Unnatural death
of mystery stories. I’m not going to let a trifle like that stand in my
way.”
“And why hasn’t this hypothetical gentleman brought forward any claim to
the property so far?”
“He’s biding his time. The fuss about the death scared him, and he’s
lying low till it’s all blown over.”
“He’ll find it much more awkward to dispossess Miss Whittaker now she’s
taken possession. Possession is nine points of the law, you know.”
“I know, but he’s going to pretend he wasn’t anywhere near at the time
of Miss Dawson’s death. He only read about it a few weeks ago in a sheet
of newspaper wrapped round a salmon-tin, and now he’s rushing home from
his distant farm in thing-ma-jig to proclaim himself as the long-lost
Cousin Tom. . . . Great Scott! that reminds me.”
He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a letter.
“This came this morning just as I was going out, and I met Freddy
Arbuthnot on the doorstep and shoved it into my pocket before I’d read
it properly. But I do believe there was something in it about a Cousin
Somebody from some god-forsaken spot. Let’s see.”
He unfolded the letter, which was written in Miss Climpson’s
old-fashioned flowing hand, and ornamented with such a variety of
underlinings and exclamation marks as to look like an exercise in
musical notation.
“Oh, lord!” said Parker.
“Yes, it’s worse than usual, isn’t it?—it must be of desperate
importance. Luckily it’s comparatively short.”
My dear Lord Peter,
I heard something this morning which MAY be of _use, so_ I HASTEN to
communicate it!! You remember I _mentioned before_ that Mrs. Budge’s
_maid_ is the SISTER of the _present_ maid at Miss _Whittaker’s_?
Well!!! The AUNT of these two girls came to _pay a visit_ to Mrs.
Budge’s girl this afternoon, and was _introduced to me_—of course, as
_boarder_ at Mrs. Budge’s I am naturally an _object of local
interest_—and, bearing _your instructions_ in mind, I _encourage_ this
to an extent I should not otherwise do!!
It appears that this _aunt_ was well acquainted with a _former
housekeeper_ of Miss Dawson’s—_before_ the time of the Gotobed girls,
I mean. The _aunt_ is a highly _respectable_ person of FORBIDDING
ASPECT!—with a _bonnet_(!) and to my mind, a most _disagreeable_
CENSORIOUS woman. However!—We got to speaking of Miss Dawson’s death,
and this aunt—her name is Timmins—_primmed_ up her mouth and said: “No
unpleasant scandal would surprise me about _that_ family, Miss
Climpson. They were _most_ UNDESIRABLY connected! You recollect, Mrs.
Budge, that I felt _obliged to leave_ after the appearance of that
_most_ EXTRAORDINARY person who announced himself as Miss Dawson’s
cousin.” Naturally, I asked _who_ this _might be_, not having heard of
any _other relations_! She said that this person, whom she described
as a _nasty_, DIRTY NIGGER(!!!) arrived one morning, dressed up as a
CLERGYMAN!!!—and sent her—Miss Timmins—to announce him to Miss Dawson
as her Cousin Hallelujah!!! Miss Timmins showed him up, _much against
her will_, she said, into the _nice_, CLEAN, drawing-room! Miss
Dawson, she said, actually _came down_ to see this “creature” instead
of sending him about his “black business”(!), and as a _crowning
scandal_, asked him to _stay to lunch_!—“with her niece there, too,”
Miss Timmins said, “and this horrible _blackamoor_ ROLLING his
dreadful eyes at her.” Miss Timmins said that it “regularly turned her
stomach”—that was her phrase, and I trust you will excuse it—I
understand that these _parts of the body_ are frequently referred to
in polite(!) society nowadays. In fact, it appears she _refused to
cook the lunch_ for the poor black man—(after all, even _blacks_ are
God’s _creatures_ and we might _all_ be _black_ OURSELVES if He had
not in His infinite kindness seen fit to _favour us_ with _white_
skins!!)—and walked straight out of the house!!! So that unfortunately
she cannot tell us anything _further_ about this _remarkable_
incident! She is _certain_, however, that the “nigger” had a
_visiting-card_, with the name “Rev. H. Dawson” upon it, and an
address in foreign parts. It does seem _strange_, does it not, but I
believe many of these _native preachers_ are called to do _splendid
work_ among their own people, and no doubt a _MINISTER_ is entitled to
have _visiting-card_, even when black!!!
In great haste,
Sincerely yours,
A. K. Climpson.
“God bless my soul,” said Lord Peter, when he had disentangled this
screed—“here’s our claimant ready made.”
“With a hide as black as his heart, apparently,” replied Parker. “I
wonder where the Rev. Hallelujah has got to—and where he came from.
He—er—he wouldn’t be in ‘Crockford,’ I suppose.”
“He would be, probably, if he’s Church of England,” said Lord Peter,
dubiously, going in search of that valuable work of reference.
“Dawson—Rev. George, Rev. Gordon, Rev. Gurney, Rev. Habbakuk, Rev.
Hadrian, Rev. Hammond—no, there’s no Rev. Hallelujah. I was afraid the
name hadn’t altogether an established sound. It would be easier if we
had an idea what part of the world the gentleman came from. ‘Nigger,’ to
a Miss Timmins, may mean anything from a high-caste Brahmin to Sambo and
Raustus at the Coliseum—it may even, at a pinch, be an Argentine or an
Esquimaux.”
“I suppose other religious bodies have their Crockfords,” suggested
Parker, a little hopelessly.
“Yes, no doubt—except perhaps the more exclusive sects—like the
Agapemonites and those people who gather together to say OM. Was it
Voltaire who said that the English had three hundred and sixty-five
religions and only one sauce?”
“Judging from the War Tribunals,” said Parker, “I should say that was an
under-statement. And then there’s America—a country, I understand,
remarkably well supplied with religions.”
“Too true. Hunting for a single dog-collar in the States must be like
the proverbial needle. Still, we could make a few discreet inquiries,
and meanwhile I’m going to totter up to Crofton with the jolly old
’bus.”
“Crofton?”
“Where Miss Clara Whittaker and Miss Dawson used to live. I’m going to
look for the man with the little black bag—the strange, suspicious
solicitor, you remember, who came to see Miss Dawson two years ago, and
was so anxious that she should make a will. I fancy he knows all there
is to know about the Rev. Hallelujah and his claim. Will you come too?”
“Can’t—not without special permission. I’m not officially on this case,
you know.”
“You’re on the Gotobed business. Tell the Chief you think they’re
connected. I shall need your restraining presence. No less ignoble
pressure than that of the regular police force will induce a smoke-dried
family lawyer to spill the beans.”
“Well, I’ll try—if you’ll promise to drive with reasonable precaution.”
“Be thou as chaste as ice and have a license as pure as snow, thou shalt
not escape calumny. I am _not_ a dangerous driver. Buck up and get your
leave. The snow-white horsepower foams and frets and the blue
bonnet—black in this case—is already, in a manner of speaking, over the
border.”
“You’ll drive me over the border one of these days,” grumbled Parker,
and went to the ’phone to call up Sir Andrew Mackenzie at Scotland Yard.
Crofton is a delightful little old-world village tucked away amid the
maze of criss-cross country roads which fills the triangle of which
Coventry, Warwick and Birmingham mark the angles. Through the falling
night, “Mrs. Merdle” purred her way delicately round hedge-blinded
corners and down devious lanes, her quest made no easier by the fact
that the Warwick County Council had pitched upon that particular week
for a grand repainting of signposts and had reached the preliminary
stage of laying a couple of thick coats of gleaming white paint over all
the lettering. At intervals the patient Bunter unpacked himself from the
back seat and climbed one of these uncommunicative guides to peer at its
blank surface with a torch—a process which reminded Parker of Alan
Quartermain trying to trace the features of the departed Kings of the
Kukuanas under their calcareous shrouds of stalactite. One of the posts
turned out to be in the wet-paint stage, which added to the depression
of the party. Finally, after several misdirections, blind alleys, and
reversings back to the main road, they came to a fourways. The signpost
here must have been in extra need of repairs, for its arms had been
removed bodily; it stood, stark and ghastly—a long, livid finger erected
in wild protest to the unsympathetic heavens.
“It’s starting to rain,” observed Parker, conversationally.
“Look here, Charles, if you’re going to bear up cheerfully and be the
life and soul of the expedition, say so and have done with it. I’ve got
a good, heavy spanner handy under the seat, and Bunter can help to bury
the body.”
“I think this must be Brushwood Cross,” resumed Parker, who had the map
on his knee. “If so, and if it’s not Covert Corner, which I thought we
passed half an hour ago, one of those roads leads directly to Crofton.”
“That would be highly encouraging if we only knew which road we were
on.”
“We can always try them in turn, and come back if we find we’re going
wrong.”
“They bury _suicides_ at cross-roads,” replied Wimsey, dangerously.
“There’s a man sitting under that tree,” pursued Parker. “We can ask
him.”
“He’s lost his way too, or he wouldn’t be sitting there,” retorted the
other. “People don’t sit about in the rain for fun.”
At this moment the man observed their approach and, rising, advanced to
meet them with raised, arresting hand.
Wimsey brought the car to a standstill.
“Excuse me,” said the stranger, who turned out to be a youth in
motor-cycling kit, “but could you give me a hand with my ’bus?”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“Well, she won’t go.”
“I guessed as much,” said Wimsey. “Though why she should wish to linger
in a place like this beats me.” He got out of the car, and the youth,
diving into the hedge, produced the patient for inspection.
“Did you tumble there or put her there?” inquired Wimsey, eyeing the
machine distastefully.
“I put her there. I’ve been kicking the starter for hours but nothing
happened, so I thought I’d wait till somebody came along.”
“I see. What is the matter, exactly?”
“I don’t know. She was going beautifully and then she conked out
suddenly.”
“Have you run out of petrol?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure there’s plenty in.”
“Plug all right?”
“I don’t know.” The youth looked unhappy. “It’s only my second time out,
you see.”
“Oh! well—there can’t be much wrong. We’ll just make sure about the
petrol first,” said Wimsey, more cheerfully. He unscrewed the filler-cap
and turned his torch upon the interior of the tank. “Seems all right.”
He bent over again, whistling, and replaced the cap. “Let’s give her
another kick for luck and then we’ll look at the plug.”
The young man, thus urged, grasped the handle-bars, and with the energy
of despair delivered a kick which would have done credit to an army
mule. The engine roared into life in a fury of vibration, racing
heart-rendingly.
“Good God!” said the youth, “it’s a miracle.”
Lord Peter laid a gentle hand on the throttle-lever and the shattering
bellow calmed into a grateful purr.
“What did you do to it?” demanded the cyclist.
“Blew through the filler-cap,” said his lordship with a grin. “Air-lock
in the feed, old son, that’s all.”
“I’m frightfully grateful.”
“That’s all right. Look here, can you tell us the way to Crofton?”
“Sure. Straight down here. I’m going there, as a matter of fact.”
“Thank Heaven. Lead and I follow, as Sir Galahad says. How far?”