The note ran:
“DEAR LORD PETER,
In re Fentiman deceased. Mr. Pritchard has called. He informs me that his client is now willing to compromise on a division of the money if the Court will permit. Before I consult my client, Major Fentiman, I should be greatly obliged by your opinion as to how the investigation stands at present.
Yours faithfully,
JNO. MURBLES.”
Lord Peter replied as follows:
“DEAR MR. MURBLES,
Re Fentiman deceased. Too late to compromise now, unless you are willing to be party to a fraud. I warned you, you know. Robert has applied for exhumation. Can you dine with me at 8?
P. W.”
Having sent this off, his lordship rang for Bunter.
“Bunter, as you know, I seldom drink champagne. But I am inclined to do so now. Bring a glass for yourself as well.”
The cork popped merrily, and Lord Peter rose to his feet.
“Bunter,” said he, “I give you a toast. The triumph of Instinct over Reason!”
Chapter XII
Lord Peter Turns a Trick
Detective-Inspector Parker came to dinner encircled in a comfortable little halo of glory. The Crate Mystery had turned out well and the Chief Commissioner had used expressions suggestive of promotion in the immediate future. Parker did justice to his meal and, when the party had adjourned to the library, gave his attention to Lord Peter’s account of the Bellona affair with the cheerful appreciation of a connoisseur sampling a vintage port. Mr. Murbles, on the other hand, grew more and more depressed as the story was unfolded.
“And what do you think of it?” inquired Wimsey.
Parker opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Murbles was beforehand with him.
“This Oliver appears to be a very elusive person,” said he.
“Isn’t he?” agreed Wimsey, dryly. “Almost as elusive as the famous Mrs. Harris. Would it altogether surprise you to learn that when I asked a few discreet questions at Gatti’s, I discovered not only that nobody there had the slightest recollection of Oliver, but that no inquiries about him had ever been made by Major Fentiman?”
“Oh, dear me!” said Mr. Murbles.
“You forced Fentiman’s hand very ingeniously by sending him down with your private sleuth to Charing Cross,” remarked Parker, approvingly.
“Well, you see, I had a feeling that unless we did something pretty definite, Oliver would keep vanishing and reappearing like the Cheshire Cat, whenever our investigations seemed to be taking an awkward turn.”
“You are intimating, if I understand you rightly,” said Mr. Murbles, “that this Oliver has no real existence.”
“Oliver was the carrot on the donkey’s nose,” said Peter, “my noble self being cast for the part of the donkey. Not caring for the role, I concocted a carrot of my own, in the person of Sleuths Incorporated. No sooner did my trusting sleuth depart to his lunch than, lo and behold! the hue and cry is off again after Oliver. Away goes friend Fentiman — and away goes Sleuth Number Two, who was there all the time, neatly camouflaged, to keep his eye on Fentiman. Why Fentiman should have gone to the length of assaulting a perfect stranger and accuse him of being Oliver, I don’t know. I fancy his passion for thoroughness made him over-reach himself a bit there.”
“But what exactly has Major Fentiman been doing?” asked Mr. Murbles. “This is a very painful business, Lord Peter. It distresses me beyond words. Do you suspect him of — er—?”
“Well,” said Wimsey, “I knew something odd had happened, you know, as soon as I saw the General’s body — when I pulled the Morning Post away so easily from his hands. If he had really died clutching it, the rigor would have made his clutch so tight that one would have had to pry the fingers open to release it. And then, that knee-joint!”
“I didn’t quite follow about that.”
“Well, you know that when a man dies, rigor begins to set in after a period of some hours, varying according to the cause of death, temperature of the room and a lot of other conditions. It starts in the face and jaw and extends gradually over the body. Usually it lasts about twenty-four hours and then passes off again in the same order in which it started. But if, during the period of rigidity, you loosen one of the joints by main force, then it doesn’t stiffen again, but remains loose. Which is why, in a hospital, if the nurses have carelessly let a patient die and stiffen with his knees up, they call in the largest and fattest person on the staff to sit on the corpse’s knees and break the joints loose again.”
Mr. Murbles shuddered distastefully.
“So that, taking the loose knee-joint and the general condition of the body together, it was obvious from the start that somebody had been tampering with the General. Penberthy knew that too, of course, only, being a doctor, he wasn’t going to make any indiscreet uproar if he could avoid it. It doesn’t pay, you know.”
“I suppose not.”
“Well, then, you came round to me, sir, and insisted on making the uproar. I warned you, you know, to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I wish you had spoken more openly.”
“If I had, would you have cared to hush the matter up?”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Murbles, polishing his eyeglasses.
“Just so. The next step was to try and find out what had actually happened to the General on the night of the 10th, and morning of the 11th. And the moment I got round to his flat I was faced with two entirely contradictory pieces of evidence. First, there was the story about Oliver, which appeared more or less remarkable upon the face of it. And secondly, there was Woodward’s evidence about the clothes.”
“What about them?”
“I asked him, you remember, whether anything at all had been removed from the clothes after he had fetched them away from the cloak-room at the Bellona, and he said, nothing. His memory as to other points seemed pretty reliable, and I felt sure that he was honest and straightforward. So I was forced to the conclusion that, wherever the General had spent the night, he had certainly never set foot in the street the next morning.”
“Why?” asked Mr. Murbles. “What did you expect to find on the clothes?”
“My dear sir, consider what day it was. November 11th. Is it conceivable that, if the old man had been walking in the streets as a free agent on Armistice Day, he would have gone into the Club without his Flanders poppy? A patriotic, military old bird like that? It was really unthinkable.”
“Then where was he? And how did he get into the Club? He was there, you know.”
“True; he was there — in a state of advanced rigor. In fact, according to Penberthy’s account, which, by the way, I had checked by the woman who laid out the body later, the rigor was even then beginning to pass off. Making every possible allowance for the warmth of the room and so on, he must have been dead long before ten in the morning, which was his usual time for going to the Club.”
“But, my dear lad, bless my soul, that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been carried in there dead. Somebody would have noticed it.”
“So they would. And the odd thing is that nobody ever saw him arrive at all. What is more, nobody saw him leave for the last time on the previous evening. General Fentiman — one of the best-known figures in the Club! And he seems to have become suddenly invisible. That won’t do, you know.”
“What is your idea, then? That he slept the night in the Club?”
“I think he slept a very peaceful and untroubled sleep that night — in the Club.”
“You shock me inexpressibly,” said Mr. Murbles. “I understand you to suggest that he died—”
“Some time the previous evening. Yes.”