Read Online Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margery Allingham
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and her head was held high and defiant.”
His voice stopped and they sat round and stared at him. He backed farther into his chair and hugged his knee.
‘You—you went out without speaking,” said someone, and his voice sounded strident and unnatural.
“Yes,” said Fyshe. “Without speaking, without a sound. She never knew I came.”
There was another pause, then he said: “The next time I saw her was at the funeral. I daresay you remember it, an extraordinary—a wonderful affair.”
His voice sank to a whisper as he remembered the majesty of it and he rocked backwards and forwards, a grotesque figure in the big chair.
“It was barbaric though,” he went on suddenly. “It horrified some people. They called it vulgar—ostentatious—but it wasn’t, it was magnificent. It was beautiful, sombre, terrible—the funeral of a god. The great house dismantled—the open coffin—the gorgeous pall—it was all majestic, Northern, and, as I said, barbaric. Some fools who didn’t understand her blamed her for it—they said she made a show of Death. I could have killed them. If Elfrida made a show, she made it for the honour of the dead and from no petty, horrible thought of personal glorification. She would not understand such reasoning. She mourned him at the funeral, and she mourned him ever afterwards—her husband, the man she married. Her grief was terrible, freezing, petrifying grief and it was sincere—no woman loved more than Elfrida, no woman grieved more deeply.”
“I don’t see how you make that out,” said Meyer, “if as you say she—”
Fyshe interrupted him.
“Her grief is sincere,” he said, and his black eyes flashed, “she mourns her husband, the man she married. If she had allowed herself to think clearly she would have mourned him a week after her marriage: as it was however, his body had to die before she could allow herself to see that he was dead.”
“Or that he never existed!”
Fyshe smiled curiously.
“Not exactly,” he said, “for from the day she first saw him—he existed—for her. Oh, her grief was sincere, as sincere as her love was. When I went up to her that day, where she sat in the great dim room with the solemn preparations for that mighty funeral going on around us, she looked up at me and I saw in her face a depth of sorrow so deep, so majestic and awful that it struck me dumb, and made me feel I was a little soul incapable of feeling a tenth so much. I mumbled something about Vickers at last and her eyes darkened a little. Then she sighed and looked steadily and honestly into my eyes.
“‘He was a king of men,” she said, ‘my husband”.” Fyshe finished speaking. There was a stir among his listeners and then Meyer spoke again. “I don’t see,” he said obstinately. “She must have been a hypocrite, Fyshe, she killed him—”
“Killed him!” The hunchback poet crouched forward in his chair and stared at the other man in fierce exasperation. “No, she didn’t kill him, Meyer,” he said. “Don’t you understand—she gave him birth!”
Mr. Campion’s Lucky Day
When Mr. Albert Campion arrived at the luxury flat, Detective Inspector Stanislaus Oates had just reached the unwelcome conclusion that Chippy Figg was not, after all, guilty of the murder of the man in the sitting-room.
Chippy, who was fidgeting in the kitchenette, his peaky face yellow with anxiety, had been saying so for some time.
“I was with me auntie all the evening,” he was protesting, as Campion, an ineffable glow of well-being about him, appeared in the doorway. “She’ll swear to it, auntie will.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lad,” said Oates gloomily. He turned and caught sight of the slender newcomer in the horn-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, hallo, Campion, glad to see you. Come over here, will you? There’s nothing to grin about, let me tell you.” Taking his old friend by the elbow, he pushed him firmly across the wide passage, now crowded with officials, to
His voice stopped and they sat round and stared at him. He backed farther into his chair and hugged his knee.
‘You—you went out without speaking,” said someone, and his voice sounded strident and unnatural.
“Yes,” said Fyshe. “Without speaking, without a sound. She never knew I came.”
There was another pause, then he said: “The next time I saw her was at the funeral. I daresay you remember it, an extraordinary—a wonderful affair.”
His voice sank to a whisper as he remembered the majesty of it and he rocked backwards and forwards, a grotesque figure in the big chair.
“It was barbaric though,” he went on suddenly. “It horrified some people. They called it vulgar—ostentatious—but it wasn’t, it was magnificent. It was beautiful, sombre, terrible—the funeral of a god. The great house dismantled—the open coffin—the gorgeous pall—it was all majestic, Northern, and, as I said, barbaric. Some fools who didn’t understand her blamed her for it—they said she made a show of Death. I could have killed them. If Elfrida made a show, she made it for the honour of the dead and from no petty, horrible thought of personal glorification. She would not understand such reasoning. She mourned him at the funeral, and she mourned him ever afterwards—her husband, the man she married. Her grief was terrible, freezing, petrifying grief and it was sincere—no woman loved more than Elfrida, no woman grieved more deeply.”
“I don’t see how you make that out,” said Meyer, “if as you say she—”
Fyshe interrupted him.
“Her grief is sincere,” he said, and his black eyes flashed, “she mourns her husband, the man she married. If she had allowed herself to think clearly she would have mourned him a week after her marriage: as it was however, his body had to die before she could allow herself to see that he was dead.”
“Or that he never existed!”
Fyshe smiled curiously.
“Not exactly,” he said, “for from the day she first saw him—he existed—for her. Oh, her grief was sincere, as sincere as her love was. When I went up to her that day, where she sat in the great dim room with the solemn preparations for that mighty funeral going on around us, she looked up at me and I saw in her face a depth of sorrow so deep, so majestic and awful that it struck me dumb, and made me feel I was a little soul incapable of feeling a tenth so much. I mumbled something about Vickers at last and her eyes darkened a little. Then she sighed and looked steadily and honestly into my eyes.
“‘He was a king of men,” she said, ‘my husband”.” Fyshe finished speaking. There was a stir among his listeners and then Meyer spoke again. “I don’t see,” he said obstinately. “She must have been a hypocrite, Fyshe, she killed him—”
“Killed him!” The hunchback poet crouched forward in his chair and stared at the other man in fierce exasperation. “No, she didn’t kill him, Meyer,” he said. “Don’t you understand—she gave him birth!”
Mr. Campion’s Lucky Day
When Mr. Albert Campion arrived at the luxury flat, Detective Inspector Stanislaus Oates had just reached the unwelcome conclusion that Chippy Figg was not, after all, guilty of the murder of the man in the sitting-room.
Chippy, who was fidgeting in the kitchenette, his peaky face yellow with anxiety, had been saying so for some time.
“I was with me auntie all the evening,” he was protesting, as Campion, an ineffable glow of well-being about him, appeared in the doorway. “She’ll swear to it, auntie will.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lad,” said Oates gloomily. He turned and caught sight of the slender newcomer in the horn-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, hallo, Campion, glad to see you. Come over here, will you? There’s nothing to grin about, let me tell you.” Taking his old friend by the elbow, he pushed him firmly across the wide passage, now crowded with officials, to
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