Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“But I thought you were so sure?”

“So I was. But — this is preposterous, Wimsey! Besides, think what a scandal it would make!”

“Why should it? You are the executor. You can make a private application and the whole thing can be done quite privately.”

“Yes, but surely the Home Office would never consent, on such flimsy grounds.”

“I’ll see that they do. They’ll know I wouldn’t be keen on anything flimsy. Little bits of fluff were never in my line.”

“Oh, do be serious. What reason can we give?”

“Quite apart from Oliver, we can give a very good one. We can say that we want to examine the contents of the viscera to see how soon the General died after taking his last meal. That might be of great assistance in solving the question of the survivorship. And the law, generally speaking, is nuts on what they call the orderly devolution of property.”

“Hold on! D’you mean to say you can tell when a bloke died just by looking inside his tummy?”

“Not exactly, of course. But one might get an idea. If we found, that is, that he’d only that moment swallowed his brekker, it would show that he’d died not very long after arriving at the Club.”

“Good lord! — that would be a poor look-out for me.”

“It might be the other way, you know.”

“I don’t like it, Wimsey. It’s very unpleasant. I wish to goodness we could compromise on it.”

“But the lady in the case won’t compromise. You know that. We’ve got to get at the facts somehow. I shall certainly get Murbles to suggest the exhumation to Pritchard.”

“Oh, lord! What’ll he do?”

“Pritchard? If he’s an honest man and his client’s an honest woman, they’ll support the application. If they don’t, I shall fancy they’ve something to conceal.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re a low-down lot. But they can’t do anything without my consent, can they?”

“Not exactly — at least, not without a lot of trouble and publicity. But if you’re an honest man, you’ll give your consent. You’ve nothing to conceal, I suppose?”

“Of course not. Still, it seems rather—”

“They suspect us already of some kind of dirty work,” persisted Wimsey. “That brute Pritchard as good as told me so. I’m expecting every day to hear that he has suggested exhumation off his own bat. I’d rather we got in first with it.”

“If that’s the case, I suppose we must do it. But I can’t believe it’ll do a bit of good, and it’s sure to get round and make an upheaval. Isn’t there some other way — you’re so darned clever—”

“Look here, Fentiman. Do you want to get at the facts? Or are you out to collar the cash by hook or by crook? You may as well tell me frankly which it is.”

“Of course I want to get at the facts.”

“Very well; I’ve told you the next step to take.”

“Damn it all,” said Fentiman, discontentedly; “I suppose it’ll have to be done, then. But I don’t know whom to apply to or how to do it.”

“Sit down, then, and I’ll dictate the letter for you.”

From this there was no escape, and Robert Fentiman did as he was told, grumbling.

“There’s George. I ought to consult him.”

“It doesn’t concern George, except indirectly. That’s right. Now write to Murbles, telling him what you’re doing and instructing him to let the other party know.”

“Oughtn’t we to consult about the whole thing with Murbles first?”

“I’ve already consulted Murbles, and he agrees it’s the thing to do.”

“These fellows would agree to anything that means fees and trouble.”

“Just so. Still, solicitors are necessary evils. Is that finished?”

“Yes.”

“Give the letters to me; I’ll see they’re posted. Now you needn’t worry any more about it. Murbles and I will see to it all, and the detective-wallah is looking after Oliver all right, so you can run away and play.”

“You—”

“I’m sure you’re going to say how good it is of me to take all this trouble. Delighted, I’m sure. It’s of no consequence. A pleasure, in fact. Have a drink.”

The disconcerted major refused the drink rather shortly and prepared to depart.

“You mustn’t think I’m not grateful, Wimsey, and all that. But it is rather unseemly.”

“With all your experience,” said Wimsey, “you oughtn’t to be so sensitive about corpses. We’ve seen many things much unseemlier than a nice, quiet little resurrection in a respectable cemetery.”

“Oh, I don’t care twopence about the corpse,” retorted the Major, “but the thing doesn’t look well. That’s all.”

“Think of the money,” grinned Wimsey, shutting the door of the flat upon him.

He returned to the library, balancing the two letters in his hand. “There’s many a man now walking the streets of London,” said he, “through not clearing trumps. Take these letters to the post, Bunter. And Mr. Parker will be dining here with me this evening. We will have a perdrix aux choux and a savoury to follow, and you can bring up two bottles of the Chambertin.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Wimsey’s next proceeding was to write a little confidential note to an official whom he knew very well at the Home Office. This done, he returned to the telephone and asked for Penberthy’s number.

“That you, Penberthy?… Wimsey speaking… Look here, old man, you know that Fentiman business?… Yes, well, we’re applying for an exhumation.”

“For a what? ”

“An exhumation. Nothing to do with your certificate. We know that’s all right. It’s just by way of getting a bit more information about when the beggar died.”

He outlined his suggestion.

“Think there’s something in it?”

“There might be, of course.”

“Glad to hear you say that. I’m a layman in these matters, but it occurred to me as a good idea.”

“Very ingenious.”

“I always was a bright lad. You’ll have to be present, of course.”

“Am I to do the autopsy?”

“If you like. Lubbock will do the analysis.”

“Analysis of what?”

“Contents of the doings. Whether he had kidneys on toast or eggs and bacon and all that.”

“Oh, I see. I doubt if you’ll get much from that, after all this time.”

“Possibly not, but Lubbock had better have a squint at it.”

“Yes, certainly. As I gave the certificate, it’s better that my findings should be checked by somebody.”

“Exactly. I knew you’d feel that way. You quite understand about it?”

“Perfectly. Of course, if we’d had any idea there was going to be all this uncertainty, I’d have made a post-mortem at the time.”

“Naturally you would. Well, it can’t be helped. All in the day’s work. I’ll let you know when it’s to be. I suppose the Home Office will send somebody along. I thought I ought just to let you know about it.”

“Very good of you. Yes. I’m glad to know. Hope nothing unpleasant will come out.”

“Thinking of your certificate?”

“Oh, well — no — I’m not worrying much about that. Though you never know, of course. I was thinking of that rigor, you know. Seen Captain Fentiman lately?”

“Yes. I didn’t mention—”

“No. Better not, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Well, I’ll hear from you later, then?”

“That’s the idea. Good-bye.”

That day was a day of incident.

About four o’clock a messenger arrived, panting, from Mr. Murbles. (Mr. Murbles refused to have his chambers desecrated by a telephone.) Mr. Murbles’ compliments, and would Lord Peter be good enough to read this note and let Mr. Murbles have an immediate answer.