by Mike Ripley
A selection of previous titles by Mike Ripley
Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion
MR CAMPION’S FAREWELL *
MR CAMPION’S FOX *
MR CAMPION’S FAULT *
MR CAMPION’S ABDICATION *
MR CAMPION’S WAR *
MR CAMPION’S VISIT *
The Fitzroy Maclean Angel series
LIGHTS, CAMERA, ANGEL
ANGEL UNDERGROUND
ANGEL ON THE INSIDE
ANGEL IN THE HOUSE
ANGEL’S SHARE
ANGELS UNAWARE
Other titles
DOUBLE TAKE
BOUDICA AND THE LOST ROMAN
THE LEGEND OF HEREWARD *
Non-fiction
SURVIVING A STROKE
KISS KISS, BANG BANG
* available from Severn House
MR CAMPION’S VISIT
Mike Ripley
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Michael Ripley.
The right of Michael Ripley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8897-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-618-0 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0240-6 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For Tim Coles, once more my technical expert
Contents
Cover
A selection of previous titles by Mike Ripley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Ten Years Previously …
Chapter 1: Freshers
Nine Years Previously …
Chapter 2: The Visitor
Eight Years Previously …
Chapter 3: The Ghost of Black Dudley
Chapter 4: Pep-Talk in a Threepenny Bit
Chapter 5: The Body in the Lake
Chapter 6: Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Chapter 7: Spanish Practices
Chapter 8: The Mild and Bitter Brigade
Chapter 9: Mainframe
Chapter 10: Staff Appraisals
One Year Previously …
Chapter 11: The Crime at White Dudley
Chapter 12: Riot Act
Chapter 13: The Visitor’s Visitor
Chapter 14: The Conclave of St Jurmin
Chapter 15: Trumpeter Voluntary
Chapter 16: The Inelegant Solution
Chapter 17: Final Exam
Chapter 18: Knight to Bishop
Author’s Note
Ten Years Previously …
‘They have a university in Norwich?’ spluttered the aggrieved bishop. ‘Last time I was there they didn’t have running water!’
‘It’s highly thought of by modern educationalists, so I’m told,’ said the deputy lord lieutenant. ‘The ideas behind it are quite exhilarating and innovative, according to reports in the press.’
The bishop did not look impressed and the snorting sound he made emphasized this.
‘And of course they have a new university in Essex now, though they chose not to put it in the county town where the cathedral is,’ offered the town clerk.
The bishop expanded his range of undignified nasal expressions and shook his head in despair, but at least appeared interested.
‘Well, if Norfolk and Essex have one, I suppose Suffolk should keep up with the times; though it must be a decent, God-fearing place of learning and not a holiday camp for long-haired coffee-bar tearaways – and it will teach theology, not sociology, for the latter can lead only to ruin and damnation. That means, gentlemen’ – he scanned the two rows of anxious faces reflected in the highly polished surface of the long oak table, as if to reassure himself that none were female – ‘that the campus must be as close as possible to the religious and spiritual centre here in St Edmondsbury.’
The county education officer cleared his throat, signalling an intervention, but the bishop, an old committee hand, pounced to forestall him.
‘I do believe that St Edmond’s would be the perfect name for a new university,’ he said in a tone which suggested the conclusion of a sermon rather than the opening of a debate. ‘The Scots have St Andrew’s, we should have St Edmond’s.’
‘It would be an excellent name if the campus was within the city limits,’ said the county education officer, finding his courage, ‘but the remit for this committee, and the instructions of the University Grants Committee, emphasize the need for county involvement to spread the cultural and economic benefits of a new university beyond St Edmondsbury.’
‘But it is the county town!’
‘My Lord Bishop is correct, of course,’ smoothed the MP, whose constituency boundary began in the sugar-beet fields beyond the city limits and the bishop’s immediate remit, ‘but he cannot deny that there has always been a feeling in the county that St Edmondsbury is perhaps too much the centre of attention and that other towns and institutions tend to be overshadowed. We have, for instance, the Monewdon Hunt in the east of the county, one of the best hunts this side of Leicestershire; and then there’s Ipswich Town, which is doing wonderfully well under their manager, Alf Ramsey.’ The bishop looked askance but the MP pressed on. ‘Mark my words, Bishop, Mr Ramsey is destined for greatness beyond winning the Second Division title.’
Even though he bore the scars of numerous bruising encounters in the House, the politician faltered under the glassy stare of the churchman.
‘Perhaps so, but not in the fields of academe. I repeat, we are the county town. We have the cathedral, the best schools, a fine repertory theatre, an excellent library, a flourishing Rotary Club, a half-decent golf course and, for those so inclined, a cinema.’ The bishop paused to allow his case to sink into the irritatingly blank faces staring back at him. ‘We even have a railway station which can connect us to Cambridge, should anyone wish to go there. What better place could there be for a university?’
The bishop glared down the table at each face in turn as if mentally transmitting the words ‘rhetorical question’ to his congregation; something he had done many times in the cathedral.
‘In principle, no one could disagree with the bishop,’ said the town clerk, his tone suggesting that no one would dare to, ‘and it would only be a question of how much church land he would be willing to make available.’
A silence descen
ded like a shroud on the meeting.
‘Excuse me?’
The town clerk allowed himself a casual shrug of the shoulders.
‘The church, specifically St Edmond’s Cathedral, is the largest landowner in the city. Any campus university built here would require a substantial amount of church land, perhaps compulsorily purchased, plus inevitably the clearing of certain sites and possibly a complete overhaul of the transportation infrastructure.’
The bishop may have found himself in ‘check’, but it was not yet ‘mate’.
‘The church would naturally not wish to disrupt the infrastructure of the city,’ he said smoothly. ‘It is an historic city and has suffered quite enough from the town planners since the war. Perhaps a rural site just outside the city could be found.’
The chairman of the county council, a brewer of some girth and a landowner of considerable worth, had remained silent up to now but felt compelled to enter the fray.
‘Can’t upset the farmers, Bishop. This is an agricultural county and the land around St Edmondsbury is the most productive and most valuable in the county.’
‘I agree entirely,’ said the MP, thinking of votes and party donations rather than crops. ‘The cheaper, less fertile land is over to the east.’
He did not add that it was also beyond his constituency, but the majority of those present assumed that.
To the surprise of the committee, the bishop’s face brightened.
‘We could call it the University of the Eastern Marches,’ he said with a self-satisfied, rather unctuous smile.
Although he hated admitting to any failing in the education services he might be responsible for, the education officer said: ‘With respect, I doubt if anyone actually knows what a March is, these days, and would that not be too close to the University of East Anglia for comfort? UEA and UEM could be easily confused by young minds when applying and we would, alphabetically, always come second.’
‘Then how about the University of the Suffolk Hundreds? Surely, that’s distinctive enough not to be confused with anywhere else?’ The bishop’s naturally pink face crimsoned as it always did when he scowled.
‘A similar problem, I’m afraid,’ said the education officer, who was now admitting to more searing ignorance in the county. ‘Suffolk may have been divided into twenty-one hundreds in 1831, but few people recognize the term these days; not the post office, or for collecting the rates or for planning purposes. Is that not so, Mr Planning Officer?’
The county planning officer, who had remained silent and hopefully invisible up until now, smoothly laid his trump card on the table, even as the bishop was digesting the latest setback.
‘Actually, there is a potential site near the coast which may be suitable – and could be acquired relatively cheaply.’ This last qualification ensured that the planning officer had the committee’s full attention. ‘There’s a big house much in need of repair and it comes with a thousand acres of land which has been sorely underused for the past twenty years. In fact, I think the house has been uninhabited since 1945. The army had it during the war and knocked it about a bit, but the Ministry of Defence has no interest in it these days.’
‘You’re not thinking of the Black Dudley estate, are you?’ asked the chairman of the county council. ‘It’s dilapidated, miles from anywhere, and totally exposed to the winds off the sea. You can’t grow anything worth growing on that land, so you might as well plant students there. At least they’d be out of the way.’
The majority of the committee thought sounds perfect, but did so silently, as such thoughts should not be minuted.
‘The house at Black Dudley has a bad reputation, doesn’t it?’ ventured the MP.
‘And why is that?’
‘There was a murder and some rum goings-on there, back before the war, involving gangsters, would you believe.’
‘Gangsters?’ exploded the bishop. ‘Gangsters? This is Suffolk, not Essex!’
‘It was all a long time ago, Bishop. I’m sure people have forgotten all about it.’
The bishop was not mollified, but he could be, eventually, pragmatic.
‘In my experience, Suffolk folk forget very little. Still, Black Dudley sounds a possibility. And if it’s on the coast, we could call it the University of Suffolk Coastal. USC has a certain ring to it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I think those initials have already been taken,’ said the education officer dryly.
‘Really?’
‘The University of Southern California. In America.’
A pair of bushy ecclesiastical eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘They have universities in America?’
ONE
Freshers
Michaelmas Term, 1970
‘Could you possibly point me towards the geological centre?’
‘Of what? The earth, Suffolk, or this particular building? I am afraid you’ll have to humour an old man and be more specific.’
‘I’m awfully sorry, but I meant the Geology Centre. I’m late, you see.’
‘Sadly, I have no idea where that is, but from my own miserable scratchings at an education, I believe geology is quite a patient mistress and will wait for you.’
‘I think it must be in Earth Sciences.’
‘I am afraid I am no wiser. I am not a member of staff here.’
‘Just visiting, are you?’
‘Actually, I am the Visitor,’ said Mr Albert Campion, ‘though hopefully the title comes with as few responsibilities as it does privileges. I suspect we are both freshers at this shiny new institution, are we not?’
The freckle-faced and slightly chubby bespectacled girl shook a mass of long red hair and examined the thin bespectacled white-haired gentleman she had waylaid as if he had only just come into focus.
‘Well, I’m a fresher, but aren’t you rather old to be one?’
Mr Campion was amused; not so much by the girl’s forthrightness and powers of observation, but by the way her voice rose to a higher pitch at the end of each sentence. It was as if she spoke only in questions, albeit non-aggressive ones, but it was not an affectation, it was an accent, and for a moment Campion could not place it.
‘One is never too old to learn,’ said Campion gently, ‘but it could be argued that I have left it a little late. Still, that is my problem. I suspect yours is more pressing.’
‘Yes, it is. I’m late already and I want to sign up for the Geology Society before I meet my tutor at eleven o’clock to make a good impression and it’s already ten past.’
‘Am I to deduce that the Geology Society is recruiting as part of Freshers’ Week?’ Mr Campion probed, and the jolly redhead nodded enthusiastically. ‘And that they’re doing this in the Geology Centre which is in the School of Earth Sciences?’
‘You’re catching on,’ said the girl, with the modern teenager’s grasp of quiet sarcasm.
‘That’s exactly what my tutors at university used to say, although never often enough, nor quite so sincerely. Still, I think I may be able to point you in the right direction.’
The girl’s eyes widened behind the lenses of her red plastic ‘cat’s-eye’ frame glasses, which even Mr Campion thought were rather on the fuddy-duddy side for one so young. He suspected that his wife, who had a liberal attitude to modern fashion – to most things, in fact – would describe the girl’s dress sense as ‘cheerfully accidental’, but he felt in no position to offer an opinion on the combination of lime-green ski pants tucked into knee-high leather boots with a bright red turtleneck top under a rather shabby sheepskin waistcoat.
‘We are presently in the Administration block on the third floor, I believe.’
‘I know that,’ said the girl, her eyebrows rising in exasperation. ‘I’ve spent the last two hours negotiating my rent with the Accommodation Office. That was hard yakka, I can tell you.’
‘New Zealand!’ exclaimed Mr Campion, with more force than he intended, and immediately felt guilty at the way the girl rocked back on her heels. ‘I’ve ju
st placed your accent. You’re a Kiwi, aren’t you?’
‘Kiwi and proud, and thank you for not calling me an Aussie.’
‘My dear, I am old and often confused, but never that reckless. Now, as I was saying, we are in what is colloquially known as “Admin” – a building which is, for reasons best known to the architect and he alone, shaped like a bridge. Somewhere, three floors below us, an unceasing flow of students run like a river from the schools of study to the university library in their quest for knowledge. Now one curiosity of this building – as you may gather, I’ve been exploring – is that all the windows in it are in the offices which line these interminable corridors, and those windows remain the very private property of the occupants of those offices. From inside the building, crawling along its intestines, so to speak, there is absolutely no view out on to the real world, otherwise I could get my bearings and instantly point you towards your destination.’
Now the girl tilted her head on one side and studied the old man with intense curiosity.
‘You’re a bit of a dag, aren’t you?’ she said with sincerity. ‘Or you think you are.’
Mr Campion smiled and raised a finger to make his point.
‘Now there are two meanings to “dag”: one refers to the rather unpleasant bits of wool dangling from a sheep’s rear end; the other is an affectionate Antipodean term for a wag who does not take himself too seriously. I’d like to think you were employing the second interpretation.’
‘You got that right,’ said the girl with a quiver of a smile.
‘Good. I’m delighted to have made an impression on a real live student. You’re the first one I’ve met, as it happens, and so I really should introduce myself. My name is Albert Campion.’
He offered a hand and the girl hitched up the rucksack on her back before shaking it.
‘I’m Beverley Gunn-Lewis and that’s Gunn with two ns.’
‘My, that’s an impressive moniker. I suspect you have a nickname or two.’
‘Mostly people call me “Bev”,’ said the girl without a trace of irony, ‘and though I’d love to stay and chat, I really am running late.’