silk pyjamas. "May I hold the bottles and things?"
Mr. Bunter poured 3 ounces of water into an 8-ounce measure, and handed
his master a glass rod and a minute packet.
"If your lordship would be so good as to stir the contents of the white
packet slowly into the water," he said, bolting the door, "and, when
dissolved, add the contents of the blue packet."
"Just like a Seidlitz powder," said his lordship happily. "Does it
fizz?"
"Not much, my lord," replied the expert, shaking a quantity of hypo
crystals into the hand-basin.
"That's a pity," said Lord Peter. "I say, Bunter, it's no end of a bore
to dissolve."
"Yes, my lord," returned Bunter sedately. "I have always found that
part of the process exceptionally tedious, my lord."
Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.
"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get to
Waterloo."
* * * * *
Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room
at 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table
smiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced
in from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up
from a handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsome
hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.
"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"
"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has
entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is
Célestine Berger."
"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is
called Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.'
And the man?"
"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, my
lord."
"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me _Who's Who_. Was it a very tiresome
job?"
"Not exceptionally so, my lord."
"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you
_will_ jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shall
cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."
The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words
_Who's Who_ engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no
public library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript,
closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr.
Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand.
It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most
unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to
a very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It
appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled,
closed the book, and went to the telephone.
"Yes--this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?"
The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the
imperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famous
beauty in the London of the 'sixties.
"It's Peter Wimsey, duchess."
"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental
jaunting?"
"Just home--and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most
fascinating lady in England."
"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duchess.
"Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."
"I want to tell you my sins, duchess."
"You should have lived in the great days," said the voice
appreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."
"That is why I want to talk to you, duchess."
"Well, my dear, if you've committed any sins worth hearing I shall
enjoy your visit."
"You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming this
afternoon."
"I will be at home to you and to no one else. There."
"Dear lady, I kiss your hands," said Lord Peter, and he heard a deep
chuckle as the duchess rang off.
* * * * *
"You may say what you like, duchess," said Lord Peter from his
reverential position on the fender-stool, "but you are the youngest
grandmother in London, not excepting my own mother."
"Dear Honoria is the merest child," said the duchess. "I have twenty
years more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when we
boast of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmother
before I die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight's time, to that
stupid son of Attenbury's."
"Abcock?"
"Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn't know still
champagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so I
dare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have either
brains or beauty to get on--preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems to
be required but a total lack of figure. But all the sense went out of
society with the House of Lords' veto. I except you, Peter. You have
talents. It is a pity you do not employ them in politics."
"Dear lady, God forbid."
"Perhaps you are right, as things are. There were giants in my day.
Dear Dizzy. I remember so well, when his wife died, how hard we all
tried to get him--Medway had died the year before--but he was wrapped
up in that stupid Bradford woman, who had never even read a line of one
of his books, and couldn't have understood 'em if she had. And now we
have Abcock standing for Midhurst, and married to Sylvia!"
"You haven't invited me to the wedding, duchess dear. I'm so hurt,"
sighed his lordship.
"Bless you, child, _I_ didn't send out the invitations, but I suppose
your brother and that tiresome wife of his will be there. You must
come, of course, if you want to. I had no idea you had a passion for
weddings."
"Hadn't you?" said Peter. "I have a passion for this one. I want to see
Lady Sylvia wearing white satin and the family lace and diamonds, and
to sentimentalise over the days when my fox-terrier bit the stuffing
out of her doll."
"Very well, my dear, you shall. Come early and give me your support.
As for the diamonds, if it weren't a family tradition, Sylvia shouldn't
wear them. She has the impudence to complain of them."
"I thought they were some of the finest in existence."
"So they are. But she says the settings are ugly and old-fashioned,
and she doesn't like diamonds, and they won't go with her dress. Such
nonsense. Whoever heard of a girl not liking diamonds? She wants to be
something romantic and moonshiny in pearls. I have no patience with
her."
"I'll promise to admire them," said Peter--"use the privilege of early
acquaintance and tell her she's an ass and so on. I'd love to have a
view of them. When do they come out of cold storage?"
"Mr. Whitehead will bring them up from the Bank the night before," said
the duchess, "and they'll go into the safe in my room. Come round at
twelve o'clock and you shall have a private view of them."
"That would be delightful. Mind they don't disappear in the night,
won't you?"
"Oh, my dear, the house is going to be over-run with policemen. Such a
nuisance. I suppose it can't be helped."
"Oh, I think it's a good thing," said Peter. "I have rather an
unwholesome weakness for policemen."
* * * * *
On the morning of the wedding-day, Lord Peter emerged from Bunter's
hands a marvel of sleek brilliance. His primrose-coloured hair was
so exquisite a work of art that to eclipse it with his glossy hat
was like shutting up the sun in a shrine of polished jet; his spats,
light trousers, and exquisitely polished shoes formed a tone-symphony
in monochrome. It was only by the most impassioned pleading that he
persuaded his tyrant to allow him to place two small photographs and
a thin, foreign letter in his breast-pocket. Mr. Bunter, likewise
immaculately attired, stepped into the taxi after him. At noon
precisely they were deposited beneath the striped awning which adorned
the door of the Duchess of Medway's house in Park Lane. Bunter promptly
disappeared in the direction of the back entrance, while his lordship
mounted the steps and asked to see the dowager.
The majority of the guests had not yet arrived, but the house was
full of agitated people, flitting hither and thither, with flowers
and prayer-books, while a clatter of dishes and cutlery from the
dining-room proclaimed the laying of a sumptuous breakfast. Lord Peter
was shown into the morning-room while the footman went to announce
him, and here he found a very close friend and devoted colleague,
Detective-Inspector Parker, mounting guard in plain clothes over a
costly collection of white elephants. Lord Peter greeted him with an
affectionate hand-grip.
"All serene so far?" he enquired.
"Perfectly O.K."
"You got my note?"
"Sure thing. I've got three of our men shadowing your friend in
Guilford Street. The girl is very much in evidence here. Does the old
lady's wig and that sort of thing. Bit of a coming-on disposition,
isn't she?"
"You surprise me," said Lord Peter. "No"--as his friend grinned
sardonically--"you really do. Not seriously? That would throw all my
calculations out."
"Oh, no! Saucy with her eyes and her tongue, that's all."
"Do her job well?"
"I've heard no complaints. What put you on to this?"
"Pure accident. Of course I may be quite mistaken."
"Did you receive any information from Paris?"
"I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," said Lord Peter peevishly. "It's
so of the Yard--yardy. One of these days it'll give you away."
"Sorry," said Parker. "Second nature, I suppose."
"Those are the things to beware of," returned his lordship, with an
earnestness that seemed a little out of place. "One can keep guard on
everything but just those second-nature tricks." He moved across to the
window, which overlooked the tradesmen's entrance. "Hullo!" he said,
"here's our bird."
Parker joined him, and saw the neat, shingled head of the French girl
from the Gare St. Lazare, topped by a neat black bandeau and bow. A man
with a basket full of white narcissi had rung the bell, and appeared
to be trying to make a sale. Parker gently opened the window, and they
heard Célestine say with a marked French accent, "No, nossing to-day,
sank you." The man insisted in the monotonous whine of his type,
thrusting a big bunch of the white flowers upon her, but she pushed
them back into the basket with an angry exclamation and flirted away,
tossing her head and slapping the door smartly to. The man moved off
muttering. As he did so a thin, unhealthy-looking lounger in a check
cap detached himself from a lamp-post opposite and mouched along the
street after him, at the same time casting a glance up at the window.
Mr. Parker looked at Lord Peter, nodded, and made a slight sign with
his hand. At once the man in the check cap removed his cigarette from
his mouth, extinguished it, and, tucking the stub behind his ear, moved
off without a second glance.
"Very interesting," said Lord Peter, when both were out of sight.
"Hark!"
There was a sound of running feet overhead--a cry--and a general
commotion. The two men dashed to the door as the bride, rushing
frantically downstairs with her bevy of bridesmaids after her,
proclaimed in a hysterical shriek: "The diamonds! They're stolen!
They're gone!"
Instantly the house was in an uproar. The servants and the caterers'
men crowded into the hall; the bride's father burst out from his room
in a magnificent white waistcoat and no coat; the Duchess of Medway
descended upon Mr. Parker, demanding that something should be done;
while the butler, who never to the day of his death got over the
disgrace, ran out of the pantry with a corkscrew in one hand and a
priceless bottle of crusted port in the other, which he shook with all
the vehemence of a town-crier ringing a bell. The only dignified entry
was made by the dowager duchess, who came down like a ship in sail,
dragging Célestine with her, and admonishing her not to be so silly.
"Be quiet, girl," said the dowager. "Anyone would think you were going
to be murdered."
"Allow me, your grace," said Mr. Bunter, appearing suddenly from
nowhere in his usual unperturbed manner, and taking the agitated
Célestine firmly by the arm. "Young woman, calm yourself."
"But what is to be _done_?" cried the bride's mother. "How did it
happen?"
It was at this moment that Detective-Inspector Parker took the floor.
It was the most impressive and dramatic moment in his whole career. His
magnificent calm rebuked the clamorous nobility surrounding him.
"Your grace," he said, "there is no cause for alarm. Our measures have
been taken. We have the criminals and the gems, thanks to Lord Peter
Wimsey, from whom we received inf----"
"Charles!" said Lord Peter in an awful voice.
"Warning of the attempt. One of our men is just bringing in the
male criminal at the front door, taken red-handed with your grace's
diamonds in his possession." (All gazed round, and perceived indeed
the check-capped lounger and a uniformed constable entering with the
flower-seller between them.) "The female criminal, who picked the lock
of your grace's safe, is--here! No, you don't," he added, as Célestine,
amid a torrent of apache language which nobody, fortunately, had French
enough to understand, attempted to whip out a revolver from the bosom
of her demure black dress. "Célestine Berger," he continued, pocketing
the weapon, "I arrest you in the name of the law, and I warn you that
anything you say will be taken down and used as evidence against you."
"Heaven help us," said Lord Peter; "the roof would fly off the court.
And you've got the name wrong, Charles. Ladies and gentlemen, allow
me to introduce to you Jacques Lerouge, known as Sans-culotte--the
youngest and cleverest thief, safe-breaker, and female impersonator
that ever occupied a dossier in the Palais de Justice."
There was a gasp. Jacques Sans-culotte gave vent to a low oath and
cocked a _gamin_ grimace at Peter.
"C'est parfait," said he; "toutes mes félicitations, milord, what you
call a fair cop, hein? And now I know him," he added, grinning at
Bunter, "the so-patient Englishman who stand behind us in the queue at
St. Lazare. But tell me, please, how you know me, that I may correct
it, _next time_."
"I have mentioned to you before, Charles," said Lord Peter, "the
unwisdom of falling into habits of speech. They give you away. Now,
in France, every male child is brought up to use masculine adjectives
about himself. He says: Que je suis beau! But a little girl has it
rammed home to her that she is female; she must say: Que je suis belle!
It must make it beastly hard to be a female impersonator. When I am at
a station and I hear an excited young woman say to her companion, 'Me
prends-tu pour _un_ imbécile'--the masculine article arouses curiosity.
And that's that!" he concluded briskly. "The rest was merely a matter
of getting Bunter to take a photograph and communicating with our
friends of the Sureté and Scotland Yard."
Jacques Sans-culotte bowed again.
"Once more I congratulate milord. He is the only Englishman I have ever
met who is capable of appreciating our beautiful language. I will pay
great attention in future to the article in question."
With an awful look, the Dowager Duchess of Medway advanced upon Lord
Peter.
"Peter," she said, "do you mean to say you _knew_ about this, and
that for the last three weeks you have allowed me to be dressed and
undressed and put to bed by a _young man_?"
His lordship had the grace to blush.
"Duchess," he said humbly, "on my honour I didn't know absolutely for
certain till this morning. And the police were so anxious to have these
people caught red-handed. What can I do to show my penitence? Shall I
cut the privileged beast in pieces?"
The grim old mouth relaxed a little.
"After all," said the dowager duchess, with the delightful
consciousness that she was going to shock her daughter-in-law, "there
are very few women of my age who could make the same boast. It seems
that we die as we have lived, my dear."
For indeed the Dowager Duchess of Medway had been notable in her day.
THE FASCINATING PROBLEM OF UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL
"You look a little worried, Bunter," said his lordship kindly to his
manservant. "Is there anything I can do?"
The valet's face brightened as he released his employer's grey trousers
from the press.
"Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think," he said
hopefully, "of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaning
two."
"Also," suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.
"I beg your lordship's pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters."
"Nonsense!" said Lord Peter. "How about that bath?"
"It should be just about ready, my lord."
Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge
of the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June
that year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam
wreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into
the bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In a husky light tenor
he carolled a few bars of "_Maman, dites-moi_." Then a thought struck
him, and he turned back.
"Bunter!"
"My lord?"
"No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell."
"I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord."
"Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch," said his lordship
approvingly.
His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into the
verbena-scented water. His eyes roamed vaguely over the pale
blue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.
Mr. Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stove
when the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It was
empty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been the
bathroom bell. The words "heart-attack" formed swiftly in his mind, to
be displaced by the still more alarming thought, "No soap." He opened
the door almost nervously.
"Did you ring, my lord?" he demanded of Lord Peter's head, alone
visible.
"Yes," said his lordship abruptly; "Ambsace."
"I beg your lordship's pardon?"
"Ambsace. Word of seven letters. Meaning two. With S in the middle. Two
aces. Ambsace."
Bunter's expression became beatified.
"Undoubtedly correct," he said, pulling a small sheet of paper from
his pocket, and entering the word upon it in pencil. "I am extremely
obliged to your lordship. In that case the 'indifferent cook in six
letters ending with _red_' must be Alfred."
Lord Peter waved a dismissive hand.
* * * * *
On re-entering his bedroom, Lord Peter was astonished to see his sister
Mary seated in his own particular chair and consuming his buttered
eggs. He greeted her with a friendly acerbity, demanding why she should
look him up at that unearthly hour.
"I'm riding with Freddy Arbuthnot," said her ladyship, "as you might
see by my legs, if you were really as big a Sherlock as you make out."
"Riding," replied her brother; "I had already deduced, though I admit
that Freddy's name was not writ large, to my before-breakfast eye, upon
the knees of your breeches. But why this visit?"
"Well, because you were on the way," said Lady Mary, "and I'm booked
up all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with me
to-night."
"Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking's beastly, the
men don't shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last time
I went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thought
you'd chucked the Soviet Club."
"It isn't me. It's Hannah Marryat."
"What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and the
brogues?"
"Well, she's never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That's just
what I want your help about."
"My dear child, I can't cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can do
most things."
"Silly. No. But she's got--that is, she used to have--an uncle, the
very rich, curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny.
Well, he's dead, and they can't find his will."
"Perhaps he didn't make one."
"Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hid
it, and it can't be found."
"Is the will in her favour?"
"Yes."
"Who's the next-of-kin?"
"She and her mother are the only members of the family left."
"Well, then, she's only got to sit tight and she'll get the goods."
"No--because the horrid old man left two wills, and, if she can't find
the latest one, they'll prove the first one. He explained that to her
carefully."
"Oh, I see. H'm. By the way, I thought the young woman was a Socialist."
"Oh, she is. Terrifically so. One really can't help admiring her. She
has done some wonderful work----"
"Yes, I dare say. But in that case I don't see why she need be so keen
on getting uncle's dollars."
Mary began to chuckle.
"Ah! but that's where Uncle Meleager----"
"Uncle _what_?"
"Meleager. That's his name. Meleager Finch."
"Oh!"
"Yes--well, that's where he's been so clever. Unless she finds the new
will, the old will comes into force and hands over every penny of the
money to the funds of the Primrose League."
Lord Peter gave a little yelp of joy.
"Good for Uncle Meleager! But, look here, Polly, I'm a Tory, if
anything. I'm certainly not a Red. Why should I help to snatch the
good gold from the Primrose Leaguers and hand it over to the Third
International? Uncle Meleager's a sport. I take to Uncle Meleager."
"Oh, but Peter, I really don't think she'll do that with it. Not at
present, anyway. They're awfully poor, and her mother ought to have
some frightfully difficult operation or something, and go and live
abroad, so it really is ever so important they should get the money.
And perhaps Hannah wouldn't be quite so Red if she'd ever had a bean of
her own. Besides, you could make it a condition of helping her that she
should go and get properly shingled at Bresil's."
"You are a very cynically-minded person," said his lordship. "However,
it would be fun to have a go at Uncle M. Was he obliging enough to give
any clues for finding the will?"
"He wrote a funny sort of letter, which we can't make head or tail of.
Come to the club to-night and she'll show it to you."
"Right-ho! Seven o'clock do? And we could go on and see a show
afterwards. Do you mind clearing out now? I'm going to get dressed."
* * * * *
Amid a deafening babble of voices in a low-pitched cellar, the Soviet
Club meets and dines. Ethics and sociology, the latest vortices of
the Whirligig school of verse, combine with the smoke of countless
cigarettes to produce an inspissated atmosphere, through which flat,
angular mural paintings dimly lower upon the revellers. There is
painfully little room for the elbows, or indeed for any part of one's
body. Lord Peter--his feet curled under his chair to avoid the stray
kicks of the heavy brogues opposite him--was acutely conscious of an
unbecoming attitude and an overheated feeling about the head. He found
it difficult to get any response from Hannah Marryat. Under her heavy,
ill-cut fringe her dark eyes gloomed sombrely at him. At the same time
he received a strong impression of something enormously vital. He had
a sudden fancy that if she were set free from self-defensiveness and
the importance of being earnest, she would exhibit unexpected powers of
enjoyment. He was interested, but oppressed. Mary, to his great relief,
suggested that they should have their coffee upstairs.
They found a quiet corner with comfortable chairs.
"Well, now," said Mary encouragingly.
"Of course you understand," said Miss Marryat mournfully, "that if it
were not for the monstrous injustice of Uncle Meleager's other will,
and mother being so ill, I shouldn't take any steps. But when there is
£250,000, and the prospect of doing real good with it----"
"Naturally," said Lord Peter, "it isn't the money you care about, as
the dear old bromide says, it's the principle of the thing. Right you
are! Now supposin' we have a look at Uncle Meleager's letter."
Miss Marryat rummaged in a very large hand-bag and passed the paper
over.
This was Uncle Meleager's letter, dated from Siena twelve months
previously.
"My dear Hannah,--When I die--which I propose to do at my own
convenience and not at that of my family--you will at last discover
my monetary worth. It is, of course, considerably less than you
had hoped, and quite fails, I assure you, adequately to represent
my actual worth in the eyes of the discerning. I made my will
yesterday, leaving the entire sum, such as it is, to the Primrose
League--a body quite as fatuous as any other in our preposterous
state, but which has the advantage of being peculiarly obnoxious to
yourself. This will will be found in the safe in the library.