Free More Work for the Undertaker by Margery Allingham Page B

on the other side of the glass as someone hoisted it from below to get it clear of the open cellar door. Renee sucked in her breath in a silent scream as she saw it, and at the same moment Campion switched on the torch which hitherto he had thought it wisest not to use.
    The broad white beam lit the casket like a searchlight. The sinister headless shape of the thing was made infinitely more repellent by the smoothness and blackness of the wood. It shone like a piano, broad, important and silky with veneer.
    The dust-sheet which had been covering it had fallen back and the wide brass name-plate faced them nakedly. The lettering was so bold and legible that its message might have been shouted through a megaphone:
    EDWARD BON CHRETIN PALINODE
    Born September 4, 1883
    Died March 2, 1946
    In the silent airless room the two stood staring at it until it heeled gently over and out of sight, while the sound of careful footsteps reached them clearly from the narrow chasm below.

7. The Practical Undertaker
    A FACE AS broad and blandly pink as a gammon rasher looked into Mr Campion’s own from the area’s well. In the arc of the torch beam the man appeared large and solid, with wide shoulders and the breast and belly of an ox. Beneath his hard black hat his hair was white and curling, and his heavy chins rested on a glistening starched collar. The general effect was as imposing as a fine new marble tombstone.
    â€˜Good evening, sir.’ His tone was brisk but subtly deferential and a thought knowing. ‘We did not disturb you, I hope?’
    â€˜Think nothing of it,’ murmured the torchbearer magnanimously. ‘What are you doing? Stocktaking?’
    A gleam of friendly white appeared from two large teeth and a very round mouth.
    â€˜Not exactly, sir, not exactly, although there are likenesses. It’s all perfectly in order. All above . . .’
    â€˜Ground?’ suggested the thin man helpfully.
    â€˜No sir. Board, I was going to say. It is Mr Campion I’m addressing, isn’t it? I’m Jas Bowels, at your service any time of the night or day, and this is my son, Rowley boy.’
    â€˜Here, Dad.’ Another face rose into the circle of light. Mr Bowels Junior’s hair was black and his expression was slightly more alert than his father’s, but otherwise he was one of the most aggressively legitimate sons Mr Campion had ever seen. Two or three puffs from the bicycle pump of the years would, he felt, render the two identical.
    There was a brief unsatisfactory pause while they stood looking at one another. For once Campion was unhelpful.
    â€˜I’m just taking her across,’ remarked Mr Bowels Senior unexpectedly. ‘We hire the cellar, you see, sir, and I’ve had her in there a month or so while we was full up over theroad. Now, I thought, what with one thing and another – the police and that – I’d better get her back home. Looks better. You’ll understand, being a gentleman and used to these things.’
    It occurred to Mr Campion just in time that the pronoun was complimentary, as in ship.
    â€˜She looks a very fine affair,’ he said cautiously.
    â€˜Oh, she is, sir.’ Jas betrayed pride. ‘A very special job. One of our de-luxe types. Me and the boy call her the Queen Mary when we’re talking among ourselves. It’s not too much to say that any gentleman who
is
a gentleman would be proud to be buried in it. It’s like going below in your own carriage. As I always say when asked for an opinion, it’s the last thing you do so you may as well do it right.’
    His blue eyes smiled innocently as he spoke.
    â€˜It’s a pity people are so ignorant. You’d think they’d like to see a lovely job like her going across the road at any time, but no, they don’t like it. It worries them, so I’ve got to nip her over when there’s no one about.’
    Mr Campion was growing cold.
    â€˜Yet