Have His Carcase (23 page)

sleuth.

‘His manners are dreadful,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think his brains are much

to write home about.’

‘No, that’s just it.’

‘Just what?’

Wimsey countered the question with another.

‘Why is he here?’

‘She sent for him.’

‘Yes, but why is he here. Sudden spasm of filial affection?’

‘She thinks so.’

‘Do
you
think so?’

‘Possibly. Or, more likely, he doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.

It’s her money, you know.’

‘Quite. Yes. It’s funny that that should only just have occurred to him. He’s

very like her, isn’t he?’

‘Very. So much so that he gave me an odd feeling just at first, as though I’d

met him somewhere. Do you mean that they are too much alike to hit it off

together?’

‘They seem to be getting along al right at present.’

‘I expect he’s glad to be relieved from the prospect of Paul Alexis, and can’t

help showing it. He’s not very subtle.’

‘That’s what feminine intuition makes of it, is it?’

‘Bother feminine intuition. Do
you
find him romantic or obscure?’

‘No; I wish I did. I only find him offensive.’

‘Oh?’

‘And I’d like to know why.’

Silence for a few moments. Harriet felt that Wimsey ought to be saying,

‘How wel you dance.’ Since he did not say it, she became convinced that she

was dancing like a wax dol with sawdust legs. Wimsey had never danced with

her, never held her in his arms before. It should have been an epoch-making

moment for him. But his mind appeared to be concentrated upon the dul

personality of an East Anglian farmer. She fel a victim to an inferiority complex,

and tripped over her partner’s feet.

‘Sorry,’ said Wimsey, accepting responsibility like a gentleman.

‘It’s my fault,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m a rotten dancer. Don’t bother about me.

Let’s stop. You haven’t got to be polite to me, you know.’

Worse and worse. She was being peevish and egotistical. Wimsey glanced

down at her in surprise and then suddenly smiled.

‘Darling, if you danced like an elderly elephant with arthritis, I would dance

the sun and moon into the sea with you. I have waited a thousand years to see

you dance in that frock.’

‘Idiot’ said Harriet.

They made the circuit of the room in silence and harmony. Antoine, guiding

an enormous person in jade-green and diamonds, swam comet-like into their

orbit and murmured into Harriet’s ear across an expanse of fat white shoulder:

‘
Qu’est-ce que je vous ai dit? L’élan, c’est trouvé
.’

He slid away dexterously, leaving Harriet flushed.

‘What did that blighter say?’

‘He said I danced better with you than with him.’

‘Curse his impudence!’ Wimsey scowled over the heads of the intervening

couples at Antoine’s elegant back.

‘Tel me now,’ said Harriet. The ending of the dance had found them on the

opposite side of the room from the Weldons, and it seemed natural to sit down

at the nearest table. ‘Tel me, what is biting you about Henry Weldon?’

‘Henry Weldon?’ Wimsey jerked his mind back from an immense distance.

‘Yes, of course. Why is he here? Not to worm himself into his mother’s good

graces, surely?’

‘Why not? Now is his time. Alexis is disposed of and he sees his

opportunity. Now that he has nothing to lose by it, he can afford to come along

and be frightfuly sympathetic and help to investigate things and be filial and

affectionate and so on.’

‘Then why is he trying to drive me out of the place?’

‘You?’

‘Me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Weldon went out of his way in the bar this evening to be as offensive as he

possibly could, without using actual violence or bad language. He informed me,

in an indirect but unmistakable manner, that I was poking my nose in where I

was not wanted, exploiting his mother for my private ends and probably

sucking up to her for her money. In fact, he drove me to the indescribable

vulgarity of reminding him who I was and why I did not require anybody’s

money.’

‘Why didn’t you sock him one over the jaw?’

‘It was a temptation. I felt that you would love me better if I did. But you

would not, in your calmer moments, realy wish me to put my love before my

detective principles.’

‘Certainly not. But what’s his idea?’

‘Oh, that’s clear enough. He made it very clear. He wants it to be

understood that this detecting business is to stop, and that Mrs Weldon is to be

restrained from lavishing time and money in pursuit of non-existent Bolsheviks.’

‘I can understand that. He’s looking to inherit the money.’

‘Of course. But if I were to go and tel Mrs Weldon the things he’s been

saying to me, she’d probably disinherit him. And where would be the use of al

this display of sympathy then?’

‘I knew he was a stupid man.’

‘He evidently thinks it very important to stop al these inquiries. So much so

that he’s prepared, not only to risk my splitting on him, but also to spend an

indefinite time here hanging round his mother to see that she doesn’t make

inquiries on her own.’

‘Wel, I daresay he has nothing else to do.’

‘Nothing else to do? My dear girl, he’s a farmer.’

‘Wel?’

‘And this is June.’

‘What about it?’

‘Why isn’t he attending to his hay-making?’

‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘About the last weeks of the year that any decent farmer would be wiling to

waste are the weeks from hay to harvest. I can understand his running over for

a day, but he seems to be prepared to make a session of it. This Alexis

business has become so important that he’s ready to chuck everything, come

down to a place he detests and hang about interminably in a hotel in attendance

on a mother with whom he has never had very much in common. I think it’s

funny.’

‘Yes, it is rather funny.’

‘Has he ever been here before?’

‘No. I asked him when we met. It’s the kind of thing one does ask people.

He said he hadn’t. I expect he kept away while al the Alexis business was

going on – he’d hate it.’

‘And content himself with forbidding the banns at a distance?’

‘Yes – though it doesn’t seem the most effective way.’

‘No? But the banns have been fairly effectively forbidden, haven’t they?’

‘Yes. But – are you casting Henry for the part of the murderer?’

‘I should like to. But I don’t feel I can, somehow.’

‘No?’

‘No. That’s why I wanted to find out whether you thought Henry was subtle.

You don’t, and I agree with you. I don’t think Henry has the brains to have

murdered Paul Alexis.’

XIII

EVIDENCE OF TROUBLE SOMEWHERE

‘Fool, would thy virtue shame and crush me down;

And make a grateful blushing bond-slave of me?’

Death’s Jest-Book

Tuesday, 23 June

Lord Peter Wimsey, reading his
Morning Star
over the eggs and bacon, felt

better than he had done for some weeks. The
Morning Star
had come up to

scratch nobly, and was offering £100 reward for information about the razor

that had slain Paul Alexis. Bunter, returning from his fruitless journey to

Eastbourne, had come on to join his master at Wilvercombe, bringing with him

a fresh supply of shirts, colars, and other garments. Harriet Vane had danced

with Lord Peter in a wine-coloured frock. Wimsey considered, rightly, that

when a woman takes a man’s advice about the purchase of clothes, it is a sign

that she is not indifferent to his opinion. Various women, at various times and in

various quarters of the globe, had clothed themselves by Wimsey’s advice and

sometimes also at his expense – but then, he had fuly expected them to do so.

He had not expected it of Harriet, and was as disproportionately surprised and

pleased as if he had picked up a sovereign in the streets of Aberdeen. Like al

male creatures, Wimsey was a simple soul at bottom.

Not only had he this satisfactory past and present to contemplate; he

anticipated an interesting day. Harriet had consented to walk with him that

afternoon from the Flat-Iron to Darley in search of clues. Low water being

biled to take place at 4.45, they had arranged to drive out to the Flat-Iron,

arriving there at 3.30. After a little light refreshment, the expedition would set

out, searching conscientiously for whatever the shore might have to show them,

while Bunter brought the car back by the road to Hinks’s Lane; after which al

three would return to their base at Wilvercombe in their original formation. It

was al very clear, except that Harriet did not see – and said as much – what

clues were likely to remain on the open shore after nearly a week of

exceptionaly high tides. She admitted, however, that she needed exercise and

that walking was better exercise than most.

And – most immediate of pleasant things to look forward to – Harriet had

further agreed to receive Lord Peter Wimsey after breakfast at the

Resplendent, for a conference. It was necessary, in Wimsey’s opinion, that the

progress made so far should be tabulated and brought into some sort of order.

Ten o’clock was the hour fixed for this meeting, and Wimsey was lingering

lovingly over his bacon and eggs, so as to leave no restless and unfiled moment

in his morning. By which it may be seen that his lordship had reached that time

of life when a man can extract an Epicurean enjoyment even from his own

passions – the halcyon period between the self-tormenting exuberance of youth

and the fretful
carpe diem
of approaching senility.

The great wind had falen at last. It had rained a little during the night, but

now the sky was fair again, with only the gentlest of breezes ruffling the blue

expanse of sea that was visible from the Belevue’s dining-room windows.

Inspector Umpelty had been out with his helpers to explore the Grinders at four

o’clock that morning, and had just looked in on Wimsey to say that they had

found nothing yet.

‘And why it hasn’t come ashore somewhere before this, I don’t know,’ he

grumbled. ‘We’ve had a look-out kept al along the coast from Fishy Ness right

up to Seahampton and on both sides of the estuary. Must have got hooked up

with something. If we don’t get it within another week, we’l have to give it up.

Can’t waste public money fishing for drowned dagoes. The ratepayers grumble

enough as it is, and we can’t keep the witnesses hanging round here for ever.

Wel, so long. We shal have another shot at low tide.’

At ten o’clock Wimsey and his colaborator sat down before a neat pile of

scribbling paper. Harriet was inclined to be brief and businesslike.

‘What system are we going to adopt about this? Do you favour the Michael

Finsbury method by double entry as in
The Wrong Box
? Or one of those

charts made out in columns, with headings for “Suspect”, “Alibi”, “Witnesses”,

“Motive” and so on, worked out in percentages?’

‘Oh, don’t let’s have anything that means ruling a lot of lines and doing

arithmetic. Let’s behave like your Robert Templeton, and make a schedule of

Things to be Noted and Things to be Done. That only means two columns.’

‘Very wel, I’m glad you approve of it. I always make Templeton start with

the corpse.’

‘Right. Here goes –’

PAUL ALEXIS (GOLDSCHMIDT)