Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Where we going now?’ Lugg asked, while taking time to scowl at a long-haired youth sitting cross-legged by the fountain that was now a firepit, strumming discordantly on a cheap Spanish guitar and so oblivious to his surroundings that he did not turn a hair when Lugg leaned over him and said, ‘That animal’s in pain, son; be a mercy to put it out of its misery.’

  ‘We are going to borrow an office in the Administration building,’ said Campion. ‘That’s that big square thing full of windows up ahead. Hopefully the estates officer will let us use his, otherwise we may have to impose on the chaplain, which I do not relish, as you and he would not get on.’

  ‘I gets on wiv most people!’ Lugg made it sound like a challenge. ‘What do we need an office for, anyway?’

  ‘A bit of privacy. A doctor won’t examine a patient in public.’

  ‘Doctors? Who’s ill?’

  ‘You are,’ said Mr Campion. ‘You’re looking very peaky and I insist we get a professional diagnosis.’

  Gregor Marshall, though not by nature a boastful man, was prone to say that no request presented to him in his role as the university’s estates officer had ever surprised him, and that included the twenty-eight-year-old postgraduate who demanded a night light, the parents of a female fresher who wanted a private telephone line installed in their daughter’s room, and the Swedish exchange student who was outraged that there was no sauna on campus. Never before, however, had he been asked to turn his office over to a virtual stranger for use as a doctor’s consulting room, and never before had he seen a patient, or indeed anything, like Mr Lugg before. With some experience of dealing with student sit-ins, or ‘occupations’, as they liked to call them, Mr Marshall’s first thought was that if Lugg wanted to occupy his office, for whatever reason, then it would stay occupied.

  At least the chap Campion had some official standing as the bishop-inspired Visitor, and was polite enough in his request and in begging indulgence for not explaining the reason for it.

  He made the internal phone call Campion had asked him to, and then vacated his office with, it had to be said, some sense of relief, as Mr Marshall had long ago learned that ignorance could, ironically in a modern university, indeed be blissful.

  After seating Lugg on a chair in front of Marshall’s desk, but turned so he faced the door and would be the first thing anyone entering the room saw, Campion took up a position in a corner between a tall filing cabinet and the window, leaning languidly against the wall. The filing cabinet distorted the outline of his body and, with his fedora tilted over his eyes, he was confident he could, at first glance, pass for a hat stand.

  Not that he was hiding; his plan was that he would not be noticed, but it would be impossible not to notice Lugg, and in that way he would gain a tactical advantage, even if a small one.

  There was a single light tap on the door, which then opened, and Heather Woodford, with a canvas army-issue medical bag hanging from one shoulder, stepped, business-like, into the office.

  ‘You the doc, then?’ mumbled Lugg, his jowls resting on his chest as he tried his best to look weak and feeble, perhaps even malarial.

  ‘I’m Dr Woodford, the university’s medical officer,’ she said approaching the quivering bulk seated before her, ‘and you must be Mr Lugg. Now can you tell me what’s wrong with you?’

  Lugg opened his mouth and emitted a cross between a low moan and a massive yawn but, before either could reach their full potential, Campion straightened up and emerged from behind the filing cabinet.

  ‘A bad case of galloping lethargy,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it will prove fatal. Perhaps a reviving injection might be the cure.’

  As the woman stared and recognition dawned, Lugg slid off his chair and, with a swerve worthy of a fly-half a third of his age and a quarter of his weight, he danced around and behind the woman and positioned himself between her motionless figure and the door.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on?’ said Dr Woodford through gritted teeth.

  Although he knew her to be in her thirties, and that she must have spent at least seven years in medical training, Campion could see how Chaplain Tinkler had come to regard her as appearing no older than many an undergraduate. There was a youthful apprehension in that face, something of the naughty and rebellious teenager, but there was also a strand of steel in her demeanour.

  ‘I wanted to get you alone, Doctor, as we didn’t get time to chat out at St Jurmin’s last night, did we?’

  Heather Woodford’s face remained a defiant mask. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Campion.’

  ‘No,’ Campion corrected her. ‘What you meant to say was “You can’t prove I was anywhere near Jurmin’s chapel last night”, and you’d be right, I can’t, although the police might be able to. My companion Mr Lugg, who seems to have made a remarkable recovery, is much more experienced in these matters. Tell me, old chum, in your learned opinion, can their forensic whizz-kids take fingerprints from a cork?’

  From his left jacket pocket, Mr Campion produced the pristine bottle cork and held it up between finger and thumb.

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they could,’ said Lugg. ‘There’s very little privacy these days.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a terrible thought for someone with the keys to a wine cellar,’ Campion said casually, tossing the cork to Dr Woodford, who caught it one-handed with aplomb. ‘But it really is only of academic interest. The police need not be involved if you cooperate with me.’

  ‘Cooperate? How?’

  The doctor’s expression had not changed, but the knuckles of the hand holding the cork had gone white with the pressure she exerted.

  ‘I’ll keep it simple. I will tell you what I know, or think I know, and you tell me where I have miscalculated or misconstrued. Agreed?’

  ‘Do I need a solicitor?’ she said in the same tone as if she was asking if she needed a coat in order to venture outdoors.

  ‘I don’t think so. If you do, then perhaps I have miscalculated completely, but I don’t think I have. Would it reassure you if I said that anything said this morning in this room will remain in strictest confidence?’

  ‘Can you promise that?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Then I accept your terms of engagement.’

  Mr Campion nodded as if approving her turn of phrase. ‘Very well, then. In summary, you were involved with Professor Perez-Catalan.’

  ‘We were engaged,’ Heather Woodford corrected him.

  ‘Unofficially, I think, though I am not sure if that distinction still holds these days. Can we agree that it was not common knowledge on campus?’

  ‘Agreed. I had given notice that I would be leaving the university at the end of this academic year, but not the personal reason behind the move.’

  ‘Doctors having relations with their patients would be frowned upon, I suspect, even in this liberal environment, so you had to keep it quiet, hence your trysts at St Jurmin’s, which I must say showed a considerable hardiness and commitment on your part. It must be one of the most Spartan love nests since the days of Sparta itself, and at least they had a decent climate.’

  ‘It was far from comfortable,’ the woman admitted, ‘but it was secure from curious students in the residences, and prying eyes down in White Dudley.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Edwina Meade. I was coming to her … and to the professor’s previous liaisons.’

  ‘I knew about them all,’ said Dr Woodford. ‘Pascual kept nothing from me. He told me that the odious Meade woman was blackmailing Dolores Downes following their brief fling two years ago.’

  ‘How did Pascual know?’

  ‘Because that damned woman took cheques from Dolores even though she didn’t have a bank account! She didn’t need or even want the money at first, she just wanted a hold over the vice chancellor’s wife. Then she got greedy and wanted the money, and so she approached Pascual and got him to buy the cheques off her.’

  ‘An enterprising lady – she was blackmailing
them both, in a way.’

  ‘But it stopped when Pascual said he would go to the police with the cheques; not that he ever would have.’

  ‘But from then on, Pascual refrained from entertaining ladies at his house in White Dudley and set up his trysting camp at St Jurmin’s, having had the key copied. Can I ask an indelicate question, Doctor?’

  ‘This whole conversation is indelicate,’ said the woman, turning to glare at Lugg, who was pretending innocence by fixing his eyes on the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t worry about my associate,’ said Campion, ‘he can be deaf, blind and mute when the need arises; all three wise monkeys rolled into one.’

  ‘Then feel free to be indelicate, but allow me to be selective with my answers.’

  Campion conceded the point. ‘I cannot compel you to answer at all, let alone truthfully, although I think you owe me that courtesy. I was going to ask if you were the first female to share the rather chilly hospitality offered by the chapel of St Jurmin?’

  ‘I will be honest,’ said Dr Woodford in a quiet, girlish voice, ‘and admit that I was not, but for the past year I was the sole object of Pascual’s affections.’

  ‘Because you were engaged,’ said Campion, slipping a hand into his right jacket pocket.

  ‘And we were to be married as soon as I moved to my new job at the end of this year. Would it sound terribly lame if I said I loved him, and he loved me? Well, I don’t care, that’s exactly how it was.’

  ‘I believe you, Doctor,’ said Campion, pulling the small square jewellery box from his pocket, ‘because you went to extraordinary lengths to recover this from the chapel, as I know to my cost. This is your engagement ring, isn’t it?’

  Heather Woodford reached out a trembling hand, took the box and opened it to reassure her moist eyes that the ring was inside.

  ‘How did you know to follow me to the chapel last night?’

  ‘I was leaving Black Dudley after seeing Dolores when I overheard you in the porters’ lodge asking to borrow a torch and telling Bill Warren where you were going. I assumed you had a key to the chapel.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Pascual had made a copy and that witch Edwina Meade had the only other one. I wasn’t going to ask her for anything, but I wanted my ring back.’

  ‘And you weren’t averse to a spot of robbery with violence.’

  ‘It looked as if you were in the process of stealing Pascual’s things and I must have taken leave of my senses. I suppose I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Do you always go around armed and dangerous?’

  The young woman shrugged and patted the canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. ‘I had my bag with me when I was called to see Dolores. I always carry small doses of anaesthetics in cases of emergencies.’

  ‘In hypodermics with corks covering the needle points,’ said Campion as Dr Woodford nodded, ‘which I mistook for the barrel of a gun at first. Whatever you injected into me acted quickly.’

  ‘Yes, it did. About that,’ the doctor showed embarrassment for the first time, ‘I think I misjudged the dose for a man of your age and slender frame.’

  Campion stroked his chin as if pondering an alternative scenario. ‘It’s a good thing you weren’t confronted by my associate here – then you would have understood the meaning of a dosage big enough to fell an elephant. That’s assuming you could get a needle through his thick hide.’

  ‘Charming,’ snarled Lugg.

  ‘But I tried to make you comfortable before I left you,’ protested the doctor.

  ‘After you failed to find your ring,’ countered Campion, ‘which I had already discovered in Pascual’s treasure chest. You didn’t think to search my trouser pockets, did you?’

  ‘I admit I was not acting rationally. I think Pascual’s death made me mad.’

  ‘That is quite understandable, especially with you being one of the first on the scene. I saw you on that bridge across the lake yesterday; in fact, I made sure we stood exactly where Pascual must have been attacked and I saw how uncomfortable you were being there.’

  ‘Delayed shock, if I were diagnosing myself.’

  ‘As I say, quite understandable. That particular spot was also where you signalled Pascual with a torch to request a … tryst, if that’s not too ancient a word … at the chapel, wasn’t it? A flashing torch from there would easily be seen in Pascual’s office in the Earth Sciences department if he was working late, which I understand he did regularly.’

  ‘Yes, that was our private means of communication. I would flash a torch two or three times and Pascual would answer by turning his office lights on and off twice. Ten minutes later we would meet at the chapel. There was nothing unusual about carrying a torch here. The campus may be lit up like a Christmas tree at night, but large areas of the park are very dark, especially if you’re walking to the car park.’

  ‘Unfortunately, your Aldis lamp signalling was seen by the residents of the pyramids, especially those living on the upper floors. It had been noticed before, and on Sunday it was thought to be a signal to the famous Phantom Trumpeter to begin this term’s reign of terror at midnight.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ snapped Heather Woodford, ‘there was no signal on Sunday, there was no need. Pascual and I had been to the chapel and he had walked me back to the residences and we had said goodnight. When he left me, he was heading for his car in the car park, as far as I knew.’

  ‘And his natural route would not have taken him across that bridge, would it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he went to his office after leaving you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He must have.’

  ‘And while he was there, he saw a torch flashing a signal; a signal he was not expecting, and went out to investigate. It wasn’t a signal, it was a lure.’

  ‘But it wasn’t me! I was in my room. I had just left Pascual after a lovely evening.’

  ‘I believe you, Dr Woodford,’ said Campion, ‘but if you didn’t flash that signal, which effectively drew Pascual to his death, who did?’

  ‘So what was all that about?’

  ‘That, my old fruit, was me providing what my old maths master would have called an inelegant solution to our little mystery here.’

  Mr Campion and Mr Lugg were walking purposefully over the park towards Black Dudley. The university buildings behind them were, at that time of the morning, at their busiest, and students and staff scurried between lectures, tutorials and meetings like mice in a maze. If two elderly gentlemen of comically distinct proportions, striding across the grass, were observed, it provoked no noticeable reaction, not even a sarcastic phrase on a trumpet.

  ‘What’s your maths teacher got to do with the price of fish?’ asked Lugg.

  ‘He floated into my mind yesterday, funnily enough. Well, not funnily – there was nothing funny about him – and not so much floated as jumped out of memory, stage left, with a flash and bang like a pantomime villain. I was telling one of those bright young chaps in the Computing Centre how he wanted us to write quadratic equations like sentences, with good grammar and punctuation. We’d get whacked across the knuckles with a wooden ruler if we made a mistake or got a blob of ink on the page, or for not drawing a margin straight. Everything had to be absolutely precise, and all working had to be shown. Sometimes, you would get the right answer, but if your work was messy he would call it “an inelegant solution” and down would come the ruler. I never saw anything wrong with a solution being inelegant, as long as it was correct, for I saw myself as a student of life, not mathematics, and solutions in life are rarely elegant.’

  Campion could almost feel Lugg’s face straining to process thought into word.

  ‘So what you’re saying … It’s like that Sherlock ’Olmes when ’e said that when you’ve got rid of every possible solution, however fanciful, however complicated, what was left was the bleedin’ obvious. That’s right, innit?’

  Mr Campion sighed. ‘Something like that,’ he said patiently.

/>   SEVENTEEN

  Final Exam

  Mr Campion would have been the first to disparage anyone who suggested that Superintendent Appleyard’s good humour had ‘reached a crescendo’, for such a statement was not only linguistically suspect but also assumed that there was a basic element of good humour which could gradually increase in the first place.

  There was, however, no doubt that Mr Appleyard was in a cordial mood when he greeted Campion and Lugg and ushered them into his commandeered office; so cordial in fact that his face twitched into a passable imitation of a half-smile. If the policeman had possessed a more extensive portfolio of facial expressions, Campion felt sure he could summon up an impressively wolfish grin.

  ‘Well, Campion, done what you had to do?’ The superintendent’s welcome was positively effusive, and he even gave Lugg a polite nod of greeting.

  ‘I have had a very successful morning tying up loose ends, Superintendent,’ said Campion. ‘May I ask if your chaps have followed up on my suggestions?’

  Appleyard clapped his hands and rubbed them together as if warming them on an imaginary brazier. ‘They have, and with far better results than we could have hoped for.’

  ‘Proof that will stand up in court?’

  ‘Absolutely, one hundred and ten per cent certain.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who had trouble with maths,’ Lugg whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  Ignoring Lugg, Campion took advantage of the superintendent’s good mood. ‘And you are prepared to let me play it my way?’

  ‘I’ve been considering that, and given what we’ve found, I don’t quite see how it would be to my advantage.’

  Mr Campion realized that the old Superintendent Appleyard was dangerously close to re-emerging. ‘What have you got to lose? You may get a confession out of it. At least you’ll get a clear idea of means, motive and opportunity, and it could all be wrapped up by lunchtime.’

  ‘Now yer talking,’ grunted Lugg.