Coroner's Pidgin by Margery Allingham Page B

easy if ingenious temporary way out of an admittedly awkward position, and genuinely alarmed for Lugg. He turned out of the gateway, and was walking along considering his next move when an elegant khaki-clad figure dropped into step at his side. He looked round to find Peter Onyer’s narrow, dark eyes on a level with his own. Campion was not pleased to see him, not that he had any aversion to the man himself whom he knew but slightly, but he had no desire to find himself running with both hare and hounds. He had experienced that nightmare before.
    â€œI take it you’ve been waiting for me?” he said acidly.
    â€œOh, not very long.” It was typical of Onyer to assume an apology. “I came down with Edna Carados and a lad from the Home Office. They’ve gone back now with an Inspector. She said you were here, though, so I thought I’d wait and collect you.”
    â€œDecent of you,” said Campion.
    â€œNot at all. I wanted to see you.” He lowered his sleek, handsome head a little. “It’s a most unfortunate business; Edna’s so impulsive, she’s quite old, too. She doesn’t understand what she can or can’t do.”
    â€œShe can’t get away with murder,” said Campion brutally, “if she’s a hundred and two. She must know that.”
    â€œMurder?” Onyer stopped in his tracks, pullingCampion round to face him. There was no colour in his cheeks, and his graceful elegance dropped from him like a garment leaving the essential, intelligent core of the man exposed. It might have been the discovery that a guilty secret had been uncovered, but Campion was inclined to diagnose straight astonishment.
    â€œWas that woman Moppet . . . ? I mean, do the police suggest . . . ? Good God, how did she die?”
    Mr. Campion told him. He whistled, and as they walked on together, made a very extraordinary remark.
    â€œI knew there would be hell to pay over this wedding,” he said, adding presently, and as if he were thinking of something else, “women do do such incredible things, don’t they? I think we’d better go along there at once, Campion. Do you mind?”

CHAPTER SIX
    APART FROM THE fact that half the house was down, the famous eau-de-Nile drawing-room full of unexpected furniture from other rooms, and no one looked in the least bored, Mr. Campion felt that nothing very fundamental had changed when he and Peter Onyer walked in on Johnny Carados’s reassembled household. They were all there except Eve, all a little older, all intensely anxious, but all infinitely more competent to deal with any situation for being once again together. It was a little before noon, and sherry was in circulation.
    But below the chatter the atmosphere of tension was very noticeable. Johnny sat at the piano playing scraps of Scarlatti. He was wearing the trousers of his uniform, but his torso was covered by a remarkable, multi-coloured brocaded jacket, with a quilted collar; a garment which belonged to a fashion dead for thirty years. He sat with his chin thrust out, and his eyes half closed. His short fingers were delicate on the notes but there was a surliness about him out of keeping with his fancy dress. To all appearances he was unconscious to the rest of the room.
    In a corner on the floor and shut in by a sort of playpenof chairs, sat Ricky Silva. His plump babyishness was encased in the battle-dress of a private of the British Army, but his bare feet were in sandals, and his gentle eyes were fixed on a box of scraps of coloured silk which he was matching and contrasting with earnest interest. As usual he was absorbed in himself and completely unconscious of the picture he presented.
    Gwenda Onyer, sandy and petitely graceful, like a whippet, was talking to Captain Gold on the couch before the fire; her fawn head bent and she did not look up as the others came in. Dolly Chivers, a picture of brisk usefulness, was