Have His Carcase

‘Why not? Now is his time. Alexis is disposed of and he sees his opportunity. Now that he had nothing to lose by it, he can afford to come along and be frightfully sympathetic and help to investigate things and be filial and affectionate and so on.’

‘Then why is he trying to drive me out of the place?’

‘You?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Weldon went out of his way in the bar this evening to be as offensive as he possibly could, without using actual violence or bad language. He informed me, in an indirect but unmistakable manner, that I was poking my nose in where I was not wanted, exploiting his mother for my private ends and probably sucking up to her for her money. In fact, he drove me to the indescribable vulgarity of reminding him who I was and why I did not require anybody’s money.’

‘Why didn’t you sock him one over the jaw?’

‘It was a temptation. I felt that you would love me better if I did. But you would not, in your calmer moments, really wish me to put my love before my detective principles.’

‘Certainly not, But what’s his idea?’

‘Oh, that’s clear enough. He made it very clear. He wants it to be understood that this detecting business is to stop, and that Mrs Weldon is to be restrained from lavishing time and money in pursuit of non-existent Bolsheviks.’

‘I can understand that. He’s looking to inherit the money.’

‘Of course. But if I were to go and tell Mrs Weldon the things he’s been saying to me, she’d probably disinherit him.

And where would be the use of all this display of sympathy then?’

‘I knew he was a stupid man.’

‘He evidently thinks it very important to stop all these inquiries. So much so that he’s prepared, not only to risk my splitting on him, but also to spend an indefinite time here hanging round his mother to see that she doesn’t make inquiries on her own.’

‘Well, I daresay he has nothing else to do.’

‘Nothing else to do? My dear girl, he’s a farmer.’

‘Well?’

‘And this is June.’

‘What about it?’

‘Why isn’t he attending to his hay-making?’

‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘About the last weeks of the year that any decent farmer would be willing to waste are the weeks from hay to harvest. I can understand his running over for a day, but he seems to be prepared to make a session of it. This Alexis business has become so important that he’s ready to chuck everything, come down to a place he detests and hang about interminably in an hotel in attendance on a mother with whom he has never had very much in common. I think it’s funny.’

‘Yes, it is rather funny.’

‘Has he ever been here before?’

‘No. I asked him when we met. It’s the kind of thing one does ask people. He said he ‘hadn’t. I expect he kept away while all the Alexis business was going on — he’d hate it.’

‘And content himself with forbidding the banns at a distance?’

‘Yes — though it doesn’t seem the most effective way.’

‘No? But the banns have been fairly effectively forbidden,

haven’t they?’

‘Yes. But — are you casting Henry for the part of the murderer?’

‘I should like to. But I don’t feel I can, somehow.! ‘No?’

‘No. That’s why I wanted to find out whether you thought, Henry was subtle. You don’t, and I agree with you. I don’t think Henry has the brains to have murdered Paul Alexis.’

Chapter XIII. Evidence Of Trouble Somewhere

‘Fool, would thy virtue shame and crush me down;

And make a grateful blushing bond-slave of me?’

— Death’s Jest-Book

Tuesday 23 June

Loan PETER WIMSEY, reading his Morning Star over the eggs and bacon, felt better than he had done for some weeks. The Morning Star had come up’ to scratch nobly, and was offering £100, reward for information about the razor that had slain Paul Alexis. Bunter, returning from his fruitless journey to Eastbourne, had come on to join his master at Wilvercombe, bringing with him a fresh supply of shirts, collars, and, other; garments. Harriet Vane had danced with Lord Peter in a wine-coloured frock. Wimsey considered, rightly, that when, a woman takes a man’s advice about the purchase of clothes, it is a sign that she is not indifferent to his opinion. Various women, at various times and in various quarters of the globe, had clothed themselves by Wimsey’s advice and: sometimes also at his expense — but then, he had fully expected them to do so. He had not expected it of Harriet, and was as disproportionately surprised and pleased as if he had picked up a sovereign in the streets of Aberdeen. Like all male creatures, Wimsey was a simple soul at bottom.