“There won’t be any night-clubs then for you to creep into, if they’re as disciplined as all that.”
“Oh, yes – nature will have her revenge. They will slink away from the Government Communal Games to play solitaire in catacombs over a bowl of unsterilised skim-milk. Is this the place?”
“Yes; I hope there’s someone to let us in at the bottom, if Sylvia’s bust her leg. Yes – I hear footsteps. Oh, it’s you Eiluned; how’s Sylvia?”
“Pretty all right, only swelled up – the ankle, that is. Coming up?”
“Is she visible?”
“Yes, perfectly respectable.”
“Good, because I’m bringing Lord Peter Wimsey up, too.”
“Oh,” said the girl. “How do you do? You detect things, don’t you? Have you come for the body or anything?”
“Lord Peter’s looking into Harriet Vane’s business for her.”
“Is he? That’s good. Glad somebody’s doing something about it.” She was a short, stout girl with a pugnacious nose and a twinkle. “What do you say it was? I say he did it himself. He was the selfpitying sort, you know. Hullo, Syl – here’s Marjorie, with a bloke who’s going to get Harriet out of jug.”
“Produce him instantly!” was the reply from within. The door opened upon a small bed-sitting room, furnished with the severest simplicity, and inhabited by a pale, spectacled young woman in a Morris chair, her bandaged foot stretched out upon a packing-case.
“I can’t get up, because, as Jenny Wren said, my back’s bad and my leg’s queer. Who’s the champion, Marjorie?”
Wimsey was introduced, and Eiluned Price immediately inquired, rather truculently:“Can he drink coffee, Marjorie? Or does he require masculine refreshment?”
“He’s perfectly godly, righteous and sober, and drinks anything but cocoa and fizzy lemonade.”
“Oh! I only asked because some of your male belongings need stimulating, and we haven’t got the wherewithal, and the pub’s just closing.”
She stumped over to a cupboard, and Sylvia said:
“Don’t mind Eiluned; she likes to treat ’ em rough. Tell me, Lord Peter, have you found any clues or anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Wimsey. “I’ve put a few ferrets down a few holes. I hope something may come up the other end.”
“Have you seen the cousin yet – the Urquhart creature?”
“Got an appointment with him for tomorrow. Why?”
“Sylvia’s theory is that he did it,” said Eiluned.
“That’s interesting. Why?”
“Female intuition,” said Eiluned, bluntly. “She doesn’t like the way he does his hair.”
“I only said he was too sleek to be true,” protested Sylvia. “And who else could it have been? I’m sure it wasn’t Ryland Vaughan; he’s an obnoxious ass, but he is genuinely heart-broken about it all.”
Eiluned sniffed scornfully, and departed to fill a kettle at a tap on the landing.
“And whatever Eiluned thinks, I can’t believe Phil Boyes did it himself.”
“Why not?” asked Wimsey.
“He talked such a lot,” said Sylvia. “And he really had too high an opinion of himself. I don’t think he would have wilfully deprived the world of the privilege of reading his books.”
“He would,” said Eiluned. “He’d do it out of spite, to make the grownups sorry. No, thanks,” as Wimsey advanced to carry the kettle, “I’m quite capable of carrying six pints of water.”
“Crushed again!” said Wimsey.
“Eiluned disapproves of conventional courtesies between the sexes,” said Marjorie.
“Very well,” replied Wimsey, amiably. “I will adopt an attitude of passive decoration. Have you any idea, Miss Marriott, why this over-sleek solicitor should wish to make away with his cousin?”
“Not the faintest. I merely proceed on the old Sherlock Holmes basis, that when you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.”
“Dupin said that before Sherlock. I grant the conclusion, but in this case I question the premises. No sugar, thank you.”
“I thought all men liked to make their coffee into syrup.”
“Yes, but then I’m very unusual. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I haven’t had much time to observe you, but I’ll count the coffee as a point in your favour.”
“Thanks frightfully. I say – can you people tell me just what was Miss Vane’s reaction to the murder?”
“Well -” Sylvia considered a moment. “When he died – she was upset, of course -”
“She was startled,” said Miss Price, “but it’s my opinion she was thankful to be rid of him. And no wonder. Selfish beast! He’d made use of her and nagged her to death for a year and insulted her at the end. And he was one of your greedy sort that wouldn’t let go. She was glad, Sylvia – what’s the good of denying it?”
“Yes, perhaps. It was a relief to know he was finished with. But she didn’t know then that he’d been murdered.”
“No. The murder spoilt it a bit – if it was a murder, which I don’t believe. Philip Boyes was always determined to be a victim, and it was very irritating of him to succeed in the end. I believe that’s what he did it for.”
“People do do that kind of thing,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully. “But it’s difficult to prove. I mean, a jury is much more inclined to believe in some tangible sort of reason, like money. But I can’t find any money in this case.”
Eiluned laughed.
“No, there never was much money, except what Harriet made. The ridiculous public didn’t appreciate Phil Boyes. He couldn’t forgive her that, you know.”
“Didn’t it come in useful?”
“Of course, but he resented it all the same. She ought to have been ministering to his work, not making money for them both with her own independent trash. But that’s men all over.”
“You haven’t much opinion of us, what?”
“I’ve known too many borrowers,” said Eiluned Price, “and too many that wanted their hands held. All the same, the women are just as bad, or they wouldn’t put up with it. Thank Heaven, I’ve never borrowed and never lent – except to women, and they pay back.”
“People who work hard usually do pay back, I fancy,” said Wimsey, “- except geniuses.”
“Women geniuses don’t get coddled,” said Miss Price, grimly, “so they learn not to expect it.”
“We’re getting rather off the subject, aren’t we?” said Marjorie.
“No,” replied Wimsey, “I’m getting a certain amount of light on the central figures in the problem – what journalists like to call the protagonists.” His mouth gave a wry little twist. “One gets a lot of illumination in that fierce light that beats upon a scaffold.”
“Don’t say that,” pleaded Sylvia.
A telephone rang somewhere outside, and Eiluned Price went out to answer it.
“Eiluned’s anti-man,” said Sylvia, “but she’s a very reliable person.”
Wimsey nodded.
“But she’s wrong about Phil – she couldn’t stick him, naturally, and she’s apt to think -”
“It’s for you, Lord Peter,” said Eiluned, returning. “Fly at once – all is known. You’re wanted by Scotland Yard.
Wimsey hastened out.
“That you, Peter? I’ve been scouring London for you. We’ve found the pub.”
“Never!”
“Fact. And we’re on the track of a packet of white powder.”