“That’s an idea,” said Wimsey, slowly. “Suppose—suppose, for instance, there was somebody connected in some way with the General, who was in an unnerved state of mind—and suppose he came suddenly on this stiff corpse. You think he might—possibly—lose his head?”
“It’s certainly possible. I can imagine that he might behave hysterically, or even violently, and force the knee-joint back with some unbalanced idea of straightening the body out and making it look more seemly. And then, you know he might just run away from the thing and pretend it hadn’t happened. Mind you, I’m not saying it was so, but I can easily see it happening. And that being so, I thought it better to say nothing about it. It would be a very unpl—distressing thing to bring to people’s notice. And it might do untold harm to the nervous case to question him about it. I’d rather let sleeping dogs lie. There was nothing wrong about the death, that’s definite. As for the rest—our duty is to the living; we can’t help the dead.”
“Quite. Tell you what, though, I’ll have a shot at finding out whether—we may as well say what we mean—whether George Fentiman was alone in the smoking-room at any time during the day. One of the servants may have noticed. It seems the only possible explanation. Well, thanks very much for your help. Oh, by the way, you said at the time that the rigor was passing off when we found the body—was that just camouflage, or does it still hold good?”
“It was just beginning to pass off in the face and jaw as a matter of fact. It had passed away completely by midnight.”
“Thanks. That’s another fact, then. I like facts, and there are annoyin’ly few of them in this case. Won’t you have another whisky?”
“No thanks. Due at my surgery. See you another time. Cheerio!”
Wimsey remained for a few moments after he had gone, smoking meditatively. Then he turned his chair to the table, took a sheet of paper from the rack and began to jot down a few notes of the case with his fountain-pen. He had not got far, however, before one of the Club servants entered, peering into all the bays in turn, looking for somebody.
“Want me, Fred?”
“Your lordship’s man is here, my lord, and says you may wish to be advised of his arrival.”
“Quite right. I’m just coming.” Wimsey took up the blotting-pad to blot his notes. Then his face changed. The corner of a sheet of paper protruded slightly. On the principle that nothing is too small to be looked at, Wimsey poked an inquisitive finger between the leaves, and extracted the paper. It bore a few scrawls relating to sums of money, very carelessly and shakily written. Wimsey looked at it attentively for a moment or two, and shook the blotter to see if it held anything further. Then he folded the sheet, handling it with extreme care by the corners, put it in an envelope and filed it away in his notecase. Coming out of the library, he found Bunter waiting in the hall, camera and tripod in hand.
“Ah, here you are, Bunter. Just a minute, while I see the Secretary.” He looked in at the office, and found Culyer immersed in some accounts.
“Oh, I say, Culyer—’mornin’ and all that—yes, disgustingly healthy, thanks, always am—I say, you recollect old Fentiman poppin’ off in that inconsiderate way a little time ago?”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” said Culyer, with a wry face. “I’ve had three notes of complaint from Wetheridge—one, because the servants didn’t notice the matter earlier, set of inattentive rascals and all that; two, because the undertaker’s men had to take the coffin past his door and disturbed him; three, because somebody’s lawyer came along and asked him questions—together with distant allusions to the telephones being out of order and a shortage of soap in the bathroom. Who’d be a secretary?”
“Awfully sorry for you,” said Wimsey with a grin. “I’m not here to make trouble. Au contraire, as the man said in the Bay of Biscay when they asked if he’d dined. Fact is, there’s a bit of a muddle about the exact minute when the old boy passed out—mind you, this is in strict confidence—and I’m havin’ a look into it. Don’t want a fuss made, but I’d like a few photographs of the place, just to look at in absence and keep the lie of the land under my hawk-like optic, what? I’ve got my man here with a camera. D’you mind pretendin’ he’s the bloke from The Twaddler or the Picture News, or something, and givin’ him your official blessin’ while he totters round with the doings?”
“Mysterious idiot—of course, if you like. Though how photographs of the place today are going to give you a line on the time of a death which happened ten days ago, I don’t pretend to understand. But, I say—it’s all fair and aboveboard? We don’t want any—”
“Of course not. That’s the idea. Strictest confidence—any sum up to £50,000 on your note of hand alone, delivered in plain vans, no reference needed. Trust little Peter.”
“Oh, right-ho! What d’you want done?”
“I don’t want to go round with Bunter. Give the show away. May he be called in here?”
“Certainly.”
A servant was sent to fetch Bunter, who came in looking imperturbably prim and point-device. Wimsey looked him over and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Bunter, but you don’t look in the least like the professional photographer from The Twaddler. That dark-gray suit is all right, but you haven’t got quite the air of devil-may-care seediness that marks the giants of Fleet Street. D’you mind stickin’ all those dark-slides into one pocket and a few odd lenses and doodahs into the other, and
