“I attribute it, my lord, principally to the circumstance that I prefer metol-quinol for the purpose of development.”
“Well, you can’t expect an outsider to grasp a thing like that. Wait a minute. Culyer, you seem to have a fairly juicy pipe there. Give us a cleaner.”
Wimsey thrust the instrument energetically through the stem of the pipe, bringing out a revolting collection of brown, oily matter.
“Nicotine poisoning, Culyer—that’s what you’ll die of if you aren’t jolly careful. Here you are, Bunter. Judiciously smeared upon the finger tips, that should give quite the right effect. Now, look here, Mr. Culyer here will take you round. I want a shot of the smoking-room from the entrance, a close up of the fireplace, showing General Fentiman’s usual chair, and another shot from the door of the anteroom that leads into the library. Another shot through the anteroom into the library, and some careful studies of the far bay of the library from all points of view. After that, I want two or three views of the hall, and a shot of the cloakroom; get the attendant there to show you which was General Fentiman’s customary peg, and take care that that gets into the picture. That’s all for the moment, but you can take anything else that seems necessary for purposes of camouflage. And I want all the detail you can possibly get in, so stop down to whatever it is and take as long as you like. You’ll find me knocking about somewhere when you’ve finished, and you’d better get some more plates in, because we’re going on to another place.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh, and, Culyer, by the way. Dr. Penberthy sent a female in to lay the General out, didn’t he? D’you happen to remember when she arrived?”
“About nine o’clock the next morning, I think.”
“Have you got her name, by any chance?”
“I don’t think so. But I know she came from Merritt’s, the undertakers—round Shepherd’s Market way. They’d probably put you on to her.”
“Thanks frightfully, Culyer. I’ll make myself scarce now. Carry on, Bunter.”
Wimsey thought for a moment; then strolled across to the smoking-room, exchanged a mute greeting with one or two of the assembled veterans, picked up the Morning Post, and looked round for a seat. The great armchair with ears still stood before the fire, but some dim feeling of respect for the dead had left it vacant. Wimsey sauntered over to it, and dropped lazily into its well-sprung depths. A veteran close at hand looked angrily at him and rustled the Times loudly. Wimsey ignored these signals, barricading himself behind his paper. The veteran sank back again, muttering something about “young men” and “no decency.” Wimsey sat on unmoved, and paid no attention, even when a man from The Twaddler came in, escorted by the Secretary, to take photographs of the smoking-room. A few sensitives retired before this attack. Wetheridge waddled away with a grumbling protest into the library. It gave Wimsey considerable satisfaction to see the relentless camera pursue him into that stronghold.
It was half-past twelve before a waiter approached Lord Peter to say that Mr. Culyer would be glad to speak to him for a moment. In the office, Bunter reported his job done, and was despatched to get some lunch and a fresh supply of plates. Wimsey presently went down to the dining-room, where he found Wetheridge already established, getting the first cut off the saddle of mutton, and grumbling at the wine. Wimsey went deliberately over, greeted him heartily, and sat down at the same table.
Wetheridge said it was beastly weather. Wimsey agreed amiably. Wetheridge said it was scandalous, seeing what one paid for one’s food in this place, that one couldn’t get anything fit to eat. Wimsey, who was adored by chef and waiters alike for his appreciation of good food, and had been sent the choicest cut without having to ask for it, sympathized with this sentiment too. Wetheridge said he had been chased all over the Club that morning by an infernal photographer fellow, and that one got no peace these days with all this confounded publicity. Wimsey said it was all done for advertisement, and that advertisement was the curse of the age. Look at the papers—nothing but advertisements from cover to cover. Wetheridge said that in his time, by gad, a respectable Club would have scorned advertisements, and that he could remember the time when newspapers were run by gentlemen for gentlemen. Wimsey said that nothing was what it had been; he thought it must be due to the War.
“Infernal slackness, that’s what it is,” said Wetheridge. “The service in this place is a disgrace. That fellow Culyer doesn’t know his job. This week it’s the soap. Would you believe it, there was none—actually none—in the bathroom yesterday. Had to ring for it. Made me late for dinner. Last week it was the telephone. Wanted to get through to a man down in Norfolk. Brother was a friend of mine—killed on the last day of the War, half an hour before the guns stopped firing—damnable shame—always ring up on Armistice Day, say a few words, don’t you know—hr’rm!”
Wetheridge, having unexpectedly displayed this softer side of his character, relapsed into a snorting silence.
“Couldn’t you get through, sir?” inquired Wimsey, with feeling. Anything that had happened at the Bellona Club on Armistice Day was of interest to him.
“I got through all right,” said Wetheridge, morosely. “But, confound it all, I had to go down to the cloakroom to get a call from one of the boxes there. Didn’t want to hang about the entrance. Too many imbeciles coming in and out. Exchanging silly anecdotes. Why a solemn national occasion should be an excuse for all these fools meeting and talking rot, I don’t know.”
“Beastly annoyin’. But why didn’t you tell ’em to put the call through to the box by
