“If you would just read the passage, sir,” suggested Wimsey.
“Yes, oh, certainly. Let me see. Yes. ‘Your morality will be pleased to hear, Dad, that I have determined to regularise the situation, as the good people say.’
“He had a careless way of speaking and writing sometimes, poor boy, which doesn’t do justice to his good heart. Dear me. Yes. ‘My young woman is a good little soul, and I have made up my mind to do the thing properly. She really deserves it, and I hope that when everything is made respectable, you will extend your paternal recognition to her. I won’t ask you to officiate—as you know, the registrar’s office is more in my line, and though she was brought up in the odour of sanctity, like myself, I don’t think she will insist on the Voice that Breathed o’er Eden. I will let you know when it’s to be, so that you can come and give us your blessing (qua father if not qua parson) if you should feel so disposed.’ You see, Lord Peter, he quite meant to do the right thing, and I was touched that he should wish for my presence.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Peter; and thought, “If only that young man were alive, how dearly I should love to kick his bottom for him.”
“Well, then there is another letter, saying that the marriage had fallen through. Here it is. ‘Dear Dad—sorry, but I’m afraid your congratulations must be returned with thanks. The wedding is off, and the bride has run away. There’s no need to go into the story. Harriet has succeeded in making a fool of herself and me, so there’s no more to be said.’ Then later I heard that he had not been feeling well—but all that you know already.”
“Did he suggest any reason for these illnesses of his?”
“Oh, no—we took it for granted that it was a recurrence of the old gastric trouble. He was never a very robust lad. He wrote in very hopeful mood from Harlech, saying that he was much better, and mentioning his plan of a voyage to Barbados.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I thought it would do him a great deal of good, and take his mind off other things. He spoke of it only as a vague project, not as though anything were settled.”
“Did he say anything more about Miss Vane?”
“He never mentioned her name to me again until he lay dying.”
“Yes—and what did you think of what he said then?”
“I didn’t know what to think. We had no idea of any poisoning then, naturally, and I fancied it must refer to the quarrel between them that had caused the separation.”
“I see. Well now, Mr. Boyes. Supposing it was not self-destruction—”
“I really do not think it could have been.”
“Now is there anybody else at all who could have an interest in his death?”
“Who could there be?”
“No—no other woman, for instance?”
“I never heard of any. And I think I should have done. He was not secretive about these things, Lord Peter. He was remarkably open and straightforward.”
“Yes,” commented Wimsey internally, “liked to swagger about it, I suppose. Anything to give pain. Damn the fellow.” Aloud he merely said: “There are other possibilities. Did he, for instance, make a will?”
“He did. Not that he had much to leave, poor boy. His books were very cleverly written—he had a fine intellect, Lord Peter—but they did not bring him in any great sums of money. I helped him with a little allowance, and he managed on that and on what he made from his articles in the periodicals.”
“He left his copyrights to somebody, though, I take it?”
“Yes. He wished to leave them to me, but I was obliged to tell him that I could not accept the bequest. You see, I did not approve of his opinions, and I should not have thought it right to profit by them. No; he left them to his friend Mr. Vaughan.”
“Oh!—may I ask when this will was made?”
“It is dated at the period of his visit to Wales. I believe that before that he had made one leaving everything to Miss Vane.”
“Indeed!” said Wimsey. “I suppose she knew about it.” His mind reviewed a number of contradictory possibilities, and he added: “But it would not amount to an important sum, in any case?”
“Oh, no. If my son made 50 pounds a year by his books, that was the utmost. Though they tell me,” added the old gentleman, with a sad smile, “that, after this, his new book will do better.”
“Very likely,” said Wimsey. “Provided you get into the papers, the delightful reading public don’t mind what it’s for. Still—Well, that’s that. I gather he would have no private money to leave?”
“Nothing whatever. There has never been any money in our family, Lord Peter, nor yet in my wife’s. We’re quite the proverbial Church mice.” He smiled faintly at this little clerical jest. “Except, I suppose, for Cremorna Garden.”
“For—I beg your pardon?”
“My wife’s aunt, the notorious Cremorna Garden of the ’sixties.”
“Good Lord, yes—the actress?”
“Yes. But she, of course, was never, never mentioned. One did not enquire into the way she got her money. No worse than others, I dare say—but in those days we were very easily shocked. We have seen and heard nothing of her for well over fifty years. I believe she is quite childish now.”
“By Jove! I’d no idea she was still alive!”
“Yes, I believe she is, though she must be well over ninety. Certainly Philip never had any money from her.”
“Well, that rules money out. Was your son’s life insured, by any chance?”
“Not that I ever heard of. We found no policy among his papers, and so far as I know, nobody has made any claim.”
“He left no debts?”
“Only trifling ones—tradesmen’s accounts and so on. Perhaps fifty pounds’ worth altogether.”
“Thank you so much,” said Wimsey, rising, “that has cleared the ground a good deal.”
“I am afraid it has not got you much farther.”
“It tells me where not to look, at any rate,” said Wimsey, “and that all saves time, you know. It’s frightfully decent of you to be bothered with me.”
“Not at all. Ask me anything you want to know. Nobody would be more glad than myself to see that unfortunate young woman cleared.”
Wimsey again thanked him and took his leave. He was a mile up the road before a regretful thought overtook him. He turned Mrs. Merdle’s bonnet round, skimmed back to the church, stuffed a handful of treasury notes with some difficulty into the mouth of a box labelled “Church expenses,” and resumed his way to town.
* * *
As he manoeuvred the car through the City, a thought struck him, and instead of heading for Piccadilly, where he lived, he turned off into a street south of the Strand, in which was situated the establishment of Messrs. Grimsby & Cole, who published the works of Mr. Philip Boyes. After a little delay, he was shown into Mr. Cole’s office.
Mr. Cole was a stout and cheerful person, and was much interested to hear that the notorious Lord Peter Wimsey was concerning himself with the affairs of the equally notorious Mr. Boyes. Wimsey represented that, as a collector of First Editions, he would be glad to secure copies of all Philip Boyes’ works. Mr. Cole regretted extremely that he could not help him, and, under the influence of an expensive cigar, became quite confidential. “Without wishing to seem callous, my dear Lord Peter,” he said, throwing himself back in his chair, and creasing his three chins into six or seven as he did so, “between you and me, Mr. Boyes could not have done better for himself than to go and get murdered like this. Every copy was sold out a week after the result of the exhumation became known, two large editions of his last book were disposed of before the trial came on—at the original price of seven and sixpence, and the libraries clamoured so for the early volumes that we had to reprint the lot. Unfortunately we had not kept the type standing, and the printers had to work night and day, but we did it. We are rushing the three-and-sixpennies through the binders’ now, and the shilling edition is arranged for. Positively, I don’t think you co
uld get a First Edition in London for love or money. We have nothing here but our own file copies, but we are putting out a special memorial edition, with portraits, on hand-made paper, limited and numbered, at a guinea. Not the same thing of course, but—”
Wimsey begged to put his name down for a set at a guinea a-piece, adding:
“Sad and all that, don’t you know, that the author can’t benefit by it, what?”
“Deeply distressing,” agreed Mr. Cole, compressing his fat cheeks by two longitudinal folds from the nostril to the mouth. “And sadder still that there can be no more work to come from him. A very talented young man, Lord Peter. We shall always feel a melancholy pride, Mr. Grimsby and myself, in knowing that we recognised his quality, before there was any likelihood of financial remuneration. A succès d’estime , that was all, until this very grievous occurrence. But when the work is good, it is not our habit to boggle about monetary returns.”
“Ah, well!” said Wimsey, “it sometimes pays to cast your bread upon the waters. Quite religious, isn’t it—you know, the bit about ‘plenteously bringing out good works may of thee be plenteously rewarded.’ Twenty-fifth after Trinity.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Cole, with a certain lack of enthusiasm, possibly because he was imperfectly acquainted with the book of Common Prayer, or possibly because he detected a hint of mockery in the other’s tone. “Well, I have very much enjoyed this chat. I am sorry I can do nothing for you about First Editions.”
Wimsey begged him not to mention it, and with a cordial farewell ran hastily down the stairs.
His next visit was to the office of Mr. Challoner, Harriet Vane’s agent. Challoner was an abrupt, dark, militant-looking little man, with untidy hair and thick spectacles.
“Boom?” said he, when Wimsey had introduced himself and mentioned his interest in Miss Vane. “Yes, of course there is a boom. Rather disgusting, really, but one can’t help that. We have to do our best for our client, whatever the circumstances. Miss Vane’s books have always sold reasonably well—round about the three or four thousand mark in this country—but of course this business has stimulated things enormously. The last book has gone to three new editions, and the new one has sold seven thousand before publication.”
“Financially, all to the good, eh?”
“Oh, yes—but frankly I don’t know whether these artificial sales do very much good to an author’s reputation in the long run. Up like a rocket, down like the stick, you know. When Miss Vane is released—”
“I am glad you say ‘when.’”
“I am not allowing myself to contemplate any other possibility. But when that happens, public interest will be liable to die down very quickly. I am, of course, securing the most advantageous contracts I possibly can at the moment, to cover the next three or four books, but I can only really control the advances. The actual receipts will depend on the sales, and that is where I foresee a slump. I am, however, doing well with serial rights, which are important from the point of view of immediate returns.”
“On the whole, as a business man, you are not altogether glad that this has happened?”
“Taking the long view, I am not. Personally, I need not say that I am extremely grieved, and feel quite positive that there is some mistake.”
“That’s my idea,” said Wimsey.
“From what I know of your lordship, I may say that your interest and assistance are the best stroke of luck Miss Vane could have had.”
“Oh, thanks—thanks very much. I say—this arsenic book—you couldn’t let me have a squint at it, I suppose?”
“Certainly, if it would help you.” He touched a bell. “Miss Warburton, bring me a set of galleys of Death in the Pot . Trufoot’s are pushing publication on as fast as possible. The book was still unfinished when the arrest took place. With rare energy and courage, Miss Vane has put the finishing touches and corrected the proofs herself. Of course, everything had to go through the hands of the prison authorities. However, we were anxious to conceal nothing. She certainly knows all about arsenic, poor girl. These are complete, are they, Miss Warburton? Here you are. Is there anything else?”
“Only one thing. What do you think of Messrs. Grimsby & Cole?”
“I never contemplate them,” said Mr. Challoner. “Not thinking of doing anything with them, are you, Lord Peter?”
“Well, I don’t know that I am—seriously.”
“If you do, read your contract carefully. I won’t say, bring it to us—”
“If ever I do publish with Grimsby & Cole,” said Lord Peter, “I’ll promise to do it through you.”
Chapter VII
LORD PETER WIMSEY almost bounced into Holloway Prison next morning. Harriet Vane greeted him with a kind of rueful smile.
“So you’ve reappeared?”
“Good lord, yes! Surely you expected me to. I fancied I’d left that impression. I say—I’ve thought of a good plot for a detective story.”
“Really?”
“Top-hole. You know, the sort people bring out and say, ‘I’ve often thought of doing it myself, if I could only find time to sit down and write it.’ I gather that sitting down is all that is necessary for producing masterpieces. Just a moment, though. I must get through my business first. Let me see—” He made believe to consult a notebook. “Ah, yes. Do you happen to know whether Philip Boyes made a will?”
“I believe he did, when we were living together.”
“In whose favour?”
“Oh, in mine. Not that he had much to leave, poor man. It was chiefly that he wanted a literary executor.”
“Are you, in point of fact, his executrix now?”
“Good heavens! I never thought of that. I took it for granted he would have altered it when we parted. I think he must have, or I should have heard about it when he died, shouldn’t I?”
She looked candidly at him, and Wimsey felt a little uncomfortable.
“You didn’t know he had altered it, then? Before he died, I mean?”
“I never thought a word more about it, as a matter of fact. If I had thought—of course I should have assumed it. Why?”
“Nothing,” said Wimsey. “Only I’m rather glad the will wasn’t brought up at the thingummy bob.”
“Meaning the trial? You needn’t be so delicate about mentioning it. You mean, if I had thought I was still his heir, I might have murdered him for his money. But it didn’t amount to a hill of beans, you know. I was making four times as much as he was.”
“Oh, yes. It was only this silly plot I’d got in my mind. But it is rather silly, now I come to think of it.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, you see—” Wimsey choked a little, and then rattled his idea out with an exaggerated lightness.
“Well—it’s about a girl (or a man would do, but we’ll call it a girl) who writes novels—crime stories, in fact. And she has a—a friend who also writes. Neither of them best-sellers, you see, but just ordinary novelists.”
“Yes? That’s a kind of thing that might happen.”
“And the friend makes a will, leaving his money—receipts for books and so on—to the girl.”
“I see.”
“And the girl—who has got rather fed up with him, you know, thinks of a grand scoop, that will make both of them bestsellers.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. She polishes him off by the same method she had used in her latest crime thriller.”
“A daring stroke,” said Miss Vane, with grave approval.
“Yes. And of course, his books immediately become best-sellers. And she grabs the pool.”
“That’s really ingenious. An entirely new motive for murder—the thing I’ve been looking for for years. But don’t you think it would be a little dangerous? She might even be suspected of murder.”
“Then her books would become bestsellers, too.”
“How true that is! But possibly she wouldn’t live to enjoy the profits.”
“That, of course,” said Wims
ey, “is the snag.”
“Because, unless she were suspected and arrested and tried, the scoop would only half come off.”
“There you are,” said Wimsey. “But, as an experienced mystery-monger, couldn’t you think of a way round that?”
“I daresay. She might prove an ingenious alibi, for instance. Or, if she were very wicked, manage to push the blame on somebody else. Or lead people to suppose that her friend had made away with himself.”
“Too vague,” said Wimsey. “How would she do that?”
“I can’t say, off-hand. I’ll give it careful thought and let you know. Or—here’s an idea!”
“Yes?”
“She is a person with a monomania—no, no—not a homicidal one. That’s dull, and not really fair to the reader. But there is somebody she wishes to benefit—somebody, say a father, mother, sister, lover or cause, that badly needs money. She makes a will in his, her or its favour, and lets herself be hanged for the crime, knowing that the beloved object will then come in for the money. How’s that?”
“Great!” cried Wimsey, carried away. “Only—wait a minute. They wouldn’t give her the friend’s money, would they? You’re not allowed to profit by a crime.”
“Oh, hang! That’s true. It would only be her own money, then. She could make that over by a deed of gift. Yes—look! If she did that immediately after the murder—a deed of gift of everything she possessed—that would include everything she came into under the friend’s will. It would then all go direct to the beloved object, and I don’t believe the law could stop it!”
She faced him with dancing eyes.
“See here,” said Wimsey. “You’re not safe. You’re too clever by half. But, I say, it’s a good plot, isn’t it?”
“It’s a winner! Shall we write it?”