The Fashion In Shrouds (19 page)

‘No.' Georgia pushed him away. ‘No, really. I'm not hysterical. I suddenly saw it. That was all. Why did he die? What was it?'

She listened to his recital with deep attention and so did Campion.

The full medical definition of the words ‘arteriothrombosis' is impressive to the lay mind. It is one of those simple mechanical disasters which are easily comprehensible to anybody and, as Mr Campion sat listening to the full, confident voice his brows rose.

In a well-ordered society it is easy to think of some things as concrete when they are nothing of the kind. After long years of experience Mr Campion had come to consider a sudden and suspicious death as synonymous with a post-mortem and a Coroner's inquest, but now for the first time it was brought strongly to his mind that this was not so in actual fact. No ordinary hard-working general practitioner would dream of giving a certificate of natural death in the present case, for the excellent reason that, should any talk arise afterwards, as well it might in ordinary circumstances, the consequences would be thunderingly inconvenient for him, and whereas he would have everything to lose he would have precious little to gain. But there was no earthly reason why a man like Harvey Juxton-Coltness should not give a certificate; rather, every reason that he should.

Juxton-Coltness's practice was not bounded by any district. His patients were all wealthy folk recommended to him by each other. The more influential friends he made the better for him, and here he was in a nest of influential people. It was clearly to everyone's advantage that there should be no fuss over Ramillies's death. Towser, for one, would be more than grateful to hear that it was a natural tragedy. Gaiogi, Georgia herself, nobody wanted publicity. The ghoul's words returned to him forcefully:

It's all 'ush-'ush with the smart people. . . . Coo, 'e's ill. Shove 'im in a nursing 'ome and don't let me see 'im. That's the cry every time.

It was horribly true and nobody could possibly know it better than the fashionable doctor with his partnership in
Mayfair, his colossal fees and his magnificent manner. There was no reason why he should not issue a certificate of death from thrombosis of a main artery following kidney disease and cardio-dilatation, and attend the funeral at Willesden Cemetery, fixing himself in yet another twenty useful minds as that charming man who was ‘so clever and considerate when poor Ray died after getting so abominably tight'. And if there was a little talk afterwards, what was the real danger? It would only be talk among people who would never risk seeing themselves in Court on a slander charge. At worst it would be frivolous and meaningless talk, and not in any case detrimental to the doctor.

Mr Campion blinked. He saw how it was going to be done. Juxton-Coltness was going to give the certificate and there was only one thing that would stop him. That was Immediate talk. Talk now. He glanced round the room. He saw Gaiogi, Wivenhoe, Georgia and Val. Even Val was financially interested in the preservation of the peace and privacy of Caesar's Court. There remained himself. He was the sole representative of the general public who might demand to know more definitely the cause of Raymond Ramillies's extraordinarily opportune death. He alone was unsatisfied. He alone was curious to know exactly what sort of seizure had caused those last convulsions. It was up to him. He was the only disinterested agent.

The hesitant words were on the tip of his tongue when he saw the pitfall, and as it opened beneath his feet he experienced for the first time that deep anger which altered him so and changed him from the affable universal uncle to the man with an intolerable personal affront to avenge. How could he protest? He was the guest of a host who had expressly invited him to prevent just such trouble as he was preparing to make. Moreover, he had spent the day watching a man who had died under his nose. If the circumstances were suspicious, had he not had every opportunity to alter them as they occurred? Both his professional dignity and his natural ingrained reluctance to abuse his position as a guest prevented him from speaking. They were his two vulnerable spots, his two vanities. It was almost as though someone had sized him up and sized him up accurately, a degrading experience for anybody at the best of times.

Most people dislike to be made use of and resent being forced into a position wherein their hands are tied, but in some folk the experience raises a devil. Mr Campion was one of these. Had he been sure of his ground, he flattered himself, he would have conquered his weaknesses and taken the strong, if oafish, course, but he was not sure. If Providence's celebrated Mysterious Ways department was actually as blatantly at work as it appeared to be, then Ramillies might have died from a thrombosis, a cerebral haemorrhage, or any other natural thunderbolt known to Medicine.

As it was, Campion would do nothing. He saw that at once and his sense of personal outrage grew. He was trapped by himself, fettered by his own personality. The thing was mental ju-jitsu. The ‘plaything of fate' sensation was bad enough, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that the fate in question had a human brain behind it, and there was insult as well as inconvenience to counter.

Mr Campion's amiable brown face became dangerously blank and he stood looking at the company, his hands deep in his pockets and his pale eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

The unexpected development came from Georgia. She was sitting on a corner of the couch under the window, her hands between her knees and her dark head bowed.

‘I couldn't have done anything, could I?' she demanded, looking up.

‘Nothing.' Dr Juxton-Coltness managed to give the word sympathy as well as conviction.

Georgia sighed.

‘It's so extraordinary,' she said. ‘It's so utterly extraordinary.'

‘It's very terrible.' Gaiogi substituted the better word with gentle firmness.

‘Of course,' said Georgia sharply. ‘Of course. No one knows that better than I do, Gaiogi. But it is extraordinary too, isn't it, Val?'

The fair woman did not reply and she hurried on:

‘He didn't even take anything. He had nothing at all. He didn't even take a sleeping-powder. I gave him a
cachet blanc
when I first saw him and he decided not to come down to lunch.'

She seemed to find something surprising in her own words, for she broke off abruptly and sat up.

‘It was that
cachet
you gave me, Val. I meant to take it myself. But when I saw him it seemed only charitable to hand it over. He took it at once. That's all he had.'

Val regarded her steadily. She was cold and slightly contemptuous.

‘It was a perfectly ordinary
cachet blanc
,' she said.

‘My dear, of course it was.' Georgia was eyeing her. ‘Of course.' She laughed and covered her face with her hands immediately afterwards. ‘I'm completely off my balance. I only suddenly remembered that that was the only thing he did take, and that you had meant it for me.'

The words were out of her mouth before she realized their full significance and she looked as startled by them as anyone else in the room.

Val rose.

‘You don't mean that, do you?' she said.

‘No,' said Georgia hastily. ‘No. No, of course not.' But she spoiled the denial a moment afterwards by allowing a glimmer of ill-timed mischief to pass over her face. ‘After all, my pet, why should you want to get rid of me?'

That was all, but the trouble was made. The little flame flickered and grew. It flared in Gaiogi's eyes, passed over Wivenhoe's head, and revealed itself to Juxton-Coltness, who recognized it and retreated hastily, his cautious expression deepening. He coughed.

‘Lady Ramillies,' he began, ‘I've been thinking. This is a sudden death, you know, and if Sir Raymond had not been a patient I could never have considered giving a certificate. In that case a post-mortem and an inquest would have been automatic. You realize that, don't you?'

Georgia looked at him blankly.

‘Don't you know how he died?' she said.

Dr Juxton-Coltness smiled faintly with his small mouth and Gaiogi turned away.

‘My dear lady.' The doctor's beautiful voice was kind. ‘
I
am satisfied, but in a case of this sort there are certain formalities which can hardly be ignored. These things are very painful but they have to be endured.'

Georgia saw Gaiogi's face.

‘Not an inquest,' she said. ‘Doctor, can't you have a post-mortem without an inquest? Isn't that possible?'

Wivenhoe cleared his throat.

‘In such exceptional circumstances, sir,' he said, ‘couldn't – I mean, couldn't the certificate be held up for an hour or two while the P.M. was rushed through?'

Campion watched the doctor curiously. The man was very tempted. After all, his entire scheme of life was to be obliging to the right people.

‘I suppose it might be arranged,' he was saying dubiously. ‘My partner, Rowlandson Blake, the surgeon, might possibly be persuaded. I don't know, really. I should have to telephone, of course.'

It was at that moment that Campion caught sight of Val and her fixed expression and white face sent a thrill of unreasoning alarm trickling down his spine. He moved over to her, and, taking her by the arm, led her out into the little walled garden, lying smug in the warm evening sun. She went with him obediently, her hands clasped limply behind her back, but she did not speak and he missed her direct, confiding glance. They walked over the grass plot in silence and after a while he spoke himself.

‘What are you thinking?'

‘I'm not.'

‘Bad business.'

‘Frightful.'

‘I say, Val?'

‘Yes?'

‘What did you give that woman?'

‘A
cachet blanc
.'

There was a long pause and when Campion spoke again his tone was very casual.

‘They're things in rice-paper cases, aren't they?'

‘You know they are.' The icy quality in her voice did not warn him, as it might have done. There is nothing like the blood tie to render ordinary sympathetic comprehension void.

‘One could open a thing like that?'

‘One could, easily.'

‘She simply asked for it, I suppose, and you just handed it over?'

‘You know exactly what happened. You saw me.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I did. That's what's worrying me. I did. Val, you wouldn't be an utter fool?'

‘My God!' Her outburst startled him and he turned to her so that they faced each other on the turf.

‘My dear girl,' he said, ‘you behaved like an amateur actress registering stealth. It's no good being angry with me.'

‘I'm sorry.' To his relief there was a glimmer of a smile on her mouth, although her eyes were heavy with an old pain which he was embarrassed to recognize and remember. ‘I'm sorry,' she repeated. ‘But it all seems so blazingly silly. I gave Georgia a perfectly ordinary
cachet blanc.
She asked me if I had any after the party this morning, and I went up to get her one. When I put it into her hand I had one of those dreadful mad thoughts; insane impulses they call them, don't they? Anyway, it went through my mind that a good dose of cyanide in that thing would silence her beastly, predatory vulgarity for ever. And then, of course, as soon as I'd thought it I looked up and saw your ridiculous face. I felt I
was
mad and I suppose I shuddered or recoiled, as one would naturally. However, it doesn't matter. It was only one of those things.'

Campion was silent and she laughed at him.

‘Good heavens, you believe me, don't you?'

‘I? Oh, lord, yes.' His tone was still troubled. ‘I was only thinking. If they find a good narcotic poison in that chap's belly you'll be very awkwardly placed. That woman has a mind like a demented eel; does she always say any mortal thing that comes into her head?'

‘Usually, I think.' Val spoke lightly. ‘It was the fashion to be daring some years ago, and the women who grew up at that period seem to have got it incorporated in their general make-up. The trouble is that when it's natural like that it becomes a negative thing. When it was deliberate it was a considered decoration, or at least a weapon. Now that it's natural it's just an ordinary unbridled tongue. It's dangerous, of course.'

‘Dangerous? My good girl, it's terrifying. If they find –'

Val laid a restraining hand on his arm.

‘They won't find anything,' she said.

Her complacency was irritating and he shrugged his shoulders and was silent.

Presently she shuddered. He felt the tremor run through the arm against his side.

‘They won't find anything suspicious,' she went on quietly. ‘I know that. I'm certain of it. If there was any real danger of that the whole thing would have worked out differently.'

‘Do you know what you're talking about, my sweet?'

‘Yes, I do.' He had succeeded in nettling her. ‘I know that Portland-Smith died very conveniently for Georgia, and now Ramillies has done the same thing. I know that it has been proved that Portland-Smith committed suicide, and I know it will be proved that Ramillies died naturally. There's no danger of a row because danger has been carefully eliminated. It's all working out. There's a superstition in the Theatre that everything works out for Georgia. You must never cross Georgia. If you go with her you're on wheels. This is another evidence of the truth of it, that's all.'

Campion frowned at his sister. His masculine mind revolted from this ‘in touch with the stars' attitude and he said so.

‘This is all very fine and large,' he added, ‘but there's obviously going to be a P.M. – Georgia brought that on her own head – and if the fellow died unnaturally everybody's going to know.'

Val shook her head.

‘I don't think so.'

‘But, my dear good girl!' Mr Campion was restraining an impulse to jitter at her with difficulty. No one else in the world save the whole skein of his blood relations had this undignified effect upon him. ‘What do you mean? Do you think that that pompous ass of a doctor is going to risk his reputation saving anybody's skin? He'll spaniel round as long as everything is pretty, but did you see him when the first flicker of awkwardness showed? Did you see him?'