Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Right. Means: No. 1, Dr. Penberthy. Opportunity: No. 1, Dr. Penberthy, No. 2, Miss Dorland. We’ll have to put in the servants at Lady Dormer’s too, shan’t we? Any of them who brought him food or drink, at any rate.”

“Put ’em in, by all means. They might have been in collusion with Miss Dorland. And how about Lady Dormer herself?”

“Oh, come, Peter. There wouldn’t be any sense in that.”

“Why not? She may have been planning revenge on her brother all these years, camouflaging her feelings under a pretence of generosity. It would be rather fun to leave a terrific legacy to somebody you loathed, and then, just when he was feelin’ nice and grateful and all over coals of fire, poison him to make sure he didn’t get it. We simply must have Lady Dormer. Stick her down under Opportunity and under Motive.”

“I refuse to do more than Opportunity and Motive (query?).”

“Have it your own way. Well, now — there are our friends the two taxi-drivers.”

“I don’t think you can be allowed those. It would be awfully hard work poisoning a fare, you know.”

“I’m afraid it would. I say! I’ve just got a rippin’ idea for poisoning a taxi-man, though. You give him a dud half-crown, and when he bites it—”

“He dies of lead poisoning. That one’s got whiskers on it.”

“Juggins. You poison the half-crown with Prussic acid.”

“Splendid! And he falls down foaming at the mouth. That’s frightfully brilliant Do you mind giving your attention to the matter in hand?”

“You think we can leave out the taxi-drivers, then?”

“I think so.”

“Right-oh! I’ll let you have them. That brings us, I’m sorry to say, to George Fentiman.”

“You’ve got rather a weakness for George Fentiman, haven’t you?”

“Yes — I like old George. He’s an awful pig in some ways, but I quite like him.”

“Well, I don’t know George, so I shall firmly put him down. Opportunity No. 3, he is.”

“He’ll have to go down under Motive, too, then.”

“Why? What did he stand to gain by Miss Dorland’s getting the legacy?”

“Nothing — if he knew about it. But Robert says emphatically that he didn’t know. So does George. And if he didn’t, don’t you see, the General’s death meant that he would immediately step into that two thousand quid which Dougal MacStewart was being so pressing about.”

“MacStewart? — oh, yes — the moneylender. That’s one up to you, Peter; I’d forgotten him. That certainly does put George on the list of the possibles. He was pretty sore about things too, wasn’t he?”

“Very. And I remember his saying one rather unguarded thing at least down at the Club on the very day the murder — or rather, the death — was discovered.”

“That’s in his favour, if anything,” said Parker, cheerfully, “unless he’s very reckless indeed.”

“It won’t be in his favour with the police,” grumbled Wimsey.

“My dear man!”

“I beg your pardon. I was forgetting for the moment. I’m afraid you are getting a little above your job, Charles. So much diligence will spell either a Chief-Commissionership or ostracism if you aren’t careful.”

“I’ll chance that. Come on — get on with it. Who else is there?”

“There’s Woodward. Nobody could have a better opportunity of tampering with the General’s pillboxes.”

“And I suppose his little legacy might have been a motive.”

“Or he may have been in the enemy’s pay. Sinister men-servants so often are you know. Look what a boom there has been lately in criminal butlers and thefts by perfect servants.”

“That’s a fact. And now, how about the people at the Bellona?”

“There’s Wetheridge. He’s a disagreeable devil. And he has always cast covetous eyes at the General’s chair by the fire. I’ve seen him.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

“I’m perfectly serious. I don’t like Wetheridge. He annoys me. And then we mustn’t forget to put down Robert.”

“Robert? Why he’s the one person we can definitely cross off. He knew it was to his interest to keep the old man alive. Look at the pains he took to cover up the death.”

“Exactly. He is the Most Unlikely Person, and that is why Sherlock Holmes would suspect him at once. He was, by his own admission, the last person to see General Fentiman alive. Suppose he had a row with the old man and killed him, and then discovered, afterwards, about the legacy.”

“You’re scintillating with good plots today, Peter. If they’d quarrelled, he might possibly have knocked his grandfather down — though I don’t think he’d do such a rotten and unsportsmanlike thing but he surely wouldn’t have poisoned him.”

Wimsey sighed.

“There’s something in what you say,” he admitted. “Still, you never know. Now then, is there any name we’ve thought of which appears in all three columns of our list?”

“No, not one. But several appear in two.”

“We’d better start on those, then. Miss Dorland is the most obvious, naturally, and after her, George, don’t you think?”

“Yes. I’ll have a round-up among all the chemists who may possibly have supplied her with digitalin. Who’s her family doctor?

“Dunno. That’s your pigeon. By the way, I’m supposed to be meeting the girl at a cocoa-party or something of the sort to-morrow. Don’t pinch her before then if you can help it.”

“No; but it looks to me as though we might need to put a few questions. And I’d like to have a look round Lady Dormer’s house.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t be flatfooted about it, Charles. Use tact.”

“You can trust your father. And, I say, you might take me down to the Bellona in a tactful way. I’d like to ask a question or two there.”

Wimsey groaned.

“I shall be asked to resign if this goes on. Not that it’s much loss. But it would please Wetheridge so much to see the back of me. Never mind. I’ll make a Martha of myself. Come on.”

The entrance of the Bellona Club was filled with an unseemly confusion. Culyer was arguing heatedly with a number of men and three or four members of the committee stood beside him with brows as black as thunder. As Wimsey entered, one of the intruders caught sight of him with a yelp of joy.

“Wimsey — Wimsey, old man! Here, be a sport and get us in on this. We’ve got to have the story some day. You probably know all about it, you old blighter.”

It was Salcombe Hardy of the Daily Yell, large and untidy and slightly drunk as usual. He gazed at Wimsey with childlike blue eyes. Barton of the Banner, red-haired and pugnacious, faced round promptly.

“Ah, Wimsey, that’s fine. Give us a line on this, can’t you? Do explain that if we get a story we’ll be good and go.”

“Good lord,” said Wimsey, “how do these things get into the papers?”

“I think it’s rather obvious,” said Culyer, acidly.

“It wasn’t me,” said Wimsey.

“No, no,” put in Hardy. “You mustn’t think that. It was my stunt. In fact, I saw the whole show up at the Necropolis. I was on a family vault, pretending to be a recording angel.”

“You would be,” said Wimsey. “Just a moment, Culyer.” He drew the secretary aside. “See here, I’m damned annoyed about this, but it can’t be helped. You can’t stop these boys when they’re after a story. And, anyway, it’s all got to come out. It’s a police affair now. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard.”

“But what’s the matter?” demanded Culyer.

“Murder’s the matter, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, hell!”

“Sorry and all that. But you’d better grin and bear it. Charles, give these fellows as much story as you think they ought to have and get on with it. And, Salcombe, if you’ll call off your tripe-hounds, we’ll let you have an interview and a set of photographs.”