“Dead several hours,” he pronounced, sharply. “Rigor well-established—beginning to pass off.” He moved the dead man’s left leg in illustration; it swung loose at the knee. “I’ve been expecting this. Heart very weak. Might happen any moment. Anyone spoken to him today?”
He glanced around interrogatively.
“I saw him here after lunch,” volunteered somebody. “I didn’t speak.”
“I thought he was asleep,” said another.
Nobody remembered speaking to him. They were so used to old General Fentiman, slumbering by the fire.
“Ah, well,” said the doctor. “What’s the time? Seven?” He seemed to make a rapid calculation. “Say five hours for rigor to set in—must have taken place very rapidly—he probably came in at his usual time, sat down and died straight away.”
“He always walked from Dover Street,” put in an elderly man, “I told him it was too great an exertion at his age. You’ve heard me say so, Ormsby.”
“Yes, yes, quite,” said the purple-faced Ormsby. “Dear me, just so.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done,” said the doctor. “Died in his sleep. Is there an empty bedroom we can take him to, Culyer?”
“Yes, certainly,” said the Secretary. “James, fetch the key of number sixteen from my office and tell them to put the bed in order. I suppose, eh, doctor?—when the rigor passes off we shall be able to—eh?”
“Oh, yes, you’ll be able to do everything that’s required. I’ll send the proper people in to lay him out for you. Somebody had better let his people know—only they’d better not show up till we can get him more presentable.”
“Captain Fentiman knows already,” said Colonel Marchbanks. “And Major Fentiman is staying in the Club—he’ll probably be in before long. Then there’s a sister, I think.”
“Yes, old Lady Dormer,” said Penberthy, “she lives round in Portman Square. They haven’t been on speaking terms for years. Still, she’ll have to know.”
“I’ll ring them up,” said the Colonel. “We can’t leave it to Captain Fentiman, he’s in no fit state to be worried, poor fellow. You’ll have to have a look at him, doctor, when you’ve finished here. An attack of the old trouble—nerves, you know.”
“All right. Ah! is the room ready, Culyer? Then we’ll move him. Will somebody take his shoulders—no, not you, Culyer” (for the Secretary had only one sound arm), “Lord Peter, yes, thank you—lift carefully.”
Wimsey put his long, strong hands under the stiff arms; the doctor gathered up the legs; they moved away. They looked like a dreadful little Guy Fawkes procession, with that humped and unreverend mannequin bobbing and swaying between them.
The door closed after them, and a tension seemed removed. The circle broke up into groups. Somebody lit a cigarette. The planet’s tyrant, dotard Death, had held his gray mirror before them for a moment and shown them the image of things to come. But now it was taken away again. The unpleasantness had passed. Fortunate, indeed, that Penberthy was the old man’s own doctor. He knew all about it. He could give a certificate. No inquest. Nothing undesirable. The members of the Bellona Club could go to dinner.
Colonel Marchbanks turned to go through the far door towards the library. In a narrow anteroom between the two rooms there was a convenient telephone-cabinet for the use of those members who did not wish to emerge into the semi-publicity of the entrance-hall.
“Hi, colonel! not that one. That instrument’s out of order,” said a man called Wetheridge, who saw him go. “Disgraceful, I call it. I wanted to use the phone this morning, and—oh! hullo! the notice has gone. I suppose it’s all right again. They ought to let one know.”
Colonel Marchbanks paid little attention to Wetheridge. He was the club grumbler, distinguished even in that fellowship of the dyspeptic and peremptory—always threatening to complain to the Committee, harassing the Secretary and constituting a perennial thorn in the sides of his fellow-members. He retired, murmuring, to his chair and the evening paper, and the Colonel stepped into the telephone-cabinet to call up Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square.
Presently he came out through the library into the entrance-hall, and met Penberthy and Wimsey just descending the staircase.
“Have you broken the news to Lady Dormer?” asked Wimsey.
“Lady Dormer is dead,” said the Colonel. “Her maid tells me she passed quietly away at half-past ten this morning.”
III
Hearts Count More Than Diamonds
About ten days after that notable Armistice Day, Lord Peter Wimsey was sitting in his library, reading a rare fourteenth century manuscript of Justinian. It gave him particular pleasure, being embellished with a large number of drawings in sepia, extremely delicate in workmanship, and not always equally so in subject. Beside him on a convenient table stood a long-necked decanter of priceless old port. From time to time he stimulated his interest with a few sips, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and slowly savoring the balmy aftertaste.
A ring at the front-door of the flat caused him to exclaim “Oh, hell!” and cock an attentive ear for the intruder’s voice. Apparently the result was satisfactory, for he closed the Justinian and had assumed a welcoming smile when the door opened.
“Mr. Murbles, my lord.”
The little elderly gentleman who entered was so perfectly the family solicitor as really to have no distinguishing personality at all, beyond a great kindliness of heart and a weakness for soda-mint lozenges.
“I am not disturbing you, I trust, Lord Peter.”
“Good lord, no, sir. Always delighted to see you. Bunter, a glass for Mr. Murbles. Very glad you’ve turned up, sir. The Cockburn ’80 always tastes a lot better in company—discernin’ company, that is. Once knew a fellow who polluted it with a Trichinopoly. He was not asked again. Eight months later, he committed suicide. I don’t say it was on that account. But he was earmarked for a bad end, what?”
“You horrify me,” said Mr. Murbles, gravely. “I have seen many men sent to the gallows for crimes with which I could feel much more sympathy. Thank you, Bunter, thank you. You are quite well, I
