The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club lpw-5

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “I see perfectly,” said Wimsey. “But don’t you see, that if he really is Oliver and has gone off in that elaborate manner, with false passports and everything, he must have something important to conceal.”

  Fentiman’s jaw dropped.

  “You don’t mean — you don’t mean there’s anything funny about the death? Oh! surely not.”

  “There must be something funny about Oliver, anyway, mustn’t there? On your own showing?”

  “Well, if you look at it that way, I suppose there must. I tell you what, he’s probably got into some bother or other and is clearing out. Debt, or a woman, or something. Of course that must be it. And I was beastly inconvenient popping up like that. So he pushed me off. I see it all now. Well, in that case, we’d better let him rip. We can’t get him back, and I daresay he won’t be able to tell us anything after all.”

  “That’s possible, of course. But when you bear in mind that he seems to have disappeared from Gatti’s, where you used to see him, almost immediately after the General’s death, doesn’t it look rather as though he was afraid of being connected up with that particular incident?”

  Fentiman wriggled uncomfortably.

  “Oh, but, hang it all! What could he have to do with the old man’s death?”

  “I don’t know. But I think we might try to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Well, we might apply for an exhumation order.”

  “Dig him up!” cried Fentiman, scandalised.

  “Yes. There was no post-mortem, you know.”

  “No, but Penberthy knew all about it and gave the certificate.”

  “Yes; but at that time there was no reason to suppose that anything was wrong.”

  “And there isn’t now.”

  “There are a number of peculiar circumstances, to say the least.”

  “There’s only Oliver — and I may have been mistaken about him.”

  “But I thought you were so sure?”

  “So I was. But — this is preposterous, Wimsey! Besides, think what a scandal it would make!”

  “Why should it? You are the executor. You can make a private application and the whole thing can be done quite privately.”

  “Yes, but surely the Home Office would never consent, on such flimsy grounds.”

  “I’ll see that they do. They’ll know I wouldn’t be keen on anything flimsy. Little bits of fluff were never in my line.”

  “Oh, do be serious. What reason can we give?”

  “Quite apart from Oliver, we can give a very good one. We can say that we want to examine the contents of the viscera to see how soon the General died after taking his last meal. That might be of great assistance in solving the question of the survivorship. And the law, generally speaking, is nuts on what they call the orderly devolution of property.”

  “Hold on! D’you mean to say you can tell when a bloke died just by looking inside his tummy?”

  “Not exactly, of course. But one might get an idea. If we found, that is, that he’d only that moment swallowed his brekker, it would show that he’d died not very long after arriving at the Club.”

  “Good lord! — that would be a poor look-out for me.”

  “It might be the other way, you know.”

  “I don’t like it, Wimsey. It’s very unpleasant. I wish to goodness we could compromise on it.”

  “But the lady in the case won’t compromise. You know that. We’ve got to get at the facts somehow. I shall certainly get Murbles to suggest the exhumation to Pritchard.”

  “Oh, lord! What’ll he do?”

  “Pritchard? If he’s an honest man and his client’s an honest woman, they’ll support the application. If they don’t, I shall fancy they’ve something to conceal.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re a low-down lot. But they can’t do anything without my consent, can they?”

  “Not exactly — at least, not without a lot of trouble and publicity. But if you’re an honest man, you’ll give your consent. You’ve nothing to conceal, I suppose?”

  “Of course not. Still, it seems rather—”

  “They suspect us already of some kind of dirty work,” persisted Wimsey. “That brute Pritchard as good as told me so. I’m expecting every day to hear that he has suggested exhumation off his own bat. I’d rather we got in first with it.”

  “If that’s the case, I suppose we must do it. But I can’t believe it’ll do a bit of good, and it’s sure to get round and make an upheaval. Isn’t there some other way — you’re so darned clever—”

  “Look here, Fentiman. Do you want to get at the facts? Or are you out to collar the cash by hook or by crook? You may as well tell me frankly which it is.”

  “Of course I want to get at the facts.”

  “Very well; I’ve told you the next step to take.”

  “Damn it all,” said Fentiman, discontentedly; “I suppose it’ll have to be done, then. But I don’t know whom to apply to or how to do it.”

  “Sit down, then, and I’ll dictate the letter for you.”

  From this there was no escape, and Robert Fentiman did as he was told, grumbling.

  “There’s George. I ought to consult him.”

  “It doesn’t concern George, except indirectly. That’s right. Now write to Murbles, telling him what you’re doing and instructing him to let the other party know.”

  “Oughtn’t we to consult about the whole thing with Murbles first?”

  “I’ve already consulted Murbles, and he agrees it’s the thing to do.”

  “These fellows would agree to anything that means fees and trouble.”

  “Just so. Still, solicitors are necessary evils. Is that finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give the letters to me; I’ll see they’re posted. Now you needn’t worry any more about it. Murbles and I will see to it all, and the detective-wallah is looking after Oliver all right, so you can run away and play.”

  “You—”

  “I’m sure you’re going to say how good it is of me to take all this trouble. Delighted, I’m sure. It’s of no consequence. A pleasure, in fact. Have a drink.”

  The disconcerted major refused the drink rather shortly and prepared to depart.

  “You mustn’t think I’m not grateful, Wimsey, and all that. But it is rather unseemly.”

  “With all your experience,” said Wimsey, “you oughtn’t to be so sensitive about corpses. We’ve seen many things much unseemlier than a nice, quiet little resurrection in a respectable cemetery.”

  “Oh, I don’t care twopence about the corpse,” retorted the Major, “but the thing doesn’t look well. That’s all.”

  “Think of the money,” grinned Wimsey, shutting the door of the flat upon him.

  He returned to the library, balancing the two letters in his hand. “There’s many a man now walking the streets of London,” said he, “through not clearing trumps. Take these letters to the post, Bunter. And Mr. Parker will be dining here with me this evening. We will have a perdrix aux choux and a savoury to follow, and you can bring up two bottles of the Chambertin.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Wimsey’s next proceeding was to write a little confidential note to an official whom he knew very well at the Home Office. This done, he returned to the telephone and asked for Penberthy’s number.

  “That you, Penberthy?… Wimsey speaking… Look here, old man, you know that Fentiman business?… Yes, well, we’re applying for an exhumation.”

  “For a what?”

  “An exhumation. Nothing to do with your certificate. We know that’s all right. It’s just by way of getting a bit more information about when the beggar died.”

  He outlined his suggestion.

  “Think there’s something in it?”

  “There might be, of course.”

  “Glad to hear you say that. I’m a layman in these matters, but it occurred to me as a good idea.”

  “Very ingenious.”

&nbs
p; “I always was a bright lad. You’ll have to be present, of course.”

  “Am I to do the autopsy?”

  “If you like. Lubbock will do the analysis.”

  “Analysis of what?”

  “Contents of the doings. Whether he had kidneys on toast or eggs and bacon and all that.”

  “Oh, I see. I doubt if you’ll get much from that, after all this time.”

  “Possibly not, but Lubbock had better have a squint at it.”

  “Yes, certainly. As I gave the certificate, it’s better that my findings should be checked by somebody.”

  “Exactly. I knew you’d feel that way. You quite understand about it?”

  “Perfectly. Of course, if we’d had any idea there was going to be all this uncertainty, I’d have made a post-mortem at the time.”

  “Naturally you would. Well, it can’t be helped. All in the day’s work. I’ll let you know when it’s to be. I suppose the Home Office will send somebody along. I thought I ought just to let you know about it.”

  “Very good of you. Yes. I’m glad to know. Hope nothing unpleasant will come out.”

  “Thinking of your certificate?”

  “Oh, well — no — I’m not worrying much about that. Though you never know, of course. I was thinking of that rigor, you know. Seen Captain Fentiman lately?”

  “Yes. I didn’t mention—”

  “No. Better not, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Well, I’ll hear from you later, then?”

  “That’s the idea. Good-bye.”

  That day was a day of incident.

  About four o’clock a messenger arrived, panting, from Mr. Murbles. (Mr. Murbles refused to have his chambers desecrated by a telephone.) Mr. Murbles’ compliments, and would Lord Peter be good enough to read this note and let Mr. Murbles have an immediate answer.

  The note ran:

  “DEAR LORD PETER,

  In re Fentiman deceased. Mr. Pritchard has called. He informs me that his client is now willing to compromise on a division of the money if the Court will permit. Before I consult my client, Major Fentiman, I should be greatly obliged by your opinion as to how the investigation stands at present.

  Yours faithfully,

  JNO. MURBLES.”

  Lord Peter replied as follows:

  “DEAR MR. MURBLES,

  Re Fentiman deceased. Too late to compromise now, unless you are willing to be party to a fraud. I warned you, you know. Robert has applied for exhumation. Can you dine with me at 8?

  P. W.”

  Having sent this off, his lordship rang for Bunter.

  “Bunter, as you know, I seldom drink champagne. But I am inclined to do so now. Bring a glass for yourself as well.”

  The cork popped merrily, and Lord Peter rose to his feet.

  “Bunter,” said he, “I give you a toast. The triumph of Instinct over Reason!”

  Chapter XII

  Lord Peter Turns a Trick

  Detective-Inspector Parker came to dinner encircled in a comfortable little halo of glory. The Crate Mystery had turned out well and the Chief Commissioner had used expressions suggestive of promotion in the immediate future. Parker did justice to his meal and, when the party had adjourned to the library, gave his attention to Lord Peter’s account of the Bellona affair with the cheerful appreciation of a connoisseur sampling a vintage port. Mr. Murbles, on the other hand, grew more and more depressed as the story was unfolded.

  “And what do you think of it?” inquired Wimsey.

  Parker opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Murbles was beforehand with him.

  “This Oliver appears to be a very elusive person,” said he.

  “Isn’t he?” agreed Wimsey, dryly. “Almost as elusive as the famous Mrs. Harris. Would it altogether surprise you to learn that when I asked a few discreet questions at Gatti’s, I discovered not only that nobody there had the slightest recollection of Oliver, but that no inquiries about him had ever been made by Major Fentiman?”

  “Oh, dear me!” said Mr. Murbles.

  “You forced Fentiman’s hand very ingeniously by sending him down with your private sleuth to Charing Cross,” remarked Parker, approvingly.

  “Well, you see, I had a feeling that unless we did something pretty definite, Oliver would keep vanishing and reappearing like the Cheshire Cat, whenever our investigations seemed to be taking an awkward turn.”

  “You are intimating, if I understand you rightly,” said Mr. Murbles, “that this Oliver has no real existence.”

  “Oliver was the carrot on the donkey’s nose,” said Peter, “my noble self being cast for the part of the donkey. Not caring for the role, I concocted a carrot of my own, in the person of Sleuths Incorporated. No sooner did my trusting sleuth depart to his lunch than, lo and behold! the hue and cry is off again after Oliver. Away goes friend Fentiman — and away goes Sleuth Number Two, who was there all the time, neatly camouflaged, to keep his eye on Fentiman. Why Fentiman should have gone to the length of assaulting a perfect stranger and accuse him of being Oliver, I don’t know. I fancy his passion for thoroughness made him over-reach himself a bit there.”

  “But what exactly has Major Fentiman been doing?” asked Mr. Murbles. “This is a very painful business, Lord Peter. It distresses me beyond words. Do you suspect him of — er—?”

  “Well,” said Wimsey, “I knew something odd had happened, you know, as soon as I saw the General’s body — when I pulled the Morning Post away so easily from his hands. If he had really died clutching it, the rigor would have made his clutch so tight that one would have had to pry the fingers open to release it. And then, that knee-joint!”

  “I didn’t quite follow about that.”

  “Well, you know that when a man dies, rigor begins to set in after a period of some hours, varying according to the cause of death, temperature of the room and a lot of other conditions. It starts in the face and jaw and extends gradually over the body. Usually it lasts about twenty-four hours and then passes off again in the same order in which it started. But if, during the period of rigidity, you loosen one of the joints by main force, then it doesn’t stiffen again, but remains loose. Which is why, in a hospital, if the nurses have carelessly let a patient die and stiffen with his knees up, they call in the largest and fattest person on the staff to sit on the corpse’s knees and break the joints loose again.”

  Mr. Murbles shuddered distastefully.

  “So that, taking the loose knee-joint and the general condition of the body together, it was obvious from the start that somebody had been tampering with the General. Penberthy knew that too, of course, only, being a doctor, he wasn’t going to make any indiscreet uproar if he could avoid it. It doesn’t pay, you know.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well, then, you came round to me, sir, and insisted on making the uproar. I warned you, you know, to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I wish you had spoken more openly.”

  “If I had, would you have cared to hush the matter up?”

  “Well, well,” said Mr. Murbles, polishing his eyeglasses.

  “Just so. The next step was to try and find out what had actually happened to the General on the night of the 10th, and morning of the 11th. And the moment I got round to his flat I was faced with two entirely contradictory pieces of evidence. First, there was the story about Oliver, which appeared more or less remarkable upon the face of it. And secondly, there was Woodward’s evidence about the clothes.”

  “What about them?”

  “I asked him, you remember, whether anything at all had been removed from the clothes after he had fetched them away from the cloak-room at the Bellona, and he said, nothing. His memory as to other points seemed pretty reliable, and I felt sure that he was honest and straightforward. So I was forced to the conclusion that, wherever the General had spent the night, he had certainly never set foot in the street the next morning.”