The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘I am a prophet,’ said Wimsey. ‘Listen. Something tiresome is going to happen – now, this minute. But don’t worry. Drink your wine, and trust.’

  The manager had brought the man to their table. It was Parker.

  ‘Ah!’ said Wimsey brightly. ‘You’ll forgive our starting without you, old man. Sit down. I think you know Miss Dorland.’

  Parker bowed and sat down.

  ‘Have you come to arrest me?’ asked Ann.

  ‘Just to ask you to come down to the Yard with me,’ said Parker, smiling pleasantly and unfolding his napkin.

  Ann looked palely at Wimsey, and took a gulp of the wine.

  ‘Right,’ said Wimsey. ‘Miss Dorland has quite a lot to tell you. After dinner will suit us charmingly. What will you have?’

  Parker, who was not imaginative, demanded a grilled steak.

  ‘Shall we find any other friends at the Yard?’ pursued Wimsey.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Parker.

  ‘Well, cheer up! You put me off my food, looking so grim. Hullo! Yes, waiter, what is it?’

  ‘Excuse me, my lord – is this gentleman Detective-Inspector Parker?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Parker; ‘what’s the matter?’

  ‘You’re wanted on the phone, sir.’

  Parker departed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Wimsey to the girl. ‘I know you’re straight, and I’ll damn’ well see you through.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Tell the truth.’

  ‘It sounds so silly.’

  ‘They’ve heard lots of very much sillier stories than that.’

  ‘But – I don’t want to – to be the one to—’

  ‘You’re still fond of him, then?’

  ‘No! – but I’d rather it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I’ll be frank with you. I think it’s going to be between you and him that suspicion will lie.’

  ‘In that case’ – she set her teeth – ‘he can have what’s coming to him.’

  ‘Thank the Lord! I thought you were going to be noble and self-sacrificing and tiresome. You know. Like the people whose noble motives are misunderstood in chapter one, and who get dozens of people tangled up in their miserable affairs till the family lawyer solves everything on the last page but two.’

  Parker had come back from the telephone.

  ‘Just a moment!’ He spoke in Peter’s ear.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Look here; this is awkward. George Fentiman—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s been found in Clerkenwell.’

  ‘Clerkenwell?’

  ‘Yes; must have wandered back by bus or something. He’s at the police station; in fact he’s given himself up.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘For the murder of his grandfather.’

  ‘The devil he has!’

  ‘It’s a nuisance; of course it must be looked into. I think perhaps I’d better put off interrogating Dorland and Penberthy. What are you doing with the girl, by the way?’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Look here – I’ll take Miss Dorland back to Marjorie Phelps’s place, and then come along and join you. The girl won’t run away; I know that. And, anyhow, you’ve got a man looking after her.’

  ‘Yes, I rather wish you would come with me; Fentiman is pretty queer, by all accounts. We’ve sent for his wife.’

  ‘Right. You buzz off, and I’ll join you in – say in three-quarters of an hour. What address? Oh, yes, righty-ho! Sorry you’re missing your dinner.’

  ‘It’s all in the day’s work,’ growled Parker, and took his leave.

  GEORGE FENTIMAN greeted them with a tired, white smile.

  ‘Hush!’ he said. ‘I’ve told them all about it. He’s asleep; don’t wake him.’

  ‘Who’s asleep, dearest?’ said Sheila.

  ‘I mustn’t say the name,’ said George cunningly. ‘He’d hear it – even in his sleep – even if you whispered it. But he’s tired; and he nodded off. So I ran in here and told them all about it while he snored.’

  The police superintendent tapped his forehead significantly behind Sheila’s back.

  ‘Has he made any statement?’ asked Parker.

  ‘Yes; he insisted on writing it himself. Here it is. Of course . . .’ The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said George. ‘I’m getting sleepy myself. I’ve been watching him for a day and a night, you know. I’m going to bed. Sheila – it’s time to go to bed.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep him here tonight, I suppose,’ muttered Parker. ‘Has the doctor seen him?’

  ‘We’ve sent for him, sir.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Fentiman, I think if you’d take your husband into the room the officer will show you, that would be the best way. And we’ll send the doctor in to you when he arrives. Perhaps it would be as well that he should see his own medical man too. Whom would you like us to send for?’

  ‘Dr Penberthy has vetted him from time to time, I think,’ put in Wimsey suddenly. ‘Why not send for him?’

  Parker gasped involuntarily.

  ‘He might be able to throw some light on the symptoms,’ said Wimsey in a rigid voice.

  Parker nodded.

  ‘A good idea,’ he agreed. He moved to the telephone.

  George smiled as his wife put her arm about his shoulder.

  ‘Tired,’ he said, ‘very tired. Off to bed, old girl.’

  A police constable opened the door to them, and they started through it together; George leaned heavily on Sheila; his feet dragged.

  ‘Let’s have a look at his statement,’ said Parker.

  It was written in a staggering handwriting, much blotted and erased, with words left out and repeated here and there:

  ‘I am making this statement quickly while he is asleep, because if I wait he may wake up and stop me. You will say I was moved and seduced by instigation of but what they will not understand is that he is me and I am him. I killed my grandfather by giving him digitalin. I did not remember it till I saw the name on the bottle, but they have been looking for me ever since, so I know that he must have done it. That is why they began following me about, but he is very clever and misleads them. When he is awake. We were dancing all last night and that is why he is tired. He told me to smash the bottle so that you shouldn’t find out, but they know I was the last person to see him. He is very cunning, but if you creep on him quickly now that he is asleep you will be able to bind him in chains and cast him into the pit and then I shall be able to sleep.

  ‘GEORGE FENTIMAN.’

  ‘Off his head, poor devil,’ said Parker. ‘We can’t pay much attention to this. What did he say to you, Superintendent?’

  ‘He just came in, sir, and said, “I’m George Fentiman and I’ve come to tell you about how I killed my grandfather.” So I questioned him, and he rambled a good bit and then he asked for a pen and paper to make his statement. I thought he ought to be detained, and I rang up the Yard, sir.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Parker.

  The door opened and Sheila came out.

  ‘He’s fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘It’s the old trouble come back again. He thinks he’s the devil, you know. He’s been like that twice before,’ she added simply. ‘I’ll go back to him till the doctors come.’

  The police surgeon arrived first and went in; then, after a wait of a quarter of an hour, Penberthy came. He looked worried, and greeted Wimsey abruptly. Then he too went into the inner room. The others stood vaguely about, and were presently joined by Robert Fentiman, whom an urgent summons had traced to a friend’s house.

  Presently the two doctors came out again.

  ‘Nervous shock with well-marked delusions,’ said the police surgeon briefly. ‘Probably be all right tomorrow. Sleeping it off now. Been this way before, I understand. Just so. A hundred years ago they’d have called it diabolic possession, but we know better.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pa
rker; ‘but do you think he is under a delusion in saying he murdered his grandfather? Or did he actually murder him under the influence of this diabolical delusion? That’s the point.’

  ‘Can’t say just at present. Might be the one – might be the other. Much better wait till the attack passes off. You’ll be able to find out better then.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s permanently – insane, then?’ demanded Robert, with brusque anxiety.

  ‘No – I don’t. I think it’s what you’d call a nerve-storm. That is your opinion too, I believe?’ he added, turning to Penberthy.

  ‘Yes; that is my opinion.’

  ‘And what do you think about this delusion, Dr Penberthy?’ went on Parker. ‘Did he do this insane act?’

  ‘He certainly thinks he did it,’ said Penberthy. ‘I couldn’t possibly say for certain whether he has any foundation for the belief. From time to time he undoubtedly gets these fits of thinking that the devil has taken hold of him, and of course it’s hard to say what a man might or might not do under the influence of such a delusion.’

  He avoided Robert’s distressed eyes, and addressed himself exclusively to Parker.

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Wimsey, ‘if you’ll excuse my pushin’ my opinion forward and all that – it seems to me that’s a question of fact that can be settled without reference to Fentiman and his delusions. There’s only the one occasion on which the pill could have been administered – would it have produced the effect that was produced at that particular time, or wouldn’t it? If it couldn’t take effect at eight o’clock, then it couldn’t, and there’s an end of it.’

  He kept his eyes fixed on Penberthy, and saw him pass his tongue over his dry lips before speaking.

  ‘I can’t answer that off-hand,’ he said.

  ‘The pill might have been introduced into General Fentiman’s stock of pills at some other time,’ suggested Parker.

  ‘So it might,’ agreed Penberthy.

  ‘Had it the same shape and appearance as his ordinary pills?’ demanded Wimsey, again fixing his eyes on Penberthy.

  ‘Not having seen the pill in question, I can’t say,’ said the latter.

  ‘In any case,’ said Wimsey, ‘the pill in question, which was one of Mrs Fentiman’s, I understand, had strychnine in it as well as digitalin. The analysis of the stomach would no doubt have revealed strychnine if present. That can be looked into.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the police surgeon. ‘Well, gentlemen, I don’t think we can do much more tonight. I have written out a prescription for the patient, with Dr Penberthy’s entire agreement.’ He bowed; Penberthy bowed. ‘I will have it made up, and you will no doubt see that it is given to him. I shall be here in the morning.’

  He looked interrogatively at Parker, who nodded.

  ‘Thank you, doctor; we will ask you for a further report tomorrow morning. You’ll see that Mrs Fentiman is properly looked after, Superintendent. If you wish to stay here and look after your brother and Mrs Fentiman, Major, of course you may, and the Superintendent will make you as comfortable as he can.’

  Wimsey took Penberthy by the arm.

  ‘Come round to the Club with me for a moment, Penberthy,’ he said. ‘I want to have a word with you.’

  22

  THE CARDS ON THE TABLE

  There was nobody in the library at the Bellona Club; there never is. Wimsey led Penberthy into the farthest bay and sent a waiter for two double whiskies.

  ‘Here’s luck!’ he said.

  ‘Good luck,’ replied Penberthy. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look here,’ said Wimsey. ‘You’ve been a soldier. I think you’re a decent fellow. You’ve seen George Fentiman. It’s a pity, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘If George Fentiman hadn’t turned up with that delusion of his,’ said Wimsey, ‘you would have been arrested for the murder this evening. Now the point is this. When you are arrested, nothing, as things are, can prevent Miss Dorland’s being arrested on the same charge. She’s quite a decent girl, and you haven’t treated her any too well, have you? Don’t you think you might make things right for her by telling the truth straight away?’

  Penberthy sat with a white face and said nothing.

  ‘You see,’ went on Wimsey, ‘if once they get her into the dock, she’ll always be a suspected person. Even if the jury believe her story – and they may not, because juries are often rather stupid – people will always think there was “something in it”. They’ll say she was a very lucky woman to get off. That’s damning for a girl, isn’t it? They might even bring her in guilty. You and I know she isn’t – but – you don’t want the girl hanged, Penberthy, do you?’

  Penberthy drummed on the table.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he said at last.

  ‘Write a clear account of what actually happened,’ said Wimsey. ‘Make a clean job of it for these other people. Make it clear that Miss Dorland had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then do as you like. In your place I know what I should do.’

  Penberthy propped his chin on his hands and sat for some minutes staring at the works of Dickens in the leather-and-gold binding.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘You’re quite right. I ought to have done it before. But – damn it! – if ever a man had rotten luck . . .

  ‘If only Robert Fentiman hadn’t been a rogue. It’s funny, isn’t it? That’s your wonderful poetic justice, isn’t it? If Robert Fentiman had been an honest man, I should have got my half-million, and Ann Dorland would have got a perfectly good husband, and the world would have gained a fine clinic, incidentally. But as Robert was a rogue – here we are . . .

  ‘I didn’t intend to be such a sweep to the Dorland girl. I’d have been decent to her if I’d married her. Mind you, she did sicken me a bit. Always wanting to be sentimental. It’s true what I said – she’s a bit cracked about sex. Lots of ‘em are. Naomi Rushworth, for instance. That’s why I asked her to marry me. I had to be engaged to somebody, and I knew she’d take anyone who asked her . . .

  ‘It was so hideously easy, you see . . . that was the devil of it. The old man came along and put himself into my hands. Told me with one breath that I hadn’t a dog’s chance of the money, and in the next, asked me for a dose. I just had to put the stuff into a couple of capsules and tell him to take them at 7 o’clock. He put them in his spectacle-case, to make sure he wouldn’t forget them. Not even a bit of paper to give me away. And the next day I’d only to get a fresh supply of the stuff and fill up the bottle. I’ll give you the address of the chemist who sold it. Easy? – it was laughable . . . people put such power in our hands . . .

  ‘I never meant to get led into all this rotten way of doing things – it was just self-defence. I still don’t care a damn about having killed the old man. I could have made better use of the money than Robert Fentiman. He hasn’t got two ideas in his head, and he’s perfectly happy where he is. Though I suppose he’ll be leaving the Army now . . . As for Ann, she ought to be grateful to me in a way. I’ve secured her the money, anyhow.’

  ‘Not unless you make it clear that she had no part in the crime,’ Wimsey reminded him.

  ‘That’s true. All right. I’ll put it all on paper for you. Give me half an hour, will you?’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Wimsey.

  He left the library and wandered into the smoking-room. Colonel Marchbanks was there, and greeted him with a friendly smile.

  ‘Glad you’re here, Colonel. Mind if I come and chat to you for a moment?’

  ‘By all means, my dear boy. I’m in no hurry to get home. My wife’s away. What can I do for you?’

  Wimsey told him, in a lowered voice. The Colonel was distressed.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘you’ve done the best thing, to my mind. I look at these matters from a soldier’s point of view, of course. Much better to make a clean job of it all. Dear, dear! Sometimes, Lord Peter, I think that the War has
had a bad effect on some of our young men. But then, of course, all are not soldiers by training, and that makes a great difference. I certainly notice a less fine sense of honour in these days than we had when I was a boy. There were not so many excuses made then for people; there were things that were done and things that were not done. Nowadays men – and, I am sorry to say, women too – let themselves go in a way that is to me quite incomprehensible. I can understand a man’s committing murder in hot blood – but poisoning – and then putting a good, lady-like girl into such an equivocal position – no! I fail to understand it. Still, as you say, the right course is being taken at last.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ said the Colonel, and went out.

  When he returned, he went with Wimsey into the library. Penberthy had finished writing and was reading his statement through.

  ‘Will that do?’ he asked.

  Wimsey read it, Colonel Marchbanks looking over the pages with him.

  ‘That is quite all right,’ he said. ‘Colonel Marchbanks will witness it with me.’

  This was done. Wimsey gathered the sheets together and put them in his breast pocket. Then he turned silently to the Colonel, as though passing the word to him.

  ‘Dr Penberthy,’ said the old man, ‘now that that paper is in Lord Peter Wimsey’s hands, you understand that he can only take the course of communicating with the police. But as that would cause a great deal of unpleasantness to yourself and to other people, you may wish to take another way out of the situation. As a doctor, you will perhaps prefer to make your own arrangements. If not—’

  He drew out from his jacket pocket the thing which he had fetched.

  ‘If not, I happen to have brought this with me from my private locker. I am placing it here, in the table drawer, preparatory to taking it down into the country tomorrow. It is loaded.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Penberthy.

  The Colonel closed the drawer slowly, stepped back a couple of paces, and bowed gravely. Wimsey put his hand on Penberthy’s shoulder for a moment, then took the Colonel’s arm. Their shadows moved, lengthened, shortened, doubled and crossed as they passed the seven lights in the seven bays of the Library. The door shut after them.