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  Mr Campion’s pale eyes flickered behind his spectacles. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘And this man –’

  ‘Yes,’ cut in Mr Lugg, ‘’e was talkin’ confidential with Natty Johnson. I know first-class dicks ’oo’d arrest ’im fer that.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Penny: For Your Thoughts

  —

  THE village of Sanctuary lay in that part of Suffolk which the railway has ignored and the motorists have not yet discovered. Moreover, the steep-sided valley of which it consisted, with the squat Norman church on one eminence and the Tower on the other, did not lie on the direct route to anywhere, so that no one turned down the narrow cherry-lined lane which was its southern approach unless they had actual business in the village. The place itself was one of those staggering pieces of beauty that made Morland paint in spite of all the noggins of rum in the world.

  A little stream ran across the road dividing the two hills; while the cottages, the majority pure Elizabethan, sprawled up each side of the road like sheep asleep in a meadow. It is true that the smithy kept a petrol store housed in a decrepit engine boiler obtained from Heaven knows what dumping ground, but even that had a rustic quality. It was a fairy-tale village peopled by yokels who, if they did not wear the traditional white smocks so beloved of film producers, at least climbed the rough steps to the church on a Sunday morning in top hats of unquestionable antiquity.

  The Three Drummers stood crazily with its left side a good two feet lower down the northern hill than its right side. It was of brown unrestored oak and yellow plaster, with latticed windows and a red tiled roof. It had three entrances, the main one to the corridor on the level of the road, the bar parlour up four steps upon the left, and the four-ale down two steps on the right.

  It was at about five o’clock, when the whole village was basking in a quiet yellow light, that the Bentley drew up outside the Three Drummers and deposited Val Gyrth and Campion at the centre door. Lugg took the car across the road to the smithy ‘garage’, and the two young men stepped into the cool, sweet-smelling passage. Val had turned up his coat collar.

  ‘I don’t want to be spotted just yet,’ he murmured, ‘and I’d like a chat with Penny before I see the Governor. If I can get hold of Mrs Bullock, she’ll fix everything.’

  He tiptoed down the passage and put his head round the door of the kitchen at the far end.

  ‘Bully!’ he called softly.

  There was a smothered scream and a clatter of pans on a stone floor. The next moment the good lady of the house appeared, a big florid woman in a gaily patterned cotton dress and a large blue apron. Her sleeves were rolled above her plump elbows and her brown hair was flying. She was radiant. She caught the boy by the arm and quite obviously only just prevented herself from embracing him vigorously.

  ‘You’ve made it up,’ she said. ‘I knew you would – your birthday coming and all.’

  She had a deep resonant voice with very little trace of accent in spite of her excitement.

  ‘Won’t you come into the bar and show yourself? – sir,’ she added as an afterthought.

  Val shook his head. ‘I say, Bully,’ he said, ‘things aren’t quite settled yet. Could you give my friend Mr Campion here a room and find us somewhere we can talk? I’d like a note taken up to Penny if possible. How is everyone at the Tower? Do you know?’

  Mrs Bullock, who had sensed the urgency of his request, was wise enough to ask no questions. She had been the faithful friend and confidante of the children at the Tower ever since her early days as cook at that establishment, and their affairs were as always one of her chief concerns.

  She led her visitors upstairs to a magnificent old bedroom with a small sitting-room leading out of it.

  ‘You write your note, sir, and I’ll bring you up something,’ she said, throwing open the window to let in the scented evening air. ‘You were asking about the folk, Mr Val. Your father’s well, but worried looking. And Penny – she’s lovely. Oh, I can see your mother in her – same eyes, same walk, same everything.’

  ‘And Aunt?’ said Val curiously.

  Mrs Bullock snorted. ‘You’ll hear about your aunt soon enough,’ she said. ‘Having herself photographed with the Thing.’ She dropped her eyes on the last word as though she experienced some embarrassment in referring to the Chalice.

  ‘I’ve heard about that,’ said Val quietly. ‘Otherwise – she’s all right?’

  ‘Right enough, save that she fills the whole place with a pack of crazy no-goods – strutting about in funny clothes like actors and actresses. Your Ma’ll turn in her grave, if she hasn’t done that already.’

  ‘The artists?’ Val suggested.

  ‘Artists? They ain’t artists,’ said Mrs Bullock explosively. ‘I know artists. I’ve ’ad ’em staying here. Quiet tidy little fellows – fussy about their victuals. I don’t know what your aunt’s got hold of – Bolsheviks, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ll find paper and pen over there, Mr Val.’ And with a rustle of skirts she bustled out of the room.

  Val sat down at the square table in the centre of the smaller room and scribbled a few words.

  ‘Dear Penny,’ he wrote, ‘I am up here at “The Drummers.” Can you come down for a minute? Love, Val.’

  He folded the paper, thrust it in an envelope and went to the top of the oak cupboard staircase. Mrs Bullock’s tousled head appeared round the door at the foot.

  ‘Throw it down,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll send young George around with it.’

  Val went back to Campion. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘what about Lugg? He won’t talk, will he?’

  Mr Campion seemed amused. ‘Not on your life,’ he said. ‘Lugg’s down in the four-ale with his ears flapping, drinking in local wit and beer.’

  Val crossed to the window and looked out over the inn garden, a mass of tangled rambler roses and vivid delphiniums stretching down amid high old red walls to the tiny stream which trickled through the village.

  ‘It seems impossible,’ he said slowly. ‘Up in your flat the story sounded incredible enough, but down here with everything exactly as it always was; so quiet and peaceful and miles away from anywhere, it’s just absurd. By jove, I’m glad to get back.’

  Mr Campion did not speak, and at that moment the door opened and Mrs Bullock returned with a tray on which were two tankards, bread and butter, and a great plate of water-cress.

  ‘It’s home-brew,’ she said confidentially. ‘I only keep it for ourselves. The stuff the company sends down isn’t what it used to be. You can taste the Government’s hand in it, I say. I’ll send Miss Penny up the moment she comes,’

  She laid a fat red hand on Val’s shoulder as she passed him, an ineffably caressing gesture, and went out, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Here’s to the fatted calf,’ said Mr Campion, lifting his tankard. ‘There’s something so Olde English about you, Val, that I expect a chorus of rustic maidens with garlands and a neat portable maypole to arrive any moment. Stap me, Sir Percy! Another noggin!’

  Val suddenly turned upon his companion, a shadow of suspicion in his eyes. ‘Look here, Campion,’ he said, ‘this isn’t some silly theatrical stunt to get me back into the bosom of the family, is it? You’re not employed by Hepplewhite, are you?’

  Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’m my own master now. No more selling my soul to commerce – not while Uncle’s money lasts, anyhow. I’m one of these capitalistic toots. Only one in five has it.’

  Val grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But thinking it over in cold blood, I suppose you know that the Chalice is in the Cup House chapel, and that is burglar-proof. No ordinary thief could possibly touch it.’

  ‘No ordinary thief would want to,’ said Mr Campion pointedly. ‘You seem to have forgotten your fun in the taxicab. I suppose you know you bashed that chap up pretty permanently, and he didn’t even mention to the hospital authorities that he had a fare on board? If someone doesn’t try to murder one of us every two days you se
em to think there’s nothing up. Drink up your beer like a good boy, and old Uncle Al will find a nice crook for you to beat up. All I’m worrying about is if they’ve already got busy while we’re hanging about. I say, I wish your sister would come. The Tower isn’t far away, is it?’

  ‘It’s just up at the top of the hill,’ said Val. ‘You can’t see it because of the trees. Hold on a moment – I think this is she.’

  There was a chatter of feminine voices on the staircase. Campion walked over to the bedroom.

  ‘I’ll stay here till the touching reunion is over,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Val testily. He got no further, for the door opened, and not one but two young women came in, with Mrs Bullock hovering in the background.

  At first glance it was easy to pick out Val’s sister. Penelope Gyrth was tall like her brother, with the same clear-cut features, the same very blue eyes. Her hair, which was even more yellow than Val’s, was bound round her ears in long thick braids. She was hatless, and her white frock was sprinkled with a scarlet pattern. She grinned at her brother, revealing suddenly how extremely young she was.

  ‘Hallo, old dear,’ she said, and crossing the room slipped her arm through his.

  A more unemotional greeting it would have been difficult to imagine, but her delight was obvious. It radiated from her eyes and from her smile.

  Val kissed her, and then looked inquiringly at her companion. Penny explained.

  ‘This is Beth,’ she said. ‘We were coming down to the post office when young George met us with your note, so I brought her along. Beth, this is my brother, and Val, this is Beth Cairey. Oh, of course, you haven’t heard about the Caireys, have you?’

  The girl who now came forward was very different from her companion. She was petite and vivacious, with jet-black hair sleeked down from a centre parting to a knot at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes were round and full of laughter, and there was about her an air of suppressed delight that was well-nigh irresistible. She was a few years older than the youthful Penny, who looked scarcely out of her teens.

  Mr Campion was introduced, and there was a momentary awkward pause. A quick comprehending glance passed between him and the elder girl, a silent flicker of recognition, but neither spoke. Penny sensed the general embarrassment and came to the rescue, chattering on breathlessly with youthful exuberance.

  ‘I forgot you didn’t know Beth,’ she said. ‘She came just after you left. She and her people have taken Tye Hall. They’re American, you know. It’s glorious having neighbours again – or it would be if Aunt Di hadn’t behaved so disgustingly. My dear, if Beth and I hadn’t conducted ourselves like respectable human beings there’d be a feud.’

  Beth laughed. ‘Lady Pethwick doesn’t like strangers,’ she said, revealing a soft unexpectedly deep voice with just a trace of a wholly delightful New England accent.

  Penny was plainly ill at ease. It was evident that she was trying to behave as she fancied her brother would prefer, deliberately forcing herself to take his unexpected return as a matter of course.

  Campion watched her curiously, his pale eyes alight with interest behind his huge spectacles. In spite of her gaiety and the brilliance of her complexion there were distinct traces of strain in the faint lines about her eyes and in the nervous twisting of her hands.

  Val understood his sister’s restraint and was grateful for it. He turned to Beth and stood smiling down at her.

  ‘Aunt Di has always been rather difficult,’ he said. ‘I hope Father has made up for any stupidity on her part.’

  The two girls exchanged glances.

  ‘Father,’ said Penny, ‘is sulky about something. You know what a narrow-minded old darling he is. I believe he’s grousing about the Professor – that’s Beth’s father – letting the Gypsies camp in Fox Hollow. It’s rather near the wood, you know. It would be just like him to get broody about it in secret and feel injured without attempting to explain.’

  Beth chuckled. ‘The Gypsies are Mother’s fault,’ she said. ‘She thinks they’re so picturesque. But four of her leghorns vanished this morning, so I shouldn’t wonder if your Dad’s grievance would be sent about its business fairly soon.’

  Val glanced from one to the other of the two girls.

  ‘Look here,’ he said after a pause, ‘is everything all right?’

  His sister blushed scarlet, the colour mounting up her throat and disappearing into the roots of her hair. Beth looked uncomfortable. Penny hesitated.

  ‘Val, you’re extraordinary,’ she said. ‘You seem to smell things out like an old pointer. It doesn’t matter talking in front of Beth, because she’s been the only person that I could talk to down here and she knows everything. There’s something awfully queer going on at home.’

  Mr Campion had effaced himself. He sat at the table now with an expression of complete inanity on his pale face. Val was visibly startled. This confirmation of his fears was entirely unexpected.

  ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.

  Penny’s next remark was hardly reassuring.

  ‘Well, it’s the Chalice,’ she said. There was reluctance in her tone as though she were loth to name the relic. ‘Of course, I may be just ultra-sensitive, and I don’t know why I’m bothering you with all this the moment you arrive, but I’ve been awfully worried about it. You remember the Cup House chapel has been a sacred place ever since we were kids – I mean it’s not a place where we’d take strangers except on the fixed day, is it? Well, just lately Aunt Diana seems to have gone completely mad. She was always indiscreet on the subject, of course, but now – well –’ she took a deep breath and regarded her brother almost fearfully – ‘she was photographed with it. I suppose that’s what’s brought you home. Father nearly had apoplexy, but she just bullied him.’

  As Val did not respond, she continued.

  ‘That’s not the worst, though. When she was in London last she developed a whole crowd of the most revolting people – a sort of semi-artistic new religion group. They’ve turned her into a kind of High Priestess and they go about chanting and doing funny exercises in sandals and long white night-gowns. Men, too. It’s disgusting. She lets them in to see the Chalice. And one man’s making a perfectly filthy drawing of her holding it.’

  Val was visibly shocked. ‘And Father?’ he said.

  Penny shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can’t get anything out of Father,’ she said. ‘Since you went he’s sort of curled up in his shell and he’s more morose than ever. There’s something worrying him. He has most of his meals in his room. We hardly ever see him. And, Val’ – she lowered her voice – ‘there was a light in the East Wing last night.’

  The boy raised his eyebrows in silent question, and she nodded.

  Val picked up his coat.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I’ll come back with you if you can smuggle me into the house without encountering the visitors.’ He turned to Campion. ‘You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’ he said. ‘I’ll come down and fetch you in the morning. We’d better stick to our original arrangement.’

  Mr Campion nodded vigorously.

  ‘I must get Lugg into training for polite society,’ he said cheerfully.

  He saw Penny throw a glance of by no means unfriendly curiosity in his direction as he waved the three a farewell from the top of the stairs.

  Left to himself he closed the door carefully, and sitting down at the table, he removed his spectacles and extracted two very significant objects from his suitcase, a small but wicked-looking rubber truncheon and an extremely serviceable Colt revolver. From his hip-pocket he produced an exactly similar gun, save in the single remarkable fact that it was constructed to project nothing more dangerous than water. He considered the two weapons gravely.

  Finally he sighed and put the toy in the case: the revolver he slipped into his hip-pocket.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Storm Breaks

  —

  ‘’ERE, wot d’you think you’re doing?’


  Mr Lugg’s scandalized face appeared round the corner of the door.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ said Campion without looking up. ‘And, by the way, call me “sir”.’

  ‘You’ve bin knighted, I suppose?’ observed Mr Lugg, oozing into the room and shutting the door behind him. ‘I’m glad that chap’s gone. I’m sick o’ nobs. As soon as I caught a bosso of ’im and ’is ’arem going up that street I come up to see what the ’ell you was up to – sir.’

  Mr Campion resumed his spectacles. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to make the “valet” grade somehow before tomorrow morning. I don’t know if you realize it, but you’re a social handicap.’

  ‘Now then, no ’iding be’ind ’igh school talk,’ said Mr Lugg, putting a heavy hand on the table. ‘Show us what you’ve got in yer pocket.’

  Mr Campion felt in his hip-pocket and produced the revolver obediently.

  ‘I thought so.’ Mr Lugg examined the Colt carefully and handed it back to his master with evident contempt. ‘You know we’re up against something. You’re as jumpy as a cat. Well, I’m prepared too, in me own way.’ He thrust his hand in his own pocket and drew out a life-preserver with a well-worn handle. ‘You don’t catch me carryin’ a gun. I’m not goin’ to swing for any challenge cup that ever was – but then I’m not one of the gentry. And I don’t know wot you think you’re up to swankin’ about the cash your uncle left you. I know it paid your tailor’s bill, but only up to nineteen twenty-eight, remember. You’ll land us both in regular jobs workin’ for a livin’ if you’re so soft-’earted that you take on dangerous berths for charity.’

  He was silent for a moment, and then he bent forward. His entire manner had changed and there was unusual seriousness in his little black eyes.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, with deep earnestness, ‘let’s ’op it.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr Campion with affable idiocy, ‘I have buttered my bun and now I must lie on it. And you, my beautiful, will stand meekly by. It is difficult, I admit. Gyrth’s a delightful chap, but he doesn’t know what we’re up against yet. After all, you can’t expect him to grasp the significance of the Société Anonyme all at once. You’re sure that was Natty Johnson?’