More Work for the Undertaker (6 page)

Mr Campion gripped his tray and advanced on his objective. His interest in the Palinode family was becoming acute. He tapped on the centre door under the archway in the recess where the stairs began again. It was solid and well fitting, very reminiscent of the door of the headmaster's study.

While he was listening for the summons from within it opened abruptly and he found himself looking into the worried eyes of a dapper little man of forty or so in a dark suit. He smiled a nervous salutation at Campion and stood aside.

‘Come in,' he said. ‘Do come in. I'm just going. I'll let myself out, Miss Palinode. Most good of you,' he murmured to the newcomer, a remark which although civil was without explanation. He squeezed by as he spoke and went out, closing the door behind him, leaving the other man just inside the room standing on the mat.

Campion hesitated a moment, looking about him for the woman who had not replied. At first he thought there was no sign of her. He was in a rectangular room at least three times the size of a normal bedchamber. It had a lofty ceiling and three tall windows at the narrow end which faced him, but the general impression he received was of gloom. The furniture was vast and dark and so plentiful that there was scarcely room to move between it. He was aware of a canopied bed, far away to his right, and there was certainly a concert-grand piano between him and the windows, but the dominant note was of austerity. There were few hangings and no carpets save for a rug by the fireplace. The plain walls housed a few reproductions which, like those outside, were in sepia. There were three glazed bookcases, a library table, and at least one mighty double-sided pedestal desk upon whose cluttered surface stood
the reading lamp which provided the only light in the room. No one sat beneath it, however, and he was still wondering where to set the tray when a voice comparatively close to him said distinctly: ‘Put it here.'

He caught sight of her at once and realized with a shock that he had mistaken her in the half light for a coloured blanket thrown over an armchair. She was a large flat woman in a long Paisley gown who wore a small dull red shawl over her head, while her face, Which was not very different in colour, was creased and mottled until it merged into the chair's own rust-and-brown brocaded velvet.

She did not move at all. He had never seen any living thing, save a crocodile, quite so still. But her eyes, which now peered up into his own, were for all their smudgy whites bright and intelligent.

‘On this little table,' she said, but she did not attempt to point it out to him or to draw it closer to her side. She had a clear authoritative voice, educated and brisk. He obeyed it at once.

The little table proved to be a very fine pie-crust affair on a slender three-footed leg, and its contents struck him as peculiar enough to remember although he thought little of it at the time. There was a squat bowl of everlasting flowers, very untidy and somewhat dusty, and two small apple-green glasses also containing tufts of these wiry blooms. Beside them was a plate with an inverted pudding-basin over it, and a small antique handleless cup holding a minute portion of strawberry jam. Everything was the least bit sticky.

She let him fiddle with this bric-à-brac and get the tray into position without helping him or speaking, and continued to sit watching him with friendly amused interest. He smiled himself as it seemed ungracious not to, and her observation took him by surprise.

Mr Campion's pale eyes flickered. Not that he minded being
addressed as ‘Herdgroom', or even ‘plain Piers', although this last seemed a little unnecessary, but he happened to be fairly well up in George Peele at that moment, having been moved to read him only the evening before in search of the name which had been tantalizing him.

‘“
That thwarteth me, Good Palinode, is fate
,”' he said, continuing the quotation as accurately as he could remember it. ‘“
Y-born was Piers to be unfortunate
.”'

‘
In
fortunate,' she corrected him absently, but she was pleased if surprised and became at once not only more human but startlingly more feminine. She let the red shawl slide back to reveal a fine broad head on which some sparse coils of grey hair were neatly pinned. ‘So you're an actor?' she said. ‘Of course. I ought to have known. Miss Roper has so many friends from the stage. But,' she added with graceful ambiguity, ‘they're not always the sort of actor I know best. My stage friends are more your own kind. Now tell me, out of a shop?'

She produced the piece of slang as if it were a Greek tag of which she was a trifle proud.

‘I'm afraid I haven't acted for some considerable time,' he began cautiously.

‘Never mind, we must see What we can do.' She spoke without looking at him. Although remaining remarkably still in her chair she had fished out from down the side of it a small notepad covered with tiny and beautiful handwriting. ‘Ah,' she went on, glancing at an inner page, ‘now let me see what you've brought me. A cup of Slepe Rite? Yes. The eggie? Yes. The hot water? Yes. The cold water? Yes. The salts, the sugar, and – ah, yes, the paraffin. Splendid. Now, tip the egg into the Slepe Rite – yes, go on, straight in, stir as you go, don't spill it, I dislike a dirty saucer. Are you ready? Now.'

No one had spoken to Mr Campion with such authority since his infancy. He did what he was told and was mildly surprised to see his hand tremble. The chocolate beverage took on a dangerous hue and some nauseating flotsam appeared on its surface.

‘Now the sugar,' commanded the elder Miss Palinode.
‘That's quite right. Hand the cup to me and keep the spoon, for if you've mixed it rightly I shall not need it. Stand the spoon in the cold water, that's what it's for. Leave the tin where it is beside the hot water, and put the paraffin in the fireplace. That's for my chilblains.'

‘Chilblains?' he murmured. The weather was comparatively warm.

‘Chilblains the month after next,' explained Miss Palinode placidly. ‘Proper treatment now will prevent chilblains in December. That's very nicely done. I think I must ask you to my theatrical afternoon next Tuesday. You would like to come, of course.'

It was not a question and she gave him no time to let it grow into one.

‘It may lead to something but I can't promise. The repertory theatre is overcrowded this year, but I'm afraid you know that.' Her smile was very kindly.

Campion, mildest of men, began to feel an uncharacteristic need to assert himself, but he remained cautious.

‘I believe there is a small theatre near here, isn't there?' he ventured.

‘Indeed there is. The Thespis. A very hard-working little troupe. Some of them are quite talented. I see every play except the rather unworthwhile things that they have to put on to try to draw the crowd, and once a month they all come here to a little conversazione and we have some amusing talk.' She paused and a shadow settled on her fine old face. ‘I did wonder if perhaps I should put it off next week. We've had a little awkwardness in the house. I expect you've heard of it. But on the whole I think I shall carry on as usual. The only difficulty is those wretched newspapermen, although I'm afraid that they bother my brother far more than they do me.'

She was sipping her fearful beverage very noisily, arrogantly, Mr Campion reflected, as if she felt she were privileged to give certain small offences. Yet she was still attractive and remarkably impressive.

‘I think I saw your brother as I came in,' he began, and broke
off, she looked so horrified. However, she mastered her irritation and smiled. ‘No, that was not Lawrence. Lawrence is – a rather different person. No, one of the pleasant things about this house is that one never need go down to the street. The street comes to one. We have been here for so long, you see.'

‘I heard that,' he murmured. ‘All the tradespeople call in person, they tell me.'

‘The tradespeople visit downstairs,' she corrected him, smiling. ‘The professions come up. That's so interesting, isn't it? I have always thought that Social Stratification would make a very jolly second subject if one wasn't so occupied already. That was little Mr James, our bank manager. I always get him to come over when I have any business. It's very little trouble for him. He lives above the bank, which is just across the road.'

She sat there, florid and gracious, while her pleasant intelligent glance rested upon his face. His respect for her grew. If Charlie Luke was right and she had next to no money, her capacity for extracting service was quite remarkable.

‘When you came in,' she observed, ‘I wondered if you were one of the reporters. They do such peculiar things. But as soon as you capped my little piece of Peele I knew I was wrong.'

Campion doubted that argument but said nothing.

‘This little unpleasantness we are experiencing now,' she began magnificently, ‘has made me think about the extraordinary curiosity of the vulgar. I use that word in its proper Latin sense, of course. I've been playing with the idea of writing a monograph on it. You see, the interesting point as it occurs to me is that the higher or more cultivated the subject the less the curiosity. Now that would appear to be a contradiction, wouldn't it? Is it a question of parallel taboos exerting their restraints or is it actual? What do you think?'

Of all the possible aspects of the Palinode case this was one which had so far escaped Mr Campion's attention, but he was spared the effort of making an answer by the sudden opening of the door. It shuddered back against the wall and a tall, shambling figure, wearing very strong spectacles, appeared on the threshold. It was evident that this was the brother. He was
tall and big-boned like his sister and possessed her wide head, but he was a far more nervous subject and his jaw was underhung and finer. Both his hair and clothes were coarse and dark and untidy, and his thin neck, surprisingly more red than his face, stuck out from a wide soft collar at a sharp forward angle. In both hands, carrying it before him as if he were pushing his way with it, he carried a thick volume which bristled with paper markers. He peered at Campion as if he were a stranger encountered in the street whom he thought he recognized, but on discovering he did not he swung past him and confronted Miss Evadne, saying in a queer honking voice which sounded goose-like and unreliable, as if he seldom used it:

‘The heliotropium is still out. Did you know?'

He seemed so upset about it that Campion might have received an entirely false impression had he not remembered that Clytie White had been born in, or nearly in, the sea. The name was a classical one and he guessed that the original Clytie was probably a daughter of Oceanus. He fancied that he recollected that one of the daughters of the sea god was changed, after the habit of nymphs, into the plant heliotropium. He was not sure but the odds seemed very good on heliotropium being the family or pet name of Clytie White. It was all a little literary but not impossible.

He was congratulating himself when Miss Evadne said easily:

‘No, I did not. Does it matter?'

‘Of course it does.' Lawrence was irritable. ‘Aren't you forgetting the daisies which never blow?'

Campion was elated. Once again he recognized the reference. It came out fresh from a forgotten locker in his mind.

Goblin Market. Christina Rossetti. The wise sister
cautioning the silly sister about staying out late in questionable company.

Lawrence Palinode seemed to be speaking fairly practically, if in a curious vernacular. Although deeply sympathetic towards Charlie Luke if he had been taking evidence in the patois of this particular country, Campion was relieved. If the Palinode ‘family language' consisted of references to the classics, a good memory and a comprehensive dictionary of quotations should go quite a long way.

Miss Evadne disillusioned him.

‘That's all very well,' she said to her brother. ‘Have you performed a Cousin Cawnthrope?'

Mr Campion's heart sank. He recognized in that remark the one unbreakable code known to man, the family allusion.

The effect of the words on Lawrence was surprising. He looked bewildered.

‘No, no I haven't, but I will,' he said, and strode out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

Miss Evadne handed Mr Campion her empty cup, presumably to save herself the trouble of bending forward to set it down. She had not altered her position since he had entered the room, and it went through his mind that she might possibly be hiding something behind her. It did not occur to her to offer him any sort of thanks or to ask him to sit down.

‘My brother is extremely clever,' she remarked, her clear even voice caressing the words. ‘Of its kind a most ingenious mind. He prepares all the crossword puzzles for the
Literary Weekly
in his spare time, although his real work, which will be completed in a year or two now, is on the Origins of Arthur.'

Mr Campion's brows shot up. So that was it. Of course, the man had talked in crossword puzzle clues with an occasional unsolvable family reference thrown in. He wondered if they all did it, and if so, how often.

‘Lawrence has so many subjects,' Miss Palinode continued. ‘Of us all he has always been the least exclusive in his interest.'

‘Among which he includes horticulture, no doubt,' said Mr Campion pointedly.

‘Horticulture? Oh, yes.' She laughed gently as she took the allusion to the heliotropium and the daisies. ‘Including horticulture, but only on paper, I'm afraid.'