‘MY LORD,
While making a few inquiries at Southampton pursuant to the investigation with which your lordship entrusted me’ (what marvellous English those fellows write, don’t they? Nearly as good as the regular police), ‘I came, almost accidentally’ (‘almost’ is good) ‘upon a trifling clue which led me to suppose that the party whom I was instructed by your lordship to keep under observation had been less in error than we were led to suppose, and had merely been misled by a confusion of identity natural in a gentleman not scientifically instructed in the art of following up suspected persons. In short’ (thank God for that!) ‘in short, I believe that I have myself come upon the track of O.’ (These fellows are amazingly cautious; he might just as well write Oliver and have done with it), ‘and have followed the individual in question to this place. I have telegraphed to the gentleman your friend’ (I presume that means Fentiman) ‘to join me immediately with a view to identifying the party. I will of course duly acquaint your lordship with any further developments in the case, and believe me’—
and so forth. Well, I’m damned!”
“The man must be mistaken, Lord Peter.”
“I jolly well hope so,” said Wimsey, rather red in the face. “It’ll be a bit galling to have Oliver turning up, just when we’ve proved so conclusively that he doesn’t exist. Paris! I suppose he means that Fentiman spotted the right man at Waterloo and lost him on the train or in the rush for the boat. And got hold of Postlethwaite instead. Funny. Meanwhile, Fentiman’s off to France. Probably taken the 10.30 boat from Folkestone. I don’t know how we’re to get hold of him.”
“How very extraordinary,” said Mr. Murbles. “Where does that detective person write from?”
“Just ‘Paris,’” said Wimsey. “Bad paper and worse ink. And a small stain of vin ordinaire. Probably written in some little café yesterday afternoon. Not much hope there. But he’s certain to let me know where they get to.”
“We must send some one to Paris immediately in search of them,” declared Mr. Murbles.
“Why?”
“To fetch Major Fentiman back.”
“Yes, but look here, sir. If there really is an Oliver after all, it rather upsets our calculations, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Murbles considered this.
“I cannot see that it affects our conclusions as to the hour of the General’s death,” he said.
“Perhaps not, but it considerably alters our position with regard to Robert Fentiman.”
“Ye — es. Yes, that is so. Though,” said Mr. Murbles, severely, “I still consider that the story requires close investigation.”
“Agreed. Well, look here. I’ll run over to Paris myself and see what I can do. And you had better temporise with Pritchard. Tell him you think there will be no need to compromise and that we hope soon to be in possession of the precise facts. That’ll show him we don’t mean to have any truck with anythin’ fishy. I’ll learn him to cast nasturtiums at me!”
“And — oh, dear! there’s another thing. We must try and get hold of Major Fentiman to stop this exhumation.”
“Oh, lord! — Yes. That’s a bit awkward. Can’t you stop it by yourself?”
“I hardly think I can. Major Fentiman has applied for it as executor, and I cannot quite see what I can do in the matter without his signature. The Home Office would hardly—”
“Yes. I quite see that you can’t mess about with the Home Office. Well, though, that’s easy. Robert never was keen on the resurrection idea. Once we’ve got his address, he’ll be only too happy to send you a chit to call the whole thing off. You leave it to me. After all, even if we don’t find Robert for a few days and the old boy has to be dug up after all, it won’t make things any worse. Will it?”
Mr. Murbles agreed, dubiously.
“Then I’ll pull the old carcass together,” said Wimsey, brightly, flinging the bedclothes aside and leaping to his feet, “and toddle off to the City of Light. Will you excuse me for a few moments, sir? The bath awaits me. Bunter, put a few things into a suit-case and be ready to come with me to Paris.”
* * *
On second thoughts, Wimsey waited till the next day, hoping, as he explained, to hear from the detective. As nothing reached him, however, he started in pursuit, instructing the head office of Sleuths Incorporated to wire any information received to him at the Hotel Meurice. The next news that arrived from him was a card to Mr. Murbles written on a P.L.M. express, which said simply,
“Quarry gone on to Rome. Hard on trail. P.W.”
The next day came a foreign telegram:
“Making for Sicily. Faint but pursuing. P.W.”
In reply to this, Mr. Murbles wired:
“Exhumation fixed for day after to-morrow. Please make haste.”
To which Wimsey replied:
“Returning for exhumation. P.W.”
He returned alone.
“Where is Robert Fentiman?” demanded Mr. Murbles, agitatedly.
Wimsey, his hair matted damply and his face white from travelling day and night, grinned feebly.
“I rather fancy,” he said, in a wan voice, “that Oliver is at his old tricks again.”
“Again?” cried Mr. Murbles, aghast. “But the letter from your detective was genuine.”
“Oh, yes — that was genuine enough. But even detectives can be bribed. Anyhow, we haven’t seen hide or hair of our friends. They’ve been always a little ahead. Like the Holy Grail, you know. Fainter by day but always in the night blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh, blood-red — perfectly bloody, in fact. Well, here we are. When does the ceremony take place? Quietly, I take it? No flowers?”
* * *
The “ceremony” took place, as such ceremonies do, under the discreet cover of darkness. George Fentiman, who, in Robert’s absence, attended to represent the family, was nervous and depressed. It is trying enough to go to the funeral of one’s friends and relations, amid the grotesque pomps of glass hearses, and black horses, and wreaths, and appropriate hymns “beautifully” rendered by well-paid choristers, but, as George irritably remarked, the people who grumble over funerals don’t realise their luck. However depressing the thud of earth on the coffin-lid may be, it is music compared to the rattle of gravel and thump of spades which herald a premature and unreverend resurrection, enveloped in clouds of formalin and without benefit of clergy.
Dr. Penberthy also appeared abstracted, and anxious to get the business over. He made the journey to the cemetery ensconced in the farthest corner of the big limousine, and discussed thyroid abnormalities with Dr. Horner, Sir James Lubbock’s assistant, who had come to help with the autopsy. Mr. Murbles was, naturally, steeped in gloom. Wimsey devoted himself to his accumulated correspondence, out of which one letter only had any bearing on the Fentiman case. It was from Marjorie Phelps, and ran:
“If you want to meet Ann Dorland, would you care to come along to a ‘do’ at the Rushworths’ Wednesday week? It will be very deadly, because Naomi Rushworth’s new young man is going to read a paper on ductless glands which nobody knows anything about. However, it appears that ductless glands will be ‘news’ in next to no time — ever so much more up-to-date than vitamins — so the Rushworths are all over glands — in the social sense, I mean. Ann D. is certain to be there, because as I told you, she is taking to this healthy bodies for all stunt, or whatever it is, so you’d better come. It will be company for me! — and I’ve got to go, anyway, as I’m supposed to be a friend of Naomi’s. Besides, they say that if one paints or sculps or models, one ought to know all about glands, because of the way they enlarge your jaw and alter your face, or something. Do come, because if you don’t I shall be fastened on by some deadly bore or other — and I shall have to hear all Naomi’s raptures about the man, which will be too awful.”
Wimsey made a note to be present at this enlivening party, and looking round, saw that they were arriving at the Necropolis — so vast, so glittering with crystal-globed wreaths, so towering wit
h sky-scraping monuments, that no lesser name would serve it. At the gate they were met by Mr. Pritchard in person (acidulated in his manner and elaborately polite to Mr. Murbles), and by the Home Office representative (suave and bland and disposed to see reporters lurking behind every tombstone.) A third person, coming up, proved to be an official from the Cemetery Company, who took charge of the party and guided them along the neat gravelled walks to where digging operations were already in process.
The coffin, being at length produced and identified by its brass plate, was then carefully borne to a small outbuilding close at hand, which appeared to be a potting-shed in ordinary life, converted by a board and a couple of trestles into a temporary mortuary. Here a slight halt and confusion was caused by the doctors, demanding in aggressively cheerful and matter-of-fact tones more light and space to work in. The coffin was placed on a bench; somebody produced a mackintosh sheet and spread it on the trestle table; lamps were brought and suitably grouped. After which, the workmen advanced, a little reluctantly, to unscrew the coffin lid, preceded by Dr. Penberthy, scattering formalin from a spray, rather like an infernal thurifer at some particularly unwholesome sacrifice.
“Ah! very nice indeed,” said Dr. Horner, appreciatively, as the corpse was disengaged from the coffin and transferred to the table. “Excellent. Not much difficulty over this job. That’s the best of getting on to it at once. How long has he been buried, did you say? Three or four weeks? He doesn’t look it. Will you make the autopsy or shall I? Just as you like. Very well. Where did I put my bag? Ah! thank you, Mr. — er — er—” (An unpleasantly-occupied pause, during which George Fentiman escaped, murmuring that he thought he’d have a smoke outside). “Undoubted heart trouble, of course, I don’t see any unusual appearances, do you?… I suppose we’d better secure the stomach as it stands… pass me the gut, would you? Thanks. D’you mind holding while I get this ligature on? Ta.” (Snip, snip.) “The jars are just behind you. Thanks. Look out! You’ll have it over. Ha! ha! that was a near thing. Reminds me of Palmer, you know — and Cook’s stomach — always think that a very funny story, ha, ha! — I won’t take all the liver — just a sample — it’s only a matter of form — and sections of the rest — yes — better have a look at the brain while we are about it, I suppose. Have you got the large saw?”
“How callous these medical men seem,” murmured Mr. Murbles.
“It’s nothing to them,” said Wimsey. “Horner does this kind of job several times a week.”
“Yes, but he need not be so noisy. Dr. Penberthy behaves with decorum.”
“Penberthy runs a practice,” said Wimsey with a faint grin. “He has to exercise a little restraint over himself. Besides, he knew old Fentiman, and Horner didn’t.”
At length the relevant portions of General Fentiman’s anatomy having been collected into suitable jars and bottles, the body was returned to the coffin and screwed down. Penberthy came across to Wimsey and took his arm.
“We ought to be able to get a pretty good idea of what you want to know,” he said. “Decomposition is very little advanced, owing to an exceptionally well-made coffin. By the way” (he dropped his voice) “that leg, you know — did it ever occur to you — or rather, did you ever discover any explanation of that?”
“I did have an idea about it,” admitted Wimsey, “but I don’t yet know whether it was the right one. I shall probably know for certain in a day or two.”
“You think the body was interfered with?” said Penberthy, looking him steadily in the face.
“Yes, and so do you,” replied Wimsey, returning the gaze.
“I’ve had my suspicions all the time, of course. I told you so, you know. I wonder whether — you don’t think I was wrong to give the certificate, do you?”
“Not unless you suspected anything wrong with the death itself,” said Wimsey. “Have you and Horner noticed anything queer?”
“No. But — oh, well! having patients dug up always makes me worried, you know. It’s easy to make a mistake and one looks an awful fool in court. I’d hate being made to look a fool just at present,” added the doctor with a nervous laugh. “I’m thinking of — great Scott, man! how you startled me!”
Dr. Horner had brought a large, bony hand down on his shoulder. He was a red-faced, jovial man, and he smiled as he held up his bag before them.
“All packed up and ready,” he announced. “Got to be getting back now, aha! Got to be getting back.”
“Have the witnesses signed the labels?” asked Penberthy, rather shortly.
“Yes, yes, quite right. Both the solicitor johnnies, so they can’t quarrel about that in the witness-box,” replied Horner. “Come along, please — I’ve got to get off.”
They found George Fentiman outside, seated on a tombstone, and sucking at an empty pipe.
“Is it all over?”
“Yes.”
“Have they found anything?”
“Haven’t looked yet,” broke in Horner, genially. “Not at the part which interests you, that is. Leave that for my colleague Lubbock, you know. Soon give you an answer — say, in a week’s time.
George passed his handkerchief over his forehead, which was beaded with little drops of sweat.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “but I suppose it had to be done. What was that? I thought — I’d swear I saw something moving over there.”
“A cat, probably,” said Penberthy, “there’s nothing to be alarmed at.”
“No,” said George, “but sitting about here, one — fancies things.” He hunched his shoulders, squinting round at them with the whites of his eyeballs showing.
“Things,” he said, “people — going to and fro… and walking up and down. Following one.”
Chapter XIV
Grand Slam in Spades
On the seventh morning after the exhumation — which happened to be a Tuesday — Lord Peter walked briskly into Mr. Murbles’ chambers in Staple Inn, with Detective-Inspector Parker at his heels.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Murbles, surprised.
“Good morning,” said Wimsey. “Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings. He is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread. He will be here in a quarter of an hour.”
“Who will?” demanded Mr. Murbles, somewhat severely.
“Robert Fentiman.”
Mr. Murbles gave a little ejaculation of surprise.
“I had almost given up hope in that direction,” he said.
“So had not I. I said to myself, he is not lost but gone before. And it was so. Charles, we will lay out the pièces de conviction on the table. The boots. The photographs. The microscopic slides showing the various specimens. The paper of notes from the library. The outer garments of the deceased. Just so. And Oliver Twist! Beautiful. Now, as Sherlock Holmes says, we shall look imposing enough to strike terror into the guilty breast, though armed in triple steel.”
“Did Fentiman return of his own accord?”
“Not altogether. He was, if I may so express myself, led. Almost, in fact, led on. O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent till, don’t you know. What is that noise in the outer room? It is, it is the cannon’s opening roar.”
It was, indeed, the voice of Robert Fentiman, not in the best of tempers. In a few seconds he was shown in. He nodded curtly to Mr. Murbles, who replied with a stiff bow, and then turned violently upon Wimsey.
“Look here, what’s the meaning of all this? Here’s that damned detective fellow of yours leading me a devil of a dance all over Europe and home again, and then this morning he suddenly turns round and tells me that you want to see me here with news about Oliver. What the devil do you know about Oliver?”
“Oliver?” said Wimsey. “Oh, yes he’s an elusive personality. Almost as elusive in Rome as he was in London. Wasn’t it odd, Fentiman, the way he always seemed to bob up directly your back was turned? Wasn’t it funny, the way he managed to disappear from places the moment you set foot in ’em? Almost like the way he use
d to hang about Gatti’s and then give you and me the slip. Did you have a jolly time abroad, old man? I suppose you didn’t like to tell your companion that he and you were chasing a will o’ the wisp?”
Robert Fentiman’s face was passing through phases ranging from fury to bewilderment and back again. Mr. Murbles interrupted.
“Has this detective vouchsafed any explanation of his extraordinary behaviour, in keeping us in the dark for nearly a fortnight as to his movements?”
“I’m afraid I owe you the explanation,” said Wimsey, airily. “You see, I thought it was time the carrot was dangled before the other donkey. I knew that if we pretended to find Oliver in Paris, Fentiman would be in honour bound to chase after him. In fact, he was probably only too pleased to get away — weren’t you, Fentiman?”
“Do you mean to say that you invented all this story about Oliver, Lord Peter?”
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