Mr. Campion's Abdication

by Mike Ripley

  ‘I don’t,’ said Precious Aird, and Campion issued a silent prayer of thanks for the useful innocence of the young American. ‘Understand, that is. What do you mean by “look after”?’

  ‘I’m sure it means that the staff of the pub were very accommodating,’ Campion said quickly, ‘and looked after the prince’s every need efficiently and discreetly.’

  ‘They certainly were discreet,’ agreed Thomas Spark, ‘and nothing ever got in the papers.’

  ‘No, the whole affair with Mrs Simpson was hushed up,’ said Campion. ‘A conspiracy of silence, you might say, organized by the highest in the land.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said the farmer, wiping cider from his lips with the back of a red-haired hand, ‘but there’s plenty that thought there was an indiscretion which brought him to this particular pub before he started with that American woman.’

  ‘Is this American woman missing something?’ demanded Precious.

  ‘She ain’t the only one.’ Perdita supported her in a stage American accent.

  It was clear to Campion that Thomas Spark was uncomfortable in having to exchange this particular piece of saloon-bar gossip in front of a female audience and he nodded encouragement even though the farmer was clearly nervous as Precious and Perdita leaned forward across the table to hang on his every word. Even more disconcerting was that Lugg, with a distinctly satanic leer on his face, was doing the same.

  Spark cleared his throat and pressed on valiantly. ‘You know the prince used to come to the hall to go riding with Wemyss-Grendle?’ He acknowledged the nods of agreement from Campion and Lugg. ‘Well, he used to drink here on occasion and was particularly taken by the barmaid, Elspeth Brunt, who was what the newspapers would have called “vivacious” if they’d ever cottoned on to her. They said the prince took quite a shine to her; mind you, he wasn’t the only one. Wemyss-Grendle had his eye on her as well, even tried to get her to work up at the hall, but that didn’t last long.’

  Campion held up a finger to make an interjection. ‘I’m told the journalist, Samuel Salt, had a bit of a thing for her as well.’

  ‘He could have, according to what my old dad used to say – plenty of men did, but Elspeth played the field and ended up marrying an Italian, an ex-POW who stayed on in Heronhoe after the war.’

  ‘I’m not sure he was ever a POW,’ said Campion, exchanging looks with Lugg, ‘but that’s not relevant to the period in question. Would Elspeth Brunt have been working here in 1935 when they were digging the Barrow?’

  ‘Well, remember I was only a kid meself, but in his cups my dad used to laugh about it and say it was a good job Elspeth had moved on to pastures new that year because otherwise there could have been a bit of an embarrassing situation, what with him bringing that Mrs Simpson here.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Campion. ‘Here, to the King’s Head?’

  ‘My dad was. He used to have a laugh at the thought of Elspeth having to serve them breakfast in bed if she’d still been working here. Wicked sense of humour, my dad had.’

  ‘We thought they were joking when they called it the Royal Suite,’ said Rupert, his mouth open wide. ‘We’re sleeping in it.’

  ‘The landlord calls it that?’ Lugg faked indignation. ‘That’s a bit rich, i’n’it, after all this time?’

  ‘Josh Yallop treats it all as a bit of joke,’ said Spark, ‘good for the tourist trade, he says, as if he had any. He wasn’t the landlord back then, o’course – it was Arthur Aldous in them days. Him and his wife ran the place in the Thirties up to 1939 when the war came and Arthur tried to join up, as he was the patriotic sort – really patriotic. I’ve seen pictures of the pub from Arthur’s time and you could hardly see the place for bunting and Union Jacks on high days and holidays. Anyways, Arthur was too old to get a uniform so he decided to do his bit on the fishing trawlers out of Heronhoe. Folks had to eat, after all, and the navy was dragging off the younger blokes, so it seemed like Arthur was contributing to the war effort.’

  ‘Pity running a pub wasn’t made a reserved occupation,’ muttered Lugg. Then, when he saw several disapproving faces looking at him, he added, ‘Just saying …’ and reburied his face in his pint pot.

  ‘He didn’t contribute much,’ Thomas Spark ploughed on, ignoring the interruption, ‘and probably would have been better off staying here and running the pub. It was only his second trip out when his boat was machine-gunned by a lone Dornier trying to find its way home. There was only the one casualty: Arthur Aldous, who took a bullet to the head. They say his body was landed at Heronhoe quay along with six boxes of herring.’

  ‘But this was 1939, you say?’

  Spark nodded in answer to Campion’s question. ‘Very early on, in the first months of the war, I think.’

  ‘By which time the Abdication was done and dusted and the Prince of Wales had become King Edward and then the Duke of Windsor, and the Sweethearting Barrow had been totally forgotten and overshadowed by the finds at Sutton Hoo.’

  ‘Because those boat burials were full of treasure,’ said Spark, ‘not like our very own Sweethearting one. My dad followed the story and often moaned about how they found nothing worth talking about in our one.’

  ‘And yet people did talk about it, didn’t they? Still do, in fact. Sometimes it’s the Sweethearting Treasure and sometimes it’s the Abdication Treasure because the Barrow dig coincided with the Mrs Simpson affair in people’s minds, though of course the Abdication crisis was a year later, 1936 not 1935.’

  ‘Do we ’ave any idea what this so-called treasure was? All I’ve ’eard sounds as if this was the treasure that never was.’ Mr Lugg, now anticipating his third pint, found himself in a loquacious mood. ‘I mean, nobody can tell me what it looks like, what it’s worth, where it came from, who found it or where it is now. Is it portable? Can it be fenced? Or would an honest pawnbroker take one look at it and keep you talking while he phoned the law?’

  Campion removed his spectacles and, with a handkerchief the size of a white flag which could have graced any major military catastrophe, began to polish the lenses.

  ‘There are two theories to explain the rumoured treasure, old friend. One is that something valuable came out of the Sweethearting dig at the time of the visit of the Prince of Wales; a theory which seems to have been comprehensively denied by everyone who was around at the time and unproved by everyone who has looked for it since. The other theory is that the treasure was some sort of gift from the Prince of Wales during or immediately after the Abdication crisis for … well, for services rendered, shall we say?’

  ‘Services?’ asked a puzzled Thomas Spark. ‘What services?’

  ‘You have more or less described them this evening, although no doubt in all innocence,’ said Campion, replacing his glasses. ‘If the prince had been using the King’s Head as a private love nest when he was in the area – and I can quite understand his reluctance to take his lover to Heronhoe Hall and suffer the hospitality of that lecherous old goat Gerald Wemyss-Grendle – then he may have made some gesture of largesse to a pub which had kept his secret. Once his secret was out, as it were. He may have, belatedly, thanked the pub and its landlords for keeping his residency here discreet and out of the spotlight of press coverage. You told me yourself that there was a local journalist sniffing around here.’

  ‘Aye, that’d be Sam Salt, but he never did write a story about that.’

  ‘Nor about the rumours of the Abdication Treasure after the dig was finished. In fact, I’m told he didn’t write anything after the day of the visit of the prince.’

  ‘And we can’t ask the landlord, can we?’ observed Lugg drily. ‘Not with him dead on the fish dock. Did he leave a will with a few OBEs and the odd Crown Jewel in it?’

  Campion flapped a hand to dismiss Lugg’s fanciful suggestion. ‘What happened to the pub, Mr Spark, after the death of Arthur Aldous?’

  Spark scratched his chin. ‘The licence passed to his widow – there was a war on, after
all. Afterwards the brewery let her stay for what they called her official “widow’s year” but they must have really valued her as that year turned into ten or more. They let her stay on all through the Fifties, when it was rare to have a woman licensee.’

  ‘Still is,’ grunted Lugg.

  ‘Sonia retired in 1960 and the Yallops took over.’

  ‘Sonia?’ exclaimed Rupert.

  ‘You know her?’ asked Mr Campion.

  Rupert and Perdita nodded in unison, then Perdita said, ‘She doesn’t do stairs.’

  TWELVE

  Supporting Cast (Present)

  Mr Campion’s day began with a cup of tea placed on his bedside table and Lavinia Bell’s voice whispering a polite wake-up call, which to any other ears would have been quite startling.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Campion, but there’s a policeman waiting to see you downstairs.’

  Campion rolled over on his pillow and reached with his eyes still shut for his spectacles on the table, his hand instinctively, almost magically, avoiding the hot cup and its saucer.

  ‘You know you are getting old when the policemen are up and about before you,’ he said, sitting upright and applying the large round tortoiseshell frames to his face. ‘Does this early bird go by any name other than worm-catcher?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Chamley, the one who rang and left a message for you yesterday,’ Lavinia said, determined to show her efficiency as a hostess. ‘I’ve put him in the front room with Hattie and a cup of tea, though I’ve no idea if he’s musical, but it’s more comfortable than the kitchen where Precious is organizing breakfast for the diggers.’

  ‘And here’s me luxuriating in my silk pyjamas while the world works.’ Campion smiled. ‘Let me throw some togs on and I’ll stumble into action.’

  Dressed but unshaven, Campion was downstairs within three minutes and within four was offering his apologies to the visiting policeman.

  ‘No call for that, Mr Campion, except perhaps on my part for disturbing you so early. It’s just that I’ve been working the night duty and I knock off at eight – well, that’s the theory, anyway – and I wanted to clear something up for the report I have to leave for the day’s shift. It’s only a small matter.’

  ‘I am at your disposal, Inspector, and in your debt for the information you supplied yesterday.’

  Inspector Chamley waved away any obligation of debt. ‘Happy to be of assistance to any friend of Scotland Yard and Mr Luke and I only hope the information was helpful. Now, perhaps you can return the favour.’

  ‘Naturally, if I can.’

  ‘It’s about the break-in …’

  ‘You’ve made an arrest?’

  ‘No, we have not,’ Chamley turned the hat he was holding nervously by the brim, ‘although we are of course continuing our enquiries into that one.’

  ‘That one? The one here at the hall the other night?’

  Chamley nodded silently, allowing Campion to make the connection.

  ‘You’re talking about another one, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am. Last night, or rather earlier this morning, someone broke into the King’s Head in Sweethearting but they were disturbed before they could take anything; disturbed by a gentleman who claims to be your son.’

  ‘Rupert? Good heavens above! He has every right to claim me as a parent, though often he would possibly prefer not to have to. Is the boy all right?’

  ‘He had his night’s sleep disturbed,’ said Chamley as if reading from his notebook, ‘and made several references to having an early morning call “on location”, whatever that means.’

  ‘Strangely, Inspector, that makes perfect sense – trust me.’

  ‘If you say so, sir. Your son heard the intruder rummaging around in the bar and came downstairs to investigate instead of doing the sensible thing and waking the landlord.’

  ‘We are not,’ said Campion seriously, ‘a family noted for doing sensible things.’

  ‘Well, however unwise, your son stumbling upon the intruder did the trick and scared him off empty-handed as far as we can tell, though not after a bit of damage was done. When young Mr Campion confronted the chap there was a bit of a scuffle and some beer bottles got smashed. I’m afraid your son, who was in pyjamas and bare feet, trod on some broken glass. His wife is looking after him and she seems to know what she’s doing.’

  ‘Oh, she does; he’s in safe hands. While I’m grateful for the news, Inspector, I’m not sure how I can help you. I was in the King’s Head myself last night, but I was on chauffeur duty and drove everyone home. In fact, we called it a night quite early, about ten o’clock, I think. Do I need an alibi?’

  ‘Of course not, sir, but you could help with an identification.’

  ‘Really? I assure you I am happy to identify my son and fairly confident I can do so at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘No, no, sir, you misunderstand. Or is that the Campion sense of humour I was warned about?’

  ‘Almost certainly the latter, I’m afraid, Inspector.’

  Chamley steeled himself to the task in hand. ‘There are, at first sight, certain similarities with the break-in here at the hall and we are looking at anything out of the ordinary that’s happened locally, which includes checking up on strangers and suspicious characters. I was wondering if you could vouch for one such stranger who has been acting somewhat suspiciously in Heronhoe.’

  ‘If I can,’ said Campion.

  ‘He’s an elderly gentleman, bald and a bit portly by all accounts, talks like a Londoner. Doesn’t sound like a burglar but I have to ask.’

  ‘Do not fret yourself, Inspector. Your suspect certainly doesn’t look like a burglar – well, not since he let his figure go – and I am ashamed to say I can vouch for him. His name is Lugg – he’s quite harmless and he was with us in the King’s Head last night until we left, whereupon I gave him a lift to his lodgings at the Hythe Inn in Heronhoe. Once there, he seemed set on laying the groundwork for this morning’s hangover. I doubt very much he would have had the inclination or the energy to go breaking into the King’s Head in Sweethearting in the early hours, and in any case he has no transport and cockneys are well-known for their fear of Suffolk country lanes after dark.’

  Chamley seemed mollified but remained in official mode. ‘There’s a possibility that the intruder at the King’s Head left the village on a bicycle, heading in the direction of Heronhoe.’

  ‘That certainly can’t be Lugg, then. An inebriated salmon would display better balance on a bike than Lugg. These days a sedan chair would be his preferred means of escape.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, Mr Campion, and your forbearance at the intrusion. I’ll let you get to your breakfast.’

  Campion smiled but made no attempt to move, anticipating the policeman’s standard ‘one last thing’ question, which was not long in coming.

  ‘One last thing, sir,’ said Chamley, pulling on his hat. ‘Given your experience, if you don’t mind me saying that, and the fact that you were present in both places, do you have any theories as to who might have done these break-ins?’

  Campion beamed innocence. ‘I have absolutely no idea, Inspector.’

  That Daniela Petraglia had a stunning figure, especially when displayed through a second skin of fluid black leather, was not in question. That she herself knew this for a fact was also beyond doubt and she had long realized that she possessed a weapon which could disarm, intimidate and, at the very least, confuse an enemy or even a friend, as long as they were men. As a director very much of the dictatorial school of film making, she was dressed for the part even though only fifty per cent of the audience she was dictating to was male.

  ‘Keep in character,’ Perdita had hissed to Rupert. ‘You have at your side the woman you love – the woman you will give up the throne for. You are not on the lookout for a quick fling with the hostess of one of those strange clubs in Soho where they make you scream for their kisses.’

  Rupert could, in all honesty, h
ave denied knowing of even the existence of such establishments in Soho, let alone the etiquette of patronizing them, but thought it safer to let the matter lie.

  ‘Best foot forward, darling,’ he said. ‘Let’s hit our mark and dazzle a smile for the cameras.’

  ‘Camera – singular,’ Perdita reminded him. ‘This isn’t Dr Zhivago, you know, though I’m so cold it could be. Why wouldn’t Madame Strict let us wear our coats?’

  ‘Because it’s supposed to be the summer of 1935, my love, which is why we’re standing on this side of the trench, so they don’t get the trees in the background.’

  ‘Trees? Did you say trees? I can’t hear you very well over the sound of my teeth chattering.’

  ‘The trees would have been in leaf in summer. We have to pretend it’s summer but we’re good at make-believe; we’re actors.’

  ‘So I suppose I have to wear these stupid sunglasses to complete the illusion, though I can hardly see where I’m putting my feet so I’m sure I’ll trip and end up in that damned ditch.’

  ‘It’s called a trench, dear.’

  ‘That makes it sound like the First World War, which fits with all this mud, I suppose. I’m bound to go over in these shoes – they have absolutely no grip.’

  ‘Don’t fall and ladder those fabulous stockings, whatever you do. You haven’t got a spare pair.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’ Perdita sighed. ‘I know; the show must go on. I just wish it would get started.’

  To give her her due, their beloved director, the leather-clad Daniela Petraglia, was far from idle and seemed as determined to get things going as was the shivering Perdita. She stalked the site with Gianfranco the cameraman snapping at the high heels of her boots, stopping every few yards to size up potential camera angles, having explained to her two ‘stars’ that they had to make sure to avoid leafless trees (at which Rupert had nodded wisely) and also, in the far background, the television aerials spiking up from the roofs of the nearest houses in Sweethearting. Not having thought of that, Rupert was suitably impressed at Daniela’s professionalism, but Perdita grumbled that perhaps they should have thought of that before – possibly at some point in the intervening thirty-five years between the historical event and its fanciful recreation.