misled. Had not I had the advantage of Lord Peter's expert opinion--for
certainly nobody who could mistake Montrachet for Sauterne has any
claim to the name of Wimsey--I should have pronounced this to be,
not the Montrachet-Aîné, but the Chevalier-Montrachet of the same
year, which is a trifle sweeter. But no doubt, as your lordship says,
drinking it with the soup has caused it to appear sweeter to me than it
actually is."
The count looked sharply at him, but made no comment.
"Have another olive," said Peter I kindly. "You can't judge wine if
your mind is on other flavours."
"Thanks frightfully," said Bredon. "And that reminds me----" He
launched into a rather pointless story about olives, which lasted out
the soup and bridged the interval to the entrance of an exquisitely
cooked sole.
The count's eye followed the pale amber wine rather thoughtfully as
it trilled into the glasses. Bredon raised his in the approved manner
to his nostrils, and his face flushed a little. With the first sip he
turned excitedly to his host.
"Good God, sir----" he began.
The lifted hand cautioned him to silence.
Peter I sipped, inhaled, sipped again, and his brows clouded. Peter
II had by this time apparently abandoned his pretensions. He drank
thirstily, with a beaming smile and a lessening hold upon reality.
"Eh bien, monsieur?" enquired the count gently.
"This," said Peter I, "is certainly hock, and the noblest hock I have
ever tasted, but I must admit that for the moment I cannot precisely
place it."
"No?" said Bredon. His voice was like bean-honey now, sweet and harsh
together. "Nor the other gentleman? And yet I fancy I could place it
within a couple of miles, though it is a wine I had hardly looked to
find in a French cellar at this time. It is hock, as your lordship
says, and at that it is Johannisberger. Not the plebeian cousin, but
the _echter_ Schloss Johannisberger from the castle vineyard itself.
Your lordship must have missed it (to your great loss) during the war
years. My father laid some down the year before he died, but it appears
that the ducal cellars at Denver were less well furnished."
"I must set about remedying the omission," said the remaining Peter,
with determination.
The _poulet_ was served to the accompaniment of an argument over the
Lafitte, his lordship placing it at 1878, Bredon maintaining it to be a
relic of the glorious 'seventy-fives, slightly over-matured, but both
agreeing as to its great age and noble pedigree.
As to the Clos-Vougeôt, on the other hand, there was complete
agreement; after a tentative suggestion of 1915, it was pronounced
finally by Peter I to belong to the equally admirable though slightly
lighter 1911 crop. The _pré-salé_ was removed amid general applause,
and the dessert was brought in.
"Is it necessary," asked Peter I, with a slight smile in the direction
of Peter II--now happily murmuring, "Damn good wine, damn good dinner,
damn good show"--"is it necessary to prolong this farce any further?"
"Your lordship will not, surely, refuse to proceed with the
discussion?" cried the count.
"The point is sufficiently made, I fancy."
"But no one will surely ever refuse to discuss wine," said Bredon,
"least of all your lordship, who is so great an authority."
"Not on this," said the other. "Frankly, it is a wine I do not care
about. It is sweet and coarse, qualities that would damn any wine in
the eyes--the mouth, rather--of a connoisseur. Did your excellent
father have this laid down also, Mr. Bredon?"
Bredon shook his head.
"No," he said, "no. Genuine Imperial Tokay is beyond the opportunities
of Grub Street, I fear. Though I agree with you that it is horribly
overrated--with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte."
"In that case," said the count, "we will pass at once to the liqueur.
I admit that I had thought of puzzling these gentlemen with the local
product, but, since one competitor seems to have scratched, it shall be
brandy--the only fitting close to a good wine-list."
In a slightly embarrassing silence the huge, round-bellied balloon
glasses were set upon the table, and the few precious drops poured
gently into each and set lightly swinging to release the bouquet.
"This," said Peter I, charmed again into amiability, "is, indeed, a
wonderful old French brandy. Half a century old, I suppose."
"Your lordship's praise lacks warmth," replied Bredon. "This is _the_
brandy--the brandy of brandies--the superb--the incomparable--the true
Napoleon. It should be honoured like the emperor it is."
He rose to his feet, his napkin in his hand.
"Sir," said the count, turning to him, "I have on my right a most
admirable judge of wine, but you are unique." He motioned to Pierre,
who solemnly brought forward the empty bottles, unswathed now, from the
humble Chablis to the stately Napoleon, with the imperial seal blown
in the glass. "Every time you have been correct as to growth and year.
There cannot be six men in the world with such a palate as yours, and I
thought that but one of them was an Englishman. Will you not favour us,
this time, with your real name?"
"It doesn't matter what his name is," said Peter I. He rose. "Put up
your hands, all of you. Count, the formula!"
Bredon's hands came up with a jerk, still clutching the napkin. The
white folds spurted flame as his shot struck the other's revolver
cleanly between trigger and barrel, exploding the charge, to the
extreme detriment of the glass chandelier. Peter I stood shaking his
paralysed hand and cursing.
Bredon kept him covered while he cocked a wary eye at Peter II, who,
his rosy visions scattered by the report, seemed struggling back to
aggressiveness.
"Since the entertainment appears to be taking a lively turn," observed
Bredon, "perhaps you would be so good, count, as to search these
gentlemen for further firearms. Thank you. Now, why should we not all
sit down again and pass the bottle round?"
"You--_you_ are----" growled Peter I.
"Oh, my name is Bredon all right," said the young man cheerfully. "I
loathe aliases. Like another fellow's clothes, you know--never seem
quite to fit. Peter Death Bredon Wimsey--a bit lengthy and all that,
but handy when taken in instalments. I've got a passport and all those
things, too, but I didn't offer them, as their reputation here seems
a little blown upon, so to speak. As regards the formula, I think
I'd better give you my personal cheque for it--all sorts of people
seem able to go about flourishing Bank of England notes. Personally,
I think all this secret diplomacy work is a mistake, but that's the
War Office's pigeon. I suppose we all brought similar credentials.
Yes, I thought so. Some bright person seems to have sold himself very
successfully in two places at once. But you two must have been having a
lively time, each thinking the other was me."
"My lord," said the count heavily, "these two men are, or were,
Englishmen, I suppose. I do not care to know what Governments have
purchased their treachery. But where they stand, I, alas! stand too.
To our venal and corrupt Republic I, as a Royalist, acknowledge no
allegiance. But it is in my heart that I have agreed to sell my country
to England because of my poverty. Go back to your War Office and
say I will not give you the formula. If war should come between our
countries--which may God avert!--I will be found on the side of France.
That, my lord, is my last word."
Wimsey bowed.
"Sir," said he, "it appears that my mission has, after all, failed.
I am glad of it. This trafficking in destruction is a dirty kind of
business after all. Let us shut the door upon these two, who are
neither flesh nor fowl, and finish the brandy in the library."
THE LEARNED ADVENTURE OF THE DRAGON'S HEAD
"Uncle Peter!"
"Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don't think I'll take the Catullus, Mr.
Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without either
the title or the last folio, what? But you might send me round the
Vitruvius and the Satyricon when they come in; I'd like to have a look
at them, anyhow. Well, old man, what is it?"
"Do come and look at these pictures, Uncle Peter. I'm sure it's an
awfully old book."
Lord Peter Wimsey sighed as he picked his way out of Mr. Ffolliott's
dark back shop, strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of many libraries.
An unexpected outbreak of measles at Mr. Bultridge's excellent
preparatory school, coinciding with the absence of the Duke and
Duchess of Denver on the Continent, had saddled his lordship with his
ten-year-old nephew, Viscount St. George, more commonly known as Young
Jerry, Jerrykins, or Pickled Gherkins. Lord Peter was not one of those
born uncles who delight old nurses by their fascinating "way with"
children. He succeeded, however, in earning tolerance on honourable
terms by treating the young with the same scrupulous politeness
which he extended to their elders. He therefore prepared to receive
Gherkins's discovery with respect, though a child's taste was not to
be trusted, and the book might quite well be some horror of woolly
mezzotints or an inferior modern reprint adorned with leprous electros.
Nothing much better was really to be expected from the "cheap shelf"
exposed to the dust of the street.
"Uncle! there's such a funny man here, with a great long nose and
ears and a tail and dogs' heads all over his body. _Monstrum hoc
Cracoviæ_--that's a monster, isn't it? I should jolly well think it
was. What's _Cracoviæ_, Uncle Peter?"
"Oh," said Lord Peter, greatly relieved, "the Cracow monster?" A
portrait of that distressing infant certainly argued a respectable
antiquity. "Let's have a look. Quite right, it's a very old
book--Munster's _Cosmographia Universalis_. I'm glad you know good
stuff when you see it, Gherkins. What's the _Cosmographia_ doing out
here, Mr. Ffolliott, at five bob?"
"Well, my lord," said the bookseller, who had followed his customers to
the door, "it's in a very bad state, you see; covers loose and nearly
all the double-page maps missing. It came in a few weeks ago--dumped in
with a collection we bought from a gentleman in Norfolk--you'll find
his name in it--Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor. Of course, we might keep
it and try to make up a complete copy when we get another example. But
it's rather out of our line, as you know, classical authors being our
speciality. So we just put it out to go for what it would fetch in the
_status quo_, as you might say."
"Oh, look!" broke in Gherkins. "Here's a picture of a man being chopped
up in little bits. What does it say about it?"
"I thought you could read Latin."
"Well, but it's all full of sort of pothooks. What do they mean?"
"They're just contractions," said Lord Peter patiently. "'_Solent
quoque hujus insulæ cultores_'--It is the custom of the dwellers in
this island, when they see their parents stricken in years and of no
further use, to take them down into the market-place and sell them to
the cannibals, who kill them and eat them for food. This they do also
with younger persons when they fall into any desperate sickness."
"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Ffolliott. "Rather sharp practice on the poor
cannibals. They never got anything but tough old joints or diseased
meat, eh?"
"The inhabitants seem to have had thoroughly advanced notions of
business," agreed his lordship.
The viscount was enthralled.
"I _do_ like this book," he said; "could I buy it out of my
pocket-money, please?"
"Another problem for uncles," thought Lord Peter, rapidly ransacking
his recollections of the _Cosmographia_ to determine whether any of
its illustrations were indelicate; for he knew the duchess to be
strait-laced. On consideration, he could only remember one that was
dubious, and there was a sporting chance that the duchess might fail to
light upon it.
"Well," he said judicially, "in your place, Gherkins, I should
be inclined to buy it. It's in a bad state, as Mr. Ffolliott has
honourably told you--otherwise, of course, it would be exceedingly
valuable; but, apart from the lost pages, it's a very nice clean copy,
and certainly worth five shillings to you, if you think of starting a
collection."
Till that moment, the viscount had obviously been more impressed by the
cannibals than by the state of the margins, but the idea of figuring
next term at Mr. Bultridge's as a collector of rare editions had
undeniable charm.
"None of the other fellows collect books," he said; "they collect
stamps, mostly. I think stamps are rather ordinary, don't you, Uncle
Peter? I was rather thinking of giving up stamps. Mr. Porter, who takes
us for history, has got a lot of books like yours, and he is a splendid
man at footer."
Rightly interpreting this reference to Mr. Porter, Lord Peter gave it
as his opinion that book-collecting could be a perfectly manly pursuit.
Girls, he said, practically never took it up, because it meant so much
learning about dates and type-faces and other technicalities which
called for a masculine brain.
"Besides," he added, "it's a very interesting book in itself, you know.
Well worth dipping into."
"I'll take it, please," said the viscount, blushing a little at
transacting so important and expensive a piece of business; for the
duchess did not encourage lavish spending by little boys, and was
strict in the matter of allowances.
Mr. Ffolliott bowed, and took the _Cosmographia_ away to wrap it up.
"Are you all right for cash?" enquired Lord Peter discreetly. "Or can I
be of temporary assistance?"
"No, thank you, uncle; I've got Aunt Mary's half-crown and four
shillings of my pocket-money, because, you see, with the measles
happening, we didn't have our dormitory spread, and I was saving up for
that."
The business being settled in this gentlemanly manner, and the budding
bibliophile taking personal and immediate charge of the stout, square
volume, a taxi was chartered which, in due course of traffic delays,
brought the _Cosmographia_ to 110A Piccadilly.
* * * * *
"And who, Bunter, is Mr. Wilberforce Pope?"
"I do not think we know the gentleman, my lord. He is asking to see
your lordship for a few minutes on business."
"He probably wants me to find a lost dog for his maiden aunt. What it
is to have acquired a reputation as a sleuth! Show him in. Gherkins, if
this good gentleman's business turns out to be private, you'd better
retire into the dining-room."
"Yes, Uncle Peter," said the viscount dutifully. He was extended on
his stomach on the library hearthrug, laboriously picking his way
through the more exciting-looking bits of the _Cosmographia_, with
the aid of Messrs. Lewis & Short, whose monumental compilation he had
hitherto looked upon as a barbarous invention for the annoyance of
upper forms.
Mr. Wilberforce Pope turned out to be a rather plump, fair gentleman
in the late thirties, with a prematurely bald forehead, horn-rimmed
spectacles, and an engaging manner.
"You will excuse my intrusion, won't you?" he began. "I'm sure you must
think me a terrible nuisance. But I wormed your name and address out of
Mr. Ffolliott. Not his fault, really. You won't blame him, will you? I
positively badgered the poor man. Sat down on his doorstep and refused
to go, though the boy was putting up the shutters. I'm afraid you will
think me very silly when you know what it's all about. But you really
mustn't hold poor Mr. Ffolliott responsible, now, will you?"
"Not at all," said his lordship. "I mean, I'm charmed and all that sort
of thing. Something I can do for you about books? You're a collector,
perhaps? Will you have a drink or anything?"
"Well, no," said Mr. Pope, with a faint giggle. "No, not exactly a
collector. Thank you very much, just a spot--no, no, literally a spot.
Thank you; no"--he glanced round the bookshelves, with their rows of
rich old leather bindings--"certainly not a collector. But I happen
to be er, interested--sentimentally interested--in a purchase you
made yesterday. Really, such a very small matter. You will think it
foolish. But I am told you are the present owner of a copy of Munster's
_Cosmographia_, which used to belong to my uncle, Dr. Conyers."
Gherkins looked up suddenly, seeing that the conversation had a
personal interest for him.
"Well, that's not quite correct," said Wimsey. "I was there at the
time, but the actual purchaser is my nephew. Gerald, Mr. Pope is
interested in your _Cosmographia_. My nephew, Lord St. George."
"How do you do, young man," said Mr. Pope affably. "I see that the
collecting spirit runs in the family. A great Latin scholar, too, I
expect, eh? Ready to decline _jusjurandum_ with the best of us? Ha, ha!
And what are you going to do when you grow up? Be Lord Chancellor, eh?
Now, I bet you think you'd rather be an engine-driver, what, what?"
"No, thank you," said the viscount, with aloofness.
"What, not an engine-driver? Well, now, I want you to be a real
business man this time. Put through a book deal, you know. Your uncle
will see I offer you a fair price, what? Ha, ha! Now, you see, that
picture-book of yours has a great value for me that it wouldn't have
for anybody else. When _I_ was a little boy of your age it was one
of my very greatest joys. I used to have it to look at on Sundays.
Ah, dear! the happy hours I used to spend with those quaint old
engravings, and the funny old maps with the ships and salamanders and
'_Hic dracones_'--you know what _that_ means, I dare say. What does it
mean?"
"Here are dragons," said the viscount, unwillingly but still politely.
"Quite right. I _knew_ you were a scholar."
"It's a very attractive book," said Lord Peter. "My nephew was quite
entranced by the famous Cracow monster."
"Ah yes--a glorious monster, isn't it?" agreed Mr. Pope, with
enthusiasm. "Many's the time I've fancied myself as Sir Lancelot or
somebody on a white war horse, charging that monster, lance in rest,
with the captive princess cheering me on. Ah! childhood! You're living
the happiest days of your life, young man. You won't believe me, but
you are."
"Now what is it exactly you want my nephew to do?" enquired Lord Peter
a little sharply.
"Quite right, quite right. Well now, you know, my uncle, Dr. Conyers,
sold his library a few months ago. I was abroad at the time, and it
was only yesterday, when I went down to Yelsall on a visit, that I
learnt the dear old book had gone with the rest. I can't tell you how
distressed I was. I know it's not valuable--a great many pages missing
and all that--but I can't bear to think of its being gone. So, purely
from sentimental reasons, as I said, I hurried off to Ffolliott's to
see if I could get it back. I was quite upset to find I was too late,
and gave poor Mr. Ffolliott no peace till he told me the name of the
purchaser. Now, you see, Lord St. George, I'm here to make you an offer
for the book. Come, now, double what you gave for it. That's a good
offer, isn't it, Lord Peter? Ha, ha! And you will be doing me a very
great kindness as well."
Viscount St. George looked rather distressed, and turned appealingly to
his uncle.
"Well, Gerald," said Lord Peter, "it's your affair, you know. What do
you say?"
The viscount stood first on one leg and then on the other. The career
of a book-collector evidently had its problems, like other careers.
"If you please, Uncle Peter," he said, with embarrassment, "may I
whisper?"
"It's not usually considered the thing to whisper, Gherkins, but you
could ask Mr. Pope for time to consider his offer. Or you could say you
would prefer to consult me first. That would be quite in order."
"Then, if you don't mind, Mr. Pope, I should like to consult my uncle
first."
"Certainly, certainly; ha, ha!" said Mr. Pope. "Very prudent to consult
a collector of greater experience, what? Ah! the younger generation,
eh, Lord Peter? Regular little business men already."
"Excuse us, then, for one moment," said Lord Peter, and drew his nephew
into the dining-room.
"I say, Uncle Peter," said the collector breathlessly, when the door
was shut, "_need_ I give him my book? I don't think he's a very nice
man. I _hate_ people who ask you to decline nouns for them."
"Certainly you needn't, Gherkins, if you don't want to. The book is
yours, and you've a right to it."
"What would _you_ do, uncle?"
Before replying, Lord Peter, in the most surprising manner, tiptoed
gently to the door which communicated with the library and flung it
suddenly open, in time to catch Mr. Pope kneeling on the hearthrug
intently turning over the pages of the coveted volume, which lay as the
owner had left it. He started to his feet in a flurried manner as the
door opened.
"Do help yourself, Mr. Pope, won't you?" cried Lord Peter hospitably,
and closed the door again.
"What is it, Uncle Peter?"
"If you want my advice, Gherkins, I should be rather careful how
you had any dealings with Mr. Pope. I don't think he's telling the
truth. He called those wood-cuts engravings--though, of course, that
may be just his ignorance. But I can't believe that he spent all his
childhood's Sunday afternoons studying those maps and picking out
the dragons in them, because, as you may have noticed for yourself,
old Munster put very few dragons into his maps. They're mostly just
plain maps--a bit queer to our ideas of geography, but perfectly
straight-forward. That was why I brought in the Cracow monster, and,
you see, he thought it was some sort of dragon."
"Oh, I say, uncle! So you said that on purpose!"
"If Mr. Pope wants the _Cosmographia_, it's for some reason he doesn't
want to tell us about. And, that being so, I wouldn't be in too big a
hurry to sell, if the book were mine. See?"
"Do you mean there's something frightfully valuable about the book,
which we don't know?"
"Possibly."
"How exciting! It's just like a story in the _Boys' Friend Library_.
What am I to say to him, uncle?"
"Well, in your place I wouldn't be dramatic or anything. I'd just say
you've considered the matter, and you've taken a fancy to the book and
have decided not to sell. You thank him for his offer, of course."
"Yes--er, won't you say it for me, uncle?"
"I think it would look better if you did it yourself."
"Yes, perhaps it would. Will he be very cross?"
"Possibly," said Lord Peter, "but, if he is, he won't let on. Ready?"
The consulting committee accordingly returned to the library. Mr. Pope
had prudently retired from the hearthrug and was examining a distant
bookcase.
"Thank you very much for your offer, Mr. Pope," said the viscount,
striding stoutly up to him, "but I have considered it, and I have taken
a--a--a fancy for the book and decided not to sell."
"Sorry and all that," put in Lord Peter, "but my nephew's adamant about
it. No, it isn't the price; he wants the book. Wish I could oblige you,
but it isn't in my hands. Won't you take something else before you
go? Really? Ring the bell, Gherkins. My man will see you to the lift.
_Good_ evening."
When the visitor had gone, Lord Peter returned and thoughtfully picked
up the book.
"We were awful idiots to leave him with it, Gherkins, even for a
moment. Luckily, there's no harm done."
"You don't think he found out anything while we were away, do you,
uncle?" gasped Gherkins, open-eyed.
"I'm sure he didn't."
"Why?"
"He offered me fifty pounds for it on the way to the door. Gave the
game away. H'm! Bunter."
"My lord?"
"Put this book in the safe and bring me back the keys. And you'd better
set all the burglar alarms when you lock up."
"Oo--er!" said Viscount St. George.
* * * * *
On the third morning after the visit of Mr. Wilberforce Pope, the
viscount was seated at a very late breakfast in his uncle's flat, after
the most glorious and soul-satisfying night that ever boy experienced.
He was almost too excited to eat the kidneys and bacon placed before
him by Bunter, whose usual impeccable manner was not in the least
impaired by a rapidly swelling and blackening eye.
It was about two in the morning that Gherkins--who had not slept very
well, owing to too lavish and grown-up a dinner and theatre the evening
before--became aware of a stealthy sound somewhere in the direction
of the fire-escape. He had got out of bed and crept very softly into
Lord Peter's room and woken him up. He had said: "Uncle Peter, I'm
sure there's burglars on the fire-escape." And Uncle Peter, instead of
saying, "Nonsense, Gherkins, hurry up and get back to bed," had sat up
and listened and said: "By Jove, Gherkins, I believe you're right." And
had sent Gherkins to call Bunter. And on his return, Gherkins, who had
always regarded his uncle as a very top-hatted sort of person, actually
saw him take from his handkerchief-drawer an undeniable automatic
pistol.