Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  9

  Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult is it to bring it home.

  CONAN DOYLE

  ‘It is perfectly possible, I suppose,’ said Lord Peter to his wife, over breakfast, ‘for someone to be murdered while doing something she does not usually do, or behaving in a way unaccustomed to her. But it is an affront to the natural feelings of a criminologist, all the same.’

  ‘It has a feeling of lightning striking twice in the same spot, you mean?’

  ‘It does rather. I would greatly prefer it if every tiny break in precedent was in some way connected to the crime. And therefore could be constructed as a clue by a brainy enough person.’

  ‘Well, if this were a work of fiction, one would certainly make sure that was the case,’ said Harriet. ‘But in real life, Peter, don’t people usually do unusual things? Aren’t they always going to places for the first time, mildly surprising their friends by little switches in behaviour, suddenly getting bored, or headachy, and dashing out to parties, or going early to bed, or buying a red dress instead of a blue one, or suddenly marrying, at the age of forty-five, a highly unsuitable person?’

  ‘Do you mean that unpredictable behaviour may simply reveal the secret truth of someone’s inner man or woman?’

  ‘In a novel, of course, it would. Things have to be connected or the reader would not believe them.’

  ‘It’s odd, that, isn’t it?’ said Peter. ‘If unconnected and spur-of-the-moment things keep happening in the real world, why shouldn’t they be plausible in novels? Shouldn’t the most plausible picture of life be a portrait of reality in all its bizarre and incoherent confusion?’

  ‘I think a novel has to deal in a different kind of truth,’ said Harriet. ‘For example, if poor Rosamund’s death were in a novel, readers would know at once that the Sunbury attacker who so alarmed Laurence Harwell could not have done it. If a wholly unconnected stranger arrived in a story just in time to commit the crime and disappear, there would be no plot.’

  ‘But in real life random things occur, and there may actually be no plot, in that sense of the word,’ said Wimsey, thoughtfully. ‘Just the same, Harriet, I would be happier if the random attacker had found Rosamund doing what she usually does, in much her usual way.’

  ‘A certain amount of accident, and no more?’

  ‘Exactly. Whereas in this case there were numerous variations from the usual, starting with her having gone off to the bungalow by herself in the first place. She had never done such a thing before, it seems, and Harwell hadn’t any very clear idea why she had done it now. Are you all right, Harriet? You are looking rather pale.’

  ‘A horrible thought has just struck me: Peter, I advised her to go! It may be my fault . . ’

  ‘You advised her to go?’

  ‘I was casting around for some helpful suggestion for her. She was complaining about time on her hands, and I thought it was bad for her to sit around waiting for her husband all the time. She mentioned the place in Hampton, and said they hadn’t got round to doing it up . . . Oh, Peter, do you think . . .?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a novelist’s view of this. It isn’t a random thing, some stranger taking an opportunist’s advantage of her presence in the bungalow. I think she brought her jeopardy with her, it was built into her life somehow, and every little inconsistency in her conduct is a clue.’

  ‘I hope you’re not just sparing my feelings,’ said Harriet shakily.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Peter. ‘My dear, aren’t you eating anything?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it, somehow,’ said Harriet, ‘but surely two cafés au lait will keep body and soul together till lunch.’

  ‘Are you working this morning?’

  ‘I was thinking of it.’

  ‘Only Charles is coming in to talk over the case, and I wondered . . .’

  ‘I don’t think policemen, even Charles, have a sufficiently high regard for detective fiction writers,’ said Harriet, laughing. ‘I would put him off his stride. Tell me about it later.’

  ‘So how’s it looking?’ Peter asked Charles. They were comfortably ensconced in the library; Charles might be a policeman, and Peter might have an office for interviewing policemen, among others, but Charles was received in Audley Square with the welcome due to a brother-in-law.

  ‘I’m afraid this is one of those cases that are the devil’s own job to solve,’ said Charles gloomily. ‘No motive in particular; well, a sexual motive if you like, but no reason for the victim to be anyone in particular, so I mean, no motive for attacking her, rather than somebody else.’

  ‘Never mind why, Charles. Think about how.’

  ‘It’s who that’s the priority,’ said Charles, reasonably enough.

  ‘Well, what have we got?’ asked Peter. ‘Have we got the pathologist’s report?’

  ‘Preliminary. Cause of death, mechanical asphyxia. Cause of mechanical asphyxia, throttling. Pressure points on each side of the throat, consistent with face-to-face attack. Extensive internal crushing with fracture of the hyoid bone, and cricoid cartilage. External bruising slight. Slight hypostasis, more advanced in lower limbs. Rigor partial when corpse first examined, giving an approximate time of death between eleven p.m. and two or so in the morning. Body temperature consistent with that, given that a fire was burning in the bedroom for most of the night. Intimacy had taken place very shortly before death; slight bruising to thighs and upper arms suggests possibility that some resistance was offered.’

  ‘So what is your guess, Charles?’

  ‘It’s all rather commonplace, isn’t it? The all-too-usual nasty, squalid crime.’

  ‘There are various aspects of it I don’t like,’ remarked Wimsey. ‘What does the night porter at Harwell’s apartment block have to say?’

  ‘Harwell came in a little after twelve, and there was an altercation. The porter had been upstairs in one of the flats, helping an elderly tenant who had slipped getting out of the bath. So of course he was out of earshot of the front hallway. By the time he returned to his desk Harwell must have been banging on the door quite some time, because he was already very worked up. He threatened to get the man dismissed, and wouldn’t listen to any explanation. They were arguing for perhaps another ten minutes before Harwell went up to bed.’

  ‘And how long would it really take to drive back from Hampton, Charles, supposing he had driven down there?’

  ‘Certainly not less than forty-five minutes. I’ll get one of our men to try it in the middle of the night; in the daytime traffic it would take much longer.’

  ‘What about trains?’

  ‘Last train back to London leaves at eleven ten.’

  ‘So Harwell’s alibi . . .’

  ‘Looks pretty good, really. Not absolutely watertight; he can’t prove that he went wandering about London between leaving his club and getting home, and we haven’t a very tight time of death.’

  ‘I take it that the porter at the club confirms his stated time of leaving?’

  ‘Quarter past nine. They noticed because it’s a bit of a joke with them that he leaves early now he’s married, and nine fifteen was later than usual these days.’

  ‘On the other hand, Charles, I’m rather favourably impressed by an untidy sort of alibi; I’m always suspicious of very watertight ones. It’s unnatural to know precisely where one was precisely when, and to have a witness to every step and every breath, don’t you think?’

  ‘Let’s call Harwell’s alibi natural, then,’ said Charles. ‘And in any case, Peter, he hasn’t the ghost of a motive. He adored her, and all the money was his anyway. She didn’t have a bean.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t get so obsessed by motives, Charles. Motives are ten a penny. There’s always a motive for anybody doing anything. Just find out who had the opportunity, and you can make up the motive.’

  ‘I don’t really agree with you,’ said Charles. ‘
Juries like motives, you know.’

  ‘So what are your lines of pursuit?’ asked Wimsey.

  ‘We are urgently seeking the man whose description we have for the Sunbury attack. We were looking for him already, of course. I don’t know that we can look any harder. And we are asking round the neighbourhood for any suspicious persons seen, or noticed, following young women in the days leading up to the murder. We will take descriptions from the station-master at Hampton of everybody unknown to him who arrived at the station during that afternoon and evening. The usual sort of routine enquiry. We are interviewing Mrs Chanter, and also her daughter, who seems to have been the last person to see the victim alive. And we are looking for a Mr Claude Amery, who might have paid a visit to the deceased in Hampton.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find,’ said Wimsey. ‘I expect Harriet has his address.’

  ‘He isn’t at home. Gone away for a few days, we understand from a neighbour. She doesn’t know where. Would you like to sit in on the interview when we find him?’

  ‘If he doesn’t object,’ said Wimsey. ‘He’ll come to light the moment he sees the story in the papers, I expect. I take it the papers have got it?’

  ‘Front page,’ said Charles, taking the Daily Yell out of his briefcase, and showing it to Wimsey. ‘Angel’s Wife Found Dead’, ran the headline. ‘The wife of Mr Laurence Harwell, well-known theatrical “angel”, was found dead at the couple’s country home yesterday morning . . . not unknown to scandal . . . daughter of convicted fraudster . . .’ Wimsey glanced through the story with distaste.

  ‘Can you think of anything else we should be doing?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Wimsey. ‘Find out what happened to the dog.’

  ‘A Mr Warren to see you, my lady,’ said Meredith.

  ‘Mr Warren? Whatever . . .?’ Harriet looked up from her manuscript. ‘Did he ask for me, or for his lordship?’

  ‘For you, my lady. His lordship went out about an hour ago. Are you at home? The gentleman seems very distressed, my lady.’

  ‘Then I had better be at home,’ said Harriet. ‘Show him into the drawing-room.’

  It was natural to dread encountering Mr Warren, in the circumstances, but Harriet reproached herself with cowardice as she made her way down to the drawing-room. She hadn’t given a thought to how the disaster would affect Mr Warren – poor stupid old man. But surely he – anybody in like trauma – should be able to expect a little kindness. Harriet braced herself to be kind.

  Mr Warren was in a terrible state. He was unshaven, red-eyed from weeping, and dishevelled as though he had dressed in haste and not looked in a mirror before coming out. Poor man, it would not after all be difficult to be kind to him. He stood up as she came in, and he seemed very unsteady on his feet, so that she hastened to sit down.

  ‘Lady Peter, I didn’t know to whom to turn . . .’

  ‘Can I offer you coffee, Mr Warren? Or a drink? You look all washed up.’

  ‘No; I . . .’

  ‘I am so desperately sorry to hear of your loss,’ said Harriet, offering a cigarette. Mr Warren’s hands shook as he lit it.

  ‘This is the worst thing that could possibly happen,’ he said. ‘Worse than prison. When I thought prison was the worst possible thing I was very wrong, very wrong indeed. If I could go back to prison and have her still alive . . .’ He began to weep.

  What can I say? thought Harriet. To lose a child probably is the worst thing that could happen to any parent; a horrible inversion of the normal course of nature. To lose an innocent child to violence gave it a loathsome and intolerable twist. How can I possibly comfort him? she wondered, and why has he come to me? I hardly know him.

  ‘Lord Peter is so clever about crimes,’ Mr Warren was saying, ‘and you were so kind to me when we were here the other day, I thought you would be bound to know what to do, how to advise me . . .’

  ‘I will give you any help I can,’ said Harriet, gently.

  ‘You see, it is my fault,’ he said. He spoke bleakly, and suddenly calmly, looking at her hollow-eyed.

  She was floored for a moment. ‘When someone dies the people around them often think themselves in some way to blame,’ she said.

  ‘No, but really,’ he said. ‘It is my fault and I know who did it. But I don’t know what to do now.’

  ‘Mr Warren, if you know anything about your daughter’s death, you must go at once to the police, and tell them,’ said Harriet.

  ‘The police,’ he said, shuddering visibly. ‘Lady Peter, I cannot face the police alone. Without a friend . . . I am sure you, of all people, must understand me in that.’

  ‘A lawyer would go with you,’ said Harriet, ‘and see fair play.’

  ‘Lady Peter, I am ashamed to say this, I who was used to the best of everything, and could command the services of anyone I needed, but I can’t afford a lawyer. I haven’t a penny in the world above my fare back to Beachington, third class.’

  Harriet was flinching with embarrassment at the thought that perhaps this old reprobate had come to borrow money. If he had, he would have to be given it, naturally; but . . .

  ‘Surely, Mr Harwell would help you . . .’

  ‘I can’t ask him for another penny,’ said Mr Warren. ‘I have asked him for money in season and out, quite large sums, Lady Peter, and on an almost daily basis, until he is weary of me, until even his generosity is exhausted, and he has begun to ask why I need it. I have been reduced to inventing losses on horses and cards, and even from pickpockets. And now Rosamund is dead, why should he? While she was alive, I could square my conscience about it, Lady Peter; because it was for her sake. It was not my fault that I had lost everything, and could not protect her myself. And Laurence would never have grudged the money had he known it was to protect her.’

  ‘Protect her?’ said Harriet. ‘Against what?’

  ‘Harm,’ he said. ‘Death. They were threatening to disfigure or kill her.’

  ‘Are you telling me someone has been blackmailing you?’

  ‘Oh, Lady Peter,’ he said, ‘I have been so afraid! And now the worst has happened, and I don’t know where to turn!’

  ‘You absolutely must go to the police,’ said Harriet firmly.

  He was silent. He just sat before her, stubbed out his cigarette and bowed his head. Harriet rapidly weighed up the situation. Whatever could have happened to him in a police station to make him as reluctant as this to do what he ought to do? A police station, as she remembered all too well herself, is a deeply hostile and unpleasant place in which to be if you are accused of something, but it is not yet a crime in this country to be a victim of blackmail.

  ‘They said they would kill me if I went to the police. They said I would be seen at a police station, and they would know . . .’

  So that was it.

  ‘Mr Warren, I think what we had better do is ask Chief Inspector Parker to come here,’ she said. ‘Your tormentors cannot be watching this house.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ he muttered.

  Harriet stepped out of the room, going to the telephone, and met Peter on the stairs.

  ‘Peter! Never have I been gladder to see you,’ she said.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  In a rapid undertone, Harriet told him.

  ‘Whew!’ he said. ‘That’s another silent dog. Look, you are quite right, the thing to do is to get Charles here as soon as possible. I hope he hasn’t gone straight back to Hampton after seeing me this morning. You go and sit with old Warren for another minute or two, and I’ll call Scotland Yard, and come and join you. Can you bear that?’

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said. ‘Don’t be long.’

  Mr Warren, having been found to be famished and sleepless, had been given lunch and a bedroom to rest in before Charles, who had indeed been in Hampton, arrived. Bunter had been deployed to give the old man a shave, and tidy him up a bit, and he looked steadier and calmer when he joined the Chief Inspector and Peter in Peter�
�s little office.

  ‘I understand you would like to make a statement, sir,’ said Charles.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Mr Warren. ‘That is, I would if Lord Peter is to be present. I know to my cost how easy it is for an innocent form of words to be twisted out of all recognition. Indeed, if I had not been traduced by an unscrupulous policeman, my daughter would be alive today.’ His voice shook.

  ‘Try not to upset yourself, Mr Warren,’ said Peter. ‘Chief Inspector Parker is an excellent man, and will certainly not misinterpret what you say. Trust me for it.’

  ‘But you will stay? You won’t leave me alone with him?’

  ‘Yes, if you wish me to, I will stay.’

  ‘Begin right at the beginning, if you would,’ said Parker.

  ‘That terrible prison,’ said Warren. ‘There were awful people there. I know I deserved some punishment, but not to be put among people such as that! I was very frightened nearly all the time. They were violent people, Lord Peter. Capable of anything.’

  ‘And someone in particular?’

  ‘I blame myself, I do indeed, for having spoken of my daughter in company such as that, but there were long hours to fill in dismal surroundings, and inmates did come to tell others why they were inside, and about their families and former lives. I had a picture of Rosamund that I showed to many people. I was so proud of her. She was so beautiful . . .’

  ‘So quite a few of your fellow-inmates would have known that Rosamund was your daughter?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything about it, you see, at the time. Then of course when she got married she was in all the newspapers. Her picture was on the front page of the Daily Yell, and in The Times, and . . . I thought our troubles were over. And my son-in-law was so good to me. He’s a real gentleman. Generous to a fault.’