by Mike Ripley
‘He told me you had made many invaluable suggestions and he was seriously considering including some of your points in a future sermon.’
‘Really? How kind, but then he is a kind and Christian gentleman.’
‘One would certainly hope so,’ said Campion deadpan, ‘given the position he holds. He suggested I could turn to you for help in a crisis.’
‘You have a crisis?’
‘A minor one, or possibly two. Firstly, I would like to have sight of the teaching timetable of Tabitha King, to see when she has free time, and secondly, I would like to borrow your telephone if I may. The bishop is expecting me to call him.’
‘Then you must,’ said Miss Simcox, her eyes now melted pools. ‘I can get you the timetable and you can use the telephone in the professor’s office. Simply dial nine for an outside line, unless you would like me to connect you?’
She reached eagerly for the telephone on her desk and Campion had to think quickly to forestall her.
‘Please, allow me,’ he said, stretching a hand towards the instrument. ‘I’m putting you to too much trouble as it is.’
Miss Simcox stood and moved from behind her desk, something Campion suspected she did only with reluctance, and went to open the second drawer of the metal filing cabinet against the wall. When her back was safely turned, Campion twisted the telephone towards him, lifted the receiver and began to dial.
‘My dear bishop, it’s Albert your faithful gundog reporting progress, such as it is,’ Campion said into the mouthpiece. As Miss Simcox resumed her seat in the stronghold that was her desk, Campion made sure he caught her eye.
‘No, the vice chancellor is still tied up with the police,’ he said, ‘and I am imposing on the departmental secretary of Earth Sciences for the use of a telephone. Yes. Why yes, it is Miss Simcox, and I certainly will pass on your best wishes. I am sure she keeps you in her prayers too.’
Miss Simcox averted her eyes, casting them downwards into the bowels of her electric typewriter. It was simply not done to eavesdrop on the telephone conversations of others, even when it was physically impossible to get out of range, and though she pretended deafness, the pink blushing on her cheeks when her name was mentioned gave her away.
‘I’ve spoken to several people here on campus,’ Campion continued. ‘No, my lord, I would not call any of them the “usual suspects”, as you put it. Today I have been trying to educate myself on Professor Perez-Catalan’s work and it’s been jolly difficult for a dullard like me. Everyone thinks the professor was something of a genius and, do you know, I think they were right. As far as I can tell, his research is intact and secure, and his academic colleagues are already working on a posthumous scientific paper which I am assured will enhance the university’s reputation internationally.’
Campion paused as if listening intently, and turned slightly away, as much as the telephone cord would allow, from Miss Simcox’s desk.
‘Really, Bishop? Well, no, I have not … What was that? You really think I should? … Oh, I see, you think I must … Well, of course I agree that the moral reputation of the university is just as important as the academic, but I simply do not feel equipped to … Yes, I have heard things about the professor’s social life … You have too? … Oh, I agree, that is shocking if true … But really, Bishop, how do I start to ask questions about the professor’s private – very private – life? I simply wouldn’t know where to begin … Excuse me, what was that?’
Again Campion paused, this time dramatically, and he flashed a look of shock and surprise at the bewildered Miss Simcox.
‘Are you quite sure, Bishop? I mean, it’s a very indelicate thing to ask of a lady … I would not like her to think I was simply trawling for salacious gossip … Yes, I understand we must establish if there are likely to be … problems of morality then we should be aware of them, but … Very well, Bishop, if you are sure Miss Simcox will not mind me asking her some rather crass and crude questions, then … I’m sure she is, Bishop, and also that she shares your concerns. Very well, I can but ask. I will of course treat any information in complete confidence. Yes, thank you, Bishop, and goodbye.’
Campion replaced the receiver and took a deep breath, but before he could speak, Miss Simcox looked up at him with deadly seriousness and said, ‘I will help in any way I can.’
A few miles away in Monewdon Hall, a confused Guffy Randall looked at the telephone in his hand buzzing the dead line signal, shook his head and said to his wife Mary: ‘That was Albert playing silly buggers again. No idea what he was on about.’
Although more than willing to be a cooperative witness, Miss Simcox turned out to have more speculation than substance to offer her interrogator.
It was certainly true, she volunteered between blushes and fluttered eyelids, that the late Professor Perez-Catalan had been a ‘ladies’ man’. For reasons which she failed completely to understand, women found him irresistible, and he seemed to have an insatiable appetite for women. There was not a female member of staff nor, may the bishop forgive her for saying so, the wife of an academic who had not been at least considered, if not pounced upon, by Pascual.
Except perhaps one, Campion thought, remembering her emotional sob that morning.
Surely a devout and upright person such as Miss Simcox must have found it intolerable to have to work for such a lothario?
One has to allow genius the freedom to flourish, said Miss Simcox, repeating a mantra she did not sound as if she believed, but there were, of course, limits. While the professor did not flaunt his conquests, neither did he make any secret of them and, judging by the smug expression on his face some mornings, he was quite proud of himself. But that was probably the South American idea of manliness: crude and ungentlemanly and certainly un-British, but somehow attractive to a certain type of female.
It was her Christian duty to report the rumours to the bishop.
Rumours? Were there allegations that the professor was philandering with his female students?
No, not at all, Miss Simcox had protested, that would be gross moral turpitude and probably grounds for dismissal, as the university was supposed to be acting in loco parentis, wasn’t it?
Unsure of the law on such matters, though he was quite sure he had read somewhere that ‘gross moral turpitude’ related to the mass raping of nuns in medieval times, Mr Campion allowed Miss Simcox to continue.
That wasn’t to say the students were not at risk – risk of seeing corruption and decay in their moral values when they saw those in authority behaving immorally.
Mr Campion asked if the professor’s – he refrained from adding ‘the late’ – behaviour was blatant enough for the student body to notice it. Oh yes, it had been. The student newspaper had come up with some disgracefully rude nicknames for him, and that irritating pest they call the Phantom Trumpeter had even started playing the tune ‘South of the Border’ whenever the professor made a new conquest.
With admirable, almost superhuman, restraint, Campion retained a straight face and confided that he had heard rumours of ‘private conclaves’ held by the professor. These he took to be trysts or assignations with his lovers. When Miss Simcox nodded her agreement, he pressed her on where these conclaves could be located.
Logically, most would have been at the professor’s house in White Dudley, though there were stories of ‘dirty weekends’ in gruesome seafront hotels in Great Yarmouth. However, in the summer term, when the weather was warmer and the daylight hours longer, there was always talk that the professor’s periods of retreat and prayer in St Jurmin’s chapel on the seashore involved more than private contemplation.
The only question remaining was with whom did the professor enjoy such ‘contemplations’? Now that, Miss Simcox could not or would not say, and she tightened her lips and set her jaw accordingly.
How about Tabitha King? Mr Campion had tried, and was surprised by the woman’s explosive ‘Not her!’ as she, everyone knew, would be the last female to fall for the profess
or’s charms. In fact, she would be violently repelled by them.
The one person best equipped to provide a list of the professor’s partners, and with few scruples about doing so, was to be found in White Dudley, not on campus. That was a woman who kept a close eye on the professor’s house and, as it happens, was the key-holder for the chapel of St Jurmin.
‘Daisey May Meade,’ Mr Campion had said aloud without meaning to.
‘No,’ Miss Simcox corrected him. ‘Edwina Meade, Big Gerry’s wife.’
Campion took the long path from Piazza 3, walking along the south side of the artificial lake towards the curved bridge. The windows of Black Dudley were like a spider’s eyes observing his approach and he made a mental note to check the functions of the first- and second-floor rooms whose windows offered a clear view of the bridge. Could there have been someone at one of those windows, at midnight on a Sunday, who might have seen something?
As he got nearer to the house it reminded him of a dark skull, a haunted house, even though uniformed and plain-clothed policemen flitted in and out of the main door carrying boxes of documents rather like tropical ants trooping leaves to a nest.
The focal point of all this activity was Superintendent Appleyard, ensconced behind the vice chancellor’s desk, a veritable queen ant – if ants had queens (somebody on campus would know, Campion thought) – instructing her soldiers.
‘Another visit from the Visitor: we are honoured!’ Appleyard groaned aloud at the sight of Mr Campion. ‘Unless you’ve got something useful for me, I’m busy.’
‘I see you are, Superintendent, and it is a good thing to see,’ said Campion as the policeman scrutinized him for signs of sarcasm. ‘Earlier this morning you promised me a key to the professor’s house in White Dudley.’
Appleyard sucked in his cheeks, an obvious aid to memory, then grunted at the uniformed constable seated at the side of the desk who had clearly inherited the duty as his personal secretary. ‘Peters?’
‘In your in tray, sir,’ said PC Peters, and made to stand and reach over the desk to the wire-basket filing tray less than twelve inches from his superior’s right hand.
‘I can get it,’ snapped Appleyard, plunging his hand into the tray and rummaging through the papers piled in it. ‘I’m not helpless. There you are, Mr Visitor; one key, front door for the use of, number eleven, High Street. You can’t miss it as there is only one street in White Dudley. Make him sign for it, Peters, and make sure you sign it back in. Got that? Good. No other requests, I hope?’
‘A question,’ said Campion, pocketing the Yale key. ‘Were there any other keys found on the body?’
‘A whole bunch of them, heavy enough to weigh down the body if that lake had been deep enough.’ Appleyard caught Campion’s look of distaste. ‘Oh, sorry if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities. What about them?’
‘Can I have a look at them?’
Appleyard turned to his personal assistant. ‘Well, Peters, can he?’
‘Sergeant Walters is doing the rounds with them at the moment, sir. He’s checking which key goes where.’
‘Needles in haystacks in a place like this,’ muttered the superintendent. ‘Trying them in every lock on campus? There must be thousands.’
‘He’s got Gerry Meade with him, to show him the ropes so to speak. Gerry knows roughly which key fits which lock in which department.’
‘Rather him than me. Still, it gets Big Gerry out from under my feet for a bit.’
And mine, thought Mr Campion. Now to achieve the same advantageous position with the superintendent.
‘There is one line of enquiry I might suggest, Mr Appleyard, as I am in no position to follow it up.’
‘Really? Something the humble police force can do that you can’t? Do tell.’
‘The professor’s research could prove invaluable to certain commercial concerns and to certain governments,’ Campion started.
‘Yes, I’ve got that. Even a humble Suffolk copper who never went to university can see that.’
Campion bit his tongue, as he always did when someone insisted they had been to ‘the university of life’ or described themselves as humble, a sure-fire way of conjuring the ghost of Uriah Heep.
‘Well, it has been suggested to me that the Central Intelligence Agency may have been taking an unhealthy interest in Pascual’s algorithm. I’m sure there’s nothing concrete in such dramatic speculation, but have you considered the possibility that there might be an American agent on campus?’
The superintendent’s natural expression – a mixture of indifference to and disinterest in any new concept put to him – was enlivened by the merest twitch of those bushy eyebrows.
‘Americans? They’re on our side, aren’t they?’
‘Occasionally and sometimes tardily,’ admitted Campion, ‘though their involvement in Vietnam is generally protested by the younger generation.’
‘I know all about the long-haired protest-march mob,’ snorted Appleyard, ‘but who is this American agent?’
‘I haven’t a clue. I’m not even sure there is one. It may be militant student paranoia, just like they see undercover policemen in plain clothes joining their protest marches.’
‘Well, that does happen,’ Appleyard admitted, ‘and usually they stick out like a sore thumb and are quickly spotted.’
‘You should let them grow their hair longer. But we digress. I simply thought it might be worth checking the staff records to see if the university has any Americans on the books, or academics who have studied or spent time in America.’
‘Staff, not students?’
‘Perhaps postgraduates, but most of the students here on Sunday were probably first-years who had never heard of Perez-Catalan.’
‘I’m starting to wish I never had. American. You’re sure?’
‘Not at all. Oddly, as the campus is a veritable United Nations in miniature, I’ve not come across an American – well, not so far. Therefore, I would look at academic track records to see who may have worked there before being appointed here. It would, of course, have to be done diplomatically and in strict confidence by a senior officer.’
‘Like me I suppose. Strewth, that could take ages.’
Mr Campion certainly hoped so.
‘Go fetch the vice chancellor,’ the superintendent said to Constable Peters. ‘Tell him I need to see him pronto.’
When the constable had left the office, Appleyard leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk, his arms forming two pillars topped by clenched fists on which he rested his chin.
‘You’re a rum cove, Campion. You’ve come to Black Dudley twice in forty years and there’s been a murder both times. I’ve checked up on you and I know you’ve mixed with some dodgy people up in London and now you’re after uncovering American spies, which I can’t think is going to please our chum the bishop. How on earth did you get to be university Visitor?’
‘That, Superintendent,’ said Campion deliberately, ‘is a mystery.’
One Year Previously …
‘The situation really is intolerable. If one cannot rely on a Member of Parliament, and a junior minister at that, who can one rely on? When I appointed him Visitor, the last thing I expected was that he’d turn out to be a Russian spy. That’s no good for the image of a new university, no good at all.’
Detective Chief Inspector Bill Bailey had never seen the bishop so agitated. It was as if he had contracted St Vitus’s Dance; such were the fits and starts of his uncontrollable arms that he was in danger of spilling the sherry he had just poured.
‘Nothing has been proved against him, Bishop,’ he said soothingly. ‘The security services will be investigating, but all they have at the moment is the word of a defector, who is Czech actually, not Russian.’
‘Czech, Russian, what’s the difference? They’re all communists, and the Visitor to the University of Suffolk Coastal, which is supposed to be a jewel in the crown of our county, has been in their pay for years. A traitor!’
Thankfully the bishop put the two glasses of sherry down on to the safe surface of a coffee table, then he hitched up the hem of his purple cassock and settled himself in a deep leather armchair, the twin of the one in which Bailey had taken shelter.
‘The minister has resigned his post and his parliamentary seat,’ Bailey said calmly, ‘and will no doubt face charges under the Official Secrets Act in due course. It could be quite a while before the case comes to court.’
‘But it’s all over the papers right now,’ the bishop’s voice was almost a wail, ‘and I have to find a new Visitor for the university before the start of the next academic year.’ He stretched out a hand for his sherry, changed his mind, and patted Bailey’s knee instead. ‘That’s where you come in, Bill.’
‘I do?’ Bailey was startled enough to decide he really needed that sherry after all, despite the fact that it was still two hours short of lunchtime. ‘I can’t think how.’
The bishop took up his glass, sipped enthusiastically and smacked his lips before leaning forward intently.
‘You know Black Dudley, where my … the new university is based, I take it.’
‘I know of it, Bishop, but it’s not on my patch; it comes under Ipswich and East Suffolk for policing.’
‘Yes, its geography is annoying as I find the campus is not on my patch either.’ The bishop sipped more sherry to ease his frustration. ‘Are you familiar with its rather colourful history before the university adopted it? Before the war, in fact.’
‘I take it you mean the murder of Colonel Coombe and that gangster business. Yes, I’ve read about it, but surely that’s all old history now, if not folklore.’
‘So there would be no taint on the character of someone involved in that incident?’
‘Forty years ago? Were they a suspect?’
‘Not as far as I know, but they were involved in what must have been an unsavoury incident.’
‘Well, if they weren’t murdered and they weren’t a suspect, I don’t see the problem. Who are we talking about?’
‘A man called Albert Campion, though that’s not his christened name. It is not uncommon for persons of his … lineage … to avoid titles and adopt noms de plume when moving among the common folk. I believe his aliases included Mornington Dodd and Tootles Ash among others, so he seems to have a rather dubious sense of humour. He could just be a bit simple, I suppose.’