Free Mr Campion's Fault by Mike Ripley Page A

the lot. Bertram always said he could use her on the rugby field if she put on three or four stones. Mind you, she probably will. Spinsters usually do.’
    Perdita bit her lip and resisted the urge to reach out and rip off a chunk of those yellowing moustache hairs. ‘I’m told that Hilda is to play a part in the production I have … inherited.’
    ‘And the best of British luck to you with that, little lady. This damn-fool Christmas show was all Hilda’s damn-fool idea from the start, wasn’t it?’
    ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow, Mr Bland,’ said Perdita, conscious of Rupert next to her moving uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He had seen her far from feminine response to being called anyone’s ‘little lady’ before.
    ‘I prefer Wing Commander, if you don’t mind,’ said the pompous lion. ‘That’s why Celia calls me the SBO of the staff room – Senior British Officer, don’t you know.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Perdita said innocently. ‘I thought it stood for something else entirely. Could I ask what you mean by the
Faustus
production being Hilda’s idea, Wing Commander? I didn’t realize she was on the staff.’
    ‘She’s not, thank the stars. She haunts the school – on sufferance, mind you – because she was Bertram’s sister. No one in Denby Ash, or the adjoining parishes, can stand the woman – me included – but Bertie was a good friend of mine and since he died I seem to have inherited the role of Hilda expert by default.’
    The wing commander’s expression twisted in on itself as he concentrated silently on picking flecks of tobacco from his pursed lips whilst studiously ignoring the young woman in front of him. Perdita was sure she was not the first of her sex to be so ignored and would not be the last. But as she was determined not to stand for bullying in the classroom, she saw no reason why she should put up with it in the staff room.
    ‘Well?’ she said, placing her clenched fists on her hips and leaning over the seated lion.
    ‘Well what?’ growled the startled lion, already betrayed by a pink glow blooming in his cheeks.
    ‘Why was doing
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Hilda’s idea? I thought you were about to tell me.’
    ‘Oh, yes … Hilda and her
Doctor Faustus
obsession …’
    Raymond Bland paused as if reluctant to part with information which, Perdita was sure, would have been common gossip in the all-male sanctuary of an officer’s mess.
    ‘I must confess,’ Perdita admitted with a smile designed, if not to charm, then at least suggest complicity, ‘I thought it a distinctly odd choice for a Christmas production when I first heard.’
    ‘Hrrumph!’ growled the lion. ‘Bloody odd, if you’ll pardon my French; we all thought that, but then Hilda is a distinctly odd woman. She took Bertie in, you know, when his wife died. She got killed in a road accident as well, just like Bertie. Funny that; ’cept of course it’s not. Bertie was broken up about it and seriously in danger of cracking up, so it was probably for the best that he had Hilda to take care of him. Not that she ever let him forget it. Always on about how she’d given up any hope of bagging a husband to look after him.’
    And now the lion snorted.
    ‘Fat chance there was of that happening, mind you, but it had the desired effect on Bertie. Made him feel guilty, so he indulged her; took her to the pictures in Leeds and the theatre in Stratford-on-Avon, of all places.’
    ‘I hardly think it indulgent—’ Perdita began to bristle, but her husband intervened soothingly.
    ‘Stratford would be where she saw the RSC doing
Doctor Faustus
last year, wouldn’t it? You know, darling, with Eric Porter as Dr F and all the fuss there was about a nude Helen of Troy.’
    The wing commander, happier to be talking to a man, purred with enthusiasm. ‘Spot on, old chap, and you’re dead right: that Helen of Troy was totally nude – completely starkers – not like those gals at The Windmill. I know some of them