“But rather jolly to know yourself divine, so to speak. Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky. I admit the fascination. But for practical purposes that theory is the devil—I beg your pardon, Miss Climpson, respect for sacred personages—I mean, it’s unsatisfactory, because it would suit one person just as well as another. If I’ve got to find a homicidal maniac, I may as well cut my throat at once.”
“Don’t say that ,” pleaded Miss Climpson, “even in jest. Your work here—so good, so valuable—would be worth living for in spite of the saddest personal disappointments. And I have known jokes of that kind turn out very badly, in the most surprising ways. There was a young man we used to know, who was given to talking in a sadly random way—a long time ago, dear Lord Peter, while you were still in the nursery, but young men were wild, even then, whatever they say now about the ’eighties—and he said one day to my poor, dear Mother, ‘Mrs. Climpson, if I don’t make a good bag today, I shall shoot myself’ (for he was very fond of sport), and he went out with his gun and as he was getting over a stile, he caught the trigger in the hedge and the gun went off and blew his head to pieces. I was quite a girl, and it upset me dreadfully , because he was a very handsome young man, with whiskers which we all admired very much, though today they would be smiled at, and they were burnt right off him with the explosion, and a shocking hole in the side of his head, so they said, for of course I was not allowed to see him.”
“Poor chap,” said his lordship. “Well, let’s dismiss homicidal mania from our minds for the moment. What else do people kill people for?”
“There is—passion,” said Miss Climpson, with a slight initial hesitation at the word, “for I should not like to call it love , when it is so unregulated.”
“That is the explanation put forward by the prosecution,” said Wimsey. “I don’t accept it.”
“Certainly not. But—it might be possible, might it not, that there was some other unfortunate young woman who was attached to this Mr. Boyes, and felt vindictively towards him?”
“Yes, or a man who was jealous. But the time is the difficulty. You’ve got to have some plausible pretext for giving a bloke arsenic. You can’t just catch him standing on a doorstep, and say, ‘Here, have a drink of this,’ can you?”
“But there were ten minutes unaccounted for,” said Miss Climpson, shrewdly. “Might he not have entered some public-house for refreshment, and there met an enemy?”
“By Jove, that’s a possibility.” Wimsey made a note, and shook his head dubiously. “But it’s rather a coincidence. Unless there was a previous appointment to meet there. Still, it’s worth looking into. At any rate, it’s obvious that Mr. Urquhart’s house and Miss Vane’s flat were not the only conceivable places where Boyes might have eaten or drunk between seven and 10.10 that evening. Very well: under the head ‘Passion’ we find (1) Miss Vane (ruled out ex hypothesi), (2) jealous lover, (3) ditto rival. Place, Public-house (query). Now we go on to the next motive, and that’s Money. A very good motive for murdering anybody who has any, but a poor one in Boyes’ case. Still, let us say, Money. I can think of three subheadings for that: (1) Robbery from the person (very improbable); (2) insurance; (3) inheritance.”
“What a clear mind you have,” said Miss Climpson.
“When I die you will find ‘Efficiency’ written on my heart. I don’t know what money Boyes had on him, but I shouldn’t think it was much. Urquhart and Vaughan might know; still, it’s not very important, because arsenic isn’t a sensible drug to use on anyone you want to rob. It takes a long time, comparatively, to begin business, and it doesn’t make the victim helpless enough. Unless we suppose the taxi-driver drugged and robbed him, there was no one who could possibly profit by such a silly crime.”
Miss Climpson agreed, and buttered a second teacake.
“Then, insurance. Now we come to the region of the possible. Was Boyes insured? It doesn’t seem to have occurred to anybody to find out. Probably he wasn’t. Literary blokes have very little forethought, and are careless about trifles like premiums. But one ought to know. Who might have an insurable interest? His father, his cousin (possibly), other relations (if any), his children (if any) and—I suppose—Miss Vane, if he took out the policy while he was living with her. Also, anybody who may have lent him money on the strength of such insurance. Plenty of possibilities there. I’m feeling better already, Miss Climpson, fitter and brighter in every way. Either I’m getting a line on the thing, or else it’s your tea. That’s a good, stout-looking pot. Has it got any more in it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Climpson, eagerly. “My dear father used to say I was a great hand at getting the utmost out of a tea-pot. The secret is to fill up as you go and never empty the pot completely.”
“Inheritance,” pursued Lord Peter. “Had he anything to leave? Not much, I shouldn’t think. I’d better hop round and see his publisher. Or had he lately come into anything? His father or cousin would know. The father is a parson—‘slashing trade, that,’ as the naughty bully says to the new boy in one of Dean Farrar’s books. He has a thread-bare look. I shouldn’t think there was much money in the family. Still, you never know. Somebody might have left Boyes a fortune for his beaux yeux or out of admiration for his books. If so, to whom did Boyes leave it? Query: did he make a will? But surely the defence must have thought of these things. I am getting depressed again.”
“Have a sandwich,” said Miss Climpson.
“Thank you,” said Wimsey, “or some hay. There is nothing like it when you are feeling faint, as the White King truly remarked. Well, that more or less disposes of the money motive. There remains Blackmail.”
Miss Climpson, whose professional connection with the Cattery had taught her something about blackmail, assented with a sigh.
“Who was this fellow Boyes?” enquired Wimsey rhetorically. “I know nothing about him. He may have been a blackguard of the deepest dye. He may have known unmentionable things about all his friends. Why not? Or he may have been writing a book to show somebody up, so that he had to be suppressed at all costs. Dash it all, his cousin’s a solicitor. Suppose he has been embezzling Trust deeds or something, and Boyes was threatening to split on him? He’d been living in Urquhart’s house, and had every opportunity for finding out. Urquhart drops some arsenic into his soup, and—Ah! there’s the snag. He puts arsenic into the soup and eats it himself. That’s awkward. I’m afraid Hannah Westlock’s evidence rather knocks that on the head. We shall have to fall back on the mysterious stranger in the pub.”
He considered a little, and then said:
“And there’s suicide, of course, which is what I’m really rather inclined to believe in. Arsenic is tomfool stuff to commit suicide with, but it has been done. There was the Duc de Praslin, for instance—if his was suicide. Only, where’s the bottle?”
“The bottle?”
“Well, he must have carried it in something. It might be in a paper, if he took the powdered form, though that would be awkward. Did anybody look for a bottle or paper?”
“Where would they look for it?” asked Miss Climpson.
“That’s the rub. If it wasn’t on him, it would be anywhere round about Doughty Street, and it’s going to be a job looking for a bottle or paper that was chucked away six months ago. I do loathe suicides—they’re so difficult to prove. Oh, well, faint heart never won so much as a scrap of paper. Now look here, Miss Climpson. We’ve got about a month to work this out in. The Michaelmas Term ends on the 21st; this is the 15th. They can’t very well bring it up before then, and the Hilary term starts on January 12th. They’ll probably take it early, unless we can show reason for delay. Four weeks to get fresh evidence. Will you reserve the best efforts of yourself and the staff? I don’t know yet what I shall want, but I shall probably want something done.”
“Of course I will, Lord Peter. You know that it is only too great a pleasure to do anything for you—even if the whole office were not your own property, which it is. Only let me
know, at any minute of the night or day, and I will do my very best to help you.”
Wimsey thanked her, made a few enquiries about the work of the bureau and departed. He hailed a taxi and was immediately driven to Scotland Yard.
* * *
Chief-Inspector Parker was, as usual, delighted to see Lord Peter, but there was a worried expression on his plain though pleasant face as he greeted his visitor.
“What is it, Peter? The Vane case again?”
“Yes. You’ve come a mucker over this, old man, you really have.”
“Well, I don’t know. It looked pretty straightforward to us.”
“Charles, acushla, distrust the straightforward case, the man who looks you straight in the eyes, and the tip straight from the horse’s mouth. Only the most guileful deceiver can afford to be so aggressively straight. Even the path of the light is curved—or so they tell us. For God’s sake, old man, do what you can to put the thing right before next assizes. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Damn it, you don’t want to hang the wrong person, do you?—especially a woman and all that.”
“Have a fag,” said Parker. “You’re looking quite wild about the eyes. What have you been doing with yourself? I’m sorry if we’ve got the wrong pig by the ear, but it’s the defence’s business to point out where we’re wrong, and I can’t say they put up a very convincing show.”
“No, confound them. Biggy did his best, but that fool and beast Crofts gave him no materials at all. Blast his ugly eyes! I know the brute thinks she did it. I hope he will fry in hell and be served up with cayenne pepper on a red hot dish!”
“What eloquence!” said Parker, unimpressed. “Anybody would think you’d gone goopy over the girl.”
“That’s a damned friendly way to talk,” said Wimsey, bitterly. “When you went off the deep end about my sister, I may have been unsympathetic—I daresay I was—but I swear I didn’t dance on your tenderest feelings and call your manly devotion ‘going goopy over a girl.’ I don’t know where you pick up such expressions, as the clergyman’s wife said to the parrot. ‘Goopy,’ indeed! I never heard anything so vulgar!”
“Good lord,” exclaimed Parker, “you don’t seriously say—”
“Oh, no!” retorted Wimsey, bitterly. “I’m not expected to be serious. A buffoon, that’s what I am. I now know exactly what Jack Point feels like. I used to think the ‘Yeomen’ sentimental tosh, but it is all too true. Would you like to see me dance in motley?”
“I’m sorry,” said Parker, taking his cue rather from the tone than the words. “If it’s like that, I’m damned sorry, old man. But what can I do?”
“Now you’re talking. Look here—the most likely thing is that this unsavoury blighter Boyes committed suicide. The unspeakable defence haven’t been able to trace any arsenic to his possession—but then they probably couldn’t trace a herd of black cattle over a snow-bound field in broad noonday with a microscope. I want your people to take it up.”
“Boyes—query arsenic,” said Parker, making a note on a pad. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Find out if Boyes visited any pub in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street between, say, 9.50 and 10.10 on the night of June 20th—if he met anybody, and what he took to drink.”
“It shall be done. Boyes—query pub.” Parker made another note. “Yes?”
“Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district.”
“Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the ’bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Selfridge’s in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too easy.”
“A bottle is more likely than a paper,” went on Wimsey, ignoring him, “because I think the arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly.”
Parker made no further protest, but noted down “Boyes—Doughty Street—query bottle,” and paused expectantly.
“Yes?”
“That’s all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes.”
“Very well. I’ll do my best. And if you find out anything which really proves that we’ve been on the wrong tack, you’ll let us know, won’t you? We don’t want to make large and ignominious public mistakes.”
“Well—I’ve just earnestly promised the defence that I’ll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I’ll let you arrest him.”
“Thanks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Funny for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Wimsey. “I’m sorry about it, but it’s your own fault.”
“You shouldn’t have been out of England. By the way—”
“Yes?”
“You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Wimsey, crossly, and went out.
Chapter VI
THE next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. “Mrs. Merdle” the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to “row,” was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits.
Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o’clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent’s income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead.
The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey.
The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated.
Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently aroused no associations in the mind of this gentle and unworldly parson. He decided not to mention his hobby of criminal investigation, but to represent himself, with equal truth, as a friend of the prisoner’s. That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, with some hesitation:
“I’m fearfully sorry to trouble you, especially as it’s all so very distressin’ and that, but it’s about the death of your son, and the trial and so on. Please don’t think I’m wanting to make an interfering nuisance of myself, but I’m deeply interested—personally interested. You see, I know Miss Vane—I—in fact I like her very much, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking there’s a mistake somewhere and—and I should like to get it put right if possible.”
“Oh—oh, yes!” said Mr. Boyes. He carefully polished a pair of pince-nez and balanced them on his nose, where they sat crookedly. He peered at Wimsey and seemed not to dislike what he saw, for he went on:
“Poor misguided girl! I assure you, I have no vindictive feelings—that is to say, nobody would be more happy than myself to know that she was innocent of this dreadful thing. Indeed, Lord Peter, even if she were guilty, it would give me great pain to see her suffer the penalty. Whatever we do we cannot bring back the dead to life, and one would infinitely prefer to leave all vengeance in the hand of Him to whom it belongs. Certainly, nothing could be more terrible than to take the life of an innocent person. It would haunt me to the end of my days if I thought there were the least likelihood of it. And I confess that, when I saw Miss Vane in court, I had grievous doubts whether the police had done rightly accusing her.”
“Thank you,” said Wimsey, “it is very kind of you to say that. It makes the job much easier. Excuse me, you say, ‘when you saw her in court.’ You hadn’t met her previously?”
“No. I knew, of course, that my unhappy son had formed an illicit connection with a young woman, but—I could not bring myself to see her—and indeed, I
believe that she, with very proper feeling, refused to allow Philip to bring her into contact with any of his relations. Lord Peter, you are a younger man than I am, you belong to my son’s generation, and you will perhaps understand that—though he was not bad, not depraved, I will never think that—yet somehow there was not that full confidence between us which there should be between father and son. No doubt I was much to blame. If only his mother had lived—”
“My dear sir,” mumbled Wimsey, “I perfectly understand. It often happens. In fact, it’s continually happening. The post-war generation and so on. Lots of people go off the rails a bit—no real harm in ’em at all. Just can’t see eye to eye with the older people. It generally wears off in time. Nobody really to blame. Wild oats and, er, all that sort of thing.”
“I could not approve,” said Mr. Boyes, sadly, “of ideas so opposed to religion and morality—perhaps I spoke my mind too openly. If I had sympathised more—”
“It can’t be done,” said Wimsey. “People have to work it out for themselves. And, when they write books and so on, and get into that set of people, they tend to express themselves rather noisily, if you see what I mean.”
“Maybe, maybe. But I reproach myself. Still, this does not help you at all. Forgive me. If there is any mistake and the jury were evidently not satisfied, we must use all our endeavours to put it right. How can I assist?”
“Well, first of all,” said Wimsey, “and I’m afraid this is rather a hateful question, did your son ever say anything, or write anything to you which might lead you to think that he—was tired of his life or anything of that kind? I’m sorry.”
“No, no—not at all. I was, of course, asked the same question by the police and by the counsel for the defence. I can truly say that such an idea never occurred to me. There was nothing at all to suggest it.”
“Not even when he parted company with Miss Vane?”
“Not even then. In fact, I gathered that he was rather more angry than despondent. I must say that it was a surprise to me to hear that, after all that had passed between them, she was unwilling to marry him. I still fail to comprehend it. Her refusal must have come as a great shock to him. He wrote so cheerfully to me about it beforehand. Perhaps you remember the letter?” He fumbled in an untidy drawer. “I have it here, if you would like to look at it.”