‘I suppose he went to school somewhere.’.
‘Oh, yes — he went to the ordinary State school with all 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 ill for a longtime. 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, thoughtfully.
‘Oh, yes — he was a marvellous dancer. It was in his blood, you know. When he was old enough, he got-work as a professional partner and did very well, though of course it wasn’t the kind of life he wanted.’
‘He managed to make quite a good living at it,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully, 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 all 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 brilliant 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 frightfully 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’ll 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 way I wanted to see you and tell 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 all this business about passports isn’t a bit of good to keep them out. I call 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 killed Paul, and I shouldn’t wonder if they started throwing bombs at the King and Queen next. It ought, to be stopped, or we shall have a revolution.’ Why, they even distribute their disgusting pamphlets to the Navy.’
‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘we must wait and see what they find out. I’m afraid you may have to tell the police about some of this. It won’t be very pleasant for you, I’m afraid, but they’ll 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 all,’ said Harriet. ‘We’ll 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 tell.
Chapter VI. The Evidence Of The First Barber
‘Old, benevolent man.’
— The Second Brother
Friday, 19 June — Afternoon and evening
‘CAN you tell me,’ inquired Lord Peter, ‘what has become of old Mr Endicott these days?’
The manager of the ham-shop, who liked to attend personally 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 occasionally 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 wonderfully. He has taken up golf at seventy-six and collects papier-mache 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 will find it very tasty. Shall I send it?’
‘I will 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 eventually 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.