Unnatural death
“I observe in to-day’s paper,” said Mr. Murbles, “that the local
superintendent is now satisfied that Miss Gotobed came down alone for a
quiet picnic and died of a heart attack.”
“That man would say anything,” said Wimsey. “We know from the
post-mortem that she had recently had a heavy meal—forgive these
distressin’ details, Mrs. Cropper’—so why the picnic?”
“I suppose they had the sandwiches and the beer-bottle in mind,” said
Mr. Murbles, mildly.
“I see. I suppose she went down to Epping alone with a bottle of Bass
and took out the cork with her fingers. Ever tried doing it, Murbles?
No? Well, when they find the corkscrew I’ll believe she went there
alone. In the meantime, I hope the papers will publish a few more
theories like that. Nothin’ like inspiring criminals with confidence,
Murbles—it goes to their heads, you know.”
CHAPTER XI
Cross-Roads
“_Patience—and shuffle the cards._”
_Don Quixote_
Lord Peter took Mrs. Cropper down to Christchurch and returned to town
to have a conference with Mr. Parker. The latter had just listened to
his recital of Mrs. Cropper’s story, when the discreet opening and
closing of the flat-door announced the return of Bunter.
“Any luck?” inquired Wimsey.
“I regret exceedingly to have to inform your lordship that I lost track
of the lady. In fact, if your lordship will kindly excuse the
expression, I was completely done in the eye.”
“Thank God, Bunter, you’re human after all. I didn’t know anybody could
do you. Have a drink.”
“I am much obliged to your lordship. According to instructions, I
searched the platform for a lady in a crimson hat and a grey fur, and at
length was fortunate enough to observe her making her way out by the
station entrance towards the big bookstall. She was some way ahead of
me, but the hat was very conspicuous, and, in the words of the poet, if
I may so express myself, I followed the gleam.”
“Stout fellow.”
“Thank you, my lord. The lady walked into the Station Hotel, which, as
you know, has two entrances, one upon the platform, and the other upon
the street. I hurried after her for fear she should give me the slip,
and made my way through the revolving doors just in time to see her back
disappearing into the Ladies’ Retiring Room.”
“Whither, as a modest man, you could not follow her. I quite
understand.”
“Quite so, my lord. I took a seat in the entrance hall, in a position
from which I could watch the door without appearing to do so.”
“And discovered too late that the place had two exits, I suppose.
Unusual and distressin’.”
“No, my lord. That was not the trouble. I sat watching for three
quarters of an hour, but the crimson hat did not reappear. Your lordship
will bear in mind that I had never seen the lady’s face.”
Lord Peter groaned.
“I foresee the end of this story, Bunter. Not your fault. Proceed.”
“At the end of this time, my lord, I felt bound to conclude either that
the lady had been taken ill or that something untoward had occurred. I
summoned a female attendant who happened to cross the hall and informed
her that I had been entrusted with a message for a lady whose dress I
described. I begged her to ascertain from the attendant in the Ladies’
Room whether the lady in question was still there. The girl went away
and presently returned to say that the lady had changed her costume in
the cloak-room and had gone out half an hour previously.”
“Oh, Bunter, Bunter. Didn’t you spot the suitcase or whatever it was
when she came out again?”
“Excuse me, my lord. The lady had come in earlier in the day and had
left an attaché-case in charge of the attendant. On returning, she had
transferred her hat and fur to the attaché-case and put on a small black
felt hat and a light-weight raincoat which she had packed there in
readiness. So that her dress was concealed when she emerged and she was
carrying the attaché-case, whereas, when I first saw her, she had been
empty-handed.”
“Everything foreseen. What a woman!”
“I made immediate inquiries, my lord, in the region of the hotel and the
station, but without result. The black hat and raincoat were entirely
inconspicuous, and no one remembered having seen her. I went to the
Central Station to discover if she had travelled by any train. Several
women answering to the description had taken tickets for various
destinations, but I could get no definite information. I also visited
all the garages in Liverpool, with the same lack of success. I am
greatly distressed to have failed your lordship.”
“Can’t be helped. You did everything you could do. Cheer up. Never say
die. And you must be tired to death. Take the day off and go to bed.”
“I thank your lordship, but I slept excellently in the train on the way
up.”
“Just as you like, Bunter. But I did hope you sometimes got tired like
other people.”
Bunter smiled discreetly and withdrew.
“Well, we’ve gained this much, anyhow,” said Parker. “We know now that
this Miss Whittaker has something to conceal, since she takes such
precautions to avoid being followed.”
“We know more than that. We know that she was desperately anxious to get
hold of the Cropper woman before anybody else could see her, no doubt to
stop her mouth by bribery or by worse means. By the way, how did she
know she was coming by that boat.”
“Mrs. Cropper sent a cable, which was read at the inquest.”
“Damn these inquests. They give away all the information one wants kept
quiet, and produce no evidence worth having.”
“Hear, hear,” said Parker, with emphasis, “not to mention that we had to
sit through a lot of moral punk by the Coroner, about the prevalence of
jazz and the immoral behaviour of modern girls in going off alone with
young men to Epping Forest.”
“It’s a pity these busy-bodies can’t be had up for libel. Never mind.
We’ll get the Whittaker woman yet.”
“Always provided it was the Whittaker woman. After all, Mrs. Cropper may
have been mistaken. Lots of people do change their hats in cloak-rooms
without any criminal intentions.”
“Oh, of course. Miss Whittaker’s supposed to be in the country with Miss
Findlater, isn’t she? We’ll get the invaluable Miss Climpson to pump the
girl when they turn up again. Meanwhile, what do you think of Mrs.
Cropper’s story?”
“There’s no doubt about what happened there. Miss Whittaker was trying
to get the old lady to sign a will without knowing it. She gave it to
her all mixed up with the income-tax papers, hoping she’d put her name
to it without reading it. It must have been a will, I think, because
that’s the only document I know of which is invalid unless it’s
witnessed by two persons in the presence of the testatrix and of each
other.”
“Exactly. And since Miss Whittaker couldn’t be one of the witnesses
herself, but had to get the two maids to sign, the will must have been
in Miss Whittaker’s favour.”
“Obviously. She wouldn’t go to all that trouble to disinherit herself.”
“But that brings us to another difficulty. Miss Whittaker, as next of
kin, would have taken all the old lady had to leave in any case. As a
matter of fact, she did. Why bother about a will?”
“Perhaps, as we said before, she was afraid Miss Dawson would change her
mind, and wanted to get a will made out before—no, that won’t work.”
“No—because, anyhow, any will made later would invalidate the first
will. Besides, the old lady sent for her solicitor some time later, and
Miss Whittaker put no obstacle of any kind in her way.”
“According to Nurse Forbes, she was particularly anxious that every
facility should be given.”
“Seeing how Miss Dawson distrusted her niece, it’s a bit surprising,
really, that she didn’t will the money away. Then it would have been to
Miss Whittaker’s advantage to keep her alive as long as possible.”
“I don’t suppose she really distrusted her—not to the extent of
expecting to be made away with. She was excited and said more than she
meant—we often do.”
“Yes, but she evidently thought there’d be other attempts to get a will
signed.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Don’t you remember the power of attorney? The old girl evidently
thought that out and decided to give Miss Whittaker authority to sign
everything for her so that there couldn’t possibly be any jiggery-pokery
about papers in future.”
“Of course. Cute old lady. How very irritating for Miss Whittaker. And
after that very hopeful visit of the solicitor, too. So disappointing.
Instead of the expected will, a very carefully planted spoke in her
wheel.”
“Yes. But we’re still brought up against the problem, why a will at
all?”
“So we are.”
The two men pulled at their pipes for some time in silence.
“The aunt evidently intended the money to go to Mary Whittaker all
right,” remarked Parker at last. “She promised it so often—besides, I
daresay she was a just-minded old thing, and remembered that it was
really Whittaker money which had come to her over the head of the Rev.
Charles, or whatever his name was.”
“That’s so. Well, there’s only one thing that could prevent that
happening, and that’s—oh, lord! old son. Do you know what it works out
at? The old, old story, beloved of novelists—the missing heir!”
“Good lord, yes, you’re right. Damn it all, what fools we were not to
think of it before. Mary Whittaker possibly found out that there was
some nearer relative left, who would scoop the lot. Maybe she was afraid
that if Miss Dawson got to know about it, she’d divide the money or
disinherit Mary altogether. Or perhaps she just despaired of hammering
the story into the old lady’s head, and so hit on the idea of getting
her to make the will unbeknownst to herself in Mary’s favour.”
“What a brain you’ve got, Charles. Or, see here, Miss Dawson may have
known all about it, sly old thing, and determined to pay Miss Whittaker
out for her indecent urgency in the matter of will-makin’ by just dyin’
intestate in the other chappie’s favour.”
“If she did, she deserved anything she got,” said Parker, rather
viciously. “After taking the poor girl away from her job under promise
of leaving her the dibs.”
“Teach the young woman not to be so mercenary,” retorted Wimsey, with
the cheerful brutality of the man who has never in his life been short
of money.
“If this bright idea is correct,” said Parker, “it rather messes up your
murder theory, doesn’t it? Because Mary would obviously take the line of
keeping her aunt alive as long as possible, in hopes she might make a
will after all.”
“That’s true. Curse you, Charles, I see that bet of mine going west.
What a blow for friend Carr, too. I did hope I was going to vindicate
him and have him played home by the village band under a triumphal arch
with ‘Welcome, Champion of Truth!’ picked out in red-white-and-blue
electric bulbs. Never mind. It’s better to lose a wager and see the
light than walk in ignorance bloated with gold.—Or stop!—why shouldn’t
Carr be right after all? Perhaps it’s just my choice of a murderer
that’s wrong. Aha! I see a new and even more sinister villain step upon
the scene. The new claimant, warned by his minions—”
“What minions?”
“Oh, don’t be so pernickety, Charles. Nurse Forbes, probably. I
shouldn’t wonder if she’s in his pay. Where was I? I wish you wouldn’t
interrupt.”
“Warned by his minions—” prompted Parker.
“Oh, yes—warned by his minions that Miss Dawson is hob-nobbing with
solicitors and being tempted into making wills and things, gets the said
minions to polish her off before she can do any mischief.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Oh, by one of those native poisons which slay in a split second and
defy the skill of the analyst. They are familiar to the meanest writer