by Mike Ripley
‘I should think not,’ said Amanda resuming her judicial composure.
‘But I will have to return at some point.’
‘I do not see why.’ Amanda segued from judge into wife. ‘We can have the car picked up and Eliza Jane can see to any clothes and things you’ve left there. Don’t try and convince me you’re going back to ensure Eliza’s safety because she’s quite clearly capable of looking after herself; in fact she’s obviously far better at that than you are. And if you dare to even think that you want to go back just to prove you can’t be scared off, then I will give you something to be really scared of.’
‘I believe you implicitly, my dear, and believe me I do realise that I am getting too old for this game. In fact the idea of feet-up and slippers in a quiet snug somewhere cheating at cribbage with Lugg is quite appealing at times, though I draw the line at the two of us wrapped in tartan blankets in matching bath chairs on the seafront at Frinton.’
Amanda gave a theatrical shudder as if someone had walked over her grave.
‘Those are both quite disturbing images, Albert, but there’s a twinkle of old in your eye which tells me you’re not going to rest until you’ve solved this Carfax mystery.’
Mr Campion straightened his back against the pillows in a forlorn attempt at dignity.
‘I have a proposal,’ he began earnestly. ‘I will continue to investigate the mysterious and, frankly, very silly, goings-on in Lindsay Carfax whilst continuing my rest and recuperation here in the peace and tranquillity of dear old Cambridge. How’s that for a plea of mitigation?’
‘I’ll take it under advisement and with a large pinch of salt. You are proposing to investigate by remote control? By psychic power? By using a ouija-board? And all from between those crisp hospital sheets, whilst religiously obeying your doctor’s orders? I was born after you, Albert, but not yesterday.’
‘I am perfectly serious, dearest,’ said Campion, his face a picture of angelic innocence. ‘I am told the good doctors of Addenbrooke’s, having had their fun picking pellets out of me, are keen to see the back of me. In fact, I hear they could give me my marching orders tomorrow if I pass inspection at morning parade. I will beg, borrow or hire a fashionable walking cane to help keep my balance and perhaps use in my famous soft-shoe shuffle routine which has earned me a good living busking in front of Queen Victoria, The Prince Regent and …’
‘… many other well-known pubs,’ completed Lugg in a soft growl.
Mr Campion gently bowed his bandaged head in acknowledgement.
‘Thank you my friend in the one-and-nines; glad you’re paying attention as your services will be required.’
‘I thought you’d dismissed the idea of inflicting Lugg on Lindsay Carfax,’ said Amanda curtly.
‘Oh I have,’ said her husband. ‘Lugg’s usefulness lies here in Cambridge, not out on the front line in Suffolk. Whilst I remain here in comfort like some pampered Pasha, Lugg will tootle on down to Gnats where he will present my compliments to the Master and enquire within as to the availability of one of the college’s most excellent guest rooms for possibly its most distinguished alumnus.’
Lugg turned to Lady Amanda with an expression that suggested both puzzlement and indigestion. ‘Gnats? Is ’e going back to school then?’
‘I’d hardly call St Ignatius college a school,’ said Amanda, ‘it’s more a reformatory for naughty boys of good breeding and excellent manners, though few ideas. It is reputed to have an excellent wine cellar, however.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ smiled Lugg. ‘Where do I find this ’ere Master? I’m assuming he’s the big cheese, right?’
‘You are correct, old fruit. Cheeses don’t get any bigger or riper than when they are Masters of Cambridge colleges and some of them are quite blue as well. You’ll find the college just down the road, a mere hop and a skip for a man on a mission such as yourself. Go out of the hospital, turn right and stroll down Trumpington Street and up King’s Parade. Avert your eyes as you pass Peterhouse, for it is an old college which has not aged well. Ignore the siren call of Corpus Christi, for its pretty courtyards are natural traps for the unwary, and whatever you do, do not be fooled by the imposing facade that is King’s, for it is pure Hollywood and merely a large theatrical backdrop which could blow away in a high wind. By now you will be in Trinity Street and you’ll find the hallowed cloisters of St Ignatius on your right, just across the road from Trinity, which we all know has ideas well above its station, most of them decidedly left-wing. Trinity’s boast is that it has produced more Nobel Prize winners than France, whereas St Ignatius modestly claims fewer than Yorkshire. Is all that clear or should I draw you a map on the side of a bedpan? Students always find lots of inventive uses for bedpans.’
‘Albert, behave!’ commanded his wife. ‘Or I will have the doctors check you for brain damage again; and this time I’ll make sure they find some. Is that the extent of your grand plan? Holing up in your old college?’
‘Where better? For an investigation such as this, a detective needs massive brain power and huge research facilities. I possess neither; Cambridge has both. So you see, darling, I will do my adventuring from the safe groves of academe and facing nothing more dangerous than a poorly kept claret, but before I can embrace the life collegiate, I must ask you one vital question. It is a question on which the entire outcome of this affair could rest and which only you can answer.’
‘Oh, stow the amateur dramatics. What’s the big question?’
‘Did you bring your cheque book, dear?’ Mr Campion asked politely.
As his own cheque book and his wallet were still safely (he hoped) locked in his suitcase in an oak wardrobe big enough to double as a sentry-box in his room at the Woolpack in Lindsay Carfax, Campion admitted he was short of funds. Even the loose change he had carried in a trouser pocket – approximately six-and-ninepence he recalled – had been scattered over the slopes of the Saxon Mills quarry as he had bounced down them. Therefore he was throwing himself on the mercy of his beloved wife who would, because she was a charitable and caring soul, now take herself to the nearest bank before it closed and withdraw sufficient funds to provide him with a small war chest to cover his stay in Cambridge, and to purchase an emergency supply of socks, shirts and underwear (or ‘necessaries’ as he called them, loosely translating the Latin), one pair of casual, but smart, trousers and if possible a smart jacket which did not appear too casual.
Amanda had asked, a touch sourly, if he needed shoes to go with his new ensemble and Campion remembered that he had arrived at Addenbrooke’s on a stretcher, and the feet protruding from the blanket covering him had been encased in Wellington boots. Shoes were, therefore, a necessity.
‘Nothing too outlandish, mind, nothing too “trendy” if that’s the word,’ he had mused, ‘and though I’ve always had a fancy for a Cuban heel, sensible black brogues will do. Definitely not brown or the Dons might mistake me for an officer and gentleman.’
‘You’ll get what you’re given,’ threatened his wife. ‘Just be thankful I know all your sizes better than you do yourself. I am assuming that Cambridge has an Oxfam shop.’ And her husband had sighed loudly with deep affection.
Amanda consulted her watch, a twenty-year-old gold Breitling Chronomat which hung heavily on her dainty wrist but was supremely functional rather than decorative, and decided that if she was to catch the banks whilst they were still open, she would have to leave immediately. Kissing her husband briefly on the lips, leaving just enough of her perfume under his nose to keep him content, she strode purposefully from the room. Lugg levered himself from his chair to follow her but Campion signalled for him to stay, then winced as Lugg screeched his chair across the floor until it was next to the bed.
‘So, what’s the real score, then?’ said Lugg when the door had closed behind Amanda. ‘I know you won’t want to upset her Ladyship, but you can tell me.’
‘Tell you what, old fruit?’
‘Who it was who shot you?’
‘I have honestly no idea. Could have been any one of eight, though Gus Marchant, the chap whose shoot it was, was farthest away down the line so I doubt it was he. Four of the guns I’d never laid eyes on before, so I can’t see why they should hold a grudge against me.’
‘Were they all locals?’
‘I think so.’
‘And you’d been in this Lindsay Carfax for how long?’
‘Since Saturday.’
‘That’s plenty of time for you to upset people enough for them to take a pot-shot at you. I’ve known villages where they’ve lit the torches and sharpened their pitchforks before you’ve got out of the car.’
‘Oh, very droll; and they insist music hall is dead,’ said Campion suppressing a smile. ‘Now stop playing the fool and tell me what’s going on.’
‘What’s going on where? You don’t think it was me popped you, do yer? Gawd knows there’ve been times …’
‘Of course not …’
‘… lots of times. In fact, times beyond number …’
‘Oh do behave, or at least shut up. I want to know what you were doing at Love Lane police station with Charlie Luke.’
Campion’s eyes widened as he saw that solid old Lugg, impenetrable Lugg, was actually blushing as he concentrated his own gaze downwards to the bowler hat resting on his knees, as if daring it to move.
‘I was after a job,’ he said eventually.
‘With the police?’
‘Nah – not me!’ Lugg scoffed. ‘There was a position in one of the Worshipful Companies – the old London Guilds – and I was hoping Charlie would write me a reference. Coming from ’im I thought it might negate the need for anyone to look too closely into police records.’
‘Sound thinking, but I’m jolly aggrieved you didn’t come to me, old chum. I’m a dab hand at forging Charlie’s signature and I’m sure we could have invented a couple of dukes who would swear on paper that you’d been their loyal liegeman. You might even have saved their lives or numerous occasions. But seriously, Lugg, you should be retired and taking it easy at your age.’
‘My age? I’d remind you, there ain’t that much daylight between the two of us. It’s you who should be taking it easy; at least I haven’t been shot recently. I just thought that a bit of honest work, nothing too strenuous mind, would keep the brain and body ticking over and help me diddle the undertaker out of his profit for a few more years.’
‘A noble sentiment, I’m sure,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We should all try to make less work for the undertaker and I trust the position you were seeking was a dignified one, as befits a person of your … er … experience?’
‘Beadle,’ said Lugg enigmatically.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Beadle. The job going vacant was for Beadle in one of the Livery Companies. Very dignified, light duties, fur-collared robes to be supplied along with use of a tipstaff, must be prepared to say Grace and call for the loyal toast at official banquets. Bit of cleaning of silver involved and supervision of kitchen staff, but the role is mostly ceremonial, with hardly no heavy lifting.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ said Campion. ‘I don’t suppose the position is with the Worshipful Company of Carders, if there is such a thing, is it?’
‘What’s a Carder when it’s at home?’
‘That, old son, is a jolly good question.’
With a blissful disregard for official visiting hours or the peace and quiet usually insisted upon for convalescent patients, Mr Campion’s hospital room and the corridor which led to it saw more human traffic that afternoon than the Brighton road on a bank holiday. In addition to the nurses and doctors who had legitimate professional duties to perform, a stream of visitors did their best to disrupt the normally smooth-flowing current of hospital life causing the smiles on even the most placid of nurses to quiver and crack. Only when a blue-uniformed ward sister, who was unused to smiling, sternly demanded a right of way for a tea-trolley which was on a mission to provide succour and refreshment for those ‘who were entitled to be in the hospital’ did the courtiers at Mr Campion’s door look to their shoes and give way.
Lady Amanda, with the most right to be there also took up the most room, laden down as she was with parcels and bags, several announcing the fact that they had come from the emporia of Messrs. Ede & Ravenscroft (outfitters), Mr T.P. Coles (bespoke tailor) or Mr Joshua Taylor’s department store. Her niece Eliza Jane ran her a close second with a rainbow selection of brightly coloured bags indicating that her shopping expedition had been at the more modern and esoteric end of the retail spectrum.
Eliza Jane had returned to Addenbrooke’s once she judged she had done justice to her aunt’s (and her uncle’s, though unwittingly) line of credit, and almost simultaneously with the arrival of Ben Judd at the wheel of her tiny sports car. Once the amorous grapplings which are such a vital show of affection between young couples who have not seen each other for several hours were complete, and Eliza Jane had retrieved the parcels she had dropped during them, the necessary introductions were made to Amanda and then again to Lugg who had at the same moment returned from his errand to St Ignatius college.
Lugg, introduced as ‘an old family friend’, had accepted Judd’s proffered hand and returned its iron grip with neither effort nor emotion before announcing casually that there was ‘beat bobby’ out on Trumpington Street taking ‘an unoooshually close interest’ in an illegally parked sports car. As if to prove Lugg incapable of telling a lie, the said uniformed constable appeared helmet in hand, as if on cue in the already bustling corridor. The swing door had hardly swung behind him when it was pushed open again to admit a red-faced and tweed-suited Gus Marchant with, on his arm, Mrs Clarissa Webster wearing a snug, a very snug, ivory two-piece, dangerously steep white high heels and a fox fur clinging for dear life to her shoulders.
‘Judd! What are you doing here?’ said Marchant over the shoulder of the policeman.
‘I could ask the same, Marchant,’ riposted the bullish artist puffing out his chest. ‘Or perhaps we should ask how you have the nerve to show your face here?’
Before the confrontation of masculine forces could spit or splutter into flame, Amanda took command of the situation.
‘Gentlemen – boys – let me remind you before one of the very nice nurses has to that this is a hospital, and whilst we’re all here to see the same person I believe patients are allowed no more than one visitor at a time,’ she declaimed in a voice which brooked no opposition. ‘As it is my husband who has managed to get himself shot, I think by canon law, common law, custom and possibly even Magna Carta, I take precedence. I suggest therefore that you all retire to the Copper Kettle, where Mr Lugg here will treat you to tea and, if you are lucky, a bun. I can inform you all that my darling Albert is alive and almost back to full idiocy. For an updated health bulletin, please return here in an hour when you can mob the invalid to your heart’s content.’
Amanda paused to draw breath and gather her bags and parcels together, then remembered the policeman standing silently among them, flexing his legs gently at the knees.
‘Oh I’m sorry, officer, was there something you wanted?’
The constable, recognising authority when he heard it, cleared his throat nervously.
‘It’s about the red sports car parked outside, ma’m …’
‘That will be mine!’ said Eliza Jane chirpily, raising her hand as if in school.
‘I told you it was,’ Clarissa Webster said to Gus Marchant, ‘just as we pulled up behind it, I said “I know that sweet little car”, didn’t I?’
The constable, who might not have been regarded as detective material by his superiors, nonetheless recognised a confession when he heard one.
‘Then I suspect,’ he said with gravitas, ‘that there are now two vehicles illegally parked outside, seriously hindering access by ambulances to what is, after all, a hospital.’
‘We will move them immediately, officer,’ said Marchant with good-natured bluster, ‘and w
e apologise for any inconvenience caused.’
‘I’ll do my own apologising, Marchant,’ snarled Judd even as he realised he was being childish and Eliza Jane had reproached him with a playful cuff to his ear after which he added, humbly: ‘But I will move the damn car.’
‘That’s very kind of you two gentlemen,’ the constable admitted generously, ‘but before I accompany you outside, could I ask the lady what she meant when she said someone had been shot?’
‘A matter of overgrown schoolboys playing with popguns down on the farm,’ said Amanda confidently. ‘A case of stupid carelessness, that’s all.’
‘An “agricultural accident” according to the h’insurance company,’ Lugg added unhelpfully.
The constable did not look convinced.
‘What if my Inspector has a few questions about this shooting “accident”?’ he asked severely.
‘I am told the incident, which is really rather farcical, is being fully investigated by Chief Inspector Bailey of the Suffolk Constabulary,’ said Amanda sweetly.
‘Never heard of him, m’am. I’m Mid-Anglia Constabulary, not Suffolk.’
‘Well then, perhaps your Inspector would like to contact Superintendent Charles Luke of the Metropolitan CID, as he can certainly answer for my wayward husband.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him either,’ admitted the constable, ‘and I doubt my Inspector has. Is there anyone in Cambridge who can vouch for your husband?’
Amanda’s smile became even sweeter.
‘As a matter of fact, once he leaves the hospital he will be taking sanctuary with the Master of St Ignatius college, if that’s any help.’
The constable’s eyes widened.
‘Yes it is, ma’m, you should have said …’
‘So you have heard of the Master of St Ignatius’?’ Amanda could not resist.
‘Oh yes, ma’m, and so has my Inspector. In fact everyone – town and gown – has heard of him.’
Eleven
The Professor of Nines