Mr Campion's Fault

by Mike Ripley

  She had not been looking at Banville, but that was the sort of thing teachers said, wasn’t it?

  ‘Right then, chaps, well done so far. We’ll have another run-through tomorrow, last period, in the school hall, and Mr Exley will be joining us to get some idea of the timings for the music.’

  A low murmur rippled around the classroom.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Perdita, ‘but what’s the problem?’

  ‘My father says Arthur Exley is more of a devil than anything Faustus meets,’ said Banville with pugnacious glee.

  ‘You shut your mouth!’ snapped Roderick, rapping his walking stick on the floor and shooting a withering glance at his fellow pupil.

  ‘That’s enough!’ commanded Perdita. ‘We should count ourselves lucky to have the village band. Their playing will add hugely to the atmosphere and drama.’ Hopefully distracting the audience, she thought. ‘I won’t have any rudeness or discourtesy shown to Mr Exley, is that understood?’

  It appeared that Perdita had made her point and, as the school bell sounded, the boys trooped out in best order. Perdita tapped Roderick gently on the shoulder and indicated he should stay behind.

  ‘How’s the ankle? Are you going to be able to go through with the performance?’ she asked when they were alone.

  ‘I’ll manage, Miss, if I can use the cane.’

  ‘Absolutely. I think it adds to the character, makes you look rather distinguished and slightly sinister.’ She leaned her head towards the boy’s and lowered her voice. ‘Now tell me, what is Helen of Troy planning on wearing?’

  Of all the Campions in Denby Ash, Rupert had had the least stressful afternoon, supervising a game of touch rugby (thus avoiding broken bones and muddied kit) for the youngest, first-year boys. There had been no injuries and no tears and, even when complaining about his refereeing decisions, the boys had all called him ‘Mr Campion, sir’ so, all in all, he had counted the afternoon a success even if it had been a damp and chilly one. He had timed the end of the games period carefully so that the boys were showered and changed and back in the school before the end-of-the-day bell. He had made his by now regular offer to groundsman Rufus Harrop to help with the packing away of the corner flags and rugby balls and had, as he’d expected, been impolitely told that Mr Harrop was perfectly capable of managing without the help of a ‘new boy’. He made no second offer and, having changed muddy boots for shoes and assessed that his tracksuit was roughly presentable, he hurried to the school to check that Perdita had survived her rehearsal.

  At the entrance to the school he noticed that his father’s Jaguar had gone and a Triumph Herald was now parked on the spot it had occupied. The car looked vaguely familiar but he could not put a staff member’s face to it. All became clear as he entered the hallway, for there stood DCI Dennis Ramsden with a square, grey plastic case at his feet, deep in whispered conversation with none other than Arthur Exley. Two boys caught sharing a cigarette behind the cricket pavilion could not have looked guiltier to have been discovered thus.

  ‘Chief Inspector, Mr Exley,’ said Rupert, nodding to each then glancing around the empty hallway. ‘Is somebody seeing to you? Can I help at all?’

  ‘No need, Mr Campion,’ said the policeman. ‘I’m here to see Roderick Braithwaite.’

  Exley looked at Ramsden in surprise and said, ‘So am I.’

  ‘During rehearsals for Doctor Faustus I think my wife has first dibs on him but they should be out any second now. How’s Andrew, by the way?’

  ‘Really cut up that he’ll be missing the last game of the season,’ said Ramsden with a hint of pride, ‘and, of course, he’s missing his mates, but the doctor says he can come back to lessons next week.’

  ‘I’m sure that news delighted him,’ Rupert laughed, ‘if I remember what I was like at his age.’

  Ramsden smiled and gently kicked the box-like case with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘He wanted Roderick to have the loan of this. It’s his pride and joy.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a tape recorder. Got it for Christmas last year so he could record ‘Pick of the Pops’ off the radio. He said Roderick had a use for it tonight.’

  Arthur Exley reached down and picked up the clearly heavy case by its carrying handle. ‘I’ll carry it for him. I promised his mother I’d walk him home as it’s getting dark and the lad’s got his ankle to contend with.’

  Rupert made no comment but Exley took umbrage at the startled look he was being given by DCI Ramsden.

  ‘What? What’s wrong with me seeing the lad home?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ said Ramsden, oddly defensive for a policeman.

  ‘His mother’s worried about him after what happened the other night – only natural. And she couldn’t come herself as she’s baking.’

  ‘Now then, Arthur, nobody’s suggesting anything untoward.’

  ‘They’d better not be.’

  The uncomfortable trio were saved by the school bell and after the daily stampede of boys, complete with flying bags and scarves, Perdita and Roderick appeared in the hall.

  The boy made a beeline for Ramsden and the tape recorder.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ramsden. Thanks for bringing the recorder. Did Andrew put in a blank tape for me?’

  ‘He wiped one clean specially for you,’ said Ramsden. ‘Told me to tell you it was a Kenney Everett Show so it’d better be worth it.’

  ‘Lots of actors tape-record their lines to help learn them,’ said Perdita, clearly impressed. ‘I think that’s a jolly good idea.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not for the play, Miss Campion,’ said Roderick, his face flushed and his eyes wide. ‘I’m going to record our poltergeist tonight.’

  The four adults were temporarily struck dumb until Rupert said: ‘Do you think that’s … er … sensible, Roderick?’

  ‘Oh, it’s perfectly safe, as long as you know when to duck,’ said the boy cheerfully, ‘and Mum always packs away the breakable things on Thursdays. You can come and watch if you want. It would be good to have some witnesses to prove I’m not imagining things.’

  The boy looked at each of their faces in turn.

  ‘Honest, it would be really useful if you could. It usually comes around ten o’clock and Mum wouldn’t mind at all. If you’re interested that is.’

  ‘I know someone who would be very interested,’ said Rupert.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Noisy Ghost

  Ada Braithwaite tied the strings of a clean pinafore behind her back, smoothed down the front of the garment across her dress, consulted a small mirror on the mantelpiece to make sure her hair was in place and opened the back door to admit her four guests.

  ‘’Evening, Ada.’

  ‘Arthur. You’d best come in before you give the neighbours summat to gossip about, visiting this time of night.’

  Arthur Exley stepped inside the kitchen of Number 11 Oaker Hill, followed by Rupert and Perdita and then Mr Campion carrying two items wrapped in tissue paper. Once inside the four newcomers shuffled until they were standing around the small square kitchen table, Exley taking up position with his back to the glowing coal fire.

  ‘I do hope you’ll forgive this invasion, Mrs Braithwaite,’ said Campion, removing his hat, at which point Exley whipped the cap from his own head and held it behind his back. ‘My name is Albert Campion. I believe you have already met the other members of the Campion clan, my son and daughter-in-law.’

  Ada nodded her acknowledgement of the junior Campions.

  ‘Our Roderick said you’d be coming. He’s in his bedroom finishing his homework – he’ll be down in a minute. Let’s go through to the front room; might as well get comfortable until the trouble starts.’

  ‘I am impressed with the way you are handling all this, Mrs Braithwaite,’ said Campion. ‘From what I hear it must be quite a strain and having a house full of gawking strangers can’t possibly help. In fact, we feel so guilty about intruding that we have brought you small gifts, or bribes
if you prefer, which we hope you’ll accept.’

  Campion held out the tissue-wrapped packages and Ada took them nervously.

  ‘There was no need …’

  ‘Oh, please, it’s nothing much, but I did some rapid research on you courtesy of Celia Armitage. She told me you were a first-rate cook and always provided the school with their Christmas puddings. If my calculations are correct, your mixture will be coming up for a stirring sometime soon and I thought this would be a useful ingredient.’

  Ada unwrapped the smaller package to reveal a quarter bottle of brandy.

  ‘Very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop that somewhere safe so it won’t get broken when we have our visitation.’

  Mr Campion, admiring her phlegmatic approach to the expected ‘visitation’, handed over the second, rectangular parcel.

  ‘And Mrs Armitage is entirely to blame if she has given me a false steer, but it seems that your son did let it slip that you have something of a sweet tooth, so I hope these will satisfy it.’

  Ada tugged at the tissue paper and uncovered a pound box of Black Magic chocolates.

  ‘The cheeky little devil! These are Roderick’s favourites, though he only gets them at Christmas. I prefer Milk Tray.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Mr Campion, ‘I should have known the lady loves Milk Tray. That’s what the adverts say, isn’t it? Can I exchange them for you?’

  ‘No need for that – I’m sure they’ll find a good home. It was kind of you to bother. Now let’s go through and I’ll put the kettle on for some tea – or cocoa, if you prefer.’

  ‘Tea will be fine, thank you. Cocoa may well send me to sleep and I feel I might need my wits about me.’

  ‘Can I help at all, Mrs Braithwaite?’ Perdita asked.

  ‘No, you go and sit yourself down with the men, dear, and keep an eye on Roderick for me.’

  As they squeezed into the small front lounge, a room already bursting with a three-piece suite and a television on a lacquered coffee table, Rupert deliberately rubbed shoulders with Arthur Exley and whispered in his ear, ‘I hope you’ve made a note that the lady loves Milk Tray.’

  Exley said nothing but the look he gave Rupert suggested there might be more than one angry spirit visiting the house that night.

  Just before ten o’clock, Roderick took charge of proceedings by setting up Andrew’s Elizabethan reel-to-reel tape recorder on the kitchen table. He threaded the brown tape through the magnetic heads and wound it on to the receiving spool with a forefinger, then placed the black plastic microphone on a folded tea towel on a chair and plugged in the connecting wire. To test the mechanism, he held the ‘record’ knob with his left thumb and pushed the ‘play’ tab upwards, an operation which made Rupert think of a clutch-and-gearstick manoeuvre in a car. He did all this with his tongue protruding from between his teeth, his face a study of concentration which would have warmed the heart of any schoolteacher.

  ‘Testing, testing,’ said Roderick, then flicked the machine’s gear lever down and to the left to rewind. On ‘play’ again, his voice boomed out into the hushed room.

  ‘All systems go, it seems,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I take it we should try and restrain ourselves if something happens, should we? Or would you like us to add sound effects?’

  ‘I think a few screams and perhaps some swearing might add to the effect,’ said the boy calmly, avoiding the eyes of his mother.

  ‘There will be no swearing in this house,’ said Ada sternly.

  ‘You mind your mother, lad,’ said Arthur in support.

  ‘I am in your home, Mrs Braithwaite, therefore I will try to restrain myself,’ said Mr Campion. ‘But tell me, Roderick, to whom do you intend to play any recording?’

  ‘To the vicar and to Stan the Man and to the Methodist ministers and to the circuit ministers and even the preacher man.’

  ‘That’s quite a list,’ said Perdita gently.

  ‘And maybe one of them will believe me now and do us an exorcism.’

  ‘Now then, Roderick, we’ve talked about this and you know it’s all superstitious nonsense, that stuff,’ Exley said gently.

  ‘You think that, but it’ll make Mum feel better.’

  Ada clenched her hands in front of her and lowered her head, saying quietly, ‘We’ve got to try, Arthur.’

  ‘Let’s see if we get anything on tape, shall we?’ Campion intervened. ‘A few rattles and shakes and things going bump in the night ought to impress your vicar if we play them back loud enough. I’ve met him, though, and I think you might have more luck with one of the Methodists. Who is “Stan the Man”, by the way?’

  ‘Mr Huxtable,’ said Roderick.

  ‘The Rev. Stanley Huxtable,’ added Rupert, ‘who teaches physics at the school, an ex-army chaplain.’

  ‘I asked them all if they’d do an exorcism but none of them would. Stan said it wasn’t his parish or something. Mr Cuthbertson-Twigg didn’t seem to understand what I was asking and the Methodists weren’t keen because we’re not Methodists. Only Mr Chubb took me seriously and then said not to worry because the poltergeist would go away soon.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Who is this Chubb? I seem to have heard that name and quite recently.’

  ‘He’s a lay preacher or a circuit preacher or whatever they call them,’ Exley offered. ‘Turned up in the village a few months back breathing fire and brimstone, determined to set up the Mission, as he called it, and rented a place off the Zionists. Doubt if he has enough of a congregation to make up a cricket team.’

  ‘Now, Arthur, we all know your views on religion,’ said Ada.

  ‘Actually, I don’t,’ said Mr Campion, ‘as I only met Mr Exley on the way here this evening. We must have a chat sometime. I had an uncle who was a cleric. He used to say that when his congregation dropped down to three, he would cut his sermon short and make up a fourth at bridge. You asked all of them, Roderick, and then you asked Ivy Neal as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘She wouldn’t help either,’ the boy said angrily, ‘even though I offered to pay.’

  ‘You offered Ivy Neal money?’ his mother gasped, open-mouthed.

  ‘I believe it is traditional to cross a palm with silver now and then,’ said Campion lightly, ‘but Ivy’s powers, or perhaps I should say skills, don’t run to exorcisms and she has the sense not to pretend they do.’

  ‘It’s all superstitious rubbish, anyway,’ said Exley. ‘I don’t know why we’re even talking about such things. This isn’t the Dark Ages—’

  At that precise point a tremor ran through the house and the television set in the front room fell on to the floor with a crash which startled the entire company.

  Ada Braithwaite had, quite sensibly, taken precautions. Having a good idea of what was coming, she had moved virtually everything moveable to a lower level or a cushioned location. Even so, there was an impressive rattling of crockery and metal pans, a loud clatter as a set of fire irons toppled against a coal scuttle, the chairs and table shook and a solid-looking washing machine shuffled a good two inches across the stone floor to bang unceremoniously into the sink in the corner. The central light swung on its flex from the kitchen ceiling and snowflakes of emulsion paint floated down on to startled, upturned faces.

  Rupert’s hand found Perdita’s as if by osmosis and Arthur Exley stretched out an arm to comfort Ada, although its protection hung ignored as Mrs Braithwaite leaned forward instead to protect her son. Mr Campion, his hands gripping the back of a chair, felt the tremor shudder through his wrists and forearms and silently counted off the seconds.

  ‘Got it!’ yelled Roderick, snapping back the gear-lever control to stop the spools recording.

  ‘Nine seconds,’ Campion said to him. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘It varies, sir – anywhere between eight and twelve usually. Mr Browne asked about that several times. Must have thought it important, so I thought I’d make a recording even though Bertie’s not around any more …’

  The
boy’s voice trailed away, but Campion continued to address him as if the two of them were alone in the room.

  ‘You told Mr Browne all about your noisy ghost, did you?’

  ‘Yes, he was interested; he didn’t think I was being stupid or childish. He said he had some theories about it but he wanted to see a visitation for himself.’

  ‘Which he did, did he not?’

  Roderick nodded sadly. ‘Mum agreed eventually but she said I couldn’t be there, so I had to spend the night at the school with the boarders. I waited up for Mr Browne – he’d left his car up at the school – but he never came back. That was the night he had his accident.’

  ‘Now then, Roderick,’ said his mother, ‘I’ve told you umpteen times: you can’t go blaming yourself for that.’

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ Perdita added supportively. ‘Nobody thinks that, do they, Mr Exley?’

  ‘Nobody in their right minds,’ said Exley in a voice which did not allow for disagreement.

  ‘You said Mr Browne had a theory …?’ Mr Campion persisted gently.

  ‘So he said, but he wanted to see for himself. He didn’t tell me what his theory was, said he wouldn’t until he had some evidence. Then I never got to ask him.’

  There was a catch in the boy’s voice and Mr Campion moved on swiftly. ‘Well, we’ve got some evidence now, haven’t we? Could we play the tape back?’

  Roderick moved the gears on the recorder and they listened in rapt silence to the short symphony of disconnected sounds – tinklings, thumps, rattles and clatterings – all without any human intervention and in isolation of context, a strange mix of the domestic and the ethereal.

  ‘Pity we missed the television falling over,’ said Rupert. ‘That was quite dramatic.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s not all we missed,’ said Campion, ‘but our poltergeist wasn’t considerate enough to give us a precise arrival time. We should, however, acknowledge his presence in some formal way. Is your microphone still connected, Roderick? Then be so good as to take a witness statement from me.’