on that account!) There's a box here. And it's beastly heavy. No;
all right, I can manage. Gimme the boat-hook. Now I do hope the old
sinner really did have a treasure. What a bore if it's only one of his
little jokes. Never mind--hold the boat steady. There. Always remember,
Gherkins, that you can make quite an effective crane with a boat-hook
and a stout pair of braces. Got it? That's right. Now for home and
beauty.... Hullo! what's all that?"
As he paddled the boat round, it was evident that something was
happening down by the boat-house. Lights were moving about, and a sound
of voices came across the lake.
"They think we're burglars, Gherkins. Always misunderstood. Give way,
my hearties--
"A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ru-i-in,
I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid."
"Is that you, my lord?" said a man's voice as they drew in to the
boat-house.
"Why, it's our faithful sleuths!" cried his lordship. "What's the
excitement?"
"We found this fellow sneaking round the boat-house," said the man from
Scotland Yard. "He says he's the old gentleman's nephew. Do you know
him, my lord?"
"I rather fancy I do," said Wimsey. "Mr. Pope, I think. Good evening.
Were you looking for anything? Not a treasure, by any chance? Because
we've just found one. Oh! don't say that. _Maxima reverentia_, you
know. Lord St. George is of tender years. And, by the way, thank you so
much for sending your delightful friends to call on me last night. Oh,
yes, Thompson, I'll charge him all right. You there, doctor? Splendid.
Now, if anybody's got a spanner or anything handy, we'll have a look at
Great-grandpapa Cuthbert. And if he turns out to be old iron, Mr. Pope,
you'll have had an uncommonly good joke for your money."
An iron bar was produced from the boat-house and thrust under the hasp
of the chest. It creaked and burst. Dr. Conyers knelt down tremulously
and threw open the lid.
There was a little pause.
"The drinks are on you, Mr. Pope," said Lord Peter. "I think, doctor,
it ought to be a jolly good hospital when it's finished."
THE PISCATORIAL FARCE OF THE STOLEN STOMACH
"What in the world," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "is that?"
Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings of
paper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffee-pot.
"That," he said, "is Great-Uncle Joseph's legacy."
"And who is Great-Uncle Joseph?"
"He was my mother's uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I was
rather a favourite of his."
"It looks like it. Was that all he left you?"
"Imph'm. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a man
could have."
"Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?"
"Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a day's
illness."
Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.
"What did he die of?"
"Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and the
doctors told him--or he guessed for himself--that it was the beginning
of the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his life
and wasn't going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity,
of course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible."
"I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?"
"He used to be in business--something to do with ship-building, I
believe, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call a
recluse. Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and saw
nobody. Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew where
or why. I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottle
of whisky."
"Had he any money?"
"Nobody knew. He ought to have had--he was a rich man when he retired.
But, when we came to look into it, it turned out he only had a balance
of about five hundred pounds in the Glasgow Bank. Apparently he drew
out almost everything he had about twenty years ago. There were one or
two big bank failures round about that time, and they thought he must
have got the wind up. But what he did with it, goodness only knows."
"Kept it in an old stocking, I expect."
"I should think Cousin Robert devoutly hopes so."
"Cousin Robert?"
"He's the residuary legatee. Distant connection of mine, and the only
remaining Ferguson. He was awfully wild when he found he'd only got
five hundred. He's rather a bright lad, is Robert, and a few thousands
would have come in handy."
"I see. Well, how about a bit of brekker? You might stick Great-Uncle
Joseph out of the way somewhere. I don't care about the looks of him."
"I thought you were rather partial to anatomical specimens."
"So I am, but not on the breakfast-table. 'A place for everything and
everything in its place,' as my grandmother used to say. Besides, it
would give Maggie a shock if she saw it."
Macpherson laughed, and transferred the jar to a cupboard.
"Maggie's shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, by
way of a holiday task. I'm getting near my final, you know. She'll just
think this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We'll
see what the trout's like."
The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled trout
and a plate of fried scones.
"These look good, Maggie," said Wimsey, drawing his chair up and
sniffing appreciatively.
"Aye, sir, they're gude, but they're awfu' wee fish."
"Don't grumble at them," said Macpherson. "They're the sole result of a
day's purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast you
and an east wind, I'm pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn't
shave at all this morning." He passed a reminiscent hand over his red
and excoriated face. "Ugh! It's a stiff pull up that hill, and the boat
was going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay."
"Damnable, I should think. But there's a change coming. The glass is
going back. We'll be having some rain before we're many days older."
"Time, too," said Macpherson. "The burns are nearly dry, and there's
not much water in the Fleet." He glanced out of the window to where the
little river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottom
of the garden. "If only we get a few days' rain now, there'll be some
grand fishing."
"It _would_ come just as I've got to go, naturally," remarked Wimsey.
"Yes; can't you stay a bit longer? I want to have a try for some
sea-trout."
"Sorry, old man, can't be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Never
mind. I've had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good rounds
of golf."
"You must come up another time. I'm here for a month--getting my
strength up for the exams and all that. If you can't get away before
I go, we'll put it off till August and have a shot at the grouse. The
cottage is always at your service, you know, Wimsey."
"Many thanks. I may get my business over quicker than I think, and, if
I do, I'll turn up here again. When did you say your great-uncle died?"
Macpherson stared at him.
"Some time in April, as far as I can remember. Why?"
"Oh, nothing--I just wondered. You were a favourite of his, didn't you
say?"
"In a sense. I think the old boy liked my remembering him from time to
time. Old people are pleased by little attentions, you know."
"M'm. Well, it's a queer world. What did you say his name was?"
"Ferguson--Joseph Alexander Ferguson, to be exact. You seem
extraordinarily interested in Great-Uncle Joseph."
"I thought, while I was about it, I might look up a man I know in the
ship-building line, and see if he knows anything about where the money
went to."
"If you can do that, Cousin Robert will give you a medal. But, if you
really want to exercise your detective powers on the problem, you'd
better have a hunt through the flat in Glasgow."
"Yes--what is the address, by the way?"
Macpherson told him the address.
"I'll make a note of it, and, if anything occurs to me, I'll
communicate with Cousin Robert. Where does he hang out?"
"Oh, he's in London, in a solicitor's office. Crosbie & Plump,
somewhere in Bloomsbury. Robert was studying for the Scottish Bar, you
know, but he made rather a mess of things, so they pushed him off among
the Sassenachs. His father died a couple of years ago--he was a Writer
to the Signet in Edinburgh--and I fancy Robert has rather gone to the
bow-wows since then. Got among a cheerful crowd down there, don't you
know, and wasted his substance somewhat."
"Terrible! Scotsmen shouldn't be allowed to leave home. What are you
going to do with Great-Uncle?"
"Oh, I don't know. Keep him for a bit, I think. I liked the old
fellow, and I don't want to throw him away. He'll look rather well in
my consulting-room, don't you think, when I'm qualified and set up my
brass plate. I'll say he was presented by a grateful patient on whom I
performed a marvellous operation."
"That's a good idea. Stomach-grafting. Miracle of surgery never before
attempted. He'll bring sufferers to your door in flocks."
"Good old Great-Uncle--he may be worth a fortune to me after all."
"So he may. I don't suppose you've got such a thing as a photograph of
him, have you?"
"A photograph?" Macpherson stared again. "Great-Uncle seems to be
becoming a passion with you. I don't suppose the old man had a
photograph taken these thirty years. There was one done then--when he
retired from business. I expect Robert's got that."
"Och aye," said Wimsey, in the language of the country.
* * * * *
Wimsey left Scotland that evening, and drove down through the night
towards London, thinking hard as he went. He handled the wheel
mechanically, swerving now and again to avoid the green eyes of rabbits
as they bolted from the roadside to squat fascinated in the glare of
his head-lamps. He was accustomed to say that his brain worked better
when his immediate attention was occupied by the incidents of the road.
Monday morning found him in town with his business finished and his
thinking done. A consultation with his ship-building friend had put
him in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph's money,
together with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph's photograph, supplied by
the London representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged.
It appeared that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. The
portrait showed a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in the
cheek-bones--one of those faces which alter little in a lifetime.
Wimsey looked at the photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it into
his pocket and made a bee-line for Somerset House.
Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformed
official took pity on him and enquired what he wanted.
"Oh, thank you," said Wimsey effusively, "thank you so much. Always
feel nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don't you
know, so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have a
squint at a will. I'm told you can see anybody's will for a shilling.
Is that really so?"
"Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody's will in particular, sir?"
"Oh, yes, of course--how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn't it, that
when you're dead any stranger can come and snoop round your private
affairs--see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were,
and all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?"
The attendant laughed.
"I expect it's all one when you're dead, sir."
"That's awfully true. Yes, naturally, you're dead by then and it
doesn't matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, to
learn what a bad boy you've been. Great fun annoyin' one's relations.
Always do it myself. Now, what were we sayin'? Ah! yes--the will. (I'm
always so absent-minded.) Whose will, you said? Well, it's an old Scots
gentleman called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow--you
know Glasgow, where the accent's so strong that even Scotsmen faint
when they hear it--in April, this last April as ever was. If it's not
troubling you too much, may I have a bob's-worth of Joseph Alexander
Ferguson?"
The attendant assured him that he might, adding the caution that he
must memorise the contents of the will and not on any account take
notes. Thus warned, Wimsey was conducted into a retired corner, where
in a short time the will was placed before him.
It was a commendably brief document, written in holograph, and was
dated the previous January. After the usual preamble and the bequest
of a few small sums and articles of personal ornament to friends, it
proceeded somewhat as follows:
"And I direct that, after my death, the alimentary organs be
removed entire with their contents from my body, commencing with
the œsophagus and ending with the anal canal, and that they be
properly secured at both ends with a suitable ligature, and be
enclosed in a proper preservative medium in a glass vessel and
given to my great-nephew Thomas Macpherson of the Stone Cottage,
Gatehouse-of-the-Fleet, in Kirkcudbrightshire, now studying
medicine in Aberdeen. And I bequeath him these my alimentary
organs with their contents for his study and edification, they
having served me for ninety-five years without failure or defect,
because I wish him to understand that no riches in the world are
comparable to the riches of a good digestion. And I desire of him
that he will, in the exercise of his medical profession, use his
best endeavours to preserve to his patients the blessing of good
digestion unimpaired, not needlessly filling their stomachs with
drugs out of concern for his own pocket, but exhorting them to
a sober and temperate life agreeably to the design of Almighty
Providence."
After this remarkable passage, the document went on to make Robert
Ferguson residuary legatee without particular specification of any
property, and to appoint a firm of lawyers in Glasgow executors of the
will.
Wimsey considered the bequest for some time. From the phraseology he
concluded that old Mr. Ferguson had drawn up his own will without legal
aid, and he was glad of it, for its wording thus afforded a valuable
clue to the testator's mood and intention. He mentally noted three
points: the "alimentary organs with their contents" were mentioned
twice over, with a certain emphasis; they were to be ligatured top and
bottom; and the legacy was accompanied by the expression of a wish that
the legatee should not allow his financial necessities to interfere
with the conscientious exercise of his professional duties. Wimsey
chuckled. He felt he rather liked Great-Uncle Joseph.
He got up, collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and advanced with the
will in his hand to return it to the attendant. The latter was engaged
in conversation with a young man, who seemed to be expostulating about
something.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the attendant, "but I don't suppose the other
gentleman will be very long. Ah!" He turned and saw Wimsey. "Here is
the gentleman."
The young man, whose reddish hair, long nose, and slightly sodden eyes
gave him the appearance of a dissipated fox, greeted Wimsey with a
disagreeable stare.
"What's up? Want me?" asked his lordship airily.
"Yes, sir. Very curious thing, sir; here's a gentleman enquiring for
that very same document as you've been studying, sir. I've been in this
department fifteen years, and I don't know as I ever remember such a
thing happening before."
"No," said Wimsey, "I don't suppose there's much of a run on any of
your lines as a rule."
"It's a very curious thing indeed," said the stranger, with marked
displeasure in his voice.
"Member of the family?" suggested Wimsey.
"I _am_ a member of the family," said the foxy-faced man. "May I ask
whether _you_ have any connection with us?"
"By all means," replied Wimsey graciously.
"I don't believe it. I don't know you."
"No, no--I meant you might ask, by all means."
The young man positively showed his teeth.
"Do you mind telling me who you are, anyhow, and why you're so damned
inquisitive about my great-uncle's will?"
Wimsey extracted a card from his case and presented it with a smile.
Mr. Robert Ferguson changed colour.
"If you would like a reference as to my respectability," went on
Wimsey affably, "Mr. Thomas Macpherson will, I am sure, be happy to
tell you about me. I am inquisitive," said his lordship--"a student of
humanity. Your cousin mentioned to me the curious clause relating to
your esteemed great-uncle's--er--stomach and appurtenances. Curious
clauses are a passion with me. I came to look it up and add it to my
collection of curious wills. I am engaged in writing a book on the
subject--_Clauses and Consequences_. My publishers tell me it should
enjoy a ready sale. I regret that my random jottings should have
encroached upon your doubtless far more serious studies. I wish you a
very good morning."
As he beamed his way out, Wimsey, who had quick ears, heard the
attendant informing the indignant Mr. Ferguson that he was "a very
funny gentleman--not quite all there, sir." It seemed that his
criminological fame had not penetrated to the quiet recesses of
Somerset House. "But," said Wimsey to himself, "I am sadly afraid that
Cousin Robert has been given food for thought."
* * * * *
Under the spur of this alarming idea, Wimsey wasted no time, but took
a taxi down to Hatton Garden, to call upon a friend of his. This
gentleman, rather curly in the nose and fleshy about the eyelids,
nevertheless came under Mr. Chesterton's definition of a nice Jew, for
his name was neither Montagu nor McDonald, but Nathan Abrahams, and he
greeted Lord Peter with a hospitality amounting to enthusiasm.
"So pleased to see you. Sit down and have a drink. You have come at
last to select the diamonds for the future Lady Peter, eh?"
"Not yet," said Wimsey.
"No? That's too bad. You should make haste and settle down. It is
time you became a family man. Years ago we arranged I should have the
privilege of decking the bride for the happy day. That is a promise,
you know. I think of it when the fine stones pass through my hands. I
say, 'That would be the very thing for my friend Lord Peter.' But I
hear nothing, and I sell them to stupid Americans who think only of the
price and not of the beauty."
"Time enough to think of the diamonds when I've found the lady."
Mr. Abrahams threw up his hands.
"Oh, yes! And then everything will be done in a hurry! 'Quick, Mr.
Abrahams! I have fallen in love yesterday and I am being married
to-morrow.' But it may take months--years--to find and match perfect
stones. It can't be done between to-day and to-morrow. Your bride will
be married in something ready-made from the jeweller's."
"If three days are enough to choose a wife," said Wimsey, laughing,
"one day should surely be enough for a necklace."
"That is the way with Christians," replied the diamond-merchant
resignedly. "You are so casual. You do not think of the future. Three
days to choose a wife! No wonder the divorce-courts are busy. My son
Moses is being married next week. It has been arranged in the family
these ten years. Rachel Goldstein, it is. A good girl, and her father
is in a very good position. We are all very pleased, I can tell
you. Moses is a good son, a very good son, and I am taking him into
partnership."
"I congratulate you," said Wimsey heartily. "I hope they will be very
happy."
"Thank you, Lord Peter. They will be happy, I am sure. Rachel is
a sweet girl and very fond of children. And she is pretty, too.
Prettiness is not everything, but it is an advantage for a young man in
these days. It is easier for him to behave well to a pretty wife."
"True," said Wimsey. "I will bear it in mind when my time comes. To the
health of the happy pair, and may you soon be an ancestor. Talking of
ancestors, I've got an old bird here that you may be able to tell me
something about."
"Ah, yes! Always delighted to help you in any way, Lord Peter."
"This photograph was taken some thirty years ago, but you may possibly
recognise it."
Mr. Abrahams put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and examined the
portrait of Great-Uncle Joseph with serious attention.
"Oh, yes, I know him quite well. What do you want to know about him,
eh?" He shot a swift and cautious glance at Wimsey.
"Nothing to his disadvantage. He's dead, anyhow. I thought it just
possible he had been buying precious stones lately."
"It is not exactly business to give information about a customer," said
Mr. Abrahams.
"I'll tell you what I want it for," said Wimsey. He lightly sketched
the career of Great-Uncle Joseph, and went on: "You see, I looked at it
this way. When a man gets a distrust of banks, what does he do with his
money? He puts it into property of some kind. It may be land, it may
be houses--but that means rent, and more money to put into banks. He
is more likely to keep it in gold or notes, or to put it into precious
stones. Gold and notes are comparatively bulky; stones are small.
Circumstances in this case led me to think he might have chosen stones.
Unless we can discover what he did with the money, there will be a
great loss to his heirs."
"I see. Well, if it is as you say, there is no harm in telling you. I
know you to be an honourable man, and I will break my rule for you.
This gentleman, Mr. Wallace----"
"Wallace, did he call himself?"
"That was not his name? They are funny, these secretive old gentlemen.
But that is nothing unusual. Often, when they buy stones, they are
afraid of being robbed, so they give another name. Yes, yes. Well,
this Mr. Wallace used to come to see me from time to time, and I had
instructions to find diamonds for him. He was looking for twelve big
stones, all matching perfectly and of superb quality. It took a long
time to find them, you know."
"Of course."
"Yes. I supplied him with seven altogether, over a period of twenty
years or so. And other dealers supplied him also. He is well known
in this street. I found the last one for him--let me see--in last
December, I think. A beautiful stone--beautiful! He paid seven thousand
pounds for it."
"Some stone. If they were all as good as that, the collection must be
worth something."
"Worth anything. It is difficult to tell how much. As you know, the
twelve stones, all matched together, would be worth far more than the
sum of the twelve separate prices paid for the individual diamonds."
"Naturally they would. Do you mind telling me how he was accustomed to
pay for them?"
"In Bank of England notes--always--cash on the nail. He insisted on
discount for cash," added Mr. Abrahams, with a chuckle.
"He was a Scotsman," replied Wimsey. "Well, that's clear enough. He had
a safe-deposit somewhere, no doubt. And, having collected the stones,
he made his will. That's clear as daylight, too."
"But what has become of the stones?" enquired Mr. Abrahams, with
professional anxiety.
"I think I know that too," said Wimsey. "I'm enormously obliged to you,
and so, I fancy, will his heir be."
"If they should come into the market again----" suggested Mr. Abrahams.
"I'll see you have the handling of them," said Wimsey promptly.
"That is kind of you," said Mr. Abrahams. "Business is business. Always
delighted to oblige you. Beautiful stones--beautiful. If you thought
of being the purchaser, I would charge you a special commission, as my
friend."
"Thank you," said Wimsey, "but as yet I have no occasion for diamonds,
you know."
"Pity, pity," said Mr. Abrahams. "Well, very glad to have been of
service to you. You are not interested in rubies? No? Because I have
something very pretty here."
He thrust his hand casually into a pocket, and brought out a little
pool of crimson fire like a miniature sunset.
"Look nice in a ring, now, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Abrahams. "An
engagement ring, eh?"
Wimsey laughed, and made his escape.
He was strongly tempted to return to Scotland and attend personally
to the matter of Great-Uncle Joseph, but the thought of an important
book sale next day deterred him. There was a manuscript of Catullus
which he was passionately anxious to secure, and he never entrusted
his interests to dealers. He contented himself with sending a wire to
Thomas Macpherson:
"Advise opening up Great-uncle Joseph immediately."
The girl at the post-office repeated the message aloud and rather
doubtfully. "Quite right," said Wimsey, and dismissed the affair from
his mind.
* * * * *