Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Once settled on chromium chairs amid enormous potted palms, and having ordered black coffee and declined petit fours, the two women fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Are you enjoying being married, Lady Peter?’ Rosamund asked.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Harriet simply. ‘Very greatly,’ and then saw, disconcertingly, a passing expression of surprise in Rosamund’s eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Well, of course, it’s wonderful when Laurence is at home,’ said Rosamund. ‘But he’s out such a lot, working with all those theatre people. I had no idea how much time it took. I find myself at a loose end, rather, just sitting around longing for him to come back. Don’t you find the same thing?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Harriet. ‘I seem to be doing – trying to do – everything I used to do, and a lot of other things as well.’

  ‘I thought all those servants were rather cutting you out of running things,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘Well, for example,’ said Harriet, ‘I shouldn’t have needed all these black dresses and hats if I had not been Lady Peter, living in London. I would have got by with very little. In fact perhaps the answer to our problems, Mrs Harwell, would be to flee to the countryside, and lie low.’

  She thought longingly for a moment of Talboys, standing quietly among the fenland farms, where life tickered along gently without all these metropolitan exigencies. She hadn’t yet seen the chimney pots she and Peter had found, and had had put back in place.

  ‘We do have a bungalow in Hampton, beside the river,’ said Rosamund. ‘We were going to spend some time there in the summer, and have boating parties, but we hardly got there at all last year. It needs doing up to be really comfortable. But I couldn’t get Laurence to come down with me now. He’s very fussed at the moment about some play they have had to postpone.’

  ‘Not Mr Amery’s play?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s still in the future. Something called “Gee-up, Edward!” ’

  Both women burst into laughter. ‘Well, no, I do see! That really wouldn’t do,’ said Harriet at last. ‘Can’t they call it something else?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Rosamund. ‘I just don’t see how it can take Laurence all day.’

  ‘Well, he has to work . . .’

  ‘But that’s just it, Lady Peter, he doesn’t have to work. He could give it all up tomorrow, and be no worse off. In fact he’d be better off, because plays don’t always make money. Some of them lose money – quite a lot sometimes. In fact, being a theatre angel is more a hobby than anything for Laurence, and I don’t know what he would say if I had a hobby that meant leaving him alone for hours!’

  ‘Well, why don’t you try it? Not leaving him alone for hours, but having a hobby? There’s such a lot to do in London, isn’t there? You could make a point of seeing all the exhibitions, for example, or find a worthwhile charity to support.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ said Rosamund dubiously. ‘I don’t see how it would help.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have so much time on your hands,’ said Harriet. ‘And you would be demonstrating a bit of independence. Showing your Laurence that you are not completely dependent on him. He might like that; he might find it intriguing.’

  ‘Do you think so? But I can’t think of anything I’d like to do.’

  ‘Well, what about going down to your bungalow for a few days, and getting a redecoration in hand? You could choose nice new furniture for it – wouldn’t that amuse you?’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Rosamund suddenly, ‘they didn’t let you have any fun doing up that great new house of yours, and I expect Lord Peter neglects you even more than Laurence does me, going out detecting all the time.’

  Harriet bit her tongue in vexation, stopping herself from saying, ‘I have better things to do with my time.’ She was just no good at this sort of woman-to-woman conversation. In a minute Rosamund would start talking about having children. ‘Well, no,’ she said, ‘Peter hasn’t had a case since we got back from honeymoon.’

  Pat, like the resolution in the old comedy, Rosamund said, ‘And I suppose you’ll have to have children in a family like that with titles floating around. I’ve told Laurence definitely that I won’t.’

  ‘I’ll have to wait and see,’ said Harriet. ‘And I really do have to go now. I’ll send my maid round with a couple of those collars, and I do hope you enjoy the outing tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosamund, shrugging, ‘it’s only some affair of Laurence’s.’

  ‘Gosh, Harriet,’ said Sylvia Marriot, ‘what a perfectly stunning hat!’

  ‘It’s all part of the great change,’ said Eiluned Price. ‘You never used to have an eye for that kind of thing. And now here you are wearing about a year’s income. It’s amazing you can bring yourself to come slumming with us.’

  ‘Do shut up, Eiluned,’ said Sylvia. ‘It’s no way to thank Harriet for inviting us to lunch.’

  ‘And I wasn’t thinking of slumming,’ said Harriet, mildly. ‘I thought you might like lunch at the Ritz.’

  ‘I’d love it,’ said Sylvia. ‘Let’s be Sybarites, just for once. And I don’t care how much that dress cost, it’s worth it.’

  ‘Well, everything’s relative,’ said Harriet. ‘It isn’t Balenciaga or Schiaparelli. Just something bought in London. And Eiluned, you are right about the hat; someone helped me choose it last week – quite one of the silliest women I have ever met. You’ve no idea how good it is to see you both.’

  ‘Heavy relief, you mean?’ said Eiluned, gruffly.

  ‘Come on, let’s jump into a taxi, and on the way you can tell me how you are, and how everyone else is.’

  ‘What I want to hear about,’ said Sylvia, once they were settled at a table, and had ordered oysters, to be followed by mutton chops, ‘is the exotic family tree. Harriet, how are you finding your relations?’

  ‘A rather mixed bag, to tell you the truth,’ said Harriet, launching into a description of Helen, Duchess of Denver’s dinner-party.

  ‘But you can’t mean that you like the Duke?’ said Eiluned, by and by. ‘What could there be to like about him?’

  ‘He’s very stupid,’ said Harriet thoughtfully. ‘It’s amazing really, when he has such a clever brother. And he’s like some great bear, somehow; sort of baffled. I suppose it’s that he is so unlikely to succeed in his life’s only project that gives him a sort of pathos.’

  ‘What’s his life’s only project?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘Transmitting the estate intact to his only son, and getting that son to do his duty,’ said Harriet. ‘But I suppose I like him really because he admires Peter, although he doesn’t understand him a bit, and so he is on my side. You can imagine: “I can’t think why Peter has married this weird woman, but if he has married her she must be all right.”’

  ‘It does sound rather zoological,’ said Sylvia, ‘having a bear to protect you in a nest of vipers.’

  ‘Well, I won’t have mother-in-law problems, anyway,’ said Harriet. ‘The Dowager Duchess is wonderful.’

  ‘What about work problems?’ said Eiluned. ‘How’s the next book?’

  ‘I’m having difficulty,’ said Harriet. ‘But then you know, I always do.’

  ‘I’m not sure I would go on painting, if I didn’t need the money,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Yes, you would,’ said Eiluned. ‘And I would go on composing. We don’t do it for the money. I’m very glad you are working, Harriet. I was afraid you might stop.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Harriet. ‘Look, Sylvia, do you know anything about a painter called Gaston Chapparelle?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Sylvia. ‘Very successful. Much hated. Not much admired by other artists.’

  ‘Why is he hated?’

  ‘Jealousy, mostly. You know, those society portrait painters make buckets of money painting in a very old-fashioned way. The up and coming want to paint like Picasso or Modigliani, or like Cubo-futurists or something, and they think it’s not fair that old fogies get a
ll the money.’

  ‘And he’s French,’ said Eiluned. ‘Don’t forget our attitude to foreigners.’

  ‘I think he would make rather a good spy,’ said Harriet, ‘if France weren’t a friendly country.’

  ‘You can’t tell these days, with Fascists springing up everywhere,’ said Eiluned.

  ‘I want to know who the silly woman is who helped you choose your hat,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Rosamund Harwell. And oddly, that’s her husband over there, lunching with a very pretty young woman. I’ve just noticed him.’

  Eiluned swivelled round in her chair to look. ‘Oh, don’t worry about her. I know her. She’s just a young terp. Phoebe Sugden: a friend of mine was at drama school with her. I expect he’s giving her a part. Though now I come to think about it, I heard she had a part in a forthcoming production of Sir Jude Shearman’s.’

  ‘Well, one certainly wouldn’t have a secret assignation in the Ritz,’ said Sylvia. ‘And don’t theatre people have to plan a long way ahead? Perhaps he’s giving her a part in something coming up after the thing she’s playing next. Can we have crêpes suzettes for pudding?’

  Walking along Piccadilly towards Hatchards, Harriet was amazed to see Lord St George emerging through the shop doors.

  ‘Jerry, whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘Buying a book,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘But it’s full term; shouldn’t you be in Oxford?’

  ‘Couldn’t get the book there,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d just nip down to jolly old Hatters and nobody would be any the wiser.’

  ‘Whatever is it in the universe of print that defeats Blackwells?’ she said in mock astonishment.

  He pulled the book from the bag, and showed it to her. ‘Modern Aircraft: A Manual for Trainee Pilots.’

  ‘But I thought your father . . .’

  ‘Bished again!’ he said. ‘Look, you won’t tell, Aunt Harriet, will you?’

  ‘No, I won’t tell,’ she said. ‘But don’t you think . . .?’

  ‘It’s dashed unfair, having a literary aunt,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to it. It used to be that Uncle Peter was the only family member one could possibly run into in a bookshop.’

  ‘And Uncle Peter would not be likely to shop you for learning to fly against your father’s wishes?’

  ‘He might scold, but he wouldn’t shop,’ the young man told her. ‘Look, Aunt Harriet, could I walk you wherever you’re going?’

  ‘You don’t have time, do you, if you are going to nip back to Oxford in time not to be missed? In my day junior members were not allowed more than five miles from Carfax.’

  ‘I can nip back faster than you think,’ he said.

  ‘You can drive like your uncle, you mean?’ she said, shuddering.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ he said. ‘I don’t have his spiffing motor, for one thing. But a chum of mine has a Cub, parked at Northolt. Do let me walk with you; I am capable of good manners sometimes.’

  ‘You’ll be frightfully bored, Jerry. I’m only going into Swan and Edgar’s.’

  They crossed Piccadilly at the Belisha beacon, and came face to face with a window full of prams, cots and cradles. Jerry stopped. ‘Just look at that,’ he said to Harriet.

  ‘At what?’ said Harriet, flabbergasted.

  ‘Well, that maroon and gold carriage job,’ he said. ‘That’s got some pizzaz, don’t you think?’

  ‘Jerry, whatever has got into you?’ she said. ‘I very sincerely hope you are not thinking of procreating? Not yet, at least.’

  ‘Oh, not me, Aunt Harriet. I rather hoped you were. I mean, I would be infinitely grateful. It would take some of the heat off me, don’t you know.’

  ‘And what do you imagine your sainted Uncle Peter would say if he heard you proposing it to me?’

  ‘He wouldn’t like it,’ said Lord St George, gravely. ‘Of course, I suppose he might be past it, but if he isn’t . . .’

  ‘I’ve never known anybody like you for perpetrating an outrage in every sentence,’ said Harriet. ‘Fall silent at once.’

  ‘I’m not putting it well, I can see,’ he said. ‘It isn’t funny. The thing is, dearest Aunt, it does put a great weight on a fellow’s back, all this inheritance stuff. If the pater – well, all the family – had someone else to fall back on, it would be a great relief. I’d be inexpressibly grateful. I’d even buy the little fellow that pram myself.’

  ‘Jerry, if you are really being serious, you must see that I would hardly be likely to discuss it with you.’

  ‘Oh, no, very private and all that. Until it starts to show, of course. But you do see what I mean?’

  ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown?’

  ‘Something like that. So you will think about it?’

  ‘Be off with you to Oxford,’ Harriet said, ‘before you drive me to shop you, if not to the university proctors, at least to your avenging uncle.’

  ‘Peter, what kind of a car is a Cub?’ asked Harriet.

  It was the day following her encounter with Lord St George. They were sitting companionably beside the fire in the library, drinking sherry before lunch.

  ‘It isn’t a car,’ he said, ‘it’s an aeroplane. A Piper Cub. An American job. Rather a jolly little thing, bit like a Tiger Moth. Why do you ask?’

  Harriet’s reputation as the aunt who would not shop an errant nephew was saved by the appearance of Bunter.

  ‘Chief Inspector Parker on the telephone, my lord, would be grateful for a word with you.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Peter, ‘I thought the faithful bloodhound would not forsake me for ever. Excuse me for a moment, Harriet.’

  Harriet watched him leave the library with a light and rapid step. Affection for him made her smile. Unlike her sister-in-law – the Duchess of Denver, that is, for Harriet had nothing against Mary – she did not find Peter’s occupation ghoulish. It was the use he had found to make of his unusual talents, and she approved of using one’s talents. The boyish eagerness with which he had gone to the telephone charmed her; she herself might, when a book was going well, have raced off to the notebook in just such a way to write something down.

  But Peter returned to the library quietly, shut the door behind him, and offered Harriet a white and sombre face.

  ‘Peter, whatever is it?’

  ‘Rosamund Harwell has been found dead,’ he said.

  8

  The hunt is up, the hunt is up!

  OLD BALLAD

  All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience.

  CONAN DOYLE

  ‘But she can’t – I saw her only the other day,’ said Harriet. ‘Surely – whatever happened to her?’

  ‘She has been murdered, I am afraid. Strangled.’

  ‘Oh, God, Peter, how horrible!’

  He came to her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, ‘and whoever would want to murder her, poor silly harmless thing?’

  ‘It looks like a break-in. Not in London; she was in the country. Harriet, Charles wants my help. It might be useful that I – we – knew the Harwells slightly.’ He spoke in a quiet, dead tone of voice.

  She heard, rather than saw, the danger. ‘Of course you must help,’ she said. ‘Of course. I thought we had that settled.’

  ‘I thought last time you . . .’

  ‘I hardly knew you then.’

  ‘After all those years of plaguing you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We had only been married for a day. I know you better now, dearest. I have it worked out, I think.’

  ‘Do you? I – Harriet, if I am to take this on, I must go at once. And it’s a horrible shock; can I telephone to Sylvia or someone to come over?’

  ‘Just go, Peter. I’ll be all right.’

  Peter stooped to kiss her, and rang for Bunter. ‘Bunter, let Chief Inspector Parker know that I’m on my way. Bring the Daimler round to the front door, and put your photographic gear and tackle and trim in the boot.’
/>   ‘I am to accompany you, my lord?’

  ‘Of course you are, man. Stop waffling and get your skates on, will you?’

  And the change in Peter’s voice, the confident, businesslike note, was not more noticeable than the joy on Bunter’s face.

  As the door closed behind them she felt herself shaking with shock and revulsion. Poor Rosamund! Poor Laurence Harwell too – how horrible and destroying for him, out of all the husbands in London . . .

  When Meredith announced lunch, she sat down distractedly, and began to eat, but within minutes she stopped, feeling sick, and then very sick, and hastily abandoned the table to run for her bathroom. When Mango appeared – Meredith must have witnessed Harriet’s retreat and sent her – she found her mistress pitiably vomiting, and when the paroxysm ceased she comforted her efficiently, and helped her to bed.

  The Harwells’ country retreat was on the riverbank. It was the last but one of a line of dwellings strung out along a little lane, and stood on a sloping lawn, surrounded by trees. The drive was full of police cars, and Peter parked the Daimler on the verge in the lane. He and Bunter stood for a moment in the gate, surveying the scene. Rose Cottage was a large modern bungalow, built in a fashionably rustic style, with a veranda running the length of the house on the side facing the river. It was smartly painted, and the lawns and flower borders were well kept. The view of the river, and across it, was pleasantly unspoiled and green. There were indeed some climbing roses round the door, neatly pruned and trained.

  Chief Inspector Parker appeared, framed in the rose arch, and came towards them.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Peter. I’m sorry to let you in for this, it isn’t pleasant.’

  ‘When was murder ever pleasant?’ said Peter.

  ‘Some are worse than others,’ Parker replied. ‘Come in. My people are just about finished here.’