“It was passing off then — I remarked upon it at the time.”
“So you did. I thought rigor usually lasted twenty-four hours or so.”
“It does, sometimes. Sometimes it goes off quickly. Quick come, quick go, as a rule. Still, I agree with you, that in the absence of other evidence, I should have put the death rather earlier than ten o’clock.”
“You admit that?”
“I do. But we know he came in not earlier than a quarter past ten.”
“You’ve seen Williamson, then?”
“Oh, yes. I thought it better to check up on the thing as far as possible. So I can only suppose that, what with the death being sudden, and what with the warmth of the room — he was very close to the fire, you know — the whole thing came on and worked itself off very quickly.”
“H’m! Of course, you knew the old boy’s constitution very well.”
“Oh, rather. He was very frail. Heart gets a bit worn-out when you’re over the four-score and ten, you know. I should never have been surprised at his dropping down anywhere. And then, he’d had a bit of a shock, you see.”
“What was that?”
“Seeing his sister the afternoon before. They told you about that, I imagine, since you seem to know all about the business. He came along to Harley Street afterwards and saw me. I told him to go to bed and keep quiet. Arteries very strained, and pulse erratic. He was excited — naturally. He ought to have taken a complete rest. As I see it, he must have insisted on getting up, in spite of feeling groggy, walked here — he would do it — and collapsed straight away.”
“That’s all right, Penberthy, but when — just when — did it happen?”
“Lord knows. I don’t. Have another?”
“No, thanks; not for the moment. I say, I suppose you are perfectly satisfied about it all?”
“Satisfied?” The doctor stared at him. “Yes, of course. If you mean, satisfied as to what he died of — of course I’m satisfied. I shouldn’t have given a certificate if I hadn’t been satisfied.”
“Nothing about the body struck you as queer?”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know what I mean as well as I do,” said Wimsey, suddenly turning and looking the other straight in the face. The change in him was almost startling — it was as if a steel blade had whipped suddenly out of its velvet scabbard. Penberthy met his eye, and nodded slowly.
“Yes, I do know what you mean. But not here. We’d better go up to the Library. There won’t be anybody there.”
Chapter V
— And Finds the Club Suit Blocked
There never was anybody in the library at the Bellona. It was a large, quiet, pleasant room, with the bookshelves arranged in bays; each of which contained a writing-table and three or four chairs.
Occasionally some one would wander in to consult the Times Atlas, or a work on Strategy and Tactics, or to hunt up an ancient Army list, but for the most part it was deserted. Sitting in the farthest bay, immured by books and silence, confidential conversation could be carried on with all the privacy of the confessional.
“Well, now,” said Wimsey, “what about it?”
“About—?” prompted the doctor, with professional caution.
“About that leg?”
“I wonder if anybody else noticed that?” said Penberthy.
“I doubt it. I did, of course. But then, I make that kind of thing my hobby. Not a popular one, perhaps — an ill-favoured thing, but mine own. In fact, I’ve got rather a turn for corpses. But not knowin’ quite what it meant, and seein’ you didn’t seem to want to call attention to it, I didn’t put myself forward.”
“No — I wanted to think it over. You see, it suggested, at the first blush, something rather—”
“Unpleasant,” said Wimsey. “If you knew how often I’d heard that word in the last two days! Well, let’s face it. Let’s admit, straight away, that, once rigor sets in, it stays in till it starts to pass off, and that, when it does start to go it usually begins with the face and jaw, and not suddenly in one knee-joint. Now Fentiman’s jaw and neck were as rigid as wood — I felt ’em. But the left leg swung loose from the knee. Now how do you explain that?”
“It is extremely puzzling. As no doubt you are aware, the obvious explanation would be that the joint had been forcibly loosened by somebody or something, after rigor had set in. In that case of course, it wouldn’t stiffen up again. It would remain loose until the whole body relaxed. But how it happened—”
“That’s just it. Dead people don’t go about jamming their legs into things and forcing their own joints. And surely, if anybody had found the body like that he would have mentioned it. I mean, can you imagine one of the waiter-johnnies, for instance, finding an old gentleman stiff as a poker in the best arm-chair and then just givin’ him a dose of knee-jerks and leavin’ him there?”
“The only thing I could think of,” said Penberthy, “was that a waiter or somebody had found him, and tried to move him — and then got frightened and barged off without saying anything. It sounds absurd. But people do do odd things, especially if they’re scared.”
“But what was there to be scared of?”
“It might seem alarming to a man in a very nervous state. We have one or two shell-shock cases here that I wouldn’t answer for in an emergency. It would be worth considering, perhaps, if any one had shown special signs of agitation or shock that day.”
“That’s an idea,” said Wimsey, slowly. “Suppose — suppose, for instance, there was somebody connected in some way with the General, who was in an unnerved state of mind — and suppose he came suddenly on this stiff corpse.
You think he might — possibly — lose his head?”
“It’s certainly possible. I can imagine that he might behave hysterically, or even violently, and force the knee-joint back, with some unbalanced idea of straightening the body out and making it look more seemly. And then, you know, he might just run away from the thing and pretend it hadn’t happened. Mind you, I’m not saying it was so, but I can easily see it happening. And that being so, I thought it better to say nothing about it. It would be a very unpl — distressing thing to bring to people’s notice. And it might do untold harm to the nervous case to question him about it. I’d rather let sleeping dogs lie. There was nothing wrong about the death, that’s definite. As for the rest — our duty is to the living; we can’t help the dead.”
“Quite. Tell you what, though, I’ll have a shot at finding out whether — we may as well say what we mean — whether George Fentiman was alone in the smoking-room at any time during the day. One of the servants may have noticed. It seems the only possible explanation. Well, thanks very much for your help. Oh, by the way, you said at the time that the rigor was passing off when we found the body—was that just camouflage, or does it still hold good?”
“It was just beginning to pass off in the face and jaw as a matter of fact. It had passed away completely by midnight.”
“Thanks. That’s another fact, then. I like facts, and there are annoyin’ly few of them in this case. Won’t you have another whisky?”
“No thanks. Due at my surgery. See you another time. Cheerio!”
Wimsey remained for a few moments after he had gone, smoking meditatively. Then he turned his chair to the table, took a sheet of paper from the rack and began to jot down a few notes of the case with his fountain-pen. He had not got far, however, before one of the Club servants entered, peering into all the bays in turn, looking for somebody.
“Want me, Fred?”
“Your lordship’s man is here, my lord, and says you may wish to be advised of his arrival.”
“Quite right. I’m just coming.” Wimsey took up the blotting-pad to blot his notes. Then his face changed. The corner of a sheet of paper protruded slightly. On the principle that nothing is too small to be looked at, Wimsey poked an inquisitive finger between the leaves, and extracted the paper. It bore a few scrawls relating to sums of money, very carelessly and shakily written. Wimsey looked at it attentively for a moment or two, and shook the blotter to see if it held anything further. Then he folded the sheet, handling it with extreme care by the corners, put it in an envelope and filed it away in his note-case. Coming out of the library, he found Bunter waiting in the hall, camera and tripod in hand.
“Ah, here you are, Bunter. Just a minute, while I see the Secretary.” He looked in at the office, and found Culyer immersed in some accounts.
“Oh, I say, Culyer—’mornin’ and all that — yes, disgustingly healthy, thanks, always am — I say, you recollect old Fentiman popping off in that inconsiderate way a little time ago?”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” said Culyer, with a wry face. “I’ve had three notes of complaint from Wetheridge — one, because the servants didn’t notice the matter earlier, set of inattentive rascals and all that; two, because the undertaker’s men had to take the coffin past his door and disturbed him; three, because somebody’s lawyer came along and asked him questions — together with distant allusions to the telephones being out of order and a shortage of soap in the bathroom. Who’d be a secretary?”