Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘So what happened next?’ Charles prompted.

  ‘A horrible man turned up. Someone I knew in prison. He followed me home at Beachington, and forced his way into the house. And he said . . . he said . . .’ Mr Warren paused to collect himself. ‘He asked for money. For five hundred pounds. Otherwise they would get my poor Rosamund.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I paid him, of course. I knew only too well what people like that might be capable of. I drew out all my little savings. I told him it was all I had.’

  ‘And that didn’t stop him, of course,’ said Peter in disgust.

  ‘No, it didn’t. When he came back I told him I couldn’t pay another penny, and he said of course I could find the money, with a rich son-in-law like that. And if I didn’t . . . So I asked Laurence for money.’

  ‘How much did you ask for, sir?’ said Charles.

  ‘Fifty pounds. Sometimes a hundred. It went on and on. I had to keep making up reasons. I pretended that I lost money on horses, because Laurence seemed to understand that. I sold all my little souvenirs from my past life. I sold my poor dead wife’s wedding ring; but it was for Rosamund, she would have forgiven me. It was getting terribly difficult. I kept coming to London, although I’m sure Rosamund wanted to be alone with her husband – well, it’s only natural, isn’t it? – not that she ever said anything, but I felt safe in London. They couldn’t come to the Park Lane flat, with those porters always in the lobby. Of course, Rosamund was safe in the flat too, but she went about such a lot, shopping, and to the theatre and . . .’

  ‘You said “they” just now,’ said Wimsey. ‘Were there more than one of them?’

  ‘He had a huge big friend,’ said Warren, miserably.

  ‘You didn’t tell Mr Harwell what was going on?’ asked Charles.

  ‘I was afraid he wouldn’t help me with money any more if he knew. He would go to the police.’

  ‘And they threatened you with awful consequences if anyone went to the police,’ said Charles, sighing. ‘Did your daughter know about it?’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Warren. ‘How could I tell her a thing like that? She thought she had been rescued and carried off to a life of wealth and ease. She hated having a jailbird for a father, although she stood by me. How could I tell her that my past deeds had led to this?’

  ‘All right, sir. So nobody knew but yourself?’

  ‘Nobody. And the dreadful thing is, the last time they came I didn’t give them anything. I hadn’t anything to give them. Laurence said, the last time I asked him for money, “Make this last, Dad, because I’ll be a bit tight for a while.” So when that was gone I was stuck. And they were very angry.’

  ‘So when you heard that Rosamund had been attacked . . .’ said Charles.

  ‘I knew it was them. Yes.’

  ‘We will need to know who they are,’ said Charles.

  ‘That’s just it!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know! You don’t suppose they gave me their real names and addresses, do you?’

  ‘All right, sir, keep calm,’ said Charles. ‘Just tell us quietly what you do know. Anything that will help us to find them. Did they threaten you in writing? And have you kept any of the notes?’

  ‘They just came and spoke to me,’ said Warren. ‘It was all by word of mouth.’

  ‘But exactly who came?’ said Peter.

  ‘Two men. A little one like a ferret, thin and mean-looking. He was called Streaker in prison. Even the warders called him that. I wasn’t to know that I would need to know his proper name. And a big man, very big.’

  ‘What was the big one called?’ asked Charles.

  ‘The big one was called Basher. Streaker said, “Cough up or Basher will have to do his stuff.” That’s all I know.’

  ‘And they visited you at Beachington to make threats, and they collected the money at the door? You didn’t have to send it anywhere?’

  ‘No. They just came. It got so I was terrified to open the door at all.’

  ‘Was it always cash you gave them?’

  ‘It had to be cash. Old notes. That’s what they said.’

  ‘Do you know how much altogether they got from you?’

  ‘Several thousand pounds,’ said Mr Warren miserably. His voice had dropped to a whisper.

  ‘You can give us a good description of these two, I take it?’ said Wimsey. ‘Did anyone but you ever see them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Warren, ‘my neighbour. She said once or twice I had funny-looking friends. I thought she had found out I was a jailbird.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what she thought,’ said Parker, robustly, ‘only what she saw. Look, sir, you must come down to the Yard with me, and make a proper statement, including full descriptions.’

  ‘You really had better,’ said Wimsey firmly. ‘You can see that Inspector Parker is a gentleman, and he won’t take advantage of you. And then afterwards, I don’t think you had better go back to Beachington, and perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to stay in Harwell’s flat, when he’s in such a distressed state.’

  ‘So am I, Lord Peter, so am I.’

  ‘Of course you are. Very natural. I was going to suggest that you let me find somewhere safe and comfortable for you to stay until this is all sorted out, and we have got your threatening friends under lock and key. What do you say? Will you leave it to me? The Chief Inspector will send you back here in a taxi when you have made your statement.’

  Mr Warren began stumblingly to express gratitude.

  ‘No, don’t bother to thank me, old chap, just dredge your memory for any little thing that might help the police.’

  ‘My dearest, I’m so sorry. I can’t think what the old fool was thinking of, coming to you like that.’

  ‘Coming to the only other jailbird in his circle of acquaintance? You can hardly blame him.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Are we never going to live that down?’

  ‘It’s always going to be there, Peter, isn’t it? It’s going to jump out at us from time to time, for as long as we live, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to accept it. It’s like your shell-shock nerves: we can forget it for most of the time, but when it happens we just have to cope with it.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear you say “we” in such a context.’

  ‘There aren’t any singular contexts left, now.’

  He smiled at her.

  ‘What will you do for Mr Warren, Peter? Might he really be in danger?’

  ‘Probably not. Blackmailers don’t like to kill the milch cow. That’s why, for all the sinister nature of his story, I don’t think . . . There’s a reformed burglar of my acquaintance. A Bible-thumping, hymn-singing, high-minded Salvation Army officer with a sensible wife. Helped me get a safe burgled once when a lot depended on it. A lot of his congregation are reformed villains, and some of them have plenty of brawn. You might remember him, Harriet – Mr Bill Rumm. He came to our wedding.’

  ‘Yes, I remember him perfectly.’

  ‘I shall place Warren with him as a paying guest, and make sure they keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘The East End. Safe as in the African jungle. People don’t stand out there the way they do in the country. He’ll be all right.’

  ‘The endlessly resourceful Lord Peter,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re sure they won’t teach him safe-breaking?’

  ‘He might be less of a menace if he had a profession. Talking of professions, Harriet, I expect he cost you the whole morning’s work. I’ve been meaning to ask you how it’s going.’

  ‘Not well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is there a reason, other than the incursions of policemen and criminals, and the vagaries of the muse? I would hate it, simply hate it, if it proved difficult for you to write as my wife. I don’t want you heading for the divorce courts, or the gin bottle.’

  Harriet stopped herself, just in time, from uttering an anodyne ‘of course not’. Peter deserved the truth. ‘
I think there is a reason,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘and it is connected with being married to you.’

  She saw him blanch.

  ‘It used to be a simple thing to do,’ she said. ‘I needed the money. It was my chosen trade. I didn’t have to question it, I simply had to write, or starve. And now, of course . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to. As my appalling relatives have gone out of their way to point out to you. But, Harriet, I didn’t think you wrote for money simplissime. I always thought the money made it possible for you to write. And that writing was important to you in itself. I never doubted for a moment that you would go on.’

  ‘You married a writer, and you want a writer to be married to?’

  ‘I want you, whatever you are. I thought you were a writer to your marrow bones; was I wrong?’

  ‘I think you were right; but just the same it isn’t simple any more. When I needed the money, it justified itself. It was a job of work, and I did it as well as I could, and that was that. That was enough. But now, you see, it has no necessity except itself. And, of course, it’s hard; it’s always been hard, and it’s getting harder. So when I’m stuck I think, this isn’t my livelihood, and it isn’t great art, it’s only detective stories. You read them and write them for fun.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Harriet. I never thought to hear you do that.’

  ‘Normally I have the pride of the devil, you mean?’

  ‘The pride of the craftsman, yes.’

  ‘There can be intricate and admirable craft in entirely frivolous objects, Peter,’ she said. ‘Like those cufflinks, for instance.’

  He was wearing jade cufflinks carved intaglio with the Wimsey mice. ‘Frivolity can give a good deal of pleasure,’ he said, mildly. ‘But I don’t like to hear you call detective stories frivolous.’

  ‘But aren’t they? Compared to the real thing?’

  ‘What do you call the real thing?’

  ‘Great literature; Paradise Lost; novels like Great Expectations, or Crime and Punishment or War and Peace. Or on the other hand real detection, dealing with real crimes.’

  ‘You seem not to appreciate the importance of your special form,’ he said. ‘Detective stories contain a dream of justice. They project a vision of a world in which wrongs are righted, and villains are betrayed by clues that they did not know they were leaving. A world in which murderers are caught and hanged, and innocent victims are avenged, and future murder is deterred.’

  ‘But it is just a vision, Peter. The world we live in is not like that.’

  ‘It sometimes is,’ he said. ‘Besides, hasn’t it occurred to you that to be beneficent, a vision does not have to be true?’

  ‘What benefits could be conferred by falsehood?’ she asked.

  ‘Not falsehood, Harriet; idealism. Detective stories keep alive a view of the world which ought to be true. Of course people read them for fun, for diversion, as they do crossword puzzles. But underneath they feed a hunger for justice, and heaven help us if ordinary people cease to feel that.’

  ‘You mean perhaps they work as fairy tales work, to caution stepmothers against being wicked, and to comfort Cinderellas everywhere?’

  ‘If you like. Or as belief in ghosts used to work. If you thought you might be haunted by Grandfather’s ghost unless you carried out his last will and testament; or if you thought the ghosts of murdered men walked the night howling for vengeance.’

  ‘You have rather an exalted view of it, Peter.’

  ‘I suppose very clever people can get their visions of justice from Dostoyevsky,’ he said. ‘But there aren’t enough of them to make a climate of opinion. Ordinary people in large numbers read what you write.’

  ‘But not for enlightenment. They are at their slackest. They only want a good story with a few thrills and reversals along the way.’

  ‘You get under their guard,’ he said. ‘If they thought they were being preached at they would stop their ears. If they thought you were bent on improving their minds they would probably never pick up the book. But you offer to divert them, and you show them by stealth the orderly world in which we should all try to be living.’

  ‘But are you serious?’ she asked.

  ‘Never more so, Domina. Your vocation seems no more frivolous to me than mine does to you. We are each, it seems, more weighty in each other’s eyes than in our own. It’s probably rather a good formula: self-respect without vanity.’

  ‘Frivolity for ever?’

  ‘For as long as possible,’ he said, suddenly sombre. ‘I rather wish the Germans were addicted to your kind of light reading.’

  10

  We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe only truth.

  VOLTAIRE

  ‘It’s an odd thing about this case,’ said Chief Inspector Parker to his companion. ‘Everyone is devastated. Everyone is distraught about the death of the victim.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Peter Wimsey. He was sitting in the worn leather armchair in the Chief Inspector’s office.

  ‘Usually a murder victim turns out to have been not much loved,’ said Charles. ‘There are almost always people who, while not quite uninhibited enough to say so openly, are far from sorry that the deceased will trouble them no more. Just as there are usually people around with a motive for preferring the victim dead. Or else the victim is somebody friendless, vulnerable to attack.’

  ‘And this time we have a rich and beloved young woman whose death leaves everyone who knows her shattered and incoherent with grief? What does that suggest to you, Charles?’

  ‘Well, it might lend colour to the theory that the Sunbury attacker is responsible. That kind of random attack could strike someone with no enemies.’

  ‘Yes, it could. But Harriet tells me that if we put such a crime into a novel nobody would believe it. She has a point, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t read detective fiction,’ said Charles stiffly.

  ‘No; well, I expect all those tomes of theology make just as good an ethical training,’ said Wimsey. ‘What did you make of Mr Warren’s blackmailers, by the way?’

  ‘He had certainly believed in them himself. He was genuinely frightened.’

  ‘Yes, he was, poor old duffer.’

  ‘But when a blackmailing case has led to violence it is, in my experience, almost always a case of the victim turning on the tormentor rather than the other way about.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Wimsey thoughtfully, ‘it is possible to imagine – suppose that the money dries up, and the blackmailer wants to turn the screws a bit. So he or they decide to frighten Rosamund, perhaps to leave a mark on her, because didn’t Warren say they had threatened disfigurement? And then it went wrong.’

  ‘If they meant to disfigure, they would have used a knife, or a cigarette lighter,’ said Parker.

  ‘If they just meant to terrify her, and then they held on a moment too long, or seized her throat in the wrong spot . . .’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. I think they did turn up at Hampton, by the way, because Warren’s description corresponds fairly closely with one of the non-regulars spotted by the ticket collector at the station. We have a search out for a pair of that description all over the country. When they turn up we can question them, but I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Meanwhile, something else has come up. We took a formal statement from the night porter at Hyde House, a Mr Jason, and in the course of making it he remembered that somebody had been asking for Mrs Harwell at about five. He was not yet on duty himself; he was having a cup of tea and a gossip with the day porter. The day porter let the visitor into the hallway, and he said he was calling on Mrs Harwell. So he was told that Mrs Harwell was away for a few days, and he got quite agitated. He said he was a friend of the family, and he had an urgent message for her, and asked for the address to which she had gone. Well, the day porter was not sure he should give it, so he and Mr Jason consulted together, and de
cided that since the gentleman looked quite respectable, it would be all right to give him the address. Mr Jason didn’t think anything of it at the time; only when we asked if anything unusual had occurred that evening did he remember it.’

  ‘I take it he could give you a description?’

  ‘Between the two we have a good description. And it matches one of the descriptions given by the ticket collector at Hampton station. A person not being a regular traveller from Hampton station, who arrived on the evening of the 27th of February and was not seen to catch any train back to town that night.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser, Charles. The person cannot be Mrs Harwell’s mysterious supper guest, surely; for if she had invited him she would have given him the address.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘I suppose he just about could be the guest, having misunderstood and supposed he was bidden to supper in Hyde House . . .’

  ‘No, Charles; he was too early at Hyde House; he was in that uncomfortable gap between tea and cocktails, and much too early for dinner. And he couldn’t have just mislaid the address, could he? Because if so he would surely have told the porters so. I don’t think he was the expected guest. Have you put out a search for him?’

  ‘I’m about to. We’ve just got the description typed up, and an artist’s impression made.’ Charles handed the poster across the desk to Wimsey.

  ‘You don’t have to mount a search,’ said Wimsey. ‘I know who this is. It’s Claude Amery. Haven’t you turned him up yet? By the way, Charles, I have to apply my mind to something else for a few days. Don’t do anything silly while my back is turned.’

  ‘Harriet, I’m afraid I have an urgent job to attend to today. I hope to be back in time to escort you to the Shearman party, but I must complete the errand however long it takes me. Will you go as arranged? I’ll join you there if I can.’

  Harriet looked up from the morning paper. ‘Of course, Peter. I was thinking of working in the London Library today anyway.’

  He hesitated in the breakfast-room door. Then he came across and kissed her lightly on the cheek.