came via Lord Breeze, so who was he relaying the message from?’
‘The big house at the end of The Mall.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mr Campion, ‘what have I done now?’
‘As far as I know, nothing, and the message is that you should keep it that way.’
Sixty miles away from where the two men faced each other in the lee of a church and shivered in an east wind, Rupert Campion, the son of one of them and adopted godson of the other, and his wife Perdita were taking their clothes off in a room above a wholesale greengrocer’s just off the Farringdon Road. Even in their relatively short careers as thespians, it was far from the most unusual rehearsal room they had experienced.
In fact, Rupert was beginning to suspect that their agent, the flamboyant Maxim Berlins, was perhaps not taking their careers seriously, at least not his. He had found Perdita a tiny part as a housemaid in a war-horse of a murder mystery play on a limited run at the Fortune and encouraged her with the prediction that as the theatre was old and damp, a leading cast member was bound to fall ill or trip over a loose fitting and break an ankle, and Perdita, assuming she knew the entire play off by heart, would be able to take on any part. When Perdita had made the point that all the lead parts were male roles, Maxim Berlins had twiddled his brightly coloured silk bow tie (which Rupert was convinced was made out of a tricolour) and told her that could only show her versatility, and versatility was a marketable commodity in show business.
For Rupert, or so he was assured, Maxim had ‘pulled out all the stops’ and got him an audition at the Victoria Palace for a chorus part in the Black and White Minstrels’ Show. Rupert had said, far too quickly, that he could not sing a note, and Maxim had pointed out that on his résumé it distinctly said that he could, and then scowled when Rupert said if everything on an actor’s résumé was supposed to be truthful then many would be very short documents. If Rupert was going to be picky about this, Maxim had pronounced, then he must take what was offered or starve, which was the natural lot of the actor, although he was able to offer Rupert four weeks’ work as an understudy in the pantomime Dick Whittington at – and here he paused dramatically, then said with a flourish ‘the Palladium’.
Perdita had squirmed with excitement and hardly any professional jealousy when Rupert had told her and had asked, breathlessly, if he really was understudying the star of the show, Tommy Steele. Soberly, Rupert had admitted that he was not, as Mr Steele’s understudy was a rather talented (and altogether too handsome) young chap called David Essex. Rupert was actually understudying an assistant stage manager who had been whipped into hospital to have his appendix out. Still, Perdita had consoled him, he would now be able to add the Palladium to his résumé and honestly so.
When Mr Berlins had called to say he had a perfect opportunity for both his clients to work together playing a couple in love as the stars of a television programme, it seemed too good to be true; and, therefore, probably was.
Well, yes, Maxim admitted, it was a one-off and not a regular series, but the advantage of that was that it wouldn’t take up much time. And no, that didn’t mean they were small parts – they were the main parts; in fact, they would be the only actors in it, so they were guaranteed top billing. The script? No difficulty or lengthy speeches to learn as there wasn’t a script – no dialogue at all. What could be easier? Filming would be done in the country and who could resist working in the beautiful Suffolk countryside? Yes, even in February. And no need to worry about rehearsals – they would be done on location with the director, though there would be a costume fitting in Clerkenwell; tomorrow, actually. Oh, and by the way, did either Rupert or
Campion speak Italian?
‘Stop staring at my legs!’ ordered Perdita, snapping the last dangling suspender strap into place and then using the palms of her hands to twist the stocking into place. ‘Are my seams straight?’
‘How can I tell without staring at your legs, darling?’
‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ said Perdita, smoothing down the woollen skirt from where it had been bunched around her waist. ‘No one will see them. I don’t think I’ve ever worn a skirt this length below the knee, nor one so tightly nipped in at the waist. Pass me the jacket.’
Rupert held the eel-grey matching jacket open so that his wife could slot her arms into the sleeves and pull it over the high-necked white cotton blouse.
‘Well, I think I look quite dapper,’ said Rupert, holding the wide shoulders with fingers and thumbs until Perdita pulled the curved lapels together and fastened the three tortoiseshell buttons. She turned to face her husband and gave him a quick once-over; a far swifter survey than he had given her.
‘Very smart, dear, but a bit old fashioned. Still, that’s the point, isn’t it? Is it heavy? It looks heavy.’
Rupert took a pace back and did a dancer’s turn on toe and heel.
‘Brown herringbone tweed would not have been my natural choice – the trousers flap about a bit and the turn-ups are deep enough to carry a packed lunch – but it has a certain style and at least it will be warm out there on set. I wonder how they got my measurements so quickly.’
‘And our shoe sizes. These fit perfectly.’ Perdita hitched her skirt an inch or two higher up her calves, though the hem line was still almost a foot below current fashion in order to admire the two-tone lace-up Oxfords with Spanish heels.
The shoes – brown brogues for Rupert – had been in plain shoeboxes, wrapped in tissue paper at the foot of a metal coat rack, one of the long, wheeled ones found in department stores and dry cleaners’. This one had only two wooden coat hangers, one holding the eel-grey woollen skirt and jacket and the other the three-piece suit hung over a laundered white shirt and tie of unidentified regimental origin. On arrival, the Campions had found the room empty apart from the rack, a full-length mirror on a beech-wood frame and a single chair, on which lay a white suspender belt and the tan-coloured stockings in a packet which was branded Ballito – they wear so well!, Rupert had held it aloft and commented, ‘Advertising doesn’t lie for once.’