Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Ah! there you are,” said Hardy. “Penberthy’s news in himself. He’s a story, don’t you see. We’ll have to sit on the fence a bit, of course, till we see which way the cat jumps. I’ll have a par. about it at the end, mentioning that he attended old Fentiman. Presently we’ll be able to work up a little thing on the magazine page about the advisability of a p.m. in all cases of sudden death. You know — even experienced doctors may be deceived. If he comes off very badly in cross-examination, there can be something about specialists not always being trustworthy — a kind word for the poor down-trodden G.P. and all that. Anyhow, he’s worth a story. It doesn’t matter what you say about him, provided you say something. You couldn’t do us a little thing — about eight hundred words, could you — about rigor mortis or something? Only make it snappy.”

“I could not,” said Wimsey. “I haven’t time and I don’t want the money. Why should I? I’m not a dean or an actress.”

“No, but you’re news. You can give me the money, if you’re so beastly flush. Look here, have you got a line on this case at all? That police friend of yours won’t give anything away. I want to get something in before there’s an arrest, because after that it’s contempt. I suppose it’s the girl you’re after, isn’t it? Can you tell me anything about her?”

“No — I came here to-night to get a look at her, but she hasn’t turned up. I wish you could dig up her hideous past for me. The Rushworths must know something about her, I should think. She used to paint or something. Can’t you get on to that?”

Hardy’s face lighted up.

“Waffles Newton will probably know something,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig out. Thanks very much, old man. That’s given me an idea. We might get one of her pictures on the back pages. The old lady seems to have been a queer old soul. Odd will, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I can tell you all about that,” said Wimsey. “I thought you probably knew.”

He gave Hardy the history of Lady Dormer as he had heard it from Mr. Murbles. The journalist was enthralled.

“Great stuff!” he said. “That’ll get ’em. Romance there! This’ll be a scoop for the Yell. Excuse me. I want to ’phone it through to ’em before somebody else gets it. Don’t hand it out to any of the other fellows.”

“They can get it from Robert or George Fentiman,” warned Wimsey.

“Not much, they won’t,” said Salcombe Hardy, feelingly. “Robert Fentiman gave old Barton of the Banner such a clip under the ear this morning that he had to go and see a dentist. And George has gone down to the Bellona, and they won’t let anybody in. I’m all right on this. If there’s anything I can do for you, I will, you bet. So long.”

He faded away. A hand was laid on Peter’s arm.

“You’re neglecting me shockingly,” said Marjorie Phelps. “And I’m frightfully hungry. I’ve been doing my best to find things out for you.”

“That’s top-hole of you. Look here. Come and sit out in the hall; it’s quieter. I’ll scrounge some grub and bring it along.”

He secured a quantity of curious little stuffed buns, four petits-fours, some dubious claret-cup and some coffee and brought them with him on a tray, snatched while the waitress’s back was turned.

“Thanks,” said Marjorie, “I deserve all I can get for having talked to Naomi Rushworth. I cannot like that girl. She hints things.”

“What, particularly?”

“Well, I started to ask about Ann Dorland. So she said she wasn’t coming. So I said, ‘Oh, why?’ and she said, ‘She said she wasn’t well.’”

“Who said?”

“Naomi Rushworth said Ann Dorland said she couldn’t come because she wasn’t well. But she said that was only an excuse, of course.”

“Who said?”

“Naomi said. So I said, was it? And she said yes, she didn’t suppose she felt like facing people very much. So I said, ‘I thought you were such friends.’ So she said, ‘Well, we are, but of course Ann always was a little abnormal, you see.’ So I said that was the first I had heard of it. And she gave me one of her catty looks and said, ‘Well, there was Ambrose Ledbury, wasn’t there? But of course you had other things to think of then, hadn’t you?’ The little beast. She meant Komski. And after all, everybody knows how obvious she’s made herself over this man Penberthy.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got mixed.”

“Well, I was rather fond of Komski. And I did almost promise to live with him, till I found that his last three women had all got fed up with him and left him, and I felt there must be something wrong with a man who continually got left, and I’ve discovered since that he was a dreadful bully when he dropped that touching lost-dog manner of his. So I was well out of it. Still, seeing that Naomi had been going about for the last year nearly, looking at Dr. Penberthy like a female spaniel that thinks it’s going to get whipped, I can’t see why she need throw Komski in my face. And as for Ambrose Ledbury, anybody might have been mistaken in him.”

“Who was Ambrose Ledbury?”

“Oh, he was the man who had that studio over Boulter’s Mews. Powerfulness was his strong suit, and being above worldly considerations. He was rugged and wore homespun and painted craggy people in bedrooms, but his colour was amazing. He really could paint and so we could excuse a lot, but he was a professional heart-breaker. He used to gather people up hungrily in his great arms, you know — that’s always rather irresistible. But he had no discrimination. It was just a habit, and his affairs never lasted long. But Ann Dorland was really rather overcome, you know. She tried the craggy style herself, but it wasn’t at all her line — she hasn’t any colour-sense so there was nothing to make up for the bad drawing.

“I thought you said she didn’t have any affairs.”

“It wasn’t an affair. I expect Ledbury gathered her up at some time or other when there wasn’t anybody else handy, but he did demand good looks for anything serious. He went off to Poland a year ago with a woman called Natasha somebody. After that, Ann Dorland began to chuck painting. The trouble was, she took things seriously. A few little passions would have put her right, but she isn’t the sort of person a man can enjoy flirting with. Heavy-handed. I don’t think she would have gone on worrying about Ledbury if he hadn’t happened to be the one and only episode. Because, as I say, she did make a few efforts, but she couldn’t bring ’em off.”

“I see.”

“But that’s no reason why Naomi should turn round like that. The fact is, the little brute’s so proud of having landed a man — and an engagement ring — for herself, that she’s out to patronise everybody else.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, besides, everything is looked at from dear Walter’s point of view now and naturally Walter isn’t feeling very loving towards Ann Dorland.”

“Why not?”

“My dear man, you’re being very discreet, aren’t you? Naturally everybody’s saying that she did it.”

“Are they?”

“Who else could they think did it?”

Wimsey realised, indeed, that everybody must be thinking it. He was exceedingly inclined to think it himself.

“Probably that’s why she didn’t turn up.”

“Of course it is. She’s not a fool. She must know.”

“That’s true. Look here, will you do something for me? Something more, I mean?”

“What?”

“From what you say, it looks as though Miss Dorland might find herself rather short of friends in the near future. If she comes to you…”

“I’m not going to spy on her. Not if she had poisoned fifty old generals.”