Whose Body? A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel
man before him. A man taller than himself, with immense breadth of
shoulder, and wonderful hands. A face beautiful, impassioned and
inhuman; fanatical, compelling eyes, bright blue amid the ruddy bush
of hair and beard. They were not the cool and kindly eyes of the family
doctor, they were the brooding eyes of the inspired scientist, and they
searched one through.
“Well,” thought Lord Peter, “I shan’t have to be explicit, anyhow.”
“Yes,” said Sir Julian, “yes. You had been working too hard. Puzzling
your mind. Yes. More than that, perhaps—troubling your mind, shall we
say?”
“I found myself faced with a very alarming contingency.”
“Yes. Unexpectedly, perhaps.”
“Very unexpected indeed.”
“Yes. Following on a period of mental and physical strain.”
“Well—perhaps. Nothing out of the way.”
“Yes. The unexpected contingency was—personal to yourself?”
“It demanded an immediate decision as to my own actions—yes, in that
sense it was certainly personal.”
“Quite so. You would have to assume some responsibility, no doubt.”
“A very grave responsibility.”
“Affecting others besides yourself?”
“Affecting one other person vitally, and a very great number
indirectly.”
“Yes. The time was night. You were sitting in the dark?”
“Not at first. I think I put the light out afterwards.”
“Quite so—that action would naturally suggest itself to you. Were you
warm?”
“I think the fire had died down. My man tells me that my teeth were
chattering when I went in to him.”
“Yes. You live in Piccadilly?”
“Yes.”
“Heavy traffic sometimes goes past during the night, I expect.”
“Oh, frequently.”
“Just so. Now this decision you refer to—you had taken that decision.”
“Yes.”
“Your mind was made up?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You had decided to take the action, whatever it was.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction.”
“Of comparative inaction—yes.”
“Of suspense, shall we say?”
“Yes—of suspense, certainly.”
“Possibly of some danger?”
“I don’t know that that was in my mind at the time.”
“No—it was a case in which you could not possibly consider yourself.”
“If you like to put it that way.”
“Quite so. Yes. You had these attacks frequently in 1918?”
“Yes—I was very ill for some months.”
“Quite. Since then they have recurred less frequently?”
“Much less frequently.”
“Yes—when did the last occur?”
“About nine months ago.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I was being worried by certain family matters. It was a question of
deciding about some investments, and I was largely responsible.”
“Yes. You were interested last year, I think, in some police case?”
“Yes—in the recovery of Lord Attenbury’s emerald necklace.”
“That involved some severe mental exercise?”
“I suppose so. But I enjoyed it very much.”
“Yes. Was the exertion of solving the problem attended by any bad
results physically?”
“None.”
“No. You were interested, but not distressed.”
“Exactly.”
“Yes. You have been engaged in other investigations of the kind?”
“Yes. Little ones.”
“With bad results for your health?”
“Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of
distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn’t make
matters any better for me, don’t you know.”
“Ah! you are not married?”
“No.”
“No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little
nearer to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had
till now?”
“Sir James Hodges’.”
“Ah! yes—he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great
man—a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with
this little invention.”
“What’s it do?”
“Well—it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?”
The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was
concluded, Sir Julian said:
“Now, Lord Peter, I’ll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical
language—”
“Thanks,” said Peter, “that’s kind of you. I’m an awful fool about long
words.”
“Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?”
“Not particularly,” said Peter, genuinely surprised. “Awful bore as a
rule. Why?”
“I thought you might be,” said the specialist, drily. “Well, now. You
know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war
has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in
your brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages
to your brain, and produced minute physical changes there—changes we
are only beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate
instruments. These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should
say, more accurately, that sensations are the names we give to these
changes of tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear,
sense of responsibility and so on.”
“Yes, I follow you.”
“Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain
again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if
you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we
call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make
disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn
physical changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed
to associate with them—dread of German mines, responsibility for the
lives of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish
small sounds through the overpowering noise of guns.”
“I see.”
“This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances producing
other familiar physical sensations—night, cold or the rattling of heavy
traffic, for instance.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary
exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when
you excite the injured part of your brain.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be
irresponsible, Lord Peter.”
“My friends say I’m only too irresponsible already.”
“Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing
to its mental nimbleness.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests
upon you?”
“Yes, it does.”
“You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have
decided?”
“Not yet.”
“You feel bound to carry it through?”
“Oh, yes—I can’t back out of it now.”
“No. You are expecting further strain?”
“A certain amount.”
“Do you expect it to last much longer?”
“Very little longer now.”
“Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be.”
“No?”
“No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while
undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete
rest. How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or
somewhere?”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you
something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good,
you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give
you a prescription.”
“Thank you.”
Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the
consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about—boiling something
and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic
syringe.
“Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your
sleeve, I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment.”
Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected
a portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine.
“What’s that you’re goin’ to stick into me. Bugs?”
The surgeon laughed.
“Not exactly,” he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his
finger and thumb. “You’ve had this kind of thing before, I expect.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated,
and the steady approach of the needle. “Yes—I’ve had it before—and,
d’you know—I don’t care frightfully about it.”
He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon’s
wrist like a vice.
The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned
down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly
lifted; the grey eyes met the blue—coldly, steadily—and held them.
When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their own
breathing. So the two men breathed face to face.
“As you like, of course, Lord Peter,” said Sir Julian, courteously.
“Afraid I’m rather a silly ass,” said Lord Peter, “but I never could
abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me
a rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous.”
“In that case,” replied Sir Julian, “it would certainly be better not
to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we
are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do
what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible.”
“Oh, yes—I’ll take it easy, thanks,” said Lord Peter. He rolled his
sleeve down neatly. “I’m much obliged to you. If I have any further
trouble I’ll look in again.”
“Do—do—” said Sir Julian, cheerfully. “Only make an appointment another
time. I’m rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well.
I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been
there. It would have interested you.”
CHAPTER XII
The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not
see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men’s graves.
The feel of Parker’s old trench-coat beneath your fingers was
comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear
you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were
like Brocken spectres.
“Take care, gentlemen,” said a toneless voice out of the yellow
darkness, “there’s an open grave just hereabouts.”
You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned
clay.
“Hold up, old man,” said Parker.
“Where is Lady Levy?”
“In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is
wonderful, Peter.”
“Isn’t she?” said Lord Peter.
A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.
“Here you are,” said a voice.
Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.
“Have you finished?” asked somebody.
“Nearly done, sir.” The demons fell to work again with the
pitchforks—no, spades.
Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.
“Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are
sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett.”
“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled
to the eyes.
The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools thrown
down. Demons stooping and straining.
A black-bearded spectre at your elbow. Introduced. The Master of the
Workhouse.
“A very painful matter, Lord Peter. You will forgive me for hoping you
and Mr. Parker may be mistaken.”
“I should like to be able to hope so too.”
Something heaving, straining, coming up out of the ground.
“Steady, men. This way. Can you see? Be careful of the graves—they lie
pretty thick hereabouts. Are you ready?”
“Right you are, sir. You go on with the lantern. We can follow you.”
Lumbering footsteps. Catch hold of Parker’s trench-coat again. “That
you, old man? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Levett—thought you were
Parker.”
“Hullo, Wimsey—here you are.”
More graves. A headstone shouldered crookedly aslant. A trip and jerk
over the edge of the rough grass. The squeal of gravel under your feet.
“This way, gentlemen, mind the step.”
The mortuary. Raw red brick and sizzling gas-jets. Two women in black,
and Dr. Grimbold. The coffin laid on the table with a heavy thump.
“’Ave you got that there screw-driver, Bill? Thank ’ee. Be keerful wi’