Mr Campion's Farewell

by Mike Ripley

  Mr Campion attempted to decipher the look Mrs Webster gave his niece, but quickly accepted defeat.

  ‘Would you ask Mr Tucker to join us, Don?’ he suggested and the barman, eager to please, disappeared as smoothly as a carnival conjurer’s trick.

  Moments later, a short, thin young man with long, greasy black hair and a face showing the scars of a losing battle with acne, entered and surveyed the assembled throng with a sneer and a swagger of bony shoulders inside a leather jacket far too big for his frame. Until, that is, he saw Eliza Jane on her bar stool and his expression softened to a simper as he sidled up to lean on the bar.

  ‘Ah, Mr Tucker, we haven’t met before,’ said Campion making no move to stand or even spare the younger man a second glance, ‘but I have seen you around and have heard quite a lot about you.’

  ‘If we are all assembled to your satisfaction, Albert,’ Clarissa Webster scolded, ‘would you mind awfully saying what you are clearly bursting to get off your mind so that we can enjoy the rest of our lives?’

  ‘Which I am sure you all will, once you have allowed me to indulge myself.’

  ‘Are you accusing us – singly or collectively – of something? I should remind you that I am a practising solicitor,’ said Hereward Spindler gravely.

  ‘He wouldn’t bloody dare!’ snapped Simon Fuller with venom.

  ‘Marcus, kindly ask your brother to button his lip,’ commanded Marchant, ‘so that Campion can crack on with whatever it is he’s got to say.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Campion politely. ‘Crack on I will. I do not intend to make any specific accusations, but I would like to give you a little lecture, so please pay attention, for there may be questions at the end.

  ‘First of all, I have to say that I came to Lindsay Carfax in a state of blissful ignorance. However, certain unfortunate incidents, involving potential danger to my niece and other members of my family, plus actual bodily harm to a valued motor car and to a sensitive area of my own person – which may not be valuable, but is valued – have led me to take an interest in the place. You might say an academic interest and I would like to share my new-found knowledge with you.’

  ‘He talks a lot, don’t he?’

  Several heads turned towards the bar where Tommy Tucker leaned as if auditioning for the role of ‘insolent motorcycle tearaway’ in a bad second feature. It was only an ice-cold glare from Eliza Jane which prevented further outbursts.

  ‘I was intrigued to hear of a secret sect called the Carders,’ Campion continued, ‘and even more intrigued to discover that it wasn’t all that secret. In fact, I discovered that I had been introduced to most of them. Now do tell me if I am wildly off the mark in any particular, but I am assuming that the current membership list of the Carders contains Mr Marchant, the two Fullers, my learned friend Mr Spindler, Mr Sherman, the charming Mrs Webster –’ (Here Campion allowed himself a smile and a nod in Clarissa’s direction) ‘– and Mr Tucker, who has now joined us. That makes seven, but there should be nine – that mystical number nine. So, in absentia, let me acknowledge Lady Prunella Redcar and the late Leonard Sherman, whose death last year left the Carders numbering eight, which is a lucky number in China, but not, it seems, in Suffolk.

  ‘You see, lady and gentlemen, it was your unsuccessful attempt to recruit Ben Judd to bring your numbers back to the traditional nine which made it all clear to these old and failing eyes. Ben was approached by virtue of the fact that his mother’s maiden name was Dyer. There was the link and the clue even I could not ignore. To be entitled to be a Carder, by history and tradition, one had to have a surname connected with the wool trade, from which the Carders drew their original power and wealth. A Dyer was, clearly, someone involved in the dyeing of woollen cloth. A Marchant, or Merchant, was someone who sold wool; a Sherman, or shear-man was someone who sheared sheep; Fullers, Spindlers and Websters – or Weavers – were all trades of the wool industry. As were Pinners, which I believe was Mrs Webster’s maiden name. Ironically, a ‘Walker’ as in Lemuel Walker is also a surname connected to the wool trade as in walking the sheep to market, but poor Lemuel was an outsider, his family was not from around here, as I believe they say in the more rural parts of America, or perhaps Norfolk.

  ‘For a while, I was stumped by Mr Tucker, or rather by his name, until I remembered that in Dutch, it would be spelled T-u-k-k-e-r which derives from the occupation of towel-maker, towels being made from wool and the wool trade in Breda in Holland having historic ties to the industry here in Suffolk. Indeed I am reliably informed that Breda and Ipswich were notorious centres of ‘owling’ at one time, though that may be a story for which the world is not quite ready. The point is that I believe Mr Tucker’s family to be of Dutch origin and that he himself actually speaks Dutch, Not bad, eh? Considering I have only just met him … but please don’t applaud just yet.

  ‘Lady Prunella Redcar’s status as a Carder took a bit more detective work. Not by me, I hasten to add, but some of the finest minds in Cambridge. Historically, the most important figure in the Carder hierarchy was the Abbot of Lindsay Carfax, who controlled the vast wealth represented by all the sheep the Abbey owned. When jolly old Henry VIII decided to call time on the Abbey, the wealth and property of the place devolved to a series of non-religious landowners, merchants and farmers. Whoever owned a piece of the old Abbey lands could, however, be appointed as one of the Nine Carders as a representative of the old Abbot. By the early nineteenth century, that privilege, even though it was by then an honorary position, had fallen to a certain Esther Wickham, spinster of this parish and, as it turned out, prolific novelist.’

  Campion paused, stretched his back and held up his copy of The Face of Diligence.

  ‘I am sure you all know this book, though you probably have not read it. I cannot blame you for that, as it is fairly dull and unimaginative stylistically, a bit like Thomas Hardy without the jokes, the gunfights and the cliff-hanger endings, but I digress.

  ‘Esther Wickham died without heirs and her property was acquired by the Redcar family around 1873. By default, they also acquired the right to Carder membership thanks to the Abbot of Lindsay connection, though I suspect that by then the Carder sect was pretty moribund and almost penniless. Lady Prunella, the last of the Redcars, sold the Prentice House to Mr Spindler here, which not only kept things in the Carder family, but also helped to finance her move to the south of France and a more leisurely life. However …’

  Campion paused for dramatic effect and held up the book again.

  ‘… the physical property of Esther Wickham was only part of her estate. Apart from the house, some good grazing land and probably a few sheep, Esther Wickham also left a considerable amount of intellectual property, if I might call it that, in her books and poems. Interestingly – my associates in Cambridge used the word ‘incredibly’ – Esther Wickham’s literary works have remained in print for more than one hundred years. Now I am not suggesting that we are talking about best-selling books on the scale of, say, Mrs Christie, who I believe is still quite popular, but nonetheless reissues of the Wickham canon over time would have provided a steady income for someone – someone not too worried about the law of copyright.’

  ‘Are you accusing me?’ Hereward Spindler intoned in his best undertaker voice.

  ‘I am accusing no one – individually. I believe the Carders, your predecessors that is, acted in concert and in the best secret society traditions. They kept quiet and discouraged anyone from asking questions, easing their consciences by doing the occasional charitable work for the good of ‘the common area’ as their ancient oath specified. And round about 1910 the Carders had something of a windfall with the Rev. Austin Bonus who not only provided them with a lump sum he was too ashamed to own up to publicly, but by pure chance he provided a wonderful piece of mythology.

  ‘The Rev Bonus’ nine-day trip to the flesh-pots of Monte Carlo was the beginning of the Lindsay Carfax ‘nine days’ wonder’ legend. Thereafter, anything which was to the
advantage of the Carders and which involved – I think the modern term is ‘putting the squeeze on’ – someone, took a magical nine days. Of course in reality it rarely did, but when the legend works better than the fact, here in the eastern marches, they stick to the legend. Most recently, of course, your schoolmaster Lemmy Walker was subjected to a bit of a going-over, partly I think because of his friendship with the students and hippies who invaded Lindsay Carfax last year and partly because he was looking for something. What? I have no idea. He certainly would not tell me, but his snooping was enough for the Carders to put the frighteners on him and to keep him out of public view for the regulation nine days.’

  Mr Campion looked at each of the expectant faces looking at him.

  ‘How am I doing so far?’ he asked his rapt audience. ‘Have I besmirched the good Carder name? Brought shame on Lindsay Carfax? Have I told you anything you did not know?’

  When his rhetorical questions were greeted with a rhetorical silence, he continued. ‘I thought not, but now perhaps I will. More than thirty years ago, when the world and I were much younger, there was a rather fatal nine days’ wonder here in Lindsay. A bright young chap called Johnnie Sirrah …’

  For the first time Campion was interrupted; by a loud gasp from Clarissa Webster.

  ‘… who disappeared for the statutory nine days before being found dead at the bottom of Saxon Mills quarry, with which I recently became personally familiar. A distinguished policeman of my acquaintance, Charles Luke by name, is convinced that Johnnie’s death was no accident yet could not come up with a motive, but I think I might have.

  ‘Among the many fascinating people I talked to in Cambridge was an ancient professor of history – as opposed to a professor of ancient history – who actually remembered the name Johnnie Sirrah. It appears that Mr Sirrah, who was something of a man of letters, had written several times to the University Library asking for information on the copyright position on the works of Esther Wickham and what the penalties were for unauthorised editions.

  ‘Was it possible that Johnnie Sirrah was getting close to uncovering a rather shady source of Carder income and so had to be taught the traditional nine-day lesson? Only something went badly wrong and Johnnie ended up with his neck broken. The question is was it broken before he went over the edge of that quarry?’

  ‘That is an outrageous suggestion,’ boomed Gus Marchant, ‘for which you have absolutely no proof !’

  ‘I may not be able to prove anything at this distance in time, but I am convinced in my mind that the murder weapon came to light last year.’

  ‘Pure fantasy!’ snapped Marcus Fuller.

  ‘The man’s talking utter tommy-rot. He’s either drunk or brain-damaged,’ his brother joined in.

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ shouted Mrs Webster, and she was instantly obeyed. ‘I want to hear this. Go on, Albert.’

  Mr Campion met Clarissa’s fixed stare but retained his neutral expression.

  ‘Do the names Stephen Stotter and Martin Rees mean anything to anyone?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gus Marchant gruffly, ‘we are neither ignorant nor heartless. Those were the two student boys who died here last summer.’

  ‘Indeed they were. They were archaeologists on a training dig in the ruins of Lindsay Abbey, or what’s left of it. They didn’t find anything of interest, at least not from Tudor times, but they turned up something odd with their metal detector: the starting handle from a Ford 7 dating from about 1935 rather than 1535. Now I am not saying that we could prove this was a murder weapon but if, as young Mr Fuller suggests, someone was ‘brain damaged’ out at Saxon Mills all those years ago, then it might be significant.’

  ‘Don’t put words into my mouth,’ snarled Simon Fuller, ‘I wasn’t born when Sirrah died.’

  ‘That seems a perfectly reasonable alibi to my non-legal mind and I repeat, I am not accusing any individual of anything.’

  ‘But you are accusing the Carders en masse of something,’ stated Hereward Spindler in a dry monotone.

  ‘Mostly of being secretive simply for the sake of secrecy. There are some secrets which do not deserve to be kept and some which have no right to be secret. And on that enigmatic note: here endeth the lesson. I have no more to say except ‘Good Night’, at least for the moment.’

  With the aid of his cane, Mr Campion levered himself to his feet as his audience watched him in open-mouthed silence, but only for a few seconds.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  ‘What intolerable behaviour!’

  ‘Bloody rude!’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m only following doctor’s orders,’ said Campion, rapping the top of his cane on a table in a call for order. ‘I am under instruction to exercise my recent injury by walking briskly for at least thirty minutes. As it is a fine, bright night, almost a full moon I believe, I will enjoy a final stroll around Lindsay Carfax before I take my leave of it tomorrow.’

  Campion slung his camera case over his shoulder and buttoned his jacket.

  ‘I am sure Don here is anxious to serve you all with the drinks you look as if you are in need of. If you are still here when I return from my stroll, I will join you for proper farewells, should you feel like giving them. If, however, I am waylaid by Carders lurking in a dark alley and do not return for a period of nine days, I will know I have struck a nerve.’

  Nineteen

  Humble Pie

  As soon as Mr Campion left the Woolpack he seemed, mysteriously, to be less in need of his cane as an aid to walking. If anything, his stride lengthened and his pace quickened as he took the right fork of the road running around the Carders’ Hall, passing the Prentice House and The Medley again and aimed himself down the deserted High Street like a confident boulevardier.

  Lindsay Carfax did not run to street-lighting, presumably on the grounds that it was unnecessary for the legitimate driving of sheep to market and a positive disadvantage to ‘owling’ activities. (Perhaps, Campion mused, it was something the Carders should consider as a project ‘for the common area’.) Bright moonlight served well enough, however, and Campion heard no sound of a mass exit from the Woolpack behind him and saw no sign of roadblock or ambush ahead. The night was clear and cool with more than a hint of autumn and the faint scent of burning coal from domestic fires. The population of Lindsay seemed content to remain indoors, behind drawn curtains, basking in the warm glow of flickering television sets.

  Down the slope, Campion crossed the road to the post office and village shop and then, with a final glance over his shoulder, he turned sharply left down the un-named side street which would take him to the converted barn where Ben Judd had his first-floor sleeping accommodation and his ground-floor studio.

  Keeping to the left hand edge of the street, which was little more than a thinly metalled track; Campion paused for a moment to observe Sherman’s Garage opposite. Although an outside light illuminated the forecourt and petrol pumps, the business was clearly closed and the place seemed deserted of all life save for the fact that someone had parked a dull white Bedford van with its rear doors snug up against the wooden doors of the garage’s workshop.

  ‘No, one thing at a time,’ Campion said aloud and concentrated on finding his way down the dark lane without stumbling into the ditch he knew was to his left.

  Sherman’s Garage, like Ben Judd’s studio-cum-flat, had started life as a weatherboard and brick barn. The third barn along the track had not been modernised as far as Campion knew and its silhouette loomed out of the moonlight to his left as the lights of Ben’s studio came into sight, for which Campion felt relieved. He knew that even though remarkably fit for a man of his age, he was not spry enough to go investigating old agricultural buildings in the dark. Was it not said that more people were killed in agricultural accidents than road accidents? The very thought reminded him of the soreness in his rump and thigh and convinced him that surviving one agricultu
ral accident per month was to be his limit.

  Ben Judd snatched open the door of his studio before Campion’s cane had rapped its third rap.

  ‘You made it. I’d almost given up on you,’ was his greeting.

  ‘So many have in the past,’ said Campion cheerfully. ‘Did you get Eliza Jane’s message about the torches?’

  ‘All present and correct,’ said Ben, leaving Campion in the doorway as he picked a duffel coat off the floor and put it on.

  ‘And the right tools? So that we can, as the police would say, go out equipped for burglary?’

  ‘I’ve even done a recce and all we need is a screwdriver. We can be in there in a jiffy, without having to blow the bloody doors off.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Mr Campion, ‘I was hoping for stealth and discretion rather than explosions and alarums.’

  Ben Judd handed him a long, heavy rubber cased torch, the double of the one he held and which, with a click of rubber button, he shone full into Campion’s face.

  ‘You’re a queer old stick, Campion, but I never had you down for a bit of breaking-and-entering.’

  ‘Oh, I assure you,’ Campion replied turning on his torch and holding it like a footlight to Judd’s face, ‘in my youth I was quite the recidivist, though always in a good cause I like to think. Shall we be about our shady business?’

  In unison they clicked off their torches and were at the wooden doors of the unconverted barn before they switched them on again even though, as far as Campion could tell, the only eyes likely to be trained on them in that moonlit lane were those of rodents or their predators.

  As Judd had reported, the doors were secured with a simple padlock and hasp and it was a matter of a minute for Ben to loosen and remove the four screws which held the hasp and ease the right hand door outwards, the padlock and hasp dangling from its metal hook on the left door.

  Using the torches together as the headlights of a car, they illuminated the dry, dusty interior, sweeping the beams over a seemingly random collection of old agricultural tools, empty fertilizer sacks, unidentifiable bits of machinery, oil drums, empty and crushed petrol cans, lengths of rusting chain and saw blades, thick piles of damp and curling copies of Farmer’s Weekly bound up with baling twine and any number of old tyres orphaned from their wheels. A blackened oak work bench complete with rusting vices stood against one wall and above it was fixed a tool rack displaying a fearsome arsenal of chisels, files, hand-saws and planes, all coated in cobwebs and a thick layer of rusty dust. Mr Campion suspected that the scene before them could be replicated in a thousand rural outbuildings in Suffolk, let alone the rest of the country.