_Post-Mortem_
"And George is all right again now?"
"Thank heaven, yes--getting on splendidly. The doctor says he worked
himself into it, just out of worry lest he should be suspected. It
never occurred to me--but then George is very quick at putting two and
two together."
"Of course he knew he was one of the last people to see his
grandfather."
"Yes, and seeing the name on the bottle--and the police coming----"
"That did it. And you're sure he's all right?"
"Oh, rather. The minute he knew that it was all cleared up, he seemed
to come out from under a blanket. He sent you all sorts of messages, by
the way."
"Well, as soon as he's fit you must come and dine with me...."
* * * * *
"... A simple case, of course, as soon as you had disentangled the
Robert part of it."
"A damned unsatisfactory case, Charles. Not the kind I like. No real
proof."
"Nothing in it for us, of course. Just as well it never came to trial,
though. With juries you never know."
"No; they might have let Penberthy off; or convicted them both."
"Exactly. If you ask me, I think Ann Dorland is a very lucky young
woman."
"Oh, God!--you _would_ say that...."
* * * * *
"... Yes, of course, I'm sorry for Naomi Rushworth. But she needn't be
so spiteful. She goes about hinting that of course dear Walter was got
over by that Dorland girl and sacrificed himself to save her."
"Well, that's natural, I suppose. You thought Miss Dorland had done it
yourself at one time, you know, Marjorie."
"I didn't know then about her being engaged to Penberthy. And I think
he deserved all he got.... Well, I know he's dead, but it was a rotten
way to treat a girl, and Ann's far too good for that kind of thing.
People have a perfect right to want love-affairs. You men always
think...."
"Not me, Marjorie. I don't think."
"Oh, you! You're almost human. I'd almost take you on myself if you
asked me. You don't feel inclined that way, I suppose?"
"My dear--if a great liking and friendship were enough, I would--like a
shot. But that wouldn't satisfy you, would it?"
"It wouldn't satisfy _you_, Peter. I'm sorry. Forget it."
"I won't forget it. It's the biggest compliment I've ever had paid me.
Great Scott! I only wish...."
"There! that's all right, you needn't make a speech. And you won't go
away tactfully forever, will you?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
"And you won't be embarrassed?"
"No, I won't be embarrassed. Portrait of a young man poking the fire to
bits to indicate complete freedom from embarrassment. Let's go and feed
somewhere, shall we?..."
* * * * *
"... Well, and how did you get on with the heiress and the lawyers and
all that lot?"
"Oh! there was a long argument. Miss Dorland insisted on dividing the
money, and I said no, I couldn't think of it. She said it was only hers
as the result of a crime, and Pritchard and Murbles said she wasn't
responsible for other people's crimes. And I said it would look like my
profiting by my own attempt at fraud, and she said, not at all, and we
went on and on, don't you know. That's a damned decent girl, Wimsey."
"Yes, I know. The moment I found she preferred burgundy to champagne I
had the highest opinion of her."
"No, really--there's something very fine and straightforward about her."
"Oh, yes--not a bad girl at all; though I shouldn't have said she was
quite your sort."
"Why not?"
"Well--arty and all that. And her looks aren't her strong point."
"You needn't be offensive, Wimsey. Surely I may be allowed to
appreciate a woman of intelligence and character. I may not be
highbrow, but I have _some_ ideas beyond the front row of the chorus.
And what that girl went through with that blighter Penberthy makes my
blood boil."
"Oh, you've heard all about that?"
"I have. She told me, and I respected her for it. I thought it most
courageous of her. It's about time somebody brought a little brightness
into that poor girl's life. You don't realize how desperately lonely
she has been. She had to take up that art business to give her an
interest, poor child, but she's really cut out for an ordinary,
sensible, feminine life. You may not understand that, with your ideas,
but she has really a very sweet nature."
"Sorry, Fentiman."
"She made me ashamed, the way she took the whole thing. When I think
of the trouble I got her into, owing to my damned dishonest tinkering
about with--you know--"
"My dear man, you were perfectly providential. If you hadn't tinkered
about, as you say, she'd be married to Penberthy by now."
"That's true--and that makes it so amazing of her to forgive me.
She _loved_ that blighter, Wimsey. You don't know. It's absolutely
pathetic."
"Well, you'll have to do your best to make her forget it."
"I look on that as a duty, Wimsey."
"Just so. Doing anything to-night? Care to come and look at a show?"
"Sorry--I'm booked. Taking Miss Dorland to the new thing at the
Palladium, in fact. Thought it'd do her good--buck her up and so on."
"Oh?--good work!--Here's luck to it...."
* * * * *
"... and the cooking is getting perfectly disgraceful. I spoke to
Culyer about it only yesterday. But he won't do anything. I don't know
what's the good of the committee. This club isn't half what it used to
be. In fact, Wimsey, I'm thinking of resigning."
"Oh, don't do that, Wetheridge. It wouldn't be the same place without
you."
"Look at all the disturbance there has been lately. Police and
reporters--and then Penberthy blowing his brains out in the library.
And the coal's all slate. Only yesterday something exploded like a
shell--I assure you, exactly like a shell--in the card-room; and as
nearly as possible got me in the eye. I said to Culyer, 'This must
_not_ occur again.' You may laugh, but I knew a man who was blinded by
a thing popping out suddenly like that. These things never happened
before the War, and--great heavens! William! Look at this wine! Smell
it! _Taste_ it! Corked? Yes, I should think it _was_ corked! My God! I
don't know what's come to this Club."