Margery Allingham's Mr Campion's Farewell

by Mike Ripley

  The first thing she would do – once she had avoided detection by Frau Berger and her thugs, clambered over the gate, found her way back to that bouncy Citroën and somehow got it started without keys – would be to search the streets of Gorbio for her heartless, cowardly husband and give him a good solid clout around the ears. But finding and clouting Runaway Rupert, drat him, would have to wait until she had escaped from the walled garden.

  ‘Perdita, darling! Up here, my love!’

  And there was the dratted Rupert, lying on his stomach on top of the wall, dangling two helping hands and arms as a lifeline.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Perdita hissed up at him.

  ‘Hiding under their van; they never looked there. Now I’m lying mostly on the roof of their van and I’d rather not be here when they drive off, so jump and grab my hands and I’ll pull you up.’

  Perdita took a deep breath and was about to say something cutting and possibly blasphemous, but suddenly thought that it could, along with the clouting, wait.

  ‘This won’t be dignified,’ she warned her husband and her eyes flashed like a tiger’s in the night. ‘Thank God I’m wearing sensible knickers!’

  She kicked off her yellow high heels, picked them up and jammed them in among the bay leaves, then rucked up the hem of her frock and stuffed it into her pants front and back. She took a three step run-up and leaped into the arms of her husband.

  Telex to: 8955509 SNTIG C

  For: Mr Albert Campion

  Much to report, though best done in person or by phone. However, highlights include:

  a) Strange goings-on chez Lady Redcar;

  b) Lady R’s companion Frau Ulla Berger certainly warrants further investigation;

  c) Lots of drama tonight around visit of removal men from England. From their accents, one is certainly from darkest East Anglia, the other spoke Dutch as well as English. Don’t know if that means anything;

  d) Removal van containing suspicious furniture now en route England, possibly Calais-Dover crossing. May be worth tipping off those in the know to look out for white Bedford van. Signage on side reads: Sherman & Sons, Garage & Repairs, Lindsay Carfax 293;

  e) Darling Perdita bet all remaining expenses money on Red 9 on the roulette wheel. Lost the lot. She says you also owe her a new pair of shoes.

  Awaiting instructions. Alternatively will hitch-hike home tomorrow.

  Rupert.

  Seventeen

  Detectives No Longer Required

  ‘Albert Campion, you are a barefaced liar!’

  Mr Campion removed the telephone receiver from his ear and held it at a safer distance.

  ‘Amanda, darling, I assure you I speak with an un-forked tongue and if my face is bare it is with shock at your staggering mistrust of me.’

  ‘I’m married to you, you fool; of course I mistrust you, it comes with the job description.’

  ‘But what, dearest Lady, have I done to ferment such mistrust?’

  ‘Repeat what you just told me when I asked if you were sure you were taking it easy,’ Amanda ordered down the line. ‘Go on: word for word, exactly what you said a minute ago.’

  ‘I said – as far as I can recall, for I wasn’t really listening to myself – that I had been involved in absolutely no jiggery-pokery or engaged in jinks high or low during my stay here in Cambridge.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then I think I said that I was doing nothing more than sitting snugly in the bowels of St Ignatius being fed and pampered by the staff so much I must have put on a stone in weight and that …’

  ‘There you are! Liar! You haven’t put on a troy ounce in weight since I first met you. Having less fat on you than a butcher’s pencil is possibly your most irritating feature. Now tell me honestly what you’ve been up to.’

  Mr Campion smiled into the telephone and suspected that, more than fifty miles away down the line, his wife was smiling too.

  ‘Nothing strenuous, please believe me, though I’m really quite mobile now and have a very fashionable stick which gives me the air of a boulevardier as I stroll down King’s Parade. I did search high and low for a swordstick, but none of the emporia in Cambridge seem to stock them any longer.’

  ‘Idiot! Get back to answering the question.’

  ‘Very well, light of my life, would you believe me if I told you that in the last few days I have been closeted with a mathematician, an archaeologist, several historians, a clutch of librarians, more bibliophiles than you could shake a sword stick at, two Professors of Law because I required at least sixteen different legal opinions on the law of copyright, a chemist and the odd local policeman? All our meetings were very amiable – apart from the archaeologist who was a sour young man – and all highly productive. And I’ve done all that without straying more than a quarter mile from the college kitchens, and the staff here really are trying to fatten me up. In fact, I think I hear Gildart approaching stealthily with afternoon tea, toast, crumpets and fairy cakes.’

  ‘Well good luck to them with that,’ said Amanda primly, ‘but what about our son and our beautiful daughter-in-law?’

  ‘Rupert and Perdita seem to have had a jolly enough time on the Riviera. They landed just after lunch and Rupert telephoned from the airport to fill me in.’

  ‘I know,’ said Amanda with a touch of menace, ‘I’ve spoken to Perdita and she told me all the exciting adventures they had playing detective on your behalf. I’m taking them out to dinner tonight to help them recover from their holiday. You, of course, will be paying.’

  ‘I insist upon it,’ said Mr Campion sincerely.

  ‘So you should, and over our expensive dinner I will inform the children that they must never again agree to do anything you suggest without asking my permission, which will naturally be denied.’

  ‘I say, Amanda, that’s a trifle harsh isn’t it? After all they’re jolly grown up now.’

  ‘Yes, Albert, but you’re not. I’m not suggesting you are ready for bingo and basket-weaving quite yet, but at your age you really must start to take things easy.’

  ‘At my age, darling, Winston Churchill was Prime Minister.’

  ‘And that might be a nice quiet job for you to consider in your retirement, my dear, because that’s we must talk about when you come home, and I do mean seriously. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Absolutely, my dearest, and you have my blessing to kill the fatted calf, or the fatted pig or the fatted chicken, or whatever we have in the larder, as I intend to be home the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Shall I drive up and collect you?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary but it is sweet of you to offer, my love.’

  ‘You’re not going back to Lindsay Carfax, are you? When you call me your ‘love’ you’re always hiding something from me.’

  Mr Campion smiled into the receiver again, comforted and proud that his wife knew him so well, but also glad she was not there to see the smile.

  ‘Only to pick up the Jaguar, my love, that’s all.’

  ‘You are sure that’s your only reason?’ his wife asked suspiciously. ‘You’re not likely to get shot again, are you?’

  ‘I certainly don’t intend to and I will have Eliza-Jane with me as a bodyguard. If there are any bullets flying about, I expect her to throw herself in front of them.’

  ‘Do not joke about things like that, Albert, and don’t you dare put my niece in harm’s way by stirring things up as you usually do.’

  ‘Stirring? Dearest, I thought I had made it clear. All snooping necessary has been done from the comfort of High Table here at Gnats or by the children down on the Riviera.’

  ‘So no more snooping around Lindsay Carfax?’

  ‘No further snooping necessary in Lindsay Carfax. Detectives no longer required there.’

  ‘Honest Injun?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else I need to know, or worry about?’

  ‘Nothing springs to mind, my dear.’


  ‘Then tell me one thing, darling: why do we owe Perdita a new pair of shoes?’

  It took Mr Campion far longer than was dignified to fit his long legs and his silver-topped cane into the well of the passenger seat of Eliza Jane’s sports car and his contortions were accompanied by involuntary grunts of pain and sighs of resignation.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Uncle?’ asked Eliza Jane as she slid, easily and decoratively, behind the steering wheel.

  ‘I’m fine, my dear. Any peculiar sounds you may hear are merely the creaking of my old bones.’ As he spoke, Mr Campion allowed himself a soft chuckle, which brought a quizzical stare from his driver as she reached for the ignition key.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Eliza, I’ve just reminded myself of something Rupert told me about old bones.’

  ‘Something medical, or just downright comical?’ Eliza Jane asked drily but politely.

  ‘Neither. Something ecumenical if anything, though there is a comic side to it.’

  ‘Are you sure you feel all right? No headaches or dizzy spells or anything?’ Eliza sounded genuinely concerned.

  ‘After several days being wined and dined in a Cambridge college, even one as humble as St Ignatius, a certain amount of headaches and dizziness are to be expected; in fact without them one would feel positively short-changed. When I referred to my old, aching bones, it put me in mind of ‘Old Bones’ Austin Bonus, the fabled vicar of Lindsay Carfax. You know who I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, everybody who lives in Lindsay knows the story of the mad vicar who disappeared with the Old Folks’ Christmas Fund and turned up nine days later claiming a miracle, or something like that. I forget the details and it all happened so long ago it’s almost ancient history. It was back in 1850s I think, or thereabouts.’

  ‘It was 1910, which is hardly ancient history, young lady,’ said Campion with mock severity. ‘I was at prep school and we were all jolly excited at the news of those magnificent men in their flying machines. Perhaps you’re right, though, it is history and I must be ancient.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t allow any wallowing in self-pity. You may be a man of distinguished years, but they seem to have been quite exciting ones.’ Eliza-Jane started the engine and pressed the accelerator until it growled throatily before selecting a gear. ‘After all, how many men half your age get picked up on the street by a fantastically attractive dolly bird in a sports car?’

  ‘You have a point,’ conceded Mr Campion. ‘I should just sit back and enjoy it.’

  In fact, he sat back in his seat rather more suddenly than he had expected as Eliza Jane released the handbrake and the car tore down Trinity Street much to the consternation of several Dons and cyclists too numerous to count. It was only when they were clear of Cambridge and he was amused, as he always was, to see the fingerpost signs pointing the way to the communities of Frog End and Six Mile Bottom, that he relaxed enough to request a briefing from his niece.

  ‘So what’s new in Lindsay Carfax?’

  ‘As usual, absolutely nothing,’ replied Eliza Jane, her eyes fixed (Campion was relieved to notice) on a severe upcoming bend in the road.

  ‘How disappointing. Has no one missed me?’

  ‘Oh I think your presence has been missed, for the place has been deathly quiet without you stirring things up.’

  ‘There I go again, stirring things up without knowing it. What stirring did I do this time?’

  ‘Well, you upset our rather tragic schoolmaster Lemmy Walker – though as he’s very highly strung, that’s not difficult to do; your very expensive car managed to get smashed up whilst safely parked and not even moving; and then you get yourself shot. Quite honestly, Lindsay hasn’t had so much free entertainment since a wayward barrage balloon floated over from Ipswich during the war and the entire population ran across the fields trying to catch one of the guy ropes. Lord knows what would have happened if anyone had; they might have been dragged across the border into Norfolk, which would have been terrible for them as none of them have passports!’

  ‘Now, now,’ cautioned Campion, ‘don’t be so disparaging of the good folk of Suffolk. They have, after all, taken you to their bosom.’

  ‘And speaking of bosoms,’ Eliza Jane pounced, ‘you were certainly missed by Clarissa. She’s been mooning around the place like a sick heifer, nagging away at poor Gus Marchant to drive her over to Cambridge to visit you in your sick bed.’

  ‘I am grateful that you defended my honour by dissuading her.’

  ‘Oh don’t thank me, thank Gus Marchant. He refused to drive her, saying ‘the poor fellow’s been shot – hasn’t he suffered enough?’ but not saying it when Clarissa was in range.’

  ‘Well at least somebody was thinking of me …’

  ‘I suspect a lot of us were. Ben – my Ben – was itching to go and crack a few heads to find out which idiot it was who loosed off at you on that shoot. Not that he needs much of an excuse to pick a fight with Simon Fuller; those two have been like cats in a bag ever since they first met, and he would have had a go at the Shermans, father and son, because he thinks they’re crooks. Fortunately the son, Clifford, the one built like King Kong, seems to have disappeared or at least he’s not been seen around Lindsay for a couple of days, which is just as well as he’s huge and would probably have massacred my Ben.’

  ‘Yes, he did strike me as the sort of chap one shouldn’t provoke. The junior Sherman, that is, not your Ben.’

  ‘Oh Ben’s got just as short a fuse as Clifford. They’re both hairy gorillas beating their chests in the jungle, but at least Ben tries to be civilised most of the time. Clifford, I am sure, is sub-human.’

  ‘That is not,’ said Campion seriously, ‘an expression I approve of. In fact, the last people I knew who used it all wore smart uniforms and shiny jackboots and some of us sub-humans had to do something about them.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Uncle,’ said Eliza-Jane contritely. ‘It’s just he’s uncouth and boorish – and I know Ben can be at times – but Clifford is a bully and a thug and probably a crook. It does run in the family, after all.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, young lady: an organised crime family here in the depths of rural Suffolk? This isn’t the East End you know.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting the Shermans are anything like those awful Kray twins who went to prison this year, but Sherman père, Dennis, has a reputation as a dodgy character and his father, Leonard, who died last year, was the worst of the bunch by all accounts.’

  ‘By all accounts?’ Campion asked quizzically.

  ‘Well according to the best gossip money, or at least a discount for cash on any sale item in The Medley, can buy in Lindsay Carfax. Sherman grand-père, the late Leonard, was the fat spider at the centre of quite a web of intrigue and blackmail when he was at the height of his powers.’

  ‘Blackmail? Isn’t that a bit strong, young lady? Draw it mild, draw it mild, as we used to say.’

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ conceded Eliza Jane, ‘but Leonard Sherman seemed to have a hold over a lot of people in the village and a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. He started off as a poacher and odd-job man around the village, specialising in helping out aged widows, and getting left a surprising number of valuables in their wills. Leonard did well enough out of that sordid little game to set his son up in the garage business.’

  She glanced across to catch the look of distaste on Campion’s face.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t murder them in their beds or anything, or at least I’ve not heard that suggested. He just frightened them into thinking they couldn’t manage without him. By all accounts – sorry about that – he had an entrée into every house in Lindsay, whether he was invited or not and always seemed to be around, offering to help, if there was bad news to be broken or a death in the family. It was a creepy sort of helpfulness which no one quite trusted but nobody had the courage to tell him to bugger off and mind his own business.’

  ‘Shades of Uriah Heap perhaps?’

  �
��Who?’ chirped Eliza Jane cheekily.

  Campion sighed loudly.

  ‘My dear, your education really needs to be brought to book, as well as your rather modern language.’

  ‘Cool it, Uncle, don’t have a heart attack,’ grinned the girl. ‘I was kidding. I know full well who Uriah Heap was – and that he was always ‘very ’umble’ but that’s not something one could ever say about Leonard Sherman, from what I hear, and certainly not to his son and grandson. That I can testify to, but if you want a character reference for the late Leonard Sherman, ask your number one fan Clarissa. She thought him a first-rate bad ’un and she was genuinely scared of him. She says that his funeral was a great relief for the whole village. Ben is convinced it was a Sherman – Dennis or Clifford – who shot you out at Long Tye Farm.’

  ‘Does your Ben have a theory as to why either one should do such a thing?’

  ‘Well Clifford might, just because he would think it was funny, but I don’t think Dennis would – not as long as your Jaguar was being repaired in his garage. I mean, that would be bad business, wouldn’t it, and with Dennis, business always comes first. I can’t see him taking a pot shot at you until your garage bill had been settled.’

  ‘So there’s one person who will be glad to see me back in Lindsay,’ said Mr Campion.

  ‘Two,’ corrected Eliza Jane. ‘Don’t forget Don the barman at The Woolpack. He has been so deprived of good gossip; he’s been pining at the moon for your return.’

  If he had been expecting bunting, a brass band, a token Morris dance and a welcoming committee with speeches from local worthies, then Mr Campion was disappointed (though he disguised it well) as Eliza-Jane’s sports car coasted down the deserted High Street of Lindsay Carfax and with a gentle squeak of brakes, halted at the door to her cottage.

  ‘Oh God, my secret admirer has been to call, again. I wonder what it is this time.’

  Mr Campion’s eyes followed the girl’s pointing finger and focussed on a polythene bag sitting on the doorstep.