Conundrums for the Long Week-End

by Robert Kuhn McGregor

  What provoked George Fentiman’s remarks about “advanced women” was a discussion of Ann Dorland, the rival claimant to Felicity Dormer’s thousands. Dorland is only a distant relation of Lady Dormer, but the old lady, desiring some youthful fresh air about the house, had plucked her from a life of comparative poverty, inviting Ann to share her substantial house at Portman Square. In return for her companionship, Lady Dormer provided Ann Dorland a considerable allowance and perfect freedom to do as she liked, even giving over the glass-roofed billiard room on the first floor for use as a studio/laboratory.

  On the surface, Dorland seems the epitome of the new woman, moving among the Bohemian artists of Bloomsbury, pursuing love affairs, and expressing herself first through painting and later through a self-taught interest in scientific research. But, for much of the novel, the reader never views Ann Dorland directly. Images and stories about her are filtered through a variety of witnesses, none of whom seem to really know her very well. She is not very popular among the Bloomsbury set, possessing little real artistic talent and taking her brief romantic flings all too seriously. The servants in Lady Dormer’s household find her artistic and scientific interests something of a nuisance. Apparently Ann does too, as she has all but given up on them by the time the murder investigation begins. When the reader at last does encounter Ann Dorland, reluctantly and gracelessly answering the pointed questions of Charles Parker, she appears thoroughly unlikable: bitter, sulky, and rude.

  The truth is that she is a young woman without the faintest idea of what to do with herself. She has money but has not been educated to appreciate what it can do. She is interested in art but is herself artless. She has achieved freedom and found it empty. For Ann Dorland, the choices offered women in the twenties are still too narrow. She is shockingly conventional to the Bloomsbury Bohemians, far too rebellious and independent to settle into the old Victorian mold (even if she could find a way to do it). The war may have opened doors for women, but this particular woman cannot figure out what to do once she has walked through.

  Peter Wimsey is the one person in the novel capable of seeing Ann as she really is. Examining her sad attempts at painting, he sees through the flawed brushwork to catch a glimpse of frustrated devotion. He intuits the entire ugly story: the love affair with Penberthy, the callous rejection, the bitter shame. Catching up to her, he displays the simple charm and honesty required to coax the whole story from her. In the process he discovers that, for all her pathetic lack of finish and poise, she most definitely has brains. And, as matters turn out, she also has a natural sense of good taste. She wins Peter’s deepest respect by refusing a dinner of lobster and champagne, also by recognizing that the Romanée Conti 1915, while exhibiting considerable potential, is not yet a good wine. Like the wine, Ann Dorland is an unfinished product, possessing the proper spirit, but not yet finding her place. She will come into her own one day (300–27). Peter foretells her future:

  Not an artist, not a bohemian, and not a professional man;—a man of the world. . . . That is the kind of man who is going to like you very much. Look! that wine I’ve sent away—it’s no good for a champagne-and-lobster sort of person, nor for very young people. It’s too big and rough. But it’s got the essential guts. So have you. It takes a fairly experienced palate to appreciate it. But you and it will come into your own one day. . . . But your man won’t be at all the sort of person you’re expecting. You have always thought of being dominated by somebody. . . . But you’ll find that yours will be the leading brain of the two. He will take great pride in the fact. And you will find the man reliable and kind and it will turn out quite well. (322)

  Difficult though it may be to believe, Sayers brings the novel to a symmetrical conclusion by allowing Ann Dorland the opportunity to dominate Robert Fentiman. (Given the shape of his moral values, he needs dominating.) Ann will follow the spirited footsteps of her elderly companion and patron, the Victorian rebel Felicity Dormer. Eschewing society’s expectations, she will marry a man of the world who will allow her to come into her own as a human being.

  A happier contrast to the struggles of Sheila Fentiman and the awkward uncertainties of Ann Dorland is provided by Marjorie Phelps, successful sculptor and Lord Peter’s guide to London’s Bohemia. Marjorie, a “pleasant-looking young woman with curly hair” (135), is wiser than most in her set. Without compromising her essential art, she has established herself in a line of original yet saleable figurines that enable her to pay the bills and live in reasonable comfort. Her approach to Bohemia is practical and a little cynical. She tracks the love affairs and scandals of the Bloomsbury crowd with amusement, indulging herself when she considers the danger minimal. She is perfectly at home at Chelsea parties where the chianti is too thin and the men too obvious, but she is also prepared to appreciate the exquisite gentility of a man such as Peter Wimsey. She is perhaps Sayers’s ideal for the new woman: intelligent, independent in spirit and judgment, and a productive member of society. With no pecuniary need for a man’s support, she is able, at least to a point, to make her own choices in love. She is perfectly willing to take on Peter as a husband, not because of his wealth or title, but because he is a truly loveable man. Unfortunately, Peter cannot return the compliment. If “a great liking and friendship were enough, I would—like a shot” (341). He knows that she would be unsatisfied. Her life in most ways complete, Marjorie Phelps must marry for love and nothing less.

  Dorothy L. Sayers steers Peter Wimsey himself further down the path toward love in this fourth novel. Demonstrating little interest in women in Whose Body? Peter shows himself to be dangerously susceptible in Clouds of Witness. By the time of his strange encounter with Mary Whittaker in Unnatural Death, he has become the very picture of experienced eligibility, “rich enough, well-bred enough, attractive enough, and man of the world enough”(180) to attract the attentions of an array of women. Although Peter indulges no passions during the Bellona Club episode, the reader is made aware of his manifest attractions through his effect on Marjorie Phelps. By this time, Sayers’s chief character was thirty-seven years old. How long could he hold out against the Marjories of the world?

  Sayers does begin the process of making subtle changes to Peter in this fourth novel. He is still proficient in classic blither (“Like the lady in Maeterlinck who’s running round the table while her husband tries to polish her off with a hatchet, I am not gay.”[252]), and he is still painfully aware of the consequences posed by his investigations. Sensing real unpleasantness, he tries to warn Murbles off a close inquiry into old Fentiman’s death right from the beginning. When it proves murder, he is the sole agent to perceive the essential psychology of the event: Penberthy is undeniably guilty, but his one-time fiancée, Ann Dorland, is not. And of course, he remains burdened by memories of the war, recalling dealing himself countless hands of “Patience” in a nursing home in 1918 just to avoid the repercussions of thinking.

  He is still Wimsey, and the mystery is still a Sayers mystery, but the formula has begun to change. Most notably, Lord Peter goes it alone for much of this story; the highly effective team of Parker and Wimsey begins to dissolve. Peter uncovers the murder essentially on his own, requesting only minimal help of a technical nature from Parker. When the murder is out and Charles enters the case, he and Peter proceed to not one but two ugly rows over interpretation of character and evidence. Parker becomes an impediment to Peter’s honest handling of the case; to save Ann Dorland, Wimsey must checkmate his friend’s headlong determination to stick to facts as facts.

  The two will never work together as an integral team again. Charles Parker remains Wimsey’s most intimate friend (and eventually becomes his brother-in-law), and he continues to participate heavily in some of Wimsey’s investigations. But Peter has grown autonomous as a sleuth. Charles Parker slips into the role of supporting character as Wimsey takes over the stories more completely.

  The reason for this mutual adjustment seems to lie with the better understanding of basic human
psychology that Sayers has created for Lord Peter. The nuances of human motivation and human reaction become increasingly important in the later novels, and only Peter is prepared to meet them. This is a pivotal theme in the conclusion to The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club. The true resolution to the mystery rests with the reader’s ability to share Peter Wimsey’s basic comprehension of human foible. “Who done it” is pretty obvious once the facts of General Fentiman’s death are known. The old man died unexpectedly of a heart attack; Penberthy is the only man with both means and opportunity to do the murder. The problem lies in his motivation: how would he profit from the old man’s death? The obvious answer is that he was in collusion with Ann Dorland. If Fentiman died, she would inherit Lady Dormer’s money, and she and Penberthy would marry, start a clinic, and live happily ever after. Only Peter can see that this obvious solution is not right. A mechanical explanation of the facts, however accurate, is just not enough.

  More important, he sees that merely proving the obvious solution wrong is not going to save Ann Dorland. Before meeting Ann, Peter is prepared to swear that she is innocent. Any conclusion assuming her guilt simply will not fit the emotional facts of the case as he understands them. Unfortunately, the material evidence Wimsey uncovers may acquit Dorland in a court of law, but it will not protect her in the court of public opinion. Even were she declared innocent by a jury, the tag of “murderess” would follow her for the rest of her life. For Ann to be truly spared, Penberthy must be forced to take full responsibility unequivocally onto his own shoulders where it belongs. In this case, Sayers allows matters to arrive at a neat and satisfactory conclusion, with Penberthy signing a full confession and taking a gun to his head (318–39).

  Probably influenced once again by her marriage to a journalist, Sayers has become more aware of the impact of publicity on public opinion and the danger this might hold for the unlucky individual held up to its scrutiny. Newspaper headlines influence earlier stories, but in the Bellona Club case, reporters actually discuss the evidence with Wimsey and Parker, digging up dirt and speculating on the outcome. Their fierce determination to uncover a story that will sell—no matter the cost to those involved—becomes a more pronounced element in the drama. In recognizing the ravages of journalists, Sayers again demonstrates that she is not satisfied to present merely a mystery puzzle to the reader. She wishes to explore the range of experiences inherent in any association, however innocent, with a capital crime. In this spirit, she examines Ann Dorland’s (and Lord Peter’s) dilemma.

  The devastating effect of assumed guilt, especially unjustified guilt, becomes a critical theme for Dorothy L. Sayers as the Wimsey saga continues. In many ways, The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club is a transitional novel. The story embodies the familiar Lord Peter, the sagacious and sensitive war veteran with the marvelous investigative talent. Yet this mystery also begins the exploration of much in his character that would become familiar in the stories that follow. With the accent on his loveable eligibility and his fine-honed appreciation of the psychological, Peter Wimsey’s character had taken on new dimensions—with good reason. Sayers was about to launch him into one of the strangest romances in the history of popular detective fiction. At its heart will lie that burden of perceived guilt, a cruelty that tests Wimsey not only as a detective but more essentially as a human being.

  3

  Lord Peter Acquires a Soul

  FOUR PUBLISHED NOVELS, A NEW CONTRACT, REPLETE WITH commission for both a personal collection of short stories and an edited anthology—Dorothy L. Sayers arrived as a popular author in 1928. The success may have brought some sense of inner security and peace, but it afforded no guarantee against the noise and turmoil integral to getting on with life. The years 1928 and 1929 overflowed with tumult, bringing personal tragedy, household upset, domestic anguish, and critical career choices. Sayers weathered the challenges, but the storms affected her outlook and left her clinging to resignation as a comfort. The storms would change Lord Peter Wimsey as well.

  Certainly it was a tumultuous time. News from America on October 29, 1929, terminated whatever hopes Europe might have entertained of returning to real prosperity. The great Wall Street crash plunged the western world into economic depression to be cured only by money spent on rearmament. The long weekend and the good times, such as they were, had begun to move inexorably toward a dangerous close.1

  As Sayers prospered from the proceeds of four volumes published between September 1927 and November 1928, Britain as a whole showed signs of severe economic strain. A financial scandal in 1927 became a harbinger; James White, controlling owner of the Beecham Trust, manufacturer of patent medicines, without warning killed himself with chloroform. This highly visible public figure—the master of the opulent life style with his most modern office, his yacht, his fancy meals, and his theatricals—had run up debts of more than six hundred thousand pounds that he could not pay. Several trusting financiers drowned in red ink when the bills fell due.2

  Business ethics of the period were revealed in the 1929 trial of Clarence Hatry, kingpin of the Hatry group. A dealer in bonds and securities, Hatry and four associates juggled the finances of several companies and individuals, supposedly working “to harmonize opposing personalities” and thereby smooth the path of finance. Unfortunately, the group was caught midjuggle, having issued valueless securities as a stopgap to harmonize the debts within their own company. The whole thing came crashing to the ground; Hatry and friends received long prison terms. Comparatively few were monetarily hurt in this particular crash, but the investigation did reveal the shaky ethical nature of the British financial system as a whole. Though the Hatry group had legally recorded worthless pieces of paper as if these possessed honest value, most business observers felt they had really done nothing wrong.3

  The American stock market crash of 1929 impacted the British market almost immediately, though the effects were not as readily apparent. Unlike their American counterparts, average English citizens had not speculated much in stocks and bonds; the damage was limited to the fortunes of a small coterie of London financiers. The ensuing depression did nothing to help Britain’s already limping economy, but there was no panic, no utter ruin. The next decade in Britain was to be merely the “troubled thirties”; the government did what little it could to ease endemic local pain in the face of international economic woe. A general election in 1929 brought Ramsey MacDonald and the Labour party back to power. They responded to the chronic monetary illness by passing a Local Government Act and a Coal Mines Act and by opening diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union. Lord Beaverbrook crusaded for a return to free trade as a cure for Britain’s troubles, but he got nowhere.4

  As always, Dorothy L. Sayers was extremely cognizant of the national situation, drawing on the headlines of her times to provide her novels a sense of immediacy. In Strong Poison, the root of the difficulties leading to the murder of Philip Boyes is a financial scandal of the kind that rocked Britain in 1927 and again in 1929. The Megatherium Trust, an echo of the Beecham Trust and the Hatry Group, went belly up sometime in the late 1920s, making attorney Norman Urquhart a monetarily desperate man. Lord Peter’s friend, the financial wizard Freddy Arbuthnot, had warned his friends off the Megatherium “before the band began to play.”5 Peter’s operative, the ever-resourceful Miss Murchison, knew the history of the great disaster even more intimately. Her employer had been described:

  The brilliant financier who juggled with so many spectacular undertakings was juggling for his life under circumstances of increasing difficulty. As the pace grew faster, he added egg after egg to those which were already spinning in the air. There is a limit to the number of eggs which can be spun by human hands. One day an egg slipped and smashed—then a whole omelette of eggs. The juggler fled from the stage and escaped abroad, his chief assistant blew out his brain, the audience booed, the curtain came down, and Miss Murchison, at 37, was out of a job.6

  Sayers had invented the story of the Megatheriu
m Trust by blending the essential facts of the Beecham Trust scandal and the Hatry case with a little judicious fiction. Readers of this novel in 1930 knew exactly what she was about.

  Victor Gollancz had made Sayers financially secure by that time. He had written out of the blue in 1927 to offer her a contract for a set of new mystery novels and also to edit a series of anthologies featuring the best in detection, mystery, and horror short stories.7 Her response was what might well be expected from a struggling young author: “Yes, rather, of course, like a shot! It’s most frightfully good of you to suggest it and I should love to do it. . . . It ought to be hugely successful—I’m awfully thrilled!”8

  Gollancz and Sayers quickly agreed that she should edit and write the introduction for Great Short Stories of Detection, Mystery, and Horror, which reached print in September 1928. After completing The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club for Benn, she plunged to work on a collection of short stories featuring Lord Peter, the first of nine volumes of Wimsey material published by Gollancz. She had achieved security at last.9

  Lord Peter Views the Body was published in November 1928. Twelve stories of uneven quality composed the collection; Sayers had struggled mightily to arrive at these. Writing to Victor Gollancz in late November 1927, she listed nine stories existing and estimated that she would need to write five more to bring the volume to the requisite eighty thousand words. One of these five, “The Inspiration of Mr Budd,” was eventually omitted.10 Over the next few months, several ideas for additional stories came and went; one still exists in fragmentary form. In August she wrote to her parents to announce that she had purchased “a wonderful trick chair, with a back which reclines at all angles on pressure of a button. . . . The idea is that when I come home tired in the legs after a day at the office, I should be able to sit in it with my feet comfortably up and write stories about Lord Peter.”11 To that point, Sayers found the chair more sleep inducing than inspirational.