Free The Fashion In Shrouds by Margery Allingham

was also a shock of surprise. I simply want to know what the circumstances were that induced Richard, who was no neurotic, to take his life, and why that woman should never have told what she must have known. Don’t make a mouthful of it, but if you should ever find out, remember I want to know.’
    Campion raised his head.
    â€˜I’ll do what I can,’ he said, ‘but don’t rely on me.’
    â€˜Very well,’ said the old physician, and changed the subject abruptly.
    For the rest of the meal they discussed the Abominable Snowmen and other sedate fripperies, but as Campion drove back to London a thought slipped quietly into his mind and sat there nagging at him.
    Georgia Wells had not been sure of Portland-Smith’s death until the day on which the discovery of his body had been reported in the newspapers: of that Campion was only fairly certain; but there was one point upon which he was prepared to stake his all, and that was that she had no idea that her ex-husband had committed suicide until Campion himself had told her.

Chapter Six
    IT WAS A little over six weeks later, one evening when the summer was at its height and London was sprawling, dirty and happily voluptuous, in the yellow evening sun, that Mr Campion, letting himself into the flat, was accosted by a hoarse voice from the bathroom.
    â€˜Your sis rang up. She’s coming round with a Frog of some sort.’
    Not wishing to snub, but at the same time hoping to convey some disapproval at the lack of ceremony, Mr Campion passed on to the sitting-room without comment.
    He had seated himself at the desk, found some cigarettes and pulled a sheet of notepaper towards him before there was a lumbering in the passage outside and a vast, melancholy figure in a black velvet coat surged breathily into the room.
    Mr Lugg, Mr Campion’s ‘male-person’s gentleman’, regarded his employer with reproachful little black eyes.
    â€˜You ’eard,’ he said, and added with charming confiding, ‘I was cleanin’ meself up. You’d do well to put on a dressing-gown and a belt.’
    â€˜A belt?’ inquired Campion, taken off his guard.
    â€˜Braces is low, except when worn with a white waistcoat for billiards.’ Lugg made the pronouncement with justifiable pride. ‘I picked that up down at the club to-day. You’ll ’ave to get a new robe, too. Mr Tukes’s young feller has a different-coloured one for every day of the week. What d’you say to that idea?’
    â€˜Slightly disgusting.’
    Lugg considered, his eyes flickering.
    â€˜I tell ’im it was pansy,’ he admitted, ‘but I couldn’t be sure. It was a shot in the dark. “Robe”, though; make a note of that. “Robe” ’s the new name for dressing-gown. I’m learnin’ a lot from Mr Tuke. He lent me ’is book, for one thing.’
    Campion threw down his pen.
    â€˜You’re learning to read, are you?’ he said pleasantly. ‘That’s good. That’ll keep us both quiet.’
    Mr Lugg let down the flap of the cocktail cabinet with elaborate care before he deigned to reply.
    â€˜Silence is like sleep,’ he observed with unnatural solemnity. ‘It refreshes wisdom.’
    â€˜Eh?’ said Mr Campion.
    A slow, smug smile passed over the great white face and Mr Lugg coughed.
    â€˜That give you something to think about,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘D’you know ’oo thought of it? Walter Plato.’
    â€˜Really?’ Mr Campion was gratified. ‘And who was he?’
    â€˜A bloke.’ The scholar did not seem anxious to pursue the matter further, but afterwards, unwilling to lessen any impression he might have made, he spurred himself to a further flight. ‘’Im what give ’is name to the term “platitude”.’ He threw the piece of information over his shoulder with all the nonchalance of the finest