Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  Thanks to the dimensions of the archway leading into and out of Piazza 2 rather than any nod to military history, the students had formed a column, five persons wide, and were advancing like Napoleon infantry towards the bridge. In place of muskets and pikes, they carried placards and hand-made signs on large sheets of paper or cardboard, and stretched across the midriffs of the front rank, a long strand of green computer printout paper which bore the message: FREE STEPHIE SILVA NOW.

  Campion hoped there was no important formula or calculation on the other side of it, and secretly admired the students’ initiative in manufacturing at short notice a banner they could literally march behind. Some of the placards, however, left a lot to be desired in terms of both sentiment and grammar.

  Although the students could have easily marched around either end of the lake – revolutions were rarely deterred by ‘Keep Off the Grass’ signs – the column headed directly for the bridge and the three men, two of them twice and one three times their age, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle of the span.

  The nearer they got, the louder their chanting resembled that of a football crowd, if there was a team called ‘Steph-ee’, and placards were shaken furiously as if insisting they be read. Campion spotted Nigel Honeycutt in the throng, holding up a poster bearing the Socialist Worker masthead on which was neatly printed End Police Aggression, but the sign which caught his attention was being waved above his head by a student in the second rank, determined to deliver the message: NO FASCESTS ON CAMPUS.

  ‘I apologize for the spelling,’ said Jack Szmodics on Campion’s right.

  ‘He must be one of the number-crunchers from the Computing Centre,’ Thurible said on his left.

  ‘Actually, he’s one of yours, Yorick,’ said Campion, then he took off his fedora and waved it in a cavalier greeting. ‘Hello there, Kevin! How go the sociological studies?’

  ‘What are you doing, Campion?’ warned Szmodics. ‘Don’t antagonize them.’

  ‘He’s not antagonizing them,’ said Thurible with a broad smile, ‘he’s embarrassing them.’

  ‘Coo-ee Angie! How nice to see you again. I’ve taken your recommendation and got myself a copy of Don Quixote. Two copies actually. Are Joe and Brian in there with you?’

  In the middle of the column, a hand was raised as if in answer to a classroom question, and then, almost as quickly, retracted.

  ‘How do you know these hooligans?’ hissed Jack Szmodics.

  ‘We drink in the same pub,’ replied Campion. ‘It’s quite a good crowd for a chilly afternoon, isn’t it? What would you say, fifty or sixty?’

  ‘It’s difficult to be accurate,’ said Thurible, ‘while they’re still marching straight towards us.’

  ‘Do you have your pipe on you?’ Campion asked him out of the corner of his mouth and, when Thurible nodded, ‘Then take it out casually and light it. Make like there’s nothing untoward happening and you’ve just popped out here for a smoke. And you, Jack, whisper something important into my ear and then start looking anxiously back to the Black Dudley end of the bridge, as if you’re measuring out the distance.’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack, I haven’t really become Horatius on the bridge, I’m going to negotiate. That’s what a Visitor is supposed to do, isn’t it?’

  The first four ranks of students were already tramping on the bridge when Campion stepped forward and raised his hands. As he was still holding the two books in his left, he took on the guise of a revivalist preacher, which was not exactly the image he wished to project.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name is Campion and first-years will know me from my brilliant welcoming speech on Friday. Others will have no idea, and probably care less, that I am the university Visitor, which actually means that you, the students, can come and visit me if you have problems.’

  The student column, now on the bridge, stopped marching, but still shuffled forwards until the front rank was within a few feet of the three men defending the centre point. Thurible, playing his part, made an elaborate fuss of lighting his pipe then leaning his backside casually against the handrail, while Szmodics, in true pantomime fashion, whispered something vital in Campion’s ear.

  ‘You’re here because of Miss Silva,’ said Campion, and acknowledged the cheer that received. ‘Well, so am I!’ There was an even bigger cheer at that. ‘You want to know what’s going on – well so do I!’ Now there was cheering and waving of placards.

  ‘Careful, Campion,’ said Thurible under his breath, ‘or you’ll be getting yourself elected to something.’

  ‘Do you have a leader or a spokesman perhaps? It is rather difficult to talk sensibly to such a large, but appreciative, audience.’

  ‘I suppose I’m the spokesperson.’

  ‘Hello, Angie, we must stop meeting like this. Can I suggest a solution to our rather dangerous problem?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Angie uncertainly, glancing nervously at her fellow students who were glancing quizzically at her.

  ‘We all want to know what has happened to Stephanie Silva, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then what if I were to go up to Black Dudley and demand to speak to the most senior policeman there?’

  There was a murmuring within the crowd and then a lone voice rang out.

  ‘What’s the vice chancellor doing about all this?’

  ‘I know that Dr Downes is negotiating with the police on behalf of Miss Silva at this very moment,’ Campion shouted over the heads of the student column.

  ‘Is he really?’ Professor Thurible spoke quietly under cover of a cloud of pipe smoke, but Campion ignored him.

  ‘Let me go and see what I can find out on your behalf. Are you happy with that, Angie?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the girl, who was immediately surrounded by several fellow marchers muttering their dissent, but Campion quite clearly heard her declaim: ‘No, he’s a nice guy. He bought us all drinks down at The Plough.’

  As testimonials went it was fairly limited, but Campion thought that, in the circumstances, it would do.

  ‘Let me do that, Angie, and I promise I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,’ said Campion at full volume. ‘One other thing, though. Dr Szmodics reminded me to tell you that this bridge, ornate and picturesque as it is, is not structurally safe with more than fifteen people on it at any one time. So unless any of you fancy a plunge-bath into water which recently had a dead body in it, I suggest some of you pull back. Professor Thurible and Dr Szmodics will remain here to ensure the structural integrity of the bridge and, if I don’t return, you can take them hostage!’

  A few of the placard-wavers cheered, while the bulk of the students began to edge their way carefully off the bridge, looking almost as confused as Professor Thurible and Dr Szmodics as Campion gave a cheery wave and set off towards Black Dudley.

  ‘Would you mind holding these, Constable?’

  Mr Campion pressed the books into PC Peters’s hands and, while the surprised constable clutched both volumes to his chest, Campion reached a clenched fist over his shoulder and rapped loudly on the door of the vice chancellor’s office.

  ‘I do apologize, but I really need to have words. I take full responsibility. Have you read Don Quixote by the way? They made a musical out of it, you know, quite a good show. Saw it in the West End two years ago …’

  To the policeman’s considerable relief, the office door was opened by an irate superintendent. ‘I thought I said we were not to be disturbed!’

  ‘Please, Mr Appleyard, the fault is entirely mine,’ soothed Campion, ‘but there is a situation developing on campus of which both you and the vice chancellor really should be aware.’

  ‘Campion! I might have guessed. What have you done now?’

  It was a fierce and scowling Appleyard who stood holding the door, preventing Campion from entering but not from seeing into the office. A uniformed WPC sat primly, but clearly bored, at the vice chance
llor’s desk, a pencil poised over an open notebook. At a far corner, with his elbows on the desk, sat Dr Downes, head in hands as if in despair. In the middle of the room, sitting in a curved leather-effect armchair and looking the most relaxed person present was Stephanie Silva. She was wearing an electric-blue two-piece wool suit, the jacket three-quarter length, the skirt a very short mini. Her legs, sheathed in black stockings and shiny black leather high-heel boots, were stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Her upper body leaned back in the chair and she had her hands deep in the pockets of her suit jacket. From her feet to the top of her head, her body formed a diagonal at forty-five degrees, and she looked comfortable enough in the position that she might nod off for forty winks at any moment.

  ‘I have not done anything, Superintendent,’ said Campion firmly, ‘but I’m afraid you have. The students are revolting – in the nicest possible way of course – or perhaps I should say protesting at your treatment of Miss Silva there.’

  The Miss Silva in question, who was suddenly not in danger of dozing off, let out a cross between a laugh and an expletive ‘Hah!’, which seemed to shake Dr Downes into action.

  ‘Are they sitting-in?’

  ‘If that is their plan, Vice Chancellor, their chosen venue is probably this office. They were initially intent on storming Black Dudley and liberating Miss Silva from police brutality.’

  ‘Careful, Campion, don’t push it. Now what’s going on?’ growled Appleyard.

  ‘The student population has risen in protest at your treatment of the popular Miss Silva and were on the way here to vent their spleen. Dr Szmodics and Professor Thurible have bravely delayed them on the bridge over the lake. If you look out of the front door, you’ll see them, and I’m sure they’ll give you a hearty cheer when they see you.’

  The superintendent turned on his heels to accuse Dr Downes. ‘Can’t you control your bloody students, Vice Chancellor?’

  ‘I resent that!’ Downes shot to his feet, startling the policewoman, who was unsure as to whether she should still be taking notes. ‘Our students are given the freedom to think for themselves; they are not schoolchildren. When they see something they regard as unfair or unjust, they protest, and within the law we encourage them to do exactly that, as we should.’

  ‘Well said, Vice Chancellor.’ Stephanie Silva spoke clearly and with sincerity, even though her immobile position gave the impression of a commuter on a railway station platform resigned to the fact that her train would be at least an hour late again.

  Appleyard swung back to confront Campion, who was now easing his way into the room. ‘Have you been stirring them up? I wouldn’t put it past you.’

  ‘I have been trying to calm the situation,’ said Campion, relieving PC Peters of his books with a nod of thanks, ‘and offered to perform my official duties as Visitor. So here I am, visiting and ready to mediate. I promised to report back to the student body and tell them exactly what was going on.’

  ‘I’m not answerable to a mob,’ blustered the superintendent.

  ‘Well, in this case I am, and I’m on a promise to tell the students why you removed Miss Silva from them so publicly and, if I may say so, in such a ham-fisted manner.’

  ‘Are you criticizing my methods?’

  ‘I’m sure the bishop would,’ said Dr Downes, in what Campion regarded as a stroke of tactical genius. ‘I presume you will be bringing him up to speed on events, Albert. You know how he worries about the image of his university.’

  ‘Telephoning him was the very next thing on my agenda,’ said Campion. ‘Of course I would be happier if I could tell him we have diffused the situation.’

  Appleyard sprang into action. ‘Peters! Stick your head outside and see what’s going on, and you, lassie,’ he turned on the policewoman who automatically sat to attention with her pencil poised, ‘get all the lads together and lock down the incident room. I won’t have a sit-in where there’s evidence being stored.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Miss Silva said in a deep, vampish voice without moving a muscle.

  ‘Yes, what about Miss Silva?’ echoed Campion.

  ‘Oh, throw her to the mob,’ snarled Appleyard. ‘Anything, just get her out of my sight.’

  Mr Campion had expected a raucous reception from the student crowd as he emerged victorious from Black Dudley with Miss Silva on his right arm, but the cool, calm and collected Miss Silva herself seemed taken aback and slightly embarrassed by the whooping and ragged cheering.

  ‘Let me show you off to your adoring fans, just to prove that you haven’t been beaten up too badly,’ said Campion as they walked towards the bridge, ‘but then I really must have a private word with you.’

  Miss Silva, who appeared perfectly happy leaning on Campion’s arm for support, smiled and waved at the students gathered on the other side of the lake before answering.

  ‘I suppose I owe you that, after you rode to my rescue in there.’

  ‘I did very little, my dear. I’m assuming the police had no real reason to charge you with anything.’

  ‘Only loose morals,’ she said with a smile. ‘The superintendent was very excited when someone told him that I had slept with Pascual. No prizes for guessing who did that, by the way, but he was positively shocked when I admitted it and told him what a good lover Pascual had been.’

  ‘And now you’re trying to shock another elderly gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I could shock you!’ She laughed. ‘Point is, that made me Suspect Number One for PC Plod back there, plus I don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder, except that I was in bed well before midnight. The superintendent naturally assumed I was bragging about my sex life again.’

  Campion levered his arm so that it acted as a brake on Miss Silva’s progress and they stopped just short of the bridge. On the far side the student crowd had increased, but had assumed the air of an afternoon in the park, albeit a chilly one given the breeze coming off the sea, and in the middle, at the apex of the arch, Dr Szmodics and Professor Thurible were still on guard duty.

  ‘Are you willing to follow my lead, Miss Silva?’

  ‘As you’ve ridden to my rescue, I can hardly refuse, O Gentle Knight. And please call me Steph.’ She wiped a loose strand of blonde hair from the front of her face and smiled a smile which made her popularity understandable. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about rather personal and private matters; in fact I was on my way to see you this afternoon, but Mr Appleyard got there first. I am not with the police and have no authority to press you with questions, but I would appreciate it.’

  ‘Sure, why not? My personal life is certainly not very private. Do you want to do it now?’

  ‘No, not now.’ Campion looked across the bridge to where many of the angry mob of revolting students were sitting on the grass and quietly chanting the mantra ‘Steph-ee, Steph-ee’. One or two had actually produced books and were reading, several were smoking what Campion hoped were legal cigarettes, and four rugby types were passing a pint bottle of light ale between them.

  ‘You need to go and talk to your loyal following,’ said Campion, nodding to the far bank. ‘I would appreciate it if you would keep it simple and say that the police have apologized for their rudeness in the way they took you in for questioning.’

  ‘But they haven’t apologized.’ Miss Silva gave an outrageously fake pout. ‘Do you want me to lie? Actually, I’m perfectly all right with that.’

  ‘Thank you, Steph, you’re a girl after my own heart. Now go and do that and hopefully this crowd will disperse before Mr Appleyard calls in the Riot Squad. I have something I must do in …’ Campion consulted his wristwatch, ‘… the next hour, but then you could show me around the language labs, unless you have other commitments.’

  ‘Suits me. My teaching schedule has been rather disrupted for the day, so I’ll be in my office. I’ll see you then.’

  She gave Campion another winning smile and patted his ar
m, then set off across the bridge, the heels of her boots clacking like a metronome.

  It had been Mr Campion’s daughter-in-law Perdita, a blossoming actress with a flair for mimicry, who had taught him – and demonstrated – the word ‘sashay’. Originally a term from American square dancing, it had come to describe a style of walk somewhere between a flounce and a strut, and was only applicable to females, usually when leaving a room. He could think of no other word to describe Miss Silva’s walk as she clip-clopped across the bridge, sharing a smile with Thurible and a flick of blonde hair with Szmodics as she passed them en route to her adoring supporters.

  Campion followed her at a respectful distance to the middle of the bridge, noting that Thurible and Szmodics were carefully observing that sashay rhythm from the rear.

  ‘Successful outcome, Campion?’ Szmodics asked as he drew level with them.

  ‘No thanks to me,’ said Campion. ‘The police had simply jumped in where angels wearing size twelve boots should have feared to tread. They had no legal reason to hold, or charge, Miss Silva, and if they thought they could bully her into a confession, they made a dreadful misjudgement.’

  ‘Dressed in that outfit she doesn’t look like the victim of bullying, though the police would not have been the first to try,’ said Thurible, puffing smugly on his pipe.

  ‘Was that aimed at me?’

  ‘Not at all, Jack, but you must admit she had a flair for the dramatic and could be a pain in your backside when it came to the allocation of computing time.’

  ‘She was always seeking attention,’ said Dr Szmodics through gritted teeth, ‘but that hardly makes her unique around here, does it, Yorick?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Campion interrupted before any serious academic in-fighting flared up, ‘would you do me a favour and stay here on guard for half an hour or so? I have an errand to run and I promised the vice chancellor that the bridge would continue to be defended until the students dispersed.’