by Mike Ripley
The ambulance men claimed Tucker and the younger Fuller, insisting that they needed hospital treatment. Marcus Fuller demanded to accompany his brother and Dennis Sherman volunteered to accompany Tommy Tucker, offering to drive Fuller in the wake of the ambulance. Sergeant Jones said loudly and correctly that he hoped Mr Sherman had not been drinking over the limit, for their police car was equipped with a generous supply of the new breathalyser kits.
When the injured and the arrested had vacated the bar, Campion announced that he had had quite sufficient excitement for one evening and would walk Eliza Jane to her cottage before retiring. Don, who had produced a long-handled brush and was sweeping up broken glass, said that he would not lock up until Campion returned. Hereward Spindler straightened his jacket and, straight-backed, left without a word to anyone. Gus Marchant, his arm around Mrs Webster’s shoulders guided her to the door, giving Campion a brief nod of acknowledgement. Clarissa Webster turned more dramatically and stretched out an imploring hand towards Eliza Jane.
‘Try and forgive him, my dear,’ she said with a quiver in her voice, ‘the poor boy is totally besotted you know and love like that makes a man’s blood boil over.’
As Campion walked his niece down the High Street to her cottage, he was less generous in his assessment.
‘I am so, so sorry to have put you in that situation, Eliza. I had no idea Ben would go storming in there in the way he did.’
‘Don’t worry, Uncle dear, it’s not your fault that Ben can’t control himself. I knew he had a temper, I just didn’t realise it was so volcanic. For a moment I thought he was going to kill Tommy Tucker.’
‘It was a good job you slugged him then, but you should never have been put in that position.’
‘Nonsense,’ laughed the girl, ‘it was quite a liberating experience and the looks on their faces …! All those big tough Carders and me – the little dolly bird as they would say – the only one willing to stand up to the raging homicidal maniac.’
‘Your boyfriend the homicidal maniac,’ Campion pointed out.
‘Yes, well the jury’s out on that one for the moment. Still, I made sure none of the Carders left the Woolpack while you were up to no good. How did that go?’
They had halted in the moonlit street outside Eliza Jane’s cottage as she fumbled in her handbag for her keys.
‘Part One of the plan went … well, to plan,’ Campion began hesitantly, ‘in that we discovered how your phantom knocker-on-doors did the trick.’
‘And we’re sure it was Tommy, are we?’
‘As sure as we can be until he owns up to it, but I think he heard the two of you arguing and decided to teach Ben a lesson, so he strung his tripwire and rapped on the door using an extendable surveyor’s staff, something the archaeologists left behind last summer. It was all the proof Ben needed and when I stupidly let slip that you and he were in the Woolpack, he was off like a rocket and these old legs simply couldn’t keep up.’
Eliza Jane sensed the old man’s hesitation.
‘So what was Part Two of the plan?’
‘That was supposed to have been me making an ostentatious departure from Lindsay Carfax tomorrow and then Ben helping me sneak back under cover of darkness to clear up one last Carder mystery, but his rather foolish action this evening means he will be in custody and I will have to rethink.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said his niece, ‘I can drive and I’ve proved I can handle myself in a rough house. Look no further for a trusted sidekick, Uncle.’
Campion smiled with genuine affection.
‘I could not allow it, my dear. It could be unpleasant and possibly dangerous.’
‘Danger? There could be danger involved?’ Eliza Jane threw up her hands and feigned shocked horror; feigned it rather well. ‘In that case, you’ve got me whether you want me or not. I know you like to come across as a bit of an old fogey, Uncle, but since you turned up things have got quite interesting around here. If you’re going, I want to be there to make sure you go out with a bang.’
‘Preferably not too loud a bang,’ said Campion gently.
Twenty
Mole Run
Breakfast at the Woolpack the next morning was served with a determined air of ‘business as usual’ although the portions of Suffolk ham were more generous than normal and the waitresses pathetically grateful for the smallest morsel of gossip in return. Mr Campion maintained a cheerful but slightly aloof air, as if the broken furniture, the molehills of swept-up smashed glass and the spongy carpets underfoot were all part of the standard fittings and fitments.
His bag packed, he presented himself at the Regency drum table in the entrance lobby, which served as a reception desk for the inn. To his surprise, it was Don wearing a large green apron, who appeared to relieve him of his room key. The barman explained that he had volunteered for extra duty to help ‘clear up the fracas’ of the night before, but Campion suspected that Don simply did not want to miss any new developments. Information is always valuable, but in a Lindsay Carfax it is sometimes priceless.
There was, of course, no bill to be settled as Mr Marchant had taken care of all that and Mr Campion would also be pleased to know that Dennis Sherman had delivered his fully-repaired Jaguar to the inn’s car park first thing that morning so that Mr Campion would not have the bother of walking to the garage to collect it. Naturally, the cost of all repairs had been covered by Mr Marchant.
Campion expressed his gratitude to the citizens of Lindsay Carfax in fulsome prose bordering on the gushing, which Don could and would quote in the winter evenings ahead. To cement Don’s impression of him as ‘a real gent’ he produced a £5 note from his wallet, which he palmed to him during their final handshake. A tip, Don said, was absolutely unnecessary but the note disappeared into his apron pocket with alacrity.
Reunited with his car, Campion examined the repaired bodywork with grudging admiration then locked his bag in the boot, along with one of Ben Judd’s torches which he had borrowed when walking Eliza Jane home and had ‘forgotten’ to return. Then, in full tourist mode, he did a final leisurely promenade around the sights of Lindsay Carfax, choosing the clockwise route around the Carders’ Hall for a final view of the Humble Museum, the church and the pond before taking a deep breath and crossing the road to The Medley.
Despite the alarms and excursions of the previous night Mrs Webster was open for business and Mr Campion was welcomed like a warrior lover home from a long war far away. But this Penelope seemed more interested in seeing Odysseus’ cheque book rather than Odysseus himself.
‘Albert my dear, I knew you’d call in before you left,’ she gushed, planting a wet kiss on each side of his face with enthusiasm if not accuracy.
‘I thought I should take a proper farewell,’ said Campion, glad that no one was present to see his blushes, ‘so as not to leave the village on last night’s unpleasantness.’
‘And to collect your paintings, of course,’ said Clarissa, the businesswoman in her winning out over the flirt.
‘My paintings?’ Campion asked vaguely.
‘By Eliza Jane, of course. You asked me to put a pair aside, but I couldn’t make my mind up, so I’ve selected three. They’re all packed and wrapped in the back room for you. They are all, shall we say, Constable-esque in execution – one of the church and the village pond, one of Carders’ Hall and one of the High Street – and I am sure that family sentiment will make allowances for any artistic failings.’
Mr Campion knew when to submit to moral blackmail and produced his cheque book with a sigh. When a price – with which he dare not disagree – had been suggested, he began to write but then paused as if inspiration had struck. Rather than take the pictures now, would it be possible to have them sent (an extra £10 covering the cost of delivery) to St Ignatius College in Cambridge, marked for the attention of Mr Gildart?
It would, of course, be perfectly possible and Mrs Webster even agreed to Campion’s request that Eliza Jane never be told the identity of
the purchaser. Even though Clarissa Webster insisted on sealing their bargain with another damp peck on the cheek as he left the shop, Mr Campion had the distinct feeling that he had somehow got off lightly.
He strolled by the Prentice House and made a point of staring through the windows into the Victorian parlour interior only to discover its guardian Mrs Thornton staring back at him. He gave her a cheery wave which she did not return.
Outside the front of the Carders’ Hall, Campion stood in the middle of the High Street and took a handful of photographs of its ornate façade despite the hooting of car horns and the ringing of bicycle bells telling him to get out of the road. As he framed a final shot of the steps the hall’s frontage, the viewfinder of his Olympus Trip filled with figures all peering down the lens at the photographer.
Campion dropped the camera from his face and raised a hand to the full size figures of Messrs Marchant, Fuller and Spindler standing on the steps of the hall, framed by its open oaken doors. A trio of Carders, he thought, and none of them seemingly pleased to see him. They might, however, be pleased to see him go.
‘Gentlemen, good morning to you,’ Campion called out cheerfully, regretting he was not wearing a hat, for he would have raised it to them, ‘just taking a few snapshots to remind me of dear old Lindsay. Sorry if I’m diddling you out of commission on the official postcard trade.’
He raised his camera quickly and snapped a shot of them before they could object.
‘I was hoping to be able to say goodbye to you all,’ Campion said, fussily putting the camera back in its case. ‘How is Simon, Mr Fuller?’
‘He has an arm in plaster thanks to that damned painter!’ snarled Marcus Fuller. ‘The maniac ought to be locked up.’
‘I assumed he had been,’ Campion said innocently.
‘He will probably be released on bail today, more’s the pity,’ said Hereward Spindler the solicitor, offering free legal advice for once, ‘but I am certain that charges will be pressed.’
‘And young Mr Tucker? How does he fare?’
‘Not well,’ said Gus Marchant. ‘The hospital’s keeping him in for observation. I’m sorry you had to see Lindsay Carfax at its worst, Campion. We don’t all behave as badly as Ben Judd and I hope we haven’t left you with a bad impression.’
Campion bit his tongue and instead of what he was thinking, he said: ‘At my age, gentlemen, one quickly forgets bad impressions. In fact it is easy to forget most things. Some days I count it a victory for sanity if I remember to put trousers on before shoes.’
Campion was delighted to hear the throaty purr of the Jaguar once more and he drove quickly but not recklessly along the twisted lanes out of Lindsay Carfax until he joined the Bury St Edmunds road, just to get the feel of the car back. On the outskirts of Bury he found a shop which offered ‘filled baps’ and much more besides. He bought four (ham, ham and cheese, ham and tomato and ham and pickled onion), two bars of chocolate, a large bottle of lemonade and the latest edition of the Bury Free Press. Once he had his purchases carefully stowed on the passenger seat, he turned the Jaguar around and drove slowly back towards Lindsay Carfax, pulling off the road several miles shy of the village, to park out of sight of the road in the open beet field where he and Eliza had waited for Tommy Tucker to overtake them. Campion treated himself to a filled bap (closing his eyes and choosing at random to add surprise to his lunch), opened his newspaper and settled down to wait.
By the time Eliza Jane’s sports car bounced into the field, Campion had long finished his newspaper and been forced to resort to his copy of Esther Wickham’s The Face of Diligence. The sight of his niece picking her way over plough furrows from her car to his was a welcome one, even though in her brightly coloured flower-print top with its voluminous sleeves, bright red flared trousers and wide-brimmed white hat with paper flowers pinned to the brim, she seemed inappropriately dressed for a field in Suffolk unless, he fancied, there was a festival of music and free love planned for later on.
‘How’s my dolly, dolly spy?’ asked Campion holding the passenger door of the Jaguar open for her.
Eliza Jane flashed him a look.
‘No one has called me a dolly bird to my face before. I’m not sure I like it.’
‘But you did remember to be a spy, didn’t you?’
‘Of course,’ she said, settling into the seat. ‘My ears having been flapping like an elephant’s and my eyes have been on stalks all day. Of course I could have saved myself the strain on my facial muscles simply by asking Don at the Woolpack what was going on. He’s in his element, you know, after last night and has no doubt cast me in the role of scarlet woman. It’s a career I may pursue if I don’t make it as a painter.’
‘Or a spy; a spy who reports promptly and succinctly.’ Campion closed the door, walked round the Jaguar and reclaimed his place behind the steering wheel.
‘Right then, I have spent most of the day reassuring people that you really have gone, even those who saw you drive away. Most of Lindsay now seems to be glad to see the back of you, apart from Clarissa that is. She’s probably inconsolable, at least until the next coach-load of suckers – I mean visitors – can be lured into The Medley.’ She caught Campion peering at her over his spectacles. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Uncle, I didn’t forget to check Sherman’s garage; I even called in to fill up with petrol. The van’s still there all right, backed up against the workshop so no one can see what’s inside it. I don’t think it’s moved for the last two days.’
‘But I think it will tonight,’ said Campion, ‘when it gets dark.’
It was the night of the full moon and therefore nowhere near as dark as Campion would have liked, but the High Street of Lindsay Carfax was deserted, indicating that behind the curtained windows, there was something good on television. Eliza Jane had, as Campion had suggested, taken a tortuous route through winding lanes and dark woods, to approach Lindsay from the south and once in the village she drove slowly, on sidelights, only past her own cottage and up the gentle hill to ease left by the darkened Humble Museum. Once the Hall shielded her car from any prying eyes in the Woolpack, she braked and Campion reached for the handle of the passenger door, climbing out and slinging the Olympus in its case over his shoulder.
‘Be careful,’ whispered Eliza Jane.
‘I always try to be,’ hissed Campion and he closed the car door as quietly as he could.
Campion watched the red dots of the sports car’s rear lights diminish down the hill until Eliza Jane indicated left and turned down the track to Judd’s studio. He was standing by the lych gate which guarded the path to the church and from the orange glow in the windows it seemed that the church was occupied. The Rev. Trump, thinking he might at some point need an alibi, had clearly decided he had urgent business in the church and had carelessly, if anyone should later ask, left the vicarage unlocked.
In the hallway of the vicarage, Campion switched on the torch that had been spoiling the cut of his jacket pocket rather than turning on the lights, and made his way into the kitchen where it took no great feat of deduction to discover the door which revealed a dozen stone steps leading down to the cellar. Here he did reach for the light switch and a single 40-watt bulb illuminated an old washing tub, washboard and mangle, a tin bath and two old bookcases pressed into service as shelving displayed a leaking bag of flour, half a dozen tins of soup, a large tin of black treacle, a basket of clothes pegs and, ominously, several mouse traps all un-baited and all sprung.
There was also a small wooden door, kept shut only by the rusting wash tub which Campion pulled aside with some effort as he discovered it to be half full of water. Pulling the door open his senses were met by a damp, earthy staleness and the beam of his torch showed a cobweb-lined tunnel sloping away into complete darkness. Taking a deep breath of cold, dead air he stepped inside.
The passage was large enough for Campion to stand in, but only just, as his hair was doing a passable job of sweeping the tunnel’s roof clear of cobwebs. Yet within ten un
steady paces, Campion regretted not bringing a ball of twine for the not-so-secret passages of Lindsay Carfax were as disorientating as a Cretan maze. Campion reassured himself that a few feet above his head a twentieth-century village was settling down to its twentieth-century creature comforts and the likelihood of him encountering a Minotaur down here was remote.
When the vicarage passage broadened out into a much wider, darker, echoing space, Campion realised he must be under the Carders’ Hall and a sweep with his torch showed three other dark passageways leading off it. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the torch and pressed the off button. The blackness was complete and even though Campion had been expecting it, he felt a wave of panic welling in his chest. Summoning all his nerve, he counted aloud up to ten before switching his torch back on, then breathing a loud sigh of relief at the reappearance of the thin yellow beam. Few lighthouses had been welcomed so warmly by sailors in a storm, for the darkness had been complete and disorientating.
Taking his bearings, he deduced that the passage yawning darkly ahead of him would be the one leading to the bar of the Woolpack, whereas the one to his right should lead to the Humble Museum and one somewhere over to his left in the darkness would be the tunnel to the Prentice House. Four rat-runs, but leading to a nest or away from it? The nest would surely be the Carders’ Hall, but where was the entrance – or should that be exit?
By making circular sweeps of his torch beam – which induced a distinct feeling of sea-sickness – Campion determined that one area of darkness was not quite so dark; not black but not quite grey, there was definitely contrast. What was the old French proverb about all dogs being wolves in the dark? Was there really such a proverb? Why was he worrying about that when he should be worrying about how to find his way out of this catacomb? Was that a rat brushing against his shoe?