Читать книгу Mystery Mile - Margery Allingham - Страница 9

Mystery Mile

On the grey marshy coast of Suffolk, fifteen miles from a railway station, and joined to the mainland by the Stroud only, a narrow road of hard land, the village of Mystery Mile lay surrounded by impassable mud flats and grey-white saltings.

The name was derived from the belt of ground mist which summer and winter hung in the little valleys round the small hill on which the village stood. Like many Suffolk hamlets, the place was more of an estate than a village. The half-dozen cottages, the post office, and the Rectory were very much outbuildings of the Manor House, the dwelling of the owner of the Mile.

In olden times, when the land had been more profitable, the squire had had no difficulty in supporting his large family of retainers, and, apart from the witch burnings in James I’s reign, when well-nigh a third of the population had suffered execution for practices more peculiar than necromantic, the little place had a long history of peaceful if gradually decaying times.

The families had intermarried, and they were now almost as much one kin as the Pagets themselves.

The death of the present squire’s father, Giles Paget, had left his young son and daughter the house and worthless lands, with little or no money to keep them up, and some twenty or thirty villagers who looked to them as their natural means of support.

The Manor, hidden in the thick belt of elms which surrounded it, had but one lamp shining from the big casement windows. It was a long, low, many-gabled building, probably built round 1500 and kept in good repair ever since. The overhung front sheltered rose trees under its eaves, and the lintels of the windows were low and black, enhancing the beauty of the moulded plaster surrounding them.

In the library, round the fireplace with the deep-set chimney seat, the squire and his sister were entertaining the rector.

The squire was twenty-three. Giles Paget and his sister Biddy were twins. As they sat together they looked startlingly modern against the dark oak-furnished room which had not been materially altered for centuries.

Giles was a heavily built, fair youngster whose sturdiness suggested a much larger man. He had a square-cut face, not particularly handsome, but he had a charming smile.

Biddy was possessed of an animation unusual in a country girl. Tall as her brother, with a figure like a boy’s, she had a more practical outlook on life than had been born into the Paget family for centuries.

Their visitor, the Reverend Swithin Cush, rector of Mystery Mile, sat and beamed at them. He was a lank old man, with a hooked nose and deep-set twinkling black eyes surrounded by a thousand wrinkles. His long silky white hair was cut by Biddy herself when it got past his collar, and his costume consisted of a venerable suit of plus-fours, darned at knees and elbows with a variety of wools, and a shining dog collar, the one concession he made to ‘the cloth’. His only vanity was a huge signet ring, a bloodstone, which shone dully on his gnarled first finger. For nearly fifty years he had baptized, wedded, and buried the people of the isthmus. The village was conservative, not to say medieval in its religious opinions, and the old chained Bible in the little late-Norman church was the only book of the law they considered at all.

The subject of discussion round the fire in the library was the paper Giles Paget held in his hand.

‘St Swithin can now see the telegram,’ said Biddy; ‘the first Mystery Mile has seen since Giles won the half-mile. I don’t know how Albert’s going to get here, Giles; the Ipswich taxies don’t like the Stroud at night.’

The rector took the telegram and read it aloud, holding the paper down to the fire to catch the light from the flames.

LISTEN KIDDIES UNCLE HAS LET HOUSE STOP RING OUT WILD BELLS STOP SEND NO FLOWERS STOP ARRIVING NINE THIRTY STOP SHALL EXPECT FOOD AND RARE VINTAGES STOP OBEDIENTLY YOURS EVA BOOTH.

‘If I know anything about Albert,’ said the rector, ‘he’ll arrive on a broomstick.’

Biddy sighed. ‘Think he has let the house?’ she said. ‘I never dreamed he would take us seriously. I do hope we get something for it. Cuddy’s third daughter’s having another baby in September. That’s another for the bounty. These ancient customs are a bit hard on the budget.’

‘ “The Lord will provide,” ’ said the rector regretfully, ‘is a tag which is not found in the Vulgate. But I have great faith in Albert.’

Biddy chuckled. ‘St Swithin,’ she said. ‘Albert is a fishy character and no fit associate for a dignitary of the Church.’

The old man smiled at her, and his small black eyes twinkled and danced in the firelight.

‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘out of evil cometh good. There is no reason why we should not sit in the shadow of the Bay Tree while it flourishes. Although,’ he went on seriously, ‘our very good friend Albert is a true son of the Church. In the time of Richelieu he would no doubt have become a cardinal. His associates are not solely criminals. Look at us, for instance.’

Giles broke in. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘he’s not a crook. Not exactly, I mean,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘He’s not a detective either,’ said Biddy. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s really a sort of Universal Aunt, isn’t he? “Your adventures undertaken for a small fee.” Oh, I like Albert.’

Giles grinned.

‘I know you do,’ he said. ‘She’s prepared a school treat for him in the next room, St Swithin. One of these days she’ll put us in a home and go off with him.’

Biddy laughed and regarded them shrewdly out of the corners of her brown eyes.

‘I might,’ she said, ‘but he’s comic about women.’ She sighed.

‘He’s a comic chap altogether,’ said Giles. ‘Did I tell you, St Swithin, the last time I saw him we walked down Regent Street together, and from the corner of Conduit Street to the Circus we met five people he knew, including a viscountess and two bishops? Each one of them stopped and greeted him as an old pal. And every single one of them called him by a different name. Heaven knows how he does it.’

‘Addlepate will be glad to see him,’ said Biddy, patting the head of a sleek chestnut-brown dog who had just thrust his head into her lap. The dog looked self-conscious at hearing his name, and wagged his stump of tail with feverish enthusiasm.

Giles turned to the rector. ‘Albert said he tried to train Addlepate for crime before he gave it up as a bad job and brought him down to us. He said the flesh was willing but the mind was weak. I shall never forget,’ he went on, pulling at his pipe, ‘when we were up at Cambridge, hearing Albert explain to the porter after midnight that he was a werewolf out on his nightly prowl who had unexpectedly returned to his own shape before he had time to bound over the railings. He kept old . . .’

The sound of a motor horn among the elms outside interrupted him. Biddy sprang to her feet. ‘There he is,’ she said, and ran out to open the door to him herself. The other two followed her.

Through the rustling darkness they could just make out the outlines of a small two-seater, out of which there rose to greet them the thin figure they expected. He stood up in the car and posed before them, one hand upraised.

‘Came Dawn,’ he said, and the next moment was on the steps beside them. ‘Well, well, my little ones, how you have grown! It seems only yesterday, St Swithin, that you were babbling your infant prayers at my knee.’

They took him into the house, and as he sat eating in the low-ceilinged dining-room they crowded round him like children. Addlepate, grasping for the first time who it was, had a mild fit of canine hysterics by himself in the hall before he joined the others.

By common consent they left the question of the letting of the house until Mr Campion should mention it, and as he did not bring up the subject, but chattered on inconsequentially about everything else under the sun, there was no talk of it until they were once more seated round the library fire.

Mr Campion sat between Giles and Biddy. The firelight shone upon his spectacles, hiding his eyes. Giles leaned back in his chair, puffing contentedly at his pipe. The girl sat close to their new guest, Addlepate in her lap, and the old rector was back in his corner. Sitting there, the firelight making a fine tracery of his face, he looked like a Rembrandt etching.

‘Well, about this Estate Agency business,’ said Mr Campion, ‘I’ve got something to put up to you kids.’ His tone was unusually serious.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘You’re wondering where the slow music comes in. It’s like this. It so happened that I wanted a country house in a remote spot for a particularly peppy job I’ve got on hand at the moment. Your announcement that you’d have to let the ancestral home occurred to me, and I thought the two stunts worked in together very well. Giles, old boy, I shall want you to help me. Biddy, could you clear out, my dear, and go and stay with an aunt or something? For a fortnight or so, I mean—until I know how the land lies?’

The girl looked at him with mild surprise in her brown eyes. ‘Seriously?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘More serious than anything in the world.’

Biddy leaned back in her chair. ‘You’ll have to explain,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to miss anything.’

Mr Campion took Biddy’s hand with awful solemnity. ‘Woman,’ he said, ‘this is men’s work. You’ll keep your little turned-up neb out of it. Quite definitely and seriously,’ he went on, ‘this is not your sort of show, old dear.’

‘Suppose you don’t blether so much,’ said Giles; ‘let’s have the facts. You’re so infernally earnest that you’re beginning to be interesting for once.’

Mr Campion got up and wandered up and down the room, his steps sounding sharply on the polished oak floor.

‘Now I’m down here,’ he said suddenly, ‘and I see you dear old birds all tucked up in the ancestral nest, I’ve got an attack of conscience. I ought not to have done this, but since I have I’d better make a clean breast of it.’

The others turned and stared at him, surprised by this unusual outburst.

‘Look here,’ he went on, planting himself back in his chair, ‘I’ll tell you. You read the newspapers, don’t you? Good! Well, have you heard of Judge Lobbett?’

‘The old boy they’re trying to kill?’ said Giles. ‘Yes. You know I showed it to you this morning, St Swithin. Are you in that, Albert?’

Mr Campion nodded gravely. ‘Up to the neck,’ he said, adding hastily, ‘on the right side, of course. You know the rough outline of the business, don’t you? Old Lobbett’s stirred up a hornet’s nest for himself in America and it’s pretty obvious they’ve followed him here.’ He shot a glance at Giles. ‘They’re not out to kill him, you know—not yet. They’re trying to put the fear of God into him and they’ve picked an infernally tough nut. In fact,’ he went on regretfully, ‘if he wasn’t such a tough nut we wouldn’t have such a job. I’m acting for the son, Marlowe Lobbett—a very decent cove; you’ll like him, Giles.’ He paused and looked round at them. ‘Have you got all that?’

They nodded, and he continued: ‘The old boy won’t stand any serious police protection. He himself is our chief difficulty. At first I thought he was going to sink us, but quite by chance I stumbled on a most useful sidelight in his character. The old boy has got a bee in his bonnet about folk-lore—ancient English customs—all that sort of thing. Marlowe introduced me to him as a sort of guide to rural England. Said he’d met me on the boat coming over, as of course he had. Anyway, I’ve let him the house. There’s a title of Lord of the Manor that goes with it, isn’t there?’

Giles glanced up. ‘There is something like that, isn’t there, St Swithin?’

The old man nodded and smiled. ‘There’s a document in the church to that effect,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what good it is to anybody nowadays, though.’

‘Old Judge Lobbett liked it, anyway,’ said Mr Campion. ‘It gives the place a sort of medieval flavour. But I’ll come to that later. All that matters now is that the old bird has taken the place off your hands at fourteen quid a week. And if he knew as much as I do he’d realize he got it cheap.’

Giles sat up. ‘You expect trouble?’ he said.

Mr Campion nodded. ‘I don’t see how we can escape it,’ he said. ‘You see,’ he went on hastily, ‘I had to get the old boy out of the city and down here, because in a place like this if there’re any strangers knocking about we know at once. Look here, Giles, I shall need you to help me.’

Giles grinned. ‘I’m with you,’ he said. ‘It’s time something happened down here.’

‘And I’m in it too,’ said Biddy, that expression of determination which the others knew so well appearing at the corners of her mouth.

Mr Campion shook his head. ‘Sorry, Biddy,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t have that. You don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for. It was only in a fit of exuberance that I went into it myself.’

Biddy sniffed. ‘I’m staying,’ she said. ‘Judge Lobbett has a daughter, hasn’t he? If she’s going to be in it, so am I. Besides, what would you three poor fish do without me? We’ll move over to the Dower House.’

Mr Campion turned to the rector. ‘Bring your influence to bear, St Swithin. Tell her that this is stern stuff—no place for the tender sex.’

The old man shook his head. ‘In the words of the poet, “I do remain as neuter”,’ he said. ‘Personally, I always obey her.’

Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘You’re making it very awkward for me,’ he said. ‘I’d never have done it if I’d dreamed that I was bringing you into it, Biddy.’

The girl laid her hand upon his knee. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘You silly old dear, I’m with you to the death. You know that.’

Mr Campion almost blushed, and was silent for an appreciable space of time. The rector brought him back to the subject on hand. ‘Let us be specific,’ he said. ‘No doubt you have your own dark secrets, Albert, but what are we expected to do?’

Mr Campion plunged into the details of his scheme. ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to keep the old boy here. And that means we’ve got to keep him interested. St Swithin, I rely on you for the archaeology and whatnots. Show him the village trophies. Get out the relics of the witch burnings and polish up the stocks. Make it all bright and homely for him. Then there’s the doubtful Romney in the drawing room. Get his opinion on that. He’s a delightful old cove, but obstinate as sin.’

He hesitated. ‘What he’s really interested in,’ he went on after a pause, ‘is actual folk-lore and superstition. Haven’t you any prize yokels who know a few ancient wisecracks?—old songs and that sort of thing?’

Giles glanced up. ‘Plenty of those,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you, Biddy, I set George to cut down that dead thorn at the end of the home paddock this morning? When I passed by at lunchtime he grinned at me, as pleased as Punch—he’d been all the morning at it. “How are you going, George?” said I. “Foine, Master Giles,” he said, “I can cut that down quicker than that took to grow.” When I said, “So I should hope,” he seemed quite offended. We might pass him off as the original Old Saw himself.’

‘That’s the sort of thing,’ Campion agreed. ‘But I warn you to go carefully. The old boy’s no fool. This sort of thing’s his hobby. You’d be surprised how much more the average American knows about England than we do.’

The Reverend Swithin Cush coughed dryly. ‘There is enough here to interest a genuine antiquary for some time,’ he said. ‘How long do you expect him to stay? Is the length of his visit indefinite?’

Mr Campion became suddenly vague. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve cracked up the place a lot, but he may give us one swift look and go home, and then bang goes little Albert’s fourpence an hour and old Lobbett’s sweet young life, most likely. Oh, I forgot. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready in time, Biddy?’

The girl sighed. ‘Just,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a bit of a camp at the Dower House.’

They sat discussing their plans until after midnight, when the old rector rose stiffly out of his chair.

‘Biddy, I’ll have my hurricane,’ he said. ‘You ought all to be in bed now if you’re going to move tomorrow.’

The girl fetched the storm lantern, and they watched him disappearing into the darkness—a gaunt, lonely figure, his white hair uncovered, the lantern bobbing at his side like a will-o’-the-wisp.

As they came back into the shadowy hall, Mr Campion grinned. ‘Dear old St Swithin,’ he said. ‘You’ve known him since you were muling and puking in Cuddy’s arms, haven’t you?’

Biddy answered him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s getting old, though. Alice—that’s his housekeeper, you know—says he’s gone all Russian lately. “Like a broody hen,” she said.’

‘He must be hundreds of years old,’ said Albert. ‘There’s an idea in that. We might pass him off as the original St Swithin himself. Dropped in out of the rain, as it were.’

‘Go to bed,’ said Biddy. ‘The machinery wants a rest.’

Up in the chintz-hung bedroom the oak floor was sloping and the cool air was fragrant with lavender, toilet soap, and beeswax. Mr Campion did not get into the four-poster immediately, but stood for some time peering out into the darkness.

At last he drew a small, much-battered notebook from an inside pocket and scribbled ‘St S’. For some time he stood looking at it soberly, and then deliberately added a question mark.