Mr Campion's Fault

by Mike Ripley

  ‘You won’t find anything like that!’ she said haughtily. ‘Bertram did not have a private life.’

  That you knew about, Campion said to himself as he followed the woman upstairs, noting that Hilda Browne had ankles almost as thick as her skin.

  She showed him into a small room with a window which looked out over a small, neat back garden, a creosoted fence, another back garden and the identical window of the identical neighbouring house. It was not an inspiring view but that was exactly what one needed in a study and, judging from the books on the shelves there, Bertram Browne’s reading habits provided plenty of distractions.

  It was an eclectic library split evenly between literature and local history. There were Shakespeare, Marlowe and Webster texts in numerous editions and novels by Tolstoy, Hardy, Dickens, Waugh, Amis, Powell, John Braine and Stan Barstow. The remainder were titles which meant little to Campion, although he recognized some of the places they referred to and could not resist flicking through a slim commemorative volume bound in green leather: Denby Ash Brass Band 1838–1938, The First 100 Years.

  The desk in front of the window was likely to be a more fruitful hunting ground. It was covered with papers, contour maps of the local area, schematics of mineshafts and diagrams illustrating how coal seams were undercut or collapsed using explosive charges. There was clearly a pattern to it all but it required an engineer’s mind to see it. Campion’s brain, he felt, would be more engaged by the nine Anthony Powell volumes on the shelf and his soul more nourished by the Tolstoy.

  Two documents among the loose papers took his eye. One was an Ordnance Survey map of the Denby Ash area on which a circle and radiating lines, along with several question marks, had been drawn around the defunct Grange Ash colliery. The pencilled doodles could, of course, simply be doodles, but Campion thought it well worth getting a second opinion.

  The second document was in careful schoolboy ‘best handwriting’ on four pages of lined paper torn from an exercise book. Campion settled himself on the edge of the desk and read what transpired to be a naïve but very moving short story about a boy who lived in a haunted house. The ghost in residence was that of his dead father and whilst not violent, its presence was disruptive and upsetting to his mother, who had loved his father very much. Saving up his pocket money, the boy buys a spell from a local witch, guaranteed to rid the house of its ghost. The spell is a single magic word, but after much heart-searching, the boy decides not to utter it when the ghost appears. He does not banish the ghost because he knows his mother is not yet ready to say goodbye to it.

  Campion removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. He had no need to read the very last line, which gave the name of the young author.

  ‘It seems anyone can rent a garden shed and call it a chapel round here,’ Rupert observed.

  ‘It’s hardly a shed, darling,’ Perdita corrected, ‘probably a coach house. Literally, a house for a coach or rather a small buggy or trap, and it was built just as the motor car arrived. When it turned out it wasn’t suitable as a garage it was used for other purposes.’

  ‘Such as being a shed,’ her husband persisted.

  ‘Whatever it was, it’s now the Denby Gospel Mission.’

  ‘And it’s nothing to do with the Zion Reform Church?’

  It was a question which had no doubt been asked many times, with good reason. The Campions had walked up the overgrown driveway to the Zion United Reform Church, taking the long view of a grey brick building built in unconvincing neo-Classical style with a stone portico guarding a brass-studded oak door and leaded windows which, even that far set back from the road, were begrimed with coal dust. Perhaps its stark lines had once impressed the faithful Zion Reformers as they dutifully trudged up the drive, but now everything about it said that few trudged there any longer.

  In contrast, the smaller building to the left of the main building at least looked lived in, if not the obvious choice for a building to worship in – if only in groups of less than a dozen at a time.

  There was a maroon-coloured Austin A40 parked carelessly outside the Mission, partly obscuring the open doorway.

  ‘At least somebody’s home,’ said Rupert before calling out, ‘Hello there! Good Morning!’

  A figure appeared between the door and the rear of the car; a middle-aged man with thinning mousey hair and a darker Van Dyke beard putting a point on a pale and wan face which clearly did not belong to a sun-worshipper. Rupert was by now familiar with the bone white complexion of the miners of Denby Ash, though this one had clearly changed professions for the day. He wore a set of brown overalls and from the pockets protruded a pencil, a screwdriver, a folding wooden ruler and the triangular end of a set square. In one hand he held an old wooden box plane and, as he moved, sawdust and wood shavings drifted off him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rupert genially, ‘are we interrupting a bit of DIY?’

  ‘Our Lord was a carpenter,’ said the man, ‘and there can be no better example to follow in life, especially when you have to make-do-and-mend. What can I do for you good folk?’

  ‘It’s Mr Chubb, isn’t it? Our name is Campion – this is my wife Perdita. We’re both temporary teachers at Ash Grange School and we’d like to talk about one of our pupils who may have called on you recently.’

  The sallow-faced man shook his head as if weighed down by a great sadness. ‘They that sit in the gate speak against me and I am the song of drunkards.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Mr Chubb is, I think, quoting from Psalms,’ said Perdita, ‘about the dangers of listening to village gossips.’

  Robin Chubb gave her a thin smile, showing just enough teeth to suggest that a visit to the dentist was overdue.

  ‘More or less,’ he admitted. ‘It’ll be about Roderick Braithwaite. You’d better come inside.’

  The Campion jury may have been undecided on his proficiency as a preacher but there was little doubt from the evidence of the interior of his Mission that Mr Chubb was an excellent carpenter. It was not a large Mission, though neither Rupert nor Perdita had any real idea of the average size of Missions, with wooden benches still smelling of fresh pine to seat no more than eight in comfort, ten at a squeeze. There was a varnished wooden table where an altar would have been expected and on it, a foot-high Calvary crucifix on a stepped base in sombre dark oak.

  The Mission was essentially one room, but a portion of it had been clearly reserved for the preacher’s personal needs, an area delineated by what looked suspiciously like an old fire curtain from a theatre hung on a rail from the ceiling. Robin Chubb indicated that the Campions should ‘take a pew’ whilst he drew the curtain along its track, but not before his visitors had observed the outline of a sturdy pine bed.

  ‘Do you live here, Mr Chubb?’ Perdita asked.

  Chubb completed drawing the heavy red curtain then turned to face the Campions, his hands down by his sides, palms outwards.

  ‘No, I live in Cudworth but occasionally feel the need to rest between meetings. Spreading the fragrance of the knowledge of the Lord can be an exhausting business and I have several missions to visit on my little circuit. That’s enough of me; you’ll be wanting to know about Master Braithwaite and his exorcism, I suppose.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Perdita. ‘We are rather concerned for the boy.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Chubb, his pale, deep-set grey eyes never leaving her face. ‘He asked me if I could perform an exorcism to get rid of a poltergeist. I told him to go home and look after his mother and wait for things to sort themselves out.’

  ‘I think he came to you because he was worried about his mother,’ Perdita said, returning Chubb’s stare.

  ‘I’m sure he was, but if the mother was troubled she could have come here and been saved through prayer. Prayer is the only way to defeat real evil; I’ll have no truck with the magic tricks brigade where they spray incense like mustard gas. You can’t just p
ut on a show when you think you need one – you have to work hard at prayer. There’s plenty in this village, when they go to a church, can only think about getting home and putting the meat on.’

  ‘We have no opinion on the various brands of religious faith on offer in Denby Ash,’ said Perdita firmly, ‘or whether exorcisms work or cause more problems than they solve. We are only concerned about Roderick.’

  ‘I don’t rightly understand why,’ said Chubb. ‘I mean, you’re newcomers, aren’t you, from down south?’

  ‘We were told there were no secrets in Denby Ash,’ Perdita began lightly before turning serious, ‘but Roderick is a pupil at Ash Grange and he had already approached the school for help.’

  ‘Had he now?’ Chubb seemed surprised but so did Rupert, who wondered where his wife was steering the conversation.

  ‘Roderick confided in his English master, Mr Browne …’

  ‘The chap that got run over?’ Chubb’s grey piggy eyes flashed.

  ‘That’s right. We think he was trying to find ways to help Roderick, but then he had his accident. We don’t want the boy to think he has been abandoned.’

  Chubb raised his hand to chest height and made a tent with his fingertips. ‘It’s comforting to see you have such concern for the lad,’ he said, ‘but he’s young and probably going through a phase. I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Yet you told him the poltergeist would go away soon, didn’t you?

  ‘I could have. It’s a phase he’s goin’ through and phases pass, don’t they?’

  ‘Is it all right if I steal these, Miss Browne?’ Campion called out as he descended the stairs. ‘It’s a map of the area which is quite interesting and an essay from one of his pupils, which I can easily drop off at the school.’

  ‘I’m in here, Mr Campion.’

  Mr Campion followed the voice into the front room of the house and stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Hilda Browne kneeling before a full-sized mannequin, her mouth full of pins, the hem of a garment in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. She had pushed all the furniture in the room back to the walls to give her space. It had the effect of turning the room into a small amphitheatre with her posing as the defeated gladiator and the mannequin as the imperious victor.

  ‘May I borrow these?’ Campion held up the map and the essay. ‘I will make sure they are returned.’

  Hilda chewed on a pin and screwed up her eyes to focus on the papers. ‘Please take the map. It’s only clutter and you’d better let the Braithwaite boy have his stupid story back. I ask you, poltergeist and witches! And him supposed to be a star pupil. Hah! I never understood why he was such a favourite of Bertram’s. The boy’s addled. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ivy Neal didn’t put him up to it!’

  ‘Why would Ivy Neal do anything of the sort?’ said Campion severely.

  ‘Because she puts herself about as a white witch, a wise woman, the healer of the tribe, but some of us see through her.’

  Campion controlled his breathing and his temper. ‘Did you know her well?’ he asked, watching for a reaction to his use of the past tense, but none came.

  ‘I wouldn’t let anyone think I associated with the likes of Ivy Neal. She’s no better than the gypsies who come with the Feast every year.’

  Campion wondered if the woman had any idea what she looked like, speaking with those pins between her lips as if they were the points on the words she was spitting.

  ‘Mind you,’ she continued unabated, ‘I only spoke to her the once and then because I couldn’t really avoid it. I mean, she took me by surprise. I never expected to see her there and certainly not doing good works like I was.’

  ‘Where was this?’ Campion asked gently.

  ‘Wakefield Prison. Could have knocked me down with a feather when she turned up one afternoon and I asked her, straight out, “What are you doing here?” Bold as brass, she said, “Same as you.”’

  ‘And what were you doing – the two of you?’

  ‘Visiting. I’ve been a prisoner’s friend for years; it’s my charity work, bringing a bit of cheer to those miserable sinners. I had no idea Ivy Neal was doing good works as well.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Was this recently – when you ran into Ivy Neal, that is?’

  Hilda frowned, remembering, and her mouth turned upwards, the pins in it taking on the menace of a boar’s tusks. ‘Earlier this year, perhaps three months ago.’

  ‘It must be interesting and rewarding work,’ said Campion. ‘Do you visit anyone in particular?’

  ‘No. Any lost soul who needs comfort.’

  ‘I hope they appreciate your dedication,’ said Campion, and then, because he could not put it off any longer, he added, ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier: is there a happy event in the offing?’

  Hilda, still on her knees, followed his gaze to the mannequin towering above her and reacted as if she was seeing the garment she was working on for the first time.

  ‘What? This?’ She giggled girlishly. ‘This is my Helen costume for Doctor Faustus.’

  Fitted snugly over the mannequin was an ivory satin Empire wedding dress with a lace collar embedded with fake pearls and flared sleeves.

  To Mr Campion’s undiscerning and masculine eye, it was not a wedding dress which had seen active service, but that was a matter he had no wish to pursue.

  He made his excuses and almost ran for the safety of his car.

  It began to rain as Rupert and Perdita trudged back up Oaker Hill, but it did nothing to cool her temper.

  ‘What an awful man!’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Rupert.

  ‘All of them – well, the last two anyway. Cuthbertson-Twigg is senile and Chubb is … is just … weird.’

  Rupert put an arm around his wife’s damp shoulders. ‘Weird in what way?’

  ‘His accent, for one thing. Didn’t you notice it? He doesn’t sound like a local.’

  ‘Well, he’s not, is he? He said he came from Cudworth.’

  ‘Cudworth’s not that far away – it’s still in Yorkshire. It’s not like Cudworth is the home of lost causes.’

  ‘My father always said that was Oxford,’ grinned Rupert, then recoiled as Perdita shrugged off his arm.

  ‘Be serious. Chubb didn’t have a Yorkshire accent – well, not a proper one. It sort of came and went, like he only did it when he remembered to.’

  ‘That’s hardly a crime, darling. Not even terribly suspicious.’

  ‘I tell you what is suspicious,’ said Perdita, poking Rupert in the chest with a stiff finger. ‘Chubb didn’t once ask us about Ivy Neal. Everybody else did – everybody except Chubb. In a place that thrives on gossip, that’s suspicious.’

  TWENTY

  Love Lane

  For no good reason he could put a finger on, Mr Campion always expected prison governors to remind him of either a supercilious Greek master from his schooldays or the sarcastic sergeant-major who had instructed him in parachute jumping at Ringway during the war. Not once had his misgivings been justified, but he still lived in dread until he actually met Mr George Dennison, Governor of Her Majesty’s Prison Love Lane, Wakefield, and once again all his fears proved groundless.

  ‘Mr Campion, what a pleasure to greet you. We rarely get such distinguished visitors so highly vouched for and at such short notice.’ Governor Dennison greeted him with a smile and a handshake.

  ‘I do apologise for me popping up on your doorstep like a jack-in-the-box, Governor, and I am suitably embarrassed to have had to resort to pulling a few strings to get an interview with you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ Dennison waved away Campion’s apology. ‘It’s always a pleasure to get a personal phone call from Commander Luke at Scotland Yard. After all, he does provide us with a steady stream of customers.’

  Campion smiled. ‘He said he would give me a good reference, however much he might perjure himself. It was a rather sudden decision to try and visit you without notice, but I
was in the neighbourhood and couldn’t resist. I phoned Charlie Luke from a call box at the station just round the corner. Cost me a fortune in sixpences, but I was lucky and caught him between promotions. He said he would phone ahead on my behalf and clear the way for me.’

  ‘He did so very graciously, speaking very highly of you,’ said Dennison, smiling also, ‘and he told me to point out that while his request was to welcome you in, he left the matter of letting you out entirely to my discretion.’

  Now Campion laughed; not too nervously, he hoped.

  ‘Good old Charlie. He will have his little joke. He was joking, I take it? Good, well, I won’t take up too much of your time, Governor.’

  ‘Did you wish to inspect our facilities?’ Dennison offered.

  Campion had no desire to inconvenience the governor more than was necessary and the inmates not at all. From outside the grim sooty walls he had deduced that the establishment dated from the early part of Victoria’s reign when there had been a burst of new prison building as the traditional transportation of convicts went out of fashion, or perhaps because Australia was deemed full. The Love Lane site had probably been chosen by that eminent Victorian Joseph Jebb, a noted expert on prisons and, coincidentally like the late Bertram Browne, an officer of the Royal Engineers.

  ‘I require a few moments of your time, on a trivial matter,’ said Campion.

  ‘Then you had better come into my office after you’ve signed in.’

  Campion’s eyes twinkled behind the round lenses of his spectacles. ‘Can I take it that signing out will be as swift and painless?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Governor Dennison.

  Campion followed Mr Dennison up an echoing iron staircase and along a corridor, passing through two grilled doors which were unlocked by a prison officer with sound effects supplied by Hammer films. Once seated on opposite sides of the governor’s leather-topped desk and once tea had been provided in solid, plain white china cups of impressive capacity, Mr Campion got down to business.