Mystery Mile (29 page)

The new rector is a dear. Four kids, and an exceptional wife (for a parson). He's going to officiate on
the great occasion.
Only a month now. Isopel's going to have a short frock and I'm going to have a long one. A real country do, with a party for the village and George and 'Anry as sidesmen.

Giles is going to get an awful lot for the Romney, it seems. It's impossible to believe that that ghastly man could have been right about anything, but I'm not going to write about him or anything connected with that dreadful time, although of course if it hadn't happened I shouldn't have found Marlowe.

I'm bursting with happiness now, but I wish you were down here with us. Giles says that we shall have to watch you or you'll come in a Boy Scout uniform to the wedding, but you won't will you? He says you turned up as a Salvation Army General when Bunny Wright married Lady Rachel. You won't do anything silly this time, promise, because I mean – oh, well, please don't, anyway.

Cuddy's daughter had her baby, quite a beauty. Mr Lobbett (I'm beginning to call him ‘Poppa', which seems to be American for ‘Daddy', ‘Daddy' meaning something else) gave it the Bounty.
And
(this will please you) she wanted to call the poor little beast ‘Nuptial' because of our weddings, but we persuaded her not to, so it's going to be called ‘Bridget Isopel' instead.

Addlepate has got a new collar because he got the old one off and ate it, or tried to, anyhow he did it in.

There doesn't seem to be anything more to say, although such heaps of glorious things are happening. I miss old St Swithin dreadfully. He would have enjoyed this. Alice is looking after the new people at the Rectory. And do you know I do believe Cuddy is having an affair with the new postmaster who came when Kettle went. He isn't married, or at least not now. He has two children that Cuddy is always washing for him.

And you did all this, you wonderful old thing. Marlowe and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts and so do the others. We'll never forget it. All the best.

Lots of love, old dear,

B
IDDY

There was a postscript on her letter, written in Marlowe's precise, educated hand:

Coming to town with this abandoned woman, Friday. Everything O.K. The dad wants to know where he can buy some more port like that '98 stuff in the cellar. The doc says it will give him gout. He says ‘What's gout?'

Yrs ever,

M.K.L.

The other two had signed the letter. It was a family epistle. From time immemorial Biddy's letters had been like that – frank, unconscious affairs which anyone might read.

Campion thrust the wad of notepaper back into his pocket, and glanced up to find Mr Lugg looking down at him with lugubrious interest.

‘That's a warnin',' he said. ‘There's a moral in that, there is. Find the Lady is a Mug's game, that's wot this 'as shown you, and don't you forget it neither.'

Campion ignored him.

‘Two wedding presents,' he remarked. ‘I shall have to send you out on to the tiles again, Lugg.'

‘I wish you would,' said that worthy with unexpected vigour. ‘Buy, buy, buy – it gives me the 'ump. That letter's from that girl you was rather sweet on, ain't it? You know, wot you want, if you must 'ave a woman about the place, is a nice sensible 'omely 'ospital nurse. Someone who'll do the washin' up for us.'

‘Shut up, Lugg,' said Campion. ‘What about those wedding presents? Silver, I suppose.'

Lugg was dubious.

‘Don't 'ave it inscribed, whatever you do,' he remarked feelingly. ‘Can't pop it, can't sell it, no one even wants to pinch it. It does silver right in, inscribin' does. There's a sight too much of it these days. I'll think of something.'

Campion remained silent for some time. ‘Lugg,' he said at last, ‘suppose I retired? This profession of mine puts people off.'

Mr Lugg's expression silenced him. The old lag was staring at him, his eyes bulging, his jaw dropped.

‘You've 'ad a relapse. I'll mix you something.'

‘Stop!' Campion put up his hand. ‘Don't be a fool, Lugg. I'm serious.'

‘That's un'ealthy in itself,' said Lugg, and trotted out of the room.

Campion sat down again. He took the letter from his pocket and threw it into the fire. Folding his hands on his knees, he watched it burn. Then he moved restlessly in his chair. Von Faber in Broadmoor, Simister dead – for the moment he felt like Alexander, sighing for new worlds to conquer.

At this instant Lugg returned. He appeared considerably subdued, and a little troubled. In his hand he held a card.

‘Not 'arf a funny bloke outside,' he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘A foreigner. Shall I chuck a brick at 'im?'

‘I don't know,' said Campion. ‘Let's have a look at that.'

Lugg parted with the slip of pasteboard unwillingly. A glance at it brought a sparkle in Mr Campion's eyes, and a flush of pleasure appeared in his cheeks. He swept past Lugg and threw open the door.

In a moment he reappeared with a man about his own age, dark and distinguished-looking, with a somewhat military carriage.

They were talking together with great animation in a tongue which Mr Lugg afterwards described as ‘monkey talk.' It was evident that they had known each other for some time.

After the first moment or so the stranger produced a letter,
a massive grey-white envelope, sealed and bound with crimson tape. He bowed and withdrew a pace or two as the Englishman cut it carefully open. The single sheet of paper within was crested with the arms of a famous European royal house, but the few lines were scribbled in English:

Salutations. My dear fellow, I am in despair. State Trip to Indo-China indicated. Fed to the teeth. Could you impersonate me, as before?

Yours ever, R.

P.S. – Trouble expected, if that appeals to you. For the love of Ike (I think you call him) come and help me.

Mr Campion folded the missive carefully, and dropped it into the fire after Biddy's. He was obviously elated. He turned to his visitor and beamed. Crossing to his desk, he wrote a few words on a sheet of notepaper and slipped it into an envelope, which he sealed carefully. Then he exchanged a few more civilities with his visitor, and the stranger departed.

As the door closed behind him Campion turned to his inquisitive aide.

‘Lugg,' he said joyously, ‘you may kiss our hand.'

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First published in Great Britain
in 1929 by Jarrold

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