Look to the Lady (5 page)

‘That,' said the pale young man gravely, ‘is where we come to a personal and difficult matter. You are – estranged from your father?'

Val nodded, and the obstinate lines round his mouth hardened. ‘That's true,' he said.

Mr Campion bent forward to attend to the fire. ‘My dear young sir,' he said, ‘as I told you, the practice of these collectors is to employ the most suitable agent for the job on hand. And although it might be perfectly obvious to anyone who knew you that the chance of buying your services was about as likely as my taking up barbola work, the dark horse who's taken on this job obviously hasn't realized this. Some people think a starving man will sell anything.'

Val exploded wrathfully. The young man waited until the paroxysm was over and then spoke mildly.

‘Quite,' he said. ‘Still, that explains it, doesn't it?'

Val nodded. ‘And the “long road”?' he said.

‘A form of salutation between “George's” friends.'

Val sighed. ‘It's incredible,' he said. ‘I'll put myself in your hands if I may. What are we going to do? Call in the police?'

Campion dropped into a chair beside his kinsman. ‘I wish we could,' he said. ‘But you see our difficulty there. If we call in the police when nothing has been stolen they won't be very sympathetic, and they won't hang about indefinitely. Once the treasure has been stolen it will pass almost immediately into the hands of people who are untouchable. It wouldn't be fair do's for the policemen. I have worked for Scotland Yard in my time. One of my best friends is a big Yard man. He'll do all he can to help us, but you see the difficulties of the situation.'

Val passed a hand over his bandaged forehead. ‘What happens next?' he said.

Mr Campion reflected. ‘You have to patch things up with your father,' he said quietly. ‘I suppose you've realized that?'

The boy smiled faintly. ‘It's funny how a single piece of information can make the thing that was worth starving for this morning seem small,' he said. ‘I knew I should have to go down to Sanctuary in July. I'm twenty-five on the second. But I meant to come away again. I don't know how we're going to put this to Father. And yet,' he added, a sudden blank expression coming into his face, ‘if this is true, what can we do? We can't fight a ring like this for ever. It's incredible; they're too strong.'

‘There,' said Mr Campion, ‘is the point which resolves the whole question into a neat “what should A do?” problem. We've got just one chance, old bird, otherwise the project would not be worth fighting and we should not have met. The rules of this acquisitive society of friends are few, but they are strict. Roughly, what they amount to is this: all members' commissions – they have to be for things definitely unpurchasable, of course – are treated with equal deference, the best agent is chosen for the job, unlimited money is supplied, and there the work of “George” and “Ethel” ends until the treasure is obtained.' He paused and looked steadily at the young man before him. ‘However – and this is our one loop-hole – should the expert whom they have chosen meet his death in the execution of his duty – I mean, should the owner of the treasure in question kill him to save it – then they leave well alone and look out for someone else's family album.'

‘If he's caught –?' began Val dubiously.

Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders. ‘If he's caught he takes the consequences. Who on earth would believe him if he squealed? No, in that case the society lets him take his punishment and employs someone else. That's quite understandable. It's only if their own personal employee gets put out that they get cold feet. Not that the men they employ mind bloodshed,' he added hastily. ‘The small fry – burglars, thugs, and homely little forgers – may die like flies. “George” and “Ethel” don't have anything to do with that. It's if their own agent gets knocked on the head that they consider that the matter is at an end, so to speak.' He was silent.

‘Who is the agent employed to get the Chalice?' said Gyrth abruptly.

Mr Campion's pale eyes behind his heavy spectacles grew troubled. ‘That's the difficulty,' he said. ‘I don't know. So you see what a mess we're in.'

Gyrth rose to his feet and stood looking at Campion in slow horror.

‘What you are saying is, in effect, then,' he said, ‘if we want to protect the one thing that's really precious to me and my family, the one thing that must come before everything else with me, we must find out the man employed by this society, and murder him?'

Mr Campion surveyed his visitor with the utmost gravity.

‘Shall we say “dispose of him”?' he suggested gently.

—

‘T
HE
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.