Unnatural death
Indeed, the third officer had already produced a notebook and was
imperturbably writing down: “When told the charge, the prisoner said ‘Is
that all?’” The remark evidently struck him as an injudicious one, for
he licked his pencil with an air of satisfaction.
“Is the lady all right—who is it?” asked Parker, coming back to a survey
of the situation.
“It’s Miss Climpson—God knows how she got here. I think she’s all right,
but she’s had a rough time.”
He was anxiously sponging her head as he spoke, and at that moment her
eyes opened.
“Help!” said Miss Climpson, confusedly. “The syringe—you shan’t—oh!” She
struggled feebly, and then recognised Wimsey’s anxious face. “Oh, dear!”
she exclaimed, “Lord Peter. Such an upset. Did you get my letter? Is it
all right? . . . Oh, dear! What a state I’m in. I—that woman—”
“Now, don’t worry, Miss Climpson,” said Wimsey, much relieved,
“everything’s quite all right and you mustn’t talk. You must tell us
about it later.”
“What was that about a syringe?” said Parker, intent on his case.
“She’d got a syringe in her hand,” panted Miss Climpson, trying to sit
up, and fumbling with her hands over the bed. “I fainted, I think—such a
struggle—and something hit me on the head. And I saw her coming at me
with the thing. And I knocked it out of her hand and I can’t remember
what happened afterwards. But I have _remarkable_ vitality,” said Miss
Climpson, cheerfully. “My dear father always used to say ‘Climpsons take
a lot of killing’!”
Parker was groping on the floor.
“Here you are,” said he. In his hand was a hypodermic syringe.
“She’s mental, that’s what she is,” said the prisoner. “That’s only the
hypodermic I use for my injections when I get neuralgia. There’s nothing
in that.”
“That is quite correct,” said Parker, with a significant nod at Wimsey.
“There is—nothing in it.”
On the Tuesday night, when the prisoner had been committed for trial on
the charges of murdering Bertha Gotobed and Vera Findlater, and
attempting to murder Alexandra Climpson, Wimsey dined with Parker. The
former was depressed and nervous.
“The whole thing’s been beastly,” he grumbled. They had sat up
discussing the case into the small hours.
“Interesting,” said Parker, “interesting. I owe you seven and six, by
the way. We ought to have seen through that Forrest business earlier,
but there seemed no real reason to suspect the Findlater girl’s word as
to the alibi. These mistaken loyalties make a lot of trouble.
“I think the thing that put us off was that it all started so early.
There seemed no reason for it, but looking back on Trigg’s story it’s as
plain as a pike-staff. She took a big risk with that empty house, and
she couldn’t always expect to find empty houses handy to do away with
people in. The idea was, I suppose, to build up a double identity, so
that, if Mary Whittaker was ever suspected of anything, she could
quietly disappear and become the frail but otherwise innocent Mrs.
Forrest. The real slip-up was forgetting to take back that £5 note from
Bertha Gotobed. If it hadn’t been for that, we might never have known
anything about Mrs. Forrest. It must have rattled her horribly when we
turned up there. After that, she was known to the police in both her
characters. The Findlater business was a desperate attempt to cover up
her tracks—and it was bound to fail, because it was so complicated.”
“Yes. But the Dawson murder was beautiful in its ease and simplicity.”
“If she had stuck to that and left well alone, we could never have
proved anything. We can’t prove it now, which is why I left it off the
charge-sheet. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more greedy and heartless
murderer. She probably really thought that anyone who inconvenienced her
had no right to exist.”
“Greedy and malicious. Fancy tryin’ to shove the blame on poor old
Hallelujah. I suppose he’d committed the unforgivable sin of askin’ her
for money.”
“Well, he’ll get it, that’s one good thing. The pit digged for Cousin
Hallelujah has turned into a gold-mine. That £10,000 cheque has been
honoured. I saw to that first thing, before Whittaker could remember to
try and stop it. Probably she couldn’t have stopped it anyway, as it was
duly presented last Saturday.”
“Is the money legally hers?”
“Of course it is. We know it was gained by a crime, but we haven’t
charged her with the crime, so that legally no such crime was committed.
I’ve not said anything to Cousin Hallelujah, of course, or he mightn’t
like to take it. He thinks it was sent him in a burst of contrition,
poor old dear.”
“So Cousin Hallelujah and all the little Hallelujahs will be rich.
That’s splendid. How about the rest of the money? Will the Crown get it
after all?”
“No. Unless she wills it to someone, it will go to the Whittaker
next-of-kin—a first cousin, I believe, called Allcock. A very decent
fellow, living in Birmingham. That is,” he added, assailed by sudden
doubt, “if first cousins _do_ inherit under this confounded Act.”
“Oh, I think first cousins are safe,” said Wimsey, “though nothing seems
safe nowadays. Still, dash it all, some relations must still be allowed
a look-in, or what becomes of the sanctity of family life? If so, that’s
the most cheering thing about the beastly business. Do you know, when I
rang up that man Carr and told him all about it, he wasn’t a bit
interested or grateful. Said he’d always suspected something like that,
and he hoped we weren’t going to rake it all up again, because he’d come
into that money he told us about and was setting up for himself in
Harley Street, so he didn’t want any more scandals.”
“I never did like that man. I’m sorry for Nurse Philliter.”
“You needn’t be. I put my foot in it again over that. Carr’s too grand
to marry a nurse now—at least, I fancy that’s what it is. Anyway, the
engagement’s off. And I was so pleased at the idea of playing Providence
to two deserving young people,” added Wimsey, pathetically.
“Dear, dear! Well, the girl’s well out of it. Hullo! there’s the ’phone.
Who on earth—? Some damned thing at the Yard, I suppose. At three ack
emma! Who’d be a policeman?—Yes?—Oh!—right, I’ll come round. The case
has gone west, Peter.”
“How?”
“Suicide. Strangled herself with a sheet. I’d better go round, I
suppose.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“An evil woman, if ever there was one,” said Parker, softly, as they
looked at the rigid body, with its swollen face and the deeper, red ring
about the throat.
Wimsey said nothing. He felt cold and sick. While Parker and the
Governor of the prison made the necessary arrangements and discussed the
case, he sat hunched unhappily upon his chair. Their voices went on and
on interminably. Six o’clock had struck some time before they rose to
go. It reminded him of the eight strokes of the clock which announce the
running-up of the black and hideous flag.
As the gate clanged open to let them out, they stepped into a wan and
awful darkness. The June day had risen long ago, but only a pale and
yellowish gleam lit the half-deserted streets. And it was bitterly cold
and raining.
“What is the matter with the day?” said Wimsey. “Is the world coming to
an end?”
“No,” said Parker, “it is the eclipse.”
Transcriber’s Notes
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.