“Yes,” commented Wimsey internally, “liked to swagger about it, I suppose. Anything to give pain. Damn the fellow.” Aloud he merely said: “There are other possibilities. Did he, for instance, make a will?”
“He did. Not that he had much to leave, poor boy. His books were very cleverly written – he had a fine intellect, Lord Peter – but they did not bring him in any great sums of money. I helped him with a little allowance, and he managed on that and on what he made from his articles in the periodicals.”
“He left his copyrights to somebody, though, I take it?”
“Yes. He wished to leave them to me, but I was obliged to tell him that I could not accept the bequest. You see, I did not approve of his opinions, and I should not have thought it right to profit by them. No; he left them to his friend Mr. Vaughan.”
“Oh! – may I ask when this will was made?”
“It is dated at the period of his visit to Wales. I believe that before that he had made one leaving everything to Miss Vane.”
“Indeed!” said Wimsey. “I suppose she knew about it.” His mind reviewed a number of contradictory possibilities, and he added: “But it would not amount to an important sum, in any case?”
“Oh, no. If my son made 50 pounds a year by his books, that was the utmost. Though they tell me,” added the old gentleman, with a sad smile, “that, after this, his new book will do better.”
“Very likely,” said Wimsey. “Provided you get into the papers, the delightful reading public don’t mind what it’s for. Still – Well, that’s that. I gather he would have no private money to leave?”
“Nothing whatever. There has never been any money in our family, Lord Peter, nor yet in my wife’s. We’re quite the proverbial Church mice.” He smiled faintly at this little clerical jest. “Except, I suppose, for Cremorna Garden.”
“For – I beg your pardon?”
“My wife’s aunt, the notorious Cremorna Garden of the ’sixties.”
“Good Lord, yes – the actress?”
“Yes. But she, of course, was never, never mentioned. One did not enquire into the way she got her money. No worse than others, I dare say – but in those days we were very easily shocked. We have seen and heard nothing of her for well over fifty years. I believe she is quite childish now.”
“By Jove! I’d no idea she was still alive!”
“Yes, I believe she is, though she must be well over ninety. Certainly Philip never had any money from her.”
“Well, that rules money out. Was your son’s life insured, by any chance?”
“Not that I ever heard of. We found no policy among his papers, and so far as I know, nobody has made any claim.”
“He left no debts?”
“Only trifling ones – tradesmen’s accounts and so on. Perhaps fifty pounds’ worth altogether.”
“Thank you so much,” said Wimsey, rising, “that has cleared the ground a good deal.”
“I am afraid it has not got you much farther.”
“It tells me where not to look, at any rate,” said Wimsey, “and that all saves time, you know. It’s frightfully decent of you to be bothered with me.”
“Not at all. Ask me anything you want to know. Nobody would be more glad than myself to see that unfortunate young woman cleared.”
Wimsey again thanked him and took his leave. He was a mile up the road before a regretful thought overtook him. He turned Mrs. Merdle’s bonnet round, skimmed back to the church, stuffed a handful of treasury notes with some difficulty into the mouth of a box labelled “Church expenses,” and resumed his way to town.
As he manoeuvred the car through the City, a thought struck him, and instead of heading for Piccadilly, where he lived, he turned off into a street south of the Strand, in which was situated the establishment of Messrs. Grimsby & Cole, who published the works of Mr. Philip Boyes. After a little delay, he was shown into Mr. Cole’s office.
Mr. Cole was a stout and cheerful person, and was much interested to hear that the notorious Lord Peter Wimsey was concerning himself with the affairs of the equally notorious Mr. Boyes. Wimsey represented that, as a collector of First Editions, he would be glad to secure copies of all Philip Boyes’ works. Mr. Cole regretted extremely that he could not help him, and, under the influence of an expensive cigar, became quite confidential. “Without wishing to seem callous, my dear Lord Peter,” he said, throwing himself back in his chair, and creasing his three chins into six or seven as he did so, “between you and me, Mr. Boyes could not have done better for himself than to go and get murdered like this. Every copy was sold out a week after the result of the exhumation became known, two large editions of his last book were disposed of before the trial came on – at the original price of seven and sixpence, and the libraries clamoured so for the early volumes that we had to reprint the lot. Unfortunately we had not kept the type standing, and the printers had to work night and day, but we did it. We are rushing the three-and-sixpennies through the binders’ now, and the shilling edition is arranged for. Positively, I don’t think you could get a First Edition in London for love or money. We have nothing here but our own file copies, but we are putting out a special memorial edition, with portraits, on hand-made paper, limited and numbered, at a guinea. Not the same thing of course, but -”
Wimsey begged to put his name down for a set at a guinea a-piece, adding:
“Sad and all that, don’t you know, that the author can’t benefit by it, what?”
“Deeply distressing,” agreed Mr. Cole, compressing his fat cheeks by two longitudinal folds from the nostril to the mouth. “And sadder still that there can be no more work to come from him. A very talented young man, Lord Peter. We shall always feel a melancholy pride, Mr. Grimsby and myself, in knowing that we recognised his quality, before there was any likelihood of financial remuneration. A succes d’estime, that was all, until this very grievous occurrence. But when the work is good, it is not our habit to boggle about monetary returns.”
“Ah, well!” said Wimsey, “it sometimes pays to cast your bread upon the waters. Quite religious, isn’t it – you know, the bit about ‘plenteously bringing out good works may of thee be plenteously rewarded.’ Twenty-fifth after Trinity.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Cole, with a certain lack of enthusiasm, possibly because he was imperfectly acquainted with the book of Common Prayer, or possibly because he detected a hint of mockery in the other’s tone. “Well, I have very much enjoyed this chat. I am sorry I can do nothing for you about First Editions.”
Wimsey begged him not to mention it, and with a cordial farewell ran hastily down the stairs.
His next visit was to the office of Mr. Challoner, Harriet Vane’s agent. Challoner was an abrupt, dark, militant-looking little man, with untidy hair and thick spectacles.
“Boom?” said he, when Wimsey had introduced himself and mentioned his interest in Miss Vane. “Yes, of course there is a boom. Rather disgusting, really, but one can’t help that. We have to do our best for our client, whatever the circumstances. Miss Vane’s books have always sold reasonably well – round about the three or four thousand mark in this country – but of course this business has stimulated things enormously. The last book has gone to three new editions, and the new one has sold seven thousand before publication.”
“Financially, all to the good, eh?”
“Oh, yes – but frankly I don’t know whether these artificial sales do very much good to an author’s reputation in the long run. Up like a rocket, down like the stick, you know. When Miss Vane is released -”
“I am glad you say ‘when.’ ”
“I am not allowing myself to contemplate any other possibility. But when that happens, public interest will be liable to die down very quickly. I am, of course, securing the most advantageous contracts I possibly can at the moment, to cover the next three or four books, but I can only really control the advances. The actual receipts will depend on the sales, and that is where I foresee a slump. I am, however, doing well with serial rights, which are important from the point of view of immediate returns.”