Margery Allingham's Mr Campion's Farewell

by Mike Ripley

  ‘I wanted to scare you out of Lindsay because we had a shipment coming in,’ said Simon Fuller, meeting Campion’s eyes, ‘and you were the last person we wanted hanging round the village when that happened. Tommy and Clifford thought smashing your car up would work, but that was stupid because it just stranded you here.’

  His chin sank back down into his chest.

  ‘You’ve got Tommy Tucker to thank for me hanging around,’ said Campion. ‘If he hadn’t set a booby trap for Ben Judd which nobbled my niece, I would have happily seen the sights, bought a few postcards and driven off into the sunset, leaving local law and order to the Carders. They seem to have been taking care of that themselves for quite a few years now, although the fact that no one in Lindsay seemed remotely concerned about, or particularly interested in, dear Eliza’s accident made me suspect that it must have been an inside job, done by a Carder. Anyone else would surely have disappeared for nine days and had the fear of God put into them.’

  ‘Tommy was besotted with her,’ said Simon Fuller, ‘from the moment she arrived here. He still is. The fact that she fell for that boorish pig Ben Judd drove him mad.’

  Eliza Jane snorted quietly and whispered into her uncle’s ear. ‘I knew it would somehow be all my fault.’

  ‘It was Judd’s rather impetuous actions last night which rendered both you and Tommy Tucker hors de combat, leaving poor Clifford to unload the latest consignment alone once darkness fell,’ said Campion, ‘and it’s nicely ironic that the angry but innocent young artist is in police custody whilst our gang of drug dealers roam free, though I suspect not for long.’

  The younger Fuller nursed his plastered arm with his working one.

  ‘I knew it was a mistake to trust Clifford to do anything on his own,’ he said without emotion. ‘He’s not all there, you know, never was. Even as a kid, he was a bit slow on the uptake and all the other kids teased him at school until he got so big and strong that nobody dared. I had no idea – honestly – that he would give those students the LSD concentrate last summer. I didn’t think he even knew what it was.’

  ‘Clearly he did not know enough to dilute a fatal dose,’ said Campion but got no further as he was interrupted by Dennis Sherman hurrying out of the Hall and staring at the group on the steps in disbelief.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on? Where’s that ambulance?’ he demanded gesticulating wildly at the empty, moonlit High Street.

  ‘Calm down, Dennis,’ said Marchant. ‘Hereward rang 999. I’m sure they’re on their way.’

  Eliza Jane leaned into Campion and whispered, ‘So did I.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Campion hissed back out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Well I left a message for Inspector Bailey in Bury this afternoon before I drove out to pick you up and smuggle you back into Lindsay. Aunt Amanda suggested it. ‘Insurance’ she called it.’

  ‘She’s a wise woman,’ whispered Campion, ‘but never tell her I said that.’

  ‘I still want to know what the hell is going on,’ shouted Dennis Sherman. ‘Is this a town meeting or something?’

  ‘It looks more like a trial to me. An al fresco trial by moonlight, which sounds rather romantic. Why wasn’t I invited?’

  The gathering on the steps turned as one to identify the intrusive new voice, which was loud and slightly shrill, distinctly feminine and definitely lubricated with alcohol. Mrs Webster had emerged from the oaken heart of The Woolpack across the curve of the road. Her knee-length coat was open to reveal a far from knee-length skirt and a frothy white blouse. In one hand she held a lit cigarette and, rather precariously, a glass of red wine in the other.

  ‘Clarissa, my dear!’ said Gus Marchant, more with resignation than enthusiasm. ‘Do join us; we had no intention of excluding you and I suppose you really should know what is going on.’

  ‘I wish someone would tell me,’ muttered Dennis Sherman as Mrs Webster put one somewhat unsteady high heel in front of the other and stepped off the pavement.

  ‘Now we have a quorum,’ Campion said softly to Eliza Jane. ‘There are nine of us, if you count Clifford.’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ said the girl, ‘this is Carder business.’

  ‘Perhaps the final assembly of the Carders; keep an eye on Clarissa.’

  ‘So what am I missing?’ asked Mrs Webster taking a sip from her glass as if standing in the middle of the street at night drinking was her natural habitat. ‘And why is Albert holding a gun?’

  ‘Purely for decoration, I assure you,’ smiled Campion. ‘Perhaps Mr Marchant would prefer to chair this unofficial board meeting?’

  ‘No, no, Campion, you’re doing splendidly.’

  Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders. ‘If there are no objections then, I suppose I can play the Learned Clerk although that role properly belongs to Mr Spindler, I believe.’

  ‘Are the Carders on trial?’ Mrs Webster giggled. ‘Do I plead guilty now or will you cross-examine me, Albert? I do hope I get the third degree, though I’m not sure what that means.’

  ‘This is serious, Clarissa,’ Mr Spindler chided.

  ‘Oh pish, Hereward, you old killjoy.’

  ‘It really is a serious matter,’ said Marcus Fuller grasping Clarissa’s arm to steady her, ‘you should listen to Campion.’

  Mrs Webster shook off Fuller’s hand, thrust out her bosom and fluttered her eyelids at Campion.

  ‘I am all ears,’ she said coquettishly.

  Campion ignored her, just as he ignored the niece quivering at his side desperately trying to contain an outburst of laughter.

  ‘Mrs Webster does have a point. The Carders may well be on trial. Individual Carders certainly will be in due course: young Mr Tucker and the younger Mr Fuller will be charged with smuggling and purveying illegal substances, as will Clifford Sherman, who may also be charged with the manslaughter of Stephen Stotter and Martin Rees, the young archaeology students who found the starting handle which killed Johnnie Sirrah back in 1937.’

  ‘You can’t know that!’ Dennis Sherman blurted angrily.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Campion fixing him with a steely stare and speaking through gritted teeth, ‘not for sure, until Clifford told me down there in the tunnels.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Gus Marchant. ‘How could Clifford know that? He wasn’t born when Johnnie Sirrah died.’

  Of the group, only Campion registered Mrs Webster’s lower lip begin to wobble as she said ‘Johnnie’ quietly to herself.

  ‘No he was not,’ said Mr Campion, ‘but his father was a boy of, I suspect, eleven or twelve when he saw his father, Leonard, do the deed out at Saxon Mills. It was, from what I’ve heard, quite in character for Leonard Sherman, who was – and this is pure guesswork – quite a ruthless leader of the Carders.’

  ‘Things have changed a lot since Leonard’s day,’ said Marchant, his voice squirming in embarrassment.

  ‘Johnnie …’ breathed Mrs Webster again.

  ‘But not quickly enough,’ Campion continued. ‘You Carders continue to profit from your manipulation of Esther Wickham’s estate’ – he turned his head to glare at Hereward Spindler – ‘and above all from the fog of secrecy with which you surround Lindsay Carfax. Anyone who questions you is intimidated or shunned. Just ask Lemmy Walker or the Rev. Trump. You people were so obsessed with your secret rituals, your meagre tithes and rents which were little more than protection money, and the airs and graces you had given yourself that you never realised how corrupt you had become, despite the odd act of charity.’

  ‘Steady on, Campion,’ said Hereward Spindler.

  ‘I think that you, as a lawyer,’ Campion replied, ‘deserve the lion’s share of my opprobrium, though none of you are innocent. You are all guilty because not one of you said ‘Enough’ or ‘This has gone too far’, did you? I think it is time the Carders seriously considered their future; if the Carders have a future, that is.’

  There was a silence broken only by Mrs Webster, who dropped her cigarette on t
o the road and ground it out with the sole of her shoe and elaborate twists of quite a lot of shapely leg, before stepping up to Campion, close enough for him to inhale her perfume as it was wafted towards him by her fluttering eyelashes.

  ‘You can’t think I’m guilty of anything, can you?’ she said in a rich caramel voice.

  ‘Other than by association with the Carder ethos, it is possible you are a complete innocent,’ Campion admitted.

  ‘Oh, I’d never say that …’

  Mrs Webster smiled sweetly at Mr Campion, then at Gus Marchant and then at Marcus Fuller as she moved into the throng of bodies on the steps. Simon Fuller and Dennis Sherman she ignored. She and Eliza Jane exchanged a furtive glance and the younger woman took a step to the side to allow Mrs Webster to stand directly in front of Hereward Spindler.

  ‘You knew Johnnie Sirrah,’ she told the solicitor in a low and deliberate voice, ‘and I think you knew what happened to him. You and Leonard Sherman were thick as thieves, weren’t you?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with Johnnie’s death,’ said Spindler drawing himself up to his full height to tower over his accuser.

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t have the guts to do the deed – you haven’t got any guts, or marrow or blood in that stick you call a body – but evil old Leonard wouldn’t think twice before bashing somebody’s head in; somebody who was asking too many questions about your little Esther Wickham scam, for instance.’

  Eliza Jane clutched at Campion’s hand for reassurance and found her grip returned as Mrs Webster’s voice rose to a scream.

  ‘You knew what happened though, and you didn’t say a word. You knew, you desiccated old prune, you knew!’

  With a short-range jabbing motion of her left hand, Clarissa Webster hurled the contents of the wine glass she was holding at the solicitor’s shirt front where a dark stain instantly appeared as if he had been shot.

  Hereward Spindler reacted instinctively by bending at the neck to look down at his soaked chest. At that point he brought his face down well within range of Mrs Webster’s clenched right first which delivered a perfectly timed haymaker to his jaw.

  Spindler fell as if pole-axed, which he probably felt he had been, his body crumpling like a marionette after the strings had been cut.

  Mrs Webster kissed the knuckles of her fist and turned to Campion, all sweetness and light.

  ‘Not so innocent now, am I?’

  Twenty-Two

  Moonglow

  The ambulance arrived and its crew did brisk business whilst muttering that if Lindsay Carfax was going to call on their services every night, they might have to build the hospital nearer, the price of petrol being what it was. They grumbled under the weight of Clifford Sherman on a stretcher and asked aloud how he had got so drunk, what with the pubs not being shut yet. They were even more appalled that an ‘elderly gentleman of some standing in the community’ (for they recognised the supine Mr Spindler) could get himself into a fist fight resulting in several lost teeth and a bloody nose, no doubt whilst inebriated and in public! And him a solicitor, too!

  The police were hot on their heels, in three cars which had barrelled down the High Street with blue lamps flashing but thankfully no sirens, bells or whistles, which might – just might – have dragged some of the residents of Lindsay Carfax away from their television sets. As it was, not a curtain twitched and no door opened even a crack. When Carder business was being conducted out in the middle of the street, it was perhaps wiser to stay indoors.

  Chief Inspector Bill Bailey and a uniformed sergeant climbed out of the first car and two uniformed constables emerged from each of the other two. All six officers of the law approached the steps of the Carders’ Hall and surveyed the chaotic scene before them. Even the experienced Bailey seemed unsure of what the next move should be or who should make it.

  Mr Campion, his face, hair and torn clothes begrimed with dirt, and with a broken shotgun over his arm, did a sprightly tap-and-heel step towards the policemen and took command.

  Using a winning smile and short, precise sentences, he explained who was in need of medical help (Clifford Sherman and Hereward Spindler), who was in need of arrest (Clifford Sherman, again, Simon Fuller and, in absentia, Tommy Tucker), those from whom a statement really should be taken (just about everyone), who was in need of a shoulder to cry on and some strong coffee (Mrs Webster), and who was in desperate need of a good night’s sleep in his own bed (himself).

  Bill Bailey relieved Campion of the shotgun and after ordering his men to start taking names and addresses, drew him to the side of a police car for a more private briefing.

  ‘I don’t normally attend minor public disturbances with three cars and five men, you know,’ said the policeman, ‘but as you were involved, I was persuaded to make an exception. It looks as if I should have brought a couple of Black Marias as well.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ said Campion, ‘and ask for indulgence if my niece pestered you mercilessly, but she was only concerned for her frail and ancient uncle.’

  ‘It wasn’t just your niece, though she did pester supremely well on your behalf; hers was only one of several phone calls I’ve had today. That’s partly the reason I didn’t get here until whatever riot you managed to spark seems to have fizzled out.’

  ‘It was hardly a riot,’ Campion demurred.

  ‘More than three people gathered on the street at night under a full moon is either a riot or a witches’ coven in rural Suffolk in the opinion of some of our magistrates, and Lady Amanda warned me that if you were involved, I could rule out neither.’

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘Quite clearly she is, and someone I have no intention of letting down. She told me you were due home today and if that wasn’t going to be possible, I had to promise to put you up at my house or in a police cell until the morning and then escort you to London in irons.’

  ‘Ah, well, yes, perhaps I did promise something of the sort, but events in the Woolpack last night …’

  ‘The bar brawl,’ scolded Bailey.

  ‘… er, yes … that rather threw my timetable out of kilter, though it did work out well in the end.’

  ‘I’d hate to be around you when things go badly, Campion, but I have to admit you have quite a gang of guardian angels watching over you. Your niece, Lady Amanda – who even roped in the Chief Constable as the Fitton name still carries weight in Suffolk – and then there was Charlie Luke, who was on the phone as well, not to mention Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. In fact, I was at a meeting with them in Ipswich this afternoon, discussing certain aspects of the Dangerous Drugs Act when the phones started ringing. Customs at Dover had had a tip-off about a Bedford van, a van registered in Suffolk and a van, unless I’m much mistaken, very similar to that one parked up the street there by the Museum.’

  ‘The very same,’ Campion agreed, ‘though I’m afraid its illegal, contents are scattered over the secret passages under the Carders’ Hall. There should be enough sweepings to use as evidence though, not to mention poor Clifford Sherman.’

  ‘Young Clifford’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he? One of the ambulance chaps tells me he’s taken LSD through his eyes, for God’s sake. I didn’t know that was possible.’

  ‘A chemistry graduate in Cambridge told me that using an eye-dropper is a perfectly accepted way of getting a high, as he called it,’ said Campion seriously. ‘It was the most depressing thing I learned on my recent return to my Alma Mater.’

  Bill Bailey shook his head slowly.

  ‘What a world, eh?’

  ‘Not mine, any more,’ confessed Mr Campion.

  ‘And this was all Carder business?’

  ‘Let us say it was a bit of private enterprise by a few of the Carder mob, but I have a feeling that all Carder activity is about to be wound up and consigned to the history books.’

  ‘Not before time in my opinion,’ said the Chief Inspector.

  ‘It is a course of action worth considering in other ways too,’ sai
d Mr Campion thoughtfully.

  Gus Marchant had supplied the friendly shoulder needed by Clarissa Webster and from somewhere Eliza Jane had found a lacy square of handkerchief for her to dab delicately at her nose and eyes.

  ‘I’ve made a complete fool of myself, haven’t I?’ sobbed Mrs Webster.

  Marchant and Eliza Jane murmured ‘Not at all’ and ‘There, there’ in equal proportions.

  ‘And in public, too.’ The sob was in danger of becoming a wail.

  ‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mrs Webster,’ Campion reassured her as he reached the three figures seated on the Hall steps like naughty children.

  ‘Clarissa,’ said the woman corrected him with a sniff and a quick look up from under her fringe.

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Clarissa. You were, in a sense, among friends or at least Carders. No one here tonight has anything to gain by spreading gossip.’

  ‘Don at the Woolpack will have seen everything. He can see through walls, that man. He won’t be able to resist. Gossip is currency to him.’

  Eliza Jane nodded her head in silent agreement.

  ‘I doubt it. If Don saw you floor Hereward Spindler with that fantastic right hook of yours, then I think he’ll keep his peace. If he knows what’s good for him, of course. If he doesn’t, there’s always the threat that he could be the next Nine Days’ Wonder of Lindsay Carfax.’

  ‘There will be no more of that!’ snapped Gus Marchant rising to his feet and helping Mrs Webster to hers. ‘You’ve forced us to see the error of our ways, Campion. The Carders started off with good intentions to “contribute to the common area” but through time became corrupted and allowed awful things to happen to people. The Carders should be no more than a charitable trust – a real, open one for once – with trustees and auditors. Everything else, every racket, every bit of privilege, must stop. I know Marcus will go along with me and the Shermans and Spindler don’t really have a say in things as far as I’m concerned. If you’re with me Clarissa, that gives us a quorum, should anyone dispute matters.’