“Of course. But it was to somebody’s interest to see that they didn’t notice. Somebody who wanted it thought that he hadn’t died till the following day, after the death of Lady Dormer.”
“Robert Fentiman.”
“Precisely.”
“But how did Robert know about Lady Dormer?”
“Ah! That is a point I’m not altogether happy about. George had an interview with General Fentiman after the old man’s visit to his sister. George denies that the General mentioned anything to him about the will, but then, if George was in the plot he naturally would deny it. I am rather concerned about George.”
“What had he to gain?”
“Well, if George’s information was going to make a difference of half a million to Robert, he would naturally expect to be given a share of the boodle, don’t you think?”
Mr. Murbles groaned.
“Look here,” broke in Parker, “this is a very pretty theory, Peter, but, allowing that the General died, as you say, on the evening of the tenth, where was the body? As Mr. Murbles says, it would have been a trifle noticeable if left about.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Murbles, seized with an idea. “Repellent as the whole notion is to me, I see no difficulty about that. Robert Fentiman was at that time living in the Club. No doubt the General died in Robert’s bedroom and was concealed there till the next morning!”
Wimsey shook his head. “That won’t work. I think the General’s hat and coat and things were in Robert’s bedroom, but the corpse couldn’t have been. Think, sir. Here is a photograph of the entrance-hall, with the big staircase running up in full view of the front door and the desk and the bar-entrance. Would you risk carrying a corpse downstairs in the middle of the morning, with servants and members passing in and out continually? And the service stairs would be even worse. They are right round the other side of the building, with continual kitchen traffic going on all the time. No. The body wasn’t in Robert’s bedroom.”
“Where, then?”
“Yes, where? After all, Peter, we’ve got to make this story hold water.”
Wimsey spread the rest of the photographs out upon the table.
“Look for yourselves,” he said. “Here is the end bay of the library, where the General was sitting making notes about the money he was to inherit. A very nice, retired spot, invisible from the doorway, supplied with ink, blotter, writing-paper and every modern convenience, including the works of Charles Dickens elegantly bound in morocco. Here is a shot of the library taken from the smoking-room, clean through the ante-room and down the gangway — again a tribute to the convenience of the Bellona Club. Observe how handily the telephone cabinet is situated, in case—”
“The telephone cabinet?”
“Which, you will remember, was so annoyingly labelled ‘Out of Order’ when Wetheridge wanted to telephone. I can’t find anybody who remembers putting up that notice, by the way.”
“Good God, Wimsey. Impossible. Think of the risk.”
“What risk? If anybody opened the door, there was old General Fentiman, who had gone in, not seeing the notice, and died of fury at not being able to get his call. Agitation acting on a weak heart and all that. Not very risky, really. Unless somebody was to think to inquire about the notice, and probably it wouldn’t occur to any one in the excitement of the moment.”
“You’re an ingenious beast, Wimsey.”
“Aren’t I? But we can prove it. We’re going down to the Bellona Club to prove it now. Half-past eleven. A nice, quiet time. Shall I tell you what we are going to find inside that cabinet?”
“Finger-prints?” suggested Mr. Murbles, eagerly.
“Afraid that’s too much to hope for after all this time. What do you say, Charles?”
“I say we shall find a long scratch on the paint,” said Parker, “where the foot of the corpse rested and stiffened in that position.”
“Holed it in one, Charles. And that, you see, was when the leg had to be bent with violence in order to drag the corpse out.”
“And as the body was in a sitting position,” pursued Parker, “we shall, of course, find a seat inside the cabinet.”
“Yes, and, with luck, we may find a projecting nail or something which caught the General’s trouser-leg when the body was removed.”
“And possibly a bit of carpet.”
“To match the fragment of thread I got off the corpse’s right boot? I hope so.”
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Murbles. “Let us go at once. Really, this is most exciting. That is, I am profoundly grieved. I hope it is not as you say.”
They hastened downstairs and stood for a few moments waiting for a taxi to pass. Suddenly Wimsey made a dive into a dark corner by the porch. There was a scuffle, and out into the light came a small man, heavily muffled in an overcoat, with his hat thrust down to his eyebrows in the manner of a stage detective. Wimsey unbonneted him with the air of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat.
“So it’s you, is it? I thought I knew your face. What the devil do you mean by following people about like this?”
The man ceased struggling and glanced sharply up at him with a pair of dark, beady eyes.
“Do you think it wise, my lord, to use violence?”
“Who is it?” asked Parker.
“Pritchard’s clerk. He’s been hanging round George Fentiman for days. Now he’s hanging round me. He’s probably the fellow that’s been hanging round the Bellona. If you go on like this, my man, you’ll find yourself hanging somewhere else one of these days. Now, see here. Do you want me to give you in charge?”
“That is entirely as your lordship pleases,” said the clerk, with a cunning sneer. “There is a police-man just round the corner, if you wish to attract publicity.”
Wimsey looked at him for a moment, and then began to laugh.
“When did you last see Mr. Pritchard? Come on, out with it! Yesterday? This morning? Have you seen him since lunch time?”
A shadow of indecision crossed the man’s face.
“You haven’t? I’m sure you haven’t! Have you?”
“And why not, my lord?”
“You go back to Mr. Pritchard,” said Wimsey, impressively, and shaking his captive gently by the coat-collar to add force to his words, “and if he doesn’t countermand your instructions and call you off this sleuthing business (which, by the way, you do very amateurishly), I’ll give you a fiver. See? Now, hop it. I know where to find you and you know where to find me. Good-night and may Morpheus hover over your couch and bless your slumbers. Here’s our taxi.”
Chapter XIII
Spades Are Trumps
It was close on one o’clock when the three men emerged from the solemn portals of the Bellona Club. Mr. Murbles was very much subdued. Wimsey and Parker displayed the sober elation of men whose calculations have proved satisfactory. They had found the scratches. They had found the nail in the seat of the chair. They had even found the carpet. Moreover, they had found the origin of Oliver. Reconstructing the crime, they had sat in the end bay of the library, as Robert Fentiman might have sat, casting his eyes around him while he considered how he could best hide and cover up this extremely inopportune decease. They had noticed how the gilt lettering on the back of a volume caught the gleam from the shaded reading lamp. “Oliver Twist.” The name, not consciously noted at the time, had yet suggested itself an hour or so later to Fentiman, when, calling up from Charing Cross, he had been obliged to invent a surname on the spur of the moment.
And, finally, placing the light, spare form of the unwilling Mr. Murbles in the telephone cabinet, Parker had demonstrated that a fairly tall and strong man could have extricated the body from the box, carried it into the smoking-room and arranged it in the armchair by the fire, all in something under four minutes.
Mr. Murbles made one last effort on behalf of his client.
“There were people in the smoking-room all morning, my dear Lord Peter. If it were as you suggest, how could Fentiman have made sure of four, or even three minutes secure from observation while he brought the body in?”