“Just so,” said Mr. Murbles. “Robert, you know, is unmarried and still in the Army. He’s not particularly well-off, naturally, for none of the Fentimans ever had a bean, as I believe one says nowadays; but he does very well. George—”
“Poor old George! All right, sir, you needn’t tell me about him. Usual story. Decentish job—imprudent marriage—chucks everything to join up in 1914—invalided out—job gone—health gone—no money—heroic wife keeping the home-fires burning—general fed-upness. Don’t let’s harrow our feelings. Take it as read.”
“Yes, I needn’t go into that. Their father is dead, of course, and up till ten days ago there were just two surviving Fentimans of the earlier generation. The old General lived on the small fixed income which came to him through his wife and his retired pension. He had a solitary little flat in Dover Street and an elderly manservant, and he practically lived at the Bellona Club. And there was his sister, Felicity.”
“How did she come to be Lady Dormer?”
“Why, that’s where we come to the interesting part of the story. Henry Dormer—”
“The button-maker?”
“The button-maker. He became an exceedingly rich man indeed—so rich, in fact, that he was able to offer financial assistance to certain exalted persons who need not be mentioned and so, in time, and in consideration of valuable services to the nation not very clearly specified in the Honors List, he became Sir Henry Dormer, Bart. His only child—a girl—had died, and there was no prospect of any further family, so there was, of course, no reason why he should not be made a baronet for his trouble.”
“Acid man you are,” said Wimsey. “No reverence, no simple faith or anything of that kind. Do lawyers ever go to heaven?”
“I have no information on that point,” said Mr. Murbles, dryly. “Lady Dormer—”
“Did the marriage turn out well otherwise?” inquired Wimsey.
“I believe it was perfectly happy,” replied the lawyer, “an unfortunate circumstance in one way, since it entirely precluded the possibility of any reconciliation with her relatives. Lady Dormer, who was a fine, generous-hearted woman, frequently made overtures of peace, but the General held sternly aloof. So did his son—partly out of respect for the old boy’s wishes, but chiefly, I fancy, because he belonged to an Indian regiment and spent most of his time abroad. Robert Fentiman, however, showed the old lady a certain amount of attention, paying occasional visits and so forth, and so did George at one time. Of course they never let the General know a word about it, or he would have had a fit. After the War, George rather dropped his great-aunt—I don’t know why.”
“I can guess,” said Wimsey. “No job—no money, y’know. Didn’t want to look pointed. That sort of thing, what?”
“Possibly. Or there may have been some kind of quarrel. I don’t know. Anyway, those are the facts. I hope I am not boring you, by the way?”
“I am bearing up,” said Wimsey, “waiting for the point where the Money comes in. There’s a steely legal glitter in your eye, sir, which suggests that the thrill is not far off.”
“Quite correct,” said Mr. Murbles. “I now come—thank you, well, yes—I will take just one more glass. I thank Providence I am not of a gouty constitution. Yes. Ah!—We now come to the melancholy event of November 11th last, and I must ask you to follow me with the closest attention.”
“By all means,” said Wimsey, politely.
“Lady Dormer,” pursued Mr. Murbles, leaning earnestly forward, and punctuating every sentence with sharp little jabs of his gold-mounted eyeglasses, held in his right finger and thumb, “was an old woman, and had been ailing for a very long time. However, she was still the same headstrong and vivacious personality that she had been as a girl, and on the fifth of November she was suddenly seized with a fancy to go out at night and see a display of fireworks at the Crystal Palace or some such place—it may have been Hampstead Heath or the White City—I forget, and it is of no consequence. The important thing is, that it was a raw, cold evening. She insisted on undertaking her little expedition nevertheless, enjoyed the entertainment as heartily as the youngest child, imprudently exposed herself to the night air and caught a severe cold which, in two days’ time, turned to pneumonia. On November 10th she was sinking fast, and scarcely expected to live out the night. Accordingly, the young lady who lived with her as her ward—a distant relative, Miss Ann Dorland—sent a message to General Fentiman that if he wished to see his sister alive, he should come immediately. For the sake of our common human nature, I am happy to say that this news broke down the barrier of pride and obstinacy that had kept the old gentleman away so long. He came, found Lady Dormer just conscious, though very feeble, stayed with her about half an hour and departed, still stiff as a ramrod, but visibly softened. This was about four o’clock in the afternoon. Shortly afterwards, Lady Dormer became unconscious, and, indeed, never moved or spoke again, passing peacefully away in her sleep at half-past ten the following morning.
“Presumably the shock and nervous strain of the interview with his long-estranged sister had been too much for the old General’s feeble system, for, as you know, he died at the Bellona Club at some time—not yet clearly ascertained—on the same day, the eleventh of November.
“Now then, at last—and you have been very patient with my tedious way of explaining all this—we come to the point at which we want your help.”
Mr. Murbles refreshed himself with a sip of port, and, looking a little anxiously at Wimsey, who had closed his eyes and appeared to be nearly asleep, he resumed.
“I have not mentioned, I think, how I come to be involved in this matter myself. My father was the Fentimans’ family solicitor,
