Part II

Unnatural Death

DOROTHY L. SAYERS

Harper & Row, Publishers, New York

Grand Rapids, Philadelphia, St. Louis, San Francisco

London, Singapore, Sydney, Tokyo, Toronto

WIMSEY, Peter Death Bredon, D.S.O.; _born_ 1890, _2nd son_ of Mortimer

Gerald Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, and of Honoria Lucasta,

_daughter of_ Francis Delagardie of Bellingham Manor, Hants. _Married_

1935, Harriet Deborah Vane, _daughter of_ Henry Vane, M.D.; one _son_

(Bredon Delagardie Peter) _born_ 1936.

_Educated_: Eton College and Balliol College, (1st class honours),

Sch. of Mod. Hist. 1912; served with H.M. Forces 1914/18 (Major, Rifle

Brigade). _Author of_: “Notes on the Collecting of Incunabula,” “The

Murderer’s Vade-Medum,” etc. Recreations: Criminology; bibliophily;

music; cricket.

_Clubs_: Marlborough; Egotists’; Bellona. _Residences_: 110A,

Piccadilly, W.; Bredon Hall, Duke’s Denver, Norfolk.

_Arms_: Sable, 3 mice courant, argent; crest, a domestic cat crouched

as to spring, proper; motto: As my Whimsy takes me.

[Illustration: AS MY WHIMSY TAKES ME]

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Communicated by

Paul Austin Delagardie

I am asked by Miss Sayers to fill up certain lacunae and correct a few

trifling errors of fact in her account of my nephew Peter’s career. I

shall do so with pleasure. To appear publicly in print is every man’s

ambition, and by acting as a kind of running footman to my nephew’s

triumph I shall only be showing a modesty suitable to my advanced age.

The Wimsey family is an ancient one—too ancient, if you ask me. The only

sensible thing Peter’s father ever did was to ally his exhausted stock

with the vigorous French-English strain of the Delagardies. Even so, my

nephew Gerald (the present Duke of Denver) is nothing but a beef-witted

English squire, and my niece Mary was flighty and foolish enough till

she married a policeman and settled down. Peter, I am glad to say, takes

after his mother and me. True, he is all nerves and nose—but that is

better than being all brawn and no brains like his father and brother,

or a bundle of emotions like Gerald’s boy, Saint-George. He has at least

inherited the Delagardie brains, by way of safeguard to the unfortunate

Wimsey temperament.

Peter was born in 1890. His mother was being very much worried at the

time by her husband’s behaviour (Denver was always tiresome, though the

big scandal did not break out till the Jubilee year), and her anxieties

may have affected the boy. He was a colorless shrimp of a child, very

restless and mischievous, and always much too sharp for his age. He had

nothing of Gerald’s robust beauty, but he developed what I can best call

a kind of bodily cleverness, more skill than strength. He had a quick

eye for a ball and beautiful hands for a horse. He had the devil’s own

pluck, too: the intelligent sort of pluck that sees the risk before it

takes it. He suffered badly from nightmares as a child. To his father’s

consternation he grew up with a passion for books and music.

His early school-days were not happy. He was a fastidious child, and I

suppose it was natural that his school-fellows should call him “Flimsy”

and treat him as a kind of comic turn. And he might, in sheer

self-protection, have accepted the position and degenerated into a mere

licensed buffoon, if some games-master at Eton had not discovered that

he was a brilliant natural cricketer. After that, of course, all his

eccentricities were accepted as wit, and Gerald underwent the salutary

shock of seeing his despised younger brother become a bigger personality

than himself. By the time he reached the Sixth Form, Peter had contrived

to become the fashion—athlete, scholar, _arbiter elegantiarum—nec

pluribus impar_. Cricket had a great deal to do with it—plenty of Eton

men will remember the “Great Flim” and his performance against

Harrow—but I take credit to myself for introducing him to a good tailor,

showing him the way about Town, and teaching him to distinguish good

wine from bad. Denver bothered little about him—he had too many

entanglements of his own and in addition was taken up with Gerald, who

by this time was making a prize fool of himself at Oxford. As a matter

of fact Peter never got on with his father, he was a ruthless young

critic of the paternal misdemeanours, and his sympathy for his mother

had a destructive effect upon his sense of humour.

Denver, needless to say, was the last person to tolerate his own

failings in his offspring. It cost him a good deal of money to extricate

Gerald from the Oxford affair, and he was willing enough to turn his

other son over to me. Indeed, at the age of seventeen, Peter came to me

of his own accord. He was old for his age and exceedingly reasonable,

and I treated him as a man of the world. I established him in

trustworthy hands in Paris, instructing him to keep his affairs upon a

sound business footing and to see that they terminated with goodwill on

both sides and generosity on his. He fully justified my confidence. I

believe that no woman has ever found cause to complain of Peter’s

treatment; and two at least of them have since married royalty (rather

obscure royalties, I admit, but royalty of a sort). Here again, I insist

upon my due share of the credit; however good the material one has to

work upon it is ridiculous to leave any young man’s social education to

chance.

The Peter of this period was really charming, very frank, modest and

well-mannered, with a pretty, lively wit. In 1909 he went up with a

scholarship to read History at Balliol, and here, I must confess, he

became rather intolerable. The world was at his feet, and he began to

give himself airs. He acquired affectations, an exaggerated Oxford

manner and a monocle, and aired his opinions a good deal, both in and

out of the Union, though I will do him the justice to say that he never

attempted to patronise his mother or me. He was in his second year when

Denver broke his neck out hunting and Gerald succeeded to the title.

Gerald showed more sense of responsibility than I had expected in

dealing with the estate; his worst mistake was to marry his cousin

Helen, a scrawny, over-bred prude, all country from head to heel. She

and Peter loathed each other cordially; but he could always take refuge

with his mother at the Dower House.

And then, in his last year at Oxford, Peter fell in love with a child of

seventeen and instantly forgot everything he had ever been taught. He

treated that girl as if she was made of gossamer, and me as a hardened

old monster of depravity who had made him unfit to touch her delicate

purity. I won’t deny that they made an exquisite pair—all white and

gold—a prince and princess of moonlight, people said. Moonshine would

have been nearer the mark. What Peter was to do in twenty years’ time

with a wife who had neither brains nor character nobody but his mother

and myself ever troubled to ask, and he, of course, was completely

besotted. Happily, Barbara’s parents decided that she was too young to

marry; so Peter went in for his final Schools in the temper of a Sir

Eglamore achieving his first dragon; laid his First-Class Honours at his

lady’s feet like the dragon’s head, and settled down to a period of

virtuous probation.

Then came the War. Of course the young idiot was mad to get married

before he went. But his own honourable scruples made him mere wax in

other people’s hands. It was pointed out to him that if he came back

mutilated it would be very unfair to the girl. He hadn’t thought of

that, and rushed off in a frenzy of self-abnegation to release her from

the engagement. I had no hand in that; I was glad enough of the result,

but I couldn’t stomach the means.

He did very well in France; he made a good officer and the men liked

him. And then, if you please, he came back on leave with his captaincy

in ’16, to find the girl married—to a hard-bitten rake of a Major

Somebody, whom she had nursed in the V.A.D. hospital, and whose motto

with women was catch ’em quick and treat ’em rough. It was pretty

brutal; for the girl hadn’t had the nerve to tell Peter beforehand. They

got married in a hurry when they heard he was coming home, and all he

got on landing was a letter, announcing the _fait accompli_ and

reminding him that he had set her free himself.

I will say for Peter that he came straight to me and admitted that he

had been a fool. “All right,” said I, “you’ve had your lesson. Don’t go

and make a fool of yourself in the other direction.” So he went back to

his job with (I am sure) the fixed intention of getting killed; but all

he got was his majority and his D.S.O. for some recklessly good

intelligence work behind the German front. In 1918 he was blown up and

buried in a shell-hole near Caudry, and that left him with a bad nervous

breakdown, lasting, on and off, for two years. After that, he set

himself up in a flat in Piccadilly, with the man Bunter (who had been

his sergeant and was, and is, devoted to him), and started out to put

himself together again.

I don’t mind saying that I was prepared for almost anything. He had lost

all his beautiful frankness, he shut everybody out of his confidence,

including his mother and me, adopted an impenetrable frivolity of manner

and a dilettante pose, and became, in fact, the complete comedian. He

was wealthy and could do as he chose, and it gave me a certain amount of

sardonic entertainment to watch the efforts of post-war feminine London

to capture him. “It can’t,” said one solicitous matron, “be good for

poor Peter to live like a hermit.” “Madam,” said I, “if he did, it

wouldn’t be.” No; from that point of view he gave me no anxiety. But I

could not but think it dangerous that a man of his ability should have

no job to occupy his mind, and I told him so.

In 1921 came the business of the Attenbury Emeralds. That affair has

never been written up, but it made a good deal of noise, even at that

noisiest of periods. The trial of the thief was a series of red-hot

sensations, and the biggest sensation of the bunch was when Lord Peter

Wimsey walked into the witness-box as chief witness for the prosecution.

That was notoriety with a vengeance. Actually, to an experienced

intelligence officer, I don’t suppose the investigation had offered any

great difficulties; but a “noble sleuth” was something new in thrills.

Denver was furious; personally, I didn’t mind what Peter did, provided

he did something. I thought he seemed happier for the work, and I liked

the Scotland Yard man he had picked up during the run of the case.

Charles Parker is a quiet, sensible, well-bred fellow, and has been a

good friend and brother-in-law to Peter. He has the valuable quality of

being fond of people without wanting to turn them inside out.

The only trouble about Peter’s new hobby was that it had to be more than

a hobby, if it was to be any hobby for a gentleman. You cannot get

murderers hanged for your private entertainment. Peter’s intellect

pulled him one way and his nerves another, till I began to be afraid

they would pull him to pieces. At the end of every case we had the old

nightmares and shell-shock over again. And then Denver, of all

people—Denver, the crashing great booby, in the middle of his

fulminations against Peter’s degrading and notorious police activities,

must needs get himself indicted on a murder charge and stand his trial

in the House of Lords, amid a blaze of publicity which made all Peter’s

efforts in that direction look like damp squibs.

Peter pulled his brother out of that mess, and, to my relief, was human

enough to get drunk on the strength of it. He now admits that his

“hobby” is his legitimate work for society, and has developed sufficient

interest in public affairs to undertake small diplomatic jobs from time

to time under the Foreign Office. Of late he has become a little more

ready to show his feelings, and a little less terrified of having any to

show.

His latest eccentricity has been to fall in love with that girl whom he

cleared of the charge of poisoning her lover. She refused to marry him,

as any woman of character would. Gratitude and a humiliating inferiority

complex are no foundation for matrimony; the position was false from the

start. Peter had the sense, this time, to take my advice. “My boy,” said

I, “what was wrong for you twenty years back is right now. It’s not the

innocent young things that need gentle handling—it’s the ones that have

been frightened and hurt. Begin again from the beginning—I warn you that

you will need all the self-discipline you have ever learnt.”

Well, he has tried. I don’t think I have ever seen such patience. The

girl has brains and character and honesty; but he has got to teach her

how to take, which is far more difficult than learning to give. I think

they will find one another, if they can keep their passions from running

ahead of their wills. He does realise, I know, that in this case there

can be no consent but free consent.

Peter is forty-five now, it is really time he was settled. As you will

see, I have been one of the important formative influences in his

career, and on the whole, I feel he does me credit. He is a true

Delagardie, with little of the Wimseys about him except (I must be fair)

that underlying sense of social responsibility which prevents the

English landed gentry from being a total loss, spiritually speaking.

Detective or no detective, he is a scholar and a gentleman; it will

amuse me to see what sort of shot he makes at being a husband and

father. I am getting an old man, and have no son of my own (that I know

of); I should be glad to see Peter happy. But as his mother says, “Peter

has always had everything except the things he really wanted,” and I

suppose he is luckier than most.

Paul Austin Delagardie

[Illustration: Wimsey Family Tree]

CONTENTS

_PART I_

_Chapter_ _Page_

I. Overheard 3

II. Miching Mallecho 11

III. A Use for Spinsters 17

IV. A Bit Mental 27

V. Gossip 35

VI. Found Dead 44

VII. Ham and Brandy 59

VIII. Concerning Crime 68

IX. The Will 77

_PART II_

X. The Will Again 85

XI. Cross-Roads 99

XII. A Tale of Two Spinsters 114

XIII. Hallelujah 123

XIV. Sharp Quillets of the Law 130

XV. Temptation of St. Peter 141

XVI. A Cast-Iron Alibi 150

XVII. The Country Lawyer’s Story 156

XVIII. The London Lawyer’s Story 165

_PART III_

XIX. Gone Away 179

XX. Murder 193

XXI. By What Means? 201

XXII. A Case of Conscience 213

XXIII. —and Smote Him, Thus 227

Part I

THE MEDICAL PROBLEM

“_But how I caught it, found it, came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn._”

_Merchant of Venice_

CHAPTER I

Overheard

“_The death was certainly sudden, unexpected, and to me mysterious._”

_Letter from Dr. Paterson to the Registrar in the case of Reg. v.

Pritchard_

“But if he thought the woman was being murdered—”

“My dear Charles,” said the young man with the monocle, “it doesn’t do

for people, especially doctors, to go about ‘thinking’ things. They may

get into frightful trouble. In Pritchard’s case, I consider Dr. Paterson

did all he reasonably could by refusing a certificate for Mrs. Taylor

and sending that uncommonly disquieting letter to the Registrar. He

couldn’t help the man’s being a fool. If there had only been an inquest

on Mrs. Taylor, Pritchard would probably have been frightened off and

left his wife alone. After all, Paterson hadn’t a spark of real

evidence. And suppose he’d been quite wrong—what a dust-up there’d have

been!”

“All the same,” urged the nondescript young man, dubiously extracting a

bubbling-hot Helix Pomatia from its shell, and eyeing it nervously

before putting it in his mouth, “surely it’s a clear case of public duty

to voice one’s suspicions.”

“Of _your_ duty—yes,” said the other. “By the way, it’s not a public

duty to eat snails if you don’t like ’em. No, I thought you didn’t. Why

wrestle with a harsh fate any longer? Waiter, take the gentleman’s

snails away and bring oysters instead. .. .. . No—as I was saying, it

may be part of _your_ duty to have suspicions and invite investigation

and generally raise hell for everybody, and if you’re mistaken nobody

says much, beyond that you’re a smart, painstaking officer though a

little over-zealous. But doctors, poor devils! are everlastingly walking

a kind of social tight-rope. People don’t fancy calling in a man who’s

liable to bring out accusations of murder on the smallest provocation.”

“Excuse me.”

The thin-faced young man sitting alone at the next table had turned

round eagerly.

“It’s frightfully rude of me to break in, but every word you say is

absolutely true, and mine is a case in point. A doctor—you can’t have

any idea how dependent he is on the fancies and prejudices of his

patients. They resent the most elementary precautions. If you dare to

suggest a post-mortem, they’re up in arms at the idea of ‘cutting poor

dear So-and-so up,’ and even if you only ask permission to investigate

an obscure disease in the interests of research, they imagine you’re

hinting at something unpleasant. Of course, if you let things go, and it

turns out afterwards there’s been any jiggery-pokery, the coroner jumps

down your throat and the newspapers make a butt of you, and, whichever

way it is, you wish you’d never been born.”

“You speak with personal feeling,” said the man with the monocle, with

an agreeable air of interest.

“I do,” said the thin-faced man, emphatically. “If I had behaved like a

man of the world instead of a zealous citizen, I shouldn’t be hunting

about for a new job today.”

The man with the monocle glanced round the little Soho restaurant with a

faint smile. The fat man on their right was unctuously entertaining two

ladies of the chorus; beyond him, two elderly habitués were showing

their acquaintance with the fare at the “Au Bon Bourgeois” by consuming

a Tripes à la Mode de Caen (which they do very excellently there) and a

bottle of Chablis Moutonne 1916; on the other side of the room a

provincial and his wife were stupidly clamouring for a cut off the joint

with lemonade for the lady and whisky and soda for the gentleman, while

at the adjoining table, the handsome silver-haired proprietor, absorbed

in fatiguing a salad for a family party, had for the moment no thoughts

beyond the nice adjustment of the chopped herbs and garlic. The head

waiter, presenting for inspection a plate of Blue River Trout, helped

the monocled man and his companion and retired, leaving them in the

privacy which unsophisticated people always seek in genteel tea-shops

and never, never find there.

“I feel,” said the monocled man, “exactly like Prince Florizel of

Bohemia. I am confident that you, sir, have an interesting story to

relate, and shall be greatly obliged if you will favour us with the

recital. I perceive that you have finished your dinner, and it will

therefore perhaps not be disagreeable to you to remove to this table and

entertain us with your story while we eat. Pardon my Stevensonian

manner—my sympathy is none the less sincere on that account.”

“Don’t be an ass, Peter,” said the nondescript man. “My friend is a much

more rational person than you might suppose to hear him talk,” he added,

turning to the stranger, “and if there’s anything you’d like to get off

your chest, you may be perfectly certain it won’t go any farther.”

The other smiled a little grimly.

“I’ll tell you about it with pleasure if it won’t bore you. It just

happens to be a case in point, that’s all.”

“On _my_ side of the argument,” said the man called Peter, with triumph.

“Do carry on. Have something to drink. It’s a poor heart that never

rejoices. And begin right at the beginning, if you will, please. I have

a very trivial mind. Detail delights me. Ramifications enchant me.

Distance no object. No reasonable offer refused. Charles here will say

the same.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “to begin from the very beginning, I am a

medical man, particularly interested in the subject of cancer. I had

hoped, as so many people do, to specialise on the subject, but there

wasn’t money enough, when I’d done my exams., to allow me to settle down

to research work. I had to take a country practice, but I kept in touch

with the important men up here, hoping to be able to come back to it

some day. I may say I have quite decent expectations from an uncle, and

in the meanwhile they agreed it would be quite good for me to get some

all-round experience as a GP. Keeps one from getting narrow and all

that.

“Consequently, when I bought a nice little practice at . . .—I’d better

not mention any names, let’s call it X, down Hampshire way, a little

country town of about 5,000 people—I was greatly pleased to find a

cancer case on my list of patients. The old lady—”

“How long ago was this?” interrupted Peter.

“Three years ago. There wasn’t much to be done with the case. The old

lady was seventy-two, and had already had one operation. She was a game

old girl, though, and was making a good fight of it, with a very tough

constitution to back her up. She was not, I should say, and had never

been, a woman of very powerful intellect or strong character as far as

her dealings with other people went, but she was extremely obstinate in

certain ways and was possessed by a positive determination not to die.

At this time she lived alone with her niece, a young woman of

twenty-five or so. Previously to that, she had been living with another

old lady, the girl’s aunt on the other side of the family, who had been

her devoted friend since their school days. When this other old aunt

died, the girl, who was their only living relative, threw up her job as

a nurse at the Royal Free Hospital to look after the survivor—my

patient—and they had come and settled down at X about a year before I

took over the practice. I hope I am making myself clear.”

“Perfectly. Was there another nurse?”

“Not at that time. The patient was able to get about, visit

acquaintances, do light work about the house, flowers and knitting and

reading and so on, and to drive about the place—in fact, most of the

things that old ladies do occupy their time with. Of course, she had her

bad days of pain from time to time, but the niece’s training was quite

sufficient to enable her to do all that was necessary.”

“What was the niece like?”

“Oh, a very nice, well-educated, capable girl, with a great deal more

brain than her aunt. Self-reliant, cool, all that sort of thing. Quite

the modern type. The sort of woman one can trust to keep her head and

not forget things. Of course, after a time, the wretched growth made its

appearance again, as it always does if it isn’t tackled at the very

beginning, and another operation became necessary. That was when I had

been in X about eight months. I took her up to London, to my own old

chief, Sir Warburton Giles, and it was performed very successfully as

far as the operation itself went, though it was then only too evident

that a vital organ was being encroached upon, and that the end could

only be a matter of time. I needn’t go into details. Everything was done

that could be done. I wanted the old lady to stay in town under Sir

Warburton’s eye, but she was vigorously opposed to this. She was

accustomed to a country life and could not be happy except in her own

home. So she went back to X, and I was able to keep her going with

visits for treatment at the nearest large town, where there is an

excellent hospital. She rallied amazingly after the operation and

eventually was able to dismiss her nurse and go on in the old way under

the care of the niece.”

“One moment, doctor,” put in the man called Charles, “you say you took

her to Sir Warburton Giles and so on. I gather she was pretty well off.”

“Oh, yes, she was quite a wealthy woman.”

“Do you happen to know whether she made a will?”

“No. I think I mentioned her extreme aversion to the idea of death. She

had always refused to make any kind of will because it upset her to

think about such things. I did once venture to speak of the subject in

the most casual way I could, shortly before she underwent her operation,

but the effect was to excite her very undesirably. Also she said, which

was quite true, that it was quite unnecessary. ‘You, my dear,’ she said

to the niece, ‘are the only kith and kin I’ve got in the world, and all

I’ve got will be yours some day, whatever happens. I know I can trust

you to remember my servants and my little charities.’ So, of course, I

didn’t insist.

“I remember, by the way—but that was a good deal later on and has

nothing to do with the story—”

“_Please_,” said Peter, “_all_ the details.”

“Well, I remember going there one day and finding my patient not so well

as I could have wished and very much agitated. The niece told me that

the trouble was caused by a visit from her solicitor—a family lawyer

from her home town, not our local man. He had insisted on a private

interview with the old lady, at the close of which she had appeared

terribly excited and angry, declaring that everyone was in a conspiracy

to kill her before her time. The solicitor, before leaving, had given no

explanation to the niece, but had impressed upon her that if at any time

her aunt expressed a wish to see him, she was to send for him at any

hour of the day or night and he would come at once.”

“And was he ever sent for?”

“No. The old lady was deeply offended with him, and almost the last bit

of business she did for herself was to take her affairs out of his hands

and transfer them to the local solicitor. Shortly afterwards, a third

operation became necessary, and after this she gradually became more and

more of an invalid. Her head began to get weak, too, and she grew

incapable of understanding anything complicated, and indeed she was in

too much pain to be bothered about business. The niece had a power of

attorney, and took over the management of her aunt’s money entirely.”

“When was this?”

“In April, 1925. Mind you, though she was getting a bit ‘gaga’—after

all, she was getting on in years—her bodily strength was quite

remarkable. I was investigating a new method of treatment and the

results were extraordinarily interesting. That made it all the more

annoying to me when the surprising thing happened.

“I should mention that by this time we were obliged to have an outside

nurse for her, as the niece could not do both the day and night duty.

The first nurse came in April. She was a most charming and capable young

woman—the ideal nurse. I placed absolute dependence on her. She had been

specially recommended to me by Sir Warburton Giles, and though she was

not then more than twenty-eight, she had the discretion and judgment of

a woman twice her age. I may as well tell you at once that I became

deeply attached to this lady and she to me. We are engaged, and had

hoped to be married this year—if it hadn’t been for my damned

conscientiousness and public spirit.”

The doctor grimaced wryly at Charles, who murmured rather lamely that it

was very bad luck.

“My fiancée, like myself, took a keen interest in the case—partly

because it was my case and partly because she was herself greatly

interested in the disease. She looks forward to being of great

assistance to me in my life work if I ever get the chance to do anything

at it. But that’s by the way.

“Things went on like this till September. Then, for some reason, the

patient began to take one of those unaccountable dislikes that

feeble-minded patients do take sometimes. She got it into her head that

the nurse wanted to kill her—the same idea she’d had about the lawyer,

you see—and earnestly assured her niece that she was being poisoned. No

doubt she attributed her attacks of pain to this cause. Reasoning was

useless—she cried out and refused to let the nurse come near her. When

that happens, naturally, there’s nothing for it but to get rid of the

nurse, as she can do the patient no possible good. I sent my fiancée

back to town and wired to Sir Warburton’s Clinic to send me down another

nurse.

“The new nurse arrived the next day. Naturally, after the other, she was

a second-best as far as I was concerned, but she seemed quite up to her

work and the patient made no objection. However, now I began to have

trouble with the niece. Poor girl, all this long-drawn-out business was

getting on her nerves, I suppose. She took it into her head that her

aunt was very much worse. I said that of course she must gradually get

worse, but that she was putting up a wonderful fight and there was no

cause for alarm. The girl wasn’t satisfied, however, and on one occasion

early in November sent for me hurriedly in the middle of the night

because her aunt was dying.

“When I arrived, I found the patient in great pain, certainly, but in no

immediate danger. I told the nurse to give her a morphia injection, and

administered a dose of bromide to the girl, telling her to go to bed and

not to do any nursing for the next few days. The following day I

overhauled the patient very carefully and found that she was doing even

better than I supposed. Her heart was exceptionally strong and steady,

she was taking nourishment remarkably well and the progress of the

disease was temporarily arrested.

“The niece apologised for her agitation, and said she really thought her

aunt was going. I said that, on the contrary, I could now affirm

positively that she would live for another five or six months. As you

know, in cases like hers, one can speak with very fair certainty.

“‘In any case,’ I said, ‘I shouldn’t distress yourself too much. Death,

when it does come, will be a release from suffering.’

“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘poor Auntie. I’m afraid I’m selfish, but she’s the

only relative I have left in the world.’

“Three days later, I was just sitting down to dinner when a telephone

message came. Would I go over at once? The patient was dead.”

“Good gracious!” cried Charles, “it’s perfectly obvious—”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” said his friend, “the doctor’s story is not going

to be obvious. Far from it, as the private said when he aimed at the

bull’s-eye and hit the gunnery instructor. But I observe the waiter

hovering uneasily about us while his colleagues pile up chairs and carry

away the cruets. Will you not come and finish the story in my flat? I

can give you a glass of very decent port. You will? Good. Waiter, call a

taxi . . . 110A Piccadilly.”

CHAPTER II

Miching Mallecho

“_By the pricking of my thumbs_

_Something evil this way comes._”

_Macbeth_

The April night was clear and chilly, and a brisk wood fire burned in a

welcoming manner on the hearth. The bookcases which lined the walls were

filled with rich old calf bindings, mellow and glowing in the

lamp-light. There was a grand piano, open, a huge chesterfield piled

deep with cushions and two arm-chairs of the build that invites one to

wallow. The port was brought in by an impressive man-servant and placed

on a very beautiful little Chippendale table. Some big bowls of scarlet

and yellow parrot tulips beckoned, banner-like, from dark corners.

The doctor had just written his new acquaintance down as an æsthete with

a literary turn, looking for the ingredients of a human drama, when the

man-servant re-entered.

“Inspector Sugg rang up, my lord, and left this message, and said would

you be good enough to give him a call as soon as you came in.”

“Oh, did he?—well, just get him for me, would you? This is the

Worplesham business, Charles. Sugg’s mucked it up as usual. The baker

has an alibi—naturally—he would have. Oh, thanks. . . . Hullo! that you,

Inspector? What did I tell you?—Oh, routine be hanged. Now, look here.

You get hold of that gamekeeper fellow, and find out from him what he

saw in the sand-pit. . . . No, I know, but I fancy if you ask him

impressively enough he will come across with it. No, of course not—if

you ask if he was there, he’ll say no. Say you know he was there and

what did he see—and, look here! if he hums and haws about it, say you’re

sending a gang down to have the stream diverted. . . . All right. Not at

all. Let me know if anything comes of it.”

He put the receiver down.

“Excuse me, doctor. A little matter of business. Now go on with your

story. The old lady was dead, eh? Died in her sleep, I suppose. Passed

away in the most innocent manner possible. Everything all ship-shape and

Bristol-fashion. No struggle, no wounds, hæmorrhages, or obvious

symptoms, naturally, what?”

“Exactly. She had taken some nourishment at 6 o’clock—a little broth and

some milk pudding. At eight, the nurse gave her a morphine injection and

then went straight out to put some bowls of flowers on the little table

on the landing for the night. The maid came to speak to her about some

arrangements for the next day, and while they were talking, Miss . . .

that is, the niece—came up and went into her aunt’s room. She had only

been there a moment or two when she cried out, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ The nurse

rushed in, and found the patient dead.

“Of course, my first idea was that by some accident a double dose of

morphine had been administered—”

“Surely that wouldn’t have acted so promptly.”

“No—but I thought that a deep coma might have been mistaken for death.

However, the nurse assured me that this was not the case, and, as a

matter of fact, the possibility was completely disproved, as we were

able to count the ampullæ of morphine and found them all satisfactorily

accounted for. There were no signs of the patient having tried to move

or strain herself, or of her having knocked against anything. The little

night-table was pushed aside, but that had been done by the niece when

she came in and was struck by her aunt’s alarmingly lifeless

appearance.”

“How about the broth and the milk pudding?”

“That occurred to me, also—not in any sinister way, but to wonder

whether she’d been having too much—distended stomach—pressure on the

heart, and that sort of thing. However, when I came to look into it, it

seemed very unlikely. The quantity was so small, and on the face of it,

two hours were sufficient for digestion—if it had been that, death would

have taken place earlier. I was completely puzzled, and so was the

nurse. Indeed, she was very much upset.”

“And the niece?”

“The niece could say nothing but ‘I told you so, I told you so—I knew

she was worse than you thought.’ Well, to cut a long story short, I was

so bothered with my pet patient going off like that, that next morning,

after I had thought the matter over, I asked for a post-mortem.”

“Any difficulty?”

“Not the slightest. A little natural distaste, of course, but no sort of

opposition. I explained that I felt sure there must be some obscure

morbid condition which I had failed to diagnose and that I should feel

more satisfied if I might make an investigation. The only thing which

seemed to trouble the niece was the thought of an inquest. I said—rather

unwisely, I suppose, according to general rules—that I didn’t think an

inquest would be necessary.”

“You mean you offered to perform the post-mortem yourself.”

“Yes—I made no doubt that I should find a sufficient cause of death to

enable me to give a certificate. I had one bit of luck, and that was

that the old lady had at some time or the other expressed in a general

way an opinion in favour of cremation, and the niece wished this to be

carried out. This meant getting a man with special qualifications to

sign the certificate with me, so I persuaded this other doctor to come

and help me to do the autopsy.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Not a thing. The other man, of course, said I was a fool to kick up a

fuss. He thought that as the old lady was certainly dying in any case,

it would be quite enough to put in, Cause of death, cancer; immediate

cause, heart failure, and leave it at that. But I was a damned

conscientious ass, and said I wasn’t satisfied. There was absolutely

nothing about the body to explain the death naturally, and I insisted on

an analysis.”

“Did you actually suspect—?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But—well, I wasn’t satisfied. By the way, it was

very clear at the autopsy that the morphine had nothing to do with it.

Death had occurred so soon after the injection that the drug had only

partially dispersed from the arm. Now I think it over, I suppose it must

have been shock, somehow.”

“Was the analysis privately made?”

“Yes; but of course the funeral was held up and things got round. The

coroner heard about it and started to make inquiries, and the nurse, who

got it into her head that I was accusing her of neglect or something,

behaved in a very unprofessional way and created a lot of talk and

trouble.”

“And nothing came of it?”

“Nothing. There was no trace of poison or anything of that sort, and the

analysis left us exactly where we were. Naturally, I began to think I

had made a ghastly exhibition of myself. Rather against my own

professional judgment, I signed the certificate—heart failure following

on shock, and my patient was finally got into her grave after a week of

worry, without an inquest.”

“Grave?”

“Oh, yes. That was another scandal. The crematorium authorities, who are

pretty particular, heard about the fuss and refused to act in the

matter, so the body is filed in the church-yard for reference if

necessary. There was a huge attendance at the funeral and a great deal

of sympathy for the niece. The next day I got a note from one of my most

influential patients, saying that my professional services would no

longer be required. The day after that, I was avoided in the street by

the Mayor’s wife. Presently I found my practice dropping away from me,

and discovered I was getting known as ‘the man who practically accused

that charming Miss So-and-so of murder.’ Sometimes it was the niece I

was supposed to be accusing. Sometimes it was ‘that nice Nurse—not the

flighty one who was dismissed, the other one, you know.’ Another version

was, that I had tried to get the nurse into trouble because I resented

the dismissal of my fiancée. Finally, I heard a rumour that the patient

had discovered me ‘canoodling’—that was the beastly word—with my

fiancée, instead of doing my job, and had done away with the old lady

myself out of revenge—though why, in that case, I should have refused a

certificate, my scandal-mongers didn’t trouble to explain.

“I stuck it out for a year, but my position became intolerable. The

practice dwindled to practically nothing, so I sold it, took a holiday

to get the taste out of my mouth—and here I am, looking for another

opening. So that’s that—and the moral is, Don’t be officious about

public duties.”

The doctor gave an irritated laugh, and flung himself back in his chair.

“I don’t care,” he added, combatantly, “the cats! Confusion to ’em!” and

he drained his glass.

“Hear, hear!” agreed his host. He sat for a few moments looking

thoughtfully into the fire.

“Do you know,” he said, suddenly, “I’m feeling rather interested by this

case. I have a sensation of internal gloating which assures me that

there is something to be investigated. That feeling has never failed me

yet—I trust it never will. It warned me the other day to look into my

income-tax assessment, and I discovered that I had been paying about

£900 too much for the last three years. It urged me only last week to

ask a bloke who was preparing to drive me over the Horseshoe Pass

whether he had any petrol in the tank, and he discovered he had just

about a pint—enough to get us nicely half-way round. It’s a very lonely

spot. Of course, I knew the man, so it wasn’t _all_ intuition. Still, I

always make it a rule to investigate anything I feel like investigating.

I believe,” he added, in a reminiscent tone, “I was a terror in my

nursery days. Anyhow, curious cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact,

I’m not just being the perfect listener. I have deceived you. I have an

ulterior motive, said he, throwing off his side-whiskers and disclosing

the well-known hollow jaws of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I was beginning to have my suspicions,” said the doctor, after a short

pause. “I think you must be Lord Peter Wimsey. I wondered why your face

was so familiar, but of course it was in all the papers a few years ago

when you disentangled the Riddlesdale Mystery.”

“Quite right. It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather

disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I

do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like

expression, or anything unpleasant. This is the real sleuth—my friend

Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. He’s the one who really

does the work. I make imbecile suggestions and he does the work of

elaborately disproving them. Then, by a process of elimination, we find

the right explanation, and the world says, ‘My god, what intuition that

young man has!’ Well, look here—if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a go

at this. If you’ll entrust me with your name and address and the names

of the parties concerned, I’d like very much to have a shot at looking

into it.”

The doctor considered a moment, then shook his head.

“It’s very good of you, but I think I’d rather not. I’ve got into enough

bothers already. Anyway, it isn’t professional to talk, and if I stirred

up any more fuss, I should probably have to chuck this country

altogether and end up as one of those drunken ship’s doctors in the

South Seas or somewhere, who are always telling their life-history to

people and delivering awful warnings. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

Thanks very much, all the same.”

“As you like,” said Wimsey. “But I’ll think it over, and if any useful

suggestion occurs to me, I’ll let you know.”

“It’s very good of you,” replied the visitor, absently, taking his hat

and stick from the man-servant, who had answered Wimsey’s ring. “Well,

good night, and many thanks for hearing me so patiently. By the way,

though,” he added, turning suddenly at the door, “how do you propose to

let me know when you haven’t got my name and address?”

Lord Peter laughed.

“I’m Hawkshaw, the detective,” he answered, “and you shall hear from me

anyhow before the end of the week.”

CHAPTER III

A Use for Spinsters

“_There are two million more females than males in England and Wales!

And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance._”

Gilbert Frankau

“What do you really think of that story?” inquired Parker. He had

dropped in to breakfast with Wimsey the next morning, before departing

in the Notting Dale direction, in quest of an elusive anonymous

letter-writer. “I thought it sounded rather as though our friend had

been a bit too cocksure about his grand medical specialising. After all,

the old girl might so easily have had some sort of heart attack. She was

very old and ill.”

“So she might, though I believe as a matter of fact cancer patients very

seldom pop off in that unexpected way. As a rule, they surprise

everybody by the way they cling to life. Still, I wouldn’t think much of

that if it wasn’t for the niece. She prepared the way for the death, you

see, by describing her aunt as so much worse than she was.”

“I thought the same when the doctor was telling his tale. But what did

the niece do? She can’t have poisoned her aunt or even smothered her, I

suppose, or they’d have found signs of it on the body. And the aunt

_did_ die—so perhaps the niece was right and the opinionated young

medico wrong.”

“Just so. And of course, we’ve only got his version of the niece and the

nurse—and he obviously had what the Scotch call ta’en a scunner at the

nurse. We mustn’t lose sight of her, by the way. She was the last person

to be with the old lady before her death, and it was she who

administered that injection.”

“Yes, yes—but the injection had nothing to do with it. If anything’s

clear, that is. I say, do you think the nurse can have said anything

that agitated the old lady and gave her a shock that way. The patient

was a bit gaga, but she may have had sense enough to understand

something really startling. Possibly the nurse just said something

stupid about dying—the old lady appears to have been very sensitive on

the point.”

“Ah!” said Lord Peter, “I was waiting for you to get on to that. Have

you realised that there really is one rather sinister figure in the

story, and that’s the family lawyer.”

“The one who came down to say something about the will, you mean, and

was so abruptly sent packing.”

“Yes. Suppose he’d wanted the patient to make a will in favour of

somebody quite different—somebody outside the story as we know it. And

when he found he couldn’t get any attention paid to him, he sent the new

nurse down as a sort of substitute.”

“It would be rather an elaborate plot,” said Parker, dubiously. “He

couldn’t know that the doctor’s fiancée was going to be sent away.

Unless he was in league with the niece, of course, and induced her to

engineer the change of nurses.”

“That cock won’t fight, Charles. The niece wouldn’t be in league with

the lawyer to get herself disinherited.”

“No, I suppose not. Still, I think there’s something in the idea that

the old girl was either accidentally or deliberately startled to death.”

“Yes—and whichever way it was, it probably wasn’t legal murder in that

case. However, I think it’s worth looking into. That reminds me.” He

rang the bell. “Bunter, just take a note to the post for me, would you?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Lord Peter drew a writing pad towards him.

“What are you going to write?” asked Parker, looking over his shoulder

with some amusement.

Lord Peter wrote:

“Isn’t civilisation wonderful?”

He signed this simple message and slipped it into an envelope.

“If you want to be immune from silly letters, Charles,” he said, “don’t

carry your monomark in your hat.”

“And what do you propose to do next?” asked Parker. “Not, I hope, to

send me round to Monomark House to get the name of a client. I couldn’t

do that without official authority, and they would probably kick up an

awful shindy.”

“No,” replied his friend, “I don’t propose violating the secrets of the

confessional. Not in that quarter at any rate. I think, if you can spare

a moment from your mysterious correspondent, who probably does not

intend to be found, I will ask you to come and pay a visit to a friend

of mine. It won’t take long. I think you’ll be interested. I—in fact,

you’ll be the first person I’ve ever taken to see her. She will be very

much touched and pleased.”

He laughed a little self-consciously.

“Oh,” said Parker, embarrassed. Although the men were great friends,

Wimsey had always preserved a reticence about his personal affairs—not

so much by concealing as by ignoring them. This revelation seemed to

mark a new stage of intimacy, and Parker was not sure that he liked it.

He conducted his own life with an earnest middle-class morality which he

owed to his birth and up-bringing, and, while theoretically recognising

that Lord Peter’s world acknowledged different standards, he had never

contemplated being personally faced with any result of their application

in practice.

“—rather an experiment,” Wimsey was saying a trifle shyly; “anyway,

she’s quite comfortably fixed in a little flat in Pimlico. You can come,

can’t you, Charles? I really should like you two to meet.”

“Oh, yes, rather,” said Parker, hastily, “I should like to very much.

Er—how long—I mean—”

“Oh, the arrangement’s only been going a few months,” said Wimsey,

leading the way to the lift, “but it really seems to be working out

quite satisfactorily. Of course, it makes things much easier for me.”

“Just so,” said Parker.

“Of course, as you’ll understand—I won’t go into it all till we get

there, and then you’ll see for yourself,” Wimsey chattered on, slamming

the gates of the lift with unnecessary violence—“but, as I was saying,

you’ll observe it’s quite a new departure. I don’t suppose there’s ever

been anything exactly like it before. Of course, there’s nothing new

under the sun, as Solomon said, but after all, I daresay all those wives

and porcupines, as the child said, must have soured his disposition a

little, don’t you know.”

“Quite,” said Parker. “Poor fish,” he added to himself, “they _always_

seem to think it’s different.”

“Outlet,” said Wimsey, energetically, “hi! taxi! . . . outlet—everybody

needs an outlet—97A, St. George’s Square—and after all, one can’t really

blame people if it’s just that they need an outlet. I mean, why be

bitter? They can’t help it. I think it’s much kinder to give them an

outlet than to make fun of them in books—and, after all, it isn’t really

difficult to write books. Especially if you either write a rotten story

in good English or a good story in rotten English, which is as far as

most people seem to get nowadays. Don’t you agree?”

Mr. Parker agreed, and Lord Peter wandered away along the paths of

literature, till the cab stopped before one of those tall, awkward

mansions which, originally designed for a Victorian family with

fatigue-proof servants, have lately been dissected each into half a

dozen inconvenient band-boxes and let off in flats.

Lord Peter rang the top bell, which was marked CLIMPSON, and relaxed

negligently against the porch.

“Six flights of stairs,” he explained; “it takes her some time to answer

the bell, because there’s no lift, you see. She wouldn’t have a more

expensive flat, though. She thought it wouldn’t be suitable.”

Mr. Parker was greatly relieved, if somewhat surprised, by the modesty

of the lady’s demands, and, placing his foot on the door-scraper in an

easy attitude, prepared to wait with patience. Before many minutes,

however, the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman, with a sharp,

sallow face and very vivacious manner. She wore a neat, dark coat and

skirt, a high-necked blouse and a long gold neck-chain with a variety of

small ornaments dangling from it at intervals, and her iron-grey hair

was dressed under a net, in the style fashionable in the reign of the

late King Edward.

“Oh, Lord Peter! How very nice to see you. Rather an _early_ visit, but

I’m sure you will excuse the sitting-room being a trifle in disorder.

_Do_ come in. The lists are _quite_ ready for you. I finished them last

night. In fact, I was just about to put on my hat and bring them round

to you. I do _hope_ you don’t think I have taken an _unconscionable_

time, but there was a quite _surprising_ number of entries. It is _too_

good of you to trouble to call.”

“Not at all, Miss Climpson. This is my friend, Detective-Inspector

Parker, whom I have mentioned to you.”

“How do you do, Mr. Parker—or ought I to say Inspector? Excuse me if I

make mistakes—this is really the first time I have been in the hands of

the police. I hope it’s not rude of me to say that. Please come up. A

great many stairs, I am afraid, but I hope you do not mind. I do so like

to be _high up_. The air is so much better, and you know, Mr. Parker,

thanks to Lord Peter’s great kindness, I have such a _beautiful, airy_

view, right over the houses. I think one can work so much _better_ when

one doesn’t feel cribbed, cabined and confined, as Hamlet says. Dear me!

Mrs. Winbottle _will_ leave the pail on the stairs, and always in that

very dark corner. I am _continually_ telling her about it. If you keep

close to the banisters you will avoid it nicely. Only one more flight.

Here we are. Please overlook the untidiness. I always think breakfast

things look so _ugly_ when one has finished with them—almost sordid, to

use a nasty word for a nasty subject. What a pity that some of these

clever people can’t invent _self-cleaning_ and _self-clearing_ plates,

is it not? But please _do_ sit down; I won’t keep you a moment. And I

know, Lord Peter, that you will not hesitate to smoke. I do so enjoy the

smell of your cigarettes—quite delicious—and you are so _very_ good

about extinguishing the ends.”

The little room was, as a matter of fact, most exquisitely neat, in

spite of the crowded array of knick-knacks and photographs that adorned

every available inch of space. The sole evidences of dissipation were an

empty eggshell, a used cup and a crumby plate on a breakfast tray. Miss

Climpson promptly subdued this riot by carrying the tray bodily on to

the landing.

Mr. Parker, a little bewildered, lowered himself cautiously into a small

arm-chair, embellished with a hard, fat little cushion which made it

impossible to lean back. Lord Peter wriggled into the window-seat, lit a

Sobranie and clasped his hands above his knees. Miss Climpson, seated

upright at the table, gazed at him with a gratified air which was

positively touching.

“I have gone _very_ carefully into all these cases,” she began, taking

up a thick wad of type-script. “I’m afraid, indeed, my notes are rather

_copious_, but I trust the typist’s bill will not be considered too

heavy. My handwriting is very clear, so I don’t think there can be any

errors. Dear me! such _sad_ stories some of these poor women had to tell

me! But I have investigated most fully, with the kind assistance of the

clergyman—a very nice man and so helpful—and I feel sure that in the

majority of the cases your assistance will be _well bestowed_. If you

would like to go through—”

“Not at the moment, Miss Climpson,” interrupted Lord Peter, hurriedly.

“It’s all right, Charles—nothing whatever to do with Our Dumb Friends or

supplying Flannel to Unmarried Mothers. I’ll tell you about it later.

Just now, Miss Climpson, we want your help on something quite

different.”

Miss Climpson produced a business-like notebook and sat at attention.

“The inquiry divides itself into two parts,” said Lord Peter. “The first

part, I’m afraid, is rather dull. I want you (if you will be so good) to

go down to Somerset House and search, or get them to search, through all

the death-certificates for Hampshire in the month of November, 1925. I

don’t know the town and I don’t know the name of the deceased. What you

are looking for is the death-certificate of an old lady of 73; cause of

death, cancer; immediate cause, heart failure; and the certificate will

have been signed by two doctors, one of whom will be either a Medical

Officer of Health, Police Surgeon, Certifying Surgeon under the Factory

and Workshops Act, Medical Referee under the Workmen’s Compensation Act,

Physician or Surgeon in a big General Hospital, or a man specially

appointed by the Cremation authorities. If you want to give any excuse

for the search, you can say that you are compiling statistics about

cancer; but what you really want is the names of the people concerned

and the name of the town.”

“Suppose there are more than one answering to the requirements?”

“Ah! that’s where the second part comes in, and where your remarkable

tact and shrewdness are going to be so helpful to us. When you have

collected all the ‘possibles,’ I shall ask you to go down to each of the

towns concerned and make very, very skilful inquiries, to find out which

is the case we want to get on to. Of course, you mustn’t appear to be

inquiring. You must find some good gossipy lady living in the

neighbourhood and just get her to talk in a natural way. You must

pretend to be gossipy yourself—it’s not in your nature, I know, but I’m

sure you can make a little pretense about it—and find out all you can. I

fancy you’ll find it pretty easy if you once strike the right town,

because I know for a certainty that there was a terrible lot of

ill-natured talk about this particular death, and it won’t have been

forgotten yet by a long chalk.”

“How shall I know when it’s the right one?”

“Well, if you can spare the time, I want you to listen to a little

story. Mind you, Miss Climpson, when you get to wherever it is, you are

not supposed ever to have heard a word of this tale before. But I

needn’t tell you that. Now, Charles, you’ve got an official kind of way

of puttin’ these things clearly. Will you just weigh in and give Miss

Climpson the gist of that rigmarole our friend served out to us last

night?”

Pulling his wits into order, Mr. Parker accordingly obliged with a

digest of the doctor’s story. Miss Climpson listened with great

attention, making notes of the dates and details. Parker observed that

she showed great acumen in seizing on the salient points; she asked a

number of very shrewd questions, and her grey eyes were intelligent.

When he had finished, she repeated the story, and he was able to

congratulate her on a clear head and retentive memory.

“A dear old friend of mine used to say that I should have made a very

good lawyer,” said Miss Climpson, complacently, “but of course, when I

was young, girls didn’t have the education or the _opportunities_ they

get nowadays, Mr. Parker. I should have liked a good education, but my

dear father didn’t believe in it for women. Very old-fashioned, you

young people would think him.”

“Never mind, Miss Climpson,” said Wimsey, “you’ve got just exactly the

qualifications we want, and they’re rather rare, so we’re in luck. Now

we want this matter pushed forward as fast as possible.”

“I’ll go down to Somerset House at once,” replied the lady, with great

energy, “and let you know the minute I’m ready to start for Hampshire.”

“That’s right,” said his lordship, rising. “And now we’ll just make a

noise like a hoop and roll away. Oh! and while I think of it, I’d better

give you something in hand for traveling expenses and so on. I think you

had better be just a retired lady in easy circumstances looking for a

nice little place to settle down in. I don’t think you’d better be

wealthy—wealthy people don’t inspire confidence. Perhaps you would

oblige me by living at the rate of about £800 a year—your own excellent

taste and experience will suggest the correct accessories and so on for

creating that impression. If you will allow me, I will give you a cheque

for £50 now, and when you start on your wanderings you will let me know

what you require.”

“Dear me,” said Miss Climpson, “I don’t—”

“This is a pure matter of business, of course,” said Wimsey, rather

rapidly, “and you will let me have a note of the expenses in your usual

business-like way.”

“Of course.” Miss Climpson was dignified. “And I will give you a proper

receipt immediately.

“Dear, dear,” she added, hunting through her purse, “I do not appear to

have any penny stamps. How extremely remiss of me. It is most _unusual_

for me not to have my little book of stamps—so handy I always think they

are—but only last night Mrs. Williams borrowed my last stamps to send a

very urgent letter to her son in Japan. If you will excuse me a moment—”

“I think I have some,” interposed Parker.

“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Here is the twopence. I _never_

allow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser,

you know. Such a very _sensible_ invention, most _convenient_, and

prevents _all_ dispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so

much. And now I sign my name _across_ the stamps. That’s right, isn’t

it? My dear father would be surprised to find his daughter so

business-like. He always said a woman should never _need_ to know

anything about money matters, but times have changed so greatly, have

they not?”

Miss Climpson ushered them down all six flights of stairs, volubly

protesting at their protests, and the door closed behind them.

“May I ask—?” began Parker.

“It is not what you think,” said his lordship, earnestly.

“Of course not,” agreed Parker.

“There, I knew you had a nasty mind. Even the closest of one’s friends

turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which

they publicly repudiate.”

“Don’t be a fool. Who _is_ Miss Climpson?”

“Miss Climpson,” said Lord Peter, “is a manifestation of the wasteful

way in which this country is run. Look at electricity. Look at

water-power. Look at the tides. Look at the sun. Millions of power units

being given off into space every minute. Thousands of old maids, simply

bursting with useful energy, forced by our stupid social system into

hydros and hotels and communities and hostels and posts as companions,

where their magnificent gossip-powers and units of inquisitiveness are

allowed to dissipate themselves or even become harmful to the community,

while the ratepayers’ money is spent on getting work for which these

women are providentially fitted, inefficiently carried out by

ill-equipped policemen like you. My god! it’s enough to make a man write

to _John Bull_. And then bright young men write nasty little patronising

books called ‘Elderly Women,’ and ‘On the Edge of the Explosion’—and the

drunkards make songs upon ’em, poor things.”

“Quite, quite,” said Parker. “You mean that Miss Climpson is a kind of

inquiry agent for you.”

“She is my ears and tongue,” said Lord Peter, dramatically, “and

especially my nose. She asks questions which a young man could not put

without a blush. She is the angel that rushes in where fools get a clump

on the head. She can smell a rat in the dark. In fact, she is the cat’s

whiskers.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Parker.

“Naturally—it is mine, therefore brilliant. Just think. People want

questions asked. Whom do they send? A man with large flat feet and a

notebook—the sort of man whose private life is conducted in a series of

inarticulate grunts. I send a lady with a long, woolly jumper on

knitting-needles and jingly things round her neck. Of course she asks

questions—everyone expects it. Nobody is surprised. Nobody is alarmed.

And so-called superfluity is agreeably and usefully disposed of. One of

these days you will put up a statue to me, with an inscription:

“‘To the Man who Made

Thousands of Superfluous Women

Happy

without Injury to their Modesty

or Exertion to Himself.’”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much,” complained his friend. “And how

about all those type-written reports? Are you turning philanthropist in

your old age?”

“No—no,” said Wimsey, rather hurriedly hailing a taxi. “Tell you about

that later. Little private pogrom of my own—Insurance against the

Socialist Revolution—when it comes. ‘What did you do with your great

wealth, comrade?’ ‘I bought First Editions.’ ‘Aristocrat! à la

lanterne!’ ‘Stay, spare me! I took proceedings against 500 money-lenders

who oppressed the workers.’ ‘Citizen, you have done well. We will spare

your life. You shall be promoted to cleaning out the sewers.’ Voilà! We

must move with the times. Citizen taxi-driver, take me to the British

Museum. Can I drop you anywhere? No? So long. I am going to collate a

12th century manuscript of Tristan, while the old order lasts.”

Mr. Parker thoughtfully boarded a westward-bound ’bus and was rolled

away to do some routine questioning, on his own account, among the

female population of Notting Dale. It did not appear to him to be a

milieu in which the talents of Miss Climpson could be usefully employed.

CHAPTER IV

A Bit Mental

“_A babbled of green fields._”

_King Henry V_

_Letter from Miss Alexandra Katherine Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey._

C/o Mrs. Hamilton Budge,

Fairview, Nelson Avenue,

Leahampton, Hants.

April 29th, 1927.

My dear Lord Peter,

You will be happy to hear, after my _two previous_ bad shots (!), that

I have found the _right_ place at last. The Agatha Dawson certificate

is the _correct_ one, and the dreadful _scandal_ about Dr. Carr is

still very much alive, I am sorry to say for the sake of _human

nature_. I have been fortunate enough to secure rooms in the _very

next street_ to Wellington Avenue, where Miss Dawson used to live. My

landlady seems a very nice woman, though a _terrible gossip_!—which is

_all to the good_!! Her charge for a very pleasant bedroom and

sitting-room with _full board_ is 3½ guineas weekly. I trust you will

not think this _too extravagant_, as the situation is _just_ what you

wished me to look for. I enclose a careful statement of my expenses

up-to-date. You will _excuse_ the mention of _underwear_, which is, I

fear, a somewhat large item! but wool is so expensive nowadays, and it

is necessary that every detail of my equipment should be suitable to

my (supposed!) position in life. I have been careful to _wash_ the

garments through, so that they do not look _too new_, as this might

have a _suspicious_ appearance!!

But you will be anxious for me to (if I may use a vulgar expression)

‘cut the cackle, and come to the horses’ (!!). On the day after my

arrival, I informed Mrs. Budge that I was a great sufferer from

_rheumatism_ (which is quite true, as I have a sad legacy of that kind

left me by, alas! my _port-drinking_ ancestors!)—and inquired what

_doctors_ there were in the neighbourhood. This at once brought forth

a _long catalogue_, together with a _grand panegyric_ of the sandy

soil and healthy situation of the town. I said I should prefer an

_elderly_ doctor, as the _young men_, in my opinion, were _not to be

depended on_. Mrs. Budge heartily agreed with me, and a little

discreet questioning brought out the _whole story_ of Miss Dawson’s

illness and the ‘carryings-on’ (as she termed them) of Dr. Carr and

_the nurse_! “I never did trust that first nurse,” said Mrs. Budge,

“for all she had her training at Guy’s and ought to have been

trustworthy. A sly, red-headed, _baggage_, and it’s my belief that all

Dr. Carr’s fussing over Miss Dawson and his visits all day and every

day were just to get love-making with Nurse Philliter. No wonder poor

Miss Whittaker couldn’t stand it any longer and gave the girl the

sack—none too soon, in my opinion. Not quite so attentive after that,

Dr. Carr wasn’t—why, up to the last minute, he was pretending the old

lady was quite all right, when Miss Whittaker had only said the day

before that she felt sure she was going to be taken from us.”

I asked if Mrs. Budge knew Miss Whittaker personally. Miss Whittaker

is _the niece_, you know.

Not personally, she said, though she had met her in a social way at

the Vicarage working-parties. But she knew all about it, because her

maid was own sister to the maid at Miss Dawson’s. Now is not that a

_fortunate_ coincidence, for you know how these girls _talk_!

I also made careful inquiries about the _Vicar_, Mr. Tredgold, and was

much gratified to find that he teaches _sound Catholic_ doctrine, so

that I shall be able to attend the Church (S. Onesimus) without doing

_violence_ to my religious beliefs—a thing I could _not_ undertake to

do, _even in your interests_. I am sure you will _understand_ this. As

it happens, _all is well_, and I have written to my _very good

friend_, the Vicar of S. Edfrith’s, Holborn, to ask for an

introduction to Mr. Tredgold. By this means, I feel sure of meeting

_Miss Whittaker_ before long, as I hear she is quite a “pillar of the

Church”! I do hope it is not wrong to make use of the Church of God to

a _worldly_ end; but after all, you are only seeking to establish

_Truth_ and _Justice_!—and in so good a cause, we may _perhaps_ permit

ourselves to be a little bit _JESUITICAL_!!!

This is all I have been able to do as yet, but I shall not be _idle_,

and will write to you again as soon as I have _anything to report_. By

the way, the _pillar-box_ is most _conveniently_ placed just at the

corner of Wellington Avenue, so that I can easily _run out_ and post

my letters to you _myself_ (away from _prying_ eyes!!)—and just take a

little peep at Miss _Dawson’s_—now Miss _Whittaker’s_—house, “The

Grove,” at the same time.

Believe me,

Sincerely yours,

Alexandra Katherine Climpson.

The little red-headed nurse gave her visitor a quick, slightly hostile

look-over.

“It’s quite all right,” he said apologetically, “I haven’t come to sell

you soap or gramophones, or to borrow money or enroll you in the Ancient

Froth-blowers or anything charitable. I really am Lord Peter Wimsey—I

mean, that really is my title, don’t you know, not a Christian name like

Sanger’s Circus or Earl Derr Biggers. I’ve come to ask you some

questions, and I’ve no real excuse, I’m afraid, for butting in on you—do

you ever read the _News of the World_?”

Nurse Philliter decided that she was to be asked to go to a mental case,

and that the patient had come to fetch her in person.

“Sometimes,” she said, guardedly.

“Oh—well, you may have noticed my name croppin’ up in a few murders and

things lately. I sleuth, you know. For a hobby. Harmless outlet for

natural inquisitiveness, don’t you see, which might otherwise strike

inward and produce introspection an’ suicide. Very natural, healthy

pursuit—not too strenuous, not too sedentary; trains and invigorates the

mind.”

“I know who you are now,” said Nurse Philliter, slowly. “You—you gave

evidence against Sir Julian Freke. In fact, you traced the murder to

him, didn’t you?”

“I did—it was rather unpleasant,” said Lord Peter, simply, “and I’ve got

another little job of the same kind in hand now, and I want your help.”

“Won’t you sit down?” said Nurse Philliter, setting the example. “How am

I concerned in the matter?”

“You know Dr. Edward Carr, I think—late of Leahampton—conscientious but

a little lackin’ in worldly wisdom—not serpentine at all, as the Bible

advises, but far otherwise.”

“What!” she cried, “do _you_ believe it was murder, then?”

Lord Peter looked at her for a few seconds. Her face was eager, her eyes

gleaming curiously under her thick, level brows. She had expressive

hands, rather large and with strong, flat joints. He noticed how they

gripped the arms of her chair.

“Haven’t the faintest,” he replied, nonchalantly, “but I wanted your

opinion.”

“Mine?”—she checked herself. “You know, I am not supposed to give

opinions about my cases.”

“You have given it to me already,” said his lordship, grinning. “Though

possibly I ought to allow for a little prejudice in favour of Dr. Carr’s

diagnosis.”

“Well, yes—but it’s not merely personal. I mean, my being engaged to Dr.

Carr wouldn’t affect my judgment of a cancer case. I have worked with

him on a great many of them, and I know that his opinion is really

trustworthy—just as I know that, as a motorist, he’s exactly the

opposite.”

“Right. I take it that if he says the death was inexplicable, it really

was so. That’s one point gained. Now about the old lady herself. I

gather she was a little queer towards the end—a bit mental, I think you

people call it?”

“I don’t know that I’d say that either. Of course, when she was under

morphia, she would be unconscious, or only semi-conscious, for hours

together. But up to the time when I left, I should say she was

quite—well, quite all there. She was obstinate, you know, and what they

call a character, at the best of times.”

“But Dr. Carr told me she got odd fancies—about people poisoning her?”

The red-haired nurse rubbed her fingers slowly along the arm of the

chair, and hesitated.

“If it will make you feel any less unprofessional,” said Lord Peter,

guessing what was in her mind, “I may say that my friend

Detective-Inspector Parker is looking into this matter with me, which

gives me a sort of right to ask questions.”

“In that case—yes—in that case I think I can speak freely. I never

understood about that poisoning idea. I never saw anything of it—no

aversion, I mean, or fear of me. As a rule, a patient will show it, if

she’s got any queer ideas about the nurse. Poor Miss Dawson was always

most kind and affectionate. She kissed me when I went away and gave me a

little present, and said she was sorry to lose me.”

“She didn’t show any sort of nervousness about taking food from you?”

“Well, I wasn’t allowed to give her any food that last week. Miss

Whittaker said her aunt had taken this funny notion, and gave her all

her meals herself.”

“Oh! that’s very interestin’. Was it Miss Whittaker, then, who first

mentioned this little eccentricity to you?”

“Yes. And she begged me not to say anything about it to Miss Dawson, for

fear of agitating her.”

“And did you?”

“I did not. I wouldn’t mention it in any case to a patient. It does no

good.”

“Did Miss Dawson ever speak about it to anyone else? Dr. Carr, for

instance?”

“No. According to Miss Whittaker, her aunt was frightened of the doctor

too, because she imagined he was in league with me. Of course, that

story rather lent colour to the unkind things that were said afterwards.

I suppose it’s just possible that she saw us glancing at one another or

speaking aside, and got the idea that we were plotting something.”

“How about the maids?”

“There were new maids about that time. She probably wouldn’t talk about

it to them, and anyhow, I wouldn’t be discussing my patient with her

servants.”

“Of course not. Why did the other maids leave? How many were there? Did

they all go at once?”

“Two of them went. They were sisters. One was a terrible

crockery-smasher, and Miss Whittaker gave her notice, so the other left

with her.”

“Ah, well! one can have too much of seeing the Crown Derby rollin’ round

the floor. Quite. Then it had nothing to do with—it wasn’t on account of

any little—”

“It wasn’t because they couldn’t get along with the nurse, if you mean

that,” said Nurse Philliter, with a smile. “They were very obliging

girls, but not very bright.”

“Quite. Well, now, is there any little odd, out-of-the-way incident you

can think of that might throw light on the thing. There was a visit from

a lawyer, I believe, that agitated your patient quite a lot. Was that in

your time?”

“No. I only heard about it from Dr. Carr. And he never heard the name of

the lawyer, what he came about, or anything.”

“A pity,” said his lordship. “I have been hoping great things of the

lawyer. There’s such a sinister charm, don’t you think, about lawyers

who appear unexpectedly with little bags, and alarm people with

mysterious conferences, and then go away leaving urgent messages that if

anything happens they are to be sent for. If it hadn’t been for the

lawyer, I probably shouldn’t have treated Dr. Carr’s medical problem

with the respect it deserves. He never came again, or wrote, I suppose?”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute. I do remember one thing. I remember Miss

Dawson having another hysterical attack of the same sort, and saying

just what she said then—‘that they were trying to kill her before her

time.’”

“When was that?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks before I left. Miss Whittaker had been up to her

with the post, I think, and there were some papers of some kind to sign,

and it seems to have upset her. I came in from my walk and found her in

a dreadful state. The maids could have told you more about it than I

could, really, for they were doing some dusting on the landing at the

time and heard her going on, and they ran down and fetched me up to her.

I didn’t ask them about what happened myself, naturally—it doesn’t do

for nurses to gossip with the maids behind their employers’ backs. Miss

Whittaker said that her aunt had had an annoying communication from a

solicitor.”

“Yes, it sounds as though there might be something there. Do you

remember what the maids were called?”

“What was the name now? A funny one, or I shouldn’t remember it—Gotobed,

that was it—Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed. I don’t know where they went, but

I daresay you could find out.”

“Now one last question, and I want you to forget all about Christian

kindliness and the law of slander when you answer it. What is Miss

Whittaker like?”

An indefinable expression crossed the nurse’s face.

“Tall, handsome, very decided in manner,” she said, with an air of doing

strict justice against her will, “an extremely competent nurse—she was

at the Royal Free, you know, till she went to live with her aunt. I

think she would have made a perfectly wonderful theatre nurse. She did

not like me, nor I her, you know, Lord Peter—and it’s better I should be

telling you so at once, that way you can take everything I say about her

with a grain of charity added—but we both knew good hospital work when

we saw it, and respected one another.”

“Why in the world didn’t she like you, Miss Philliter? I really don’t

know when I’ve seen a more likeable kind of person, if you’ll ’scuse my

mentionin’ it.”

“I don’t know.” The nurse seemed a little embarrassed. “The dislike

seemed to grow on her. You—perhaps you heard the kind of things people

said in the town? when I left?—that Dr. Carr and I—Oh! it really was

damnable, and I had the most dreadful interview with Matron when I got

back here. She _must_ have spread those stories. Who else could have

done it?”

“Well—you _did_ become engaged to Dr. Carr, didn’t you?” said his

lordship, gently. “Mind you, I’m not sayin’ it wasn’t a very agreeable

occurrence and all that, but—”

“But she said I neglected the patient. I _never_ did. I wouldn’t think

of such a thing.”

“Of course not. No. But, do you suppose that possibly getting engaged

was an offence in itself? Is Miss Whittaker engaged to anyone, by the

way?”

“No. You mean, was she jealous? I’m sure Dr. Carr never gave the

slightest, not the _slightest_—”

“Oh, _please_,” cried Lord Peter, “please don’t be ruffled. Such a nice

word, ruffled—like a kitten, I always think—so furry and nice. But even

without the least what-d’ye-call-it on Dr. Carr’s side, he’s a very

prepossessin’ person and all that. Don’t you think there _might_ be

something in it?”

“I did think so once,” admitted Miss Philliter, “but afterwards, when

she got him into such awful trouble over the post-mortem, I gave up the

idea.”

“But she didn’t object to the post-mortem?”

“She did not. But there’s such a thing as putting yourself in the right

in the eyes of your neighbours, Lord Peter, and then going off to tell

people all about it at Vicarage tea-parties. I wasn’t there, but you ask

someone who was. I know those tea-parties.”

“Well, it’s not impossible. People can be very spiteful if they think

they’ve been slighted.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Nurse Philliter, thoughtfully. “But,” she

added suddenly, “that’s no motive for murdering a perfectly innocent old

lady.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that word,” said Wimsey, gravely.

“There’s no proof yet that it was murder.”

“I know that.”

“But you think it was?”

“I do.”

“And you think she did it?”

“Yes.”

Lord Peter walked across to the aspidistra in the bow-window and stroked

its leaves thoughtfully. The silence was broken by a buxom nurse who,

entering precipitately first and knocking afterwards, announced with a

giggle:

“Excuse me, I’m sure, but you’re in request this afternoon, Philliter.

Here’s Dr. Carr come for you.”

Dr. Carr followed hard upon his name. The sight of Wimsey struck him

speechless.

“I told you I’d be turnin’ up again before long,” said Lord Peter,

cheerfully. “Sherlock is my name and Holmes is my nature. I’m delighted

to see you, Dr. Carr. Your little matter is well in hand, and seein’ I’m

not required any longer I’ll make a noise like a bee and buzz off.”

“How did _he_ get here?” demanded Dr. Carr, not altogether pleased.

“Didn’t you send him? I think he’s very nice,” said Nurse Philliter.

“He’s mad,” said Dr. Carr.

“He’s clever,” said the red-haired nurse.

CHAPTER V

Gossip

“_With vollies of eternal babble._”

Butler, _Hudibras_

“So you are thinking of coming to live in Leahampton,” said Miss

Murgatroyd. “How _very nice_. I do hope you will be settling down in the

parish. We are _not_ too well off for week-day congregations—there is so

much indifference and so much _Protestantism_ about. There! I have

dropped a stitch. Provoking! Perhaps it was meant as a little reminder

to me not to think uncharitably about Protestants. All is well—I have

retrieved it. Were you thinking of taking a house, Miss Climpson?”

“I am not quite sure,” replied Miss Climpson. “Rents are so very high

nowadays, and I fear that to buy a house would be almost beyond my

means. I must look round very carefully, and view the question from _all

sides_. I should certainly _prefer_ to be in this parish—and close to

the Church, if possible. Perhaps the Vicar would know whether there is

likely to be anything suitable.”

“Oh, yes, he would doubtless be able to suggest something. It is such a

very nice, residential neighbourhood. I am sure you would like it. Let

me see—you are staying in Nelson Avenue, I think Mrs. Tredgold said?”

“Yes—with Mrs. Budge at Fairview.”

“I am sure she makes you comfortable. Such a nice woman, though I’m

afraid she never stops talking. Hasn’t she got any ideas on the subject?

I’m sure if there’s any news going about, Mrs. Budge never fails to get

hold of it.”

“Well,” said Miss Climpson, seizing the opening with a swiftness which

would have done credit to Napoleon, “she did say something about a house

in Wellington Avenue which she thought might be to let before long.”

“Wellington Avenue? You surprise me! I thought I knew almost everybody

there. Could it be the Parfitts—really moving at last! They have been

talking about it for at least seven years, and I really had begun to

think it was _all talk_. Mrs. Peasgood, do you hear that? Miss Climpson

says the Parfitts are really leaving that house at last!”

“Bless me,” cried Mrs. Peasgood, raising her rather prominent eyes from

a piece of plain needlework and focusing them on Miss Climpson like a

pair of opera-glasses. “Well, that _is_ news. It must be that brother of

hers who was staying with them last week. Possibly he is going to live

with them permanently, and that would clinch the matter, of course, for

they couldn’t get on without another bedroom when the girls come home

from school. A very sensible arrangement, I should think. I believe he

is quite well off, you know, and it will be a very good thing for those

children. I wonder where they will go. I expect it will be one of the

new houses out on the Winchester Road, though of course that would mean

keeping a car. Still, I expect he would want them to do that in any

case. Most likely he will have it himself, and let them have the use of

it.”

“I don’t think Parfitt was the name,” broke in Miss Climpson hurriedly,

“I’m sure it wasn’t. It was a Miss somebody—a Miss Whittaker, I think,

Mrs. Budge mentioned.”

“Miss Whittaker?” cried both the ladies in chorus. “Oh, no! _surely_

not?”

“I’m sure Miss Whittaker would have told me if she thought of giving up

her house,” pursued Miss Murgatroyd. “We are such great friends. I think

Mrs. Budge must have run away with a wrong idea. People do build up such

amazing stories out of nothing at all.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” put in Mrs. Peasgood, rebukingly. “There

_may_ be something in it. I know dear Miss Whittaker has sometimes

spoken to me about wishing to take up chicken-farming. I daresay she has

not mentioned the matter _generally_, but then she always confides in

_me_. Depend on it, that is what she intends to do.”

“Mrs. Budge didn’t actually say Miss Whittaker was moving,” interposed

Miss Climpson. “She said, I think, that Miss Whittaker had been left

alone by some relation’s death, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she

found the house lonely.”

“Ah! that’s Mrs. Budge all over!” said Mrs. Peasgood, nodding ominously.

“A most excellent woman, but she sometimes gets hold of the wrong end of

the stick. Not but what I’ve often thought the same thing myself. I said

to poor Mary Whittaker only the other day, ‘Don’t you find it very

lonely in that house, my dear, now that your poor dear Aunt is no more?’

I’m sure it would be a very good thing if she did move, or got someone

to live with her. It’s not a natural life for a young woman, all alone

like that, and so I told her. I’m one of those that believe in speaking

their mind, you know, Miss Climpson.”

“Well, now, so am I, Mrs. Peasgood,” rejoined Miss Climpson promptly,

“and that is what I said to Mrs. Budge at the time. I said, ‘Do I

understand that there was anything _odd_ about the old lady’s

death?’—because she had spoken of the _peculiar circumstances_ of the

case, and you know, I should not _at all like_ to live in a house which

could be called in any way _notorious_. I should really feel quite

_uncomfortable_ about it.” In saying which, Miss Climpson no doubt spoke

with perfect sincerity.

“But not at all—not at all,” cried Miss Murgatroyd, so eagerly that Mrs.

Peasgood, who had paused to purse up her face and assume an expression

of portentous secrecy before replying, was completely crowded out and

left at the post. “There never was a more wicked story. The death was

natural—perfectly natural, and a most happy release, poor soul, I’m

sure, for her sufferings at the last were truly terrible. It was all a

scandalous story put about by that young Dr. Carr (whom I’m sure I never

liked) simply to aggrandise himself. As though any doctor would

pronounce so definitely upon what exact date it would please God to call

a poor sufferer to Himself! Human pride and vanity make a most shocking

exhibition, Miss Climpson, when they lead us to cast suspicion on

innocent people, simply because we are wedded to our own presumptuous

opinions. Poor Miss Whittaker! She went through a most terrible time.

But it was proved—absolutely _proved_, that there was nothing in the

story at all, and I hope that young man was properly ashamed of

himself.”

“There may be two opinions about that, Miss Murgatroyd,” said Mrs.

Peasgood. “I say what I think, Miss Climpson, and in my opinion there

should have been an inquest. I try to be up-to-date, and I believe Dr.

Carr to have been a very able young man, though of course, he was not

the kind of old-fashioned family doctor that appeals to elderly people.

It was a great pity that nice Nurse Philliter was sent away—that woman

Forbes was no more use than a headache—to use my brother’s rather

vigorous expression. I don’t think she knew her job, and that’s a fact.”

“Nurse Forbes was a charming person,” snapped Miss Murgatroyd, pink with

indignation at being called elderly.

“That may be,” retorted Mrs. Peasgood, “but you can’t get over the fact

that she nearly killed herself one day by taking nine grains of calomel

by mistake for three. She told me that herself, and what she did in one

case she might do in another.”

“But Miss Dawson wasn’t given anything,” said Miss Murgatroyd, “and at

any rate, Nurse Forbes’ mind was on her patient, and not on flirting

with the doctor. I’ve always thought that Dr. Carr felt a spite against

her for taking his young woman’s place, and nothing would have pleased

him better than to get her into trouble.”

“You don’t mean,” said Miss Climpson, “that he would refuse a

certificate and cause all that trouble, just to annoy the nurse.

_Surely_ no doctor would dare to do that.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Peasgood, “and nobody with a grain of sense

would suppose it for a moment.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Peasgood,” cried Miss Murgatroyd, “thank you

very much, I’m sure—”

“I say what I think,” said Mrs. Peasgood.

“Then I’m glad I haven’t such uncharitable thoughts,” said Miss

Murgatroyd.

“I don’t think your own observations are so remarkable for their

charity,” retorted Mrs. Peasgood.

Fortunately, at this moment Miss Murgatroyd, in her agitation, gave a

vicious tweak to the wrong needle and dropped twenty-nine stitches at

once. The Vicar’s wife, scenting battle from afar, hurried over with a

plate of scones, and helped to bring about a diversion. To her, Miss

Climpson, doggedly sticking to her mission in life, broached the subject

of the house in Wellington Avenue.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. Tredgold, “but there’s Miss

Whittaker just arrived. Come over to my corner and I’ll introduce her to

you, and you can have a nice chat about it. You will like each other so

much, she is such a keen worker. Oh! and Mrs. Peasgood, my husband is so

anxious to have a word with you about the choirboys’ social. He is

discussing it now with Mrs. Findlater. I wonder if you’d be so very good

as to come and give him your opinion? He values it so much.”

Thus tactfully the good lady parted the disputants and, having deposited

Mrs. Peasgood safely under the clerical wing, towed Miss Climpson away

to an arm-chair near the tea-table.

“Dear Miss Whittaker, I so want you to know Miss Climpson. She is a near

neighbour of yours—in Nelson Avenue, and I hope we shall persuade her to

make her home among us.”

“That will be delightful,” said Miss Whittaker.

The first impression which Miss Climpson got of Mary Whittaker was that

she was totally out of place among the tea-tables of S. Onesimus. With

her handsome, strongly-marked features and quiet air of authority, she

was of the type that “does well” in City offices. She had a pleasant and

self-possessed manner, and was beautifully tailored—not mannishly, and

yet with a severe fineness of outline that negatived the appeal of a

beautiful figure. With her long and melancholy experience of frustrated

womanhood, observed in a dreary succession of cheap boarding-houses,

Miss Climpson was able to dismiss one theory which had vaguely formed

itself in her mind. This was no passionate nature, cramped by

association with an old woman and eager to be free to mate before youth

should depart. _That_ look she knew well—she could diagnose it with

dreadful accuracy at the first glance, in the tone of a voice saying,

“How do you do?” But meeting Mary Whittaker’s clear, light eyes under

their well-shaped brows, she was struck by a sudden sense of

familiarity. She had seen that look before, though the where and the

when escaped her. Chatting volubly about her arrival in Leahampton, her

introduction to the Vicar and her approval of the Hampshire air and

sandy soil, Miss Climpson racked her shrewd brain for a clue. But the

memory remained obstinately somewhere at the back of her head. “It will

come to me in the night,” thought Miss Climpson, confidently, “and

meanwhile I won’t say anything about the house; it would seem so pushing

on a first acquaintance.”

Whereupon, fate instantly intervened to overthrow this prudent resolve,

and very nearly ruined the whole effect of Miss Climpson’s diplomacy at

one fell swoop.

The form which the avenging Erinyes assumed was that of the youngest

Miss Findlater—the gushing one—who came romping over to them, her hands

filled with baby-linen, and plumped down on the end of the sofa beside

Miss Whittaker.

“Mary my _dear_! Why didn’t you tell me? You really are going to start

your chicken-farming scheme at once. I’d no _idea_ you’d got on so far

with your plans. How _could_ you let me hear it first from somebody

else? You promised to tell me before anybody.”

“But I didn’t know it myself,” replied Miss Whittaker, coolly. “Who told

you this wonderful story?”

“Why, Mrs. Peasgood said that she heard it from . . .” Here Miss

Findlater was in a difficulty. She had not yet been introduced to Miss

Climpson and hardly knew how to refer to her before her face. “This

lady” was what a shop-girl would say; “Miss Climpson” would hardly do,

as she had, so to speak, no official cognisance of the name; “Mrs.

Budge’s new lodger” was obviously impossible in the circumstances. She

hesitated—then beamed a bright appeal at Miss Climpson, and said: “Our

new helper—may I introduce myself? I do _so_ detest formality, don’t

you, and to belong to the Vicarage work-party is a sort of introduction

in itself, don’t you think? Miss Climpson, I believe? How do you do? It

is true, isn’t it, Mary?—that you are letting your house to Miss

Climpson, and starting a poultry-farm at Alford.”

“Certainly not that I know of. Miss Climpson and I have only just met

one another.” The tone of Miss Whittaker’s voice suggested that the

first meeting might very willingly be the last so far as she was

concerned.

“Oh dear!” cried the youngest Miss Findlater, who was fair and bobbed

and rather coltish, “I believe I’ve dropped a brick. I’m _sure_ Mrs.

Peasgood understood that it was all settled.” She appealed to Miss

Climpson again.

“_Quite_ a mistake!” said that lady, energetically, “what _must_ you be

thinking of me, Miss Whittaker? _Of course_, I could not _possibly_ have

said such a thing. I only happened to mention—in the most _casual_ way,

that I was looking—that is, _thinking_ of looking about—for a house in

the neighbourhood of the Church—so convenient, you know, for _Early

Services_ and _Saints’ Days_—and it was suggested—just _suggested_, I

really forget by _whom_, that you _might_, just _possibly_, at _some_

time, consider letting your house. I assure you, that was _all_.” In

saying which, Miss Climpson was not wholly accurate or disingenuous, but

excused herself to her conscience on the rather jesuitical grounds that

where so much responsibility was floating about, it was best to pin it

down in the quarter which made for peace. “Miss Murgatroyd,” she added,

“put me right at once, for she said you were _certainly_ not thinking of

any such thing, or you would have told her before anybody else.”

Miss Whittaker laughed.

“But I shouldn’t,” she said, “I should have told my house-agent. It’s

quite true, I did have it in mind, but I certainly haven’t taken any

steps.”

“You really are thinking of doing it, then?” cried Miss Findlater. “I do

hope so—because, if you do, I mean to apply for a job on the farm! I’m

simply longing to get away from all these silly tennis-parties and

things, and live close to the Earth and the fundamental crudities. Do

you read Sheila Kaye-Smith?”

Miss Climpson said no, but she was very fond of Thomas Hardy.

“It really is terrible, living in a little town like this,” went on Miss

Findlater, “so full of aspidistras, you know, and small gossip. You’ve

no idea what a dreadfully gossipy place Leahampton is, Miss Climpson.

I’m sure, Mary dear, you must have had more than enough of it, with that

tiresome Dr. Carr and the things people said. I don’t wonder you’re

thinking of getting rid of that house. I shouldn’t think you could ever

feel comfortable in it again.”

“Why on earth not?” said Miss Whittaker, lightly. Too lightly? Miss

Climpson was startled to recognise in eye and voice the curious quick

defensiveness of the neglected spinster who cries out that she has no

use for men.

“Oh well,” said Miss Findlater, “I always think it’s a little sad,

living where people have died, you know. Dear Miss Dawson—though of

course it really was merciful that she should be released—all the same—”

Evidently, thought Miss Climpson, she was turning the matter off. The

atmosphere of suspicion surrounding the death had been in her mind, but

she shied at referring to it.

“There are very few houses in which somebody hasn’t died sometime or

other,” said Miss Whittaker. “I really can’t see why people should worry

about it. I suppose it’s just a question of not realising. We are not

sensitive to the past lives of people we don’t know. Just as we are much

less upset about epidemics and accidents that happen a long way off. Do

you really suppose, by the way, Miss Climpson, that this Chinese

business is coming to anything? Everybody seems to take it very

casually. If all this rioting and Bolshevism was happening in Hyde Park,

there’d be a lot more fuss made about it.”

Miss Climpson made a suitable reply. That night she wrote to Lord Peter:

Miss Whittaker has asked me to tea. She tells me that, _much as she

would enjoy_ an active, country life, with something definite to do,

she has a _deep affection_ for the house in Wellington Avenue, and

_cannot tear herself away_. She seems _very anxious_ to give this

impression. Would it be _fair_ for me to say “The lady doth protest

_too much_, methinks”? The _Prince of Denmark_ might even add: “Let

the galled jade wince”—if one can use that expression of a _lady_. How

wonderful Shakespeare is! One can _always_ find a phrase in his works

for _any_ situation!

CHAPTER VI

Found Dead

“_Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies._”

Chapman, _The Widow’s Tears_

“You know, Wimsey, I think you’ve found a mare’s nest,” objected Mr.

Parker. “I don’t believe there’s the slightest reason for supposing that

there was anything odd about the Dawson woman’s death. You’ve nothing to

go on but a conceited young doctor’s opinion and a lot of silly gossip.”

“You’ve got an official mind, Charles,” replied his friend. “Your

official passion for evidence is gradually sapping your brilliant

intellect and smothering your instincts. You’re over-civilised, that’s

your trouble. Compared with you, I am a child of nature. I dwell among

the untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove, a maid whom there are (I

am shocked to say) few to praise, likewise very few to love, which is

perhaps just as well. I _know_ there is something wrong about this

case.”

“How?”

“How?—well, just as I know there is something wrong about that case of

reputed Lafite ’76 which that infernal fellow Pettigrew-Robinson had the

nerve to try out on me the other night. It has a nasty flavour.”

“Flavour be damned. There’s no indication of violence or poison. There’s

no motive for doing away with the old girl. And there’s no possibility

of proving anything against anybody.”

Lord Peter selected a Villar y Villar from his case, and lighted it with

artistic care.

“Look here,” he said, “will you take a bet about it? I’ll lay you ten to

one that Agatha Dawson was murdered, twenty to one that Mary Whittaker

did it, and fifty to one that I bring it home to her within the year.

Are you on?”

Parker laughed. “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” he temporised.

“There you are,” said Lord Peter, triumphantly, “you’re not comfortable

about it yourself. If you were, you’d have said, ‘It’s taking your

money, old chap,’ and closed like a shot, in the happy assurance of a

certainty.”

“I’ve seen enough to know that nothing is a certainty,” retorted the

detective, “but I’ll take you—in—half-crowns,” he added, cautiously.

“Had you said ponies,” replied Lord Peter, “I would have taken your

alleged poverty into consideration and spared you, but

seven-and-sixpence will neither make nor break you. Consequently, I

shall proceed to make my statements good.”

“And what step do you propose taking?” inquired Parker, sarcastically.

“Shall you apply for an exhumation order and search for poison,

regardless of the analyst’s report? Or kidnap Miss Whittaker and apply

the third-degree in the Gallic manner?”

“Not at all. I am more modern. I shall use up-to-date psychological

methods. Like the people in the Psalms, I lay traps; I catch men. I

shall let the alleged criminal convict herself.”

“Go on! You are a one, aren’t you?” said Parker, jeeringly.

“I am indeed. It is a well-established psychological fact that criminals

cannot let well alone. They—”

“Revisit the place of the crime?”

“Don’t interrupt, blast you. They take unnecessary steps to cover the

traces which they haven’t left, and so invite, seriatim, Suspicion,

Inquiry, Proof, Conviction and the Gallows. Eminent legal writers—no,

pax! don’t chuck that S. Augustine about, it’s valuable. Anyhow, not to

cast the jewels of my eloquence into the pig-bucket, I propose to insert

this advertisement in all the morning papers. Miss Whittaker must read

_some_ product of our brilliant journalistic age, I suppose. By this

means, we shall kill two birds with one stone.”

“Start two hares at once, you mean,” grumbled Parker. “Hand it over.”

“Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed, formerly in the service of Miss Agatha

Dawson, of ‘The Grove,’ Wellington Avenue, Leahampton, are requested

to communicate with J. Murbles, solicitor, of Staple Inn, when they

will hear of SOMETHING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE.”

“Rather good, I think, don’t you?” said Wimsey. “Calculated to rouse

suspicion in the most innocent mind. I bet you Mary Whittaker will fall

for that.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. That’s what’s so interesting. I hope nothing unpleasant

will happen to dear old Murbles. I should hate to lose him. He’s such a

perfect type of the family solicitor. Still, a man in his profession

must be prepared to take risks.”

“Oh, bosh!” said Parker. “But I agree that it might be as well to get

hold of the girls, if you really want to find out about the Dawson

household. Servants always know everything.”

“It isn’t only that. Don’t you remember that Nurse Philliter said the

girls were sacked shortly before she left herself? Now, passing over the

odd circumstances of the Nurse’s own dismissal—the story about Miss

Dawson’s refusing to take food from her hands, which wasn’t at all borne

out by the old lady’s own attitude to her nurse—isn’t it worth

considerin’ that these girls should have been pushed off on some excuse

just about three weeks after one of those hysterical attacks of Miss

Dawson’s? Doesn’t it rather look as though everybody who was likely to

remember anything about that particular episode had been got out of the

way?”

“Well, there was a good reason for getting rid of the girls.”

“Crockery?—well, nowadays it’s not so easy to get good servants.

Mistresses put up with a deal more carelessness than they did in the

dear dead days beyond recall. Then, about that attack. Why did Miss

Whittaker choose just the very moment when the highly-intelligent Nurse

Philliter had gone for her walk, to bother Miss Dawson about signin’

some tiresome old lease or other? If business was liable to upset the

old girl, why not have a capable person at hand to calm her down?”

“Oh, but Miss Whittaker is a trained nurse. She was surely capable

enough to see to her aunt herself.”

“I’m perfectly sure she was a very capable woman indeed,” said Wimsey,

with emphasis.

“Oh, all right. You’re prejudiced. But stick the ad. in by all means. It

can’t do any harm.”

Lord Peter paused, in the very act of ringing the bell. His jaw

slackened, giving his long, narrow face a faintly foolish and hesitant

look, reminiscent of the heroes of Mr. P. G. Wodehouse.

“You don’t think—” he began. “Oh! rats!” He pressed the button. “It

_can’t_ do any harm, as you say. Bunter, see that this advertisement

appears in the personal columns of all this list of papers, every day

until further notice.”

The advertisement made its first appearance on the Tuesday morning.

Nothing of any note happened during the week, except that Miss Climpson

wrote in some distress to say that the youngest Miss Findlater had at

length succeeded in persuading Miss Whittaker to take definite steps

about the poultry farm. They had gone away together to look at a

business which they had seen advertised in the _Poultry News_, and

proposed to be away for some weeks. Miss Climpson feared that under the

circumstances she would not be able to carry on any investigations of

sufficient importance to justify her _far too generous_ salary. She had,

however, become friendly with Miss Findlater, who had promised to tell

her _all about_ their doings. Lord Peter replied in reassuring terms.

On the Tuesday following, Mr. Parker was just wrestling in prayer with

his charlady, who had a tiresome habit of boiling his breakfast kippers

till they resembled heavily pickled loofahs, when the telephone whirred

aggressively.

“Is that you, Charles?” asked Lord Peter’s voice. “I say, Murbles has

had a letter about that girl, Bertha Gotobed. She disappeared from her

lodgings last Thursday, and her landlady, getting anxious, and having

seen the advertisement, is coming to tell us all she knows. Can you come

round to Staple Inn at eleven?”

“Dunno,” said Parker, a little irritably. “I’ve got a job to see to.

Surely you can tackle it by yourself.”

“Oh, yes!” The voice was peevish. “But I thought you’d like to have some

of the fun. What an ungrateful devil you are. You aren’t taking the

faintest interest in this case.”

“Well—I don’t believe in it, you know. All right—don’t use language like

that—you’ll frighten the girl at the Exchange. I’ll see what I can do.

Eleven?—right!—Oh, I say!”

“Cluck!” said the telephone.

“Rung off,” said Parker, bitterly. “Bertha Gotobed. H’m! I could have

sworn—”

He reached across to the breakfast-table for the _Daily Yell_, which was

propped against the marmalade jar, and read with pursed lips a paragraph

whose heavily leaded headlines had caught his eye, just before the

interruption of the kipper episode.

“NIPPY” FOUND DEAD

IN EPPING FOREST

—

£5 Note in Hand-bag.

—

He took up the receiver again and asked for Wimsey’s number. The

man-servant answered him.

“His lordship is in his bath, sir. Shall I put you through?”

“Please,” said Parker.

The telephone clucked again. Presently Lord Peter’s voice came faintly,

“Hullo!”

“Did the landlady mention where Bertha Gotobed was employed?”

“Yes—she was a waitress at the Corner House. Why this interest all of a

sudden? You snub me in my bed, but you woo me in my bath. It sounds like

a music-hall song of the less refined sort. Why, oh why?”

“Haven’t you seen the papers?”

“No. I leave those follies till breakfast-time. What’s up? Are we

ordered to Shanghai? or have they taken sixpence off the income-tax?”

“Shut up, you fool, it’s serious. You’re too late.”

“What for?”

“Bertha Gotobed was found dead in Epping Forest this morning.”

“Good God! Dead? How? What of?”

“No idea. Poison or something. Or heart failure. No violence. No

robbery. No clue. I’m going down to the Yard about it now.”

“God forgive me, Charles. D’you know, I had a sort of awful feeling when

you said that ad. could do no harm. Dead. Poor girl! Charles, I feel

like a murderer. Oh, damn! and I’m all wet. It does make one feel so

helpless. Look here, you spin down to the Yard and tell ’em what you

know and I’ll join you there in half a tick. Anyway, there’s no doubt

about it now.”

“Oh, but, look here. It may be something quite different. Nothing to do

with your ad.”

“Pigs _may_ fly. Use your common sense. Oh! and Charles, does it mention

the sister?”

“Yes. There was a letter from her on the body, by which they identified

it. She got married last month and went to Canada.”

“That’s saved her life. She’ll be in absolutely horrible danger, if she

comes back. We must get hold of her and warn her. And find out what she

knows. Good-bye. I _must_ get some clothes on. Oh, hell!”

Cluck! the line went dead again, and Mr. Parker, abandoning the kippers

without regret, ran feverishly out of the house and down Lamb’s Conduit

Street to catch a diver tram to Westminster.

The Chief of Scotland Yard, Sir Andrew Mackenzie, was a very old friend

of Lord Peter’s. He received that agitated young man kindly and listened

with attention to his slightly involved story of cancer, wills,

mysterious solicitors and advertisements in the agony column.

“It’s a curious coincidence,” he said, indulgently, “and I can

understand your feeling upset about it. But you may set your mind at

rest. I have the police-surgeon’s report, and he is quite convinced that

the death was perfectly natural. No signs whatever of any assault. They

will make an examination, of course, but I don’t think there is the

slightest reason to suspect foul play.”

“But what was she doing in Epping Forest?”

Sir Andrew shrugged gently.

“That must be inquired into, of course. Still—young people _do_ wander

about, you know. There’s a fiancé somewhere. Something to do with the

railway, I believe. Collins has gone down to interview him. Or she may

have been with some other friend.”

“But if the death was natural, no one would leave a sick or dying girl

like that?”

“_You_ wouldn’t. But say there had been some running about—some

horse-play—and the girl fell dead, as these heart cases sometimes do.

The companion may well have taken fright and cleared out. It’s not

unheard of.”

Lord Peter looked unconvinced.

“How long has she been dead?”

“About five or six days, our man thinks. It was quite by accident that

she was found then at all; it’s quite an unfrequented part of the

Forest. A party of young people were exploring with a couple of

terriers, and one of the dogs nosed out the body.”

“Was it out in the open?”

“Not exactly. It lay among some bushes—the sort of place where a

frolicsome young couple might go to play hide-and-seek.”

“Or where a murderer might go to play hide and let the police seek,”

said Wimsey.

“Well, well. Have it your own way,” said Sir Andrew, smiling. “If it was

murder, it must have been a poisoning job, for, as I say, there was not

the slightest sign of a wound or a struggle. I’ll let you have the

report of the autopsy. In the meanwhile, if you’d like to run down there

with Inspector Parker, you can of course have any facilities you want.

And if you discover anything, let me know.”

Wimsey thanked him, and collecting Parker from an adjacent office,

rushed him briskly down the corridor.

“I don’t like it,” he said, “that is, of course, it’s very gratifying to

know that our first steps in psychology have led to action, so to speak,

but I wish to God it hadn’t been quite such decisive action. We’d better

trot down to Epping straight away, and see the landlady later. I’ve got

a new car, by the way, which you’ll like.”

Mr. Parker took one look at the slim black monster, with its long rakish

body and polished-copper twin exhausts, and decided there and then that

the only hope of getting down to Epping without interference was to look

as official as possible and wave his police authority under the eyes of

every man in blue along the route. He shoe-horned himself into his seat

without protest, and was more unnerved than relieved to find himself

shoot suddenly ahead of the traffic—not with the bellowing roar of the

ordinary racing engine, but in a smooth, uncanny silence.

“The new Daimler Twin-Six,” said Lord Peter, skimming dexterously round

a lorry without appearing to look at it. “With a racing body. Specially

built . . . useful . . . gadgets . . . no row—hate row . . . like Edmund

Sparkler . . . very anxious there should be no row . . . Little

Dorrit . . . remember . . . call her Mrs. Merdle . . . for that

reason . . . presently we’ll see what she can do.”

The promise was fulfilled before their arrival at the spot where the

body had been found. Their arrival made a considerable sensation among

the little crowd which business or curiosity had drawn to the spot. Lord

Peter was instantly pounced upon by four reporters and a synod of Press

photographers, whom his presence encouraged in the hope that the mystery

might turn out to be a three-column splash after all. Parker, to his

annoyance, was photographed in the undignified act of extricating

himself from “Mrs. Merdle.” Superintendent Walmisley came politely to

his assistance, rebuked the onlookers, and led him to the scene of

action.

The body had been already removed to the mortuary, but a depression in

the moist ground showed clearly enough where it had lain. Lord Peter

groaned faintly as he saw it.

“Damn this nasty warm spring weather,” he said, with feeling. “April

showers—sun and water—couldn’t be worse. Body much altered,

Superintendent?”

“Well, yes, rather, my lord, especially in the exposed parts. But

there’s no doubt about the identity.”

“I didn’t suppose there was. How was it lying?”

“On the back, quite quiet and natural-like. No disarrangement of

clothing, or anything. She must just have sat down when she felt herself

bad and fallen back.”

“M’m. The rain has spoilt any footprints or signs on the ground. And

it’s grassy. Beastly stuff, grass, eh, Charles?”

“Yes. These twigs don’t seem to have been broken at all,

Superintendent.”

“Oh, no,” said the officer, “no signs of a struggle, as I pointed out in

my report.”

“No—but if she’d sat down here and fallen back as you suggest, don’t you

think her weight would have snapped some of these young shoots?”

The Superintendent glanced sharply at the Scotland Yard man.

“You don’t suppose she was brought and put here, do you, sir?”

“I don’t suppose anything,” retorted Parker, “I merely drew attention to

a point which I think you should consider. What are these wheel-marks?”

“That’s our car, sir. We backed it up here and took her up that way.”

“And all this trampling is your men too, I suppose?”

“Partly that, sir, and partly the party as found her.”

“You noticed no other person’s tracks, I suppose?”

“No, sir. But it’s rained considerably this last week. Besides, the

rabbits have been all over the place, as you can see, and other

creatures too, I fancy. Weasels, or something of that sort.”

“Oh! Well, I think you’d better take a look round. There might be traces

of some kind a bit further away. Make a circle, and report anything you

see. And you oughtn’t to have let all that bunch of people get so near.

Put a cordon round and tell ’em to move on. Have you seen all you want,

Peter?”

Wimsey had been poking his stick aimlessly into the bole of an oak-tree

at a few yards’ distance. Now he stooped and lifted out a package which

had been stuffed into a cleft. The two policemen hurried forward with

eager interest, which evaporated somewhat at sight of the find—a ham

sandwich and an empty Bass bottle, roughly wrapped up in a greasy

newspaper.

“Picnickers,” said Walmisley, with a snort. “Nothing to do with the

body, I daresay.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” said Wimsey, placidly. “When did the girl

disappear, exactly?”

“Well, she went off duty at the Corner House at five a week ago

to-morrow, that’s Wednesday, 27th,” said Parker.

“And this is the _Evening Views_ of Wednesday, 27th,” said Wimsey. “Late

Final edition. Now that edition isn’t on the streets till about 6

o’clock. So unless somebody brought it down and had supper here, it was

probably brought by the girl herself or her companion. It’s hardly

likely anyone would come and picnic here afterwards, not with the body

there. Not that bodies need necessarily interfere with one’s enjoyment

of one’s food. À la guerre comme à la guerre. But for the moment there

isn’t a war on.”

“That’s true, sir. But you’re assuming the death took place on the

Wednesday or Thursday. She may have been somewhere else—living with

someone in town or anywhere.”

“Crushed again,” said Wimsey. “Still, it’s a curious coincidence.”

“It is, my lord, and I’m very glad you found the things. Will you take

charge of ’em, Mr. Parker, or shall I?”

“Better take them along and put them with the other things,” said

Parker, extending his hand to take them from Wimsey, whom they seemed to

interest quite disproportionately. “I fancy his lordship’s right and

that the parcel came here along with the girl. And that certainly looks

as if she didn’t come alone. Possibly that young man of hers was with

her. Looks like the old, old story. Take care of that bottle, old man,

it may have finger-prints on it.”

“You can have the bottle,” said Wimsey. “May we ne’er lack a friend or a

bottle to give him, as Dick Swiveller says. But I earnestly beg that

before you caution your respectable young railway clerk that anything he

says may be taken down and used against him, you will cast your eye, and

your nose, upon this ham sandwich.”

“What’s wrong with it?” inquired Parker.

“Nothing. It appears to be in astonishingly good preservation, thanks to

this admirable oak-tree. The stalwart oak—for so many centuries

Britain’s bulwark against the invader! Heart of oak are our ships—not

hearts, by the way, as it is usually misquoted. But I am puzzled by the

incongruity between the sandwich and the rest of the outfit.”

“It’s an ordinary ham sandwich, isn’t it?”

“Oh, gods of the wine-flask and the board, how long? how long?—it is a

ham sandwich, Goth, but not an ordinary one. Never did it see Lyons’

kitchen, or the counter of the multiple store or the delicatessen shop

in the back street. The pig that was sacrificed to make this dainty

titbit fattened in no dull style, never knew the daily ration of

pig-wash or the not unmixed rapture of the domestic garbage-pail.

Observe the hard texture, the deep brownish tint of the lean; the rich

fat, yellow as a Chinaman’s cheek; the dark spot where the black treacle

cure has soaked in, to make a dish fit to lure Zeus from Olympus. And

tell me, man of no discrimination and worthy to be fed on boiled cod all

the year round, tell me how it comes that your little waitress and her

railway clerk come down to Epping Forest to regale themselves on

sandwiches made from coal-black, treacle-cured Bradenham ham, which long

ago ran as a young wild boar about the woodlands, till death translated

it to an incorruptible and more glorious body? I may add that it costs

about 3s. a pound uncooked—an argument which you will allow to be

weighty.”

“That’s odd, certainly,” said Parker. “I imagine that only rich people—”

“Only rich people or people who understand eating as a fine art,” said

Wimsey. “The two classes are by no means identical, though they

occasionally overlap.”

“It may be very important,” said Parker, wrapping the exhibits up

carefully. “We’d better go along now and see the body.”

The examination was not a very pleasant matter, for the weather had been

damp and warm and there had certainly been weasels. In fact, after a

brief glance, Wimsey left the two policemen to carry on alone, and

devoted his attention to the dead girl’s handbag. He glanced through the

letter from Evelyn Gotobed—(now Evelyn Cropper)——and noted down the

Canadian address. He turned the cutting of his own advertisement out of

an inner compartment, and remained for some time in consideration of the

£5 note which lay, folded up, side by side with a 10_s._ Treasury note,

7_s._, 8_d._ in silver and copper, a latch-key and a powder compacte.

“You’re having this note traced, Walmisley, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, certainly.”

“And the latch-key, I imagine, belongs to the girl’s lodgings.”

“No doubt it does. We have asked her landlady to come and identify the

body. Not that there’s any doubt about it, but just as a matter of

routine. She may give us some help. Ah!”—the Superintendent peered out

of the mortuary door—“I think this must be the lady.”

The stout and motherly woman who emerged from a taxi in charge of a

youthful policeman identified the body without difficulty, and amid many

sobs, as that of Bertha Gotobed. “Such a nice young lady,” she mourned.

“What a terrible thing, oh, dear! who would go to do a thing like that?

I’ve been in such a state of worriment ever since she didn’t come home

last Wednesday. I’m sure many’s the time I’ve said to myself I wished

I’d had my tongue cut out before I ever showed her that wicked

advertisement. Ah, I see you’ve got it there, sir. A dreadful thing it

is that people should be luring young girls away with stories about

something to their advantage. A sinful old devil—calling himself a

lawyer, too! When she didn’t come back and didn’t come back I wrote to

the wretch, telling him I was on his track and was coming round to have

the law on him as sure as my name’s Dorcas Gulliver. He wouldn’t have

got round me—not that I’d be the bird he was looking for, being

sixty-one come Mid-Summer Day—and so I told him.”

Lord Peter’s gravity was somewhat upset by this diatribe against the

highly respectable Mr. Murbles of Staple Inn, whose own version of Mrs.

Gulliver’s communication had been decently expurgated. “How shocked the

old boy must have been,” he murmured to Parker. “I’m for it next time I

see him.”

Mrs. Gulliver’s voice moaned on and on.

“Such respectable girls, both of them, and Miss Evelyn married to that

nice young man from Canada. Deary me, it will be a terrible upset for

her. And there’s poor John Ironsides, was to have married Miss Bertha,

the poor lamb, this very Whitsuntide as ever is. A very steady,

respectable man—a clurk on the Southern, which he always used to say,

joking like, ‘Slow but safe, like the Southern—that’s me, Mrs. G.’ T’ch,

t’ch—who’d a’ believed it? And it’s not as if she was one of the flighty

sort. I give her a latch-key gladly, for she’d sometimes be on late

duty, but never any staying out after her time. That’s why it worried me

so, her not coming back. There’s many nowadays as would wash one’s hands

and glad to be rid of them, knowing what they might be up to. No. When

the time passed and she didn’t come back, I said, Mark my words, I said,

she’s bin kidnapped, I said, by that Murbles.”

“Had she been long with you, Mrs. Gulliver?” asked Parker.

“Not above a fifteen month or so, she hadn’t, but bless you, I don’t

have to know a young lady fifteen days to know if she’s a good girl or

not. You gets to know by the look of ’em almost, when you’ve ’ad my

experience.”

“Did she and her sister come to you together?”

“They did. They come to me when they was lookin’ for work in London. And

they could a’ fallen into a deal worse hands I can tell you, two young

things from the country, and them that fresh and pretty looking.”

“They were uncommonly lucky, I’m sure, Mrs. Gulliver,” said Lord Peter,

“and they must have found it a great comfort to be able to confide in

you and get your good advice.”

“Well, I think they did,” said Mrs. Gulliver, “not that young people

nowadays seems to want much guidance from them as is older. Train up a

child and away she go, as the Good Book says. But Miss Evelyn, that’s

now Mrs. Cropper—she’d had this London idea put into her head, and up

they comes with the idea of bein’ made ladies of, havin’ only been in

service before, though what’s the difference between serving in one of

them tea-shops at the beck of all the nasty tagrag and bobtail and

serving in a lady’s home, I _don’t_ see, except that you works harder

and don’t get your meals so comfortable. Still, Miss Evelyn, she was

always the go-ahead one of the two, and she did very well for herself, I

will say, meetin’ Mr. Cropper as used to take his breakfast regular at

the Corner House every morning and took a liking to the girl in the most

honourable way.”

“That was very fortunate. Have you any idea what gave them the notion of

coming to town?”

“Well, now, sir, it’s funny you should ask that, because it was a thing

I never could understand. The lady as they used to be in service with,

down in the country, she put it into Miss Evelyn’s head. Now, sir,

wouldn’t you think that with good service that ’ard to come by, she’d

have done all she could to keep them with her? But no! There was a bit

of trouble one day, it seems, over Bertha—this poor girl here, poor

lamb—it do break one’s ’eart to see her like that, don’t it, sir?—over

Bertha ’avin’ broke an old teapot—a very valuable one by all accounts,

and the lady told ’er she couldn’t put up with ’avin’ her things broke

no more. So she says: ‘You’ll ’ave to go,’ she says, ‘but,’ she says,

‘I’ll give you a very good character and you’ll soon get a good place.

And I expect Evelyn’ll want to go with you,’ she says, ‘so I’ll have to

find someone else to do for me,’ she says. ‘But,’ she says, ‘why not go

to London? You’ll do better there and have a much more interesting life

than what you would at home,’ she says. And the end of it was, she

filled ’em up so with stories of how fine a place London was and how

grand situations was to be had for the asking, that they was mad to go,

and she give them a present of money and behaved very handsome, take it

all round.”

“H’m,” said Wimsey, “she seems to have been very particular about her

teapot. Was Bertha a great crockery-breaker?”

“Well, sir, she never broke nothing of mine. But this Miss

Whittaker—that was the name—she was one of these opinionated ladies, as

will ’ave their own way in everythink. A fine temper she ’ad, or so poor

Bertha said, though Miss Evelyn—her as is now Mrs. Cropper—_she_ always

’ad an idea as there was somethink at the back of it. Miss Evelyn was

always the sharp one, as you might say. But there, sir, we all ’as our

peculiarities, don’t we? It’s my own belief as the lady had somebody of

her own choice as she wanted to put in the place of Bertha—that’s this

one—and Evelyn—as is now Mrs. Cropper, you understand me—and she jest

trampled up an excuse, as they say, to get rid of ’em.”

“Very possibly,” said Wimsey. “I suppose, Inspector, Evelyn Gotobed—”

“Now Mrs. Cropper,” put in Mrs. Gulliver with a sob.

“Mrs. Cropper, I should say—has been communicated with?”

“Oh, yes, my lord. We cabled her at once.”

“Good. I wish you’d let me know when you hear from her.”

“We shall be in touch with Inspector Parker, my lord, of course.”

“Of course. Well, Charles, I’m going to leave you to it. I’ve got a

telegram to send. Or will you come with me?”

“Thanks, no,” said Parker. “To be frank, I don’t like your methods of

driving. Being in the Force, I prefer to keep on the windy side of the

law.”

“Windy is the word for you,” said Peter. “I’ll see you in Town, then.”

CHAPTER VII

Ham and Brandy

“_Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are._”

Brillat-Savarin

“Well,” said Wimsey, as Parker was ushered in that same evening by

Bunter, “have you got anything fresh?”

“Yes, I’ve got a new theory of the crime, which knocks yours into a

cocked hat. I’ve got evidence to support it, too.”

“Which crime, by the way?”

“Oh, the Epping Forest business. I don’t believe the old Dawson person

was murdered at all. That’s just an idea of yours.”

“I see. And you’re now going to tell me that Bertha Gotobed was got hold

of by the White Slave people.”

“How did you know?” asked Parker, a little peevishly.

“Because Scotland Yard have two maggots which crop up whenever anything

happens to a young woman. Either it’s White Slavery or Dope

Dens—sometimes both. You are going to say it’s both.”

“Well, I was, as a matter of fact. It so often is, you know. We’ve

traced the £5 note.”

“That’s important, anyhow.”

“Yes. It seems to me to be the clue to the whole thing. It is one of a

series paid out to a Mrs. Forrest, living in South Audley Street. I’ve

been round to make some inquiries.”

“Did you see the lady?”

“No, she was out. She usually is, I’m told. In fact, her habits seem to

be expensive, irregular and mysterious. She has an elegantly furnished

flat over a flower-shop.”

“A service flat?”

“No. One of the quiet kind, with a lift you work yourself. She only

turns up occasionally, mostly in the evenings, spends a night or two and

departs. Food ordered in from Fortnum and Mason’s. Bills paid promptly

by note or cheque. Cleaning done by an elderly female who comes in about

eleven, by which time Mrs. Forrest has usually gone out.”

“Doesn’t anybody ever see her?”

“Oh dear, yes! The people in the flat below and the girl at the

flower-shop were able to give me quite a good description of her. Tall,

over-dressed, musquash and those abbreviated sort of shoes with jewelled

heels and hardly any uppers—you know the sort of thing. Heavily

peroxided; strong aroma of origan wafted out upon the passer-by; powder

too white for the fashion and mouth heavily obscured with sealing-wax

red; eyebrows painted black to startle, not deceive; finger-nails a

monument to Kraska—the pink variety.”

“I’d no idea you studied the Woman’s Page to such good purpose,

Charles.”

“Drives a Renault Four-seater, dark green with tapestry doings. Garages

just round the corner. I’ve seen the man, and he says the car was out on

the night of the 27th. Went out at 11:30. Returned about 8 the next

morning.”

“How much petrol had been used?”

“We worked that out. Just about enough for a run to Epping and back.

What’s more, the charwoman says that there had been supper for two in

the flat that night, and three bottles of champagne drunk. Also, there

is a ham in the flat.”

“A Bradenham ham?”

“How do you expect the charwoman to know that? But I think it probably

is, as I find from Fortnum & Mason’s that a Bradenham ham was delivered

to Mrs. Forrest’s address about a fortnight ago.”

“That sounds conclusive. I take it you think Bertha Gotobed was

inveigled there for some undesirable purpose by Mrs. Forrest, and had

supper with her—”

“No; I should think there was a man.”

“Yes, of course. Mrs. F. brings the parties together and leaves them to

it. The poor girl is made thoroughly drunk—and then something untoward

happens.”

“Yes—shock, perhaps, or a shot of dope.”

“And they bustle her off and get rid of her. It’s quite possible. The

post-mortem may tell us something about it. Yes, Bunter, what is it?”

“The telephone, my lord, for Mr. Parker.”

“Excuse me,” said Parker, “I asked the people at the flower-shop to ring

me up here, if Mrs. Forrest came in. If she’s there, would you like to

come round with me?”

“Very much.”

Parker returned from the telephone with an air of subdued triumph.

“She’s just gone up to her flat. Come along. We’ll take a taxi—not that

death-rattle of yours. Hurry up, I don’t want to miss her.”

The door of the flat in South Audley Street was opened by Mrs. Forrest

in person. Wimsey recognised her instantly from the description. On

seeing Parker’s card, she made no objection whatever to letting them in,

and led the way into a pink and mauve sitting-room, obviously furnished

by contract from a Regent Street establishment.

“Please sit down. Will you smoke? And your friend?”

“My colleague, Mr. Templeton,” said Parker, promptly.

Mrs. Forrest’s rather hard eyes appeared to sum up in a practised manner

the difference between Parker’s seven-guinea “fashionable lounge

suiting, tailored in our own workrooms, fits like a made-to-measure

suit,” and his “colleague’s” Savile Row outlines, but beyond a slight

additional defensiveness of manner she showed no disturbance. Parker

noted the glance. “She’s summing us up professionally,” was his mental

comment, “and she’s not quite sure whether Wimsey’s an outraged brother

or husband or what. Never mind. Let her wonder. We may get her rattled.”

“We are engaged, Madam,” he began, with formal severity, “on an inquiry

relative to certain events connected with the 26th of last month. I

think you were in Town at that time?”

Mrs. Forrest frowned slightly in the effort to recollect. Wimsey made a

mental note that she was not as young as her bouffant apple-green frock

made her appear. She was certainly nearing the thirties, and her eyes

were mature and aware.

“Yes, I think I was. Yes, certainly. I was in Town for several days

about that time. How can I help you?”

“It is a question of a certain bank-note which has been traced to your

possession,” said Parker, “a £5 note numbered x/y58929. It was issued to

you by Lloyds Bank in payment of a cheque on the 19th.”

“Very likely. I can’t say I remember the number, but I think I cashed a

cheque about that time. I can tell in a moment by my cheque-book.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. But it would help us very much if you can

recollect to whom you paid it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s rather difficult. I paid my dressmaker’s about

that time—no, that was by cheque. I paid cash to the garage, I know, and

I think there was a £5 note in that. Then I dined at Verry’s with a

woman friend—that took the second £5 note, I remember, but there was a

third. I drew out £25—three fives and ten ones. Where did the third note

go? Oh, of course, how stupid of me! I put it on a horse.”

“Through a Commission Agent?”

“No. I had nothing much to do one day, so I went down to Newmarket. I

put the £5 on some creature called Brighteye or Attaboy or some name

like that, at 50 to 1. Of course the wretched animal didn’t win, they

never do. A man in the train gave me the tip and wrote the name down for

me. I handed it to the nearest bookie I saw—a funny little grey-haired

man with a hoarse voice—and that was the last I saw of it.”

“Could you remember which day it was?”

“I think it was Saturday. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Forrest. It will be a great help if we can

trace those notes. One of them has turned up since in—other

circumstances.”

“May I know what the circumstances are, or is it an official secret?”

Parker hesitated. He rather wished now, that he had demanded point-blank

at the start how Mrs. Forrest’s £5 note had come to be found on the dead

body of the waitress at Epping. Taken by surprise, the woman might have

got flustered. Now, he had let her entrench herself securely behind this

horse story. Impossible to follow up the history of a bank-note handed

to an unknown bookie at a race-meeting. Before he could speak, Wimsey

broke in for the first time, in a high, petulant voice which quite took

his friend aback.

“You’re not getting anywhere with all this,” he complained. “I don’t

care a continental curse about the beastly note, and I’m sure Sylvia

doesn’t.”

“Who is Sylvia?” demanded Mrs. Forrest with considerable amazement.

“Who is Sylvia? What is she?” gabbled Wimsey, irrepressibly.

“Shakespeare always has the right word, hasn’t he? But, God bless my

soul, it’s no laughing matter. It’s very serious and you’ve no business

to laugh at it. Sylvia is very much upset, and the doctor is afraid it

may have an effect on her heart. You may not know it, Mrs. Forrest, but

Sylvia Lyndhurst is my cousin. And what she wants to know, and what we

all want to know—don’t interrupt me, Inspector, all this

shilly-shallying doesn’t get us anywhere—I want to know, Mrs. Forrest,

who was it dining here with you on the night of April 26th. Who was it?

Who was it? Can you tell me that?”

This time, Mrs. Forrest was visibly taken aback. Even under the thick

coat of powder they could see the red flush up into her cheeks and ebb

away, while her eyes took on an expression of something more than

alarm—a kind of vicious fury, such as one may see in those of a cornered

cat.

“On the 26th?” she faltered. “I can’t—”

“I knew it!” cried Wimsey. “And that girl Evelyn was sure of it too. Who

was it, Mrs. Forrest? Answer me that!”

“There—there was no one,” said Mrs. Forrest, with a thick gasp.

“Oh, come, Mrs. Forrest, think again,” said Parker, taking his cue

promptly, “you aren’t going to tell us that you accounted by yourself

for three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and two people’s dinners.”

“Not forgetting the ham,” put in Wimsey, with fussy self-importance,

“the Bradenham ham specially cooked and sent up by Fortnum & Mason. Now,

Mrs. Forrest—”

“Wait a moment. Just a moment. I’ll tell you everything.”

The woman’s hands clutched at the pink silk cushions, making little hot,

tight creases. “I—would you mind getting me something to drink? In the

dining-room, through there—on the sideboard.”

Wimsey got up quickly and disappeared into the next room. He took rather

a long time, Parker thought. Mrs. Forrest was lying back in a collapsed

attitude, but her breathing was more controlled, and she was, he

thought, recovering her wits. “Making up a story,” he muttered savagely

to himself. However, he could not, without brutality, press her at the

moment.

Lord Peter, behind the folding doors, was making a good deal of noise,

chinking the glasses and fumbling about. However, before very long, he

was back.

“’Scuse my taking such a time,” he apologised, handing Mrs. Forrest a

glass of brandy and soda. “Couldn’t find the syphon. Always was a bit

wool-gathering, y’know. All my friends say so. Starin’ me in the face

all the time, what? And then I sloshed a lot of soda on the sideboard.

Hand shakin’. Nerves all to pieces and so on. Feelin’ better? That’s

right. Put it down. That’s the stuff to pull you together. How about

another little one, what? Oh, rot, it can’t hurt you. Mind if I have one

myself? I’m feelin’ a bit flustered. Upsettin’, delicate business and

all that. Just another spot. That’s the idea.”

He trotted out again, glass in hand, while Parker fidgeted. The presence

of amateur detectives was sometimes an embarrassment. Wimsey clattered

in again, this time, with more common sense, bringing decanter, syphon

and three glasses, bodily, on a tray.

“Now, now,” said Wimsey, “now we’re feeling better, do you think you can

answer our question, Mrs. Forrest?”

“May I know, first of all, what right you have to ask it?”

Parker shot an exasperated glance at his friend. This came of giving

people time to think.

“Right?” burst in Wimsey. “Right? Of course, we’ve a right. The police

have a right to ask questions when anything’s the matter. Here’s murder

the matter! Right, indeed?”

“Murder?”

A curious intent look came into her eyes. Parker could not place it, but

Wimsey recognised it instantly. He had seen it last on the face of a

great financier as he took up his pen to sign a contract. Wimsey had

been called to witness the signature, and had refused. It was a contract

that ruined thousands of people. Incidentally, the financier had been

murdered soon after, and Wimsey had declined to investigate the matter,

with a sentence from Dumas: “Let pass the justice of God.”

“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Forrest was saying, “that in that case I can’t help

you. I _did_ have a friend dining with me on the 26th, but he has not,

so far as I know, been murdered, nor has he murdered anybody.”

“It was a man, then?” said Parker.

Mrs. Forrest bowed her head with a kind of mocking ruefulness. “I live

apart from my husband,” she murmured.

“I am sorry,” said Parker, “to have to press for this gentleman’s name

and address.”

“Isn’t that asking rather much? Perhaps if you would give me further

details—”

“Well, you see,” cut in Wimsey again, “if we could just know for certain

it wasn’t Lyndhurst. My cousin is so frightfully upset, as I said, and

that Evelyn girl is making trouble. In fact—of course one doesn’t want

it to go any further—but actually Sylvia lost her head very completely.

She made a savage attack on poor old Lyndhurst—with a revolver, in fact,

only fortunately she is a shocking bad shot. It went over his shoulder

and broke a vase—most distressin’ thing—a Famille Rose jar, worth

thousands—and of course it was smashed to atoms. Sylvia is really hardly

responsible when she’s in a temper. And, we thought, as Lyndhurst was

actually traced to this block of flats—if you could give us definite

proof it wasn’t him, it might calm her down and prevent murder being

done, don’t you know. Because, though they might call it Guilty but

Insane, still, it would be awfully awkward havin’ one’s cousin in

Broadmoor—a first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she’s not

irritated.”

Mrs. Forrest gradually softened into a faint smile.

“I think I understand the position, Mr. Templeton,” she said, “and if I

give you a name, it will be in strict confidence, I presume?”

“Of course, of course,” said Wimsey. “Dear me, I’m sure it’s uncommonly

kind of you.”

“You’ll swear you aren’t spies of my husband’s?” she said, quickly. “I

am trying to divorce him. How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“Madam,” said Wimsey, with intense gravity, “I swear to you on my honour

as a gentleman that I have not the slightest connection with your

husband. I have never even heard of him before.”

Mrs. Forrest shook her head.

“I don’t think, after all,” she said, “it would be much good my giving

you the name. In any case, if you asked him whether he’d been here, he

would say no, wouldn’t he? And if you’ve been sent by my husband, you’ve

got all the evidence you want already. But I give you my solemn

assurance, Mr. Templeton, that I know nothing about your friend, Mr.

Lyndhurst—”

“Major Lyndhurst,” put in Wimsey, plaintively.

“And if Mrs. Lyndhurst is not satisfied, and likes to come round and see

me, I will do my best to satisfy her of the fact. Will that do?”

“Thank you very much,” said Wimsey. “I’m sure it’s as much as any one

could expect. You’ll forgive my abruptness, won’t you? I’m

rather—er—nervously constituted, and the whole business is exceedingly

upsetting. _Good_ afternoon. Come on, Inspector, it’s quite all

right—you see it’s quite all right. I’m really very much

obliged—uncommonly so. Please don’t trouble to see us out.”

He teetered nervously down the narrow hall-way, in his imbecile and

well-bred way, Parker following with a policeman-like stiffness. No

sooner, however, had the flat-door closed behind them than Wimsey seized

his friend by the arm and bundled him helter-skelter into the lift.

“I thought we should never get away,” he panted. “Now quick—how do we

get round to the back of these flats?”

“What do you want with the back?” demanded Parker, annoyed. “And I wish

you wouldn’t stampede me like this. I’ve no business to let you come

with me on a job at all, and if I do, you might have the decency to keep

quiet.”

“Right you are,” said Wimsey, cheerfully, “just let’s do this little bit

and you can get all the virtuous indignation off your chest later on.

Round here, I fancy, up this back alley. Step lively and mind the

dust-bin. One, two, three, four—here we are! Just keep a look-out for

the passing stranger, will you?”

Selecting a back window which he judged to belong to Mrs. Forrest’s

flat, Wimsey promptly grasped a drain-pipe and began to swarm up it with

the agility of a cat-burglar. About fifteen feet from the ground he

paused, reached up, and appeared to detach something with a quick jerk,

and then slid very gingerly to the ground again, holding his right hand

at a cautious distance from his body, as though it were breakable.

And indeed, to his amazement, Parker observed that Wimsey now held a

long-stemmed glass in his fingers, similar to those from which they had

drunk in Mrs. Forrest’s sitting-room.

“What on earth—?” said Parker.

“Hush! I’m Hawkshaw the detective—gathering finger-prints. Here we come

a-wassailing and gathering prints in May. That’s why I took the glass

back. I brought a different one in the second time. Sorry I had to do

this athletic stunt, but the only cotton-reel I could find hadn’t much

on it. When I changed the glass, I tip-toed into the bathroom and hung

it out of the window. Hope she hasn’t been in there since. Just brush my

bags down, will you, old man? Gently—don’t touch the glass.”

“What the devil do you want finger-prints for?”

“You’re a grateful sort of person. Why, for all you know, Mrs. Forrest

is someone the Yard has been looking for for years. And anyway, you

could compare the prints with those on the Bass bottle, if any. Besides,

you never know when finger-prints mayn’t come in handy. They’re

excellent things to have about the house. Coast clear? Right. Hail a

taxi, will you? I can’t wave my hand with this glass in it. Look so

silly, don’t you know. I say!”

“Well?”

“I saw something else. The first time I went out for the drinks, I had a

peep into her bedroom.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think I found in the wash-stand drawer?”

“What?”

“A hypodermic syringe!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, and an innocent little box of ampullæ, with a doctor’s

prescription headed ‘The injection, Mrs. Forrest. One to be injected

when the pain is very severe.’ What do you think of that?”

“Tell you when we’ve got the results of that post-mortem,” said Parker,

really impressed. “You didn’t bring the prescription, I suppose?”

“No, and I didn’t inform the lady who we were or what we were after or

ask her permission to carry away the family crystal. But I made a note

of the chemist’s address.”

“Did you?” ejaculated Parker. “Occasionally, my lad, you have some

glimmerings of sound detective sense.”

CHAPTER VIII

Concerning Crime

“_Society is at the mercy of a murderer who is remorseless,_

_who takes no accomplices and who keeps his head._”

Edmund Pearson, _Murder at Smutty Nose_

_Letter from Miss Alexandra Katherine Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey._

“Fair View,”

Nelson Avenue,

Leahampton.

12 May, 1927.

My dear Lord Peter,

I have not _yet_ been able to get ALL the information you ask for, as

Miss Whittaker has been away for some weeks, inspecting

_chicken-farms_!! With a view to purchase, I mean of course, and not

in any _sanitary capacity_(!). I _really think_ she means to set up

farming _with Miss Findlater_, though what Miss Whittaker can see in

that very gushing and really _silly_ young woman I cannot think.

However, Miss Findlater has evidently quite a “pash” (as we used to

call it at school) for Miss Whittaker, and I am afraid none of us are

being _flattered_ by such outspoken admiration. I must say, I think it

rather _unhealthy_—you may remember Miss Clemence Dane’s _very clever

book_ on the subject?—I have seen so _much_ of that kind of thing in

my rather WOMAN-RIDDEN existence! It has such a bad effect, as a rule,

upon the _weaker character_ of the two—But I must not take up your

time with my TWADDLE!!

Miss Murgatroyd, who was quite a friend of old _Miss Dawson_, however,

has been able to tell me a _little_ about her past life.

It seems that, until five years ago, Miss Dawson lived in Warwickshire

with her cousin, a Miss Clara Whittaker, Mary Whittaker’s great-aunt

on the _father’s_ side. This Miss Clara was evidently rather a

“character,” as my dear father used to call it. In her day she was

considered very “advanced” and _not quite nice_(!) because she

_refused_ several _good offers_, cut her hair short(!!) and set up in

business for herself as a HORSE-BREEDER!!! Of course, _nowadays_,

nobody would think anything of it, but _then_ the old lady—or _young_

lady as she was when she embarked on this _revolutionary_ proceeding,

was quite a PIONEER.

Agatha Dawson was a school-fellow of hers, and _deeply attached_ to

her. And as a result of this friendship, Agatha’s _sister_, Harriet,

married Clara Whittaker’s brother James! But _Agatha_ did not care

about marriage, any more than _Clara_, and the two ladies lived

together in a big old house, with immense stables, in a village in

Warwickshire—Crofton, I think the name was. Clara Whittaker turned out

to be a remarkably _good business woman_, and worked up a big

connection among the _hunting folk_ in those parts. Her hunters became

quite _famous_, and from a capital of a few thousand pounds with which

she started she made quite a _fortune_, and was a _very rich woman_

before her death! Agatha Dawson never had anything to do with the

_horsey_ part of the business. She was the “domestic” partner, and

looked after the _house_ and the _servants_.

When Clara Whittaker died, she left _all her money_ to Agatha, passing

over her _own family_, with whom she was _not on very good

terms_—owing to the narrow-minded attitude they had taken up about her

horse-dealing!! Her nephew, Charles Whittaker, who was a clergyman,

and the father of _our_ Miss Whittaker, resented very much not getting

the money, though, as he had kept up the feud in a very _un-Christian_

manner, he had really _no right_ to complain, especially as Clara had

built up her fortune _entirely_ by her own exertions. But, of course,

he inherited the _bad, old-fashioned_ idea that women _ought not_ to

be their own mistresses, or make money for themselves, or do what they

liked with their own!

He and his family were the only surviving Whittaker relations, and

when _he and his wife_ were killed in a motor-car accident, Miss

Dawson asked Mary to leave her work as a nurse and make her home with

her. So that, you see, Clara Whittaker’s money was destined to _come

back_ to James Whittaker’s daughter in the end!! Miss Dawson made it

_quite_ CLEAR that this was her intention, provided Mary would come

and _cheer the declining days_ of a lonely old lady!

Mary accepted, and as her aunt—or, to speak more _exactly_, her

great-aunt—had given up the big old Warwickshire house after Clara’s

death, they lived in London for a short time and then moved to

Leahampton. As you know, poor old Miss Dawson was then already

suffering from the _terrible disease_ of which she died, so that Mary

did not have to wait very long for Clara Whittaker’s money!!

I hope this information will be of some _use_ to you. Miss Murgatroyd

did not, of course, know anything about the rest of the family, but

she always understood that there were _no other_ surviving relatives,

either on the Whittaker or the Dawson side.

When Miss Whittaker returns, I hope to _see more_ of her. I enclose my

_account_ for expenses up to date. I do _trust_ you will not consider

it _extravagant_. How are your money-lenders progressing? I was sorry

not to see more of those _poor women_ whose cases I investigated—their

stories were _so_ PATHETIC!

I am,

Very sincerely yours,

Alexandra K. Climpson.

P.S.—I _forgot_ to say that Miss Whittaker has a little motor-car. I

do not, of course, know anything about these matters, but Mrs. Budge’s

maid tells me that Miss Whittaker’s maid says it is an Austin 7 (is

this right?). It is grey, and the number is XX9917.

Mr. Parker was announced, just as Lord Peter finished reading this

document, and sank rather wearily in a corner of the chesterfield.

“What luck?” inquired his lordship, tossing the letter over to him. “Do

you know, I’m beginning to think you were right about the Bertha Gotobed

business, and I’m rather relieved. I don’t believe one word of Mrs.

Forrest’s story, for reasons of my own, and I’m now hoping that the

wiping out of Bertha was a pure coincidence and nothing to do with my

advertisement.”

“Are you?” said Parker, bitterly, helping himself to whisky and soda.

“Well, I hope you’ll be cheered to learn that the analysis of the body

has been made, and that there is not the slightest sign of foul play.

There is no trace of violence or of poisoning. There was a heart

weakness of fairly long standing, and the verdict is syncope after a

heavy meal.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” said Wimsey. “We suggested shock, you know.

Amiable gentleman met at flat of friendly lady suddenly turns funny

after dinner and makes undesirable overtures. Virtuous young woman is

horribly shocked. Weak heart gives way. Collapse. Exit. Agitation of

amiable gentleman and friendly lady, left with corpse on their hands.

Happy thought motor-car; Epping Forest; _exeunt omnes_, singing and

washing their hands. Where’s the difficulty?”

“Proving it is the difficulty, that’s all. By the way, there were no

finger-marks on the bottle—only smears.”

“Gloves, I suppose. Which looks like camouflage, anyhow. An ordinary

picnicking couple wouldn’t put on gloves to handle a bottle of Bass.”

“I know. But we can’t arrest all the people who wear gloves.”

“I weep for you, the Walrus said, I deeply sympathise. I see the

difficulty, but it’s early days yet. How about those injections?”

“Perfectly O.K. We’ve interrogated the chemist and interviewed the

doctor. Mrs. Forrest suffers from violent neuralgic pains, and the

injections were duly prescribed. Nothing wrong there, and no history of

doping or anything. The prescription is a very mild one, and couldn’t

possibly be fatal to anybody. Besides, haven’t I told you that there was

no trace of morphia or any other kind of poison in the body?”

“Oh, well!” said Wimsey. He sat for a few minutes looking thoughtfully

at the fire.

“I see the case has more or less died out of the papers,” he resumed,

suddenly.

“Yes. The analysis has been sent to them, and there will be a paragraph

to-morrow and a verdict of natural death, and that will be the end of

it.”

“Good. The less fuss there is about it the better. Has anything been

heard of the sister in Canada?”

“Oh, I forgot. Yes. We had a cable three days ago. She’s coming over.”

“Is she? By Jove! What boat?”

“The _Star of Quebec_—due in next Friday.”

“H’m! We’ll have to get hold of her. Are you meeting the boat?”

“Good heavens, no! Why should I?”

“I think someone ought to. I’m reassured—but not altogether happy. I

think I’ll go myself, if you don’t mind. I want to get that Dawson

story—and this time I want to make sure the young woman doesn’t have a

heart attack before I interview her.”

“I really think you’re exaggerating, Peter.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said his lordship. “Have another peg, won’t

you? Meanwhile, what do you think of Miss Climpson’s latest?”

“I don’t see much in it.”

“No?”

“It’s a bit confusing, but it all seems quite straightforward.”

“Yes. The only thing we know now is that Mary Whittaker’s father was

annoyed about Miss Dawson’s getting his aunt’s money and thought it

ought to have come to him.”

“Well, you don’t suspect _him_ of having murdered Miss Dawson, do you?

He died before her, and the daughter’s got the money, anyhow.”

“Yes, I know. But suppose Miss Dawson had changed her mind? She might

have quarrelled with Mary Whittaker and wanted to leave her money

elsewhere.”

“Oh, I see—and been put out of the way before she could make a will?”

“Isn’t it possible?”

“Yes, certainly. Except that all the evidence we have goes to show that

will-making was about the last job anybody could persuade her to do.”

“True—while she was on good terms with Mary. But how about that morning

Nurse Philliter mentioned, when she said people were trying to kill her

before her time? Mary may really have been impatient with her for being

such an unconscionable time a-dying. If Miss Dawson became aware of

that, she would certainly have resented it and may very well have

expressed an intention of making her will in someone else’s favour—as a

kind of insurance against premature decease!”

“Then why didn’t she send for her solicitor?”

“She may have tried to. But after all, she was bed-ridden and helpless.

Mary may have prevented the message from being sent.”

“That sounds quite plausible.”

“Doesn’t it? That’s why I want Evelyn Cropper’s evidence. I’m perfectly

certain those girls were packed off because they had heard more than

they should. Or why such enthusiasm over sending them to London?”

“Yes. I thought that part of Mrs. Gulliver’s story was a bit odd. I say,

how about the other nurse?”

“Nurse Forbes? That’s a good idea. I was forgetting her. Think you can

trace her?”

“Of course, if you really think it important.”

“I do. I think it’s damned important. Look here, Charles, you don’t seem

very enthusiastic about this case.”

“Well, you know, I’m not so certain it is a case at all. What makes you

so fearfully keen about it? You seem dead set on making it a murder,

with practically nothing to go upon. Why?”

Lord Peter got up and paced the room. The light from the solitary

reading-lamp threw his lean shadow, diffused and monstrously elongated,

up to the ceiling. He walked over to a book-shelf, and the shadow

shrank, blackened, settled down. He stretched his hand, and the hand’s

shadow flew with it, hovering over the gilded titles of the books and

blotting them out one by one.

“Why?” repeated Wimsey. “Because I believe this is the case I have

always been looking for. The case of cases. The murder without

discernible means, or motive or clue. The norm. All these”—he swept his

extended hand across the book-shelf, and the shadow outlined a vaster

and more menacing gesture—“all these books on this side of the room are

books about crimes. But they only deal with the abnormal crimes.”

“What do you mean by abnormal crimes?”

“The failures. The crimes that have been found out. What proportion do

you suppose they bear to the successful crimes—the ones we hear nothing

about?”

“In this country,” said Parker, rather stiffly, “we manage to trace and

convict the majority of criminals—”

“My good man, I know that where a crime is known to have been committed,

you people manage to catch the perpetrator in at least sixty per cent of

the cases. But the moment a crime is even suspected, it falls, _ipso

facto_, into the category of failures. After that, the thing is merely a

question of greater or less efficiency on the part of the police. But

how about the crimes which are never even suspected?”

Parker shrugged his shoulders.

“How can anybody answer that?”

“Well—one may guess. Read any newspaper to-day. Read the _News of the

World_. Or, now that the Press has been muzzled, read the divorce court

lists. Wouldn’t they give you the idea that marriage is a failure? Isn’t

the sillier sort of journalism packed with articles to the same effect?

And yet, looking round among the marriages you know of personally,

aren’t the majority of them a success, in a hum-drum, undemonstrative

sort of way? Only you don’t hear of them. People don’t bother to come

into court and explain that they dodder along very comfortably on the

whole, thank you. Similarly, if you read all the books on this shelf,

you’d come to the conclusion that murder was a failure. But bless you,

it’s always the failures that make the noise. Successful murderers don’t

write to the papers about it. They don’t even join in imbecile symposia

to tell an inquisitive world ‘What Murder means to me,’ or ‘How I became

a Successful Poisoner.’ Happy murderers, like happy wives, keep quiet

tongues. And they probably bear just about the same proportion to the

failures as the divorced couples do to the happily mated.”

“Aren’t you putting it rather high?”

“I don’t know. Nor does anybody. That’s the devil of it. But you ask any

doctor, when you’ve got him in an unbuttoned, well-lubricated frame of

mind, if he hasn’t often had grisly suspicions which he could not and

dared not take steps to verify. You see by our friend Carr what happens

when one doctor is a trifle more courageous than the rest.”

“Well, he couldn’t prove anything.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be proved. Look at the

scores and scores of murders that have gone unproved and unsuspected

till the fool of a murderer went too far and did something silly which

blew up the whole show. Palmer, for instance. His wife and brother and

mother-in-law and various illegitimate children, all peacefully put

away—till he made the mistake of polishing Cook off in that spectacular

manner. Look at George Joseph Smith. Nobody’d have thought of bothering

any more about those first two wives he drowned. It was only when he did

it the third time that he aroused suspicion. Armstrong, too, is supposed

to have got away with many more crimes than he was tried for—it was

being clumsy over Martin and the Chocolates that stirred up the hornets’

nest in the end. Burke and Hare were convicted of murdering an old

woman, and then brightly confessed that they’d put away sixteen people

in two months and no one a penny the wiser.”

“But they _were_ caught.”

“Because they were fools. If you murder someone in a brutal, messy way,

or poison someone who had previously enjoyed rollicking health, or

choose the very day after a will’s been made in your favour to

extinguish the testator, or go on killing everyone you meet till people

begin to think you’re first cousin to a upas tree, naturally you’re

found out in the end. But choose somebody old and ill, in circumstances

where the benefit to yourself isn’t too apparent, and use a sensible

method that looks like natural death or accident, and don’t repeat your

effects too often, and you’re safe. I swear all the heart-diseases and

gastric enteritis and influenzas that get certified are not nature’s

unaided work. Murder’s so easy, Charles, so damned easy—even without

special training.”

Parker looked troubled.

“There’s something in what you say. I’ve heard some funny tales myself.

We all do, I suppose. But Miss Dawson—”

“Miss Dawson fascinates me, Charles. Such a beautiful subject. So old

and ill. So likely to die soon. Bound to die before long. No near

relations to make inquiries. No connections or old friends in the

neighbourhood. And so rich. Upon my soul, Charles, I lie in bed licking

my lips over ways and means of murdering Miss Dawson.”

“Well, anyhow, till you can think of one that defies analysis and

doesn’t seem to need a motive, you haven’t found the right one,” said

Parker, practically, rather revolted by this ghoulish conversation.

“I admit that,” replied Lord Peter, “but that only shows that as yet I’m

merely a third-rate murderer. Wait till I’ve perfected my method and

then I’ll show you—perhaps. Some wise old buffer has said that each of

us holds the life of one other person between his hands—but only one,

Charles, only one.”

CHAPTER IX

The Will

“_Our wills are ours to make them thine._”

Tennyson, _In Memoriam_

“Hullo! hullo—ullo! oh, operator, shall I call thee bird or but a

wandering voice? . . . Not at all, I had no intention of being rude, my

child, that was a quotation from the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth . . .

well, ring him again . . . thank you, is that Dr. Carr? . . . Lord Peter

Wimsey speaking . . . oh, yes . . . yes . . . aha! . . . not a bit of

it . . . We are about to vindicate you and lead you home, decorated with

triumphal wreaths of cinnamon and senna-pods . . . No, really. . . .

we’ve come to the conclusion that the thing is serious. . . . Yes. . . .

I want Nurse Forbes’ address. . . . Right, I’ll hold on. . . .

Luton? . . . oh, Tooting, yes, I’ve got that. . . . Certainly, I’ve no

doubt she’s a tartar, but I’m the Grand Panjandrum with the little round

button a-top. . . . Thanks awfully . . . cheer-frightfully-ho!—oh! I

say!—hullo!—I say, she doesn’t do maternity work, does she? Maternity

work?—M for Mother-in-law—Maternity?—No—You’re sure? . . . It would be

simply awful if she did and came along. . . . I couldn’t possibly

produce a baby for her. . . . As long as you’re quite sure. . . .

Right—right—yes—not for the world—nothing to do with you at all.

Good-bye, old thing, good-bye.”

Lord Peter hung up, whistling cheerfully, and called for Bunter.

“My lord?”

“What is the proper suit to put on, Bunter, when one is an expectant

father?”

“I regret, my lord, to have seen no recent fashions in paternity wear. I

should say, my lord, whichever suit your lordship fancies will induce a

calm and cheerful frame of mind in the lady.”

“Unfortunately I don’t know the lady. She is, in fact, only the figment

of an over-teeming brain. But I think the garments should express bright

hope, self-congratulations, and a tinge of tender anxiety.”

“A newly married situation, my lord, I take it. Then I would suggest the

lounge suit in pale grey—the willow-pussy cloth, my lord—with a dull

amethyst tie and socks and a soft hat. I would not recommend a bowler,

my lord. The anxiety expressed in a bowler hat would be rather of the

financial kind.”

“No doubt you are right, Bunter. And I will wear those gloves that got

so unfortunately soiled yesterday at Charing Cross. I am too agitated to

worry about a clean pair.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“No stick, perhaps.”

“Subject to your lordship’s better judgment, I should suggest that a

stick may be suitably handled to express emotion.”

“You are always right, Bunter. Call me a taxi, and tell the man to drive

to Tooting.”

Nurse Forbes regretted very much. She would have liked to oblige Mr.

Simms-Gaythorpe, but she never undertook maternity work. She wondered

who could have misled Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe by giving him her name.

“Well, y’know, I can’t say I was misled,” said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe,

dropping his walking-stick and retrieving it with an ingenuous laugh.

“Miss Murgatroyd—you know Miss Murgatroyd of Leahampton, I

think—yes—she—that is, I heard about you through her” (this was a fact),

“and she said what a charming person—excuse my repeatin’ these personal

remarks, won’t you?—what a charmin’ person you were and all that, and

how nice it would be if we could persuade you to come, don’t you see.

But she said she was afraid perhaps you _didn’t_ do maternity work.

Still, y’know, I thought it was worth tryin’, what? Bein’ so anxious,

what?—about my wife, that is, you see. So necessary to have someone

young and cheery at these—er—critical times, don’t you know. Maternity

nurses often such ancient and ponderous sort of people—if you don’t mind

my sayin’ so. My wife’s highly nervous—naturally—first effort and all

that—doesn’t like middle-aged people tramplin’ round—you see the idea.”

Nurse Forbes, who was a bony woman of about forty, saw the point

perfectly, and was very sorry she really could not see her way to

undertaking the work.

“It was very kind of Miss Murgatroyd,” she said. “Do you know her well?

Such a delightful woman, is she not?”

The expectant father agreed.

“Miss Murgatroyd was so very much impressed by your sympathetic

way—don’t you know—of nursin’ that poor old lady, Miss Dawson, y’know.

Distant connection of my own as a matter of fact—er, yes—somewhere about

fifteenth cousin twelve times removed. So nervous, wasn’t she? A little

bit eccentric, like the rest of the family, but a charming old lady,

don’t you think?”

“I became very much attached to her,” said Nurse Forbes. “When she was

in full possession of her faculties, she was a most pleasant and

thoughtful patient. Of course, she was in great pain, and we had to keep

her under morphia a great part of the time.”

“Ah, yes! poor old soul! I sometimes think, Nurse, it’s a great pity we

aren’t allowed just to help people off, y’know, when they’re so far

gone. After all, they’re practically dead already, as you might say.

What’s the point of keepin’ them sufferin’ on like that?”

Nurse Forbes looked rather sharply at him.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t do,” she said, “though one understands the lay

person’s point of view, of course. Dr. Carr was not of your opinion,”

she added, a little acidly.

“I think all that fuss was simply shockin’,” said the gentleman warmly.

“Poor old soul! I said to my wife at the time, why couldn’t they let the

poor old thing rest. Fancy cuttin’ her about, when obviously she’d just

mercifully gone off in a natural way! My wife quite agreed with me. She

was quite upset about it, don’t you know.”

“It was very distressing to everybody concerned,” said Nurse Forbes,

“and of course, it put me in a very awkward position. I ought not to

talk about it, but as you are one of the family, you will quite

understand.”

“Just so. Did it ever occur to you, Nurse”—Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe leaned

forward, crushing his soft hat between his hands in a nervous

manner—“that there might be something behind all that?”

Nurse Forbes primmed up her lips.

“You know,” said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, “there _have_ been cases of

doctors tryin’ to get rich old ladies to make wills in their favour. You

don’t think—eh?”

Nurse Forbes intimated that it was not her business to think things.

“No, of course not, certainly not. But as man to man—I mean, between you

and me, what?—wasn’t there a little—er—friction, perhaps, about sending

for the solicitor-johnnie, don’t you know? Of course, my Cousin Mary—I

call her cousin, so to speak, but it’s no relation at all really—of

course, I mean, she’s an awfully nice girl and all that sort of thing,

but I’d got a sort of idea perhaps she wasn’t altogether keen on having

the will-making wallah sent for, what?”

“Oh, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, I’m sure you’re quite wrong there. Miss

Whittaker was most anxious that her aunt should have every facility in

that way. In fact—I don’t think I’m betraying any confidence in telling

you this—she said to me, ‘If at any time Miss Dawson should express a

wish to see a lawyer, be sure you send for him at once.’ And so, of

course, I did.”

“You did? And didn’t he come, then?”

“Certainly he came. There was no difficulty about it at all.”

“There! That just shows, doesn’t it? how wrong some of these gossipy

females can be! Excuse me, but y’know, I’d got absolutely the wrong

impression about the thing. I’m quite _sure_ Mrs. Peasgood said that no

lawyer had been sent for.”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Peasgood could have known about it,” said Nurse

Forbes with a sniff, “her permission was not asked in the matter.”

“Certainly not—but you know how these ideas get about. But, I say—if

there was a will, why wasn’t it produced?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe. There was no will. The lawyer

came to draw up a power of attorney, so that Miss Whittaker could sign

cheques and so on for her aunt. That was very necessary, you know, on

account of the old lady’s failing powers.”

“Yes—I suppose she was pretty woolly towards the end.”

“Well, she was quite sensible when I took over from Nurse Philliter in

September, except, of course, for that fancy she had about poisoning.”

“She really was afraid of that?”

“She said once or twice, ‘I’m not going to die to please anybody,

Nurse.’ She had great confidence in me. She got on better with me than

with Miss Whittaker, to tell you the truth, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe. But

during October, her mind began to give way altogether, and she rambled a

lot. She used to wake up sometimes all in a fright and say, ‘Have they

passed it yet, Nurse?’—just like that. I’d say, ‘No, they haven’t got

that far yet,’ and that would quiet her. Thinking of her hunting days, I

expect she was. They often go back like that, you know, when they’re

being kept under drugs. Dreaming, like, they are, half the time.”

“Then in the last month or so, I suppose she could hardly have made a

will, even if she had wanted to.”

“No, I don’t think she could have managed it then.”

“But earlier on, when the lawyer was there, she could have done so if

she had liked?”

“Certainly she could.”

“But she didn’t?”

“Oh no. I was there with her all the time, at her particular request.”

“I see. Just you and Miss Whittaker.”

“Not even Miss Whittaker most of the time. I see what you mean, Mr.

Simms-Gaythorpe, but indeed you should clear your mind of any unkind

suspicions of Miss Whittaker. The lawyer and Miss Dawson and myself were

alone together for nearly an hour, while the clerk drew up the necessary

papers in the next room. It was all done then, you see, because we

thought that a second visit would be too much for Miss Dawson. Miss

Whittaker only came in quite at the end. If Miss Dawson had wished to

make a will, she had ample opportunity to do so.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, rising to go.

“These little doubts are so apt to make unpleasantness in families,

don’t you know. Well, I must be toddlin’ now. I’m frightfully sorry you

can’t come with us, Nurse—my wife will be so disappointed. I must try to

find somebody else equally charmin’ if possible. Good-bye.”

Lord Peter removed his hat in the taxi and scratched his head

thoughtfully.

“Another good theory gone wrong,” he murmured. “Well, there’s another

string to the jolly old bow yet. Cropper first and then Crofton—that’s

the line to take, I fancy.”

Part II

THE LEGAL PROBLEM

“_The gladsome light of jurisprudence._”

Sir Edward Coke

NOTE—A genealogical table is printed at the end of the book