Mr. Campion's Abdication

by Mike Ripley

  ‘My plan had nothing to do with a fantasy treasure – it was to do with you, Signora. I did everything in my power to facilitate the visit of your spurious film crew, providing access to the hall and the Sweethearting Mound, archaeologists and even actors. I wanted to make it as easy as possible for you to get here so that all I had to do was wait until you did something stupid. And now you have, thanks to the late Samuel Salt, although I have to admit I did not plan that discovery.’

  ‘I have told you, that body is nothing to do with us.’

  Rupert flinched as he saw the woman’s knuckles whiten as she tightened her grip on her Beretta.

  ‘I know you had nothing to do with Mr Salt’s death back in 1935, but failing to report finding his body is almost certainly an offence under English law,’ said Campion calmly.

  Signora Petraglia did not appear impressed or particularly worried and certainly not frightened. ‘That is not a serious matter.’

  Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s certainly not as serious an offence as producing firearms in order to kidnap ten people and hold them captive against their will. I am fairly confident that even the most liberal member of our judiciary will take a dim view of that. You acted without thinking and brought things to a head rather sooner than I anticipated, but your obsession with treasure – your greed – was inevitably going to make you do something stupid, and you did.’

  ‘So we have fallen into some sort of trap?’

  ‘You could say that. Perhaps not exactly the trap I had in mind, but now it is sprung, it will do.’

  ‘And yet I am the one holding the gun.’

  ‘For the moment.’

  The Italian woman’s expression slowly changed from a haughty sneer to one of genuine puzzlement. ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble, Signor Campion. You have put your friends and family in danger, and yet you say there is no treasure. So why are you doing this?’

  ‘For Seraphina,’ said Campion quietly.

  SEVENTEEN

  Hair in the Gate

  Giancarlo Della Barba, who had never travelled further north than Rome, had been looking forward to his first visit to England, and especially Swinging London, with the enthusiasm of any red-blooded twenty-one-year-old Italian male whose outraged mother believed everything she read about miniskirts getting shorter and whose sombre parish priest had attempted to outlaw listening to the music of morally dubious pop groups such as The Beatles and The Kinks.

  He had accepted the fact that he would be under the command of Donna Daniela, for he had seen older men, civic officials and even policemen offer her nothing but loyalty and respect for most of his life and it never crossed his mind to question any of her orders. The trip to England could only improve his standing within Donna Petraglia’s organization and surely would offer the chance to sample delights not available to a young man from a small village in rural Campagna.

  Giancarlo had even, secretly, paid for some basic English lessons from a retired schoolteacher from Salerno, but now he was beginning to regard that as a wasted investment. He had seen nothing of London apart from Clerkenwell, where he met only Italians who teased him when he attempted English and openly mocked his regional dialect. The East Anglian countryside had seemed drab and, above all, cold, as were the few inhabitants he had met, and Heronhoe, he discovered, was the least likely place in which to find ‘a dolly bird’ – a phrase he had often rehearsed in his head without ever being too sure of the circumstances in which he would use it. The only saving grace of the trip had been that in Clerkenwell and Heronhoe they had stayed in Italian restaurants which at least guaranteed that the food was worth eating.

  Now Giancarlo was on sentry duty, standing guard over the prisoners in the Orangery and being studiously ignored by his prisoners, who were pre-occupied stuffing their faces with sandwiches made of soft white bread and some sort of pink prosciutto, with the old fat man making loud, crunching sounds as he followed each mouthful of sandwich with a brown, vinegar-soaked onion. It was an affront to his masculinity that his seven prisoners were so unafraid of him, for he was the one with the gun, even though he had had to reassure himself that his Beretta had enough bullets in its magazine to cope with the worst-possible scenario. Thankfully Maurizio had been in charge of their arsenal and Giancarlo had managed to avoid revealing the fact that he had never fired a pistol in his life, his preferred weapons of choice being the switchblade or the Sicilian Lupara sawn-off shotgun which, to be honest, he had only used in anger against rabbits, not even wolves.

  At least with the arrival of the lady of the house and the actress playing the royal mistress, there was something pleasant to look at. The two girl diggers were more his age, but the English one was timid and likely to burst into tears at any given moment, and the American one was too talkative and moved more like a soldier than a woman, plus both were dressed in layers of pullovers and padded coats, making it impossible to assess or appreciate their figures. The lady of the house was attractive enough, even if she was quite old – at least thirty – and clearly an aristo who, if she had noticed him at all, would have assumed he was a servant. The actress, on the other hand, was a treat. She was not dressed as Giancarlo had imagined a dolly bird to be dressed, but in her Thirties’ costume she looked every centimetre the film star – a Claudia Cardinale or a Monica Vitti, perhaps – especially as she sat on a folded sleeping bag on the floor next to the fat man, her long skirt rucked up to show an enticing amount of stockinged leg.

  And the American girl, in her muddy jeans and military boots, had noticed him watching the actress. Perhaps she was jealous.

  ‘Seraphina who?’

  ‘I was afraid you might say that,’ sighed Campion wearily. ‘Everyone seems to have forgotten poor Seraphina Vezzali but I remember her even though I never knew her.’

  ‘Are you … all right, Pa?’ ventured a concerned Rupert.

  ‘I’m fine, just suffering feelings of guilt because I did nothing at the time. Seraphina Vezzali was an “Italian girl” in London back in 1955. She was exploited and manipulated by a gang of miscreants called Bolzano and, I am convinced, murdered by one of them. The favourite suspect was the elder brother Marco, though nothing could be proved and the Bolzano brothers disappeared from Clerkenwell. My theory is that Marco hot-footed it back to Italy, while the younger sibling Stephano ended up in Heronhoe running a restaurant and marrying a local girl called Elspeth Brunt.

  ‘Elspeth died and Stephano retired to Italy where his stories – or rather his wife’s stories – of some sort of treasure came to the attention of his overlords. And by that, I mean you, Signora, for the Bolzanos were always the foot soldiers for a more important family; the family at the head of their crime syndicate: the Petraglias.’

  ‘Are you talking about the Mafia?’ Rupert said in a loud, breathless whisper before turning nervously towards the harpsichord, the gun and Daniela Petraglia.

  Mr Campion quickly drew attention back in his direction. ‘I am told the word “Mafia” is reserved for Sicily. In Campagna the more familiar expression is Camorra, is it not?’

  Daniela Petraglia said nothing but allowed the pistol in her hand to twitch slightly.

  ‘I don’t really expect you to answer that, Signora, as I am aware you have a code of silence to live by, and given your other … er … traditions … you of all people will appreciate my motive.’

  ‘Vendetta,’ said the woman respectfully, ‘because the Vezzali girl meant something to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I never met her,’ Campion admitted quietly. ‘I was asked to help her and I did nothing. You might say I abdicated responsibility for her but I never forgot her. I made a few enquiries, of course, as did the police, but the Bolzanos had done a bunk and cleared out of London. It never occurred to me to look for one of them in my own backyard, as it were, here in Suffolk, although it was Marco who was supposedly the violent one, not Stephano, and it was Stephano who, in the end, was responsible for tempting the Petraglia clan back to England
.’

  Campion turned to Rupert and Oliver and spoke as if the woman was not there.

  ‘The wonderful irony of this is that it was the Petraglias who came to me, to enlist my aid. When she was telling her stories about non-existent treasure, poor Elspeth must have rambled on about the visitors to Heronhoe Hall when she worked here and my name must have been mentioned. It would have meant nothing to her husband but, when he retired to Italy, Stephano began to repeat the stories and the Petraglias, their ears pricked at the word “treasure”, had the resources to do some research.’

  Daniela Petraglia, using the butt of her gun as a gavel, rapped on the harpsichord lid again; a judge calling for order in her courtroom.

  ‘You were selected because you were involved in the visit of the prince and his lover and because your reputation suggests you would know about the treasure.’ Her gun hand moved a few degrees until the muzzle was aimed directly at Campion. ‘Now I ask you directly, for the first and last time, where is it?’

  Giancarlo was leaning with his back against the door of the Orangery, his shoulder blades pressed into the wood, his left hand deep in the pocket of his leather jacket, his right elbow nestled into his right thigh, the gun held casually. A cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth would have completed the pose and a hat with its brim pulled down would have been the epitome of cool.

  He was hungry, but it would be a sign of weakness to ask for one of his prisoners’ unappealing sandwiches, not that the old fat man was likely to leave any spare, and he could not order Lavinia Bell back to the kitchen to prepare him something, much as he would like to boss that one about, as Maurizio had left him alone on guard duty. Still, the actress, the one playing the king’s mistress, was worth looking at. Looking at her legs and the way her tight pencil skirt rode up a millimetre or two every time she moved would take his mind off his echoing stomach.

  Precious Aird had also noticed Perdita’s legs and Giancarlo’s interest in them.

  As the others had made themselves comfortable and shared out the food, she had gradually moved to within two feet of Giancarlo and was standing casually, munching a sandwich, close to his right hand. She finished her sandwich and then unzipped her long parka, making sure she was offering a full-frontal view to the young Italian.

  ‘Guess I’ll make myself comfortable,’ she said aloud as she slipped off the coat and began to fold it before sinking on her haunches and patting the cushion she had fashioned into place against the skirting board. As she did, she made a point of turning her head towards Perdita as they were now on the same eye level. ‘Hey, tough break, Perdita, you’ve caught on something sharp. That’s one heck of a tear in those nice stockings.’

  Perdita’s instant reaction was to look as if she had been insulted in a language she was not expecting to hear let alone understand. Her second reaction was purely feminine. The palms of both hands went to the hem of her skirt to smooth it higher up her thigh over the silk of the stockings in order to assess the damage.

  Giancarlo was transfixed and Precious Aird uncoiled like a spring.

  She came up off her haunches and stepped in towards Giancarlo in a clinch as if they were about to launch on an exhibition of ballroom dancing. Her left arm wrapped itself around Giancarlo’s arm, wrenching it against the shoulder socket as she leaned her weight on it, which isolated the gun in his right hand behind her back.

  Such a move in isolation might have caused only a brief distraction had it not come so suddenly and been accompanied by Precious Aird’s right hand whipping the trowel out of the back pocket of her jeans and thrusting the point of it into the startled Italian’s neck between his Adam’s apple and jaw bone.

  ‘Drop the gun, wise guy,’ she said into Giancarlo’s face as a single drop of blood ran down the blade of the trowel.

  The three young archaeologists, Lavinia Bell and Perdita were all open-mouthed in amazement at what they had just witnessed. They were even more surprised when they realized that the first person to react and offer assistance was Lugg.

  The big man had got to his feet with alacrity if not grace, danced his way around a camp bed and hopped over Perdita’s legs to clamp a meaty hand over the small pistol quivering aimlessly behind Precious Aird’s straining back. The small gun disappeared into a mass of pink flesh and was, with magician’s skill, transferred to his jacket pocket.

  ‘You can stop trying to remove his tonsils now, I’ve got him,’ Lugg said, twisting Giancarlo’s arm professionally up his back, ‘and remind me never to let you give me a wet shave. You’re reckless, that’s what you are; reckless.’

  Precious unwound her left arm but kept the trowel point in place, forcing Giancarlo’s head back against the door.

  ‘He wasn’t much of a risk. The safety catch was still on his gun. Somebody get something to gag him with,’ she ordered. ‘I don’t want him shouting a warning to the Queen Bitch.’

  Lavinia Bell got to her feet and untied the strings of her apron, pulling the garment away from her as if it burned. ‘Use this. I’ve done enough kitchen work today.’

  With the additional aid of his own belt and the strap from a shoulder bag, Giancarlo was gagged and bound and laid on the floor. Disarmed, outnumbered and, worst of all, defeated by a girl, Giancarlo offered little resistance.

  ‘Now what?’ Lugg asked, turning to Precious for orders.

  She held out a hand. ‘You give me the gun and I take care of the Queen Bitch.’

  ‘You want the gun? Do you know how to use one?’

  Precious Aird put her head on one side and gave Lugg a look of withering pity. ‘I’m an American.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I don’t even know what it is supposed to be, let alone where it is,’ said Campion, exasperated.

  ‘You must know; you were here, the only one left who was,’ snarled the woman.

  ‘Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, either shoot me or give it up. You really don’t have any other option.’

  The silence in the room was broken only by a loud intake of breath from Rupert until Signora Petraglia chose to speak.

  ‘Yes, I do, but you do not. Once Maurizio returns with our passports, we will leave your awful country. You will remain here and you will keep everyone else here and not call the police because your daughter-in-law will be coming with us. If we are not prevented from leaving, then she will remain unhurt.’

  Rupert began to rise from his chair.

  ‘Sit down! If your father insists there is no treasure there is no reason to stay. I have no intention of waiting around to answer for the actions of the Bolzanos. Your wife will come with us as insurance and will be released as soon as we are safely on a boat to Europe.’

  ‘A sea journey, Signora?’ asked Campion, all innocence. ‘I would have thought you would have opted for the British Air Ferries service from Southend – it’s much closer and really very efficient. Just drive your car into the belly of a good old Bristol Superfreighter, take a seat in the tail section and then up, up and away. Before you know it you’re coming in to land in Calais or perhaps Ostend. It’s quite a good service, you know – several flights a day and out of season – you should get a flight easily enough.’

  Mr Campion was aware that his son was staring at him, open-mouthed, clearly wondering why his father seemed to be offering useful advice on ways in which Italian gangsters could kidnap Perdita and make a clean getaway. But from where he sat, Rupert could not see what Mr Campion could, out the corner of his eye, in the mirror above the fireplace.

  ‘I’m told the Superfreighter is an excellent workhouse of an aeroplane and happily hops across the Channel with two or three cars in its hold, though I always felt a little nervous driving up that ramp at the front and into the belly of the beast, as it were. Must be what being swallowed by a whale feels like.’ He treated his audience to his widest, most vacuous grin. ‘Of course, I have to be complimentary about the Superfreighter as I believe my wife was involved in certain design modifications
to it in the early Fifties.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Know what, Signora?’

  ‘Know that our plan was to leave through Southend airport?’

  As he faced Daniela Petraglia, Campion’s expression was suddenly vacant again, as if a switch had been flicked. ‘I did not know, I merely assumed. From here, it is the quickest route to the Continent and the way I would go if I needed to make a quick exit.’

  The Italian woman narrowed her eyes at Campion and, though her gun was still pointed at Rupert, it was clearly Mr Campion she had in her sights.

  ‘I was told you were clever at being stupid. No, stupid is not the word, but you have the skill of persuading your enemies that you have the mind of a child.’

  ‘If that is a compliment, then I will take it happily.’

  Campion leaned forward, drawing the woman’s eyes down and away from the fireplace mirror, as if he was hanging on her every word. It was a remarkably restrained performance as he had caught a glimpse of the reflection from the hallway where Precious Aird was down on one knee quietly undoing the laces of her black paratrooper boots.

  ‘It was not. You pretend weakness to disguise weakness and sentimentality. Your sentimentality over the Vezzali girl has brought you to this. If anything happens to your son’s wife, it is you he will blame. The Vezzali girl was not family, Perdita is. I think you could learn the true meaning of vendetta.’

  The metallic click of the hammer may have gone unnoticed by the four people in the room, but the much louder crack of the shot most certainly did not, nor did the spectacular disintegration of the bust of Lord Breeze which scattered plaster and dust across the lid of Hattie the harpsichord.

  ‘Put the gun down, lady,’ commanded Precious Aird, ‘or the next head to explode will be yours. Don’t think I can’t, lady. And don’t for a second think I won’t. Where I come from, ammunition ain’t cheap so we don’t waste it.’

  Mr Campion was the first to react and he did so joyfully. ‘The Americans have arrived! Late as usual, but very welcome nonetheless.’