“Well, stay and have a spot of tea with us, and I dare say we can get something ready for you by then. It doesn’t look anything out of the way. Knowing your tastes, I’m still surprised it isn’t blood. Have you no blood in prospect?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll stay to tea with pleasure, if you’re certain I’m not being a bore.”
“Never that. Besides, while you’re here, you might give me your opinion on those old medical books of mine. I don’t suppose they’re particularly valuable, but they’re quaint. Come along.”
Wimsey passed a couple of hours agreeably with Lady Lubbock and crumpets and a dozen or so antiquated anatomical treatises. Presently Saunders returned with his report. The deposit was nothing more nor less than an ordinary brown paint and varnish of a kind well known to joiners and furniture-makers. It was a modern preparation, with nothing unusual about it; one might find it anywhere. It was not a floor-varnish—one would expect to meet it on a door or partition or something of that sort. The chemical formula followed.
“Not very helpful, I’m afraid,” said Sir James.
“You never know your luck,” replied Wimsey. “Would you be good enough to label the slide and sign your name to it, and to the analysis, and keep them both by you for reference in case they’re wanted?”
“Sure thing. How do you want ’em labeled?”
“Well—put down ‘Varnish from General Fentiman’s left boot,’ and ‘Analysis of varnish from General Fentiman’s left boot,’ and the date, and I’ll sign it, and you and Saunders can sign it, and then I think we shall be all right.”
“Fentiman? Was that the old boy who died suddenly the other day?”
“It was. But it’s no use looking at me with that childlike air of intelligent taking-notice, because I haven’t got any gory yarn to spin. It’s only a question of where the old man spent the night, if you must know.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. Never mind, it’s nothing to do with me. Perhaps when it’s all over, you’ll tell me what it’s about. Meanwhile the labels shall go on. You, I take it, are ready to witness to the identity of the boot, and I can witness to having seen the varnish on the boot, and Saunders can witness that he removed the varnish from the boot and analyzed it and that this is the varnish he analyzed. All according to Cocker. Here you are. Sign here and here, and that will be eight-and-sixpence, please.”
“It might be cheap at eight-and-sixpence,” said Wimsey. “It might even turn out to be cheap at eight hundred and sixty quid—or eight thousand and sixty.”
Sir James Lubbock looked properly thrilled.
“You’re only doing it to annoy, because you know it teases. Well, if you must be sphinx-like, you must. I’ll keep these things under lock and key for you. Do you want the boot back?”
“I don’t suppose the executor will worry. And a fellow looks such a fool carrying a boot about. Put it away with the other things till called for, there’s a good man.”
So the boot was put away in a cupboard, and Lord Peter was free to carry on with his afternoon’s entertainment.
His first idea was to go on up to Finsbury Park, to see the George Fentimans. He remembered in time, however, that Sheila would not yet be home from her work—she was employed as cashier in a fashionable teashop—and further (with a forethought rare in the well-to-do) that if he arrived too early he would have to be asked to supper, and that there would be very little supper and that Sheila would be worried about it and George annoyed. So he turned in to one of his numerous Clubs, and had a Sole Colbert very well cooked, with a bottle of Liebfraumilch; an Apple Charlotte and light savory to follow, and black coffee and a rare old brandy to top up with—a simple and satisfactory meal which left him in the best of tempers.
The George Fentimans lived in two ground-floor rooms with use of kitchen and bathroom in a semidetached house with a blue and yellow fanlight over the door and Madras muslin over the windows. They were really furnished apartments, but the landlady always referred to them as a flat, because that meant that tenants had to do their own work and provide their own service. The house felt stuffy as Lord Peter entered it, because somebody was frying fish in oil at no great distance, and a slight unpleasantness was caused at the start by the fact that he had rung only once, thus bringing up the person in the basement, whereas a better-instructed caller would have rung twice, to indicate that he wanted the ground floor.
Hearing explanations in the hall, George put his head out of the dining-room and said, “Oh! hullo!”
“Hullo,” said Wimsey, trying to find room for his belongings on an overladen hatstand, and eventually disposing of them on the handle of a perambulator. “Thought I’d just come and look you up. Hope I’m not in the way.”
“Of course not. Jolly good of you to penetrate to this ghastly hole. Come in. Everything’s in a beastly muddle as usual, but when you’re poor you have to live like pigs. Sheila, here’s Lord Peter Wimsey—you have met, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course. How nice of you to come round. Have you had dinner?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks, really—I’ve only just had some.”
“Well,” said George, “there’s only whisky to offer you.”
“Later on, perhaps, thanks, old man. Not just now. I’ve had a brandy. Never mix grape and grain.”
“Wise man,” said George, his brow clearing, since as a matter of fact, there was no whisky nearer than the public-house, and acceptance would have meant six-and-six, at least, besides the exertion of fetching it.
Sheila Fentiman drew an armchair forward, and herself sat down on a low pouffe. She was a woman of thirty-five or so, and would have been very good-looking but for an
