Free The Fashion In Shrouds by Margery Allingham Page B

Ramillies,’ he said.
    â€˜â€™Ave yer?’ The black eyes expressed disapproval. ‘I ain’t and I don’t want to. A ruddy awful chap. ’Ide your wife in a ditch rather than let ’im set eyes on her. ’E’s a proper blot. I tell you what, if you ’ad to set in public court and ’ear a beak talkin’ to ’im after the sentence you’d ’ave to turn your ’ead away. You’d blush; that’s a fact.’
    â€˜That’s slander,’ said Campion mildly. ‘The man’s never been in the dock in his life.’
    â€˜And wot’s that?’ Lugg was virtuous. ‘As you very well know, there’s a lot of people walkin’ about to-day ’oo ought to be in the jug by rights. ’E ’appens to be one of them, that’s all.’
    Long experience had taught Mr Campion not to argue with his aide in this mood, but he felt bound to protest.
    â€˜You mustn’t drivel libel about people. You’re like a woman.’
    â€˜Ho!’ The insult penetrated the skin and Mr Lugg’s mountainous form quivered. ‘You’ve got no right to say a thing like that, cock,’ he said earnestly. ‘I know what I’m sayin’. Sir Ramillies is mud, not so good as mud. He’s done one man in, to my certain knowledge, and the army tales about ’im make my ’air curl, wherever it may be now. ’Ere’s an instance. Take the time of the Irish trouble. There was a couple of fellers come over to England after ’im. They were lookin’ for ’im, I admit that, but neither of ’em ’ad a gun. They lay for ’im up in Hampstead where ’e used to live. ’E spotted ’em and went for ’em quick as a flash. ’E caught one chap and killed ’im with ’is bare ’ands – broke ’is neck. The bloke was on the run, mind you, but Ramillies got ’im by the ’air and forced ’is chin up until ’e ’eard ’is neck go. ’E was only a little feller. It was ’ushed up when they found out the lads were reely after ’im and it was self-defence, and Ramillies was ruddy pleased with ’imself. Saw ’imself a Tarzan. I don’t know what you think about it, but it don’t sound quite nice to me; not at all the article. It’s downright brutish, look at it how you like. Put me off the chap for life. It’s not respectable to lose your temper like that. Makes you no better than an animal. It’s dangerous, for one thing.’
    The story was certainly not attractive, and it occurred to Mr Campion that it was unfortunate that, having met Ramillies, it did not strike him as being obviously untrue.
    â€˜Do you know this for a fact?’
    â€˜Of course I do.’ Lugg was contemptuous. ‘I ’ad a drink with the other bloke. ’E
was
in a state – not frightened, you know, but shook. There’s other tales about Ramillies not as pretty as that. I wouldn’t soil yer ears with ’em. ’E’s not the bloke for your sis to sit down to table with, not if she was in Salvation Army uniform, take it from me.’
    Mr Campion said no more. He remained sitting at his desk with his head slightly on one side and an introspective expression in his eyes.
    He was still there, drumming idly on the blotter with his long, thin fingers, when the doorbell buzzed and a subtle change came over Mr Lugg.
    He straightened his back from his ministrations at the cocktail cabinet and padded over to the wall-mirror, where he settled his collar, arranging his chins upon its white pedestal with great care. Having thus set the stage, he pulled a silk handkerchief out of his side pocket and gave his glistening head a good rub with it, using it immediately afterwards to give a flick to the toe of each patent-leather pump. Then he pulled himself up to attention and, turning all in one piece with his plump hands flat against