Police at the Funeral

Chapter 22 In the Morning

After Alice had placed the can of hot water on the washstand and carefully covered it with a towel, she crossed the room, pulled up the blind and paused at the end of Marcus Featherstone's bed. Having allowed him sufficient time to awaken and recall his unhappy thoughts, she made her announcement.

'Mr Campion isn't in his room, sir. His bed hasn't been slept in. I thought perhaps I'd better tell you instead of Mr William. And old Mr Christmas, the mistress's coachman, came into the kitchen just before I came upstairs, to say that his son must have got up and dressed in the night, for there's no sign of him.'

Marcus sat up in bed in Uncle William's voluminous and exotic pyjamas and reviewed the situation.

'Campion gone?' he said. 'Half a minute and I'll put on a dressing-gown and come along.'

He slipped on the multi-coloured bathrobe, another evidence of Uncle William's hospitality, and followed the woman across the hall and down the corridor to Mr Campion's room. No one else seemed to be stirring. George and William's rooms were silent, and apart from the cheerful domestic clatter below stairs the house was still sleeping.

Alice led the way into Campion's room. It was neat. Campion's portmanteau lay on the luggage-rack, his dressing-gown hung over the monstrous arm-chair, and apart from the fact that the window was wide open at the bottom and the bed was unslept in, there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.

Marcus looked round sleepily. 'What an extraordinary thing,' he said. 'Oh, well, Alice, I suppose he knows what he's doing. How about Mr George Faraday? Have you been in to him yet?'

'No, sir. The door was locked. I've knocked, but I can't make him hear. I expect he's sleeping heavy after--well, after last night, sir.'

'Very likely,' agreed Marcus grimly. 'Wait a minute. I put the key in my pocket, I think. Mr Campion and I locked him in last night. Look here, you go and mix him up a stiff Worcester sauce and I'll get the key.'

'Oh, don't you trouble, sir. All the keys on this floor fit. I'll mix Mr George the same as Mr Andrew used to have.'

'I'll wait for you here,' said Marcus. 'I think I had better take it in.'

As the woman went off down the corridor to the service stairs he strolled over to Campion's window and stood looking out. He was a man who hated mysteries, and he felt unduly resentful at what he could only feel was an unnecessary piece of theatre. After all, there was no reason why Campion shouldn't have said he was going out. In one way, Marcus was glad. It would give him an opportunity to wake the nauseous George himself. No man is at his best on the morning after such an indulgence, and Marcus was young enough to enjoy the prospect of seeing Cousin George a little sorry for himself, and perhaps, even, of using a little unnecessary force in waking him.

When Alice returned with a tray, on which stood a glass containing an unappetizing brown concoction, he took it from her, and detaching the key from Campion's room, fitted it in the lock of George's door. He knocked and listened. There was no response from within, and he knocked again. Receiving no reply, it was with some satisfaction that he turned the key, and, throwing open the door, went in, Alice at his elbow.

He was confronted by the yellow gleam of electric light, and his irritation increased. He thrust out his hand and switched off the current as a smothered scream from Alice made him spin round to find her staring horror-stricken at the sight before them.

The room was in chaos. Books, garments, bedclothes were strewn recklessly over the floor. In the midst of them, lying face downwards, his body contorted in the most horrible and unnatural position, was Cousin George.

There was no doubt that he was dead. His body seemed to have been petrified in the midst of some terrible convulsion.

Marcus, dazed and a little sick, stepped forward unsteadily, and as he bent over the body there came to him the strong unmistakable smell of bitter almonds. He drew back and turned to Alice, who, white-faced and grim, had closed the door behind her with commendable presence of mind. She laid her fingers to her lips.

'Hush, sir,' she whispered. 'Don't frighten the house. What is it?'

'He's dead,' said Marcus stupidly.

'I can see that,' said Alice. 'How did he come by it?'

'Poison, I think,' he said huskily. 'I don't know. We must get the police, Alice. Good God! Another murder!'

The realization of it came to him in a sudden chaotic vision. The whole ghastly procession of the law presented itself to his mind: the police in the house again, the endless questioning, the inquest, the Press campaign, Kitty in the witness-box, William in the witness-box, Joyce and Campion, all of them questioned, cross-questioned, perhaps even suspected.

Alice's voice cut into his jumble of thoughts. 'You mustn't frighten the mistress. What shall we do, sir?'

'Telephone to the police station,' said Marcus. 'Inspector Oates is still in the town, I believe. Yes, that's right, Alice, telephone.'

'We haven't got the machine in the house, sir. Shall I go down to Mrs Palfrey's? We've been borrowing hers lately.'

This trivial difficulty sobered the young man more quickly, perhaps, than anything else would have done. He began to think clearly.

'Look here,' he said, 'we'll relock this door and I'll go and dress. You go down to Mrs Palfrey's and ring up the police. Inspector Redgrave is in charge, I expect, at this time. Ask him if Inspector Oates is still in the town, and if so tell him from me that I should be very much obliged if he would come down here, as something most unexpected has occurred. If you are sure that no one of the Palfrey household is within earshot, tell him what has happened. Anyway, get him to see that he must come at once. Can you do that?'

She nodded, and he felt suddenly grateful for her wonderful stolidity. She turned on the electric light.

'What are you doing that for?'

'We'll leave it just as it was if you don't mind, sir. Come along.'

He followed her out of the room, relocked the door, and returned the key to Campion's room.

'I'll go and dress now, then,' he said, and stopped abruptly. Alice had already gone.

As he struggled into his clothes he experienced that sudden clarity of mind which so often comes just before the nerves reach their breaking-point. Another murder had been committed. Therefore a murderer was at large. In the business of the inquest he had rather lost sight of this all-important point, but the question remained. If Uncle William had no stain upon his character, who had? George had come to the house with a story which no one but Mrs Caroline Faraday appeared to have believed. George had made an accusation. He had stated that he knew who had murdered Andrew. Now he was dead. Was it possible that Julia's hitherto motiveless murder could be explained by the fact that she knew something? The ranks were getting thin.

He found himself reviewing Kitty's position, and then old Mrs Faraday's. The older woman alone had credited George's story, yet she had been driving home in her four-wheeler with Joyce at the time when Andrew was presumed to have met his death. The same excuse applied to Kitty. Even though Julia was dead, there was still young Christmas to prove that she had not left the car from the time she had come out of church to the moment when he set her down at Socrates Close.

Marcus's mind returned to William. Mrs Finch, of 'The Red Bull', had proved to everyone's satisfaction where William had been at the time of Uncle Andrew's death, if Andrew had died from the shot which the cottager on the Granchester Road had heard. But supposing Andrew had not died at that time? Then the whole exasperating problem began all over again.

And now there was another murder. It never occurred to Marcus to put any other construction upon the fate of the terrible twisted thing in the wrecked room. He felt dizzy. His orderly mind revolted at the inexplicable. His father's words returned to him with startling force: 'I wondered when the bad blood in that family was going to tell.' What bad blood? Whose bad blood? It was as though the old house was cracking up under his eyes.

This, then, was what Campion had been afraid of. Yes, and where was he? It was not like Campion to disappear, to go off without any word of explanation. He struggled into his coat and went downstairs.

As he entered the hall he ran into Alice. She seemed relieved to see him.

'Oh, sir,' she said breathlessly, 'I was just coming up. I've been on the phone. Inspector Redgrave is coming down right away, and so is Inspector Oates. And, oh, sir, I spoke to Mr Campion.'

'Campion? Where?' said Marcus in astonishment.

'Oh the phone, sir. He was at the police station. Mrs Palfrey's maid was in the hall, so I didn't like to say what had happened, but when the Inspector realized I was hesitating, he said "Wait a minute", and then I heard Mr Campion's voice. And oh, sir'--she looked at Marcus with genuine mystification in her brown eyes--'Mr Campion seemed to expect something, for he said "Quick, Alice, who is it?" And so I just said "Mr George, sir."'

'Yes,' said Marcus eagerly. 'What did Campion say?'

'He said "Thank God", sir,' said Alice.