“Do you think so?”
“Yes. But your man won’t be at all the sort of person you’re expecting. You have always thought of being dominated by somebody, haven’t you?”
“Well—”
“But you’ll find that yours will be the leading brain of the two. He will take great pride in the fact. And you will find the man reliable and kind, and it will turn quite well.”
“I didn’t know you were a prophet.”
“I am, though.”
Wimsey took the bottle of 1908 from the waiter and glanced over the girl’s head at the door. A man in a boiled shirt was making his way in, accompanied by the manager.
“I am a prophet,” said Wimsey. “Listen. Something tiresome is going to happen—now, this minute. But don’t worry. Drink your wine, and trust.”
The manager had brought the man to their table. It was Parker.
“Ah!” said Wimsey, brightly. “You’ll forgive our starting without you, old man. Sit down. I think you know Miss Dorland.”
“Have you come to arrest me?” asked Ann.
“Just to ask you to come down to the Yard with me,” said Parker, smiling pleasantly and unfolding his napkin.
Ann looked palely at Wimsey, and took a gulp of the wine.
“Right,” said Wimsey. “Miss Dorland has quite a lot to tell you. After dinner will suit us charmingly. What will you have?”
Parker, who was not imaginative, demanded a grilled steak.
“Shall we find any other friends at the Yard?” pursued Wimsey.
“Possibly,” said Parker.
“Well, cheer up! You put me off my food, looking so grim. Hullo! Yes, waiter, what is it?”
“Excuse me, my lord; is this gentleman Detective-Inspector Parker?”
“Yes, yes,” said Parker, “what’s the matter?”
“You’re wanted on the phone, sir.”
Parker departed.
“It’s all right,” said Wimsey to the girl. “I know you’re straight, and I’ll damn well see you through.”
“What am I to do?”
“Tell the truth.”
“It sounds so silly.”
“They’ve heard lots of very much sillier stories than that.”
“But—I don’t want to—to be the one to—”
“You’re still fond of him, then?”
“No!—but I’d rather it wasn’t me.”
“I’ll be frank with you. I think it’s going to be between you and him that suspicion will lie.”
“In that case”—she set her teeth—“he can have what’s coming to him.”
“Thank the lord! I thought you were going to be noble and self-sacrificing and tiresome. You know. Like the people whose noble motives are misunderstood in chapter one and who get dozens of people tangled up in their miserable affairs till the family lawyer solves everything on the last page but two.”
Parker had come back from the telephone.
“Just a moment!” He spoke in Peter’s ear.
“Hullo?”
“Look here; this is awkward. George Fentiman—”
“Yes?”
“He’s been found in Clerkenwell.”
“Clerkenwell?”
“Yes; must have wandered back by bus or something. He’s at the police-station; in fact he’s given himself up.”
“Good lord!”
“For the murder of his grandfather.”
“The devil he has!”
“It’s a nuisance; of course it must be looked into. I think perhaps I’d better put off interrogating Dorland and Penberthy. What are you doing with the girl, by the way?”
“I’ll explain later. Look here—I’ll take Miss Dorland back to Marjorie Phelps’ place, and then come along and join you. The girl won’t run away; I know that. And anyhow, you’ve got a man looking after her.”
“Yes, I rather wish you would come with me; Fentiman is pretty queer, by all accounts. We’ve sent for his wife.”
“Right. You buzz off, and I’ll join you in—say in three quarters of an hour. What address? Oh, yes, righty-ho! Sorry you’re missing your dinner.”
“It’s all in the day’s work,” growled Parker, and took his leave.
George Fentiman greeted them with a tired white smile.
“Hush!” he said. “I’ve told them all about it. He’s asleep; don’t wake him.”
“Who’s asleep, dearest?” said Sheila.
“I mustn’t say the name,” said George, cunningly. “He’d hear it—even in his sleep—even if you whispered it. But he’s tired, and he nodded off. So I ran in here and told them all about it while he snored.”
The police superintendent tapped his forehead significantly behind Sheila’s back.
“Has he made any statement?” asked Parker.
“Yes, he insisted on writing it himself. Here it is. Of course …” the Superintendent shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s all right,” said George. “I’m getting sleepy myself. I’ve been watching him for a day and a night, you know. I’m going to bed. Sheila—it’s time to go to bed.”
“Yes, dear.”
“We’ll have to keep him here tonight, I suppose,” muttered Parker. “Has the doctor seen him?”
“We’ve sent for him, sir.”
“Well, Mrs. Fentiman, I think if you’d take your husband into the room the officer will show you, that would be the best way. And we’ll send the doctor in to you when he arrives. Perhaps it would be as well that he should see his own medical man too. Whom would you like us to send for?”
“Dr. Penberthy has vetted him from time to time, I think,” put in Wimsey, suddenly. “Why not send for him?”
Parker gasped involuntarily.
“He might be able to throw some light on the symptoms,” said Wimsey, in a rigid voice.
Parker nodded.
“A good idea,” he agreed. He moved to the telephone. George smiled as his wife put her arm about his shoulder.
“Tired,” he said, “very tired. Off to bed, old girl.”
A police-constable opened the door to them, and they started through it together; George leaned heavily on Sheila; his feet dragged.
“Let’s have a look at his statement,” said Parker.
It was written in a staggering handwriting, much blotted and erased, with words left out and repeated here and there.
I am making this statement quickly while he is asleep, because if I wait he may wake up and stop me. You will say I was moved and seduced by instigation of but what they will not understand is that he is me and I am him. I killed my grandfather by giving him digitalin. I did not remember it till I saw the name on the bottle, but they have been
