Have His Carcass lpw-8

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Harriet murmured something: inaudible. This conversation was dreadful to her. It was nauseating, pitiful, artificial yet horribly real; grotesquely comic and worse than tragic. She wanted to stop it at all costs, and she wanted at all costs to go on and disentangle the few threads of fact from the gaudy tangle of absurdity.

  ‘He had never loved anybody till he met me,’ went on Mrs Weldon. ‘There is something so fresh and scared in a young man’s first love. One feels — well, almost reverent. He was jealous of my former marriage, but I told him he need not be. I was such a child when I married John Weldon, far too young to realise what love meant. I was utterly unawakened — till I met Paul. There had been other men, I don’t say there hadn’t, who wanted to marry me (I was left a widow very early), but they meant nothing to me — nothing at all. “The heart of a girl with the experience of a woman” that was Paul’s lovely way of putting it.. And it was true, my dear, indeed it was.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ said Harriet, trying to put conviction into her tone.

  ‘Paul — he was so handsome and so graceful — if you could have seen him as he was! And he was very modest and not the least bit spoilt, though all the women ran after him. He was afraid, to speak to me for a long time — to tell me how he felt about me, I mean. As a matter of fact, I had to take the first step, or he never would have dared to speak, though it was quite obvious how he felt. In fact, though we got engaged in February, he suggested putting the wedding off till June. He felt — so sweet and thoughtful of him — that

  we ought to wait and try to overcome my son’s opposition. Of course, Paul’s position made him very sensitive. You see, I’m rather well off, and of course, he hadn’t a penny, poor boy, and he always refused to take any presents from me before we were married. He’d had to make his own way all alone, because those horrible Bolsheviks didn’t leave him anything.’

  ‘Who looked after him when he first came to England?’

  ‘The woman who brought him over. He ‘called’ her “old Natasha”, and said she was a peasant-woman and absolutely devoted to him. But she died very soon, and then a Jewish tailor and his family were kind to him. They adopted him and made him a British subject, and, gave him their own name of Goldschmidt. After that, their business failed somehow, and they were terribly poor. Paul had to run errands and sell newspapers. Then they tried emigrating to New York, but that was still worse. Then they died, and Paul had to look after himself. Paul didn’t like to say very much about that part of his life. It was all so terrible to him — like a bad dream.’

  ‘I suppose he went to school somewhere.’.

  ‘Oh, yes — he went to the ordinary State school with all poor little East Side children. But he hated it. They used to laugh at him because he was delicate. They were rough with him and once he got knocked down in the playground and was ill for a longtime. And he was terribly lonely.’

  ‘What did he do when he left school?’

  ‘He got work at a night-club, washing, up glasses. He says the girls were kind to him, but of course, he never talked much about that time. He was sensitive, you see. He thought people would look down on him if they knew he had done that kind of work.’

  ‘I suppose that was where he learnt to dance,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, yes — he was a marvellous dancer. It was in his blood, you know. When he was old enough, he got-work as a professional partner and did very well, though of course it wasn’t the kind of life he wanted.’

  ‘He managed to make quite a good living at it,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully, thinking of the too-smart clothes and the hand-made shoes.

  ‘Yes; he worked very hard. But he never was strong, and he told me that he wouldn’t be able to keep on much longer with the dancing. He had some trouble in one of his knees arthritis or something, and he was afraid it would get worse and cripple him. Isn’t it all terribly pathetic? Paul was so romantic, you know, and he wrote beautiful poetry. He loved everything that was beautiful.’

  ‘What brought him to Wilvercombe?’

  ‘Oh, he came back to England when he was seventeen, and got work in London. But the place went bankrupt, or got shut up by the police, or something, and he came here for a little holiday on what he had saved. Then he found they wanted a dancer here and he took the job temporarily, and he was so brilliant that the management kept him on.’

  ‘I see,’ Harriet reflected that it was going to be too difficult to trace these movements of Alexis through the Ghetto of New York and the mushroom clubs of the West End:

  ‘Yes — Paul used to say it was the hand of Destiny that brought him and me here together. It does seem strange, doesn’t it? We both just happened to come — by accident — just as though we were fated to meet. And now..’

  The tears ran down Mrs Weldon’s cheeks, and she gazed up helplessly at Harriet.

  ‘We were both so sad and lonely; and we were going to be happy together.’

  ‘It’s frightfully sad,’ said Harriet, inadequately. ‘I suppose Mr Alexis was rather temperamental.’

  ‘If you mean,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘that he did this awful thing himself — no, never! I know he didn’t. He was temperamental, of course, but he was radiantly happy with me. I’ll never believe he just went away like that, without even saying good-bye to me. It isn’t possible, Miss Vane. You’ve got to prove that it wasn’t possible. You’re so clever, I know you can do it. That’s way I wanted to see you and tell you about Paul!’

  ‘You realise,’ said Harriet, slowly, ‘that if he didn’t do it himself, somebody else must have done it.’

  ‘Why not?’ cried Mrs Weldon, eagerly. ‘Somebody must have envied our happiness. Paul was so handsome and romantic — there must have been people who were jealous of us. Or it may have been the Bolsheviks. Those horrible men would do anything, and I was only reading in the paper yesterday that England was simply swarming with them. They say all this business about passports isn’t a bit of good to keep them out. I call it absolutely, wicked, the way we let them come over here and plot against everybody’s safety and this Government simply encourages them. They’ve killed Paul, and I shouldn’t wonder if they started throwing bombs at the King and Queen next. It ought, to be stopped, or we shall have a revolution.’ Why, they even distribute their disgusting pamphlets to the Navy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘we must wait and see what they find out. I’m afraid you may have to tell the police about some of this. It won’t be very pleasant for you, I’m afraid, but they’ll want to know everything they can.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t mind what I have to go through,’ said Mrs Weldon, wiping her eyes resolutely, ‘if only I can help to clear Paul’s memory. Thank you very much, Miss Vane. I’m afraid I’ve taken up your time. You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Harriet. ‘We’ll do our best.’

  She escorted her visitor to the door, and then returned to an armchair and a thoughtful cigarette. Was the imminent prospect of matrimony with Mrs Weldon a sufficient motive for suicide? She was inclined to think not. One can always take flight from these things. But with temperamental people, of course, you never can tell.

  Chapter VI. The Evidence Of The First Barber

  ‘Old, benevolent man.’

  — The Second Brother

  Friday, 19 June — Afternoon and evening

  ‘CAN you tell me,’ inquired Lord Peter, ‘what has become of old Mr Endicott these days?’

  The manager of the ham-shop, who liked to attend personally to distinguished customers, arrested his skewer in the very act of. thrusting it into the interior of a ham.

  ‘Oh, yes, my lord. He has a house at Ealing. He occasionally looks in here for a jar of our Gentleman’s Special Pickle.: A very remarkable old gentleman, Mr Endicott.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I hadn’t seen him about lately. I was afraid perhaps something had happened to him.’

  ‘Oh, dear no, my lord. He keeps his health wonderfully. He has taken up golf at seve
nty-six and collects papier-mache articles. Nothing’ like an interest in life, he says, to keep you hearty.’

  ‘Very true,’ replied Wimsey. ‘I must run out and see him some time. What is his address?’

  The manager gave the information, and then, returning to the matter in hand, plunged the skewer into the ham close to the bone, twirled it expertly and, withdrawing it, presented it politely by the handle. Wimsey sniffed it gravely, said ‘Ah!’ with appropriate relish, and pronounced a solemn benediction upon the ham.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I think you will find it very tasty. Shall I send it?’

  ‘I will take it with me.’

  The manager waved forward an attendant, who swathed the article impressively in various layers of grease-proof paper, white paper and brown paper, corded it up with best quality string, worked the free end of the string into an ingenious handle and stood, dandling the parcel, like a nurse with a swaddled princeling.

  ‘My car is outside,’ said Wimsey. The assistant beamed gratification. A little ritual procession streamed out into Jermyn Street, comprising: The Assistant, carrying the ham, Lord Peter, drawing on his driving-gloves; the Manager, murmuring a ceremonial formula; the Second Assistant, opening the door and emerging from behind it to bow upon the threshold; and eventually the car glided away amid the reverent murmurings of a congregation of persons gathered in the street to admire its stream-lining and dispute about the number of its cylinders.

  Mr Endicott’s house at Ealing was easily found. The owner was at home, and the presentation of the ham and reciprocal offer of a glass of old sherry proceeded with the cheerful dignity suitable to an exchange of gifts among equal, but friendly potentates. Lord Peter inspected the collection of papier-mache trays, conversed agreeably about golf — handicaps; and then, without unseemly haste, opened up the subject of his inquiry,

  ‘I’ve just come across one of your razors, Endicott, in rather peculiar circumstances. I wonder if you could tell me anything about it?’

  Mr Endicott, with a gracious smile upon his rosy countenance, poured out another glass of the sherry and said he would be happy to assist if he could.

  Wimsey described the make and appearance of the razor, and asked if it would be possible to trace the buyer.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Endicott. ‘With an ivory handle, you say. Well, now, it’s rather fortunate it should be one of that lot, because we only had the three dozen of them, most of our customers preferring black handles. Yes; I can tell you a bit about them. That particular razor came in during the War—1916, I think it was. It wasn’t too easy to get a first-class blade just then, but these were very good. Still, the white handle was against them, and I remember we were glad when we were able to send off a dozen of them to an old customer in Bombay. Captain Francis Egerton, that was. He asked us to send some out for himself and friends. That would be in 1920.’

  ‘Bombay? That’s a bit far off. But you never know. How about the rest?’

  Mr Endicott, who seemed to have a memory like an encyclopaedia, plunged his thoughts into the past. and said:

  ‘Well, there was Commander Mellon; he had two of them. But it wouldn’t be him, because his ship was blown up and sank with all hands and his kit went down with him. In 1917, that would be. A very gallant gentleman, was the Commander, and of good family. One of the Dorset Mellons. The Duke of Wetherby: he had one, and he was telling me the other day that he still had it; it wouldn’t be him. And Mr Pritchard: he had a remarkable, experience with his; his personal man went off his head and attacked him with his own razor, but, fortunately Mr Pritchard was able to overpower him. They brought him in guilty of attempted murder but insane, and the razor was an exhibit at the trial. I know Mr Pritchard came in afterwards and bought a new razor, a black one, because the other had struck the back of a chair during the struggle and had a piece chipped out of the edge, and he said he was going to keep it as a memento of the narrowest shave of his life. That was very good, I thought. Mr Pritchard was always; a very amusing gentleman. Colonel Grimes: he had one, but he had to abandon all his kit in the Retreat over the Marne — I couldn’t say what happened to that one. He liked that razor and came back for another one similar, and he has it yet. That makes six out of the second dozen. What happened to the others? — Oh, I know! There was a very funny story about one of them. Young Mr Ratcliffe — the Hon. Henry Ratcliffe — he came in one day in a great state. “Endicott” he said, “just you look at my razor!”

  “Bless me, sir!” I said, “it looks as if somebody had been sawing wood with it.”

  “That’s a very near guess, Endicott,” he said. “My sister-in-law and some of that bright crowd of hers in her studio got the idea that they’d, have some private theatricals and used my best razor to cut out the scenery with. My goodness, he was wild about it! Of course the blade was ruined for ever; he had a different one after that, a very fine French razor which we were trying out at the time. Then, ah, yes! There was poor Lord Blackfriars. A sad business that was. He married one of these film-stars, and she ran through his money and went off with a dago — you’ll remember that, my lord. Blew his brains out, poor gentleman. He left his pair of razors to his personal man, who wouldn’t part with them on any account. Major Hartley had two and so did Colonel Beifridge. They’ve left Town and gone to live in the country. I could give you their, addresses. Sir John Westlock well, now, I couldn’t say for certain about him. There was some sort of trouble and he went abroad, at the time of the Megatherium Scandal. Early — in the twenties, wasn’t it? My memory isn’t what it was. He had a pair of razors. Very fond of a good blade, he was, and looked after it very carefully. Mr Alec Baring that was sad, too. They said it was in the family, but I always thought that flying crash had something to do with it. I suppose they wouldn’t let him have razors where he is now. He only had one of that set, as a replacement for one he left in an hotel. How many does that make? Sixteen altogether, not counting the dozen that went to Bombay. Well, that’s nearly the lot, because I gave a round half-dozen to my late head-assistant when we broke up the business.. He has an establishment of his own in Eastbourne, and is doing very well there, I’m told. Twenty-two. Now, what about the last pair?’

  Mr Endicott scratched his head with a gained look. ‘Sometimes I think I’m beginning to fail a bit,’ he said, ‘though my handicap is getting shorter and my wind’s as, good as ever it was. Now, who did have that pair of razors? Well, there! Could it have been Sir William Jones? No, it couldn’t. Or the Marquis of? No. Stop a minute. That was the pair Sir Harry Ringwood bought for his son — young Mr Ringwood up at Magdalen College. I knew I hadn’t seen them about. He had them in 1925, and the young gentleman went out to British East Africa under the Colonial Office when he left the University. There! I knew I should get it in time. That’s the lot, my lord.’

  ‘Endicott,’ said Lord Peter, ‘I think you’re marvellous. You’re the youngest man of your age I ever struck, and I should like to meet your wine-merchant.’

  Mr Endicott, gratified, pushed the decanter across the table and mentioned the name of the vendor.

  ‘A lot of these people we can dismiss at once,’ said Lord Peter. ‘Colonel Grimes is a problem — goodness knows what happened to the kit he left in France, but I expect somebody out there got hold of it. The razor may have returned to this country. He’s a possibility. Major Hartley and Colonel Belfridge will have to be traced. I shouldn’t think it would be Sir John Westlock. If he was a careful sort of blighter, he probably took his razors with him and cherished them. We’ll have to inquire about poor Baring. His razor may have been sold or given away. And we might just ask about young Ringwood, though we can probably count him out. Then there’s your head-assistant. Would he be likely to have sold any of them, do you think?’

  ‘Well, no, my lord; I shouldn’t think he would. He told me that he should keep them for his own use and for use on his own premises. He liked having the old name on them, you see. But for sale to his customers, he would have h
is razors marked with his own name. That has a certain value, you see, my lord. It’s only if you’re in a good way of business and can order in razors in three-dozen lots that you get

  your own name put on them. He started off very well with a new three dozen Kropp blades, for he told me all about it, and, things being equal, those are what he would supply his customers with.’

  ‘Quite. Any likelihood of his selling the others secondhand?’

  ‘That,’ said Mr Endicott, ‘I could not say. There isn’t a great deal of business done in second-hand razors, without it’s one of these tramp-hairdressers now and again.’

  ‘What’s a tramp-hairdresser?’

  ‘Well, my lord, they’re hairdressers out of a job, and they go about from place to place looking to be taken on as extra hands when there’s a press of work. We didn’t see much of them in our place, of course. They’re not first-class men as a rule, and I wouldn’t have taken it upon me to engage any but a first-class man for my gentlemen. But in a place like Eastbourne, where there’s a big seasonal custom, you would have them round pretty frequently. It might be worth while asking my late assistant. Plumer, his name is, in Belvedere Road. If you like, I will send him a line.’