Strong Poison

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “I see,” said Miss Climpson. “Well, none of us can do more than our best, and it is very necessary to have faith. That moves mountains, we are told.”

  “Then for Heaven’s sake lay in a good stock of it,” said Wimsey, gloomily, “because as far as I can see, this job is like shifting the Himalayas and the Alps, with a spot of frosty Caucasus and a touch of the Rockies thrown in.”

  “You may count on me to do my poor best,” replied Miss Climpson, “and I will ask the dear vicar to say a Mass of Special Intention for one engaged in a difficult undertaking. When would you like me to start?”

  “At once,” said Wimsey. “I think you had better go just as your ordinary self, and put up at the local hotel—no—a boarding-house, there will be more opportunities for gossip. I don’t know much about Windle, except that there is a boot-factory there and rather a good view, but it’s not a large place, and I should think everybody would know about Mrs. Wrayburn. She is very rich, and was notorious in her time. The person you’ll have to cotton on to is the female—there must be one of some sort—who nurses and waits on Mrs. Wrayburn and is, generally speaking, about her path and about her bed and all that. When you find out her special weakness, drive a wedge into it like one o’clock. Oh! by the way—it’s quite possible the will isn’t there at all, but in the hands of a solicitor-fellow called Norman Urquhart who hangs out in Bedford Row. If so, all you can do is to get the pump to work and find out anything—anything at all—to his disadvantage. He’s Mrs. Wrayburn’s great-nephew, and he goes to see her sometimes.”

  Miss Climpson made a note of these instructions.

  “And now I’ll tootle off and leave you to it,” said Wimsey. “Draw on the firm for any money you want. And if you need any special outfit, send me a wire.”

  * * *

  On leaving Miss Climpson, Lord Peter Wimsey again found himself a prey to Weltschmerz and self-pity. But it now took the form of a gentle, pervading melancholy. Convinced of his own futility, he determined to do what little good lay in his power before retiring to a monastery or to the frozen wastes of the Antarctic. He taxied purposefully round to Scotland Yard, and asked for Chief-Inspector Parker.

  Parker was in his office, reading a report which had just come in. He greeted Wimsey with an expression which seemed more embarrassed than delighted.

  “Have you come about that packet of powder?”

  “Not this time,” said Wimsey, “I don’t suppose you’ll ever hear anything more of that. No. It’s—rather a more—er—delicate matter. It’s about my sister.”

  Parker started and pushed the report to one side.

  “About Lady Mary?”

  “Er—yes. I understand she’s been going about with you—er—dining—and all that sort of thing, what?”

  “Lady Mary has honoured me—on one or two occasions—with her company,” said Parker. “I did not think—I did not know—that is, I understood—”

  “Ah! but did you understand, that’s the point?” said Wimsey, solemnly. “You see, Mary’s a very nice-minded sort of girl, though I say it, and—”

  “I assure you,” said Parker, “that there is no need to tell me that. Do you suppose that I should misinterpret her kindness? It is the custom now-a-days for women of the highest character to dine unchaperoned with their friends, and Lady Mary has—”

  “I’m not suggesting a chaperon,” said Wimsey, “Mary wouldn’t stick it for one thing, and I think it’s all bosh, anyhow. Still, being’ her brother, and all that—it’s Gerald’s job really, of course, but Mary and he don’t altogether hit it off, you know, and she wouldn’t be likely to burble any secrets into his ear, especially as it would all be handed on to Helen—what was I going to say? Oh, yes—as Mary’s brother, you know, I suppose it’s my so to speak duty to push round and drop the helpful word here and there.”

  Parker jabbed the blotting-paper thoughtfully.

  “Don’t do that,” said Wimsey, “it’s bad for your pen. Take a pencil.”

  “I suppose,” said Parker, “I ought not to have presumed—”

  “What did you presume, old thing?” said Wimsey, his head cocked, sparrow-fashion.

  “Nothing to which anybody could object,” said Parker, hotly. “What are you thinking of, Wimsey? I quite see that it is unsuitable, from your point of view, that Lady Mary Wimsey should dine in public restaurants with a policeman, but if you imagine I have ever said a word to her that could not be said with the greatest propriety—”

  “—in the presence of her mother, you wrong the purest and sweetest woman that ever lived, and insult your friend,” interrupted Peter, snatching the words from his mouth and rattling them to a glib conclusion. “What a perfect Victorian you are, Charles. I should like to keep you in a glass case. Of course you haven’t said a word. What I want to know is, why?”

  Parker stared at him.

  “For the last five years or so,” said Wimsey, “you have been looking like a demented sheep at my sister, and starting like a rabbit whenever her name is mentioned. What do you mean by it? It is not ornamental. It is not exhilarating. You unnerve the poor girl. You give me a poor idea of your guts, if you will pardon the expression. A man doesn’t like to see a man go all wobbly about his sister—at least, not with such a prolonged wobble. It’s unsightly. It’s irritating. Why not slap the manly thorax and say, ‘Peter, my dear old mangel-wurzel, I have decided to dig myself into the old family trench and be a brother to you’? What’s stopping you? Is it Gerald? He’s an ass, I know, but he’s not a bad old stick, really. Is it Helen? She’s a bit of a wart, but you needn’t see much of her. Is it me? Because, if so, I’m thinking of becoming a hermit—there was a Peter the Hermit, wasn’t there?—So I shouldn’t be in your way. Cough up the difficulty, old thing, and we will have it removed in a plain van. Now, then!”

  “Do you—are you asking me—?”

  “I’m asking you your intentions, damn it!” said Wimsey, “and if that’s not Victorian enough, I don’t know what is. I quite understand your having given Mary time to recover from that unfortunate affair with Cathcart and the Goyles fellow, but, dash it all, my dear man, one can overdo the delicacy business. You can’t expect a girl to stand on and off for ever, can you? Are you waiting for Leap Year, or what?”

  “Look here, Peter, don’t be a damned fool. How can I ask your sister to marry me?”

  “How you do it is your affair. You might say: ‘What about a spot of matrimony, old dear?’ That’s up-to-date, and plain and unmistakable.’ Or you could go down on one knee and say, ‘Will you honour me with your hand and heart?’ which is pretty and old-fashioned and has the merit of originality in these times. Or you could write, or wire, or telephone. But I leave that to your own individual fancy.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, God! Shall I ever live down this disastrous reputation for tom-foolery? You’re making Mary damned unhappy, Charles, and I wish you’d marry her and have done with it.”

  “Making her unhappy?” said Parker, almost in a shout, “me—her—unhappy?”

  Wimsey tapped his forehead significantly.

  “Wood—solid wood! But the last blow seems to have penetrated. Yes, you—her—unhappy—do you get it now?”

  “Peter—if I really thought that—”

  “Now don’t go off the deep end,” said Wimsey, “it’s wasted on me. Keep it for Mary. I’ve done my brotherly duty and there’s an end of it. Calm yourself. Return to your reports—”

  “Oh, lord, yes,” said Parker. “Before we go any farther, I’ve got a report for you.”

  “You have? Why didn’t you say so at first.”

  “You wouldn’t let me.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “We’ve found the packet.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve found the packet.”

  “Actually found it?”

  “Yes. One of the barmen—”

  “Never mind the barmen. You’re sure it’s the r
ight packet?”

  “Oh, yes; we’ve identified it.”

  “Get on. Have you analysed it?”

  “Yes, we’ve analysed it.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Parker looked at him with the eyes of one who breaks bad news, and said, reluctantly:

  “Bicarbonate of soda.”

  Chapter XVI

  MR. CROFTS, excusably enough, said, “I told you so”; Sir Impey Biggs observed curtly, “Very unfortunate.”

  To chronicle Lord Peter Wimsey’s daily life during the ensuing week would be neither kind nor edifying. An enforced inactivity will produce irritable symptoms in the best of men. Nor did the imbecile happiness of Chief-Inspector Parker and Lady Mary Wimsey tend to soothe him, accompanied as it was by tedious demonstrations of affection for himself. Like the man in Max Beerbohm’s story, Wimsey “hated to be touching.” He was only moderately cheered by hearing from the industrious Freddy Arbuthnot that Mr. Norman Urquhart was found to be more or less deeply involved in the disasters of the Megatherium Trust.

  Miss Kitty Climpson, on the other hand, was living in what she herself liked to call a “whirl of activity.” A letter written the second day after her arrival in Windle, furnishes us with a wealth of particulars.

  Hillside View,

  Windle,

  Westmorland.

  1st Jan. 1930.

  MY DEAR LORD PETER,

  I feel sure you will be anxious to hear, at the earliest possible moment how things are going , and though I have only been here one day, I really think I have not done so badly , all things considered!

  My train got in quite late on Monday night, after a most dreary journey, with a lugubrious wait at Preston , though thanks to your kindness in insisting that I should travel First-class , I was not really at all tired! Nobody can realise what a great difference these extra comforts make, especially when one is getting on in years, and after the uncomfortable travelling which I had to endure in my days of poverty, I feel that I am living in almost sinful luxury! The carriage was well heated—indeed, too much so and I should have liked the window down, but that there was a very fat business man, muffled up to the eyes in coats and woolly waistcoats who strongly objected to fresh air! Men are such HOT-HOUSE PLANTS nowadays, are they not, quite unlike my dear father, who would never permit a fire in the house before November the 1st, or after March 31st even though the thermometer was at freezing-point !

  I had no difficulty in getting a comfortable room at the Station Hotel, late as it was. In the old days, an unmarried woman arriving alone at midnight with a suitcase would hardly have been considered respectable—what a wonderful difference one finds today! I am grateful to have lived to see such changes, because whatever old-fashioned people may say about the greater decorum and modesty of women in Queen Victoria’s time, those who can remember the old conditions know how difficult and humiliating they were!

  Yesterday morning, of course, my first object was to find a suitable boarding-house , in accordance with your instructions, and I was fortunate enough to hit upon this house at the second attempt. It is very well run and refined , and there are three elderly ladies who are permanent boarders here, and are well up in all the GOSSIP of the town, so that nothing could be more advantageous for our purpose!

  As soon as I had engaged my room, I went out for a little voyage of discovery . I found a very helpful policeman in the High Street, and asked him where to find Mrs. Wrayburn’s house. He knew quite well, and told me to take the omnibus and it would be a penny ride to the “Fisherman’s Arms” and then about 5 minutes’ walk. So I followed his directions, and the ’bus took me right into the country to a crossroads with the “Fisherman’s Arms” at the corner. The conductor was most polite and helpful and showed me the way, so I had no difficulty in finding the house.

  It is a beautiful old place , standing in its own grounds—quite a big house built in the eighteenth century , with an Italian porch and a lovely green lawn with a cedar-tree and formal flower beds, and in summer must be really a garden of Eden . I looked at it from the road for a little time—I did not think this would be at all peculiar behaviour, if anybody saw me, because anybody might be interested in such a fine old place. Most of the blinds were down, as though the greater part of the house were uninhabited , and I could not see any gardener or anybody about—I suppose there is not very much to be done in the garden this time of the year. One of the chimneys was smoking, however, so there were some signs of life about the place.

  I took a little walk down the road and then turned back and passed the house again, and this time I saw a servant just passing round the corner of the house, but of course she was too far off for me to speak to. So I took the omnibus back again and had lunch at Hillside View, so as to make acquaintance with my fellow-boarders.

  Naturally I did not want to seem too eager all at once, so I said nothing about Mrs. Wrayburn’s house at first , but just talked generally about Windle. I had some difficulty in parrying the questions of the good ladies, who wondered very much why a stranger had come to Windle at this time of year, but without telling many actual untruths I think I left them with the impression that I had come into a little fortune (!) and was visiting the Lake District to find a suitable spot in which to settle next summer ! I talked about sketching—as girls we were all brought up to dabble a little in water-colours, so that I was able to display quite sufficient technical knowledge to satisfy them!

  That gave me quite a good opportunity to ask about the house ! Such a beautiful old place, I said, and did anybody live there? (Of course I did not blurt this out all at once—I waited till they had told me of the many quaint spots in the district that would interest an artist!) Mrs. Pegler, a very stout , PUSSY old lady, with a LONG TONGUE (!) was able to tell me all about it. My dear Lord Peter, what I do not know now about the abandoned wickedness of Mrs. Wrayburn’s early life is really NOT WORTH KNOWING!! But what was more to the point is that she told me the name of Mrs. Wrayburn’s nurse-companion . She is a MISS BOOTH, a retired nurse, about sixty years old, and she lives all alone in the house with Mrs. Wrayburn, except for the servants , and a housekeeper . When I heard that Mrs. Wrayburn was so old , and paralysed and frail , I said was it not very dangerous that Miss Booth should be the only attendant, but Mrs. Pegler said the housekeeper was a most trustworthy woman who had been with Mrs. Wrayburn for many years, and was quite capable of looking after her any time when Miss Booth was out. So it appears that Miss Booth does go out sometimes! Nobody in this house seems to know her personally , but they say she is often seen in the town in nurse’s uniform . I managed to extract quite a good description of her, so if I should happen to meet her, I daresay I shall be smart enough to recognise her!

  That is really all I have been able to discover in one day. I hope you will not be too disappointed, but I was obliged to listen to a terrible amount of local history of one kind and another, and of course I could not FORCE the conversation round to Mrs. Wrayburn in any suspicious way.

  I will let you know as soon as I get the least bit more information.

  Most sincerely yours,

  KATHARINE ALEXANDRA CLIMPSON.

  Miss Climpson finished her letter in the privacy of her bedroom, and secured it carefully in her capacious handbag before going downstairs. A long experience of boarding-house life warned her that to display openly an envelope addressed even to a minor member of the nobility would be to court a quite unnecessary curiosity.

  True, it would establish her status, but at that moment Miss Climpson hardly wished to move in the limelight. She crept quietly out at the hall door, and turned her steps towards the centre of the town.

  On the previous day, she had marked down one principal tea-shop, two rising and competitive tea-shops, one slightly passé and declining tea-shop, a Lyons and four obscure and, on the whole, negligible tea-shops which combined the service of refreshments with a trade in sweets. It was now half-past ten. In the next hour and a half she could, wit
h a little exertion, pass in review all that part of the Windle population which indulged in morning coffee.

  She posted her letter and then debated with herself where to begin. On the whole, she inclined to leave the Lyons for another day. It was an ordinary plain Lyons, without orchestra or soda-fountain. She thought that its clientele would be chiefly housewives and clerks. Of the other four, the most likely was, perhaps, the “Central.” It was fairly large, well-lighted and cheerful and strains of music issued from its doors. Nurses usually like the large, well-lighted and melodious. But the “Central” had one drawback. Anyone coming from the direction of Mrs. Wrayburn’s house would have to pass all the others to get to it. This fact unfitted it for an observation post. From this point of view, the advantage lay with “Ye Cosye Corner,” which commanded the ’bus-stop. Accordingly, Miss Climpson decided to start her campaign from that spot. She selected a table in the window, ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits and entered upon her vigil.

  After half an hour, during which no woman in nurse’s costume had been sighted, she ordered another cup of coffee and some pastries. A number of people—mostly women—dropped in, but none of them could by any possibility be identified with Miss Booth. At half-past eleven, Miss Climpson felt to stay any longer would be conspicuous and might annoy the management. She paid her bill and departed.

  The “Central” had rather more people in it than “Ye Cosye Corner,” and was in some ways an improvement, having comfortable wicker chairs instead of fumed oak settles, and brisk waitresses instead of languid semi-gentlewomen in art-linen. Miss Climpson ordered another cup of coffee and a roll and butter. There was no window-table vacant, but she found one close to the orchestra from which she could survey the whole room. A fluttering dark-blue veil at the door made her heart beat, but it proved to belong to a lusty young person with two youngsters and a perambulator, and hope withdrew once more. By twelve o’clock, Miss Climpson decided that she had drawn blank at the “Central.”