‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Weldon. ‘At least, it will do so. I must confess that I have been a little remiss up to the present. I haven’t actually made a will. I have always enjoyed such wonderful health – but it will have to be done, of course. You know how one puts things off.’
The old story, thought Harriet. If all the wise wills projected in people’s minds were actually executed, there would be fewer fortunes inherited only to be thrown away. She reflected that if Mrs Weldon died the next day, Henry would step into sole control of something over £130,000.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I should make that will if I were you. Even the youngest and healthiest people may get run over or something.’
‘Yes, yes – you’re so very right. But now that poor Paul is dead, I don’t feel that I have the energy for business. It would matter more, of course, if Henry were married and had a family, but he says he doesn’t mean to marry, and if so, he may as well have the money first as last. There’s nobody else now. But I’m afraid I’m boring you, my dear, with all this chatter. You were asking about poor dear Paul, and I’ve been led away into telling you all these silly private affairs. What I was trying to say was that Paul simply couldn’t have been worrying about speculations. He knew he was going to have plenty of money. Besides,’ added Mrs Weldon, with perfect justice, ‘you can’t speculate much without capital, can you? Money breeds money, as a stock-broker I once knew used to say, and Paul never had any money to start with. I don’t think he would have known anything about speculating either; he was too romantic and unworldly, poor dear boy.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harriet to herself, ‘maybe. But he managed to get on the right side of the person who had it.’ She was a little surprised. ‘Wealthy’ is a comparative term – she had imagined Mrs Weldon to possess about three thousand a year. But if her money was decently invested – and she spoke as if it was – she must have at least twice that amount. A pauper like Alexis might be excused for wedding £130,000 at whatever price in convenience and self-respect; had he really intended the marriage after all? And if, on the other hand, he had meant to forgo it and flee the country, what was the enormous threat or inducement which could make him abandon such a golden prospect for the much lesser glitter of three hundred sovereigns, genuine metal though they might be?
And Henry? Even when the death-duties had been subtracted, £130,000 was a pleasant sum, and men had done murder for less. Well, Lord Peter had undertaken to look into Henry’s affairs. She became aware that Mrs Weldon was talking.
‘What a curious face that Monsieur Antoine has,’ she was saying, ‘he seems to be a nice young man, though I’m sure he is far from robust. He spoke most kindly to me yesterday about Paul. He seems to have been very much attached to him, sincerely so.’
‘Oh, Antoine!’ thought Harriet, a little reproachfully. Then she remembered the mad mother and the imbecile brother and thought instead, ‘Poor Antoine!’ But the thought was still an unpleasant one.
‘It’s all very well for Lord Peter,’ she grumbled to herself, ‘he’s never wanted for anything.’ Why Lord Peter should be brought into the matter, she could not explain, but there is undoubtedly something irritating about the favourites of fortune.
In the meantime, that wayward sprig of the nobility was trying not to be idle. He was, in fact, hanging round the police-station, bothering the Inspector. The reports about Bright were coming in, and they fully corroborated his story, so far as they went. He had come to Wilvercombe, as he said, from a lodging-house in Seahampton, and by the train specified, and he was now living peacefully in a cheap room in Wilvercombe, without seeing any strangers and without showing the least sign of wanting to disappear. He had been taken over to Seahampton by the police on the previous day, and had been identified by Merryweather as the man to whom the Endicott razor had been sold some time previously. In the course of a few hours, his movements for the last few weeks had been successfully checked, and were as follows:
May 28th. Arrived in Ilfracombe from London. Four days’ employment. Dismissed as incompetent and intoxicated.
June 2nd. Arrived in Seahampton. Called at Merryweather’s and purchased razor. Five days in that town looking for employment (details checked).
June 8th. Wilvercombe. Called on Moreton, the barber on the Esplanade. Told that there might be a job later. Recommended to try Ramage’s in Lesston Hoe. Same day went on to Lesston Hoe; taken on by Ramage.
June 15th. Dismissed from Ramages – drunk and incompetent. Returned to Wilvercombe; informed by Moreton that post was now filled (which it was not; but his reputation had preceded him by telephone). Tried one or two other shops without success. Slept that night in free lodging-house.
June 16th (Tuesday). Again tried for work; no result. Slept that night in workmen’s lodgings, where he arrived shortly after midnight. They were reluctant to admit him, but he showed a £1 note to prove that he could pay for his bed.
June 17th. Took 9.57 train to Seahampton. Called on hairdresser named Lyttleton and asked for work. Was told that Mr Lyttleton was away, but that he could call the following morning after 11.30. Visited two more hairdressers. Took a bed in lodging-house and spent the evening and night there in company with other residents.
June 18th (day of Alexis’ death). Left the lodging-house at 10 a.m. and went directly to the Public Library, where he had sat for an hour in the Reading Room, studying the ‘Situations Vacant’ columns in various papers. The guardian of the Reading Room had identified him. He remembered Bright perfectly, on account of some questions he had asked about the dates of publication of the local papers, and also recollected showing him the shelf on which the local directory was kept. At eleven o’clock, Bright had asked whether the library clock was right, as he had an appointment at 11.30. At 11.15 he had left, presumably to keep his appointment.
The appointment was, of course, with Lyttleton, who also had no difficulty in identifying Bright. Lyttleton had returned to Seahampton by the 11.20 train, and, on reaching his shop, had found Bright waiting to see him. He told Bright that he could come and try his hand if he liked, and could start at once. Bright had worked in the toilet-saloon until one o’clock, when he had gone out to lunch. He had returned just after two o’clock and had remained at his job for the rest of the day. The proprietor had then decided that his work was not good enough, and paid him off. It was true that nobody was able to identify him at the small restaurant where he claimed to have lunched, but it was perfectly clear that nothing short of a magic carpet could have transported him forty miles to the Flat-Iron and back in order to commit a murder at two o’clock. Whatever part Bright had played in the tragedy, it was not that of First Murderer.
With regard to Bright’s earlier history, they had made very little progress – principally because Bright himself did not even pretend to remember the various aliases under which he had passed from time to time in the last few years. The only statement they had so far succeeded in confirming – up to a point – was that there certainly had at one time been a hairdresser’s establishment in Massingbird Street, Manchester. The proprietor’s name had been Simpson, and this agreed with Bright’s story; but Massingbird Street had long disappeared in the course of town-improvement and, as Bright himself had warned them, it was difficult to find anybody who remembered what Simpson the hairdresser had looked like.
‘He must have lived in Manchester all right, some time or other,’ was the Inspector’s conclusion, ‘or he wouldn’t know all about Massingbird Street; and it’s quite probable he may be Simpson as he says. But what he’s been doing with himself between then and now is quite another matter.’
A further item of police information concerned old Pollock and his boat. A young constable, who had only recently joined the Wilvercombe force and was therefore likely to be unknown to the local fisher-folk, had been sent, disguised as a holiday-maker, to dawdle about the beach near Darley, in company with his young lady, and persuade Pollock to take them both out for a sail in his boa
t. The trip had been an uncomfortable one, owing, in the first place to the old fisherman’s extreme surliness and, in the second, to the young lady’s unfortunate tendency to mal de mer. They had asked to be taken out as near as possible to the seaward end of the Grinders reef, ‘as the young lady was that keen to see them drag for the body’. Pollock had grumbled a good deal, but had taken them. They had kept the shore in view the whole way, but had finished their outward trip at a point too far from shore to make out clearly the movements of the search-party, who, at that particular moment, seemed to be engaged on shore in the immediate neighbourhood of the Flat-Iron. They had asked Pollock to put in close by the rock, but he had refused very definitely to do so. During the voyage, the constable had examined the boat as closely as he could for signs of anything unusual. He had gone so far as to lose a hypothetical half-crown and insist on having the bottom-boards up to see if it could have slipped below them. He had searched the musty space below thoroughly with a flash-light and seen no appearance of blood-stains. For the sake of verisimilitude he had pretended to find the half-crown, and for the sake of peace had handed it to Pollock by way of a tip. On the whole the expedition had been disappointing, having yielded nothing but sea-sickness and a close-up view of a considerable number of lobster-pots.
A question about Alexis’ passport found the Inspector very much on his dignity. Did his lordship really suppose they had overlooked that obvious point? Alexis certainly had a passport, and, what was more, had had it visa’d within the last month. Where for? Why, for France, to be sure. But of course he could have got fresh visas from the Consul there, if he had wanted them.
‘That offers some support for the theory that our young friend intended to flit, eh?’
‘Yes, my lord. And if he was going to some remote place in Central Europe, I daresay he’d have found gold sovereigns a sight handier than notes. Though why he shouldn’t have taken currency notes and changed them in Paris I don’t know. Still, there it is, and he must have had some idea in his mind. I don’t mind admitting, my lord, that I’m coming round a bit to your way of thinking. Here’s a man with what I might call a purpose in view – and that purpose isn’t suicide. And he had £300 in gold on him, and there’s plenty as ’ud do murder for less than that. At least, we’re supposing he had it on him. We can’t tell till we find the body.’
‘If he was murdered for the sake of the gold, you won’t know even then,’ said Wimsey.
‘No, my lord, that’s a fact. Unless we was to find the belt or what not he had it in. And even then, likely as not, the murderer would have taken belt and all.’ The Inspector looked unhappy. ‘But there might be papers or something to tell us – always supposing the murderer didn’t take them as well or the salt water hasn’t made pulp of them.’
‘D’you know,’ said Wimsey, ‘I feel inspired to make a prophecy. I think you’ll find that Alexis was murdered all right, but not for the sake of the money. I mean, not for the £300.’
‘Why do you think that, my lord?’
‘Because,’ said Wimsey, ‘you haven’t found the body.’
The Inspector scratched his head.
‘You don’t mean that somebody came and took the body away? What should they want to do that for?’
‘What indeed? If my idea’s the right one, that’s the last thing they would want to do. They’d want the body found.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the murder was not committed for the £300 in gold.’
‘But you said that was why the body hadn’t been found.’
‘So it is.’
‘Your proper walk in life,’ said Inspector Umpelty, ‘if you’ll excuse me, my lord, is setting crossword puzzles. Say that again. They wanted the body found, because they didn’t murder him for the £300. And because they didn’t murder him for the £300, we can’t find the body. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
The Inspector frowned heavily. Then a radiant smile illuminated his broad face. He smacked his hand jubilantly upon his thigh.
‘Of course, my lord! By George, you’re perfectly right. What mutts we were not to see that before. It’s as clear as daylight. It was just your way of putting it that muddled me up. I must try that one on the Super. Bet you he won’t see through it first go off. They didn’t want the body found – no, that’s wrong. They did want the body found because they did, didn’t—’
‘Try it in rhyme,’ suggested Wimsey.
Why did they want the body found?
They didn’t want three hundred pound.
They didn’t want three hundred pound,
And that’s why the body wasn’t found.
‘Very good, my lord,’ said the Inspector. ‘Why, you’re quite a poet.’ He drew out his note-book, and solemnly made an entry of the quatrain.
‘You could sing it very nicely to the tune of “Here we go round the mulberry-bush”,’ suggested Wimsey, ‘with the refrain, “All on a Thursday morning”. Or it should be “Thursday afternoon”, but that’s just poetic licence. You have my permission to perform it at your next Police-concert. No fee.’
‘You will have your joke, my lord.’ The Inspector smiled indulgently, but as Wimsey left the police-station he heard a deep voice laboriously humming:
Why did they want the body found, body found, body found,
Why did they want the body found
All of a Thur-ursday morning?
Wimsey went back to the Bellevue and found a note from Harriet, containing the substance of her conversation with Mrs Weldon. He frowned over it for a moment and then abruptly summoned Bunter.
‘Bunter, my man,’ said he, ‘I think it is time you took a trip to Huntingdonshire.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘You will go to a place called Leamhurst, and find out all about Mr Henry Weldon, who owns a farm there.’
‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘It’s only a small village, so you must have some reason for going there. I suggest that you purchase or hire a car and are benighted, owing to some intricate kind of engine-trouble.’
‘Precisely, my lord.’
‘Here is £30. If you want more, let me know.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘You will, naturally, stay at the principal pub and pursue your inquiries in the bar.’
‘Naturally, my lord.’
‘You will find out everything you can about Mr Weldon, and, in particular, what his financial standing and reputation may be.’
‘Quite so, my lord.’
‘You will be as quick as you can about it, and return here as soon as possible.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘You will start immediately.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Then be off!’
‘Very good, my lord. Your lordship’s dress-shirts are in the second drawer and the silk socks in the tray on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, with the dress-ties just above them.’
‘Very good, Bunter,’ said Wimsey, mechanically.
Ten minutes later, Mr Bunter, suit-case in hand, was on his way to the railway-station.
XVIII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SNAKE
‘There is a little, hairy, green-eyed snake,
Of voice like to the woody nightingale,
And ever singing pitifully sweet,
That nestles in the barry bones of Death,
And is his dearest friend and playfellow.’
Death’s Jest-Book
Wednesday, 24 June
On leaving the Turkish baths, Miss Harriet Vane went out on a shopping expedition. This was her second venture of the kind since her arrival in Wilvercombe, and on both occasions her purchases were dictated by the desire of pleasing a man. On this occasion, she wanted an afternoon frock. And why? She was going out for a picnic.
She had picnicked before, with Lord Peter; and for him the old tweed skirt and well-worn jumper had been good enough. But today, these garments wou
ld not do. Her appointment was with Mrs Weldon and Henry.
The curious inhibitions which caused her to be abrupt, harsh, and irritating with Lord Peter did not seem to trouble her in dealing with Henry Weldon. For him she produced a latent strain of sweet womanliness which would have surprised Wimsey. She now selected a slinky garment, composed of what male writers call ‘some soft, clinging material’, with a corsage which outlined the figure and a skirt which waved tempestuously about her ankles. She enhanced its appeal with an oversized hat of which one side obscured her face and tickled her shoulder, while the other was turned back to reveal a bunch of black ringlets, skilfully curled into position by the head hairdresser at the Resplendent. High-heeled beige shoes and sheer silk stockings, with embroidered gloves and a hand-bag completed this alluring toilette, so eminently unsuitable for picnicking. In addition, she made up her face with just so much artful restraint as to suggest enormous experience aping an impossible innocence, and, thus embellished, presently took her place beside Henry in the driving-seat of Mrs Weldon’s large saloon. Mrs Weldon sat at the back of the car, with a luxurious tea-basket at her feet and a case of liquid refreshment beside her.
Henry seemed gratified by the efforts made to please him, and by Miss Vane’s openly expressed admiration of his driving. This was of a showy and ill-tempered kind, and involved ‘putting the wind up’ other users of the road. Harriet had herself driven cars, and suffered as all drivers do when being driven, but even when Henry rounded a corner very wide at fifty miles an hour and crammed a motor-cyclist into the ditch, she merely remarked (with some truth) that the speed made her feel quite nervous.
Mr Weldon, braking violently at the unexpected sight of a herd of cows nearly under his radiator, and crashing his gears as he changed down, smiled indulgently.
‘No point in these damned machines of you don’t make ’em move,’ he said. ‘Not like a horse – no life in ’em. Only useful for getting from one place to another.’
Have His Carcase Page 22
