Have His Carcase (22 page)

Evening dress did not suit him, for the breadth of his shoulders and the

shortness of his legs gave him a rather top-heavy appearance; one would

expect him to look his best in country tweeds and leggings. His hair, rather

rough and dul in texture, was mouse-coloured, and offered a pregnant

suggestion of what his mother’s might once have looked like before it knew the

touch of peroxide; indeed, he was, in a curious way, very like his mother,

having the same low, narrow forehead and the same long and obstinate chin;

though, in the mother the expression was that of a weak, fanciful obstinacy,

and, in the son, of stubborn and un-imaginative obstinacy. Looking at him,

Wimsey felt that he was hardly the sort of man to take kindly to a Paul Alexis

for a step-father; he would not sympathise with the sterile romance of any

woman who was past the age of child-bearing. Wimsey, summing him up with

the man of the world’s experienced eye, placed him at once as a gentleman-

farmer, who was not quite a gentleman and not much of a farmer.

At the moment, the understanding between Henry Weldon and his mother

seemed, nevertheless, to be excelent.

‘Henry is so delighted,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘that you are here to help us,

Lord Peter. That policeman is so stupid. He doesn’t seem to believe a word I

tel him. Of course, he’s a very wel-meaning, honest man, and
most
polite, but

how can a person like that possibly understand a nature like Paul’s. I
knew

Paul. So did Henry, didn’t you, dear?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Henry, ‘certainly. Very pleasant felow.’

‘Henry knows how utterly devoted Paul was to me.
You
know, don’t you,

dear, that he
never
would have taken his own life and left me like that without a

word. It hurts me so when people say such things – I feel I could –’

‘There, there, Mother,’ muttered Henry, embarrassed by the prospect of

emotion and possible break-down in a public place. ‘You must try to bear up.

Of course we know Alexis was al right. Damned fond of you – of course, of

course. Police are always sily fools. Don’t let ’em worry you.’

‘No dear, I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Weldon, dabbing her eyes apologeticaly

with a smal handkerchief. ‘It’s al been such a shock to me. But I mustn’t be

weak and sily. We must al be courageous and work hard to
do
something

about it.’

Wimsey suggested that a spot of something or other might do them al good,

and, further, that he and Henry might make a concerted masculine raid on the

bar, instructing the waiter to attend upon the ladies. He felt that he could dissect

Henry more conveniently in a private interview.

As the two men’s backs disappeared in the direction of the bar, Mrs

Weldon turned her anxious eyes on Harriet.

‘How nice Lord Peter is,’ she said, ‘and what a comforting thing it is for us

both to have a man to rely on.’

This sentiment was not very wel received; Harriet averted her gaze from

Lord Peter’s back, on which it had been absentmindedly and unaccountably

fixed, and frowned; but Mrs Weldon bleated on, unheeding.

‘It’s beautiful how kind everybody is when one is in trouble. Henry and I

haven’t always been as close to one another as a mother and son should be. He

takes after his father in a great many ways, though people say he is like me to

look at, and when he was a little boy he had the dearest golden curls – just like

mine. But he loves sport and out-door life – you can tel that by his looks, can’t

you? He’s always out and about, seeing after his farm, and that’s what makes

him look a little older than his years. He’s realy quite a young man – I was a

mere child when I married, as I told you before. But though, as I say, we

haven’t always been as much in harmony as one would have liked, he has been

perfectly
sweet
to me about this sad affair. When I wrote to him and told him

how much I
felt
the dreadful things they were saying about Paul, he came at

once
to help me, though I know he must be terribly busy just now. I realy feel

that poor Paul’s death has brought us closer together.’

Harriet said that that must be a great comfort to Mrs Weldon. It was the only

possible answer.

Henry, meanwhile, had his own view of the matter to put before Lord Peter.

‘Bit of a staggerer for the old lady, this,’ he observed over a glass of Scotch.

‘Takes it hard. Between you and me, it’s al for the best. How’s a woman of

her age going to be happy with a feler like that? Eh? Don’t like these

Popoffsky blighters, anyway, and she’s fifty-seven if she’s a day. I’m thirty-six

myself. Consider I’m wel out of it. Makes a chap look a bit of a fool when his

mother proposes to give him a twenty-year-old lounge lizard for a step-papa.

Suppose it’s al over the place now. Bet everybody’s grinning at me behind my

back. Let ’em grin. Al over now, anyway. Suppose the chappie did do himself

in, didn’t he?’

‘It looks like it,’ admitted Wimsey.

‘Couldn’t face the prospect, eh? Al his own fault. Hard-up, I suppose, poor

devil! The old girl’s not a bad sort, realy. She’d have given the feler a damn

good time if he’d stuck to his bargain. But you can’t trust these foreigners. Like

colies – lick your boots one minute and bite you the next. Don’t like colies,

myself. Give me a good bul-terrier any day.’

‘Oh, yes – so frightfuly British and al that, what?’

‘Thought I’d better push along and cheer Mother up. Stop al this nonsense

about Bolsheviks. Won’t do to have her wasting her time with these tom-fool

notions. Enough to send the old dear clean off her rocker, you know. Once

they get those notions in their heads it’s a job to get rid of ’em. Form of mania,

don’t you think, like women’s rights and crystal-gazing?’

Wimsey agreed cautiously that an unreasonable conviction might, in process

of time, amount to an obsession.

‘That’s just what I mean. You’ve got the word – obsession, that’s it. Wel, I

don’t want the old lady to go wasting her time and money on an obsession.

Look here, Wimsey, you’re a sound sort of felow – brainy and al that – can’t

you put her off this Bolshevik idea? She’s taken a notion that you and that Vane

girl are encouraging her. Now, take it from me, old man, that kind of thing

won’t do at al.’

Lord Peter delicately raised his eyebrows.

‘Of course,’ pursued Mr Weldon, ‘I see your game al right. You’re nuts on

this kind of thing and it’s al a darn good advertisement, and it gives you a joly

good excuse for barging round with the girl. That’s quite al right. But it’s not

quite the game to go playing my mother up, if you see what I mean. So I

thought I’d just give you a hint. You won’t take offence?’

‘I am quite ready,’ said Lord Peter, ‘to take anything I am offered.’

Mr Weldon looked puzzled for a moment and then burst into a hearty laugh.

‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘dashed good. What was yours? Martel Three-Star?

Here, Johnnie, same again for this gentleman.’

‘Thank you, no,’ said Wimsey. ‘You misunderstood me.’

‘Oh, come – another little spot won’t do you any harm. No? Oh, wel, if you

won’t, you won’t. Mine’s a Scotch-and-soda. Wel, now, we understand one

another, eh?’

‘Oh, yes. I think I understand you perfectly.’

‘Good. Glad to have this chance of putting you wise. Whole thing’s a

nuisance, of course. Suppose we shal be stuck here now til they’ve found the

body and held an inquest. Don’t like these beastly watering-places. Suits you al

right, I daresay. I like a bit more open air and none of this jazz and dinner-

jackets.’

‘Quite right,’ said Wimsey.

‘You think so, eh? I was putting you down for something more in the West

End line. But I suppose you’re a bit of a sportsman, too? Huntin’, fishin’, that

sort of thing, eh?’

‘I hunted pretty regularly with the Quorn and the Pytchley at one time, and I

shoot and fish a bit,’ said Wimsey. ‘After al, I was brought up in the country,

you know. My people have a place in the shires, and our headquarters is down

in Norfolk – Duke’s Denver, on the borders of the Fen country.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. You’re Denver’s brother. Never seen the place, but I

live in that part of the world myself – Huntingdonshire, not far from Ely.’

‘Oh, yes; I know that part pretty wel. Fruit-farming country and al that.

Flattish, of course, but uncommonly good sort of soil.’

‘Nothing in farming these days,’ grumbled Mr Weldon. ‘Look at al this

Russian wheat they’re dumpin’ in. As if things weren’t bad enough already, with

wages what they are, and taxes, and rates and tithe and insurance. I’ve got fifty

acres of wheat. By the time it’s harvested I daresay it’l have cost me £9 an

acre. And what shal I get for it? Lucky if I get five. How this damned

Government expects the farmer to carry on, I don’t know. Damned if I don’t

feel like chucking it altogether sometimes and clearing out of this bloody

country. Nothing much to stick round here for. I’m not married, thank God!

Too much sense. If you take my advice you’l do likewise. You must be pretty

smart to have escaped so long. Look as if you did yourself pretty wel, too.

Lucky your brother’s stil a youngish man. Death-duties and al that. Cripple a

place, don’t they? But I always thought he was a pretty warm man, for a duke.

How’s he manage it?’

Wimsey explained that the Denver income was not derived from the Denver

estate, which was a liability rather than an asset.

‘Oh, I see. Wel, you’re lucky. Takes a man al he can do to get his living off

the land these days.’

‘Yes; I suppose you have to stick to it uncommonly closely. Up early and

late. Nothing escapes the master’s eye. That sort of thing, what?’

‘Oh, yes – yes.’

‘It must be trying to be obliged to leave things and come down to

Wilvercombe. How long do you think you’l be here?’

‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. Depends on this inquest, doesn’t it? I’ve left a man

in charge, of course.’

‘Just so. Hadn’t we better get back and join the ladies?’

‘Ah!’ Mr Weldon dug his elbow into Lord Peter’s ribs. ‘Ladies, eh? You be

careful, my boy. Getting to the dangerous age, aren’t you? If you ain’t careful,

you’l find yourself booked one of these days.’

‘Oh, I daresay I shal manage to keep
my
head out of the noose.’

‘Out of the – oh, yes – the matrimonial noose. Yes. Ha, ha! Al right. I

suppose we’d better go.’

Mr Weldon turned away from the bar rather abruptly. Wimsey, reflecting

that the ability to swalow insult is a necessary part of the detective’s make-up,

restrained the temptation to connect his toe with Mr Weldon’s rather massive

hinder-end, and folowed, ruminating.

A message from the waiter informed him that the ladies had adjourned into

the dance-lounge. Henry growled, but was relieved to find that his mother was,

after al, not dancing. She was watching Harriet who, clad in claret-colour, was

revolving smoothly in the practised arms of Antoine. Wimsey politely begged

Mrs Weldon to favour him, but she shook her head.

‘I couldn’t. Not so soon. In fact, never again – now that Paul – But I begged

Miss Vane to enjoy herself and not mind about me. It is such a delight to watch

her looking so happy.’

Wimsey sat down and did his best to enjoy the spectacle of Harriet’s

happiness. As the quick-step came to an end, Antoine, with professional tact,

contrived to end his progress in the neighbourhood of their table and then,

bowing gracefuly, melted away. Harriet, a little flushed, smiled amiably upon

Lord Peter.

‘Oh, there you are,’ said his lordship.

Harriet became suddenly conscious that every woman in the room was

gazing furtively or with frank interest at Wimsey and herself, and the knowledge

exhilarated her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘here I am. Frivoling. You didn’t know I could do it, did

you?’

‘I have always taken it for granted that you could do everything.’

‘Oh, no. I can only do what I like doing.’

‘We’l see about that.’

The orchestra swung gently into a dreamy tune. Wimsey advanced upon

Harriet and steered her competently out into the centre of the room. For the

first few bars of the music they had the floor to themselves.

‘At last,’ said Wimsey, ‘we are alone. That is not an original remark, but I

am in no condition to invent epigrams. I have been suffering agonies, and my

soul is raw. Now that for a brief moment I have you al to myself –’

‘Wel?’ said Harriet. She was aware that the wine-coloured frock became

her.

‘What,’ said Wimsey, ‘do you make of Mr Henry Weldon?’

‘Oh!’

This was not quite the question Harriet had expected. She hastily colected

her ideas. It was very necessary that she should be the perfect unemotional