‘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 why 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.
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 seventy-six and collects papier-mâché 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-mâché 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 Belfridge. 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 pained 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 his 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 second-hand?’
‘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.’
‘Don’t bother; I’ll run down and see him. Just one other thing. Was any of the customers you’ve mentioned a clumsy-handed fellow who took a lot out of his razor and was always sending it back to be re-set?’
Mr Endicott chuckled.
‘Ah! now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Colonel Belfridge – oh, dear! oh, dear! He was a terribly hard man on his razors – is still, for all I know. Time and again he’d say to me, “ ’Pon my word, Endicott, I don’t know what you do to my razors. They won’t keep their edge a week. Steel isn’t what it was before the War.” But it wasn’t the steel, or the War either. He was always the same. I think he took the edge off with the strop, instead of putting it on; I do indeed. He didn’t keep a man, you know. The Colonel belongs to one of our best families, but not a wealthy man, by any means. A very fine soldier, I believe.’
‘One of the old school, eh?’ said Wimsey. ‘Good-hearted but peppery. I know. Where did you say he was living now?’
‘Stamford,’ replied Mr Endicott, promptly. ‘He sent me a card last Christmas. Very kind of him, I thought it, to remember me. But my old customers are very thoughtful in those ways. They know I value their kind remembrance. Well, my lord, I am exceedingly pleased to have seen you,’ he added, as Wimsey rose and took up his hat, ‘and I’m sure I hope I may have been of some assistance to you. You keep very fit, I hope. You’re looking well.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said Lord Peter. ‘My hair is turning grey over the temples.’
Mr Endicott emitted a concerned cluck.
‘But that’s nothing,’ he hastened to assure his visitor. ‘Many ladies think it looks more distinguished that way. Not getting thin on top, I hope and trust.’
‘Not that I know of. Take a look at it.’
Mr Endicott pushed the straw-coloured thatch apart and peered earnestly at the roots.
‘No sign of it,’ he pronounced, confidently. ‘Never saw a healthier scalp. At the same time, my lord, if you should notice any slight weakening or falling-off, let me know. I should be proud to advise you. I’ve still got the recipe for Endicott’s Special Tonic, and though I say so myself, I’ve never found anything to beat it.’
Wimsey laughed, and promised to call on Mr Endicott for help at the first symptom of trouble. The old barber saw him to the door, clasping his hand affectionately and begging him to come again. Mrs Endicott would be so sorry to have missed him.
Seated behind the steering-wheel, Wimsey debated the three courses open to him. He could go to Eastbourne; he could go to Stamford; he could return to Wilvercombe. A natural inclination pointed to Wilvercombe. It was, surely, only justifiable to return at once to the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. The fact that Harriet was also there was a purely accidental complication. On the other hand, his obvious duty was to clear up this razor business as quickly as possible. Musing, he drove to his own flat in Piccadilly, where he found his man, Bunter, mounting photographs in a large album.
To Bunter he laid bare his problem, requesting his advice. Bunter, revolving the matter in his mind, took a little time for consideration and then delivered himself respectfully of his opinion.
‘In your lordship’s place, my lord, I fancy I should be inclined to go to Stamford. For a variety of reasons.’
‘You would, would you?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well, perha
ps you are right, Bunter.’
‘Yes, thank you, my lord. Would your lordship wish me to accompany you?’
‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘You can go down to Eastbourne.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Tomorrow morning. I shall stay the night in Town. You might send off a telegram for me – no, on second thoughts, I’ll send it myself.’
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:
following razor clue to stamford refuse resemble thriller hero who hangs round heroine to neglect of duty but will you marry me – peter.
Telegram from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:
good hunting certainly not some developments here – vane.
VII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE GIGOLOS
‘A worthless life,
A life ridiculous.’
Death’s Jest-Book
Friday, 19 June – Evening
Miss Harriet Vane, in a claret-coloured frock, swayed round the dance-lounge of the Hotel Resplendent in the arms of Mr Antoine, the fair-haired gigolo.
‘I’m afraid I am not a very good dancer,’ she remarked, apologetically.
Mr Antoine, who was, rather surprisingly, neither Jew nor South-American dago, nor Central European mongrel, but French, clasped her a very little more firmly in his competent professional arm, and replied:
‘You dance very correctly, mademoiselle. It is only the entrain that is a little lacking. It is possible that you are awaiting the perfect partner. When the heart dances with the feet, then it will be à merveille.’ He met her eyes with a delicately calculated expression of encouragement.
‘Is that the kind of thing you have to say to all these old ladies?’ asked Harriet, smiling.
Antoine opened his eyes a trifle and then, mocking back to her mockery, said:
‘I am afraid so. That is part of our job, you know.’
‘It must be very tedious.’
Antoine contrived to shrug his exquisite shoulders without in any way affecting the lithe grace of his motion.