Have His Carcase

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘But he might have sold the stock?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out. I’ll have to be off now. I’ll try and be back tonight, so don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worrying,’ retorted Harriet, indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly happy.’

  ‘Splendid. Oh! While I’m about it, shall I see about getting a marriage-licence?’

  ‘Don’t trouble, thank you.’

  ‘Very well; I just thought I’d ask. I say, while I’m away, how would it be if you put in some good work with the other professional dancers here? You might get hold of some gossip about Paul Alexis.’

  ‘There’s something in that. But I’ll have to get a decent frock if there is such a thing in Wilvercombe.’

  ‘Well, get a wine-coloured one, then. I’ve always wanted to see you in wine-colour. It suits people with honey-coloured skin. (What an ugly word “skin” is.) “Blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured menuphar” – I always have a quotation for everything – it saves original thinking.’

  ‘Blast the man!’ said Harriet, left abruptly alone in the blue-plush lounge. Then she suddenly ran out down the steps and leapt upon the Daimler’s running-board.

  ‘Port or sherry?’ she demanded.

  ‘What?’ said Wimsey, taken aback.

  ‘The frock – port or sherry?’

  ‘Claret,’ said Wimsey. ‘Château Margaux 1893 or there-abouts. I’m not particular to a year or two.’

  He raised his hat and slipped in the clutch. As Harriet turned back, a voice, faintly familiar, accosted her:

  ‘Miss – er – Miss Vane? Might I speak to you for a moment?’

  It was the ‘predatory hag’ whom she had seen the evening before in the dance-lounge of the Resplendent.

  V

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE BETROTHED

  ‘He said, dear mother, I should be his countess;

  Today he’d come to fetch me, but with day

  I’ve laid my expectation in its grave.’

  The Bride’s Tragedy

  Friday, 19 June

  Harriet had almost forgotten the woman’s existence, but now the whole of the little episode came back to her, and she wondered how she could have been so stupid. The nervous waiting; the vague, enraptured look, changing gradually to peevish impatience; the inquiry for Mr Alexis; the hasty and chagrined departure from the room. Glancing at the woman’s face now, she saw it so old, so ravaged with grief and fear, that a kind of awkward delicacy made her avert her eyes and answer rather brusquely:

  ‘Yes, certainly. Come up to my room.’

  ‘It is very good of you,’ said the woman. She paused a moment and then added, as they walked across to the lift:

  ‘My name is Weldon – Mrs Weldon. I’ve been staying here some time. Mr Greely – the manager, that is – knows me very well.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Harriet. She realised that Mrs Weldon was trying to explain that she was not a confidence-trickster or an hotel-crook or a white-slave agent, and was herself trying to make it clear that she did not suppose Mrs Weldon to be any of these things. She felt shy and this made her speak gruffly. She saw a ‘scene’ looming ahead, and she was not one of those women who enjoy ‘scenes’. She led the way in a glum silence to Number 23, and begged her visitor to sit down.

  ‘It’s about,’ said Mrs Weldon, sinking into an armchair and clasping her lean hands over her expensive handbag – ‘it’s about – Mr Alexis. The chamber-maid told me a horrible story – I went to the manager – he wouldn’t tell me anything – I saw you with the police – and all those reporters were talking – they pointed you out – oh, Miss Vane, please tell me what has happened.’

  Harriet cleared her throat and began searching her pockets instinctively for cigarettes.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid something rather beastly has happened. You see – I happened to be down on the shore yesterday afternoon, and I found a man lying there – dead. And from what they say, I’m dreadfully afraid it was Mr Alexis.’

  No use beating about the bush. This forlorn creature with the dyed hair and haggard, painted face would have to know the truth. She struck a match and kept her eye on the flame.

  ‘That’s what I heard. Was it, do you know, was it a heart attack?’

  ‘Afraid not. No. They – seem to think he’ – (what was the gentlest form of words?) – ‘did it himself.’ (At any rate that avoided the word ‘suicide’.)

  ‘Oh, he couldn’t have! he couldn’t have! Indeed, Miss Vane, there must be a mistake. He must have had an accident.’

  Harriet shook her head.

  ‘But you don’t know – how could you? – how impossible it all is. But people shouldn’t say such cruel things. He was so perfectly happy – he couldn’t have done anything like that. Why, he—’ Mrs Weldon stopped, searching Harriet’s face with her famished eyes. ‘I heard them saying something about a razor – Miss Vane! What killed him?’

  There were no kindly words for this – not even a long, scientific, Latin name.

  ‘His throat was cut, Mrs Weldon.’

  (Brutal Saxon monosyllables.)

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Weldon seemed to shrink into a mere set of eyes and bones. ‘Yes – they said – they said – I couldn’t hear properly – I didn’t like to ask – and they all seemed so pleased about it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Harriet. ‘You see – these newspaper men – it’s what they live by. They don’t mean anything. It’s bread-and-butter to them. They can’t help it. And they couldn’t possibly know that it meant anything to you.’

  ‘No – but it does. But you – you don’t want to make it out worse than it is. I can trust you.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ said Harriet slowly, ‘but really and truly it could not have been an accident. I don’t want to give you the details, but believe me, there’s no possibility of accident.’

  ‘Then it can’t be Mr Alexis. Where is he? Can I see him?’

  Harriet explained that the body had not been recovered.

  ‘Then it must be somebody else! How do they know it is Paul?’

  Harriet reluctantly mentioned the photograph, knowing what the next request would be.

  ‘Show me the photograph.’

  ‘It isn’t very pleasant to look at.’

  ‘Show me the photograph. I couldn’t be deceived about it.’

  Better, perhaps, to set all doubt at rest. Harriet slowly produced the print. Mrs Weldon snatched it from her hand.

  ‘Oh, God! Oh, God! . . .’

  Harriet rang the bell and, stepping out into the corridor, caught the waiter and asked for a stiff whisky-and-soda. When it came, she took it in herself and made Mrs Weldon drink it. Then she fetched a clean handkerchief and waited for the storm to subside. She sat on the arm of the chair and patted Mrs Weldon rather helplessly on the shoulder. Mercifully, the crisis took the form of violent sobbing and not of hysterics. She felt an increased respect for Mrs Weldon. When the sobs had subsided a little, and the groping fingers began to fumble with the handbag, Harriet pushed the handkerchief into them.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Weldon, meekly. She began to wipe her eyes, daubing the linen with red and black streaks from her make-up. Then she blew her nose and sat up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, forlornly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Harriet, again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a shock. Perhaps you’d like to bathe your eyes a bit. It’ll make you feel better, don’t you think?’

  She supplied a sponge and towel. Mrs Weldon removed the grotesque traces of her grief and made her appearance from within the folds of the towel as a sallow-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, infinitely more dignified in her natural complexion. She made an instinctive movement towards her handbag, and then abandoned it.

  ‘I look awful,’ she said, with a dreary little laugh, ‘but – what’s it matter, now?’

  ‘I shouldn’t mind about it,’ said Harriet. ‘You look quite nice. Real
ly and truly. Come and sit down. Have a cigarette. And let me give you a phenacetin or something. I expect you’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I won’t be stupid again. I’m giving you a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Not a bit. I only wish I could help you.’

  ‘You can. If you only would. I’m sure you’re clever. You look clever. I’m not clever. I do wish I was. I think I should have been happier if I’d been clever. It must be nice to do things. I’ve so often thought that if I could have painted pictures or ridden a motor-cycle or something, I should have got more out of life.’

  Harriet agreed, gravely, that it was perhaps a good thing to have an occupation of some sort.

  ‘But of course,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘I was never brought up to that. I have lived for my emotions. I can’t help it. I suppose I am made that way. Of course, my married life was a tragedy. But that’s all over now. And my son – you might not think I was old enough to have a grown-up son, my dear, but I was married scandalously young – my son has been a sad disappointment to me. He has no heart – and that does seem strange, seeing that I am really all heart myself. I am devoted to my son, dear Miss Vane, but young people are so unsympathetic. If only he had been kinder to me, I could have lived in and for him. Everybody always said what a wonderful mother I was. But it’s terribly lonely when one’s own child deserts one, and one can’t be blamed for snatching a little happiness, can one?’

  ‘I know that,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve tried snatching. It didn’t work, though.’

  ‘Didn’t it?’

  ‘No. We quarrelled, and then – well, he died and they thought I’d murdered him. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Somebody else did; but it was all very disagreeable.’

  ‘You poor thing. But, of course, you are clever. You do things. That must make it easier. But what am I to do? I don’t even know how to set about clearing up all this terrible business about Paul. But you are clever and you will help me – won’t you?’

  ‘Suppose you tell me just exactly what you want done.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m so stupid – I can’t even explain things properly. But you see, Miss Vane, I know, I know absolutely, that poor Paul couldn’t have – done anything rash. He couldn’t. He was so utterly happy with me, and looking forward to it all.’

  ‘To what?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘Why, to our marriage,’ said Mrs Weldon, as though the matter was self-evident.

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be married. When?’

  ‘In a fortnight’s time. As soon as I could be ready for it. We were so happy – like children—’

  Tears gathered again in Mrs Weldon’s eyes.

  ‘I will tell you all about it. I came here last January. I had been very ill and the doctor said I needed a mild climate, and I was so tired of the Riviera. I thought I’d try Wilvercombe just for a change. I came here. It really is a very nice hotel, you know, and I’d been here once before with Lady Hartlepool – but she died last year, you know. The very first night I was here, Paul came over and asked me to dance. We seemed to be drawn together. From the moment our eyes met, we knew we had found one another. He was lonely, too. We danced together every night. We went for long drives together and he told me all about his sad life. We were both exiles in our own way.’

  ‘Oh yes – he came from Russia.’

  ‘Yes, as a tiny boy. Poor little soul. He was really a prince, you know – but he never liked to say too much about that. Just a hint here and there. He felt it very much, being reduced to being a professional dancer. I told him – when we got to know one another better – that he was a prince in my heart now, and he said that that was better to him than an Imperial crown, poor boy. He loved me terribly. He quite frightened me sometimes. Russians are so passionate, you know.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Harriet. ‘You didn’t have any misunderstanding or anything that might have led him—?’

  ‘Oh, no! We were too marvellously at one together. We danced together that last night, and he whispered to me that there was a great and wonderful change coming into his life. He was all eagerness and excitement. He used to get terribly excited over the least little thing, of course – but this was a real, big excitement and happiness. He danced so wonderfully that night. He told me it was because his heart was so full of joy that he felt as if he was dancing on air. He said: “I may have to go away tomorrow – but I can’t tell you yet where or why.” I didn’t ask him anything more, because that would have spoilt it, but naturally I knew what he meant. He had been getting the licence, and we should be married in a fortnight after that.’

  ‘Where were you going to be married?’

  ‘In London. In church, of course, because I think a registrar’s office is so depressing. Don’t you? Of course he’d have to go and stay in the parish – that was what he meant by going away. We didn’t want anybody here to know our secret beforehand, because there might have been unkind talk. You see, I’m a little bit older than he was, and people say such horrid things. I was a little worried about it myself, but Paul always said, “It is the heart that counts, Little Flower” – he called me that, because my name is Flora – such a dreadful name, I can’t think how my poor dear parents came to choose it – “It is the heart that counts, and your heart is just seventeen.” It was beautiful of him, but quite true. I felt seventeen when I was with him.’

  Harriet murmured something inaudible. This conversation was dreadful to her. It was nauseating, pitiful, artificial yet horribly real; grotesquely comic and worse than tragic. She wanted to stop it at all costs, and she wanted at all costs to go on and disentangle the few threads of fact from the gaudy tangle of absurdity.

  ‘He had never loved anybody till he met me,’ went on Mrs Weldon. ‘There is something so fresh and sacred in a young man’s first love. One feels – well, almost reverent. He was jealous of my former marriage, but I told him he need not be. I was such a child when I married John Weldon, far too young to realise what love meant. I was utterly unawakened till I met Paul. There had been other men, I don’t say there hadn’t, who wanted to marry me (I was left a widow very early), but they meant nothing to me – nothing at all. “The heart of a girl with the experience of a woman” – that was Paul’s lovely way of putting it. And it was true, my dear, indeed it was.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ said Harriet, trying to put conviction into her tone.

  ‘Paul – he was so handsome and so graceful – if you could have seen him as he was! And he was very modest and not the least bit spoilt, though all the women ran after him. He was afraid to speak to me for a long time – to tell me how he felt about me, I mean. As a matter of fact, I had to take the first step, or he never would have dared to speak, though it was quite obvious how he felt. In fact, though we got engaged in February, he suggested putting the wedding off till June. He felt – so sweet and thoughtful of him – that we ought to wait and try to overcome my son’s opposition. Of course, Paul’s position made him very sensitive. You see, I’m rather well off, and of course, he hadn’t a penny, poor boy, and he always refused to take any presents from me before we were married. He’d had to make his own way all alone, because those horrible Bolsheviks didn’t leave him anything.’

  ‘Who looked after him when he first came to England?’

  ‘The woman who brought him over. He called her “old Natasha”, and said she was a peasant-woman and absolutely devoted to him. But she died very soon, and then a Jewish tailor and his family were kind to him. They adopted him and made him a British subject, and gave him their own name of Goldschmidt. After that, their business failed somehow, and they were terribly poor. Paul had to run errands and sell newspapers. Then they tried emigrating to New York, but that was still worse. Then they died, and Paul had to look after himself. Paul didn’t like to say very much about that part of his life. It was all so terrible to him – like a bad dream.’

  ‘I suppose he
went to school somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, yes – he went to the ordinary State school with all poor little East-side children. But he hated it. They used to laugh at him because he was delicate. They were rough with him and once he got knocked down in the playground and was ill for a long time. And he was terribly lonely.’

  ‘What did he do when he left school?’

  ‘He got work at a night-club, washing up glasses. He says the girls were kind to him, but of course, he never talked much about that time. He was sensitive, you see. He thought people would look down on him if they knew he had done that kind of work.’

  ‘I suppose that was where he learnt to dance,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, yes – he was a marvellous dancer. It was in his blood, you know. When he was old enough, he got work as a professional partner and did very well, though of course it wasn’t the kind of life he wanted.’

  ‘He managed to make quite a good living at it,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully, thinking of the too-smart clothes and the hand-made shoes.

  ‘Yes; he worked very hard. But he never was strong, and he told me that he wouldn’t be able to keep on much longer with the dancing. He had some trouble in one of his knees – arthritis or something, and he was afraid it would get worse and cripple him. Isn’t it all terribly pathetic? Paul was so romantic, you know, and he wrote beautiful poetry. He loved everything that was beautiful.’

  ‘What brought him to Wilvercombe?’

  ‘Oh, he came back to England when he was seventeen, and got work in London. But the place went bankrupt, or got shut up by the police, or something, and he came here for a little holiday on what he had saved. Then he found they wanted a dancer here and he took the job temporarily, and he was so brilliant that the management kept him on.’

  ‘I see,’ Harriet reflected that it was going to be too difficult to trace these movements of Alexis through the Ghetto of New York and the mushroom clubs of the West End.