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Dr. Otterly hesitated. “Come to that, Doctor,” Fox said, “why do you?”
“Me? I suppose I’m a bit of a crank about it. I’ve got theories. Anyway, I enjoy fiddling. My father and his before him and his before that have been doctors at Yowford and the two Mardians and we’ve all fiddled. Before that, we were yeomen and, before that, tenant farmers. One in the family has always been a fiddler. I try not to be cranky. The Guiser was a bigger crank in his way than I. I can’t tell you why he was so keen. He just inherited the Five Sons’ habit. It runs in his blood like poaching does in old Moley Moon’s up to Yowford Bridge or hunting in Dame Alice Mardian’s, or doctoring, if you like, in mine.”
“Do you think any of the Andersens pay much attention to the ritualistic side of the thing? Do you think they believe, for instance, that anything tangible comes of the performance?”
“Ah. Now! You’re asking me just how superstitious they are, you know.” Dr. Otterly placed the heels of his well-kept hands against the edge of his plate and delicately pushed it away. “Hasn’t every one of us,” he asked, “a little familiar shamefaced superstition?”
“I daresay,” Alleyn agreed. “Cossetted but reluctantly acknowledged. Like the bastard sons of Shaksperian papas.”
“Exactly. I know, I’ve got a little Edmund. As a man of science, I scorn it; as a countryman, I give it a kind of heart-service. It’s a particularly ridiculous notion for a medical man to harbour.”
“Are we to hear what it is?”
“If you like. I always feel it’s unlucky to see blood. Not, may I hasten to say, to see it in the course of my professional work, but fortuitously. Someone scratches a finger in my presence, say, or my own nose bleeds. Before I can stop myself I think, ‘Hullo. Trouble coming.’ No doubt it throws back to some childish experience. I don’t let it affect me in the slightest. I don’t believe in it. I merely get an emotional reflex. It’s—” He stopped short. “How very odd,” he said.
“Are you reminded that the Guiser cut his hand on Ernie’s sword during your final practice?”
“I was, yes.”
“Your hunch wasn’t so far wrong that time,” Alleyn observed. “But what are the Andersens’ superstitious reflexes? Concerning the Five Sons?”
“I should say pretty well undefined. A feeling that it would be unlucky not to do the dance. A feeling, strong perhaps in the Guiser, that, in doing it, something is placated, some rhythm kept ticking over.”
“And in Ernie?”
Dr. Otterly looked vexed. “Any number of crackpot notions, no doubt,” he said shortly.
“Like the headless goose on the dolmen?”
“I am persuaded,” Dr. Otterly said, “that he killed the goose accidentally and in a temper and put it on the dolmen as an afterthought.”
“Blood, as he so tediously insists, for the stone?”
“If you like. Dame Alice was furious. She’s always been very kind to Ernie, but this time—”
“He’s killed the goose,” Fox suggested blandly, “that lays the golden eggs?”
“You’re in a bloody whimsical mood, aren’t you?” Alleyn inquired idly and then, after a long silence, “What a very disagreeable case this is, to be sure. We’d better get on with it, I suppose.”
“Do you mind,” Dr. Otterly ventured, “my asking if you two are typical C.I.D. officers?”
“I am,” Alleyn said. “Fox is a sport.”
Fox collected their plates, stacked all the crockery neatly on a tray and carried it out into the passage, where he was heard to say, “A very pleasant meal, thank you, miss. We’ve done nicely.”
“Tell me,” Alleyn asked, “is the Guiser’s grand-daughter about eighteen with dark reddish hair cut short and very long fingers? Dressed in black skiing trousers and a red sweater?”
“I really can’t tell you about the fingers, but the other part’s right. Charming child. Going to be an actress.”
“And is young Stayne about six feet? Dark? Long back? Donegal tweed jacket with a red fleck and brown corduroy bags?”
“That’s right, I think. He’s got a scar on his cheekbone.”
“I couldn’t see his face,” Alleyn said. “Or hers.”
“Oh?” Dr. Otterly murmured. “Really?”
“What’s her name?”
“Camilla Campion.”
“Pretty,” Alleyn said absently. “Nice name.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Her mum was the Guiser’s daughter, was she?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s a chap,” Alleyn ruminated, “called Camillo Campion who’s an authority on Italian primitives. Baronet. Sir Camillo.”
“Her father. Twenty years ago, his car broke an axle coming too fast down Dame Alice’s drive. He stopped at Copse Forge, saw Bess Andersen, who was a lovely creature, fell like a plummet and married her.”
“Lor’!” said Fox mildly, returning from the passage. “Sudden!”
“She had to run away. The Guiser wouldn’t hear of it. He was an inverted snob and a bigoted nonconformist and, worst of all, Campion’s a Roman Catholic.”
“I thought I remembered some story of that kind,” Alleyn said. “Had he been staying at Mardian Castle?”
“Yes. Dame Alice was livid because she’d made up her mind he was to marry Dulcie. Indeed, I rather fancy there was an unofficial engagement. She never forgave him and the Guiser never forgave Bess. She died in childbirth five years ago. Campion and Camilla brought her back here to be buried. The Guiser didn’t say a word to them. The boys, I imagine, didn’t dare. Camilla was thirteen and like enough to her mama at that age to give the old man a pretty sharp jolt.”
“So he ignored her?”
“That’s right. We didn’t see her again for five years and then, the other day, she turned up, determined to make friends with her mother’s people. She managed to get round him. She’s a dear child, in my opinion.”
“Let’s have her in,” said Alleyn.
When they had finished their lunch, of which Camilla ate next to nothing and Mrs. Bünz, who normally had an enormous appetite, not much more, they sat, vis-à-vis, by the parlour fire and found very little to say to each other. Camilla was acutely conscious of Simon Begg and, in particular, of Ralph Stayne, consuming their counter lunches in the public bar. Camilla had dismissed Ralph with difficulty when Mrs. Bünz came in. Now she was in a rose-coloured flutter only slightly modified by the recurrent horror of her grandfather’s death. From time to time, gentle Camilla reproached herself with heartlessness and as often as she attempted this pious exercise the memory of Ralph’s kisses made nonsense of her scruples.
In the midst of her preoccupations, she noticed that Mrs. Bünz was much quieter than usual and seemed, in some indefinable way, to have diminished in size. She noticed, too, that Mrs. Bünz had a monstrous cold, characterized by heavy catarrhal noises of a most irritating nature. In addition to making these noises, Mrs. Bünz sighed very often and kept moving her shoulders uneasily as if her clothes prickled them.
Trixie came round occasionally from the public bar into the private. It was Trixie who had been entrusted by Alleyn with the message that the police would be obliged if Mrs. Bünz and Miss Campion would keep the early afternoon free.
“Which was exactly the words he used,” Trixie said. “A proper gentleman, if a policeman, and a fine deep voice, moreover, with a powerful kind of a smack in it.”
This was not altogether re-assuring.
Mrs. Bünz said unexpectedly, “It is not pleasant to be told to await the police. I do not care for policemen. My dear husband and I were anti-Nazi. It is better to avoid such encounters.”
Camilla, seeing a look of profound anxiety in Mrs. Bünz’s eyes, said, “It’s all right, Mrs. Bünz. They’re here to take care of us. That’s what we keep them for. Don’t worry.”
“Ach!” Mrs. Bunz said, “you are a child. The police do not look after anybody. They make investigations and arrests. They are not sympathetic. Da,” she added, making one of her catarrhal noises.
It was upon this sombre note that Inspector Fox came in to say that if Miss Campion had finished her luncheon, Mr. Alleyn would be very pleased to have a word with her.