The Beckoning Lady by Margery Allingham Page B

the short sleeve above an arm as thick and powerful as a navvy’s. He suspected that she had been talking to herself, for as he appeared she went straight on, merely raising her voice to include him into the party. “It’s not right, is it?” she was saying—“’Im ’ardly in ’is grave yet, poor old dear. We know ’e was old but then that’s a thing we’ve all got to come to. Surely you can putthe Londoners’ outin’ off, dear, for a week or ten days? I said. No I can’t, she said, and that’s flat. You don’t understand. We can’t back out of it now. Can’t? I said, there’s no can’t about it. Oh shut up! Dinah, she said. They call me Dinah, though me name’s Diane. Miss Diane Varley. I’ve never bin married. But Mrs. Cassands
was
upset. I could see it, though some people couldn’t. Well, she would be. ’E was like a father to ’er and me. We was just ’is girls to ’im. I’m speaking of ’er uncle, Mr. William that was, a saint on earth except for ’is bottle.”
    Mr. Campion, whose face had been growing more and more blank, took himself in hand. One item in the harangue stood out as an insult to his intelligence. He knew for a fact that this sterling example of a type which was as familiar to him as the city itself, could never have escaped matrimony. Glancing at her left hand he saw at once the bone-deep crease of the wedding ring. Fortunately she was wiping her eyes with the corner of the tweed apron and did not notice his stare.
    â€œOh I miss ’im,” she said brokenly. “I’ve cried meself sick every night. Bleary old nuisance, ’e was, and I’ve told ’im so until I was sick of it. I know ’e was lucky to be took so quick. Sometimes they lie and lie. But all the same it was sudden. Old Harry was here, and we was sitting up. We ’adn’t gorn ’ome because Mr. Will seemed queer and I didn’t like to leave ’im to Mrs. Cassands while Mr. Tonker was down. She doesn’t ’ave a lot of time with ’im. Just before twelve I said to Harry—that’s my friend—I said ‘I’ll take ’im some of this ’ere tea, because ’e may wake up and then ’e’ll want it.’ So I did, and I went in talking like I always do. ‘There you are, you old lump of love,’ I said, ‘nice and ’ot,’ and I turned up the light and then of course I dropped the cup.”
    The thin man was gratifyingly interested.
    â€œMr. Farraday was only ill for a day, was he?”
    â€œâ€™E wasn’t ill at all,” she protested. “You’d ’ave soon ’eard about it if he was ill. If ’e was poorly ’is little bell rang night and day. ’E was only sleeping. They do. Oldpeople sleep and sleep until you wonder why they bother to wake up.”
    â€œWhat did the doctor say?”
    â€œWhat could ’e say? Said ’e was dead. I could ’ave told ’im that. ‘Is poor old jaw was tied up by the time the doctor saw ’im.”
    She returned to her pail of soapsuds.
    â€œâ€™E agreed it was sudden. Told us ’ow lucky we was. Said ’is ’eart ’adn’t seemed so bad, but at ’is age and with ’is ’istory we couldn’t be surprised at anything, and signed the doings. But we
was
surprised. The old chap ’isself wouldn’t ’ave believed it if ’e ’adn’t ’ad to.”
    â€œHe wanted to live, did he?” Mr. Campion had seen his old friend for a few minutes the week before his death, and had seen then that he was very tired. He was happy enough, but weary, and like some crumpled baby seemed anxious to get his head down to sleep.
    â€œCome Gumper,” said Miss Diane unexpectedly. “’E’d made up ’is mind to live till Gumper night. ’E told me so.”
    Mr. Campion