I was silent. There was very little to say.
'That's my place,' he remarked suddenly, nodding towards the one big house. 'I take a few convalescents. Never had a death there before. I'm in practice here.'
I could sympathize with him and I did. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if Peters had let him in for a spot of cash. He had not hinted at it but I guessed there was some such matter in his thoughts. However, I refrained; there seemed no point in it.
We stood there chatting aimlessly for some moments, as one does on these occasions, and then I went back to Town. I did not call in at Highwaters after all, much to Lugg's disgust. It was not that I did not want to see Leo or Janet, but I was inexplicably rattled by Pig's funeral and by the discovery that it actually was Pig's. It had been a melancholy little ceremony which had left a sort of 'half heard' echo in my ears.
The two letters were identical. I compared them when I got in. I supposed Whippet had seen The Times as I had. Still it was queer he should have put two and two together. And there had been that extraordinary cough and the revolting old fellow in the topper, not to mention the sly-eyed girl.
The worst thing about it was that the incident had recalled Pig to my mind. I turned up some old football groups and had a good look at him. He had a distinctive face. One could see even then what he was going to turn into.
I tried to put him out of my head. After all, I had nothing to get excited about. He was dead. I shouldn't see him again.
All this happened in January. By June I had forgotten the fellow. I had just come in from a session with Stanislaus Oates at the Yard, where we had been congratulating each other over the evidence in the Kingford shooting business which had just flowered into a choice bloom for the Judge's bouquet, when Janet rang up.
I had never known her hysterical before and it surprised me a little to hear her twittering away on the phone like a nest of sparrows.
'It's too filthy,' she said. 'Leo says you're to come at once. No, my dear, I can't say it over the phone, but Leo is afraid it's — Listen, Albert, it's M for mother, U for unicorn, R for rabbit, D for darling, E for — for egg, R for — '
'All right,' I said, 'I'll come.'
Leo was standing on the steps of Highwaters when Lugg and I drove up. The great white pillars of the house, which was built by an architect who had seen the B.M. and never forgotten it, rose up behind him. He looked magnificent in his ancient shootin' suit and green tweed flowerpot hat — a fine specimen for anybody's album.
He came steadily down the steps and grasped my hand.
'My dear boy,' he said, 'not a word ... not a word.' He climbed in beside me and waved a hand towards the village. 'Police station,' he said. 'First thing.'
I've known Leo for some years and I know that the singleness of purpose which is the chief characteristic in a delightful personality is not to be diverted by anything less than a covey of Mad Mullahs. Leo had one thing in his mind and one thing only. He had been planning his campaign ever since he had heard that I was on my way, and, since I was part of that campaign, my only hope was to comply.
He would not open his mouth save to utter road directions until we stood together on the threshold of the shed behind the police station. First he dismissed the excited bobbies in charge and then paused and took me firmly by the lapel.
'Now, my boy,' he said, 'I want your opinion because I trust you. I haven't put a thought in your mind, I haven't told you a particle of the circumstances, I haven't influenced you in any way, have I?'
'No, sir,' I said truthfully.
He seemed satisfied, I thought, because he grunted.
'Good,' he said. 'Now, come in here.'
He led me into a room, bare save for the trestle table in the centre, and drew back the sheet from the face of the thing that lay upon it.
'Now,' he said triumphantly, 'now, Campion, what d'you think of this?'
I said nothing at all. Lying on the table was the body of Pig Peters, Pig Peters unmistakable as Leo himself, and I knew without touching his limp, podgy hand that he could not have been dead more than twelve hours at the outside.
Yet in January ... and this was June.
CHAPTER 2. DECENT MURDER
Not unnaturally the whole thing was something of a shock to me and I suppose I stood staring at the corpse as though it were a beautiful view for some considerable time.
At last Leo grunted and cleared his throat.
'Dead, of course,' he said, no doubt to recall my attention. 'Poor feller. Damnable cad, though. Ought not to say it of a dead man, perhaps, but there you are. Truth must out.'
Leo really talks like this. I have often thought that his conversation, taken down verbatim, might be worth looking at. Just then I was more concerned with the matter than the form, however, and I said, 'You knew him, then?'
Leo grew red round the jawbone and his white moustache pricked up.
'I'd met the feller,' he murmured, conveying that he thought it a shameful admission. 'Had a most unpleasant interview with him only last night, I don't mind telling you. Extremely awkward in the circumstances. Still, can't be helped. There it is.'
Since there was a considerable spot of mystery in the business already I saw no point in overburdening Leo's mind by adding my little contribution to it just then.
'What was he calling himself?' I inquired with considerable guile.
Leo had very bright blue eyes which, like most soldiers', are of an almost startling innocence of expression.
'Masqueradin', eh?' he said. 'Upon my soul, very likely! Never thought of it. Untrustworthy customer.'
'I don't know anything,' I said hastily. 'Who is he, anyway?'
'Harris,' he said unexpectedly and with contempt. 'Oswald Harris. More money than was good for him and the manners of an enemy non-commissioned officer. Can't put it too strongly. Terrible feller.'
I looked at the dead man again. Of course it was Pig all right: I should have known him anywhere — and it struck me then as odd that the boy should really be so very much the father of the man. It's a serious thought when you look at some children.
Still, there was Pig and he was dead again, five months after his funeral, and Leo was growing impatient.
'See the wound?' he demanded.
He has a gift for the obvious. The top of the carrotty head was stove in, sickeningly, like a broken soccer ball, and the fact that the skin was practically unbroken made it somehow even more distressing. It was such a terrific smash that it seemed incredible that any human arm could have delivered the blow. It looked to me as if he had been kicked through a felt hat by a cart-horse and I said so to Leo.
He was gratified.
'Damn nearly right, my boy,' he said with comforting enthusiasm. 'Remarkable thing. Don't mind admitting don't follow this deducin' business myself, but substitute an urn for a cart-horse and you're absolutely right. Remind me to tell Janet.'
'An urn?'
'Geranium urn, stone,' he explained airily. 'Big so-called ornamental thing. Must have seen 'em, Campion. Sometimes have cherry pie in 'em. Madness to keep 'em on the parapet. Said so myself more than once.'
I was gradually getting the thing straight. Apparently Pig's second demise had been occasioned by a blow from a stone flower-pot falling on him from a parapet. It seemed pretty final this time.
I looked at Leo. We were both being very decent and non-committal, I thought.
'Any suggestion of foul play, sir?' I asked.
He hunched his shoulders and became very despondent.
''Fraid so, my boy,' he said at last. 'No way out of it. Urn was one of several set all along the parapet. Been up to inspect 'em myself. All firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. Been there for years. Harris's urn couldn't have hopped off the ledge all by itself, don't you know. Must have been pushed by — er — human hands. Devilish situation in view of everything. Got to face it.'