Unnatural death
Broadmoor—a first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she’s not
irritated.”
Mrs. Forrest gradually softened into a faint smile.
“I think I understand the position, Mr. Templeton,” she said, “and if I
give you a name, it will be in strict confidence, I presume?”
“Of course, of course,” said Wimsey. “Dear me, I’m sure it’s uncommonly
kind of you.”
“You’ll swear you aren’t spies of my husband’s?” she said, quickly. “I
am trying to divorce him. How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
“Madam,” said Wimsey, with intense gravity, “I swear to you on my honour
as a gentleman that I have not the slightest connection with your
husband. I have never even heard of him before.”
Mrs. Forrest shook her head.
“I don’t think, after all,” she said, “it would be much good my giving
you the name. In any case, if you asked him whether he’d been here, he
would say no, wouldn’t he? And if you’ve been sent by my husband, you’ve
got all the evidence you want already. But I give you my solemn
assurance, Mr. Templeton, that I know nothing about your friend, Mr.
Lyndhurst—”
“Major Lyndhurst,” put in Wimsey, plaintively.
“And if Mrs. Lyndhurst is not satisfied, and likes to come round and see
me, I will do my best to satisfy her of the fact. Will that do?”
“Thank you very much,” said Wimsey. “I’m sure it’s as much as any one
could expect. You’ll forgive my abruptness, won’t you? I’m
rather—er—nervously constituted, and the whole business is exceedingly
upsetting. _Good_ afternoon. Come on, Inspector, it’s quite all
right—you see it’s quite all right. I’m really very much
obliged—uncommonly so. Please don’t trouble to see us out.”
He teetered nervously down the narrow hall-way, in his imbecile and
well-bred way, Parker following with a policeman-like stiffness. No
sooner, however, had the flat-door closed behind them than Wimsey seized
his friend by the arm and bundled him helter-skelter into the lift.
“I thought we should never get away,” he panted. “Now quick—how do we
get round to the back of these flats?”
“What do you want with the back?” demanded Parker, annoyed. “And I wish
you wouldn’t stampede me like this. I’ve no business to let you come
with me on a job at all, and if I do, you might have the decency to keep
quiet.”
“Right you are,” said Wimsey, cheerfully, “just let’s do this little bit
and you can get all the virtuous indignation off your chest later on.
Round here, I fancy, up this back alley. Step lively and mind the
dust-bin. One, two, three, four—here we are! Just keep a look-out for
the passing stranger, will you?”
Selecting a back window which he judged to belong to Mrs. Forrest’s
flat, Wimsey promptly grasped a drain-pipe and began to swarm up it with
the agility of a cat-burglar. About fifteen feet from the ground he
paused, reached up, and appeared to detach something with a quick jerk,
and then slid very gingerly to the ground again, holding his right hand
at a cautious distance from his body, as though it were breakable.
And indeed, to his amazement, Parker observed that Wimsey now held a
long-stemmed glass in his fingers, similar to those from which they had
drunk in Mrs. Forrest’s sitting-room.
“What on earth—?” said Parker.
“Hush! I’m Hawkshaw the detective—gathering finger-prints. Here we come
a-wassailing and gathering prints in May. That’s why I took the glass
back. I brought a different one in the second time. Sorry I had to do
this athletic stunt, but the only cotton-reel I could find hadn’t much
on it. When I changed the glass, I tip-toed into the bathroom and hung
it out of the window. Hope she hasn’t been in there since. Just brush my
bags down, will you, old man? Gently—don’t touch the glass.”
“What the devil do you want finger-prints for?”
“You’re a grateful sort of person. Why, for all you know, Mrs. Forrest
is someone the Yard has been looking for for years. And anyway, you
could compare the prints with those on the Bass bottle, if any. Besides,
you never know when finger-prints mayn’t come in handy. They’re
excellent things to have about the house. Coast clear? Right. Hail a
taxi, will you? I can’t wave my hand with this glass in it. Look so
silly, don’t you know. I say!”
“Well?”
“I saw something else. The first time I went out for the drinks, I had a
peep into her bedroom.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think I found in the wash-stand drawer?”
“What?”
“A hypodermic syringe!”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, and an innocent little box of ampullæ, with a doctor’s
prescription headed ‘The injection, Mrs. Forrest. One to be injected
when the pain is very severe.’ What do you think of that?”
“Tell you when we’ve got the results of that post-mortem,” said Parker,
really impressed. “You didn’t bring the prescription, I suppose?”
“No, and I didn’t inform the lady who we were or what we were after or
ask her permission to carry away the family crystal. But I made a note
of the chemist’s address.”
“Did you?” ejaculated Parker. “Occasionally, my lad, you have some
glimmerings of sound detective sense.”
CHAPTER VIII
Concerning Crime
“_Society is at the mercy of a murderer who is remorseless,_
_who takes no accomplices and who keeps his head._”
Edmund Pearson, _Murder at Smutty Nose_
_Letter from Miss Alexandra Katherine Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey._
“Fair View,”
Nelson Avenue,
Leahampton.
12 May, 1927.
My dear Lord Peter,
I have not _yet_ been able to get ALL the information you ask for, as
Miss Whittaker has been away for some weeks, inspecting
_chicken-farms_!! With a view to purchase, I mean of course, and not
in any _sanitary capacity_(!). I _really think_ she means to set up
farming _with Miss Findlater_, though what Miss Whittaker can see in
that very gushing and really _silly_ young woman I cannot think.
However, Miss Findlater has evidently quite a “pash” (as we used to
call it at school) for Miss Whittaker, and I am afraid none of us are
being _flattered_ by such outspoken admiration. I must say, I think it
rather _unhealthy_—you may remember Miss Clemence Dane’s _very clever
book_ on the subject?—I have seen so _much_ of that kind of thing in
my rather WOMAN-RIDDEN existence! It has such a bad effect, as a rule,
upon the _weaker character_ of the two—But I must not take up your
time with my TWADDLE!!
Miss Murgatroyd, who was quite a friend of old _Miss Dawson_, however,
has been able to tell me a _little_ about her past life.
It seems that, until five years ago, Miss Dawson lived in Warwickshire
with her cousin, a Miss Clara Whittaker, Mary Whittaker’s great-aunt
on the _father’s_ side. This Miss Clara was evidently rather a
“character,” as my dear father used to call it. In her day she was
considered very “advanced” and _not quite nice_(!) because she
_refused_ several _good offers_, cut her hair short(!!) and set up in
business for herself as a HORSE-BREEDER!!! Of course, _nowadays_,
nobody would think anything of it, but _then_ the old lady—or _young_
lady as she was when she embarked on this _revolutionary_ proceeding,
was quite a PIONEER.
Agatha Dawson was a school-fellow of hers, and _deeply attached_ to
her. And as a result of this friendship, Agatha’s _sister_, Harriet,
married Clara Whittaker’s brother James! But _Agatha_ did not care
about marriage, any more than _Clara_, and the two ladies lived
together in a big old house, with immense stables, in a village in
Warwickshire—Crofton, I think the name was. Clara Whittaker turned out
to be a remarkably _good business woman_, and worked up a big
connection among the _hunting folk_ in those parts. Her hunters became
quite _famous_, and from a capital of a few thousand pounds with which
she started she made quite a _fortune_, and was a _very rich woman_
before her death! Agatha Dawson never had anything to do with the
_horsey_ part of the business. She was the “domestic” partner, and
looked after the _house_ and the _servants_.
When Clara Whittaker died, she left _all her money_ to Agatha, passing
over her _own family_, with whom she was _not on very good
terms_—owing to the narrow-minded attitude they had taken up about her
horse-dealing!! Her nephew, Charles Whittaker, who was a clergyman,
and the father of _our_ Miss Whittaker, resented very much not getting
the money, though, as he had kept up the feud in a very _un-Christian_
manner, he had really _no right_ to complain, especially as Clara had
built up her fortune _entirely_ by her own exertions. But, of course,
he inherited the _bad, old-fashioned_ idea that women _ought not_ to
be their own mistresses, or make money for themselves, or do what they
liked with their own!
He and his family were the only surviving Whittaker relations, and
when _he and his wife_ were killed in a motor-car accident, Miss
Dawson asked Mary to leave her work as a nurse and make her home with
her. So that, you see, Clara Whittaker’s money was destined to _come
back_ to James Whittaker’s daughter in the end!! Miss Dawson made it
_quite_ CLEAR that this was her intention, provided Mary would come
and _cheer the declining days_ of a lonely old lady!
Mary accepted, and as her aunt—or, to speak more _exactly_, her
great-aunt—had given up the big old Warwickshire house after Clara’s
death, they lived in London for a short time and then moved to
Leahampton. As you know, poor old Miss Dawson was then already
suffering from the _terrible disease_ of which she died, so that Mary
did not have to wait very long for Clara Whittaker’s money!!
I hope this information will be of some _use_ to you. Miss Murgatroyd
did not, of course, know anything about the rest of the family, but
she always understood that there were _no other_ surviving relatives,
either on the Whittaker or the Dawson side.
When Miss Whittaker returns, I hope to _see more_ of her. I enclose my
_account_ for expenses up to date. I do _trust_ you will not consider
it _extravagant_. How are your money-lenders progressing? I was sorry
not to see more of those _poor women_ whose cases I investigated—their
stories were _so_ PATHETIC!
I am,
Very sincerely yours,
Alexandra K. Climpson.
P.S.—I _forgot_ to say that Miss Whittaker has a little motor-car. I
do not, of course, know anything about these matters, but Mrs. Budge’s
maid tells me that Miss Whittaker’s maid says it is an Austin 7 (is
this right?). It is grey, and the number is XX9917.
Mr. Parker was announced, just as Lord Peter finished reading this
document, and sank rather wearily in a corner of the chesterfield.
“What luck?” inquired his lordship, tossing the letter over to him. “Do
you know, I’m beginning to think you were right about the Bertha Gotobed
business, and I’m rather relieved. I don’t believe one word of Mrs.
Forrest’s story, for reasons of my own, and I’m now hoping that the
wiping out of Bertha was a pure coincidence and nothing to do with my
advertisement.”
“Are you?” said Parker, bitterly, helping himself to whisky and soda.
“Well, I hope you’ll be cheered to learn that the analysis of the body
has been made, and that there is not the slightest sign of foul play.
There is no trace of violence or of poisoning. There was a heart
weakness of fairly long standing, and the verdict is syncope after a