Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘But, Peter, he just doesn’t realise what the implications of his story are. He’s not a detective. And anyway it isn’t really only his story we are going on. There’s the pathologist’s estimate of time of death.’

  ‘Yes. But that’s a bit wide and loose for the purpose, Charles. Suppose that the earliest possible time he gives us – eleven p.m., wasn’t it? – is the right one. Then, but for Amery seeing the victim alive later on, Harwell could have done it, and so could the jolly blackmailers. If the latest limit for time of death – two in the morning – is right, then really only Amery could have done it, unless it really is just another job of the Sunbury attacker.’

  ‘We’re still looking for him.’

  ‘Well, meanwhile, look at this. These are shots that Bunter took for me. They are of the bed after you removed the body.’

  Charles took the photos that Wimsey passed across the desk to him.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Two depressions in the pillows.’

  ‘Well, the right-hand one was the position of the head of the corpse, as found. The left-hand one stands to be explained.’

  ‘A second person in bed with her?’

  ‘A second person perhaps. But not exactly in bed with her; she was lying on top of the sheet and blanket, not between the sheets, wasn’t she? And she wasn’t undressed, Charles. That white slinky thing she was wearing is a cocktail dress, not a nightdress.’

  ‘It had ridden right up, hadn’t it? Could she have rushed to the bed in haste?’

  ‘Possibility A: Rosamund takes lover to her bed in great haste. Once there, however, they lie side by side, with space between them, their heads thus making two saucer-shaped depressions a little distance apart. Possibility B: she struggles in the hands of her assailant, and he pushes her down into the pillows in two different places in the course of the struggle. Possibility C: murderer pushes her head down into the pillows hard while killing her, then for some reason moves the body a bit. Lifts it, and puts it back slightly to one side of original position.’

  ‘It’s possibility C, isn’t it, except that it wasn’t the murderer. Harwell told us that he lifted her into his arms and sat for a bit when he found her, and then laid her back again. That has made the second depression.’

  ‘Hmm. Don’t you think if you lifted a body that should have been just beginning to get rigor, when you laid it back it would go down into the same position? There are possibilities D to Z.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Charles, sighing. ‘The thing is, Peter, I don’t quite know how best to pursue this. What do you reckon we should be looking for next? We might find the dead dog, of course, but how far would that get us? We already know the poor brute was butchered.’

  ‘I’m just as flummoxed as you are, Charles. I think Amery is the prime suspect so far, although there might be something we are completely overlooking. Otherwise why would he spin such a yarn? Only he must be a Jekyll and Hyde sort of a fellow: capable when playing Hyde of slaughtering pets, and murdering mistresses, and being a mild-mannered, self-pitying greenery-yallery sort of chap when playing Dr Jekyll.’

  ‘Well, murderers can be devilishly cunning,’ said Charles. ‘Only, like you, I find Amery a puzzling suspect.’

  ‘No puzzle about what needs doing, though,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’d rather like to see what Harwell thinks about the blackmailers’ story; and we do very urgently need to know who Rosamund was expecting to eat that supper with her.’

  ‘There might have been a demon lover?’

  ‘There might indeed. And so far nobody has admitted to being the intended consumer of all that caviar and venison pie. Such a waste of a good dinner,’ added Wimsey petulantly. ‘Look, Charles, would you mind if I poked around a bit and talked to people myself?’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Charles. ‘Give it your full attention. You are at more liberty than a poor policeman, with two Bolsheviks and a bundle of dynamite in a left-luggage locker to investigate, four thefts of jewels, a missing actress, and an embezzler. I can do with all the help I can get.’

  ‘Well, if you can somehow spare a copper to apply to the question,’ said Wimsey, ‘can we find out from Fortnum’s exactly when that hamper for Hampton was ordered?’

  ‘We’ve thought of that already,’ said Charles. ‘And as it happens there’s an easy answer. The order department at Fortnum’s doesn’t note the exact time of calls, just the order in which they were received. But the telephone clerk there remembers that the call was cut off just before the conversation finished. Mrs Harwell had not yet given the delivery address. Luckily they had delivered to her in Hampton before, and they had the address in their records.’

  ‘The call was cut off?’

  ‘Which allows us to time it exactly,’ said Charles, ‘because the entire telephone exchange at Hampton was taken down by an electricity failure at five to twelve on the 27th, and the service was not restored until six o’clock.’

  ‘So having ordered the hamper, Mrs Harwell might have been left with no way to invite the guest.’

  ‘For whom, nevertheless, she set the dinner table. Do all the poking around you can, Wimsey. I’m at a loss.’

  ‘Have you any news for me?’ said Harwell, opening the door to Lord Peter Wimsey.

  ‘Nothing definite, I’m afraid,’ said Wimsey. ‘There are some lines of enquiry opening up.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Harwell.

  Wimsey followed him into the flat. It was bleakly elegant, and very untidy. The living-room had pale blue walls, and modernist furniture, all chrome and blue leather. A huge, deep-pile geometric carpet covered the floor; an electric fire stood in the tiled, curved fireplace, with a grille like a car radiator. Glass shelves displayed a few books and some expensive-looking ornaments. It struck Wimsey that the place looked as if it belonged to someone who carried no mementoes of the past at all; someone who had thrown away every piece of property, and bought everything new.

  Harwell followed Wimsey’s roaming glance.

  ‘She liked modern things very much,’ he said with a slight shake in his voice. ‘My things are in here.’ He opened the door to a large, book-lined study with a comfortable desk and old leather chairs. A picture of his father and mother in a silver frame stood on a side table. They shared the space with signed photographs of several famous actresses.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’ asked Harwell. ‘I’ll get coffee sent up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wimsey, taking a chair. ‘Will you smoke?’ Opening his case he offered Harwell a Villar y Villar.

  Harwell declined, with a brusque gesture. ‘So what have you to tell me?’ he asked. He looked years older; haggard and dishevelled.

  ‘It seems there has been some blackmail going on,’ said Wimsey. He watched in astonishment as all the colour drained from Harwell’s face, and the hand that the man had laid on the arm of the chair twitched convulsively.

  ‘What blackmail?’ asked Harwell hoarsely.

  ‘I’m afraid your father-in-law picked up some undesirable acquaintances in prison,’ said Wimsey. ‘They took it into their heads that he might be induced to pay protection money if they threatened to harm your wife.’

  ‘Harm Rosamund?’ said Harwell. ‘Is that what happened?’

  ‘Well, possibly,’ said Wimsey. He had a curious sensation of an ebbing away of tension in the man opposite him. ‘I take it that you would confirm that you have been making payments to Mr Warren sufficient to enable him to pay blackmail demands, at least for a while?’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Harwell. ‘I did wonder. You know, Wimsey, he seemed to need a lot of subsidies, but I thought, well, I thought it must be very hard to get by when you’re not used to a limited budget. The truth is, I have absolutely no idea how much it would be reasonable for someone to need, to live simply, you know, but with dignity. I just thought he wasn’t very good at managing, or I was being a bit miserly or something . . . Are you telling me he was being bled for money? How long
had it been going on?’

  ‘For quite a while, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And – God forgive me – I told him it would have to stop; I told him I wouldn’t be able to give him anything extra for a bit. Oh, Wimsey, it wasn’t that that made them murder her, was it? I’d never forgive myself. . . Oh, I couldn’t bear it. Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? I’d soon have put a stop to it!’

  ‘Let’s take this calmly, one step at a time,’ said Wimsey. ‘Mr Warren was afraid to tell you, in case you involved the police. He had been told that if the police were brought into it, there would be a revenge attack on Mrs Harwell. You know him well enough, Harwell, to see what an easy victim he was for this kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Poor old chap must have been worried out of his mind.’

  ‘And you must not think that your putting a stop to payments to Mr Warren is in any way responsible for the tragedy. The police think it very unlikely that the blackmailers were the assailants.’

  ‘But why? Why rule them out?’ said Harwell excitedly. ‘If they were threatening her? Aren’t that class of people likely to do anything?’

  ‘As a rule that class of person is not likely to do something which removes their hold on their victim,’ said Peter. ‘But for the moment, they cannot be ruled out of the enquiry.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Harwell, subsiding. ‘I take it the police have them under lock and key?’

  ‘Certainly. Blackmail is a serious offence. They can get fourteen years for it.’

  ‘I think they ought to hang for murder.’

  ‘Only if they did it, Harwell. If they did not, that would leave your wife’s murderer walking around unpunished and free to do such a thing again.’

  ‘Of course you are right. Forgive me; my feelings are rather out of control these last few days. I don’t know what I’m saying. Incidentally, you don’t know where my father-in-law is, do you? I haven’t been able to get hold of him since the terrible occasion when I had to tell him of Rosamund’s death.’

  ‘He is very frightened,’ said Wimsey, ‘and I took the liberty of arranging a lodging for him where he is not likely to be found, and where he has a little company to keep him from brooding. His reaction is like yours: that if the blackmail has anything to do with it, he is partly to blame for his daughter’s death.’

  ‘But you don’t think that is the case?’ asked Harwell.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Wimsey. ‘Not that what I think has any particular importance. But, you told us, I think, that you did not see the table in the bungalow?’

  ‘No; the room is L-shaped; I went through it without going round to the area where the table is. Does this matter?’

  ‘Very much. The table was set for two. The question is, who was your wife expecting to dinner with her?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Harwell. ‘Well, I could hazard a guess. It could only have been Amery.’

  ‘Amery denies having been invited.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he just dropped in. She was very hospitable, Wimsey.’

  ‘She had ordered food from Fortnum’s. It really looked as though she was expecting the guest, whoever it was.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know who. She had admirers. She drew everyone’s eyes, wherever she went.’

  ‘Could it have been a woman friend?’ asked Wimsey.

  ‘I suppose it could,’ said Harwell. ‘But I don’t really think so. She felt very uneasy with people who had known her very long, and could remember her father’s disgrace. Mostly we knew couples whom we had met together, since we were married.’

  ‘I hate to suggest something you are bound to find hurtful,’ said Wimsey, ‘but could she have made a friend you didn’t know about?’

  ‘Of course she could,’ said Harwell. ‘I didn’t set spies on her, or quiz her about everything she did.’

  ‘Could I ask if you have looked at her correspondence? Might there be something to help us there?’

  ‘By all means let’s look,’ said Harwell. ‘We’ll do it now if you like. Right away.’

  He got up from the chair, and led Wimsey through to the bedroom. Limed oak bedstead and dressing tables stood around, with pea green handles, and an eau-de-Nil satin coverlet on the bed. Wimsey could not help feeling like an intruder in such sensuous surroundings. Beyond the bedroom was Rosamund’s boudoir, fitted out with a stage mirror surrounded by light bulbs, and containing a little drop-flap desk. It was not locked. The two men pulled out of it its entire contents: a gold fountain pen; some headed writing paper and scented envelopes; a Liberty address book, a dozen or so calling cards, and some letters. They carried the letters back to Harwell’s study, spread them on the desk and looked at them together.

  Most of them were nugatory. Notes for dressmakers’ appointments; a note from a woman friend thanking Rosamund for the gift of some used clothes. Another such thanking Rosamund for taking her out to lunch. A scrawled account in Rosamund’s handwriting, keeping track of her dress allowance, in amounts that made even Wimsey blink and bite his tongue. And letters from Amery. A number of them, tucked into a Morocco writing case. Rosamund seemed to have kept every scrap she had ever received from him, for some of them were no more than one-line confirmations of an intention to meet. Then, from a little hidden drawer at the back of the desk, a bundle of letters tied in a blue ribbon, and marked ‘His letters’. Wimsey thought for a moment it was treasure trove; then Harwell, spreading out the contents of the bundle said, ‘These are all from me. She kept them . . .’ and began to weep.

  Wimsey retired quietly into the sitting-room, and sat down to wait for Harwell to recover himself. He had plenty to muse about.

  In about half an hour Harwell reappeared, seeming calm again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know she had kept them.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’m only sorry to have to upset you.’

  ‘Will I have to show all that to the police?’ asked Harwell, visibly shuddering.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Wimsey. ‘After all, there is nothing there to get us a single step further. We still haven’t an idea who she had invited to dinner.’

  ‘And whoever ate that dinner with her was the last person to see her alive, and therefore the one who killed her,’ said Harwell, bleakly.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ Wimsey told him. ‘The table was undisturbed, the supper untouched. It looks very much as though the invited guest never arrived. But naturally we would like to know who he was, and why he didn’t show up.’

  ‘The only person I can think of,’ said Harwell, ‘is Claude Amery. And didn’t you say he says he wasn’t invited?’

  ‘He seems to have been in the vicinity,’ Wimsey said. ‘But not invited. Whoever supper was for, if he is to be believed, it seems it wasn’t for him.’

  ‘What about Gaston Chapparelle?’ said Harwell, suddenly. ‘I’d forgotten all about him! But you know his reputation, Wimsey, and you should have seen the way in which he looked at my wife!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Wimsey, thoughtfully. ‘I’ll get Chief Inspector Parker to ask him where he was that night.’

  ‘Harriet, have you an urgent appointment with your Robert Templeton this morning, or would you be free to take a spin down to Hampton with me?’

  ‘I’d be glad to come,’ said Harriet. ‘Robert Templeton can stew for a day; I’m sick of his company. But . . .’

  ‘But me no buts, Harriet. I don’t propose to show you anything gruesome. I just want a female accompaniment while I interview a young woman who might be unduly alarmed by confronting a titled nincompoop with an eye-glass.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you rather ask Bunter? I mean, he was always used to being your faithful side-kick; mightn’t he feel . . .?’

  ‘What a saintly woman have I married!’ said Peter. ‘Who, far from indulging in the archetypal wish to reform her spouse, strives to keep everything unchanged. How very considerate of you, my dear.’

  ‘Far from wishing yo
u to change,’ said Harriet, ‘I would have you preserved as a historic monument if I could. Bunter, I feel sure, would wish for as little change as possible in the even tenor of his days.’

  ‘But as it happens, Bunter himself has requested a day off. Something to do with a jamboree of photographers. Of course I agreed. The man has hardly had a day off since 1920.’

  ‘Very well, then, I shan’t give Bunter another thought. Who are we going to talk to?’

  ‘You mean “to whom”. To Mrs Chanter’s daughter, Rose. I have arranged with Mrs Chanter that she and Rose will be at Mon Repos and expecting us at noon. Arise and go now, and I will describe the nine bean rows in the car. Put you in the picture, I mean. I’m sorry we haven’t a better day for our jaunt, but at least it isn’t raining. Oh, and Harriet, we should time the journey; remind me to take a note of the exact time we get on the move.’

  ‘Fifty-one minutes,’ said Harriet, as the Daimler pulled to the side of the lane outside Mon Repos. ‘But there was a lot of traffic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter. They presented themselves at the front door of Mon Repos, and Mrs Chanter, in a sprig print dress, appeared at once, and showed them into the drawing-room of the house.

  ‘You mustn’t think I’ve got above myself, Lord Peter, my lady,’ she said, taking Harriet’s coat, and showing her to a chair beside the fire. ‘I wouldn’t make so free as to use my employer’s house without asking permission. But Mr Sugden telephoned last night to say they would be coming home tomorrow, and I told him I would need time off because you would be wanting to talk to Rose, and he said to make you welcome here.’

  ‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Peter.

  ‘He is a kind gentleman, sir. Very kind. He and Mrs Sugden have been in Italy for her health this winter, but now they have to come home, unexpected, on account of the family trouble. He sounded worried sick, poor gentleman. Not that it’s my place to talk about family matters outside the family, if you’ll forgive me, sir.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Peter. ‘Very proper of you, Mrs Chanter. Believe me, we shall ask Rose only what we absolutely need to know.’