“Good. I’m glad you did. Well, it was pretty plain sailing after that. I got the guv’nor’s togs from the cloak-room and took ’em up to my room, and then I thought about old Woodward sittin’ up waitin’ for him. So I trundled out and went down to Charing Cross — how do you think?”
“By bus?”
“Not quite as bad as that. By Underground. I did realise it wouldn’t work to call a taxi.”
“You show quite a disposition for fraud, Fentiman.”
“Yes, don’t I? — Well, all that was easy. I must say, I didn’t pass a frightfully good night.”
“You’ll take it more calmly another time.”
“Yes — it was my maiden effort in crime, of course. The next morning—”
“Young man,” said Mr. Murbles, in an awful voice, “we will draw a veil over the next morning. I have listened to your shameless statement with a disgust which words cannot express. But I cannot, and will not sit here and listen while you congratulate yourself, with a cynicism at which you should blush, on having employed those sacred moments when every thought should have been consecrated—”
“Oh, punk!” interrupted Robert rudely. “My old pals are none the worse because I did a little bit of self-help. I know fraud isn’t altogether the clean potato, but, dash it all! surely we have a better right to the old boy’s money than that girl. I bet she never did anything in the Great War, Daddy. Well, it’s all gone bust — but it was a darn good stunt while it lasted.”
“I perceive,” replied Mr. Murbles, icily, “that any appeal to your better feelings would be waste of time. I imagine, however, you realise that fraud is a penal offence.”
“Yes — that’s a nuisance, isn’t it. What are we going to do about it? Do I have to go and eat humble pie to old Pritchard? Or does Wimsey pretend to have discovered something frightfully abstruse from looking at the body? — Oh, good lord, by the way — what’s happened about that confounded exhumation stunt? I never thought a word more about it. I say, Wimsey, was that the idea? Did you know then that I’d been trying to work this stunt and was it your notion you could get me out of it?”
“Partly.”
“Damned decent of you. You know, I did tumble to it that you’d got a line on me when you sent me down with that detective fellow to Charing Cross. And, I say, you nearly had me there! I’d made up my mind to pretend to go after Oliver — you know — and then I spotted that second bloodhound of yours on the train with me. That gave me gooseflesh all over. The only thing I could think of short of chucking up the whole show — was to accuse some harmless old bird of being Oliver — as a proof of good faith, don’t you see.”
“That was it, was it? I thought you must have some reason.”
“Yes — and then, when I got that summons to Paris, I thought I must, somehow, have diddled the lot of you. But I suppose that was all arranged for. I say, Wimsey, why? Did you just want to get your own back, or what? Why did yon want me out of England?”
“Yes, indeed. Lord Peter,” said Mr Murbles, gravely. “I think you owe me at least some explanation on that point.”
“Don’t you see,” said Wimsey “Fentiman was his grandfather’s executor. If I got him out of the way, you couldn’t stop the exhumation.”
“Ghoul!” said Robert. “I believe you batten on corpses.”
Wimsey laughed, rather excitedly.
“Fentiman,” he said, “what would you give at this moment for your chance of that half-million?”
“Chance?” cried Fentiman. “There’s no chance at all. What do you mean?”
Wimsey slowly drew a paper from his pocket.
“This came last night,” he said. “And, by Jove, my lad, it’s lucky for you that you had a good bit to lose by the old man’s death. This is from Lubbock—
‘DEAR LORD PETER,
I am sending you a line in advance to let you know the result of the autopsy on General Fentiman. As regards the ostensible reason for the investigation, I may say that there was no food in the stomach and that the last meal had been taken several hours previously. The important point, however, is that, following your own rather obscurely-expressed suggestion, I tested the viscera for poison and discovered traces of a powerful dose of digitalin, swallowed not very long previous to decease. As you know, with a subject whose heart was already in a weak state, the result of such a dose could not but be fatal. The symptoms would be a slowing-down of the heart’s action and collapse — practically indistinguishable from a violent heart-attack. I do not, of course, know what your attitude in this business is, though I congratulate you on the perspicacity which prompted you to suggest an analysis. In the meanwhile, of course, you will realise that I am obliged to communicate the result of the autopsy to the public prosecutor.’”
Mr. Murbles sat petrified.
“My God!” cried Fentiman. And then again, “My God! — Wimsey — if I’d known — if I’d had the faintest idea — I wouldn’t have touched the body for twenty millions. Poison! Poor old blighter! What a damned shame! I remember now his saying that night he felt a bit sickish, but I never thought — I say, Wimsey — you do believe, don’t you, that I hadn’t the foggiest? I say — that awful female — I knew she was a wrong ’un. But poison! that is too thick. Good lord!”
Parker, who had hitherto preserved the detached expression of a friendly spectator, now beamed. “Damn good, old man!” he cried, and smote Peter on the back. Professional enthusiasm overcame him. “It’s a real case,” he said, “and you’ve handled it finely, Peter. I didn’t know you had it in you to hang on so patiently. Forcing the exhumation on ’em through putting pressure on Major Fentiman was simply masterly! Pretty work! Pretty work!”
“Thank you, Charles,” said Wimsey, dryly. “I’m glad somebody appreciates me. Anyhow,” he added, viciously, “I bet that’s wiped old Pritchard’s eye.”
And at this remark, even Mr. Murbles showed signs of returning animation.
Chapter XV
Shuffle the Cards and Deal Again
A hasty consultation with the powers that be at Scotland Yard put Detective-Inspector Parker in charge of the Fentiman case, and he promptly went into consultation with Wimsey.
“What put you on to this poison business?” he asked.
“Aristotle, chiefly,” replied Wimsey. “He says, you know, that one should always prefer the probable impossible to the improbable possible. It was possible, of course, that the General should have died off in that neat way at the most confusing moment. But how much nicer and more probable that the whole thing had been stage-managed. Even if it had seemed much more impossible I should have been dead nuts on murder. And there really was nothing impossible about it. Then there was Pritchard and the Dorland woman. Why should they have been so dead against compromise and so suspicious about things unless they had inside information from somewhere. After all, they hadn’t seen the body as Penberthy and I did.”
“That leads on to the question of who did it. Miss Dorland is the obvious suspect, naturally.”
“She’s got the biggest motive.”
“Yes. Well, let’s be methodical. Old Fentiman was apparently as right as rain up till about half past three when he started off for Portman Square, so that the drug must have been given him between then and eightish, when Robert Fentiman found him dead. Now who saw him between those two times?”
“Wait a sec. That’s not absolutely accurate. He must have taken the stuff between those two times, but it might have been given him earlier. Suppose, for instance, somebody had dropped a poisoned pill into his usual bottle of soda-mints or whatever he used to take. That could have been worked at any time.”
“Well — not too early on, Peter. Suppose he had died a lot too soon and Lady Dormer had heard about it.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. She wouldn’t need to alter her will or anything. The bequest to Miss Dorland would just stand as before.”
“Quite right. I was being stupid. Well then, we’d better find out if he did take anything of that kind regularly. If he did, who would have had the opportunity to drop the pill in?”
“Penberthy, for one.”
“The doctor? — yes, we must stick his name down as a possible, though he wouldn’t have had the slightest motive. Still, we’ll put him in the column headed Opportunity.”
“That’s right, Charles, I do like your methodical ways.”
“Attraction of opposites,” said Parker, ruling a notebook into three columns.
“Opportunity. Number 1, Dr. Penberthy. If the tablets or globules or whatever they were, were Penberthy’s own prescription, he would have a specially good opportunity. Not so good, though, if they were the kind of things you get ready-made from the chemist in sealed bottles.”
“Oh, bosh! he could always have asked to have a squint at ’em to see if they were the right kind. I insist on having Penberthy in. Besides, he was one of the people who saw the General between the critical hours — during what we may call the administration period, so he had an extra amount of opportunity.”
“So he had. Well, I’ve put him down. Though there seems no reason for him—”