Police at the Funeral (12 page)

‘Bowditch is on the job now. He's the bright specimen they've given me to keep me company.' The Inspector stirred restlessly in his chair. ‘Oh, I know this is going to be a stalemate of a case and these are just the sort of people who have influence.'

‘And that means the workhouse,' said Mr Campion. ‘The girl-wife in the gutter and my godson having to forgo his university career. Sounds like a film.'

At the mention of his son the Inspector's good temper miraculously returned.

‘Four years old,' he said proudly. ‘Sings like anything.' His smile faded and he returned gloomily to the matter in hand. ‘They're a rum lot up there, Campion,' he said. ‘Something very queer in that house. We're up against a lunatic, of course, one of those “sane” lunatics you can't spot. I had one down in Stepney last year. Philanthropic doctor chap. It took me six weeks to spot him, and we should never have fixed it on him if he hadn't gone right off his head and come across with the whole story under a little pressure. But the thing I don't like about this case down here is what I call the conjuring trick element.' He was leaning forward in his chair, his heavy lids drawn down over his grey eyes, and Mr Campion, who knew him and liked him, listened attentively. ‘When you see a conjuring trick performed,' the Inspector continued, ‘a genuine conjuring trick – you know the sort of thing I mean, a fellow cutting a woman in two upon the stage or fastening a nigger in a basket and driving swords through the wickerwork – you are being offered circumstantial evidence of murder of the most damning kind, and yet no one is surprised when the lady walks
on to the stage or the nigger climbs out of the basket. Now,' he went on triumphantly, ‘the circumstantial evidence in this case is rather like that, only we know that the unfortunate man Seeley won't come trotting home from the river, nor will Miss Julia Faraday drive up to this office this afternoon. Mrs Catherine Berry carried a cup of tea to her sister this morning. That sister promptly died from the homely conium poison, traces of which I have no doubt will be found in the cup. William Faraday went for a walk with his cousin Andrew Seeley; Andrew Seeley never came back. That's quite strong circumstantial evidence; not conclusive, but definitely strong. They quarrelled, too, of course. Now, neither Mrs Berry nor the man William appeals to me as a probable murderer, but then only about four per cent of murderers hanged are of the killer type. Cousin George looked more probable, although I don't see how he could have done it.'

He sighed and regarded Campion thoughtfully.

‘You know,' he said, ‘where I'm out of my depth again is that I don't see how these people's minds work. Frankly, we're not used to this sort of witness in a case. How many murders do we get in this class in England in a year? It's navvies, whizz-boys, car thieves, small tradespeople who run off the rails and commit murder, and I can talk to them. These people are more difficult. I don't see how their minds work. Even the words they use don't mean the same. For instance, half that old lady said today when I was sitting in her yellow chair didn't convey anything to me, yet she's no fool, I can tell that. D'you know who she reminds me of, Campion? Ever seen Justice Adams on the bench? Why, she might be him, especially with that lace thing over her head.'

Campion grinned, and the Inspector took a carefully folded piece of paper out of his wallet and handed it to Campion.

‘Here is something you can give me a line on, perhaps,' he said. ‘What does this mean to you? I found it in Andrew Seeley's room, folded in the blotter in the top drawer of the writing-desk. Miss Blount told me she put it there when Seeley failed to return home on the Sunday night. Is there anything in it that I may have missed, or does it mean exactly what it says it means?'

Campion unfolded the paper. It was a half-finished letter written in a small tight hand that yet had in it a great many unnecessary flourishes. The address, ‘Socrates Close', was emblazoned at the top of the sheet in old English print. It was dated Sunday 30 March, and ran:

Campion refolded the letter and handed it back to the Inspector, who did not replace it in his wallet, but sat looking at it, his forehead puckered.

‘Well, it isn't the letter of a suicide,' he said, ‘is it? And it isn't the letter of a man who thought he might be murdered. Do you see anything else in it?'

‘In what way?' inquired Mr Campion cautiously. ‘You are not referring to “your character from your handwriting”, by any chance? As far as the actual matter contained is concerned, it looks as though he was trying to cadge a free week-end. From the handwriting I should say that he was in a hurry, had an excitable nature, was conceited, secretive, energetic and probably a drinker. For further information, read my little pink
book entitled “Character from Characters, or How to tell your Lover by his Note”. But I don't suppose that really helps you?'

The Inspector answered absently. He was still staring at the half-finished letter in his hand.

‘It's not evidence,' he said, ‘if that's what you mean. That chap Seeley must have been a funny bloke. No one seems to have been able to stand the sight of him. You have a look at his room, too, if you get the chance. I don't mind you going in. I'm not an imaginative man, but I didn't cotton to the personality of that room. I wasn't attracted to Miss Julia's either. But his was more extraordinary. There's a rum taste about that house altogether. Oh, by the way, there's one other funny thing about this letter. No one seems to know who it was written to.' He shook his head. ‘Extraordinary family. They don't seem to know anything about each other.'

‘Did you ask Mrs Faraday?' Campion inquired.

Stanislaus Oates nodded. ‘I asked her first, because she's mentioned in the letter, but she couldn't or wouldn't help me. As a matter of fact, she said she had lived for eighty-four years and had met a great many ladies in her time and could hardly be expected to remember all their Christian names. A remark like that shuts you up, you know. Still,' he added, slipping the letter back into his wallet, ‘we've only just begun. The inquest on Seeley is fixed for tomorrow. That only means formal evidence of identification. We shall ask for an adjournment. That'll give us a day or two anyway. I understand the authorities want to get the whole business over quickly, because the 'Varsity is coming up the week after next. Funny people they are here! Deputy Coroner in charge and the coroner's court being distempered, so we've got to hold the inquest in an assembly room. I don't see why they can't have their schools or colleges or whatever they are somewhere out in the country.'

Campion began to laugh, and Stanislaus joined him. ‘We all get fed up now and again,' he said. ‘I wish I could find out how that conium got into the teacup this morning. I've gone over the room as well as I could, but they were taking the body away for the P.M. and that doctor and the sorrowing relations had tramped all over the room, anyhow. They didn't like me, but I'm never a popular figure in the picture. However, as I say, I
did my best and I couldn't find anything. There wasn't even a scrap of paper lying around. Of course, I may find something yet,' he went on hopefully. ‘It's one of those cluttered-up rooms – even the bed wears petticoats. Still, at the moment it certainly looks as though the poison was brought into the room in the teacup, in which case it passes my understanding.' He rose to his feet. ‘I'll have to go. Oh, by the way, that Cousin George. I asked for a photograph of him up at the house, but they hadn't got one. I must see that girl.'

‘She's probably here now,' Campion remarked. ‘We're expecting her, and I think I heard the sound of feminine chattage outside some minutes ago. Wait a moment.' He rose from his chair and disappeared through the doorway, to return some little time later with Joyce. She was still pale, but more self-possessed than she had been in the morning. She greeted the Inspector with a frigid nod, an expression of candid dislike in her quiet eyes. The Inspector plunged in manfully.

‘Miss Blount,' he said, ‘I first had the pleasure of meeting you yesterday in Tomb Yard, E.C. While we were there a man entered, caught sight of you, and left hastily. You were a little taken aback by the sight of him. Do you recall the incident?'

Joyce glanced at Campion, but that young man's expression was blank and unhelpful. The Inspector was still waiting, and she nodded.

‘Yes, I do,' she said.

Stanislaus Oates cleared his throat. ‘Now, Miss Blount,' he said, ‘think carefully, was or was not that man George Makepeace Faraday, referred to at Socrates Close as Cousin George?'

Joyce bit off the little exclamation which had risen to her lips. She turned appealingly to Campion.

‘Must I answer him?' she said.

He smiled at her affably. ‘I'm afraid you must,' he said, and added as the quick colour came into her face, ‘Mrs Faraday is convinced that the police must know all they want to know. Was it Cousin George in the City yesterday? I'm afraid I'm to blame for the idea. He was so extraordinarily like William that I couldn't help pretending to be a real detective last night when I was showing off before Marcus. I described him and Uncle William recognized him. We want you to give us proof.'

The girl turned to the Inspector. ‘Yes,' she said breathlessly. ‘It was Cousin George. But you mustn't look for him, you mustn't find him. It would kill Aunt Caroline. Besides, I'm sure he's got nothing to do with it. Work it out for yourselves, how can he?'

EVEN THE INEFFABLE
‘sacred rite' atmosphere which distinguishes any afternoon tea in Cambridge failed to make the little gathering any but a gloomy and dispirited affair on this occasion. After the Inspector's departure the company had assembled in Marcus's office and tea was brewed and sipped in silence. Two murders in the family have a sobering effect upon the most light-hearted, and even the irrepressible Miss Held was thoughtful and subdued. However, it was she who introduced the subject of Mr Cheetoo.

‘Mr Campion,' she said, ‘I don't want to put up any idea that isn't useful, and if I'm making a monkey of myself you mention it. But concerning that Indian student who discovered the body; he has told his story to the police, of course, but it occurred to me that if you would like to hear it yourself in an unofficial capacity I could fix that up for you almost right away.'

Mr Campion regarded her with interest. As she sat on the edge of her chair, a cream bun in her hand, she reminded him irresistibly of a little squirrel holding a nut.

‘I should like it immensely,' he said. ‘By the way, I thought there were two of them.'

‘That is so,' she agreed. ‘But one went for the police and the other remained by the body. It was in the paper this morning, as a matter of fact. That's the way I know about it. I noticed the name Cheetoo particularly, because during the vac. I've taken over the pups of a friend of mine, a Britisher taking the same subject as myself. I've got two years' research work, you know, that's why I'm here.'

Campion nodded with comparative intelligence, and she went on.

‘Well, just before I came in here this afternoon I looked up in my notebook to see how long I had free and I discovered that Mr Cheetoo has an appointment for half-past five. Now you've never heard a man talk so much in all your life as this boy. He's so full of himself he can't keep his mind on his work for a split second, and I'm morally certain I shall have a verbatim account of that discovery of his, so if you care to come along and hear it I shall be delighted.'

Marcus glanced across the room questioningly. ‘That would be an idea, Campion,' he said. ‘Look here, Joyce and I will wait for you at Soul's Court. Then you can collect your things and I'll drive you both down to Socrates Close.'

Thus it came about that Mr Campion found himself walking across Parker's Piece with Miss Ann Held, in search of the man who found the body. Ann had rooms in a house in Cheshire Street, the home of two elderly schoolmistresses, and as they entered the large square hall the cold academic atmosphere rose up to meet them.

‘Notice the odour of emancipation,' murmured Miss Held. ‘Come on out of this ice-box.' She opened the door facing them on the right of the stairs and Mr Campion followed her into the most charming feminine study he had ever seen. Here were no framed postcards of Florence, no monochromes of the Winged Victory and the Perseus, nor did a coloured reproduction of Ruskin's study as he left it, nor even the Doge, look down upon him from a severely distempered inglenook. Miss Held had followed her own taste. Modern American etchings, including two Rosenbergs, hung on the walls of an airy yellow-papered room. The furniture was good, sparse, and comfortable. Books lined all one wall, and the drapery was bright without being noisy. A friendly and unusual room in which to find a research student.