Police at the Funeral by Margery Allingham Read Free Book Online Page B

years out of date, all vigorous energetic people by temperament, all, save for the old lady, without their fair share of brains, and herded together in that great mausoleum of a house, tyrannized over by one of the most astounding personalities I’ve ever encountered. Imagine it, Campion, there are stricter rules in that house than you or I were ever forced to keep at our schools. And there is no escape.
    â€˜You see,’ he went on earnestly, ‘there’s no vent to the suppressed hatreds, petty jealousies, desires and impulses of any living soul under that roof. The old lady holds the purse strings and is the first and final court of appeal. Not one of her dependents can get away without having to face starvation, since not one of them is remotely qualified to earn a sixpence.
    â€˜Now in that atmosphere, although I don’t like to think it, I can’t help imagining that anything might happen.’
    â€˜You are certain, in fact,’ said Mr Campion, ‘that it’s one of the family?’
    Marcus did not reply directly. He passed his hand over his hair and sighed. ‘It’s terrible,’ he said. ‘Andrew was not even robbed. If only someone had stolen his wallet I should feel more helpful. Of if he’d fallen in the river trying to take a short cut home to score off his cousin it wouldn’t matter much. However, that is all ruled out. I saw the body. Someone tied him up and then practically blew his head off. The police hadn’t found the gun half an hour before you came. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. As the Chief said this afternoon, it’s “a perfectly obvious case of murder”.’
    â€˜Why?’ said Mr Campion.
    The other stared at him. ‘Well, you can’t get away from the evidence,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. I mean, why should anyone murder him? As far as I can gather he seems to have been a perfectly normal old nuisance – just like anyone else’s uncle, in fact. And he had no money. That in itself should have insured him a long life.’
    Marcus nodded. ‘That’s the trouble,’ he said. ‘Of course there is this bookmaker’s cheque, but the police doctor is convinced that the body had been in the water at least a week. So that’sno good. Over and above that, he seems to have had nothing but petty debts. That’s the whole point of it: none of the family have any money at all, except the old lady, who is definitely wealthy. No, there’s no motive that I can see.’
    â€˜Save, of course,’ said Mr Campion, ‘the fewer men the greater share of plunder in the end, so to speak.’
    Marcus jabbed again gloomily at the fire.
    â€˜Even that’s no good,’ he said. ‘Strictly in confidence, of course, though I fancy the whole family know this, old Mrs Faraday altered her will some little time ago. Under the new provisions, Andrew Seeley, her nephew by marriage, was to receive nothing at all. When she died, therefore, he must either starve or depend upon the problematic charity of his cousins. It was his own fault.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum,
you know, but he wasn’t a pleasant customer. A petty cantankerous little person, a strain of the bounder in him. I’ve often felt like kicking him myself. But then, they’re not charming, any of them. The old lady has an element of grandeur about her, and Catherine is quite a kindly soul, although of course I do hate stupidity in a woman. What really frightens me is that I can easily imagine myself feeling like murder if I lived in that house.’
    â€˜Julia,’ said Mr Campion, who had listened with astonishment to this recital from the prosaic Marcus. ‘How about Julia? She’s an unknown quantity at the moment. I understand from Joyce that she’s a spinster and difficult.’
    Marcus considered the matter. ‘I’ve never been able to understand whether