Unnatural death
“Yes—but I want a poison that doesn’t produce any symptoms. Except
death, of course—if you call that a symptom. Isn’t there a poison with
no symptoms and no test? Something that just makes you go off, Pouf!
like that?”
“Certainly not,” said the analyst, rather annoyed—for your medical
analyst lives by symptoms and tests, and nobody likes suggestions that
undermine the very foundations of his profession—“not even old age or
mental decay. There are always symptoms.”
Fortunately, before symptoms of mental decay could become too pronounced
in Lord Peter, Parker sounded the call to action.
“I’m going down to Leahampton with a warrant,” he said. “I may not use
it, but the chief thinks it might be worth while to make an inquiry.
What with the Battersea mystery and the Daniels business, and Bertha
Gotobed, there seems to be a feeling that there have been too many
unexplained tragedies this year, and the Press have begun yelping again,
blast them! There’s an article in _John Citizen_ this week, with a
poster: ‘Ninety-six Murderers at Large,’ and the _Evening Views_ is
starting its reports with ‘Six weeks have now passed, and the police are
no nearer the solution—’ you know the kind of thing. We’ll simply have
to get some sort of move on. Do you want to come?”
“Certainly—a breath of country air would do me good, I fancy. Blow away
the cobwebs, don’t you know. It might even inspire me to invent a good
way of murderin’ people. ‘O Inspiration, solitary child, warbling thy
native wood-notes wild—’ Did somebody write that, or did I invent it? It
sounds reminiscent, somehow.”
Parker, who was out of temper, replied rather shortly, and intimated
that the police car would be starting for Leahampton in an hour’s time.
“I will be there,” said Wimsey, “though, mind you, I hate being driven
by another fellow. It feels so unsafe. Never mind. I will be bloody,
bold and resolute, as Queen Victoria said to the Archbishop of
Canterbury.”
They reached Leahampton without any incident to justify Lord Peter’s
fears. Parker had brought another officer with him, and on the way they
picked up the Chief Constable of the County, who appeared very dubiously
disposed towards their errand. Lord Peter, observing their array of five
strong men, going out to seize upon one young woman, was reminded of the
Marquise de Brinvilliers—(“What! all that water for a little person like
me?”)—but this led him back to the subject of poison, and he remained
steeped in thought and gloom till the car drew up before the house in
Wellington Avenue.
Parker got out, and went up the path with the Chief Constable. The door
was opened to them by a frightened-looking maid, who gave a little
shriek at sight of them.
“Oh, sir! have you come to say something’s happened to Miss Whittaker?”
“Isn’t Miss Whittaker at home, then?”
“No, sir. She went out in the car with Miss Vera Findlater on
Monday—that’s four days back, sir, and she hasn’t come home, nor Miss
Findlater neither, and I’m frightened something’s happened to them. When
I see you, sir, I thought you was the police come to say there had been
an accident. I didn’t know what to do, sir.”
“Skipped, by God!” was Parker’s instant thought, but he controlled his
annoyance, and asked:
“Do you know where they were going?”
“Crow’s Beach, Miss Whittaker said, sir.”
“That’s a good fifty miles,” said the Chief Constable. “Probably they’ve
just decided to stay there a day or two.”
“More likely gone in the opposite direction,” thought Parker.
“They didn’t take no things for the night, sir. They went off about ten
in the morning. They said they was going to have lunch there and come
home in the evening. And Miss Whittaker hasn’t written nor nothing. And
her always so particular. Cook and me, we didn’t know what—”
“Oh, well, I expect it’s all right,” said the Chief Constable. “It’s a
pity, as we particularly wanted to see Miss Whittaker. When you hear
from her, you might say Sir Charles Pillington called with a friend.”
“Yes, sir. But please, sir, what ought we to do, sir?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll have inquiries made. I’m the Chief
Constable, you know, and I can soon find out whether there’s been an
accident or anything. But if there had been, depend upon it we should
have heard about it. Come, my girl, pull yourself together, there’s
nothing to cry about. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”
But Sir Charles looked disturbed. Coming on top of Parker’s arrival in
the district, the thing had an unpleasant look about it.
Lord Peter received the news cheerfully.
“Good,” said he, “joggle ’em up. Keep ’em moving. That’s the spirit.
Always like it when somethin’ happens. My worst suspicions are goin’ to
be justified. That always makes one feel so important and virtuous,
don’t you think? Wonder why she took the girl with her, though. By the
way, we’d better look up the Findlaters. They may have heard something.”
This obvious suggestion was acted upon at once. But at the Findlaters’
house they drew blank. The family were at the seaside, with the
exception of Miss Vera, who was staying in Wellington Avenue with Miss
Whittaker. No anxiety was expressed by the parlour-maid and none,
apparently, felt. The investigators took care not to arouse any alarm,
and, leaving a trivial and polite message from Sir Charles, withdrew for
a consultation.
“There’s nothing for it, so far as I can see,” said Parker, “but an
all-stations call to look out for the car and the ladies. And we must
put inquiries through to all the ports, of course. With four days’
start, they may be anywhere by now. I wish to Heaven I’d risked a bit
and started earlier, approval or no approval. What’s this Findlater girl
like? I’d better go back to the house and get photographs of her and the
Whittaker woman. And, Wimsey, I wish you’d look in on Miss Climpson and
see if she has any information.”
“And you might tell ’em at the Yard to keep an eye on Mrs. Forrest’s
place,” said Wimsey. “When anything sensational happens to a criminal
it’s a good tip to watch the accomplice.”
“I feel sure you are both quite mistaken about this,” urged Sir Charles
Pillington. “Criminal—accomplice—bless me! I have had considerable
experience in the course of a long life—longer than either of yours—and
I really feel convinced that Miss Whittaker, whom I know quite well, is
as good and nice a girl as you could wish to find. But there has
undoubtedly been an accident of some kind, and it is our duty to make
the fullest investigation. I will get on to Crow’s Beach police
immediately, as soon as I know the description of the car.”
“It’s an Austin Seven and the number is XX9917,” said Wimsey, much to
the Chief Constable’s surprise. “But I doubt very much whether you’ll
find it at Crow’s Beach, or anywhere near it.”
“Well, we’d better get a move on,” snapped Parker. “We’d better
separate. How about a spot of lunch in an hour’s time at the George?”
Wimsey was unlucky. Miss Climpson was not to be found. She had had her
lunch early and gone out, saying she felt that a long country walk would
do her good. Mrs. Budge was rather afraid she had had some bad news—she
had seemed so upset and worried since yesterday evening.
“But indeed, sir,” she added, “if you was quick, you might find her up
at the church. She often drops in there to say her prayers like. Not a
respectful way to approach a place of worship to my mind, do you think
so yourself, sir? Popping in and out on a week-day, the same as if it
was a friend’s house. And coming home from Communion as cheerful as
anything and ready to laugh and make jokes. I don’t see as how we was
meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way—so disrespectful
and nothing uplifting to the ’art about it. But there! we all ’as our
failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if
she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one.”
Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name
for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the
moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious
discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.
The doors of S. Onesimus were hospitably open, and the red Sanctuary
lamp made a little spot of welcoming brightness in the rather dark
building. Coming in from the June sunshine, Wimsey blinked a little
before he could distinguish anything else. Presently he was able to make
out a dark, bowed figure kneeling before the lamp. For a moment he hoped
it was Miss Climpson, but presently saw to his disappointment that it
was merely a Sister in a black habit, presumably taking her turn to
watch before the Host. The only other occupant of the church was a
priest in a cassock, who was busy with the ornaments on the High Altar.
It was the Feast of S. John, Wimsey remembered suddenly. He walked up
the aisle, hoping to find his quarry hidden in some obscure corner. His
shoes squeaked. This annoyed him. It was a thing which Bunter never
permitted. He was seized with a fancy that the squeak was produced by
diabolic possession—a protest against a religious atmosphere on the part
of his own particular besetting devil. Pleased with this thought, he
moved forward more confidently.
The priest’s attention was attracted by the squeak. He turned and came
down towards the intruder. No doubt, thought Wimsey, to offer his
professional services to exorcise the evil spirit.
“Were you looking for anybody?” inquired the priest, courteously.
“Well, I was looking for a lady,” began Wimsey. Then it struck him that
this sounded a little odd under the circumstances, and he hastened to
explain more fully, in the stifled tones considered appropriate to
consecrated surroundings.
“Oh, yes,” said the priest, quite unperturbed, “Miss Climpson was here a
little time ago, but I fancy she has gone. Not that I usually keep tabs
on my flock,” he added, with a laugh, “but she spoke to me before she
went. Was it urgent? What a pity you should have missed her. Can I give
any kind of message or help you in any way?”
“No, thanks,” said Wimsey. “Sorry to bother you. Unseemly to come and
try to haul people out of church, but—yes, it was rather important. I’ll
leave a message at the house. Thanks frightfully.”
He turned away; then stopped and came back.
“I say,” he said, “you give advice on moral problems and all that sort
of thing, don’t you?”
“Well, we’re supposed to try,” said the priest. “Is anything bothering
you in particular?”
“Ye-es,” said Wimsey, “nothing religious, I don’t mean—nothing about
infallibility or the Virgin Mary or anything of that sort. Just
something I’m not comfortable about.”
The priest—who was, in fact, the vicar, Mr. Tredgold—indicated that he
was quite at Lord Peter’s service.
“It’s very good of you. Could we come somewhere where I didn’t have to
whisper so much. I never can explain things in a whisper. Sort of
paralyses one, don’t you know.”
“Let’s go outside,” said Mr. Tredgold.
So they went out and sat on a flat tombstone.
“It’s like this,” said Wimsey. “Hypothetical case, you see, and so on.
S’posin’ one knows somebody who’s very, very ill and can’t last long
anyhow. And they’re in awful pain and all that, and kept under
morphia—practically dead to the world, you know. And suppose that by
dyin’ straight away they could make something happen which they really
wanted to happen and which couldn’t happen if they lived on a little
longer (I can’t explain exactly how, because I don’t want to give
personal details and so on)—you get the idea? Well, supposin’ somebody
who knew all that was just to give ’em a little push off so to
speak—hurry matters on—why should that be a very dreadful crime?”
“The law—” began Mr. Tredgold.