Unnatural death
young people would think him.”
“Never mind, Miss Climpson,” said Wimsey, “you’ve got just exactly the
qualifications we want, and they’re rather rare, so we’re in luck. Now
we want this matter pushed forward as fast as possible.”
“I’ll go down to Somerset House at once,” replied the lady, with great
energy, “and let you know the minute I’m ready to start for Hampshire.”
“That’s right,” said his lordship, rising. “And now we’ll just make a
noise like a hoop and roll away. Oh! and while I think of it, I’d better
give you something in hand for traveling expenses and so on. I think you
had better be just a retired lady in easy circumstances looking for a
nice little place to settle down in. I don’t think you’d better be
wealthy—wealthy people don’t inspire confidence. Perhaps you would
oblige me by living at the rate of about £800 a year—your own excellent
taste and experience will suggest the correct accessories and so on for
creating that impression. If you will allow me, I will give you a cheque
for £50 now, and when you start on your wanderings you will let me know
what you require.”
“Dear me,” said Miss Climpson, “I don’t—”
“This is a pure matter of business, of course,” said Wimsey, rather
rapidly, “and you will let me have a note of the expenses in your usual
business-like way.”
“Of course.” Miss Climpson was dignified. “And I will give you a proper
receipt immediately.
“Dear, dear,” she added, hunting through her purse, “I do not appear to
have any penny stamps. How extremely remiss of me. It is most _unusual_
for me not to have my little book of stamps—so handy I always think they
are—but only last night Mrs. Williams borrowed my last stamps to send a
very urgent letter to her son in Japan. If you will excuse me a moment—”
“I think I have some,” interposed Parker.
“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Here is the twopence. I _never_
allow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser,
you know. Such a very _sensible_ invention, most _convenient_, and
prevents _all_ dispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so
much. And now I sign my name _across_ the stamps. That’s right, isn’t
it? My dear father would be surprised to find his daughter so
business-like. He always said a woman should never _need_ to know
anything about money matters, but times have changed so greatly, have
they not?”
Miss Climpson ushered them down all six flights of stairs, volubly
protesting at their protests, and the door closed behind them.
“May I ask—?” began Parker.
“It is not what you think,” said his lordship, earnestly.
“Of course not,” agreed Parker.
“There, I knew you had a nasty mind. Even the closest of one’s friends
turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which
they publicly repudiate.”
“Don’t be a fool. Who _is_ Miss Climpson?”
“Miss Climpson,” said Lord Peter, “is a manifestation of the wasteful
way in which this country is run. Look at electricity. Look at
water-power. Look at the tides. Look at the sun. Millions of power units
being given off into space every minute. Thousands of old maids, simply
bursting with useful energy, forced by our stupid social system into
hydros and hotels and communities and hostels and posts as companions,
where their magnificent gossip-powers and units of inquisitiveness are
allowed to dissipate themselves or even become harmful to the community,
while the ratepayers’ money is spent on getting work for which these
women are providentially fitted, inefficiently carried out by
ill-equipped policemen like you. My god! it’s enough to make a man write
to _John Bull_. And then bright young men write nasty little patronising
books called ‘Elderly Women,’ and ‘On the Edge of the Explosion’—and the
drunkards make songs upon ’em, poor things.”
“Quite, quite,” said Parker. “You mean that Miss Climpson is a kind of
inquiry agent for you.”
“She is my ears and tongue,” said Lord Peter, dramatically, “and
especially my nose. She asks questions which a young man could not put
without a blush. She is the angel that rushes in where fools get a clump
on the head. She can smell a rat in the dark. In fact, she is the cat’s
whiskers.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Parker.
“Naturally—it is mine, therefore brilliant. Just think. People want
questions asked. Whom do they send? A man with large flat feet and a
notebook—the sort of man whose private life is conducted in a series of
inarticulate grunts. I send a lady with a long, woolly jumper on
knitting-needles and jingly things round her neck. Of course she asks
questions—everyone expects it. Nobody is surprised. Nobody is alarmed.
And so-called superfluity is agreeably and usefully disposed of. One of
these days you will put up a statue to me, with an inscription:
“‘To the Man who Made
Thousands of Superfluous Women
Happy
without Injury to their Modesty
or Exertion to Himself.’”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much,” complained his friend. “And how
about all those type-written reports? Are you turning philanthropist in
your old age?”
“No—no,” said Wimsey, rather hurriedly hailing a taxi. “Tell you about
that later. Little private pogrom of my own—Insurance against the
Socialist Revolution—when it comes. ‘What did you do with your great
wealth, comrade?’ ‘I bought First Editions.’ ‘Aristocrat! à la
lanterne!’ ‘Stay, spare me! I took proceedings against 500 money-lenders
who oppressed the workers.’ ‘Citizen, you have done well. We will spare
your life. You shall be promoted to cleaning out the sewers.’ Voilà! We
must move with the times. Citizen taxi-driver, take me to the British
Museum. Can I drop you anywhere? No? So long. I am going to collate a
12th century manuscript of Tristan, while the old order lasts.”
Mr. Parker thoughtfully boarded a westward-bound ’bus and was rolled
away to do some routine questioning, on his own account, among the
female population of Notting Dale. It did not appear to him to be a
milieu in which the talents of Miss Climpson could be usefully employed.
CHAPTER IV
A Bit Mental
“_A babbled of green fields._”
_King Henry V_
_Letter from Miss Alexandra Katherine Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey._
C/o Mrs. Hamilton Budge,
Fairview, Nelson Avenue,
Leahampton, Hants.
April 29th, 1927.
My dear Lord Peter,
You will be happy to hear, after my _two previous_ bad shots (!), that
I have found the _right_ place at last. The Agatha Dawson certificate
is the _correct_ one, and the dreadful _scandal_ about Dr. Carr is
still very much alive, I am sorry to say for the sake of _human
nature_. I have been fortunate enough to secure rooms in the _very
next street_ to Wellington Avenue, where Miss Dawson used to live. My
landlady seems a very nice woman, though a _terrible gossip_!—which is
_all to the good_!! Her charge for a very pleasant bedroom and
sitting-room with _full board_ is 3½ guineas weekly. I trust you will
not think this _too extravagant_, as the situation is _just_ what you
wished me to look for. I enclose a careful statement of my expenses
up-to-date. You will _excuse_ the mention of _underwear_, which is, I
fear, a somewhat large item! but wool is so expensive nowadays, and it
is necessary that every detail of my equipment should be suitable to
my (supposed!) position in life. I have been careful to _wash_ the
garments through, so that they do not look _too new_, as this might
have a _suspicious_ appearance!!
But you will be anxious for me to (if I may use a vulgar expression)
‘cut the cackle, and come to the horses’ (!!). On the day after my
arrival, I informed Mrs. Budge that I was a great sufferer from
_rheumatism_ (which is quite true, as I have a sad legacy of that kind
left me by, alas! my _port-drinking_ ancestors!)—and inquired what
_doctors_ there were in the neighbourhood. This at once brought forth
a _long catalogue_, together with a _grand panegyric_ of the sandy
soil and healthy situation of the town. I said I should prefer an
_elderly_ doctor, as the _young men_, in my opinion, were _not to be
depended on_. Mrs. Budge heartily agreed with me, and a little
discreet questioning brought out the _whole story_ of Miss Dawson’s
illness and the ‘carryings-on’ (as she termed them) of Dr. Carr and
_the nurse_! “I never did trust that first nurse,” said Mrs. Budge,
“for all she had her training at Guy’s and ought to have been
trustworthy. A sly, red-headed, _baggage_, and it’s my belief that all
Dr. Carr’s fussing over Miss Dawson and his visits all day and every
day were just to get love-making with Nurse Philliter. No wonder poor
Miss Whittaker couldn’t stand it any longer and gave the girl the
sack—none too soon, in my opinion. Not quite so attentive after that,
Dr. Carr wasn’t—why, up to the last minute, he was pretending the old
lady was quite all right, when Miss Whittaker had only said the day
before that she felt sure she was going to be taken from us.”
I asked if Mrs. Budge knew Miss Whittaker personally. Miss Whittaker
is _the niece_, you know.
Not personally, she said, though she had met her in a social way at
the Vicarage working-parties. But she knew all about it, because her
maid was own sister to the maid at Miss Dawson’s. Now is not that a
_fortunate_ coincidence, for you know how these girls _talk_!
I also made careful inquiries about the _Vicar_, Mr. Tredgold, and was
much gratified to find that he teaches _sound Catholic_ doctrine, so
that I shall be able to attend the Church (S. Onesimus) without doing
_violence_ to my religious beliefs—a thing I could _not_ undertake to
do, _even in your interests_. I am sure you will _understand_ this. As
it happens, _all is well_, and I have written to my _very good
friend_, the Vicar of S. Edfrith’s, Holborn, to ask for an
introduction to Mr. Tredgold. By this means, I feel sure of meeting
_Miss Whittaker_ before long, as I hear she is quite a “pillar of the
Church”! I do hope it is not wrong to make use of the Church of God to
a _worldly_ end; but after all, you are only seeking to establish
_Truth_ and _Justice_!—and in so good a cause, we may _perhaps_ permit
ourselves to be a little bit _JESUITICAL_!!!
This is all I have been able to do as yet, but I shall not be _idle_,
and will write to you again as soon as I have _anything to report_. By
the way, the _pillar-box_ is most _conveniently_ placed just at the
corner of Wellington Avenue, so that I can easily _run out_ and post
my letters to you _myself_ (away from _prying_ eyes!!)—and just take a
little peep at Miss _Dawson’s_—now Miss _Whittaker’s_—house, “The
Grove,” at the same time.
Believe me,
Sincerely yours,
Alexandra Katherine Climpson.
The little red-headed nurse gave her visitor a quick, slightly hostile
look-over.
“It’s quite all right,” he said apologetically, “I haven’t come to sell
you soap or gramophones, or to borrow money or enroll you in the Ancient
Froth-blowers or anything charitable. I really am Lord Peter Wimsey—I
mean, that really is my title, don’t you know, not a Christian name like
Sanger’s Circus or Earl Derr Biggers. I’ve come to ask you some