Look to the Lady (10 page)

Mr Lugg whistled. ‘'Ard lines on a bloke with ragged pants,' he observed.

‘Oh no, you don't foller me.' Branch was vehement. ‘Why, there's one pair of underpants that's been into this 'ouse reg'lar for the last fourteen years. Darned by the Duchess 'erself, bless 'er! I can tell it anywhere – it's a funny cross-stitch what she learnt in France in the 'fifties. You see it on all 'er family's washin'. It's as good as a crest.' He shook his head. ‘No, this 'ere knowledge of mine comes by instinc'. I can't explain it.'

‘Well, since you're so clever, what about this lot that's just off?' said Lugg, anxious to see if the remarkable attribute could be turned to practical account. ‘Anything nobby in the way of darns there?'

Branch was contemptuous.

‘Fakes!' he said. ‘Low fakes, that's what they were. Nice new outfits bought for the occasion. “Something to show the servants,” ' he mimicked in a horribly refined voice. ‘Not every pair of legs that's covered by Burlington Arcade first kicked up in Berkeley Square, you can take it from me.'

Mr Lugg, piqued by this exhibition of talent, was stung to retort.

‘Well, anyway, 'ere's your watch back,' he said, handing over a large gold turnip, and gathering up a sheaf of drawings he strode out of the room.

He padded softly down the corridor and tapped upon a door on his left. Penny's voice bade him enter, and he went in to find himself in a small sitting-room elaborately decorated in the dusty crimson and gold of the later Georges.

Mr Campion and the daughter of the house were standing beside the window, well hidden from the outside by heavy damask curtains. The young man, who had turned round as Lugg entered, raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

‘I've got the doings, sir,' Lugg murmured huskily, the faded splendours of the old mansion combined with Penelope's beauty producing a certain respect in his tone. ‘Just like what you thought.'

‘Good,' said Mr Campion. ‘Hold hard for a moment, Lugg. I'm watching our young host and your friend Branch, who I see has just come out to him, packing the intelligentsia into a couple of cars.'

‘Ho.' Mr Lugg advanced on tiptoe and stood breathing heavily over his master's shoulder. They could just see a group of weirdly dressed people surrounding a venerable Daimler and a still more ancient Panhard, both belonging to the house, which were stationed outside the front door.

Lugg nudged his master. ‘That's the chap I saw with Natty,' he rumbled. ‘That seedy looking bloke with the ginger beard. It was 'is traps that this lot come out of.' He tapped the pile of papers in his hand.

‘Do you recognize any of the others?' Mr Campion spoke softly.

Mr Lugg was silent for some moments. Then he sniffed regretfully.

‘Can't say I do,' he said. ‘They look genuine to me. They've got that “Gawd-made-us-and-this-is-'ow-'e-likes us” look.'

Penny touched Mr Campion's arm.

‘Albert,' she said, ‘do you recognize that man with the ginger beard?'

Mr Campion turned away from the window and advanced towards the table in the centre of the room.

‘Rather,' he said. ‘An old employee of mine. That's why I'm so glad he didn't see me. His trade name before he took up art and grew a beard was Arthur Earle. He's a jeweller's copyist, and one of the best on the shady side of the line.' He turned to Penny and grinned. ‘When Lady Ermyntrude gives her dancing partner the old Earl's jewelled toodle-oo clock to keep the wolf from the door, the old Earl is awakened every morning by a careful copy of our Arthur's making. Likewise Lady Maud's ruby dog collar and the necklace Sir George gave little Eva on her twenty-first. They're all copies of the originals made by our Arthur. Arthur, in fact, is one of the lads who make Society what it is today.' He took the pile of papers from Lugg. ‘This, I fancy, is some of his handiwork. Now we'll see.'

There had been a sound of wheels in the drive, and Val came in almost immediately afterwards.

‘Well, they've gone,' he said. ‘Hullo, what have you got there?'

Mr Campion was busy spreading out the drawings. ‘A spot of Noo-Art,' he said. ‘When they discover they've lost this lot they'll realize we're not completely in the dark, but we can't help that.'

The brother and sister bent forward eagerly. There were about a dozen drawings in all, each purporting to be a portrait of Lady Pethwick. In each drawing the Chalice figured. In fact the Chalice was the only subject which the artist had attempted to treat with any realism, whilst the drawings of the lady were ultra-modern, to say the best of them.

Mr Campion chuckled. ‘There's not much about the treasure that our friend missed,' he said. ‘It's a miracle your aunt didn't spot what he was up to. Look, here's the Chalice from the right side, from the left, from the top – see, he's even jotted down the measurements here. And I should fancy he had a pretty good idea of the weight. That's what I call thoroughness.'

Val looked at him questioningly. ‘I don't quite see the idea,' he said.

‘My dear old bird,' said Mr Campion, ‘our Arthur was a conscientious workman in spite of his murky reputation. He must have been a bit of an actor, too, by the way, to deceive your aunt like that. These are plans' – he waved his hand to the drawings on the table ‘working diagrams, in fact. I should say that, given the materials, our Arthur could turn you out a very good copy of the Chalice from these.'

‘But if they could make a copy that would deceive us, why not let his Mohammedan client have it?' said Val testily.

Mr Campion was shocked. ‘My dear fellow, have you no respect for a collector's feelings?' he said. ‘Arthur couldn't make anything that would deceive an expert.'

‘So they were going to exchange it?' It was Penny who spoke, her eyes blazing with anger and her cheeks flushed. ‘To give them plenty of time to get the real thing out of the country before we spotted anything. Pigs! Oh, the insufferable farmyard pigs! Pigs in the French sense! Why don't we wire down to the station and get the man arrested?'

‘I shouldn't do that,' said Mr Campion. ‘We've spiked his guns pretty effectively anyhow. And after all, I don't see what we could charge him with. He might retort that we'd pinched his drawings, which would be awkward. Lugg's record would come out and we'd all be in the soup. Besides,' he went on gravely, ‘Arthur is very small fry – just about as small as Natty Johnson, in fact. That's what's worrying me,' he added with unusual violence. ‘The place is swarming with minnows, but there's not a trout in the stream. And the big man is the only one who's any good to us at all. I wish I knew what your aunt saw last night.'

He gathered up the drawings and tore them neatly across and across. ‘Now you can go and play bonfires, Lugg,' he said, handing him the pieces.

It was growing dark in the room, and at any moment the dinner gong might sound.

The little party was disturbed by the sudden entrance of Branch, who came in without ceremony, his usual composure completely gone.

‘Mr Val, sir,' he burst out, ‘would you step across the passage? There's a stranger peering in through the chapel window.'

With a smothered exclamation Val started after the butler into the spare bedroom on the opposite side of the corridor, followed by the entire company. The window afforded a perfect view of the Cup House.

‘There!' said Branch, pointing down towards the old flint building. It was almost dusk, but the watchers could easily make out the figure of a man balanced upon a pile of loose stones peering in through one of the narrow lattice windows of the chapel. He was hidden by a yew hedge from the lower windows of the house, and apparently thought himself completely secluded. He had a torch in his hand with which he was trying to penetrate the darkness inside the building.

As they watched him, fascinated, the hastily improvised pedestal on which the intruder stood collapsed beneath his weight, and he stumbled to the ground with a rattle of stones. He picked himself up hastily and shot a single startled glance up at the house.

Even at that distance the features were dimly visible, revealing a handsome little man of sixty odd, with a sharp white vandyke beard and a long nose.

The next moment he was off, streaking through the flower garden like a shadow.

Penny gasped, and she and the butler exchanged glances. When at last she spoke, her voice trembled violently.

‘Why, Branch,' she said, ‘that – that looked very like Professor Gardner Cairey.'

Branch coughed. ‘Begging your pardon, miss,' he said, ‘that
was
him.'

—

I
F THE
extreme unpopularity of Lady Pethwick produced in her immediate household an emotion more akin to quiet shock than overwhelming grief at her death, the village of Sanctuary seethed with excitement at the news of it, and the most extravagant gossip was rife.

Mr Campion wandered about the vicinity in a quiet, ineffectual fashion, his eyes vague and foolish behind his spectacles, but his ears alert. He learnt within a very short space of time, and on very good authority in every case, that Lady Pethwick had been (
a
) murdered by Gypsies; (
b
) confronted by the Devil, who had thereupon spirited her away at the direct instigation of Mrs Munsey, and (
c
) according to the more prosaic wiseacres, had died in the normal way from drink, drugs, or sheer bad temper.

Even the rational Mrs Bullock held no belief in the doctor's verdict.

On the afternoon of the funeral he absented himself, and spent that day and part of the night pursuing and finally interviewing his old friends Jacob Benwell and his mother, Mrs Sarah, mère and compère of the Benwell Gypsy tribe, who had seen fit for obvious reasons to remove from Fox Hollow on the morning on which Lady Pethwick was found in Pharisees' Clearing.

It was early afternoon of the following day, after a luncheon at which Sir Percival did not appear, that Mr Campion was standing at the nursery window regarding the flower garden attentively when Lugg came to him, an expression of mild outrage upon his ponderous face.

‘A party 'as just come visitin',' he remarked. ‘Tourists on 'orseback. Day after the funeral – get me? Not quite the article, I thought.'

This announcement was followed almost immediately by the entrance of Penny. Her eyes were dark and angry.

‘Albert,' she said, ‘have you ever heard such cheek? Mrs Dick Shannon has just arrived with two complete strangers. She has the nerve to say that she has come to pay a call of condolence, and incidentally, if you please, to show her two beastly friends the Chalice. We open the chapel to visitors on Thursday as a rule – it's part of the Royal Charter – but this is a bit stiff, isn't it?'

She paused for breath.

‘Mrs Dick Shannon?' said Mr Campion. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. The megaphonic marvel. Where is she now? I suppose your father is doing the honours?'

‘Father can't stand her,' said Penny. ‘She's trying to make him sell her some horses – that's the real reason why she's come. Look here, you'd better come downstairs and support us. Father likes you. If you could get rid of them he might offer you my hand in marriage or put you up for his club. Anyway, come on.'

She went out of the room and Campion followed. Almost immediately Mrs Dick's penetrating voice met them from the hall below.

‘Well, of course, drink's better than lunacy in a family, as I told the mother.'

The phrase met them as they descended the stairs.

Penny snorted. ‘I bet she's talking about one of our relatives,' she whispered. ‘It's her idea of making conversation.'

Mrs Dick, backed by her two friends, who to do them justice looked considerably embarrassed, was standing with her feet planted far apart in the centre of the huge lounge-hall. All three were in riding kit, Mrs Dick looking particularly smart in a black habit.

Once again Mr Campion was conscious of the faint atmosphere of importance which her dashing personality seemed to exude.

Colonel Sir Percival Gyrth, supported by his son, stood listening to the lady. He was a sturdy old man of the true Brass Hat species, but there was about him a suggestion that some private worry had undermined his normal good-tempered simple character. At the moment he was quite obviously annoyed. His plump hands were folded behind his back, and his eyes, blue and twinkling like his children's, had a distinctly unfriendly gleam. He was a by no means unhandsome man, with curling iron-grey hair, and a heavy-featured clean-shaven face. He glanced up hopefully as Campion entered.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘let me present you. Mrs Shannon, this is a young friend of Val's. Mr Campion – Mr Albert Campion.'

Mrs Dick's cold glance wandered leisurely over the young man before her. Had she spoken, her contempt could not have been more apparent. Finally she honoured him with a slight but frigid bow. Then she turned to her companions.

‘Major King and Mr Horace Putnam,' she said, and then quite patently dismissed all of them as negligible.

Major King proved to be a large, florid and unhappy-looking person, slightly horsey in appearance and clearly not at his ease. Mr Putnam, on the other hand, was a small man with little bright eyes and a shrewd, wrinkled face. He too was clearly a stranger to his surroundings, but was not letting the fact worry him.

‘Well?' Mrs Dick whipped the company together with the single word. ‘Now, Penny Gyrth, if you'll take us over the museum, we'll go. I'm afraid the horses may be getting bored. You still maintain your complete unreasonableness about those two yearlings, Colonel?'

It said a great deal for Sir Percival's upbringing that his tone when he replied was as charming as ever.