For some minutes it seemed as if the funereal atmosphere which surrounded the whole house was going to damp any attempt at bright conversation that anyone might feel disposed to make, but Mr Campion sailed nobly into the breach.
Abbershaw was inclined to wonder at him until he realized with a little shock that considering the man’s profession the art of talking rubbish in any circumstances might be one of his chief stock-in-trades.
At the moment he was speaking of food. His high voice worked up to a pitch of enthusiasm, and his pale eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘It all depends what you mean by eating,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t believe in stuffing myself, you know, but I’m not one of those people who are against food altogether. I knew a woman once who didn’t believe in food – thought it was bad for the figure – so she gave it up altogether. Horrible results, of course; she got so thin that no one noticed her around – husband got used to being alone – estrangement, divorce – oh, I believe in food. I say, have you seen my new trick with a napkin and a salt-cellar – rather natty, don’t you think?’
He covered a salt-cellar with his napkin as he spoke, made several passes over it, a solemn expression on his face, and then, whisking the napery away, disclosed nothing but shining oak beneath.
His mind still on Mr Campion’s profession, Abbershaw was conscious of a certain feeling of apprehension. The salt-cellar was antique, probably worth a considerable sum.
Mr Campion’s trick was not yet over, however. A few more passes and the salt-cellar was discovered issuing from the waistcoat of the man-servant who happened to be attending to him at the time.
‘There!’ he said. ‘A pretty little piece of work, isn’t it? All done by astrology. For my next I shall require two assistants, any live fish, four aspidistras, and one small packet of Gold Flake.’ As he uttered the last words he turned sharply to beam around the table, and his elbow caught Meggie’s glass and sent it crashing to the floor.
A little breathless silence would have followed the smash had not he bounded up from his chair immediately and bent down ostensibly to gather up the fragments, jabbering the whole time. ‘What an idiot! What an idiot! Have I splashed your dress, Miss Oliphant? All over the floor! What a mess, what a mess! Come here, my man, here: bring a dust-pan and broom with you.’ He was making such a fuss and such a noise that no one had noticed the door open, and the somewhat self-conscious entry of Chris Kennedy’s little band. No one, that is, save Campion, who from his place of vantage half-way under the table had an excellent view of the feet.
At the moment when Martin Watt leapt forward at the man by the carving table, Campion threw his arms round the other man-servant’s legs just below the knees, and jerked him back on to the flags with an almost professional neatness. Within two seconds he was seated astride the man’s chest, his knees driven into the fleshy part of his arms, whilst he stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Abbershaw and Prenderby hurried to his assistance and between them they strapped the man into a chair, where he sat glaring at them, speechless and impotent.