Have His Carcase

She escorted her visitor to the door, and then returned to an armchair and a thoughtful cigarette. Was the imminent prospect of matrimony with Mrs Weldon a sufficient motive for suicide? She was inclined to think not. One can always take flight from these things. But with temperamental people, of course, you never can tell.

Chapter VI. The Evidence Of The First Barber

‘Old, benevolent man.’

— The Second Brother

Friday, 19 June — Afternoon and evening

‘CAN you tell me,’ inquired Lord Peter, ‘what has become of old Mr Endicott these days?’

The manager of the ham-shop, who liked to attend personally to distinguished customers, arrested his skewer in the very act of. thrusting it into the interior of a ham.

‘Oh, yes, my lord. He has a house at Ealing. He occasionally looks in here for a jar of our Gentleman’s Special Pickle.: A very remarkable old gentleman, Mr Endicott.’

‘Yes, indeed. I hadn’t seen him about lately. I was afraid perhaps something had happened to him.’

‘Oh, dear no, my lord. He keeps his health wonderfully. He has taken up golf at seventy-six and collects papier-mache articles. Nothing’ like an interest in life, he says, to keep you hearty.’

‘Very true,’ replied Wimsey. ‘I must run out and see him some time. What is his address?’

The manager gave the information, and then, returning to the matter in hand, plunged the skewer into the ham close to the bone, twirled it expertly and, withdrawing it, presented it politely by the handle. Wimsey sniffed it gravely, said ‘Ah!’ with appropriate relish, and pronounced a solemn benediction upon the ham.

‘Thank you, my lord. I think you will find it very tasty. Shall I send it?’

‘I will take it with me.’

The manager waved forward an attendant, who swathed the article impressively in various layers of grease-proof paper, white paper and brown paper, corded it up with best quality string, worked the free end of the string into an ingenious handle and stood, dandling the parcel, like a nurse with a swaddled princeling.

‘My car is outside,’ said Wimsey. The assistant beamed gratification. A little ritual procession streamed out into Jermyn Street, comprising: The Assistant, carrying the ham, Lord Peter, drawing on his driving-gloves; the Manager, murmuring a ceremonial formula; the Second Assistant, opening the door and emerging from behind it to bow upon the threshold; and eventually the car glided away amid the reverent murmurings of a congregation of persons gathered in the street to admire its stream-lining and dispute about the number of its cylinders.

Mr Endicott’s house at Ealing was easily found. The owner was at home, and the presentation of the ham and reciprocal offer of a glass of old sherry proceeded with the cheerful dignity suitable to an exchange of gifts among equal, but friendly potentates. Lord Peter inspected the collection of papier-mache trays, conversed agreeably about golf — handicaps; and then, without unseemly haste, opened up the subject of his inquiry,

‘I’ve just come across one of your razors, Endicott, in rather peculiar circumstances. I wonder if you could tell me anything about it?’

Mr Endicott, with a gracious smile upon his rosy countenance, poured out another glass of the sherry and said he would be happy to assist if he could.

Wimsey described the make and appearance of the razor, and asked if it would be possible to trace the buyer.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Endicott. ‘With an ivory handle, you say. Well, now, it’s rather fortunate it should be one of that lot, because we only had the three dozen of them, most of our customers preferring black handles. Yes; I can tell you a bit about them. That particular razor came in during the War—1916, I think it was. It wasn’t too easy to get a first-class blade just then, but these were very good. Still, the white handle was against them, and I remember we were glad when we were able to send off a dozen of them to an old customer in Bombay. Captain Francis Egerton, that was. He asked us to send some out for himself and friends. That would be in 1920.’

‘Bombay? That’s a bit far off. But you never know. How about the rest?’

Mr Endicott, who seemed to have a memory like an encyclopaedia, plunged his thoughts into the past. and said: