Whose Body? A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel
“May I ask the meaning of this extraordinary question?” he inquired
stiffly.
“Well,” said Lord Peter, “the circumstances are a little unusual. You
may recollect that my advertisement was addressed to the jeweller who
sold the chain.”
“That surprised me at the time,” said Mr. Crimplesham, “but I begin to
think your advertisement and your behaviour are all of a piece.”
“They are,” said Lord Peter. “As a matter of fact I did not expect
the owner of the glasses to answer my advertisement. Mr. Crimplesham,
you have no doubt read what the papers have to say about the Battersea
Park mystery. Your glasses are the pair that was found on the body, and
they are now in the possession of the police at Scotland Yard, as you
may see by this.” He placed the specification of the glasses and the
official note before Crimplesham.
“Good God!” exclaimed the lawyer. He glanced at the paper, and then
looked narrowly at Lord Peter.
“Are you yourself connected with the police?” he inquired.
“Not officially,” said Lord Peter. “I am investigating the matter
privately, in the interests of one of the parties.”
Mr. Crimplesham rose to his feet.
“My good man,” he said, “this is a very impudent attempt, but blackmail
is an indictable offence, and I advise you to leave my office before
you commit yourself.” He rang the bell.
“I was afraid you’d take it like that,” said Lord Peter. “It looks as
though this ought to have been my friend Detective Parker’s job, after
all.” He laid Parker’s card on the table beside the specification, and
added: “If you should wish to see me again, Mr. Crimplesham, before
tomorrow morning, you will find me at the Minster Hotel.”
Mr. Crimplesham disdained to reply further than to direct the clerk who
entered to “show this person out.”
* * * * *
In the entrance Lord Peter brushed against a tall young man who was
just coming in, and who stared at him with surprised recognition.
His face, however, aroused no memories in Lord Peter’s mind, and that
baffled nobleman, calling out Bunter from the newspaper shop, departed
to his hotel to get a trunk-call through to Parker.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in the office, the meditations of the indignant Mr.
Crimplesham were interrupted by the entrance of his junior partner.
“I say,” said the latter gentleman, “has somebody done something really
wicked at last? Whatever brings such a distinguished amateur of crime
on our sober doorstep?”
“I have been the victim of a vulgar attempt at blackmail,” said the
lawyer; “an individual passing himself off as Lord Peter Wimsey—”
“But that _is_ Lord Peter Wimsey,” said Mr. Wicks, “there’s no
mistaking him. I saw him give evidence in the Attenbury emerald case.
He’s a big little pot in his way, you know, and goes fishing with the
head of Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Crimplesham.
* * * * *
Fate arranged that the nerves of Mr. Crimplesham should be tried that
afternoon. When, escorted by Mr. Wicks, he arrived at the Minster
Hotel, he was informed by the porter that Lord Peter Wimsey had
strolled out, mentioning that he thought of attending Evensong. “But
his man is here, sir,” he added, “if you’d like to leave a message.”
Mr. Wicks thought that on the whole it would be well to leave a
message. Mr. Bunter, on inquiry, was found to be sitting by the
telephone, waiting for a trunk-call. As Mr. Wicks addressed him the
bell rang, and Mr. Bunter, politely excusing himself, took down the
receiver.
“Hullo!” he said. “Is that Mr. Parker? Oh, thanks! Exchange! Exchange!
Sorry, can you put me through to Scotland Yard? Excuse me, gentlemen,
keeping you waiting.—Exchange! all right—Scotland Yard—Hullo! Is that
Scotland Yard?—Is Detective Parker round there?—Can I speak to him?—I
shall have done in a moment, gentlemen.—Hullo! is that you, Mr. Parker?
Lord Peter would be much obliged if you could find it convenient to
step down to Salisbury, sir. Oh, no, sir, he’s in excellent health,
sir—just stepped round to hear Evensong, sir—oh, no, I think tomorrow
morning would do excellently, sir, thank you, sir.”
CHAPTER VI
It was, in fact, inconvenient for Mr. Parker to leave London. He
had had to go and see Lady Levy towards the end of the morning, and
subsequently his plans for the day had been thrown out of gear and his
movements delayed by the discovery that the adjourned inquest of Mr.
Thipps’s unknown visitor was to be held that afternoon, since nothing
very definite seemed forthcoming from Inspector Sugg’s inquiries. Jury
and witnesses had been convened accordingly for three o’clock. Mr.
Parker might altogether have missed the event, had he not run against
Sugg that morning at the Yard and extracted the information from him
as one would a reluctant tooth. Inspector Sugg, indeed, considered Mr.
Parker rather interfering; moreover, he was hand-in-glove with Lord
Peter Wimsey, and Inspector Sugg had no words for the interferingness
of Lord Peter. He could not, however, when directly questioned, deny
that there was to be an inquest that afternoon, nor could he prevent
Mr. Parker from enjoying the inalienable right of any interested
British citizen to be present. At a little before three, therefore, Mr.
Parker was in his place, and amusing himself with watching the efforts
of those persons who arrived after the room was packed to insinuate,
bribe or bully themselves into a position of vantage. The Coroner,
a medical man of precise habits and unimaginative aspect, arrived
punctually, and looking peevishly round at the crowded assembly,
directed all the windows to be opened, thus letting in a stream of
drizzling fog upon the heads of the unfortunates on that side of the
room. This caused a commotion and some expressions of disapproval,
checked sternly by the Coroner, who said that with the influenza about
again an unventilated room was a death-trap; that anybody who chose to
object to open windows had the obvious remedy of leaving the court, and
further, that if any disturbance was made he would clear the court.
He then took a Formamint lozenge, and proceeded, after the usual
preliminaries, to call up fourteen good and lawful persons and swear
them diligently to inquire and a true presentment make of all matters
touching the death of the gentleman with the pince-nez and to give
a true verdict according to the evidence, so help them God. When an
expostulation by a woman juror—an elderly lady in spectacles who kept a
sweet-shop, and appeared to wish she was back there—had been summarily
quashed by the Coroner, the jury departed to view the body. Mr. Parker
gazed round again and identified the unhappy Mr. Thipps and the girl
Gladys led into an adjoining room under the grim guard of the police.
They were soon followed by a gaunt old lady in a bonnet and mantle.
With her, in a wonderful fur coat and a motor bonnet of fascinating
construction, came the Dowager Duchess of Denver, her quick, dark
eyes darting hither and thither about the crowd. The next moment they
had lighted on Mr. Parker, who had several times visited the Dower
House, and she nodded to him, and spoke to a policeman. Before long,
a way opened magically through the press, and Mr. Parker found himself
accommodated with a front seat just behind the Duchess, who greeted him
charmingly, and said: “What’s happened to poor Peter?” Parker began to
explain, and the Coroner glanced irritably in their direction. Somebody
went up and whispered in his ear, at which he coughed, and took another
Formamint.
“We came up by car,” said the Duchess—“so tiresome—such bad roads
between Denver and Gunbury St. Walters—and there were people coming
to lunch—I had to put them off—I couldn’t let the old lady go alone,
could I? By the way, such an odd thing’s happened about the Church
Restoration Fund—the Vicar—oh, dear, here are these people coming
back again; well, I’ll tell you afterwards—do look at that woman
looking shocked, and the girl in tweeds trying to look as if she sat
on undraped gentlemen every day of her life—I don’t mean that—corpses
of course—but one finds oneself being so Elizabethan nowadays—what
an awful little man the coroner is, isn’t he? He’s looking daggers at
me—do you think he’ll dare to clear me out of the court or commit me
for what-you-may-call-it?”
The first part of the evidence was not of great interest to Mr. Parker.
The wretched Mr. Thipps, who had caught cold in gaol, deposed in an
unhappy croak to having discovered the body when he went in to take his
bath at eight o’clock. He had had such a shock, he had to sit down and
send the girl for brandy. He had never seen the deceased before. He had
no idea how he came there.
Yes, he had been in Manchester the day before. He had arrived at St.
Pancras at ten o’clock. He had cloak-roomed his bag. At this point Mr.
Thipps became very red, unhappy and confused, and glanced nervously
about the court.
“Now, Mr. Thipps,” said the Coroner, briskly, “we must have your
movements quite clear. You must appreciate the importance of the
matter. You have chosen to give evidence, which you need not have done,
but having done so, you will find it best to be perfectly explicit.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Thipps faintly.
“Have you cautioned this witness, officer?” inquired the Coroner,
turning sharply to Inspector Sugg.
The Inspector replied that he had told Mr. Thipps that anything he said
might be used agin’ him at his trial. Mr. Thipps became ashy, and said
in a bleating voice that he ’adn’t—hadn’t meant to do anything that
wasn’t right.
This remark produced a mild sensation, and the Coroner became even more
acidulated in manner than before.
“Is anybody representing Mr. Thipps?” he asked, irritably. “No? Did you
not explain to him that he could—that he _ought_ to be represented? You
did not? Really, Inspector! Did you not know, Mr. Thipps, that you had
a right to be legally represented?”
Mr. Thipps clung to a chair-back for support, and said, “No,” in a
voice barely audible.
“It is incredible,” said the Coroner, “that so-called educated people
should be so ignorant of the legal procedure of their own country. This
places us in a very awkward position. I doubt, Inspector, whether I
should permit the prisoner—Mr. Thipps—to give evidence at all. It is a
delicate position.”
The perspiration stood on Mrs. Thipps’s forehead.
“Save us from our friends,” whispered the Duchess to Parker. “If that
cough-drop-devouring creature had openly instructed those fourteen
people—and what unfinished-looking faces they have—so characteristic, I
always think, of the lower middle-class, rather like sheep, or calves’
head (boiled, I mean), to bring in wilful murder against the poor
little man, he couldn’t have made himself plainer.”
“He can’t let him incriminate himself, you know,” said Parker.
“Stuff!” said the Duchess. “How could the man incriminate himself when
he never did anything in his life? You men never think of anything but
your red tape.”
Meanwhile Mr. Thipps, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, had summoned
up courage. He stood up with a kind of weak dignity, like a small white
rabbit brought to bay.
“I would rather tell you,” he said, “though it’s reelly very unpleasant
for a man in my position. But I reelly couldn’t have it thought for a
moment that I’d committed this dreadful crime. I assure you, gentlemen,
I _couldn’t bear_ that. No. I’d rather tell you the truth, though I’m
afraid it places me in rather a—well, I’ll tell you.”
“You fully understand the gravity of making such a statement, Mr.
Thipps,” said the Coroner.
“Quite,” said Mr. Thipps. “It’s all right—I—might I have a drink of
water?”
“Take your time,” said the Coroner, at the same time robbing his remark