Police at the Funeral (6 page)

‘You see, Campion,' he said suddenly, as they sat down. ‘Joyce is in the thick of it. That's the real snag as far as I'm concerned.'

Campion nodded. ‘I quite understand,' he said. ‘Fire ahead with the story. Mr Seeley was a friend of yours, I suppose?'

The other looked up in surprise. ‘Hardly,' he said. ‘Didn't Joyce explain? Seeley was a very difficult customer. I don't think he had many friends. In fact, I can't think of anyone who liked him. That's what makes it so excessively awkward.' He frowned and paused, but after a moment's hesitation pulled himself together and continued. ‘I first heard about the trouble this afternoon. Old Mrs Faraday sent for my father, but the governor's away, thank heaven. Cambridge doesn't suit him in the winter. I went down myself and found the whole house in an uproar. That is, in a sort of suppressed ferment.'

He leant forward as he spoke, his eyes on the other man's face.

‘Mrs Faraday was taking charge herself, of course. There is an amazing old woman for you, Campion. There were a couple of detective-inspectors of the Cambridgeshire C.I.D. in the drawing-room when I arrived, and they were as nervous as a knife-boy at a servants' ball. Roughly, the facts are these, Campion. The ‘Varsity doesn't come up until next Wednesday, as you know, but there are always one or two Indian students about out of term time. Two of these men, bug-hunting along
the river bank, found the body in the river in Grantchester Meadows, some way above the bathing pool. It was caught up in some willow roots and may have been there for days. That stream is deserted this time of year, and the weather's been beastly anyhow. They gave the alarm. The police came along, put the body in the mortuary, and discovered a visiting card that was still legible in the wallet, also a presentation watch with the name engraved. That sent them doubling up to Socrates Close of course, and William Faraday went down to identify the body.'

He paused and smiled grimly. ‘It's a most amazing thing,' he went on, ‘but Mrs Faraday insisted on driving with him. She sat in the car outside and waited. Think of it! She's eighty-four, and an autocrat. I'm frightened of her myself. Then William went on to the police station, where he made a statement. It was not until we were up at the house that they told us about the shooting. Until then we thought he had been drowned.'

Campion sat forward in his chair, his pale eyes vague behind his spectacles, his tone still inconsequential.

‘About the shooting,' he said. ‘What happened exactly?'

The other man's expression changed and he grimaced reminiscently. ‘He was shot through the head,' he said. ‘I saw the body afterwards. Shot through the head at very close range. There might have been a simple explanation for that, of course, but unfortunately he was bound hand and foot and they can't find a gun. I saw the Chief Constable of the county today; he's a friend of Father's, a delightful old boy, Anglo-Indian family, a “wallah of the old school, don't you know”. Our chat was completely unofficial, of course, but in confidence he gave me to understand that there's no doubt about it – it's murder. In fact what he said was: “It's murder, my boy, and damned unpleasant murder at that.”'

A ghost of a smile appeared upon Mr Campion's lips and he lit another cigarette.

‘Look here, Featherstone,' he said. ‘I must warn you. I'm no detective, but of course I'm open to help. What d'you think I can do for you exactly?'

His host hesitated before replying. ‘I'm afraid it's rather a
delicate matter to explain,' he said at length, in his curiously dry voice. ‘When I first asked you to come down I had some vague idea that you might assist me to prevent a particularly unpleasant scandal. You see,' he went on, smiling sourly, ‘this is one of the few places left in the world where it's not only considered unfortunate, but atrocious bad form, to have one of your relations – or clients – mysteriously murdered. Of course it's quite beyond the bounds of scandal now,' he hurried on, ‘but I feel, if I may say so without being offensive, that it would be very useful for me to have someone I knew who was not bound by the edicts or – well – scruples of convention to assist the police on our side. Someone who would hold an intelligent watching brief, someone utterly trustworthy, and, if you will forgive me, my dear Campion, for using a revolting term, someone who is a gentleman. In other words,' he added, unbending suddenly and becoming almost ingenuous, ‘the governor is almost eighty himself and not really capable of the job, and I've got the wind-up.'

Campion laughed. ‘I see,' he said. ‘I'm to play my speciality role – the handy man about the trouble. I say, I hope the police like me. This isn't the sort of idea they cotton to as rule. I'm afraid it's practically impossible to go gaily in “assisting”. However, I've got friends, as Lugg said to the beak. I'll do anything I can for you, but I must know the full strength. Things look rather hot for Uncle William, I suppose?'

The other did not reply, and he went on:

‘Tell me the worst. I'm a ferret for information. And after all, you don't want me turning up with the family skeleton in my beak, wagging my tail and shouting miaow, as it were.'

Marcus took up the poker and jabbed meditatively at a particularly solid piece of coal. The stiffness had faded out of his manner, leaving him an oddly defenceless person without his affectations. ‘If I didn't know you, Campion,' he began – ‘and why you insist on calling yourself that I can't imagine – I should never dream of putting this to you at all. But the thing that's frightening me is the family.'

His tone gave the two words an ominous significance.

‘There's rank evil there,' he went on unexpectedly, fixing his bright eyes on the other man's face and speaking with an
intense sincerity which finally removed any trace of his former frigidity. ‘There they are, a family forty years out of date, all vigorous energetic people by temperament, all, save for the old lady, without their fair share of brains, and herded together in that great mausoleum of a house, tyrannized over by one of the most astounding personalities I've ever encountered. Imagine it, Campion, there are stricter rules in that house than you or I were ever forced to keep at our schools. And there is no escape.

‘You see,' he went on earnestly, ‘there's no vent to the suppressed hatreds, petty jealousies, desires and impulses of any living soul under that roof. The old lady holds the purse strings and is the first and final court of appeal. Not one of her dependents can get away without having to face starvation, since not one of them is remotely qualified to earn a sixpence.

‘Now in that atmosphere, although I don't like to think it, I can't help imagining that anything might happen.'

‘You are certain, in fact,' said Mr Campion, ‘that it's one of the family?'

Marcus did not reply directly. He passed his hand over his hair and sighed. ‘It's terrible,' he said. ‘Andrew was not even robbed. If only someone had stolen his wallet I should feel more helpful. Of if he'd fallen in the river trying to take a short cut home to score off his cousin it wouldn't matter much. However, that is all ruled out. I saw the body. Someone tied him up and then practically blew his head off. The police hadn't found the gun half an hour before you came. I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. As the Chief said this afternoon, it's “a perfectly obvious case of murder”.'

‘Why?' said Mr Campion.

The other stared at him. ‘Well, you can't get away from the evidence,' he said.

‘Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I mean, why should anyone murder him? As far as I can gather he seems to have been a perfectly normal old nuisance – just like anyone else's uncle, in fact. And he had no money. That in itself should have insured him a long life.'

Marcus nodded. ‘That's the trouble,' he said. ‘Of course there is this bookmaker's cheque, but the police doctor is convinced that the body had been in the water at least a week. So that's
no good. Over and above that, he seems to have had nothing but petty debts. That's the whole point of it: none of the family have any money at all, except the old lady, who is definitely wealthy. No, there's no motive that I can see.'

‘Save, of course,' said Mr Campion, ‘the fewer men the greater share of plunder in the end, so to speak.'

Marcus jabbed again gloomily at the fire.

‘Even that's no good,' he said. ‘Strictly in confidence, of course, though I fancy the whole family know this, old Mrs Faraday altered her will some little time ago. Under the new provisions, Andrew Seeley, her nephew by marriage, was to receive nothing at all. When she died, therefore, he must either starve or depend upon the problematic charity of his cousins. It was his own fault.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum,
you know, but he wasn't a pleasant customer. A petty cantankerous little person, a strain of the bounder in him. I've often felt like kicking him myself. But then, they're not charming, any of them. The old lady has an element of grandeur about her, and Catherine is quite a kindly soul, although of course I do hate stupidity in a woman. What really frightens me is that I can easily imagine myself feeling like murder if I lived in that house.'

‘Julia,' said Mr Campion, who had listened with astonishment to this recital from the prosaic Marcus. ‘How about Julia? She's an unknown quantity at the moment. I understand from Joyce that she's a spinster and difficult.'

Marcus considered the matter. ‘I've never been able to understand whether Julia is unfriendly and deep, or merely unfriendly,' he said. ‘But to tie a man up, and shoot him, and chuck him in the river when she was known to have been driving home from church – why, my dear fellow, don't be ridiculous.'

‘I suppose it did happen then?' said Mr Campion dubiously.

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who can tell?' he said. ‘Certainly William was the last person who saw him alive. I fancy that if the police found the weapon William would be under lock and key by now.' He looked up abruptly. Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage outside, and were followed by a discreet tap on the door. The elderly maid reappeared carrying
a silver tray with a card on it, disapproval manifest on every line of her face. She presented the tray to Marcus without a word. The young man took the missive in some surprise, and after glancing at it handed it to Campion.

The proximity of the man they had been discussing was brought home to them startlingly by the primly engraved name. Campion turned the card over to discover a few words scrawled in a flamboyant hand cramped to fit the space.

‘Shall be greatly obliged if you can spare me a few moments. W.F.'

Marcus raised his eyebrows as he saw it, and pocketed the card absently. ‘Show him up, Harriet,' he said.

‘
THIS IS THE
point to be considered, then,' murmured Mr Campion. ‘Is this “Enter a murderer”, or “Innocence appears disguised as Mars”?'

There was no time for comment. Marcus rose to his feet as the door opened to admit Uncle William.

He came bustling in, a direct contradiction to any of Campion's preconceived ideas. Mr William Faraday was a shortish, tubby individual in a dinner-jacket of the ‘old gentleman' variety, a man of about fifty-five, with a pink face, bright greedy little blue eyes, yellowish-white hair, and a moustache worn very much in the military fashion, without quite achieving the effect so obviously intended. His hands were pudgy, and his feet, in their square-toed glacé shoes, somehow enhanced the smug personality of their owner.

He strode briskly across the room, shook hands with Marcus, and turned to survey Campion, who had also risen. There was a gleam of welcome in the little blue eyes which changed ludicrously to frank astonishment as he saw the young man. Involuntarily he put on a pair of pince-nez which he wore suspended from a broad black ribbon.

Marcus effected the introduction and the old man's surprise increased.

‘Campion?' he said. ‘Campion? Not the – ah – Campion?'

‘One of the family, no doubt,' said that young man idiotically.

Mr Faraday coughed with unnecessary violence. ‘How do you do?' he said conciliatingly, and held out his hand. He then turned to Marcus. ‘That dear girl of yours, Joyce, came in just now,' he observed gustily. ‘I – er – gathered from her, don't you know, that you might be in this evening, and that's why I – er – ventured to call. Thank you, my boy.' He sank into the chair which Marcus set for him and shouted to Campion, who was moving politely towards the doorway: ‘No, no – don't go, you, sir. Nothing to conceal. I've come to have a chat with Marcus about this disgusting scandal.'

The truculence in his tone would have been comic in any other situation, but his little blue eyes were frightened behind the bluster and he appeared a slightly pathetic, overheated old person, blowing and fuming like the proverbial frog.

‘This is a bad business, Marcus, my boy,' he continued as the others resumed their seats, Marcus taking a high chair in the centre of the group, with Foon at his feet. ‘A very bad business. We shall need good brains to get us out of it without making ourselves the gossip of the whole county. Extraordinarily typical of Andrew,' he added, with a sudden startling increase of volume in his tone, ‘that he couldn't even leave this world without making a lot of bother for us all. They kept me up at the police station talking for about an hour this afternoon.'

He cast an inquiring glance at Mr Campion, and his dubiousness concerning that young man's possible use in such an emergency was as apparent as though he had spoken it. He returned to Marcus.