Lord Peter Views the Body: A Collection of Mysteries

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Dear me!’ said Dr Conyers. ‘I believe, indeed, you must be right. And I am ashamed to think that if anybody had suggested to me that it could ever be profitable to me to learn the terms of astrology, I should have replied in my vanity that my time was too valuable to waste on such foolishness. I am deeply indebted to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gherkins, ‘but where is the treasure, uncle?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Lord Peter. ‘The map is very vague; there is no latitude or longitude given; and the directions, such as they are, seem not even to refer to any spot on the islands, but to some place in the middle of the sea. Besides, it is nearly two hundred years since the treasure was hidden, and it may already have been found by somebody or other.’

  Dr Conyers stood up.

  ‘I am an old man,’ he said, ‘but I still have some strength. If I can by any means get together the money for an expedition, I will not rest till I have made every possible effort to find the treasure and to endow my clinic.’

  ‘Then, sir, I hope you’ll let me give a hand to the good work,’ said Lord Peter.

  Dr Conyers had invited his guests to stay the night, and, after the excited viscount had been packed off to bed, Wimsey and the old man sat late, consulting maps and diligently reading Munster’s chapter ‘De Novis Insults’, in the hope of discovering some further clue. At length, however, they separated, and Lord Peter went up upstairs, the book under his arm. He was restless, however, and, instead of going to bed, sat for a long time at his window, which looked out upon the lake. The moon, a few days past the full, was riding high among small, windy clouds, and picked out the sharp eaves of the Chinese tea-houses and the straggling tops of the unpruned shrubs. Old Cut-throat’ and his landscape-gardening! Wimsey could have fancied that the old pirate was sitting now beside his telescope in the preposterous pagoda, chuckling over his riddling testament and counting the craters of the moon. ‘If Luna, there is silver.’ The water of the lake was silver enough; there was a great smooth path across it, broken by the sinister wedge of the boat-house, the black shadows of the islands, and, almost in the middle of the lake, a decayed fountain, a writhing Celestial dragon-shape, spiny-backed and ridiculous.

  Wimsey rubbed his eyes. There was something strangely familiar about the lake; from moment to moment it assumed the queer unreality of a place which one recognises without having ever known it. It was like one’s first sight of the Leaning Tower of Pisa — too like its picture to be quite believable. Surely, thought Wimsey, he knew that elongated island on the right, shaped rather like a winged monster, with its two little clumps of buildings. And the island to the left of it, like the British Isles, but warped out of shape. And the third island, between the others, and nearer. The three formed a triangle, with the Chinese fountain in the centre, the moon shining steadily upon its dragon head. ‘Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo —’

  Lord Peter sprang up with a loud exclamation, and flung open the door into the dressing-room. A small figure wrapped in an eiderdown hurriedly uncoiled itself from the window-seat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Peter,’ said Gherkins. ‘I was so dreadfully wide awake, it wasn’t any good staying in bed.’

  ‘Come here,’ said Lord Peter, ‘and tell me if I’m mad or dreaming. Look out of the window and compare it with the map — Old Cut-throat’s “New Islands”. He made ’em, Gherkins; he put ’em here. Aren’t they laid out just like the Canaries? Those three islands in a triangle, and the fourth down here in the corner? And the boat-house where the big ship is in the picture? And the dragon fountain where the dragon’s head is? Well, my son, that’s where your hidden treasure’s gone to. Get your things on, Gherkins, and damn the time when all good little boys should be in bed! We’re going for a row on the lake, if there’s a tub in that boat-house that’ll float.’

  ‘Oh, Uncle Peter! This is a real adventure!’

  ‘All right,’ said Wimsey. ‘Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, and all that! Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Johnny Walker! Pirate expedition fitted out in dead of night to seek hidden treasure and explore the Fortunate Isles! Come on, crew!’

  Lord Peter hitched the leaky dinghy to the dragon’s knobbly tail and climbed out carefully, for the base of the fountain was green and weedy. ‘I’m afraid it’s your job to sit there and bail, Gherkins,’ he said. ‘All the best captains bag the really interesting jobs for themselves. We’d better start with the head. If the old blighter said head, he probably meant it.’ He passed an arm affectionately round the creature’s neck for support, while he methodically pressed and pulled the various knobs and bumps of its anatomy. ‘It seems beastly solid, but I’m sure there’s a spring somewhere. You won’t forget to bail, will you? I’d simply hate to turn round and find the boat gone. Pirate chief marooned on island and all that. Well, it isn’t its back hair, anyhow. We’ll try its eyes. I say, Gherkins, I’m sure I felt something move, only it’s frightfully stiff. We might have thought to bring some oil. Never mind; it’s dogged as does. It’s coming. It’s coming. Booh! Pah!’

  A fierce effort thrust the rusted knob inwards, releasing a huge spout of water into his face from the dragon’s gaping throat. The fountain, dry for many years, soared rejoicingly heavenwards, drenching the treasure-hunters, and making rainbows in the moonlight.

  ‘I suppose this is “Old Cut-throat’s” idea of humour,’ grumbled Wimsey, retreating cautiously round the dragon’s neck. ‘And now I can’t turn it off again. Well, dash it all, let’s try the other eye.’

  He pressed for a few moments in vain. Then, with a grinding clang, the bronze wings of the monster clapped down to its sides, revealing a deep square hole, and the fountain ceased to play.

  ‘Gherkins!’ said Lord Peter, ‘we’ve done it. (But don’t neglect bailing on that account!) There’s a box here. And it’s beastly heavy. No; all right, I can manage. Gimme the boathook. Now I do hope the old sinner really did have a treasure. What a bore if it’s only one of his little jokes. Never mind — hold the boat steady. There. Always remember, Gherkins, that you can make quite an effective crane with a boat-hook and a stout pair of braces. Got it? That’s right. — Now for home and beauty. Hullo! what’s all that?’

  As he paddled the boat round, it was evident that something was happening down by the boat-house. Lights were moving about, and a sound of voices came across the lake.

  ‘They think we’re burglars, Gherkins. Always misunderstood. Give way, my hearties —’

  ‘A-roving, a-roving, since roving’s been my ru-i-in, I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.’

  ‘Is that you, my lord?’ said a man’s voice as they drew into the boat-house.

  ‘Why, it’s our faithful sleuths!’ cried his lordship. ‘What’s the excitement?’

  ‘We found this fellow sneaking round the boat-house,’ said the man from Scotland Yard. ‘He says he’s the old gentleman’s nephew. Do you know him, my lord?’

  ‘I rather fancy I do,’ said Wimsey. ‘Mr Pope, I think. Good evening. Were you looking for anything? Not a treasure, by any chance? Because we’ve just found one. Oh! don’t say that. Maxima reverentia, you know. Lord St George is of tender years. And, by the way, thank you so much for sending your delightful friends to call on me last night. Oh, yes, Thompson, I’ll charge him all right. You there, doctor? Splendid. Now, if anybody’s got a spanner or anything handy, we’ll have a look at Great-grandpapa Cuthbert. And if he turns out to be old iron, Mr Pope, you’ll have had an uncommonly good joke for your money.’

  An iron bar was produced from the boat-house and thrust under the hasp of the chest. It creaked and burst. Dr Conyers knelt down tremulously and threw open the lid.

  There was a little pause.

  ‘The drinks are on you, Mr Pope,’ said Lord Peter. ‘I think, doctor, it ought to be a jolly good hospital when it’s finished.’

  The Piscatorial Farce of the Stolen Stomach

  ‘WHAT IN THE WORLD,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, ‘is that?’

&n
bsp; Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings of paper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffee-pot.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Great-Uncle Joseph’s legacy.’

  ‘And who is Great-Uncle Joseph?’

  ‘He was my mother’s uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I was rather a favourite of his.’

  ‘It looks like it. Was that all he left you?’

  ‘Imph’m. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a man could have.’

  ‘Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?’

  ‘Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a days’ illness.’

  Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.

  ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and the doctors told him — or he guessed for himself — that it was the beginning of the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his life and wasn’t going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity, of course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible.’

  ‘I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?’

  ‘He used to be in business — something to do with shipbuilding, I believe, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call a recluse. Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and saw nobody. Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew where or why. I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Had he any money?’

  ‘Nobody knew. He ought to have had — he was a rich man when he retired. But, when we came to look into it, it turned out he only had a balance of about five hundred pounds in the Glasgow Bank. Apparently he drew out almost everything he had about twenty years ago. There were one or two big bank failures round about that time, and they thought he must have got the wind up. But what he did with it, goodness only knows.’

  ‘Kept it in an old stocking, I expect.’

  ‘I should think Cousin Robert devoutly hopes so.’

  ‘Cousin Robert?’

  ‘He’s the residuary legatee. Distant connection of mine, and the only remaining Ferguson. He was awfully wild when he found he’d only got five hundred. He’s rather a bright lad, is Robert, and a few thousands would have come in handy.’

  ‘I see. Well, how about a bit of brekker? You might stick Great-Uncle Joseph out of the way somewhere. I don’t care about the looks of him.’

  ‘I thought you were rather partial to anatomical specimens.’

  ‘So I am, but not on the breakfast-table. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” as my grandmother used to say. Besides, it would give Maggie a shock if she saw it.’

  Macpherson laughed, and transferred the jar to a cupboard.

  ‘Maggie’s shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, by way of a holiday task. I’m getting near my final, you know. She’ll just think this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We’ll see what the trout’s like.’

  The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled trout and a plate of fried scones.

  ‘These look good, Maggie,’ said Wimsey, drawing his chair up and sniffing appreciatively.

  ‘Aye, sir, they’re gude, but they’re awfu’ wee fish.’

  ‘Don’t grumble at them,’ said Macpherson. They’re the sole result of a day’s purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast you and an east wind, I’m pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn’t shave at all this morning.’ He passed a reminiscent hand over his red and excoriated face. ‘Ugh! It’s a stiff pull up that hill, and the boat was going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay.’

  ‘Damnable, I should think. But there’s a change coming. The glass is going back. We’ll be having some rain before we’re many days older.’

  ‘Time, too,’ said Macpherson. ‘The burns are nearly dry, and there’s not much water in the Fleet.’ He glanced out of the window to where the little river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottom of the garden. ‘If only we get a few days’ rain now, there’ll be some grand fishing.’

  ‘It would come just as I’ve got to go, naturally,’ remarked Wimsey.

  ‘Yes; can’t you stay a bit longer? I want to have, a try for some sea-trout.’

  ‘Sorry, old man, can’t be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Never mind. I’ve had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good rounds of golf.’

  ‘You must come up another time. I’m here for a month — getting my strength up for the exams and all that. If you can’t get away before I go, we’ll put it off till August and have a shot at the grouse. The cottage is always at your service, you know, Wimsey.’

  ‘Many thanks. I may get my business over quicker than I think, and, if I do, I’ll turn up here again. When did you say your great-uncle died?’

  Macpherson stared at him.

  ‘Some time in April, as far as I can remember. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing — I just wondered. You were a favourite of his, didn’t you say?’

  ‘In a sense. I think the old boy liked my remembering him from time to time. Old people are pleased by little attentions, you know.’

  ‘M’m. Well, it’s a queer world. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Ferguson — Joseph Alexander Ferguson, to be exact. You seem extraordinarily interested in Great-Uncle Joseph.’

  ‘I thought, while I was about it, I might look up a man I know in the ship-building line, and see if he knows anything about where the money went to.’

  ‘If you can do that, Cousin Robert will give you a medal. But, if you really want to exercise your detective powers on the problem, you’d better have a hunt through the flat in Glasgow.’

  ‘Yes — what is the address, by the way?’

  Macpherson told him the address.

  ‘I’ll make a note of it, and, if anything occurs to me, I’ll communicate with Cousin Robert. Where does he hang out?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in London, in a solicitor’s office. Crosbie & Plump, somewhere in Bloomsbury. Robert was studying for the Scottish Bar, you know, but he made rather a mess of things, so they pushed him off among the Sassenachs. His father died a couple of years ago — he was a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh — and I fancy Robert has rather gone to the bow-wows since then. Got among a cheerful crowd down there, don’t you know, and wasted his substance somewhat.’

  ‘Terrible! Scotsmen shouldn’t be allowed to leave home. What are you going to do with Great-Uncle?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Keep him for a bit, I think. I liked the old fellow, and I don’t want to throw him away. He’ll look rather well in my consulting-room, don’t you think, when I’m qualified and set up my brass plate. I’ll say he was presented by a grateful patient on whom I performed a marvellous operation.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Stomach-grafting. Miracle of surgery never before attempted. He’ll bring sufferers to your door in flocks.’

  ‘Good old Great-Uncle — he may be worth a fortune to me after all.’

  ‘So he may. I don’t suppose you’ve got such a thing as a photograph of him, have you?’

  ‘A photograph?’ Macpherson stared again. ‘Great-Uncle seems to be becoming a passion with you. I don’t suppose the old man had a photograph taken these thirty years. There was one done then — when he retired from business. I expect Robert’s got that.’

  ‘Och aye,’ said Wimsey, in the language of the country.

  Wimsey left Scotland that evening, and drove down through the night towards London, thinking hard as he went. He handled the wheel mechanically, swerving now and again to avoid the green eyes of rabbits as they bolted from the roadside to squat fascinated in the glare of his head-lamps. He was accustomed to say that his brain worked better when his immediate attention was occupied by the incidents of the road.

  Monday morning found him in town with his bu
siness finished and his thinking done. A consultation with his shipbuilding friend had put him in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph’s money, together with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph’s photograph, supplied by the London representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged. It appeared that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. The portrait showed a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in the cheek-bones — one of those faces which alter little in a lifetime. Wimsey looked at the photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it into his pocket and made a bee-line for Somerset House.

  Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformed official took pity on him and equired what he wanted.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Wimsey effusively, ‘thank you so much. Always feel nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don’t you know, so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have a squint at a will. I’m told you can see anybody’s will for a shilling. Is that really so?’

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody’s will in particular, sir?’

  Oh, yes, of course — how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn’t it, that when you’re dead any stranger can come and snoop round your private affairs — see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were, and all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?’

  The attendant laughed.

  ‘I expect it’s all one when you’re dead, sir.’

  ‘That’s awfully true. Yes, naturally, you’re dead by then and it doesn’t matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, to learn what a bad boy you’ve been. Great fun annoyin’ one’s relations. Always do it myself. Now, what were we sayin’? Ah! yes — the will. (I’m always so absent-minded.) Whose will, you said?

  ‘Well, it’s an old Scots gentleman called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow — you know Glasgow, where the accent’s so strong that even Scotsmen faint when they hear it — in April, this last April as ever was. If it’s not troubling you too much, may I have a bob’s-worth of Joseph Alexander Ferguson?’