Dorothy Sayers - Whose Body?

«Yes. Little ones.»

«With bad results for your health?»

«Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn't make matters any better for me, don't you know.»

«Ah! you are not married?»

«No.»

«No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little nearer to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had till now?»

«Sir James Hodges'.»

«Ah! yes — he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great man — a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with this little invention.»

«What's it do?»

«Well — it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?»

The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was concluded, Sir Julian said:

«Now, Lord Peter, I'll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical language —»

«Thanks,» said Peter, «that's kind of you. I'm an awful fool about long words.»

«Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?»

«Not particularly,» said Peter, genuinely surprised. «Awful bore as a rule. Why?»

«I thought you might be,» said the specialist, drily. «Well, now. You know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in your brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages to your brain, and produced minute physical changes there — changes we are only beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate instruments. These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should say, more accurately, that sensations are the names we give to these changes of tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear, sense of responsibility and so on.»

«Yes, I follow you.»

«Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn physical changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed to associate with them — dread of German mines, responsibility for the lives of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish small sounds through the overpowering noise of guns.»

«I see.»

«This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances producing other familiar physical sensations — night, cold or the rattling of heavy traffic, for instance.»

«Yes.»

«Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when you excite the injured part of your brain.»

«Yes, I see.»

«Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be irresponsible, Lord Peter.»

«My friends say I'm only too irresponsible already.»

«Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing to its mental nimbleness.»

«Oh!»

«Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests upon you?»

«Yes, it does.»

«You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have decided?»

«Not yet.»

«You feel bound to carry it through?»

«Oh, yes — I can't back out of it now.»

«No. You are expecting further strain?»

«A certain amount.»

«Do you expect it to last much longer?»

«Very little longer now.»

«Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be.»

«No?»

«No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete rest. How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or somewhere?»

«Thanks. I'll think about it.»

«Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good, you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give you a prescription.»

«Thank you.»

Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about — boiling something and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic syringe.

«Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your sleeve, I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment.»

Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected a portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine.

«What's that you're goin' to stick into me. Bugs?»

The surgeon laughed.

«Not exactly,» he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his finger and thumb. «You've had this kind of thing before, I expect.»

«Oh, yes,» said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated, and the steady approach of the needle. «Yes — I've had it before — and, d'you know — I don't care frightfully about it.»

He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon's wrist like a vise.

The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly lifted; the grey eyes met the blue — coldly, steadily — and held them.

When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their own breathing. So the two men breathed face to face.

«As you like, of course, Lord Peter,» said Sir Julian, courteously.

«Afraid I'm rather a silly ass,» said Lord Peter, «but I never could abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me a rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous.»

«In that case,» replied Sir Julian, «it would certainly be better not to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible.»

«Oh, yes — I'll take it easy, thanks,» said Lord Peter. He rolled his sleeve down neatly. «I'm much obliged to you. If I have any further trouble I'll look in again.»

«Do — do —» said Sir Julian. cheerfully. «Only make an appointment another time. I'm rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been there. It would have interested you.»

The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men's graves.

The feel of Parker's old trench-coat beneath your fingers was comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like Brocken spectres.

«Take care, gentlemen,» said a toneless voice out of the yellow darkness, «there's an open grave just hereabouts.»

You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned clay.

«Hold up, old man,» said Parker.

«Where is Lady Levy?»

«In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter.»

«Isn't she?» said Lord Peter.

A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.

«Here you are,» said a voice.

Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.

«Have you finished?» asked somebody.

«Nearly done, sir.» The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks — no, spades.

Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.

«Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett.»

«It's all in the day's work,» said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled to the eyes.