Free The Beckoning Lady by Margery Allingham

said Campion. “He had such stupendous innocence. What are these things in here?”
    â€œThose?” She edged round to look at the box he held out to her. “Pluminal, I think. He used to have one a night, sometimes two in the latter part of the time. The doctor gave it to us. He used to take it with his last drink.”
    Mr. Campion put the box back and moved on to the chest of drawers where, in lonely glory, stood Uncle William’s tantalus. The centre bottle had still a quarter-inch of Scotch in it, and from the little drawer below an orange envelope of a kind now familiar in Britain peeped out unblushingly.
    â€œFootball pools?” he enquired. “Did he still do those?”
    â€œRather! And he still had a bit on a horse. One of the last things he did was to pay his bookie. Old Solly L., you know. He’s coming to the party. It was a whacking great bill, I’m afraid, but Will paid it and it left him pretty well broke. Solly was overcome. He came down to see him. They had a glorious session. I thought he’d given Will a new lease of life. I filled the pools in, of course. They’re a must, aren’t they?”
    Mr. Campion considered querying this remarkable statement but changed his mind. At the moment, Uncle William’s death was his chief concern. So he said instead:
    â€œI suppose that window was kept wide all day?”
    â€œNot lately,” she said sadly. “He’d started getting so cold.”
    Mr. Campion crossed the room to stand beside her, and looked down over the flowers at the stream.
    â€œWas he insured?” he enquired with uncharacteristic bluntness.
    Minnie glanced at him oddly. “No dear, he wasn’t. He was too old before he thought of it and besides—” she hesitated and finally laughed. “He’d given most of his money to me you know—made it over to me four and a half years ago. That’s why he wanted to live to November. The five-year gift period ended then and there wouldn’t have been death duties to pay. I don’t think it was wrong of me to take it in the first place, do you? I was in a jam and he hadn’t a soul in the world.”
    â€œI know he hadn’t and, even so, my dear girl, he couldn’t have bought this kind of care for any money on earth.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought.” She sighed. “Oh my dear, I can’t bear it, let’s go out of here and look at some pictures.”
    Mr. Campion was sealing an envelope he had taken from his pocket, and he tucked it away before moving.
    â€œDoctor sensible?” he enquired casually.
    Minnie rose. “Very young,” she said, “but quite all right. I think he felt we were making a lot of fuss over a foregone conclusion.”
    The tall man smiled at her. “All the same, he wasn’t surprised when it happened.”
    â€œWell he
was,
rather, oddly enough.” Minnie was fastening the window. “So were Gordon Greene and Sir Frederick Hughes. They came down to give the old darling a complete check-up last spring, and they said then he ought to be good for a couple of years. However, go he did, poor pet, so it couldn’t be helped. Well, there it is. Come along.”
    She led him out and relocked the door after them. “I just want to leave it exactly as it was for a bit,” she said.
    Mr. Campion spoke on impulse. The matter had been in his mind for some time, but his curiosity brought it to a head.
    â€œI was going to approach you professionally, MirandaStraw,” he began. “I was wondering if we ought not to have a portrait of Amanda while her hair is still red.”
    Minnie appeared interested but embarrassed.
    â€œThe full treatment?” she enquired. “I’m afraid it would have to go through Fang’s.”
    â€œSo I should hope. None genuine without,” he agreed lightly as she paused to look at him, her head on one side.
    â€œI’d love it.