Look to the Lady (7 page)

‘It's just up at the top of the hill,' said Val. ‘You can't see it because of the trees. Hold on a moment – I think this is she.'

There was a chatter of feminine voices on the staircase. Campion walked over to the bedroom.

‘I'll stay here till the touching reunion is over,' he said.

‘Don't be a fool,' said Val testily. He got no further, for the door opened, and not one but two young women came in, with Mrs Bullock hovering in the background.

At first glance it was easy to pick out Val's sister. Penelope Gyrth was tall like her brother, with the same clear-cut features, the same very blue eyes. Her hair, which was even more yellow than Val's, was bound round her ears in long thick braids. She was hatless, and her white frock was sprinkled with a scarlet pattern. She grinned at her brother, revealing suddenly how extremely young she was.

‘Hallo, old dear,' she said, and crossing the room slipped her arm through his.

A more unemotional greeting it would have been difficult to imagine, but her delight was obvious. It radiated from her eyes and from her smile.

Val kissed her, and then looked inquiringly at her companion. Penny explained.

‘This is Beth,' she said. ‘We were coming down to the post office when young George met us with your note, so I brought her along. Beth, this is my brother, and Val, this is Beth Cairey. Oh, of course, you haven't heard about the Caireys, have you?'

The girl who now came forward was very different from her companion. She was
petite
and vivacious, with jet-black hair sleeked down from a centre parting to a knot at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes were round and full of laughter, and there was about her an air of suppressed delight that was well-nigh irresistible. She was a few years older than the youthful Penny, who looked scarcely out of her teens.

Mr Campion was introduced, and there was a momentary awkward pause. A quick comprehending glance passed between him and the elder girl, a silent flicker of recognition, but neither spoke. Penny sensed the general embarrassment and came to the rescue, chattering on breathlessly with youthful exuberance.

‘I forgot you didn't know Beth,' she said. ‘She came just after you left. She and her people have taken Tye Hall. They're American, you know. It's glorious having neighbours again – or it would be if Aunt Di hadn't behaved so disgustingly. My dear, if Beth and I hadn't conducted ourselves like respectable human beings there'd be a feud.'

Beth laughed. ‘Lady Pethwick doesn't like strangers,' she said, revealing a soft unexpectedly deep voice with just a trace of a wholly delightful New England accent.

Penny was plainly ill at ease. It was evident that she was trying to behave as she fancied her brother would prefer, deliberately forcing herself to take his unexpected return as a matter of course.

Campion watched her curiously, his pale eyes alight with interest behind his huge spectacles. In spite of her gaiety and the brilliance of her complexion there were distinct traces of strain in the faint lines about her eyes and in the nervous twisting of her hands.

Val understood his sister's restraint and was grateful for it. He turned to Beth and stood smiling down at her.

‘Aunt Di has always been rather difficult,' he said. ‘I hope Father has made up for any stupidity on her part.'

The two girls exchanged glances.

‘Father,' said Penny, ‘is sulky about something. You know what a narrow-minded old darling he is. I believe he's grousing about the Professor – that's Beth's father – letting the Gypsies camp in Fox Hollow. It's rather near the wood, you know. It would be just like him to get broody about it in secret and feel injured without attempting to explain.'

Beth chuckled. ‘The Gypsies are Mother's fault,' she said. ‘She thinks they're so picturesque. But four of her leghorns vanished this morning, so I shouldn't wonder if your Dad's grievance would be sent about its business fairly soon.'

Val glanced from one to the other of the two girls.

‘Look here,' he said after a pause, ‘is everything all right?'

His sister blushed scarlet, the colour mounting up her throat and disappearing into the roots of her hair. Beth looked uncomfortable. Penny hesitated.

‘Val, you're extraordinary,' she said. ‘You seem to smell things out like an old pointer. It doesn't matter talking in front of Beth, because she's been the only person that I could talk to down here and she knows everything. There's something awfully queer going on at home.'

Mr Campion had effaced himself. He sat at the table now with an expression of complete inanity on his pale face. Val was visibly startled. This confirmation of his fears was entirely unexpected.

‘What's up?' he demanded.

Penny's next remark was hardly reassuring.

‘Well, it's the Chalice,' she said. There was reluctance in her tone as though she were loth to name the relic. ‘Of course, I may be just ultra-sensitive, and I don't know why I'm bothering you with all this the moment you arrive, but I've been awfully worried about it. You remember the Cup House chapel has been a sacred place ever since we were kids – I mean it's not a place where we'd take strangers except on the fixed day, is it? Well, just lately Aunt Diana seems to have gone completely mad. She was always indiscreet on the subject, of course, but now – well –' she took a deep breath and regarded her brother almost fearfully – ‘she was photographed with it. I suppose that's what's brought you home. Father nearly had apoplexy, but she just bullied him.'

As Val did not respond, she continued.

‘That's not the worst, though. When she was in London last she developed a whole crowd of the most revolting people – a sort of semi-artistic new religion group. They've turned her into a kind of High Priestess and they go about chanting and doing funny exercises in sandals and long white night-gowns. Men, too. It's disgusting. She lets them in to see the Chalice. And one man's making a perfectly filthy drawing of her holding it.'

Val was visibly shocked. ‘And Father?' he said.

Penny shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can't get anything out of Father,' she said. ‘Since you went he's sort of curled up in his shell and he's more morose than ever. There's something worrying him. He has most of his meals in his room. We hardly ever see him. And, Val' – she lowered her voice – ‘there was a light in the East Wing last night.'

The boy raised his eyebrows in silent question, and she nodded.

Val picked up his coat.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘I'll come back with you if you can smuggle me into the house without encountering the visitors.' He turned to Campion. ‘You'll be all right here, won't you?' he said. ‘I'll come down and fetch you in the morning. We'd better stick to our original arrangement.'

Mr Campion nodded vigorously.

‘I must get Lugg into training for polite society,' he said cheerfully.

He saw Penny throw a glance of by no means unfriendly curiosity in his direction as he waved the three a farewell from the top of the stairs.

Left to himself he closed the door carefully, and sitting down at the table, he removed his spectacles and extracted two very significant objects from his suitcase, a small but wicked-looking rubber truncheon and an extremely serviceable Colt revolver. From his hip-pocket he produced an exactly similar gun, save in the single remarkable fact that it was constructed to project nothing more dangerous than water. He considered the two weapons gravely.

Finally he sighed and put the toy in the case: the revolver he slipped into his hip-pocket.

—

‘'E
RE
, wot d'you think you're doing?'

Mr Lugg's scandalized face appeared round the corner of the door.

‘Mind your own business,' said Campion without looking up. ‘And, by the way, call me “sir”.'

‘You've bin knighted, I suppose?' observed Mr Lugg, oozing into the room and shutting the door behind him. ‘I'm glad that chap's gone. I'm sick o' nobs. As soon as I caught a bosso of 'im and 'is 'arem going up that street I come up to see what the 'ell you was up to – sir.'

Mr Campion resumed his spectacles. ‘You're a disgrace,' he said. ‘You've got to make the “valet” grade somehow before tomorrow morning. I don't know if you realize it, but you're a social handicap.'

‘Now then, no 'iding be'ind 'igh school talk,' said Mr Lugg, putting a heavy hand on the table. ‘Show us what you've got in yer pocket.'

Mr Campion felt in his hip-pocket and produced the revolver obediently.

‘I thought so.' Mr Lugg examined the Colt carefully and handed it back to his master with evident contempt. ‘You know we're up against something. You're as jumpy as a cat. Well, I'm prepared too, in me own way.' He thrust his hand in his own pocket and drew out a life-preserver with a well-worn handle. ‘You don't catch me carryin' a gun. I'm not goin' to swing for any challenge cup that ever was – but then I'm not one of the gentry. And I don't know wot you think you're up to swankin' about the cash your uncle left you. I know it paid your tailor's bill, but only up to nineteen twenty-eight, remember. You'll land us both in regular jobs workin' for a livin' if you're so soft-'earted that you take on dangerous berths for charity.'

He was silent for a moment, and then he bent forward. His entire manner had changed and there was unusual seriousness in his little black eyes.

‘Sir,' he said, with deep earnestness, ‘let's 'op it.'

‘My dear fellow,' said Mr Campion with affable idiocy, ‘I have buttered my bun and now I must lie on it. And you, my beautiful, will stand meekly by. It is difficult, I admit. Gyrth's a delightful chap, but he doesn't know what we're up against yet. After all, you can't expect him to grasp the significance of the
Société Anonyme
all at once. You're sure that was Natty Johnson?'

‘Wot d'you take me for – a private dick?' said Mr Lugg with contempt. ‘Of course I saw 'im. As little and as ugly as life. I don't like it.'

He glanced about him almost nervously and came a step nearer. ‘There's something unnatural about this business,' he breathed. ‘I was listenin' down in the bar just now and an old bloke come out with a 'orrible yarn. D'you know they've got a blinkin' two-'eaded monster up at that place?'

‘Where?' said Mr Campion, considerably taken aback.

‘Up at the Tower – where we've got to do the pretty. I'm not going to be mixed with the supernatural, I warn yer.'

Campion regarded his faithful servitor with interest. ‘I like your “fanny”,' he said. ‘But they've been pulling your leg.'

‘All right, clever,' said Mr Lugg, nettled. ‘But it's a fac', as it 'appens. They've got a secret room in the east wing containin' some filfy family secret. There's a winder but there's no door, and when the son o' the house is twenty-five 'is father takes 'im in and shows 'im the 'oreor, and 'e's never the same again. Like the king that ate the winkles. That's why they leave comin' of age till the boy is old enough to stand the shock.' He paused dramatically, and added by way of confirmation: ‘The bloke 'oo was telling me was a bit tight, and the others was tryin' to shut 'im up. You could see it was the truth they was so scared. It's bound to be a monster – somethin' you 'ave to feed with a pump.'

‘Lugg, sit down.'

The words were rapped out in a way quite foreign to Mr Campion's usual manner. Considerably surprised, the big man obeyed him.

‘Now, look here,' said his employer, grimly, ‘you've got to forget that, Lugg. Since you know so much you may as well hear the truth. The Gyrths are a family who were going strong about the time that yours were leaping about from twig to twig. And there is, in the east wing of the Tower, I believe, a room which has no visible entrance. The story about the son of the house being initiated into the secret on his twenty-fifth birthday is all quite sound. It's a semi-religious ceremony of the family. But get this into your head. It's nothing to do with us. Whatever the Gyrths' secret is, it's no one's affair but their own, and if you so much as refer to it, even to one of the lowest of the servants, you'll have made an irreparable bloomer, and I won't have you within ten miles of me again.'

‘Right you are, Guv'nor. Right you are.' Mr Lugg was apologetic and a little nervous. ‘I'm glad you told me, though,' he added. ‘It fair put the wind up me. There's one or two things, though, that ain't nice 'ere. F'rinstance, when I was comin' acrost out of the garage, a woman put 'er 'ead out the door o' that one-eyed shop next door. She didn't arf give me a turn; she was bald – not just a bit gone on top, yer know, but quite 'airless. I asked about 'er, and they come out with a yarn about witchcraft and 'aunting and cursin' like a set o' 'eathens. There's too much 'anky-panky about this place. I don't believe in it, but I don't like it. They got a 'aunted wood 'ere, and a set o' gippos livin' in a 'ollow. Let's go 'ome.'

Mr Campion regarded his aide owlishly.

‘Well, you have been having fun in your quiet way,' he said. ‘You're sure your loquacious friend wasn't a Cook's Guide selling you Rural England by any chance? How much beer did it take you to collect that lot?'

‘You'll see when I put in my bill for expenses,' said Mr Lugg unabashed. ‘What do we do tonight? 'Ave a mike round or stay 'ere?'

‘We keep well out of sight,' said Mr Campion. ‘I've bought you a book of
Etiquette for Upper Servants.
It wouldn't hurt you to study it. You stay up here and do your homework.'

‘Sauce!' grumbled Mr Lugg. ‘I'll go and unpack yer bag. Oh, well, a quiet beginning usually means a quick finish. I'll 'ave a monument put up to you at the 'ead of the grave. A life-size image of yerself dressed as an angel – 'orn-rimmed spectacles done in gold.'