Campion was sitting upright, incredulous distaste in his eyes. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Come round to my office tomorrow, and I’ll show them to you.”
“Why should she have them at her private address?”
“Now you’re asking,” said Yeo, “but it all fits in to a kind of a theory I’m getting to have about Chivers. I’m not much of a one for theories, as you know, but I rather think I’ve come across women like her before. She was one of those, cheerful, tell-you-everything-and-nothing kind, wasn’t she? That’s the kind that harbour grievances, get into emotional states and work out things that would make your hair curl, all behind those smiling faces of theirs.”
“You’re suggesting that she had a sublimated passion for Johnny, got no encouragement and wanted to hurt him, I suppose?” Mr. Campion put the question uneasily. He was remembering Miss Chivers, efficient and splendid at her desk such a terrifyingly short time before. Then she had been hinting of emotional under-currents said to dominate the life of the famous household. So far he had received no other evidence of them whatever. What if the tortuous depths she had referred to then had been her own?
“I don’t know about that.” Yeo was answering his question. “But that idea of the suicide and the wedding—that looks like it, doesn’t it? And then this keeping the letters the other woman wrote. That’s curious. She may even have engineered that, you know.”
“Engineered?” Mr. Campion was looking at the policeman with shocked respect.
“Yes, done the whole thing herself. Sent the other girl little presents making out they’d come from him—got a feeling of being boss out of it.” Yeo was faintly amused at Campion’s disapproval.
“You were laughing at me yesterday because I didn’t cotton on to one or two high-class ideas,” he said, “but I’m not unsophisticated when it comes to crime, you know. All this modern guff the blokes the troops call ‘trick cyclists’ hand out, that’s only barminess of a feminine kind, most of it. We’ve known about that for a long time. That’s about what this was. Something like that, I’ll bet my pension. It’s not nice and it makes a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, I dare say it might.” Campion spoke absently. He was uneasy; he had not forgotten Johnny Carados’s reaction to the gift of a rose and some Woolworth pearls.
“That’s about how Chivers got Mrs. Stavros to get into bed there,” Yeo went on unbearably. “Stuffed her up with a lot of tales, I’ll be bound. Nasty minds women have sometimes, you’d be surprised. I expect the Stavros woman was all excited by the publicity about the wedding, which is now off, I see. Well, they’re both dead, and the old girl down in the country is lucky she’s not with them. She’s a one by all accounts.”
“Miss Pork?” Campion came back to a happier world with relief. “Oh yes, you ought to see her, Yeo. She’s one for the memoirs.”
“So I understood.” Yeo’s smile was reminiscent. “I had a wonderful tale from Tovey. Holly won’t speak about her, she seems to have dazed him permanently. I thought I might nip down at the inquest. Do you realize who the Coroner is for those parts?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Mr. Campion was surprised. “I’m out of touch altogether, I thought it was a very small district.”
“So it is, and has need to be. It’s Montie Forster’s manor. Thank God travel is difficult or we’d have all the Press there.”
“Doctor Forster?” said Campion. “Wait a minute—it’s coming back vaguely. He’s a medical legal wallah, retired, or something, isn’t he?”
“Say an old publicity hound, and you’ll be nearer,” said Yeo with prejudice. “He knows a coroner is king of his own pub parlour, and trades on it. Thoroughly enjoys himself. There were always bits about him in the paper at one time.”
Campion got up. “That’s where I saw the name, then,” he said wearily. “It rang only a very faint bell. Well, thank you very much.”
Yeo peered at him. “You ought to get some kip,” he advised. “Have you been in bed at all since you came back?”
“No,” said Campion, “apparently the police don’t sleep.”
“It’s not the police, it’s London,” said Yeo with ferocious good humour. “We lost the habit. See you tomorrow.”
In the doorway Mr. Campion remembered something. “What about Lady Carados?” he enquired. “Is any action being taken there?”
Yeo stared past him, his round eyes deliberately vague.
“Eh?” he said. “Oh, her? No. As a matter of fact, we decided we’d pass her clean up. Your chap Lugg can thank his lucky stars for picking on a conferedate who’s a little too much of a good thing even for us. No, we don’t want her, it’s her boy we’re after.”
“Yes, I see,” said Mr. Campion, and went out again into the perfect night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HE SLEPT UNEASILY. The urge which drove him on did not lose its force despite his physical exhaustion. He was lying on the couch in the sitting-room, having avoided his bedroom since its associations were unfortunate, and he turned and twisted under the travelling rug which covered him. All the same he did not wake; his dreams led him into a fantastic world in which aeroplanes and letters and policemen chased him and themselves in headlong circles. Finally, after many nightmare journeys he became acutely aware of Eve Snow. She was sitting on the edge of the couch thrusting a paper at him, and he waved her away angrily with the other phantoms. She persisted, however, and her voice, squeaky and attractive as ever, reached him through the clouds.
“Albert! Albert! Do you know where Johnny is?”
Again and again he heard her, and at last he sat up, his eyelids peeling unwillingly apart. To his amazement she was a reality. It was morning, and the yellow London light was streaming in through windows which someone had unshrouded. It fell upon her pale face, and on the rough whiteness of her coat. At first he thought it must be raining, for her cheeks were wet. He collected himself and blinked at her.
“Hello,” he said.
“Albert, where’s Johnny?”
He sat thinking stupidly, and gradually the whole story flooded back into his mind, horrible as any nightmare, but far more coherent and convincing.
“Where is Johnny?” she repeated. “Do you know?”
He glanced out at the sky. It was still wonderfully clear, pale oyster through the smoke haze. His glance returned to her.
“How did you get in?”
“Lugg opened the door to me. He’s out there cooking breakfast. He says he made up your bed and you never slept in it. Albert, where is Johnny?”
She was a ghost of herself, a chic and tragic ghost, with smudged eyes and a wide mouth. “Where is he?” she repeated. “Don’t you know?”
“He’s gone back on the job,” he said with a cheerfulness which at that hour was unconvincing. “He had a call and went straight on from Chessing. Probably he didn’t have time to tell you. That’s where he is; at the ’drome.”
“At the ’drome?” she repeated. “But I didn’t think he was anywhere near a ’drome just now. Besides he was getting married yesterday, they wouldn’t have called him back yesterday. No one else has been recalled.”
In her anxiety, she was like a living manifestation of his own dread, and he almost snapped at her.
“Don’t be a silly girl,” he said. “It’s all right. He’s gone back to work. His glorious country has just sent out another of her erratic commands; anyone’s liable to get lassoed by red tape at any moment these days. He’ll turn up. Why the excitement?”
She sat looking out across the room. “I had a letter this morning, that’s all,” she said.
“A letter?” The chill which ran through him was familiar, it caught him in the chest and quickened his breath.
Eve turned towards him. Her face was blank for once and her movements were very slow. “It’s only a note.”
She laid a crumpled paper on the rug and he picked it up. There were only three lines, scribbled in a much more uneven script t
han had appeared in the letter to Susan and Don. Mr. Campion made out the words with difficulty.
“Darling, I’ll love you always—anywhere. God bless—Johnny.”
He hesitated. “It’s unusual, is it?”
“Very.” She met his eyes and her wide sophisticated mouth bent suddenly into an imitation of a smile. “We—didn’t have to. Even when he was going to marry that child I never doubted—I always knew. I—it’s gone on so long—it’s so sure. One was so settled, so . . . Oh, Albert, where the hell is he? What’s happened? What’s he doing?” Her face was wet again and she made no attempt to dry it. “Oh, God,” she said, “I am so frightened.”
Mr. Campion drew up his knees and looked round for his slippers and gown. “Look,” he commanded, “give me until tonight. I’ll ring you this evening. It’s a bet. Clear off now like a beloved angel, and I’ll get cracking.”
Eve bent forward and kissed him. “You’re a great comfort,” she said absurdly. “Maybe I’m being hysterical.”
“Maybe you are,” he agreed. “Very likely. Don’t worry anyway, I’ll ’phone. Eve?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t go round to Carados Square this morning.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going there.”
“I see.” Half-way across the room she looked back. “He’s been quite different these last few months,” she said, “did you know that?”
Campion regarded her helplessly. He felt he should be spared her evidence. “Frightened?” he said unwillingly. “Worried?”
“Oh, no. Not frightened.” Her pride in him made her a little amused. “No. Angry, I think. You don’t know Johnny, everything happens underneath with him. That’s why the note scared me. Do you see?”
“No,” he said honestly, “not as you do, naturally.”
She nodded. “You find him for me,” he said. “That’s all that matters in the world.”
She did not look back again and he heard her light footsteps dying away swiftly down the corridor. Presently the latch clicked faintly, and she was gone.
While he was in the bathroom, Lugg tapped at the door.
“Do you want to eat yer breakfast in the bedroom?” he enquired.
“No, of course not. Bung it on the table in the sitting-room. I’ll be in.”
There was a moment’s disapproving silence.
“Goin’ to eat where you slep’? That’s not quite the thing, is it, unless you ’ave it in bed?”
Campion opened the door. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Why are you here anyway? I thought you had gone down to Nidd.”
“No, I ain’t.’” Mr. Lugg was embarrassed. In his housecoat and slippers he looked more like himself; a little older perhaps, even more bald, and slightly less elephantine than in his glory, but still himself. “No, I’ve worked it out, see? If the bussies didn’t pinch me when they ’ad me, they don’t want me, and in that case I’d better get on wiv me war work. I go on me shift in a hower. I thought we’d ’ave a bite together first. I’ve got a tin of ’errings I’ve been saving up for this—you ain’t ’ad much of a welcome.”
Mr. Campion was touched. “I knew I was at home,” he said modestly.
“Wot? The corp? I know.” A shadow passed over the hillocks. “Are they pinchin’ that Marchioness of mine?”
“No, I don’t think they are. She didn’t do the job itself and they’ve got their hands full, so they’re not pressing the charge.”
Mr. Lugg’s small, black eyes widened as far as the folds around them would permit.
“I’m very glad to ’ear it, but it’s ’ardly right, is it?” he said virtuously. “Someone’s gettin’ theirs, I ’ope.”
Mr. Campion reassured him, but without enthusiasm.
It was mid morning when they parted in Carados Square. Mr. Lugg went off to await any heavy rescue which might be required of him, and Mr. Campion rang the bell at Number Three.
Gwenda Onyer opened the door to him and to his surprise welcomed him eagerly. She had been crying, he noticed, and her affectations had vanished leaving her a very transparent, worried little person inclined to fuss.
“There’s only Peter and me here, but do come up,” she said. “You haven’t seen Johnny anywhere, have you?”
He followed her into the hall and answered her question as he mounted the stairs behind her. She paused, and turned to face him.
“Oh, he’s gone back, has he?” she said. “How very extraordinary. But that is a relief. We didn’t know, you see. We thought . . .” She let the rest of the sentence die and hurried on into the big, first-floor room where, when he had seen it last, the whole household had been gathered.
“Peter, dear.” She spoke before she was well in the doorway. “Here’s Albert Campion. He says Johnny’s merely gone back.”
“Really? Is that so, Campion?” Onyer rose from behind the desk at which Miss Chivers had been used to sit. “I say I’m glad to hear it. I wondered what had happened to the old man, you know. What a hell of a business down at Chessing. You were there, weren’t you?”
He, too, looked much more human in adversity. His graceful elegance was still there, but it was windswept and his narrow eyes met Campion’s anxiously as soon as they were left alone.
“She went completely off her head, they say. That so?”
Mr. Campion nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Best thing, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” Onyer looked down at the desk where he had been sorting papers. “I am glad Johnny’s got back to work. This thing will knock him endways. He trusted those people. God knows why. You know they’ve arrested Gold?”
“I did hear.”
“Frightful.” Onyer passed his hand over his sleek head. “It will shake the old man more than anything. He insisted on assuming they were loyal; I told him he was making a mistake, but he wouldn’t have it. He just insisted they were all right simply because they were here. He liked them. He’s got such a capacity for liking, dear silly old ape.”
Campion’s heart sank. Here, he felt, was the last stone there was to turn and so far the evidence beneath it promised ill. “You personally didn’t like either of them?” he suggested.
“I didn’t know them,” said Onyer helplessly. “’Nobody did. They were in the circle but not of it, if you see what I mean. Johnny never saw that. He’s damned obstinate over that sort of thing—felt he understood them if we didn’t. Now there’s going to be the devil of a mess to clear up.” He glanced down at the desk. “I don’t know how long that girl’s been mad,” he said.
Campion began to wish he had not come, but he went on doggedly: “What’s she done, cooked the books?”
“Oh no. She only handled the social stuff.” Onyer sounded thankful. “No, it just looks like petty intrigue to me.” He seemed to make up his mind to a confidence. “What do you make of that?” he said. “It came this morning.”
Campion took the slip of notepaper from him and looked at it with interest. It bore the trade heading of a florist in St. James’s, and was addressed to Miss Chivers.
“Dear Madam,” he read.
“We have now completed the order entrusted to us in August, 1938:—
“One dozen of Lady Forteviot roses, together with five of the thirty-five pearls (cultured) entrusted to us have been delivered regularly on 2nd September in the years 1938, 1939, 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, to Mrs. Moppet Lewis, 12 Wayland Studios, Church Street, W., as per your instructions dated August 31st, 1938, and for which payment has been received.
“We shall be glad to hear whether you wish this order to be repeated.
“Yours, etc.”
Campion handed the slip of paper back in silence and Onyer threw it on the desk.
“Damn silly,” he said. “Alarming, too, isn’t it?”
“It is a little. Hence the poor view taken of the parcel which arrived the other morning, no doubt.”
Onyer sat up; his eyes widened. “The pearls and the roses,” he
said. “Good Lord, do you know that never occurred to me. Dolly Chivers sent it, I suppose. Reminding Johnny, and trying to implicate him. God, she was horribly nuts, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, rather horribly. But if it was a reminder you see . . . ?”
“Johnny must have known about it? Yes, I do see. Hell!”
Onyer put his hands on the arms of his chair as if he were about to rise, but changed his mind as a new thought occurred to him. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I know. That’s it. Yes, it was about then, about ’38, just before the war. Moppet’s brief appearance in our lives was just terminating. Johnny must have decided that the little party was over and have arranged to send her a string of beads and a box of flowers in lieu of a farewell lunch. That’s about it. That’s rather his technique. I’ll ask him. Yes, that’s about it. He left instructions with Dolly. She must have spun it out like this just to keep her paws on the woman. That’s what she was like; that’s typical of her. Small, ingenious, and somehow incredibly mucky. Do you know, Campion, it makes me sick to think of that sort of girl in connection with the old man, he’s so completely above it, it’s out of character.”
He had spoken more frankly than he had intended and a faint colour appeared in his smooth cheek. Mr. Campion met his eye. “That’s how I felt,” he said.
Onyer grimaced. “The old boy’s a hero,” he said awkwardly. “He doesn’t know it and can’t help it, but that’s his rôle, isn’t it? He’s just over life-size. That’s why it’s so bad when he gets taken in. One isn’t sorry for him, one blames him. One’s shocked. It’s a bit hard on him, but there it is. We’ve shoved him on a pedestal and he’s damned well got to stay there for all our sakes.”
Campion sat looking at his shoes. “If he got seriously involved in anything unpleasant, it would be awkward.”
“It would be a bloody tragedy,” said Onyer, “but that’s not possible—is it?”
The final question was put sharply and Campion looked up to find the narrow eyes watching him. “Or is it?” said Peter Onyer.
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