Have His Carcase

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Great Scott! What for?’

  ‘Nosey-parkering. I was struggling with the infernal car, and he stood about asking silly questions. I told him to clear out – standing there bleating “Won’t it start?” Blasted little idiot!’

  Wimsey laughed. ‘He can’t be our man, anyhow.’

  ‘What man? The murderer? You still want to make out it’s murder? Well, I’ll swear that little shrimp had nothing to do with it. Sunday-school teacher, that’s what he looked like.’

  ‘And he was the only person you saw? Nothing else: neither man, woman nor child? Neither bird nor beast?’

  ‘Why, no. No. Nothing.’

  ‘H’m. Well, I’m much obliged to you for being so frank. I’ll have to tell Umpelty about all this, but I don’t imagine he’ll bother you much – and I don’t see the least need to inform Mrs Weldon.’

  ‘I told you there was nothing in it.’

  ‘Exactly. What time did you leave on Friday morning, by the way?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Early start, wasn’t it?’

  ‘There was nothing to stay for.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, Alexis was dead, wasn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  Henry broke into a great guffaw.

  ‘Thought you’d got something that time, didn’t you? Well, I knew it because I was told. I went into the Feathers on Thursday night, and of course, they’d all heard about the dead man being found. Presently the local hobby came in – he doesn’t live at Darley, but he comes through on his bike from time to time. He’d been over to Wilvercombe for something or other, and he told us they’d got a photo of the body and had just developed it up and identified it as a fellow called Alexis from the Resplendent. You ask the bobby, and he’ll tell you. So I began to think I’d better pop off home, because that’s where my mother would expect the condolences to come from. How’s that, eh?’

  ‘Overwhelming,’ said Wimsey.

  He left Henry Weldon and made for the police-station.

  ‘Water-tight, water-tight, water-tight,’ he muttered to himself. But why did he lie about the horse? He must have seen it, if it was running loose. Unless it broke out of the field after eight o’clock in the morning. And why shouldn’t it? Water-tight, water-tight – damned suspiciously water-tight!

  XX

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE LADY IN THE CAR

  ‘Madam, we’re strangers:

  And yet I knew some while ago a form

  Like thine.’

  The Bride’s Tragedy

  Thursday, 25 June

  The Superintendent and the Inspector were perhaps even more surprised than pleased to hear of the identification of Mr Haviland Martin. They felt that the amateurs had somehow stolen a march on them, although, as they both hastened to point out, the case now remained as obscure as ever, if not more so. That is to say, considered as a murder, it was obscure; on the other hand, the evidence for suicide was perhaps a little strengthened, though only negatively. Instead of the sinister Martin, who might have been anybody, they now had merely Mr Henry Weldon, whom they knew. True, it was now extremely plain that Henry Weldon had a most cogent reason for wishing Paul Alexis out of the way. But his own explanation of his presence at Darley steemed plausible, if foolish, and there remained the absolute certainty that he could not possibly have been at the Flat-Iron at two o’clock. Moreover, the fact that he had been known for five years as the bespectacled Haviland Martin of the tinted glasses, robbed his latest masquerade of half its significance. The character of Martin had not been invented for the present purpose, and, since it already existed, it was natural enough that Weldon should have assumed it for the purpose of spying on his mother.

  As to the outstanding points of Weldon’s story, these could be easily checked. The bill for the collars was dated June 18th, and the date did not appear to have been altered in any way. A telephone-call to the shop confirmed it, and brought the additional information that the bill referred to was one of the last half-dozen made out on that day. Since Thursday had been early-closing day, when the shop closed at one o’clock, it was fairly evident that the purchase had been made shortly before that time.

  Next, perhaps, in importance was the evidence of the Darley policeman. He was quickly found and interrogated. He admitted that Weldon’s account of the matter was perfectly true. He had been in Wilvercombe that evening at about nine o’clock on a visit to his young lady (being then off duty) and had met one of the Wilvercombe Police, Rennie by name, outside the Resplendent. He had asked if there was any news about the body found at the Flat-Iron and Rennie had mentioned the identification. Rennie confirmed this, and there was no reason to doubt it; the photographs had been developed and printed within an hour of their arrival at the police-station; the hotels had been among the first places visited by the police; the identification had been made shortly before nine o’clock, and Rennie had been on duty with Inspector Umpelty while the manager of the Resplendent was being interrogated. The Darley constable further admitted having mentioned the identification in the bar at the Three Feathers. He had gone into the bar, quite legitimately, just before closing-time, in search of a man who was suspected of some trifling misdemeanour, and he distinctly remembered that ‘Martin’ was present at the time. Both constables were reprimanded for talking too freely; but the fact remained that Weldon had been told of the identification that night.

  ‘So what have we got left?’ inquired Superintendent Glaisher.

  Wimsey shook his head.

  ‘Nothing very much, but still, something. First: Weldon knows something about that horse – I’ll swear he does. He hesitated when I asked him if he’d seen any person, thing, or animal, and I am almost certain he was wondering whether to say “No” or to make up a tarradiddle. Secondly: all this story is so thin. A child would know better than to set about his precious inquiries in the way he did. Why should he twice go into Wilvercombe and twice come away without really doing anything much? Thirdly: his story is so glib, and so full of exact times. Why, if he wasn’t deliberately preparing an alibi? Fourthly: just at the most crucial moment of all, we get an account of his having been seen by an unknown person who asks the time. Why on earth should a man who had just passed through a village full of people and clocks, walk down Hinks’s Lane to ask a casual camper for the time? The man who asks the time is part of the regular stock-in-trade of the alibimaker. The whole thing is so elaborate and fishy – don’t you think so?’

  Glaisher nodded.

  ‘I agree with you. It is fishy. But what does it mean?’

  ‘There you’ve got me. I can only suggest that, whatever Weldon was doing that morning in Wilvercombe, it wasn’t what he said he was doing, and that he may somehow be in league with the actual murderer. How about this car OI 0101?’

  ‘It’s a —shire number, but that means nothing. Everybody buys second-hand cars these days. Still, naturally, we’ll send out an inquiry. A wire to the —shire authorities will put us on the track. Not that that helps us very much about what Weldon was doing later in the day.’

  ‘Not a bit, but there’s no harm in getting hold of the lady. And have you asked at the Winter Gardens what the performance was last Thursday morning?’

  ‘Yes: Constable Ormond is down there now – oh! here he is.’

  Constable Ormond had inquired minutely. It was a classical concert, starting at 10.30. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, by Mozart; two Lieder ohne Worter by Mendelssohn; Bach’s Air for G String; Suite by Handel; Interval; Beethoven’s Eroica. All present and correct, Bach and Beethoven as per statement and approximately at the correct times. No printed programme that anyone could have taken away or memorised. Further, the Eroica had been substituted at the last minute for the Pastoral, owing to some difficulty about mislaid band-parts. Each piece had been announced from the platform by the conductor. If anyone still nursed a suspicion that Mr Henry Weldon had not been present at that particular concert, it could only be out
of surprise that he should have troubled to remember the items he had heard so exactly. Positive confirmation of his story there was none, though P.C. Ormond had carefully questioned the attendants. Persons in tinted spectacles were, alas! as common in the Winter Gardens as blackbeetles in a basement.

  Some additional confirmation of Weldon’s story was brought in a few minutes later by another constable. He had interviewed Mrs Lefranc and discovered that a gentleman in dark glasses really had called on Paul Alexis on the Wednesday and tried to get information about Leila Garland. Mrs Lefranc, scenting ‘trouble’, had packed him off with a flea in his ear to the restaurant where Alexis frequently lunched. Here the proprietor remembered him; yes, there had, he believed, been some talk about the Winter Gardens with a gentleman out of the orchestra who had happened to drop in – no, not Mr da Soto, but a much humbler gentleman, who played at the fourth desk of second violins. Finally, as sequel to a series of inquiries put round the principal Wilvercombe garages, a mechanic was found who remembered a gent calling on Wednesday evening with a Morgan and complaining of trouble in starting and feeble ignition. The mechanic had been able to find no fault beyond a certain amout of wear in the platinum points, which might have caused bad starting when the engine was cold.

  All these things were of little importance as regarded the actual crime, if there was one; they served, however, to support the general accuracy of Weldon’s statement.

  One of the minor irritations of detective work is the delay which usually occurs in the putting-through of inquiries. Trunk-calls are held up; people urgently required for interviews are absent from home; letters take time to travel. It was, therefore, gratifying and surprising to find the identification of the owner of OI 0101 going along like oiled clockwork. Within an hour, a telegram arrived from the – shire County Council, stating that OI 0101 had been last transferred to a Mrs Morecambe, living at 17 Popcorn Street, Kensington. Within ten minutes, the Wilvercombe Telephone Exchange had put through a trunk-call. Within fifteen minutes the bell rang and Superintendent Glaisher was learning from Mrs Morecambe’s maid that her mistress was staying at Heathbury Vicarage. A call to the vicarage received immediate attention. Yes, Mrs Morecambe was staying there; yes, she was at home; yes, they would fetch her; yes, this was Mrs Morecambe speaking; yes, she distinctly remembered driving a gentleman in dark glasses from Darley to Wilvercombe and back last Thursday; yes, she thought she could remember the times; she must have picked him up about ten o’clock, judging by the time she had started out from Heathbury, and she knew she had dropped him in Darley again at one o’clock, because she had consulted her watch to see if she would be in time for her lunchcon and tennis-party at Colonel Cranton’s, the other side of Heathbury. No, she had never seen the gentleman before and did not know his name, but she thought she could identify him if required. No trouble at all, thanks – she was only glad to know that the police had nothing against her (silvery laughter); when the maid said the Superintendent was on the phone she had been afraid she might have been trespassing on the white lines, or parking in the wrong place or something. She would be staying at the vicarage till next Monday and would he happy to assist the police in any way. She did hope she hadn’t been helping a gangster to escape or anything of that sort.

  The Superintendent scratched his head. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘Here we are and we know all about it – not so much as a wrong number! But anyhow, if the lady’s a friend of the Rev. Trevor’s, she’s O.K. He’s lived here for fifteen years and is the nicest gentleman you could wish to meet – quite one of the old school. We’ll just find out how well he knows this Mrs Morecambe, but I expect it’s all right. As to this identification, I don’t know that it’s worth while.’

  ‘You probably couldn’t expect her to identify him without his dark hair and glasses,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s astonishing what a difference it makes having the eyes concealed. You could make him put the spectacles on, of course, or you could bring her over and get him to identify her. I’ll tell you what. Ring up again and ask if she can come over here now. I’ll get hold of Weldon and park him out on the verandah of the Resplendent, and you can fetch her along casually. If he spots her, all’s well; if she spots him, we may feel differently about it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Glaisher. ‘That’s not a bad idea. We’ll do that.’ He rang up Heathbury Vicarage and spoke again.

  ‘It’s all right; she’s coming.’

  ‘Good. I’ll toddle round and try to detach Weldon from his mamma. If she’s present at the interview the good Henry will be in the soup. If I can’t get him, I’ll ring you.’

  Henry Weldon was readily found in the lounge. He was having tea with his mother, but excused himself when Wimsey came up and asked for a word in private. They selected a table about half-way along the verandah, and Weldon ordered drinks, while Wimsey embarked on a rather verbose account of his interview with the police that morning. He harped a good deal on the trouble he had taken to persuade Glaisher not to let the story come to Mrs Weldon’s ears, and Henry expressed a proper sense of gratitude.

  Presently a burly figure made his appearance, looking exactly like a police-constable out of uniform, and escorting a rather young-old lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion. They passed slowly along the verandah, which was well filled with people, making for an empty table at the far end. Wimsey watched the lady’s glance roam over the assembly; it rested on him, passed on to Weldon and then, without a pause or sign of recognition, to a young man in blue glasses who was toying with a chocolate sundae at the next table. Here it paused for a moment – then it moved on again. At the same time Weldon gave quite a convulsive start.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Wimsey, breaking off short in his monologue. ‘Did you speak?’

  ‘I – er – no,’ said Weldon. ‘I thought I recognised somebody, that’s all. Probably a chance resemblance.’ He followed Mrs Morecambe with his eyes as she approached them, and raised a tentative hand to his hat.

  Mrs Morecambe saw the movement and looked at Weldon, with a faint expression of puzzlement. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but shut it again. Weldon completed the hat-raising gesture and stood up.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you don’t–’

  Mrs Morecambe stared with polite surprise.

  ‘Surely I’m not mistaken,’ said Weldon. ‘You were good enough to give me a lift the other day.’

  ‘Did I?’ said Mrs Morecambe. She looked more closely and said:

  ‘Yes, I believe I did – but weren’t you wearing dark glasses that day?’

  ‘I was – it makes rather a difference, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t have known you. But I recognise your voice now. Only I had an idea – But there! I’m not very observant. I carried away an impression that you were quite dark. Probably the glasses put it into my head. So stupid of me. I hope the Morgan has recovered itself.’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks. Fancy meeting you here. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very. I hope you are having an enjoyable holiday.’

  ‘Oh, very much so, thanks – now that my car is behaving itself again. I’m tremendously grateful to you for having taken compassion on me that day.’

  ‘Not at all; it was a pleasure.’

  Mrs Morecambe bowed politely and moved away with her companion. Wimsey grinned.

  ‘So that was your attractive lady. Well, well. You’re a gay dog, Weldon. Young or old, they all go down before you, spectacles or no spectacles.’

  ‘Chuck it!’ said Henry, not displeased. ‘Lucky thing her turning up like that, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Remarkably so,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Don’t like the hick she’s got with her, though,’ pursued Henry. ‘One of the local turnip-heads, I suppose.’

  Wimsey grinned again. Could anybody be as slow-witted as Henry made himself out?

  ‘I ought to have tried to find out who she was,’ said Henry, ‘but I thought it would l
ook a bit pointed. Still, I daresay they’ll be able to trace her, won’t they? It’s rather important to me, you know.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Very good-looking and well-off, too, from the looks of her. I congratulate you, Weldon. Shall I try and trace her for you? I’m a most skilful go-between and an accomplished gooseberry.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass, Wimsey. She’s my alibi, you idiot.’

  ‘So she is! Well, here goes!’

  Wimsey slipped away, chuckling to himself.

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ said Glaisher, when all this was reported to him. ‘We’ve got the lady taped now all right. She’s the daughter of an old school-friend of Mrs Trevor’s and stays with them every summer. Been at Heathbury for the last three weeks. Husband’s something in the City; sometimes joins her for weekends, but hasn’t been here this summer. Lunch and tennis at Colonel Cranton’s all correct. No funny business there. Weldon’s all right.’

  ‘That will be a relief to his mind. He’s been a bit nervy about this alibi of his. He skipped like a ram when he caught sight of Mrs Morecambe.’

  ‘Did he? Skipping for joy, I expect. After all, you can’t be surprised. How’s he to know what time the alibi’s wanted for? We’ve managed to keep that part of it out of the papers, and he probably still thinks, as we did at first, that Alexis was dead some time before Miss Vane found the body. He can’t help knowing that he had a jolly good motive for killing Alexis, and that he was here under dashed suspicious circumstances. In any case, we’ve got to let him out, because, if he did the murder or helped to do it, he wouldn’t make any mistake about the time. He’s scared stiff, and I don’t blame him. But his not knowing lets him out as surely and certainly as if he had a really cast-iron alibi for two o’clock.’