Have His Carcase (60 page)

another page, with the date on it. Ooh, yes! November 15th – that’s right. I

remember now. We went to the pictures and then Paul came round to see me

afterwards and told me a lot about himself. It was the same evening. He

expected me to be terribly excited about it al.’

‘November; you’re sure?’

‘Yes, sure.’

‘At any rate, it was some time before those funny letters started to come for

him?’

‘Oh, yes, ages. And after the letters started to come, he shut up about it, and

wanted his sily old paper back. I told you that before.’

‘I know you did. Al right. Now, sit down. I want to look at this.’

This was the paper:

‘H’m!’ said Wimsey. ‘I wonder where he got this from. I never knew that

Nicholas I married anybody but Charlotte-Louise of Prussia.’

‘I remember about that,’ said Leila. ‘Paul said that that marriage couldn’t be

proved. He kept on about that. He said, if only it could be proved he’d be a

prince or something. He was always worrying over that Charlotte-person –

horrid old wretch she must have been, too. Why, she was forty-five if she was

a day, and then she went and had a baby. I wonder it didn’t kil her. It ought to

have, I’m sure.’

‘Nicholas I must have been quite a kid at the time. Let’s see – 1815 – that

would be when he was in Paris after the Waterloo business. Yes, I see –

Charlotte’s father was something to do with the French legation; that fits in al

right. I suppose he had this ilegitimate daughter of Duke Francis pushed off on

to him when he was in Saxe-Coburg. She went back and lived with him in Paris

and had seven children, and the youngest of them was Charlotte, who, I

suppose, somehow got hold of the young Emperor and cradle-snatched him.’

‘ “The old beast!” I said to Paul, when he took up with this Mrs Weldon.

“Wel,” I said, “marrying old hags must run in your family,” I said. But he

wouldn’t hear anything against Great-Great-Grandma Charlotte. She was

something quite out of the way, by his account of it. A sort of what’s-her-

name.’

‘Ninon de l’Enclos?’

‘Yes, I daresay – if that’s the old wretch who went on having lovers til she

was about a hundred and fifty. I don’t think it’s nice at al. I can’t think what the

men were thinking about. Potty, they must have been, if you ask me. Anyway,

what you said is about right. She was a widow several times over – Charlotte, I

mean. She married some Count or other or General Somebody – I forget – and

had something to do with politics.’

‘Everybody in Paris in 1815 had to do with politics,’ said Wimsey. ‘I can

see Charlotte al right, playing her cards carefuly among the new nobility. Wel,

this elderly beauty marries, or doesn’t marry, the young Tsar and produces a

daughter and cals her Nicolaevna after her ilustrious papa. Being in France,

they cal the child Nicole. What happens next? Old Charlotte goes on playing

her cards wel, and, having tasted royal blood, so to speak, thinks she’l worm

herself in on the Bourbons. There are no legitimate princes she can bag for her

daughter, but she thinks the wrong side of the blanket better than being left out

in the cold, and marries the girl off to some little accident of Louis-Philippe’s.’

‘A nice set of people they must have been in those days!’

‘So-so. I daresay Charlotte may realy have thought she
was
married to

Nicholas, and been frightfuly disappointed at finding her claims set aside. They

must have been one too many for her there – Nicholas and his diplomats. Just

when she thought she had hooked her fish so wel – the fading beauty, with her

wit and charm, puling off the biggest coup of her life – making herself Empress.

France was in confusion, the Empire broken, and those who had climbed to

power on the eagle’s wings faling with his fal – who knew what would happen

to the intriguing widow of one of Napoleon’s counts or generals? – but Russia!

The double-headed eagle stil had al his pinions –’

‘How you do go on!’ said Miss Garland, impatiently. ‘It doesn’t sound a bit

likely to me. If you ask me, I think Paul made it al up out of those books he

was so fond of.’

‘Very probably,’ admitted Wimsey. ‘I only mean that it was a good story.

Colourful, vivid stuff, with costume effects and plenty of human interest. And it

fits in reasonably wel from the historical point of view. You’re quite sure you

heard al about it in November?’

‘Yes, of course I’m sure.’

‘My opinion of Paul Alexis’ powers of invention is going up. Romantic fiction

should have been his line. Anyhow, we’l pass al that. Here’s Charlotte, stil

clinging to this idea about morganatic marriages and thrones, and marrying her

daughter Nicole to this Bourbon felow, Gaston. Nothing unlikely about that.

He’d come in between the Prince de Joinvile and the Duc d’Aumale as regards

age, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t. Now, what happens to Nicole?

She has a daughter – the family seems to have run to daughters – caled

Mélanie. I wonder what happened to Gaston and Nicole under the second

Empire. Nothing is said about Gaston’s profession. Probably he accepted the

fait accompli and kept his royalist leanings and origin quiet. At any rate, in

1871, his daughter Louise marries a Russian – that’s a throw-back to the old

stock. Let’s see – 1871. What do I connect with 1871? Of course – the

Franco-Prussian War, and Russia’s behaving rather unkindly to France about

the Treaty of Paris. Alas! I fear Louise went over, horse, foot and artilery, to

the enemy! Possibly this Stefan Ivanovitch came to Paris in some diplomatic

connection about the time of the Treaty of Berlin, Goodness knows!’

Leila Garland yawned dreadfuly.

‘Louise has a daughter, anyhow,’ pursued Wimsey, wrapped up in his

speculation. ‘And she marries another Russian. Presumably they are living in

Russia again now. Mélanie is the daughter’s name, and the husband is Alexis,

Gregorovitch, and they are the parents of Paul Alexis, otherwise Goldschmidt,

who is rescued from the Russian revolution, brought over to England and

naturalised, becomes a hotel gigolo and is murdered on the Flat-Iron Rock –

why?’

‘Goodness knows,’ said Leila, and yawned again.

Wimsey, making sure that Leila had realy told him al she knew, gathered up

his precious piece of paper and carried the whole problem away to Harriet.

‘But it’s simply sily,’ said that practical young woman when she saw it.

‘Even if Alexis’ great-great-grandmother had been married to Nicholas I fifty

times over, he wouldn’t have been the heir to the throne. Why, there are heaps

and heaps of people nearer than he was – the Grand-Duke Dmitri, for instance,

and al sorts of people.’

‘Oh? Of course. But you can always persuade people into believing what

they want to, you know. Some sort of tradition about it must have been handed

down in the family from old Charlotte – you know what people are when they

get these genealogical bugs in their heads. I know a felow who’s a draper’s

assistant in Leeds, who very earnestly told me once that he ought realy to be

King of England, if he could only find the record of somebody’s marriage to

Perkin Warbeck. The trifling accident of a few intervening changes of dynasty

didn’t worry him at al. He realy thought he had only to state his case in the

House of Lords to have the crown handed to him on a gold plate. And as for al

the other claimants, Alexis would probably be told that they’d al abdicated in

his favour. Besides, if he realy believed in this family tree of his, he’d say that

his claim was better than theirs, and that his great-great-grandmother was the

only legitimate descendant of Nicholas I. I don’t think there was a Salic Law in

Russia to prevent his claiming through the female line. Anyhow, it’s perfectly

clear now how the trap was baited. If only we could get hold of the papers that

Alexis sent to “Boris”! But they’l have been destroyed, as sure as eggs is

eggs.’

Inspector Umpelty, accompanied by Chief Inspector Parker, of Scotland Yard,

rang the bel at No. 17 Popcorn Street, Kensington, and was admitted without

difficulty. It was obliging of Chief Inspector Parker to be taking a personal

interest in the matter, though Umpelty felt he could have done with a less

distinguished escort – but the man was Lord Peter’s brother-in-law and no

doubt felt a peculiar interest in the case. At any rate, Mr Parker seemed

disposed to leave the provincial inspector a free hand with his inquiries.

Mrs Morecambe tripped into the room, smiling graciously.

‘Good morning. Won’t you sit down? Is it something about this

Wilvercombe business again?’

‘Wel, yes, madam. There appears to be some slight misunderstanding.’ The

Inspector brought out a notebook and cleared his throat. ‘About this

gentleman, Mr Henry Weldon, to whom you gave a lift on the Thursday

morning. I think you said that you drove him in to the Market Square?’

‘Why, yes. It is the Market Square, isn’t it? Just outside the town, with a sort

of green and a building with a clock on it?’

‘Oh!’ said Umpelty, disconcerted. ‘No; that’s not the Market Square – it’s

the fair-ground, where they have the footbal matches and the flower show.

Was that where you put him down?’

‘Why, yes. I’m sorry. I quite thought it was the Market Square.’

‘Wel, it’s caled the Old Market. But what they cal the Market Square now

is the square in the centre of the town, where the point-constable stands.’

‘Oh, I see. Wel, I’m afraid I’ve been giving you misleading information.’

Mrs Morecambe smiled. ‘Is that a very dreadful offence?’

‘It might have serious consequences, of course,’ said the Inspector, ‘but

nobody can’t help a genuine mistake. Stil, I’m glad to have it cleared up. Now,

just as a matter of routine, madam, what did you yourself do that morning in

Wilvercombe?’

Mrs Morecambe considered, with her head on one side.

‘Oh, I did some shopping, and I went to the Winter Gardens, and I had a

cup of coffee at the Oriental Café – nothing very special.’

‘Did you happen to buy any gentleman’s colars?’

‘Colars?’ Mrs Morecambe looked surprised. Realy, Inspector, you seem

to have been going into my movements very thoroughly. Surely I’m not

suspected of anything?’

‘Matter of routine, madam,’ replied the Inspector, stolidly; he licked his

pencil.

‘Wel, no, I didn’t
buy
any colars. I looked at some.’

‘Oh, you looked at some?’

‘Yes; but they hadn’t the sort my husband wanted.’

‘Oh, I see. Do you remember the name of the shop?’

‘Yes – Rogers & something – Rogers & Peabody, I think.’

‘Now, madam.’ The Inspector looked up from his notebook and stared

sternly at her. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that the assistant at Rogers &

Peabody’s says that a lady dressed in the same style as yourself and answering

your description, bought the colars there that morning and had the parcel taken

out to the car?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me at al. He was a very stupid young man. He did take

a parcel out to the car, but it wasn’t colars. It was ties. I went in twice – once

for the ties, and then I remembered the colars and went back; but as they

hadn’t got what I wanted, I left them. That would be about half-past twelve, I

think, if the time is of any importance.’

The Inspector hesitated. It might – it might
just
be true. The most honest

witness makes a mistake sometimes. He decided to let it go for the moment.

‘And you picked Mr Weldon up at the Old Market again?’

‘Yes. But when you say it was this Mr Weldon, Inspector, you’re putting

words into my mouth. I picked up somebody – a man with dark spectacles –

but I didn’t know his name til he told me, and I didn’t recognise the man

afterwards when I saw him without the spectacles. In fact I thought then, and I

stil think, that the man I picked up had dark hair. The other man’s voice

sounded much the same – but, after al, that isn’t a lot to go upon. I thought it

must be he, because he seemed to remember al about it, and knew the number

of my car, but of course, if it came to swearing to his identity – wel!’ She

shrugged her shoulders.

‘Quite so, madam.’ It was clear enough to the Inspector what was

happening. Since the discovery of the real time of the murder had made the

morning alibi more dangerous than useful, it was being ruthlessly jettisoned.

More trouble, he thought sourly, and more checking-up of times and places. He

thanked the lady politely for her helpful explanation, and then asked whether he

might have a word with Mr Morecambe.

‘With my husband?’ Mrs Morecambe registered surprise. ‘I don’t think he

wil be able to tel you anything. He was not staying at Heathbury at the time,