‘My lord,
While making a few inquiries at Southampton pursuant to the investigation with which your lordship entrusted me’ (what marvelous English those fellows write, don’t they? Nearly as good as the regular police), ‘I came, almost accidentally’ (‘almost’ is good) ‘upon the trifling clue which led me to suppose that the party whom I was instructed by your lordship to keep under observation had been less in error than we were led to suppose, and had merely been misled by a confusion of identity natural in a gentleman not scientifically instructed in the art of following up suspected persons. In short’ (thank God for that!) ‘in short, I believe that I have myself come upon the track of O.’ (These fellows are amazingly cautious; he might just as well write Oliver and have done with it), ‘and have followed the individual in question to this place. I have telegraphed to the gentleman your friend’ (I presume that means Fentiman) ‘to join me immediately with a view to identifying the party. I will of course duly acquaint your lordship with any further developments in the case, and believe me’—and so forth.”
“Well, I’m damned!”
“The man must be mistaken, Lord Peter.”
“I jolly well hope so,” said Wimsey, rather red in the face. “It’ll be a bit galling to have Oliver turning up, just when we’ve proved so conclusively that he doesn’t exist. Paris! I suppose he means that Fentiman spotted the right man at Waterloo and lost him on the train or in the rush for the boat. And got hold of Postlethwaite instead. Funny. Meanwhile, Fentiman’s off to France. Probably taken the 10:30 boat from Folkestone. I don’t know how we’re to get hold of him.”
“How very extraordinary,” said Mr. Murbles. “Where does that detective person write from?”
“Just ‘Paris,’ ” said Wimsey. “Bad paper and worse ink. And a small stain of vin ordinaire. Probably written in some little café yesterday afternoon. Not much hope there. But he’s certain to let me know where they get to.”
“We must send someone to Paris immediately in search of them,” declared Mr. Murbles.
“Why?”
“To fetch Major Fentiman back.”
“Yes, but look here, sir. If there really is an Oliver after all, it rather upsets our calculations, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Murbles considered this.
“I cannot see that it affects our conclusions as to the hour of the General’s death,” he said.
“Perhaps not, but it considerably alters our position with regard to Robert Fentiman.”
“Ye-es. Yes, that is so. Though,” said Mr. Murbles, severely, “I still consider that the story requires close investigation.”
“Agreed. Well, look here. I’ll run over to Paris myself and see what I can do. And you had better temporize with Pritchard. Tell him you think there will be no need to compromise and that we hope soon to be in possession of the precise facts. That’ll show him we don’t mean to have any truck with anythin’ fishy. I’ll learn him to cast nasturtiums at me!”
“And—oh, dear! there’s another thing. We must try and get hold of Major Fentiman to stop this exhumation.”
“Oh, lord!—Yes. That’s a bit awkward. Can’t you stop it by yourself?”
“I hardly think I can. Major Fentiman has applied for it as executor, and I cannot quite see what I can do in the matter without his signature. The Home Office would hardly—”
“Yes. I quite see that you can’t mess about with the Home Office. Well, though, that’s easy. Robert never was keen on the resurrection idea. Once we’ve got his address, he’ll be only too happy to send you a chit to call the whole thing off. You leave it to me. After all, even if we don’t find Robert for a few days and the old boy has to be dug up after all, it won’t make things any worse. Will it?”
Mr. Murbles agreed, dubiously.
“Then I’ll pull the old carcass together,” said Wimsey, brightly, flinging the bedclothes aside and leaping to his feet, “and toddle off to the City of Light. Will you excuse me for a few moments, sir? The bath awaits me. Bunter, put a few things into a suitcase and be ready to come with me to Paris.”
On second thoughts, Wimsey waited till the next day, hoping, as he explained, to hear from the detective. As nothing reached him, however, he started in pursuit, instructing the head office of Sleuths Incorporated to wire any information received to him at the Hotel Meurice. The next news that arrived from him was a card to Mr. Murbles written on a P.L.M. express, which said simply, “Quarry gone on to Rome. Hard on trail. P. W.” The next day came a foreign telegram: “Making for Sicily. Faint but pursuing. P. W.”
In reply to this, Mr. Murbles wired: “Exhumation fixed for day after tomorrow. Please make haste.”
To which Wimsey replied: “Returning for exhumation. P. W.”
He returned alone.
“Where is Robert Fentiman?” demanded Mr. Murbles, agitatedly.
Wimsey, his hair matted damply and his face white from traveling day and night, grinned feebly.
“I rather fancy,” he said, in a wan voice, “that Oliver is at his old tricks again.”
“Again?” cried Mr. Murbles, aghast. “But the letter from your detective was genuine.”
“Oh, yes—that was genuine enough. But even detectives can be bribed. Anyhow, we haven’t seen hide or hair of our friends. They’ve been always a little ahead. Like the Holy Grail, you know. Fainter by day but always in the night blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh, blood-red—perfectly bloody, in fact. Well, here we are. When does the ceremony take place? Quietly, I take it? No flowers?”
The “ceremony” took place, as such ceremonies do, under the discreet cover of darkness. George Fentiman, who, in Robert’s absence, attended to represent the family, was nervous and depressed. It is trying enough to go to
