Flowers For the Judge by Margery Allingham Read Free Book Online Page A

hatred, but as soon as the other ventured to remark inanely that it was a nice foggy day he burst out into the spasmodic but more than eager conversation of one who has been in solitary confinement.
    Mr Campion, who thought privately that all young persons who voluntarily shut themselves up half their lives alone, scribbling down lies in the pathetic hope of entertaining or instructing their fellows, must necessarily be the victims of some sort of phobia, was duly sympathetic. Moreover, his curiosity concerning the business downstairs was fast becoming unbearable and he was glad to have something to crowd it out of his mind.
    The fat young man flung himself down in a chair.
    ‘I’m waiting to see Mr Widdowson,’ he said abruptly. ‘I usually see Brande, but to-day I’ve got to go to the Headmaster. They’re all infernally casual, aren’t they? I’ve been here half an hour.’
    In view of all the circumstances Mr Campion did not know quite what to say, but his silence did not worry the other man, if indeed he noticed it at all.
    ‘I expect Brande will be down in a moment,’ he went on explosively. ‘Do you know him? A nice chap. Very enthusiastic. Gets all het-up about things. He’s made a lot of difference to this place since he left the army. He was in the States for a bit, you know, and then came back and started putting a bit of pep into this mausoleum.’
    He paused again but only for breath. Since neither of them even so much as knew the other’s name Mr Campion found him quite extraordinarily indiscreet, but he recognized the symptoms and understood that people who are forced to spend long periods alone can rarely chat noncommittally. The fat young man’s tongue was running away with him again.
    ‘Brande married an American, you know,’ he said accusingly. ‘Extraordinarily pretty girl, I believe. It seems a pity they don’t…’ He broke off hastily and rose to his feet again, glaring at Campion this time as if he had discovered him trying to surprise him into a confidence.
    Mr Campion looked comfortingly blank and as the other retired to a corner, crimson with rage and confusion, he rose himself and, wandering across to the heavily-curtained windows peered through them into the fog.
    ‘I wonder where Brande is,’ said the plaintive voice behind him after a pause.
    Mr Campion stiffened and controlled the insane impulse to say, ‘There goes his body, anyway. Looks a fishy little procession, doesn’t it?’ and turned back into the room just as the door opened and a girl came in.
    She was neither particularly good to look at nor possessed of an arresting personality, but she caught Mr Campion’s interest at once. She was small and very dark and affected the coiffure of a medieval page and a small straight blue serge dress with a white collar and cuffs. The effect aimed at was a twelve-year-old schoolgirl, but the result was ruined by the maturity of her face, hands and neck. She smiled at the fat young man.
    ‘Oh, Mr Tooth,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting . I’m afraid Mr Widdowson won’t be here to-day. He’s been called away. Would you mind very much if we wrote you?’
    Mr Tooth grew red and then pale with indignation and Mr Campion was inclined to sympathize with him.
    ‘I’ll go in and see Mr Brande, then,’ said Mr Tooth with dignity. ‘He’s not engaged, is he?’
    ‘Oh no, he’s not engaged, but I’m afraid you can’t see him.’ There was a quality in the girl’s voice which was hard to define. She was enjoying the situation, certainly, but she was not bursting to come out with the news. Rather, she was being unduly secretive about it. Mr Campion was interested. Why should the staff of Barnabas Limited have decided to try to keep Paul’s death a secret? The death of a man is a hopeless thing to hide from his friends; after all, it is no little peccadillo or temporary embarrassment from which he may be expected to recover and afterwards prefer not to