by Mike Ripley
‘Well, I’m pretty sure it isn’t a poltergeist,’ said Mr Campion, ‘and it’s not subsidence. Subsidence doesn’t happen regularly on Thursday evenings, but man-made? Oh, yes, quite definitely.’
‘Is that you being enigmatic or just baffled?’ Perdita asked with a look of mock disapproval.
Mr Campion glanced up at her with his most beatific expression. ‘My dear, you should know by now that I am rarely enigmatic and almost always baffled. I would like to speak to Mr Exley again, in order to clarify my thoughts.’
‘He’ll be in the club tonight,’ said Roderick, drawing surprised looks from the two adults. ‘Always is, Friday night,’ the boy explained. ‘He has his tea with me and Mum and then goes across to the working men’s to collect union dues and pay out Christmas Club money, stuff like that, as it’s pay day.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Campion. ‘I’ll let you have your tea in peace and I’ll catch him in the club – if they’ll let me in, that is.’
‘You won’t have any trouble if you’re with Arthur Exley,’ said Roderick with confidence. ‘He even managed to get them to let Miss Browning in there.’
‘Mmmm … yes,’ murmured Mr Campion. ‘Mr Exley did strike me as having true Yorkshire Grit. I’m very glad he’s on our side.’
‘He is?’ Perdita said in a high-pitched squeak.
‘Of course he is. I would have thought that was obvious. Oh, by the way, have you seen the costume Hilda Browne will be wearing as Helen of Troy?’
‘No,’ said Perdita, momentarily confused by Campion changing the subject.
‘I have,’ said Mr Campion with a broad grin.
TWENTY-ONE
Pepper’s Ghost
All three Campions ate with the Armitages in the Lodge, along with the few boarders who were ‘full-timers’ due to their parents being abroad; the ‘part-timers’, who boarded during week days only, having already achieved their release. The headmaster attempted to cheer them up by pointing out that term would end the following week and Rupert by reminding them they were all expected to support the rugby team the next day in the away match against the old enemy, Queen Elizabeth’s, Wakefield. Perdita attempted to cheer herself up by reminding everyone that the following Saturday would be Speech Day and two unforgettable performances of Doctor Faustus – a matinee for visiting parents and an evening show for local friends of the school, if, she thought, the school still had friends after the matinee. Mr Campion, as a guest, scored highest in the cheering-up stakes by announcing that Christmas was coming and that he had already written to Santa twice, recorded delivery. It was, however, Celia Armitage who lit up the boys’ faces by serving, as it was Friday after all, fish and chips which she had personally fetched from Willy Elliff’s chip shop, each portion insulated by what seemed like an entire edition of the previous week’s Wakefield Express.
‘You must try these, Campion,’ urged Brigham Armitage. ‘A local delicacy and a treat for all concerned. They boys love ’em, the cook gets a night off and look, you even get a little wooden fork so there’s no washing up. Only drawback is that the car tends to smell a bit for a few days afterwards.’
‘They are truly delicious,’ said Campion, spearing a chip. ‘I believe the secret is in the fat they use for the frying.’
Mr Armitage, his mouth full, nodded in agreement. ‘You won’t get fish and chips like this down in London, I’ll bet.’
‘No, indeed,’ Mr Campion said graciously. ‘It was the sole reason I came here in advance of my wife, so I could indulge in the local cuisine. I’ve had black pudding for breakfast and am looking forward to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Sunday lunch. I also intend to make room for a Barnsley chop and possibly tripe at some point, and I intend to smuggle several Wensleydale cheeses about my person for the return trip down south.’
The headmaster gave Campion the sort of sideways glance in which headmasters specialize, unsure how seriously to take the older man. He decided, as headmasters often do unwisely, to opt for humour.
‘It had not occurred to me before,’ he said rather ponderously, ‘that there may be a business opportunity in sending food hampers from Yorkshire to the deprived south.’
‘What a splendid idea,’ said Campion, straight-faced. ‘I’m sure there will be a ready market. Fleet Street is almost entirely staffed by Yorkshiremen these days and I’m sure they’re missing their home comforts. Strangely, the longer they stay down south, the more Yorkshire they seem to become. Absence really must make the heart fonder.’
‘Yorkshire has that effect on her sons and daughters,’ said Mr Armitage.
‘Mostly her sons,’ observed his wife softly.
‘I understand you are seeing Arthur Exley at the club this evening,’ Armitage continued, and when Campion nodded, he said: ‘Then you will be treated to a taste of serious Yorkshire.’
Mr Campion had seen the scene in dozens of cowboy films but had never envisaged himself taking a role centre stage, and until now he had never really thought the scene remotely realistic. There were, of course, no swinging saloon bar half doors, but as he entered the Denby Ash Working Men’s Club and peered through rapidly misting spectacles at the patrons, the whole bar definitely went quiet, as if a central volume knob had been turned down.
It was not a total silence – several pins could have been dropped and not easily gone unnoticed – and there were none of the accompanying western sound effects: the metallic cocking of a revolver, the bell-like clang of a spittoon receiving a hole-in-one or the rasp of the bottle of some fiery spirit being slid the length of the bar counter. It was still possible to hear the clack of dominoes and the whine of an electric beer engine filling another foaming pint glass, but all conversation had stopped momentarily and dozens of pairs of eyes had narrowed on the well-dressed, elderly gentleman standing calmly in the doorway wiping the condensation from a pair of large, round tortoiseshell glasses with a handkerchief which could, as one voice murmured through the fug of tobacco smoke, ‘come in useful as a white flag’.
Mr Campion heard and for a moment seriously considered that anonymous suggestion, but then he replaced his spectacles, straightened his shoulders and marched through the maze of tables towards the bar with what army drill sergeants, possibly mis-remembering their Kipling, used to call ‘bags of swank’.
Gradually, as he passed them by, conversation returned to each table in a growing but indistinct rumble, giving Campion the feeling that he was wading through an ebb tide of faces, most of which were upturned to observe rather than welcome his progress. The faces were all male and in the main pink and freshly scrubbed and shaved. In years they ranged from early twenties to middle age, with no more than three or four of Campion’s vintage. The standard form of dress appeared to be a plain dark suit, shiny with wear but still pressed regularly, a collarless shirt and a thin wool or silk scarf worn as a cravat instead of a tie. Apart from one or two of the younger ones the men, some fifty to sixty in all, wore flat caps, which made Mr Campion wish he had left his fedora in the Jaguar. Without it, he cynically reassured himself, he would have fitted right in.
One of the flat-capped figures standing at the bar turned and offered the first words of welcome. ‘By heck, Mr Campion, this i’nt tha usual sort of club, I’ll bet!’
For a split second Campion was startled to hear that Arthur Exley’s Yorkshire accent had thickened considerably overnight, but then this was Exley’s constituency and he had to play to his electorate.
‘It certainly is not, Mr Exley,’ Campion replied loud and cheerful, ‘but I am told the beer here is considerably superior.’
‘Cheaper too, I’ll bet.’
A growling chuckle rippled across the room, even causing the darts players over by the glowing coal fire to pause briefly – very briefly – between throws and exchange nods of agreement.
‘In that case,’ said Campion, playing to the audience, ‘allow me to buy you a pint.’
Now there was another surge of supressed mirth – not
, this time, at Campion’s expense but rather at Exley’s.
‘I don’t drink, Mr Campion, at least not alcohol. I would not put an enemy in my mouth to steal my brains,’ said Exley.
‘That’s almost Othello if memory serves, another play which doesn’t end well. Still, you’ll join me in something whilst I sample the ale, won’t you?’
Exley indicated a wine glass half full of a greyish liquid on the bar. ‘I’ll take another Bitter Lemon from you.’
Campion felt a sense of disapproval in the hot, smoky air, which suggested that his fellow club members felt that Exley’s temperance was somehow letting the side down.
‘Certainly,’ said Campion, catching the eye of the barmaid, ‘and I’ll have a shandy made with your best bitter and Ben Shaw’s lemonade.’
He handed over a pound note and as their drinks arrived he moved in next to Exley so the two of them were shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar.
‘I hope I’m not embarrassing you by being here,’ Campion said, keeping his voice low, ‘but I need to pick your brains.’
‘No embarrassment on my part, Mr Campion. A bit of a surprise mind you; you wandering into the lion’s den.’
Campion turned his head and surveyed the drinkers, the darts players, the games of dominoes and the bent heads studying the racing pages of newspapers. ‘They don’t look very fierce lions.’
‘Don’t be fooled – some are barely house-trained. A posh toff from down south is like raw meat to them.’
‘I’m not really one for oppressing the downtrodden workers, you know,’ said Campion. ‘Really I’m not.’
‘I suppose you treat all your staff with respect, paying them a fair wage and a bonus at Christmas?’
‘My dear chap, I freed all my serfs years ago and I answer to only one feudal lord, or rather lady, and that is my wife. I have had a privileged upbringing, which I cannot and will not deny. My accent may sound ridiculously upper class to you but I assure you in some circles it is regarded as quite rough and ready.’
‘I find that hard to credit, Mr Campion.’
‘Please, call me Albert.’
‘’Rather not. Folks might think we’re friendly.’
Campion pursed his lips, conceding the point. ‘Are you sure I’m not embarrassing you, Mr Exley? You don’t mind being seen with me?’
‘Know your class enemy is my maxim, Mr Campion,’ Exley said, loud enough to make sure his constituents at the bar heard clearly.
‘Maxims are useful things,’ Campion said after a moment’s thought. ‘They were very useful machine guns, of course, back in the days of Empire, but I am also informed, by an old and distinguished friend of mine, that Maxim is also the name of a rather nourishing stout brewed in Sunderland.’
Exley eyed him suspiciously. ‘Mebbe I should be worried about being seen with you.’
Campion seemed to consider the point carefully. ‘On the whole, you may be right to be worried, though I assure you I am quite harmless, and I would dare to suggest that you had no qualms about being seen with Bertram Browne.’
‘Bertie Browne was a gentleman,’ said Exley sharply.
‘Then he clearly had the advantage over me,’ Campion replied. ‘All I can say is that I am a man, and I am generally thought of as being gentle. But I think Bertram Browne was that also, especially when it came to young Roderick Braithwaite.’
‘He treated the lad well, I’ll give him that. He was a very fair man.’ Exley’s voice suggested there was no room for dissent. ‘Took an interest in life down the pit; in the community, in us …’
He waved his glass in a small circular movement, indicating the clientele of the club.
‘It’s about Mr Browne’s interest in local mines that I wanted to talk to you and, I hope, enlist your aid as I think it will be invaluable.’
Exley looked politely curious. ‘You’re asking me for help?’
‘Just as Bertram Browne did, I believe. I would be very grateful if you would teach me what you taught him.’
Slowly, Arthur Exley turned until he was face-to-face with Mr Campion. Although not as tall, he was broader and more muscular and with his chest out and shoulders back, the two men, their eyes locked, assumed the pose of unevenly matched boxers at a weigh-in.
‘You fancy working down the pit then, Mr Campion?’ Exley’s voice was quizzical rather than sneering, but there was no doubt that the tone met with the approval of the men crowded at the bar, their ears pricked in anticipation of the bell to start round one. ‘It’s a mucky job, tha’ knows, that’ll take the shine off them fancy brogues you’re wearing. Pit work’s not a hobby for bored toffs with time on their hands.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Mr Exley.’ Campion’s eyes never wavered or blinked. ‘Working down a mine is a dirty and dangerous job, probably the most dangerous job in the world in a country not fighting a war, and I wouldn’t last two minutes at it. Even were I your age and not so ancient and decrepit, I would scream like a baby if sent down a mine. Going underground to hew coal takes more guts than I’ve ever had.’
Exley stared at Campion’s face for half a minute before he spoke, softly and deliberately. ‘Are you taking the mickey? No, I don’t believe you are.’ He paused and looked at Campion as if the older man had suddenly materialized in front of him. ‘Fair enough, then. How can I help you?’
Mr Campion stifled the urge to let out an obvious sigh of relief. ‘You took Bertie Browne up the Grange Ash muck stack, I believe.’
‘Yes, I did. He wanted to climb to the top for a bird’s-eye view of the village, he said.’
‘Was he looking for anything in particular?’
‘If he was he didn’t say. Got to the top and took out a compass, like he was taking a bearing. Seemed satisfied and we came down again.’
‘Would you take me up there?’
Exley’s eyes dipped to the floor. ‘You’ll need proper boots,’ he said, as if it was a regular request, ‘and you’d better leave that fancy hat behind or the wind’ll have it, but tomorrow’s Saturday, so we could go in the morning.’
‘That would be perfect. I promise to bring only the minimum number of Sherpas and my own ice pick.’
‘Bring what you like – just remember to do as I tell you. It’s not a playground up there. Men have got injured, even killed, on that stack.’ Exley lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Campion. ‘This is more than just sight-seeing, isn’t it?’
‘I hope so,’ Campion replied softly.
‘Right then, tomorrow morning, about ten o’clock? Meet you at the school?’
‘Excellent. It really is kind of …’ Campion broke off, conscious that the room had suddenly fallen silent again.
‘More bloody strangers,’ someone muttered as Chief Inspector Ramsden entered and strode across the bar.
‘Would you come with me, please, Mr Campion, I’ve a car outside,’ said the policeman in his best official voice.
‘Oh dear,’ said Campion, ‘it looks like I’ve been rumbled.’
‘Would you join us as well, Mr Exley? It shouldn’t take long.’
‘We appear to be partners in crime, Arthur,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘Shall we go quietly?’
Once outside on Oaker Hill, with collars turned up against a misty rain and flinching as coal trucks thundered up and down the road, the three men gathered in the lee of the police car parked behind Campion’s Jaguar.
‘I apologise, Mr Campion,’ said Ramsden, ‘but I’ve used you as a bit of a decoy. I needed a word with Arthur in private, not in front of his men.’
‘No need to apologise, my dear chap – at my age being a distraction is all I’m good for. Shall I be on my way, leave you to your confab?’
‘That’s not necessary, because I’ve got something I want you to take a look at in Ivy Neal’s caravan. Tell you what, you take Arthur in your car and follow my driver.’ Ramsden turned his head and squinted through the glare of the street lights. ‘There are too many twitching curtains around here.�
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‘Right-ho,’ said Campion. ‘Come on, Mr Exley, let me be your chauffeur for the evening.’
If Campion had expected a Marxist diatribe about bloated capitalists driving luxury limousines, he was disappointed. Arthur Exley settled himself in the Jaguar’s passenger seat as if in a favourite fireside armchair and pronounced it a ‘really comfy’ vehicle.
The police car pulled away and Campion followed it down the hill and into the car park in front of the Green Dragon from where Ramsden and his uniformed driver, both carrying powerful torches, lead the way across the road and on to the Common.
Mr Campion sniffed the air, picking up the scent of frying from Willy Elliff’s shop at the bottom of the hill, where the lights were on and customers were hurrying in and out.
‘They do fry a good piece of haddock there,’ said Campion. ‘Had some for my tea tonight. No wonder business is good and it must be a prime location when the Feast comes to town as well, so near the Common.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Ramsden, ploughing through the damp grass. ‘The preparation room of the chip shop, round the back, looks out directly on to Ivy’s caravan.’
‘Is that important?’ asked Campion, matching the policeman’s stride.
‘Adrian,’ said Exley without warning.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Adrian Elliff, the dopey son of Willy. Mr Ramsden has his eye on him, or at least I hope he has. He may be one of us but he’s a wrong ’un.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Campion, stopping dead in his tracks. ‘I know full well that I am on a piece of common ground in the middle of the West Riding on a dark and stormy night, but I have to say I am totally lost.’
Ramsden and Exley, realizing Campion was no longer in step, stopped and turned.
‘Go and get the ropes down, Lumley,’ Ramsden ordered the uniformed constable who strode off, his torch beam dancing in the dark.
The chief inspector pointed his own torch at the ground and the three men gathered around the pool of light.