In the Teeth of the Evidence
Dorothy L. Sayers
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 1939 by Victor Gollancz Ltd
First published in paperback by New English Library in 1969
An imprint of Hodder and Stoughton
An Hachette Livre UK company
Introduction © Susan Elizabeth George 2003
The right of Dorothy L. Sayers to be identified as the Author
of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher,
nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 9781848943759
Book ISBN 9780450002489
Hodder and Stoughton
An Hachettte Livre UK company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
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CONTENTS
Introduction
In the Teeth of the Evidence
Absolutely Elsewhere
A Shot at Goal
Dirt Cheap
Bitter Almonds
False Weight
The Professor’s Manuscript
The Milk-Bottles
Dilemma
An Arrow O’er the House
Scrawns
Nebuchadnezzar
The Inspiration of Mr Budd
Blood Sacrifice
Suspicion
The Leopard Lady
The Cyprian Cat
INTRODUCTION
I came to the wonderful detective novels of Dorothy L. Sayers in a way that would probably make that distinguished novelist spin in her grave. Years ago, actor Ian Carmichael starred in the film productions of a good chunk of them, which I eventually saw on my public television station in Huntington Beach, California. I recall the host of the show reciting the impressive, salient details of Sayers’ life and career – early female graduate of Oxford, translator of Dante, among other things – and I was much impressed. But I was even more impressed with her delightful sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey, and I soon sought out her novels.
Because I had never been – and still am not today – a great reader of detective fiction, I had not heard of this marvellous character. I quickly became swept up in everything about him: from his foppish use of language to his family relations. In very short order, I found myself thoroughly attached to Wimsey, to his calm and omnipresent manservant Bunter, to the Dowager Duchess of Denver (was over there a more deliciously alliterative title?), to the stuffy Duke and the unbearable Duchess of Denver, to Viscount St. George, to Charles Parker, to Lady Mary. . . . In Dorothy L. Sayers’ novels, I found the sort of main character I loved when I turned to fiction: someone with a ‘real’ life, someone who wasn’t just a hero who conveniently had no relations to mess up the workings of the novelist’s plot.
Dorothy L. Sayers, as I discovered, had much to teach me both as a reader and as a future novelist. While many detective novelists from the Golden Age of mystery kept their plots pared down to the requisite crime, suspects, clues, and red herrings, Sayers did not limit herself to so limited a canvas in her work. She saw the crime and its ensuing investigation as merely the framework for a much larger story, the skeleton – if you will – upon which she could hang the muscles, organs, blood vessels and physical features of a much larger tale. She wrote what I like to call the tapestry novel, a book in which the setting is realised (from Oxford, to the dramatic coast of Devon, to the flat bleakness of the Fens), in which throughout both the plot and the subplots the characters serve functions surpassing that of mere actors on the stage of the criminal investigation, in which themes are explored, in which life and literary symbols are used, in which allusions to other literature abound. Sayers, in short, did what I call ‘taking no prisoners’ in her approach to the detective novel. She did not write down to her readers; rather, she assumed that her readers would rise to her expectations of them.
I found in her novels a richness that I had not previously seen in detective fiction. I became absorbed in the careful application of detail that characterized her plots: whether she was educating me about bell ringing in The Nine Tailors, about the unusual uses of arsenic in Strong Poison, about the beauties of architectural Oxford in Gaudy Night. She wrote about everything from cryptology to vinology, making unforgettable that madcap period between wars that marked the death of an overt class system and heralded the beginning of an insidious one.
What continues to be remarkable about Sayers’ work, however, is her willingness to explore the human condition. The passions felt by characters created eighty years ago are as real today as they were then. The motives behind people’s behavior are no more complex now than they were in 1923 when Lord Peter Wimsey took his first public bow. Times have changed, rendering Sayers’ England in so many ways unrecognizable to today’s reader. But one of the true pleasures inherent to picking up a Sayers novel now is to see how the times in which we live alter our perceptions of the world around us, while doing nothing at all to alter the core of our humanity.
When I first began my own career as a crime novelist, I told people that I would rest content if my name was ever mentioned positively in the same sentence as that of Dorothy L. Sayers. I’m pleased to say that that occurred with the publication of my first novel. If I ever come close to offering the reader the details and delights that Sayers offered in her Wimsey novels, I shall consider myself a success indeed.
The reissuing of a Sayers novel is an event, to be sure. As successive generations of readers welcome her into their lives, they embark upon an unforgettable journey with an even more unforgettable companion. In time of dire and immediate trouble, one might well call upon a Sherlock Holmes for a quick solution to one’s trials. But for the balm that reassures one about surviving the vicissitudes of life, one could do no better than to anchor onto a Lord Peter Wimsey.
Elizabeth George
Huntington Beach, California
May 27, 2003
IN THE TEETH OF THE EVIDENCE
A Lord Peter Wimsey Story
‘Well, old son,’ said Mr Lamplough, ‘and what can we do for you today?’
‘Oh, some of your whizz-bang business, I suppose,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, seating himself resentfully in the green velvet torture-chair and making a face in the direction of the drill, ‘Jolly old left-hand upper grinder come to bits on me. I was only eating an omelette, too. Can’t understand why they always pick these moments. If I’d been cracking nuts or chewing peppermint jumbles I could understand it.’
‘Yes?’ said Mr Lamplough, soothingly. He drew an electric bulb, complete with mirror, as though by magic out of a kind of Maskelyne-and-Devant contraption on Lord Peter’s left; a trail of flex followed it, issuing apparently from the bowels of the earth. ‘Any pain?’
‘No pain,’ said Wimsey irritably, ‘unless you count a sharp edge fit to saw your tongue off. Point is, why should it go pop like that? I wasn’t doing anything to it.’
‘No?’ said Mr Lamplough, his manner hovering between the professio
nal and the friendly, for he was an old Winchester man and a member of one of Wimsey’s clubs, and had frequently met him on the cricket-field in the days of their youth. ‘Well, if you’ll stop talking half a moment, we’ll have a look at it. Ah!’
‘Don’t say “Ah!” like that, as if you’d found pyorrhoea and necrosis of the jaw and were gloating over it, you damned old ghoul. Just carve it out and stop it up and be hanged to you. And, by the way, what have you been up to? Why should I meet an inspector of police on your doorstep? You needn’t pretend he came to have his bridge-work attended to, because I saw his sergeant waiting for him outside.’
‘Well, it was rather curious,’ said Mr Lamplough, dexterously gagging his friend with one hand and dabbing cotton-wool into the offending cavity with the other. ‘I suppose I oughtn’t to tell you, but if I don’t, you’ll get it all out of your friends at Scotland Yard. They wanted to see my predecessor’s books. Possibly you noticed that bit in the papers about a dental man being found dead in a blazing garage on Wimbledon Common?’
‘Yonk – ugh?’ said Lord Peter Wimsey.
‘Last night,’ said Mr Lamplough. ‘Pooped off about nine pipemma, and it took them three hours to put it out. One of those wooden garages – and the big job was to keep the blaze away from the house. Fortunately it’s at the end of the row, with nobody at home. Apparently this man Prendergast was all alone there – just going off for a holiday or something – and he contrived to set himself and his car and his garage alight last night and was burnt to death. In fact, when they found him, he was so badly charred that they couldn’t be sure it was he. So, being sticklers for routine, they had a look at his teeth.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Wimsey, watching Mr Lamplough fitting a new drill into its socket. ‘Didn’t anybody have a go at putting the fire out?’
‘Oh, yes – but as it was a wooden shed, full of petrol, it simply went up like a bonfire. Just a little bit over this way, please. That’s splendid.’ Gr-r-r, whizz, gr-r-r. ‘As a matter of fact, they seem to think it might just possibly be suicide. The man’s married, with three children, and immured and all that sort of thing.’ Whizz, gr-r-r, buzz, gr-r-r, whizz. ‘His family’s down at Worthing, staying with his mother-in-law or something. Tell me if I hurt you.’ Gr-r-r, ‘And I don’t suppose he was doing any too well. Still, of course, he may easily have had an accident when filling up. I gather he was starting off that night to join them.’
‘A – ow – oo – oo – uh – ihi – ih?' inquired Wimsey naturally enough.
‘How do I come into it?’ said Mr Lamplough, who, from long experience was expert in the interpretation of mumblings. ‘Well, only because the chap whose practice I took over here did this fellow Prendergast’s dental work for him.’ Whizz. ‘He died, but left his books behind him for my guidance, in case any of his old patients should feel inclined to trust me.’ Gr-r-r, whizz. ‘I’m sorry. Did you feel that? As a matter of fact, some of them actually do. I suppose it’s an instinct to trundle round to the same old place when you’re in pain, like the dying elephants. Will you rinse, please?’
‘I see,’ said Wimsey, when he had finished washing out chips of himself and exploring his ravaged molar with his tongue. ‘How odd it is that these cavities always seem so large. I feel as if I could put my head into this one. Still, I suppose you know what you’re about. And are Prendergast’s teeth all right?’
‘Haven’t had time to hunt through the ledger, yet, but I’ve said I’ll go down and have a look at them as soon as I’ve finished with you. It’s my lunch-time anyway, and my two o’clock patient isn’t coming, thank goodness. She usually brings five spoilt children, and they all want to sit round and watch, and play with the apparatus. One of them got loose last time and tried to electrocute itself on the X-ray plant next door. And she thinks that children should be done at half-price. A little wider if you can manage it.’ Gr-r-r. ‘Yes, that’s very nice. Now we can dress that and put in a temporary. Rinse please.’
‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘and for goodness’ sake make it firm and not too much of your foul oil of cloves. I don’t want bits to come out in the middle of dinner. You can’t imagine the nastiness of caviar flavoured with cloves.’
‘No?’ said Mr Lamplough. ‘You may find this a little cold.’ Squirt, swish. ‘Rinse, please. You may notice it when the dressing goes in. Oh, you did notice it? Good. That shows that the nerve’s all right. Only a little longer now. There! Yes, you may get down now. Another rinse? Certainly. When would you like to come in again?’
‘Don’t be silly, old horse,’ said Wimsey. ‘I am coming out to Wimbledon with you straight away. You’ll get there twice as fast if I drive you. I’ve never had a corpse-in-blazing-garage before, and I want to learn.’
There is nothing really attractive about corpses in blazing garages. Even Wimsey’s war experience did not quite reconcile him to the object that lay on the mortuary slab in the police station. Charred out of all resemblance to humanity, it turned even the police surgeon pale, while Mr Lamplough was so overcome that he had to lay down the books he had brought with him and retire into the open to recover himself. Meanwhile Wimsey, having put himself on terms of mutual confidence and esteem with the police officials, thoughtfully turned over the little pile of blackened odds and ends that represented the contents of Mr Prendergast’s pockets. There was nothing remarkable about them. The leather note-case still held the remains of a thickish wad of notes – doubtless cash in hand for the holiday at Worthing. The handsome gold watch (obviously a presentation) had stopped at seven minutes past nine. Wimsey remarked on its good state of preservation. Sheltered between the left arm and the body – that seemed to be the explanation.
‘Looks as though the first sudden blaze had regularly overcome him,’ said the police inspector. ‘He evidently made no attempt to get out. He’d simply fallen forward over the wheel, with his head on the dashboard. That’s why the face is so disfigured. I’ll show you the remains of the car presently if you’re interested, my lord. If the other gentleman’s feeling better we may as well take the body first.’
Taking the body was a long and unpleasant job. Mr Lamplough, nerving himself with an effort and producing a pair of forceps and a probe, went gingerly over the jaws – reduced almost to their bony structure by the furnace heat to which they had been exposed – while the police surgeon checked entries in the ledger. Mr Prendergast had a dental history extending back over ten years in the ledger and had already had two or three fillings done before that time. These had been noted at the time when he first came to Mr Lamplough’s predecessor.
At the end of a long examination, the surgeon looked up from the notes he had been making.
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘let’s check that again. Allowing for renewal of old work, I think we’ve got a pretty accurate picture of the present state of his mouth. There ought to be nine fillings in all. Small amalgam filling in right lower back wisdom tooth; big amalgam ditto in right lower back molar; amalgam fillings in right upper first and second bicuspids at point of contact; right upper incisor crowned – that all right?’
‘I expect so,’ said Mr Lamplough, ‘except that the right upper incisor seems to be missing altogether, but possibly the crown came loose and fell out.’ He probed delicately. ‘The jaw is very brittle – I can’t make anything of the canal – but there’s nothing against it.’
‘We may find the crown in the garage,’ suggested the Inspector.
‘Fused porcelain filling in left upper canine,’ went on the surgeon; ‘amalgam fillings in left upper first bicuspid and lower second bicuspid and left lower thirteen-year-old molar. That seems to be all. No teeth missing and no artificials. How old was this man, Inspector?’
‘About forty-five, Doc.’
‘My age. I only wish I had as good a set of teeth,’ said the surgeon. Mr Lamplough agreed with him.
‘Then I take it, this is Mr Prendergast all right,’ said the Inspector.
‘Not a doubt of it, I should say
,’ replied Mr Lamplough; ‘though I should like to find that missing crown.’
‘We’d better go round to the house, then,’ said the Inspector. ‘Well, yes, thank you, my lord, I shouldn’t mind a lift in that. Some car. Well, the only point now is, whether it was accident or suicide. Round to the right, my lord, and then second on the left – I’ll tell you as we go.’
‘A bit out of the way for a dental man,’ observed Mr Lamplough, as they emerged upon some scattered houses near the Common.
The Inspector made a grimace.
‘I thought the same, sir, but it appears Mrs Prendergast persuaded him to come here. So good for the children. Not so good for the practice, though. If you ask me, I should say Mrs P. was the biggest argument we have for suicide. Here we are.’
The last sentence was scarcely necessary. There was a little crowd about the gate of a small detached villa at the end of a row of similar houses. From a pile of dismal debris in the garden a smell of burning still rose, disgustingly. The Inspector pushed through the gate with his companions, pursued by the comments of the bystanders.
‘That’s the Inspector . . . that’s Dr Maggs . . . that’ll be another doctor, him with the little bag . . . who’s the bloke in the eye-glass? . . . Looks a proper nobleman, don’t he, Florrie? . . . Why he’ll be the insurance bloke . . . Coo! look at his grand car . . . that’s where the money goes . . . That’s a Rolls, that is . . . no, silly, it’s a Daimler . . . Ow, well, it’s all advertisement these days.’
Wimsey giggled indecorously all the way up the garden path. The sight of the skeleton car amid the sodden and fire-blackened remains of the garage sobered him. Two police constables, crouched over the ruin with a sieve, stood up and saluted.
‘How are you getting on, Jenkins?’
‘Haven’t got anything very much yet, sir, bar an ivory cigarette-holder. This gentleman’ – indicating a stout, bald man in spectacles, who was squatting among the damaged coachwork – ‘is Mr Tolley, from the motor-works, come with a note from the Superintendent, sir.’