Police at the Funeral by Margery Allingham Read Free Book Online

suggested that they should retire to the privacy of his study. As they went up the narrow polished oak staircase he turned to Campion, once more apologetic.
    â€˜I expect you’re rather accustomed to this sort of thing?’ he murmured. ‘But I may as well admit that I’ve got the wind-up.’
    â€˜I seldom get more than one body a quarter,’ murmured Mr Campion modestly.
    The room they entered was a typical Cambridge study, aesthetically impeccable, austere, and, save for the two deep arm-chairs before the fire, slightly uncomfortable. As they entered, a wire-haired fox terrier of irreproachable breeding,rose from the hearth-rug and came to meet them with leisurely dignity. Marcus effected an introduction hastily.
    â€˜Foon,’ he said. ‘Written “Featherstonehaugh”.’
    Somewhat to his host’s embarrassment Mr Campion shook hands with the dog, who seemed to appreciate the courtesy, for he followed them back to the hearth-rug, waiting for them to be seated before he took up his position on the rug again, where he sat during the rest of the proceedings with the same air of conscious breeding which characterized his master.
    Marcus Featherstone presented the unhappy spectacle of a man who has reduced at least the trivialities of life to a thought-saving if somewhat rigid code, suddenly confronted by a situation for which even the best people have no set form of behaviour.
    â€˜You see, Campion,’ he said suddenly, as they sat down. ‘Joyce is in the thick of it. That’s the real snag as far as I’m concerned.’
    Campion nodded. ‘I quite understand,’ he said. ‘Fire ahead with the story. Mr Seeley was a friend of yours, I suppose?’
    The other looked up in surprise. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Joyce explain? Seeley was a very difficult customer. I don’t think he had many friends. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who liked him. That’s what makes it so excessively awkward.’ He frowned and paused, but after a moment’s hesitation pulled himself together and continued. ‘I first heard about the trouble this afternoon. Old Mrs Faraday sent for my father, but the governor’s away, thank heaven. Cambridge doesn’t suit him in the winter. I went down myself and found the whole house in an uproar. That is, in a sort of suppressed ferment.’
    He leant forward as he spoke, his eyes on the other man’s face.
    â€˜Mrs Faraday was taking charge herself, of course. There is an amazing old woman for you, Campion. There were a couple of detective-inspectors of the Cambridgeshire C.I.D. in the drawing-room when I arrived, and they were as nervous as a knife-boy at a servants’ ball. Roughly, the facts are these, Campion. The ‘Varsity doesn’t come up until next Wednesday, as you know, but there are always one or two Indian students about out of term time. Two of these men, bug-hunting alongthe river bank, found the body in the river in Grantchester Meadows, some way above the bathing pool. It was caught up in some willow roots and may have been there for days. That stream is deserted this time of year, and the weather’s been beastly anyhow. They gave the alarm. The police came along, put the body in the mortuary, and discovered a visiting card that was still legible in the wallet, also a presentation watch with the name engraved. That sent them doubling up to Socrates Close of course, and William Faraday went down to identify the body.’
    He paused and smiled grimly. ‘It’s a most amazing thing,’ he went on, ‘but Mrs Faraday insisted on driving with him. She sat in the car outside and waited. Think of it! She’s eighty-four, and an autocrat. I’m frightened of her myself. Then William went on to the police station, where he made a statement. It was not until we were up at the house that they told us about the shooting. Until then we thought he