“Did you actually suspect—?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But—well, I wasn’t satisfied. By the way, it was very clear at the autopsy that the morphine had nothing to do with it. Death had occurred so soon after the injection that the drug had only partially dispersed from the arm. Now I think it over, I suppose it must have been shock, somehow.”
“Was the analysis privately made?”
“Yes; but of course the funeral was held up and things got round. The coroner heard about it and started to make inquiries, and the nurse, who got it into her head that I was accusing her of neglect or something, behaved in a very unprofessional way and created a lot of talk and trouble.”
“And nothing came of it?”
“Nothing. There was no trace of poison or anything of that sort, and the analysis left us exactly where we were. Naturally, I began to think I had made a ghastly exhibition of myself. Rather against my own professional judgment, I signed the certificate—heart failure following on shock, and my patient was finally got into her grave after a week of worry, without an inquest.”
“Grave?”
“Oh, yes. That was another scandal. The crematorium authorities, who are pretty particular, heard about the fuss and refused to act in the matter, so the body is filed in the church-yard for reference if necessary. There was a huge attendance at the funeral and a great deal of sympathy for the niece. The next day I got a note from one of my most influential patients, saying that my professional services would no longer be required. The day after that, I was avoided in the street by the Mayor’s wife. Presently I found my practice dropping away from me, and discovered I was getting known as ‘the man who practically accused that charming Miss So-and-so of murder.’ Sometimes it was the niece I was supposed to be accusing. Sometimes it was ‘that nice Nurse—not the flighty one who was dismissed, the other one, you know.’ Another version was, that I had tried to get the nurse into trouble because I resented the dismissal of my fiancée. Finally, I heard a rumour that the patient had discovered me ‘canoodling’—that was the beastly word—with my fiancée, instead of doing my job, and had done away with the old lady myself out of revenge—though why, in that case, I should have refused a certificate, my scandal-mongers didn’t trouble to explain.
“I stuck it out for a year, but my position became intolerable. The practice dwindled to practically nothing, so I sold it, took a holiday to get the taste out of my mouth—and here I am, looking for another opening. So that’s that—and the moral is, Don’t be officious about public duties.”
The doctor gave an irritated laugh, and flung himself back in his chair.
“I don’t care,” he added, combatantly, “the cats! Confusion to ’em!” and he drained his glass.
“Hear, hear!” agreed his host. He sat for a few moments looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“Do you know,” he said, suddenly, “I’m feeling rather interested by this case. I have a sensation of internal gloating which assures me that there is something to be investigated. That feeling has never failed me yet—I trust it never will. It warned me the other day to look into my income-tax assessment, and I discovered that I had been paying about £900 too much for the last three years. It urged me only last week to ask a bloke who was preparing to drive me over the Horseshoe Pass whether he had any petrol in the tank, and he discovered he had just about a pint—enough to get us nicely half-way round. It’s a very lonely spot. Of course, I knew the man, so it wasn’tallintuition. Still, I always make it a rule to investigate anything I feel like investigating. I believe,” he added, in a reminiscent tone, “I was a terror in my nursery days. Anyhow, curious cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact, I’m not just being the perfect listener. I have deceived you. I have an ulterior motive, said he, throwing off his side-whiskers and disclosing the well-known hollow jaws of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“I was beginning to have my suspicions,” said the doctor, after a short pause. “I think you must be Lord Peter Wimsey. I wondered why your face was so familiar, but of course it was in all the papers a few years ago when you disentangled the Riddlesdale Mystery.”
“Quite right. It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like expression, or anything unpleasant. This is the real sleuth—my friend Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. He’s the one who really does the work. I make imbecile suggestions and he does the work of elaborately disproving them. Then, by a process of elimination, we find the right explanation, and the world says, ‘My god, what intuition that young man has!’ Well, look here—if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a go at this. If you’ll entrust me with your name and address and the names of the parties concerned, I’d like very much to have a shot at looking into it.”
The doctor considered a moment, then shook his head.
“It’s very good of you, but I think I’d rather not. I’ve got into enough bothers already. Anyway, it isn’t professional to talk, and if I stirred up any more fuss, I should probably have to chuck this country altogether and end up as one of those drunken ship’s doctors in the South Seas or somewhere, who are always telling their life-history to people and delivering awful warnings. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. Thanks very much, all the same.”
“As you like,” said Wimsey. “But I’ll think it over, and if any useful suggestion occurs to me, I’ll let you know.”
“It’s very good of you,” replied the visitor, absently, taking his hat and stick from the man-servant, who had answered Wimsey’s ring. “Well, good night, and many thanks for hearing me so patiently. By the way, though,” he added, turning suddenly at the door, “how do you propose to let me know when you haven’t got my name and address?”
Lord Peter laughed.
“I’m Hawkshaw, the detective,” he answered, “and you shall hear from me anyhow before the end of the week.”
“There are two million more females than males in England and Wales! And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance.”Gilbert Frankau
“There are two million more females than males in England and Wales! And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance.”Gilbert Frankau
“What do you really think of that story?” inquired Parker. He had dropped in to breakfast with Wimsey the next morning, before departing in the Notting Dale direction, in quest of an elusive anonymous letter-writer. “I thought it sounded rather as though our friend had been a bit too cocksure about his grand medical specialising. After all, the old girl might so easily have had some sort of heart attack. She was very old and ill.”
“So she might, though I believe as a matter of fact cancer patients very seldom pop off in that unexpected way. As a rule, they surprise everybody by the way they cling to life. Still, I wouldn’t think much of that if it wasn’t for the niece. She prepared the way for the death, you see, by describing her aunt as so much worse than she was.”
“I thought the same when the doctor was telling his tale. But what did the niece do? She can’t have poisoned her aunt or even smothered her, I suppose, or they’d have found signs of it on the body. And the auntdiddie—so perhaps the niece was right and the opinionated young medico wrong.”
“Just so. And of course, we’ve only got his version of the niece and the nurse—and he obviously had what the Scotch call ta’en a scunner at the nurse. We mustn’t lose sight of her, by the way. She was the last person to be with the old lady before her death, and it was she who administered that injection.”
“Yes, yes—but the injection had nothing to do with it. If anything’s clear, that is. I say, do you think the nurse can have said anything that agitated the old lady and gave her a shock that way. The patient was a bit gaga, but she may have had sense enough to understand something really startling. Possibly the nurse just said something stupid about dying—the old lady appears to have been very sensitive on the point.”
“Ah!” said Lord Peter, “I was waiting for you to get on to that. Have you realised that there really is one rather sinister figure in the story, and that’s the family lawyer.”
“The one who came down to say something about the will, you mean, and was so abruptly sent packing.”
“Yes. Suppose he’d wanted the patient to make a will in favour of somebody quite different—somebody outside the story as we know it. And when he found he couldn’t get any attention paid to him, he sent the new nurse down as a sort of substitute.”
“It would be rather an elaborate plot,” said Parker, dubiously. “He couldn’t know that the doctor’s fiancée was going to be sent away. Unless he was in league with the niece, of course, and induced her to engineer the change of nurses.”
“That cock won’t fight, Charles. The niece wouldn’t be in league with the lawyer to get herself disinherited.”
“No, I suppose not. Still, I think there’s something in the idea that the old girl was either accidentally or deliberately startled to death.”
“Yes—and whichever way it was, it probably wasn’t legal murder in that case. However, I think it’s worth looking into. That reminds me.” He rang the bell. “Bunter, just take a note to the post for me, would you?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Lord Peter drew a writing pad towards him.
“What are you going to write?” asked Parker, looking over his shoulder with some amusement.
Lord Peter wrote:
“Isn’t civilisation wonderful?”
He signed this simple message and slipped it into an envelope.
“If you want to be immune from silly letters, Charles,” he said, “don’t carry your monomark in your hat.”
“And what do you propose to do next?” asked Parker. “Not, I hope, to send me round to Monomark House to get the name of a client. I couldn’t do that without official authority, and they would probably kick up an awful shindy.”
“No,” replied his friend, “I don’t propose violating the secrets of the confessional. Not in that quarter at any rate. I think, if you can spare a moment from your mysterious correspondent, who probably does not intend to be found, I will ask you to come and pay a visit to a friend of mine. It won’t take long. I think you’ll be interested. I—in fact, you’ll be the first person I’ve ever taken to see her. She will be very much touched and pleased.”
He laughed a little self-consciously.
“Oh,” said Parker, embarrassed. Although the men were great friends, Wimsey had always preserved a reticence about his personal affairs—not so much by concealing as by ignoring them. This revelation seemed to mark a new stage of intimacy, and Parker was not sure that he liked it. He conducted his own life with an earnest middle-class morality which he owed to his birth and up-bringing, and, while theoretically recognising that Lord Peter’s world acknowledged different standards, he had never contemplated being personally faced with any result of their application in practice.
“—rather an experiment,” Wimsey was saying a trifle shyly; “anyway, she’s quite comfortably fixed in a little flat in Pimlico. You can come, can’t you, Charles? I really should like you two to meet.”
“Oh, yes, rather,” said Parker, hastily, “I should like to very much. Er—how long—I mean—”
“Oh, the arrangement’s only been going a few months,” said Wimsey, leading the way to the lift, “but it really seems to be working out quite satisfactorily. Of course, it makes things much easier for me.”
“Just so,” said Parker.
“Of course, as you’ll understand—I won’t go into it all till we get there, and then you’ll see for yourself,” Wimsey chattered on, slamming the gates of the lift with unnecessary violence—“but, as I was saying, you’ll observe it’s quite a new departure. I don’t suppose there’s ever been anything exactly like it before. Of course, there’s nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said, but after all, I daresay all those wives and porcupines, as the child said, must have soured his disposition a little, don’t you know.”
“Quite,” said Parker. “Poor fish,” he added to himself, “theyalwaysseem to think it’s different.”
“Outlet,” said Wimsey, energetically, “hi! taxi! . . . outlet—everybody needs an outlet—97A, St. George’s Square—and after all, one can’t really blame people if it’s just that they need an outlet. I mean, why be bitter? They can’t help it. I think it’s much kinder to give them an outlet than to make fun of them in books—and, after all, it isn’t really difficult to write books. Especially if you either write a rotten story in good English or a good story in rotten English, which is as far as most people seem to get nowadays. Don’t you agree?”
Mr. Parker agreed, and Lord Peter wandered away along the paths of literature, till the cab stopped before one of those tall, awkward mansions which, originally designed for a Victorian family with fatigue-proof servants, have lately been dissected each into half a dozen inconvenient band-boxes and let off in flats.
Lord Peter rang the top bell, which was markedCLIMPSON, and relaxed negligently against the porch.
“Six flights of stairs,” he explained; “it takes her some time to answer the bell, because there’s no lift, you see. She wouldn’t have a more expensive flat, though. She thought it wouldn’t be suitable.”
Mr. Parker was greatly relieved, if somewhat surprised, by the modesty of the lady’s demands, and, placing his foot on the door-scraper in an easy attitude, prepared to wait with patience. Before many minutes, however, the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman, with a sharp, sallow face and very vivacious manner. She wore a neat, dark coat and skirt, a high-necked blouse and a long gold neck-chain with a variety of small ornaments dangling from it at intervals, and her iron-grey hair was dressed under a net, in the style fashionable in the reign of the late King Edward.
“Oh, Lord Peter! How very nice to see you. Rather anearlyvisit, but I’m sure you will excuse the sitting-room being a trifle in disorder.Docome in. The lists arequiteready for you. I finished them last night. In fact, I was just about to put on my hat and bring them round to you. I dohopeyou don’t think I have taken anunconscionabletime, but there was a quitesurprisingnumber of entries. It istoogood of you to trouble to call.”
“Not at all, Miss Climpson. This is my friend, Detective-Inspector Parker, whom I have mentioned to you.”
“How do you do, Mr. Parker—or ought I to say Inspector? Excuse me if I make mistakes—this is really the first time I have been in the hands of the police. I hope it’s not rude of me to say that. Please come up. A great many stairs, I am afraid, but I hope you do not mind. I do so like to behigh up. The air is so much better, and you know, Mr. Parker, thanks to Lord Peter’s great kindness, I have such abeautiful, airyview, right over the houses. I think one can work so muchbetterwhen one doesn’t feel cribbed, cabined and confined, as Hamlet says. Dear me! Mrs. Winbottlewillleave the pail on the stairs, and always in that very dark corner. I amcontinuallytelling her about it. If you keep close to the banisters you will avoid it nicely. Only one more flight. Here we are. Please overlook the untidiness. I always think breakfast things look souglywhen one has finished with them—almost sordid, to use a nasty word for a nasty subject. What a pity that some of these clever people can’t inventself-cleaningandself-clearingplates, is it not? But pleasedosit down; I won’t keep you a moment. And I know, Lord Peter, that you will not hesitate to smoke. I do so enjoy the smell of your cigarettes—quite delicious—and you are soverygood about extinguishing the ends.”
The little room was, as a matter of fact, most exquisitely neat, in spite of the crowded array of knick-knacks and photographs that adorned every available inch of space. The sole evidences of dissipation were an empty eggshell, a used cup and a crumby plate on a breakfast tray. Miss Climpson promptly subdued this riot by carrying the tray bodily on to the landing.
Mr. Parker, a little bewildered, lowered himself cautiously into a small arm-chair, embellished with a hard, fat little cushion which made it impossible to lean back. Lord Peter wriggled into the window-seat, lit a Sobriane and clasped his hands above his knees. Miss Climpson, seated upright at the table, gazed at him with a gratified air which was positively touching.
“I have goneverycarefully into all these cases,” she began, taking up a thick wad of type-script. “I’m afraid, indeed, my notes are rathercopious, but I trust the typist’s bill will not be considered too heavy. My handwriting is very clear, so I don’t think there can be any errors. Dear me! suchsadstories some of these poor women had to tell me! But I have investigated most fully, with the kind assistance of the clergyman—a very nice man and so helpful—and I feel sure that in the majority of the cases your assistance will bewell bestowed. If you would like to go through—”
“Not at the moment, Miss Climpson,” interrupted Lord Peter, hurriedly. “It’s all right, Charles—nothing whatever to do with Our Dumb Friends or supplying Flannel to Unmarried Mothers. I’ll tell you about it later. Just now, Miss Climpson, we want your help on something quite different.”
Miss Climpson produced a business-like notebook and sat at attention.
“The inquiry divides itself into two parts,” said Lord Peter. “The first part, I’m afraid, is rather dull. I want you (if you will be so good) to go down to Somerset House and search, or get them to search, through all the death-certificates for Hampshire in the month of November, 1925. I don’t know the town and I don’t know the name of the deceased. What you are looking for is the death-certificate of an old lady of 73; cause of death, cancer; immediate cause, heart failure; and the certificate will have been signed by two doctors, one of whom will be either a Medical Officer of Health, Police Surgeon, Certifying Surgeon under the Factory and Workshops Act, Medical Referee under the Workmen’s Compensation Act, Physician or Surgeon in a big General Hospital, or a man specially appointed by the Cremation authorities. If you want to give any excuse for the search, you can say that you are compiling statistics about cancer; but what you really want is the names of the people concerned and the name of the town.”
“Suppose there are more than one answering to the requirements?”
“Ah! that’s where the second part comes in, and where your remarkable tact and shrewdness are going to be so helpful to us. When you have collected all the ‘possibles,’ I shall ask you to go down to each of the towns concerned and make very, very skilful inquiries, to find out which is the case we want to get on to. Of course, you mustn’t appear to be inquiring. You must find some good gossipy lady living in the neighbourhood and just get her to talk in a natural way. You must pretend to be gossipy yourself—it’s not in your nature, I know, but I’m sure you can make a little pretense about it—and find out all you can. I fancy you’ll find it pretty easy if you once strike the right town, because I know for a certainty that there was a terrible lot of ill-natured talk about this particular death, and it won’t have been forgotten yet by a long chalk.”
“How shall I know when it’s the right one?”
“Well, if you can spare the time, I want you to listen to a little story. Mind you, Miss Climpson, when you get to wherever it is, you are not supposed ever to have heard a word of this tale before. But I needn’t tell you that. Now, Charles, you’ve got an official kind of way of puttin’ these things clearly. Will you just weigh in and give Miss Climpson the gist of that rigmarole our friend served out to us last night?”
Pulling his wits into order, Mr. Parker accordingly obliged with a digest of the doctor’s story. Miss Climpson listened with great attention, making notes of the dates and details. Parker observed that she showed great acumen in seizing on the salient points; she asked a number of very shrewd questions, and her grey eyes were intelligent. When he had finished, she repeated the story, and he was able to congratulate her on a clear head and retentive memory.
“A dear old friend of mine used to say that I should have made a very good lawyer,” said Miss Climpson, complacently, “but of course, when I was young, girls didn’t have the education or theopportunitiesthey get nowadays, Mr. Parker. I should have liked a good education, but my dear father didn’t believe in it for women. Very old-fashioned, you 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 mostunusualfor 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. Ineverallow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser, you know. Such a verysensibleinvention, mostconvenient, and preventsalldispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so much. And now I sign my nameacrossthe 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 neverneedto 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. WhoisMiss 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 toJohn 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 MadeThousands of Superfluous WomenHappywithout Injury to their Modestyor 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.
“A babbled of green fields.”King Henry V
“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 mytwo previousbad shots (!), that I have found therightplace at last. The Agatha Dawson certificate is thecorrectone, and the dreadfulscandalabout Dr. Carr is still very much alive, I am sorry to say for the sake ofhuman nature. I have been fortunate enough to secure rooms in thevery next streetto Wellington Avenue, where Miss Dawson used to live. My landlady seems a very nice woman, though aterrible gossip!—which isall to the good!! Her charge for a very pleasant bedroom and sitting-room withfull boardis 3½ guineas weekly. I trust you will not think thistoo extravagant, as the situation isjustwhat you wished me to look for. I enclose a careful statement of my expenses up-to-date. You willexcusethe mention ofunderwear, 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 towashthe garments through, so that they do not looktoo new, as this might have asuspiciousappearance!!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 fromrheumatism(which is quite true, as I have a sad legacy of that kind left me by, alas! myport-drinkingancestors!)—and inquired whatdoctorsthere were in the neighbourhood. This at once brought forth along catalogue, together with agrand panegyricof the sandy soil and healthy situation of the town. I said I should prefer anelderlydoctor, as theyoung men, in my opinion, werenot to be depended on. Mrs. Budge heartily agreed with me, and a little discreet questioning brought out thewhole storyof Miss Dawson’s illness and the ‘carryings-on’ (as she termed them) of Dr. Carr andthe 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 isthe 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 afortunatecoincidence, for you know how these girlstalk!I also made careful inquiries about theVicar, Mr. Tredgold, and was much gratified to find that he teachessound Catholicdoctrine, so that I shall be able to attend the Church (S. Onesimus) without doingviolenceto my religious beliefs—a thing I couldnotundertake to do,even in your interests. I am sure you willunderstandthis. As it happens,all is well, and I have written to myvery good friend, the Vicar of S. Edfrith’s, Holborn, to ask for an introduction to Mr. Tredgold. By this means, I feel sure of meetingMiss Whittakerbefore 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 aworldlyend; but after all, you are only seeking to establishTruthandJustice!—and in so good a cause, we mayperhapspermit ourselves to be a little bitJESUITICAL!!!This is all I have been able to do as yet, but I shall not beidle, and will write to you again as soon as I haveanything to report. By the way, thepillar-boxis mostconvenientlyplaced just at the corner of Wellington Avenue, so that I can easilyrun outand post my letters to youmyself(away frompryingeyes!!)—and just take a little peep at MissDawson’s—now MissWhittaker’s—house, “The Grove,” at the same time.Believe me,Sincerely yours,Alexandra Katherine Climpson.
C/o Mrs. Hamilton Budge,Fairview, Nelson Avenue,Leahampton, Hants.April 29th, 1927.
My dear Lord Peter,
You will be happy to hear, after mytwo previousbad shots (!), that I have found therightplace at last. The Agatha Dawson certificate is thecorrectone, and the dreadfulscandalabout Dr. Carr is still very much alive, I am sorry to say for the sake ofhuman nature. I have been fortunate enough to secure rooms in thevery next streetto Wellington Avenue, where Miss Dawson used to live. My landlady seems a very nice woman, though aterrible gossip!—which isall to the good!! Her charge for a very pleasant bedroom and sitting-room withfull boardis 3½ guineas weekly. I trust you will not think thistoo extravagant, as the situation isjustwhat you wished me to look for. I enclose a careful statement of my expenses up-to-date. You willexcusethe mention ofunderwear, 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 towashthe garments through, so that they do not looktoo new, as this might have asuspiciousappearance!!
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 fromrheumatism(which is quite true, as I have a sad legacy of that kind left me by, alas! myport-drinkingancestors!)—and inquired whatdoctorsthere were in the neighbourhood. This at once brought forth along catalogue, together with agrand panegyricof the sandy soil and healthy situation of the town. I said I should prefer anelderlydoctor, as theyoung men, in my opinion, werenot to be depended on. Mrs. Budge heartily agreed with me, and a little discreet questioning brought out thewhole storyof Miss Dawson’s illness and the ‘carryings-on’ (as she termed them) of Dr. Carr andthe 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 isthe 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 afortunatecoincidence, for you know how these girlstalk!
I also made careful inquiries about theVicar, Mr. Tredgold, and was much gratified to find that he teachessound Catholicdoctrine, so that I shall be able to attend the Church (S. Onesimus) without doingviolenceto my religious beliefs—a thing I couldnotundertake to do,even in your interests. I am sure you willunderstandthis. As it happens,all is well, and I have written to myvery good friend, the Vicar of S. Edfrith’s, Holborn, to ask for an introduction to Mr. Tredgold. By this means, I feel sure of meetingMiss Whittakerbefore 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 aworldlyend; but after all, you are only seeking to establishTruthandJustice!—and in so good a cause, we mayperhapspermit ourselves to be a little bitJESUITICAL!!!
This is all I have been able to do as yet, but I shall not beidle, and will write to you again as soon as I haveanything to report. By the way, thepillar-boxis mostconvenientlyplaced just at the corner of Wellington Avenue, so that I can easilyrun outand post my letters to youmyself(away frompryingeyes!!)—and just take a little peep at MissDawson’s—now MissWhittaker’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 questions, and I’ve no real excuse, I’m afraid, for butting in on you—do you ever read theNews of the World?”
Nurse Philliter decided that she was to be asked to go to a mental case, and that the patient had come to fetch her in person.
“Sometimes,” she said, guardedly.
“Oh—well, you may have noticed my name croppin’ up in a few murders and things lately. I sleuth, you know. For a hobby. Harmless outlet for natural inquisitiveness, don’t you see, which might otherwise strike inward and produce introspection an’ suicide. Very natural, healthy pursuit—not too strenuous, not too sedentary; trains and invigorates the mind.”
“I know who you are now,” said Nurse Philliter, slowly. “You—you gave evidence against Sir Julian Freke. In fact, you traced the murder to him, didn’t you?”
“I did—it was rather unpleasant,” said Lord Peter, simply, “and I’ve got another little job of the same kind in hand now, and I want your help.”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Nurse Philliter, setting the example. “How am I concerned in the matter?”
“You know Dr. Edward Carr, I think—late of Leahampton—conscientious but a little lackin’ in worldly wisdom—not serpentine at all, as the Bible advises, but far otherwise.”
“What!” she cried, “doyoubelieve it was murder, then?”
Lord Peter looked at her for a few seconds. Her face was eager, her eyes gleaming curiously under her thick, level brows. She had expressive hands, rather large and with strong, flat joints. He noticed how they gripped the arms of her chair.
“Haven’t the faintest,” he replied, nonchalantly, “but I wanted your opinion.”
“Mine?”—she checked herself. “You know, I am not supposed to give opinions about my cases.”
“You have given it to me already,” said his lordship, grinning. “Though possibly I ought to allow for a little prejudice in favour of Dr. Carr’s diagnosis.”
“Well, yes—but it’s not merely personal. I mean, my being engaged to Dr. Carr wouldn’t affect my judgment of a cancer case. I have worked with him on a great many of them, and I know that his opinion is really trustworthy—just as I know that, as a motorist, he’s exactly the opposite.”
“Right. I take it that if he says the death was inexplicable, it really was so. That’s one point gained. Now about the old lady herself. I gather she was a little queer towards the end—a bit mental, I think you people call it?”
“I don’t know that I’d say that either. Of course, when she was under morphia, she would be unconscious, or only semi-conscious, for hours together. But up to the time when I left, I should say she was quite—well, quite all there. She was obstinate, you know, and what they call a character, at the best of times.”
“But Dr. Carr told me she got odd fancies—about people poisoning her?”
The red-haired nurse rubbed her fingers slowly along the arm of the chair, and hesitated.
“If it will make you feel any less unprofessional,” said Lord Peter, guessing what was in her mind, “I may say that my friend Detective-Inspector Parker is looking into this matter with me, which gives me a sort of right to ask questions.”
“In that case—yes—in that case I think I can speak freely. I never understood about that poisoning idea. I never saw anything of it—no aversion, I mean, or fear of me. As a rule, a patient will show it, if she’s got any queer ideas about the nurse. Poor Miss Dawson was always most kind and affectionate. She kissed me when I went away and gave me a little present, and said she was sorry to lose me.”
“She didn’t show any sort of nervousness about taking food from you?”
“Well, I wasn’t allowed to give her any food that last week. Miss Whittaker said her aunt had taken this funny notion, and gave her all her meals herself.”
“Oh! that’s very interestin’. Was it Miss Whittaker, then, who first mentioned this little eccentricity to you?”
“Yes. And she begged me not to say anything about it to Miss Dawson, for fear of agitating her.”
“And did you?”
“I did not. I wouldn’t mention it in any case to a patient. It does no good.”
“Did Miss Dawson ever speak about it to anyone else? Dr. Carr, for instance?”
“No. According to Miss Whittaker, her aunt was frightened of the doctor too, because she imagined he was in league with me. Of course, that story rather lent colour to the unkind things that were said afterwards. I suppose it’s just possible that she saw us glancing at one another or speaking aside, and got the idea that we were plotting something.”
“How about the maids?”
“There were new maids about that time. She probably wouldn’t talk about it to them, and anyhow, I wouldn’t be discussing my patient with her servants.”
“Of course not. Why did the other maids leave? How many were there? Did they all go at once?”
“Two of them went. They were sisters. One was a terrible crockery-smasher, and Miss Whittaker gave her notice, so the other left with her.”
“Ah, well! one can have too much of seeing the Crown Derby rollin’ round the floor. Quite. Then it had nothing to do with—it wasn’t on account of any little—”
“It wasn’t because they couldn’t get along with the nurse, if you mean that,” said Nurse Philliter, with a smile. “They were very obliging girls, but not very bright.”
“Quite. Well, now, is there any little odd, out-of-the-way incident you can think of that might throw light on the thing. There was a visit from a lawyer, I believe, that agitated your patient quite a lot. Was that in your time?”
“No. I only heard about it from Dr. Carr. And he never heard the name of the lawyer, what he came about, or anything.”
“A pity,” said his lordship. “I have been hoping great things of the lawyer. There’s such a sinister charm, don’t you think, about lawyers who appear unexpectedly with little bags, and alarm people with mysterious conferences, and then go away leaving urgent messages that if anything happens they are to be sent for. If it hadn’t been for the lawyer, I probably shouldn’t have treated Dr. Carr’s medical problem with the respect it deserves. He never came again, or wrote, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute. I do remember one thing. I remember Miss Dawson having another hysterical attack of the same sort, and saying just what she said then—‘that they were trying to kill her before her time.’”
“When was that?”
“Oh, a couple of weeks before I left. Miss Whittaker had been up to her with the post, I think, and there were some papers of some kind to sign, and it seems to have upset her. I came in from my walk and found her in a dreadful state. The maids could have told you more about it than I could, really, for they were doing some dusting on the landing at the time and heard her going on, and they ran down and fetched me up to her. I didn’t ask them about what happened myself, naturally—it doesn’t do for nurses to gossip with the maids behind their employers’ backs. Miss Whittaker said that her aunt had had an annoying communication from a solicitor.”
“Yes, it sounds as though there might be something there. Do you remember what the maids were called?”
“What was the name now? A funny one, or I shouldn’t remember it—Gotobed, that was it—Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed. I don’t know where they went, but I daresay you could find out.”
“Now one last question, and I want you to forget all about Christian kindliness and the law of slander when you answer it. What is Miss Whittaker like?”
An indefinable expression crossed the nurse’s face.
“Tall, handsome, very decided in manner,” she said, with an air of doing strict justice against her will, “an extremely competent nurse—she was at the Royal Free, you know, till she went to live with her aunt. I think she would have made a perfectly wonderful theatre nurse. She did not like me, nor I her, you know, Lord Peter—and it’s better I should be telling you so at once, that way you can take everything I say about her with a grain of charity added—but we both knew good hospital work when we saw it, and respected one another.”
“Why in the world didn’t she like you, Miss Philliter? I really don’t know when I’ve seen a more likeable kind of person, if you’ll ’scuse my mentionin’ it.”
“I don’t know.” The nurse seemed a little embarrassed. “The dislike seemed to grow on her. You—perhaps you heard the kind of things people said in the town? when I left?—that Dr. Carr and I—Oh! it really was damnable, and I had the most dreadful interview with Matron when I got back here. Shemusthave spread those stories. Who else could have done it?”
“Well—youdidbecome engaged to Dr. Carr, didn’t you?” said his lordship, gently. “Mind you, I’m not sayin’ it wasn’t a very agreeable occurrence and all that, but—”
“But she said I neglected the patient. Ineverdid. I wouldn’t think of such a thing.”
“Of course not. No. But, do you suppose that possibly getting engaged was an offence in itself? Is Miss Whittaker engaged to anyone, by the way?”
“No. You mean, was she jealous? I’m sure Dr. Carr never gave the slightest, not theslightest—”
“Oh,please,” cried Lord Peter, “please don’t be ruffled. Such a nice word, ruffled—like a kitten, I always think—so furry and nice. But even without the least what-d’ye-call-it on Dr. Carr’s side, he’s a very prepossessin’ person and all that. Don’t you think theremightbe something in it?”
“I did think so once,” admitted Miss Philliter, “but afterwards, when she got him into such awful trouble over the post-mortem, I gave up the idea.”
“But she didn’t object to the post-mortem?”
“She did not. But there’s such a thing as putting yourself in the right in the eyes of your neighbours, Lord Peter, and then going off to tell people all about it at Vicarage tea-parties. I wasn’t there, but you ask someone who was. I know those tea-parties.”
“Well, it’s not impossible. People can be very spiteful if they think they’ve been slighted.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Nurse Philliter, thoughtfully. “But,” she added suddenly, “that’s no motive for murdering a perfectly innocent old lady.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word,” said Wimsey, gravely. “There’s no proof yet that it was murder.”
“I know that.”
“But you think it was?”