Have His Carcase (11 page)

women ran after him. He was afraid to speak to me for a long time – to tel me

how he felt about me, I mean. As a matter of fact, I had to take the first step, or

he never would have dared to speak, though it was quite obvious how he felt.

In fact, though we got engaged in February, he suggested putting the wedding

off til June. He felt – so sweet and thoughtful of him – that we ought to wait and

try to overcome my son’s opposition. Of course, Paul’s position made him very

sensitive. You see, I’m rather wel off, and of course, he hadn’t a penny, poor

boy, and he always refused to take any presents from me before we were

married. He’d had to make his own way al alone, because those horrible

Bolsheviks didn’t leave him anything.’

‘Who looked after him when he first came to England?’

‘The woman who brought him over. He caled her “old Natasha”, and said

she was a peasant-woman and absolutely devoted to him. But she died very

soon, and then a Jewish tailor and his family were kind to him. They adopted

him and made him a British subject, and gave him their own name of

Goldschmidt. After that, their business failed somehow, and they were terribly

poor. Paul had to run errands and sel newspapers. Then they tried emigrating

to New York, but that was stil worse. Then they died, and Paul had to look

after himself. Paul didn’t like to say very much about that part of his life. It was

al so terrible to him – like a bad dream.’

‘I suppose he went to school somewhere.’

‘Oh, yes – he went to the ordinary State school with al poor little East-side

children. But he hated it. They used to laugh at him because he was delicate.

They were rough with him and once he got knocked down in the playground

and was il for a long time. And he was terribly lonely.’

‘What did he do when he left school?’

‘He got work at a night-club, washing up glasses. He says the girls were kind

to him, but of course, he never talked much about that time. He was sensitive,

you see. He thought people would look down on him if they knew he had done

that kind of work.’

‘I suppose that was where he learnt to dance,’ said Harriet, thoughtfuly.

‘Oh, yes – he was a marvelous dancer. It was in his blood, you know.

When he was old enough, he got work as a professional partner and did very

wel, though of course it wasn’t the kind of life he wanted.’

‘He managed to make quite a good living at it,’ said Harriet, thoughtfuly,

thinking of the too-smart clothes and the hand-made shoes.

‘Yes; he worked very hard. But he never was strong, and he told me that he

wouldn’t be able to keep on much longer with the dancing. He had some

trouble in one of his knees – arthritis or something, and he was afraid it would

get worse and cripple him. Isn’t it al terribly pathetic? Paul was so romantic,

you know, and he wrote beautiful poetry. He loved everything that was

beautiful.’

‘What brought him to Wilvercombe?’

‘Oh, he came back to England when he was seventeen, and got work in

London. But the place went bankrupt, or got shut up by the police, or

something, and he came here for a little holiday on what he had saved. Then he

found they wanted a dancer here and he took the job temporarily, and he was

so briliant that the management kept him on.’

‘I see,’ Harriet reflected that it was going to be too difficult to trace these

movements of Alexis through the Ghetto of New York and the mushroom clubs

of the West End.

‘Yes – Paul used to say it was the hand of Destiny that brought him and me

here together. It does seem strange, doesn’t it? We both just happened to

come – by accident – just as though we were fated to meet. And now—’

The tears ran down Mrs Weldon’s cheeks, and she gazed up helplessly at

Harriet.

‘We were both so sad and lonely; and we were going to be happy together.’

‘It’s frightfuly sad,’ said Harriet, inadequately. ‘I suppose Mr Alexis was

rather temperamental.’

‘If you mean,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘that he did this awful thing himself – no,

never! I know he didn’t. He was temperamental, of course, but he was

radiantly happy with me. I’l never believe he just went away like that, without

even saying good-bye to me. It isn’t possible, Miss Vane. You’ve got to
prove

that it wasn’t possible. You’re so clever, I know you can do it. That’s why I

wanted to see you and tel you about Paul.’

‘You realise,’ said Harriet, slowly, ‘that if he didn’t do it himself, somebody

else must have done it.’

‘Why not?’ cried Mrs Weldon, eagerly. ‘Somebody must have envied our

happiness. Paul was so handsome and romantic – there must have been people

who were jealous of us. Or it may have been the Bolsheviks. Those horrible

men would do anything, and I was only reading in the paper yesterday that

England was simply swarming with them. They say al this business about

passports isn’t a bit of good to keep them out. I cal it absolutely wicked, the

way we let them come over here and plot against everybody’s safety and this

Government simply encourages them. They’ve kiled Paul, and I shouldn’t

wonder if they started throwing bombs at the King and Queen next. It ought to

be stopped, or we shal have a revolution. Why, they even distribute their

disgusting pamphlets to the Navy.’

‘Wel,’ said Harriet, ‘we must wait and see what they find out. I’m afraid you

may have to tel the police about some of this. It won’t be very pleasant for

you, I’m afraid, but they’l want to know everything they can.’

‘I’m sure I don’t mind what I have to go through,’ said Mrs Weldon, wiping

her eyes resolutely, ‘if only I can help to clear Paul’s memory. Thank you
very

much, Miss Vane. I’m afraid I’ve taken up your time. You’ve been very kind.’

‘Not at al,’ said Harriet. ‘We’l do our best.’

She escorted her visitor to the door, and then returned to an armchair and a

thoughtful cigarette. Was the imminent prospect of matrimony with Mrs Weldon

a sufficient motive for suicide? She was inclined to think not. One can always

take flight from these things. But with temperamental people, of course, you

never can tel.

VI

THE EVIDENCE OF THE FIRST BARBER

‘Old, benevolent man.’

The Second Brother

Friday, 19 June – Afternoon and evening

‘Can you tel me,’ inquired Lord Peter, ‘what has become of old Mr Endicott

these days?’

The manager of the ham-shop, who liked to attend personaly to

distinguished customers, arrested his skewer in the very act of thrusting it into

the interior of a ham.

‘Oh, yes, my lord. He has a house at Ealing. He occasionaly looks in here

for a jar of our Gentleman’s Special Pickle. A very remarkable old gentleman,

Mr Endicott.’

‘Yes, indeed. I hadn’t seen him about lately. I was afraid perhaps something

had happened to him.’

‘Oh, dear no, my lord. He keeps his health wonderfuly. He has taken up

golf at seventy-six and colects papier-mâché articles. Nothing like an interest in

life, he says, to keep you hearty.’

‘Very true,’ replied Wimsey. ‘I must run out and see him some time. What is

his address?’

The manager gave the information, and then, returning to the matter in hand,

plunged the skewer into the ham close to the bone, twirled it expertly and,

withdrawing it, presented it politely by the handle. Wimsey sniffed it gravely,

said ‘Ah!’ with appropriate relish, and pronounced a solemn benediction upon

the ham.

‘Thank you, my lord. I think you wil find it very tasty. Shal I send it?’

‘I wil take it with me.’

The manager waved forward an attendant, who swathed the article

impressively in various layers of grease-proof paper, white paper and brown

paper, corded it up with best-quality string, worked the free end of the string

into an ingenious handle and stood, dandling the parcel, like a nurse with a

swaddled princeling.

‘My car is outside,’ said Wimsey. The assistant beamed gratification. A little

ritual procession streamed out into Jermyn Street, comprising: The Assistant,

carrying the ham; Lord Peter, drawing on his driving-gloves; the Manager,

murmuring a ceremonial formula; the Second Assistant, opening the door and

emerging from behind it to bow upon the threshold; and eventualy the car

glided away amid the reverent murmurings of a congregation of persons

gathered in the street to admire its stream-lining and dispute about the number

of its cylinders.

Mr Endicott’s house at Ealing was easily found. The owner was at home,

and the presentation of the ham and reciprocal offer of a glass of old sherry

proceeded with the cheerful dignity suitable to an exchange of gifts among

equal, but friendly potentates. Lord Peter inspected the colection of papier-

mâché trays, conversed agreeably about golf-handicaps and then, without

unseemly haste, opened up the subject of his inquiry.

‘I’ve just come across one of your razors, Endicott, in rather peculiar

circumstances. I wonder if you could tel me anything about it?’

Mr Endicott, with a gracious smile upon his rosy countenance, poured out

another glass of the sherry and said he would be happy to assist if he could.

Wimsey described the make and appearance of the razor, and asked if it

would be possible to trace the buyer.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Endicott. ‘With an ivory handle, you say. Wel, now, it’s

rather fortunate it should be one of that lot, because we only had the three

dozen of them, most of our customers preferring black handles. Yes; I can tel

you a bit about them. That particular razor came in during the War – 1916, I

think it was. It wasn’t too easy to get a first-class blade just then, but these

were very good. Stil, the white handle was against them, and I remember we

were glad when we were able to send off a dozen of them to an old customer in

Bombay. Captain Francis Egerton, that was. He asked us to send some out for

himself and friends. That would be in 1920.’

‘Bombay? That’s a bit far off. But you never know. How about the rest?’

Mr Endicott, who seemed to have a memory like an encyclopaedia, plunged

his thoughts into the past and said:

‘Wel, there was Commander Melon; he had two of them. But it wouldn’t

be him, because his ship was blown up and sank with al hands and his kit went

down with him. In 1917, that would be. A very galant gentleman, was the

Commander, and of good family. One of the Dorset Melons. The Duke of

Wetherby: he had one, and he was teling me the other day that he stil had it; it

wouldn’t be him. And Mr Pritchard: he had a remarkable experience with his;

his personal man went off his head and attacked him with his own razor, but

fortunately Mr Pritchard was able to overpower him. They brought him in guilty

of attempted murder but insane, and the razor was an exhibit at the trial. I know

Mr Pritchard came in afterwards and bought a new razor, a black one, because

the other had struck the back of a chair during the struggle and had a piece

chipped out of the edge, and he said he was going to keep it as a memento of

the narrowest shave of his life. That was very good, I thought. Mr Pritchard

was always a very amusing gentleman. Colonel Grimes: he had one, but he had

to abandon al his kit in the Retreat over the Marne – I couldn’t say what

happened to that one. He liked that razor and came back for another one

similar, and he has it yet. That makes six out of the second dozen. What

happened to the others? – Oh, I know! There was a very funny story about one

of them. Young Mr Ratcliffe – the Hon. Henry Ratcliffe – he came in one day in

a great state. “Endicott,” he said, “just you look at my razor!” “Bless me, sir!” I

said, “it looks as if somebody had been sawing wood with it.” “That’s a very

near guess, Endicott,” he said. “My sister-in-law and some of that bright crowd

of hers in her studio got the idea that they’d have some private theatricals and

used my best razor to cut out the scenery with.” My goodness, he was wild

about it! Of course the blade was ruined for ever; he had a different one after

that, a very fine French razor which we were trying out at the time. Then, ah,

yes! There was poor Lord Blackfriars. A sad business that was. He married

one of these film-stars, and she ran through his money and went off with a dago

– you’l remember that, my lord. Blew his brains out, poor gentleman. He left

his pair of razors to his personal man, who wouldn’t part with them on any

account. Major Hartley had two and so did Colonel Belfridge. They’ve left

Town and gone to live in the country. I could give you their addresses. Sir John

Westlock – wel, now, I couldn’t say for certain about him. There was some