Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Oh! hasn’t Marjorie told you about it? The new Clinic to make everybody good by glands. That is what dear Walter is going to speak about. He is so keen and so is Naomi. It was such a joy to me when Naomi told me that they were really engaged, you know. Not that her old mother hadn’t suspected something, of course,” added Mrs. Rushworth, archly. “But young people are so odd nowadays and keep their affairs so much to themselves.”

Wimsey said that he thought both parties were heartily to be congratulated. And indeed, from what he had seen of Naomi Rushworth, he felt that she at least deserved congratulation, for she was a singularly plain girl, with a face like a weasel.

“You will excuse me if I run off and speak to some of these other people, won’t you?” went on Mrs. Rushworth. “I’m sure you will be able to amuse yourself. No doubt you have many friends in my little gathering.”

Wimsey glanced round and was about to felicitate himself on knowing nobody, when a familiar face caught his eye.

“Why,” said he, “there is Dr. Penberthy.”

“Dear Walter!” cried Mrs. Rushworth, turning hurriedly in the direction indicated. “I declare, so he is. Ah, well now we shall be able to begin. He should have been here before, but a doctor’s time is never his own.”

“Penberthy?” said Wimsey, half aloud, “good lord!”

“Very sound man,” said a voice beside him. “Don’t think the worse of his work from seeing him in this crowd. Beggars in a good cause can’t be choosers, as we parsons know too well.

Wimsey turned to face a tall, lean man, with a handsome, humorous face, whom he recognised as a well-known slum padre.

“Father Whittington, isn’t it?”

“The same. You’re Lord Peter Wimsey, I know. We’ve got an interest in crime in common, haven’t we? I’m interested in this glandular theory. It may throw a great light on some of our heartbreaking problems.”

“Glad to see there’s no antagonism between religion and science,” said Wimsey.

“Of course not. Why should there be? We are all searching for Truth.”

“And all these?” asked Wimsey, indicating the curious crowd with a wave of the hand.

“In their way. They mean well. They do what they can, like the woman in the Gospels, and they are surprisingly generous. Here’s Penberthy, looking for you, I fancy. Well, Dr. Penberthy, I’ve come, you see, to hear you make mincemeat of original sin.”

“That’s very open-minded of you,” said Penberthy, with a rather strained smile. “I hope you are not hostile. We’ve no quarrel with the Church, you know, if she’ll stick to her business and leave us to ours.”

“My dear man, if you can cure sin with an injection, I shall be only too pleased. Only be sure you don’t pump in something worse in the process. You know the parable of the swept and garnished house.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can,” said Penberthy. “Excuse me one moment. I say, Wimsey, you’ve heard all about Lubbock’s analysis, I suppose.”

“Yes. Bit of a startler, isn’t it?”

“It’s going to make things damnably awkward for me, Wimsey. I wish to God you’d given me a hint at the time. Such a thing never once occurred to me.”

“Why should it? You were expecting the old boy to pop off from heart, and he did pop off from heart. Nobody could possibly blame you.”

“Couldn’t they? That’s all you know about juries. I wouldn’t have had this happen, just at this moment, for a fortune. It couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate time.”

“It’ll blow over, Penberthy. That sort of mistake happens a hundred times a week. By the way, I gather I’m to congratulate you. When did this get settled? You’ve been very quiet about it.”

“I was starting to tell you up at that infernal exhumation business, only somebody barged in. Yes. Thanks very much. We fixed it up — oh! about a fortnight or three weeks ago. You have met Naomi?”

“Only for a moment this evening. My friend Miss Phelps carried her off to hear all about you.”

“Oh, yes. Well, you must come along and talk to her. She’s a sweet girl, and very intelligent. The old lady’s a bit of a trial, I don’t mind saying, but her heart’s in the right place. And there’s no doubt she gets hold of people whom it’s very useful to meet.”

“I didn’t know you were such an authority on glands.”

“I only wish I could afford to be. I’ve done a certain amount of experimental work under Professor Sligo. It’s the Science of the Future, as they say in the press. There really isn’t any doubt about that. It puts biology in quite a new light. We’re on the verge of some really interesting discoveries, no doubt about it. Only what with the anti-vivisectors and the parsons and the other old women, one doesn’t make the progress one ought. Oh, lord — they’re waiting for me to begin. See you later.”

“Half a jiff. I really came here — no, dash it, that’s rude! But I’d no idea you were the lecturer till I spotted you. I originally came here (that sounds better) to get a look at Miss Dorland of Fentiman fame. But my trusty guide has abandoned me. Do you know Miss Dorland? Can you tell me which she is?”

“I know her to speak to. I haven’t seen her this evening. She may not turn up, you know.”

“I thought she was very keen on — on glands and things.”

“I believe she is — or thinks she is. Anything does for these women, as long as it’s new — especially if it’s sexual. By the way, I don’t intend to be sexual.”

“Bless you for that. Well, possibly Miss Dorland will show up later.”

“Perhaps. But — I say, Wimsey. She’s in rather a queer position, isn’t she? She may not feel inclined to face it. It’s all in the papers, you know.”

“Dash it, don’t I know it? That inspired tippler, Salcombe Hardy, got hold of it somehow. I think he bribes the cemetery officials to give him advance news of exhumations. He’s worth his weight in pound notes to the Yell. Cheerio! Speak your bit nicely. You don’t mind if I’m not in the front row, do you? I always take up a strategic position near the door that leads to the grub.”

* * *

Penberthy’s paper struck Wimsey as being original and well-delivered. The subject was not altogether unfamiliar to him, for Wimsey had a number of distinguished scientific friends who found him a good listener, but some of the experiments mentioned were new and the conclusions suggestive. True to his principles, Wimsey made a bolt for the supper-room, while polite hands were still applauding. He was not the first however. A large figure in a hard-worked looking dress-suit was already engaged with a pile of savoury sandwiches and a whisky-and-soda. It turned at his approach and beamed at him from its liquid and innocent blue eyes. Sally Hardy — never quite drunk and never quite sober — was on the job, as usual. He held out the sandwich-plate invitingly.

“Damn good, these are,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you, if it comes to that?” asked Wimsey.

Hardy laid a fat hand on his sleeve.

“Two birds with one stone,” he said, impressively. “Smart fellow, that Penberthy. Glands are news, you know. He knows it. He’ll be one of these fashionable practitioners”—Sally repeated this phrase once or twice, as it seemed to have got mixed up with the soda—“before long. Doing us poor bloody journalists out of a job like… and…” (He mentioned two gentlemen whose signed contributions to popular dailies were a continual source of annoyance to the G.M.C.)

“Provided he doesn’t damage his reputation over this Fentiman affair,” rejoined Wimsey, in a refined shriek which did duty for a whisper amid the noisy stampede which had followed them up to the refreshment-table.