Flowers For the Judge (21 page)

He was very conscious of the fact that he had never heard either the name or address in his life before.

MR CAMPION SAW THE
studio as soon as he pushed open the gate in the blank wall behind the huge margarine-coloured block of flats and came out on to the iron staircase high above the untidy strip of sunken garden.

It sat opposite him in the grass, trying to look like a country cottage and succeeding in suggesting a garden suburb. Its four tall windows faced south and the back of the flats and had diamond panes. The skylight had been leaded over.

There was a trimness about the whole building and a preponderance of bright colours which conveyed a personality childish, or at least uneducated. The paint was green, the curtains blue, the window-sills and step red ochred, while a ridiculous little green dog-kennel stood beside the door. It looked extraordinarily clean and new in the dinginess of Kilburn and no more in bad taste than a painted Noah’s Ark, which it resembled.

It was six o’clock and not yet dusk, although the sun had
gone
in. The flats and studio appeared to be deserted and there was a quiet evening melancholy upon the scene.

Mr Campion went slowly down the iron staircase and, picking his way over the grass, tapped with the brass knocker which bore a relief of Worcester Cathedral and had come from Birmingham via Bruges.

An excited yapping from within answered him, followed by a woman’s voice admonishing the dog. Then the door opened.

‘Come in,’ said Teddie Dell.

Enlightenment came to Mr Campion as he recognized the woman who had been waiting for him outside the Bottle Street flat when he had come home from the inquest with Gina and Curley. She looked bigger and older in her indoor clothes. Her fairish hair was dressed close to her head and was cut in a thin unfashionably curled fringe, while her strong capable body was sturdy and unsuitably dressed in a very smooth blue skirt and a very frilly blouse.

There was a suggestion of strength about her face also, with its square jawbone and thick cream skin, its good teeth and wide-set blue-grey eyes.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering if I ought to ring you. Come in and sit down and have a cigarette.’

The over-carefulness of her pronunciation struck him again, but her self-possession was unconscious and superb.

The dog was frantic with delight at his arrival and danced round him noisily in spite of his mistress’s rebuke. He was a small smooth-haired yellow mongrel, spry and wiry on thin legs. Campion put out a hand and he offered a paw instantly. Campion took it and laughed.

‘George, don’t be a fool. Lie down! He’s absurd, isn’t he?’

The woman was laughing as she spoke and Campion glanced up to see that her eyes were swimming. She turned away to the mantelshelf and brought back cigarettes and matches, waiting on her visitor with the complete lack of self-consciousness of a nurse or a teashop waitress.

He found himself fumbling for a case to offer her at the
moment
when she held a lighted match to his cigarette.

The room in which they stood reflected the outside of the building. The floor was covered with imitation red and grey tiles and shone like a ship’s deck. The dark oak furniture was ordinary and unpretentious. There was a divan under the windows and a comfortable chesterfield, flanked by two chintz-covered chairs by the fire.

Teddie Dell drew up the largest and most comfortable chair.

‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating it, and he obeyed her.

Mr Campion, the most unassuming of men, did not imagine for a moment that her solicitude for his comfort, her tacit acceptance of the fact that his ease was all-important, was due in any way to his personal charm. Teddie Dell, he realized, was behaving as she always had and always would behave, since she belonged to that most ill-used sisterhood, some of them wives, some of them mothers, and all of them lovers, who really believe that there is in the mere quality of manhood something magnificent and worthy to be served.

‘You were pointed out to me at the inquest and I heard you were interested in the case,’ she said, seating herself opposite him and holding one hand up to the fire to shield her face from the blaze. ‘I don’t want to go to the police for obvious reasons. He wouldn’t have liked it and she’s only a kid, isn’t she, and mixed up with nice people who don’t understand this sort of thing. So I went round to your place. When I saw her come up with you, I thought I’d better slip off. She’s never heard of me, you see.’

Mr Campion nodded. He was wondering irrelevantly what Teddie Dell thought she meant by ‘nice people’.

‘It’s been on my mind,’ she continued. ‘He came here when he left the office on the Thursday and the police don’t know that. I wanted to ask someone about it and find out if it was any good me telling. He kept me a secret from his family for fourteen years and I didn’t see any point in it all coming out now if it wouldn’t help.’

‘Fourteen years?’ said Mr Campion involuntarily.

Her eyes rested upon him for a moment.

‘We met in the war, in France,’ she said. ‘I’ve had this place since ’23.’

Her glance left his face and travelled round the yellow walls and there was an indefinable expression in her eyes.

‘I never thought he’d marry,’ she went on abruptly. ‘But he was right: it didn’t make any difference. That’s why I was sorry for the kid. That’s no marriage for a girl. I suppose she got hold of the young cousin and egged him on and teased him till he went out of his mind – although I don’t know why they think he did it. My dear old boy had a lot of other enemies – ooh, he had a temper –!’

She broke off. Her eyes were a blank and her mouth very hard.

Mr Campion looked at the dog who lay upon the hearthrug, his nose between his paws and his ears cocked. Gradually he became aware of other things: a small silver golf trophy on the dresser and a pair of slippers, grey with age and long discarded, stuffed behind the coal-box, which was also a fireside seat.

‘Was Mr Brande here very long on the Thursday?’

He put the question diffidently but the woman gave him her whole attention at once.

‘No, he couldn’t stay. That often happened. He was such a busy man. I suppose they’ll miss him at that office. He held the business together, didn’t he?’

She spoke wistfully and for a moment Mr Campion was able to take the impulsive, excitable, slightly ridiculous Paul at the dead man’s own valuation. The woman was still speaking.

‘We were going to have a bit of dinner and then he was going to read. We didn’t go out much together since he got so well known. I didn’t ask him to take me; I’m not a fool. But he came in just about four and said he couldn’t stay, so I made him a cup of tea and he went. I wondered why he didn’t ring up on the Sunday, but on the Monday I saw the papers.’

Her voice wavered on the last word but she controlled it magnificently, out of deference, Mr Campion felt, to the presence of a stranger.

‘Do you know where he went when he left here?’ he inquired.

‘I know where he said he was going and there was no point in him lying. Besides, he never did to me. We knew each other too well. He said, “I’m so sorry I can’t stay, Ted. I’ve got to go down to fetch a key from Camden Town of all places, and then I’ve got to dash back and slip into the British Museum.” I asked him if there was any chance of him dropping in later but he said, “No luck, I’m going to be busy to-night. I’ll ring you Sunday.”’

Her voice ceased and she moved her position slightly so that her face was in the shadow. Mr Campion felt he dared intrude no more.

‘It’s been very kind of you,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I’ll let you know, of course, if I think you ought to come forward, but it’s quite possible that it won’t be at all necessary – if you don’t want to.’

She got up, raising herself wearily as if her bones were unusually heavy.

‘Why should I?’ she said. ‘It’s not as if he were ill. He’s dead.’

The dog rose and yawned and stretched himself, only to lie down again, his nose between his forepaws. The room was growing dark and the firelight flickered over the bright floor and was reflected in some little bits of brass on the dresser. There was comfort in the place and an utterly unbearable sense of waiting. Mr Campion hurried.

Teddie Dell escorted him to the door.

‘I’ll keep in touch with you,’ he promised and paused. Paul had not died penniless and Campion had a strong sense of justice. ‘Forgive me if I am saying the wrong thing,’ he ventured, ‘but are you all right for cash?’

She smiled and there were so many varying emotions in her expression that he only understood that she appreciated his thoughtfulness.

‘Better let her have it,’ she said. ‘There isn’t much. He spent like a lunatic. It would be charity too. I haven’t any rights.’

She was silent for a moment and he had a very vivid
impression
of her, square and sturdy in her little painted home, the dog peering round her skirts.

‘We loved each other,’ she said and her voice was as proud and forlorn as high tragedy itself.

Mr Campion came away.

‘WOULD IT BE
possible, Lugg,’ inquired Mr Campion delicately, ‘for you to forget for a moment this respectability to which you are not accustomed and delve into the past?’

Mr Lugg, who was taking off his collar because it was only his employer whom he had admitted, kept his back turned to the speaker and his attention fixed upon the drawer into which he was tucking this badge of refinement. The white roll of fat at the back of his neck looked smug and obstinate. Mr Lugg had not heard.

‘I suppose if I asked you to come off it –’ Mr Campion began sarcastically.

Mr Lugg swung round, his small black eyes unconvincingly innocent.

‘I shouldn’t understand what you meant,’ he said placidly, and returned to the drawer. ‘Some of the fellows down at the Mew wear butterfly collars and some wear straight,’ he observed over his shoulder. ‘I ’aven’t made up me mind for good yet. Butterflies let yer neck through, but they’re apt to look untidy.’

Mr Campion made no response to this implied question. Instead he put another.

‘Lugg,’ he said, ‘if a man who had something to hide went to Camden Town to get a key, who would he go to?’

Surprise took Mr Lugg unawares.

‘Lumme,’ he said, ‘old Wardie Samson! He’s not still at it, is ’e? Must be well over a ’undred. I remember ’im in my dad’s day.’

This family reminiscence was cut short by what was no doubt a recollection of the rigid society of the hostelry in the ‘Mew’.

‘A very low person,’ said the new Mr Lugg. ‘Dishonest, erely.’

‘Do you know him?’

Lugg wriggled uncomfortably.

‘I visited ’im as a lad with my father,’ he said at last, ‘but I shouldn’t think ’e was the party to which you was referrin’.’

‘Well, take off that awful coat and get in the car, which is downstairs,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We’re going to see him.’

‘Not me.’ Mr Lugg was defiant. ‘I’ll give you ’is address if you like, but I’m not coming with you. It’s more than me reputation’s worth. You never know ’ow a thing like this might tell two or three years hence when your relation ’as gorn the way all good relations should go and you and me are established in our rightful place. What sort of a position should I be in if one of the ’ousemaids or per’aps another gentleman who’s come up in the world should say, “Surely I saw you in Camden Town, Mr Lugg?” What sort of position should I be in then?’

‘Even if I become a Duke,’ said Mr Campion brutally, ‘the chances of you becoming a respectable person are remote – or at any rate, I shouldn’t count on it. Come on. Hurry.’

Before the authority in the tone Mr Lugg’s defiance turned to pathos.

‘What’s the good of me tryin’ to better meself if you keep draggin’ me down?’ he said. ‘I’ve put the old life be’ind me. I’ve forgot it, see?’

‘Well, this is where you do a spot of remembering,’ insisted Mr Campion heartlessly. ‘And don’t spoil everything by trying to impress your old pal with your new vulgarity, you fat oaf.’

Mr Lugg bridled. ‘That’s a bit too thick, that is,’ he said. ‘You’re destroying my ambition, that’s about what you’re doing. Mucking up me perishin’ soul, see? All right, I’ll come with you.’

They drove for some time in silence, but as the wealthier parts of the city were left behind and they slid into the noisy poverty of the Hampstead Road some of Mr Lugg’s gloom deserted him.

‘It’s like old times, isn’t it?’ he observed.

Campion accepted the olive branch.

‘We’ve got a delicate job ahead,’ he said. ‘I suppose your friend Wardie would give away a client if he was dead?’

‘Wardie doesn’t
give
anything,’ Lugg spoke reminiscently. ‘Doesn’t know the meanin’ of the word “tick” either. Still, we can but try ’im. I ’aven’t seen ’im for ten years, remember.’

‘When you were a lad,’ said Mr Campion unkindly.

‘When I was one of the lads,’ said Mr Lugg, whose spirits were soaring. ‘’E was a clever old bloke, Wardie,’ he continued. ‘Give ’im an impression one day and in a little while ’e’d drop you a line and down you’d go to find a better key than the original. ’E did name plates, too – not for the same people. Only one thing against ’im, ’e was slow. Lumme, ’ow slow that man was! So busy making snide ’e never ’ad time for honest work. Used to make lovely ’alf-crowns. Made ’em out of the tops of soda-water siphons. That metal’s just the right weight, y’know.’

Mr Campion showed polite interest. ‘Was he pinched?’

‘Wardie? No. He was too careful. ’E never passed ’em. Wouldn’t let any of ’is relations ’andle ’em either. Used to sell ’em – so much a gross – to one of these lads in the Ditch. ’E’s a handy man, if you take me. I’m surprised at ’im still working, especially for outsiders. It’s round ’ere, guv’nor. Better leave the car at a garridge. It’s no good parkin’ it. We don’t want to turn up at Wardie’s lookin’ like bloomin’ millionaires. Might give ’im ideas.’