More Work for the Undertaker Read online

  Miss White won. ‘I call him Mike,’ she said.

  Sergeant Dice was the first up the stairs and he turned to assist the doctor, who was inclined to resent it. That this was Doctor Smith, Campion had no doubt whatever. In fact, it was with surprise that he realized that they had not met and that his recognition was based solely on D.D.I.’s description.

  ‘Morning, Luke, what have you got here? More trouble? Eh? Yes, yes. Oh dear.’ He had a clipped accent and a small quiet voice, and he approached the patient with a certainty with which a man approaches his own particular property. ‘Your man couldn’t find the police surgeon so he brought me,’ he went on, kneeling beside the body. ‘Move out of the light, young woman. Oh it’s you, Clytie. What are you doing here? Never mind, move right back. Now. Ah!’

  There was a long silence and Campion, who stood next to Miss White, could feel her shaking. Luke stood just behind the doctor, his hands in his pockets, his huge shoulders hunched until he looked like a bludgeon himself.

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, he’s not dead, and that’s a minor miracle. He must have a skull of iron.’ The precise words sounded cold. ‘This is a beastly blow, Luke, utterly brutal. Someone meant to kill him. He’s very young. Ring up St Bede’s. Tell them I said it’s urgent.’

  As Dice disappeared down the stairs Luke touched the doctor on the shoulder.

  ‘What’s it done with? Can you tell?’

  ‘Not unless you show me the weapon. I’m not a magician. Something designed for just such a purpose, I should say.’

  ‘What? You mean a real cosh, not a tyre-lever?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not unless, of course, you can produce one covered with blood and hair. The assailant may have had a superhuman strength.’

  ‘But if he hadn’t?’

  ‘Then I think he must have had help from his weapon. That’s all now, Luke. I must get him to bed. He’s cold. Is this filthy raincoat all there is to cover him?’

  Clytie pulled off her Raglan, which was both too long and too wide, and handed it to the doctor without speaking. He put his hand up to take it, hesitated, glanced at her face, and changed his mind about protesting. He took the boy’s pulse again and nodded non-committally as he replaced his watch.

  ‘When did it happen, Doc?’ Luke inquired.

  ‘I was wondering. He’s very cold. I don’t think I can give you any sort of definite answer to that question. Late last night . . . or early this morning. Now we must get on.’

  Campion took Miss White by the elbow.

  ‘He’ll be all right now,’ he said. ‘If I were you I’d come home and get another coat.’

  ‘No.’ Her arm was as unresponsive as stone. ‘No, I shall go with him.’ She was perfectly calm now and slightly alarming in her composure. There was a trace of Miss Evadne’s assurance in her quiet obstinacy.

  The doctor glanced at Campion. ‘It’s useless,’ he murmured. ‘Cause less trouble if you don’t argue. She can wait in the hospital. He’s a sick boy.’

  ‘Doctor Smith?’ Clytie’s voice was precariously balanced.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I shall rely on you not to mention this to my aunts, or – or to Uncle Lawrence.’

  ‘I expect you will.’ He spoke absently. ‘No, my dear, I shan’t rush round telling tales. How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Seven months.’

  He got up stiffly from the dirty boards and dusted his trousers.

  ‘Well, you’re eighteen and a half, aren’t you?’ he said, his small head swaying out at her and his bothered eyes searching her face. ‘It’s the time for it. A fool isn’t damned until he’s older than that. It’s human, too. That’s a change in your family, if you’ll permit me to say so. Were you with him when this happened?’

  ‘Oh no, I found him just now. I can’t think what – how – who did it. I thought he was dead.’

  He considered her, to see if she was lying, no doubt, and turned to Campion, who was effacing himself with his usual success.

  ‘It’s another mystery, is it?’

  ‘It would appear so.’ The slightly high voice was misleadingly foolish. ‘Unless of course it’s the same one.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ His eyes widened and his rounded back was more hunched than ever. ‘This is dreadful. The worry! The possibilities involved . . . The doubts which naturally arise in one’s mind . . .’

  Clytie interrupted with a cry of protest.

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Don’t bother about that. Don’t bother about anything unimportant. Will he get better?’

  ‘My dear,’ there was apology and gentleness in him suddenly, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. No, I shouldn’t be surprised at all.’ As the words left his lips he raised his head to listen and they heard the ambulance bell, its shrill frightened voice sounding high above the deep snore of the distant traffic.

  Charlie Luke stood in the shed, frowning, his fingers playing with the loose coins in his pocket.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Doc,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the report from the P.A.’

  ‘Oh.’ The old man drooped as though a further burden had been placed on his bent back.

  Campion made haste to excuse himself. He walked quickly out of Apron Street and the maze of little roads to the north swallowed him.

  It took him some time to find Lansbury Terrace and when he came upon it at last it proved to be a wide road not far from the canal where the original Regency houses had made way for smaller, modern residences with mock-Tudor windows and gabled roofs.

  Number Fifty-nine was as pleasantly anonymous as the rest. The dull red door was shut, the net curtains demurely unrevealing.

  Campion hurried up the wide stone steps and touched the bell. To his intense relief it was opened by a middle-aged woman. He confronted her with disarming embarrassment.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m late,’ he said.

  ‘You are, sir. They’ve been gone over half an hour.’

  He stood wavering, a lean column of open indecision guaranteed to arouse the executive instinct in any practical woman.

  ‘Which way? I mean it’s down there, isn’t it?’ He pointed vaguely behind him.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s quite a distance. You’d better take a taxi.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. I shall know it, shall I? I mean . . . these big cemeteries . . . two or three at a time . . . confusing. Awkward to arrive wrong – er – wrong function. Dear me, how stupid of me! I am late. Tell me, they’re limousines, are they?’

  It was a princely dither and she took pity on him.

  ‘Why, you can’t miss it,’ she said. ‘It’s horse carriages. Very nice and old-fashioned. There’s a lot of flowers and a lot of people. You’ll see Mr John, too.’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed yes.’ Campion looked back and down the steps. ‘I must hurry, I see that. I shall know it. A great many flowers on a perfectly black coffin.’

  ‘No, sir, on an oak coffin. Rather light. You’ll know it, sir, of course you will.’

  She stared at him a little oddly, as well she might, but he had raised his hat nervously and was hurrying off in the wrong direction.

  ‘I shall take a taxi,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Thank you very much. I shall take a taxi.’

  She went back to the house thinking that he hardly seemed to know to whose funeral he was going, and meanwhile Mr Campion sought a telephone booth. His tread was lighter, his back straighter, and his pale eyes more vacant at every step.

  He found a little red temple at the corner of the dusty road and spent some time consulting the directory chained inside.

  Knapp, Thos, Conf. Wireless Parts.

  The words stared at him from the page. The number was a Dulwich one and he dialled it, hardly daring to hope.

  ‘’Ullo.’ The voice was reedy and suspicious. His heart leaped.

  ‘Thos?’

  ‘’Oo’s that?’

  Mr Campion’s smile broadened.

  ‘A voice from the past,’ he said.
‘The name is Bertie, or used to be, I recall with some distaste.’

  ‘Gawd!’

  ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘’Ere’ – the voice rose and wavered – ‘you go on talking for a bit.’

  ‘You’re getting cautious in your old age, Thos. Not a bad idea, of course, but it seems odd in you. Let me see, seventeen years ago – or say once upon a time – a fine upstanding lad with a perpetual sniff lived with his lady mother in Pedigree Place. He had a charming hobby connected, almost literally, with telephones, and his name was Thos T. Knapp, the “T” standing as I remember for “tick”.’

  ‘Got yer!’ said the telephone. ‘Where yer speaking from? ’Ell? I made sure you was dead. ’Ow are yer?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ said Campion, keeping in the picture. ‘What are you doing? You’ve gone into trade, I see.’

  ‘Well—’ The voice was affable. ‘In a way yes, and in a way, no. Muvver’s gorn, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Campion hastened to express his regret as a recollection of that rag-bag of a giantess appeared vividly in his mind.

  ‘Cut it out.’ Mr Knapp was averse to sentiment. ‘She ’ad a pension, didn’t she? Went out like a light when ’er time came, bottle in ’er ’and. Comin’ down for a chin-wag? S’pose you couldn’t do with a hundred thousand electric light bulbs and no questions asked?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but thank you kindly and I’ll keep it in mind. I’m busy. Thos, ever heard of Apron Street?’

  There was a long silence, during which he had time to envisage that little ferret face and long prehensile nose. The conviction that there must be by now a moustache below it filled him with dismay.

  ‘Well?’ he murmured.

  ‘No.’ Mr Knapp was only partially convincing, a fact he appeared to appreciate for he went on almost at once: ‘I tell you what, Bert, old chum, as one pal to another, keep orf it, see?’

  ‘Not very clearly.’

  ‘It’s unlucky.’

  ‘What is? The place?’

  ‘I don’t know about the street, but you don’t want to go up it, not from what I ’ear.’

  Campion stood frowning into the receiver.

  ‘I’m in the dark,’ he said at last.

  ‘So am I.’ The irritation in the thin voice was convincing. ‘I’m out of the know these days. It’s a fact. I’ve got a missus on the up and up. But I ’ear a bit of news occasionally as one does, and that’s a slice of the latest. Don’t go up Apron Street, that’s what they tell me.’

  ‘Care to look about you?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ There was a flicker of the old enthusiasm in the acceptance.

  ‘It’s worth about five bar.’

  ‘I’ll do it for love if it costs me nothing,’ said Mr Knapp generously. ‘Okeydoke. Same address?’

  12. Poppy Tea

  ‘I SEE ’ER,’ said Mr Lugg with firmness. ‘I see ’er with me own eyes and she comes back to me.’

  ‘Touching,’ said Mr Campion brightly. He had just entered Mrs Chubb’s room overhanging the round bar of the Platelayers Arms, to find his old friend and knave in possession and no sign of the D.D.I. Lugg was better. He was not quite so angry, either. There was a hint of excitement in the lift of his many chins and his expression was deeply inquisitive.

  ‘You will allow it was a funny thing,’ he said. ‘It’s a rum shop, too, and the old corp be’ind the counter ’e’s not ordinary.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Campion sat down on the other side of the table.

  ‘That’s right, be’ave like an official. Don’t listen and then ask.’ Lugg was contemptuous. ‘They missed something on that there island you was going to govern. “Kindly write down three times and then tear up” – quite the professional. I see Bella Musgrave, that’s what I’m sayin’.’

  ‘Bella Musgrave.’ Mr Campion repeated the name blankly but as recollection came to him his eyes widened. ‘Oh yes . . .’ he said. ‘That hideous little police court . . . Oh, lord yes, I remember her. Neat little woman with the face of a child.’

  ‘Now it’s two children,’ said Lugg succinctly. ‘But it’s ’er all right. Same black veil, same clean bit of airy-fairy under it, same gentle eyes full of ’ypocrisy. D’you remember what ’er speciality was?’

  His employer regarded him steadily for some moments.

  ‘As I recall it – Death,’ he said at last.

  ‘That’s right. In a commercial way,’ Lugg’s black eyes were beady with interest. ‘She was the woman who used to go round with the cheap bibles. She’d look up the deaths in the papers and then trot round to the ’ouses. “Wot, not dead?”’ He imitated female mock-commiseration rather horribly. ‘“Oo I’m ever so sorry. Such a loss to me too. The Departed bought one of these ’ere and put down a small deposit. Only fifteen bob to pay.” The sorrowers forked out to get rid of ’er, of course, and took in a bible worth nine-pence ’olesale. You remember, cock. Not at all the article.’

  ‘Yes, I do. There was something else too. Wasn’t she the heartbroken widow in the Streatham insurance swindle? Single-minded gal.’

  ‘That’s ’er and now you’ve placed ’er per’aps you’ll pay attention to this little lot. She’s about again and in Apron Street. I’ve just seen ’er. She gave me an old-fashioned look but she didn’t know me.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In the perishing chemist’s. I keep telling you.’ He was near exasperation. ‘I went in for a pick-up after my un’appy accident last night and as I was talking to old Paregoric in she comes. ’E give ’er a look and she give ’im one and she went in the back.’

  ‘Really? That’s very extraordinary.’

  ‘Well, wot am I telling you?’ The fat man wriggled in his chair with petulance. ‘What are you doing, dreaming of a White Christmas? Sorry, cock, that was beneath me, but it’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Extraordinary. By the way, I’ve been talking to an old friend of yours. Remember Thos?’

  The great white face expanded with astonishment.

  ‘Lumme, that’s putting the clock back,’ he said at last. ‘’Ow was the old dreg? Not ’ung yet?’

  ‘On the contrary, he’s married and respectable. He’s doing a little job for us.’

  ‘Oh, a hemployee. That’s all right,’ he said magnificently. ‘Quite a useful feller if kep’ in ’is place.’

  Mr Campion looked at him with distaste. ‘You’re a horrible chap, Lugg, considered dispassionately.’

  The fat man chose to be affronted. ‘I’m too old for that, and don’t bring sex in, it’s common. What about this ’ere chemist? Bella may be ’is auntie, of course. Come to think of it, she might be. ’E’s the kind of chap to ’ave that kind of relation. But on the other ’and it’s funny. I mean to say, if she’s a death fancier this is right up ’er apron, isn’t it?’

  ‘Talking about relations, there is Jas,’ observed Mr Campion unpardonably. ‘Mr Luke is still with him, I suppose?’

  ‘I ’magine so. He come out to me as I come into the shop. Not a nice idea a coffin shop, is it? ’E asked me very polite if I might come down ’ere and tell you ’e might be delayed. ’E looked as if ’e’d bin active.’

  ‘How was your brother-in-law?’

  Lugg sniffed. ‘I didn’t ’ear no groans,’ he said. ‘That chap’ll go far, won’t ’e, that Charlie Luke?’

  ‘Oh? Why do you think so?’

  ‘Well, ’e can’t leave it alone, can ’e?’ The black eyes were sardonically amused. ‘No five-day week for ’im. ’E’d ’ave apoplexy waitin’ for Monday mornin’. ’Ullo!’

  Swift light steps were racing up the wooden stairs from the street. The door shuddered open and the D.D.I. appeared. The room shrank a little as his personality pervaded it.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I couldn’t leave the old blighter,’ he said, grinning at Campion. ‘He and his son are like a couple of provincial comics. If we weren’t up to our eyes I’d have them along here and make the
m go through it again for your entertainment. Come to that, we could put them on at the next police concert. “That shed was let without my knowledge,” says Jas. “Boy!”’ As usual, Charlie Luke was transforming himself into the visual object clearest in his mind, in this case Mr Bowels’s well-frilled frockcoat. The fascinated Campion could all but see its silky creases. ‘“I done it, Father, and I know I done wrong. I arsk your pardon,”’ he continued, bringing the thinner Rowley vividly before them. ‘“I done it out of charity, Father, same as you always taught me. The young fellow went on his hands and knees and begged and prayed . . .” and so on and so on.’

  Luke settled himself at the table and thumped the bell for Mrs. Chubb.

  ‘I could have listened all day,’ he said seriously. ‘He’s very angry, Jas is, angry with Rowley and livid with someone else. Maybe young Dunning, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think either of them is the owner of the cosh?’

  ‘It could be.’ He frowned. ‘I wish I knew what their lark was. I’ve put a man on to that, of course. Earnest young chap with a good heart but not quite enough upstairs. He’s the best I’ve got at the moment. We’re under strength anyway, and then there’s this general call-out for the Greek-Street gunman, to make more work.’

  Mr Lugg looked down his nose.

  ‘There’s too much of that break a jooler’s winder, fire at a copper, and ’it a bloomin’ civilian,’ he said virtuously. ‘They get away with it too.’

  ‘We’re short-handed, that’s all. Still, we’ll get old Jas. I can’t see him as a poisoner, though, can you, Mr Campion?’

  The arrival of their hostess with a tray of beer and sandwiches silenced any opinion the lean man might have had to offer. He got up lazily and wandered to the little window which overlooked the bar. For some minutes he stood there, idly watching the swaying wedges of crowd below. But suddenly he was on the alert, his head poking forward, his eyes puzzled behind his glasses.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said to Luke.

  Two men had just come into the saloon section of the bar and were pushing their way to the counter. They were obviously together and appeared to be in confidential mood. One was the unmistakable Mr Congreve from the bank and the other, gallant if shabby in an impossibly long-waisted blue overcoat, was Clarrie Grace. They were talking with the ease and intimacy of friends.