Strong Poison

“By Jove, let’s!”

  “Only, you know, I’m afraid we shan’t get the chance.”

  “You’re not to say that. Of course we’re going to write it. Damn it, what am I here for? Even if I could be reconciled to losing you, I couldn’t lose the chance of writing my best-seller!”

  “But what you’ve done so far is to provide me with a very convincing motive for murder. I don’t know that that’s going to help us a great lot.”

  “What I’ve done,” said Wimsey, “is to prove that that was not the motive, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t have told me if it had been. You would have gently led me away from the subject. And besides—”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I’ve seen Mr. Cole of Grimsby & Cole, and I know who is going to get the major part of Philip Boyes’ profits. And I don’t somehow fancy that he is the beloved object.”

  “No?” said Miss Vane, “and why not? Don’t you know that I passionately dote on every chin on his face?”

  “If it’s chins you admire,” said Wimsey, “I will try to grow some, though it will be rather hard work. Anyway, keep smiling—it suits you.”

  * * *

  “It’s all very well, though,” he thought to himself, when the gates had closed behind him. “Bright back-chat cheers the patient, but gets us no forrarder. How about this fellow Urquhart? He looked all right in court, but you never can tell. I think I’d better pop round and see him.”

  He presented himself accordingly in Woburn Square, but was disappointed. Mr. Urquhart had been called away to a sick relative. It was not Hannah Westlock who answered the door, but a stout elderly woman, whom Wimsey supposed to be the cook. He would have liked to question her, but felt that Mr. Urquhart would hardly receive him well if he discovered that his servants had been pumped behind his back. He therefore contented himself with enquiring how long Mr. Urquhart was likely to be away.

  “I couldn’t rightly say, sir. I understand it depends how the sick lady gets on. If she gets over it, he’ll be back at once, for I know he is very busy just now. If she should pass away, he would be engaged some time, with settling up the estate.”

  “I see,” said Wimsey. “It’s a bit awkward, because I wanted to speak to him rather urgently. You couldn’t give me his address, by any chance?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t rightly know if Mr. Urquhart would wish it. If it’s a matter of business, sir, they could give you information at his office in Bedford Row.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Wimsey, noting down the number. “I’ll call there, possibly they’d be able to do what I want without bothering him.”

  “Yes, sir. Who should I say called?” Wimsey handed over his card, writing at the top, “In re R. U. Vane,” and added:

  “But there is a chance he may be back quite soon?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Last time he wasn’t away more than a couple of days, and a merciful providence I am sure that was, with poor Mr. Boyes dying in that dreadful manner.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Wimsey, delighted to find the subject introducing itself of its own accord. “That must have been a shocking upset for you all.”

  “Well, there,” said the cook, “I don’t hardly like to think of it, even now. A gentleman dying in the house like that, and poisoned too, when one’s had the cooking of his dinner—it do seem to bring it home to one, like.”

  “It wasn’t the dinner that was at fault, anyway,” said Wimsey, genially.

  “Oh, dear, no, sir—we proved that most careful. Not that any accident could happen in my kitchen—I should like to see it! But people do say such things if they get half a chance. Still, there wasn’t a thing ate but master and Hannah and I had some of it, and very thankful I was for that, I needn’t tell you.”

  “You must be; I am sure.” Wimsey was framing a further enquiry, when the violent ringing of the area bell interrupted them.

  “There’s that butcher,” said the cook, “you’ll excuse me, sir. The parlourmaid’s in bed with the influenza, and I’m singlehanded this morning. I’ll tell Mr. Urquhart you called.”

  She shut the door, and Wimsey departed for Bedford Row, where he was received by an elderly clerk, who made no difficulty about supplying Mr. Urquhart’s address.

  “Here it is, my lord. Care of Mrs. Wrayburn, Applefold, Windle, Westmorland. But I shouldn’t think he would be very long away. In the meantime, could we do anything for you?”

  “No, thanks. I rather wanted to see him personally, don’t you know. As a matter of fact, it’s about that very sad death of his cousin, Mr. Philip Boyes.”

  “Indeed, my lord? Shocking affair, that. Mr. Urquhart was greatly upset, with it happening in his own house. A very fine young man, was Mr. Boyes. He and Mr. Urquhart were great friends, and he took it greatly to heart. Were you present at the trial, my lord?”

  “Yes. What did you think of the verdict?”

  The clerk pursed up his lips.

  “I don’t mind saying I was surprised. It seemed to me a very clear case. But juries are very unreliable, especially nowadays, with women on them. We see a good deal of the fair sex in this profession,” said the clerk with a sly smile, “and very few of them are remarkable for possessing the legal mind.”

  “How true that is,” said Wimsey. “If it wasn’t for them, though, there’d be much less litigation, so it’s all good for business.”

  “Ha, ha! Very good, my lord. Well, we have to take things as they come, but in my opinion—I’m an old-fashioned man—the ladies were most adorable when they adorned and inspired and did not take an active part in affairs. Here’s our young lady clerk—I don’t say she wasn’t a good worker—but a whim comes over her and away she goes to get married, leaving me in the lurch, just when Mr. Urquhart is away. Now, with a young man, marriage steadies him, and makes him stick closer to his job, but with a young woman, it’s the other way about. It’s right she should get married, but it’s inconvenient, and in a solicitor’s office one can’t get temporary assistance, very well. Some of the work is confidential, of course, and in any case, an atmosphere of permanence is desirable.”

  Wimsey sympathised with the head-clerk’s grievance, and bade him an affable good-morning. There is a telephone box in Bedford Row, and he darted into it and immediately rang up Miss Climpson.

  “Lord Peter Wimsey speaking—oh, hullo, Miss Climpson! How is everything? All bright and beautiful? Good!—Yes, now listen. There’s a vacancy for a confidential female clerk at Mr. Norman Urquhart’s, the solicitor’s, in Bedford Row—Have you got anybody?—Oh, good!—Yes, send them all along—I particularly want to get someone in there—Oh, no! no special enquiry—just to pick up any gossip about the Vane business—Yes, pick out the steadiest looking, not too much face-powder, and see that their skirts are the regulation four inches below the knee—the head-clerk’s in charge, and the last girl left to be married, so he’s feeling anti-sex-appeal. Right ho! Get her in and I’ll give her her instructions. Bless you, may your shadow never grow bulkier!”

  Chapter VIII

  “BUNTER!”

  “My lord?”

  Wimsey tapped with his fingers a letter he had just received.

  “Do you feel at your brightest and most truly fascinating? Does a livelier iris, winter weather notwithstanding, shine upon the burnished Bunter? Have you got that sort of conquering feeling? The Don Juan touch, so to speak?”

  Bunter, balancing the breakfast tray on his fingers, coughed deprecatingly.

  “You have a good, upstanding, impressive figure, if I may say so,” pursued Wimsey, “a bold and roving eye when off duty, a ready tongue, Bunter—and, I am persuaded, you have a way with you. What more should any cook or house-parlourmaid want?”

  “I am always happy,” replied Bunter, “to exert myself to the best of my capacity in your lordship’s service.”

  “I am aware of it,” admitted his lordship. “Again and again I say to myself, Wimsey, this cannot last. One of these days this
worthy man will cast off the yoke of servitude and settle down in a pub or something, but nothing happens. Still, morning by morning, my coffee is brought, my bath is prepared, my razor laid out, my ties and socks sorted and my bacon and eggs brought to me in a lordly dish. No matter. This time I demand a more perilous devotion—perilous for us both, my Bunter, for if you were to be carried away a helpless martyr to matrimony, who then would bring my coffee, prepare my bath, lay out my razor and perform all those other sacrificial rites? And yet—”

  “Who is the party, my lord?”

  “There are two of them, Bunter, two ladies lived in a bower, Binnorie, O Binnorie! The parlourmaid you have seen. Her name is Hannah Westlock. A woman in her thirties, I fancy, and not ill-favoured. The other, the cook—I cannot lisp the tender syllables of her name, for I do not know it, but doubtless it is Gertrude, Cecily, Magdalen, Margaret, Rosalys or some other sweet symphonious sound—a fine woman, Bunter, on the mature side, perhaps, but none the worse for that.”

  “Certainly not, my lord. If I may say so, the woman of ripe years and queenly figure is frequently more susceptible to delicate attentions than the giddy and thoughtless young beauty.”

  “True. Let us suppose, Bunter, that you were to be the bearer of a courteous missive to one Mr. Norman Urquhart of Woburn Square. Could you, in the short space of time at your disposal, insinuate yourself, snakelike, as it were, into the bosom of the household?”

  “If you desire it, my lord, I will endeavour to insinuate myself to your lordship’s satisfaction.”

  “Noble fellow. In case of an action for breach, or any consequence of that description, the charges will, of course, be borne by the management.”

  “I am obliged to your lordship. When would your lordship wish me to commence?”

  “As soon as I have written a note to Mr. Urquhart. I will ring.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Wimsey moved over to the writing-desk. After a few moments he looked up, a little peevishly.

  “Bunter, I have a sensation of being hovered over. I do not like it. It is unusual and it unnerves me. I implore you not to hover. Is the proposition distasteful, or do you want me to get a new hat? What is troubling your conscience?”

  “I beg your lordship’s pardon. It had occurred to my mind to ask your lordship, with every respect—”

  “Oh, God, Bunter—don’t break it gently. I can’t bear it. Stab and end the creature—to the heft! What is it?”

  “I wished to ask you, my lord, whether your lordship thought of making any changes in your establishment?”

  Wimsey laid down his pen and stared at the man.

  “Changes, Bunter? When I have just so eloquently expressed to you my undying attachment to the loved routine of coffee, bath, razor, socks, eggs and bacon and the old, familiar faces? You’re not giving me warning, are you?”

  “No, indeed, my lord. I should be very sorry to leave your lordship’s service. But I had thought it possible that, if your lordship was about to contract new ties—”

  “I knew it was something in the haberdashery line! By all means, Bunter, if you think it necessary. Had you any particular pattern in mind?”

  “Your lordship misunderstands me. I referred to domestic ties, my lord. Sometimes when a gentleman reorganizes his household on a matrimonial basis, the lady may prefer to have a voice in the selection of the gentleman’s personal attendant, in which case—”

  “Bunter!” said Wimsey, considerably startled, “may I ask where you have contracted these ideas?”

  “I ventured to draw an inference, my lord.”

  “This comes of training people to be detectives. Have I been nourishing a sleuth-hound on my own hearth-stone? May I ask if you have gone so far as to give a name to the lady?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well?” said Wimsey, in a rather subdued tone, “what about it, Bunter?”

  “A very agreeable lady, if I may say so, my lord.”

  “It strikes you that way, does it? The circumstances are unusual, of course.”

  “Yes, my lord. I might perhaps make so bold as to call them romantic.”

  “You may make so bold as to call them damnable, Bunter.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Bunter, in a tone of sympathy.

  “You won’t desert the ship, Bunter?”

  “Not on any account, my lord.”

  “Then don’t come frightening me again. My nerves are not what they were. Here is the note. Take it round and do your best.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Oh, and, Bunter.”

  “My lord?”

  “It seems that I am being obvious. I have no wish to be anything of the kind. If you see me being obvious, will you drop a hint?”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Bunter faded gently out, and Wimsey stepped anxiously to the mirror.

  “I can’t see anything,” he said to himself. “No lily on my cheek with anguish moist and fever-dew. I suppose, though, it’s hopeless to try and deceive Bunter. Never mind. Business must come first. I’ve stopped one, two, three, four earths. What next? How about this fellow Vaughan?”

  * * *

  When Wimsey had any researches to do in Bohemia, it was his custom to enlist the help of Miss Marjorie Phelps. She made figurines in porcelain for a living, and was therefore usually to be found either in her studio or in some one else’s studio. A telephone-call at 10 a.m. would probably catch her scrambling eggs over her own gas-stove. It was true that there had been passages, about the time of the Bellona Club affair, between her and Lord Peter which made it a little embarrassing and unkind to bring her in on the subject of Harriet Vane, but with so little time in which to pick and choose his tools, Wimsey was past worrying about gentlemanly scruples.

  [*See The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club , (1928).]

  He put the call through and was relieved to hear an answering “Hullo!”

  “Hullo, Marjorie! This is Peter Wimsey. How goes it?”

  “Oh, fine, thanks. Glad to hear your melodious voice again. What can I do for the Lord High Investigator?”

  “Do you know one Vaughan, who is mixed up in the Philip Boyes murder mystery?”

  “Oh, Peter! Are you on to that? How gorgeous! Which side are you taking?”

  “For the defence.”

  “Hurray!”

  “Why this pomp of jubilee?”

  “Well, it’s much more exciting and difficult, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is. Do you know Miss Vane, by the way?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve seen her with the Boyes-Vaughan crowd.”

  “Like her?”

  “So-so.”

  “Like him? Boyes, I mean?”

  “Never stirred a heartbeat.”

  “I said, did you like him?”

  “One didn’t. One either fell for him or not. He wasn’t the merry bright-eyed pal of the period, you know.”

  “Oh! What’s Vaughan?”

  “Hanger-on.”

  “Oh?”

  “House-dog. Nothing must interfere with the expansion of my friend the genius. That sort.”

  “Oh!”

  “Don’t keep saying ‘Oh!’ Do you want to meet the man Vaughan?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Well, turn up to-night with a taxi and we’ll go the rounds. We’re certain to drop across him somewhere. Also the rival gang, if you want them—Harriet Vane’s supporters.”

  “Those girls who gave evidence?”

  “Yes. You’ll like Eiluned Price, I think, she scorns everything in trousers, but she’s a good friend at a pinch.”

  “I’ll come, Marjorie. Will you dine with me?”

  “Peter, I’d adore to, but I don’t think I will. I’ve got an awful lot to do.”

  “Right-ho! I’ll roll round about nine, then.”

  Accordingly, at 9 o’clock, Wimsey found himself in a taxi with Marjorie Phelps,
headed for a round of the studios.

  “I’ve been doing some intensive telephoning,” said Marjorie, “and I think we shall find him at the Kropotkys’. They are pro-Boyes, Bolshevik and musical, and their drinks are bad, but their Russian tea is safe. Does the taxi wait?”

  “Yes, it sounds as if we might want to beat a retreat.”

  “Well, it’s nice to be rich. It’s down the court here, on the right, over the Petrovitchs’ stable. Better let me grope first.”

  They stumbled up a narrow and encumbered stair, at the top of which a fine confused noise of a piano, strings and the clashing of kitchen utensils announced that some sort of entertainment was in progress.

  Marjorie hammered loudly on a door, and, without waiting for an answer, flung it open. Wimsey, entering on her heels, was struck in the face, as by an open hand, by a thick muffling wave of heat, sound, smoke and the smell of frying.

  It was a very small room, dimly lit by a single electric bulb, smothered in a lantern of painted glass, and it was packed to suffocation with people, whose silk legs, bare arms and pallid faces loomed at him like glow-worms out of the obscurity. Coiling wreaths of tobacco-smoke swam slowly to and fro in the midst. In one corner an anthracite stove, glowing red and mephitical, vied with a roaring gas-oven in another corner to raise the atmosphere to roasting-pitch. On the stove stood a vast and steaming kettle; on a side-table stood a vast and steaming samovar; over the gas, a dim figure stood turning sausages in a pan with a fork, while an assistant attended to something in the oven, which Wimsey, whose nose was selective, identified among the other fragrant elements in this compound atmosphere, and identified rightly, as kippers. At the piano, which stood just inside the door, a young man with bushy red hair was playing something of a Czecho-Slovakian flavour, to a violin obligate by an extremely loose-jointed person of indeterminate sex in a Fair-Isle jumper. Nobody looked round at their entrance. Marjorie picked her way over the scattered limbs on the floor and, selecting a lean young woman in red, bawled into her ear. The young woman nodded and beckoned to Wimsey. He negotiated a passage and was introduced to the lean woman by the simple formula: “Here’s Peter—this is Nina Kropotky.”