Police at the Funeral

Police at the Funeral by Margery Allingham

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Authors: Margery Allingham
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Julia is unfriendly and deep, or merely unfriendly,’ he said. ‘But to tie a man up, and shoot him, and chuck him in the river when she was known to have been driving home from church – why, my dear fellow, don’t be ridiculous.’
    â€˜I suppose it did happen then?’ said Mr Campion dubiously.
    Marcus shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who can tell?’ he said. ‘Certainly William was the last person who saw him alive. I fancy that if the police found the weapon William would be under lock and key by now.’ He looked up abruptly. Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage outside, and were followed by a discreet tap on the door. The elderly maid reappeared carryinga silver tray with a card on it, disapproval manifest on every line of her face. She presented the tray to Marcus without a word. The young man took the missive in some surprise, and after glancing at it handed it to Campion.
    M R W ILLIAM R. F ARADAY .
    Socrates Close,
    Trumpington Rd, Cambridge.
    The proximity of the man they had been discussing was brought home to them startlingly by the primly engraved name. Campion turned the card over to discover a few words scrawled in a flamboyant hand cramped to fit the space.
    â€˜Shall be greatly obliged if you can spare me a few moments. W.F.’
    Marcus raised his eyebrows as he saw it, and pocketed the card absently. ‘Show him up, Harriet,’ he said.

CHAPTER 4
‘THE FOUR-FLUSHER’
    â€˜ THIS IS THE point to be considered, then,’ murmured Mr Campion. ‘Is this “Enter a murderer”, or “Innocence appears disguised as Mars”?’
    There was no time for comment. Marcus rose to his feet as the door opened to admit Uncle William.
    He came bustling in, a direct contradiction to any of Campion’s preconceived ideas. Mr William Faraday was a shortish, tubby individual in a dinner-jacket of the ‘old gentleman’ variety, a man of about fifty-five, with a pink face, bright greedy little blue eyes, yellowish-white hair, and a moustache worn very much in the military fashion, without quite achieving the effect so obviously intended. His hands were pudgy, and his feet, in their square-toed glacé shoes, somehow enhanced the smug personality of their owner.
    He strode briskly across the room, shook hands with Marcus, and turned to survey Campion, who had also risen. There was a gleam of welcome in the little blue eyes which changed ludicrously to frank astonishment as he saw the young man. Involuntarily he put on a pair of pince-nez which he wore suspended from a broad black ribbon.
    Marcus effected the introduction and the old man’s surprise increased.
    â€˜Campion?’ he said. ‘Campion? Not the – ah – Campion?’
    â€˜One of the family, no doubt,’ said that young man idiotically.
    Mr Faraday coughed with unnecessary violence. ‘How do you do?’ he said conciliatingly, and held out his hand. He then turned to Marcus. ‘That dear girl of yours, Joyce, came in just now,’ he observed gustily. ‘I – er – gathered from her, don’t you know, that you might be in this evening, and that’s why I – er – ventured to call. Thank you, my boy.’ He sank into the chair which Marcus set for him and shouted to Campion, who was moving politely towards the doorway: ‘No, no – don’t go, you, sir. Nothing to conceal. I’ve come to have a chat with Marcus about this disgusting scandal.’
    The truculence in his tone would have been comic in any other situation, but his little blue eyes were frightened behind the bluster and he appeared a slightly pathetic, overheated old person, blowing and fuming like the proverbial frog.
    â€˜This is a bad business, Marcus, my boy,’ he continued as the others resumed their seats, Marcus taking a high chair in the centre of the group, with Foon at his feet. ‘A very bad business. We shall need good brains to

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