Have His Carcase

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Of course. No doubt the pearls were merely the best Woolworth, like the whole pathetic illusion, but these things serve their purpose, Glaisher, they serve their purpose. My God, Glaisher – when you think of that poor silly devil, going to his death on a lonely rock, with his brain spinning with the idea of being crowned Emperor—’

  Wimsey broke off, shaken by an unwonted vehemence of feeling. The two policemen shuffled their feet sympathetically.

  ‘Well, it does seem a shame, my lord, and that’s a fact,’ said Glaisher. ‘Let’s hope he died quick, without knowing any better.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Wimsey, ‘but how did he die? That’s the snag, you know. Well, never mind that for the moment. What next? Oh, the three hundred pounds in gold. That’s a funny little incident, and very nearly upset the conspiracy altogether.

  ‘I can’t believe that that was any part of the plot as originally worked out. Morecambe couldn’t have foreseen the opportunity of collecting that gold. I think that must have been Paul Alexis’ own contribution to the romance. He had probably read in books about gold – about its passing current everywhere, and all that – and thought it would somehow be a fine thing to set out to conquer a throne with a beltful of gold. It was ridiculous, of course – an absurd little sum, bulky and awkward to carry about – but it was gold. Gold has its glitter, you know. As somebody says, “the glitter is the gold”. That sounds like relativity physics, but it’s psychological fact. If you were a romantic young prince, Glaisher, or thought you were, would you rather pay your bills with a few dirty bits of paper, or with this?’

  He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a handful of gold sovereigns. They rolled ringing over the table as he threw them down, and Glaisher and Umpelty flung out eager hands to catch them as they spun away in the lamp-light. They picked them up and weighed them in their palms; they held them between their fingers, passing inquisitive fingers along the milled edges and over the smooth relief of the gleaming George and Dragon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘they feel pleasant, don’t they? There are ten of them there, and they’re worth no more than paper pounds,* and to me they’re actually worth nothing, because, being a tom-fool, I can’t bring myself to spend them. But they’re gold. I wouldn’t mind possessing £300 worth of them, though they might weigh five pounds avoirdupois and be an infernal nuisance. But the queer thing is this – that that extra five pounds of weight just disturbed the very delicate balance between the corpse and the water. The specific gravity of a dead body is just less than sufficient to sink it – but only just. A very heavy pair of boots or a belt stuffed with gold is enough to carry it down and wedge it among the Grinder rocks – as you know to your cost, Umpelty. It would have been uncommonly awkward for the conspirators if Alexis had never been found. In time Mrs Weldon would have come to believe in his death, I daresay – but she might have squandered a fortune first, in hunting for him.’

  * The acute reader will discern that at the date of this story, Great Britain had not yet gone off the Gold Standard.

  ‘It’s a queer story altogether,’ said Glaisher, ‘and what nobody that hadn’t been through it all from the beginning as you might say would hardly be disposed to believe. But now, my lord, allowing that it was all worked out as you say, how about the murder?’

  ‘Exactly. As regards the murder I frankly admit we’re not much further on than before. The preliminaries are all easy enough. First of all, somebody must have come along to have a look at the place. I don’t quite know who that was, but I think I can guess. Somebody who already knew the lie of the land, from having stayed here before. Somebody who had a car to spin about the country in. Somebody who had a very good excuse for being in the neighbourhood and respectable friends whose guests were above suspicion.’

  ‘Mrs Morecambe!’

  ‘Just so. Mrs Morecambe. Possibly Mr Morecambe also. We can soon find out whether that delightful couple spent a week-end at Heathbury Vicarage any time within the last few months.’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ put in Umpelty. ‘The lady was here for a fortnight at the end of February and her husband came down for one weekend. They told us that when we made our inquiries, but we didn’t attach any importance to it at the time.’

  ‘Of course not. Very well. Then, at the moment when everything is ready to poop off, the rest of the gang arrive. Morecambe gets himself up as a hairdresser and establishes his identity round about the neighbourhood. He has to do that, because he wants to purchase a razor in a way which it is difficult to trace. You may say, why a razor at all, when they must have known that Alexis didn’t shave? Well, I can imagine why. It’s quieter than a pistol and it’s a typical suicide’s weapon. And it’s very safe and sure, and much handier to carry about than, say, a carving-knife. And if any question was raised about it, Morecambe could always come forward with a convincing story about how he had given the razor to Alexis.’

  ‘Ah! I was thinking about that. Would he have come forward, do you suppose, if you hadn’t put that bit in the paper?’

  ‘Difficult to say. But I imagine that he would have waited to see how things went. He would probably have attended the inquest, as a casual spectator, and then if the coroner showed any signs of not accepting the suicide theory, he would have risen up and put the matter beyond doubt with a few well-chosen words. You see, the beauty of his itinerant hairdresser impersonation was that it afforded him an excellent excuse for appearing and disappearing like a Cheshire cat, and also changing his name. By the way, I think we shall find that he really did live in Manchester at some time or another, and so knew just how much dope to dole out about derelict streets and departed hairdressers’ shops in that city.’

  ‘I take it, then, that he wears a beard in ordinary life.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He just shaved it off when he began his impersonation. Then, when he went back to London, he had only to get a false beard sent to him at a hotel under a different name, and wear it for the brief period of his taxi-ride to Kensington. If the attendant at the picture-palace happened to notice a gentleman putting on a false beard in the cloak-room – which he may not have done – it would not be his business to interfere, and Morecombe had done his very best to throw off any shadowers. If Bunter hadn’t been uncommonly persevering and uncommonly quick, he’d have lost the trail twenty times over. As it was, he very nearly missed Morecombe in the cinema. Supposing Bunter had followed Morecambe into the cloak-room. Morecambe would have postponed the beard business and there would have been another chase, but by having the wits to keep outside, he gave Morecambe the impression that the coast was clear. Scotland Yard is keeping an eye on Morecambe’s house now, but I expect they will find that the gentleman is ill in bed, being attended by his devoted wife. When his beard has grown again, he will emerge; and meantime, Mrs Morecambe, who was an actress and knows something about make-up, will see to it that there is always a beard fit for inspection when the maid comes in to do the room.’

  ‘So much for Morecambe,’ said Glaisher. ‘Now, how about Weldon? We’d pretty well put him out of the thing. Now we’ve got to bring him back. He comes along in his Morgan, two days before the murder is due to take place, and he camps in Hinks’s Lane, which somebody’s been good enough to find out all about beforehand. Mrs Morecambe, I suppose – very good. He accounts for his presence on the scene by a cock-and-bull tale about keeping an eye on his mother’s love-affairs. All right. But what I want to know is, why did he come and mix himself up in the thing at all, taking all those risks? He wasn’t there to do the murder, because we know where he was at 1.30, if not at 1.55, and we can’t fit the times in anyhow, even supposing Perkins is a liar, which we can’t prove. And he wasn’t there to ride the mare down to the Flat-Iron, because we know where he was at twelve o’clock—’

  ‘Do we?’ said Harriet, gently.

  She had joined the committee-meeting half-way through the session, and had been sitting quietly in an armchair, smoking, with her hat on her knee.

  ‘Yes, d
o we?’ said Wimsey. ‘We thought we did when Mrs Morecambe was supposed to be an unimpeachable witness, but do we now? I think I see a gleam in Miss Vane’s eye that suggests she is about to put one over on us. Speak. I am bound to hear! What has Robert Templeton been discovering?’

  ‘Mr Weldon,’ said Harriet, ‘was not doing anything nefarious in Wilvercombe on Thursday, 18th. He wasn’t doing anything in Wilvercombe. He never was in Wilvercombe. He didn’t buy collars. He didn’t go to the Winter Gardens. Mrs Morecambe arrived alone and she left alone, and there’s no evidence that Mr Weldon was with her at any point of the journey.’

  ‘O my prophetic soul! There goes my reputation! I said that the two o’clock alibi would be broken, and it’s standing like the Flat-Iron Rock. I said the Wilvercombe alibi would stand, and it has broken in pieces like a potter’s vessel. I’ll go no more a-sleuthing with you, fair maid. O, now, for ever farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell, Othello’s occupation’s gone. Are you sure about it?’

  ‘Pretty well. I went to the men’s outfitting and asked for collars like the ones my husband bought on the 18th. Had I the bill? No. What kind of collars? Well, collars, just ordinary collars. What was my husband like? I described Henry Weldon and his dark spectacles. Nobody remembered him. Would they look up the day-book? Well, they looked up the paper thing that twizzles round in the till, and found the item. Oh, yes – the assistant remembered those collars. Sold to a lady. A lady? Oh, yes, my sister-in-law, no doubt. I described Mrs Morecambe. Yes, that was the lady. Was that the only sale of collars that morning? It was. Then those must be the collars. So I bought six of them – here they are – and asked whether the gentleman had been outside in the car. Gentlemen are so funny about going into shops. No, no gentleman. The assistant had taken the parcel out to the car, which was empty. So then I went to the Winter Gardens. I knew, of course, that they had been asked about Weldon, but I asked them about Mrs Morecambe, and I found an attendant who remembered her by her appearance and get-up, and by the fact that she had taken notes of the programme. For Weldon, naturally. After that I tried the bobby on point-duty in the Market Square. Such a nice, intelligent bobby. He remembered the car, because of the funny number, and he’d noticed that there was no one in it except the lady who was driving. He’d noticed it again when it came away: still only the lady in it. So that’s that. Of course, Mrs Morecambe may have dropped Henry Weldon at some point between Darley and Wilvercombe, but as for being in Wilvercombe – that I’ll swear he wasn’t; at any rate, he didn’t arrive in the Square with her, as he said.’

  ‘No,’ said Glaisher. ‘And it’s pretty clear now where he was. He was riding that damned mare along the beach – out at eleven o’clock and back at 12.30, or thereabouts. But why?’

  ‘That’s clear, too. He was the Rider from the Sea. But he still didn’t kill Paul Alexis. Who did?’

  ‘Well, my lord,’ said Umpelty, ‘we’ll have to go back to our first idea. Weldon brought bad news about this here conspiracy, and Alexis killed himself.’

  ‘With Morecambe’s razor? No, it’s all wrong, Inspector. It’s all wrong.’

  ‘Hadn’t we better ask Weldon what he knows about it all? If we confront him with what we know about Morecambe and the letter and all that, he may come clean. If he was along there at 12.15, he must have seen Alexis, anyhow.’

  Wimsey shook his head.

  ‘Deep waters,’ he said, ‘deep waters. Look here! I’ve an idea we’ve been working this thing from the wrong end. If only we knew more about those papers that Alexis sent to “Boris”, they might tell us something. Where do you suppose they are? You may say, in Warsaw – but I don’t think so. I fancy Warsaw was only an accommodation address. Everything that went there probably came back to Morecambe.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’ll find them in London,’ suggested Glaisher, hopefully.

  ‘Very much perhaps. The man who planned this show is no fool. If he told Alexis to destroy all his papers, he’ll hardly have risked keeping anything of that sort himself. But we could try. Have we enough evidence against him to justify a search-warrant?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ Glaisher pondered. ‘If Morecambe’s identified as Bright, then he’s been giving false information to the police. We could detain him on suspicion and go through his place in Kensington. The London fellows are keeping tabs on him now, but we didn’t want to be in too much of a hurry. We thought, maybe, the real murderer might be getting in touch with him. You see, there must be another party to the business – the chap who did the actual job, and we don’t know who he is from Adam. But of course, there’s this to it – the longer we leave Morecambe to himself, the more time he’s got to make away with the evidence. It may be you’re right, my lord, and we ought to pull him in. Only you’ll bear in mind, my lord, that if we do detain him, we’ll have to make a charge. There’s such a thing as Habeas Corpus.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Wimsey, ‘I think you’ll have to risk that. I don’t suppose you’ll find any papers, but you may find something else. The paper and ink used to write the letters, perhaps, and books of reference about Russia. Books aren’t as easy to get rid of as papers. And we’ve got to find out the exact connection between Morecambe and Weldon.’

  ‘They’re working on that now, my lord.’

  ‘Good. After all, people don’t conspire to commit murder for the fun of the thing. Does Mrs Weldon know anything about the Morecambes?’

  ‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I asked her. She’s never heard of them.’

  ‘Then the connection won’t go too far back. It’ll belong to London or Huntingdonshire. What is Morecambe, by the way?’

  ‘Described as a Commission Agent, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, is he? That’s a description that hides a multitude of sins. Well, go to it, Superintendent. As for me, I’ll have to do something drastic to restore my self-respect. Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Harriet grinned impishly. ‘When Lord Peter gets these fits of quotation he’s usually on to something.’

  ‘Sez you,’ retorted Wimsey. ‘I am going, straight away, to make love to Leila Garland.’

  ‘Well, look out for da Soto.’

  ‘I’ll chance da Soto,’ said Wimsey. ‘Bunter!’

  ‘My lord?’

  Bunter emerged from Wimpeys’ bedroom, looking as prim as though he had never sleuthed in a bad bowler through the purlieus of South London.

  ‘I wish to appear in my famous impersonation of the perfect Lounge Lizard – imitation très difficile.’

  ‘Very good, my lord. I suggest the fawn-coloured suit we do not care for, with the autumn-leaf socks and our outsized amber cigarette-holder.’

  ‘As you will, Bunter; as you will. We must stoop to conquer.’

  He kissed his hand gallantly to the assembly and vanished into his inner chamber.

  XXXII

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE FAMILY TREE

  ‘A hundred years hence, or, it may be, more,

  I shall return and take my dukedom back.’

  Death’s Jest-Book

  Monday, 6 July

  The conquest of Leila Garland followed the usual course. Wimsey pursued her into a tea-shop, cut her out neatly from the two girl-friends who accompanied her, fed her, took her to the pictures and caried her off to the Bellevue for a cock-tail.

  The young lady showed an almost puritanical discretion in clinging to the public rooms of that handsome hotel, and drove Wimsey almost to madness by the refinement of her table-manners. Eventually, however, he manoeuvred her into an angle of the lounge behind a palm-tree, where they could not be overlooked and where they were far enough from the orchestra to hear each other speak. The orchestra was one of the more infuriating features of the Bellevue, and kept up an incessant drivel of dance-tunes from four in the afternoon till ten at night. Miss Garland awarded it a moderate approval, but indicated that it did not quite reach the standard of the orchestra in which Mr da Soto played a leadin
g part.

  Wimsey gently led the conversation to the distressing publicity which Miss Garland had ben obliged to endure in connection with the death of Alexis. Miss Garland agreed that it had not been nice at all. Mr da Soto had been very much upset. A gentleman did not like his girl-friend to have to undergo so much unpleasant questioning.

  Lord Peter Wimsey commended Miss Garland on the discretion she had shown throughout.

  Of course, said Leila, Mr Alexis was a dear boy, and always a perfect gentleman. And most devoted to her. But hardly a manly man. A girl could not help preferring manly men, who had done something. Girls were like that! Even though a man might be of very good family and not obliged to do anything, he might still do things, might he not? (Languishing glance at Lord Peter.) That was the kind of man Miss Garland liked. It was, she thought, much finer to be a noble-born person who did things than a nobly-born person who only talked about nobility.

  ‘But was Alexis nobly born?’ inquired Wimsey.

  ‘Well, he said he was – but how is a girl to know? I mean, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Paul – that is, Mr Alexis – used to tell wonderful stories about himself, but it’s my belief he was making it all up. He was such a boy for romances and story-books. But I said to him, “What’s the good of it?” I said. “Here you are,” I said, “not earning half as much money as some people I could name, and what good does it do, even if you’re the Tsar of Russia?” I said.’

  ‘Did he say he was the Tsar of Russia?’

  ‘Oh, no – he only said that if his great-great-grandmother or somebody had married somebody he might have been somebody very important, but what I said was, “What’s the good of saying If,” I said. “And anyhow,” I said, “they’ve done away with all these royalties now,” I said, “so what are you going to get out of it anyway?” He made me tired, talking about his great-grandmother, and in the end he shut up and didn’t say anything more about it. I suppose he tumbled to it that a girl couldn’t be terribly interested in people’s great-grandmothers.’