“All right. I’ll find the right one. Now, will you see to the Charing Cross end?”
“Of course — if you really think it’s any good.”
“Yes, I do. Right you are. I’ll get hold of the ’tec and send him along to you, and you can arrange with him.”
“Very well.”
“Cheerio!”
Lord Peter rang off and sat for a few moments, grinning to himself. Then he turned to Bunter.
“I don’t often prophesy, Bunter, but I’m going to do it now. Your fortune told by hand or cards. Beware of the dark stranger. That sort of thing.”
“Indeed, my lord?”
“Cross the gipsy’s palm with silver. I see Mr. Oliver. I see him taking a journey in which he will cross water. I see trouble. I see the ace of spades — upside-down, Bunter.”
“And what then, my lord?”
“Nothing. I look into the future and I see a blank. The gipsy has spoken.”
“I will bear it in mind, my lord.”
“Do. If my prediction is not fulfilled, I will give you a new camera. And now I’m going round to see that fellow who calls himself Sleuths Incorporated, and get him to put a good man on to keep watch at Charing Cross. And after that, I’m going down to Chelsea and I don’t quite know when I shall be back. You’d better take the afternoon off. Put me out some sandwiches or something, and don’t wait up if I’m late.”
Wimsey disposed quickly of his business with Sleuths Incorporated, and then made his way to a pleasant little studio overlooking the river at Chelsea.
The door, which bore a neat label “Miss Marjorie Phelps,” was opened by a pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair and a blue overall heavily smudged with clay.
“Lord Peter! How nice of you. Do come in.”
“Shan’t I be in the way?”
“Not a scrap. You don’t mind if I go on working.”
“Rather not.”
“You could put the kettle on and find some food if you liked to be really helpful. I just want to finish up this figure.”
“That’s fine. I took the liberty of bringing a pot of Hybla honey with me.”
“What sweet ideas you have! I really think you are one of the nicest people I know. You don’t talk rubbish about art, and you don’t want your hand held, and your mind always turns on eating and drinking.”
“Don’t speak too soon. I don’t want my hand held, but I did come here with an object.”
“Very sensible of you. Most people come without any.”
“And stay interminably.”
“They do.”
Miss Phelps cocked her head on one side and looked critically at the little dancing lady she was modelling. She had made a line of her own in pottery figurines, which sold well and were worth the money.
“That’s rather attractive,” said Wimsey.
“Rather pretty-pretty. But it’s a special order, and one can’t afford to be particular. I’ve done a Christmas present for you, by the way. You’d better have a look at it, and if you think it offensive we’ll smash it together. It’s in that cupboard.”
Wimsey opened the cupboard and extracted a little figure about nine inches high. It represented a young man in a flowing dressing-gown, absorbed in the study of a huge volume held on his knee. The portrait was life-like. He chuckled.
“It’s damned good, Marjorie. A very fine bit of modelling. I’d love to have it. You aren’t multiplying it too often, I hope? I mean, it won’t be on sale at Selfridges?”
“I’ll spare you that. I thought of giving one to your mother.”
“That’ll please her no end. Thanks ever so. I shall look forward to Christmas, for once. Shall I make some toast?”
“Rather!”
Wimsey squatted happily down before the gas-fire, while the modeller went on with her work. Tea and figurine were ready almost at the same moment, and Miss Phelps, flinging off her overall, threw herself luxuriously into a battered arm-chair by the hearth.
“And what can I do for you?”
“You can tell me all you know about Miss Ann Dorland.”
“Ann Dorland? Great heavens! You haven’t fallen for Ann Dorland, have you? I’ve heard she’s coming into a lot of money.”
“You have a perfectly disgusting mind, Miss Phelps. Have some more toast. Excuse me licking my fingers. I have not fallen for the lady. If I had, I’d manage my affairs without assistance. I haven’t even seen her. What’s she like?”
“To look at?”
“Among other things.”
“Well, she’s rather plain. She has dark, straight hair, cut in a bang across the forehead and bobbed — like a Flemish page. Her forehead is broad and she has a square sort of face and a straight nose — quite good. Also, her eyes are good — grey, with nice heavy eyebrows, not fashionable a bit. But she has a bad skin and rather sticky-out teeth. And she’s dumpy.”
“She’s a painter, isn’t she?”
“M’m — well! she paints.”
“I see. A well-off amateur with a studio.”
“Yes. I will say that old Lady Dormer was very decent to her. Ann Dorland, you know, is some sort of far-away distant cousin on the female side of the Fentiman family, and when Lady Dormer first got to hear of her she was an orphan and incredibly poverty-stricken. The old lady liked to have a bit of young life about the house, so she took charge of her, and the wonderful thing is that she didn’t try to monopolise her. She let her have a big place for a studio and bring in any friends she liked and go about as she chose — in reason, of course.”
“Lady Dormer suffered a good deal from oppressive relations in her youth,” said Wimsey.
“I know, but most old people seem to forget that. I’m sure Lady Dormer had time enough. She must have been rather unusual. Mind you, I didn’t know her very well, and I don’t really know a great deal about Ann Dorland. I’ve been there, of course. She gave parties — rather incompetently. And she comes round to some of our studios from time to time. But she isn’t really one of us.”
“Probably one has to be really poor and hard-working to be that.”
“No. You, for instance, fit in quite well on the rare occasions when we have the pleasure. And it doesn’t matter not being able to paint. Look at Bobby Hobart and his ghastly daubs — he’s a perfect dear and everybody loves him. I think Ann Dorland must have a complex of some kind. Complexes explain so much, like the blessed word hippopotamus.”
Wimsey helped himself lavishly to honey and looked receptive.
“I think really,” went on Miss Phelps, “that Ann ought to have been something in the City. She has brains, you know. She’d run anything awfully well. But she isn’t creative. And then, of course so many of our little lot seem to be running love-affairs. And a continual atmosphere of hectic passion is very trying if you haven’t got any of your own.”
“Has Miss Dorland a mind above hectic passion?”
“Well, no. I daresay she would quite have liked — but nothing ever came of it. Why are you interested in having Ann Dorland analyzed?”
“I’ll tell you some day. It isn’t just vulgar curiosity.”
“No, you’re very decent as a rule, or I wouldn’t be telling you all this. I think, really, Ann has a sort of fixed idea that she couldn’t ever possibly attract any one, and so she’s either sentimental and tiresome, or rude and snubbing, and our crowd does hate sentimentality and simply can’t bear to be snubbed. Ann’s rather pathetic, really. As a matter of fact, I think she’s gone off art a bit. Last time I heard about her, she had been telling some one she was going in for social service, or sick-nursing, or something of that kind. I think it’s very sensible. She’d probably get along much better with the people who do that sort of thing. They’re so much more solid and polite.”
“I see. Look here, suppose I ever wanted to run across Miss Dorland accidentally on purpose — where should I be likely to find her?”
“You do seem thrilled about her! I think I should try the Rushworth
s. They go in rather for science and improving the submerged tenth and things like that. Of course, I suppose Ann’s in mourning now, but I don’t think that would necessarily keep her away from the Rushworths’. Their gatherings aren’t precisely frivolous.”
“Thanks very much. You’re a mine of valuable information. And, for a woman, you don’t ask many questions.”
“Thank you for those few kind words, Lord Peter.”
“I am now free to devote my invaluable attention to your concerns. What is the news? And who is in love with whom?”
“Life is a perfect desert. Nobody is in love with me, and the Schlitzers have had a worse row than usual and separated.”
“No!”
“Yes. Only, owing to financial considerations, they’ve got to go on sharing the same studio — you know that big room over the mews. It must be very awkward having to eat and sleep and work in the same room with somebody you’re being separated from. They don’t even speak, and it’s very awkward when you call on one of them and the other has to pretend not to be able to see or hear you.”
“I shouldn’t think one could keep it up under those circumstances.”
“It’s difficult. I’d have had Olga here, only she is so dreadfully bad-tempered. Besides, neither of them will give up the studio to the other.”
“I see. But isn’t there any third party in the case?”
“Yes — Ulric Fiennes, the sculptor you know. But he can’t have her at his place because his wife’s there, and he’s really dependent on his wife, because his sculpting doesn’t pay. And besides, he’s at work on that colossal group for the Exhibition and he can’t move it; it weighs about twenty tons. And if he went off and took Olga away, his wife would lock him out of the place. It’s very inconvenient being a sculptor. It’s like playing the double-bass; one’s so handicapped by one’s baggage.”
“True. Whereas, when you run away with me, we’ll be able to put all the pottery shepherds and shepherdesses in a handbag.”
“Of course. What fun it will be. Where shall we run to?”
“How about starting to-night and getting as far as Oddenino’s and going on to a show — if you’re not doing anything?”
“You are a loveable man, and I shall call you Peter. Shall we see ‘Betwixt and Between?’”
“The thing they had such a job to get past the censor? Yes, if you like. Is it particularly obscene?”
“No, epicene, I fancy.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m quite agreeable. Only I warn you that I shall make a point of asking you the meaning of all the risky bits in a very audible voice.”
“That’s your idea of amusement, is it?”
“Yes. It does make them so wild. People say ‘Hush!’ and giggle, and if I’m lucky I end up with a gorgeous row in the bar.”
“Then I won’t risk it. No. I’ll tell you what I’d really love. We’ll go and see ‘George Barnwell’ at the Elephant and have a fish-and-chips supper afterwards.”
This was agreed upon, and was voted in retrospect a most profitable evening. It finished up with grilled kippers at a friend’s studio in the early hours. Lord Peter returned home to find a note upon the hall-table.
“MY LORD,
The person from Sleuths Incorporated rang up today that he was inclined to acquiesce in your lordship’s opinion, but that he was keeping his eye upon the party and would report further to-morrow. The sandwiches are on the dining-room table if your lordship should require refreshment.
“Yours obediently,
“M. BUNTER.”
“Cross the gipsy’s palm with silver,” said his lordship, happily, and rolled into bed.
Chapter XI
Lord Peter Clears Trumps
“Sleuths Incorporated’s” report, when it came, might be summed up as “Nothing doing and Major Fentiman convinced that there never will be anything doing; opinion shared by Sleuths Incorporated.” Lord Peter’s reply was: “Keep on watching and something will happen before the week is out.”
His lordship was justified. On the fourth evening, “Sleuths Incorporated” reported again by telephone. The particular sleuth in charge of the case had been duly relieved by Major Fentiman at 6 p.m. and had gone to get his dinner. On returning to his post an hour later, he had been presented with a note left for him with the ticket-collector at the stair-head. It ran:
“Just seen Oliver getting into taxi. Am following. Will communicate to refreshment-room.
“FENTIMAN.”
The sleuth had perforce to return to the refreshment room and hang about waiting for a further message. “But all the while, my lord, the second man I put on as instructed by you, my lord, was a-following the Major unbeknownst.” Presently a call was put through from Waterloo. “Oliver is on the Southampton train. I am following.” The sleuth hurried down to Waterloo, found the train gone and followed on by the next. At Southampton he made inquiries and learned that a gentleman answering to Fentiman’s description had made a violent disturbance as the Havre boat was just starting, and had been summarily ejected at the instance of an elderly man whom he appeared to have annoyed or attacked in some way. Further investigation among the Port authorities made it clear that Fentiman had followed this person down, made himself offensive on the train and been warned off by the guard, collared his prey again on the gangway and tried to prevent him from going aboard. The gentleman had produced his passport and pièces d’identité, showing him to be a retired manufacturer of the name Postlethwaite, living at Kew. Fentiman had insisted that he was, on the contrary a man called Oliver, address and circumstances unknown, whose testimony was wanted in some family matter. As Fentiman was unprovided with a passport and appeared to have no official authority for stopping and questioning travellers, and as his story seemed vague and his manner agitated, the local police had decided to detain Fentiman. Postlethwaite was allowed to proceed on his way, after leaving his address in England and his destination, which, as he contended, and as he produced papers and correspondence to prove, was Venice.
The sleuth went round to the police-station, where he found Fentiman, apoplectic with fury, threatening proceedings for false imprisonment. He was able to get him released, however, on bearing witness to Fentiman’s identity and good faith, and after persuading him to give a promise to keep the peace. He had then reminded Fentiman that private persons were not entitled to assault or arrest peaceable people against whom no charge could be made, pointing out to him that his proper course, when Oliver denied being Oliver, would have been to follow on quietly and keep a watch on him, while communicating with Wimsey or Mr. Murbles or Sleuths Incorporated.
He added that he was himself now waiting at Southampton for further instructions from Lord Peter. Should he follow to Venice, or send his subordinate, or should he return to London? In view of the frank behaviour of Mr. Postlethwaite, it seemed probable that a genuine mistake had been made as to identity, but Fentiman insisted that he was not mistaken.
Lord Peter, holding the trunk line, considered for a moment. Then he laughed.
“Where is Major Fentiman?” he asked.
“Returning to town, my lord. I have represented to him that I have now all the necessary information to go upon, and that his presence in Venice would only hamper my movements, now that he has made himself known to the party.”
“Quite so. Well, I think you might as well send your man on to Venice, just in case it’s a true bill. And listen”… He gave some further instructions, ending with: “And ask Major Fentiman to come and see me as soon as he arrives.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“What price the gipsy’s warning now?” said Lord Peter, as he communicated that piece of intelligence to Bunter.
Major Fentiman came round to the flat that afternoon, in a whirl of apology and indignation.
“I’m sorry, old man. It was damned stupid of me, but I lost my temper. To hear that fellow calmly denying that he had ever seen me or poor old grandfather, and coming out with his bits of
evidence so pat, put my bristles up. Of course, I see now that I made a mistake. I quite realise that I ought to have followed him up quietly. But how was I to know that he wouldn’t answer to his name?”
“But you ought to have guessed when he didn’t, that either you had made a mistake or that he had some very good motive for trying to get away,” said Wimsey.
“I wasn’t accusing him of anything.”
“Of course not, but he seems to have thought you were.”
“But why? — I mean, when I first spoke to him, I just said, ‘Mr. Oliver, I think?’ And he said, ‘You are mistaken.’ And I said, ‘Surely not. My name’s Fentiman, and you knew my grandfather, old General Fentiman.’ And he said he hadn’t the pleasure. So I explained that we wanted to know where the old boy had spent the night before he died, and he looked at me as if I was a lunatic. That annoyed me, and I said I knew he was Oliver, and then he complained to the guard. And when I saw him just trying to hop off like that, without giving us any help, and when I thought about that half-million, it made me so mad I just collared him. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I said — and that was how the fun began, don’t you see.”
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