Free The Fashion In Shrouds by Margery Allingham Page A

academic tradition and peered round to see the effect.
    He was rewarded. Mr Campion appeared to have been stricken dumb.
    â€˜Is that in the book?’ he inquired humbly after a pause.
    â€˜I expec’ so,’ said Lugg, adding magnificently, ‘I read it somewhere. Mr Tuke’s getting me interested in education. Education is the final stamp of good class, that’s what ’e says.’
    â€˜And a belt,’ murmured Campion. ‘Don’t forget that.’
    The fat man heaved himself towards the desk.
    â€˜Look ’ere,’ he said belligerently, ‘I expected somethin’ like this. Every step I’ve took in an upward direction you’ve done your best to nark. Now I’m on to somethin’ useful. I’m goin’ to educate myself, and then I’ll never feel inferior, not with anybody, see?’
    â€˜My dear chap – ’ Mr Campion was touched. ‘You don’t feel inferior with anybody now, surely, do you? Lay off, Lugg. This is a horrible line.’
    The other man regarded him shrewdly. His little black eyes were winking, and there was a certain sheepishness in his expression which was out of character.
    â€˜Not with you, of course, cock,’ he conceded affectionately. ‘But I do with Mr Tuke. ’E thinks about it. Still, let ’im wait.’
    â€˜Is it
all
in the book?’ inquired Mr Campion, whom the idea seemed to fascinate.
    â€˜A ruddy great lot of it is.’ Mr Lugg wrestled with his pocket. ‘I’ll be as hot as most when I get this on board.’ He produced a small dictionary of quotations and laid it metaphorically at Mr Campion’s feet. ‘I’m leavin’ out the Yiddish,’ he remarked as they turned over the pages together. ‘See that bit there? – and there’s another over ’ere.’
    Campion sighed.
    â€˜It may be Yiddish to you, guv’nor,’ he murmured, ‘but it’s Greek to me. These two lads Milt and Shakes get an unfair look in, don’t they?’
    â€˜They’re all all right.’ Lugg was magnanimous. ‘But when I get good I’ll do me own quotations. A quotation’s only a short neat way of sayin’ somethin’ everybody knows, like “
It’s crackers to slip a rozzer the dropsy in snide
”. That s the sort of thing. Only you want it to be about somethin’ less ’omely . . . women and such.’
    Mr Campion seemed rather taken with the idea of running a line in personal quotations on the system of ‘every man his own poet’, and Lugg was gratified.
    â€˜I don’t often get you goin’,’ he observed with satisfaction. ‘Lucky I ’it on this; it might have been religion. There’s a bloke at the club . . .’
    â€˜No,’ said Mr Campion, pulling himself together. ‘No, old boy. No, really. Not now.’
    â€˜That’s what I tell ’im.’ Lugg was cheerful. ‘I’ll come to it, I says, but not now. I’m sorry, mate, but I don’t see yer as a brother yet. Which reminds me – what about your sis? She’ll be ’ere any minute. What’s she up to? She’s in with a funny crowd, isn’t she?’
    â€˜Val? I don’t think so.’
    Lugg sniffed. ‘I do. Mr Tuke tell me in confidence that ’e ’eard someone pass a remark about seein’ ’er at a luncheon party at The Tulip with a very funny lot . . . that bloke Ramillies, for one.’
    Once more Mr Campion pushed his letter aside, faint distaste on his face.
    â€˜Of course we don’t want to go listenin’ to servants’ gossip,’ continued Lugg happily, ‘but I like that girl and I wouldn’t like to see ’er mixed up with a chap like Ramillies.’
    He pronounced the name with such a wealth of disgust that his employer’s interest was stirred in spite of himself.
    â€˜I’ve met Sir Raymond