Lord Peter Views the Body: A Collection of Mysteries

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Aye, sir, that wadna’ surprise me.’ Maggie set down a generous dish of eggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.

  ‘Well, I was sittin’ in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin’ for Mr Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puir souls, for the rain was peltin’ down again, and the nicht was sae dark I was afraid they micht ha’ tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, I was listenin’ for the sound o’ the door-sneck when I heard something movin’ in the front room. The door wasna lockit, ye ken, because Mr Macpherson was expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht they had mebbe came in and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set the kettle on the fire, and then I heard a crackin’ sound. So I cam’ out and I called, “Is’t you, Mr Macpherson?” And there was nae answer, only anither big crackin’ noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam’ quickly oot o’ the front room, brushin’ past me an’ puttin’ me aside wi’ his hand, so, and oot o’ the front door like a flash o’ lightnin’. So, wi, that, I let oot a skelloch, an’ Jock’s voice answered me fra’ the gairden gate. “Och!” I says, “Jock! here’s a burrglar been i’ the hoose!” An’ I heerd him runnin’ across the gairden, doun toe the river, tramplin’ doun a’ the young kail and the stra’berry beds, the blackguard!’

  Wimsey expressed his sympathy.

  ‘Aye, that was a bad business. An’ the next thing, there was Mr Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray’s cattle had brokken in, they couldna ha’ done mair deevastation. An’ then there was a big splashin’ an’ crashin’, an’, after a bit, back comes Mr Macpherson an’ he says, “He’s jumpit intil the Fleet,” he says, “an’ he’s awa’. What has he taken?” he says. “I dinna ken,” says I, “for it all happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.” “Come awa’ ben,” says he, “an’ we’ll see what’s missin’.” So we lookit high and low, an’ all we could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, and naething taken but this bottle wi’ the specimen.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Ah! an’ they baith went oot tegither wi’ lichts, but naething could they see of the thief. Sae Mr Macpherson comes back, and “I’m gaun to ma bed,” says he, “for I’m that tired I can dae nae mair the nicht,” says he. “Oh!” I said, “I daurna gae tae bed; I’m frichtened.’ An’ Jock said, “Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yerse!’. There’ll be nae mair burglars the nicht, wi’ the fricht we’ve gied ’em.” So we lockit up a’ the doors an’ windies an’ gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink.’

  ‘Very natural,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘It wasna till the next mornin’,’ said Maggie, ‘that Mr Macpherson opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An’ then the telegrams startit Back an’ forrit, back an’ forrit atween the hoose an’ the post-office. An’ then they fund the bits o’ the bottle that the specimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i’ the river. And aff goes Mr Macpherson an’ Jock wi’ their warders on an’ a couple o’ gaffs, huntra’ in a’ the pools an’ under the stanes to find the specimen. An’ they’re still at it.’

  At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.

  ‘Gude save us!’ ejaculated Maggie, ‘I was forgettin’ the puir gentleman.’

  ‘What gentleman?’ enquired Wimsey.

  ‘Him that was feshed oot o’ the Fleet,’ replied Maggie. ‘Excuse me juist a moment, sir.’

  She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of coffee and lit a pipe.

  Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee — not being a man to deprive himself of his pleasures — and walked quietly upstairs in Maggie’s wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half open — the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage. He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-haired gentleman, whose long, foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted rakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by the bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ferguson,’ said he. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mr Ferguson snappishly.

  ‘I had no idea, when we last met,’ pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed and sitting down upon it, ‘that you were thinking of visiting my friend Macpherson.’

  ‘Get off my leg,’ growled the invalid. ‘I’ve broken my kneecap.’

  ‘What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn’t it? And they say it takes years to get right — if it ever does get right. Is it what they call a Potts fracture? I don’t know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive. How did you do it? Fishing?’

  ‘Yes. A slip in that damned river.’

  ‘Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher, Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy for this part of the country. I rather like a Greenaway’s Gadget myself. Ever tried it?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Ferguson briefly.

  ‘Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you use one? Have you got your fly-book here?’

  ‘Yes — no,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘I dropped it.’

  ‘Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket.’

  ‘Not so bad,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘I’ve sometimes caught trout with it.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected his improvisation to pass muster. ‘Well, I suppose this unlucky accident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned back luck. Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch.’

  ‘What’s that? A trout?’

  ‘Yes — a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or other. I’m going out with Mac to try for him today. He’s a jewel of a fellow. We’ve nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don’t joggle about like that — you’ll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get for you?’

  He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.

  ‘Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?’

  ‘It is. How’s sport?’

  Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.

  ‘I say, d’you know who that is? It’s Robert.’

  ‘I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?’

  ‘No, we haven’t. What’s all this mystery about? And what’s Robert doing here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why is Great-Uncle Joseph so important?’

  ‘One thing at a time. Let’s find the old boy first. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, you were off your rocker.’ (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) ‘But then I considered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thought Great-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense in what you said, after all.’ (‘Dashed good of you,’ said Wimsey.) ‘So I went out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there’s the faintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down like this. Well, I hadn’t got very far — by the way, I took Jock with me. I’m sure he thinks I’m mad, too. Not that he says anything; these people here never commit themselves —’

  ‘Confound Jock! Get on with it.’

  Oh — well, before we’d got very far, we saw a fellow wading about in the river with a rod and creel. I didn’t pay much attention, because, you see, I was wondering what you — Yes. Well! Jock noticed him and said to me, “Yon’s a queer kind of fisherman, I’m thinkin’.” So I had a look, and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his fly floating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering into all the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailed him, and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of a hurry and started to
reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it,’ added Macpherson appreciatively.

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Wimsey. ‘A man who admits to catching trout with a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything.’

  ‘A pink what?’

  ‘Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on.’

  ‘Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling and hauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of a sudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That made me pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and I yelled out, “Good God, it’s Robert!” And he dropped his rod and took to his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came down an awful crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought him home. He’s got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Very interesting. I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself, but it wouldn’t do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He’s a good man.’

  ‘You’ve had extraordinary luck about this business so far,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far down have you got?’

  ‘Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting his knee and so on, we couldn’t do much yesterday.’

  ‘Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let’s get down to it.’

  He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand (‘Robert’s,’ interjected Macpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down in a brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage. Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph. Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there — then turned suddenly to Jock.

  ‘Where’s the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?’ he demanded.

  ‘Eh, well! there’s the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye’ll whiles find things washed up there. Aye, Imph’m. There’s a pool and a bit sand, where the river mak’s a bend. Ye’ll mebbe find it there, I’m thinkin’. Mebbe no. I couldna say.’

  ‘Let’s have a look, anyway.’

  Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detail appeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.

  ‘That’s a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse, we’ve only got two fields to cross.’

  The car was still at the door; the hired driver was enjoying the hospitality of the cottage. They pried him loose from Maggie’s scones and slipped down the road to Gatehouse.

  Those gulls seem rather active about something,’ said Wimsey, as they crossed the second field. The white wings swooped backwards and forwards in narrowing circles over the yellow shoal. Raucous cries rose on the wind. Wimsey pointed silently with his hand. A long, unseemly object, like a drab purse, lay on the shore. The gulls, indignant, rose higher, squawking at the intruders. Wimsey ran forward, stooped, rose again with the long bag dangling from his fingers.

  ‘Great-Uncle Joseph, I presume,’ he said, and raised his hat with old-fashioned courtesy.

  ‘The gulls have had a wee peck at it here and there,’ said Jock. ‘It’ll be tough for them. Aye. They havena done so vera much with it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ said Macpherson impatiently.

  ‘Not here,’ said Wimsey. ‘We might lose something.’ He dropped it into Jock’s creel ‘W’ll take it home first and show it to Robert.’

  Robert greeted them with ill-disguised irritation.

  ‘We’ve been fishing,’ said Wimsey cheerfully. ‘Look at our bonny wee fush.’ He weighed the catch in his hand ‘What’s inside this wee rush, Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Robert.

  ‘Then why did you go fishing for it?’ asked Wimsey pleasantly, ‘Have you got a surgical knife there, Mac?’

  ‘Yes — here. Hurry up.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you. Be careful, I should begin with the stomach.’

  Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him with a practised hand.

  ‘Gude be gracious to us!’ cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder. ‘What’ll that be?’

  Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of Uncle Joseph. ‘One — two — three —’ The stones glittered like fire as he laid them on the table. ‘Seven — eight — nine. That seems to be all. Try a little further down, Mac.’

  Speechless with astonishment, Mr Macpherson dissected his legacy.

  ‘Ten — eleven,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’m afraid the sea-gulls have got number twelve. I’m sorry, Mac.’

  ‘But how did they get there?’ demanded Robert foolishly.

  ‘Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallows his diamonds —’

  ‘He must ha’ been a grand man for a pill,’ said Maggie, with respect

  ‘— and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybody who read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you to study.’

  Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.

  ‘I knew there was something in it,’ he said. That’s why I went to look up the will. And when I saw you there, I knew I was right. (Curse this leg of mine!) But I never imagined for a moment —’

  His eyes appraised the diamonds greedily.

  ‘And what will the value of these same stones be?’ enquired Jock.

  ‘About seven thousand pounds apiece, taken separately. More than that, taken together.’

  ‘The old man was mad,’ said Robert angrily. ‘I shall dispute the will.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Wimsey. ‘There’s such an offence as entering and stealing, you know.’

  ‘My God!’ said Macpherson, handling the diamonds like a man in a dream. ‘My God!’

  ‘Seven thousan’ pund,’ said Jock. ‘Did I unnerstan’ ye richtly to say that one o’ they gulls is gaun aboot noo wi’ seven thousan’ pund’s worth o’ diamonds in his wame? Ech! it’s just awfu’ to think of. Guid day to you, sirs. I’ll be gaun round to Jimmy McTaggart to ask will he lend me the loan o’ a gun.’

  The Unsolved Puzzle of the Man with No Face

  ‘AND WHAT WOULD YOU say, sir, said the stout man, to this here business of the bloke what’s been found down on the beach at East Felpham?’

  The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an overflow of third-class passengers into the firsts, and the stout man was anxious to seem at ease in his surroundings. The youngish gentleman whom he addressed had obviously paid full fare for a seclusion which he was fated to forgo. He took the matter amiably enough, however, and replied in a courteous tone:

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t read more than the headlines. Murdered, I suppose, wasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s murder, right enough,’ said the stout man, with relish. ‘Cut about he was, something shocking.’

  ‘More like as if a wild beast had done it,’ chimed in the thin, elderly man opposite. ‘No face at all he hadn’t got, by what my paper says. It’ll be one of these maniacs, I shouldn’t be surprised, what goes about killing children.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about such things,’ said his wife, with a shudder. ‘I lays awake at nights thinking what might ’appen to Lizzie’s girls, till my head feels regular in a fever, and I has such a sinking in my inside I has to get up and eat biscuits. They didn’t ought to put such dreadful things in the papers.’

  ‘It’s better they should, ma’am,’ said the stout man, ‘then we’re warned, so to speak, and can take our measures accordingly. Now, from what I can make out, this unfortunate gentleman had gone bathing all by himself in a lonely spot. Now, quite apart from cramps, as is a thing that might ’appen to the best of us, that’s a very foolish thing to do.’

  ‘Just what I’m always telling my husband,’ said the young wife. The young husband frowned and fidgeted. ‘Well, dear, it really isn’t safe, and you with your heart not strong —’ Her hand sought his under the newspaper. He drew away, self-consciously, saying,
‘That’ll do, Kitty.’

  ‘The way I look at it is this,’ pursued the stout man ‘Here we’ve been and had a war, what has left ’undreds o’ men in what you might call a state of unstable ekilibrium. They’ve seen all their friends blown up or shot to pieces. They’ve been through five years of ’errors and bloodshed, and it’s given ’em what you might call a twist in the mind towards ’orrors. They may seem to forget it and go along as peaceable as anybody to all outward appearance, but it’s all artificial, if you get my meaning. Then, one day something ’appens to upset them — they ’as words with the wife, or the weather’s extra hot, as it is today — and something goes pop inside their brains and makes raving monsters of them. It’s all in the books. I do a good bit of reading myself of an evening, being a bachelor without encumbrances.’

  ‘That’s all very true,’ said a prim little man, looking up from his magazine, ‘very true indeed — too true. But do you think it applies in the present case? I’ve studied the literature of crime a good deal — I may say I make it my hobby — and it’s my opinion there’s more in this than meets the eye. If you will compare this murder with some of the most mysterious crimes of late years — crimes which, mind you, have never been solved, and, in my opinion, never will be — what do you find?’ He paused and looked round. ‘You will find many features in common with this case. But especially you will find that the face — and the face only, mark you — has been disfigured, as though to prevent recognition. As though to blot out the victim’s personality from the world. And you will find that, in spite of the most thorough investigation, the criminal is never discovered. Now what does all that point to? To organisation. Organisation. To an immensely powerful influence at work behind the scenes. In this very magazine that I’m reading now’ — he tapped the page impressively — ‘there’s an account — not a faked-up story, but an account extracted from the annals of the police — of the organisation of one of these secret societies, which mark down men against whom they bear a grudge, and destroy them. And, when they do this, they disfigure their faces with the mark of the Secret Society, and they cover up the track of the assassin so completely — having money and resources at their disposal — that nobody is ever able to get at them.’