Campion at Christmas: 4 Holiday Stories (The Albert Campion Mysteries) by Margery Allingham

Author:Margery Allingham [Allingham, Margery]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Agora Books
Published: 2018-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

Yours always (if you come),

Sheila.

PS I’m in love with Mike.’

On Christmas Eve, the weather decided to be seasonable; a freezing overhead fog turned the city into night and the illuminated shop fronts had the traditional festive appearance even in the morning. It was more than just cold. The damp atmosphere soaked into the bones relentlessly, and Mr Campion’s recollection of Pharaoh’s Court, rising gaunt and bleak amid three-hundred acres of ploughed clay and barren salting, all as flat as the estuary beyond, was not enhanced by the chill.

The thought of Sheila and her father cheered him a little, almost, but not quite, offsetting the prospect of Lady Mae in anxious mood. Buttoning himself into his thickest overcoat, he hoped for the best.

The railway station was a happy pandemonium. Everybody who could not visit the east coast for the holiday was, it seemed, sending presents there, and Mr Campion, reminded of the custom, glanced anxiously at his suitcase, wondering if the box of cigars for George was too large, or the casket of perfume for Mae too modest, and if Sheila was still young enough to eat chocolates.

He caught the train with ease, no great feat since it was three-quarters of an hour late and was sitting in his corner idly watching the hurrying throng on the platform when he caught sight of Charlie Spring. He recognised the face instantly, but the name came to him slowly from the sifting of his memory.

Jail had done Mr Spring a certain amount of good, Mr Campion reflected as his glance took in the other man’s square shoulders and developed chest. He had been a weedy wreck six months ago standing in the dock with the light from the roof shining down upon his low forehead, beneath which there peered out the stupidest eyes in the world.

At the moment, he seemed very pleased with himself: a bad omen for the rest of the community, but Mr Campion was not interested. It was Christmas, and he had troubles of his own. However, from force of habit, he made a mental note of the man and observed that he boarded the train a little lower down. Mr Campion frowned. There was something about Charlie Spring which he had known and which now eluded him. He tried to remember the last and only time he had seen him. He himself had been in court as an observer and had heard Mr Spring sentenced for breaking and entering just before his own case had been called. He remembered the flat official voice of the police detective who gave evidence. But there was something else, something definite and personal about the man which kept bobbing about in the back of his mind, escaping him completely whenever he tried to pin it down. It worried him vaguely, as such things do, all the way to Chelmsworth.

Charlie had left the train at Ipswich in the company of some one-hundred-and-fifty fellow travellers. Mr Campion spotted him as he passed the window, walking swiftly, his head bent and a large new suitcase in his hand.

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