‘Only in a manner of speaking,’ said Mr Campion, thinking, no doubt, of the brotherhood of man.
‘Now that is rich.’ Clarrie was delighted. ‘That’s wizzo. I shall use that. That can’t be wasted. “In a manner of speaking” – you’re a laugh! You’re going to cheer us up.’
His nerviness appeared to have evaporated.
‘Keep up your strength,’ he said, indicating the glass. ‘They can’t get at the bottled stuff.’
‘Who?’
‘The family. The Pally-allys upstairs. Roll me over, you don’t think Renee or I . . . or even the captain, excuse my glove – that’s what I call him, “excuse my glove” – have been going in for chemistry, do you? My dear, if we had the brains we haven’t the initiative, as the queens say. We’re the regulars. We’re all right. We’ve known each other for donkeys’ years. It’s the Ally-pallys, that’s certain. But they can’t get at the beer. Have one with the seal unbroken.’
Since his honour appeared to demand it, Mr Campion took some stout, which he disliked.
‘I should hardly think there was much danger of indiscriminate poisoning,’ he ventured diffidently. ‘I mean, what are the facts? An old lady died a couple of months ago and for reasons best known to themselves the police have dug her up again. No one knows yet what the findings of the public analyst will be. The inquest hasn’t been resumed. No, I don’t think there’s anything to show that everyone in the household is now in danger, I really don’t. Until the police made this move you can’t even have thought of poison.’
Clarrie set down his beer. ‘My dear old boy, you’re a lawyer,’ he said. ‘No offence, mind you. You don’t see the situation in a human light, that’s all. Of course we’re all in danger! There’s a killer about, isn’t there? No one’s been hanged. Besides, what about the old boy? – the brother, the first one.’
He was waving his manicured hand with the big masculine knuckles like a baton.
‘He died, didn’t he, last March? The police are going to have him up next. It stands to reason. I for one shan’t be satisfied if they don’t.’
Campion was not at all sure that he followed the other’s exact process of thought, but he was extraordinarily convincing, at least in tone. Clarrie appeared gratified by this tacit acceptance of his argument.
‘You’ll find him bunged to the brim with muck,’ he said flatly, ‘just like his sister. I say the old Ally-pallys are all in it together, that’s my theory.’ He was very serious. ‘It’ll hit you in the eye. You wait till you see them.’
Mr Campion stirred. He had begun to tire of this formula.
‘I realize they’re eccentric,’ he murmured.
‘Eccentric?’ Clarrie stared at him and got up. For some unexplained reason he appeared insulted. ‘Good lord, no,’ he said, ‘not eccentric. They’re all number eight hats and very quite-quite. Eccentric? Not unless brains are eccentric. They’re a very good family. Their old man was a sort of genius, a professor. Letters after his name.’ He let this intelligence sink in and then went on earnestly, ‘Old Miss Ruth – that’s the one who’s been done in – wasn’t up to the family standard. She was going a bit. Used to forget her own name and take her plate out in public and that sort of thing generally! Thought she was invisible probably. I think the others just got together and talked it over and –’ he made a gesture. ‘She couldn’t make the grade,’ he said.
Campion sat looking at him for a considerable time. Gradually the unnerving conviction seized him that the man was perfectly sincere.
‘When could I meet one of them?’ he said.
‘Well, you could go up now, ducky, if you cared to,’ said Renee as she appeared from an inner kitchen, a tray in her hands. ‘Take this up to Miss Evadne for me. Someone’s got to do it. Clarrie, you can do Mr Lawrence tonight. Take him a kettle and he can mix it himself.’
5. A Little Unpleasantness
IT OCCURRED TO Mr Campion as he stumbled up the unfamiliar staircase that Miss Evadne Palinode, even when considered as a possible poisoner, went in for a strange assortment of evening beverages. He was bearing her a small tray on which were clustered a cup of chocolate-coloured patent milk food, one glass of hot water, a second of cold, a ramekin case filled with castor sugar or alternatively salt, a tot glass filled with something horrible resembling reconstituted egg, a tin marked ‘Epsom Salts’ with the ‘Epsom’ crossed out, and a small greasy bottle labelled unexpectedly, ‘Paraffin, Household’.
The interior of the house, what little he could see of it, was a surprise.
The staircase had been designed in pitch-pine by someone who was getting back to simplicity but not all at once, for at intervals a discreet bunch of hearts, or possibly spades, appeared fretted in the solid woodwork. The steps were uncarpeted. They wound up two floors, following the four sides of a square well, and were lit from above by one inadequate bulb hanging from a ceiling rose intended to sprout a candelabrum. Solid eight-foot doors arranged in pairs lined the walls of each landing.
Campion knew where he was going, since he had had his way explained to him in endless detail by all three of the excited souls downstairs.
Treading carefully, he approached the single window the first landing contained. He paused to glance out of it. The contours of the sprawling house stood out against the washed-in backcloth of the lamplit street, and as his glance rested on one promontory, nearer to him and more curiously shaped than the rest, part of it moved.
He stood quite still, his eyes growing slowly more accustomed to the light. A moment later a figure appeared almost on a level with him and very much nearer than he had expected, so that he guessed that there was some sort of platform – the roof of a bay window perhaps – directly below the window.
It was a woman on the roof. He caught a brief but clear glimpse of her as she passed through the shaft of light. His startled impression was of finery of some sort, a white hat with a mighty bow on it, and a bright scarf wrapped high round a small throat, Regency fashion. He did not see her face.
By holding his breath he could just hear her moving and he wondered what on earth she was doing. If she was burgling she was certainly taking her time about it. Campion was venturing a half-step closer when a piece of drapery passed once over the window. There was no repetition of this, but the rustling noises continued. Presently, after a long pause, the sash began to rise.
He took the only cover which presented itself and crouched down on the second step from the top, where, hugging his tray, he leaned close to the solid screen of the balustrade. The window moved silently and from where he knelt some feet below it he had a direct upward view of the widening aperture.
The first thing to appear was a pair of new shoes, very high-heeled. A small thin hand, not too clean, placed them gently on the window-ledge. The white hat followed and after that a flowered dress, folded carefully and tied up in a parcel with the scarf. Finally a rolled-up pair of stockings was set atop the pile.
Campion awaited the next development with interest. In his experience the reasons for which people entered houses by an upstairs window were as many and diverse as those for which they fall in love, but this was the first time he had known anybody to disrobe before doing so.
The owner of the garments appeared at last. A slender leg, now muffled in a thick drab stocking, came cautiously over the sill and with the silence of long practice a girl slid gently on to the landing. She was a queer dowdy figure, clad in an old-fashioned costume which the unenlightened might have miscalled ‘sensible’. A hastily donned skirt, grey and shapeless, hung limply from a narrow waist, and a dreadful cardigan in khaki wool half hid a tuckered saffron blouse which might just have been worn without actual offence by a woman four times her age and bulk. The black silk hair by which he recognized her was once more hanging in a straight bob. It was untidy and all but obscured her face.
Miss Clytie White again, changing on the roof this time. Rescuing his tray, Mr Campion rose to his feet.
‘Been on
the tiles?’ he inquired affably.
He had expected to startle her a little but was entirely unprepared for the effect of his sudden appearance. She froze where she was and a tremor ran through her as if she had been shot. There was something horrible about her arrested movement and he thought she was going to faint.
‘Look out,’ he said abruptly. ‘Put your head down. It’s all right, don’t worry.’
She caught her breath audibly and shot a nervous glance all round her at the closed doors. Her anxiety reached him and held him for an instant. She put her finger to her lips and then, snatching up the clothes, rolled them frantically into a large unwieldy bundle.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s terribly important, is it?’
She thrust the parcel behind the curtain and put her back against it before she faced him, her huge dark eyes looking steadily into his own.
‘It’s vital,’ she said briefly. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Campion became aware of her charm. Charlie Luke had indicated it. Clarrie too, now he came to think of it, had betrayed interest. It was certainly there, a shaft of animal magnetism like a searchlight held inexpertly by a child. It was strange, because she was not beautiful, at any rate in these appalling garments, but she was desperately alive and wholly feminine and her intelligence was obvious.
‘It’s hardly my affair, you know,’ he said, treating her as if she were older. ‘Won’t you consider it didn’t occur? I’ve met you on the stairs, that’s all.’
Her relief was so evident that he was reminded how young she was.
‘I’m taking this to Miss Evadne,’ he said. ‘She is on this floor, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. Uncle Lawrence is down there in the study, near the front door. That’s why –’ she broke off – ‘I didn’t care to disturb him,’ she said mendaciously. ‘You’re Miss Roper’s nephew, aren’t you? She told me you might be coming.’
She had a pretty voice, very clear, with a hint of pedantry in her enunciation which was not unpleasant, but at the moment it was unsteady and the nervousness was flattering and engaging.
At this point the white hat, which had been set on top of the incriminating bundle, lost its balance and rolled out from behind the curtain to lie at her feet. She snatched it up, caught him smiling, and blushed violently.
‘A charming hat,’ he said.
‘Oh, do you think so?’ She gave it one of the most pathetic glances he had ever seen. There was wistfulness there and a sort of awe shot through with honest doubt. ‘I wondered once or twice,’ she said. ‘On me, you know. People stared. One couldn’t help noticing it.’
‘It’s an adult hat,’ said Mr Campion, avoiding patronage by stressing his respect.
‘Yes,’ she said briskly. ‘Yes, it is. Perhaps that was it.’ She hesitated and he was aware of her impulse to tell him a great deal more about it, but at that moment somewhere in the house a door closed. It was a long way away, but the sound seemed to touch her like an enchantment. She faded and grew prim while he watched, and the white hat slid stealthily behind her back. They both listened.
It was Campion who spoke first.
‘I shan’t say anything,’ he insisted, wondering why he felt so certain that she needed such reassurance. ‘You can rely on me. I mean it.’
‘If you don’t I shall die,’ she said, and spoke so simply that she startled him. There was an enchanted princess fatality in the remark and no trace of histrionics. But there was force there too, a disquieting element.
While he was still looking at her she turned swiftly and, with grace unexpected in such an inexperienced young person, swept up the secret bundle and ran off on light feet down the landing, to vanish through one of the tall doorways.
Mr Campion gripped his tray and advanced on his objective. His interest in the Palinode family was becoming acute. He tapped on the centre door under the archway in the recess where the stairs began again. It was solid and well fitting, very reminiscent of the door of the headmaster’s study.
While he was listening for the summons from within it opened abruptly and he found himself looking into the worried eyes of a dapper little man of forty or so in a dark suit. He smiled a nervous salutation at Campion and stood aside.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Do come in. I’m just going. I’ll let myself out, Miss Palinode. Most good of you,’ he murmured to the newcomer, a remark which although civil was without explanation. He squeezed by as he spoke and went out, closing the door behind him, leaving the other man just inside the room standing on the mat.
Campion hesitated a moment, looking about him for the woman who had not replied. At first he thought there was no sign of her. He was in a rectangular room at least three times the size of a normal bedchamber. It had a lofty ceiling and three tall windows at the narrow end which faced him, but the general impression he received was of gloom. The furniture was vast and dark and so plentiful that there was scarcely room to move between it. He was aware of a canopied bed, far away to his right, and there was certainly a concert-grand piano between him and the windows, but the dominant note was of austerity. There were few hangings and no carpets save for a rug by the fireplace. The plain walls housed a few reproductions which, like those outside, were in sepia. There were three glazed bookcases, a library table, and at least one mighty double-sided pedestal desk upon whose cluttered surface stood the reading lamp which provided the only light in the room. No one sat beneath it, however, and he was still wondering where to set the tray when a voice comparatively close to him said distinctly: ‘Put it here.’
He caught sight of her at once and realized with a shock that he had mistaken her in the half light for a coloured blanket thrown over an armchair. She was a large flat woman in a long Paisley gown who wore a small dull red shawl over her head, while her face, Which was not very different in colour, was creased and mottled until it merged into the chair’s own rust-and-brown brocaded velvet.
She did not move at all. He had never seen any living thing, save a crocodile, quite so still. But her eyes, which now peered up into his own, were for all their smudgy whites bright and intelligent.
‘On this little table,’ she said, but she did not attempt to point it out to him or to draw it closer to her side. She had a clear authoritative voice, educated and brisk. He obeyed it at once.
The little table proved to be a very fine pie-crust affair on a slender three-footed leg, and its contents struck him as peculiar enough to remember although he thought little of it at the time. There was a squat bowl of everlasting flowers, very untidy and somewhat dusty, and two small apple-green glasses also containing tufts of these wiry blooms. Beside them was a plate with an inverted pudding-basin over it, and a small antique handleless cup holding a minute portion of strawberry jam. Everything was the least bit sticky.
She let him fiddle with this bric-à-brac and get the tray into position without helping him or speaking, and continued to sit watching him with friendly amused interest. He smiled himself as it seemed ungracious not to, and her observation took him by surprise.
Herdgroom, what gars thy pipes so loud?
Why bin thy looks so smicker and so proud?
Perdy, plain Piers, but this couth ill agree
With thilk bad fortune which aye thwarteth thee.
Mr Campion’s pale eyes flickered. Not that he minded being addressed as ‘Herdgroom’, or even ‘plain Piers’, although this last seemed a little unnecessary, but he happened to be fairly well up in George Peele at that moment, having been moved to read him only the evening before in search of the name which had been tantalizing him.
‘“That thwarteth me, Good Palinode, is fate,”’ he said, continuing the quotation as accurately as he could remember it. ‘“Y-born was Piers to be unfortunate.”’
‘Infortunate,’ she corrected him absently, but she was pleased if surprised and became at once not only more human but startlingly more feminine. She let the red shawl slide back to reveal a fine broad
head on which some sparse coils of grey hair were neatly pinned. ‘So you’re an actor?’ she said. ‘Of course. I ought to have known. Miss Roper has so many friends from the stage. But,’ she added with graceful ambiguity, ‘they’re not always the sort of actor I know best. My stage friends are more your own kind. Now tell me, out of a shop?’
She produced the piece of slang as if it were a Greek tag of which she was a trifle proud.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t acted for some considerable time,’ he began cautiously.
‘Never mind, we must see What we can do.’ She spoke without looking at him. Although remaining remarkably still in her chair she had fished out from down the side of it a small notepad covered with tiny and beautiful handwriting. ‘Ah,’ she went on, glancing at an inner page, ‘now let me see what you’ve brought me. A cup of Slepe Rite? Yes. The eggie? Yes. The hot water? Yes. The cold water? Yes. The salts, the sugar, and – ah, yes, the paraffin. Splendid. Now, tip the egg into the Slepe Rite – yes, go on, straight in, stir as you go, don’t spill it, I dislike a dirty saucer. Are you ready? Now.’
No one had spoken to Mr Campion with such authority since his infancy. He did what he was told and was mildly surprised to see his hand tremble. The chocolate beverage took on a dangerous hue and some nauseating flotsam appeared on its surface.
‘Now the sugar,’ commanded the elder Miss Palinode. ‘That’s quite right. Hand the cup to me and keep the spoon, for if you’ve mixed it rightly I shall not need it. Stand the spoon in the cold water, that’s what it’s for. Leave the tin where it is beside the hot water, and put the paraffin in the fireplace. That’s for my chilblains.’
‘Chilblains?’ he murmured. The weather was comparatively warm.
‘Chilblains the month after next,’ explained Miss Palinode placidly. ‘Proper treatment now will prevent chilblains in December. That’s very nicely done. I think I must ask you to my theatrical afternoon next Tuesday. You would like to come, of course.’
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