Dorothy L. Sayers
Have His Carcase
About The Author
Born in Oxford in 1893, Dorothy Leigh Sayers was later to become a classical scholar and honours graduate in modern languages. Between 1921 and 1.932 she was employed as a copywriter in an advertising agency.
But in 1923 she put into print a character who was to become one of the most popular fictional heroes of the century — Lord Peter Wimsy, who features in a dozen novels and numerous short stories. Several of the novels have been adapted for radio and television.
Dorothy Leigh Sayers died in 1957.
Note
In The Five Red Herrings, the plot was invented: to fit a real locality; in this book, the locality has been invented to fit the plot. Both places and people are entirely imaginary.
All the quotations at the chapter heads have, been taken from T. L. Beddoes.
My grateful acknowledgments are due to Mr John Rhode, who gave me generous help with all the hard bits.
— Dorothy L Sayers
Contents
Chapter I. The Evidence Of The Corpse
Chapter II. The Evidence Of The Road
Chapter III. The Evidence Of The Hotel
Chapter IV. The Evidence Of The Razor
Chapter V. The Evidence Of The Betrothed
Chapter VI. The Evidence Of The First Barber
Chapter VII. The Evidence Of The Gigolos
Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Second Barber
Chapter IX. The Evidence Of The Flat-Iron
Chapter X. The Evidence Of The Police-Inspector
Chapter XI. The Evidence Of The Fisherman
Chapter XII. The Evidence Of The Bride’s Son
Chapter XIII. Evidence Of Trouble Somewhere
Chapter XIV. The Evidence Of The Third Barber
Chapter XV. The Evidence Of The Ladylove And The Landlady
Chapter XVI. The Evidence Of The Sands
Chapter XVII. The Evidence Of The Money
Chapter XVIII. The Evidence Of The Snake
Chapter XIX. The Evidence Of The Disguised Motorist
Chapter XX. The Evidence Of The Lady In The Car
Chapter XXI. The Evidence At The Inquest
Chapter XXII. The Evidence Of The Mannequin
Chapter XXIII. The Evidence Of The Theatrical Agent
Chapter XXIV. The Evidence Of The L.C.C Teacher
Chapter XXV. The Evidence Of The Dictionary
Chapter XXVI. The Evidence Of The Bay Mare
Chapter XXVII. The Evidence Of The Fisherman’s Grandson
Chapter XXVIII. The Evidence Of The Cipher
Chapter XXIX. The Evidence O F The Letter
Chapter XXX. The Evidence Of The Gentleman’s Gentleman
Chapter XXXI. The Evidence Of The Haberdasher’s Assistant
Chapter XXXII. The Evidence Of The Family Tree
Chapter XXXIII. The Evidence Of What Should Have Happened
Chapter XXXIV. The Evidence Of What Did Happen
Chapter I. The Evidence Of The Corpse
‘The track was slippery with spouting blood’
— Rodolph
Thursday, 18 June
THE best remedy for a bruised heart is not, as so many people seem to think, repose upon a manly bosom. Much more efficacious are honest work, physical activity, and the sudden acquisition of wealth. After being acquitted of murdering her lover, and, indeed, in consequence of that acquittal, Harriet Vane found all three specifics abundantly at her disposal; and although Lord Peter Wimsey, with a touching faith in tradition, persisted day in and day out in presenting the bosom for her approval, she showed no inclination to recline upon it
Work she had in abundance. To be tried for murder is a fairly good advertisement for a writer of detective fiction. Harriet Vane thrillers were booming. She had signed up sensational contracts in both’ continents, and found herself, consequently, a very much richer woman than she had ever dreamed of becoming. In the interval between finishing ‘Murder by Degrees’ and embarking on ‘The Fountain-Pen Mystery’, she had started off on a solitary walking-tour: plenty of exercise, no responsibilities and no letters forwarded. The time was June, the weather, perfect; and if she now and again gave a thought to Lord Peter Wimsey diligently ringing up an empty flat, it did not trouble her, or cause her to alter her steady course along the south-west coast of England.
On the morning of the 18th June, she set out from Lesston-Hoe with the intention of walking along the cliffs to Wilvercombe, sixteen miles away. Not that she particularly looked forward. to Wilvercombe, with its seasonal population of old ladies and invalids and its subdued attempts at the gay life, seeming somehow themselves all a little invalid and old-ladyish. But the town made a convenient objective, and one could always choose some more rural spot for a night’s lodging: The coast-road ran pleasantly at the top of a low range of cliffs, from which she could look down upon the long yellow stretch of the beach, broken here and there by scattered rocks, which rose successively, glistening in the sunlight, from the reluctant and withdrawing tide.
Overhead, the sky arched up to an immense dome of blue, just fretted here and there with faint white clouds, very high and filmy. The wind blew from the west, very softly, though the weather-wise might have detected in it a tendency to freshen. The road, narrow and in poor repair, was almost deserted, all the heavy traffic passing by the wider arterial road which ran importantly inland from town to town, despising the windings of the coast with its few scattered hamlets. Here and there a drover passed her with his dog, man and beast alike indifferent and preoccupied; here and there a couple of horses out at grass lifted shy and foolish eyes to look after her; here and there a herd of cows, rasping their jawbones upon a stone wall, greeted her with heavy snufflings. From time to time the white sail of a fishing-boat broke the seaward horizon. Except for an occasional tradesman’s van, or a dilapidated Morris, and the intermittent appearance of white smoke from a distant railway-engine, the landscape was as rural and solitary as it might have been two hundred years before.
Harriet walked sturdily onwards, the light pack upon her shoulders interfering little with her progress. She was twenty-eight years old, dark, slight, with a skin naturally a little sallow, but now tanned to an agreeable biscuit-colour by sun and wind. Persons of this fortunate complexion are not troubled by midges and sunburn, and Harriet, though not too old to care for her personal appearance, was old enough to prefer convenience to outward display. Consequently, her luggage was not burdened by skin-creams, insect-lotion, silk frocks, portable electric irons or other impedimenta beloved of the ‘Hikers’ Column’. She was dressed sensibly in a short skirt and thin sweater and carried, in addition to a change of linen and an extra provision of footwear, little else beyond a pocket edition of Tristram Shandy, a vest-pocket camera, a small first-aid outfit and a sandwich lunch.
It was about a quarter to one when the matter of the lunch began to loom up importantly in Harriet’s mind. She had come about eight miles on her way to Wilvercombe, having taken things easily and made a detour to inspect certain Roman remains declared by the guide-book to be ‘of considerable interest’. She began to feel both weary and hungry, and looked about her for a suitable lunching-place.
The tide was nearly out now, and the wet beach shimmered golden and silvery in the lazy noonlight. It would be pleasant, she thought, to go down, to the shore — possibly even to bathe, though she did not feel too certain about that, having a wholesome dread of unknown shores and eccentric currents. Still, there was no harm in going to see. She stepped over the low wall which bounded the road on the seaward side and set about looking for a way down. A short scramble among the rocks tufted with scabious and sea-pink brought her easily down to the beach. She found herself in a small cove, comfortably screened from the wind by an outstanding mass of cliff, and with a few convenient boulders against which to sit. She selected the cosiest spot, drew out her lunch and Tristram Shandy, and settled down.
There is no more powerful lure to slumber than hot sunshine on a sea-beach after lunch; nor is the pace of Tristram Shandy so swift as to keep the faculties working at high pressure. Harriet found the book escaping from her fingers.
Twice she caught it back with a jerk; the third time it eluded her altogether. Her head drooped over an an unbecoming angle. She dozed off.
She was awakened suddenly by what seemed to be a shout or cry almost in her ear. As she sat up, blinking, a gull swooped close over her head, squawking and hovering over a stray fragment of sandwich. She shook herself reprovingly and glanced at her wrist-watch. It was two o’clock. Realising with satisfaction that she could not have slept very long, she scrambled to ‘her feet, and shook the crumbs from her lap. Even now, she did not feel very energetic, and there was plenty of time to make Wilvercombe before evening. She glanced out to sea, where a long belt of shingle and a narrow strip of virgin and shining sand stretched down to the edge of the water.
There is something about virgin sand which arouses all the worst instincts of the detective-story writer. One feels an irresistible impulse to go and make footprints all over it. The excuse which the professional mind makes to itself is that the sand affords a grand opportunity for observation and experiment. Harriet was no stranger to this impulse. She determined to walk out across that tempting strip of sand. She gathered her various belongings together and started off across the loose shingle observing, as she had often observed before, that footsteps left no distinguishable traces in the sand region above high-water mark.
Soon, a little belt of broken shells and half-dry seaweed showed that the tide-mark had been reached.
‘I wonder,’ said Harriet to herself, ‘whether I ought to be able to deduce something or other about the state of the tides. Let me see. When the tide is at neaps, it doesn’t rise or fall so far as when it is at springs. Therefore, if that is the case, there ought to be two seaweedy marks — one quite dry and farther in, showing the highest point of spring tides, and one damper and farther down, showing today’s best effort.’ She glanced backwards and forwards. ‘No; this is the only tide-mark. I deduce, therefore, that I have arrived somewhere about the top of springs, if that’s the proper phrase. Perfectly simple, my dear Watson. Below tide-mark, I begin to make definite footprints. There are no others anywhere, so that I must be the only person who has patronised this beach since last high tide, which would be about — ah! yes, there’s the difficulty. I know, there should be about twelve hours between one high tide and the next, but I haven’t the foggiest notion whether the, sea is coming in or going out. Still, I do know it was going out most of the time as I came along, and it looks a long way off now. If I say that nobody has been here for the last five hours, I shan’t be far out. I’m making very pretty footprints now, and the sand is, naturally, getting wetter. I’ll see how it looks when, I run.’
She capered a few paces accordingly, noticing the greater depth of the toe-prints and the little spurt of sand thrown out at each step. This outburst of energy brought her round the point of the cliff and into a much larger bay, the only striking feature of which was a good-sized rock, standing down at the sea’s edge, on the other side of the point. It was roughly triangular in shape, standing about ten feet out of the water, and seemed to be crowned with a curious lump of black seaweed.
A solitary rock is always attractive. All right-minded people feel an overwhelming desire to scale and sit upon it. Harriet made for it without any mental argument, trying to draw a few deductions as she went.
‘Is that rock covered at high tide? Yes, of course, or it wouldn’t have seaweed on top. Besides, the slope of the shore proves it. I wish I was better at distances and angles, but I should say it would be covered pretty deep. How odd that it should have seaweed only in that lump at the top. You’d expect it to be at the foot, but the sides seem quite bare, nearly down to the water. I suppose it is seaweed. It’s very peculiar. It looks almost more like a man lying down; is it possible for seaweed to be so very — well, so very localised?’
She gazed at the rock with a faint stirring of curiosity, and went on talking aloud to herself, as was her rather irritating habit.
‘I’m dashed if it isn’t a man lying down. What a silly place to choose. He must feel like a bannock on a hot girdle. I could understand it if he was a sun-bathing fan, but he seems to have. got all his clothes on. A dark suit at that. He’s very quiet. He’s probably fallen asleep. If the tide comes in at all fast, he’ll be cut off, like the people in the silly magazine stories. Well, I’m not going to rescue him. He’ll have to take his socks off and paddle, that’s all. There’s plenty of time yet.’
She hesitated whether to go on down to the rock. She did not want to wake the sleeper and be beguiled into conversation. Not but what he would prove to be some perfectly harmless tripper. But he would certainly be somebody quite uninteresting: She went on, however, meditating, and drawing a few more deductions by way of practice.
‘He must be a tripper. Local inhabitants don’t take their siestas on rocks. They retire indoors and shut all the windows. And he can’t be a fisherman or anything of that kind; they don’t waste time snoozing. Only the black-coated brigade does that. Let’s call him a tradesman or a bank-clerk. But then they usually take their holidays complete with family. This is a solitary sort of fowl. A schoolmaster? No. Schoolmasters don’t get off the lead till the end of July. How about a college undergraduate? It’s only just the end of term. A gentleman of no particular occupation, apparently. Possibly a walking tourist like myself but the costume doesn’t look right.’ She had come nearer now and could see the sleeper’s dark blue suit quite plainly. ‘Well, I can’t place him, but no doubt Dr Thorndyke would do so at once. Oh, of course! How stupid! He must be a literary bloke of some kind. They moon about and don’t let their families bother them.’
She was within a few yards of the rock now, gazing up at the sleeper. He lay uncomfortably bunched up on the extreme seaward edge of the rock, his knees drawn high and showing his pale mauve socks. The head, tucked closely down between the shoulders, was invisible.
‘What a way to sleep,’ said Harriet. ‘More like a cat than a human being. It’s not natural. His head must be almost hanging over the edge. It’s enough to give him apoplexy. Now, if I had any luck, he’d be a corpse, and I should report him and get my name in the papers. That would be something like publicity. “Well-known Woman Detective-Writer Finds Mystery Corpse on Lonely Shore.” But these things never happen to authors. It’s always some placid labourer or night-watchman who finds corpses….’
The rock lay tilted like a gigantic wedge of cake, its base standing steeply up to seaward, its surface sloping gently back to where its apex entered the sand. Harriet climbed up, over its smooth, dry surface till she stood almost directly over the man. He did not move at all. Something impelled her to address him.
‘Oy!’ she said, protestingly.
There was neither movement nor reply.
‘I’d just as soon he didn’t wake up,’ thought, Harriet. ‘I can’t imagine what I’m shouting for. Oy!’
‘Perhaps he’s in a fit or a faint,’ she said to herself. ‘Or he’s got sunstroke. That’s quite likely. It’s very hot.’ She looked up, blinking, at the brazen sky, then stooped and laid one: hand on the surface off the rock, It almost burnt her. She shouted again, and then, bending over the man, seized his shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
The man said nothing and she pulled upon the shoulder. It shifted slightly — a dead weight. She bent over and gently lifted the man’s head.
Harriet’s luck was in.
It was a corpse. Not the sort of corpse there would be any doubt about, either. Mr Samuel Weare of Lyons Inn, whose ‘throat they cut from ear to ear’, could not have been more indubitably a corpse. Indeed, if the head did not come off in Harriet’s hands, it was only because the spire was intact, for the larynx and all the great vessels of the neck had been severed ‘to the hause bone’, and a frightful stream, bright red and glistening, was running over the surface of the rock and dripping into a little hollow below.
Harriet put the head down again and felt suddenly sick.
She had written often enough about this kind of corpse, but meeting the thing in the flesh was quite different. She had not realised how butchery the severed vessels would look, and she had not reckoned with the horrid halitus of blood, which streamed to her nostrils under the blazing sun. Her hands were red and wet. She looked down at her dress. That had escaped, thank goodness. Mechanically, she stepped down again from the rock and went round to the edge of the sea. There she washed her, fingers over and over again, drying them with ridiculous care upon her handkerchief. She did not like the look of the red trickle that dripped down the face of the rock into the clear water. Retreating, she sat down rather hastily on some loose boulders.
‘A dead body,’ said Harriet, aloud to the sun and the seagulls. ‘A dead body. How — how appropriate!’ She laughed.
‘The great thing,’ Harriet found herself saying, after a pause, ‘the great thing is to keep cool. Keep your head, my girl. What would Lord Peter Wimsey do in such a case? Or, of course, Robert Templeton?’
Robert Templeton was the hero who diligently detected between the covers of her own books. She dismissed the image of Lord Peter Wimsey from her mind, and concentrated on that of Robert Templeton. The latter was a gentleman of extraordinary scientific skill, combined with almost fabulous muscular development. He had arms like an orang-outang and an ugly but attractive face. She conjured up his phantom before her in the suit of rather loud plus-fours with which she was accustomed to invest him, and took counsel with him in spirit.
Robert Templeton, she felt, would at once ask himself, ‘Is it Murder or Suicide?’ He would immediately, she supposed, dismiss the idea of an accident. Accidents of that sort. do not happen. Robert Templeton would carefully examine the body, and pronounce
Quite so; Robert Templeton would examine the body. He was, indeed, notorious for the sang-froid with which he examined bodies of the most repulsive description. Bodies reduced to boneless jelly by falling from aeroplanes; bodies charred into ‘unrecognisable lumps’ by fire; bodies run over by heavy vehicles, and needing to be scraped from the road with shovels — Robert Templeton was accustomed to examine them all, without turning a hair. Harriet felt, that she had never fully appreciated the superb nonchalance of her literary offspring.
Of course, any ordinary person, who was not a Robert Templeton, would leave the body alone and run for the police. But there were no police. There was not a man, woman or child within sight; only a small fishing-boat, standing out to sea some distance away. Harriet waved wildly in its direction, but its occupants either did not see her or supposed that she was merely doing some kind of reducing exercise. Probably their own sail cut off their view of the shore, for they were tacking up into the wind, with the vessel lying well over. Harriet shouted, but her voice was lost amid the crying of the gulls.
As she stood, hopelessly calling, she felt a wet touch on her foot. The tide had undoubtedly turned, and was coming in fast. Quite suddenly, this fact registered itself in her mind and seemed to clear her brain completely:
She was, as she reckoned, at, least eight miles from Wilvercombe, which was the nearest town. There might be a few scattered houses on the road, but they would probably belong to fishermen, and ten to one she would find nobody at home but women and children, who: would be useless in the emergency. By the tune she had hunted up the men and brought them down to the shore, the sea would very likely have covered the body. Whether this was suicide or murder, it was exceedingly necessary that the body should be examined, before everything was soaked with water or washed away. She pulled herself sharply together and walked firmly up to the body.
It was that of a young man, dressed in a neat suit of dark-blue serge, with’ rather over-elegant, narrow-soled brown shoes, mauve socks and a tie which had also been mauve before it had been horridly stained red. The hat, a grey soft felt, had fallen off — no, had been taken off and laid down upon the rock. She picked it up and looked inside, but saw nothing but the maker’s name. She recognised it as that of a well-known, but not in the best sense, famous, firm of hatters.
The head which it had adorned was covered with a thick and slightly too-long crop of dark, curly hair, carefully trimmed and smelling of brilliantine. The complexion was, she thought, naturally rather white and showed no signs of sunburn. The eyes, fixed open in a disagreeable stare, were blue. The mouth had fallen open, showing two rows of carefully-tended and very white teeth. There were no gaps in the rows, but she noticed that one of the thirteen-year-old molars had been crowned. She tried to guess the exact age of the man. It was difficult, because he wore very unexpectedly — a short, dark beard, trimmed to a neat point. This made him look older, besides giving him a somewhat foreign appearance, but it seemed to her that he was a very young man, nevertheless. Something immature about the lines of the nose and face suggested that he was not much more than twenty years old.
From the face she passed on to the hands, and here she was again surprised. Robert Templeton or no Robert Templeton, she had, taken for granted that this elegantly dressed youth had come to this incongruous and solitary spot to commit suicide. That being so, it was surely odd that he should be wearing gloves. He had lain doubled up with his arms’ beneath him, and the gloves were very much stained. Harriet began to draw off one of them, but was overcome by the old feeling of distaste. She saw that they were loose chamois gloves of good quality, suitable to the rest of the costume.
Suicide with gloves on? Why had she been so certain that it was suicide? She felt sure she had a reason.
Well, of course. If it was not suicide, where had the murderer gone? She knew he had not come along the beach from the direction of Lesston Hoe, for she remembered that bare and shining strip of sand. There was her own solitary line of footprints, leading across from the shingle. In the
Wilvercombe direction, the sand was again bare except for a single track of footmarks — presumably those of the corpse.
The man, then, had come down to the beach, and he had come alone. Unless his murderer had come by sea, he had been alone when he died. How long had he been dead? The tide had only turned recently, and there were no keel-marks on the sand. No one, surely, would have climbed the seaward face of the rock. How long was it since there had been a sufficient depth of water to bring a boat within easy reach of the body?
Harriet wished she knew more about times and tides. If Robert Templeton had happened, in the course of his brilliant career, to investigate a sea-mystery, she would, of course, have had to look up information on this point. But she had always avoided sea-and-shore problems, just precisely on account of the labour involved. No doubt the perfect archetypal Robert Templeton knew all about it, but the knowledge was locked up within his shadowy, and ideal brain. Well, how long had the man been dead, in any case?
This was a thing Robert Templeton would have known, too, for he had been through a course of medical studies among other things and, moreover, never went out without a clinical thermometer and other suitable apparatus for testing the freshness or otherwise of bodies. But Harriet had no thermometer, nor, if she had had one, would she have known how to use it for the purpose. Robert Templeton was accustomed to say, airily, ‘Judging by the amount of rigor and the temperature of the body, I should put the time, of death at such-and-such’, without going into fiddling details about the degrees Fahrenheit registered by the instrument. As for rigor, there certainly was not a trace of it present — naturally; since rigor (Harriet did know this bit) does not usually set in till from four to ten hours after death. The blue suit and brown shoes showed no signs of having been wet by seawater; that hat was still lying on the rock. But four hours earlier, the water must have been over the rock and over the footprints. The tragedy must be more recent than that. She put her hand on the body. It seemed quite warm. But any-thing would be warm on such a scorching day. The back and the top of the head were almost as hot as the surface of the rock. The under surface, being in shadow, felt cooler, but no cooler than her own hands which she had dipped in the sea-water.
Yes but there was one criterion she could apply. The weapon. No weapon, no suicide that was a law of the Medes and Persians. There was nothing in the hands, no signs of that obliging ‘death-grip’ which so frequently preserves evidence for the benefit of detectives. The man had slumped forward — one arm between his body and the rock, the other, the right, hanging over the rock-edge just beneath his face. It was directly below this hand that the stream of blood ran down so uninvitingly, streaking the water. If the weapon was anywhere it would be here. Taking off her shoes and stockings, and turning her sleeve up to the elbow, Harriet groped cautiously in the water, which was about eighteen inches deep at the base of the rock. She stepped warily, for fear of treading on a knife-edge, and it was as well that she did, for presently her hand encountered something hard and sharp. At the cost of a slight cut on her finger, she drew up an open cut-throat razor, already partially buried in the sand.
The weapon was there, then; suicide seemed to be the solution after all. Harriet stood with the razor in her hand, wondering whether she was leaving finger-prints on the wet surface. The suicide, of course, would have left none, since he was wearing gloves. But once again, why that precaution? It is reasonable to wear gloves to commit a murder, but not to commit suicide. Harriet dismissed this problem for future consideration, and wrapped her handkerchief round the razor.
The tide was coming in inexorably. What else could she do? Ought she to search any pockets? She had not the strength of a Robert Tempeton to haul the body above high-water mark. That was really a business for the police, when the body was removed, but it was just possible that there might be papers, which the water would render illegible. She gingerly felt the jacket pockets, but the dead man had obviously attached too much importance to the set of his clothes to carry very much in them. She found only a silk handkerchief with a laundry-mark, and a thin gold cigarette-case in the right-hand pocket; the other was empty. The outside breast-pocket held a mauve silk handkerchief, obviously intended for display rather than for use; the hip-pocket was empty. She could not get at the trouser-pockets without lifting the corpse, which, for many reasons, she did not want to do. The inner breast-pocket, of course, was the one for papers, but Harriet felt a deep repugnance to handling the inner breast-pocket. It appeared to have received the full gush of blood from the throat. Harriet excused herself by thinking that any papers in that pocket would be illegible already. A cowardly excuse, possibly — but there it was. She could not bring herself to touch it.
She secured the handkerchief and the cigarette-case and once more looked around her. Sea and sand were as deserted as ever. The sun still shone brightly, but a mass of cloud was beginning to pile up on the seaward horizon. The wind, too, had hauled round to the south-west and was strengthening every moment. It looked as though the beauty of the day would not last.
She still had to look at the dead man’s footprints, before the advancing water obliterated them. Then, suddenly, she remembered that she had a camera. It was a small one, but it did include a focusing adjustment for objects up to six feet from the lens. She extracted the camera from her pack, and took three snapshots of the rock and the body from different viewpoints. The dead man’s head lay still as it had fallen when she moved it — canted over a little sideways, so that it was just possible to secure a photograph of the features. She expended a film on this, racking the camera out to the six-foot mark. She had now four films left in the camera. On one, she took a general view of the coast with the body in the foreground, stepping a little way back from the rock for the purpose. On the second, she took a closer view of the line of footprints, stretching from the rock across the sand in the direction of Wilvercombe. On the third, she made a close-up of one of the footprints, holding the camera, set to six feet, at arm’s-length above her head and pointing the lens directly downwards to the best of her judgement.
She looked at her watch. All this had taken her about twenty minutes from the time that she first saw the body. She thought she had better, while she was about it, spare time to make sure that the footprints belonged to the body. She removed one shoe from the foot of, the corpse, noticing as she did: so that, though the sole bore traces of sand, there were no stains of sea-water upon the leather of the uppers. Inserting; the shoe into one of the footprints, she observed that they corresponded perfectly. She did not care for the job of replacing the shoe, and therefore took it with her, pausing as she regained the shingle, to take a view of the rock from the landward side.
The day was certainly clouding over and the wind getting up. Looking out beyond the rock, she saw a line of little swirls and eddies, which broke from time to time into angry-looking, spurts of foam, as though breaking about the tops of hidden rocks. The waves everywhere, were showing feathers of foam, and dull yellow streaks reflected the gathering cloud-masses further out to sea. The fishing-boat was almost out of sight, making for Wilvercombe.
Not quite sure whether she had done the right thing or the wrong, Harriet gathered up her belongings, including the shoe, hat, razor, cigarette-case and handkerchief, and started to scramble up the face of the cliff. It was then just after half-past two.
Chapter II. The Evidence Of The Road
‘None sit in doors,
Except the babe, and his forgotten grandsire,
And such as, out of life, each side do lie
Against the shutter of the grave or womb.’
— The Second Brother
Thursday, 18 June
THE road, when Harriet reached it, seemed as solitary as before. She turned in the direction of Wilvercombe and strode along at a good, steady pace. Her instinct was to run, but she knew that she would gain nothing by pumping herself out. After about a mile, she was delighted by the sight of a fellow-traveller; a girl of about seventeen, driving a couple of cows. She stopped the girl and asked the way to the nearest house.
The girl stared at her. Harriet’ repeated her request.
The reply came in so strong a west-country accent that Harriet could make little of it, but at length she gathered that Will Coffin’s, over to Brennerton, was the nearest habitation, and that it could be reached by following a winding lane on the right.
‘How far is it?’ asked Harriet.
The girl opined that it was a good piece, but declined to commit herself in yards or miles.
‘Well, I’ll try there,’ said Harriet. ‘And if you meet anybody on the road, will you tell them there’s a dead man on the beach about a mile back and that the police ought to be told.’
The girl stared dumbly.
Harriet repeated the message, adding, ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, miss,’ said the girl, in the tone of-voice which makes it quite cleat that the hearer understands nothing.
As Harriet hurried away up the lane, she saw the girl still staring after her.
Will Coffin’s proved to be a small farmhouse. It took Harriet twenty minutes to reach it, and when she did reach it, it appeared to be deserted. She knocked at the door without result; pushed it open and shouted, still without result; then she went round to the back.
When she had again shouted several times, a woman in an apron emerged from an outbuilding and stood gazing at her.
‘Are any of the men about?’ asked Harriet.
The woman replied that they were all up. to the seven-acre field, getting the hay in.
Harriet explained that there was a dead man lying on the shore and that the police ought to be informed,
‘That do be terrible, surely,’ said the woman. ‘Will it be Joe Smith? He was out with his boat this morning and the rocks be very dangerous thereabouts. The Grinders, we call them.’
‘No,’ said Harriet; ’it isn’t a fisherman — it looks like somebody from the town. And he isn’t drowned. He’s cut his throat’
‘Cut his throat?’ said the woman, with relish. ‘Well, now, what a terrible thing, to be sure.’
‘I want to let the police know,’—said Harriet, ‘before the, tide comes in and covers the body.’
‘The police?’ The woman considered this. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, after mature thought. ‘The police did ought to be told about it.’
Harriet asked if one of the men could be found and sent with a message. The woman shook her head. They were getting in the hay and the weather did look to be changing. She doubted if anybody could be spared.
‘You’re not on the telephone, I suppose?’ asked Harriet.
They were not on the, telephone, but Mr Carey at the Red Farm, he was on the telephone. To get to the Red Farm, the woman added, under interrogation, you would have to go back to the road and take the next turning, and then it was about a mile or maybe two.
‘Was there a car Harriet could borrow?
The woman was sorry, but there was no car. At least, there was one, but her daughter had gone over to Heathbury market and wouldn’t be back till late.
‘Then I must try and get to the Red Farm,’ said Harriet, rather wearily. ‘If you do see anybody who could take a message, would you tell them that there’s a dead man on the shore near the Grinders, and that the police ought to be informed.’
‘Oh, I’ll tell them sure enough,’ said the woman, brightly. ‘It’s a very terrible thing, isn’t it? The police did ought to know about it., You’re looking very tired, miss would you like a cup of tea?’
Harriet refused the tea, and said she ought to be getting on. As she passed through the gate, the woman called her back. Harriet turned hopefully.
‘Was it you that found him, miss?’
‘Yes, I found him.’
‘Lying there dead?’
Yes.’
‘With his throat cut?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said the woman, “Tis a terrible thing, to be sure.’
Back on the main road, Harriet hesitated. She had lost a good deal of time on this expedition. Would it be better to turn aside again in search of the Red Farm, or to keep to the main road where there was more chance of meeting, a passerby? While still undecided, she arrived at the turn. An aged man was hoeing turnips in afield-close by. She hailed him.
‘Is this the way to the Red Farm?’
He paid no attention, but went on hoeing turnips.
‘He must be deaf,’ muttered Harriet, hailing him again. He continued to hoe turnips. She was looking about for the gate into the field when the aged man paused to straighten his back and spit on his hands, and in so doing brought her into his line of vision.
Harriet beckoned to him, and he hobbled slowly up to the wall, supporting himself on the hoe as he went.
‘Is this the way to the Red Farm?’ She pointed up the lane.
‘No,’ said the old man, ‘he ain’t at home.’
‘Has he got a telephone?’ asked Harriet.
‘Not till tonight,’ replied the ancient. ‘He’s over to Heathbury market?
‘A telephone,’ repeated Harriet, ‘has he got a telephone?’
‘Oh, ay,’ said the old man, ‘you’ll find her somewhere about.’ While Harriet was wondering whether the pronoun was the one usually applied in that county to telephones, he dashed her hopes by adding: ‘Her leg’s bad again.’
‘How far is it to the farm?’ shouted Harriet,desperately.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas,’ said the, old man, resting on the hoe, and lifting up his hat to admit the breeze to his head, ‘I tell’d her o’ Saturday night she hadn’t no call to do it’
Harriet, leaning far over the’ wall, advanced her mouth to within an inch of his ear.
‘How far is it?’ she bawled.
‘There ain’t no need to shout,’ said the old man. ‘I bain’t deaf. Eighty-two come Michaelmas, and all my faculties, thank God.’
‘How far—‘began Harriet.
‘I’m telling ‘ee, arnn’t I? Mile and half by the lane, but if you was to take the short cut through the field where the old bull is—’
A car came suddenly down the road at considerable speed and vanished into the distance.
‘Oh, bother!’ muttered Harriet, ‘I might have stopped that if I, hadn’t wasted my time on this old idiot.’
‘You’re quite right, miss,’ agreed Old Father William, catching the last word with the usual perversity of the deaf. ‘Madmen, I calls ’em. There ain’t no sense in racketing along at that pace. My niece’s young man—’
The glimpse of the car was a deciding factor in Harriet’s mind. Far better to stick to the road. If once she began losing herself in by-ways on the chance of finding an elusive farm and a hypothetical telephone, she might wander about till dinner-time. She started off again, cutting Father William’s story off abruptly in the middle, and did another dusty half mile without further encounter.
It was odd, she thought. During the morning she had seen several people and quite a number (comparatively) of tradesmen’s vans. What had happened to them all? Robert Templeton (or possibly even Lord Peter Wimsey, who had been brought up in the country) would have promptly enough found the answer to the riddle. It was market-day at Heathbury, and early-closing day at Wilvercombe and Lesston Hoe — the two phenomena being, indeed, interrelated so as to permit the inhabitants of the two watering-places to attend the important function at the market-town. Therefore there were no more tradesmen’s deliveries along the coast-road. And therefore all the local traffic to Heathbury was already well away inland. Such of the aborigines as remained were at work in the hayfields. She did, indeed, discover a man and a youth at work with a two-horse haycutter, but they stared aghast at her suggestion that they should leave their work and their horses to look for the police. The farmer himself was (naturally) at Heathbury market. Harriet, rather hopelessly, left a message with them and trudged on.
Presently there came slogging into view a figure which appeared rather more hopeful, a man clad in shorts and carrying a pack on his back — a hiker, like herself. She hailed him imperiously.
‘I say, can you tell me where I can get hold of somebody with a car or a telephone? It’s frightfully important.’
The man, a weedy, sandy-haired person with a bulging brow and thick spectacles, gazed at her with courteous incompetence.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. You see, I’m a stranger here myself.’
Well, could you — began Harriet, and paused. After all, what could he do? He was in exactly; the same boat as herself. With a foolish relic of Victorianism she had somehow imagined that a man would display superior energy and resourcefulness, but, after all, he was only a human being — with the usual outfit of legs and brains.
‘You see,’ she explained, ‘there’s a dead man on the beach over there.’ She pointed vaguely behind her.
‘No, really?’ exclaimed the young man. ‘I say, that’s a bit thick, isn’t it? Er — friend of yours?’
‘Certainly not,’ retorted Harriet. ‘I don’t know him from Adam. But the police ought to know about it.’
‘The police? Oh, yes, of course, the police. Well, you’ll find them in Wilvercombe, you know. There’s a police-station there.’
‘I know,’ said Harriet, ‘but the body’s right down near low-water mark, and if I can’t get somebody along pretty quick the tide may wash him away. In fact, it’s probably done so already. Good lord! It’s — almost four o’clock.’
‘The tide? Oh, yes. Yes, I. suppose it would. If — he brightened up with a new thought—‘if it’s coming in. But it might be going out, you know, mightn’t it?’
‘It might, but it isn’t,’ said Harriet, grimly. ‘It’s been coming in since two o’clock. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Well, no, I can’t say I have. I’m shortsighted. And I don’t know much about it. I live in London, you see. I’m afraid I can’t quite see what I can do about it. ‘There don’t seem to be any police about here, do there?’
He gazed round about, as though he expected to sight a constable on point-duty in the middle-distance.
‘Have you passed any cottages lately?’ asked Harriet.
‘Cottages? Oh, yes — yes, I believe I did see some cottages a little way back. Oh, yes, I’m sure I did. You’ll find somebody there.’
‘I’ll try there, then. And if you meet anybody would you mind telling them about it. A man on the beach with his throat cut.’
‘His throat?’
‘Yes. Near some rocks they call the Grinders.’ ‘Who cut his throat?’
‘How should I know? I should think he probably did it himself.’
‘Yes — oh, naturally. Yes. Otherwise it would be murder, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, it may he murder, of course.’ The hiker clutched his staff nervously. ‘Oh! I shouldn’t think so, should you?’
‘You never know,’ said Harriet, exasperated. ‘If I were you, I’d be getting along quickly. The murderer may be somewhere about, you know.’
‘Good heavens!’ said the young man from London. ‘But that would-be awfully dangerous.’
‘Wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll be pushing on. Don’t forget, will you? A man with his throat cut near the Grinders.’
‘The Grinders. Oh, yes. I’ll remember. But, I say?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t you think I’d better come along with you? To protect you, you know, and that sort of thing?’
Harriet laughed. She felt convinced that the young man was not keen on passing the Grinders.
‘As you like,’ she said indifferently, walking on.
‘I could show you the cottages,’ suggested the young man. ‘Very well,’ said Harriet. ‘Come along. We’ll have to be as quick as we can.’
A quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the cottages two low thatched buildings standing on the right-hand side of the road. In front of them a high hedge had been planted, screening them from the sea-gales and, incidentally, helping to cut off all view of the shore. Opposite them, on the other side of the road, a narrow walled lane twisted down to the sea’s edge. From Harriet’s point of view, the cottages were a disappointment. They were inhabited by an aged, crone, two youngish women and some small children, but the men were all out fishing. They were late back; today but were expected on the evening tide. Harriet’s story was listened to with flattering interest and enthusiasm, and the wives promised to tell their husbands about it when they came in. They also offered refreshment which, this time, Harriet accepted. She felt pretty sure; that the body would by now be covered by the tide and that half an hour could make no real difference. Excitement had made her weary. She drank the tea and was thankful.
The companions then resumed their walk, the gentleman from London, whose name was Perkins, complaining of a blistered heel. Harriet ignored him. Surely something would soon come along.
The only, thing that came was a fast saloon car, which overtook them about half a mile further on. The proud chauffeur, seeing two dusty trampers signalling, as it appeared to him, for a lift, put his stern foot down on the accelerator and drove on.
‘The beastly road-hog!’ said Mr Perkins, pausing to caress his blistered heel.
‘Saloons with chauffeurs are never any good,’ said Harriet. ‘What we want is a lorry, or a seven-year-old Ford. Oh, look! What’s that?
‘That’ was a pair of gates across the road and a little cottage standing beside it.
‘A level-crossing, by all that’s lucky! Harriet’s sinking courage revived. ‘There must be somebody here.’
There was. There were, in fact, two people — a cripple and a small girl. Harriet eagerly asked where she could get hold of a car or a telephone.
‘You’ll find that all right in the village, miss,’ said the cripple. ‘Leastways, it ain’t what you’d call a village, exactly, but Mr Hearn that keeps the grocery, he’s got a telephone. This here’s Darley Halt, and Darley is about ten minutes walk. You’ll find somebody there all right, miss, for certain. Excuse me a minute, miss. Liz! the gates!’
The child ran out to open the gates to let through a small boy leading an immense-cart-horse.
‘Is there a train coming through? asked Harriet, idly, as the gates were pushed across the road again.
‘Not for half an hour, miss. We keeps the gates shut most times. There ain’t a deal of traffic along, this road, and they, keeps the cattle from straying on to the line. There’s a good many trains in the day. It’s the main line from Wilvercombe to Heathbury. Of course, the expresses don’t stop here, only the locals, and they only stops twice a day, except market days.’
‘No, I see.’ Harriet wondered why she was asking about the trains, and then suddenly realised that, with her professional interest in time-tables, she was instinctively checking up the ways and means of approaching the Grinders. Train, car, boat — how had the dead man got there?
‘What time—?’
No, it didn’t matter. The police could check that up. She thanked the gate-keeper, pushed her way through, the side-wickets and strode on, with Mr Perkins limping after her.
The road still ran beside the coast, but the cliffs were gradually sloped, down almost to sea-level. They saw a clump of trees and a hedge and a little lane, curving away past the ruins of an abandoned cottage to a wide space of green on which stood a tent, close by the sandy beach, with smoke going up from a campers’ fire beside it. As they passed the head of this lane a man emerged from it, carrying a petrol-tin. He wore a pair of old flannel slacks, and a khaki shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His soft hat was pulled down rather low over his eyes, which were further protected by a, pair of dark spectacles.
Harriet stopped him and asked if they were anywhere near the village.
‘A few minutes farther on,’ he replied, briefly, but civilly enough ‘I want to telephone,’ went on Harriet. ‘I’m told I can do so at the grocer’s. Is that right?’
‘Oh, yes. Just across on the other side of the green. You can’t mistake it. It’s the only shop there is.’
‘Thank you. Oh, by the way — I suppose there isn’t a policeman in the village?’
The man halted as he was about to turn away and stared at her, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare. She noticed a snake tattooed in red and blue upon his forearm, and wondered whether he might perhaps have been a sailor.
‘No, there’s no policeman living in Darley. We share a constable with the next village, I believe he floats round on a bicycle occasionally. Anything wrong?’
‘There’s been an accident along the coast,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve found a dead man.’
‘Good lord! Well, you’d better telephone through to Wilvercombe.’
‘Yes, I will, thanks. Come along, Mr Perkins. Oh! he’s’ gone on.’
Harriet caught up her companion, rather annoyed by his patent eagerness to dissociate himself from her and her errand.
‘There’s no need to stop and speak to everybody,’ complained Mr Perkins, peevishly. ‘I don’t like the look of that fellow, and we’re quite near the place now. I came through here this morning, you know.’
‘
‘I only wanted to ask if there was a policeman,’ explained Harriet, peaceably. She did not want to argue with Mr Perkins. She had other things to think of. Cottages had begun to appear, small, sturdy buildings, surrounded by little patches of gay garden. The road turned suddenly inland, and she observed with joy telegraph poles, more houses and at length a little green, with a smithy at one corner and children playing cricket on the grass. In the centre of the green stood an ancient elm, with a seat round it and an ancient man basking in the sunshine; and on the opposite side was a shop, with ‘Geo. Hearn: Grocer, displayed on a sign above it.
‘Thank goodness!’ said Harriet.
She almost ran across the little green and into the village shop, which was festooned with boots and frying-pans, and appeared to sell everything from acid drops to corduroy trousers.
A bald-headed man advanced helpfully from behind a pyramid of canned goods.
‘Can I use your telephone, please?’
‘Certainly, miss; what number?’
‘I want the Wilvercombe police-station.
‘The police-station?’ The grocer looked puzzled almost shocked. ‘I’ll have to look up the number for you,’ he said, hesitatingly. ‘Will you step into the parlour, miss — and sir?’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Perkins. ‘But really, — I mean — it’s — the lady’s business really. I mean to say — if there’s any sort of hotel hereabouts, I think I’d better — that is to say — er — good-evening.’
He melted unobtrusively out of the shop. Harriet, who had already forgotten his existence, followed the grocer into the back room and watched him with impatience as he put on his spectacles and struggled with the telephone directory.
Chapter III. The Evidence Of The Hotel
‘Little and grisly, or bony and big,
White, and clattering, grassy and yellow;
The partners are waiting, so strike up a jig,
Dance and be merry, for Death’s a droll fellow.
Where’s Death and his sweetheart? We want to begin’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Thursday, 18 June
IT WAS a quarter-past five when the grocer announced that Harriet’s call was through. Allowing for stoppages and for going out of her way to, the Brennerton Farm, she had covered rather more than four miles of the distance between ‘the Grinders and Wilvercombe in very nearly three hours. True, she had actually walked six miles or more, but she felt that a shocking amount of time had been wasted. Well, she had done her best, but fate had been against her.
‘Hullo!’ she said, wearily.
‘Hullo!’ said an official voice.
‘Is that the Wilvercombe police?’
‘Speaking. Who are you?’
‘I’m speaking from Mr Hearn’s shop at Darley. I want to tell you that this afternoon at about two o’clock I found the dead body of a man lying on the beach near the Grinders.’
‘Oh!’ said the voice. ‘One moment, please. Yes. The dead body of a man at the Grinders. Yes?’’
‘He’d got his throat cut,’ said Harriet.
‘Throat cut,’ said the official voice. ‘Yes?’ ‘I also found a razor,’ said Harriet.
‘A razor?’ The voice seemed rather pleased, she thought by this detail. ‘Who is it speaking?’ it went on..
‘My name is Vane, Miss Harriet Vane. I am on a walking tour, and happened to find him. Can you send someone out to fetch me, or shall I—?’
‘Just a moment. Name of Vane — V-A-N-E yes. Found at two o’clock, you say. You’re a bit late letting us know, aren’t you?’
Harriet explained that she had had difficulty in getting through to them.’
‘I see,’ said the voice. ‘All right, miss, we’ll be sending a car along. You just stay where you are till we come. You’ll have to go along with us and show us the body.’
‘I’m afraid there’ won’t be any body by now,’ said Harriet.
‘You see, it was down quite close to the sea, on that big rock, you know, and the tide-’
‘We’ll see to that, miss,’ replied the voice, confidently, as though the. Nautical Almanack might be expected to conform to police regulations. ‘The car’ll be along, in about ten minutes or so.’
The receiver clicked and was silent. Harriet replaced her end of the instrument and stood for a few minutes, hesitating.
Then she took the receiver off again.
‘Give me Ludgate 6000—quick as ever you can. Urgent press call. I must have it within five minutes.’
The operator began to make objections.
‘Listen that’s the number. of the Morning Star. It’s a priority call.’
‘Well,’ said the operator, dubiously, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Harriet waited.
Three minutes passed — four — five — six. Then the bell rang. Harriet snatched the receiver down. ‘Morning Star.’
‘Give me the news-room — quick.’
Buzz click.
‘Morning Star news-editor.’
Harriet gathered herself together to cram her story into the fewest and most telling words.
‘I am speaking from Darley near Wilvercombe, The dead body of a man was found at two o’clock this afternoon all right. Ready? — On the coast this afternoon with his throat cut from ear to ear. The discovery was made by Miss Harriet Vane, the well-known detective novelist. Yes, that’s right — the Harriet Vane who was tried for murder two years ago…. Yes…. The dead man appears to be about twenty years of age — blue eyes — short dark beard — dressed in a dark-blue-lounge — suit with brown shoes and chamois-leather gloves…. A razor was found near the body — Probably suicide. Oh, yes, it might be murder, or call it mysterious circumstances.-. Yes…. ‘Miss Vane, who is on a walking-tour, gathering material for her forthcoming book, The Fountain-Pen Mystery, was obliged to walk for several miles before getting help…. No, the police haven’t seen the body yet… it’s probably under water by now, but I suppose they’ll get it at low tide. I’ll ring you later… Yes…. What? Oh, this is Miss Vane speaking…. Yes… No, I’m giving you this exclusively…. Well, I suppose it will be all over the place, presently, but I’m giving you my story exclusively… provided, of course, you give me a good show…. Yes, of course…. Oh! well, I suppose I shall be staying in Wilvercombe…. I don’t know; I’ll ring you up when I know where I’m staying… Right… right… Good-bye.’
As she rang off, she heard a car draw up to the door, and emerged through the little shop to encounter a large man in a grey suit, who began impatiently: ‘I am Inspector Umpelty. What’s all this about?’
‘Oh Inspector! I’m so glad to see you. I began to think I never should get hold of anybody with any common-sense about them. I’ve had a trunk-call, Mr Hearn. I don’t know what it costs, but here’s a ten-bob note. I’ll call for the change another time. I’ve told my friends I shall be stuck in Wilvercombe for a few days, Inspector. I suppose that’s right, isn’t it?’
This was disingenuous, but novelists and police-inspectors do not always see eye to eye as regards publicity.
‘That’s right, miss. Have to ask you to stay on a bit while we look into this. Better jump into the car and we’ll run out to where you say you saw this body. This gentleman is Dr Fenchurch. This is Sergeant Saunders.’
Harriett acknowledged the introduction.
‘Why I’ve been brought along I don’t know,’ said the police-surgeon in an aggrieved voice. ‘If this man was down near low-water mark at two o’clock, we shan’t see much of him tonight. Tide’s more than half-full now, and a strong wind blowing.’
‘That’s the devil of it,’ agreed the Inspector.
‘I know,’ said Harriet, mournfully, ‘but really I did my best.’ She recounted the details of her odyssey, mentioning everything — she had done at the rock and producing the shoe, the cigarette-case, the hat, the handkerchief and the razor.
‘Well, there,’ said the Inspector, ‘you seem to have done a pretty tidy job, miss. Anybody’d think you’d made a study of it. Taking photographs and all. Not but what,’ he added, sternly, ‘if you’d started sooner, you’d have been here be ‘I didn’t waste; much time,’ pleaded Harriet, ‘and I thought, supposing the body got washed away, or anything, it would be better to have some record of it.’
‘That’s very true, miss, and I shouldn’t wonder but what you did the right thing. Looks like a big wind rising; and that’ll hold the tide up.’
‘Due south-west it is’ put in the policeman who was driving the car. ‘That there rock will be awash; next low tide if it goes on like this, and with the sea running it’ll be a bit of a job to get out there.’
‘Yes,’ said the Inspector. ‘The current sets very strong round the bay, and you can’t get a boat in past the Grinders — not without you want her bottom stove in.’
Indeed, when they arrived at ‘Murder Bay’, as Harriet had mentally christened it, there were no signs of the rock, still less of the body. The sea was half-way up the sand, rolling in heavily. The little line of breakers that had shown the hidden tops of the Grinders reef had disappeared. The wind was freshening still more, and the sun gleamed in spasms of brilliance, between thickening banks of cloud..
‘That’s the place, miss, is it?’ asked: the Inspector.
‘Oh, yes, that’s the place,’ replied Harriet, confidently.
The Inspector shook his head.
‘There’s seventeen, feet of water over that rock by now,’ he said. ‘Tide’ll be full in another hour. Can’t do anything about it now. Have to wait for low’ tide. That’ll be two ack emma, or thereabouts, Have to see if there’s any chance of getting out to it then, but if you ask me, it’s working up for roughish weather. There’s the chance, of course, that the body may get washed off and come ashore somewhere. I’ll run you up to Brennerton, Saunders; try and get some of the men there to keep a look-out-up and, down the shore, and I’ll cut along back to Wilvercombe and see what I can arrange about; getting a boat, out. You’ll have to come along with me, miss, and make a statement.’
‘By all means,’ said Harriet, rather faintly.
The Inspector turned round and took a look at her.
‘I expect you’re feeling a bit upset, miss,’ he said, kindly, and no wonder. It’s not a pleasant thing for a young lady to have to deal with. It’s a miracle to me, the way you handled it. Why, most young ladies would have run away, let alone taking away all these boots and things.’
‘Well, you see,’ explained Harriet, ‘I know what ought to be done. I write detective stories, you know,’ she added, feeling as she spoke that this must appear to the Inspector an idle and foolish occupation.
‘There now,’ said the Inspector. ‘It isn’t often, I daresay, you get a chance of putting your own stories into practice, as you might say. What did you say your name was, miss? Not that I read those sort of books much, except it might be Edgar Wallace now and again, but I’ll have to know your name, of course, in any case.’
Harriet gave her name and her London address. The Inspector seemed to come to attention rather suddenly.
‘I fancy I’ve heard that name before,’ he remarked.
‘Yes,’ said Harriet, a little’ grimly; ‘I expect you have. I am—’ she laughed rather uncomfortably ‘I’m the notorious Harriet Vane, who was tried for poisoning’ Philip Boyes two years ago.’
‘Ah, just so!’ replied the Inspector. ‘Yes. They got the fellow who did it, too, didn’t they? Arsenic case. Yes, of course. There was some very pretty medical evidence at the trial, if I remember rightly. Smart piece of work. Lord Peter Wimsey had something to do with it, didn’t he?’
‘Quite a lot,’ said Harriet.
‘He seems; to be a clever. gentleman,’ observed the Inspector. ‘One’s always hearing of him doing something or other.’
Yes,’ agreed Harriet; ‘he’s — full of activities.’
You’ll know him very well, I expect?’ pursued the Inspector, filled with what Harriet felt to be unnecessary curiosity.
‘Oh, yes, quite well. Yes, of course.’ It struck her that this sounded ungracious, seeing that Wimsey had undoubtedly saved her from a very disagreeable position, if not from an ignominious death, and she went on, hastily and stiltedly, ‘I have a great deal to thank him for.’
‘Naturally,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Not but what (loyally) ‘Scotland Yard would probably have got the right man in the end. Still’ (here local patriotism seemed to take the upper hand), ‘they haven’t the advantages in some ways that we have. They, can’t know all the people in London same as we know everybody hereabouts. Stands to reason they couldn’t. Now, in a case like this one here, ten to one we shall be able to find all about the young man in a turn of the hand, as you might say.’
‘He may be a visitor,’ said Harriet.
‘Very likely,’ said the Inspector, ‘but I expect there’ll be somebody that knows about him, all the same. This is where you get off, Saunders. Raise all the help you can, and get Mr Coffin to run you over to Wilvercombe when you’re through. Now then, miss.’ What did you say this young chap was like?’
Harriet again described the corpse.
Beard, eh?’ said the Inspector. ‘Sounds like a foreigner, doesn’t it? I can’t just place him for the moment, but there’s not much doubt he’ll be pretty easily traced. Now, here we are at the police-station, miss. If you’ll just step in here a minute, the Superintendent would like to see you.’
Harriet accordingly stepped in and told her story once again, this time in minute detail, to Superintendent Glaisher, who received it with flattering interest. She handed over the various things taken from the body and her roll of film, and was then questioned exhaustively as to how she had spent the day, both before and after finding the body.
‘By the way,’ said the Superintendent, ‘this young fellow you met on the road what’s become of him?’
Harriet stared about her as though she expected to find Mr Perkins still at her elbow.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea. I’d forgotten all about him. He must have gone off while I was ringing you up.’
‘Odd,’ said Glaisler, making a note to inquire after Mr Perkins.
‘But he can’t possibly know anything about it,’ said Harriet. ‘He was fearfully’ surprised — and frightened. That’s why he came back with me.’
‘We’ll have to check up on him, though, as a matter of routine,’ said the Superintendent. Harriet was about to protest that this was a waste of time, when she suddenly realised that in all probability it was her own story that was due to be ‘checked up on. She was silent, and the Superintendent went on:
‘Well, now, Miss Vane. I’m afraid we shall have to ask you, to stay within reach for a few days. What were you thinking of doing?’’
‘Oh, I-quite understand that. II suppose — I’d better put up somewhere in Wilvercombe. You needn’t be afraid of my running away. I want to be in on this thing.’
The policeman looked a little disapproving. Everybody is, of course, only too delighted to take the limelight in a gruesome tragedy, but a lady ought, surely, to pretend the contrary. Inspector Umpelty, however, merely replied with the modest suggestion that Clegg’s Temperance Hostel was generally reckoned to be as cheap and comfortable as you could require.
Harriet laughed, remembering suddenly that a novelist owes a duty to her newspaper, reporters. ‘Miss Harriet Vane, when interviewed by our correspondent at Clegg’s Temperance Hostel—‘That would never do.
‘I don’t care for Temperance Hostels,’ she said, firmly. ‘What’s the best hotel in the town?’
‘The Resplendent is the largest,’ said Glaisher.
‘Then you will find me at the Resplendent,’ said Harriet, picking up her dusty knapsack and preparing for action.
‘Inspector Umpelty will run you down there in the car,’ said the Superintendent, with a little-nod to Umpelty.
‘Very good of him,’ answered Harriet, amused.
Within a very few minutes the car deposited her at one of those monster seaside palaces which look as though they had been designed by a German manufacturer of children’s cardboard toys. Its glass porch was crowded with hothouse plants, and the lofty; dome of its reception-hall was supported on gilt pilasters rising out of an ocean of blue, plush. Harriet tramped heedlessly through its spacious splendours and demanded a large single bedroom with private bath, on the first floor, and overlooking the sea.
‘Ai’m afraid,’ said the receptionist, casting a languid glance of disfavour at Harriet’s knapsack and shoes, ‘that all our rooms are engaged.’
‘Surely not,’ said Harriet, ‘so early in the season.. Just ask the manager to come and speak to me for a moment.’ She sat down with a determined air in the nearest well-stuffed armchair and, hailing a waiter, demanded a cocktail.
‘Will you join me, Inspector?’
The Inspector thanked her, but explained that a certain discretion was due to his position.
‘Another time, then,’ said Harriet, smiling, and dropping a pound-note on the waiter’s tray, with a somewhat ostentatious display of a well-filled note-case
Inspector Umpelty grinned faintly as he saw the receptionist beckon to the water. Then he moved gently across to the desk and spoke a few words. Presently the assistant-receptionist approached Harriet with a deprecating smile.
‘We find, madam, that we can efter all accommodate you. An American gentleman has informed us thet he is vacating his room on the first floor. It overlooks the Esplanade. Ai think you will find it quaite satisfactory.’
‘Has it a private bath?’ demanded Harriet, without enthusiasm.
‘Oh, yes, madam. And a belcony.’
‘All right,’ said Harriet, ‘What number? Twenty-three. It has a telephone, I suppose? Well, Inspector, you’ll know where to find me, won’t you?’
She grinned a friendly grin at him.
‘Yes, miss,’ said Inspector Umpelty, grinning also. He had his private cause for amusement. If Harriet’s note-case had ensured her reception at the Resplendent, — it was his own private whisper of friend of Lord Peter Wimsey that had produced the view over the sea, the bath and the balcony. It was just as well that Harriet did not know this. It would have annoyed her.
Curiously enough, however, the image of Lord Peter kept intruding upon her mind while she was telephoning her address to the Morning Star, and even, while she was working her way through the Resplendent’s expensive and admirable dinner. If the relations between them had not been what they were, it would have been only fair to ring him up and tell him about the corpse with the cut throat. But under the circumstances, the action might be misinterpreted. And, in any case, the thing was probably only the dullest kind of suicide, not worth bringing to his attention. Not nearly so complicated and interesting a problem, for instance, as the central situation in The Fountain-Pen Mystery. In that absorbing mystery, the villain was at the moment engaged in committing a crime in Edinburgh, while constructing an. ingenious alibi involving a steam-yacht, a wireless time-signal, five clocks and the change from summer to winter time. (Apparently the cut-throat gentleman had come from the Wilvercombe direction. By road? by train? Had he walked from Darley Halt? If not, who had brought him?) Really, she must try and concentrate on this alibi. The town-clock was the great difficulty. How could that be altered? And altered it must be, for the whole alibi depended on its being heard to strike midnight at the appropriate moment. Could the man who looked after it be made into an accomplice? Who did look after town-hall clocks? (Why gloves? And had she left her own finger-prints on the razor?) Was it, after all, going to be necessary to go to Edinburgh? Perhaps there was no town-hall and no clock. A church-clock would do, of course. But church-clocks and bodies in belfries had been rather overdone lately. (It was odd about Mr Perkins. If the solution, was murder after, all, could not the murderer have walked through, the water to some point? Perhaps she ought to have followed the shore and not the coast-road. Too late now, in any case.) And she, had not properly worked out the speed of the steam-yacht. One ought to know about these things. Lord Peter would know, of course; he must have sailed in plenty of steam yachts. It must be nice to be really rich. Anybody who married Lord Peter would be rich, of course. And he was amusing. Nobody could say he would be dull to live with. But the trouble was that you never knew what anybody was like to live with except by living with them. It wasn’t, worth it. Not even to know all about steam-yachts. A novelist couldn’t possibly marry all the people from whom she wanted specialised information. Harriet pleased herself over the coffee with sketching out the career of an American detective-novelist who contracted a fresh marriage for each new book. For a book about poisons, she would marry an analytical chemist; for a book about somebody’s will, a solicitor; for a book about strangling, a — a hangman, of course. There might be something in it. A spoof book, of course. And the villainess might do away with each husband by the method described in the hook she was working on at the time. Too obvious? Well, perhaps.
She got up from the table and made her way into a kind of large lounge, where the middle space was cleared for dancing. A select orchestra occupied a platform at one end, and small tables were arranged all round the sides of the room, where visitors could drink coffee or liqueurs and watch the dancing. While she took her place and gave her order, the floor was occupied by a pair of obviously professional dancers, giving an exhibition waltz. The man was tall and fair, with sleek hair plastered closely to his head, and a queer, unhealthy face with a wide, melancholy mouth. The girl, in an exaggerated gown of petunia satin with an enormous bustle and a train, exhibited a mask of Victorian coyness as she revolved languidly in her partner’s arms to the strains of the ‘Blue Danube’. ‘Autres temps, autres moeurs,’ thought Harriet. She looked about the room. Long skirts and costumes of the seventies were in evidence — and even ostrich feathers and fans. Even the coyness had its imitators. But it was so obvious an imitation. The slenderseeming waists were made so, not by savage tight-lacing, but by sheer expensive dressmaking. Tomorrow, on the tennis-court, the short, loose tunic-frock would reveal them as the waists of muscular young women of the day, despising all bonds. And the sidelong glances, the down-cast eyes, the mock-modesty masks, only. If this was the ‘return to womanliness’ hailed by the fashion-correspondents, it was to a quite different kind of womanliness — set on a basis of economic independence. Were men really stupid enough to believe that the good old days of submissive womanhood could be brought back by milliners’ fashions? ‘Hardly,’ thought Harriet, ‘when they know perfectly well that one has only to remove the train and the bustle, get into a short skirt and walk off, with a job to do and money in one’s pocket. Oh, well, it’s a game, and presumably they all know the rules.’
The dancers twirled to a standstill with the conclusion of the waltz. The instrumentalists tweaked a string and tightened a peg here and there and rearranged their music, under cover of perfunctory applause. Then the male dancer selected a partner from one of the nearer tables, while the petunia-clad girl obeyed a summons from a stout manufacturer in tweeds on the other side of the room. Another girl, a blonde.in pale blue, rose from her solitary table near the platform and led out an elderly man. Other visitors rose, accompanied; by their own partners, and took the floor to the strains of another waltz. Harriet beckoned to the waiter and asked for more coffee.
Men, she thought, like the illusion that woman is dependent on their approbation and favour for, her whole interest in life. But do they like the reality? Not, thought Harriet, bitterly, when one is past one’s first youth. The girl over there, exercising S.A. on a group of rather possessive-looking males, will turn into a predatory hag like the woman — at the next table, if she doesn’t find something to occupy her mind, always supposing that she has — a mind. Then the men will say she puts the wind up them.
The ‘predatory hag’ was a lean woman, pathetically made-up, dressed in an exaggeration of the fashion which it would have been difficult for a girl of nineteen to carry off successfully. She had caught Harriet’s attention earlier by her look of radiant, almost bridal exaltation. She was alone, but seemed to be expecting somebody, for her gaze roamed incessantly about the room, concentrating itself chiefly on the professionals’ table near the platform. Now she appeared to be getting anxious. Her ringed hands twitched nervously, and she lighted one cigarette after another, only to stub it out, half-smoked, snatch at the mirror in her handbag, read lust her make-up, fidget, and then begin the whole process again with another cigarette.
‘Waiting for her gigolo,’ diagnosed Harriet, with a kind of pitiful disgust. ‘The frog-mouthed gentleman, I suppose. He seems to have better fish to fry.’
‘The waiter brought the coffee, and the woman at the next table caught him on his way back.
‘Is Mr Alexis not here tonight?’
‘No, madam.’ The waiter looked a little nervous. No. He is unavoidably absent’
‘Is he ill?’
‘I’ do not think so, madam. The manager has just said he will not be coming.’
‘Did he send no message?’
‘I could not say, madam.’ The waiter was fidgeting with his feet, ‘Mr Antoine will no doubt be happy…’
‘No, never mind. I am accustomed to Mr Alexis. His step suits me. It does not matter.’
‘No, madam, thank you, madam’
The waiter escaped. Harriet saw him exchange a word and a shrug with the head waiter, Lips and eyebrows were eloquent. Harriet felt annoyed. Did one come to this, then, if one did not marry? Making a public scorn of one’s self before the waiters? She glanced again at the woman, who was rising to leave the lounge. She wore a wedding-ring. Marriage did not save one, apparently. Single, married, widowed, divorced, one came to the same end. She shivered a little, and suddenly felt fed-up with the lounge and the dance-floor. She finished her coffee and retired to the smaller lounge, where three stout women were engaged in an interminable conversation about illness, children and servants. ‘Poor Muriel — quite an invalid since the birth of her last baby…. I spoke quite firmly, I said, “Now you quite understand, if you leave before your month you, will be liable to me for the money.” Twelve guineas a week, and the surgeon’s fee was a hundred guineas…. Beautiful boys, both of them, but with Ronnie at Eton and Wilfred at Oxford…. They oughtn’t to let boys run up these bills…,’my dear, pounds thinner, I hardly knew her, but I wouldn’t care to… some kind of electric heat treatment, too marvellous… and what with rates and taxes and all this terrible unemployment.
… You can’t argue with nervous dyspepsia, but it makes things very difficult… left me high and dry with the house full of people, these girls have no gratitude.’
‘And these,’ thought Harriet, ‘are the happy ones, I suppose. Well, dash it! How about that town-clock?’
Chapter IV. The Evidence Of The Razor
‘Well, thou art
A useful tool sometimes, thy tooth works quickly,
And if thou gnawest a secret from the heart
Thou tellest it not again.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Friday, 19 June
IN SPITE of the horrors she had witnessed, which ought to have driven all sleep away from the eyelids of any self-respecting female, Harriet slept profoundly in her first-floor bedroom (with bathroom, balcony and view over Esplanade) and came down to breakfast with a hearty appetite.
She secured a copy of the Morning Star, and was deep in the perusal of her own interview (with photograph) on the front page, when a familiar voice addressed her
‘Good morning, ‘ Sherlock. Where is the dressing-gown? How many pipes of shag have you consumed? The hypodermic is on the dressing-room table!’
‘How in the world,’ demanded Harriet, ‘did you get here?’
‘Car,’ said Lord Peter, briefly. ‘Have they produced the body?’
‘Who told you about the body?’
‘I nosed it from afar. Where the carcase is, there shall be eagles gathered together. May I join you over the bacon-and-eggs?’
‘By all means,’ said Harriet. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘From London — like a bird that hears the call of its mate.’ ‘I didn’t-’ began Harriet.
‘I didn’t mean you. I meant the corpse. But still, talking of mates, will you marry me?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I thought not, but I felt I might as well ask the question.. Did you say they, had found the body?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I don’t expect they will, then, for a bit. There’s a regular sou’wester blowing great guns. Tiresome for them. Can’t have an inquest without a body. ‘You must produce, the body, as it says in the Have-His-Carcase Act.’
‘No, but really,’ protested Harriet, ‘how did you hear about it?’
‘Salcombe Hardy rang me up from, the Morning Star. Said “my Miss Vane” had found a corpse, and did I know, anything about it. I said I knew nothing about it and that Miss Vane was unhappily not mine — yet. So I buzzed off, and here I am. I brought Sally Hardy down with me. I expect that’s what he really rang me. up for. Smart old bird, Sally always on the spot.’
‘He told you where to find me, I suppose.’
‘Yes — he seemed to know all about it. I was rather hurt. Fancy having to ask the Morning Star where the pole-star of one’s own heaven has, gone to. Hardy seemed to know all about it. How do these things get into the papers?’
‘l rang them up myself,’ replied Harriet. ‘First-class publicity, you know, and all that.’
‘So it is,’ agreed Wimsey, helping himself lavishly to butter. ‘Rang ’em up, did you, with all the gory details?’
‘Naturally; that was the first thing I thought of.’
‘You’re a woman of business. But does it not, pardon me, indicate a certain coarsening of the fibres?’
‘Obviously,’ said Harriet. ‘My fibres at this moment resemble coconut matting.’
‘Without even “Welcome” written across; them. But, look here, beloved, bearing in mind that I’m a corpse-fan, don’t you think you might, as man to man, have let me in on the ground-floor?’
‘If you put it that way,’ admitted Harriet, rather ashamed of herself, ‘I certainly might. But I thought-’
‘Women will let the personal element creep in,’ said Wimsey, acutely. ‘Well, all I can say is, you owe it to me to make up for it now. All the details, please.’
‘I’m tired of giving details,’ grumbled Harriet, perversely.
‘You’ll be tireder before the police and the newspaper lads have finished with you. I have been staving off Salcombe Hardy with the greatest difficulty. He is in the lounge. The Banner and the Clarion are in the smoking-room. They had a fast car. The Courier is coming by train (it’s a nice, respectable, old-fashioned paper), and the Thunderer and the Comet are hanging about outside the bar, hoping you may be persuaded to offer them something.. The three people arguing with the commissionaire are, I fancy, local men. The photographic contingent have gone down en masse, packed in a single Morris, to record the place where the body was found, which, as the tide is well up, they will not see. Tell me all, here and now, and I will organise your publicity for you.’
‘Very. well,’ said Harriet, ‘I tell thee all, I can no more.’
She pushed her plate aside and took up a clean knife.
‘This,’ she said, is the coast-road from Lesston Hoe to Wilvercombe. The shore bends about like this—’ She took up the pepper-pot.
‘Try salt,’ suggested Wimsey. ‘Less irritatin’ to the nasal tissues.’
‘Thank you. This line of salt is the beach. And this piece of bread is a rock at low-water level.’
Wimsey twitched his chair closer to the table.
‘And this salt-spoon,’ he said, with childlike enjoyment,
‘can be the body.’
He made no comment while Harriet told her story, only interrupting once or twice with a question about times and distances. He sat drooping above the sketch-map she was laying out among the breakfast-things, his eyes invisible, his long nose seeming to twitch like a rabbit’s with concentration. When she had finished, he sat silent for a moment and then said
‘Let’s get this clear. You got to the place where you had lunch when, exactly?’
‘Just one o’clock. I looked at my watch.’
‘As you came along the cliffs, you could see the whole shore, including the rock where you found the body.’
‘Yes; I suppose I could.!
‘Was anybody on the rock then?’
‘I really don’t know. I don’t even specially remember noticing the rock. I was thinking about my grub, you see, and I was really, looking about at the side of the road for a suitable spot to scramble down the cliff. — My eyes weren’t focused for distance’
‘I see. That’s rather a pity, in a way.’
‘Yes, it is; but I can tell you one thing. I’m quite sure there was nothing moving on the shore. I did give one glance round just before I decided to climb down. I distinctly remember thinking that the beach seemed absolutely and gloriously deserted — a perfect spot for a picnic. I hate picnicking in a crowd.’
‘And a single person on a lonely beach would be a crowd?’
‘For picnicking purposes, yes. You know what people are. The minute, they see anyone having a peaceful feed they gather in from the four points of the compass and sit down beside one, and the place is like the Corner House in the rush hour.’
‘So they do. That must be the symbolism of the Miss Muffet legend.’
‘I’m positive there wasn’t a living soul walking or standing or sitting anywhere within eyeshot. But as to the body’s being already on, the rock, I wouldn’t swear one way or the other. It was a goodish way out, you know, and when I saw it from the beach I took the body for seaweed just at first. I shouldn’t make a mental note of seaweed.’
‘Good. Then at one o’clock the beach was deserted, except possibly for the body, which may have been, there making a noise like seaweed. Then you got down the side of. the cliff. Was the rock visible from where you had lunch?’
‘No, not at all. There is a sort of little bay there — well, scarcely that. The cliff juts out a bit, and I was sitting close up against the foot of the rocks; so as to have something to lean against. I had my lunch it took about half an hour’ altogether.’
‘You heard nothing then? No footsteps or anything? ‘No car?’
‘Not a thing,’
‘And then?’
‘Then I’m afraid I dozed off.’’
‘What could be more natural? For how long?’
‘About half an hour. When I woke I looked at my watch again.’
‘What woke you?’
‘A sea-gull squawking round after bits of my sandwich.’ ‘That makes it two o’clock.’
‘Yes.’
‘Just a minute. When I arrived here this morning it was a bit early for calling on one’s lady friends, — so I’ toddled down to the beach and made friends with one of the fishermen. He happened to mention that it was low tide off the Grinders yesterday afternoon at 1.15 Therefore when you arrived, the tide was practically out. When you woke, it had turned and had been coming in for about forty-five minutes. The foot of your rock — which, by the way, is locally named The Devil’s Flat-Iron is, only uncovered for about half an hour between tide and tide, and that only, at the top of springs, if you understand that expression,’
‘I understand perfectly, but I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘Well, this — that if anybody had come walking along the edge of the water to the rock, he could have got there without leaving any footprints.’
‘But he did leave footprints. Oh, I see. You’re thinking of a possible murderer.’
‘I should prefer it to be murder, naturally. Shouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, that’s a fact. A murderer might have walked along from either direction, if he did it that way. If he came from Lesston Hoe he must have arrived after me, because I could see the shore as I walked along, and there was no one walking there then. But he could have come at any time from the Wilvercombe side.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ said Wimsey: ‘He wasn’t there, you said, at one o’clock,’
‘He might have, been standing on the seaward side of the Flat-Iron.’
‘So he might. Now, how about the corpse? We can tell pretty close when he came.’
‘How?’
‘You said there were no wet stains on his shoes. Therefore he went dry-shod to the rock. We only have to find out exactly when the sand on the landward side of the rock is uncovered.’
‘Of course. How stupid of me. Well, we can easily find that out. Where had I got to?’
‘You had been awakened by the cry of a sea-gull.’
‘Yes. Well, then, I walked round the point of the cliff and out to the rock, and there he was.’
‘And at that moment there was nobody within sight?’
‘Not a single soul, except a man in a boat’
‘Yes the boat. Now, supposing the boat had come in when the tide was out, and the occupant had walked or waded up to the rock?’
‘That’s possible, of course. The boat was some way out’
It all seems to depend on when the corpse got there. We must find that out.’
‘You’re determined it should be murder,’
Well, suicide seems so dull. And why go all that way to commit suicide?
‘Why riot? Much tidier than doing it in your bedroom or anywhere like that. Aren’t we beginning at the wrong end? If we knew who the man was, we might find he had left an explanatory note behind him to say why he was going to do it. I daresay the police know all about it by now.’
‘Possibly,’ said Wimsey in a dissatisfied tone.
‘What’s worrying you?’
’Two things. The gloves. Why should anybody cut his throat in gloves?’
‘I know. That bothered me too. Perhaps he had some sort of skin disease and was accustomed to wearing gloves for everything. I ought to have looked. I did start to take the gloves off, but they were messy.’
‘Um! I — see you still retain a few female frailties. The second point that troubles me is the weapon. Why should a gentleman with a, beard sport a cut-throat razor?’
‘Bought for the purpose.’
‘Yes; after all, why not? My dear Harriet, I think you are right. The man cut his throat, and that’s all there is to it. I am disappointed.’
‘It is disappointing, but it can’t be helped. Hallo! here’s my friend the Inspector.’
It was indeed Inspector Umpelty who was threading his way between the tables. He was in mufti — a large, comfortable-looking tweed-clad figure. He greeted Harriet pleasantly.
‘I thought you might like to see how your snaps have turned out, Miss Vane. And we’ve identified the man.’
‘No? Have you? Good work. This is Inspector Umpelty — Lord Peter Wimsey.’
The Inspector appeared gratified by the introduction.
‘You’re early on the job, my lord. But I don’t know that you’ll find anything very mysterious about this case. Just a plain suicide, I fancy.’
‘We had regretfully come to that conclusion,’ admitted Wimsey
‘Though — why he should have done it, I don’t know. But you never can tell with these foreigners, can you?’
‘I thought he looked rather foreign,’ said Harriet.
‘Yes. He’s a Russian, or something of that. Paul Alexis Goldschmidt, his name is; known as Paul Alexis. Comes from this very hotel, as a matter of fact. One of the professsional dancing-partners in the lounge here — you know the sort. They don’t seem to know much about him. Turned up here just over a year ago and asked for a job: Seemed to be a good dancer and all that and they had a vacancy, so they took him on. Age twenty-two or thereabouts. Unmarried.
Lived in rooms. Nothing known against him.’
‘Papers in order?’
‘Naturalised British subject. Said to have escaped from Russia at the Revolution. He must have been a kid of about nine, but we haven’t found out yet who had charge of him. He was alone when he turned up here, and his landlady doesn’t ever seem to have heard of anybody belonging to him. But we’ll soon find out when we go through his stuff’.’
‘He didn’t leave any letter for the coroner, or anything?’
‘We’ve found nothing so far. And as regards the coroner, that’s a bit of a bother, that is. I don’t know how long it’ll be, miss, before you’re wanted. You see, we can’t find the body.’
‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ said Wimsey, ‘that the evil eyed doctor and the mysterious Chinaman have already conveyed it to the lone house on the moor?’
‘You will have your fun, my lord, I see. No — it’s a bit simpler than that. You see, the current sets northwards round the bay there, and with this sou’wester blowing, the body will have been washed off the Flat-Iron. It’ll either come ashore, somewhere off Sandy Point, or it’ll have got carried out and caught up in the Grinders. If that’s where it is, we’ll have to wait till the wind goes down. You can’t take a boat in there with this sea running, and you can’t dive off the rocks — even supposing you knew whereabouts to dive. It’s a nuisance, but it can’t be helped.’
‘H’m,’ said Wimsey. ‘Just as well you took those photographs, Sherlock, or we’d have no proof that there ever had been a body.’
‘Coroner can’t sit on a photograph, though,’ said the Inspector, gloomily. ‘Howsomever, it looks, like a plain suicide, so it doesn’t matter such a lot. Still, it’s annoying. We like to get these things tidied up as we go along.’
‘Naturally,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, I’m sure if anybody can tidy up, you can, Inspector. You impress me as being a man with an essentially tidy mind. I will engage to prophesy, Sherlock, that before lunch-time Inspector Umpelty will have sorted out the dead man’s papers, got the entire story from the hotel-manager; identified the place where the razor was bought and explained the mysterious presence of the gloves.’
The Inspector laughed.
‘I don’t think there’s much to be got out of the manager, my lord, and as for the razor, that’s neither here nor there.’
‘But the gloves?’
‘Well, my lord, I expect the only person that could tell us about that is the poor-blighter himself, and he’s dead. But as regards the papers, you’re — dead right. I’m looking along there now.’ He paused, doubtfully, and looked from Harriet to Wimsey and back again.
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘Set your mind at rest. We are not going to ask to come with you. I know that the amateur detective has a habit of embarrassing the police in the execution of their duty. We are going out to view the town like a perfect little lady and gentleman. There’s only one thing I should like to have a look at, if it isn’t troubling you too much — and that’s the razor.’
The Inspector was very willing that Lord Peter should see the razor. ‘And if you like to comerlongerme,’ he added kindly, ‘you’ll dodge all these reporters.’
‘Not me!’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got to see them and tell them all about my new book. A razor is only a razor, but good advance publicity means sales. You two run along; I’ll follow you down.’
She strolled away in search of the reporters. The Inspector grinned uneasily.
‘No flies on that young lady,’ he observed. ‘But can she be trusted to hold her tongue?’
‘Oh, she won’t chuck away a good plot,’ said Wimsey, lightly. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘
‘Too soon after breakfast,’ objected the Inspector.
‘Or a smoke,’ suggested Wimsey. The Inspector declined.
‘Or a nice sit-down in the; lounge,’ said Wimsey, sitting down:
‘Excuse me,’ said Inspector Umpelty, ‘I must be getting along. — I’ll tell them at the Station about you wanting to look at the razor… Fair tied to that young woman’s apron-strings,’ he reflected, as he shouldered his bulky way through the revolving doors. ‘The poor mutt!’ Harriet, escaping half an hour later from Salcombe Hardy and his colleagues, found Wimsey faithfully in attendance.
‘I’ve got rid of the Inspector,’ observed that gentleman, cheerfully. ‘Get your hat on and we’ll go.’
Their simultaneous exit from the Resplendent was observed and recorded by the photographic; contingent, who had just returned from the shore. Between an avenue of clicking shutters, they descended the marble steps, and climbed into Wimsey’s Daimler.
‘I feel,’’ said Harriet, maliciously, ’as if we had just been married at St. George’s, Hanover Square.’
‘No, you don’t,’ retorted Wimsey. ‘If we had, you would be trembling like a fluttered partridge. Being married to me is a tremendous experience you’ve no idea. We’ll be all right at the police-station, provided the Super doesn’t turn sticky on us.
Superintendent Glaisher was conveniently engaged, and Sergeant Saunders was deputed to show them the razor.
‘Has it been examined for finger-prints?’ asked Wimsey.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Any result?’
‘I couldn’t exactly say, my, lord, but I believe not.’
‘Well, anyway one is allowed to handle it.’ Wimsey turned it over in his fingers, inspecting it carefully, first with the naked eye and secondly with a watchmaker’s lens. Beyond a very slight crack on the ivory handle, it showed no very striking, peculiarities.
“If there’s any blood left on it, it will be hanging about the joint,’ he observed. ‘But the sea seems to have done its work pretty thoroughly.’
You aren’t suggesting,’, said Harriet, ‘that the weapon isn’t really the weapon after all?’’
‘I should like to,’ said Wimsey. ‘The weapon never is the weapon, is it?’
‘Of course not; and the corpse is never the corpse. The body is, obviously, not that of Peter Alexis—’
‘But of the Prime Minister of Ruritania-’
‘It did not die of a cut throat-’
‘But of an obscure poison, known only to the Bushmen of Central Australia—’
‘And the throat was cut after death-’
‘By a middle-aged man of short temper and careless habits, with a stiff beard and expensive tastes—’
‘Recently returned from China,’ finished up Harriet, triumphantly.
The sergeant, who had gaped, in astonishment at the beginning of this exchange, now burst into a hearty guffaw.
‘That’s very good,’ he said, indulgently. ‘Comic, ain’t it, the stuff these writer-fellows put into their books? Would your lordship like to see the other exhibits?’
Wimsey replied gravely that he should, very much, and the hat, cigarette-case, shoe and handkerchief were produced.
‘H’m,’ said Wimsey. ‘Hat fair to middling, but not exclusive. Cranial capacity on the small side. Brilliantine, ordinary stinking variety. Physical condition pretty fair
‘The ‘The man was a dancer.’
‘I thought we agreed he was a Prime Minister. Hair, dark, curly and rather on the long side. Last year’s hat, reblocked, with new ribbon. Shape, a little more emphatic than is quite necessary. Deduction: not wealthy, but keen on his personal appearance. Do we conclude that the hat belongs to the corpse?’
‘Yes, I think so. The brilliantine corresponds all right.’
‘Cigarette-case — this is different. Fifteen-carat gold, plain and fairly new, with monogram P.A. and containing six de Reszkes. The case is pukka, all right. Probably a gift from some wealthy female admirer.’
‘Or, of course, the cigarette-case appropriate to a Prime Minister.’
‘As you say. Handkerchief — silk, but not from Burlington Arcade. Colour beastly. Laundry-mark—’
‘Laundry-mark’s all right,’ put in the policeman. ‘Wilvercombe Sanitary Steam Laundry, mark O. K. for this fellow Alexis.’
‘Suspicious circumstance,’ said. Harriet, shaking her head. ‘I’ve got three handkerchiefs in my pack with not only the laundry-marks but the initials of total strangers.’
‘It’s the Prime Minister, all right,’ agreed Wimsey, with a doleful nod. ‘Prime Ministers, especially Ruritanian ones, are notoriously careless about their laundry. Now the shoe. Oh, yes. Nearly new. Thin sole. Foul colour and worse shape. Hand-made, so that the horrid appearance is due to malice aforethought. Not the shoe of a man who does much walking. Made, I observe, in Wilvercombe.’
‘That’s O.K., too,’ put in the sergeant. ‘We’ve seen the man. He made that shoe for Mr Alexis all right. Knows him well.’
‘And you took this actually off the foot of the corpse? These are deep waters, Watson. Another man’s handkerchief is nothing, but a Prime Minister in another fellow’s shoes—’
‘You will have your joke, my lord,’ said the sergeant, with another hoot of laughter.
‘I never joke,’ said Wimsey. He brought the lens to bear on the sole of the shoe. ‘Slight traces of salt water here, but none on the uppers. Inference: he walked over the sand when it was very wet, but did not actually wade through salt water. Two or three scratches on the toe-cap, probably got when clambering up the rock. Well, thanks awfully, sergeant. You are quite at liberty to inform Inspector Umpelty of all the valuable deductions we have drawn. Have a drink.’
‘Thank you very much, my lord.’
Wimsey said nothing more till they were in the car again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he then announced, as, they threaded their way through the side-streets, ‘to renounce our little programme of viewing the town. I should have enjoyed that simple pleasure. But unless I start at once, I shan’t get to town and back tonight’
Harriet, who had been preparing to say that she had work to do and could not waste time rubber-necking round Wilvercombe with Lord Peter, experienced an unreasonable feeling of having been cheated.
‘To town?’ she repeated.
‘It will not have escaped your notice,’ said Wimsey, skimming with horrible dexterity between a bath-chair and a butcher’s van, ‘that the matter of the razor requires investigation.’
‘Of course — a visit to the Ruritanian Legation is indicated.’
‘H’m — well; I don’t know that I shall get any farther than Jermyn Street.’
‘In search of the middle-aged man of careless habits?’ ‘Yes, ultimately.’
‘He really exists, then?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t swear’ to his exact age.’
‘Or his habits?’
‘No, they might be the habits of his valet’
‘Or his stiff beard and, short temper?’
‘Well, I think one may be reasonably certain about the beard.’
‘I give in,’ said Harriet, meekly. ‘Please explain.’
Wimsey drew up the car at the entrance to the Hotel Resplendent, and looked at his watch.
‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he remarked, in an aloof tone. ‘Let us take a seat in the lounge and order some refreshment. It is a little early, to be sure, but I always drive more mellowly on a pint of beer. Good. Now, as to the razor.’ You will have observed that it is an instrument of excellent and expensive quality by a first-class maker, and that, in addition to the names of the manufacturer, it is engraved on the reverse side with the mystic word “Endicott”
‘Yes; what is Endicott?’
‘Endicott is, or was, one of the most exclusive hairdressers in the West End. So fearfully exclusive and grand that he won’t even call himself a hairdresser in the snobbish modern way, but prefers to be known by the old-world epithet of “barber”. He will, or would, hardly condescend to shave anybody who has not been, in Debrett for the last three hundred years. Other people, however rich or titled, have the misfortune to find his chairs always occupied and his basins engaged. His shop has the rarefied atmosphere of one of the more aristocratic mid-Victorian clubs. It is said of Endicott’s that a certain peer, who made his money during the War by cornering bootlaces or buttons or something, was once accidentally admitted to one of the sacred chairs by a new assistant who had been most unfortunately taken on with insufficient West End experience during, the temporary war-time, shortage of barbers. After ten minutes in that dreadful atmosphere, his hair froze, his limbs became perfectly petrified, and he had to be removed to the Crystal Palace and placed among the antediluvian monsters.’
‘Well?’
‘Well! Consider first of all the anomaly of the man who buys his razor from Endicott’s and yet wears the regrettable shoes and mass-production millinery found on the corpse. Mind you,’ added Wimsey, ’it is not a question of expense, exactly. The shoes are hand-made — which merely proves that a dancer has to take care of his feet. But could a man who is shaved by Endicott possibly order — deliberately order — shoes of that colour and shape? A thing imagination boggles at,’
‘I’m afraid,’ admitted Harriet, ‘that I have never managed to learn all the subtle rules and regulations about male clothing. That’s why I made Robert Templeton one of those untidy dressers.’
‘Robert Templeton’s clothes have always pained me,’ confessed Wimsey., ‘The one blot on your otherwise fascinating tales. But to leave that distressing subject and come back to the razor. That razor has seen a good deal of hard wear. It has been re-ground a considerable number of times, as you can tell by the edge. Now, a really first-class razor like that needs very little in the way of grinding and setting, provided it is mercifully used and kept carefully stropped. Therefore, either the man who used it was very clumsy and careless about using the strop, or his beard was abnormally stiff, or both — probably both. I visualise him as one of those men who are heavy-handed with tools — you know the kind. Their fountain pens always make blots and their watches get over-wound. They neglect to strop their razors until the strop gets hard and dry, and then they strop them ferociously and jag the edge of the blade. Then they lose their tempers and curse the razor and send it away to be ground and set. The new edge only lasts them for a few weeks and then back the razor goes again, accompanied by a rude message.’
‘I see. Well, I didn’t know all that. But why did you say the man was middle-aged?’
‘That was rather guess-work. But I suggest that a young man who had so much difficulty with his razor would be more likely to change over to a safety and use a new blade every few days. But a man of middle-age would not be so likely to change his habits. In any case, I’m sure that razor has had more than three years’ hard wear. And if the dead man is only twenty-two now, and has a full beard, then I don’t see how he could very well have worn the blade down to that extent, with any amount of grinding and setting. We must find out from the hotel manager here whether he was already wearing the beard when he came a year ago. That would narrow the time down still further. But the first thing to do is to trace old Endicott and find out from him whether it was possible for one of his razors to have been sold later than 5925.’
‘Why 1925?’
‘Because that was the date at which old Endicott sold his premises and retired with varicose veins and a small fortune.’
‘And who kept on the business?’
‘Nobody. The shop is now a place where you buy the most recherche kind of hams and potted meats. There were no sons to carry on — the only young Endicott was killed in the Salient, poor chap. Old Endicott, said he wouldn’t sell his name to anybody. And anyhow, Endicott’s without an
Endicott wouldn’t be Endicott’s. So that was that.’
‘But he might have sold the stock?’
‘That’s what I want to find out. I’ll have to be off now. I’ll try and-be back tonight, so don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ retorted Harriet, ‘indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly happy.’
‘Splendid. Oh! While I’m about it, shall I see about getting a marriage-licence?’
‘Don’t, trouble, thank you.’
Very well; I just thought I’d ask. I say, while I’m away, how would it be if you put in some good work with the other professional dancers here? You might get hold of some gossip about Paul Alexis.’
‘There’s something in that. But I’ll have to get a decent frock if there is such a thing in Wilvercombe.’
‘Well, get, a wine-coloured one, then. I’ve always wanted to see you in wine-colour. It suits people with honey-coloured skin. (What an ugly word “skin” is.) “Blossoms of the honey sweet and honey-coloured menuphar”—‘I: always have a quotation for everything — it saves original thinking.’
‘Blast the man!’ said Harriet, left abruptly alone in the blue-plush lounge. Then she suddenly ran out down the steps and leapt upon the Daimler’s running-board.—
‘Port or sherry?’ she demanded. ‘What?’ said Wimsey, taken aback. ‘The frock — port or sherry?’
‘Claret,’ said Wimsey. ‘Chateau Margaux 1893 or thereabouts. I’m not particular to a year or two.’
He raised his hat and slipped in the clutch. As Harriet turned back, a voice, faintly familiar, accosted her:
‘Miss er — Miss Vane? Might I speak to you for a moment?’
It was’ the ‘predatory hag’ whom she had seen the evening before in the dance-lounge of the Resplendent.
Chapter V. The Evidence Of The Betrothed
‘He said, dear mother, I should be his countess;
Today he’d come to fetch me, but with day
I’ve laid my expectation in its grave.’
— The Bride’s Tragedy
Friday 19, June
HARRIET had almost forgotten the woman’s existence, but now the whole off the little episode came back to her, and she wondered how she could have been so stupid. The nervous waiting; the vague, enraptured look, changing gradually to peevish impatience; the inquiry for Mr Alexis; the hasty and chagrined departure from the room. Glancing at the woman’s face now, she saw it so old, so ravaged with grief and fear, that a kind of awkward delicacy made her avert her eyes and answer rather brusquely:
‘Yes, certainly. Come up to my room.’
‘It is very good of you,’ said the woman. She paused a moment and then added, as they walked across to the lift;
‘My name is Weldon Mrs Weldon. I’ve been staying here some time. Mr Greely — the manager, that is knows me very well.’
‘That’s all right,’’ said Harriet. She realised that Mrs Weldon was trying to explain that she was not a confidence-trickster or an hotel-crook or a white-slave agent, and was herself trying to make it clear that she did not suppose Mrs Weldon to be any of these things. She felt shy and this made her speak gruffly. She saw a ‘scene’ looming ahead, and she was not one of those women who enjoy ‘scenes’. She led the way in a glum silence to Number 23, and begged her visitor to sit down.
‘It’s about,’’ said Mrs Weldon, sinking into an armchair and clasping her lean hands over her expensive handbag ‘it’s about Mr Alexis. The chamber-maid told me a horrible story — I went to the manager he wouldn’t tell me anything — I saw you with the police — and all those reporters were talking — they pointed you out — Oh, Miss Vane, please tell me what has happened.’
Harriet cleared her throat and began searching her pockets instinctively for cigarettes.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid something rather beastly has happened. You see — I happened to be down on the shore yesterday afternoon, and I found a man lying there — dead. And from what they say, I’m dreadfully afraid it was Mr Alexis.’
No use, beating about the bush. This forlorn creature with the dyed hair and haggard, painted face would have to know the truth. She struck a match and kept her eye on the flame.
‘That’s what I heard. Was it, do you know, was it a heart-attack?’
‘Afraid not. No. They — seem to think he — (what was the gentlest form of words?)—‘did it himself.’ (At any rate that avoided the word ‘suicide’.)
‘Oh, he couldn’t have! he couldn’t have! Indeed, Miss Vane, there must be a mistake. He must have had an accident’
Harriet shook her head.
‘But you don’t know how could you? — how impossible it all is. But people shouldn’t say such cruel things. He was so perfectly happy — he couldn’t have done anything like that. Why, he—’ Mrs Weldon stopped, searching Harriet’s face with her famished eyes. ‘I heard them saying something about a razor — Miss Vane! What killed him?’
There were no kindly words’ for this — not even a, long,’ scientific, Latin name.
‘His throat was cut, Mrs Weldon.’
(Brutal Saxon monosyllables.)
‘Oh!’ Mrs Weldon seemed to shrink into a mere set of eyes and bones. ‘Yes — they said — they said — I couldn’t’ hear properly — I didn’t like to ask — and they all seemed so pleased about it.’
‘I know,’ said Harriet. ‘You see these newspaper men it’s what they, live by. They don’t mean anything. It’s bread-and-butter to them. They can’t help it. And they couldn’t possibly know that it meant anything to you.’
‘No, — but it does. But you — you don’t want to make it out worse than it is I can trust you.’
‘You can trust me,’ said Harriet slowly, ‘but really and truly it could not have been an accident. I don’t want to give you the details, but believe me, there’s no possibility of accident.’
‘Then it can’t be Mr Alexis. Where is he? Can I see him?’ Harriet explained that the body had not been recovered. ‘Then it must be somebody else! How do they know it is Paul?’
Harriet reluctantly mentioned the photograph, knowing what the next request would be.
‘Show me the photograph.’
‘It isn’t very pleasant to look at’
‘Show me the photograph. I couldn’t be deceived about it.’
Better, perhaps, to set all doubt at rest. Harriet slowly produce the print. Mrs Weldon snatched it from her hand,
‘Oh, God! Oh God!…’
Harriet rang the bell and, stepping out into the corridor, caught the waiter and asked for a stiff whisky-and-soda. When it came, she took it in herself and made Mrs Weldon drink it. Then she fetched a clean handkerchief and waited for the storm to subside. She sat on the arm of the chair and patted Mrs Weldon rather helplessly on the shoulder. Mercifully, the crisis took the form of violent sobbing and not of hysterics. She felt an increased respect for Mrs Weldon. When the sobs had subsided a little, and the groping fingers began to fumble with the handbag, Harriet pushed the handkerchief into them.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Weldon, meekly. She began to wipe her eyes, daubing the linen with red and black streaks from her make-up. Then she blew her nose and sat up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began, forlornly.
‘That’s all right,’ said Harriet, again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a shock. Perhaps you’d like to bathe your eyes a bit. It’ll make you feel better, don’t you think?’
She supplied a sponge and towel. Mrs Weldon removed the grotesque traces of her grief and made her appearance from within the folds of the towel as a sallow-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, infinitely more dignified in her natural complexion. She made an instinctive movement towards her handbag, and then abandoned it.
‘I look awful,’ she said, with a dreary little laugh, but — what’s it matter, now?’
‘I shouldn’t mind about it,’ said Harriet. ‘You look quite nice. Really and truly. Come and sit down. Have a cigarette. And let me give you a phenacetin or something. I expect you’ve got a bit of a; headache.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I won’t be stupid again. I’m giving you a lot of trouble:
‘Not a bit. I only wish I could help you.’
‘You can. If you only would. I’m sure you’re clever. You look clever. I’m not clever. I do wish I was. I think I should have been happier if I’d been clever. It must be nice to do things. I’ve so often thought that if I could have painted pictures or ridden a motor-cycle or something, I should have got more out of life.’
Harriet agreed, gravely, that it was perhaps a good thing; to have an occupation of some sort.,
‘But of course,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘I was never brought up to that. I have lived for my emotions. I can’t help it. I suppose I am made that way. Of course, my married life was a tragedy. But that’s all over now. And my son — you might not think I was old enough to have a grown-up son,
my dear, but I was married scandalously young — my son has been a sad disappointment to me. He has no heart — and that does seem strange, seeing that I am really all heart myself. I am devoted to my son, dear Miss Vane, but young people are so unsympathetic. If only he had been kinder to me, I could have lived in and for him. Everybody always said what a wonderful mother I was, But it’s terribly lonely when one’s own child deserts one, and one can’t be blamed for snatching a little happiness, can one?’
‘I know that,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve tried snatching, It didn’t work, though.’
‘Didn’t it?’
‘No. We quarrelled, and then — well, he died and they thought I’d murdered him. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Somebody else did; but it was all very disagreeable..’
‘You poor thing. But, of course, you are clever. You do things. That must make it easier. But what am I to do? I don’t even know how to set about clearing up all this terrible business about Paul. But you are clever and you will help me — won’t you?’
‘Suppose you tell me just exactly what you want done.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m so stupid I can’t even explain things properly. But you see, Miss Vane, I know, I know absolutely, that poor Paul couldn’t have — done anything rash. He couldn’t. He was so utterly happy with me, and looking forward to it all.’
‘To what?’ asked Harriet.
‘Why, to our marriage,’ said Mrs Weldon, as, though the matter was self-evident.
‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be married. When?’
‘In a fortnight’s time. As soon as I could be ready for it. We were so happy — like children—’
Tears gathered again in Mrs Weldon’s eyes.
‘I will tell you all about it. I came here last January. I had been very ill and the doctor said I needed a mild climate, and I was so tired of the Riviera. I thought I’d try Wilvercombe just for a change. I came here. It really is a very nice’ hotel, you know, and I’d been here once before with Lady Hartlepool — but she died last year, you know. The very first night T was here, Paul came over and asked me to dance. We seemed to be drawn together. From the moment our eyes met, we knew we had found one another. He was lonely, too. We danced together every night. We went for long drives together and he told me all about’ his sad life. We were both exiles in our own way.’
‘Oh yes — he came from Russia.’
‘Yes, as a tiny boy. Poor little soul. He was really a prince, you know but he never liked to say too much about that Just a hint here and there. He felt it very much, being reduced to being a professional dancer. I told him — when we got to know one another better — that he was a prince in my heart now, and he said that that was better to him than an Imperial crown, poor boy. He loved me terribly. He quite frightened me sometimes. Russians are so passionate, you know.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Harriet. ‘You didn’t, have any misunderstanding or anything that might have led him—?’
‘Oh, no!’ We were too marvellously at one together. We danced together that last night, and he whispered to me that there was a great’ and wonderful change coming into his life. He was all eagerness and excitement. He used to get terribly excited over the least little thing, of course but this was a real, big excitement and happiness. He danced so wonderfully that night. He told me it was because his heart was so full of joy that he felt as if he was, dancing on air. He said: “I may have to go away tomorrow — but ‘I can’t tell you yet where or why.” I didn’t ask him anything more, because that would have spoilt it, but naturally I knew what he meant. He had been getting the licence, and we should be married in a fortnight after that’
‘Where were you going to be married?’
‘In London. In church, of course, because I think a registrar’s office is, so depressing. Don’t you? Of course he’d have to go and stay in the parish — that was what he meant by going away. We didn’t want anybody here to know,our secret beforehand, because there might have been unkind talk. You see, I’m a little bit older than he was, and people say such horrid things. I was a little worried about it myself, but Paul always said, “It is the heart that counts, Little Flower”—he called me that, because my name is Flora — such a dreadful name, I can’t think how, my poor dear parents came to choose it—“It is the heart that counts, and your heart is just seventeen.” It was beautiful of him, but quite, true. I felt seventeen when I was with him
Harriet murmured something: inaudible. This conversation was dreadful to her. It was nauseating, pitiful, artificial yet horribly real; grotesquely comic and worse than tragic. She wanted to stop it at all costs, and she wanted at all costs to go on and disentangle the few threads of fact from the gaudy tangle of absurdity.
‘He had never loved anybody till he met me,’ went on Mrs Weldon. ‘There is something so fresh and scared in a young man’s first love. One feels — well, almost reverent. He was jealous of my former marriage, but I told him he need not be. I was such a child when I married John Weldon, far too young to realise what love meant. I was utterly unawakened — till I met Paul. There had been other men, I don’t say there hadn’t, who wanted to marry me (I was left a widow very early), but they meant nothing to me — nothing at all. “The heart of a girl with the experience of a woman” that was Paul’s lovely way of putting it.. And it was true, my dear, indeed it was.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ said Harriet, trying to put conviction into her tone.
‘Paul — he was so handsome and so graceful — if you could have seen him as he was! And he was very modest and not the least bit spoilt, though all the women ran after him. He was afraid, to speak to me for a long time — to tell me how he felt about me, I mean. As a matter of fact, I had to take the first step, or he never would have dared to speak, though it was quite obvious how he felt. In fact, though we got engaged in February, he suggested putting the wedding off till June. He felt — so sweet and thoughtful of him — that
we ought to wait and try to overcome my son’s opposition. Of course, Paul’s position made him very sensitive. You see, I’m rather well off, and of course, he hadn’t a penny, poor boy, and he always refused to take any presents from me before we were married. He’d had to make his own way all alone, because those horrible Bolsheviks didn’t leave him anything.’
‘Who looked after him when he first came to England?’
‘The woman who brought him over. He ‘called’ her “old Natasha”, and said she was a peasant-woman and absolutely devoted to him. But she died very soon, and then a Jewish tailor and his family were kind to him. They adopted him and made him a British subject, and, gave him their own name of Goldschmidt. After that, their business failed somehow, and they were terribly poor. Paul had to run errands and sell newspapers. Then they tried emigrating to New York, but that was still worse. Then they died, and Paul had to look after himself. Paul didn’t like to say very much about that part of his life. It was all so terrible to him — like a bad dream.’
‘I suppose he went to school somewhere.’.
‘Oh, yes — he went to the ordinary State school with all poor little East Side children. But he hated it. They used to laugh at him because he was delicate. They were rough with him and once he got knocked down in the playground and was ill for a longtime. And he was terribly lonely.’
‘What did he do when he left school?’
‘He got work at a night-club, washing, up glasses. He says the girls were kind to him, but of course, he never talked much about that time. He was sensitive, you see. He thought people would look down on him if they knew he had done that kind of work.’
‘I suppose that was where he learnt to dance,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully.
‘Oh, yes — he was a marvellous dancer. It was in his blood, you know. When he was old enough, he got-work as a professional partner and did very well, though of course it wasn’t the kind of life he wanted.’
‘He managed to make quite a good living at it,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully, thinking of the too-smart clothes and the hand-made shoes.
‘Yes; he worked very hard. But he never was strong, and he told me that he wouldn’t be able to keep on much longer with the dancing. He had some trouble in one of his knees arthritis or something, and he was afraid it would get worse and cripple him. Isn’t it all terribly pathetic? Paul was so romantic, you know, and he wrote beautiful poetry. He loved everything that was beautiful.’
‘What brought him to Wilvercombe?’
‘Oh, he came back to England when he was seventeen, and got work in London. But the place went bankrupt, or got shut up by the police, or something, and he came here for a little holiday on what he had saved. Then he found they wanted a dancer here and he took the job temporarily, and he was so brilliant that the management kept him on.’
‘I see,’ Harriet reflected that it was going to be too difficult to trace these movements of Alexis through the Ghetto of New York and the mushroom clubs of the West End:
‘Yes — Paul used to say it was the hand of Destiny that brought him and me here together. It does seem strange, doesn’t it? We both just happened to come — by accident — just as though we were fated to meet. And now..’
The tears ran down Mrs Weldon’s cheeks, and she gazed up helplessly at Harriet.
‘We were both so sad and lonely; and we were going to be happy together.’
‘It’s frightfully sad,’ said Harriet, inadequately. ‘I suppose Mr Alexis was rather temperamental.’
‘If you mean,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘that he did this awful thing himself — no, never! I know he didn’t. He was temperamental, of course, but he was radiantly happy with me. I’ll never believe he just went away like that, without even saying good-bye to me. It isn’t possible, Miss Vane. You’ve got to prove that it wasn’t possible. You’re so clever, I know you can do it. That’s way I wanted to see you and tell you about Paul!’
‘You realise,’ said Harriet, slowly, ‘that if he didn’t do it himself, somebody else must have done it.’
‘Why not?’ cried Mrs Weldon, eagerly. ‘Somebody must have envied our happiness. Paul was so handsome and romantic — there must have been people who were jealous of us. Or it may have been the Bolsheviks. Those horrible men would do anything, and I was only reading in the paper yesterday that England was simply swarming with them. They say all this business about passports isn’t a bit of good to keep them out. I call it absolutely, wicked, the way we let them come over here and plot against everybody’s safety and this Government simply encourages them. They’ve killed Paul, and I shouldn’t wonder if they started throwing bombs at the King and Queen next. It ought, to be stopped, or we shall have a revolution.’ Why, they even distribute their disgusting pamphlets to the Navy.’
‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘we must wait and see what they find out. I’m afraid you may have to tell the police about some of this. It won’t be very pleasant for you, I’m afraid, but they’ll want to know everything they can.’
‘I’m sure I don’t mind what I have to go through,’ said Mrs Weldon, wiping her eyes resolutely, ‘if only I can help to clear Paul’s memory. Thank you very much, Miss Vane. I’m afraid I’ve taken up your time. You’ve been very kind.’
‘Not at all,’ said Harriet. ‘We’ll do our best.’
She escorted her visitor to the door, and then returned to an armchair and a thoughtful cigarette. Was the imminent prospect of matrimony with Mrs Weldon a sufficient motive for suicide? She was inclined to think not. One can always take flight from these things. But with temperamental people, of course, you never can tell.
Chapter VI. The Evidence Of The First Barber
‘Old, benevolent man.’
— The Second Brother
Friday, 19 June — Afternoon and evening
‘CAN you tell me,’ inquired Lord Peter, ‘what has become of old Mr Endicott these days?’
The manager of the ham-shop, who liked to attend personally to distinguished customers, arrested his skewer in the very act of. thrusting it into the interior of a ham.
‘Oh, yes, my lord. He has a house at Ealing. He occasionally looks in here for a jar of our Gentleman’s Special Pickle.: A very remarkable old gentleman, Mr Endicott.’
‘Yes, indeed. I hadn’t seen him about lately. I was afraid perhaps something had happened to him.’
‘Oh, dear no, my lord. He keeps his health wonderfully. He has taken up golf at seventy-six and collects papier-mache articles. Nothing’ like an interest in life, he says, to keep you hearty.’
‘Very true,’ replied Wimsey. ‘I must run out and see him some time. What is his address?’
The manager gave the information, and then, returning to the matter in hand, plunged the skewer into the ham close to the bone, twirled it expertly and, withdrawing it, presented it politely by the handle. Wimsey sniffed it gravely, said ‘Ah!’ with appropriate relish, and pronounced a solemn benediction upon the ham.
‘Thank you, my lord. I think you will find it very tasty. Shall I send it?’
‘I will take it with me.’
The manager waved forward an attendant, who swathed the article impressively in various layers of grease-proof paper, white paper and brown paper, corded it up with best quality string, worked the free end of the string into an ingenious handle and stood, dandling the parcel, like a nurse with a swaddled princeling.
‘My car is outside,’ said Wimsey. The assistant beamed gratification. A little ritual procession streamed out into Jermyn Street, comprising: The Assistant, carrying the ham, Lord Peter, drawing on his driving-gloves; the Manager, murmuring a ceremonial formula; the Second Assistant, opening the door and emerging from behind it to bow upon the threshold; and eventually the car glided away amid the reverent murmurings of a congregation of persons gathered in the street to admire its stream-lining and dispute about the number of its cylinders.
Mr Endicott’s house at Ealing was easily found. The owner was at home, and the presentation of the ham and reciprocal offer of a glass of old sherry proceeded with the cheerful dignity suitable to an exchange of gifts among equal, but friendly potentates. Lord Peter inspected the collection of papier-mache trays, conversed agreeably about golf — handicaps; and then, without unseemly haste, opened up the subject of his inquiry,
‘I’ve just come across one of your razors, Endicott, in rather peculiar circumstances. I wonder if you could tell me anything about it?’
Mr Endicott, with a gracious smile upon his rosy countenance, poured out another glass of the sherry and said he would be happy to assist if he could.
Wimsey described the make and appearance of the razor, and asked if it would be possible to trace the buyer.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Endicott. ‘With an ivory handle, you say. Well, now, it’s rather fortunate it should be one of that lot, because we only had the three dozen of them, most of our customers preferring black handles. Yes; I can tell you a bit about them. That particular razor came in during the War—1916, I think it was. It wasn’t too easy to get a first-class blade just then, but these were very good. Still, the white handle was against them, and I remember we were glad when we were able to send off a dozen of them to an old customer in Bombay. Captain Francis Egerton, that was. He asked us to send some out for himself and friends. That would be in 1920.’
‘Bombay? That’s a bit far off. But you never know. How about the rest?’
Mr Endicott, who seemed to have a memory like an encyclopaedia, plunged his thoughts into the past. and said:
‘Well, there was Commander Mellon; he had two of them. But it wouldn’t be him, because his ship was blown up and sank with all hands and his kit went down with him. In 1917, that would be. A very gallant gentleman, was the Commander, and of good family. One of the Dorset Mellons. The Duke of Wetherby: he had one, and he was telling me the other day that he still had it; it wouldn’t be him. And Mr Pritchard: he had a remarkable, experience with his; his personal man went off his head and attacked him with his own razor, but, fortunately Mr Pritchard was able to overpower him. They brought him in guilty of attempted murder but insane, and the razor was an exhibit at the trial. I know Mr Pritchard came in afterwards and bought a new razor, a black one, because the other had struck the back of a chair during the struggle and had a piece chipped out of the edge, and he said he was going to keep it as a memento of the narrowest shave of his life. That was very good, I thought. Mr Pritchard was always; a very amusing gentleman. Colonel Grimes: he had one, but he had to abandon all his kit in the Retreat over the Marne — I couldn’t say what happened to that one. He liked that razor and came back for another one similar, and he has it yet. That makes six out of the second dozen. What happened to the others? — Oh, I know! There was a very funny story about one of them. Young Mr Ratcliffe — the Hon. Henry Ratcliffe — he came in one day in a great state. “Endicott” he said, “just you look at my razor!”
“Bless me, sir!” I said, “it looks as if somebody had been sawing wood with it.”
“That’s a very near guess, Endicott,” he said. “My sister-in-law and some of that bright crowd of hers in her studio got the idea that they’d, have some private theatricals and used my best razor to cut out the scenery with. My goodness, he was wild about it! Of course the blade was ruined for ever; he had a different one after that, a very fine French razor which we were trying out at the time. Then, ah, yes! There was poor Lord Blackfriars. A sad business that was. He married one of these film-stars, and she ran through his money and went off with a dago — you’ll remember that, my lord. Blew his brains out, poor gentleman. He left his pair of razors to his personal man, who wouldn’t part with them on any account. Major Hartley had two and so did Colonel Beifridge. They’ve left Town and gone to live in the country. I could give you their, addresses. Sir John Westlock well, now, I couldn’t say for certain about him. There was some sort of trouble and he went abroad, at the time of the Megatherium Scandal. Early — in the twenties, wasn’t it? My memory isn’t what it was. He had a pair of razors. Very fond of a good blade, he was, and looked after it very carefully. Mr Alec Baring that was sad, too. They said it was in the family, but I always thought that flying crash had something to do with it. I suppose they wouldn’t let him have razors where he is now. He only had one of that set, as a replacement for one he left in an hotel. How many does that make? Sixteen altogether, not counting the dozen that went to Bombay. Well, that’s nearly the lot, because I gave a round half-dozen to my late head-assistant when we broke up the business.. He has an establishment of his own in Eastbourne, and is doing very well there, I’m told. Twenty-two. Now, what about the last pair?’
Mr Endicott scratched his head with a gained look. ‘Sometimes I think I’m beginning to fail a bit,’ he said, ‘though my handicap is getting shorter and my wind’s as, good as ever it was. Now, who did have that pair of razors? Well, there! Could it have been Sir William Jones? No, it couldn’t. Or the Marquis of? No. Stop a minute. That was the pair Sir Harry Ringwood bought for his son — young Mr Ringwood up at Magdalen College. I knew I hadn’t seen them about. He had them in 1925, and the young gentleman went out to British East Africa under the Colonial Office when he left the University. There! I knew I should get it in time. That’s the lot, my lord.’
‘Endicott,’ said Lord Peter, ‘I think you’re marvellous. You’re the youngest man of your age I ever struck, and I should like to meet your wine-merchant.’
Mr Endicott, gratified, pushed the decanter across the table and mentioned the name of the vendor.
‘A lot of these people we can dismiss at once,’ said Lord Peter. ‘Colonel Grimes is a problem — goodness knows what happened to the kit he left in France, but I expect somebody out there got hold of it. The razor may have returned to this country. He’s a possibility. Major Hartley and Colonel Belfridge will have to be traced. I shouldn’t think it would be Sir John Westlock. If he was a careful sort of blighter, he probably took his razors with him and cherished them. We’ll have to inquire about poor Baring. His razor may have been sold or given away. And we might just ask about young Ringwood, though we can probably count him out. Then there’s your head-assistant. Would he be likely to have sold any of them, do you think?’
‘Well, no, my lord; I shouldn’t think he would. He told me that he should keep them for his own use and for use on his own premises. He liked having the old name on them, you see. But for sale to his customers, he would have his razors marked with his own name. That has a certain value, you see, my lord. It’s only if you’re in a good way of business and can order in razors in three-dozen lots that you get
your own name put on them. He started off very well with a new three dozen Kropp blades, for he told me all about it, and, things being equal, those are what he would supply his customers with.’
‘Quite. Any likelihood of his selling the others secondhand?’
‘That,’ said Mr Endicott, ‘I could not say. There isn’t a great deal of business done in second-hand razors, without it’s one of these tramp-hairdressers now and again.’
‘What’s a tramp-hairdresser?’
‘Well, my lord, they’re hairdressers out of a job, and they go about from place to place looking to be taken on as extra hands when there’s a press of work. We didn’t see much of them in our place, of course. They’re not first-class men as a rule, and I wouldn’t have taken it upon me to engage any but a first-class man for my gentlemen. But in a place like Eastbourne, where there’s a big seasonal custom, you would have them round pretty frequently. It might be worth while asking my late assistant. Plumer, his name is, in Belvedere Road. If you like, I will send him a line.’
‘Don’t bother; I’ll run down and see him. Just one other thing. Was any of the customers you’ve mentioned a clumsy handed fellow who took a lot out of his razor and was always sending it back to be re-set?’
Mr Endicott chuckled.
‘Ah! now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Colonel Belfridge — oh, dear! oh, dear! He, was a terribly hard man on his razors — is still, for all I know. Time and again he’d say to me, “‘Pon my word, Endicott, I don’t know what you do to my razors. They won’t keep their edge a week. Steel isn’t what is was before the War.” But it wasn’t the steel, or the War either. He was always the same. I think he took the edge off with the strop, instead of putting it on; I do indeed. He didn’t keep a man, you know. The Colonel belongs to one of our best families, but not a wealthy man, by any means. A very fine soldier, I believe.’
‘One of the old school, eh?’ said Wimsey. ‘Good-hearted but peppery. I know. Where did you say he was living now?’
‘Stamford,’ replied Mr Endicott, promptly. ‘He sent me a card last Christmas. Very kind of him, I thought it, to remember me. But my old customers are very thoughtful in those ways. They know I value their kind remembrance.
Well, my lord, I am; exceedingly pleased to have seen you,’ he added, as Wimsey rose and took up his hat, ‘and I’m sure I hope I may have been of some assistance to you. You keep very fit, I hope. You’re looking well.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said Lord Peter.; ‘My hair is turning grey over the temples.’
Mr Endicott emitted a concerned cluck.
‘But that’s’ nothing,’ he hastened to assure his visitor. ‘Many ladies think it looks more distinguished that way. Not getting thin on top, I hope and trust.”
‘Not that I know of. Take a look at it’
Mr Endicott pushed the straw-coloured thatch apart and peered earnestly at the roots.
‘No sign of it,’ he pronounced, confidently, ‘Never saw a healthier scalp. At the same time, my lord, if you should notice any slight weakening or falling-off, let me know, I should be proud to advise you. I’ve still got the recipe for Endicott’s Special Tonic, and.though I say so myself, I’ve never’ found anything: to beat it’
Wimsey laughed, and promised to call on Mr Endicott for help at the first symptom of trouble. The old barber saw him to the door, clasping his hand affectionately and begging him to come again. Mrs Endicott would be so sorry to have missed him.
Seated behind the steering-wheel, Wimsey debated the three courses open to him. He could go to Eastbourne; he could go to Stamford; he could return to Wilvercombe. A natural inclination pointed to Wilvercombe. It was, surely, only justifiable to return at once to the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. The fact that Harriet was also there was a purely accidental complication. On the other hand, his obvious duty was to clear up this razor business as quickly as possible. Musing, he drove to his own flat in Piccadilly, where he found his man, Bunter, mounting photographs in a large album.
To Bunter he laid bare his problem, requesting his advice. Bunter, revolving the matter in his mind, took a little time for consideration and then delivered himself respectfully of his opinion.
‘In your lordship’s place, my lord, I fancy I should be inclined to go to Stamford. For a variety of reasons.’
‘You would, would you?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well, perhaps you are right, Bunter.’
‘Yes, thank you, my lord. Would your lordship wish me to accompany you?’
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘You’ can go down to Eastbourne.’ ‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Tomorrow morning. I shall stay the night in Town. You might send off a telegram for me — no, on second thoughts, I’ll send it myself.’
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:
FOLLOWING RAZOR CLUE TO STAMFORD REFUSE RESEMBLE THRILLER HERO WHO HANGS ROUND HEROINE TO NEGLECT OF DUTY BUT WILL YOU MARRY ME — PETER.
Telegram from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:
GOOD HUNTING CERTAINLY NOT, SOME DEVELOPMENTS HERE — VANE.
Chapter VII. The Evidence Of The Gigolos
‘A worthless life, A life ridiculous.
— Death’s Jest-Book
Friday, 19 June — Evening
Miss HARRIET VANE, in a claret-coloured frock, swayed round the dance-lounge of the Hotel Resplendent in the arms of Mr Antoine, the fair-haired gigolo.
‘I’m afraid I am not a.very good dancer,’ she remarked, apologetically.
Mr Antoine, who was, rather surprisingly, neither Jew nor South-American dago, nor Central European mongrel, but French, clasped her a very little more firmly in his competent professional arm, and replied:
‘You dance very correctly, mademoiselle. It is only the entrain that is a little lacking. It is possible that you are awaiting the perfect partner. When the heart dances with the feet, then it will be a merveille.’ He met her eyes with a delicately calculated expression of encouragement.
‘Is that the kind of thing you have to say to all these old ladies?’ asked Harriet, smiling.
Antoine opened his eyes a trifle and then, mocking back to her mockery, said:
‘I am afraid so. That is part of our job, you know.’
‘It must be very tedious.’
Antoine contrived to shrug his exquisite shoulders without in anyway affecting the lithe grace of his motion.
‘Que voulez-vous? All work has its tedious moments, which are repaid by those that are more agreeable. One may say truthfully to mademoiselle what might in another case be a mere politeness.!
‘Don’t bother about me,’, said Harriet. ‘There’s something else I want to talk about. I wanted to ask you about Mr Alexis.’
‘Ce pauvre Alexis! It was mademoiselle who found him, I understand?’
‘Yes. I just wondered what sort of person he was, and why he should have done away with himself like that.’
‘Ahl that is what we are all wondering. It is, no doubt, the Russian temperament’
‘I had heard’—Harriet felt that she must tread cautiously here. ‘that he was engaged’ to be married.’ ‘Oh, yes — to the English lady. That was understood.’
‘Was he happy about it?’
‘Mademoiselle, Alexis was poor and the English lady is very rich. It was advantageous to him to marry her. At first, no doubt, it might offer a little desagrement, but afterwards — you understand, mademoiselle, these matters arrange themselves.’
You don’t think that he suddenly felt he couldn’t face it, and took this way out?’
‘That is difficult to say, but — no, I do not think so. He had, after all, only to go away. He was a very good dancer — and very popular. He would easily have found another situation, provided his health would permit him to continue.’
‘I wondered whether there was any other attachment; to make things more difficult.’
‘From what he said to us, mademoiselle, I know of nothing which could not easily have been arranged.’
‘Women like him, I suppose?’ demanded Harriet, bluntly. Antoine’s smile was a sufficient answer. ‘There wasn’t any disappointment of any kind?’ ‘I did not hear of any. But of course, one does not tell
one’s friends everything.!
‘Of course not. I don’t mean to be inquisitive, but it all seems to me rather odd.’
The music stopped.
‘What is the arrangement?’ asked Harriet. ‘Do we go on or have you other engagements?’
‘There is no reason why we should not continue for the next dance. After that, unless mademoiselle wishes to make a special arrangement with the management, — I am expected to attend to my other patrons.’
‘No,’ said Harriet, ‘I don’t want to upset things. Is there any reason why you and the two young ladies should not have a little supper with me later on?’
‘None at all. It is very kind; very amiable. Leave it to me, mademoiselle. I will arrange it all. It is natural that mademoiselle should take an interest!
‘Yes, but I don’t want the, manager to think that I’m interrogating his staff behind his back.’
‘N’ayez pas peur, je m’en charge. I will ask you to dance again in a little time, and then I will tell you what I have contrived!
He handed her back to her table with a smile, and she saw him gather up a vast and billowy lady in a tightly fitting gown and move smoothly away with her, the eternal semi-sensuous smile fixed upon his lips as though it was painted there.
About six dances later, the smile reappeared beside her, and Antoine, guiding her steps through a waltz, informed her that — if, at 11.30, when the dancing was over, she would be good enough to seek out a small restaurant a few streets away, he, with Doris and Charis, would be there to meet her. It was only a small restaurant, but very good, and the proprietor knew them very well; moreover, Antoine himself lodged in the little hotel, attached to the restaurant and would give himself the pleasure of offering mademoiselle a glass of wine. They would be private there, and could speak quite freely. Harriet assented, with the proviso that she should pay for the supper, and accordingly, shortly before midnight, found herself seated on a red-plush settee beneath a row of gilded mirrors, over a pleasant little supper of the Continental sort.
Doris the blonde and Charis the brunette were only too delighted to discuss the affairs of the late Mr Alexis. Doris appeared to be the official confidante; she could give inside information about her late partner’s affairs of the heart. He had had a girl — oh, yes; but some weeks earlier this connection had come to an end rather mysteriously. It was nothing to do with Mrs Weldon. That matter had been, in Mr Micawber’s phrase, already ‘provided for’. No; it was apparently a breaking-off by mutual consent, and nobody seemed to have been much upset by it. Certainly not Alexis, who, though expressing a great deal of conventional, regret, had seemed, to be rather pleased about it, as though he had brought’ off a smart piece of business. And since then, the young lady in, question had been seen going about with another man, who was supposed to be a friend of Alexis.
‘And if you ask me,’ said Doris, in a voice whose fundamental cockney was overlaid by a veneer of intense refinement, ‘Alexis pushed her off on to this chap on purpose, to get her out of the way of his other little plans.’
‘What other little plans?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. But he had something up his sleeve these last few weeks. Very grand he was about it; I’m sure one was almost afraid to speak to his high-mightiness. “You’ll see,” he said, “just you wait a little bit.”
“Well, I’m sure,” I said, “I have no wish to intrude. You can keep your secrets,” I said, “for I don’t want to know them.” It’s my belief he was up to some game or other. Whatever it was, he was like a dog with two tails about it.’
Mrs Weldon too, thought Harriet, had said the same thing. Alexis was going to have some news for her — though Mrs Weldon had put her own interpretation on the remark. Harriet put out another feeler of inquiry.
‘Marriage-licence?’ said Charis. ‘Oh, no! he wouldn’t be putting up any flags about that. He couldn’t very well like the idea of marrying that dreadful old woman. Well, it serves her right now. She’s got left. I think that sort of thing is disgusting.’
‘I am sorry for her,’ said Antoine.
‘Oh, you are always sorry for people. I do think it’s beastly. I think these horrible fat men are beastly, too, always pawing a girl about. If Greely wasn’t a decent sort, I’d chuck the whole thing, but I will say he does see to it that they behave themselves. But an old woman’— Charis, superb in her vigorous youth, expressed contempt by voice and gesture.
‘I suppose,’ suggested Harriet, ‘that Alexis wanted to feel safe and settled financially. I mean, a dancer can’t go on dancing all his life; can he? Particularly if he isn’t very strong.’
She spoke with hesitation, but to her relief Antoine immediately and emphatically agreed with her.
‘You are right. While we are young and gay it is all very good. But presently the head grows bald, the legs grow stiff, and — finish! The manager says, “It is all very well, you are a good dancer, but my clients prefer a younger man, hein? Then good-bye the first-class establishment. We go, what you call, down the hill. I tell you, it is a great temptation when somebody comes and says, “Look! You have only to marry me and I will make you rich and comfortable for life.” And what is it? Only to tell lies to one’s wife every night instead of to twenty or thirty silly old ladies. Both are done for money — where is the difference?’
‘Yes, I suppose we shall all come to it,’ said Charis, with a grimace. ‘Only, from the way Alexis talked, you’d think he’d have wanted a little more poetry about it. All that rubbish about his noble birth and fallen fortunes — like something out of those stories he was so potty about. Quite a hero of romance, according to him. Always wanted to take the spot-light, did Mr Paul Alexis. You’d think he did the floor a favour by dancing on it. And then the fairy prince comes down to marrying an old woman for her money.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t so bad,’ protested Doris. ‘You oughtn’t to talk that way, dear. It’s not so easy for we dancers, the way everybody treats us like dirt. Though they’re willing enough to take advantage of you if you give them half a chance. Why shouldn’t Alexis, or any of us, get a bit of our own back? Anyhow, he’s dead, poor boy, and you oughtn’t to run him down.’
‘Ah, voila said Antoine. ‘He is dead. Why is he dead? One does not cut one’s throat pour s’amuser.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Charis, ‘that I can’t quite make out. The minute I heard about it, I said to myself, “That’s not like Alexis,” He hadn’t the nerve to do a thing like that. Why, he was terrified of pricking his little finger. ‘You needn’t frown, dear, Alexis was a regular namby-pamby, and if he was dead ten times over it wouldn’t make any difference. You used to laugh at him yourself. “I cannot climb that step-ladder, I am afraid to fall. “I do not like to go to the dentist, he might pull my teeth out.”
“Do not shake me when I am cutting the bread, I might, cut my fingers.”
“Really, Mr Alexis,” I used to say to him, “anybody would thing you were made of glass.
‘I know what mademoiselle is thinking,’ said Antoine, his melancholy mouth curling. ‘She thinks: “Voila! that is the gigolo. He is not a man, he is a doll stuffed with sawdust.” He is bought, he is sold, and sometimes there is an unpleasantness. Then the English husband, he say, “Well, what can you expect? This fellow, he is a nasty piece of work. He lives on foolish women and he does not play the cricket.” Sometimes it is not very nice, but one must live. Que voulez-vous? Ce n’est pas rigolo que d’etre gigolo.’
Harriet blushed.
‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ she said. ‘
‘But you were, mademoiselle, and it is very natural.’
‘Antoine doesn’t play cricket,’ put in Doris, kindly, ‘but he plays tennis and swims very well.’
‘It is not me that is in question,’ said Antoine. ‘And truly, I cannot understand this business of throat-cutting. It is not reasonable. Why did Alexis go all that distance away? He never walked; he found the walking fatigued him. If he had decided to suicide himself, he would have done it at home.’
‘And he’d have taken some sleeping-stuff,’ said Doris, nodding her golden head. ‘I know that, because he showed it to me once, when he was in one of his blue fits. “That is my way out of the bad world,” he said, and he talked a lot of poetry. I told him not to be silly — and of course, in half an hour he had got over it. He was like that. But cutting his throat with a razor — no!’
‘That’s awfully interesting,’ said Harriet. ‘By the way,’ she went on, remembering her conversation with Wimsey, ‘did he have anything the matter with his skin? I mean, did he always have to wear gloves, or anything of that sort?’
Oh, no,’ said Antoine. ‘The gigolo must not have things the matter with his skin. That would: not do at all. Alexis had very elegant hands. He was vain of them.’
‘He said his skin was sensitive, and that’s why he didn’t shave,’ put in Doris.
‘Ah, yes! I can tell you about that,’ Antoine took up his cue. ‘When he came here about a year ago he asked for a job. Mr Greely he say to me, “See him dance. Because, you see, mademoiselle, the other dancer had just left us, all of a sudden, comme ca — without the proper notice. I see him dance and I say to Mr Greely, “That is very good.” The manager say, “Very well, I take you on trial a little time, but I must not have the beard. The ladies will not like it. It is unheard of, a gigolo with a beard,” Alexis say, ‘But if I shave the beard I come out all over buttons.
‘Pimples’ suggested Harriet.
Yes, pardon, pimples. Well, the gigolo with the pimples, that is unheard of also, you understand. “Well,” say the manager, “you can come a little time with the beard till we are suited, but if you want to stay, you remove the beard.”
Very well, Alexis come and dance, and the ladies are delighted. The beard is so distinguished, so romantic, so unusual. They come a very long distance express to dance with the beard. Mr Greely say, “It is good. I was mistaken. You stay and the beard stay too. My God! What will these ladies want next? The long whiskers, perhaps? Antoine,” he say to me, “you grow the long whiskers and maybe you get off still better.” But me, no! God has not given me the hair to make whiskers.’
‘Did Alexis have a razor at all?’
‘How should I know? If he knew that the shaving made the pimples, he must have tried to shave, n’est-ce pas? But — as to the razor, I cannot tell. Do you know, Doris?’
‘Me? I like that. Alexis never was my fancy-man. But I’ll ask Leila Garland. She ought to know.’
‘Sa maitresse,’ explained Antoine. ‘Yes, ask her, Doris. Because evidently that is of a considerable importance. I have not thought of that, mon dieu!’
‘You’ve told me a lot of interesting things,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m very much obliged to you. And I’d be still more — obliged if you didn’t mention that I’d been asking you, because, what with the newspaper reporters and so on—’
‘Oh!’ said Antoine. ‘Listen, mademoiselle, you must not think that because we are the dolls that are bought and sold we have neither eyes nor ears. This gentleman that arrived this morning — do you think we do not know who he is? This Lord Peter, so celebrated, he does not come here for nothing, hein? It is not for nothing he talks to you and asks questions. He is not interested because a foreign dancer has cut his throat in a tantrum. No. But, equally, we know how to be discreet: Ma foi, if we did not, we should not keep our jobs, you understand. We tell, you what we know, and the lady who writes the romans-policiers and the lord who is connaisseur in mysteries, they make the investigations. But we say nothing. It is our business to say nothing. That is understood.’
‘That’s right,’ said Charis. ‘We won’t let on. Not that there’s a great deal to tell anybody. We’ve had the police asking questions, of course, but they never believe anything one says. I’m sure they all think it’s something to do with Leila. These policemen always think that if anything happens to a fellow, there must be a girl at the bottom of it.’’
‘But that,’ said Antoine, ’is a compliment.’
Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Second Barber
‘Send him back again,
An unmasked braggart to his bankrupt den.’
— Letter from Gottingen
Saturday, 20 June; Sunday, 21 June
Wimsy, sleek with breakfast, sunshine and sentiment, strolled peacefully upon the close-clipped lawn of the George at Stamford, pausing now and again to inhale the scent of a crimson rose, or to marvel at the age and extent of the wistaria, trailing its lacy tendrils along the grey stone wall. He had covenanted with himself to interview Colonel Belfridge at eleven o’clock. By that time, both of them would have digested their breakfasts and be ready for a small, companionable spot of something. He had a pleasurable interior certainty that he was on the track of a nice, difficult, meaty problem, investigated under agreeable conditions. He lit up a well-seasoned pipe. Life felt good to him.
At ten minutes past eleven, life felt slightly less good. Colonel Belfridge, who looked as though he had been designed by H. M. Bateman in a moment of more than ordinary inspiration, was extremely indignant. It seemed to him that it was an ungentlemanly action to go and interrogate a man’s barber, — hr’rm about a man’s personal belongings, and he resented the insinuation that a man could possibly be mixed up, hr’rm, in the decease of a damned dago, hr’rm, in an adjectival four-by-three watering-places like Wilvercombe. Wimsey ought to be ashamed, hr’rm, woof! of interfering in what was properly the business of the police, dammit, sir! If the police didn’t know their own damned business, what did we pay rates and taxes for, tell me that, sir!
Wimsey apologised for worrying Colonel Belfridge, and protested that a man must take up some sort of hobby.
The Colonel intimated that golf, or, hr’rm, breeding spaniels would be a more seemly amusement for a gentleman.
Wimsey said that, having engaged, in a spot of intelligence work during the War, he had acquired a kind of taste for that kind of thing.
The Colonel pounced on this remark immediately, turned Wimsey’s war-record inside out, discovered a number of military experiences common to both of them, and presently found himself walking with his visitor down the pansy-edged path of his little garden to display a litter of puppies.
‘My dear boy,’ said Colonel Belfridge, ‘I shall only be too happy to help you in any way I can. You’re not in a hurry, are you? Stay to lunch and we can talk it over afterwards. Mabel!’—in a stentorian shout.
A middle-aged woman appeared in the back doorway and waddled hastily down the path towards them.
‘Gentleman for lunch!’ bawled the Colonel. ‘And decant a bottle of the ‘04, Carefully now, dammit! I wonder, now,’ he added, turning to Wimsey, ‘if you recollect a fellow called Stokes.’
It was with very great difficulty that Wimsey detached the Colonel’s mind from the events of the Great War and led it back to the subject of razors. Once his attention was captured, however, Colonel Belfridge proved to be a good and reliable witness.
He remembered the pair of razors perfectly. Had a lot of trouble with those razors, hr’rm, woof! Razors were not what they had been in his young days. Nothing was, sir, dammit! Steel wouldn’t stand up to the work. What with these damned foreigners and mass-production, our industries were going to the dogs. He remembered, during the Boer War..’
Wimsey, after a quarter of an hour, mentioned the subject of razors.
‘Ha yes,’ said the Colonel, smoothing his vast white moustache down and up at the ends with a vast, curving gesture. ‘Ha, hr’rm, yes! The razors; of course: ‘ Now, what do you want to know about, there?’
‘Have you still got them, sir?’
‘No, sir, I have not. I got rid of them, sir. A poor lot they were, too. I told Endicott I was surprised at his stocking such inferior stuff. Wanted re-setting every other week. But it’s the same story with all of ’em. Can’t get a decent blade anywhere nowadays. And we shan’t sir, we shan’t, unless we get a strong Conservative Government — I say, a strong Government, sir, that will have the guts to protect the iron and steel industry. But will they do it? No, damme, sir they’re afraid of losing their miserable votes. Flapper votes!’ How can you expect a pack of women to understand the importance of iron and steel? Tell me that, ha, hr’rm!’
Wimsey asked what he had done with the razors.
‘Gave ’em to the gardener,’ said the Colonel. ‘Very decent man. Comes in twice a week. Wife and family. War pensioner with a game leg. Helps with the dogs. Quite a good man. Name of Summers.’’
‘When was that, sir?’
‘What? Oh! when did I give “em to him, you mean. Let me see, now, let me see. That was after Diana had whelped — near thing that — nearly lost her that time, poor bitch. She died two years ago — killed — run over by a damned motorcyclist. Best bitch I ever had. I had him up in court for it — made him pay. Careless young devil. No consideration for anybody. And now they’ve abolished the speed-limit—,
Wimsey reminded the Colonel that they were talking about razors.
After further consideration, the Colonel narrowed down the period to the year 1926. He was sure about it, because of the spaniel’s illness, which had given Summers considerable trouble. He had made the man a present of money, and had added the razors, having just purchased a new pair for himself. Owing to the illness of the mother, only one puppy out of the litter had been successfully reared, and that was Stamford Royal, who had proved a very good dog. A reference to the stud-book clinched the date conclusively.
Wimsey thanked the Colonel, and asked whether he could interview Summers.
By all means. It was not one of Summers’ days, but he lived in a little cottage near the bridge. Wimsey, could go and see him and mention the Colonel’s name. Should the Colonel walk down with Wimsey?
Lord Peter was grateful, but begged the Colonel would not take the trouble. (He felt, indeed, that Summers might be more communicative in Colonel Belfridge’s absence.) With some trouble, he disengaged himself from the old soldier’s offers of hospitality, and purred away through the picturesque streets of Stamford to the cottage by the bridge.
Summers was an easy man to question — alert, prompt and exact. It was very kind of Colonel Belfridge to give him the razors. He himself could not make use of them, preferring the safety instrument, but of course he had not told the Colonel that, not wishing to hurt his feelings. He had given the razors to his sister’s husband, who kept a hairdressing establishment in Seahampton.
Seahampton! Less than 50 miles from Wilvercombe! Had Wimsey, struck it lucky with his very first shot? He was turning away, when it occurred to him to ask whether there was any special mark by which either of the razors might be recognised.
Yes, there was. One of them had been accidentally dropped on the stone floor of the cottage and there was a slight, a very slight crack across the ivory. You wouldn’t hardly notice it without you looked closely. The other razor was, so far as Summers knew, quite perfect.
Wimsey thanked his informant and rewarded him suitably. He returned to the car and set his course southward.
He had always thought Stamford a beautiful town and now, with its grey stone houses and oriel windows bathed in the mellow afternoon sunshine, it seemed to him the loveliest jewel in the English crown.
He, slept that night in Seahampton, and on the Sunday morning set forth in search of Summers’ brother-in-law, whose name was Merryweather — a name of happy omen. The shop turned out to be a small one, in the neighbourhood of the docks. Mr Merryweather lived above his premises, and was delighted to give Wimsey information about the razors.
He had had them in 1927, and they were good razors, though they had been badly treated and were considerably worn when they came into his hands. He had one of them still, and it was doing good service. Perhaps his lordship ‘would like to look at it. Here it was.
Wimsey, with a beating heart, turned it over in his hands. It was the exact duplicate of the razor that Harriet had, found on the shore. He examined it carefully, but found no crack in the ivory. But what, he asked, almost afraid to put — the question for fear of disappointment, what had become of the fellow to it?
‘Now that, my lord,’ said Mr Merryweather, ‘I unfortunately cannot show you. Had I known it would be wanted, I certainly would never have parted with it I sold that razor, my lord, only a few weeks ago, to one of these tramping fellows that came here looking for a job. I had no work for him here, and to tell you the truth, my lord, I wouldn’t have given it to him if I had. You’d be surprised, the number of these men who come round, and half of them are no more skilled hairdressers than my tom-cat. Just out for what they can pick up, that’s what they are. We generally give them a few razors to set, just to see what they’re made of, and the way they set about it, you can tell, nine times out of ten, that they’ve never set a razor their lives.’ Well, this one was like that, and I told him he could push off. Then he asked me if I could sell him a second-hand razor, so I sold him this one to get rid of him. He paid for it and away he went, and that’s the last I saw of him.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Oh, a little rat of a fellow. Sandy-haired and too smooth in his manner by half. Not so tall as your lordship, he wasn’t, and if I remember rightly he was a bit — not deformed, but what I might call crooked. He might have had one shoulder a trifle higher than the other. Nothing very noticeable, but he, gave me that impression. No, he wasn’t lame or anything of that kind.; Quite spry, he seemed, and quick in his movements. He had rather pale eyes, with sandy eyelashes — an ugly little devil, if you’ll excuse me. Very well-kept hands — one notices that, because, of course, when a man asks, for a job in this kind of establishment, that’s one of the first things one looks for. Dirty or bitten nails, for instance, are what one couldn’t stand for for a moment. Let me see, now. Oh, yes — he spoke very well. Spoke like a gentleman, very refined and quiet. That’s a thing one notices, too. Not that it’s of any great account in a neighbourhood like this. Our customers are sometimes a roughish lot. But one can’t help notice, you see, when one’s been used to it. Besides, it gives one an idea what kind of place a man has been used to.’
‘Did this man say anything about where he had been employed previously?’
‘Not that I remember. My impression of him was that he’d been; out of employment for a goodish time, and wasn’t too, keen on giving details. He said he was on his own. There’s plenty of them do that — want you to believe they have their own place in Bond Street and only lost their money through unexampled misfortunes. You know the sort, I expect, my lord. But I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the man, not liking the look of him.’
‘I suppose he gave a name.’
‘I suppose he did, come to think of it, but I’m dashed if I know what it was, Henry! What did that sneaking little red-haired fellow that came here the other day say his name was? The man that bought that razor off me?’
Henry, a youth with a crest like a cockatoo, who apparently lodged with his employer, laid aside the Sunday paper which he had been unsuccessfully pretending to read.
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember, Mr Merryweather. Some ordinary name. Was it Brown, now? I think it was Brown.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Mr — Merryweather, suddenly enlightened. ‘It was Bright, that’s what it was. Because don’t you remember me saying he didn’t act up to his name when it came to setting razors?’
‘That’s right,’ said Henry. ‘Of course. Bright. What’s’ the matter with him? Been getting into trouble?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder if he had,’ said Wimsey.
‘Police?’ suggested Henry, with a sparkling countenance.
‘Now, Henry,’ said Mr Merryweather. ‘Does his lordship here look as if he was the police? I’m surprised at you. You’ll never make your way in this profession if you ‘don’t know better than that’
Henry blushed.
‘I’m not the police,’ said Wimsey, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if the police did want to get hold of Mr Bright one of these days. But don’t you say anything about that. Only, if you should happen to see Mr Bright again, at any time, you might let me know. I’m staying at Wilvercombe at the moment — at the Bellevue but in case I’m not’ there, this address will always find me.’
He proffered a card, thanked Mr Merryweather and Henry, and withdrew, triumphant. He felt that he had made progress. Surely there could not be two white Endicott razors, bearing the same evidence of misuse and the same little crack in the ivory. Surely he had tracked the right one, and if so—
Well, then he had only to find Mr Bright. A tramp-barber with sandy hair and a crooked shoulder ought not to be so very difficult to find. But there was always the disagreeable possibility that Mr Bright had been a barber for that one performance only. In which case, his name was almost certainly not Bright.
He thought for a moment, then went into a telephone call-box and rang up the Wilvercombe police.
Superintendent Glaisher answered him. He was interested to hear that Wimsey had traced the early history of the razor. He had not personally observed the crack in the ivory, but if his lordship would hold the line for a moment…. Hullo! was Wimsey there?… Yes, his lordship was quite right. There was a crack. Almost indistinguishable, but it was, there. Certainly it was an odd coincidence. It really looked as thought it might bear investigation.
Wimsey spoke again.
Yes, by all means. The Seahampton police should be asked, to trace Bright. No doubt it would turn out that Alexis had got the razor off Bright, but it was funny that he couldn’t have bought one in Wilvercombe if he wanted one. About three weeks ago, was it? Very good. He would see what could, be done. He would also find out whether Alexis had been to Seahampton within that period or whether, alternatively, Bright had been seen in Wilvercombe. He was obliged to Lord Peter for the trouble he had, taken in the matter and if his lordship thought of coming back to Wilvercombe, there had been recent developments which might interest him. It was now pretty, certain that it was a case of suicide. Still, one had to go into these matters pretty carefully. Had the body been found? No. — The body had not come ashore, and the wind was still holding the tide up and making it impossible to undertake any operations off the Grinders.
Chapter IX. The Evidence Of The Flat-Iron
‘Come, tell me now,
How sits this ring?’
— The Bride’s Tragedy
Sunday, 21 June
HARRIET VANE and Lord Peter Wimsey sat side by side on the beach, looking out towards the Devil’s Flat-Iron. The fresh salt wind blew strongly in from the sea, ruffling Harriet’s dark hair. The weather was fine, but the sunshine came only in brilliant bursts, as the driven clouds rolled tumultuously across the bellowing vault of the sky. Over the Grinders, the sea broke in furious patches of white. It, was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the tide was at its lowest, but even so, the Flat-Iron was hardly uncovered, and the Atlantic waves, roaring’ in, made a heavy breath against its foot. A basket of food lay between the pair, not yet unpacked. Wimsey was drawing plans in the damp sand.
“The thing we want to, get,’ he said, ’is the time of the death. The police are quite clear about how Alexis came here, and there doesn’t seem to be any doubt in the matter, which is a blessing. There’s a train from Wilvercombe that stops at Darley Halt on Thursdays at 10.15, to take people in to Heathbury market. Alexis travelled by that train and got out at the Halt. I think it must have been Alexis all right. He was pretty conspicuous with his black beard and his natty gent’s outfitting. I think we can take that bit as proved. The guard on the train remembered him, and so did three or four of his fellow-travellers. What’s more, his landlady says he left his rooms in time to catch the train, and the booking-clerk: remembers him at Wilvercombe. And, dear Harriet, there is a first return-ticket from Wilvercombe to that Halt that was never given up and never accounted for.’
‘A return-ticket?’asked Harriet.
‘A return-ticket. And that, as you so acutely remark, Sherlock, seems to knock the suicide theory on the head. I said as much to the Super, and what was his reply? That suicides, let alone foreign suicides, were that inconsistent there was no accounting for them.’
‘So they may be, in real life,’ observed Harriet, thoughtfully. ‘One wouldn’t made an intending suicide take a return-ticket in a book but real people are different. It might have been a slip, or just habit or he may not have quite made up his mind to the suicide business.
‘I thought my friend Chief Inspector Parker was the most cautious beggar on the face of the earth, but you beat him. You can knock out habit. I refuse to believe that our dainty Alexis made a habit of travelling to the Halt in order to walk four and a half miles to weep by the sad sea waves. However, we’ll just note the return half of the ticket as—‘something that needs explainin’. Very good. Well, now, there was nobody.else got off at the Halt, though quite a bunch of people got in, so we don’t know what happened to Alexis; but if we allow that he could walk at the moderate rate of three miles an hour, he can’t have got to the Flat-Iron later than, say, II.45.’
‘Stop a minute. How about the tide? When was low water on Thursday?’
‘At 1.15. I’ve been into all that. At 11.45 there would be about five feet of water at the foot of the Flat-Iron, but the rock is ten feet high, and rises gradually from the landward side. At 11.45, or very shortly after, our friend could have walked out dry-shod to the rock and sat upon it.’
‘Good. We know he did go out dry-shod, so that all fits in nicely. What next?’
‘Well, what? Whether he cut his own throat or somebody cut it for him when did he die? It’s an awful pity we’ve lost the body. Even if it turns up now, it won’t tell us a thing. It wasn’t stiff, of course, when you saw it, and you say you can’t tell if it was cold.’
‘If,’ said Harriet, ‘there had been a block of ice on that rock at that time, you could have boiled eggs on it’
‘Tiresome, tiresome. Wait a minute. The blood. How about that? Did you notice whether it was in thick red clots, or whether it was a sort of jelly of white serum, with the red part at the bottom, or anything?’
Harriet shook her head.
‘It wasn’t. It was liquid.’
‘It was what?’—
‘Liquid. When I put any hand into it, it was quite wet. ‘Great Scott! Half a sec. Where was the blood? Splashed all over the place, I suppose.,
‘Not exactly, There was a big pool of it underneath the body — just as though he had leaned over and cut his throat into a basin. It had collected in a sort of hollow in the rock.’ ‘Oh, I see. That explains it. I expect the hollow was full of sea-water left by the tide, and what looked like blood was a mixture of blood and water. I began to think—’
‘But listen! It was quite liquid everywhere. It dripped out of his neck. And when I lifted his head up and disturbed the body, it dripped some more. Horrid!’ ‘But, my darling girl
‘Yes, and listen’ again! When I tried to take his glove off, the leather wasn’t stiff — it was soft and wet. His hands had been lying right under his throat.’
‘Good lord! But-’
‘That was the left hand. The right hand was hanging over the side of the rock and I couldn’t get at it without clambering over him, which I didn’t fancy, somehow, Otherwise, I should have tried that. I was wondering, you see, why the gloves?’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But we know there was nothing wrong with his hands. That doesn’t matter now. It’s the blood — do you realise that, if the blood was still liquid, he can only have been dead a few minutes?’
‘Oh!’ Harriet paused in consternation, ‘What a fool I am! I ought to have known that., And I thought I was deducing things so nicely! He couldn’t have been bleeding slowly to death for some time, I suppose?’
‘With his throat cut to the neck-bone? Dear child, pull yourself together. Look here. Blood clots very quickly — more quickly, of course, on a cold surface. In the ordinary way it will clot almost instantaneously on exposure to the air. I daresay it might take a little longer on a hot surface like the rock you describe so graphically.’ But it couldn’t take more than a few minutes: Say ten, to give it an outside limit.
‘Ten minutes. Oh, Peter!’
‘Yes?’
‘That noise that woke me up. I thought it was a sea-gull. They sound so human. But suppose it was-’
‘It must have been. When was that?’
’Two o’clock. I looked at my watch. And I shouldn’t think it took me more than ten minutes to reach the rock.
But — I say!’
‘Well?’
‘How about your murder-theory? That’s done it in absolutely. If Alexis was murdered at two o’clock, and I was there ten minutes after what became of the murderer?’
Wimsey sat up as suddenly as though he had been stung.
‘Oh, hell!’ he exclaimed: ‘Harriet; dear, sweet, beautiful Harriet, say you were mistaken. We can’t be wrong about the murder. I’ve staked my reputation with Inspector Umpelty that it couldn’t have been suicide. I shall have to leave the country. I shall never hold my head up again. I shall have to go and shoot tigers in fever-haunted jungles, and die, babbling of murder between my swollen and blackened lips. Say that the blood was clotted. Or say there were footprints you overlooked. Or that there was a boat within hail. Say something.’
‘There was a boat, but not within hail; because I hailed it.’
‘Thank God there was a boat! Perhaps I may leave my bones in Old England yet. What do you mean, not within hail because you hailed it? If the murderer was in the boat, naturally he wouldn’t have put back if it had hailed sweet potatoes. I wish you wouldn’t give me such shocks. My nerves are not what they were.’
‘I don’t know much about boats, but this one looked to me a pretty good way, out. The wind was blowing in-shore, you know.’
‘It doesn’t matter. So long as there was a good stiff wind, and he could sail close _enough to it, he might have made quite a good way in ten minutes. What sort of boat was it?’
Here Harriet’s knowledge failed her. She had put it down as a fishing-boat riot because she could scientifically distinguish a fishing-boat from a 5-metre yacht, but because one naturally, when visiting the seaside, puts down all boats as fishing-boats until otherwise instructed. She thought it had a pointed sort of sail — or sails — she couldn’t be sure. She was sure it was not, for example, a fully rigged fourmasted schooner, but otherwise one sailing-boat was to her exactly like any other; as it is to most town-bred persons, especially to literary young women.
‘Never mind,’ said Wimsey. ‘We’ll be able to trace it all — right, All boats must come to shore somewhere, thank goodness. And they’re all well known to people along the coast. I only wanted to know what sort of draught the boat was likely to have. You see, if the boat couldn’t come right in to the rock, the fellow would have had to row himself, in, or swim for it, and that would delay him a good bit. And he’d have to have somebody standing on and off with the boat while he did it, unless he stopped to take in sail, and all that. I mean, you can’t just stop a sailing boat and step out of it like a motor-car, leaving it on its own all ready to start. You’d get into difficulties. But that makes no odds. Why shouldn’t the murderer have an accomplice? It has frequently happened, before. We’d better assume that there were at least two men in a small boat with a very light draught. Then they could bring her close in, and one of the men would bring her round to the wind, while the other’ waded or rowed alone, did the murder and got back, so that they could make off again without wasting a moment. You see, they’ve got to do the murder, get back to the boat and clear out to where you saw them within the ten minutes between the cry you heard and the time of your arrival. So we can’t allow a lot of time for pulling the boat to shore and making fast and pushing off again and setting sail and all that. Hence I suggest the accomplice.’
‘But how about the Grinders?’ asked Harriet, rather diffidently. ‘I thought it was very dangerous to bring boats close to shore at that point.’
‘Blow it! So it is. Well, they must have been very skilful sailors. But that would mean further to row or wade, as the case may be. Bother it! I wish we could allow them rather more time.’
‘You don’t think—’ began Harriet. A very unpleasant idea had just struck her. ‘You don’t think the murderer could have been there, quite close, all the time, swimming under water, or something?’
‘He’d’ have had to come up to breathe.’
‘Yes, but I might not have noticed him. There were lots of times when I wasn’t looking at the sea at all. He would have heard me coming, and he might have ducked down close under the rock and waited there till I came down to look for the razor. Then he might have dived and swum away while my back was turned. I don’t know if it’s possible, and I hope it isn’t, because I should hate to think he was there all the time — watching me’
‘It’s a nasty thought,’ said Wimsey. ‘I rather hope he was there, though. It would give him a beast of a shock to see you hopping round taking photographs and things. I wonder if there is any cleft in the Flat-Iron where he might have hidden himself. Curse the rock! Why can’t it come out and show itself like a man? I say, I’m going down to have a look at it. Turn your modest eyes seawards till I have climbed into a bathing-suit, and I’ll go down and explore.’
Not content with this programme, unsuited to a person of her active temperament, Harriet removed, — not only her glance, but her person, to the shelter of a handy rock, and emerged, bathing-suited, in time to catch Wimsey as he ran down over the sand.
‘And he strips better than I should have expected,’ she admitted candidly to herself. ‘Better shoulders than I realised, and, thank Heaven, calves to his legs.’ Wimsey, who was rather proud of his figure, would hardly have been flattered could he have heard this modified rapture, but for the moment he was happily unconcerned about himself. He entered the sea near the Flat-Iron with caution, not knowing what bumps and boulders he might encounter, swam a few strokes to encourage himself, and them; popped his head out to remark that the water was beastly cold and that it would do Harriet good to come in.
Harriet came in, and agreed that the water was cold and the wind icy. Agreed on this point, they returned to the Flat-Iron, and felt their way carefully round it, Presently Wimsey, who had been doing some under-water investigation on the Wilvercombe side of the rock, came out, spluttering, and asked if Harriet had come down on that side or on the other to hunt for the razor.
‘On the other,’ said Harriet. ‘It was like this, I was up on top of the rock with the body, like this.’ She climbed out, walked up to the top of the rock, and stood shivering in the wind. ‘I looked round on both sides of me like this.’
‘You didn’t look down in this direction, by any chance?’ inquired Wimsey’s head, standing up sleek as a seal’s out of the water.
‘No, I don’t think so. Then, after I’d fussed about with the corpse a bit, I got down this way. I sat on something just about here. and took my shoes and stockings, off and tucked my things up. Then I came round in this direction and groped about under the rock. There was about eighteen
inches of water then. There are about five feet now, I should think.’
‘Can you began Wimsey. A wave slopped suddenly over his head and extinguished him. Harriet laughed.
‘Can you see me?’ he went on, blowing the water out of his nostrils.
‘I can’t. But I heard you. I t was very amusing.’
‘Well, restrain your sense of humour. You can’t see me.’
‘No. There’s a bulge in the rock. Where, exactly, are you, by the way?’
‘Standing in a nice little niche, like a saint over a cathedral door.’ It’s, just about the size of a coffin. Six feet high or thereabouts, with a pretty little roof and room to squeeze in rather tightly sideways, if you’re not what the Leopard called “too vulgar big”. Come round and try it for yourself.’
‘What a sweet little spot,’ said Harriet, scrambling round and taking Wimsey’s place in the niche. ‘Beautifully screened from all sides, except from the sea. Even at quite low tide one couldn’t be seen, unless, of course, somebody happened to come round and stand just opposite the opening. I certainly didn’t do that. How horrible! The man must have been in here all the time.’
‘Yes, I think it’s more plausible than the boat idea.’
‘Bright!’ said Harriet.
‘I’m so glad you think so.’
‘I didn’t mean that — and it was my idea in the first place. I meant Bright, the man who bought the razor. Didn’t the hairdresser person say he was a small man — smaller than you, anyway?’
‘So he did. One up to you. I wish we could get hold of Bright. I wonder — Oh, I say! I’ve found something!’
‘Oh, what?’
‘It’s a ring the sort of thing you tie boats up to, driven right into the rock. It’s under water and I can’t see it properly, but it’s about five feet off the ground and it feels smooth and new, not corroded. Does that help with our boat-theory at all, I wonder?’
‘Well,’ said Harriet, looking round at the lonely, sea and shore, ‘there doesn’t seem to be much reason why anyone should habitually, tie a boat up here.’
‘There doesn’t. In that case the murderer, if there was one—’
We’re taking him for granted, aren’t we?’
‘Yes. He may have put this here for his own private use. Either he tied a boat up, or he’-’
‘Or he didn’t.’
‘I was going to say, used it for something else, but I’m dashed if I know what.’
‘Well, that’s fearfully helpful. I say, I’m getting cold. Let’s swim about a bit, and then get dressed and discuss it.’
Whether it was the swim or the subsequent race over the sands to get warm that stimulated Harriet’s brain is not certain, but when they were again sitting by the lunch-basket, she found herself full of ideas.
‘Look here! If you were a murderer, and you saw an interfering woman pottering about among the evidence and then going off in search of help, what would you do?’
‘Leg it in the opposite direction:
‘I wonder. Would you? Wouldn’t you like to keep an eye on her? Or possibly even do away-with her? You know, it would have been fearfully easy for Bright — if we may call him so for the moment — to slaughter me then and there.’
‘But why should he? Of course he wouldn’t. He was trying to make the murder look like suicide.. In fact, you were a very valuable witness for him. You’d seen the body and you could prove that there really was a body, in case of its subsequently getting lost. And you could prove that there actually was a weapon there and that therefore suicide was more likely than not. And you could swear to the absence of footprints — another point in favour of suicide. No, my dear girl, the murderer would cherish you as the apple of his eve.’
‘You’re right; he would. Always supposing he wanted the body found. Of course there are lots of reasons why he should want; it found. If he inherited under a will, for instance, and had to prove the death.’
‘I don’t fancy friend Alexis will have left much in his will. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t. And there might be other reasons for wanting to tell the world he was dead.’
‘Then you think that when I’d gone, the murderer just totted off home to Lesston Hoe? He can’t have gone the other way, unless he deliberately kept behind me. Do you think he did that? He may have followed me up to see what I was going to do about it.’
‘He might. You can’t say he didn’t. Especially as you left the main road quite soon after, to go up to the farm.’
‘Suppose he missed me there and went on ahead of me along the road to Wilvercombe. Would it be possible to find out if he had passed over the level-crossing at the Halt, for instance? Or I say! Suppose he’d’ gone along the main road and then turned back again, sows to pretend he’d come from Wilvercombe?’
‘Then you’d have met him.’
‘Well, suppose I did?’
But — oh! lord, yes — Mr What’s-his-name from London! By Jove!’
‘Perkins. Yes. I wonder. Could anybody be genuinely as foolish as Perkins appeared? He was a rat of a man, too, quite small, and he was sandy-haired.’
‘He was short-sighted, didn’t you say, and wore glasses. Merryweather didn’t’ say anything about Bright’s wearing them.’
‘It may have been a disguise. They may have been quite plain glass. I didn’t examine them, a la Dr Thorndyke, to see whether they reflected a candle-flame upside-down or right way up And, you know, I do think it’s awfully funny the way Mr Perkins simply evaporated when we got to the village shops. He was keen enough to come with me before, and then, just as I’d got into touch with civilisation, he went and vanished. It does look queer. If it was Bright, he might just have hung round to get some idea of what I was going to say to the police, and then removed himself before the inquiry. Good lord! Fancy me, meekly trotting along for a mile and a half hand in hand with a murderer!’
Juicy,’ said Wimsey, ‘very juicy! We’ll have to look more carefully into Mr Perkins. (Can that name — be real? It seems almost too suitable.) You know where he went?’
‘He hired a car in the village and got himself driven to Wilvercombe railway station. He is thought to have taken a train to somewhere, but the place was full of hikers and trampers and trippers that day, and so far they haven’t, traced him further. They’ll, have to try again. This thing is getting to look almost: too neat. Let’s see how it goes. First of all, Alexis arrives by the 10.15 at the Halt and proceeds on foot or otherwise, to the Flat Iron. Why, by the way?’
‘To keep an appointment with Perkins, presumably. Alexis wasn’t the sort to take a long country walk for the intoxicating pleasure of sitting on a rock.’
‘True, O Queen. Live for ever. He went to keep an appointment with Perkins at two o’clock.’
‘Earlier, surely; or why arrive by the 10.15?’
‘That’s easy. The 10.15 is the only train that stops there during the morning.’
‘Then why not go by car?’
‘Yes, indeed. Why not? I imagine it was because he had no car of his own and didn’t want anybody to know where he was going.’
‘Then why didn’t-he hire a car and drive it himself?’ ‘Couldn’t drive a car. Or his credit is bad in Wilvercombe. Or — no!’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say: because he didn’t intend to come back.; But that won’t work, because of the return-ticket. Unless he took the ticket absentmindedly, he did mean to come back. Or perhaps he just wasn’t certain about it. He might take a return-ticket on the off-chance — it would only be a matter of a few pence one way or the other. But he couldn’t very well just take a hired car and leave it there.’
‘N-no. Well, he could, if he wasn’t particular about other people’s property. But I can think of another reason for it. He’d have to leave the car on top of the cliff where it could be seen, Perhaps he didn’t want people to know that anybody was down on the Flat-Iron at all.’
‘That won’t do. Two people having a chat on the Flat-Iron would be conspicuous objects from the cliff, car or no car.’
‘Yes, but unless you went down close to them, you wouldn’t know who they, were; whereas you can always check up on a car by the number-plates.’
‘That’s a fact — but it seems to me rather a thin explanation, all the same. Still, let it stand. For some reason Alexis thought he would attract less attention if he went by, train. In that case, ‘I suppose he walked along the road — he wouldn’t want to invite inquiry by taking a lift from anybody.’
‘Certainly not. Only why, in the world he should have picked on such an exposed place for the appointment—’
‘You think they ought to have had their chat behind a rock, or under some trees, or in a disused shed or a chalk quarry or something like that?’
‘Wouldn’t it seem more natural?’
‘No. Not if, you didn’t want to be overheard. If you ever need to talk secrets, be sure you avoid the blasted oak, the privet hedge and the old summer-house in the Italian garden — all the places where people can stealthily creep up under cover with their ears flapping. You choose the middle of a nice open field, or the centre of a lake — or a rock like the Flat-Iron, where you can have half-an-hour’s notice of anyone’s arrival. And that reminds me, in one of your books
‘Bother ‘Bother my books! I quite see what you mean. Well, then, some time or the other, Bright arrives to keep his appointment. How? And when?’
‘By walking through the edge of the water, from any point you like to suggest. As for the time, I can only suggest that it was while you, my child, were snoozing over Tristram Shandy; and I fancy he must have come from the Wilvercombe side, otherwise he would have seen you. He’d hardly have taken the risk of committing a murder if he knew — positively that somebody was: lying within a few yards of h
‘I think it was pretty careless of him not to take a look round the rocks in any case.’
‘True; but apparently he didn’t do it. He commits the murder, anyhow, and the time of that is fixed at two o’clock. So he must have reached the Flat-Iron between 1.30 and 2—or possibly between one o’clock and two o’clock because, if you were lunching and reading in your cosy corner, you probably wouldn’t have seen or heard him, come. It couldn’t be earlier than 1 p.m., because you looked along the shore then and were positive that there wasn’t a living soul visible from the cliffs.’
‘Quite right.’
‘Good. He commits the murder. Poor old Alexis lets out a yell when he sees the razor, and you wake up. Did you shout then, or anything?’
‘No.’
‘Or burst into song?’
‘No.’
‘Or run about with little ripples of girlish laughter?’
‘No. At least, I ran about a few minutes later, but I wasn’t making a loud noise.’
‘I wonder why the murderer didn’t start off home again at once.’ If he had, you’d have seen him. Let me see. Ah, I was forgetting the papers! He had to get the papers!’
‘What papers?’
‘Well, I won’t swear it was papers. It may have been the Rajah’s diamond or something. He wanted something off the body, of course: And just as he was stooping over his victim, he heard you skipping about among the shingle. — Sound carries a long way by the water. The baffled villain pauses, and then, as the sounds come nearer, he hurries down to the seaward side of the Flat-Iron and hides there.’
‘With all his clothes on?’
‘I’d forgotten that. He’d be a bit damp-looking when he came out, wouldn’t he? No. Without his clothes on. He left his clothes at wherever it was he started to walk along the shore. He, probably put on a bathing-dress, so that if anybody saw him he would just be a harmless sun-bather paddling about in the surf.’
‘Did he put the razor in the pocket of his regulation suit?’
‘No; he had it in his hand, or slung round his neck. Don’t ask silly questions. He’d wait in his little niche until you’d gone; then he’d hurry back along the shore-’
‘Not in the direction of Wilvercombe.’
‘Blow! Obviously, you’d have seen him. But not if he kept close to the cliff. He wouldn’t have to bother so much about footprints when the tide was coming in. He could manage that all right. Then he’d come up the cliff at the point where he originally got down, follow the main road towards Wilvercombe, turn back at some point, or other, and meet you on the way, back., How’s that?.
‘It’s very neat.’
‘The more I look at it, the more I like it. I adore the thought of Might’s being Perkins. I say, though, how about this lop-sided, hunch-backed business. Was Perkins upright as a willow-wand, or how?’
‘Not by any means. But I shouldn’t have called him actually crooked. More sloppy and round-shouldered. He had a rucksack on his back, and he was walking a bit lame, because he said he had a blister on his foot.’
‘That would he a good way of disguising any one-sidedness in his appearance. You’re always apt to hunch up a bit on the lame side. Bright-Perkins is our man. We ought to get the police on to this right away, only I do so want my lunch. What time is it? Four o’clock. I’ll slip along in the car and telephone to Glaisher, and then come back. Why should we give up our picnic for any number of murderers?’
Chapter X. The Evidence Of The Police-Inspector
‘My life upon ‘t some miser,
Who in the secret hour creeps to his hoard,
And, kneeling at the altar of his love,
Worships that yellow devil, gold.’
— The Bride’s Tragedy
Monday, 22 June
‘You may say what you like, my lord,’ said Inspector Umpelty, ‘and I don’t mind admitting that the Super is a bit inclined to your way of thinking, but it was suicide for all that, and if I was a sporting man, I wouldn’t mind having a bit on it. There’s no harm done by tracing this fellow Bright, because, if the identification of the razor is correct, that’s who this Alexis must have brought it from, but there’s no doubt in my mind that when the poor chap left his lodgings on Thursday, he never meant to come back. You’ve only got to look at the place. Everything. tidied away, bills all paid up, papers burnt in the grate — you might say he’d regular said good-bye and kissed his hand to everything.’
‘Did he take his latch-key with him?’ asked Wimsey.
‘Yes, he did. But that’s nothing. A man keeps his key in his pocket and he mightn’t think to put it out. But he left pretty well everything else in order. You’d be surprised. Not so much as an envelope, there wasn’t. Must have had a regular old bonfire there. Not a photograph, not a line that would tell you anything about who he was or where became from. Clean sweep of the lot.’
‘No hope of recovering anything from the ashes?’
‘Not a thing. Naturally, Mrs Lefranc — that’s the landlady — had had the grate cleaned out on the Thursday morning, but she told me that everything had been broken down into black finders and dust. And there was a rare old lot of it. I know, because she showed it me: in the dust-bin. There certainly — was nothing there you could have made out with a microscope.’ As you know, my lord, generally these folk aren’t thorough — they leave a few bits half-burnt, maybe, but this chap had gone the right way about it and no mistake. He must have torn’ everything into small scraps first, and burnt it on a hot fire and beaten it into atoms with the poker. “Well,” I said to Mrs Lefranc, “this is a nice set-out, this is!” And so it was, too.’
‘Any books or anything with writing in the fly-leaves?’
‘Just a few novels, with “Paul Alexis” inside, and some with nothing at all, and one or two paper-backed books written in Chinese.’
‘Chinese?”
‘Well, it looked’ like it Russian, maybe. Not in proper letters, anyhow. You can’ see them any time you like but I don’t expect you’ll get much out of them. One or two history-books there was, mostly about Russia and that. But no writing of any kind.’
‘Any money?’ ‘No.’
‘Had he a banking account?’
‘Yes; he had a small account with Lloyds. Matter of a little over three hundred pounds. But he drew the whole lot out three weeks ago.’
‘Did he? Whatever for? It wouldn’t cost him all that to buy a razor.’
‘No, but I said he’d been settling his debts.’ ‘Three hundred pounds worth of them?’
‘I don’t say that. Fact is we can’t trace more than twenty pounds odd. But he may have owed money in lots of places.
As he’s burnt all his papers, you see, it’s a bit difficult to tell. We shall make inquiries, naturally. But I shouldn’t be: surprised if those hundred pounds had gone to some girl or other. There’s that Leila Garland — a hard-boiled little piece if ever there was one. She could tell a lot if she liked, I daresay, but we aren’t allowed to ask anybody any questions these days. If they say they won’t answer, they won’t and there’s an end of it. You can’t force ’em.’
‘Leila Garland — that’s the girl he used to go with?’
‘That’s it, my lord, and from what I can make out she turned Mister Alexis down good and hard. Terrible cut — up he was about it, too, according to her. She’s got an fellow now — sort of friend of Alexis, but a cut above him, as far as I can make out., Sort of dago fellow; leads the orchestra down at the Winter Gardens, and makes a pretty good thing out of it, I fancy. You know the sort, all la-di-dah and snake-skin shoes. Nothing wrong with him, though, as far as that goes. He was quite frank about it, and so was the girl. Alexis introduced, them, and, presently the young woman got the idea that she could do better with the dago than with Alexis. She says Alexis was getting very close with his money, and didn’t seem to have his mind as, much on Miss Leila as he might have. Possibly he had his eye on somebody else all the time and that was where the money went. Anyhow, Leila makes up her mind to give him the push and takes up with the dago, Luis da Soto, instead. Of course there was a scene, and Alexis threatens to make
away with himself — Did he say anything about throat-cutting?’
‘Well, no, he didn’t. Said he’d take poison. But what’s the odds? He said he’d make away with himself and he’s done it, and here we are.’
‘Did you, by any chance, find any poison — you know, sleepy stuff or anything of that sort in his room?’ ‘Not a thing,’ said the Inspector, triumphantly.
‘But Inspector,’ put in Harriet, who had been listening to this conversation in becoming silence, ‘if you think Alexis had another girl in tow, why should he commit suicide when Leila Garland turned him down?’
‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, miss. Maybe the other one turned him down as well.’
‘And left him a low, lore crittur, with all the world contrairy with him,’ said Wimsey.
‘Yes, and then there was this Mrs Weldon. We found out about her through these other girls. Wouldn’t you say a prospect like’ that was enough to make any young fellow cut his throat?’
‘He could have gone away,’ said Harriet.
‘And suppose he owed her money and she turned crusty and threatened to put him in court? What about that?’
‘Perhaps the three hundred pounds—’ began Wimsey..
‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Harriet indignantly. ‘You mustn’t think that. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Why, the poor woman was infatuated with him. He could have turned her round his little finger. She’d given him anything he wanted. Besides, she told me he wouldn’t take her money.’
‘Ah! But supposing he’d have given her the go-by, miss. She might have cut up rough about that.’
‘She would have been the one to kill herself then,’ said Harriet, firmly ‘She wouldn’t have harmed him for the world, poor soul. Put him in court? Nonsense!’
‘Now you know very well, miss,’ said Inspector Umpelty, ‘that it says In the Bible that the infernal regions, begging your pardon, knows no fury like a woman scorned. I’ve always remembered that from my school-days, and I find it gives a very useful line to follow in our way of business. If this Mrs Weldon—’
‘Rubbish!’ said Harriet. ‘She’d never have done anything of the sort. I know — she wouldn’t.’
‘Ah!’ Inspector Umpelty winked in a friendly manner at Wimsey. ‘When the ladies get to knowing things by this feminine intuition and all that, there’s no arguing with it. But what I say is, let’s suppose it, just for the moment.’
‘I won’t suppose it,’ retorted Harriet.
‘We seem to have reached a no-thoroughfare,’ remarked Wimsey. ‘Let’s leave that for the time being, Inspector. You can come and suppose it in the bar, quietly, later on.
Though I don’t think it very likely myself. It’s our turn to suppose something. Suppose a fishing-boat had wanted to come in at, the — Flat-Iron just about low tide on Thursday — could she do it?’
‘Easy, my lord. Some of these boats don’t draw more than a foot of water. You could bring her, in beautifully, provided you kept clear of the Grinders, and remembered to reckon with the current!’
‘A stranger might get into difficulties, perhaps.!’
‘He might, but not if he was a good seaman and could read a chart. He could bring a small boat up within a dozen feet of the Flat-Iron any day, unless the wind was setting with the current across the bay, when he might get driven on to the rocks if he wasn’t careful!
‘I see. That makes it all very interesting. We are supposing a murder, you see, Inspector, and we’ve ‘thought out two ways of doing it. We’d be glad to have your opinion.’
Inspector Umpelty listened with an indulgent smile to the rival theories of the Man in the Fishing-boat and the Man in the Niche, and then said:
‘Well, miss, all I can say is, I’d like to read some of those books of yours. It’s wonderful, the way you, work it all in., But about that boat. That’s queer, that is. We’ve been trying to get a line on that, because whoever was in it must have seen something. Most of the fishing-boats were out off Shelly Point, but there’s a few of them I haven’t checked up on, and of course, it might be some of the visitors from Wilvercombe or Lesston Hoe. We’re always warning these amateurs to keep from the Grinders, but do they? No. You’d think some of them was out for a day’s suicide, the way they go on. But I’ve got an idea who it was, all the same.’
‘How about those cottages along the coast, where I went to try and get help?’ asked Harriet. ‘Surely they must have seen the boat? I thought those sort of people knew every boat in the place by sight.’
‘That’s just it,’ replied the Inspector. ‘We’ve asked them and they’re all struck blind and dumb, seemingly. That’s
why I say I think I could put a name to the boat. But we’ll find a way to make them come across with it, never fear. They’re a surly lot, those Pollocks and Moggeridges, and up to no good, in my opinion. They’re not popular with the other fishers, and when you find a whole family boycotted by the rest of them, there’s usually something at the back of it.’
‘At any rate,’ said Wimsey, ‘I think we’ve got the actual time of the death pretty well fixed by now. That ought to help.’
“Yes,” admitted Inspector Umpelty, ‘if what you and the lady tell me is correct, that does seem to settle it. Now but what I’d like a doctor’s opinion on it, no offence to you. But I think you’re right, all the same. It’s a great pity you happened — to fall, asleep when you did, miss.’ He looked reproachfully at Harriet.
But wasn’t it lucky I was there at all?
The Inspector agreed that it was.
‘’And taking this question of the time as settled,’ he went on, ‘we’ve got some information to hand now that may clear matters up, a bit. At least, from all I can see, it just goes to show that this murder-stuff is clean impossible, as I’ve said it was all along. But if we prove that, then we’re all right, aren’t we?’
The conference was taking place in the Inspector’s cosy little villa in the suburbs of the town. Rising, Mr Umpelty went to a cupboard and extracted a large sheaf of official reports.
‘You see, my lord, we haven’t been idle, even though suicide looks more probable than anything else on the face of things. We had to take all the possibilities into account, and we’ve gone over the district with, as you might say, a magnifying glass.’
After an inspection of the reports, Wimsey was obliged to admit that this boast seemed justified. Chance had helped the police very considerably. An application had recently been made by the local authorities to the County Council to have the coast-road between Lesston Hoe and Wilvercombe put into better repair. The County Council, conscious that times were bad and that money was tight; had courteously replied that it did not think there was sufficient traffic along the said coast-road to justify the proposed expenditure. As a result of these negotiations, persons had been appointed (at a modest wage) by the County Council to take a census of the vehicular traffic passing along the said road, and one of these watchers had been stationed, during the whole of, Thursday, 18 June, at the junction formed by the coast-road and the high road from Lesston Hoe to Heathbury. At the other end of of the twelve miles or so which interested the detectives: was Darley Halt, where, as Harriet had already discovered for herself, the gates were always shut, unless particularly summoned to be opened for a passing vehicle. On either side of the railway gates was a wicket for foot passengers, but this was of the kind that does not admit anything so large even as a push-cycle. It was clear, therefore, that unless the hypothetical murderer had come on foot, he must have been seen at one end or other of the road, or else have come from some intermediate farm. During the past four days, the police had carefully investigated the bona fides of every traveller over this section of the road, Every car, motor-cycle, push-cycle, van, lorry, wagon and beast had been laboriously checked up and accounted for. Nothing had been unearthed to suggest suspicion of any kind. Indeed, all the persons using the road were local inhabitants, well known to all the police officers, and each one of them had been able to give an exact account of his or her movements during. the day. This was not so surprising as it may appear, since nearly all of them were either tradesmen, accomplishing a given — round; in a given time, or farmers with business on their land or in the adjacent towns, who had witnesses to prove their departure and arrival. The only persons whose times could not very well be checked were those who loitered attendance, upon cows and sheep in transit; but, apart from the extreme improbability of these rustics having gone out of their way, to cut a gentleman’s throat with an Endicott razor, Inspector Umpelty was quite ready to vouch personally for all of them.
‘In fact, my lord,’ he said, ‘you may take it from me that all these people we have checked up are all right. You can put them right, out of your mind. The only possibility left now for your murderer is that he came by sea, or else on foot along the shore from either Wilvercombe or Lesston Hoe, and, as this young lady says, Wilvercombe is the more probable direction of the two, because, anybody coming — from Lesston Hoe would have seen her and put his crime off’ to a more convenient season, as Shakespeare says.’
‘Very well,’ said Wimsey. ‘All right. We’ll admit that. The murderer didn’t take any sort of wheeled conveyance for any part of the journey. Still, that leaves a lot of possibilities open. We’ll wash out the Lesston Hoe side altogether and only take the Wilvercombe direction. We now have at least three suggestions. One: the murderer walked by the road from Wilvercombe or Darley, came down on to the beach at some point out of view from the Flat-Iron, — and thence proceeded by the shore. Two: he came from one of those two cottages where the, fishermen live (Pollock and Moggeridge, I thing you said the names were). You don’t mean to say you’ll answer personally for those men, do you, Inspector?’
‘No, I don’t — only they weren’t there,’ retorted the Inspector, with spirit. ‘Moggeridge and his two sons were over in Wilvercombe, buying some stuff there — I’ve got witnesses to that. Old Pollock was out in his boat, because Freddy Bares, saw him, and his eldest boy was probably with him. We’re going to pull those two in, and that’s why I said the murderer might have come by sea. The only other Pollock is a boy of about fourteen, and you can’t suppose it was him that did it, nor yet any of the women and children.’
‘I see. Well then. Three: the murderer walked the whole way along the coast from Darley or Wilvercombe. By the way, didn’t you say there was somebody camping out along there, just beyond Darley Halt.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet, ‘a square-built sort of man, who spoke — well, not quite like a countryman — like a gentleman of the country sort.’
‘If anybody had passed that way, he might have seen him.’
‘So he might,’ replied the Inspector, ‘but unfortunately we haven’t laid hands on that particular gentleman, though we’ve got inquiries out after him. He packed: up and departed early on Friday morning, taking his belongings in a Morgan. He’d been camping at the bottom of Hinks’s Lane since Tuesday, and gave the name of Martin.’
‘Is that so? And he disappeared immediately after the crime. Isn’t that a trifle suspicious?’
‘Not a bit.’ Inspector Umpelty was quite triumphant. ‘He was having his lunch at the Three Feathers in Darley at one o’clock and he didn’t leave till 1.30. If you’ll tell me how a man could walk four and a half miles in half-an-hour, I’ll get a warrant made out for Mr Martin’s arrest.’
‘Your trick, Inspector. Well — let’s see. Murder at two o’clock — four and a half miles to go. That means that the murderer can’t have passed through Darley later than 12.50 at the very outside. That’s allowing him to do four miles an hour, and since he would have to do at least part of the distance along the sand it’s probably an over-estimate. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be likely to do less than three miles an hour. That gives 12.30 as his earliest time — unless, of course, he sat and talked to Alexis for some time before he cut his throat.’
‘That’s just it, my lord. It’s all so vague. In any case, Mr Martin isn’t much good to us, because he spent Thursday morning in Wilvercombe — or so he mentioned to the landlord of the Feathers.’
‘What a pity! He might have been a valuable witness. I suppose you’ll go on looking for him, though it doesn’t seem as if he’d be very much good to us. Did anybody notice the number of his Morgan?’
‘Yes; it belongs to a London garage, where they hire out cars to be driven by the hirers. Mr Martin came in there last Thursday week, paid his deposit in cash and returned the bus on Sunday night. He said he had given up his house and had no fixed address, but gave a reference to a Cambridge banker. His driving-licence was made out in the name of Martin all right. There was no trouble about the insurance, because the garage uses a form of policy that covers all their cars irrespective of who is driving them.’
‘But wasn’t there-an address on the driving-licence?’
‘Yes; but that was the address of the house he’d given up, so they took no notice of that.’
‘Do garage-owners usually ask to see people’s driving licences?’
‘I don’t know that they do. Apparently this fellow showed it to them without being asked.’’
‘Curious. You’d almost think he was going out of his way: to forestall criticism. How about the bank?’
‘That’s all right. Mr Haviland Martin has been a depositor there for five years. Introduced by another client. No irregularity.’
‘I suppose they didn’t mention the name’ of his — referee nor the amount of his deposit.’
‘Well, no. Banks don’t care about giving away information. You see, we’ve absolutely nothing against this fellow Martin.’
‘Exactly. All the same, I’d rather like to have a chat with him. There are points about him which seem to me suggestive, as Sherlock Holmes would say. What do you think, my dear Robert Templeton?’
‘I think,’ replied Harriet, promptly, ‘that if I had been inventing a way for a murderer to reach an appointed spot and leave it again, complete with bag and baggage and without leaving more trail than was absolutely unavoidable, I should have made him act very much as Mr Martin has acted. He would open an account under a false name at a bank, giving the bank’s address to the garage-proprietor as sole reference, hire a car and pay cash and probably close the account again in the near future.’
‘As you say. Still, the dismal fact remains that Mr Martin obviously did not do the murder, always supposing that the Feathers’ clock can be relied on. A little further investigation is indicated, I fancy. Five years seems a longish time to premeditate a crime. You might, perhaps, keep an eye, on that bank — only don’t make a row about it, or you may frighten the bird away.’
‘That’s so, my lord. All the same, I’d feel more enthusiastic, I don’t mind saying, if I had any sort of proof that there really was a murder committed. just at present it’s a bit thin, you’ll allow.’
‘So it is; but there are quite a lot of small things that point that way. Taken separately, they aren’t important, but taken together, they have a funny look. There’s the razor, and the gloves, and the return-ticket, and the good spirits Alexis was in on the day before his death. And now there’s this funny story of the mysterious gentleman who arrived at Darley in time to take a front seat for the crime, and then cleared off with such remarkable precautions to obscure his name and address.’
Inspector Umpelty’s reply was cut short by the ringing of his telephone. He listened for a moment to its mysterious cluckings, said ‘I’ll be along at once, sir,’’ and rang off.
‘Something else funny seems to have turned up,’ he said. ‘You’ll excuse me if I rush off; I’m wanted down at the Station.’
Chapter XI. The Evidence Of The Fisherman
‘There’s a fellow
With twisting root-like hair up to his eyes,
And they are streaked with red and starting out
Under their bristling brows; his crooked tusks
Part, like a hungry wolf’s, his cursing mouth;
His head. is frontless, and a swinish mane
Grows o’er his shoulders: brown and warty hands,
Like roots, with pointed nails. He is the man.’
— Fragment
Monday 22 June
WIMSEY had not very long to wait before hearing the latest development.’ He had returned to the Bellevue for lunch, and was having a preliminary refresher in the bar, when he felt a smart tap on his shoulder.
‘Lord,’ Inspector! How you startled me! All right, it’s a fair cop. What’s it for this time?’
‘I just dropped along to tell you the latest, my lord. I thought you’d like to hear it. It’s given us something to think about, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Has it? You look quite agitated. I expect you’re out of practice. It is exhausting when you’re not used to it. Have one?’
‘Thank you, my lord. I don’t mind if I do. Now, look here you remember about our young friend’s banking account and the three hundred pounds?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Well’ the Inspector dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper we’ve found out what he did with it.’
Wimsey registered expectation, but this was not enough. Inspector Umpelty evidently felt that he had got hold of a really choice morsel, and was not going to let it go without full dramatic honours.
‘I’ll buy it, Inspector.: What did he do with it?’.
‘Guess, my lord. You can have three guesses, and I bet you anything you like you don’t hit on it. Not in twenty guesses!’
‘Then I mustn’t waste your valuable time. Go on. Have a heart. Don’t keep me in such ghastly suspense. What did he do with it?’
‘He went,’ said the Inspector, ludicrously, ‘and turned it into gold.’
‘Into WHAT?’
‘Three hundred golden sovereigns — that’s what he turned it into. Three hundred round, golden jimmy o’ goblins.’
Wimsey stared blankly at him.
‘Three hundred — oh, look here, Inspector, a shock like this is more than frail flesh and blood can stand. There isn’t so much gold in the country. I haven’t seen more than ten gold sovereigns together since I fought at my grandpapa’s side at the Battle of Waterloo. Gold! How did he get it? How did he wangle it? They don’t hand it out to you at the banks nowadays. Did he rob the Mint?’
‘No, he didn’t. He changed notes for it quite honestly. But it’s a queer tale for all that. I’ll tell you how it was, and how we come to know of it. You may remember that there was a photograph of Alexis published in the newspapers last week?’
‘Yes, enlarged from that hotel group they took at the Gala Night last Christmas. I saw it.’
‘That’s right. Only one we could find; Alexis didn’t leave anything about. Well, yesterday we had a quaint old bird calling at the Station — Gladstone sort of collar, whiskery bits, four-in-hand tie, cotton gloves, square-crowned bowler, big green gamp — all complete. Said he lived up Princemoor
way. He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket and points to the, photograph. “I hear you want information about this poor young man,”‘ he pipes up. “Yes, we do,” says the Super, “you know anything about it, Dad?”
“Nothing at all about his death,” says the old boy, “but I had a very curious little transaction with him three weeks ago,” he says, “and I thought you perhaps ought to know about it,” he says. “Quite right, Dad,” says the Super. “Go ahead.” So he went ahead and told us all about it.
‘It seems it was like this. You may remember seeing awhile ago not more than a month or so back — a bit in the papers about a queer old girl who lived all alone in a house in Seahampton with no companion except about a hundred cats. A Miss Ann Bennett — but the name don’t matter. Well, one day the, usual thing happens. Blinds left down, no smoke from kitchen, chimney, milk not taken in, cats yowling fit to break your heart. constable goes in with a ladder and finds the old lady dead in her bed. Inquest verdict is “death from natural causes”, which mean old “age and semi-starvation: with neglected pneumonia on top of it. And of course plenty of money in the house, including four hundred gold sovereigns in the mattress. It’s always happening.’
Wimsey nodded.
‘Yes. Well, then, the long-lost next-of-kin turns up and who should it be. but this old chap from Princemoor, Abel Bennett. There’s a will found, leaving everything to him, and begging him to look after the poor pussies. He’s the executor, and he steps in and takes charge. Very good. On the day after the inquest, along comes our young friend Paul Alexis — name correctly given and person identified by the photograph. He tells old Bennett a rambling kind of story about wanting gold sovereigns for some purpose or other. Something about wanting to buy a diamond from a foreign rajah who didn’t understand bank-notes — some bosh of that kind.’
‘He got that out of a book, I expect,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’ve seen something like it somewhere.’
‘Very likely. Old Bennett, who seems to have had more wits than his sister, didn’t swallow the tale altogether, because, as he said, the young, fellow didn’t look to him like a person who would be buying diamonds off rajahs, but after.all it’s not criminal to want gold, and it was none of his business what it was wanted for. He, put up a few objections, and Alexis offered him three hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, plus a twenty-pound bonus, in exchange for three hundred sovereigns. Old Abel wasn’t adverse to a buckshee twenty quid and was ‘ willing to hand over, on condition he might have the notes vetted for him at a Seahampton bank. Alexis was agreeable and pulled out the notes then and there. To cut a long story short, they went to the Seahampton branch of the London & Westminster and got the O.K. on the notes, after which Bennett handed over the gold and Alexis took it away in a leather hand-bag. And that’s all there is to it. But we’ve checked up the dates with the bank-people, and it’s quite clear that Alexis drew his money out here for the purpose of changing it into gold as soon as ever he saw the account of Ann Bennett’s death in the papers. But why he wanted it or what he did with it, I can’t, tell you, no more than the Man in the Moon.’
‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘I always knew there were one or two oddities about this case, but I don’t mind admitting that this beats me. Why on earth should anybody want to clutter himself up with all that gold? I suppose we can dismiss the story of the Rajah’s Diamond. A £300 diamond is nothing very out of the way, and if you wanted one you could buy it in Bond street, without paying in gold or dragging in Indian potentates.!
‘That’s a fact. Besides, where are you going to find a rajah who doesn’t understand Bank of England notes? These fellers aren’t savages, not by any means. Why, lots of them have been to Oxford.’
Wimsey made suitable acknowledgement of this tribute to his own university.
‘The only explanation that suggests itself to tile,’ he said,
’is that Alexis was, contemplating a, flitting to.some place where Bank of England notes wouldn’t pass current. But I hardly know where that could be at this time of day. Central Asia?’
‘It may not be that, my lord. From the, way he burnt everything before he left, it looks as though he didn’t mean to leave any trace of where he was going. Now, you can’t very well lose a Bank of England note. The numbers are bound to turn up somewhere or other, — , if you wait long enough. Currency notes are safe, but it, is quite possible that you might have difficulty in exchanging them in foreign parts, once you were off the beaten track. It’s my opinion Alexis meant to get away, and he took the gold because it was, the only form of money that will pass everywhere and tell no tale. He probably wouldn’t be asked about it at the Customs, and if, he was, they would be very unlikely to search him.’
True. I think you’re right, Inspector. But, I say, you realise this knocks the suicide theory on the head all right?’
‘It’s beginning to look like it, my lord,’ admitted Mr Umpelty, handsomely. ‘Unless, of course, the stuff was paid out to some party, in this country. For instance, suppose Alexis was being blackmailed by someone who wanted to skip. That party might be wanting gold for the very reasons we’ve been talking about, and he might get Alexis to do the job of getting it for him, so that he shouldn’t appear in it himself. Alexis pays up, and goes off the deep end and cuts his throat.’
‘You’re very ingenious,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I still believe I’m right, though if it is a case of murder, it’s been so neatly worked out that there doesn’t seem to be much of a loophole in it. Unless it’s the razor. Look here, Inspector, I’ve got an idea about that razor, if you’ll let me carry it out. Our one hope is to tempt the murderer, if there is one, into making a mistake by trying to be too clever.’
He pushed the glasses aside and whispered into the Inspector’s ear.
‘There’s something in that,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be tried. It may clinch the matter straight off, one way or another. You’d better ask the Super, but if he’s got no objection, I’d say, go ahead. Why not come round and put it to him straight away?’
On arriving at the police-station, Wimsey and the Inspector found the Superintendent engaged with a crabbed old gentleman in a fisherman’s jersey and boots, who appeared to be suffering under a sense of grievance.
‘Can’t a man take ’is own boat out when he likes and where he likes? Sea’s free to all, ain’t it?’
‘Of course it is, Pollock. But if you were up to no mischief, why take that tone about it? You aren’t denying you were there at the same time, are you? Freddy Baines swears he saw you.’
‘Them Bainses!’ grumbled Mr Pollock. ‘A nasty, peerin’, pryin’ lot. What’s it got to do with them where I was?’
‘Well, you admit it anyhow. What time did you get to the Flat-Iron?’
‘Per’aps Freddy Baines can tell you that, too. ’E zeems to be bloody free with his information.’
‘Never mind that. What time do you say it was?’
‘That ain’t no business of yours. Perlice ’ere, perlice there’—there ain’t no freedom in this blasted country. ‘Ave I or ’ave I not the right to go where I like? Answer me’ that’
‘Look here, Pollock. All we want from you is some in formation. If you’ve got nothing to hide, why not answer a plain question?’
‘Well, what is the question? Were l off the Flat-Iron on Thursday? Yes, I were. Wot about it?’
‘You came along from your own place, I suppose?’
‘Well, I did, if you want to know. Where’s the ‘arm in that?’
‘None whatever. What time did you set out?’
‘About one o’clock. Maybe more; maybe less. Round about the slack.’
‘And you got to the Flat-Iron about two.’
‘Well, and where’s the ‘arm in that?’
‘
‘Did you see anybody on the shore at that time?’
‘Yus, I did.’ ‘You did?’
‘Yus. I’ve got eyes in me’ed,’aven’t I?’
‘Yes. And you may as well have a civil tongue in your head.
Where did you see this person?’
‘On the, shore by, the Vlat Iron-round about two o’clock.’ ‘Were you close enough into see who it was?’
‘No, I weren’t. Not to come into your bleedin’ court and swear to a pimple, I wasn’t; and you can put that in your pipe, Mr Cocky Superintendent, and smoke it.’
‘Well, what did you see?’
‘I zee a vule of a woman, caperin’; about on the beach, goin’ on as if she was loony. She runs a bit an’ stops a bit, an’ pokes, in the sand and then runs on a bit. That’s what I zee.’ ‘I must tell Miss Vane that,’ said Wimsey to the Inspector.
‘It will appeal to her sense of humour.’
‘Oh, you saw a woman, did you? Did you see what she did after that?’.
‘She runs up to the Vlat-Iron an’ starts messin’. About there.’
‘Was there anybody else on the Flat-Iron?’
‘There was a chap lyin’ down. At least, it looked so. ‘And then?’
‘Then she starts a yowlin’ an’ wavin’ her arms.’ ‘Well?’
‘Wells what? I — didn’t take no notice. I never takes no notice of vemayles!’
‘Now, Pollock, did you see anybody else at all on the shore that morning?’
‘Not a zoul.’
‘Were you within sight of shore all the time?’ ‘Yes, I were.’
‘And you saw nobody except this woman and the man lying down?’
‘Ain’t I tellin’ you? I zee nobody.’
‘About this man on the Flat-Iron? Was he lying down when you first saw him?’
‘Yes, he were.’
‘And when did you first see him?’
‘Soon as I come in zight of ’un, I zee un.’
‘When’ was’ that?’
“Ow can ‘ I tell to a minute. Might be a quarter to two, might, be ten minutes to. I wasn’t takin’ perticklers for the perlice. I were attendin’ to my own business, same as I wish other folks would.’
‘What business?’
‘Zailin’ the bloody boat. That’s my business!
‘At any rate, you saw the man some time before you saw the woman, and he was then lying on the rock. Was he dead, do you think, when you first saw him?’
“Ow wur I to know if ’e wur dead or alive? ’E didn’t kiss ’is ‘and to me. And if ’e ’ad, I shouldn’t, a’ seen’un, dye zee? I wur too far out’
‘But you said you were within sight of shore the whole time.’
‘Zo I wur. But shore’s a big. thing. A man couldn’t very well miss it. But that’s not to zay I could zee every vule on it playin’ at kiss-me-’and’
‘I see. Were you right out on the Grinders, then?’
‘Woes it matter where I wur? I weren’t speckylatin’ about corpses, nor yet what vemayles was after with their young men. I’ve got zummat more to do than zit about watchin’ bathin’ parties.’
‘What had you to do?’
That’s my business.’
‘Well, whatever your business was, it was out in the deep water off the Grinders?’
Mr Pollock was obstinately silent ‘Was anybody with you in the boat?’
‘No there weren’t.’
‘Then what was that grandson of yours doing?’
‘Oh, him? He was with me. I thought you meant was
there somebody else, that didn’t ought to have been there.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Nothing, only perlicemen is a pack of vules, mostly.’
‘Where is your grandson?’
‘Over to Cork. Went last Zatterday, he did.’ ‘Cork,’ eh’ Smuggling goods into Ireland?’ Mr Pollock spat profusely. “Course not. Business. My business.!
‘Your, business seems to be rather mysterious, Pollock.
You’d better be careful. We’ll want to see that young man when he gets back. Anyway, you say that when the young lady saw you, you had come in, and were putting out again’ ‘Why not?’
‘What did you come in for?’ ‘That’s my business, ain’t it?’ The Superintendent gave it up.
‘At any rate, are you in a position to say whether you saw anybody, walking along the shore between your cottage and the Flat Iron?’
‘Yes, I am. I zee nobody. Not up to quarter to two, anyway. After that, I couldn’t swear one way nor, t’other, ‘avin’ my own business to mind, like I zaid.’
‘Did you see any other boat in the neighbourhood?’ ‘No, I didn’t’
‘Very,well. If your memory should improve in the next few days, you’d better let us know.’
Mr Pollock muttered something uncomplimentary, and removed himself.
Not an agreeable old gentleman,’ said Wimsey.
‘An old scoundrel,’ said Superintendent Glaisher. ‘And the worst of it is, you can’t believe a word he says. I’d like to know what he was really up to.’
‘Murdering Paul Alexis, perhaps?’ suggested the Inspector.
‘Or conveying the murderer to the scene of the crime for a consideration,’ added Wimsey. ‘That’s more likely, really. What motive should he have for murdering Alexis?’
‘There’s the three hundred pounds, my lord. We mustn’t forget that. I know I said it was suicide, and I still think so, but we’ve got a much better motive for a murder than we ‘had before.’
‘Always supposing Pollock knew about the £300. But how should he?’
‘See here,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Suppose Alexis was wanting to leave England.’
‘That’s what I say,’ interjected Umpelty.
‘And suppose he had hired Pollock to meet him somewhere off-shore with his boat and take him across to a yacht or something. And suppose, in paying Pollock, he’d happened to show him the rest, of the money. Couldn’t Pollock have put him ashore and cut his throat for him and made away with the gold?’
But why?’’ objected Umpelty. ‘Why put him ashore?’ Wouldn’t it have been easier to cut his throat aboard the boat and drop the body into the sea?’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Wimsey, eagerly. ‘Ever seen ’em stick a pig, Inspector? Ever reckoned how much blood there was to the job? If Pollock had cut Alexis’ throat on board, it would take a devil of a lot of swabbing to get the boat properly clean again.’
‘That’s quite-true,’-said the-Superintendent. ‘But in any case, how about Pollock’s clothes? I’m afraid we haven’t got evidence enough to get a warrant and search his place for bloodstains.’
‘You: could wash ’em off oil-skins pretty easily, too,’ remarked Wimsey.
The two policemen acquiesced gloomily.
‘And if you stood behind your man and cut his throat that way, you’d stand a reasonable chance of not getting so very heavily splashed. It’s my belief the man was killed in the place where he was found, murder or no murder. And if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve got a little suggestion which might work and tell us definitely whether it really was murder or suicide.’
He again outlined the suggestion, and the Superintendent nodded.
‘I see no objection whatever, my lord. Something might quite well come of it. In fact,’ said Mr Glaisher, ‘something of the same kind had passed through my own mind, as you might say. But I don’t mind it’s appearing to come from your lordship. Not at all.’
Wimsey grinned and went in search of Salcombe Hardy, the Morning Star reporter, whom he found, as he expected, taking refreshment, in the hotel bar. Most of the pressmen had withdrawn by this time, but Hardy, with a touching faith in Lord Peter, had clung to his post.
‘Though you’re treating me damn badly, old man,’ he said, raising his mournful violet eyes to Wimsey’s grey ones, ‘I know you must have something up your sleeve, or you wouldn’t be hanging round the scene of the crime like this. Unless it’s the girl. For God’s sake, Wimsey, say it isn’t the girl. You wouldn’t play such a shabby trick on a poor, hardworking journalist. Or, look here! If there’s nothing else doing, give, me a story about the girl. Anything’ll do, so long as it’s a story. “Romantic Engagement of Peer’s Son”—that’d be better than nothing. But I must have a story.’
‘Pull yourself together, Sally,’ said his lordship, ‘and keep your inky paws off my private affairs. Come right away out of this haunt of vice and sit down quietly in a corner of the lounge and I’ll give you a nice, pretty story all to yourself.’,
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Hardy, in a burst of emotion. ‘That’s what I expected from a dear old friend. Never let down a pal, even if he’s only a poor bloody journalist. Noblesse oblige. That’s what I said to those other blighters. “I’m sticking to old Peter, I said, “Peter’s the man for my money. He won’t see a hardworking man lose a job for want of a good news story.” But these new men — they’ve no push, no guts. Fleet Street’s going to the dogs, curse it. There’s nobody left now of the old gang except me. I know where the news is, and I know how, to get it. I said to myself, You hang on to old Peter, I said, and one of these days he’ll give you a story.’
‘Splendid fellow!’ said Wimsey. ‘May we ne’er lack a friend or a ‘story to give him. Are you reasonably sober, Sally?’
Sober?’ exclaimed the journalist indignantly. ‘J’ever know a pressman who wasn’t sober when somebody had a story to give him? I may not be a blasted pussyfoot, but my legs are always steady enough to go after a story, and what more could anybody want?’
Wimsey pushed his friend gently into position before a’ table in the lounge.
‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘You take this stuff down and see that it gets a good show in your beastly rag. You can put in trimmings to suit yourself.’
Hardy glanced up sharply.
‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Ulterior motive, eh? Not all pure friendship. Patriotism is not enough. Oh, well! as long as it’s exclusive and news, the motive is imma — imma — damn the word — immaterial.’
‘Quite,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now then, take this down. ‘The mystery surrounding’ the horrible tragedy at the Flat-Iron deepens steadily with every effort made to solve it. Far from being a simple case of suicide, as at first seemed probable, the horrible death—”‘
‘All right,’ interjected Hardy. ‘I can do that part on my head. What I want is the story.’
‘Yes; but work up the mystery part of it. Go on, now: “Lord Peter Wimsey, the celebrated amateur of crime — detection, interviewed by, our special correspondent in his pleasant sitting — room at the Hotel Bellevue
‘Is the sitting-room important?’
‘The address is. I want them to know where to find me.’
‘Right you are. Go ahead.’
‘—at the Hotel Bellevue, Wilvercombe, said that while the police still held strongly to the suicide theory, he himself was by no means satisfied. The point that particularly troubled him was that, whereas the deceased wore a full beard and had never been known to shave, the crime was committed—
‘Crime?’, ‘Suicide is a crime.’
‘So it is. Well?’
‘—“committed with an ordinary cut-throat razor, which shows signs of considerable previous hard wear.” Rub that in well, Sally. “The history of this razor has been traced up to a point—”‘
‘Who traced it?’
‘I did.’
‘Can I say that?’
‘If you like.’’
‘That makes it better. “Lord Peter Wimsey explained, with his characteristically modest smile, that he had himself been at pains to trace the previous history of the razor, a search which led him—” Where did’ it lead you, Wimsey?’
‘I don’t want to tell ’em that. Say that the search covered many hundred miles.’
‘All — right. I can make that sound very important. Anything else?’
‘Yes. This is the important bit. Get ’em to put it in black lettering — you know.’
‘Not my business. Sub-editor. But. I’ll try. Carry on. “Leaning over the table and emphasising the point with an eloquent gesture of his artistic hands, Lord Peter said—”‘
‘The trail,” ‘ dictated Wimsey, ‘ “breaks off at the crucial’ point. How did the razor get into the hands, of Paul Alexis? If once I could be satisfied of that, the answer might at once set at rest all my doubt. If Paul Alexis can be proved to have bought the razor, I shall consider the suicide theory to have, been proved up to the hilt. But until that missing link in the chain of evidence is reconstructed, I shall hold that Paul Alexis was foully and brutally murdered, and I shall spare no efforts to bring the murderer to the judgement he has so richly deserved,” How’s that, Sally?’
‘Not too bad. I can work that up into something. I shall add, of course, that you, knowing the enormous circulation of the Morning Star, are relying on the wide publicity it will give to this statement to etcetera, etcetera. I might even get them to offer a reward.’
‘Why not? Anyway, pitch it to ’em hot and strong, Sally.’
‘I will, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. between you and me, would you be satisfied that it was suicide; if the reward was claimed?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey. ‘Probably not. In fact, I am never satisfied.’
Chapter XII. The Evidence Of The Bride’s Son
‘How I despise
All such mere men of muscle!’—
— Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 22 June
WIMSEY looked at his watch. It was half-past one, and he had had no lunch. He remedied the omission, took the car and drove out to Darley. He had to wait for a few moments while the gates were opened at the Halt, and took the opportunity to check up on the police inquiry. He found that the lame gate-keeper knew the mysterious Mr Martin by sight — had, in fact, met him one evening in the bar of the Feathers. A pleasant gentleman, with a hearty way with him. Suffered from some trouble with his eyes, which obliged’; him to wear dark glasses, but a very nice gentleman for all that. The gate-keeper was quite positive that Mr Martin had not passed through the railway-gates, at any time on Thursday — not in. any car or cart or on a cycle, that was to say. As for passing on foot, he couldn’t swear to it, and you couldn’t expect it of him.
Here, however, a new witness suddenly came forward. The gate-keeper’s little daughter, Rosie, ‘just going on for five, and a wonderful quick girl for her age, as her father proudly remarked, was emphatic that ‘the nasty man with the black glasses had not been seen at the railway-gates during the critical period on the Thursday. Rosie knew him and disliked him, for she had seen him in the village the day before and his horrid black glasses had frightened her. She and a small friend had been ‘playing Bluebeard’ at the railway-gates on Thursday. She knew it was Thursday, because it was market day, when the 10.15 stopped there. She had been Sister Anne on her tower, and had called out to her companion when she saw anybody coming along the road. They had played there from after dinner 02.30 according to the gate-keeper), till nearly tea-time (four o’clock). She was absolutely sure the nasty man had not come through. the railway-wickets. If he had, she would have run away.
This seemed to dispose of the last’ lingering possibility that the mysterious Mr Martin might have left the Feathers rather earlier than he was supposed to have-done, walked to the crossing and been picked up by a car on, the other side. Wimsey thanked Rosie with grave courtesy, gave her sixpence and drove on.
His next port, of call was, of course, the Feathers.. The landlord, Mr Lundy, was ready enough with his information. What he had told the inspector was quite right. He had first seen Mr Martin on Tuesday — the 16th, that would be. He had arrived about six o’clock and left his Morgan parked on the village green while he came in and took a glass of mild and-bitter — and asked the way to Mr Goodrich’s house. Who was Mr. Goodrich? Why, Mr Goodrich was the gentleman that owned the land down by Hinks’s Lane, where Mr Martin had been camping’ All the land thereabouts belonged to Mr Goodrich.
‘I want to be clear about this,’ said Wimsey. ‘Did Mr: Martin come here from the direction of Hinks’s Lane, or which way did he come?’
‘No, sir; he drove,in along the Heathbury Road’ and left his car on the green,’ same as I said.’
‘Did he come straight in here?’
‘Straight as a swaller to its nest,’ replied Mr Lundy; picturesquely. ‘We was open, you see, sir.’
‘And did he ask anybody about where he could camp? Or did he ask at once for Mr Goodrich?’
‘He didn’t ask no questions at all sir, only that: Where was Mr Goodrich’s house?’
‘He knew Mr Goodrich’s name, then?’
‘Seemingly he did, sir.’
‘Did he say why he wanted to see Mr Goodrich?’
‘No, sir. Just asked the way and drank up his beer and, off in the car again.’
‘I understand he had lunch here last Thursday?’
‘That’s right, sir., Came in a big open car with a lady.. She set him down here and drove off again, and he came in and set, down to lunch.’’ He thought it would be about one o’clock, but the girl could tell better than he could.
The, girl knew all about it. Yes, as she had already told Inspector Umpelty, Mr Martin had come in about ten minutes to one. He mentioned to her that he had been to Wilvercombe, and thought he would make a change by lunching at the inn. His car, it seemed, had got something the matter with it, and a passing car had picked him up and taken him to Wilvercombe and back. Yes, he had lunched, heartily: roast leg of mutton with potatoes and boiled cabbage and a rhubarb pie to follow.
Wimsey shuddered at the thought of roast mutton and cabbage on a red-hot, June day, and asked when Mr Martin had left the inn.
‘It would be half-past one, sir, by the right time., Our clocks are all, ten minutes fast, same as the clock in the bar, that’s set by the wireless every day. I couldn’t say but what Mr Martin might have stopped in the bar on his way out, but half-past one was when he paid me for his lunch. I couldn’t be mistaken about that, sir, because it was my day off and my young man was taking me over to Heathbury on his motor-cycle, and I was watching the, clock, as you might say, to see how; soon I’d get my work finished with. There wasn’t nobody come in after, Mr Martin, so I was able to clear away and get, dressed and very pleased I was about it.’
This was clear enough. Mr Martin had certainly not left the Three Feathers earlier than 1.30. Undoubtedly he was not the murderer of Paul Alexis. Nevertheless, having begun his investigation, Wimsey determined to carry it through to the bitter end. Alibis, he reminded himself, were made to be broken. He would; suppose that, by means of a magic carpet or other device, Mr Martin had been miraculously wafted from Darley to the Flat-Iron between 1.30 and two o’clock.’ In that, case, did he come back that afternoon, and if so, when? and how?
There were not a great many houses in Darley, and a door-to-door inquiry, though laborious, seemed to be a fairly safe and certain method of answering these questions. He pulled up his socks and set to work.’ He had no difficulty in getting the villagers to talk. The death of Paul Alexis was a local event of an importance that almost swamped last Saturday’s cricket match, and the revolutionary proposal to turn the disused Quaker meeting-house into a cinema; while the arrival of the Wilvercombe police to make inquiries about the movements of Mr Martin had raised the excitement to fever pitch. Darley felt strongly that, if this kind of thing was going to happen, it might get, into the papers again. Darley had actually been in the papers that year already, when Mr Gubbins, the vicar’s warden, had drawn a consolation prize in the Grand National sweep. The sporting half of Darley had been delighted, but envious; the pious half had been quite unable to understand why’ the vicar had not immediately dismissed Mr Gubbins from his privilege of handing round the plate and sitting on the Church Council, and thought that Mr Gubbins’s action in devoting a tithe of his winnings to the Restoration Fund merely piled hypocrisy on the head of debauchery. But now, with the hope that they might be found to have entertained an angel of darkness unawares, they foresaw all manner of publicity. Wimsey discovered several people who thought that Mr Martin’s manner odd and had not liked his face and who said so, at considerable length. It was, however, only after nearly two hours patient research that he discovered somebody who had actually seen Mr Martin on Thursday afternoon. This was, of course, the most obvious person in the village — namely the proprietor of the little tin bungalow that did duty for a garage, and the only reason why Wimsey did not get this information a great deal sooner was that the said proprietor — one, Mr Polwhistle had gone out when he first called upon him, to tackle the internals of a sick petrol-gas engine at a neighbouring farm, leaving behind him only a young woman to attend to the pump.
Mr Polwhistle, when he returned in company of a youthful mechanic; was, most discouragingly informative. Mr Martin? — oh, yes. He (Mr Polwhistle) had seen him on Thursday afternoon all right. Mr Martin had come in — just upon three o’clock, weren’t it, Tom? Yes,’ three o’clock and asked them to come and have a look at his Morgan. They had gone round, and found that the Morgan wouldn’t start, not for toffee. After prolonged investigation and exercise on the starting-handle, they had diagnosed trouble with the ignition. They had taken everything out and looked at it, and eventually it had occurred to Mr Polwhistle that the fault might be in the H.T. lead. On their removing this and putting in a new one, the engine had started up at once, sweet as a nut. There could be no doubt about the time, because Tom had entered it upon his time-sheet; 3 p. m. till 4 p.m.
It was now nearly half-past four, and Wimsey felt that he had a good chance of finding Mr Goodrich at home. He was directed to his house — the big place up the first turning off the Wilvercombe Road — and found the good gentleman and his family gathered about a table well spread with bread and cakes and honey and Devonshire cream.
Mr Goodrich, a stout and hearty squire of the old school, was delighted to give any assistance in his power. Mr Martin had turned up at the house at about seven o’clock on the Tuesday evening and had asked permission to camp at the bottom of Hinks’s Lane. Why Hinks’s Lane, by the way? Well, there used to be a cottage there that belonged to an old fellow called Hinks — a regular character — used to read the Bible through regularly every year, and it was to be hoped it did him good, for a graceless old scamp he was and always had been. But that was donkey’s years ago, and the cottage had fallen into disrepair. Nobody ever went down there now, except campers. Mr Martin had not asked for information about camping-grounds; he had asked straight out for permission to camp in Hinks’s Lane, calling it by that name. Mr Goodrich had never set eyes on Mr Martin before, and he (Mr Goodrich) knew pretty well everything that went on in the village. He was almost certain that Mr Martin had never been in Darley before. No doubt somebody had told him about Hinks’s Lane — it was a regular place for campers. They were out of the way down there, and there were no crops for them to damage and no gates for them to leave open, unless they were to go out of their way to trespass on Farmer Newcombe’s pasture on the other side of the hedge. But there was no necessity for them to do so, as it didn’t lead anywhere. The stream that ran through the pasture came out on to the beach only fifty yards away from the camping-ground and was fresh, except, of course, at flood-tide, when it was brackish. Now Mr Goodrich came to think about it, he believed there had been some complaint from Mr Newcombe about a broken hedge, but the story only came through Geary the blacksmith, who was a notorious talker and he (Mr Goodrich) didn’t see that it had anything to do with Mr Martin. Mr Newcombe was not altogether a satisfactory-tenant in the matter of repairs to hedges and when there were gaps, animals would sometimes stray through them. Apart from this, he (Mr Goodrich) knew nothing to Mr Martin’s discredit. He seemed to have been quiet enough, and in any case, Hinks’s Lane being out of sight and sound of the village, campers couldn’t make nuisances of themselves down there. Some of them brought gramophones or concertinas or ukuleles, according to their taste and social position, but Mr Goodrich had no objection to their amusing themselves, so long as they didn’t disturb anybody. He never made any charge for camping on his ground — it didn’t hurt him, and he didn’t see why lie should take payment for letting the poor devils who lived in town help themselves to a mouthful of fresh air and a drink of water. He usually asked them to leave the place as tidy as they could, and as a rule he had found them pretty decent in this respect.
Wimsey thanked Mr Goodrich and accepted his hospitable invitation to tea. He left at six o’clock, full of buns and cream, with just nice time to pay at visit to the camping-ground and so round off the chapter of Mr Martin. He drove down the stony little lane, and soon found signs of Mr Martin’s recent presence. The land led out upon a flat expanse of rough turf, beyond which a belt of heavy stones and shingle sloped down to the edge of the sea. The tide was about a quarter-full, and the beach became progressively less rough as it neared the water; presumably at low tide there would be a narrow strip of sand left uncovered.
The tracks of the Morgan’s wheels were still faintly visible upon the coarse grass, and there was a patch of oily drippings to show where it had been parked. Close by, there were the holes where the pole and pegs of a small bell-tent had been driven in., There were the ashes of a burnt-out wood fire, and, among them, a ball of greasy newspaper, which had obviously been used to scrub out a frying-pan. Rather reluctantly, Wimsey unfolded the distasteful sheets and glanced at the heading. Thursday’s Morning Star; nothing particularly exciting about that. Careful search among the ashes of the fire revealed no blood-stained fragments of clothing — not so much as a button of a garment — no half-burnt scraps of paper which might have contained a clue to Mr Martin’s real name and address. The only thing that was in any way remarkable was a piece of thinnish rope about three inches long, heavily blackened by the fire. Wimsey pocketed this, for lack of better occupation, and searched further.
Mr Martin had been a tidy camper on the whole, leaving no obviously offensive debris. On the right-hand side of the camping-ground’ there was, however, the remains of a stunted thorn hedge, surrounding the battered remnants of Hinks’s Cottage. Half buried at the foot of this hedge, Wimsey discovered a repulsive cache, containing a great number of old tins and bottles, some recent and some obviously abandoned by previous campers, the heels of some loaves, the bones from a neck of mutton, an old dixie with a hole in the bottom, half a neck-tie, a safety-razor blade (still sharp enough to cut one’s fingers on) and a very dead gull. An elaborate and back-aching crawl over the whole surface of the camping-ground rewarded the earnest sleuth further with an immoderate quantity of burnt matches, six empty match-boxes of foreign make, the dottles of several pipes, three oat-grains, a broken bootlace (brown), the stalks of about a pound of strawberries, six-plum-stones, the stub of a pencil, a drawing-pin business end up, fifteen beer-corks, and an instrument for removing the patent caps of other beer-bottles. The rough grass showed no identifiable footprints
Weary and hot, Lord Peter gathered his loot together and stretched his cramped limbs. The wind, still blowing heavily in from seaward, was grateful to his perspiring brow, however much it might hold up. the Inspector’s salvage operations. The sky was cloudy, but so long as the wind held, there was, he felt, not much likelihood of rain, and he was glad, for he didn’t want rain. A vague possibility was forming itself in his ‘mind, and he wanted to take a walk next day with Harriet Vane. At the moment, he could do no more. He would go back and change and eat and be normal.
He drove back to Wilvercombe.
After a hot bath and the putting-on of a boiled shirt and dinner-jacket, he felt better and telephoned to the Resplendent to ask Harriet to dine with him.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t. I’m dining with Mrs Weldon and her son.’
‘Her son?’
‘Yes; he’s just arrived. Why not come round here after grub and be introduced?’
‘Dunno. What sort of bloke is he?’
‘Oh, yes — he’s here, and would like to meet you very much.’
‘Oh, I see. We are being overheard. I suppose I’d better come’ and look the blighter over. Is he handsome?’
‘Yes, rather! Come along about a quarter to nine.’
‘Well, you’d better tell him we’re engaged, and then I shan’t be obliged to assassinate him.’
‘You will? That’s splendid.’
‘Will you marry me?’
‘Of course not. We’ll, expect you at 8.45.’
‘All right, and I hope your rabbit dies.’
Wimsey ate his solitary dinner thoughtfully. So this was the son, was it? The one who was out of sympathy with his mother. What was he doing here? Had he suddenly become sympathetic? Or had she sent for him and compelled him to come in, by, financial or other pressure? Was he perhaps a new factor in the problem? He was the only son of his mother and she a rich widow. Here at last was a person to whom the removal of Paul Alexis might appear in the light of a; god-send. Undoubtedly the man must be looked into.
He went round to the Resplendent after dinner and found the party waiting for him in the lounge. Mrs Weldon, who wore a plain black semi-evening dress and looked her full age in it, greeted Wimsey effusively.
‘My dear Lord Peter! I am so glad to see you. May I introduce my son Henry? I wrote asking him to come and help us through this terrible time, and he has most kindly put his own business aside and come to me. So very sweet of you, Henry dear. I have just been telling Henry how good Mrs Vane has been to me, and how hard you and she are working to clear poor Paul’s memory.’
Harriet had merely been mischievous. Henry was certainly not handsome, though he was a good, sturdy specimen of his type. He stood about five foot eleven — a strongly built, heavyish man with a brick-red all-weather face. Evening dress did ‘not suit him, for the breadth of his shoulders and the shortness of his legs gave him a rather top-heavy appearance; one would expect him to look his best in country tweeds and leggings. His hair, rather rough and dull in texture, was mouse-coloured, and offered a pregnant suggestion of what his mother’s might once have looked like before it knew the touch of peroxide; indeed, he was, in a curious way, very like his mother, having the same low, narrow forehead. and the same long and obstinate chin; though, in the-mother-the expression was that of a weak, fanciful obstinacy, and, in the son, of stubborn and unimaginative obstinacy: Looking at him, Wimsey felt that he was hardly the sort of man’ to take kindly to a Paul Alexis for a step-father; he would not sympathise with the sterile romance of any woman who was past the age of child-bearing. Wimsey, summing him up with the man of the world’s experienced eye, placed him at once as a gentleman-farmer, who was not quite a gentleman and not much of a farmer.
At the moment, the understanding between Henry Weldon and his mother seemed, nevertheless, to be excellent.
‘Henry is so delighted,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘that you are here to help us, Lord Peter. That policeman is so stupid. He doesn’t seem to believe a word I tell him. Of’ course, he’s a very well-meaning, honest man, and most polite, but how can a person like that possibly understand a nature like Paul’s. I knew Paul. So did Henry, didn’t you, dear?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Henry, ‘certainly. Very pleasant fellow.’
‘Henry knows how utterly devoted Paul was to me. You know, don’t you, dear, that he never would have taken his own life and left me like that without a word. It hurts me so when people say such things — I feel I could
‘There, there, Mother,’ muttered Henry, embarrassed by the prospect of emotion and possible break-down in a public place, ‘You ‘must try to beer up. Of course we know Alexis was all right. Damned fond of you — of course, of course. Police are always silly fools. Don’t let ’em worry
you.,
‘No dear, I’m sorry,’ said Mrs. Weldon, dabbing her eyes apologetically with a small handkerchief, u s all been such a shock to me. But I mustn’t be weak and silly. We must all be courageous and work hard to do something about it.’
Wimsey suggested that a spot of something or other might do them all good, and, further, that he and Henry might make a concerted masculine raid on the bar, instructing the waiter to attend upon the ladies. He felt that he could dissect Henry more conveniently in a private interview.
As the two men’s backs disappeared in the direction of the bar, Mrs Weldon turned her anxious eyes on Harriet.
‘How nice — Lord Peter is,’ she, said, ‘and what a comforting thing, it is for us both to have a man to rely on.’
This sentiment was not very well received Harriet averted her gaze from Lord Peter’s back, on which it had been absentmindedly and unaccountably fixed, and frowned; but Mrs Weldon bleated on, unheeding.
‘It’s beautiful how kind everybody is when one is in trouble. Henry and I haven’t always been as close to one another as a mother and son should be. He takes after his father in a great many ways, though people say he is like me to look at, and when he was a little boy he had the dearest golden curls — just like’ mine. But he loves sport and out-door life you can tell that by his looks, can’t you? He’s always out and about, seeing after his farm, and that’s what makes him look a little older than his years. He’s really quite a young man — I was a mere child when I married, as I told you before. — But though, as I say, we haven’t always been as much in harmony as one would have liked, he has been perfectly sweet to me about this sad affair. When I wrote to him and told him how much I felt the dreadful things. they were saying about Paul, he came at once to help me, though I know he must be terribly busy just now. I really feel that poor Paul’s death has brought us closer together.’’
Harriet said that that must be a great comfort to Mrs Weldon. It was the only possible answer.
Henry, meanwhile, had his own view of the matter to put before Lord Peter.
‘Bit of a staggerer for the old lady, this,’ he observed over a glass of Scotch. ‘Takes it hard. Between you and, me, it’s all for the best. How’s a-woman of her age going to be happy with a feller like that? Eh? Don’t like these Popoffsky blighters, anyway, and. she’s fifty-seven if she’s a day. I’m thirty-six myself. Consider I’m well out of it. Makes a chap look a bit of a fool when his mother proposes to give him a twenty-year-old lounge lizard for, a step-papa. Suppose it’s all over the place now. Bet everybody’s grinning at me behind my back. Let ’em grin. All over now, anyway. Suppose the chappie did do himself in, didn’t he?’
‘It looks like it,’ admitted Wimsey.
‘Couldn’t face the prospect, eh? All his own fault. Hard up, I suppose, poor devil! The old girl’s not a bad sort, really. She’d have given the feller a damn good time if he’d stuck to his bargain. But you can’t trust these foreigners. Like collies — lick your boots one minute and bite you the next. Don’t like collies, myself. Give me a good-bull-terrier any day.’
‘Oh, yes: so frightfully British and all; that, what?’
‘Thought I’d better push along and cheer Mother up. Stop all this nonsense about Bolsheviks. Won’t. do to have her wasting her time with these tom-fool notions. Enough to send the old dear clean off her rocker, you know. Once they get those notions in their; heads it’s a job to get rid of ’em. Form of mania, don’t you think, like women’s rights and crystal-gazing?’
Wimsey agreed cautiously that an unreasonable conviction might in process of time, amount to an obsession.
‘That’s just what I mean. You’ve got the word obsession, that’s it. Well, I don’t want the old lady to go wasting her time and money on an obsession. Look here, Wimsey, you’re a sound sort of fellow — brainy and all that can’t you put off this Bolshevik idea? She’s taken a notion that you and that Vane girl are encouraging her. Now, take it from me, old man, that kind of thing won’t do at all.’
Lord Peter delicately raised his eyebrows.
‘Of course,’ pursued Mr Weldon, ‘I see your game all right. You’re nuts on this kind of thing and it’s all a darn good advertisement, and it gives you a jolly good excuse for barging round with the girl. That’s quite all right. But it’s not quite the game to go playing my mother up, if you see what I mean. So I thought I’d just give you a hint. You won’t take offence?’
‘I am quite ready,’ said Lord Peter, ‘to take anything I am offered.’
Mr Weldon looked puzzled for a moment and then burst into a hearty laugh.
‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘dashed good. What was yours? Martell Three-Star? Here, Johnnie, same again for this gentleman.’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Wimsey. ‘You misunderstood me.’
‘Oh, come — another little spot won’t; do you any harm. No? Oh, well, if you won’t, you won’t.. Mine’s a Scotch, and-soda. Well, now, we understand one another, eh?’
‘Oh, yes. I think I understand you perfectly.!
‘Good. Glad to have this chance of putting you wise. Whole thing’s a nuisance, of course. Suppose we shall be stuck here, now till they’ve found the body and held an inquest. Don’t like these beastly watering-places. Suits you all right, I daresay. I like a bit more open air and none of this jazz and, dinner-jackets.’
‘Quite right,’ said Wimsey.
You think so eh? I was putting you down for something more in the West End. line. But I suppose you’re a bit of a’ sportsman, too? Huntin’, fishin’, that sort of thing, eh?’
‘I hunted pretty regularly with the Quorn and the Pytchley at one time, and I shoot and fish a bit,’ said Wimsey. ‘After all, I was brought up in the country, you know. My people have a, place in the — shires, and our headquarters is down in Norfolk, Duke’s Denver, on the borders of’ the Fen country.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. You’re Denver’s brother. Never seen the place, but I live in that part of the world myself — Huntingdonshire, not far from Ely.’
‘Oh, yes; I know that part pretty well. Fruit-farming country and all that. Flatfish, of course, but uncommonly good sort of soil.’
‘Nothing in farming these days,’, grumbled Mr Weldon.’ ‘Look at all this Russian wheat they’re dumpin’ in. As if things weren’t bad enough, already, with wages what they are, and taxes, and rates and tithe and insurance. I’ve got fifty acres of wheat. By the time it’s harvested I daresay it’ll have cost me 19 an acre. And what shall I get for, it? Lucky if I get five. How this damned Government expects the farmer to carry on, I don’t know. Damned if I don’t feel like: chucking it altogether sometimes and clearing out of this bloody country. Nothing much to stick round here for. I’m not married, thank God! Too much sense. If you take my advice you’ll do likewise. You must be pretty smart to have escaped; so long. Look as if you did yourself pretty well, too. Luckly your brother’s still a youngish man. Death-duties and all that. Cripple a place, don’t’ they? But I always thought he was a pretty warm man, for a duke. How’s he manage it?’
Wimsey explained that the Denver income was not derived from the Denver estate, which was a liability rather than an asset.
‘Oh, I see. Well, you’re lucky. Takes a man all he can do, to get his living off the land these days.’
‘Yes; I suppose you have to stick to it uncommonly closely. Up early and late. Nothing escapes the master’s eye. That sort of thing, what?’
‘Oh, yes — yes.’
‘It must be trying to be obliged to leave things and come down to Wilvercombe., How long do you think you’ll be here?’
‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. Depends on this inquest, doesn’t it? I’ve left a man in charge, of course.’
‘Just so. Hadn’t we better get back and join the ladies?’
‘Ah!’ Mr Weldon dug his elbow into Lord Peter’s ribs.
‘Ladies, eh? You be careful, my boy. Getting to the dangerous age, aren’t you? If you ain’t careful, you’ll find yourself booked one of these days.’
‘Oh, I daresay I shall manage to keep my head out of the noose.’
‘Out of the — oh yes the matrimonial noose. Yes. Ha, ha! All right. I suppose we’d better go.’
Mr Weldon turned away from the bar rather abruptly. Wimsey, reflecting that the ability to swallow insult is a necessary part of the detective’s make-up, restrained the temptation to connect his toe with Mr Weldon’s rather massive hinder-end, and followed, ruminating.
A message from the waiter informed him that the ladies had adjourned into the dance-lounge. Henry growled, but was relieved to find that his mother was, after all, not dancing. She was watching Harriet who, clad in claret-colour was revolving smoothly in the practised arm of Antoine. Wimsey politely begged Mrs Weldon to favour him, but she shook her head.
‘I couldn’t. Not so soon. In fact, never again — now that Paul—. But I begged Miss Vane to enjoy herself and not mind about me. It is such a delight to watch her looking so happy’
Wimsey sat down and did his best to enjoy the spectacle of Harriet’s happiness. As the quick-step came to an end, Antoine, with professional tact, contrived to end his progress in the neighbourhood of their table and, then, bowing gracefully, melted away. Harriet, a little flushed, smiled amiably upon Lord Peter.—
‘Oh, there you are,’ said his lordship.
Harriet became suddenly conscious that every woman in the room; was gazing furtively or with frank interest at Wimsey and herself, and the knowledge exhilarated her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘here I am. Frivolling. You didn’t know I could do it, did you?’
‘I have always taken it for granted that, you could do everything.’
‘Oh no I can only do what I like doing’
‘We’ll see about that.’
The orchestra swung gently into a dreamy tune. Wimsey advanced upon Harriet and steered her competently out into the centre of the room. For the first few bars of the music they had the floor to themselves.
‘At last,’ said Wimsey, ‘we are alone. That is not an. original remark, but I am in no condition to invent epigrams. I have been suffering agonies, and my soul is raw. Now that for a brief moment I have you all, to myself—’
‘Well?’ said Harriet. She was aware that the, wine-coloured frock became her.
‘What,’ said Wimsey, ‘do you make of Mr Henry Weldon?’
‘Oh!’
This was not quite the question Harriet had expected. She hastily collected her ideas. It was very necessary that she should be the perfect unemotional sleuth.
‘His manners are dreadful,’ she said, ‘and’ I don’t think his brains are much to write home about.
‘No, that’s just it.’
‘Just what?’
Wimsey countered the question with another. ‘Why is he here?’
‘She sent for him.’
‘Yes, but why is he here. Sudden spasm of filial affection?’
‘She thinks so.’’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Possibly. Or, more likely, he doesn’t’ want to get on the wrong side of her. It’s her money, you know.’
‘Quite. Yes. It’s funny that that should only just ‘have occurred to him. He’s very like her, isn’t he?’
‘Very. So much so that he gave me an odd feeling just at first, as though I’d met him somewhere. Do you mean that they are too much alike to hit it off together?’
‘They seem to be getting along all right at present’
‘I expect he’s glad to be relieved from the prospect of Paul Alexis, and can’t help showing it. He’s not very subtle.’
That’s what feminine intuition makes of it, is it?’
‘Bother feminine intuition. Do you find him romantic or obscure?’
‘No; I wish I did. I only find him offensive.’
‘Oh?’
‘And I’d like to know why.’
Silence for a few moments. Harriet felt that Wimsey ought to be saying, ‘How well you dance.’ Since he did not say it, she became convinced that she was dancing like a wax doll with sawdust legs. Wimsey had never danced with her, never held her in his arms before. It should have been an epoch-making moment for him. But his mind appeared to be concentrated upon the dull personality of an East Anglian farmer. She fell a victim to an inferiority complex, and tripped over her partner’s feet.
‘Sorry,’ said Wimsey, accepting responsibility like a gentleman.
‘It’s my fault,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m a rotten dancer. Don’t bother about me. Let’s stop. You haven’t got to be polite to me, you know.’
Worse and worse. She was being peevish and egotistical. Wimsey glanced down at her in surprise and then suddenly smiled.
‘Darling, if you danced like an elderly elephant with arthritis, I would dance the sun and moon into the sea with you. I have waited a thousand years to see you dance in that frock.’
‘Idiot’ said Harriet.
They made the circuit of the room in silence and harmony. Antoine, guiding an enormous person in jade-green and diamonds, swam comet-like into their orbit and murmured into Harriet’s ear across an expanse of fat white shoulder:
‘Qu’est-ce que je vous ai-dit? L’elan, c’est trouve.’
He slid away dexterously, leaving Harriet flushed.
‘What did that blighter say?’
‘He said I danced better with you than with him.’
‘Curse his impudence!’ Wimsey scowled over the heads of the intervening couples at Antoine’s elegant back.
‘Tell me now,’ said Harriet. The ending of the dance had found them on the opposite side of the room from the Weldons, and it seemed natural to sit down at the nearest table. ‘Tell me, what is biting you about Henry Weldon?’
‘Henry Weldon?’ Wimsey jerked his mind back from an immense distance. ‘Yes, of course. Why is he here? Not to worm himself into his mother’s good graces, surely?’
‘Why not? Now is his time. Alexis is disposed of and he sees his opportunity. Now that he had nothing to lose by it, he can afford to come along and be frightfully sympathetic and help to investigate things and be filial and affectionate and so on.’
‘Then why is he trying to drive me out of the place?’
‘You?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Weldon went out of his way in the bar this evening to be as offensive as he possibly could, without using actual violence or bad language. He informed me, in an indirect but unmistakable manner, that I was poking my nose in where I was not wanted, exploiting his mother for my private ends and probably sucking up to her for her money. In fact, he drove me to the indescribable vulgarity of reminding him who I was and why I did not require anybody’s money.’
‘Why didn’t you sock him one over the jaw?’
‘It was a temptation. I felt that you would love me better if I did. But you would not, in your calmer moments, really wish me to put my love before my detective principles.’
‘Certainly not, But what’s his idea?’
‘Oh, that’s clear enough. He made it very clear. He wants it to be understood that this detecting business is to stop, and that Mrs Weldon is to be restrained from lavishing time and money in pursuit of non-existent Bolsheviks.’
‘I can understand that. He’s looking to inherit the money.’
‘Of course. But if I were to go and tell Mrs Weldon the things he’s been saying to me, she’d probably disinherit him.
And where would be the use of all this display of sympathy then?’
‘I knew he was a stupid man.’
‘He evidently thinks it very important to stop all these inquiries. So much so that he’s prepared, not only to risk my splitting on him, but also to spend an indefinite time here hanging round his mother to see that she doesn’t make inquiries on her own.’
‘Well, I daresay he has nothing else to do.’
‘Nothing else to do? My dear girl, he’s a farmer.’
‘Well?’
‘And this is June.’
‘What about it?’
‘Why isn’t he attending to his hay-making?’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘About the last weeks of the year that any decent farmer would be willing to waste are the weeks from hay to harvest. I can understand his running over for a day, but he seems to be prepared to make a session of it. This Alexis business has become so important that he’s ready to chuck everything, come down to a place he detests and hang about interminably in an hotel in attendance on a mother with whom he has never had very much in common. I think it’s funny.’
‘Yes, it is rather funny.’
‘Has he ever been here before?’
‘No. I asked him when we met. It’s the kind of thing one does ask people. He said he ‘hadn’t. I expect he kept away while all the Alexis business was going on — he’d hate it.’
‘And content himself with forbidding the banns at a distance?’
‘Yes — though it doesn’t seem the most effective way.’
‘No? But the banns have been fairly effectively forbidden,
haven’t they?’
‘Yes. But — are you casting Henry for the part of the murderer?’
‘I should like to. But I don’t feel I can, somehow.! ‘No?’
‘No. That’s why I wanted to find out whether you thought, Henry was subtle. You don’t, and I agree with you. I don’t think Henry has the brains to have murdered Paul Alexis.’
Chapter XIII. Evidence Of Trouble Somewhere
‘Fool, would thy virtue shame and crush me down;
And make a grateful blushing bond-slave of me?’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Tuesday 23 June
Loan PETER WIMSEY, reading his Morning Star over the eggs and bacon, felt better than he had done for some weeks. The Morning Star had come up’ to scratch nobly, and was offering £100, reward for information about the razor that had slain Paul Alexis. Bunter, returning from his fruitless journey to Eastbourne, had come on to join his master at Wilvercombe, bringing with him a fresh supply of shirts, collars, and, other; garments. Harriet Vane had danced with Lord Peter in a wine-coloured frock. Wimsey considered, rightly, that when, a woman takes a man’s advice about the purchase of clothes, it is a sign that she is not indifferent to his opinion. Various women, at various times and in various quarters of the globe, had clothed themselves by Wimsey’s advice and: sometimes also at his expense — but then, he had fully expected them to do so. He had not expected it of Harriet, and was as disproportionately surprised and pleased as if he had picked up a sovereign in the streets of Aberdeen. Like all male creatures, Wimsey was a simple soul at bottom.
Not only had he this satisfactory past and present to contemplate; he anticipated an interesting day. Harriet had consented to walk with him that afternoon from the Flat-Iron to Darley in search of clues. Low-water being billed to take place at 4.45, they had arranged to drive out to the Flat-Iron, arriving there at 3.30. After a little light refresh merit, the expedition would set out, searching conscientiously for whatever the shore might, have to show them, while Bunter brought the car back by the road to Hinks’s Lane; after which all three would return to their base at Wilvercombe in their original formation. It was all very clear, except that Harriet did not see — and said as much — what clues were likely to remain on the open shore after nearly a week of exceptionally high tides. She admitted, however, that she needed exercise and that walking was better exercise than most.
And — most immediate of pleasant things to look forward to — Harriet had further agreed to receive Lord Peter Wimsey after breakfast at the Resplendent, for a conference. It was necessary, in Wimsey’s opinion, that the progress made so far should be tabulated and brought into some sort of order. Ten o’clock was the hour fixed for this meeting, and Wimsey was lingering lovingly over his bacon and eggs, so as to leave no restless and unfilled moment in his morning. By which it may be seen that his lordship had reached that time of life when a man can extract an Epicurean enjoyment even from his own passions — the halcyon period between the self-tormenting exuberance of youth and the fretful carpe diem of approaching senility.
The great wind had fallen at last. It had rained a little during the night, but now the sky was fair again, with only the gentlest of breezes ruffling the blue expanse of sea that was visible from the Bellevue’s dining-room windows. Inspector Umpelty had been out with his helpers to explore the Grinders at “four o’clock that morning, and had just looked in on Wimsey to say that they had found nothing yet.
‘And why it hasn’t come ashore somewhere before this, I don’t know,’ he grumbled. ‘We’ve had a look-out kept all along the coast from Fishy Ness right up to Seahampton and on both sides of the estuary. Must have got hooked up with something. If we don’t get it within another week, we’ll have to give it up. Can’t waste public money fishing for drowned dagoes. The ratepayers grumble enough as it is, and we can’t keep the witnesses hanging round here for ever. Well, so long. We shall have another shot at low tide.’
At ten o’clock Wimsey and his collaborator sat down before a neat pile of scribbling paper. Harriet was inclined to be brief and businesslike.
‘What system are we going to adopt about this? Do you favour the Michael Finsbury method by double entry as in The Wrong Box? Or one of those charts made out in columns, with headings for “Suspect”, “Alibi”, “Witnesses”, “Motive” and so on, worked out in percentages?’
‘Oh, don’t let’s have anything that means ruling a lot of lines and doing arithmetic. Let’s behave like your Robert Templeton, and make a schedule of Things to be Noted and Things to be Done. That only means two columns.’
‘Very well, I’m glad you approve of it. I always make Templeton start with the corpse?
‘Right. Here goes—’
PAUL ALEXIS (GOLDSCHMIDT)
Things to be Noted
1. Russian by birth; English by adoption, partly American by education, Early, history unknown, but claimed to be, War refugee of noble descent.
Things to be Done
2. Investigate origin (N.B., The only people who knew, much about him are dead, and any way, this is a, job for the police. And does it really matter? Probably not, unless Mrs Weldon’s bolshevik theory is correct.)
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Said to be delicate arthritis?); good dancer; vain of his appearance;
wore beard on account of tendency to pimples; careful of his dress, but — flamboyant in taste.
Said to be romantic and emotional.
2. Had he the temperament to commit suicide? Find out if possible from colleagues and/or his mistress
Things to be Noted
3. In February last, engaged himself To marry Mrs Weldon, a rich widow Apparently desirous to secure himself against loss of profession consequent on increasing ill health.
Not anxious to push on marriageon account of opposition put forward by widow’s son (or possibly on account of personal reluctance). Marriage fixed for fortnight or so after time of P.A.’s death.
Things to be Done
3. Find out if Alexis really took any steps about the marriage at all
Things to be Noted
4. Poor, but not mercenary or dishonest, since he refused to soak Mrs W. Had balance of £320,which he changed into gold about three weeks ago. (N. B. He was only able
to do so as result of curious accident. Can we say it was essential to any scheme he had
in mind?)
Things to be Done
4. Find the £300 in gold Its destination will throw light on his intentions. N. B. I think I know
where it is. (P. W.) Do you? Where? (H.V.) Think it out for yourself. (P. W.),
Things to be Noted
5. About time of above transaction, his mistress left him for another man
(N.B. He affected distress, but his colleagues seem to think he was an assenting party. If so, did he intend (a)to facilitate his marriage with Mrs W? (b) to start a new liaison with someone else?
to provide for his mistress in the event of his own disappearance or suicide?)
Things to be Done
5. Interview the girl Leila Garland and her new man
Things to be Noted
6. Shortly before his death he hinted to Mrs; W, that something pleasing was about to happen to him
Things to be Done
6. Find out if he mentioned this to anyone else. (Query: How does the turning of the £300 intogold bear on this point?
It is suggestive of departure from the country rather than of suicide.)
Things to be Noted
7. On the day preceding his death he paid all his bills and burnt his papers..
Does this suggest suicide? Or an intention to leave the country?
Things to be Done
7. Find out if he had a passport and visas. (Police.)
Things to-be Noted
8. On the morning of his death he took a return-ticket to Darley Halt, and thence walked (or, just possibly, was conveyed to the Flat-Iron Rock. (N.B. He packed no clothes and took his latch key with him.)
Things to be Done
8. I think we may take it for granted that none of the persons interviewed by the police took P. A. to the, Flat-Iron. Find out whether anybody passed him on the road. He may not have walked alone. (Police.)
Things to be Noted
9. At 2.10 p.m. on Thursday, 8 June, he was found dead on the rock with his throat cut. A loud cry was heard at two o’clock, and the condition of the body when found showed that life had been only a few minutes extinct. A razor (which he never used) was found by the body, and he was wearing gloves.
Things to be Done
9., FIND THE BODY.
‘How professional it looks,’ said Harriet. ‘A nice little set of problems for Robert Templeton. The only thing I can do much about is interviewing this Leila person and her new young man. I fancy I might get more out of them than the police could.’
‘There’s nothing I can do that the police can’t do better,’ said Wimsey, mournfully. ‘We’d better go on to the next!
MRS WELDON
Things to be Noted
1 Personal characteristics
Aged fifty-seven; silly; obstinate; genuinely at tached to Alexis; incurably romantic.
Things to be Done
Nothing to be done about it
Things to be Noted
2. Rich widow; one son; formerly on cool terms; with him and complained of lack of sympathy; now what she has summoned him to (a) her side and seems full of affection for him.
Things to be Done
2. Find out where her money came from: whether it is at her sole disposal; what she proposed to do with it (a) before meeting Alexis, (b) after marrying Alexis; what she means to do with it now.
Things to be Noted
3. She attributes death of Alexis to Bolshevik plot
Things to be Done
3. Get information from Scotland Yard about Bolshevik agents. No theory is too silly to be dismissed without investigation.
HENRY WELDON
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Tallish, broad, powerful resembles his mother facially; obstinate, ill — mannered, countrified apparently not very intelligent.
Things to be Done
1 Kick him, (P. W.) Well, no, that wouldn’t be politic. String him along and see if he is really
as; stupid as he makes out (H. V.) All right, but kick him afterwards. (P. W.)
Things to be Noted
2. He has suddenly left his farm at the busiest time to suck up to his mother and pretend to help her clear P. A.’s memory. But actually he is doing his best — to drive P. W. to chucking up the investigation.
Things to be Done
2. Find out what the state of his finances is, and what his farm is like. Also his local reputation.
(Query: Why not give Bunter something to do?)
Things to be Noted
3. The news of P. A.’s death was ‘in the papers on Friday morning; H. W. arrived Wilvercombe Monday evening, in answer to letter presumably sent by Mrs W. on Friday, and addressed to Huntingdonshire.
Things to be Done
3. Find out where HenryWeldon was on Thursday.
ESDRAS POLLOCK
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Aged seventy or more, sturdy for his age; bent, grey, smells of fish; manners none and customs beastly, unpopular with the fishing population.
Things to be Done
1. Pump fishing population
Things to be Noted
2. He was in his boat off the Flat-Iron at 2.10 P.M. on Thursday, with his grandson.
Things to be Done
2. A fact
Things to be Noted
3. He is reluctant to say what he was doing there, and the grandson has disappeared to Cork.
Things to be Done
3. Trace grandson. (Police.)
Things to be Noted
4. He states that he hugged the shore between his cottage and the Flat-Iron and saw nobody along the shore; but when questioned about events at the Flat-Iron at two o’clock, contradicts himself and says that he was then in deep water. (N.B. He saw what H. V. was doing all right at 2.50.)
Things to be Done
4. Try the grandson on this when traced: (Police:)
Things to be Noted
5 When pressed, says he first saw P. A. on rock about two o’clock, and that he was then alone and already lying down.
Things to be Done
5. How about a little Third Degree? Once again, trace and interrogate grandson. Police.)
Things to be Noted
6 Curiously enough, when asked if anyone was with him in the boat,’ says’Nobody’—but when grandson is mentioned, admits grandson. Who did he think was meant?
Things to be Done
6. Find out whether P. A. could have reached Flat-Iron in Pollock’s boat. Find out what has hap pened to the £300 in gold. Search boat for blood stains. (Police.)
PERKINS (of London)
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Small, weakish, round-shouldered. Wore spectacles and was apparently shortsighted. Complained of blistered heel. Cockney accent. Appeared to be of timid disposition.
Things to be Done
1. Find him
Things to be Noted
2. Met H. V. on road at 4.15 about half-a-mile on the far side of Pollock’s cottage, i.e. about one and a half miles from Flat-Iron and three miles from Darley. Said he had walked from Wilvercombe.
Things to be Done
2. Find out if anybody noticed him on the way. Note: it is only seven miles from Wilvercombe to the place where H. V. met him. When did he start out? Where did he sleep Tuesday night? (Police must have done something about this — ask Umpelty.)
Things to be Noted
3. On hearing from H. V. about body, turned back and accompanied her, ostensibly to protect her, (but was about as useful as a rain-coat under machine-gun fire).
Things to be Done
3 Find him and see what he’s made of.
Things to be Noted
4. Went willingly to Pollock’s cottage, but was annoyed with H. V. for addressing Martin.
4. Find him! Find Martin!
Things to be Noted
5. Disappeared mysteriously while H. V. was telephoning police, took car to Wilvercombe station and undiscoverable.
Things to be Done
5. Find him! find him! find him, curse you! (Meaning the police.).
Wimsey put his head to one side. ‘Really, every character seems more suspicious than the last. Who else is there? How about the cast-off Leila Garland, for instance? Or this chap Antoine? Or Leila’s new man?’
‘We can’t do much about them’ till we’ve seen them.’
‘No; but either Leila or the man — what’s his name — da
Soto — might have a motive for getting rid of Alexis!’
‘Well. We’ve already put down that they’ve got to be looked into, Is that all? Oh, no!’
‘No. We now come to my own pet particular prize suspect, the sinister Mr Martin.’
HAVILAND MARTIN
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Tall, massive, dark hair; black spectacles; tattoo-mark on right wrist;
dressed in khaki shirt and shorts, with wide-brimmed soft hat.
Things to be Done
1. Keep your mind on the tattoo-mark! You can fake them, you know. (H. V.) Bah! (P. W.)
Things to be Noted
2. Arrived Darley six o’clock Tuesday, 16th, with hired Morgan, coming from Heathbury direction.
Things to be Done
2. A fact. Why a Morgan?
Things to be Noted
3. Though no one had ever seen him in the village before, knew all about Hinks’s Lane and Mr Goodrich.
Things to be Done
3. Find out if anyone saw him in Heathbury or anywhere else and told him.
Things to be Noted
4. Seen at Three Feathers about one o’clock on Thursday, i 8th, and lunched there.
Things to be Done
4. A fact, apparently.
Things to be Noted
5. Left Feathers not earlier than 5.30.
Things to be Done
5. Also a fact, alas!
Things to be Noted
6. Seen by Mr Polwhistle and Tom at garage and in Hinks’s Lane from 3 PM — to 4 P.M.
Things to be Done
6. Yet another fact, unless they are abominable liars!
Things to be Noted
7. Obtained car from London garage on previous Friday by means of reference to Cambridge bank. No settled address. Cambridge bank confirms he has had account there for five years.
Things to be Done
7. Watch bank. Try to get information out of manager somehow.
Things to be Noted
8. It is certain that he did not reach the Flat-Iron by road on Thursday. He had no time to walk by the shore before two o’clock. (Aeroplanes are not practical politics.)
Things to be Done
8. Bust this alibi if you can, Sherlock!!
Things to be Noted
9. Search at his camping — ground revealed a number of miscellaneous ob jects (see the Wimsey Collection). No complaints about him, except that Farmer Newcombe complains of gap made in his fence.
Things to be Done
9. Walk along shore from Flat-Iron to Darley thisafternoon — nice little job for H. V. and P. W. ‘And that,’ said Wimsey, triumphantly adding a flourish at the foot of this schedule, ‘rounds off the inquiry charmingly.’
‘It does.’ Harriet frowned. Then—
‘Have you ever considered this?’ she asked, with a not too steady voice. She scribbled for a moment.
HARRIET VANE
Things to be Noted
1. Personal characteristics: Once tried for murder of her lover, and acquitted by the skin of her teeth.
2. May have known Paul Alexis in London.
3. Says she found Alexis dead at 2.10, but, can bring no evidence to prove that she did not see him alive.
4. Took an unconscionable time getting to the Flat-Iron from Lesston Hoe.
5. Took three hours to walk four and a half miles to inform the police.
6. Is the sole witness to the finding of the razor, the time of the death and the conditions at the Flat-Iron.
7. Was immediately suspected by Perkins, and is probably still suspected by the police, who have been searching her room.
Wimsey’s face darkened.
‘Have they, by God?’
‘Yes. Don’t look like that. They couldi’t very well do anything else, could they?’
‘I’ll have something to say to Umpelty.’
‘No, You can spare me that.’
‘But it’s absurd.’
‘It is not. Do you think I have no wits? Do you think I don’t know why’ you came galloping down here at five minutes’ notice? Of course it’s very nice of you, and I ought to be grateful, but do you think I like it?’
Wimsey, with a grey face, got up and walked to the window.
‘You thought I was pretty brazen, I expect, when you found me getting publicity out of the thing. So I was. There’s no choice for a person like me to be anything but brazen. Would it have been better too wait till the papers dragged the juicy bits out of the, dustbin for themselves? I can’t hide my name — it’s what I live by. If I did hide it, that would only be another, suspicious circumstance, wouldn’t it? But do you think it makes matters any more agreeable to know that it is only the patronage of Lord Peter Wimsey that prevent men like Umpelty from being openly hostile?’
‘I have been afraid of this,’ said Wimsey.
‘Then why did you come?’
‘So that you might not have to send for me.’
‘Oh,’
There was a strained pause, while Wimsey painfully recalled the terms of the message that had originally reached him from Salcombe Hardy of the Morning Star Hardy, a little drunk and wholly derisory, announcing over the telephone, ‘I say, Wimsey, that Vane woman of yours has got herself mixed-up in another queer story.’ Then his own furious and terrified irruption into Fleet Street, and the violent bullying of a repentant and sentimental Hardy, till the Morning Star report was hammered into a form that set the tone for the comments of the press. Then the return home to find that the Wilvercombe police were already besieging him, in the politest and most restrained manner, for, information as to Miss Harriet Vane’s recent movements and behaviour. And finally, the certainty that the best way out of a bad situation was to brazen it out — Harriet’s word — even if it meant making a public exhibition of his feelings, and the annihilation of all the delicate structure of confidence which he had been so cautiously toiling to build up between this scathed and embittered woman and himself.
He said nothing; but watched the wreck of his fortune in Harriet’s stormy eyes.
Harriet, meanwhile, having worked herself up into committing an act of what she obscurely felt to be injustice, was seized by an unreasonable hatred against the injured party. The fact that, until five minutes earlier, she had felt perfectly happy and at ease with this man, before she had placed both him and herself in an intolerable position, she felt somehow as one more added to the list of his offences. She looked round for something really savage to do to him.
‘I suppose you think I haven’t been humiliated enough already, without all this parade of chivalry. You think you can sit up there all day like King Cophetua being noble and generous and’ expecting people to be brought to your feet. Of course everybody will, say, “Look what he did for that woman — isn’t it marvellous of him!” Isn’t that nice for you? You think if you go on long enough, I ought to be
touched and softened. Well, you’re mistaken, that’s all. I suppose every man thinks he’s only got to go on being superior and any woman will come tumbling into his arms. It’s disgusting.’
‘Thank you,’ said Wimsey, ‘I may be everything you say’—patronising, interfering,’ conceited, intolerable and all the rest of it. But do give me credit for a little. intelligence. Do you think I don’t know all that? Do you think it’s pleasant for any man who feels about a woman as I do about, you, to have to fight his way along under this detestable burden of gratitude? Damn it, do you think I don’t know perfectly, well that I’d have a better chance if I was deaf, blind, maimed, starving, drunken or dissolute, so’ that you could have the fun of being magnanimous? Why do’ you suppose I treat my own sincerest feelings like something out of a comic opera, if it isn’t to save myself the bitter humiliation
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of seeing you try not to be utterly nauseated by them? Can’t you understand that this damned dirty trick of fate has robbed me of the common man’s right to be serious about his own passions? Is that a position for any man to be proud of?’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘I wouldn’t, if you didn’t force me. And you might have the justice to remember that you can hurt me a damned sight more than I can possibly hurt you.’—
‘I know I’m being horribly ungrateful-’
‘Hell!’
All endurance has its limits, and Wimsey had reached his.
‘Grateful! Good God! Am I’ never to get away from the bleat of that filthy adjective? I don’t want gratitude. I don’t want kindness. I don’t want — sentimentality. I don’t even want love_ I could make you give me that — of a sort. I want common honesty.’
Do you? But that’s. what I’ve always wanted I don’t think it’s to be got.’
‘Listen, Harriet. I do understand. I know you don’t want either to give or to take. You’ve tried being the giver, and you’ve found that the giver is always, fooled., And you won’t be the taker, because that’s very. difcult, and because you know that the taker always ends by hating the giver. You don’t want ever again to have to depend for happiness or) another person.’
‘That’s true. That’s the truest thing you ever said.’
‘All right. I can respect that. Only you’ve got to play the game. Don’t force an emotional situation and then blame me for it’
But I don’t want any situation. I want to be left in peace.’
‘Oh! but you are not a peaceful person. You’ll always make trouble. Why not fight it out on equal terms and enjoy it? Like Alan Breck, I’m a bonny fighter.’
‘And you think you’re sure to win.’
‘Not with my hands tied.’
‘Oh! — well, all right. But it all sounds so dreary and exhausting,’ said Harriet, and burst idiotically into tears.
‘Good Heavens!’ said Wimsey, aghast. ‘Harriet! darling! angel! beast! vixen! don’t say that.’ He flung himself on his knees in a frenzy of remorse and agitation. ‘Call me anything you like, but not dreary! Not one of those things you find in clubs! Have this one, darling, it’s much larger and quite clean. Say you didn’t mean it! Great Scott! Have I been boring you interminably for eighteen months on end? A thing any right-minded woman would shudder at. I know you once said that if anybody ever married me it would be for the sake of hearing me, piffle on, but I expect that kind of thing palls after a bit. I’m babbling — I know I’m babbling. What on earth am I to do about it?’
‘Ass! Oh, it’s not fair. You always make me laugh. I can’t fight — I’m so tired. You don’t seem to know what being tired is. Stop. Let go. I won’t be bullied. Thank God! there’s the telephone.’
‘Damn the telephone!’
‘It’s probably something very important’
She got up and went to the instrument, leaving Wimsey on his knees, looking, and feeling, sufficiently absurd. ‘It’s you. Somebody wants, you over at the Bellevue.’
‘Let him want.’
‘Somebody come in answer to the thing in the Morning Star.’
‘Good lord!’
Wimsey shot across the room and snatched the receiver.
‘That you, Wimsey? Thought I’d know where to get you. This is Sally Hardy. There’s a fellow here claiming the reward. Hurry up! He won’t come across without you, and I’ve got my story to think of: I’ve got him here in your sitting-room.’
‘Who is he, and where’s he come from?’
‘Seahampton. Says his name’s Bright.’
‘Bright? By jove, yes, I’ll come along right away. Hear that, my child? The man Bright has materialised! See you this afternoon at 3.30’
He bolted out like a cat that hears the cry of ‘Meat, meat!’
‘Oh! what a ‘fool I am,’ said Harriet. ‘What an utter, drivelling fool! And I haven’t done a stroke of work since Wednesday.’
She pulled out the manuscript of The Fountain-Pen Mystery, unscrewed her own pen, and sank into an idle reverie.
Chapter XIV. The Evidence Of The Third Barber
‘Not for him
Blooms my dark Nightshade, nor doth Hemlock brew
Murder for cups within her cavernous root.
Not him is the metal blessed to kill,
Nor lets the poppy her leaves fall for him.
To heroes such are sacred. He may live,
As long as ’tis the Gout and Dropsy’s pleasure.
He wished to play at suicide.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Tuesday, 23 June
ON the doorstep of the Hotel Bellevue, Wimsey encountered Bunter.
‘The person that was asking for your lordship is in your lordship’s sitting-room,’ said Bunted. ‘I had the opportunity of observing him when he was inquiring for your lordship at the reception-counted, but I did. not introduce myself to his notice.
‘You didn’t, eh?’
‘No, my lord. I contented myself with privately informing Mr Hardy of his presence. Mr Hardy is with him at present, my lord.’
‘You always have a good reason for your actions, Bunter. May I ask why you have adopted this policy of modest self effacement?’
‘In case of your lordship’s subsequently desiring to have the person placed under, surveillance,’ suggested Bunted, ’it appeared to me to be preferable that he should not be in a position to recognise me.’
‘Oh!’ said Wimsey. ‘Am I to infer that the person presents a suspicious appearance? Or is this merely your native caution breaking out in an acute form? Well, perhaps you’re right. I’d better go up and interview the bloke. How about the police, by the way? We can’t very well keep this from them, can we?’
He deflected for a moment.
‘Better hear the story first. If I want you, I’ll’ phone down to the office. Have any drinks gone up?’
‘I fancy not, my lord.’
‘Strange self-restraint on Mr Hardy’s part. Tell them to bring up a bottle of Scotch and a siphon and some beer, for malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to malt. At the moment there seem to be a good many things that call for justification, but perhaps I shall feel better about them when I’ve heard what Mr Bright has to tell me. Have at it!’
The moment Wimsey’s eyes fell. upon the visitor in his sitting-room he felt an interior conviction that his hopes were in a fair way, to be realised. Whatever the result, he had, at any rate, been upon the right track in the matter of the razor. Here were the sandy hair, the small stature, the indefinite crookedness of shoulder so graphically described by the Seahampton hairdresser. The man was dressed in a shabby-reach-me-down suit of blue serge, and held in his hands a limp felt hat, considerably the worse for wear. Wimsey noticed the soft skin and well-kept finger-nails, and the general air of poverty-stricken gentility.
‘Well, Mr Bright,’ said Hardy, as Wimsey entered, ‘here is the gentleman you want to see. Mr Bright won’t come across with his story to anybody but you, Wimsey, though, as.1 have explained to him, if he’s thinking of claiming the Morning Star reward, he’ll have to let me in on it.’
Mr Bright glanced nervously from one man to the other, and passed the tip of his tongue once or twice across his pallid lips.
‘I suppose that’s only fair,’ he said, in a subdued tone, ‘and I can assure you that the money is a consideration. But I am in a painful position, though I haven’t done any wilful harm. I’m sure if I had ever thought what the poor gentleman was going to do with the razor-’
‘Suppose we begin from the beginning,’ said Wimsey, throwing his hat upon a table and himself into a chair. ‘Come in! Oh, yes, drinks. What will you take, Mr Bright?’
‘It is very kind of your lordship,’ murmured Mr Bright, with humility, ‘but I’m afraid I — the fact is, when I saw that piece in the, paper I came away rather hurriedly. In fact, without my breakfast. I — that is to say — I am rather sensitive to alcohol taken upon an empty stomach.’
‘Bring up some sandwiches,’ said Wimsey to the waiter. ‘It is very good of you, Mr Bright, to have put yourself to so much inconvenience in the interests of justice.
‘Justice?’
‘?., mean, in order to help us with this inquiry. And of course, you must allow us to refund your expenses,’
‘Thank, you, my lord. I won’t say no. In fact,’ I am not in a position to refuse. I won’t disguise that my means are very limited. As a matter of fact,’ went on Mr Bright, with more frankness in the absence of the waiter, as a matter of fact, I had to go without any food in order to pay for my ticket. I don’t like making this confession. It’s very humiliating for a man who once had a flourishing business of his own. I hope you won’t think, gentlemen, that I have been accustomed to this kind of thing.’
‘Of course not,’ said Wimsey. Bad times may happen to anybody. Nobody thinks anything of that nowadays. Now, about this razor. By the way, your full name is-?’
‘William Bright, my lord. I’m a hairdresser by profession.
I used to have a business up Manchester way. But I lost money by an unfortunate speculation—’
‘Whereabouts in Manchester?’ put in Salcombe Hardy.
‘In Massingbird Street. But it’s all been pulled down now.
I don’t know if anybody would remember about it, I’m sure. It was before the War.’
‘Any War record?’ asked Hardy.
‘No.’ The hairdresser blushed painfully. ‘I’m not a robust man. I couldn’t get passed for active service.’
‘All right,’ said Wimsey. ‘About the razor. What are you doing now?’
‘Well, my lord, I am, as you might say, an itinerant hairdresser. I go from one place to the other, especially seaside towns during the season, and take temporary posts.’
‘Where did you work last?’
The man glanced up at him with his hunted eyes.
‘I haven’t had anything, really, for a long time. I tried to get work in Seahampton. In fact, I’m still trying. I went back there last Wednesday after trying Wilvercombe and Lesston Hoe. I had a week’s employment in Lesston Hoe. Ramage’s is the name of the place. I had to leave there—’
‘What for?’ Hardy was brusque. ‘there was trouble with a customer-’
‘Theft?’
‘Certainly not., He was a very quick-tempered gentleman. I had the misfortune to cut him slightly.’
‘Drunk and incompetent, eh?’ said Hardy. The small man seemed, to shrink together. ‘They said so, but on my word of honour-’
‘What, name were you going by there?’
‘Walters.’
‘Is Bright your real name?’
Under the lash of Hardy’s brutality, the story came out in all its sordid triviality. Alias after alias. A week’s trial here and there, and then dismissal on the same humiliating grounds. Not his fault. A glass of spirits affected him more than it did the ordinary person. Simpson was his real name, but he had used a great many since then. But to each name, the same reputation had stuck. It was his sad weakness,
which he had tried hard to overcome.
Hardy poured himself out a second glass of whisky, and carelessly left the bottle on the window-sill, out of Mr — Bright’s reach.
‘In the matter of the razor,’ said Wimsey, patiently.
‘Yes, my lord. I got that razor in Seahampton, from the place where I tried to get work. Merryweather, the name was. I needed a new razor, and he was willing to sell this one cheap.!
‘You’d better describe the razor,’ suggested Hardy.
‘Yes, sir. It was a Sheffield blade with a white handle, and it came originally from a retailer in Jermyn Street. It was a good razor, but a bit worn. I came on to Wilvercombe, but there was nothing doing here, except that Moreton, down on the Esplanade, said he might be requiring help later on. Then I went to Lesston Hoe. I told you about that. After trying one or two other places there, I came back here and tried Moreton again, but he had just engaged somebody. He would tell you about it, if you asked him There was nothing doing anywhere else. I grew very low in my spirits.’
Mr Bright paused and licked his lips again.
‘This was last Monday week, gentlemen. On the Tuesday night, I went, down to the sea — just over there, at the end of the town, and sat on, a seat to think things over. It was getting on for midnight. The words were coming more fluently now, the glass of whisky having no doubt done its work. ‘I looked at the sea and I felt the razor in my pocket and I wondered whether it was worth while struggling on. I was terribly depressed. I had come quite to the end of my resources. There was the sea, and there was the razor. You might think that the use of a razor would come natural to a hairdresser, but I can assure you gentlemen that the idea of using it for that purpose seems just as horrible to us as it would to you. But the sea — washing up against, the wall of the Esplanade — it seemed to call me, if you can understand what I mean. It sounded as if it was saying: “Chuck it, chuck it, chuck it up, Bill Simpson.” Fascinating and frightening at the same time, as you might say. All the same, I’ve always had a horror of drowning. Helpless and choking, and the green water in your eyes — we all have our special nightmares, and that one’s mine. Well, I’d sat there for a bit, trying to make up my mind, when I; heard somebody walking along, and presently this young fellow came and sat down on the seat, beside me. He was in evening dress, I remember, with an overcoat and a soft hat. He had a black beard — that was about the first thing I noticed, because it’s not very usual on a young man in this country, except he might be an artist, perhaps. Well, we got into conversation
I think he started it by offering me a cigarette. It was one of those Russian ones, with a paper tube to it. He spoke friendly, and, I don’t know how it was, I found myself telling him all about the fix I was in. You know how it is, my lord. Sometimes you’ll get talking to a stranger where you wouldn’t to anybody you knew. It struck me he didn’t feel so very happy himself, and we had a long talk about the general damnableness of life. He said he was a Russian and an exile and told me about the hard times he’d had as a kid, and a lot of stuff about “Holy Russia” and the Soviet. Seems as if he took it to heart a lot. And women and all that — seemed as though he’d had some trouble with his best girl. And then he said he only wished his difficulties could be solved as easy as mine, and how I ought to pull myself together and make a fresh start. “You give me that razor,” he said, ‘and go away and think it over.” So I said the razor was my livelihood, such as it was, and he laughed and said, “In the mood you’re in, it’s more likely to be your deathlihood.” A funny way he had of talking, quick and sort of poetic, you know. So he gave me some money — five pounds it was, in Treasury notes — and I gave him the razor. “What’ll you do with that, sir?” I said, “it’s no good to you..: “I’ll find a use for it, he said, “never you fear. And he laughed and put it away in his pocket. Then he got up and said, “Funny we should drop across one another tonight,” and something about “two minds with but a single thought”. And he clapped me on the shoulder and told me to buck up and gave me a pleasant nod and away he went, and that’s the last I saw of him. I wish I’d known what he wanted with the razor, or I. wouldn’t have given it to him, but there, how was I to know, I ask you, gentlemen?’ ‘Sounds like Paul Alexis, right enough,’ said Wimsey, thoughtfully.
‘He didn’t actually say who he was, I suppose?’ suggested Hardy.
‘No, he didn’t; but he said he was a professional dancing partner at one of the hotels, and wasn’t it one hell of a life for a man that ought to be a prince in his own country making love to ugly old women at twopence-halfpenny a time. Very bitter lie sounded.’
‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘we’re very much obliged to you, Mr Bright. That seems to clear the whole thing up’ quite satisfactorily. I think you’ll have to let the police know, about it.’
Mr Bright looked uneasy at the mention of the police.
‘Better come along now and get it over,’ said Wimsey, jumping to his feet. ‘You can’t very well get out of it, and, hang it all, man! there’s nothing in it for anybody to worry you about.’
The hairdresser agreed, reluctantly, and fastened his pale eyes on Sally Hardy.
‘It all sounds O. K. to me,’ said the latter, ‘but we’ll have to check up on your story, you know, old man. You might have invented it. But if the cops can prove what you say about yourself — it’s their business, really — then there’ll be a good, fat cheque for you, that ought to keep you going
for some time, if you’ll steer clear of that — er little weakness of yours. The great thing,’ added Sally, reaching for the whisky, ’is never to let weaknesses interfere with business.’
He poured himself out a stiff peg and, as an afterthought, mixed another for the hairdresser.
Superintendent Glaisher was delighted with Bright’s story, and so was Inspector Umpelty, who had clung to the suicide theory all along.
‘We’ll soon get this business cleared up,’ said the latter, confidently. ‘We’ll check up on this Bright lad’s movements, but they’re probably right enough. They fit in O.K. with what that man said at Seahampton. And we’ll keep an eye on Bright. He’s had to give us an address and his promise to stay in Wilvercombe, because, of course, he’ll be wanted for the inquest when we get an’ inquest. The body’s bound to turn up soon. I can’t understand why it’s not been found before this. It’s been five days in the water now, and it can’t stay there for ever. They float first, you know, and then they sink, but they have to come up again when the gases start to form. I’ve seen ’em blown up like balloons. It must have got caught, somewhere, that’s about the way of, it; but we’ll be dragging the bay near the Grinders again this afternoon, and we’re sure to get something before long. I’ll be glad when we do. Makes one feel kind of foolish to be carrying, on an investigation without a body to show for it.’
‘Satisfied?’ asked Hardy, as Wimsey returned from the police-station. He had telephoned his story to Town and was absorbing; a little refreshment afters his labours.
‘I ought to be,’ replied his lordship. ‘The only thing that worries me, Sally, is that if I’d wanted to invent a story to fit this case, that is exactly the story I should have invented. I wonder where Mr Bright was at two o’clock on, Thursday afternoon.’
‘What an obstinate devil you are,’ said Mr Hardy. ‘Fact is, you’re so damned keen on a murder, you smell murder everywhere. Forget it.’
Wimsey was silent, but when he had got rid of Sally Hardy, he drew out of his pocket a small leaflet entitled,’ ‘Tide Tables’, and studied it carefully.
‘I thought so,’ he said.
He took a piece of paper and wrote out a schedule of Things to be noted and Things. to be Done under the name of William Bright; It embodied the substance of Bright’s story and of the conversation with the police; but the left hand column ended with this observations
‘He states that the tide, lapping against the Esplanade, seemed to call him in a very convincing and poetic manner. But at midnight on Tuesday, 16 June the tide was not lapping against the Esplanade. It was the extreme bottom of the ebb.’
And in the right-hand column he wrote: ‘Keep an eye on him.’
After a little more thought, he took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a letter to Chief — Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard, asking for information about Bolshevik agents. One never could tell. Queer things have happened before this — queerer things even than Bolshevik conspiracies. Incidentally, he mentioned Mr Haviland Martin and his banking account. Parker, with the Bolsheviks as an excuse, might find ways and means to unlock even a bank-manager’s lips. Superintendent Glaisher might not like this horning in on his province but Parker had married Lord Peter’s sister, and may not a man write a private letter to his own brotherin-law?
Chapter XV. The Evidence Of The Ladylove And The Landlady
‘You are an adept in these chamber-passions,
And have a heart that’s Cupid’s, arrow-cushion
Worn out with use.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
‘What’s this? Did you not see a white convulsion
Run through his cheek and fling his eyelids up?
There’s mischief in the paper.’
— Fragment
Tuesday, 23 June
IN THE meantime, Harriet’s novel was not getting along very well. Not only was there the tiresomeness about the town-clock — or ought it to be called the Tolbooth clock? — but also she had arrived at the point where, according to the serial editor who was paying for the first rights, the heroine and the detective’s friend were expected to indulge in a spot of love-making. Now, a person whose previous experience of love has been disappointing, and who has just been through a harassing scene with another suitor and is, further, busily engaged in investigating the rather sordid love-affairs of a third party who has been brought to a violent and blood-boltered end, is in no mood to sit down and deal competently with the raptures of two innocents holding hands in a rosegarden. Harriet shook her head impatiently, and plunged into her distasteful task.
‘I say, Betty, I’m afraid you must think I’m a pretty average sort of idiot’
‘But I don’t think you’re an idiot at all, you idiot.’
Would even the readers of the Daily Message think that amusing?? Harriet feared not. Well, better get on with it. The girl would’ have to say something encouraging now, or the stammering young imbecile would never: come to the, point.
‘I think it’s perfectly wonderful that you should be doing all this to help me.’
Here she was, remorselessly binding this hideous load of gratitude on the unfortunate girl But Betty and Jack were a pair of hypocrites, anyway, because they both knew perfectly well that Robert Templeton was doing all the work. However.
‘As if there was anything in the world I wouldn’t try and do for you — Betty!’
‘Well, Jack?’
‘Betty darling I suppose you couldn’t possibly—’
Harriet came to the conclusion that she couldn’t — not possibly. She picked up the telephone, got put through to Telegrams, and dictated a brief, snappy message to her longsuffering agent, ‘Tell Bootle I absolutely refuse induce love interest Vane.’
After that she felt better, but the novel was perfectly impossible. Wasn’t there anything else she could — do? Yes. She again seized the telephone and put an inquiry through to the office. Was it possible to get into touch with M. Antoine?
The management seemed quite used to putting clients in touch with M. Antoine. They had a telephone number which ought to find him. It did: Could M. Antoine put Miss Vane in touch with Miss Leila Garland and Mr da Soto? Certainly. Nothing was more simple. Mr da Soto was
playing at the. Winter Gardens, and the morning concert would be just finishing. Miss Garland would probably be joining him for lunch. In any case, Antoine would charge, himself with all that and would, if Miss Vane desired it, call for her and accompany her to the Winter Gardens: It was most good of M. Antoine. On the contrary, it was a pleasure, in a quarter of an hour’s time. then? Parfaitement.
‘Tell; me, M Antoine,’’ said Harriet, as their taxi rolled along the Esplanade. ‘You who are a person of great experience, is love, in your opinion, a matter of the first importance?’
‘It is, alas! of a great importance, mademoiselle, but of the first, importance, no!’
‘What is of the first importance?’
‘Mademoiselle, I tell you frankly that to have a healthy mind in a healthy body is the greatest, gift of le bon Dieu, and when I see so many people who have clean blood and strong bodies spoiling themselves and distorting their brains with drugs; and drink and foolishness, it makes me angry. They should leave that to the people who cannot help themselves because to them life is without hope.’
Harriet hardly knew what to reply; the words were spoken with such personal and tragic significance. Rather fortunately, Antoine did not wait.
‘L’amour! These ladies come and dance and excite themselves and: want love and think it is, happiness, And they tell me about their, sorrows — me, — and they have no sorrows at all, only that they are silly and selfish and lazy. Their husbands are unfaithful and their lovers run away and what do they say? Do they say, I have two hands, two feet, all my faculties, I will make a life for myself? No. They say, Give me cocaine, give me the cocktail, give me the thrill, give me my gigolo, give me l’amo-o-ur! Like, a mouton bleating in a field. If they knew!
Harriet laughed.
‘You’re right, M. Antoine. I don’t believe l’amour matters so terribly, after all.’
‘But understand me,’ said Antoine who, like most Frenchmen, was fundamentally serious and domestic, ‘I do not say that love is not important. It is no doubt agreeable to — love, and to marry an amiable person who will give you fine, healthy children. This Lord Peter Wimsey, par example, who is obviously a gentleman of the most perfect integrity—’
‘Oh, never mind him!’ broke in Harriet, hastily. ‘I wasn’t thinking about, him. I was thinking about Paul Alexis and these people we are going to see..’
‘Ah! c’est different. Mademoiselle, — I think you know very well the difference between love which is important and love which is not important. But you must remember that one may have an important love for an unimportant person. And you must remember also that where people are sick in their minds or their bodies it does not need even love to make them do foolish things. When I, kill myself, for example, it may be out of boredom, or disgust, or because I have the headache or the stomach-ache or because I am no longer able to take a first-class position and do not want to be third-rate.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of anything of the sort.’
‘Oh, I shall kill myself one of these days,’ said Antoine, cheerfully. ‘But it will not be for love. No. I am not so detraque as all that.’
The taxi drew up at the Winter Gardens. Harriet felt a certain delicacy about paying the fare, ‘but soon realised that for Antoine the thing was a commonplace. She accompanied him to the orchestra entrance where, in a few minutes’ time, they were joined by Leila Garland and Luis da Soto — the perfect platinum blonde and the perfect lounge-lizard. Both were perfectly self-possessed and incredibly polite; the only difficulty — as Harriet found when they were seated together at a table — was to get any reliable information out of them. Leila had evidently taken up an attitude, and stuck to it. Paul Alexis was ‘a terribly nice boy’, but ‘too romantic altogether.’ Leila had been ‘terribly grieved’ to send him away, he ‘took it so terribly hard’ but, after all, her feeling for him had been no more than pity — he had been ‘so terribly timid and lonely’. When Luis came along, she realised at once where her affections really lay. She rolled her large periwinkle eyes at Mr da Soto, who responded by a languishing droop of his fringed lids.
‘I was all the more sorry about it,’ said Leila, ‘because poor darling Paul—’
‘Not darling, honey.’
‘Of course not, Luis — only, the poor thing’s dead. Anyway, I was sorry because poor Paul seemed to be so terribly worried about something. But he didn’t confide in me, and what is a girl to do when a man won’t confide in her? I sometimes used to wonder if he wasn’t, being blackmailed by somebody.’
‘Why? Did he seem to be short of money?’
‘Well, yes, he did. Of course, that wouldn’t make any difference to me; I’m not that sort of girl. Still, it’s not pleasant, you know, to think that one of your gentleman friends is being blackmailed. I mean, a girl never knows she may not get mixed up in something unpleasant. I mean, it isn’t quite nice, is it?’
‘Far from it. How long ago did he start being worried?’
‘Let me see. I think it was about five months ago. Yes, it was. I mean, that was when the letters started coming.’
‘Letters?’
‘Yes; long letters with foreign stamps on them. I think they came from Czechoslovakia or one: of those queer places. It wasn’t Russia, anyway, because I asked him and he said no. I thought it was very funny, because he said he’d never been in any foreign country except Russia when he was quite a little boy, and in America, of course.’
‘Have you told anybody else about these letters?’
‘No. You see, Paul always said, it would do him harm to have them mentioned. He said, the Bolsheviks would kill him if anything got put; I said to him, “I don’t know what you mean by that,” I said, “I’m not a Bolshie,” I said, “and I don’t know any people of that sort, so what harm would it do to tell me about it?” But now he’s dead it can’t do any harm, can it? Besides, if you ask me, I don’t believe it was Bolshies at all. I mean, it doesn’t seem likely, does it? I said to him, “If you expect me to swallow that story, you’re expecting a lot,” I said. But he wouldn’t tell me, and of course, that did make a little coolness between us. I mean’ to say, when a girl is friends with a man, like me and Paul, the does expect a little consideration.’
‘Of course she does,’ said Harriet, warmly. ‘It was very, wrong of him not to be perfectly frank with you. I really think, in your place, I’d have felt justified in trying to find out who the letters were from.’
Leila played delicately with a piece of bread.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she admitted, ‘I did take a tiny peep once. I thought I owed it to myself. But they were all nonsense. You couldn’t make a word of them.’
‘Were they in a foreign language?’’
‘Well, I don’t know. They were all in printing letters and some of the words hadn’t any vowels in them at all.
You couldn’t possibly pronounce them.’
‘It sounds like a cipher,’ suggested Antoine.
‘Yes, that’s: just what I thought. I did think it was terribly, funny.’
‘But surely,’ said Harriet, ‘an ordinary blackmailer wouldn’t write letters in cipher.’
‘Oh, but why shouldn’t they? I mean, they might have been a gang, you know, like in that story, The Trail of the Purple Python. Have you read it? The Purple Python was a Turkish millionaire, and he had a secret house full of steel-lined rooms and luxurious divans and obelisks-’
‘Obelisks?’
‘Well you know. Ladies who weren’t quite respectable.
And he had agents in every country in Europe, who bought up compromising letters and he wrote to his victims in cipher and signed his missives with a squiggle in purple ink. Only the English detective’s young lady found out his secret by disguising herself as an obelisk and the detective who was really Lord Humphrey Chillingfold arrived with the police just in time to rescue her from the loathsome
embrace of the Purple Python. It was a terribly exciting book. Paul read lots of books like that — I expect he was trying to pick up ideas for getting the better of the gang. He liked the talkies too. Of course, in those stories, the hero always comes out on top, only poor dear Paul wasn’t really a bit like a hero. I said to him: one day, “It’s all very well,’ I said, “but I can’t see you venturing into a Chinese opium den full of gangsters, with a pistol in your pocket, and being gassed and sandbagged and then throwing off your bonds and attacking the Underworld King with an electric lamp. You’d be afraid of getting hurt,” I said to him. And so he would.’
Mr da Soto snickered appreciatively.
‘You said a mouthful, honey. Poor Alexis was a friend of mine, but courage was just what he didn’t have. I told him, if he didn’t stand out of my way; and let little Leila pick her own sweetie, I would give him a sock on the jaw. I give you my word, he was scared stiff.’
‘So he was,’ said Leila. ‘Of course, a girl couldn’t feel any respect for a man that didn’t stand up for. himself.’
‘Remarkable!’ said Antoine. ‘And this young man, so timid, so complaisant, cuts his throat with a big, ugly gash because you turn him down. C’est inoui.’
‘I suppose you believe his Bolshie story,’ said Leila, offended.
‘I? I believe nothing. I am agnostic. But I say that your portrait of Alexis is not very logical.’
‘Antoine always talks about logic,’ said Leila, ‘but what I say is, people aren’t logical. Look at all the funny things they do. Especially men. I always think men are terribly inconsistent?
‘You bet they are,’ said Mr da Soto. ‘You’re just dead right, sweetest. They have to be, or they wouldn’t be bothered with naughty little girlies like you.’
‘Yes, but the letters,’ said Harriet, sticking desperately to her point. ‘How often did they come?’
‘About once a week, sometimes oftener. He kept them locked up in a little box. He used to answer them, too.
Sometimes, when I went round to see him, he’d have his door locked, and old Ma Lefranc said he was writing letters and wasn’t to be disturbed. Naturally, a girl doesn’t like her gentleman friend to behave like that. I mean, you do expect him to pay a little attention to you and not shut himself up writing letters when you come to see him. I mean, it wasn’t the sort of thing you could expect a girl to put up with.’
‘Of course you couldn’t baby,’ said Mr da Soto. Antoine smiled, and murmured unexpectedly:
‘Mail si quelqu’un venoit de la part de’Cassandre, Ouvre-luy tost la porte, et ne le fais attendre,
Soudain entre dans ma chambre, et me vien accoustrer.’
Harriet smiled back at him and then, struck with an idea, asked Leila:
‘When did the last of these letters arrive?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t friends with him any more after I got friendly with Luis. But I expect M Lefranc would tell you. There isn’t much goes on that M Lefranc doesn’t know about.’
‘Did you and Alexis live together when you were friendly?’ demanded Harriet,’ bluntly.
‘Of course not; what a dreadful thing to ask a girl.’
‘I mean, in the same house.’
‘Oh, no. We used to go and see each other quite often, but of course, after Luis and me became friends, I said for Paul that it would be better if we didn’t see each other any more. You see, Paul was so fond of me, and Luis would have been imagining things — wouldn’t you, Luis?’
‘You bet your life I would, honey.’
‘Haven’t you told the police about these: letters?”
‘No, I have not,’ replied Miss Garland, decidedly. ‘I don’t say I mightn’t have told them if they had asked properly, but the way that fat Umpelty went on, you’d have thought I wasn’t a respectable girl. So I said to him, “I know nothing about it,” I said, “and you’ve got nothing, against me,” 1 said, ‘and you can’t make me answer your silly questions unless you take me down to your dirty old police-station and charge me,” I said.’ Miss Garland’s carefully modulated tones escaped from control and became shrill. ‘And I said, “It wouldn’t be a scrap of good if you did,” I said, “because I know nothing about Paul Alexis and I haven’t seen him for months,” I said, “and you can ask anybody you like,” I said, “and what’s more, if you get bullying a respectable girl like this,” I said, “you’ll get yourself into trouble, Mr Rumpelty-Bumpelty,” I said, “so now you know where you, get off.” That’s what I said, and it’s a good thing there’s a law in this country to protect girls like I.’
‘Ain’t she the snail’s ankles?’ asked Mr da Soto admiringly.
There seemed to be no further information to be gathered from Leila Garland, whom Harriet put down in her own mind as ‘a regular little gold-digger and as vain as a monkey’. As for da Soto, he looked harmless enough, and did not seem to have any pressing reason for doing away with Alexis. One never knew, of course, with these slinky people of confused nationality, just as she was thinking this, da Soto drew out his watch.
‘You will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I have a rehearsal at two o’clock. As always, Tuesdays and Thursdays.
He bowed, and left them, with his lithe walk, between a lounge and a swagger. Had he deliberately mentioned Thursdays in order to direct attention to an alibi for Thursday, 28th? And how’ did he know the time for which an alibi was required? That particular detail had not been allowed to get into the papers, and it was not likely to do, so until the inquest. And yet — could one attach any importance to the remark? An alibi depending on an orchestra rehearsal was so easily established or refuted. Then an explanation occurred to her: the police would already have asked da Soto about his movement last Thursday. But surely they would not have emphasised the crucial time to that extent. They had agreed that the less anybody knew about the time the better — it would be helpful in the inquiry if anyone were to come, forward ostentatiously flourishing an alibi for two o’clock.
Harriet returned with, Antoine, still not quite knowing what to make of da Soto. It was still only a quarter past two; she had time to carry out a new plan which she had formed. She put some clothes in a suitcase and went round to interview’ Paul Alexis’ landlady, Mrs Lefranc.
The door of the cheap-looking lodging-house was opened to her by an ample personage with brazen hair, who was dressed in a pink wrapper, much-laddered artificial silk stockings and green velvet mules, and wore, about her heavily powdered neck a string of synthetic-amber beads hike pigeon’s eggs.
‘Good morning,’ said Harriet, ‘I’m looking for a room.’ The lady eyed her shrewdly and said: ‘Professional, dearie?’
To say ‘Yes’ was tempting but unsafe. Mrs Lefranc hooked as though what she did not know about professionals could have been written on a threepenny bit. Besides, Harriet was becoming well-known in Wilvercombe — she could scarcely hope to hide her identity for ever.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I write books. In fact, Mrs Lefranc, I’m the person who found poor Mr Alexis last week. I’ve been staying at the Resplendent, but it’s terribly expensive, and I thought, if your room was still vacant, I might be able to take it.’
‘Well, there!’ said Mrs Lefranc. She, opened the door a little wider, but seemed to be divided between suspicion and curiosity. ‘Well, there! I hardly know what to say. You ain’t one of these journalists?’
‘Oh, dear, no,’ replied Harriet.
‘Because,’ said Mrs Lefranc,’ ‘with those fellers you never know where you are. Worried to death I’ve been with them, poking their long noses into my private affairs:; But of course you can’t help but feel an interest, dearie, can you, seeing it was you that found him, poor boy. Come along in. Excuse my negleegy, won’t you? If I’m not up and down, up and down, keeping an eye on that girl, I don’t know where we’d all be. I don’t get time to posh myself up of a morning. How, long would you be wanting the room.for?’
‘I don’t quite know. It depends on when they have the inquest?’
‘Ah, yes — and they’ve got to find him first, poor lamb, ain’t they? You know, I’ve got such a warm heart, I can’t sleep at nights for thinking of him washing about in all that nasty sea. Mind the coal-scuttle, dearie; the times I tell that girl; not too leave it on the stairs. It’s a lovely room on the first floor — quite the best in the house, and you’ll find the bed comfortable. Poor Mr Alexis always said it was like a home to him and I’m sure he was like, a son to me.’
Mrs Lefranc led the way up, her green mules flapping and displaying large holes in the heels of her stockings.
There, dearie!’ said Mrs Lefranc, throwing open the door. ‘I’m sure you couldn’t find better in Wilvercombe, and it’s nice and quiet you’ll be able to do your writing beautiful. I’ve had it all cleaned up and his clothes and things put away — and if you was to dislike his books and bits of things about, I could easy put them to the one side. But there! I daresay you won’t mind them. It’s not as if he’d died in this room, is it, poor soul? And I’m sure Mr Alexis was far too much the gentleman to commit a rash act on anybody’s premises. That kind of thing do give a place a bad name, there’s no denying it, and one is apt to be blamed for things as aren’t in any woman’s control, try’ as she may to make her visitors happy. But as to the books, well, of course, if it had been anything infectious they’d have to have been destroyed, though as to who they belong to now I don’t know, I’m sure and the police can’t tell me either, and I daresay they’ve as, much right here as anywhere, with me being like a mother to him this year past and more. But anything infectious, there is not, for he never was subject to any such complaint, enjoying good health as a rule, barring the pain in his joints which he had to lay up for at times, and the agony he went through was cruel. I’m sure my heart bled for him, and the amount of antipyrin he took for it would surprise you and he never would have a doctor. But there! I don’t blame him. My sister had the rheumatics something cruel and the amount she spent on doctors’ and electric treatment and nothing to show for it, except, her knee swelled up like a pumpkin. And she lost the use of the limb altogether, which was a cruel thing for a woman in her profession. A trapeze-artist, she was; I’ve got her photograph in. my room; if you would like to see it one day, dearie, and the wreaths her old pals sent to her, funeral was beautiful to see. Covered the hearse, they did, and they had to have an extra carriage on purpose for them. But as I was saying, if you don’t care about the books I’ll take them away.’ I’m not going to have that Weldon woman or Leila Garland — the little cat coming here trying to get hold of them.’
The room was pleasant enough — large and airy and much cleaner than Harriet could have hoped from Mrs Lefranc’s appearance. The furniture was, of course, hideous, but, though shabby, solid and in good order. The books were just as Inspector Umpelty had described them: mainly novels in cheap editions, with’ some Russian paper-backs and a few volumes of Russian Court memoirs. The only striking relic of the former tenant was a very beautiful little ikon hung at the head of the bed — certainly old and probably valuable.
For form’s sake Harriet entered upon a long haggle with Mrs Lefranc about terms, emerging victorious with an inclusive charge of two and a half guineas per week, or twelve shillings and find yourself.
‘And it’s not everybody I’d do that for,’ said Mrs Lefranc. ‘Only I can see you’re one of the quiet sort. If there’s a thing I don’t want in my house it’s trouble. Though I’m sure all this dreadful business is trouble enough for anybody. The cruel shock it was to me,’ said Mrs Lefranc, gasping a little and sitting down on the beds as though to demonstrate that the shock had not yet spent its force. ‘I was that fond of poor Mr Alexis.’
‘I’m sure you must have been.’
‘Such a thoughtful boy,’ pursued Mrs Lefranc, ‘and the manners of a prince, he had. I’m sure, many’s the time when I was’ run off my feet with the girl and the lodgers and all; he’d say, “Cheer up, ma”—they all call me that, “cheer up, ma. Have a little cocktail with me and here’s to better days” Just like a son he was to me, I’m sure.’
Whatever Harriet ‘may have thought of this touching reminiscence, which sounded quite unlike anything she had heard of Paul Alexis, she did not ignore the hint.
‘How about a spot of something now?’ she suggested.
‘I’m; sure,’ said Mrs Lefranc, ‘I wasn’t meaning — well, there! It’s no end sweet of you, dearie, but I couldn’t touch anything this time in the day. Not but what there’s the jug-and-bottle at the Dragon just round the corner, which comes very convenient, and there’s no doubt as a drop of gin do help your dinner to settle.’
Harriet bent her energies to overcoming the resistance of Mrs Lefranc, who presently put her head over the staircase and called to ‘the girl’ to slip round to the Dragon for a suitable quantity of gin.
‘They know me,’ she added, with a wink. ‘What with these ridiculous laws about bottles and half-bottles, if they don’t know you, they’d get you all locked-up before you knew where you were. You’d think, they wanted to make folks drunk by Act of Parliament, wouldn’t you? What with one thing and another and the police sticking their noses in and asking questions — as though my house wasn’t always as well-conducted as the Archbishop of Canterbury’s — and they know it too, for I’ve been here, twenty years and never a complaint — it’s hard for a decent woman to keep her head above water these days. And one thing I can say — I’ve never stinted anybody, My house is just like home to ’em, and so you’ll find it, dearie’
Under the influence of gin-and-water, Mrs Lefranc became less and less guarded. She had her own version of the Leila Garland complication.
‘What there might be between those two,’ she observed,
‘I couldn’t tell you, dearie. It’s not my business, so long as my visitors conducts themselves quietly. I always say to my girls, ‘I’m not against ladies seeing their gentlemen-friends and contrariwise, provided there’s no trouble caused. We’ve all been young once,” I say to them, “but you will please to remember we want no trouble here. That’s what I say, and there’s never been a mite of trouble in this house till now. But I must say I wasn’t sorry when that little cat took herself off. No, I wasn’t. Nor I didn’t like that dago of hers, either. I, hope she’s making him pay through the nose. You couldn’t give that girl enough. Not but what she didn’t make herself pleasant enough, and bring me a bunch of flowers or a little present when she came to see Mr Alexis, though where the money came from I was not asking. But when poor Mr Alexis told me that she had taken up with this da Soto fellow, I said, “You’re well rid of her.” That’s what I said, and if you ask me, he knew it well enough.’
‘You don’t think; he killed himself on her account, then?’
‘I do not,’ said Mrs Lefranc.’ ‘And I’m sure. I’ve puzzled my head often enough wondering why he did it. It wasn’t on account of the old lady he was engaged to — I know that. To tell, you the truth, dearie, he never expected that to come off. Of course, a young man in his position has to humour his ladies, but her family never would have stood it. Mr Alexis as good as told me that would never come off and not so long ago either. “You see, ma,” he said to me no longer ago than last Sunday week, “one of these days I may do still better for myself.”
“Oh, yes,” I says to him, “you will be marrying the Princess of China, you will, like Aladdin in the Panto.” No. I’ve thought about it over and over again, and I’ll tell you what I think. I think it was his speculations went wrong.’
‘Speculations?’
‘Yes — those speculations of his in foreign countries. The letters he used to get! All stuck over with foreign stamps and addressed in funny handwriting. I used to chaff him about them. Reports, he said they were, and if they, came right, he’d be one of the biggest men in the world. He used
to say, “Ma, when my ship comes in, I’ll give you a tiara stuck full of diamonds and make you housekeeper to royalty.” Oh, dear, many’s the laugh we’ve had together over it. Not but what there was a time when I could have had tiaras and necklaces if I’d wanted. ’em. One of these days I’ll show you my newspaper critiques. Airy-fairy-Lilian they used to call me when I was principal boy in old Rosenbaum’s shows, though you mightn’t think it to look at me now, dearie, for my figure’s spread a bit, there ain’t no denying.’
Harriet admired and sympathised, and led Mrs Lefranc gently back to the subject of the foreign letters.
‘Well, dearie, there was one of them come two days before this dreadful thing happened. It, must have been a long one, for he was shut up hours and hours with it. Working out his position, he used to call it. Well I think there, must have been, bad news in it, though he didn’t let on. But he was queer all that day and the next. Seemed as though he didn’t see you. or hear, you when you spoke to him. And laughing
hysterical, I should call it, if he’d been a girl. He kissed me on the Wednesday night when, he went up to his bed. joking he was and talking wild,’ but I didn’t pay attention. That was rather his way, you know. “One of these days,” he said, “you’ll find I’ve opened my wings and gone.” Little did I think — oh, dear me! Poor boy! I can see now that was just his way of breaking it to me. I heard him about in his room all night. Burning his papers, he was, poor dear lad. He’d had a dreadful disappointment and he didn’t want anybody to know. And in the morning he gave me his week’s money. “I know it’s a bit early,” he said — because, of course, it wasn’t due till Saturday, ‘but if I give it to you now, it’ll be safe,” he, said. “If I took it out with me, I might spend it.” Of course I know what was in his mind, poor dear. He knew he was going out and he didn’t want me to suffer; he always was considerate. But when I think now that a word, might have saved him-’
Mrs Lefranc burst into tears.
‘I did think he might, have been going away sudden to see after his speculations, but he didn’t pack up anything, so of course I put that out of my mind. And as for him doing what he did do how could I have thought it? He seemed in such high spirits. But there! I might have guessed, if my mind hadn’t been full of other things — only what with the girl giving notice as she did that morning and one thing and another, I didn’t pay attention. But they often do seem to be in high spirits before they put an end to themselves. There was poor Billy Carnaby — he was just the same. Gave an oyster-and-champagne party to the whole cast on his last night with his last penny and him the life and soul of it, making us split our sides and then went off and blew his brains out in the gentlemen’s lavatory.’
Mrs Lefranc cried bitterly for a few moments.
‘But there!’ she exclaimed, suddenly pulling herself together and blowing her nose, ‘life’s a funny thing and you can’t account for it, can you? Let’s be happy while we can. We’ll all be having a little white stone over us before long and it don’t matter so much how or when. When was, you wanting to take the room, dearie?’
‘I’ll be coming in. tonight,’ said Harriet. — ‘I don’t know whether I’ll want my board or not, but if I leave my suitcase and pay you the twelve — shillings for the room in advance, that’ll be all right, won’t it?’
‘That’s O.K. dearie,’ said Mrs Lefranc, obviously cheered. ‘Just you come; when you like, you’ll be happy with Ma Lefranc. There, now, you’ll think I’ve been talking enough to fetch the hind leg off a donkey, but what I say is, a good, cry now and again does you good when the world ain’t using you well. All my young people brings their troubles to me. I only wish poor Mr Alexis had told me all his worries and he’d be here now. But he was a foreigner, when all’s said and done and they aren’t like us, are they? Mind’ that dustpan, dearie. Time and again. I tell them not to leave things on the stairs, but you might as well talk to the cat. Five mice she left on my door-mat yesterday morning, if you’ll believe me, not that they ever come upstairs, dearie; and don’t you think it, but the cellars is overrun with them, the dirty little beasts. Well, so long, dear e, and by the way, here’s your latch-key. It’s lucky I had a new one cut; poor Mr Alexis took his away with him when he went and goodness knows where it is now. I let my visitors come in when and how they like; you’ll find yourself comfortable here.’
Chapter XVI. The Evidence Of The Sands
‘This is the oft-wished hour, when we together
May walk upon the sea-shore.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Tuesday, 23 June
IF EITHER Harriet Vane or Lord Peter Wimsey felt any embarrassment at meeting again after their burst of free speech, they did not show it. Both had a story to tell, and were thus spared the awkwardness of being gravelled for lack of matter.
‘Cipher letters? Is it possible that Mrs Weldon is all right and that we are all wrong? It makes, it look more like murder, anyhow, which is one up to us. I don’t think much of Mrs Lefranc’s suggestion about speculations, but it’s perfectly obvious that Alexis had some scheme in hand, and it may be that the scheme went wrong. I don’t know…. I don’t know…. Were there, perhaps, two different sets of circumstances? Is it an accident that Alexis should have been killed just as his plans were maturing? He seems to have been surrounded by a bunch of curiously unpleasant people — liars and half-wits and prostitutes and dagoes.’
‘Yes I can’t say we’re moving in very exalted circles. Antoine is the decentest of them — but probably you don’t approve of Antoine.’
‘Is that meant for a challenge? I know all about Antoine. Vetted him last night’’
‘To see if he was nice for me to know?’
‘Not altogether. Part of the process of exploring the ground. He seems a modest, sensible fellow. It’s not his fault that he suffers from lack of vitality and incipient melancholia. He’s supporting a mother in an asylum and looks after an imbecile brother at home.’
‘Does he?”
‘Apparently; but that doesn’t mean that his own wits are not quite reliable at the moment. He was a little more frank about Alexis’ love-affairs than he could be to you. Alexis seems to have taken a fairly robust view of his association with Mrs Weldon, and to have got rid of Leila with more than ordinary tact and ability. Da Soto is a bad egg — of course, but good enough for Leila, and he is probably vain enough to believe quite sincerely that he took her from Alexis vi et armis. But why all this? Well, never mind; let’s have our tea.: Hullo! Great activity out at sea! Two boats stationed off the Grinders.’
‘Fishermen?’
‘Fishers of men, I fancy,’ replied Wimsey, grimly. ‘It’s Umpelty and his merry men. Pass me the field-glasses, Bunter. Yes.’ They look very busy. They’ve got the drags out. Have a squint.’
He passed the glasses to Harriet, who exclaimed:
‘They’re hauling something up. It must be pretty heavy. The Inspector’s lending a hand and one of the men is hanging on, at the other end for dear life to trim the boat. Oh, oh! you didn’t see that. What a pity’! Something gave way suddenly, and Inspector Umpelty has, gone head over heels backwards into the boat. Now he’s sitting up and rubbing himself.’
‘Dear Umpelty!’, Wimsey helped himself to a sandwich.
‘They’re dragging again he’s left it to the fishermen this time…. They’ve got it — they’re hauling — it’s coming up.’
‘Sit down and have your tea.’
‘Don’t be silly. They’re pulling away like anything.
There’s something black just showing-’ ‘Here! Let’s have a look.’
Harriet surrendered the glasses. They were Wimsey’s, after all, though if he thought that she would be upset by a distant view of what she had once seen so unpleasantly close
Wimsey looked and began to laugh.
‘Here, take them, quick! It’s a bit of old iron. It looks like a boiler or something. Don’t miss Umpelty’s face, it’s worth seeing.’
‘Yes; that’s what it is — a sort of cylinder. I wonder how that got there. They’re examining it very carefully. Perhaps they think they’ll find the body inside it. No go. They’ve dropped, it back again.’
What a disappointment!
‘Poor Umpelty! I say, these are lovely, sandwiches. Did —’
Bunter make them? He’s a genius.’
‘Yes. Hurry up. I want to have another look at that cleft in the rock before we start.’
The cleft, however, remained an enigma. Wimsey’s attention was concentrated on the ring-bolt.
‘I’ll swear,’ he said, ‘that this hasn’t been here more than a fortnight. It looks perfectly new, and the ring isn’t worn anywhere. What the devil he can have wanted that for Well, let us be going. I’ll take the high road and you take the low road; that is, I’ll scramble among the loose stuff at high-water mark, and you walk along by the sea’s edge, and we’ll work to-and-fro between the two. Anybody who finds anything shouts and we compare notes.’
‘Right-ho’
To walk along a solitary shore with one’s heart’s idol in the calm of a summer’s afternoon may be classed as an agreeable occupation; but it loses much of its charm when the couple have to proceed, separated by the whole width of the beach, searching with, backs bent double and eyes fixed on the ground for something which neither can define and which in all probability is not there. Harriet, mystified, but resolutely believing that Wimsey had some idea in his mind, kept steady to her job; Wimsey, though he searched carefully, paused a good many times to scan sea and shore, and appeared to be computing distances and memorising landmarks. Each explorer carried a satchel in which to store treasure-trove, and the conversation, such as it was, rather resembled the dialogue of a Russian tragedy.’ Thus:
Harriet: Oy! Peter: Hullo!
(They meet, centre.)
Harriet: A boot! I’ve found a boot! Peter: Alas! alas! What boots it to repeat. Harriet: Hobnailed and frightfully ancient. Peter: Only one boot!
Harriet: Yes; if it had been two boots, it might mark the place where the murderer started to paddle.
Peter: One foot on sea and one on shore. The tide has risen and fallen ten times since then. It isn’t a good boot.
Harriet: No, it’s a bad boot.
Peter: It’s a rotten boot.
Harriet: Can I throw it away?
Peter. No; after all, it is a boot.
Harriet: It’s an awfully heavy boot.
Peter: I can’t help that, it’s a boot. Dr Thorndyke likes boots.
Harriet: Oh, death! where is thy sting? (They separate, Harriet carrying the boot.)’
Peter: Oy!
Harriet: Hullo! (They meet again.),
Peter: Here is an empty sardine-tin, and here is a broken bottle.
Harriet, Have you the pen of the gardener’s aunt?
Peter: No; but my (female) cousin has (some) ink, (some) paper and (some) papers (use du, de la, des, de l’ apostrophe).
Harriet: How long has the bottle been there?
Peter: The edges are much abraded by the action of the water.
Harriet: Do murderers eat sardines?
Peter: Do cats eat rats?
Harriet: I have, cut my foot on a razor-shell; Paul Alexis had his throat cut with a razor. Peter: The tide is going out. (They separate.)
Harriet (after a long and unproductive pause, meeting Peter with a sodden Gold Flake packet in one hand and half a Bible in the other) Dr Livingstone, I presume: Do murderers read the Bible?
Peter: Any book had served as well, Any book had stopped the bullet — that may be; I cannot tell
Harriet (reading) ‘Last of all the women died also — probably from backache.
Peter My back aches, and a drowsy numbness stills My brain, as though of hemlock—’
Harriet (suddenly practical) Look at the cigarette-card. Peter: It belongs to the new series. Harriet: Then it may be quite recent.
Peter (wearily): All right; keep it; we’ll call it a clue. How about the Holy Writ?
Harriet (in a marked manner): You can keep that; it might be good for you.
Peter: Very well. (In a still more marked manner) Shall we begin with the Song of Songs. Harriet: Get on with your job.
Peter: I am. How far have we come?
Harriet: How many leagues to Babylon?
Peter: We have walked a, mile and a half, and we are still in full view of the Flat-Iron. (They separate.)
Peter’ Oy!
Harriet: Hullo!
Peter: I just wanted to ask whether you’d given any further thought to that suggestion about marrying me.
Harriet (sarcastically): I suppose you were thinking how delightful it would be to go through life like this together? Peter: Well, not quite like this. Hand in hand was more my idea.
Harriet: What is that in your hand?
Peter: A dead starfish Harriet: Poor fish!
Peter: No ill-feeling, I trust. Harriet: Oh, dear no.
They toiled along, presently coming abreast of the spot where the lane led down from Pollock’s cottage. Here the beach became more shingly, with a number of biggish stones. Wimsey took the search more seriously here, scrutinising the stones above and around high-water mark very carefully, and even going part-of the way up the lane. He seemed not to find anything of importance, and they went on, noticing that the high ground hid the cottages from sight of the beach.
A few hundred yards farther on, Harriet gave tongue again.
‘Oy, oy, oy!
‘Hullo!’
‘I really have found something this time.’
Peter carne galloping down the sand.
‘If you’re pulling my leg, I’ll wring your neck. Let your Uncle Peter look… Ah!…, we are interested, distinctly interested.’
‘It ought to mean good luck, anyway.’
‘You’re holding it wrong way up; all the luck will drop out if, you’re not careful, and a black day it will be for — somebody. Hand it over.’
He, ran his fingers gently round the hoop of metal, clearing the sand away.
‘It’s a new shoe and it hasn’t been here very long. Perhaps a week, perhaps a little more. Belongs to a nice little cob, about fourteen hands. Pretty little animal, fairly well-bred, rather given to kicking her shoes off, pecks a little with the off-fore’
‘Holmes, this is wonderful! How do you do it?’
‘Perfectly simple, my; dear Watson. The shoe hasn’t been worn thin by the ‘ammer, ‘ammer, ‘ammer on the ’ard ’igh road, therefore it’s reasonably new. It’s a little rusty from lying in the, water, but hardly at all rubbed by sand and stones, and not at all corroded, which suggests that it hasn’t been here long. The size of the shoe gives the size of the nag, and the shape suggests a nice little round, well-bred hoof. Though newish, the shoe isn’t fire-new, and it is worn down a little on the inner front edge, which shows that the wearer was disposed to peck a little; while the way the nails are placed: and clinched indicates that the smith wanted to make the shoe; extra secure — which is why I said that a lost shoe was a fairly common accident with this particular gee. Still, we needn’t blame him or her too much. With all these stones about, a slight trip or knock might easily wrench a shoe away.’
‘Him or her. Can’t you go on and tell the sex and colour while’ you’re about it?’
‘I am’ afraid even I have my limitations, my dear Watson.’
‘Do you think the shoe was lying where it fell? Or would the sea have moved it much? I found it just here, close by the water’s edge, buried deep in sand.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t float, but the tide might drag it a bit one way or ‘the other, and each successive tide would tend to bury it farther. It’s very lucky you found it at all. But we can’t tell exactly at what point the horse passed along, if you mean that. The shoe wouldn’t just drop off. It would be thrown and would spin away on one side or other, according to the speed and direction and all that sort of thing
‘So it would. Well, that’s quite — pretty little piece of deduction…. Peter! Were you looking-for a horse-shoe?’
‘No; I was expecting the horse, but the shoe is a piece of pure, gorgeous luck.’
‘And observation. I found it.’
‘You did. And I could kiss you for it. You need not shrink and tremble. I am not going to do it. When — I kiss you, it will be an important event — one of those things which stand out among their surroundings like the first time you tasted li-chee. It will not be an unimportant side show attached to a detective investigation.’
‘I think you are a little intoxicated by the excitement of the discovery,’ said Harriet,’ coldly. ‘You say you came here looking for a horse?’
‘Naturally. Didn’t you?’
‘No I never thought about it.’
‘You miserable little cockney, — no! You never thought of a horse except as something that holds up the traffic. Your knowledge of horses is comprised in the rhyme which says, “I know two things about the horse and one of them is rather coarse”. Didn’t it ever occur to you that a horse is made to R,U,N, run, and cover a given distance in a given time. Did you never even have a bob on the Derby?? Wretched girl, wait till we are married. You, shall fall off a horse every day till you learn to sit on it.’
Harriet was silent. She suddenly saw Wimsey in a new light. She knew him to be intelligent, clean, courteous, wealthy, well-read, amusing and enamoured, but he had not so far produced in her that crushing sense of utter inferiority which leads to prostration and hero-worship. But she now realised that there was, after all, something godlike about him. He could control a horse. She had a fleeting vision of him, very sleek, very smart, in a top-hat and pink coat and gleaming white breeches, loftily perched — on an immense and fiery animal which pranced and jiggled about without even disturbing the lofty nonchalance of his demeanour. Her imagination, making a terrific effort, promptly clothed her in a riding-habit of perfect cut, placed her on an animal still larger and fierier and set her at his side, amid the respectful admiration of the assembled nobility and gentry. Then she laughed at this snobbish picture.
‘I could do the falling-off part all right. Hadn’t we better, be getting on?’
‘H’m. Yes. I think we’ll do the rest by horse-power. I can’t see the coast-road from here, but we shall probably find the faithful Bunter in attendance not very far off. We can’t hope to find anything more along here. Two horseshoes would be a work of supererogation.’
Harriet heartily welcomed this decision.
‘We needn’t crawl up the cliff,’ Wimsey went on. ‘We’ll turn up and get, to the road by the lane. We’ll chuck the Bible and the boot — I don’t think they’ll get us anywhere.’ ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Darley, to find the horse. I fancy we shall find that he belongs to Mr Newcombe, who had occasion to complain of gaps in his hedges. We shall see”
The two or three, miles to Darley were quickly covered, with only the necessary pause while the gates were opened at the Halt. At the top of Hinks’s Lane they got out and walked down to the camping-place:
‘I would draw your attention,’ said Wimsey, ‘to the three grains of oats found at this spot, and also to the two inches of burnt rope found in the ashes. Bunter, have you brought those things?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Bunter rummaged in the bowels of the car and brought out a small paper bag and a halter. These he handed over to Wimsey, who immediately undid the bag and from it poured a couple of handfuls of oats into his hat.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve got the halter — now we’ve only got to find a horse to put in it. Let’s go round by the shore to look for the stream our friend Mr Goodrich spoke of.’
The stream was soon found — a small trickle of fresh water emerging through a bank beneath a hedge, some fifty yards from the encampment and wandering away across the sand towards the sea:
‘No good looking for marks this side of the hedge — I fancy the tide comes pretty well up to the foot of the grass. Wait a minute, though. Here we are! Yes’—on the very edge of the stream, right up against the hedge — a beauty, with nailmarks all complete. Lucky last night’s rain didn’t wash it out, but the grass overhangs it a bit. But there’s no gap in the hedge here. He must — oh. of course, he would. Yes. Now, if we’re right, this won’t correspond to the shoe we’ve found it’ll be the other foot. Yes; this is the left fore. Our horse stood here to drink, which means that he (or she) was running loose around here about the ebb of the tide, horses not liking their water salt. The left fore was there — the right should be. about here — it is here! Look! the print of the naked hoof, without shoe and rather light in the ground — lame, of course, after coming shoeless for nearly, three miles over a stony beach. But where is the gap? Let us walk on, my, dear Watson. Here, if I mistake not, is the place. Two new stakes driven in and a bunch of dead thorn shoved in and secured with wire I agree that Mr Newcombe is not a good hand at mending hedges: Still, he has taken some precautions, so we will hope that our horse is still in the field. We scramble up the bank — we look over the hedge — one, two, three, horses, by jove!’
Wimsey let his eye rove meditatively over the large field. At its far side was a thickish clump of spinney, from which the little stream emerged, meandering quietly through the coarse grass.
‘Look how nicely those trees screen it from the road, and the village. A pleasant, private spot for horse-stealing. How tiresome of, Mr Newcombe to have filled this gap. Aha! What is this, Watson?’
‘I’ll buy it.
‘There is another gap a few yards down, which has been filled in a more workmanlike manner with posts and a rail. Nothing could be better. We approach it — we climb the rail, and we are in the field. Permit me — oh! you are over. Good! Now, which animal will you put your money on?’
‘Not the black. He looks too big and heavy.’
‘No, not the black, certainly. The chestnut might do, as regards size, but he has seen his best days and has hardly got class enough for our work. The jolly little bay cob rather takes my fancy. Coo-op, pretty,’ said Wimsey, advancing delicately across the field, shaking the oats in the hat. ‘Coo-op, coo-op.’
Harriet had often wondered how people ever managed to catch horses in large fields. It seemed so silly of the creatures to allow themselves to be taken — and indeed, she remembered distinctly having; once stayed in a country: rectory where it always took at least an hour for ‘the boy to catch the pony, with the result that the pony-trap frequently failed to catch the train. Possibly ‘the boy’ had not gone the right way about it, for, as by the miracle by which the needle turns to the pole, all three horses came lolloping steadily across the field to poke: soft noses into the hatful of oats. Wimsey stroked the chestnut, patted the black, weeded out the bay from between them and stood for a little talking to it and running a hand gently over its neck and shoulders. Then he stooped, passing his palm down the off-fore leg. The hoof came obediently up into his hand, while the muzzle went round and gently nibbled his ear.
‘Hi, you!’ said Wimsey, ‘that’s mine. Look here, Harriet’
Harriet edged round to his side and stared at the hoof.
‘New shoe.’ He put the foot down and reached in turn for the other legs. ‘Better make sure they haven’t made an all-round job of it. No; old shoes on three feet and new shoe on off-fore, corresponding exactly to the specimen picked up on the beach. You notice the special arrangement of the nails. The bay mare brings home the bacon all right. Wait a bit, my girl, we’ll try your paces.’
He slipped the halter neatly over the bay mare’s head and swung himself up.
‘Come for a ride?’ Your toe on my foot, and up she comes! Shall we ride away into the sunset and never come back?’
Better get on with it. Suppose the farmer comes.’
‘How right you are!’ He gave the halter a shake and cantered off. Harriet mechanically picked up his hat and stood squeezing the crown absently in and out, with her eyes on the flying figure.
‘Allow me, miss.’
Bunter held out his hand for the hat; she relinquished, it with a little start. Bunter shook out the remaining oats, dusted the hat with care inside and out and restored it to its proper shape.
‘Handy to ride or drive,’ said Wimsey, coming back and slipping down from his mount. ‘Might do nine miles an hour on the road — on the shore, through shallow water, say eight. I’d like — my God! how I’d like — to take her along to the Flat-Iron. Better not. We’re trespassing.’
He pulled the halter off and sent the mare off with a clap on the shoulder.
‘It all looks so good,’ he mourned, but it won’t work. It simply won’t work. You see the idea. Here’s Martin. He comes and camps here; evidently he knows all about this place beforehand, and knows that horses are kept out in this field in summer. He arranges for Alexis to be at the Flat-Iron at two o’clock I don’t know how, but he works it somehow. At 1.30 he leaves the Feathers, comes down here, gets the mare and rides off along the shore. We see where he spilt the oats with which he got her to come to him and we see the gap he made getting her through the hedge. He rides along through the edge of the water, so as to leave no marks. He tethers the mare to the ring that he has driven into the rock; he kills Alexis and rides back in a deuce of a hurry. In crossing the rough pebbles below Pollock’s cottage, the mare casts a shoe. That doesn’t worry him, except that it lames the nag a bit and delays him. When he gets back, he doesn’t return the mare to the field, but lets her run. Like that, it will look as though she broke out of the field on her own, and will easily explain the gap, the lameness, and the shoe, if anybody finds it Also, if the horse should be found still blown and sweaty, it will appear perfectly natural. He is back at three o’clock, in time to go round to the garage about his car, and at some subsequent period he burns the halter. It’s so convincing, so neat, and it’s all wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘The time’s too tight, for one thing. He left the inn at 1.30. After that, he had to come down here, catch, the mare and ride four and a half miles. We can’t very well allow him to do more than eight miles an hour under the conditions of the problem, yet at two o’clock you heard the scream. Are you sure your watch was right?’
‘Positive. I compared it with the hotel clock when I got to Wilvercombe; it was dead right, and the hotel clock—’
‘Is set by wireless time, naturally. Everything always is.’
‘Worse than that all the hotel clocks are controlled by a master-clock which is controlled directly from Greenwich.
That was one of the first things I asked about.’ ‘Competent woman.?
‘Suppose he had had the horse all ready before he went to the Feathers — tied up to the fence, or something?’
‘Yes; but if these Darley people are right, he didn’t go from here to the Feathers; he came by car from the Wilvercombe side. And even if we allow that, he’s still got to make rather over nine miles an hour to get to the Flat-Iron by two o’clock. I doubt if he could do it though, of course, he might, if he leathered the poor beast like fury. That’s why I said I’d like to do the ride:’
‘And the scream I heard may not have been the scream. I thought it was a gull, you know and perhaps. it was. I took about five minutes to gather my stuff together and come out into view of the-Flat-Iron. You might put the death at 2.05, I think, if you felt you had to.’
‘All right. But that still leaves it all quite impossible. You see, you were there at 2.10 at the very latest. Where was the murderer?’
‘In the cleft of the rock. Oh, ah — but not the horse. I see. There wouldn’t be room for a horse too. How exasperating! If we put the murder too early, he wouldn’t have time to get there, and if we put it too late, he wouldn’t have time to get away. It’s maddening.’
‘Yes, and we can’t really put the murder earlier than two o’clock because off the blood. Putting the horse’s speed and the condition of the blood and the scream all together, we get two o’clock as the earliest possible and on the whole the most probable time for the murder. Right. You come on the scene, at latest, at 2.05. Allow (which is very unlikely) that the murderer dashed up at full gallop, cut Alexis throat and dashed off again at full speed without wasting a second, and allow him (which is again most unlikely) to do as much as ten miles an hour through water. At 2.05 he will have done just under a mile on his way back. But we proved this afternoon that you have — a clear view of over a mile and a half from the Flat-Iron in the direction of Darley. If he had been there, you couldn’t have failed to see him. Or could you? You didn’t start really looking till 2.10, when you found the body.’
‘No, I didn’t. But I’ve got all my faculties. If the murder was done at two o’clock, when the scream woke me, I couldn’t possibly not have heard a horse galloping hell-forleather along the shore. It would make a pretty good row, wouldn’t it?’
‘It certainly would. Tramp, tramp along the land they rode, Splash, splash along the sea.. It won’t do, my girl, it won’t do. And yet, that mare went along that bit of beach not so very long ago, or I’ll eat my hat. Eh? Oh, thanks, Bunter.’
He took the hat which Bunter gravely proffered him.
‘And there’s the ring-bolt in the rock. That didn’t come there by chance. The horse was taken there, but when and why is a puzzle. Never mind. Let’s check up on, our facts, just as though the thing were coming out all right.’
They left the field and walked up, Hinks’s Lane.
‘We won’t take the car,’ said Wimsey. ‘We’ll just wander along chewing straws and looking idle. Yonder is the village green, I fancy, where, as you once informed us, under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands. Let us hope the smith is at work. Smiths, like electric drills, are made to be stared at.’
The smith was at work. The cheerful clink of his hammer fell, cheerily on their ears as they crossed the green, and the huge dappled quarters of a cart-horse gleamed in the shaft of sunlight that fell across the open door.
Harriet and Wimsey lounged up, Wimsey dangling the horse-shoe in his hand.
‘Afternoon, zur,’ said the yokel in charge of the cart-horse, civilly.
“Noon,’ replied Wimsey.
Tine day, zur.’
‘Ah!’ said Wimsey.
The yokel looked Wimsey over thoroughly, and decided that he was a knowledgeable person and no foolish chatterer. He hitched his shoulder a little more comfortably against the door-post and fell into a reverie.
After about five minutes, Wimsey judged that the time had come when a further — observation might be well received. He, said, jerking his head in the direction of the anvil:
‘Not so much of that as there used to be.’
‘Aht’ said the man.
‘The smith, who had removed the dull shoe from the anvil and replaced it in the forge for re-heating, must have caught the remark, for he glanced towards the door. He said nothing, however, but put all his energy into working his bellows.
Presently, the shoe being once more on the anvil, the man with the horse shifted his shoulders again,’ pushed his cap back, scratched his head, replaced the cap, spat (but with perfect politeness), thrust his hand deep into the right-hand pocket of his breeches and addressed a brief word of encouragement to the horse.
Silence, punctuated only by the clink of the hammer, followed, till Wimsey remarked:
You’ll get the hay in all right, if this lasts.’
‘Ah!’ said the man, with satisfaction.
The smith, raising the shoe in the tongs and again returning it to the fire, wiped his brow with his leather apron and broke into the conversation. He followed Humpty-Dumpty’s method of going back to the last remark but one.
‘I recollect,’ he said, ‘when thur wasn’t none of these motor-cars, only the one Squire Goodrich had — what year would that be now, Jem?’
‘Mafeking year, that wur.’
‘Ah! zo it wur
Silence, while all meditated. Then Wimsey said:
‘I can remember when my father kept twenty-three horses, not counting the farm stock, of course.’
‘Ah!’ said the blacksmith. ‘That ‘ud be a big place, zur?’ ‘Yes; it was a big place. It was a treat for us kids to go down to the smithy and see them shod.’.
‘Ah!’
‘I still know a good bit of work when I see one. This young lady and I picked up a, cast shoe just now on the beach — you don’t get as much of that sort of luck these days as, you used to.’
He dangled the shoe on his fingers.
‘Off-fore,’ he added, casually, ‘nice little well-bred cob about fourteen hands; kicks her shoes off, and pecks a bit on this foot — is that right?’
The smith extended a large hand, courteously wiping it first upon his apron.
‘Ay,’ he said. ‘That’s right enough. Bay cob — belongs to Mr Newcombe — I zhuld know it.’
‘Your work?’
‘Zartain zhure.’ ‘Ah!’
‘Not been lying about very long, either.’
‘No.’ The smith licked his finger and rubbed the iron, lovingly. ‘What day wur that Mr Newcombe found the mare loose, Jem?’
Jem appeared to do a complicated arithmetical calcu lation, and replied:
‘Vriday, ay, it did be Vriday morning. That’s when it wur. Vriday.’
‘Ah! to be zhure. So t’wur.’
The smith leaned on his hammer-and considered the matter. By slow degrees he brought out the rest of the story.
It was not much, but it confirmed Wimsey’s deductions. Farmer Newcombe always kept horses in that field during the summer months. No, he never mowed that meadow on account of the (agricultural and botanical detail of which Harriet did not grasp the significance). No, Mr Newcombe
wouldn’t be about in that meadow much, no, nor yet the men, on account of it’s lying a long way from the rest of his land (interminable historical detail dealing with the distribution of tenancies and glebe round about that district, in which Harriet became completely lost), nor they wouldn’t need to, not to water the horses, on account of the stream (lengthy and rather disputatious account, to which Jem contributed, of the original course of the stream in Jem’s grandfather’s time, before Mr Grenfell made the pond over to Drake’s Spinney), and it wasn’t Mr Newcombe neither that see the mare running wild Friday morning, but Bessie Turvey’s youngest, and he came and told Jem’s uncle George and him and another of them got her in and tarrible lame she were, but Mr Newcombe, he did ought to have mended that gap before (prolonged recital of humorous anecdote, ending ‘and lord! how Old Parson did laugh, to be zhure!).’
After which, the explorers drove back in state to Wilvercombe, to hear that the body had not turned up yet, but that Inspector Umpelty had a pretty good idea where it might be. And dinner.