Colonel Marchbanks paid little attention to Wetheridge. He was the club grumbler, distinguished even in that fellowship of the dyspeptic and peremptory — always threatening to complain to the Committee, harassing the Secretary and constituting a perennial thorn in the sides of his fellow-members.
He retired, murmuring, to his chair and the evening paper, and the Colonel stepped into the telephone-cabinet to call up Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square.
Presently he came out through the library into the entrance-hall, and met Penberthy and Wimsey just descending the staircase.
“Have you broken the news to Lady Dormer?” asked Wimsey.
“Lady Dormer is dead,” said the Colonel. “Her maid tells me she passed quietly away at half-past ten this morning.”
Chapter III
Hearts Count More than Diamonds
About ten days after that notable Armistice Day, Lord Peter Wimsey was sitting in his library, reading a rare fourteenth century manuscript of Justinian. It gave him particular pleasure, being embellished with a large number of drawings in sepia, extremely delicate in workmanship, and not always equally so in subject. Beside him on a convenient table stood a long-necked decanter of priceless old port. From time to time he stimulated his interest with a few sips, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and slowly savouring the balmy aftertaste.
A ring at the front-door of the flat caused him to exclaim “Oh, hell!” and cock an attentive ear for the intruder’s voice. Apparently the result was satisfactory, for he closed the Justinian and had assumed a welcoming smile when the door opened.
“Mr. Murbles, my lord.”
The little elderly gentleman who entered was so perfectly the family solicitor as really to have no distinguishing personality at all, beyond a great kindliness of heart and a weakness for soda-mint lozenges.
“I am not disturbing you, I trust, Lord Peter.”
“Good lord, no, sir. Always delighted to see you. Bunter, a glass for Mr. Murbles. Very glad you’ve turned up, sir. The Cockburn ’86 always tastes a lot better in company — discernin’ company, that is. Once knew a fellow who polluted it with a Trichinopoly. He was not asked again. Eight months later, he committed suicide. I don’t say it was on that account. But he was earmarked for a bad end, what?”
“You horrify me,” said Mr. Murbles, gravely. “I have seen many men sent to the gallows for crimes with which I could feel much more sympathy. Thank-you, Bunter, thank-you. You are quite well, I trust?”
“I am in excellent health, I am obliged to you, sir.”
“That’s good. Been doing any photography lately?”
“A certain amount, sir. But merely of a pictorial description, if I may venture to call it so. Criminological material, sir, has been distressingly deficient of late.”
“Perhaps Mr. Murbles has brought us something,” suggested Wimsey.
“No,” said Mr. Murbles, holding the Cockburn ’86 beneath his nostrils and gently agitating the glass to release the ethers, “no, I can’t say I have, precisely. I will not disguise that I have come in the hope of deriving benefit from your trained habits of observation and deduction, but I fear — that is, I trust — in fact, I am confident — that nothing of an undesirable nature is involved. The fact is,” he went on, as the door closed upon the retreating Bunter, “a curious question has arisen with regard to the sad death of General Fentiman at the Bellona Club, to which, I understand, you were a witness.”
“If you understand that, Murbles,” said his lordship, cryptically, “you understand a damn sight more than I do. I did not witness the death — I witnessed the discovery of the death — which is a very different thing, by a long chalk.”
“By how long a chalk?” asked Mr. Murbles, eagerly. “That is just what I am trying to find out.”
“That’s very inquisitive of you,” said Wimsey. “I think perhaps it would be better”—he lifted his glass and tilted it thoughtfully, watching the wine coil down in thin flower-petallings from rim to stem—“if you were to tell me exactly what you want to know… and why. After all… I’m a member of the Club… family associations chiefly, I suppose…but there it is.”
Mr. Murbles looked up sharply, but Wimsey’s attention seemed focussed upon the port.
“Quite so,” said the solicitor. “Very well. The facts of the matter are these. General Fentiman had, as you know, a sister Felicity, twelve years younger than himself. She was very beautiful and very wilful as a girl, and ought to have made a very fine match, but for the fact that the Fentimans, though extremely well-descended, were anything but well-off. As usual at that period, all the money there was went to educating the boy, buying him a commission in a crack regiment and supporting him there in the style which was considered indispensable for a Fentiman. Consequently there was nothing left to furnish a marriage-portion for Felicity, and that was rather disastrous for a young woman sixty years ago.
“Well, Felicity got tired of being dragged through the social round in her darned muslins and gloves that had been to the cleaners — and she had the spirit to resent her mother’s perpetual strategies in the match-making line. There was a dreadful, decrepit old viscount, eaten up with diseases and dissipations, who would have been delighted to totter to the altar with a handsome young creature of eighteen, and I am sorry to say that the girl’s father and mother did everything they could to force her into accepting this disgraceful proposal. In fact, the engagement was announced and the wedding-day fixed, when, to the extreme horror of her family, Felicity calmly informed them one morning that she had gone out before breakfast and actually got married, in the most indecent secrecy and haste, to a middle-aged man called Dormer, very honest and abundantly wealthy, and — horrid to relate — a prosperous manufacturer. Buttons, in fact — made of papier mâché or something, with a patent indestructible shank — were the revolting antecedents to which this headstrong young Victorian had allied herself.
“Naturally there was a terrible scandal, and the parents did their best — seeing that Felicity was a minor — to get the marriage annulled. However, Felicity checkmated their plans pretty effectually by escaping from her bedroom — I fear, indeed, that she actually climbed down a tree in the back-garden, crinoline and all — and running away with her husband. After which, seeing that the worst had happened — indeed, Dormer, a man of prompt action, lost no time in putting his bride in the family way — the old people put the best face they could on it in the grand Victorian manner. That is, they gave their consent to the marriage, forwarded their daughter’s belongings to her new home in Manchester, and forbade her to darken their doors again.”
“Highly proper,” murmured Wimsey. “I’m determined never to be a parent. Modern manners and the break-up of the fine old traditions have simply ruined the business. I shall devote my life and fortune to the endowment of research on the best method of producin’ human beings decorously and unobtrusively from eggs. All parental responsibility to devolve upon the incubator.”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Murbles. “My own profession is largely supported by domestic entanglements. To proceed. Young Arthur Fentiman seems to have shared the family views. He was disgusted at having a brother-in-law in buttons, and the jests of his mess-mates did nothing to sweeten his feelings toward his sister. He became impenetrably military and professional, crusted over before his time, and refused to acknowledge the existence of anybody called Dormer. Mind you, the old boy was a fine soldier, and absolutely wrapped up in his Army associations. In due course he married — not well, for he had not the means to entitle him to a noble wife, and he would not demean himself by marrying money, like the unspeakable Felicity. He married a suitable gentlewoman with a few thousand pounds. She died (largely, I believe, owing to the military regularity with which her husband ordained that she should perform her maternal functions), leaving a numerous but feeble family of children. Of these, the only one to attain maturity was the father of the two Fentimans you know — Major Robert and Captain George Fentiman.”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know Robert very well,” interjected Wimsey. “I’ve met him. Frightfully hearty and all that — regular army type.”
“Yes, he’s of the old Fentiman stock. Poor George inherited a weakly strain from his grandmother, I’m afraid.”
“Well, nervous, anyhow,” said Wimsey, who knew better than the old solicitor the kind of mental and physical strain George Fentiman had undergone. The War pressed hardly upon imaginative men in responsible positions. “And then he was gassed and all that, you know,” he added apologetically.
“Just so,” said Mr. Murbles. “Robert, you know, is unmarried and still in the Army. He’s not particularly well-off, naturally, for none of the Fentimans ever had a bean, as I believe one says nowadays; but he does very well. George—”
“Poor old George! All right, sir, you needn’t tell me about him. Usual story. Decentish job — imprudent marriage — chucks everything to join up in 1914—invalided out — job gone — health gone — no money — heroic wife keeping the home-fires burning — general fed-upness. Don’t let’s harrow our feelings. Take it as read.”
“Yes, I needn’t go into that. Their father is dead, of course, and up till ten days ago there were just two surviving Fentimans of the earlier generation. The old General lived on the small fixed income which came to him through his wife and his retired pension. He had a solitary little flat in Dover Street and an elderly man-servant, and he practically lived at the Bellona Club. And there was his sister, Felicity.”
“How did she come to be Lady Dormer?”
“Why, that’s where we come to the interesting part of the story. Henry Dormer—”
“The button-maker?”
“The button-maker; He became an exceedingly rich man indeed — so rich, in fact, that he was able to offer financial assistance to certain exalted persons who need not be mentioned and so, in time, and in consideration of valuable services to the nation not very clearly specified in the Honours List, he became Sir Henry Dormer, Bart. His only child — a girl — had died, and there was no prospect of any further family, so there was, of course, no reason why he should not be made a baronet for his trouble.”
“Acid man you are,” said Wimsey. “No reverence, no simple faith or anything of that kind. Do lawyers ever go to heaven?”
“I have no information on that point,” said Mr. Murbles, dryly. “Lady Dormer—“
“Did the marriage turn out well otherwise?” inquired Wimsey?
“I believe it was perfectly happy,” replied the lawyer, “an unfortunate circumstance in one way, since it entirely precluded the possibility of any reconciliation with her relatives. Lady Dormer, who was a fine, generous-hearted woman, frequently made overtures of peace, but the General held sternly aloof. So did his son — partly out of respect for the old boy’s wishes, but chiefly, I fancy, because he belonged to an Indian regiment and spent most of his time abroad. Robert Fentiman, however, showed the old lady a certain amount of attention, paying occasional visits and so forth, and so did George at one time. Of course they never let the General know a word about it, or he would have had a fit. After the War, George rather dropped his great-aunt — I don’t know why.”
“I can guess,” said Wimsey. “No job — no money, y’ know. Didn’t want to look pointed. That sort of thing, what?”
“Possibly. Or there may have been some kind of quarrel. I don’t know. Anyway, those are the facts. I hope I am not boring you, by the way?”
“I am bearing up,” said Wimsey, “waiting for the point where the Money comes in. There’s a steely legal glitter in your eye, sir, which suggests that the thrill is not far off.”
“Quite correct,” said Mr. Murbles. “I now come — thank-you, well, yes — I will take just one more glass. I thank Providence I am not of a gouty constitution. Yes. Ah! — We now come to the melancholy event of November 11th last, and I must ask you to follow me with the closest attention.”
“By all means,” said Wimsey, politely.
“Lady Dormer,” pursued Mr. Murbles, leaning earnestly forward, and punctuating every sentence with sharp little jabs of his gold-mounted eyeglasses, held in his right finger and thumb, “was an old woman, and had been ailing for a very long time. However, she was still the same headstrong and vivacious personality that she had been as a girl, and on the fifth of November she was suddenly seized with a fancy to go out at night and see a display of fireworks at the Crystal Palace or some such place — it may have been Hampstead Heath or the White City — I forget, and it is of no consequence. The important thing is, that it was a raw, cold evening. She insisted on undertaking her little expedition nevertheless, enjoyed the entertainment as heartily as the youngest child, imprudently exposed herself to the night air and caught a severe cold which, in two days’ time, turned to pneumonia. On November 10th she was sinking fast, and scarcely expected to live out the night. Accordingly, the young lady who lived with her as her ward — a distant relative, Miss Ann Dorland — sent a message to General Fentiman that if he wished to see his sister alive, he should come immediately. For the sake of our common human nature, I am happy to say that this news broke down the barrier of pride and obstinacy that had kept the old gentleman away so long. He came, found Lady Dormer just conscious, though very feeble, stayed with her about half an hour and departed, still stiff as a ramrod, but visibly softened. This was about four o’clock in the afternoon. Shortly afterwards, Lady Dormer became unconscious, and, indeed, never moved or spoke again, passing peacefully away in her sleep at half-past ten the following morning.
“Presumably the shock and nervous strain of the interview with his long-estranged sister had been too much for the old General’s feeble system, for, as you know, he died at the Bellona Club at some time — not yet clearly ascertained — on the same day, the eleventh of November.
“Now then, at last — and you have been very patient with my tedious way of explaining all this — we come to the point at which we want your help.”
Mr. Murbles refreshed himself with a sip of port, and, looking a little anxiously at Wimsey, who had closed his eyes and appeared to be nearly asleep, he resumed.
“I have not mentioned, I think, how I come to be involved in this matter myself.
My father was the Fentimans’ family solicitor, a position to which I naturally succeeded when I took over the business at his death. General Fentiman, though he had little enough to leave, was not the sort of disorderly person who dies without making a proper testamentary disposition, His retired pension, of course, died with him, but his small private estate was properly disposed by will. There was a small legacy — fifty pounds — to his manservant (a very attached and superior fellow); then one or two trifling bequests to old military friends and the servants at the Bellona Club (rings, medals, weapons and small sums of a few pounds each).
Then came the bulk of his estate, about £2,000, invested in sound securities, and bringing in an income of slightly over £100 per annum. These securities, specifically named and enumerated, were left to Captain George Fentiman, the younger grandson, in a very proper clause, which stated that the testator intended no slight in thus passing over the elder one, Major Robert, but that, as George stood in the greater need of monetary help, being disabled, married, and so forth, whereas his brother had his profession and was without ties, George’s greater necessity gave him the better claim to such money as there was. Robert was finally named as executor and residuary legatee, thus succeeding to all such personal effects and monies as were not specifically devised elsewhere. Is that clear?”
“Clear as a bell. Was Robert satisfied with that arrangement?”
“Oh dear, yes; perfectly. He knew all about the will beforehand and had agreed that it was quite fair and right.”
“Nevertheless,” said Wimsey, “it appears to be such a small matter, on the face of it, that you must be concealing something perfectly devastating up your sleeve. Out with it, man, out with it! Whatever the shock may be, I am braced to bear it.”
“A good many years before her death, Lady Dormer — who, as I said before, was an eminently generous-minded woman — made a will. Her husband and her daughter were then dead. Henry Dormer had few relations, and all of them were fairly wealthy people. By his own will he had sufficiently provided for these persons, and had left the remainder of his property, amounting to something like seven hundred thousand pounds, to his wife, with the express stipulation that she was to consider it as her own, to do what she liked with, without any restriction whatsoever. Accordingly, Lady Dormer’s will divided this very handsome fortune — apart from certain charitable and personal bequests with which I need not trouble you — between the people who, for one reason and another, had the greatest claims on her affection. Twelve thousand pounds were to go to Miss Ann Dorland.
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club lpw-5 Page 2
