Dorothy Sayers - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

“Possibly. Well, he was in before lunch, at any rate.”

“Oh, yes, my lord. ’Alf-past twelve I goes off, and his hat and coat were on the peg then, because I see ’em.”

“That gives us a terminus ad quem at any rate,” said Wimsey, half to himself.

“I beg your lordship’s pardon?”

“I was saying, that shows he came in before half-past twelve — and later than ten o’clock, you think.”

“Yes, my lord. I couldn’t say to a fraction, but I’m sure if ’e’d arrived before a quarter-past ten I should have seen ’im. But after that, I recollect I was very busy, and he must ’a slipped in without me noticing him.”

“Ah, yes — poor old boy! Still, no doubt he’d have liked to pass out quietly like that. Not a bad way to go home, Williamson.”

“Very good way, my lord. We’ve seen worse than that. And what’s it all come to, after all? They’re all sayin’ as it’s an unpleasant thing for the Club, but I say, where’s the odds? There ain’t many ’ouses what somebody ain’t died in, some time or another. We don’t think any the worse of the ’ouses, so why think the worse of the Club?”

“You’re a philosopher, Williamson.” Wimsey climbed the short flight of marble steps and turned into the bar. “It’s narrowin’ down,” he muttered to himself. “Between ten-fifteen and twelve-thirty. Looks as if it was goin’ to be a close run for the Dormer stakes. But — dash it all! Let’s hear what Penberthy has to say.” The doctor was already standing at the bar with a whisky-and-soda before him.

Wimsey demanded a Worthington and dived into his subject without more ado.

“Look here,” he said, “I just wanted a word with you about old Fentiman. Frightfully confidential, and all that. But it seems the exact time of the poor old blighter’s departure has become an important item. Question of succession. Get me? They don’t want a row made. Asked me, as friend of the family and all that, don’t y’ know, to barge round and ask questions. Obviously, you’re the first man to come to. What’s your opinion? Medical opinion, apart from anything else?”

Penberthy raised his eyebrows.

“Oh? there’s a question, is there? Thought there might be. That lawyer-fellow, what’s-his-name, was here the other day, trying to pin me down. Seemed to think one can say to a minute when a man died by looking at his back teeth. I told him it wasn’t possible. Once give these birds an opinion, and the next thing is, you find yourself in a witness-box, swearing to it.”

“I know. But one gets a general idea.”

“Oh, yes. Only you have to check up your ideas by other things — facts, and so on. You can’t just theorise.”

“Very dangerous things, theories. F’r instance — take this case — I’ve seen one or two stiff ’uns, in my short life, and, if I’d started theorizin’ about this business, just from the look of the body, d’you know what I’d have said?”

“God knows what a layman would say about a medical question,” retorted the doctor, with a sour little grin.

“Hear, hear! — Well, I should have said he’d been dead a long time.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“You said yourself that rigor was well advanced. Give it, say, six hours to set in and — when did it pass off?”

“It was passing off then — I remarked upon it at the time.”

“So you did. I thought rigor usually lasted twenty-four hours or so.”

“It does, sometimes. Sometimes it goes off quickly. Quick come, quick go, as a rule. Still, I agree with you, that in the absence of other evidence, I should have put the death rather earlier than ten o’clock.”

“You admit that?”

“I do. But we know he came in not earlier than a quarter past ten.”

“You’ve seen Williamson, then?”

“Oh, yes. I thought it better to check up on the thing as far as possible. So I can only suppose that, what with the death being sudden, and what with the warmth of the room — he was very close to the fire, you know — the whole thing came on and worked itself off very quickly.”

“H’m! Of course, you knew the old boy’s constitution very well.”

“Oh, rather. He was very frail. Heart gets a bit worn-out when you’re over the four-score and ten, you know. I should never have been surprised at his dropping down anywhere. And then, he’d had a bit of a shock, you see.”

“What was that?”

“Seeing his sister the afternoon before. They told you about that, I imagine, since you seem to know all about the business. He came along to Harley Street afterwards and saw me. I told him to go to bed and keep quiet. Arteries very strained, and pulse erratic. He was excited — naturally. He ought to have taken a complete rest. As I see it, he must have insisted on getting up, in spite of feeling groggy, walked here — he would do it — and collapsed straight away.”

“That’s all right, Penberthy, but when — just when — did it happen?”

“Lord knows. I don’t. Have another?”

“No, thanks; not for the moment. I say, I suppose you are perfectly satisfied about it all?”

“Satisfied?” The doctor stared at him. “Yes, of course. If you mean, satisfied as to what he died of — of course I’m satisfied. I shouldn’t have given a certificate if I hadn’t been satisfied.”

“Nothing about the body struck you as queer?”

“What sort of thing?”

“You know what I mean as well as I do,” said Wimsey, suddenly turning and looking the other straight in the face. The change in him was almost startling — it was as if a steel blade had whipped suddenly out of its velvet scabbard. Penberthy met his eye, and nodded slowly.

“Yes, I do know what you mean. But not here. We’d better go up to the Library. There won’t be anybody there.”

Chapter V

— And Finds the Club Suit Blocked

There never was anybody in the library at the Bellona. It was a large, quiet, pleasant room, with the bookshelves arranged in bays; each of which contained a writing-table and three or four chairs.

Occasionally some one would wander in to consult the Times Atlas, or a work on Strategy and Tactics, or to hunt up an ancient Army list, but for the most part it was deserted. Sitting in the farthest bay, immured by books and silence, confidential conversation could be carried on with all the privacy of the confessional.

“Well, now,” said Wimsey, “what about it?”

“About—?” prompted the doctor, with professional caution.

“About that leg?”

“I wonder if anybody else noticed that?” said Penberthy.

“I doubt it. I did, of course. But then, I make that kind of thing my hobby. Not a popular one, perhaps — an ill-favoured thing, but mine own. In fact, I’ve got rather a turn for corpses. But not knowin’ quite what it meant, and seein’ you didn’t seem to want to call attention to it, I didn’t put myself forward.”

“No — I wanted to think it over. You see, it suggested, at the first blush, something rather—”

“Unpleasant,” said Wimsey. “If you knew how often I’d heard that word in the last two days! Well, let’s face it. Let’s admit, straight away, that, once rigor sets in, it stays in till it starts to pass off, and that, when it does start to go it usually begins with the face and jaw, and not suddenly in one knee-joint. Now Fentiman’s jaw and neck were as rigid as wood — I felt ’em. But the left leg swung loose from the knee. Now how do you explain that?”

“It is extremely puzzling. As no doubt you are aware, the obvious explanation would be that the joint had been forcibly loosened by somebody or something, after rigor had set in. In that case of course, it wouldn’t stiffen up again. It would remain loose until the whole body relaxed. But how it happened—”