Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  Lugg flexed his right hand and turned it into a fist.

  ‘Want me to bust his lip? Put a couple of teeth out? Trumpet players can’t function without their front teeth.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could either,’ hissed Campion, ‘and don’t be a bully. Just keep quiet and look menacing.’

  ‘I’ll do me best,’ said Lugg, folding his ham-hock arms and turning his face to the wall, but glancing slyly down as Campion knelt before the doorknob lock and went to work with his trusty nail file. Only a raised eyebrow showed that Mr Lugg was impressed; that and a whispered ‘Ain’t lost yer touch’, as he took Mr Campion’s elbow and helped him to his feet.

  They entered the room like ghosts; for perhaps the thousandth time, Campion was impressed with the lightness and, yes, grace, with which the big man could move when he put his mind to it.

  The accommodation was more basic here than in the staff flats at the apex of the pyramids; basically a rectangular room with a bed down one side and a desk and chair against the opposite wall. On the desk, amidst an explosion of books, papers and pens, was a silver-plated B-flat trumpet standing upright on its bell. With the blind down, allowing the entry of a minimal amount of weak morning light, the room was in semi-darkness, but it was possible to discern a sleeping shape in the bed under a mound of tangled blankets, a protruding mat of curly black hair indicating which way the body was lying.

  Campion swept the trumpet off the desk with his right hand and wiped the mouthpiece with his left before placing it to his lips and leaning over the mound in the bed. Behind him, Lugg placed a finger in each ear.

  While he had some skill at the piano and had made a fair fist as a stand-in church organist on occasion, Mr Campion’s previous experience with brass instruments was limited to a phase, during his own student days, when he carried a trombone with him to parties, sporting events and once, with consequences, into a second-year examination at St Ignatius College.

  To his delight, he managed, using the first valve, to get a clear, loud, rising trill of notes out of the trumpet, though his delight was not shared by the sleepy head only a few inches away from its business end.

  Mr Tony Judson, the owner of the head under fire, sat bolt upright as if electrocuted, and let rip a stream of obscene profanities peppered with a four-letter word he would have said was Anglo-Saxon in origin, but which Campion knew had its roots in Latin.

  ‘Bet he’s not studying Divinity,’ Lugg observed.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Judson,’ said Campion, balancing the trumpet on the desk again. ‘Sorry to disturb your slumbers, but as you clearly do not have a nine o’clock lecture scheduled, we thought you wouldn’t mind a visit from the Phantom Trumpeter Fan Club.’

  ‘Just who are you jokers?’ The student attempted to swing his legs out of the bed, but seemed pinned there by a knot of tangled blankets and quickly gave up, sighed loudly and sat up in a cross-legged, Buddha-like position, his chest bare, the bedclothes protecting his modesty.

  ‘Jokers is h’exactly what we is,’ said Lugg at his most menacing.

  Campion saw the unease flash across the young man’s face and stepped in to calm the situation. ‘We are helping the police make their enquiries, and we do so with, we feel, a good sense of humour, but for all our jolly japery, we would like you to answer a serious question.’

  ‘All right, it’s a fair cop, I am the Phantom Trumpeter.’

  Campion exchanged grins with Lugg. ‘I didn’t know modern youth used expressions like that. It takes one back, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Shows respect, too, coughing up to it straight off,’ Lugg agreed.

  ‘But we know you are the midnight bugler, Mr Judson, and your punctuality impresses as much as your musicality, but answer me this if you would. Your midnight performances, are they to your timetable or do you respond to external stimuli?’

  The student rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fists and emitted the sort of huge lethargic yawn in which bored cats specialize.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said the student, once his jaw had closed. ‘Who are you guys anyway?’

  ‘We are the official Visitors to the university. Because of the death of Professor Perez-Catalan, they thought it best to send us in pairs. Now, do you do your midnight stunt on your own initiative, or is anyone else involved?’

  ‘How many people do you think it takes to play the trumpet?’

  ‘Oi, cheeky!’ warned Lugg.

  ‘Let me simplify things before my elderly colleague has problems with his blood pressure,’ Campion said reasonably. ‘Did you ever time your nightly renditions in response to a signal, a flashing torch, say, from across the park?’

  ‘Of course not, I have a watch and can tell the time.’

  ‘But you don’t ’ave an alarm clock to get you out of your pit in the mornings, do yer?’

  ‘That shouldn’t concern us,’ said Campion, ‘we’re only interested in what young Mr Judson does around midnight. How he spends his mornings is of no interest to us.’

  ‘You mean the flashing torch from the bridge across the fake lake,’ Tony Judson volunteered.

  ‘You saw it too?’

  ‘I’ve seen it plenty of times, usually just before midnight in the summer term, earlier in the winter months. Thought it was Morse code at first, but it wasn’t, just random signalling.’

  ‘By whom, to whom?’

  ‘No idea who was doing the sending, though it was odds on it was a woman. The receiver was Prof Pascual, the Latin Lover. I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘Why was it obvious?’

  ‘Because whoever was flashing that torch would have been pointing it at the window of his office in Earth Sciences, which looks out on to the park, the other side of Piazza 3. That was the professor’s nookie call. Everybody knew.’

  ‘And you’ve seen this before?’

  ‘Oh yeah, loads of times last year, then again on Sunday night.’

  ‘And it wasn’t unusual for the professor to be working so late?’

  ‘Not during term time; the lights were on in there most nights. Sundays … a bit unusual, but he was probably getting things ready for the new term. I don’t know, you should ask somebody in Earth Sciences.’

  ‘Oh, we will. Why didn’t you tell the police that you’d seen the torch flashes on the night the professor was murdered?’

  The student suddenly looked much younger than his twenty years.

  ‘Nobody asked me, and I didn’t want to get into trouble,’ he said softly.

  ‘What for? Playing a bum note?’ snapped Lugg.

  ‘Your playing,’ said Campion, ‘unlike your citizenship, is immaculate, but your location is now known so you may wish to restrict your performances. We will leave you to your studies.’

  ‘Just who are you guys?’

  Campion held the door for Lugg to squeeze by and through.

  ‘You know Oliver Hardy here, and I’m Stan Laurel,’ he said, tipping his fedora.

  SIXTEEN

  The Inelegant Solution

  The three-mile walk from White Dudley and then the ascent and descent of four flights of stairs in the Babbage pyramid had restored Lugg’s appetite which, he declared, could be satisfied by anything as long as it was not Spam. As it was only ten o’clock, which Campion described as ‘dawn’s early light’ in new university terms, the restaurant in the oval refectory was still serving breakfast, and conveniently it was en route to their next destination.

  Campion limited himself to a cup of tea, while Lugg fought to remove the memory of Spam with ‘proper’ bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread. The restaurant was now much busier, with far more student customers than when Campion had breakfasted with the cleaners, and the sight of two elderly gentlemen so physically mismatched brought many a covert stare and at least one wag quietly whistling the ‘Cuckoo’ song, as made popular the day before by the Phantom Trumpeter.

  When Lugg’s stomach was finally appeased, Campion took him into Piazza 2 and th
en Piazza 1, where the outdoor chessboard immediately caught Lugg’s eye.

  ‘Strewth, they’re real pieces! I thought this was just a statue when I saw it last night, or one of them silhouette puppet shows like they have out East.’

  ‘No, it’s a fully functioning chess set,’ said Campion, patting a pawn on the head in passing, ‘and you can give the computer a game if you fancy your chances.’

  ‘Does the computer play Knock Out Whist or Find the Lady?’

  ‘Probably not, but knowing you, I wouldn’t fancy its chances.’

  Charles Fowler, the Computing Centre manager, was surprised to receive another visit from the university Visitor, and positively speechless when he caught sight of Lugg squeezing his way between metal cabinets, apparently hypnotized by their small flashing green lights. The image of a bull in a china shop was somehow inappropriate, but that of a confused wildebeest lost in the lighting department of Selfridges sprang to mind.

  ‘We don’t mean to disrupt you, Mr Fowler,’ Campion reassured him. ‘We’re looking for Tabitha King. Is she here by any chance?’

  ‘She’s here permanently these days, or it feels like it,’ said Fowler, ‘going through the professor’s research.’ He looked at Lugg speculatively. ‘Is …?’

  ‘Oh, this is Professor Magersfontein from South Africa. Doesn’t speak a word of English. He’s with me and I’ll make sure he doesn’t touch any buttons.’

  Perez-Catalan’s tiny windowless office was full to bursting without the addition of Campion’s thin frame, and certainly could not accommodate Lugg’s bulk. Nigel Honeycutt was standing to the right of the overloaded desk, Tabitha King to the left. Between them – seated on the sole chair for which there was room – was Beverley Gunn-Lewis, and all three stared in silence at Campion in the doorway.

  ‘Beverley, how impressive! Been here less than a week and here you are in the nerve centre of the university at the heart of its most important research project.’

  ‘Bev speaks Spanish,’ said Tabitha King.

  ‘I learned it specifically to follow the work of Professor Pascual and his team in Santiago,’ said Beverley, blinking rapidly behind the winged frames of her glasses. ‘I knew it would come in handy.’

  ‘You are full of surprises,’ said Campion jovially. ‘It must be quite exciting to be helping out with his algorithm, but would you allow an interruption for a minute or two? I must have a word with Miss King here, and in private. Nigel, Bev, would you mind stepping out? You could, if you were feeling generous, show my associate Dr Lugg the wonders of the modern computer.’

  Campion could tell from their expressions that a Lugg-sized shape had materialized behind him in the doorway.

  ‘I suppose you’re still acting as one of the police’s running dogs,’ Honeycutt snarled, ‘but don’t be too long. We only have Bev between her lectures.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s learning a lot from her time at university,’ said Campion, noting that the student avoided eye contact as she and Honeycutt left the room. ‘This is Dr Lugg. His field is criminology and he knows nothing of computers, so please introduce yourselves and educate him.’

  When they were alone, and Campion had closed the door, he offered her the chair, but Tabitha King shook her head and leaned back against the overstuffed bookshelves, crossing her legs at the ankle and thrusting her hands into the pockets of the one-piece green garment she wore. Campion was unsure whether it was best described as overalls or dungarees and decided it was wiser to avoid the subject.

  ‘Miss King, I need to ask you something which has nothing to do with geology, computers or algorithms.’

  ‘Is it about Beverley?’

  ‘Not at all, though I must say I find her quite charming and clearly she’s full of surprises.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Miss King, tight-lipped.

  ‘It must have been a pleasant surprise to find she could speak Spanish and, of course, she knows the subject matter. I’m sure she’ll prove very useful in getting the famous algorithm published.’

  Miss King relaxed a little. ‘So what can I help you with?’

  ‘On Sunday night, the night Pascual was killed, did you see a torch flashing from over by Black Dudley, specifically by the bridge over the lake? It would have been near midnight.’

  ‘Who told you about that?’ she asked in a tone which reminded Campion to protect his sources.

  ‘Believe it or not, the mysterious Phantom Trumpeter.’

  Miss King was obviously relieved and somewhat impressed.

  ‘Yes, I saw the same thing. From that high in the pyramids, you can see right across the park.’

  ‘All the way to St Jurmin’s chapel?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, not that far, not at night.’

  ‘But you know why I mention St Jurmin’s.’

  ‘Everybody knew.’

  ‘It was a signal from Pascual’s lovers to arrange a meeting at …’

  ‘Nigel called it his Love Shack.’

  ‘So he did, I had forgotten how poetic Marxists could be. Do you have any idea who could have been signalling him on Sunday?’

  ‘No, Pascual’s sex life was a matter of complete indifference to me.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Campion diplomatically, ‘but did you not think it worth reporting the next day, when it was announced that Pascual had been murdered?’

  Tabitha kept her hands deep in her pockets, but her forearms stiffened as her muscles tensed.

  ‘I was not asked about it, and felt sure someone must have mentioned it, as anyone living on the fourth floor or above in one of the pyramids could have seen the signal.’

  ‘But not necessarily known what it meant,’ Campion pointed out.

  ‘Everyone who lived on campus who wasn’t a first-year knew about Pascual’s women.’

  ‘Naturally, all first-year students should be thought of as innocent,’ said Campion, watching carefully for a reaction but getting none. ‘You said women, plural, why?’

  ‘Because there were at least two living on campus on Sunday who had used that method of signalling him in the past.’

  Nigel Honeycutt escorted Lugg and Campion out of the Computing Centre – as Lugg put it later, to make sure they didn’t steal the spoons – and as they traversed the mainframe, Campion asked about the addition of Beverley to the algorithm project.

  ‘She’s a real find,’ said Honeycutt. ‘Not only is she familiar with the terminology, even if it’s on a basic level, but the fact that she can read Spanish is a godsend; not that I believe in God.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Campion, ‘but it sounds like Fate had a hand bringing her here just now, and of course, Tabitha. She’s Beverley’s tutor, is she not?’

  ‘She is.’ Honeycutt was suspicious. ‘And she will make sure that helping us with Pascual’s notes does not interfere with Beverley’s coursework. Tabitha will keep her nose to the grindstone.’

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t see either of them at the impromptu protest yesterday at the lake bridge. They were probably far too busy for such excursions, unlike yourself, Mr Honeycutt. I was quite surprised to see you demanding Stephanie Silva’s release from captivity. I didn’t think the two of you got on.’

  ‘We don’t, that’s no secret,’ said Honeycutt, ‘and when I saw her dolled up like a Vogue model, I was sorry I turned out.’

  Campion paused at the door leading out on to Piazza 1, forcing Honeycutt to halt as well. A yard or two behind them, Lugg was playing with a wad of hole-punched computer programming cards, casually shuffling them as if they were a deck of playing cards, until a gesture from Campion prompted him to put them down.

  ‘What do you mean she was “dolled up”?’ Campion pressed.

  ‘You saw her, all dressed up, short skirt and boots. She must have known she was going to be arrested in full view of the university, so she dressed up for it.’

  ‘Well, technically she wasn’t arrested, merely called in for questio
ning.’

  ‘But come on, Campion, you saw her; she looked a real dolly bird.’

  ‘Do young people still say that, or only earth scientists? I admit she certainly looked smart … attractive, if you will, but then she’s a very attractive woman.’

  ‘She sure is, but she’s not known for being a fashion model. Everyone thought she was cool the way she dressed like a cowgirl in denim jacket and jeans, like a student, or in her leather jacket, which made her look a bit of a Hells Angel. She always fancied being the centre of attention but we’d never seen her tarted up in her Saturday night disco best before yesterday.’

  ‘Perhaps she just didn’t have a thing to wear,’ said Campion lightly. ‘I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard that excuse over thirty years of married life.’

  As they walked by the chessboard, Lugg said, ‘What was that all about then?’

  ‘The fashion sense of an interesting young woman, something I noticed yesterday, and which might be relevant if Superintendent Appleyard’s boys have done what I asked.’

  Lugg broke off from making a rather rude gesture at the white bishop on the chessboard.

  ‘Got the police doing your legwork now, have you? Getting too old for it, are we?’

  ‘Yes we are, both of us, but that’s by the by. What I had in mind had to be done legally and with the full authority of the law, not a bit of casual breaking-and-entering by a pair of overactive pensioners.’

  Lugg ran a giant hand over the globe of his bald head. ‘So who is this interesting young woman with the fashion sense?’

  ‘Possibly the most accomplished liar,’ said Mr Campion, ‘or perhaps the best actress I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Lugg with conviction.

  Campion had been, up until then, smugly pleased that he had been able to wander the campus and hardly draw a second glance from the youthful populace of the university. With Lugg in tow there was little chance of him going unnoticed. Heads turned, eyes were averted and then involuntarily drawn back, and female students carrying books and walking in pairs were seen to whisper and then shake with giggling. Lugg remained impervious to it all, and Campion was grateful that their visit to the Phantom Trumpeter had removed the prospect of the ‘Cuckoo’ song echoing over the piazzas.