Police at the Funeral Read online

  ‘She’d got much thinner lately,’ said Joyce. ‘And I think her temper had got worse, too. She may have been ill. Perhaps – perhaps it was suicide after all.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Mr Campion. ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out before we go outside this room. In fact, at this point a little elementary brain-work is indicated. After all, deduction is only adding two and two together. Look here, how does this sound to you? Aunt Julia was not the sort of person to take her own life. As far as we know she was poisoned by conium, which is one of the oldest, simplest forms known to man, and is simply another name for hemlock. It is also practically tasteless in tea.’ He paused and regarded the girl steadily. ‘Now Aunt Julia seems to have been in the habit of putting something in her tea every morning,’ he said. ‘We know that, because Alice had noticed a sediment in the bottom of her cup every day for the last six months. Therefore it’s quite reasonable to suppose that Aunt Julia put the poison which killed her into her tea this morning under the impression that it was her usual dose of something or other. Now, what we have to find out sooner or later is whether she made a mistake off her own bat or whether someone intended her to make a mistake.’

  Joyce nodded. ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘Personally,’ said Mr Campion, taking off his glasses, ‘I don’t see how it could have been a genuine mistake if the poison was conium. It’s simple enough to get hold of, but it’s got to be prepared. However, the first step is to find out what it was that Aunt Julia put in her tea every morning. Some sort of patent medicine, obviously. That’s Inspector Oates’s idea, I believe. But what it was and where it is is still a mystery. You see, there’s no trace of it. Neither Aunt Kitty nor Alice had ever heard of her taking anything regularly. Had you?’

  Joyce shook her head. ‘No. As a matter of fact, great-aunt does the dispensing for the whole family. There’s a medicine chest in her room, and the only other thing is a first-aid box in the upper hall. What sort of patent medicine were you thinking of?’

  Campion considered. ‘Well, some sort of health salts, I suppose. You know – “Take as much as you dare and leap over the next gate grinning dangerously” – vide press. The only thing against that theory is that there aren’t any health salts about, no empty tins or packets or anything. The Inspector has been over this room, and that means that there is no place large enough to contain a tin, say as large as a fifty Gold Flake, that has not been explored. They’ll probably start on the rest of the house tomorrow if we don’t spot it tonight.’

  The girl looked round helplessly. ‘It seems such a hopeless job,’ she said. ‘We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’ She eyed Campion curiously. Without his spectacles his appearance had gained at least fifty per cent in intelligence.

  He met her gaze. ‘You don’t think,’ he said slowly, ‘that Alice could have brought anything into the room, do you? After all, she was the only other person about on this floor at that time of the morning.’

  Joyce shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. She’s such a good soul. She’s the last person in the world to do anything like that. She’s been here thirty years.’

  ‘Alice knows something,’ said Mr Campion. ‘She just reeks of a secret. But I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with this.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ The girl spoke involuntarily and then flushed scarlet, realizing that she had betrayed herself.

  Just for a moment Mr Campion’s pale eyes rested upon her face. Then he returned to his deductions.

  ‘This patent medicine we’re looking for,’ he said. ‘Since no one has ever seen it, it must have been hidden by Aunt Julia herself. That gives us a line. Let us put ourselves in her place. Suppose I am a heavy, lazy woman lying in bed. A cup of hot tea is brought to me. I wish to take something from its hiding-place, put it in my tea and return the packet to concealment in the shortest possible space of time and with the maximum of comfort. That leads us directly to the bed.’

  He sat down on the bedside chair. ‘Reconstruction of crime in the French manner,’ he murmured. ‘This stuff might be anywhere. Not in the pillows, not in the mattress; these things are moved every day. If it were small enough it might be sewn into the hem of the valance.’

  He bent down to examine the frill round the bedstead, but shook his head regretfully.

  ‘No good,’ he said. ‘No hem at all worth speaking of.’ He caught hold of the thick brass bedpost to pull himself up, and as his fingers closed round the unusually thick rod an exclamation escaped him. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘The hiding-place of my childhood. The squirrel’s hole of my earliest years.’

  He pointed dramatically to the big brass knobs at the foot of the bed. A short hysterical laugh escaped the girl.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I had four little ones on my cot. They’re hollow, and they unscrew, don’t they? I used to hide bits of slate pencil in mine.’

  Mr Campion was already unscrewing one of the immense ornaments.

  ‘This is most likely the one,’ he said. ‘The bed-table side, you see.’

  The great ball was almost as large as a coconut, and screwed on to a threaded iron support as thick as a man’s two fingers. It turned easily in his hand. Two or three twists brought it off, and they bent over it eagerly.

  ‘Shake!’ The girl hardly recognized her own voice. ‘If there’s anything there it’ll rattle.’

  He obeyed her, and a hollow knocking rewarded him. ‘I don’t see how we get it out,’ he began, ‘unless – oh, I see.’ He put in his finger and caught the end of a red thread of chemist’s string just as it was about to disappear into the ball. The next moment he had drawn out a wooden cylinder about three inches long. A little hole had been bored in the screw lid, the string threaded through and a coloured bead knotted on each side to prevent it from slipping. He set the brass knob back on its post, holding his find by the string.

  ‘Look out,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch it. This may be police property now. They’re awfully touchy about people meddling with their exhibits.’ He carried the cylinder under the light on the dressing-table. The blue wrapper on the box was covered with small print, and they strained their eyes to read it. Aunt Julia’s secret lay revealed.

  ‘Thyro-Tissue Reducer. A Pellet a Day Keeps the Scales at Bay. One Thyro-Tissue Reducer pellet taken every morning in tea will effectively reduce superfluous flesh. Guaranteed convenient and harmless. Thousands of testimonials.’

  Campion and the girl exchanged glances. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Was it a mistake?’

  ‘I don’t think it was suicide,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Look here, I think we may as well open this.’ He took out a handkerchief and protected the cylinder with it as he unscrewed the lid. The inside of the cylinder proved enlightening. It held a tube of greaseproof paper folded in zigzag creases, each fold of which had contained a white pellet. About half of these were empty.

  Campion stood looking at the remaining pellets through the transparent paper. Finally he replaced them carefully in the box and screwed on the lid.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘It’ll have to go to an analyst, though I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance of the rest of these being anything but as convenient and harmless as they’re supposed to be. Yet this morning’s dose must have been impregnated by the conium or whatever it was.’

  The girl looked at him with horror and fear in her eyes. ‘Then we’ve made our discovery?’ she said. ‘It was murder?’

  Mr Campion replaced his spectacles, and, wrapping the box carefully in his handkerchief, thrust it in his pocket.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘And murder by someone who knew what no one in the house has confessed to knowing – that Aunt Julia was trying to get her weight down.’

  CHAPTER 10

  UNCLE WILLIAM’S GUILTY CONSCIENCE

  AFTER A FIFTEEN-MINUTE audience with Great-aunt Caroline alone in the drawing-room, Mr Campion returned to Joyce, who was waiting for him curled up in an arm-chair before the morning-r
oom fire. She glanced up as he came in, and he noticed how pale and scared she was. He offered her a cigarette and lit one himself.

  ‘Do you think that by the time I’m eighty-four I’ll be like Mrs Faraday?’ he inquired. ‘No, don’t say it. She is the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. I felt my allegiance to the firm required me to report our discovery to her before I told Oates. She took it marvellously. A very grand old bird. Stanislaus is right. She’s exactly like a High Court judge. I say,’ he continued, turning on the girl suddenly, ‘I hope I haven’t scared you unduly. But I thought you’d rather be in it, so to speak. After all, an explanation, however unpleasant, is better than a mystery.’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘That’s how I feel. No, I’m awfully grateful, honestly I am. I was afraid you were going to be one of those clever people one reads about who know everything from the beginning and bring the whole explanation out of their sleeve when they’ve completed a chain of evidence, like a conjurer at a children’s party.’

  Mr Campion shook his head gravely. ‘I’m not the conjurer at this party,’ he said, and sat down before the fire. ‘Look here,’ he went on suddenly, ‘as a brother sleuth, what about this secret of Alice’s? I don’t want to force anything out of you. I’m only a mother’s help in this business. But at least tell me this. Is Alice’s little mystery anything of real importance, in your own opinion, or is it one of those dark and awful private worries that really have very little to do with the case?’

  For some moments the girl did not answer, but stared fixedly before her, her brows wrinkled, her eyes troubled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said frankly. ‘Maybe you’d better hear it. It’s a silly little thing, really, and may mean nothing at all. Alice told me this morning, as a matter of fact, when she brought in my hot water, and I know she hasn’t mentioned it to the police. It’s only this. The cord which was used to open and shut the skylight window in the old nursery upstairs has gone, or at least a great part of it has. One staple has been pulled out and a large chunk of rope cut off. Alice noticed it the other day when she went in to see if the room wanted airing. Naturally she didn’t think anything of it then, but when Andrew was found tied up with clothes-line or something like it she couldn’t help remembering the window cord. She didn’t want me to tell the police because she felt it would just be bringing the suspicion back to the house. That’s all it is.’

  Mr Campion was very grave. ‘You say there’s quite a large bit of rope left?’ he said. ‘That’s important. I mean the two pieces can be compared if need be. Look here, since there’s no telephone in the house, I think I’d better go and interview one of those plain-clothes men in the garden. He probably knows of a police call-box, somewhere about, and I’d like to have a chat with Stanislaus. It’s only about half-past ten now.’

  The girl rose to her feet. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Alice won’t get into trouble, will she, for not telling?’

  ‘Rather not. I give you my solemn promise about that.’

  The girl smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what we should have done without you. I’ve got to go up now. Aunt usually goes to bed at about half-past ten, and it’s one of my jobs to put away her laces and lay out the different ones for tomorrow. I’ll say good night to you.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  She paused half-way across the room and looked back at him. ‘How do you guess what people are thinking?’ she demanded.

  Mr Campion adjusted his glasses. ‘I was in the Income Tax Department for years,’ he murmured. ‘More passages from my sordid past next week.’

  A grudging smile spread over her face. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but don’t you find your manner a – well, a detriment in your business?’

  He looked hurt. ‘Can a leopard change his spots?’ he protested. ‘I am as I am.’

  Joyce laughed. ‘Good night, Spotty,’ she said, and went out.

  Campion waited until he heard the drawing-room door close and Great-aunt Caroline and her niece go safely up the stairs. Then he stepped gently out into the hall to make his way to the garden.

  He had just reached the front door when it opened, and Marcus, followed by Uncle William, whose face was no longer pink, but a delicate shade of heliotrope, came into the hall. Both men stopped abruptly when they caught sight of Campion, and Marcus turned meaningly to his companion. Beneath the cold, slightly unfriendly stare of the younger man Uncle William pulled himself together.

  ‘Oh – yes, Campion,’ he said. ‘I’m very glad to see you. Is my mother in bed, do you know?’ It was very much apparent that something had occurred. The atmosphere was strained between the two newcomers. Campion’s curiosity was aroused. It looked as though Marcus was forcing the older man to take the initiative and equally obvious that Uncle William did so unwillingly.

  ‘Mrs Faraday has only just gone upstairs,’ said Campion. ‘Do you want to see her?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, no!’ Uncle William spoke vehemently and shut his mouth with a snap, glancing at his escort with furtive blue eyes.

  Marcus turned to Campion, betraying that he had given up the idea of persuading Uncle William to open the proceedings.

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘We want to see you alone for some minutes. Is there anyone in the breakfast-room?’ He was taking off his overcoat as he spoke, and Uncle William imitated him, although somewhat grudgingly. Campion led the way back to the morning-room and Uncle William followed him, blinking a little in the bright light.

  When Marcus came in he closed the door behind him. His face was unusually grave, and with sudden misgiving Campion realized that he looked like a man who had had a shock. Uncle William had also undergone a deep and subtle change. His bluster had deserted him almost entirely. He looked older, flabbier, and although there was still a faint truculence about him, it was the truculence of one who has been found out. rather than one who fears he is about to be.

  Marcus cleared his throat nervously. ‘Campion,’ he said, ‘as a solicitor, I have advised Mr Faraday to bring his story to you. I have explained to him that I cannot do what he has asked me, but that I feel that you, in your position as Mrs Faraday’s professional adviser in this business, could probably help him more than anyone else.’

  ‘I like that,’ grumbled Uncle William. ‘You pretty well forced me to come here, you know that.’

  Marcus turned to him in exasperation, but he spoke patiently, as though to a child.

  ‘As I reminded you before, Mr Faraday,’ he said, ‘Campion is not a member of the police, and as a professional man any secret of yours will be safe with him.’

  Uncle William spread out his fat hands. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to run my head into a noose. I don’t know when I’ve been in such an awkward position in my whole life. After all, you don’t seem to see that whatever I’ve done I’m morally as innocent as a new-born babe. It’s my affliction – like a fellow having a gammy leg. Hang it all, you’ve only got to do what I ask you, and there’s no bother about it.’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘You don’t realize,’ he said, ‘if you’ll forgive me saying so. You don’t see the legal aspect of this at all. Whatever your personal views of – er – crime and punishment are, the law is very definite on the subject. I must repeat my request to you. You’re in a very serious position, Mr Faraday.’

  ‘All right,’ said Uncle William, still a little sulkily. ‘Go on. You tell him. It seems a pity that a fellow’s afflictions should be bandied about from mouth to mouth. Still, I suppose you know best. Go on,’ he repeated, his little eyes betraying his anxiety. ‘Let me hear how you see it. Strikes me as being one of the most natural things in the world.’

  The young man took a folded paper from his breast pocket and eyed Campion steadily.

  ‘Mr Faraday has just brought me this statement which he wishes to sign on oath,’ he said. ‘I will read it to you: “I, William Robert Faraday, hereby declare that
I have had something wrong with my nerves for the past eighteen months. I am liable to lose my memory completely and utterly for short spaces of time, never exceeding the half-hour, as far as I know. During these attacks I have no recollection of where I am or who I am and do not consider myself responsible for any action that I may at these times inadvertently commit.”’

  Uncle William looked up. ‘I don’t like that word,’ he said. ‘Say “do”.’

  ‘“Do”,’ said Marcus, and made a pencilled alteration. ‘This isn’t a legal form, anyhow.’

  ‘“I swear the foregoing is the truth, and nothing but the truth. Signed. William R. Faraday.”’

  ‘Well then, there you are,’ said Uncle William triumphantly. ‘That’s clear, isn’t it? All you’ve got to do is to witness that, Marcus, and date it as I told you. There’s nothing dishonest about it. I’ve been meaning to come to you about this for months. You date it February; it’ll be all right.’

  Marcus flushed. ‘But, Mr Faraday,’ he said helplessly, ‘you must realize the desperate importance of a move like this at such a time. I don’t mind telling you that if you were anyone else who had come to me with a request like this I should consider it my duty to throw you out of my office, and it is only because you have convinced me that these facts are mainly true that I am down here with you tonight.’

  Campion, who had remained throughout the interview standing silent by one of the high-backed chairs, his inconsequential air more strongly marked than ever, now sat down and leant back, folding his arms.

  ‘Could you describe these attacks of yours, Mr Faraday?’ he said.

  Uncle William looked at him belligerently. ‘Of course I could,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing much to describe. I just forget, and then, after a bit, I remember. An attack usually lasts about five to ten minutes, I believe. There’s a name for it. It’s called “amnesia” or something. If I get tired or over-exert myself it’s liable to come on.’