Lord Peter Views the Body

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Monday morning found him in town with his business finished and his thinking done. A consultation with his shipbuilding friend had put him in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph’s money, together with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph’s photograph, supplied by the London representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged. It appeared that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. The portrait showed a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in the cheek-bones — one of those faces which alter little in a lifetime. Wimsey looked at the photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it into his pocket and made a bee-line for Somerset House.

  Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformed official took pity on him and equired what he wanted.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Wimsey effusively, ‘thank you so much. Always feel nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don’t you know, so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have a squint at a will. I’m told you can see anybody’s will for a shilling. Is that really so?’

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody’s will in particular, sir?’

  Oh, yes, of course — how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn’t it, that when you’re dead any stranger can come and snoop round your private affairs — see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were, and all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?’

  The attendant laughed.

  ‘I expect it’s all one when you’re dead, sir.’

  ‘That’s awfully true. Yes, naturally, you’re dead by then and it doesn’t matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, to learn what a bad boy you’ve been. Great fun annoyin’ one’s relations. Always do it myself. Now, what were we sayin’? Ah! yes — the will. (I’m always so absent-minded.) Whose will, you said?

  ‘Well, it’s an old Scots gentleman called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow — you know Glasgow, where the accent’s so strong that even Scotsmen faint when they hear it — in April, this last April as ever was. If it’s not troubling you too much, may I have a bob’s-worth of Joseph Alexander Ferguson?’

  The attendant assured him that he might, adding the caution that he must memorise the contents of the will and not on any account take notes. Thus warned, Wimsey was conducted into a retired corner, where in a short time the will was placed before him.

  It was a commendably brief document, written in holograph, and was dated the previous January. After the usual preamble and the bequest of a few small sums and articles of personal ornament to friends, it proceeded somewhat as follows:

  ‘And I direct that, after my death, the alimentary organs be removed entire with their contents from my body, commencing with the oesophagus and ending with the anal canal, and that they be properly secured at both ends with a suitable ligature, and be enclosed in a proper preservative medium in a glass vessel and given to my great-nephew Thomas Macpherson of the Stone Cottage, Gatehouse-of-the-Fleet, in Kirkcudbrightshire, now studying medicine in Aberdeen. And I bequeath him these my alimentary organs with their contents for his study and edification, they having served me for ninety-five years without failure, or defect, because I wish him to understand that no riches in the world are comparable to the riches of a good digestion. And I desire of him that he will, in the exercise of his medical profession, use his best endeavours to preserve to his patients the blessing of good digestion unimpaired, not needlessly filling their stomachs with drugs out of concern for his own pocket, but exhorting them to a sober and temperate life agreeably to the design of Almighty Providence.’

  After this remarkable passage, the document went on to make Robert Ferguson residuary legatee without particular specification of any property, and to appoint a firm of lawyers in Glasgow executors of the will.

  Wimsey considered the bequest for some time. From the phraseology he concluded that old Mr Ferguson had drawn up his own will without legal aid, and he was glad of it, for its wording thus afforded a valuable clue to the testator’s mood and intention. He mentally noted three points: the ‘alimentary organs with their contents’ were mentioned twice over, with a certain emphasis; they were to be ligatured top and bottom; and the legacy was accompanied by the expression of a wish that the legatee should not allow his financial necessities to interfere with the conscientious exercise of his professional duties. Wimsey chuckled. He felt he rather liked Great-Uncle Joseph.

  He got up, collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and advanced with the will in his hand to return it to the attendant. The latter was engaged in conversation with a young man, who seemed to be expostulating about something.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the attendant, ‘but I don’t suppose the other gentleman will be very long. Ah!’ He turned and saw Wimsey. ‘Here is the gentleman.’

  The young man, whose reddish hair, long nose, and slightly sodden eyes gave him the appearance of a dissipated fox, greeted Wimsey with a disagreeable stare.

  ‘What’s up? Want me?’ asked his lordship airily.

  ‘Yes, sir. Very curious thing, sir; here’s a gentleman enquiring for that very same document as you’ve been studying, sir. I’ve been in this department fifteen years, and I don’t know as I ever remember such a thing happening before.’

  ‘No,’ said Wimsey, ‘I don’t suppose there’s much of a run on any of your lines as a rule.’

  ‘It’s a very curious thing indeed,’ said the stranger, with marked displeasure in his voice.

  ‘Member of the family?’ suggested Wimsey.

  ‘I am a member of the family,’ said the foxy-faced man. ‘May I ask whether you have any connection with us?’

  ‘By all means,’ replied Wimsey graciously.

  ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t know you.’

  ‘No, no — I meant you might ask, by all means.’

  The young man positively showed his teeth.

  ‘Do you mind telling me who you are, anyhow, and why you’re so damned inquisitive about my great-uncle’s will?’

  Wimsey extracted a card from his case and presented it with a smile. Mr Robert Ferguson changed colour.

  ‘If you would like a reference as to my respectability,’ went on Wimsey affably, ‘Mr Thomas Macpherson will, I am sure, be happy to tell you about me. I am inquisitive,’ said his lordship — ‘a student of humanity. Your cousin mentioned to me the curious clause relating to your esteemed great-uncle’s — er — stomach and appurtenances. Curious clauses are a passion with me. I came to look it up and add it to my collection of curious wills. I am engaged in writing a book on the subject — Clauses and Consequences. My publishers tell me it should enjoy a ready sale. I regret that my random jottings should have encroached upon your doubtless far more serious studies. I wish you a very good morning.’

  As he beamed his way out, Wimsey, who had quick ears, heard the attendant informing the indignant Mr Ferguson that he was ‘a very funny gentleman — not quite all there, sir.’ It seemed that his criminological fame had not penetrated to the quiet recesses of Somerset House. ‘But,’ said Wimsey to himself, ‘I am sadly afraid that Cousin Robert has been given food for thought.’

  Under the spur of this alarming idea, Wimsey wasted no time, but took a taxi down to Hatton Garden, to call upon a friend of his. This gentleman, rather curly in the nose and fleshy about the eyelids, nevertheless came under Mr Chesterton’s definition of a nice Jew, for his name was neither Montagu nor McDonald, but Nathan Abrahams, and he greeted Lord Peter with a hospitality amounting to enthusiasm.

  ‘So pleased to see you. Sit down and have a drink. You have come at last to select the diamonds for the future Lady Peter, eh?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘No? That’s too bad. You should make haste and settle down. It is time you became a family man. Years ago we arranged I should have the privilege of decking the bride for the happy day. That is a promise, you know. I think of it when the fine stones pass through my hands. I say, ‘That would be the very thing for my
friend Lord Peter.” But I hear nothing, and I sell them to stupid Americans who think only of the price and not of the beauty.’

  ‘Time enough to think of the diamonds. When I’ve found the lady.’

  Mr Abrahams threw up his hands.

  ‘Oh, yes! And then everything will be done in a hurry! “Quick, Mr Abrahams! I have fallen in love yesterday and I am being married tomorrow.” But it may take months — years — to find and match perfect stones. It can’t be done between today and tomorrow. Your bride will be married in something ready-made from the jeweller’s.’

  ‘If three days are enough to choose a wife,’ said Wimsey, laughing, ‘one day should surely be enough for a necklace.’

  ‘That is the way with Christians,’ replied the diamond-merchant resignedly. ‘You are so casual. You do not think of the future. Three days to choose a wife! No wonder the divorce courts are busy. My son Moses is being married next week. It has been arranged in the family these ten years. Rachel Goldstein, it is. A good girl and her father is in a very good position. We are all very pleased, I can tell you. Moses is a good son, a very good son, and I am taking him into partnership.’

  ‘I congratulate you,’ said Wimsey heartily. ‘I hope they will be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Peter. They will be happy, I am sure. Rachel is a sweet girl and very fond of children. And she is pretty, too. Prettiness is not everything, but it is an advantage for a young man in these days. It is easier for him to behave well to a pretty wife.’

  ‘True,’ said Wimsey. ‘I will bear it in mind when my time comes. To the health of the happy pair, and may you soon be an ancestor. Talking of ancestors, I’ve got an old bird here that you may be able to tell me something about.’

  ‘Ah, yes! Always delighted to help you in any way, Lord Peter.’

  ‘This photograph was taken some thirty years ago, but you may possibly recognise it.’

  Mr Abrahams put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and examined the portrait of Great-Uncle Joseph with serious attention.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know him quite well. What do you want to know about him, eh?’ He shot a swift and cautious glance at Wimsey.

  ‘Nothing to his disadvantage. He’s dead, anyhow. I thought it just possible he had been buying precious stones lately.’

  ‘It is not exactly business to give information about a customer,’ said Mr Abrahams.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want it for,’ said Wimsey. He lightly sketched the career of Great-Uncle Joseph, and went on: ‘You see, I looked at it this way. When a man gets a distrust of banks, what does he do with his money? He puts it into property of some kind. It may be land, it may be houses — but that means rent, and more money to put into banks. He is more likely to keep it in gold or notes, or to put it into precious stones. Gold and notes are comparatively bulky; stones are small. Circumstances in this case led me to think he might have chosen stones. Unless we can discover what he did with the money, there will be a great loss to his heirs.’

  ‘I see. Well, if it is as you say, there is no harm in telling you. I know you to be an honourable man, and I will break my rule for you. This gentleman, Mr Wallace —’

  ‘Wallace, did he call himself?’

  ‘That was not his name? They are funny, these secretive old gentlemen. But that is nothing unusual. Often, when they buy stones, they are afraid of being robbed, so they give another name. Yes, yes. Well, this Mr Wallace used to come to see me from time to time, and I had instructions to find diamonds for him. He was looking for twelve big stones, all matching perfectly and of superb quality. It took a long time to find them, you know.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes. I supplied him with seven altogether, over a period of twenty years or so. And other dealers supplied him also. He is well known in this street. I found the last one for him — let me see — in last December, I think. A beautiful stone — beautiful! He paid seven thousand pounds for it.’

  ‘Some stone. If they were all as good as that, the collection must be worth something.’

  ‘Worth anything. It is difficult to tell how much. As you know, the twelve stones, all matched together, would be worth far more than the sum of the twelve separate prices paid for the individual diamonds.’

  ‘Naturally they would. Do you mind telling me how he was accustomed to pay for them?’

  ‘In Bank of England notes — always — cash on the nail. He insisted on discount for cash,’ added Mr Abrahams, with a chuckle.

  ‘He was a Scotsman,’ replied Wimsey. ‘Well, that’s clear enough. He had a safe-deposit somewhere, no doubt. And, having collected the stones, he made his will. That’s clear as daylight, too.’

  ‘But what has become of the stones?’ enquired Mr Abrahams, with professional anxiety.

  ‘I think I know that too,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’m enormously obliged to you, and so, I fancy, will his heir be.’

  ‘If they should come into the market again —’ suggested Mr Abrahams.

  ‘I’ll see you get the handling of them,’ said Wimsey promptly.

  ‘That is kind of you,’ said Mr Abrahams. ‘Business is business. Always delighted to oblige you. Beautiful stones — beautiful. If you thought of being the purchaser, I would charge you a special commission, as my friend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wimsey, ‘but as yet I have no occasion for diamonds, you know.’

  ‘Pity, pity,’ said Mr Abrahams. ‘Well, very glad to have been of service to you. You are not interested in rubies? No? Because I have something very pretty here.’

  He thrust his hand casually into a pocket, and brought out a little pool of crimson fire like a miniature sunset

  ‘Look nice in a ring, now, wouldn’t it?’ said Mr Abrahams. ‘An engagement ring, eh?’

  Wimsey laughed, and made his escape.

  He was strongly tempted to return to Scotland and attend personally to the matter of Great-Uncle Joseph, but the thought of an important book sale next day deterred him. There was a manuscript of Catullus which he was passionately anxious to secure, and he never entrusted his interests to dealers. He contented himself with sending a wire to Thomas Macpherson:

  ‘Advise opening up Greatuncle Joseph immediately.’

  The girl at the post-office repeated the message aloud and rather doubtfully. ‘Quite right,’ said Wimsey, and dismissed the affair from his mind.

  He had great fun at the sale next day. He found a ring of dealers in possession, happily engaged in conducting a knockout. Having lain low for an hour in a retired position behind a large piece of statuary, he emerged, just as the hammer was falling upon the Catullus for a price representing the tenth part of its value, with an overbid so large, prompt, and sonorous that the ring gasped with a sense of outrage. Skrymes — a dealer who had sworn an eternal enmity to Wimsey, on account of a previous little encounter over a Justinian — pulled himself together and offered a fifty-pound advance. Wimsey promptly doubled his bid. Skrymes overbid him fifty again. Wimsey instantly jumped another hundred, in the tone of a man prepared to go on till Doomsday. Skrymes scowled and was silent. Somebody raised it fifty more; Wimsey made it guineas and the hammer fell. Encouraged by his success, Wimsey, feeling that his hand was in, romped happily into the bidding for the next lot, a Hypnerofomachia which he already possessed, and for which he felt no desire whatever. Skrymes, annoyed by his defeat, set his teeth, determining that, if Wimsey was in the bidding mood, he should pay through the nose for his rashness. Wimsey, entering into the spirit of the thing, skied the bidding with enthusiasm. The dealers, knowing his reputation as a collector, and fancying that there must be some special excellence about the book that they had failed to observe, joined in whole-heartedly, and the fun became fast and furious. Eventually they all dropped out again, leaving Skrymes and Wimsey in together. At which point Wimsey, observing a note of hesitation in the dealer’s voice, neatly extricated himself and left Mr Skrymes with the baby. After this disaster, the ring became sulky and demoralised and refused to
bid at all, and a timid little outsider, suddenly flinging himself into the arena, became the owner of a fine fourteenth-century missal at bargain price. Crimson with excitement and surprise, he paid for his purchase and ran out of the room like a rabbit, hugging the missal as though he expected to have it snatched from him. Wimsey thereupon set himself seriously to acquire a few fine early printed books, and, having accomplished this, retired, covered with laurels and hatred.

  After this delightful and satisfying day, he felt vaguely hurt at receiving no ecstatic telegram from Macpherson. He refused to imagine that his deductions had been wrong, and supposed rather that the rapture of Machpherson was too great to be confined to telegraphic expression and would come next day by post. However, at eleven next morning the telegram arrived. It said:

  ‘Just got your wire what does it mean greatuncle stolen last night burglar escaped please write fully.’

  Wimsey committed himself to a brief comment in language usually confined to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-Uncle Joseph, and, even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacy was by this time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiously helpless. He even cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from going north and dealing with the matter personally.

  While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in. It ran:

  ‘Greatuncle’s bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar in flight contents gone what next.’

  Wimsey pondered this.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if the thief simply emptied the bottle and put Great-Uncle in his pocket, we’re done. Or if he’s simply emptied Great-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we’re done. But “dropped in flight” sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had gone overboard lock, stock, and barrel. Why can’t the fool of a Scotsman put a few more details into his wire? It’d only cost him a penny or two. I suppose I’d better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupation won’t hurt him.’

  He took a telegraph form from his desk and despatched a further message: