Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  ‘I think they’re waiting for the bar to open,’ said Jack Szmodics. ‘Nothing else is going to budge them.’

  ‘Can’t you open the bar early?’ Campion asked.

  ‘Break the licensing law with all those police officers crawling over the campus?’ Thurible feigned outrage then grinned inanely. ‘I can’t see that happening, Campion, but I like the cut of your jib. You’d make an excellent dean of students if Jack here ever fancied early retirement.’

  ‘Don’t let him get your hackles up, Jack. It wouldn’t look good if the students were sitting on the grass behaving themselves and their professors were having a childish row. It would only confirm their suspicions. Toodles!’

  Mr Campion strode to the end of the bridge and picked his way along the path through the crowd of students. Those he recognized from the previous evening in The Plough had surrounded Steph Silva, who seemed to be handling their questions about police brutality with great diplomacy, while the majority sat around, smoked and chatted, and two had fetched guitars from somewhere and were serenading their comrades in arms.

  Unaccosted and unchallenged, Campion took the longer path to Piazza 3, but no sooner had he emerged into what appeared at first to be a deserted square, was both challenged and accosted.

  ‘Mr Campion! Mr Campion!’

  Campion immediately identified George Tinkler crouched down behind the firepit fountain, marched straight at it and without breaking stride towards the exit leading to the residences.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chaplain. Playing hide-and-seek?’

  ‘What’s going on out there? The bishop will want to know.’

  ‘Tell him everything is under control. Can’t stop, I’m on a tight schedule. Don’t forget to wave to your fans.’

  Leaving the chaplain open-mouthed – and suddenly realizing that he was being observed by quite a crowd of staff and students at the windows of the Earth Sciences department – Campion quickened his pace around the refectory block and entered Hutton, the first of the pyramidal residences.

  The timetable he had been given by Sheila Simcox told him that Tabitha King was teaching until six o’clock, which should, he felt, allow even this ancient and decrepit cat burglar enough time, and he set to climbing the central staircase with sprightly but quiet steps. Only the occasional sound of muffled voices or a burst of muted pop music from the corridors leading off the staircase indicated that the pyramid had any occupants in residence.

  As with the room Campion had been allocated in Durkheim, the staircase narrowed so that access to the staff flat at the apex of the pyramid had to be in single file. On the door there was a small metal nameplate holder containing a square of cardboard with the name Tabitha King typed in capital letters and, like all careful burglars, Campion knocked three times to make sure there was no one home.

  He allowed a good thirty seconds of silence, then eased himself down on one knee, laid his twin Cervantes’ on the concrete floor and armed himself with his trusty nail file to attack the lock in the circular doorknob. A satisfying click followed almost immediately.

  The flat was of exactly the same design as his, with a bed doubling as a sofa, a desk doubling as a dining table, a tiny corner of a kitchen with its space-age water heater and a wartime vintage hotplate and a door leading to the bathroom designed for, and by, a contortionist. Unlike Campion’s, this staff flat at least looked lived in. Amidst the scattered papers and piled books on the desk/table, were a small cactus plant in a pink pot shaped like a pig, a hairbrush, a paperback of Cathy Come Home, a bottle of Miners runproof mascara and two copies of Nova magazine from earlier in the year, posing the questions on the front cover as to why Brigitte Bardot looked better at thirty-five and why we all loved Robert Redford.

  A cursory glance suggested that Miss King had few secrets worth hiding; or had hid them extremely well. Certainly there was nothing resembling punch cards or green printouts which might suggest she had been taking work – specifically the professor’s work – out of the Computing Centre.

  It had only been a notion, Campion said to himself. Had he really expected to find Perez-Catalan’s magical algorithm here? Would he recognize it if he saw it? Still, now he was here he might as well tick one other thing off his list of queries.

  In the V-shaped window, which reminded him of the prow of a ship, he took in the view over the main teaching buildings towards Black Dudley. He had a good view of the students sitting around the south bank of the lake and, as they all seemed to be sitting rather than marching, he assumed they were, as predicted, waiting for the bar to open. The window also gave him a clear sight line of the bridge across the lake, which was what really interested him, as did the fact that his two sentries, Thurible and Szmodics, had been joined by a third, female, figure.

  Campion was wracking his memory for her name when his thought processes were rudely interrupted by a voice behind him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Without having to turn around or even check for a reflection in the window glass, Campion recognized the high-pitched, sing-song timbre of the voice. ‘I might ask the same of you, Beverley.’

  Miss Beverley Gunn-Lewis, who had emerged from the bathroom (seriously denting Mr Campion’s professional pride as a burglar) stood motionless in the middle of the room, barefoot and dressed in a pair of men’s pyjamas at least two sizes too big. Her cheeks were throbbing pink at Campion’s counter-charge.

  ‘Tabitha lets me sleep here,’ she said, her voice regressing to her schoolgirl years.

  ‘Is your room in – where was it? – in Babbage, unsuitable in some way?’

  Her voice went quietly back to the pre-school nursery. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh, come now, a brave Kiwi afraid of the dark? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Not the dark,’ sniffed Beverley, ‘the noise. It was the noise that disturbed me.’

  Mr Campion softened his tone. ‘Typical students with their late-night parties and loud music. They can be so selfish at times.’

  ‘No!’ said Beverley with a flash of anger. ‘It’s that bloody trumpet player in the room below me. Somebody should throttle him.’

  ‘Yes, I shared exactly those homicidal notions myself last night.’

  ‘If I knew who it was signalling him, I’d do for them too!’

  As well as being sympathetic, Mr Campion was now curious. ‘Signals? What sort of signals?’

  ‘Flashing a torch from down there by the bridge over the fake lake.’ She pointed to the view through the windows. ‘I thought that was what you were looking for.’

  ‘Well, not during daylight, surely?’ Campion said gently.

  ‘Then what were you looking for? What are you doing in Tabitha’s flat anyway?’

  Campion thought quickly and held his dual Don Quixotes towards her.

  ‘I wanted Miss King’s opinion on a book.’

  Beverley squinted through her glasses at the volumes as though reading a menu.

  ‘Tabitha doesn’t read stuff like that; she’s into Lord of the Rings like me. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of that.’

  ‘Heard of it, read it and even met the author. There, thought that would impress you. Taught me some very rude words in Old Norse.’

  Now Beverley turned her piercing squint, and those ridiculous red plastic ‘cat’s-eye’ framed glasses on Mr Campion’s innocently beaming visage.

  ‘Are you for real?’ asked Beverley, after shaking her long red hair as if to clear her head.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Campion cheerfully. ‘Best put me down as a figment of your sleep-disturbed imagination and not mention my visit here to anyone, not even Miss King.’

  ‘Not tell Tabitha there was a man in her room? Cripes to that!’

  ‘Think carefully, Bev. What if someone was to tell the university that a member of staff was allowing a student to live in her flat?’

  Miss Gunn-Lewis gave the idea a full three seconds of consideration, then, with a decisiveness Campion could only a
dmire, said, ‘OK, that’s a fair cop. But what if someone saw you come in? Tabitha doesn’t have men visitors.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Campion. ‘Nobody saw me but, if asked, tell them I came in for a better view of the riot going on over by the lake.’ He turned his head to the window. ‘My goodness, something seems to have stirred them up again.’

  The students by the lake were all on their feet suddenly. Placards were being waved and arms raised in clenched-fist salutes. At that distance, with the window closed, there was no sound from the assembled crowd and it was impossible to tell if they were cheering or howling in anger.

  What had captured their attention became obvious when Campion looked over to the left of Black Dudley. Coming out of the car park and bouncing across the grass towards the house was a pony and trap.

  It was not just any old trap or gig, but a ‘governess carriage’, where access is via a door in the rear and the passengers and driver sit on bench seats down the sides facing inwards, and each other. Much to the amusement of the student audience and the dismay of the driver, the pony between the carriage shafts began to veer down the slope towards the lake, probably dying for a drink after a long haul from Darsham Halt with two heavy passengers.

  Campion knew the driver must be Gerry Meade and, even at that distance, he was sure he recognized the bowler-hatted bulk of the fare he was taxiing.

  ‘What’s all that in aid of?’ asked the girl, her nose pressed to the window.

  ‘I think my governess has just arrived,’ said Campion, then burst out laughing as a solo trumpet, disturbingly close by, blared out a familiar melody.

  ‘Strewth! That bloody Phantom Trumpeter again. Hasn’t he anything better to do?’

  ‘At least it’s not the “Last Post”,’ chuckled Campion, conducting in time to the music with a forefinger, ‘and it shows he has a sense of humour. Don’t you recognize the tune? Ta-da-da-da, tah-da-da-da, rumpty-tum, rumpty-tum.’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘You have youth as an excuse, though it’s not a good one. That’s the “Cuckoo” song, sometimes called “Dance of the Cuckoos” but better known as the theme tune of Laurel and Hardy.’

  ‘Who?’

  THIRTEEN

  The Visitor’s Visitor

  As he returned to the bridge through a thinning crowd of students, which suggested that either boredom or hunger had set in, Campion recognized the female figure who had joined the garrison on the bridge as the university medical officer, Heather Woodford, her hair tied up in a business-like bun, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of an ill-fitting beige duffel coat.

  ‘Dr Woodford, how nice of you to join us,’ said Campion, tipping his hat and nodding towards Thurible and Szmodics. ‘I hope you have not been called out to treat any walking wounded.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Heather Woodford with a weak smile, ‘no casualties as far as I’m aware. I saw the crowd gathering and wondered what was going on. Most of them are drifting off now the show’s over.’

  She raised an arm and pointed towards Black Dudley, where the governess carriage had been parked and a feed bag had been put over the pony’s head.

  ‘I think it’s jolly brave of you to return to the scene of the crime,’ Campion said softly, but his words had the effect of an electric shock.

  ‘What? How dare you? What are you trying to imply?’

  ‘Only that you were among the first to find Professor Perez-Catalan’s body and it can’t have been pleasant.’

  ‘I am a doctor,’ she said with defiance.

  ‘A very young doctor, who can’t have seen many corpses yet. Tell me, what brought you to the scene so promptly? It must have been shortly after midnight.’

  Campion was aware of Thurible and Szmodics edging quietly closer, so he turned away casually and manoeuvred Dr Woodford towards the end of the bridge.

  ‘That damned Phantom Trumpeter woke me as he usually does during term time. The same hooligan who just gave us a signature tune for Gerry Meade and his mangy old pony. Though that was quite funny.’

  ‘Yes, it was amusing,’ Campion agreed, ‘and I think Big Gerry is going to be stuck with that melody for quite a while. So you had an unplanned alarm call in the middle of the night. What made you venture over here?’

  ‘I saw torches flashing.’

  Campion turned his head back towards the distant residences. ‘You live in the pyramids?’

  ‘Yes, they gave me the staff flat in Chomsky, that’s the second block from the left.’

  ‘Between Hutton and Babbage. I’m in Durkheim myself, not to mention being rather proud of being able to remember all those names. Flashing torches, you say? Were they signalling to someone?’

  ‘No!’ said the doctor, rather too quickly. ‘It must have been Bill Warren waving his torch around.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the porter who actually found the body. But you were on the spot very quickly. This very spot, in fact.’

  They had reached the north end of the bridge where the attack on Perez-Catalan had taken place.

  ‘There was something odd happening, that was clear. Torches flashing, lights coming on in Black Dudley. I thought I might be able to help.’ As she spoke, Dr Woodford glanced around, focusing on anything except the surface of the lake. ‘But I was too late and the police were on their way.’

  ‘Did you know Pascual?’

  ‘Of course I did. He was a patient of mine.’

  ‘And without breaking medical confidences, could you tell me if he was a fit and healthy person?’

  ‘He was perfectly healthy, and I’ve already told the police that.’

  ‘I hear he was quite a ladies’ man …’ Campion let his words drift out over the water.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Nothing, just that you were of a similar age, both intelligent, single, footloose and fancy-free, living and working in a liberal environment. Mutual attraction would surely not be out of the question, would it?’

  Dr Woodford glared at her tormentor – and Campion was in no doubt that she regarded him as a tormentor.

  ‘If it’s gossip about Pascual’s sex life you want, then talk to Gerry Meade’s wife. She had him under constant surveillance since the moment he came here.’

  The woman spoke through gritted teeth and did not wait for a response before hurrying back across the bridge, brushing aside Thurible and Szmodics as if they were cobwebs.

  ‘You have a visitor, Albert,’ said the vice chancellor, before Campion had managed to get both feet over the threshold of Black Dudley, ‘and he is posing a slight problem.’

  ‘If it is who I think it is, Vice Chancellor, I can assure you that the word “slight” is rarely used to describe him.’

  Dr Downes frowned and patted the palms of his hands together in either silent applause or hesitant prayer.

  ‘It’s a question of accommodation. The bishop rather sprang the gentleman’s visit upon us. In fact, he rang Gerry Meade with his instructions; I was tied up with the police at the time and the bishop is clearly unaware of the situation here.’ He paused to allow Campion to comment on communication, or lack of it, with the bishop, but Mr Campion politely held his peace. ‘He told Gerry to pick up our … guest … from the station with his horse and cart, which is a university tradition the bishop thought of and is keen to see established, and to arrange for him to stay here, in our guest room. Well, I’m afraid that simply isn’t on, Albert, and you’ll have to tell him that. Not only is my wife suffering badly from nerves thanks to this business, but Superintendent Appleyard has again forbidden any nonessential personnel to be here while the police have the run of it.’

  ‘Is there not a room in the residences for him, like the one you put me in? I hasten to add that I am not offering to share. There are limits and I don’t mean just the fire brigade’s regulations.’

  ‘We have none vacant,’ said Downes, ‘so I have suggested that Gerry Meade puts him up down in White Dudley. He has a spare room I gather, unless he
keeps that fleabag pony in it.’

  Mr Campion brightened instantly. ‘That sounds a perfect solution, Vice Chancellor; couldn’t be better. And don’t worry about my distinguished visitor having to sleep in a stable if there’s no room at the local inn; he’s quite used to that and has even shared a sty before now. Do let me be the one to tell him. He will be wherever there is food being prepared and a kettle coming to the boil, but no policemen, so if I head for the kitchen I ought to be on the right track.’

  Mr Campion’s visitor had indeed taken command of the ground-floor kitchen, which provided light refreshments for those who worked in the house and committee meetings held in the Great Hall and was testing both the skill and the patience of the catering staff.

  Mr Magersfontein Lugg was seated in all his black-jacket-and-pinstripe-trouser’d glory, his large bowler hat placed regally in front of him in pride of place on a table which also displayed a large metal teapot of the sort usually reserved for catering at fetes and Mothers’ Union meetings, assorted crockery, and a three-tier cake stand groaning under the weight of doorstop-thick bacon sandwiches.

  ‘Making ourself at home, are we?’

  The fat man glowered over a thick crust stained with tomato sauce.

  ‘Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut. No buffet carriage on the train and then I’m collected not by the promised limousine and uniformed chauffeur but by something out of Steptoe and Son, much to the amusement of that flamin’ bugler out there. That wasn’t you doin’ one of your party pieces, was it?’

  ‘Would that I had such talent,’ said Campion, pulling out a chair and folding his legs under the table. ‘Is there any tea left in that pot or have you drunk the whole gallon?’

  With the bacon sandwich lodged between his teeth in a grip a Siberian wolf would have envied, Lugg poured milk from an open bottle and slid a cup and saucer towards Campion, then hefted the teapot one-handed.

  ‘How kind of you to be Mother.’ Campion toasted him with his cup. ‘Welcome to Black Dudley. Now, what the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘Been sent ’ere to find out what you’re doing,’ said Lugg once the chewing had subsided, ‘and I ’ad ’oped for a more discreet entrance. Got the shock of my life when the big feller met me at the station in his greatcoat and brown bowler.’ He glanced at his own capacious regulation black bowler on the table. ‘Thought he was taking the mick at first, then I reckoned he must be a brewery drayman, so naturally I follers him only to find he’s driving that dog cart of his, which ain’t big enough to carry a dog, leastways not one bigger than a Labrador pup, and as for suspension, I reckon the springs got taken out and donated during that Spitfire appeal which took all the railings during the war.’