You'll soon see whether it's true or whether it's just my diseased
imagination."
"I think this whole conversation is disgusting," cried Mrs. Burdock.
"Don't listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day after
father's funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting story
I simply can't imagine. It is not worth paying a moment's attention to.
You will certainly not permit your father's body to be disturbed. It's
horrible. It's a desecration."
"It is very unpleasant indeed," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gravely, "but if
Lord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, which
I can scarcely credit----"
Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.
"--then I feel bound to remind you, Mr. Burdock, that your brother,
when he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated."
"But he can't, can he?" said Mrs. Burdock.
"Of course he can, Winnie," snapped her husband savagely. "He's an
executor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have to
forbid it. Don't be a fool."
"If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too," said Mrs. Burdock.
"Oh, well!" said Mrs. Hancock, "shocking as it may seem, there's the
money to be considered. Mr. Martin might think it a duty to his wife,
and his family, if he should ever have any----"
"The whole thing is preposterous," said Haviland decidedly. "I don't
believe a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first person
to take action in the matter--not only in justice to Martin, but on my
own account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man like
Mortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church--the thing only
has to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable it
is. I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, with
criminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can only
say that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become so
blunted to all decent feeling. That's all. Good afternoon."
Mr. Frobisher-Pym jumped up.
"Come, come, Burdock, don't take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peter
intended no discourtesy. I must say I think he's all wrong, but, 'pon
my soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last few
days, I'm not surprised anybody should think there was something behind
it. Now, let's forget about it--and hadn't we better be moving out of
this terribly cold room? It's nearly dinner-time. Bless me, what will
Agatha think of us?"
Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.
"I'm sorry," said Wimsey. "I suffer from hypertrophy of the
imagination, y'know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don't
mind me. I apologise, and all that."
"I don't think, Lord Peter," said Mrs. Burdock acidly, "you ought to
exercise your imagination at the expense of good taste."
Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was so
disturbed that he carried away the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ beneath his
arm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circumstances.
* * * * *
"I am gravely distressed," said Mr. Hancock.
He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon the
Frobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed with
anxiety.
"I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been a
grievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing a
dead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is grave
enough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour--the mockery of sacred
things--the making use of the holy services of his religion to further
worldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, and
exhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems to
realise the sinfulness of his conduct. I feel it very much, as a priest
and as a pastor--very much indeed."
"Oh, well, Hancock," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "you must make allowances,
you know. Hubbard's not a bad fellow, but you can't expect refinement
of feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to do
about it? Mr. Burdock must be told, of course. It's a most awkward
situation. Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say?
How did he come to do that?"
"I taxed him with it," said the parson. "When I came to think over
Lord Peter Wimsey's remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed to
me--I cannot say why--that there might be some truth in the story,
wild as it appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floor
of the Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantity
of sawdust among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key of
the furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a little
distance--in fact, within a stone's throw--of the furnace-house window.
I sought guidance in prayer--and from my wife, whose judgment I greatly
respect--and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. It
was a great relief to me that he did not present himself at Early
Celebration. Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples."
"Just so, just so," said the magistrate, a little impatiently. "Well,
you taxed him with it, and he confessed?"
"He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He even
laughed. It was a most painful interview."
"I am sure it must have been," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.
"We must go and see Mr. Burdock," said the magistrate, rising.
"Whatever old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitous
will of his, it's quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinson
were entirely in the wrong. Upon my word, I've no idea whether it's an
indictable offence to steal a body. I must look it up. But I should
say it was. If there is any property in a corpse, it must belong to
the family or the executors. And in any case, it's sacrilege, to say
nothing of the scandal in the parish. I must say, Hancock, it won't do
us any good in the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt you
realise that. Well, it's an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackle
it the better. I'll run over to the vicarage with you and help you to
break it to the Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, after
all, and I think Burdock owes you an apology."
"Oh, I'll keep out of it," said Wimsey. "I shan't be exactly _persona
grata_, don't you know. It's going to mean a deuce of a big financial
loss to the Haviland Burdocks."
"So it is. Most unpleasant. Well, perhaps you're right. Come along,
vicar."
Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for half
an hour or so, when Mr. Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:
"I say, Wimsey--we're all going over to Mortimer's. I wish you'd come
and drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and I
don't care about driving at night, particularly in this fog."
"Right you are," said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in a
few moments wearing a heavy leather flying-coat, and with a parcel
under his arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into the
driving-seat, and was soon steering cautiously through the mist along
the Herriotting Road.
He smiled a little grimly to himself as they came up under the trees
to the spot where the phantom coach had passed him. As they passed the
gate through which the ingenious apparition had vanished, he indulged
himself by pointing it out, and was rewarded by hearing a snarl from
Haviland. At the well-remembered fork, he took the right-hand turning
into Frimpton and drove steadily for six miles or so, till a warning
shout from Mr. Frobisher-Pym summoned him to look out for the turning
up to Mortimer's.
Mr. Mortimer's house, with its extensive stabling and farm buildings,
stood about two miles back from the main road. In the darkness Wimsey
could see little of it; but he noticed that the ground-floor windows
were all lit up, and, when the door opened to the magistrate's
imperative ring, a loud burst of laughter from the interior gave
evidence that Mr. Mortimer was not taking his misdoings too seriously.
"Is Mr. Mortimer at home?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym, in the tone of a
man not to be trifled with.
"Yes, sir. Will you come in, please?"
They stepped into a large, old-fashioned hall, brilliantly lit, and
made cosy with a heavy oak screen across the door. As Wimsey advanced,
blinking, from the darkness, he saw a large, thick-set man, with a
ruddy face, advancing with hand outstretched in welcome.
"Frobisher-Pym! By Jove! how decent of you to come over! We've got some
old friends of yours here. Oh!" (in a slightly altered tone) "Burdock!
Well, well----"
"Damn you!" said Haviland Burdock, thrusting furiously past the
magistrate, who was trying to hold him back. "Damn you, you swine!
Chuck this bloody farce. What have you done with the body?"
"The body, eh?" said Mr. Mortimer, retreating in some confusion.
"Yes, curse you! Your friend Hubbard's split. It's no good denying it.
What the devil do you mean by it? You've got the body here somewhere.
Where is it? Hand it over!"
He strode threateningly round the screen into the lamplight. A tall,
thin man rose up unexpectedly from the depths of an arm-chair and
confronted him.
"Hold hard, old man!"
"Good God!" said Haviland, stepping heavily back on Wimsey's toes.
"Martin!"
"Sure," said the other. "Here I am. Come back like a bad half-penny.
How are you?"
"So _you're_ at the bottom of this!" stormed Haviland. "I might have
known it. You damned, dirty hound! I suppose you think it's decent to
drag your father out of his coffin and tote him about the country like
a circus. It's degrading. It's disgusting. It's abominable. You must be
perfectly dead to all decent feeling. You don't deny it, I suppose?"
"I say, Burdock!" expostulated Mortimer.
"Shut up, curse you!" said Haviland. "I'll deal with you in a minute.
Now, look here, Martin, I'm not going to stand any more of this
disgraceful behaviour. You'll give up that body, and----"
"Just a moment, just a moment," said Martin. He stood, smiling a
little, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner-jacket. "This
_éclaircissement_ seems to be rather public. Who are all these people?
Oh, it's the vicar, I see. I'm afraid we owe you a little explanation,
vicar. And, er----"
"This is Lord Peter Wimsey," put in Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "who discovered
your--I'm afraid, Burdock, I must agree with your brother in calling it
your disgraceful plot."
"Oh, Lord!" said Martin. "I say, Mortimer, you didn't know you were up
against Lord Peter Wimsey, did you? No wonder the cat got out of the
bag. The man's known to be a perfect Sherlock. However, I seem to have
got home at the crucial moment, so there's no harm done. Diana, this is
Lord Peter Wimsey--my wife."
A young and pretty woman in a black evening dress greeted Wimsey with a
shy smile, and turned deprecatingly to her brother-in-law.
"Haviland, we want to explain----"
He paid no attention to her.
"Now then, Martin, the game's up."
"I think it is, Haviland. But why make all this racket?"
"Racket! I like that. You take your own father's body out of its
coffin----"
"No, no, Haviland. I knew nothing about it. I swear that. I only got
the news of his death a few days ago. We were right out in the wilds,
filming a show in the Pyrenees, and I came straight back as soon as I
could get away. Mortimer here, with Rawlinson and Hubbard, staged the
whole show by themselves. I never heard a word about it till yesterday
morning in Paris, when I found his letter waiting at my old digs.
Honestly, Haviland, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I? I didn't
need to."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if I'd been here, I should only have had to speak to stop the
funeral altogether. Why on earth should I have gone to the trouble of
stealing the body? Quite apart from the irreverence and all that. As it
is, when Mortimer told me about it, I must say I was a bit revolted at
the idea, though I appreciated the kindness and the trouble they'd been
to on my account. I think Mr. Hancock has most cause for wrath, really.
But Mortimer has been as careful as possible, sir--really he has. He
has placed the old governor quite reverently and decently in what used
to be the chapel, and put flowers round him and so on. You will be
quite satisfied, I'm sure."
"Yes, yes," said Mortimer. "No disrespect intended, don't you know.
Come and see him."
"This is dreadful," said the vicar helplessly.
"They had to do the best they could, don't you see, in my absence,"
said Martin. "As soon as I can, I'll make proper arrangements for a
suitable tomb--above ground, of course. Or possibly cremation would fit
the case."
"What!" gasped Haviland. "Do you mean to say you imagine I'm going to
let my father stay unburied, simply because of your disgusting greed
about money?"
"My dear chap, do you think I'm going to let you put him underground,
simply to enable you to grab my property?"
"I'm the executor of his will, and I say he shall be buried, whether
you like it or not!"
"And _I'm_ an executor too--and I say he shan't be buried. He can be
kept absolutely decently above ground, and he shall be."
"But hear me," said the vicar, distracted between these two
disagreeable and angry young men.
"I'll see what Graham says about you," bawled Haviland.
"Oh, yes--the honest lawyer, Graham," sneered Martin. "_He_ knew what
was in the will, didn't he? I suppose he didn't mention it to _you_, by
any chance?"
"He did not," retorted Haviland. "He knew too well the sort of skunk
_you_ were to say anything about it. Not content with disgracing us
with your miserable, blackmailing marriage----"
"Mr. Burdock, Mr. Burdock----"
"Take care, Haviland!"
"You have no more decency----"
"Stop it!"
"Than to steal your father's body and my money so that you and your
damned wife can carry on your loose-living, beastly ways with a parcel
of film-actors and chorus-girls----"
"Now then, Haviland. Keep your tongue off my wife and my friends. How
about your own? Somebody told me Winnie'd been going the pace pretty
well--next door to bankruptcy, aren't you, with the gees and the tables
and God knows what! No wonder you want to do your brother out of his
money. I never thought much of you, Haviland, but by God----"
"One moment!"
Mr. Frobisher-Pym at last succeeded in asserting himself, partly
through the habit of authority, and partly because the brothers had
shouted themselves breathless.
"One moment, Martin. I will call you so, because I have known you a
long time, and your father too. I understand your anger at the things
Haviland has said. They were unpardonable, as I am sure he will realise
when he comes to his right mind. But you must remember that he has
been greatly shocked and upset--as we all have been--by this very very
painful business. And it is not fair to say that Haviland has tried to
'do you out' of anything. He knew nothing about this iniquitous will,
and he naturally saw to it that the funeral arrangements were carried
out in the usual way. You must settle the future amicably between you,
just as you would have done had the will not been accidentally mislaid.
Now, Martin--and Haviland too--think it over. My dear boys, this scene
is simply appalling. It really must not happen. Surely the estate can
be divided up in a friendly manner between you. It is horrible that an
old man's body should be a bone of contention between his own sons,
just over a matter of money."
"I'm sorry," said Martin. "I forgot myself. You're quite right, sir.
Look here, Haviland, forget it. I'll let you have half the money----"
"Half the money! But it's all mine. _You'll_ let me have half? How
damned generous! My own money!"
"No, old man. It's mine at the moment. The governor's not buried yet,
you know. That's right, isn't it, Mr. Frobisher-Pym?"
"Yes; the money is yours, legally, at this moment. You must see that,
Haviland. But your brother offers you half, and----"
"Half! I'm damned if I'll take half. The man's tried to swindle me out
of it. I'll send for the police, and have him put in gaol for robbing
the Church. You see if I don't. Give me the telephone."
"Excuse me," said Wimsey. "I don't want to butt in on your family
affairs any more than I have already, but I really don't advise you to
send for the police."
"_You_ don't, eh? What the hell's it got to do with you?"
"Well," said Wimsey deprecatingly, "if this will business comes into
court, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the bird
who found the thing, don't you see?"
"Well, then?"
"Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have been
where I found it."
Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.
"What about it, curse you!"
"Yes. Well, you see, it's rather odd when you come to think of it.
I mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcase
before he went abroad. That was--how long ago? Three years? Five years?"
"About four years."
"Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get into
the library, hasn't she? No fires, and the window getting broken,
and so on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin' to anybody like
myself, you know. Yes. Well, supposin' they asked that question about
the will--and you said it had been there in the damp for four years.
Wouldn't they think it a bit funny if I told 'em that there was a big
damp stain like a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and a
big, damp, grinning face on the jolly old _Nüremberg Chronicle_ to
correspond with it, and no stain on the will which had been sittin' for
four years between the two?"
Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. "Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!"
"Shut up!"
Haviland snapped round at his wife with a cry of rage, and she
collapsed into a chair, with her hand snatched to her mouth.
"Thank you, Winnie," said Martin. "No, Haviland--don't trouble to
explain. Winnie's given the show away. So you knew--you _knew_ about
the will, and you deliberately hid it away and let the funeral go
on. I'm immensely obliged to you--nearly as obliged as I am to the
discreet Graham. Is it fraud or conspiracy or what, to conceal wills?
Mr. Frobisher-Pym will know."
"Dear, dear!" said the magistrate. "Are you certain of your facts,
Wimsey?"
"Positive," said Wimsey, producing the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ from
under his arm. "Here's the stain--you can see it yourself. Forgive me
for having borrowed your property, Mr. Burdock. I was rather afraid
Mr. Haviland might think this little discrepancy over in the still
watches of the night, and decide to sell the _Chronicle_, or give it
away, or even think it looked better without its back pages and cover.
Allow me to return it to you, Mr. Martin--intact. You will perhaps
excuse my saying that I don't very much admire any of the rôles in this
melodrama. It throws, as Mr. Pecksniff would say, a sad light on human
nature. But I resent extremely the way in which I was wangled up to
that bookshelf and made to be the bright little independent witness who
found the will. I may be an ass, Mr. Haviland Burdock, but I'm not a
bloody ass. Good night. I will wait in the car till you are all ready."
Wimsey stalked out with some dignity.
Presently he was followed by the vicar and by Mr. Frobisher-Pym.
"Mortimer's taking Haviland and his wife to the station," said the
magistrate. "They're going back to town at once. You can send their
traps off in the morning, Hancock. We'd better make ourselves scarce."
Wimsey pressed the self-starter.
As he did so, a man ran hastily down the steps and came up to him. It
was Martin.
"I say," he muttered. "You've done me a good turn--more than I deserve,
I'm afraid. You must think I'm a damned swine. But I'll see the old man
decently put away, and I'll share with Haviland. You mustn't judge him
too hardly, either. That wife of his is an awful woman. Run him over
head and ears in debt. Bust up his business. I'll see it's all squared
up. See? Don't want you to think us too awful."
"Oh, right-ho!" said Wimsey.
He slipped in the clutch, and faded away into the wet, white fog.
THE VINDICTIVE STORY OF THE FOOTSTEPS THAT RAN
Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth.
"I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir," he said deferentially,
"unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, which
you would wish put on record."
"Not to-day," replied the doctor. He took the last stricken rat
gently from the table, and replaced it in its cage with an air of
satisfaction. "Perhaps on Wednesday, if Lord Peter can kindly spare
your services once again----"
"What's that?" murmured his lordship, withdrawing his long nose from
the investigation of a number of unattractive-looking glass jars. "Nice
old dog," he added vaguely. "Wags his tail when you mention his name,
what? Are these monkey-glands, Hartman, or a south-west elevation of
Cleopatra's duodenum?"
"You don't know anything, do you?" said the young physician, laughing.
"No use playing your bally-fool-with-an-eyeglass tricks on me, Wimsey.
I'm up to them. I was saying to Bunter that I'd be no end grateful if
you'd let him turn up again three days hence to register the progress
of the specimens--always supposing they do progress, that is."
"Why ask, dear old thing?" said his lordship. "Always a pleasure to
assist a fellow-sleuth, don't you know. Trackin' down murderers--all
in the same way of business and all that. All finished? Good egg! By
the way, if you don't have that cage mended you'll lose one of your
patients--Number 5. The last wire but one is workin' loose--assisted by
the intelligent occupant. Jolly little beasts, ain't they? No need of
dentists--wish I was a rat--wire much better for the nerves than that
fizzlin' drill."
Dr. Hartman uttered a little exclamation.
"How in the world did you notice that, Wimsey? I didn't think you'd
even looked at the cage."
"Built noticin'--improved by practice," said Lord Peter quietly.
"Anythin' wrong leaves a kind of impression on the eye; brain trots
along afterwards with the warnin'. I saw that when we came in. Only
just grasped it. Can't say my mind was glued on the matter. Shows the
victim's improvin', anyhow. All serene, Bunter?"
"Everything perfectly satisfactory, I trust, my lord," replied the
manservant. He had packed up his camera and plates, and was quietly
restoring order in the little laboratory, whose fittings--compact as
those of an ocean liner--had been disarranged for the experiment.
"Well," said the doctor, "I am enormously obliged to you, Lord
Peter, and to Bunter too. I am hoping for a great result from these
experiments, and you cannot imagine how valuable an assistance it will
be to me to have a really good series of photographs. I can't afford
this sort of thing--yet," he added, his rather haggard young face
wistful as he looked at the great camera, "and I can't do the work at
the hospital. There's no time; I've got to be here. A struggling G.P.
can't afford to let his practice go, even in Bloomsbury. There are
times when even a half-crown visit makes all the difference between
making both ends meet and having an ugly hiatus."
"As Mr. Micawber said," replied Wimsey, "'Income twenty pounds,
expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six--result: happiness; expenditure
twenty pounds, ought, six--result: misery.' Don't prostrate
yourself in gratitude, old bean; nothin' Bunter loves like messin'
round with pyro and hyposulphite. Keeps his hand in. All kinds of
practice welcome. Finger-prints and process plates spell seventh
what-you-may-call-it of bliss, but focal-plane work on scurvy-ridden
rodents (good phrase!) acceptable if no crime forthcoming. Crimes
have been rather short lately. Been eatin' our heads off, haven't we,
Bunter? Don't know what's come over London. I've taken to prying into
my neighbour's affairs to keep from goin' stale. Frightened the postman
into a fit the other day by askin' him how his young lady at Croydon
was. He's a married man, livin' in Great Ormond Street."
"How did you know?"
"Well, I didn't really. But he lives just opposite to a friend of
mine--Inspector Parker; and his wife--not Parker's; he's unmarried;
the postman's, I mean--asked Parker the other day whether the flyin'
shows at Croydon went on all night. Parker, bein' flummoxed, said
'No,' without thinkin'. Bit of a give-away, what? Thought I'd give the
poor devil a word in season, don't you know. Uncommonly thoughtless of
Parker."