‘What a mind you’ve got,’ she said, beginning to laugh. ‘No, it isn’t leprosy.’
‘Well, what did the blighter do?’
Ann Dorland smiled faintly. ‘It’s nothing, really.’
‘If only Heaven prevents Marjorie Phelps from coming in,’ thought Wimsey, ‘I’m going to get it now . . . It must have been something, to upset you like this,’ he pursued aloud; ‘you’re not the kind of woman to be upset about nothing.’
‘You don’t think I am?’ She got up and faced him squarely. ‘He said . . . he said . . . I imagined things . . . He said . . . he said I had a mania about sex. I suppose you would call it Freudian, really,’ she added hastily, flushing an ugly crimson.
‘Is that all?’ said Wimsey. ‘I know plenty of people who would take that as a compliment . . . But obviously you don’t. What exact form of mania did he suggest . . .?’
‘Oh! the gibbering sort that hangs round church doors for curates,’ she broke out fiercely. ‘It’s a lie. He did – he did – pretend to – want me and all that. The beast! . . . I can’t tell you the things he said . . . and I’d made such a fool of myself . . .’
She was back on the couch, crying, with large, ugly, streaming tears, and snorting into the cushions. Wimsey sat down beside her.
‘Poor kid,’ he said. This, then, was at the back of Marjorie’s mysterious hints, and those scratch-cat sneers of Naomi Rushworth’s. The girl had wanted love affairs, that was certain; imagined them, perhaps. There had been Ambrose Ledbury. Between the normal and the abnormal, the gulf is deep, but so narrow that misrepresentation is made easy.
‘Look here.’ He put a comforting arm round Ann’s heaving shoulders. ‘This fellow – was it Penberthy, by the way?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Oh! – the portrait, and lots of things. The things you liked once, and then wanted to hide away and forget. He’s a rotter, anyway, for saying that kind of thing – even if it was true, which it isn’t. You got to know him at the Rushworths’, I take it – when?’
‘Nearly two years ago.’
‘Were you keen on him then?’
‘No. I – well, I was keen on somebody else. Only that was a mistake too. He – he was one of those people, you know.’
‘They can’t help themselves,’ said Wimsey, soothingly. ‘When did the change-over happen?’
‘The other man went away. And later on Dr Penberthy – oh! I don’t know! He walked home with me once or twice, and then he asked me to dine with him – in Soho.’
‘Had you at that time told anyone about this comic will of Lady Dormer’s?’
‘Of course not. How could I? I never knew anything about it till after she died.’
Her surprise sounded genuine enough.
‘What did you think? Did you think the money would come to you?’
‘I knew that some of it would; Auntie told me she would see me provided for.’
‘There were the grandsons, of course.’
‘Yes; I thought she would leave most of it to them. It’s a pity she didn’t, poor dear. Then there wouldn’t have been all this dreadful bother.’
‘People so often seem to lose their heads when they make wills. So you were a sort of dark horse at that time. H’m. Did this precious Penberthy ask you to marry him?’
‘I thought he did. But he says he didn’t. We talked about founding his clinic; I was to help him.’
‘And that was when you chucked painting for books about medicine and first-aid classes. Did your aunt know about the engagement?’
‘He didn’t want her told. It was to be our secret till he got a better position. He was afraid she might think he was after the money.’
‘I dare say he was.’
‘He made out he was fond of me,’ she said miserably.
‘Of course, my dear child; your case is not unique. Didn’t you tell any of your friends?’
‘No.’ Wimsey reflected that the Ledbury episode had probably left a scar. Besides – did women tell things to other women? He had long doubted it.
‘You were still engaged when Lady Dormer died, I take it?’
‘As engaged as we ever were. Of course, he told me that there was something funny about the body. He said you and the Fentimans were trying to defraud me of the money. I shouldn’t have minded for myself – it was more money than I should have known what to do with. But it would have meant the clinic, you see.’
‘Yes, you could start a pretty decent clinic with half a million. So that was why you shot me out of the house.’
He grinned – and then reflected a few moments.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I’m going to give you a bit of a shock, but it’ll have to come sooner or later. Has it ever occurred to you that it was Penberthy who murdered General Fentiman?’
‘I – wondered,’ she said slowly. ‘I couldn’t think – who else. But you know they suspect me?’
‘Oh, well – cui bono? and all that – they couldn’t overlook you. They have to suspect every possible person, you know.’
‘I don’t blame them at all. But I didn’t, you know.’
‘Of course not. It was Penberthy. I look at it like this. Penberthy wanted money; he was sick of being poor, and he knew you would be certain to get some of Lady Dormer’s money. He’d probably heard all about the family quarrel with the General, and expected it would be the lot. So he started to make your acquaintance. But he was careful. He asked you to keep it quiet – just in case, you see. The money might be so tied up that you couldn’t give it him, or you might lose it if you married, or it might only be quite a small annuity, in which case he’d want to look for somebody richer.’
‘We considered those points when we talked over about the clinic.’
‘Yes. Well, then, Lady Dormer fell ill. The General went round and heard about the legacy that was coming to him. And then he toddled along to Penberthy, feeling very groggy, and promptly told him all about it. You can imagine him saying, “You’ve got to patch me up long enough to get the money.” That must have been a nasty jar for Penberthy.’
‘It was. You see, he didn’t even hear about my twelve thousand.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. Apparently what the General said was, “If only I last out poor Felicity, all the money comes to me. Otherwise it goes to the girl and my boys only get seven thousand apiece.” That was why—’
‘Just a moment. When did Penberthy tell you about that?’
‘Why, later – when he said I was to compromise with the Fentimans.’
‘That explains it. I wondered why you gave in so suddenly. I thought then, that you – Well, anyhow, Penberthy hears this, and gets the brilliant idea of putting General Fentiman out of the way. So he gives him a slow-working kind of pill—’
‘Probably a powder in a very tough capsule that would take a long time to digest.’
‘Good idea. Yes, very likely. And then the General, instead of heading straight for home, as he expected, goes off to the Club and dies there. And then Robert . . .’
He explained in detail what Robert had done, and resumed.
‘Well, now – Penberthy was in a bad fix. If he drew attention at the time to the peculiar appearance of the corpse, he couldn’t reasonably give a certificate. In which case there would be a post-mortem and an analysis, and the digitalin would be found. If he kept quiet, the money might be lost and all his trouble would be wasted. Maddenin’ for him, wasn’t it? So he did what he could. He put the time of the death as early as he dared, and hoped for the best.’
‘He told me he thought there would be some attempt to make it seem later than it really was. I thought it was you who were trying to hush everything up. And I was so furious that, of course, I told Mr Pritchard to have a proper inquiry made and on no account to compromise.’
‘Thank God you did,’ said Wimsey.
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you presently. But Penberthy now – I can’t think why he didn’t persuade you
to compromise. That would have made him absolutely safe.’
‘But he did! That’s what started our first quarrel. As soon as he heard about it he said I was a fool not to compromise. I couldn’t understand his saying that, since he himself had said there was something wrong. We had a fearful row. That was the time I mentioned the twelve thousand that was coming to me anyway.’
‘What did he say?’
‘ “I didn’t know that.” Just like that. And then he apologised and said that the law was so uncertain, it would be best to agree to divide the money, anyhow. So I rang up Mr Pritchard and told him not to make any more fuss. And we were friends again.’
‘Was it the day after that, that Penberthy – er – said things to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Then I can tell you one thing: he would never have been so brutal if he hadn’t been in fear of his life. Do you know what had happened in between?’
She shook her head.
‘I had been on the phone to him, and told him there was going to be an autopsy.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes – listen – you needn’t worry any more about it. He knew that the poison would be discovered, and that if he was known to be engaged to you he was absolutely bound to be suspected. So he hurried to cut the connection with you – purely in self-defence.’
‘But why do it in that brutal way?’
‘Because, my dear, he knew that that particular accusation would be the very last thing a girl of your sort would tell people about. He made it absolutely impossible for you to claim him publicly. And he bolstered it up by engaging himself to the Rushworth female.’
‘He didn’t care how I suffered.’
‘He was in a beast of a hole,’ said Wimsey apologetically. ‘Mind you, it was a perfectly diabolical thing to do. I dare say he’s feeling pretty rotten about it.’
Ann Dorland clenched her hands.
‘I’ve been so horribly ashamed—’
‘Well, you aren’t any more, are you?’
‘No – but –’ A thought seemed to strike her. ‘Lord Peter – I can’t prove a word of this. Everybody will think I was in league with him. And they’ll think that our quarrel and his getting engaged to Naomi was just a put-up job between us to get us both out of a difficulty.’
‘You’ve got brains,’ said Wimsey admiringly. ‘Now you see why I thanked God you’d been so keen on an inquiry at first. Pritchard can make it pretty certain that you weren’t an accessory before the fact, anyhow.’
‘Of course – so he can. Oh, I’m so glad! I am so glad.’ She burst into excited sobs and clutched Wimsey’s hand. ‘I wrote him a letter – right at the beginning – saying I’d read about a case in which they’d proved the time of somebody’s death by looking into his stomach, and asking if General Fentiman couldn’t be dug up.’
‘Did you? Splendid girl! You have got a head on your shoulders! . . . No, I observe that it’s on my shoulders. Go on. Have a real good howl – I feel rather like howling myself. I’ve been quite worried about it all. But it’s all right now, isn’t it?’
‘I am a fool . . . but I’m so thankful you came.’
‘So am I. Here, have a hanky. Poor old dear! . . . Hallo! there’s Marjorie.’
He released her and went out to meet Marjorie Phelps at the door.
‘Lord Peter! Good lord!’
‘Thank you, Marjorie,’ said Wimsey gravely.
‘No, but listen! Have you seen Ann? I took her away. She’s frightfully queer – and there’s a policeman outside. But whatever she’s done, I couldn’t leave her alone in that awful house. You haven’t come to – to—’
‘Marjorie!’ said Wimsey, ‘don’t you ever talk to me again about feminine intuition. You’ve been thinking all this time that that girl was suffering from guilty conscience. Well, she wasn’t. It was a man, my child – a MAN!’
‘How do you know?’
‘My experienced eye told me as much at the first glance. It’s all right now. Sorrow and sighing have fled away. I am going to take your young friend out to dinner.’
‘But why didn’t she tell me what it was all about?’
‘Because,’ said Wimsey mincingly, ‘it wasn’t the kind of thing one woman tells another.’
21
LORD PETER CALLS A BLUFF
‘It is new to me,’ said Lord Peter, glancing from the back window of the taxi at the other taxi which was following them, ‘to be shadowed by the police, but it amuses them and doesn’t hurt us.’
He was revolving ways and means of proof in his mind. Unhappily, all the evidence in favour of Ann Dorland was evidence against her as well – except, indeed, the letter to Pritchard. Damn Penberthy! The best that could be hoped for now was that the girl should escape from public inquiry with a verdict of ‘Not proven’. Even if acquitted – even if never charged with the murder – she would always be suspect. The question was not one which could be conveniently settled by a brilliant flash of deductive logic, or the discovery of a blood-stained thumb-mark. It was a case for lawyers to argue – for a weighing of the emotional situation by twelve good and lawful persons. Presumably the association could be proved – the couple had met and dined together; probably the quarrel could be proved – but what next? Would a jury believe in the cause of the quarrel? Would they think it a prearranged blind, perhaps – or mistake it for the falling-out of rogues among themselves? What would they think of this plain, sulky, inarticulate girl, who had never had any real friends, and whose clumsy and tentative graspings after passion had been so obscure, so disastrous?
Penberthy, too – but Penberthy was easier to understand.
Penberthy, cynical and bored with poverty, found himself in contact with this girl, who might be so well off some day. And Penberthy, the physician, would not mistake the need for passion that made the girl such easy stuff to work on. So he carried on – bored with the girl, of course – keeping it all secret, till he saw which way the cat was going to jump. Then the old man – the truth about the will – the opportunity. And then, upsettingly Robert . . . Would the jury see it like that?
Wimsey leaned out of the cab window and told the driver to go to the Savoy. When they arrived, he handed the girl over to the cloakroom attendant. ‘I am going up to change,’ he added, and, turning, had the pleasure of seeing his sleuth arguing with the porter in the entrance hall.
Bunter, previously summoned by telephone, was already in attendance with his master’s dress clothes. Having changed, Wimsey passed through the hall again. The sleuth was there, quietly waiting. Wimsey grinned at him and offered him a drink.
‘I can’t help it, my lord,’ said the detective.
‘Of course not; you’ve sent for a bloke in a boiled shirt to take your place, I suppose?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘More power to his elbow. So long.’
He rejoined his charge and they went into the dining-room. Dressed in a green which did not suit her, she was undoubtedly plain. But she had character; he was not ashamed of her. He offered her the menu.
‘What shall it be?’ he asked. ‘Lobster and champagne?’
She laughed at him.
‘Marjorie says you are an authority on food. I don’t believe authorities on food ever take lobster and champagne. Anyway, I don’t like lobster much. Surely there’s something they do best here, isn’t there? Let’s have that.’
‘You show the right spirit,’ said Wimsey. ‘I will compose a dinner for you.’
He called the head waiter, and went into the question scientifically.
‘Huîtres Musgrave – I am opposed on principle to the cooking of oysters, but it is a dish so excellent that one may depart from the rules in its favour. Fried in their shells, Miss Dorland, with little strips of bacon. Shall we try it? The soup must be tortue vraie, of course. The fish – oh, just a filet de sole, the merest mouthful, a hyphen between the prologue and the main theme.’
‘That all sounds delightful. And what is the
main theme to be?’
‘I think a faisan rôti with pommes Byron. And a salad to promote digestion. And, waiter, be sure the salad is dry and perfectly crisp. A soufflé glacé to finish up with. And bring me the wine list.’
They talked. When she was not on the defensive, the girl was pleasant enough in manner; a trifle downright and aggressive, perhaps, in her opinions, but needing only mellowing.
‘What do you think of the Romanée Conti?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know much about wine. It’s good. Not sweet, like Sauterne. It’s a little – well – harsh. But it’s harsh without being thin – quite different from that horrid Chianti people always seem to drink at Chelsea parties.’
‘You’re right; it’s rather unfinished, but it has plenty of body – it’ll be a grand wine in ten years’ time. It’s 1915. Now, you see. Waiter, take this away and bring me a bottle of the 1908.’
He leaned towards his companion.
‘Miss Dorland – may I be impertinent?’
‘How? Why?’
‘Not an artist, not a bohemian, and not a professional man; a man of the world.’
‘What do you mean by those cryptic words?’
‘For you. 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 the 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. Get me?’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes. But your man won’t be at all the sort of person you’re expecting. You have always thought of being dominated by somebody, haven’t you?’
‘Well—’
‘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.’
‘I didn’t know you were a prophet.’
‘I am, though.’
Wimsey took the bottle of 1908 from the waiter and glanced over the girl’s head at the door. A man in a boiled shirt was making his way in, accompanied by the manager.