Arthur's Afterlife Apparel

Arthur adjusted the silk tie on Bartholomew 'Barty' Butterfield. Barty, a retired haberdasher, looked remarkably... well, *dead*. Which was, Arthur supposed, the point. But the suit. Oh, the suit. A perfectly respectable charcoal pinstripe, chosen by Barty's grieving niece. Respectable, yes. *Boring*, absolutely. Arthur sighed. He had tried to steer her towards the 'Midnight Maverick' line, a daring navy with a faint silver fleck, which would have perfectly complimented Barty's latent mischievous twinkle – the one Arthur had painstakingly coaxed out of his lifeless eye. But no. 'Uncle Barty was a traditionalist,' she'd insisted, dabbing her eyes. Arthur snorted, silently. Barty had once told him, quite gleefully, about a fling with a flamenco dancer in Marbella. Traditionalist, indeed. Arthur ran a gloved hand over the lapel. He had a theory. The dead weren't truly at peace until they were dressed in a manner that accurately reflected their *untold* stories. And Barty, stuck in this charcoal purgatory, was surely gnashing his teeth, if he still had any coherent musculature for the task. Arthur leaned in, whispering, 'Don't worry, Barty. Next week, Mrs. Henderson from number 42 is coming in. I heard she always wanted to wear a tiara. I'll make sure she goes out a queen. You, my friend, are merely a placeholder for my frustrated sartorial genius.' He straightened up, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. One day, he'd get a client who truly *deserved* the 'Crimson Comet' velvet tuxedo. One day.