“It’s the woman’s job to speak to servants,” said George, “no business of mine.”
“All right — I’ll speak, and you’ll have to put up with the consequences.”
“There won’t be any consequences, my dear, if you do it tactfully. I can’t think why you want to make all this fuss.”
“Right-oh, I’ll be as tactful as I can. You don’t suffer from charladies, I suppose, Lord Peter?”
“Good lord, no!” interrupted George. “Wimsey lives decently. They don’t know the dignified joys of hard-upness in Piccadilly.”
“I’m rather lucky,” said Wimsey, with that apologetic air which seems forced on anybody accused of too much wealth. “I have an extraordinarily faithful and intelligent man who looks after me like a mother.”
“Daresay he knows when he’s well off,” said George, disagreeably.
“I dunno. I believe Bunter would stick to me whatever happened. He was my N.C.O. during part of the War, and we went through some roughish bits together, and after the whole thing was over I hunted him up and took him on. He was in service before that, of course, but his former master was killed and the family broken up, so he was quite pleased to come along. I don’t know what I would do without Bunter now.”
“Is that the man who takes the photographs for you when you are on a crime-hunt?” suggested Sheila, hurriedly seizing on this, as she hoped, non-irritant topic.
“Yes. He’s a great hand with a camera. Only drawback is that he’s occasionally immured in the dark-room and I’m left to forage for myself. I’ve got a telephone extension through to him. ‘Bunter?’—‘Yes, my lord!’—‘Where are my dress studs?’—‘In the middle section of the third small right-hand drawer of the dressing-cabinet, my lord.’—‘Bunter!’—‘Yes, my lord!’—‘Where have I put my cigarette case?’—‘I fancy I observed it last on the piano, my lord.’—‘Bunter!’—‘Yes, my lord!’—‘I’ve got into a muddle with my white tie.’—‘Indeed, my lord?’—‘Well, can’t you do anything about it?’—‘Excuse me, my lord, I am engaged in the development of a plate.’—‘To hell with the plate!’—‘Very good, my lord.’—‘Bunter — stop — don’t be precipitate — finish the plate and then come and tie my tie.’—‘Certainly, my lord.’ And then I have to sit about miserably till the infernal plate is fixed, or whatever it is. Perfect slave in my own house — that’s what I am.”
Sheila laughed.
“You look a very happy and well-treated slave. Are you investigating anything just now?”
“Yes. In fact — there you are again — Bunter has retired into photographic life for the evening. I haven’t a roof to cover me. I have been wandering round like the what d’you call it bird, which has no feet—”
“I’m sorry you were driven to such desperation as to seek asylum in our poverty-stricken hovel,” said George, with a sour laugh.
Wimsey began to wish he had not come. Mrs. Fentiman looked vexed. “You needn’t answer that,” she said, with an effort to be light, “there is no answer.”
“I’ll send it to Aunt Judith of Rosie’s Weekly Bits,” said Wimsey. “A makes a remark to which there is no answer. What is B to do?”
“Sorry,” said George, “my conversation doesn’t seem to be up to standard. I’m forgetting all my civilised habits. You’d better go on and pay no attention to me.”
“What’s the mystery on hand now?” asked Sheila, taking her husband at his word.
“Well, actually it’s about this funny business of the old General’s will,” said Wimsey. “Murbles suggested I should have a look into the question of the survivorship.”
“Oh, do you think you can really get it settled?”
“I hope so very much. But it’s a very fine-drawn business — may resolve itself into a matter of seconds. By the way, Fentiman, were you in the Bellona smoking-room at all during the morning of Armistice Day?”
“So that’s what you’ve come about. Why didn’t you say so? No, I wasn’t. And what’s more, I don’t know anything at all about it. And why that infuriating old hag of a Dormer woman couldn’t make a decent, sensible will while she was about it, I don’t know. Where was the sense of leaving all those wads of money to the old man, when she knew perfectly well he was liable to peg out at any moment. And then, if he did die, handing the whole lot over to the Dorland girl, who hasn’t an atom of claim on it? She might have had the decency to think about Robert and us a bit.”
“Considering how rude you were to her and Miss Dorland, George, I wonder she even left you the seven thousand.”
“What’s seven thousand to her? Like a five-pound note to any ordinary person. An insult, I call it. I daresay I was rude to her, but I jolly well wasn’t going to have her think I was sucking up to her for her money.”
“How inconsistent you are, George. If you didn’t want the money, why grumble about not getting it?”
“You’re always putting me in the wrong. You know I don’t mean that. I didn’t want the money — but the Dorland girl was always hinting that I did, and I ticked her off. I didn’t know anything about the confounded legacy, and I didn’t want to. All I mean is, that if she did want to leave anything to Robert and me, she might have made it more than a rotten seven thousand apiece.”
“Well! don’t grumble at it. It would be uncommonly handy at the moment.”
“I know — isn’t that exactly what I’m saying? And now the old fool makes such a silly will that I don’t know whether I’m to get it or not. I can’t even lay hands on the old Governor’s two thousand. I’ve got to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while Wimsey goes round with a tape measure and a tame photographer to see whether I’m entitled to my own grandfather’s money!”
“I know it’s frightfully trying, darling. But I expect it’ll all come right soon. It wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for Dougal MacStewart.”
“Who’s Dougal MacStewart?” inquired Wimsey, suddenly alert. “One of our old Scottish families, by the name. I fancy I have heard of him. Isn’t he an obliging, helpful kind of chap, with a wealthy friend in the City?”
“Frightfully obliging,” said Sheila, grimly. “He simply forces his acquaintances on one. He—”
“Shut up, Sheila,” interrupted her husband, rudely. “Lord Peter doesn’t want to know all the sordid details of our private affairs.”
“Knowing Dougal,” said Wimsey, “I daresay I could give a guess at them. Some time ago you had a kind offer of assistance from our friend MacStewart. You accepted it to the mild tune of — what was it?”
“Five hundred,” said Sheila.
“Five hundred. Which turned out to be three-fifty in cash and the rest represented by a little honorarium to his friend in the City who advanced the money in so trustful a manner without security. When was that?”
“Three years ago — when I started that tea-shop in Kensington.”
“Ah, yes. And when you couldn’t quite manage that sixty per cent per month or whatever it was, owing to trade depression, the friend in the City was obliging enough to add the interest to the principal, at great inconvenience to himself — and so forth. The MacStewart way is familiar to me. What’s the dem’d total now, Fentiman, just out of curiosity?”
“Fifteen hundred by the thirtieth,” growled George, “if you must know.”
“I warned George—” began Sheila unwisely.
“Oh, you always know what’s best! Anyhow, it was your tea business. I told you there was no money in it, but women always think they can run things on their own nowadays.”
“I know, George. But it was MacStewart’s interest that swallowed up the profits. You know I wanted you to borrow the money from Lady Dormer.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to, and that’s flat. I told you so at the time.”
“Well, but look here,” said Wimsey, “you’re perfectly all right about MacStewart’s fifteen hundred, anyway, whichever way the thing goes. If General Fentiman died before his sister, you get seven thousand; if he died after her, you’re certain of his two thousand, by the will. Besides, your brother will no doubt make a reasonable arrangement about sharing the money he gets as residuary legatee. Why worry?”
“Why? Because here’s this infernal legal rigamarole tying the thing up and hanging it out till God knows when, and I can’t touch anything.”
“I know, I know,” said Wimsey, patiently, “but all you’ve got to do is to go to Murbles and get him to advance you the money on your expectations. You can’t get away with less than two thousand, whatever happens, so he’ll be perfectly ready to do it. In fact, he’s more or less bound to settle your just debts for you, if he’s asked.”
“That’s just what I’ve been telling you, George,” said Mrs. Fentiman, eagerly.
“Of course, you would be always telling me things. You never make mistakes, do you? And suppose the thing goes into Court and we get let in for thousands of pounds in fees and things, Mrs. Clever, eh?”
“I should leave it to your brother to go to Court, if necessary,” said Wimsey, sensibly. “if he wins, he’ll have plenty of cash for fees, and if he loses, you’ll still have your seven thousand. You go to Murbles — he’ll fix you up. Or, tell you what! — I’ll get hold of friend MacStewart and see if I can’t arrange to get the debt transferred to me. He won’t consent, of course, if he knows it’s me but I can probably do it through Murbles. Then we’ll threaten to fight him on the ground of extortionate interest and so on. We’ll have some fun with it.”
“Dashed good of you, but I’d rather not, thanks.”