Police at the Funeral Page 10

  Mr Cheetoo flashed an annihilating grin in Mr Campion’s direction.

  ‘I should be glad,’ he said. ‘I am observant. I am also scientific. I formed many conclusions. The police did not value them. To my mind they were not anxious to make clear.’

  Mr Campion nodded affably and his pale eyes flickered behind his big spectacles. This was a type of witness that he recognized, and his heart leapt.

  ‘You were not alone, Mr Cheetoo,’ he said, ‘when you made your discovery?’

  ‘No,’ the observant student admitted with some regret. ‘But it was I who remained by the body while my friend went for the police. I am to appear at the inquest tomorrow. But I have been told that my observations will not be of interest to the coroner.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Miss Held helpfully.

  Mr Cheetoo nodded and turned to Campion. ‘You will be interested,’ he said firmly. ‘You will appreciate my observations. My friend and I were walking along the river bank searching for plants. My friend is a botanical student. As we approached the willow clump immediately beyond the bridge in the meadows I perceived a blackness beneath the water. There was also’ – he turned apologetically to Ann – ‘an odour.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Campion hastily.

  Mr Cheetoo lived up to his reputation for observation. ‘I will omit those details which can be assumed,’ he said. ‘My friend would not touch the body. But I,’ he continued with pride, ‘I am occidental. I am broad-minded. I pulled the body half out of the water. At first my friend recoiled; he is not courageous. His imagination is stronger than his observation. He is also more strict.’ He paused.

  Mr Campion looked at Ann and was relieved to see that she was not unduly apprehensive of the unpleasant details which must certainly be coming. Mr Cheetoo continued.

  ‘I sent my friend for the police and when he had gone I made my observations. I have the inquiring mind of the investigator. My first observation was that the man was a tramp. That was my error. The beard, I now find, grows after the decease has taken place. It was not a pleasant sight. The top part of the head had been opened and in some places was not in existence any longer. I particularly observed if there were powder burns, having read of same in light fiction. But the action of the water . . .’

  Mr Campion cleared his throat. ‘I understand the body was tied up,’ he said.

  ‘I remarked upon that,’ replied Mr Cheetoo, unperturbed by the interruption. ‘The legs were securely bound about the ankles with a length of thin rope. The hands had been tied behind the back, but the cord had rotted and they were now apart. There was a knot of rope, with a ragged edge around the right wrist and another about the left. From this I deduced that the body had been in the water for some time and had been buffeted by the stream. The loose rope had caught around the willow roots and had prevented the body from drifting further. You must understand that this was not a pleasant sight. The corpse had swollen in the water. The rope was sodden and was already beginning to rot.’

  Metaphorically, Mr Campion clung to the rope.

  ‘This cord,’ he said, ‘what sort of stuff was it? New, save for the action of the water?’

  Mr Cheetoo considered. It was evident that he liked considering.

  ‘Your question is curious,’ he said. ‘It is what I asked myself. I touched the rope. It broke easily. This, I said to myself, has been in use before it was put to this disagreeable purpose. It was of the nature of a clothes-line.’

  Campion glanced apologetically at Ann. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you’d mind if I asked Mr Cheetoo, purely in the interests of abstract science of course, if he would be so awfully kind as to demonstrate on me exactly how this tying was done?’

  ‘Why, certainly not.’ Ann looked startled, but not ruffled.

  Mr Cheetoo, on the other hand, was frankly delighted. He rose instantly in preparation. Ann pulled open a drawer in the table, from which she produced a ball of string.

  ‘I haven’t any clothes-line,’ she said, ‘but I guess you’ll be able to do something with this.’

  Mr Cheetoo took the string, which he unwound with an air of sacrificial solemnity, which would have been comic in any other circumstances and very nearly succeeded in being so as it was.

  ‘I measured ocularly the amount of rope on the body,’ he said, eyeing Campion sternly. ‘There was in my estimation five yards and possibly one half. The shorter half of the cord was bound about the feet, thus.’

  He dived for Mr Campion’s legs and had the string round them in an instant.

  ‘There,’ he said, standing back. ‘I demonstrated to my friend in exactly the same way afterwards. You will observe the two feet are held together tightly, knot in front. The hands were then fastened thus.’

  Mr Campion’s hands were pinioned and he stood on Ann Held’s hearth-rug, inconsequential, smiling and trussed like a chicken. Mr Cheetoo stood back in triumph.

  ‘Consider the completeness,’ he said.

  Ann Held’s bright eyes were dancing. ‘It’s certainly effective,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Cheetoo swiftly. ‘But not professional. The knots are ordinary. They were not sailor’s knots.’

  Mr Campion tried his bonds. ‘But when the body was found,’ he said, ‘the hands had become free.’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Mr Cheetoo. He darted behind Mr Campion and severed the string which held his hands. ‘Thus,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The cord, already rotten no doubt, gave way under the weight of the dead man’s arms. And when I made my discovery he was bound like this.’ He pointed to Campion’s two wrists, one of which wore a single noose held by a slip knot. The left wrist was more securely bound, with three strands wound about it.

  Mr Campion appeared fascinated by this information. ‘Allow me to congratulate you on your powers, Mr Cheetoo,’ he said. ‘You have the true investigator’s gift. Did you notice anything else about the man you found?’

  Mr Cheetoo considered once again. ‘There was the matter of the coat,’ he said. ‘The victim wore a heavy blue overcoat buttoned up to his throat. As if indeed,’ he added with portentous solemnity, ‘he had been aware of the storm that was to come upon him and had buttoned himself up against the elements.’

  Campion paused in the process of untying himself. ‘His coat was buttoned?’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’

  For a moment it seemed that Mr Cheetoo was about to consider himself mortally offended.

  ‘I am the observer,’ he said. ‘I have the eye. I noticed the coat was buttoned up to the neck.’

  Campion rolled the string neatly into a ball and set it down upon the table before he replied.

  ‘How very odd,’ he said at last. ‘And his hat, was that anywhere near? He had a hat when he left church – a bowler, I believe.’

  ‘Of the hat,’ said Mr Cheetoo firmly, ‘there was absolutely no sign. I observed in this morning’s paper that it had not yet been discovered.’

  These two small points seemed to interest Mr Campion more than any of Mr Cheetoo’s foregoing story. He remained standing on the hearth-rug staring in front of him, his natural expression intensified.

  Mr Cheetoo was also thoughtful. ‘From my deductions made upon the spot,’ he said suddenly, ‘it occurred to me that this unfortunate did not drift very far down the stream.’

  Once again Mr Campion turned to him. ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Mr Cheetoo, ‘of the little footbridge. The water is high at this time of year. This little bridge creates an eddy which would have held the body close to it had the unfortunate entered the water at a point above the bridge. You can see for yourself. I was down there this morning making further observations. In my opinion, the body was thrown into the water somewhere between the bridge and the willow clump. There is no sign of a struggle on the bank, but it is probably ten days since the crime was committed and we have had much rain. There is also, nearly always at this time of year, a mist over the low ground near the river. This is my c
omplete opinion. You are enlightened?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I could hardly have seen more had I discovered the body myself.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cheetoo, and Campion, feeling that he had interrupted the higher education of his informant long enough, expressed his thanks all round and gracefully made his departure.

  Ann saw him to the door. ‘Well, I hope you’re in a complete blaze of understanding,’ she murmured.

  Campion grinned. ‘All seems to have been discovered,’ he said. ‘He ought to enjoy himself at the inquest. It certainly is an ill wind . . .’

  But as he walked across the Piece a dozen disturbing thoughts wrestled in his mind. There were Uncle William’s twenty-five unaccounted-for minutes to consider. Was it just possible that the old man had not parted with Andrew Seeley, but that he had accompanied him as far as the river and under cover of a ground mist had tied him up, shot him, hurled him into the stream and doubled back to Sunday luncheon? Immediately the circumstances which must have conspired to make such a procedure possible presented themselves to the young man in all their array of absurdity. If this supposition were correct, Uncle William must have sat for one hour and a half in church with fifteen feet of clothes-line concealed upon him, to say nothing of a revolver. And before tying up the unfortunate Andrew, Uncle William had presumably buttoned up his victim’s overcoat and purloined his hat.

  Mr Campion was discomforted. The Inspector’s conjuror was distressingly in evidence.

  CHAPTER 9

  DIRTY LINEN

  AT NINE O’CLOCK that evening Mr Campion felt that beside the classical ordeals by fire and by water there should now be numbered the ordeal by dinner at Socrates Close. He could quite understand that no ordinary catastrophe could prevent its solemn ritual taking place, but he realized that its awe-inspiring progress was not lightened by the tragedy hanging over the house.

  It was a devastating meal.

  The dining-room was a large square apartment with crimson damask wallpaper and red plush curtains. Dark paint and a Turkey carpet did not tend to brighten the scheme of decoration, and, as Joyce remarked later, one felt overfed upon entering the room.

  The large oval table was a veritable skating-rink of Irish damask, and upon it there was set out every night a magnificent array of plate, the cleaning of which occupied the entire life of an unfortunate small boy in the servants’ quarters. It was here that for the first and last time in his life Mr Campion made the acquaintance of those silver-plated cornucopias which, in Victorian times, were supplied to the diner filled with hot water, so that he might warm his spoon before partaking of that greasy delicacy called thick soup.

  On this particular occasion the great room seemed very empty and Campion realized that the two spaces at the table were made all the more conspicuous by the fact that the others had not altered what had evidently been their usual places for many years. Thus, Great-aunt Faraday sat at the head of the table in a high-backed arm-chair. Her black taffeta gown was cut with elbow sleeves, although her tiny forearms were covered by the frill of cream Honiton, which matched her fichu and the cap she wore.

  William sat at the foot of the table, some considerable distance away from his mother and separated from her by an immense baroque silver fruit-stand, which miraculously changed into a flower vase at its upper extremity.

  Aunt Kitty sat next to William on his right, while Joyce was immediately upon Great-aunt Caroline’s left. Mr Campion himself had the place of honour upon his hostess’s right, and the rest of the table was distressingly and pointedly empty.

  Aunt Kitty’s black evening gown, cut square and unfashionably low in the manner of 1909 or so, presented an appearance that was positively funereal, and even Joyce in her simple black dinner frock, emphasized the solemnity of the occasion.

  Mr Campion began to regard his own dinner-jacket as a garment of sorrow and William’s bright pink face as a touch of unwarrantable levity in the sombre colour scheme.

  The long meal, Mrs Beeton’s complete Friday menu for April in non-Roman Catholic households, was depressing rather than fortifying, and Great-aunt Caroline’s hard and fast rules of general conversation almost defeated Mr Campion’s effervescent spirit. In the long silences he had plenty of time for observation.

  There were several minor peculiarities in the setting of this unnerving ceremony, one of which was the fact that each diner had his own complete set of condiments, a circumstance which somehow increased the aloofness of the participants.

  Another oddity was of a more cheerful variety.

  Directly facing Mr Campion, hung unsuitably beneath a large steel engraving of Ely Cathedral, was a red plush frame, in which reposed a coloured enlargement of a photograph of a bewhiskered gentleman in the regalia of some obscure and patently plebeian order or society. Mr Campion noticed with delight that this gentleman’s hand rested upon a large pewter mug from the top of which there emerged much painted foam. It was not at all the trophy which one would have associated with Great-aunt Caroline or her household, and he wondered how it had come there.

  When at last the meal came to an end the company trooped into the great drawing-room, the famous drawing-room of Socrates Close of the ‘eighties. Although its style of decoration had not been altered since that time it was still a beautiful room. Faded brocades and fussy ornaments abounded. The furniture was hard, misshapen and uncomfortable. But like everything that is perfectly in period, it had a charm of its own.

  Aunt Caroline sat down beside an occasional table and turned to Aunt Kitty.

  ‘I think we will play chess as usual, my dear,’ she said.

  Aunt Kitty sat down obediently while William advanced solemnly towards a bureau whose panels displayed two bouquets, painted, Mr Campion felt, rather by a botanist than a garden lover. From this cupboard William produced a chessboard and a box of carved ivory men.

  Mr Campion realized that he was looking upon a nightly ritual, and waited, not without apprehension, to see where he himself fitted into this ceremony.

  Uncle William was showing signs of anxiety. He did not sit down, but stood watching his mother as her tiny white fingers set the red chessmen into line. At last he spoke.

  ‘I thought Campion and I might smoke a cigar in the library, Mother?’ he said inquiringly.

  Great-aunt Faraday raised her little black eyes to her son’s face.

  ‘Certainly, William,’ she said. ‘Mr Campion, if I should have retired by the time you return, the rising gong rings at a quarter to eight. Have you everything in your room that you require?’

  Mr Campion, who had risen to his feet the moment that she addressed him, bowed instinctively.

  ‘Everything is most charming,’ he said.

  Mrs Faraday seemed to consider that he had made the right reply, for she smiled at him and nodded to William, who, grateful at the release, which seemed to be unexpected, hustled Campion out of the room.

  ‘The morning-room’s more comfortable,’ he said in a rumbling whisper. ‘Library always reminds me of the governor, God bless him. Never saw him at his best in the library.’

  They crossed the hall, therefore, and entered the morning-room, in which a bright fire still burned.

  ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink,’ said Uncle William, blowing a little in his embarrassment. ‘The key of the tantalus has been removed again, I see. When people get old, you know, they get ideas in their heads. I’m no drinker myself, but – well, anyway, have a cigar.’

  He produced a box from the sideboard and when the little ceremony of lighting up had been completed he sat down again in one of the green leather arm-chairs and looked across at Campion with hunted little blue eyes, incongruous in such a large pink face.

  ‘Andrew used to sit in that chair you’ve got,’ he remarked suddenly. ‘I suppose the funeral will take place on Monday? Not a lot of flowers about at this time of year.’ He checked his meandering wits sharply and took refuge in a suitable sentiment. ‘Poor Andrew,’ he s
aid, and coughed.

  Mr Campion remained silent, looking more vague than ever in a blue haze of cigar smoke. Uncle William’s thoughts were racing tonight, however, leading him a fantastic dance from one subject to another, and presently he spoke again.

  ‘Damn bad-tempered, evil-minded fellow, all the same,’ he said angrily. ‘No insanity in the family, thank God, or might have suspected a touch of lunacy – kindest thought.’ He paused and added with a grotesque droop of a baggy eyelid: ‘Drank like a sponge, under the rose.’

  There was no cosiness in the breakfast-room. The lights were not shaded, but sprouted unadorned from a brass water-lily floating upside down in the white expanse of ceiling and their cold blaze presented an atmosphere of hygienic chill which even the bright fire could not dispel.

  Mr Campion began to understand Marcus’s remark of the previous evening: ‘If I lived in that house I might easily feel like murder myself.’ That atmosphere of restraint which is so racking in adolescence was here applied to age, and Campion experienced a fear of stumbling upon some weak spot where, beneath the rigid bond of repression, human nature had begun to ferment, to decay, to become vile. There was no telling what manner of secret lay hidden in the great house rising up over his head, yet he was acutely conscious of its existence.

  He was brought down to earth again by the entrance of the stalwart Alice, who bore a silver tray with glasses and a decanter and siphon. She set it down on the table without a word and he noticed that she did not glance at either of them, but hurried out again as noiselessly as she had entered. Then he caught sight of the other man’s face and humour was restored.

  Uncle William evidently regarded the intrusion as some sort of apparition. His astonishment was only equalled by his delight, and he rose to do the honours with an almost child-like satisfaction.

  ‘The old lady doesn’t forget when we’ve got guests in the house, thank the Lord,’ he said, sitting down again with his glass. ‘Hang it all! when a fellow’s gone through what we’ve gone through today he needs a drink. I’m going out for a walk in a moment. You’ll be all right, I suppose?’