Margery Allingham - Police at the Funeral

In the bright light from the enormous crystal chandelier over the table Mr Campion looked even more vacant and foolish than usual, and when he spoke his voice was vague and inconclusive.

'I read the papers before I came down,' he said. 'Quite a bad business.'

Marcus glanced at him sharply, but there was no sign of anything but the utmost gravity in the other's face. He went on, still speaking with that faint inconsequential air which irritated so many of his acquaintances.

'I left Miss Blount at Socrates Close. A charming girl. Congratulations, Marcus.'

The over-bright lights, the polished walnut and gleaming silver, combined with the slightly low temperature of the room, contrived to foster the extraordinary formality which distinguished this odd reunion. Campion became more and more vague, and Marcus's natural frigidity nearly succeeded in silencing him altogether.

Mr Campion partook of some cold ham with ritualistic solemnity, Marcus attending to his wants with grave politeness, clinging resolutely to the hard and fast law of etiquette, which demands that a newly-arrived guest must be instantly fed, preferably upon something cold.

As for Mr Campion, he seemed completely unaware of anything out of the ordinary in the situation. To be summoned to a catastrophe and met with cold ham might have been the most usual of his experiences. It was only after he had finished his meal and accepted reverentially the proffered cigarette that he glanced up at the other, a polite smile upon his lips, and remarked in a slightly high-pitched conversational tone: 'Many murders for the time of year?'

Marcus stared at him and slowly reddened disarmingly.

'Still the same damn fool, Campion,' he said explosively. 'I've had a feeling you were laughing at me all the time you've been eating.'

'Not at all,' said Mr Campion. 'I was remembering. You got your blue for deportment, didn't you?'

Marcus permitted himself a smile which humanized him instantly. The next moment, however, he was his grave and anxious self again.

'Look here,' he said, 'I don't want you to think I've got you down here under false pretences, but the fact is I'm in a hole'--he hesitated.

Mr Campion waved his hand. 'My dear fellow,' he said deprecatingly, 'of course I'll do anything I can.'

Marcus looked relieved and, since the rheumatic maid had returned to clear the table, suggested that they should retire to the privacy of his study. As they went up the narrow polished oak staircase he turned to Campion, once more apologetic.

'I expect you're rather accustomed to this sort of thing?' he murmured. 'But I may as well admit that I've got the wind-up.'

'I seldom get more than one body a quarter,' murmured Mr Campion modestly.

The room they entered was a typical Cambridge study, aesthetically impeccable, austere, and, save for the two deep arm-chairs before the fire, slightly uncomfortable. As they entered, a wire-haired fox terrier of irreproachable breeding, rose from the hearth-rug and came to meet them with leisurely dignity. Marcus effected an introduction hastily.

'Foon,' he said. 'Written "Featherstonehaugh".'

Somewhat to his host's embarrassment Mr Campion shook hands with the dog, who seemed to appreciate the courtesy, for he followed them back to the hearth-rug, waiting for them to be seated before he took up his position on the rug again, where he sat during the rest of the proceedings with the same air of conscious breeding which characterized his master.

Marcus Featherstone presented the unhappy spectacle of a man who has reduced at least the trivialities of life to a thought-saving if somewhat rigid code, suddenly confronted by a situation for which even the best people have no set form of behaviour.

'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 awkwardly.' 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.'