Unnatural death
Climpson, and starting a poultry-farm at Alford.”
“Certainly not that I know of. Miss Climpson and I have only just met
one another.” The tone of Miss Whittaker’s voice suggested that the
first meeting might very willingly be the last so far as she was
concerned.
“Oh dear!” cried the youngest Miss Findlater, who was fair and bobbed
and rather coltish, “I believe I’ve dropped a brick. I’m _sure_ Mrs.
Peasgood understood that it was all settled.” She appealed to Miss
Climpson again.
“_Quite_ a mistake!” said that lady, energetically, “what _must_ you be
thinking of me, Miss Whittaker? _Of course_, I could not _possibly_ have
said such a thing. I only happened to mention—in the most _casual_ way,
that I was looking—that is, _thinking_ of looking about—for a house in
the neighbourhood of the Church—so convenient, you know, for _Early
Services_ and _Saints’ Days_—and it was suggested—just _suggested_, I
really forget by _whom_, that you _might_, just _possibly_, at _some_
time, consider letting your house. I assure you, that was _all_.” In
saying which, Miss Climpson was not wholly accurate or disingenuous, but
excused herself to her conscience on the rather jesuitical grounds that
where so much responsibility was floating about, it was best to pin it
down in the quarter which made for peace. “Miss Murgatroyd,” she added,
“put me right at once, for she said you were _certainly_ not thinking of
any such thing, or you would have told her before anybody else.”
Miss Whittaker laughed.
“But I shouldn’t,” she said, “I should have told my house-agent. It’s
quite true, I did have it in mind, but I certainly haven’t taken any
steps.”
“You really are thinking of doing it, then?” cried Miss Findlater. “I do
hope so—because, if you do, I mean to apply for a job on the farm! I’m
simply longing to get away from all these silly tennis-parties and
things, and live close to the Earth and the fundamental crudities. Do
you read Sheila Kaye-Smith?”
Miss Climpson said no, but she was very fond of Thomas Hardy.
“It really is terrible, living in a little town like this,” went on Miss
Findlater, “so full of aspidistras, you know, and small gossip. You’ve
no idea what a dreadfully gossipy place Leahampton is, Miss Climpson.
I’m sure, Mary dear, you must have had more than enough of it, with that
tiresome Dr. Carr and the things people said. I don’t wonder you’re
thinking of getting rid of that house. I shouldn’t think you could ever
feel comfortable in it again.”
“Why on earth not?” said Miss Whittaker, lightly. Too lightly? Miss
Climpson was startled to recognise in eye and voice the curious quick
defensiveness of the neglected spinster who cries out that she has no
use for men.
“Oh well,” said Miss Findlater, “I always think it’s a little sad,
living where people have died, you know. Dear Miss Dawson—though of
course it really was merciful that she should be released—all the same—”
Evidently, thought Miss Climpson, she was turning the matter off. The
atmosphere of suspicion surrounding the death had been in her mind, but
she shied at referring to it.
“There are very few houses in which somebody hasn’t died sometime or
other,” said Miss Whittaker. “I really can’t see why people should worry
about it. I suppose it’s just a question of not realising. We are not
sensitive to the past lives of people we don’t know. Just as we are much
less upset about epidemics and accidents that happen a long way off. Do
you really suppose, by the way, Miss Climpson, that this Chinese
business is coming to anything? Everybody seems to take it very
casually. If all this rioting and Bolshevism was happening in Hyde Park,
there’d be a lot more fuss made about it.”
Miss Climpson made a suitable reply. That night she wrote to Lord Peter:
Miss Whittaker has asked me to tea. She tells me that, _much as she
would enjoy_ an active, country life, with something definite to do,
she has a _deep affection_ for the house in Wellington Avenue, and
_cannot tear herself away_. She seems _very anxious_ to give this
impression. Would it be _fair_ for me to say “The lady doth protest
_too much_, methinks”? The _Prince of Denmark_ might even add: “Let
the galled jade wince”—if one can use that expression of a _lady_. How
wonderful Shakespeare is! One can _always_ find a phrase in his works
for _any_ situation!
CHAPTER VI
Found Dead
“_Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies._”
Chapman, _The Widow’s Tears_
“You know, Wimsey, I think you’ve found a mare’s nest,” objected Mr.
Parker. “I don’t believe there’s the slightest reason for supposing that
there was anything odd about the Dawson woman’s death. You’ve nothing to
go on but a conceited young doctor’s opinion and a lot of silly gossip.”
“You’ve got an official mind, Charles,” replied his friend. “Your
official passion for evidence is gradually sapping your brilliant
intellect and smothering your instincts. You’re over-civilised, that’s
your trouble. Compared with you, I am a child of nature. I dwell among
the untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove, a maid whom there are (I
am shocked to say) few to praise, likewise very few to love, which is
perhaps just as well. I _know_ there is something wrong about this
case.”
“How?”
“How?—well, just as I know there is something wrong about that case of
reputed Lafite ’76 which that infernal fellow Pettigrew-Robinson had the
nerve to try out on me the other night. It has a nasty flavour.”
“Flavour be damned. There’s no indication of violence or poison. There’s
no motive for doing away with the old girl. And there’s no possibility
of proving anything against anybody.”
Lord Peter selected a Villar y Villar from his case, and lighted it with
artistic care.
“Look here,” he said, “will you take a bet about it? I’ll lay you ten to
one that Agatha Dawson was murdered, twenty to one that Mary Whittaker
did it, and fifty to one that I bring it home to her within the year.
Are you on?”
Parker laughed. “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” he temporised.
“There you are,” said Lord Peter, triumphantly, “you’re not comfortable
about it yourself. If you were, you’d have said, ‘It’s taking your
money, old chap,’ and closed like a shot, in the happy assurance of a
certainty.”
“I’ve seen enough to know that nothing is a certainty,” retorted the
detective, “but I’ll take you—in—half-crowns,” he added, cautiously.
“Had you said ponies,” replied Lord Peter, “I would have taken your
alleged poverty into consideration and spared you, but
seven-and-sixpence will neither make nor break you. Consequently, I
shall proceed to make my statements good.”
“And what step do you propose taking?” inquired Parker, sarcastically.
“Shall you apply for an exhumation order and search for poison,
regardless of the analyst’s report? Or kidnap Miss Whittaker and apply
the third-degree in the Gallic manner?”
“Not at all. I am more modern. I shall use up-to-date psychological
methods. Like the people in the Psalms, I lay traps; I catch men. I
shall let the alleged criminal convict herself.”
“Go on! You are a one, aren’t you?” said Parker, jeeringly.
“I am indeed. It is a well-established psychological fact that criminals
cannot let well alone. They—”
“Revisit the place of the crime?”
“Don’t interrupt, blast you. They take unnecessary steps to cover the
traces which they haven’t left, and so invite, seriatim, Suspicion,
Inquiry, Proof, Conviction and the Gallows. Eminent legal writers—no,
pax! don’t chuck that S. Augustine about, it’s valuable. Anyhow, not to
cast the jewels of my eloquence into the pig-bucket, I propose to insert
this advertisement in all the morning papers. Miss Whittaker must read
_some_ product of our brilliant journalistic age, I suppose. By this
means, we shall kill two birds with one stone.”
“Start two hares at once, you mean,” grumbled Parker. “Hand it over.”
“Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed, formerly in the service of Miss Agatha
Dawson, of ‘The Grove,’ Wellington Avenue, Leahampton, are requested
to communicate with J. Murbles, solicitor, of Staple Inn, when they
will hear of SOMETHING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE.”
“Rather good, I think, don’t you?” said Wimsey. “Calculated to rouse
suspicion in the most innocent mind. I bet you Mary Whittaker will fall
for that.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. That’s what’s so interesting. I hope nothing unpleasant
will happen to dear old Murbles. I should hate to lose him. He’s such a
perfect type of the family solicitor. Still, a man in his profession
must be prepared to take risks.”
“Oh, bosh!” said Parker. “But I agree that it might be as well to get
hold of the girls, if you really want to find out about the Dawson
household. Servants always know everything.”
“It isn’t only that. Don’t you remember that Nurse Philliter said the
girls were sacked shortly before she left herself? Now, passing over the
odd circumstances of the Nurse’s own dismissal—the story about Miss
Dawson’s refusing to take food from her hands, which wasn’t at all borne
out by the old lady’s own attitude to her nurse—isn’t it worth
considerin’ that these girls should have been pushed off on some excuse
just about three weeks after one of those hysterical attacks of Miss
Dawson’s? Doesn’t it rather look as though everybody who was likely to
remember anything about that particular episode had been got out of the
way?”
“Well, there was a good reason for getting rid of the girls.”
“Crockery?—well, nowadays it’s not so easy to get good servants.
Mistresses put up with a deal more carelessness than they did in the
dear dead days beyond recall. Then, about that attack. Why did Miss
Whittaker choose just the very moment when the highly-intelligent Nurse
Philliter had gone for her walk, to bother Miss Dawson about signin’
some tiresome old lease or other? If business was liable to upset the
old girl, why not have a capable person at hand to calm her down?”
“Oh, but Miss Whittaker is a trained nurse. She was surely capable
enough to see to her aunt herself.”
“I’m perfectly sure she was a very capable woman indeed,” said Wimsey,
with emphasis.
“Oh, all right. You’re prejudiced. But stick the ad. in by all means. It
can’t do any harm.”
Lord Peter paused, in the very act of ringing the bell. His jaw
slackened, giving his long, narrow face a faintly foolish and hesitant
look, reminiscent of the heroes of Mr. P. G. Wodehouse.
“You don’t think—” he began. “Oh! rats!” He pressed the button. “It
_can’t_ do any harm, as you say. Bunter, see that this advertisement
appears in the personal columns of all this list of papers, every day
until further notice.”
The advertisement made its first appearance on the Tuesday morning.
Nothing of any note happened during the week, except that Miss Climpson
wrote in some distress to say that the youngest Miss Findlater had at
length succeeded in persuading Miss Whittaker to take definite steps
about the poultry farm. They had gone away together to look at a
business which they had seen advertised in the _Poultry News_, and
proposed to be away for some weeks. Miss Climpson feared that under the
circumstances she would not be able to carry on any investigations of
sufficient importance to justify her _far too generous_ salary. She had,
however, become friendly with Miss Findlater, who had promised to tell
her _all about_ their doings. Lord Peter replied in reassuring terms.
On the Tuesday following, Mr. Parker was just wrestling in prayer with
his charlady, who had a tiresome habit of boiling his breakfast kippers
till they resembled heavily pickled loofahs, when the telephone whirred
aggressively.