“Certainly not, my lord. If I may say so, the woman of ripe years and queenly figure is frequently more susceptible to delicate attentions than the giddy and thoughtless young beauty.”
“True. Let us suppose, Bunter, that you were to be the bearer of a courteous missive to one Mr. Norman Urquhart of Woburn Square. Could you, in the short space of time at your disposal, insinuate yourself, snakelike, as it were, into the bosom of the household?”
“If you desire it, my lord, I will endeavour to insinuate myself to your lordship’s satisfaction.”
“Noble fellow. In case of an action for breach, or any consequence of that description, the charges will, of course, be borne by the management.”
“I am obliged to your lordship. When would your lordship wish me to commence?”
“As soon as I have written a note to Mr. Urquhart. I will ring.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Wimsey moved over to the writing-desk. After a few moments he looked up, a little peevishly.
“Bunter, I have a sensation of being hovered over. I do not like it. It is unusual and it unnerves me. I implore you not to hover. Is the proposition distasteful, or do you want me to get a new hat? What is troubling your conscience?”
“I beg your lordship’s pardon. It had occurred to my mind to ask your lordship, with every respect -”
“Oh, God, Bunter – don’t break it gently. I can’t bear it. Stab and end the creature – to the heft! What is it?”
“I wished to ask you, my lord, whether your lordship thought of making any changes in your establishment?”
Wimsey laid down his pen and stared at the man.
“Changes, Bunter? When I have just so eloquently expressed to you my undying attachment to the loved routine of coffee, bath, razor, socks, eggs and bacon and the old, familiar faces? You’re not giving me warning, are you?”
“No, indeed, my lord. I should be very sorry to leave your lordship’s service. But I had thought it possible that, if your lordship was about to contract new ties -”
“I knew it was something in the haberdashery line! By all means, Bunter, if you think it necessary. Had you any particular pattern in mind?”
“Your lordship misunderstands me. I referred to domestic ties, my lord. Sometimes when a gentleman reorganizes his household on a matrimonial basis, the lady may prefer to have a voice in the selection of the gentleman’s personal attendant, in which case -”
“Bunter!” said Wimsey, considerably startled, “may I ask where you have contracted these ideas?”
“I ventured to draw an inference, my lord.”
“This comes of training people to be detectives. Have I been nourishing a sleuth-hound on my own hearth-stone? May I ask if you have gone so far as to give a name to the lady?”
“Yes, my lord.”
There was a pause.
“Well?” said Wimsey, in a rather subdued tone, “what about it, Bunter?”
“A very agreeable lady, if I may say so, my lord.”
“It strikes you that way, does it? The circumstances are unusual, of course.”
“Yes, my lord. I might perhaps make so bold as to call them romantic.”
“You may make so bold as to call them damnable, Bunter.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Bunter, in a tone of sympathy.
“You won’t desert the ship, Bunter?”
“Not on any account, my lord.”
“Then don’t come frightening me again. My nerves are not what they were. Here is the note. Take it round and do your best.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh, and, Bunter.”
“My lord?”
“It seems that I am being obvious. I have no wish to be anything of the kind. If you see me being obvious, will you drop a hint?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Bunter faded gently out, and Wimsey stepped anxiously to the mirror.
“I can’t see anything,” he said to himself. “No lily on my cheek with anguish moist and fever-dew. I suppose, though, it’s hopeless to try and deceive Bunter. Never mind. Business must come first. I’ve stopped one, two, three, four earths. What next? How about this fellow Vaughan?”
When Wimsey had any researches to do in Bohemia, it was his custom to enlist the help of Miss Marjorie Phelps. She made figurines in porcelain for a living, and was therefore usually to be found either in her studio or in some one else’s studio. A telephone-call at 10 a.m. would probably catch her scrambling eggs over her own gas-stove. It was true that there had been passages, about the time of the Bellona Club affair, between her and Lord Peter which made it a little embarrassing and unkind to bring her in on the subject of Harriet Vane, but with so little time in which to pick and choose his tools, Wimsey was past worrying about gentlemanly scruples.
**See The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club, published 1928.
He put the call through and was relieved to hear an answering “Hullo!”
“Hullo, Marjorie! This is Peter Wimsey. How goes it?”
“Oh, fine, thanks. Glad to hear your melodious voice again. What can I do for the Lord High Investigator?”
“Do you know one Vaughan, who is mixed up in the Philip Boyes murder mystery?!
“Oh, Peter! Are you on to that? How gorgeous! Which side are you taking?”
“For the defence.”
“Hurray!”
“Why this pomp of jubilee?”
“Well, it’s much more exciting and difficult, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is. Do you know Miss Vane, by the way?”
“Yes and no. I’ve seen her with the Boyes-Vaughan crowd.”
“Like her?”
“So-so.”
“Like him? Boyes, I mean?”
“Never stirred a heartbeat.”
“I said, did you like him?”
“One didn’t. One either fell for him or not. He wasn’t the merry bright-eyed pal of the period, you know.”
“Oh! What’s Vaughan?”
“Hanger-on.”
“Oh?”
“House-dog. Nothing must interfere with the expansion of my friend the genius. That sort.”
“Oh!”
“Don’t keep saying ‘Oh!’ Do you want to meet the man Vaughan?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Well, turn up to-night with a taxi and we’ll go the rounds. We’re certain to drop across him somewhere. Also the rival gang, if you want them – Harriet Vane’s supporters.”
“Those girls who gave evidence?”
“Yes. You’ll like Eiluned Price, I think, she scorns everything in trousers, but she’s a good friend at a pinch.”
“I’ll come, Marjorie. Will you dine with me?”
“Peter, I’d adore to, but I don’t think I will. I’ve got an awful lot to do.”
“Right-ho! I’ll roll round about nine, then.”
Accordingly, at 9 o’clock, Wimsey found himself in a taxi with Marjorie Phelps, headed for a round of the studios.
“I’ve been doing some intensive telephoning,” said Marjorie, “and I think we shall find him at the Kropotkys’. They are pro-Boyes, Bolshevik and musical, and their drinks are bad, but their Russian tea is safe. Does the taxi wait?”
“Yes, it sounds as if we might want to beat a retreat.”
“Well, it’s nice to be rich. It’s down the court here, on the right, over the Petrovitchs’ stable. Better let me grope first.”
They stumbled up a narrow and encumbered stair, at the top of which a fine confused noise of a piano, strings and the clashing of kitchen utensils announced that some sort of entertainment was in progress.
Marjorie hammered loudly on a door, and, without waiting for an answer, flung it open. Wimsey, entering on her heels, was struck in the face, as by an open hand, by a thick muffling wave of heat, sound, smoke and the smell of frying.