Читать книгу Look to the Lady - Margery Allingham - Страница 6

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“The last time I come past ’ere,” said Mr Lugg sepulchrally, from the back of the car, “it was in a police van. I remember the time because I was in for three months hard. The joke was on the Beak, though. I was the wrong man as it ’appened, and that alibi was worth something, I can tell yer.”

Campion, at the wheel, spoke without turning. “I wish you’d shut up, Lugg,” he said. “We may be going to a house where they have real servants. You’ll have to behave.”

“Servants?” said Mr Lugg indignantly. “I’m the gent’s gent of this outfit, let me tell yer, and I’m not taking any lip. Mr Gyrth knows ’oo I am. I told ’im I’d been a cut-throat when I shaved ’im this morning.”

Val, seated beside Campion in the front, chuckled. “Lugg and Branch, my pater’s old butler, ought to get on very well together,” he said. “Branch had a wild youth, I believe, although of course his family have looked after us for years.”

“ ’Is other name ain’t Roger, by any chanst?” Mr Lugg’s voice betrayed a mild interest. “A little thin bloke with a ’ooked nose—talked with a ’orrible provincial accent?”

“That’s right.” Val turned round in his seat, amused surprise on his face. “Do you know him?”

Lugg sniffed and nodded. “The Prince of Parkhurst, we used to call ’im, I remember,” he said, and dismissed the subject of conversation.

Val turned to Campion. “You are a fantastic pair,” he said.

“Not at all,” said the pale young man at the wheel. “Since we learned to speak French we can take our place in any company without embarrassment. They ought to quote Lugg’s testimonial. I know he wrote ’em.”

Val laughed, and the talk languished for a minute or so. They were speeding down the main Colchester road, some thirty-six hours after Gyrth had stumbled into Mr Campion’s flat off Piccadilly. Reluctantly he had allowed himself to be equipped and valeted by his host and the invaluable Lugg, and he looked a very different person from the footsore and unkempt figure he had then appeared. After his first interview with Campion he had put himself unreservedly into that extraordinary young man’s hands.

Their departure from London had not been without its thrills. He had been smuggled out of the flat down a service lift into an exclusive restaurant facing into Regent Street, and thence had been spirited away in the Bentley at a reckless speed. He could not doubt that, unless his host proved to be a particularly convincing lunatic, there was genuine danger to be faced.

Mr Campion’s mild voice cut in upon his thoughts.

“Without appearing unduly curious,” he ventured, “I should like to know if you anticipate any serious difficulty in getting all friendly with your parent. It seems to me an important point just now.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It has really been my own pigheadedness that has kept me from going back ever since—” He broke off, seeming unwilling to finish the sentence.

Mr Campion opened his mouth, doubtless to make some tactful reply, when he was forestalled by the irrepressible Lugg.

“If it’s anything about a woman, you can tell ’im. ’E’s been disappointed ’imself,” he observed lugubriously.

Mr Campion sat immovable, his face a complete blank. They were passing through one of the many small country towns on the road, and he swung the car to the side before an elaborately restored old Tudor inn.

“The inner Campion protests,” he said. “We must eat. You go and lose yourself, Lugg.”

“All right,” said Mr Lugg. He was very much aware of his gaffe, and had therefore adopted a certain defiance. “Whilst you’re messing about with ‘the Motorist’s Lunch’—seven and a kick and coffee extra—I’ll go and get something to eat in the bar. It’s mugs like you wot changes ‘The Blue Boar’ into ‘Ye Olde Stuck Pigge for Dainty Teas’.”

He lumbered out of the car, opening the door for Campion but not troubling to stand and hold it. His employer looked after him with contempt.

“Buffoon,” he said. “That’s the trouble with Lugg. He’s always got the courage of his previous convictions. He used to be quite one of the most promising burglars, you know. We’ll go in and see what the good brewery firm has to offer.”

Val followed the slender, slightly ineffectual figure down the two steps into the cool brick-floored dining-room, which a well-meaning if not particularly erudite management had rendered a little more Jacobean than the Jacobeans. The heavily carved oak beams which supported the ceiling had been varnished to an ebony blackness and the open fireplace at the end of the room was a mass of rusty spits and dogs, in a profusion which would have astonished their original owners.

“That spot looks good for browsing,” said Mr Campion, indicating a table in an alcove some distance from the other patrons.

As Val seated himself he glanced round him a little apprehensively. He was not anxious to encounter any old acquaintances. Mr Campion looked about also, though for a different reason. But the few people who were still lunching were for the most part cheerful, bovine persons more interested in The East Anglian and their food than in their neighbours.

Mr Campion frowned. “If only I knew,” he said, “who they’ll choose to do their dirty work.”

Val bent forward. “Any fishy character in the vicinity ought to come in for a certain amount of suspicion,” he murmured. “The natives don’t get much beyond poaching.”

The pale young man at his side did not smile. “I know,” he said. “That makes it worse. I flatter myself that our grasping friends will do me the honour of picking on a stranger to do their homework for them. I’m afraid it may even be amateur talent, and that’s usually illogical, so you never know where you are. I say, Val,” he went on, dropping his voice, “to put a personal question, is your Aunt Diana—er—Caesar’s wife, what? I mean you don’t think they could approach her with flattery and guile?”

Val frowned. “My Aunt Diana,” he said softly, “treats herself like a sort of vestal virgin. She’s lived at the Cup House—that’s on the estate, you know—ever since Uncle Lionel died, and since Father was a widower she rather took it upon herself to boss the show a bit. Penny has a dreadful time with her, I believe.”

“Penny?” inquired Mr Campion.

“My sister Penelope,” Val explained. “One of the best.”

Mr Campion made a mental note of it. “To return to your aunt,” he said, “I’m sorry to keep harping on this but is she—er—batty?”

Val grinned. “Not certifiable,” he said. “But she’s a silly, slightly conceited woman who imagines she’s got a heart; and she’s made copy out of that ‘Maid of the Cup’ business. Until her time that part of the ceremonial had been allowed to die down a bit. She looked it up in the records and insisted on her rights. She’s a strong-minded person, and Father puts up with her, I think, to keep her quiet.”

Mr Campion looked dubious. “This ‘Maid of the Cup’ palaver,” he said. “What is it exactly? I’ve never heard of it.”

The young man reflected. “Oh, it’s quite simple,” he said at last. “Apparently in medieval times, when the menfolk were away fighting, the eldest daughter of the house was supposed to remain unmarried and to shut herself up in the Cup House and attend to the relic. Naturally this practice fell into abeyance when times got more peaceful, and that part of the affair had been obsolete until Aunt Diana hunted it all up as soon as she became a widow. She set herself up with the title complete. Father was annoyed, of course, but you can’t stop a woman like that.”

“No-o,” said Mr Campion. “Any other peculiarities?”

“Well, she’s bitten by the quasi-mystical cum ‘noo-art’ bug, or used to be before I went away,” Val went on casually. “Wears funny clothes and wanders about at night communing with the stars and disturbing the game. Quite harmless, but rather silly. I should think that if anyone put a fishy suggestion up to her she’d scream the place down and leave it at that.”

A decrepit waiter brought them the inevitable cold roast beef and pickles of the late luncher, and shuffled away again.

Val seemed inclined to make further confidences. “I don’t expect trouble with Father,” he said. “You know why I walked out, don’t you?”

Mr Campion looked even more vague than usual. “No,” he said. “You got into a row at Cambridge, didn’t you?”

“I got married at Cambridge,” said Val bitterly. “The usual tale, you know. She was awfully attractive—a Varsity hanger-on. There’s a good lot of ’em, I suppose. I ’phoned the news to Dad. He got angry and halved my allowance, so—” he shrugged his shoulders, “she went off—back to Cambridge.”

He paused a little, and added awkwardly: “You don’t mind my telling you all this, do you? But now you’re in it I feel I ought to tell you everything. Well, I came back to Sanctuary, and Hepplewhite, Dad’s solicitor, was fixing up the necessary legal separation guff when I had a letter from her. She was ill, and in an awful state in London. Dad was bitter, but I went up and looked after her by selling up my flat and one thing and another, until she died. There was a filthy row at the time and I never went back. Hepplewhite tried to get hold of me several times for the old boy, but I wouldn’t see him. Rather a hopeless sort of tale, I’m afraid, but you can see how it happened. Women always seem to muck things up,” he added a trifle self-consciously.

Mr Campion considered. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, and then was silent.

They had been so engrossed in their conversation that they had not noticed a certain commotion at the far end of the room as a woman entered and saluted one or two acquaintances as she passed to her table. It was only when her high strident voice had drowned the subdued conversation in the room that the young men in the secluded corner observed her.

She was of a type not uncommon among the “landed gentry,” but mercifully rare elsewhere. Superbly self-possessed, she was slightly masculine in appearance, with square flat shoulders and narrow hips. Her hair was cut short under her mannish felt, her suit was perfectly tailored and the collar of her blouse fitted tightly at her throat.

She managed to enter the room noisily and sat down so that her face was towards them. It was a handsome face, but one to which the epithet of “beautiful” would have seemed absurd. She was pale, with a strong prominent nose and hard closely-set blue-grey eyes. She hurled a miscellaneous collection of gloves, scarves, and papers into the chair in front of her and called loudly to the waiter.

It was evident that she was a personage, and that vague sense of uneasiness which invariably steals upon a room full of people when a celebrity is present was apparent in the stolid dining-room. Val averted his face hastily.

“Oh, Lord!” he said.

Mr Campion raised his eyebrows. “Who is the rude lady?” he inquired casually.

Val lowered his voice. “Mrs Dick Shannon,” he muttered. “Surely you’ve heard of her? She’s got a racing stable on Heronhoe Heath. One of these damn women-with-a-personality. She knows me, too. Could you wriggle in front of me, old man? She’s got an eye like a hawk.”

Mr Campion did his best, but as they rose to go, their path to the door led them directly past her table. His protégé was quick, but he was not quick enough.

“Val Gyrth!” The name was bellowed through the room until Mrs Dick Shannon’s victim felt as though the entire township must have heard it. The woman caught the boy’s coat-sleeve and jerked him backward with a wrist like flexed steel.

“So you’re back, eh? I didn’t know you’d made friends with your father again.” This piece of intimate information was also shouted. “When did this happen?” She ignored Mr Campion with the studied rudeness which is the hall-mark of her type. He hovered for some moments ineffectually, and then drifted out into the corridor to settle the score.

Left unprotected, Val faced his captor and strove to make his excuses. He was quite aware that every ear in the room was strained to catch his reply. Gyrth was a name to conjure with in that part of the country.

Mrs Dick seemed both aware and contemptuous of her audience. “I’ve just come down from the Tower,” she said. “I’m trying to make your father sell me two yearlings. What does he want with race-horses? I told him he hadn’t got the sense to train properly; and that man he’s got is a fool. I saw your aunt, too,” she went on, not waiting for any comment from him. “She gets sillier every day.”

Val gulped and murmured a few incoherent words of farewell. Mrs Dick gripped his hand and shook it vigorously.

“Well, good-bye. I shall see you again. You can tell your father I’m going to have those yearlings if I have to steal them. He’s not capable of training ’em.”

The boy smiled politely and a little nervously, and turned away.

“I heard your wife was dead—so sorry,” bawled Mrs Dick for the world to hear. Val fled.

His forehead was glistening with sweat when he came up with Campion on the broad doorstep of the inn.

“Let’s get away from here,” he said. “I loathe that woman.”

“ ‘I did but see her passing by.’ The rest of the song does not apply,” said Mr Campion. “That’s her car, I suppose.” He indicated a superb red and white Frazer Nash. “Hallo, here comes Lugg, looking like a man with a mission.”

At that moment Mr Lugg appeared from the doorway of the four-ale bar. His lugubrious face was almost animated.

“ ’Op in,” he said huskily as he came up with them. “I got something to tell yer. While you’ve bin playing the gent, I’ve bin noticin’.”

It was not until they were once more packed into the Bentley that he unburdened himself. As they shot out of the town he leant forward from the back seat and breathed heavily into Mr Campion’s ear.

“ ’Oo d’yer think I saw in the bar?” he mumbled.

“Some low friend of yours, no doubt,” said his master, skilfully avoiding a trade van which cut in front of an approaching lorry.

“I should say!” said Lugg heavily. “It was little Natty Johnson, one of the filthiest, dirtiest, lousiest little race-gang toughs I’ve ever taken off me ’at to.”

Mr Campion pricked up his ears. “The Cleaver Gang?” he said. “Was he with anyone?”

“That’s what I’m coming to,” said Lugg reproachfully. “You’re always ’urrying on, you are. ’E was talking to a funny chap with a beard. An arty bloke. I tell yer wot—’e reminded me of that Bloomsbury lot ’oo came to the flat and sat on the floor and sent me out for kippers and Chianti. They were talkin’ nineteen to the dozen, sittin’ up by theirselves in the window. I ’ad a bit o’ wool in one ear or I’d ’ave ’eard all they was saying.

“ ’Owever, that’s not the reely interestin’ part. Where we come in is this. The artist chap, and some more like ’im, is staying at the Tower, Sanctuary. I know, because the barman told me when I was laughin’ at ’em. Friends of Lady Pethwick’s, they are, ’e said, as if that explained ’em.”

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.”