“Thank you,” said Penberthy.
The Colonel closed the drawer slowly, stepped back a couple of paces and bowed gravely. Wimsey put his hand on Penberthy’s shoulder for a moment, then took the Colonel’s arm. Their shadows moved, lengthened, shortened, doubled and crossed as they passed the seven lights in the seven bays of the library. The door shut after them.
“How about a drink, Colonel?” said Wimsey.
They went into the bar, which was just preparing to close for the night. Several other men were there, talking over their plans for Christmas.
“I’m getting away south,” said Tin-Tummy Challoner. “I’m fed up with this climate and this country.”
“I wish you’d look us up, Wimsey,” said another man. “We could give you some very decent shooting. We’re having a sort of house-party; my wife, you know—must have all these young people round—awful crowd of women. But I’m getting one or two men who can play bridge and handle a gun, and it would be a positive charity to see me through. Deadly season, Christmas. Can’t think why they invented it.”
“It’s all right if you’ve got kids,” interrupted a large, red-faced man with a bald head. “The little beggars enjoy it. You ought to start a family, Anstruther.”
“All very well,” said Anstruther, “you’re cut out by nature to dress up as Father Christmas. I tell you, what with one thing and another, entertaining and going about, and the servants we have to keep in a place like ours, it’s a job to keep things going. If you know of a good thing, I wish you’d put me on to it. It’s not as though—”
“Hullo!” said Challoner, “what was that?”
“Motorbike, probably,” said Anstruther. “As I was saying, it’s not as though—”
“Something’s happened,” broke in the red-faced man, setting down his glass.
There were voices, and the running to and fro of feet. The door was flung open. Startled faces turned towards it. Wetheridge burst in, pale and angry.
“I say, you fellows,” he cried, “here’s another unpleasantness. Penberthy’s shot himself in the library. People ought to have more consideration for the members. Where’s Culyer?”
Wimsey pushed his way out into the entrance hall. There, as he had expected, he found the plainsclothes detective who had been told off to shadow Penberthy.
“Send for Inspector Parker,” he said. “I have a paper to give him. Your job’s over; it’s the end of the case.”
XXIII
Postmortem
“And George is all right again now?”
“Thank heaven, yes—getting on splendidly. The doctor says he worked himself into it, just out of worry lest he should be suspected. It never occured to me—but then George is very quick at putting two and two together.”
“Of course he knew he was one of the last people to see his grandfather.”
“Yes, and seeing the name on the bottle—and the police coming—”
“That did it. And you’re sure he’s all right?”
“Oh, rather. The minute he knew that it was all cleared up, he seemed to come out from under a blanket. He sent you all sorts of messages, by the way.”
“Well, as soon as he’s fit you must come and dine with me …”
“… A simple case, of course, as soon as you had disentangled the Robert part of it.”
“A damned unsatisfactory case, Charles. Not the kind I like. No real proof.”
“Nothing in it for us, of course. Just as well it never came to trial, though. With juries you never know.”
“No; they might have let Penberthy off; or convicted them both.”
“Exactly. If you ask me, I think Ann Dorland is a very lucky young woman.”
“Oh, God!—you would say that …”
“… Yes, of course, I’m sorry for Naomi Rushworth. But she needn’t be so spiteful. She goes about hinting that of course dear Walter was got over by that Dorland girl and sacrificed himself to save her.”
“Well, that’s natural, I suppose. You thought Miss Dorland had done it yourself at one time, you know, Marjorie.”
“I didn’t know then about her being engaged to Penberthy. And I think he deserved all he got … Well, I know he’s dead, but it was a rotten way to treat a girl, and Ann’s far too good for that kind of thing. People have a perfect right to want love-affairs. You men always think …”
“Not me, Marjorie. I don’t think.”
“Oh, you! You’re almost human. I’d almost take you on myself if you asked me. You don’t feel inclined that way, I suppose?”
“My dear—if a great liking and friendship were enough, I would—like a shot. But that wouldn’t satisfy you, would it?”
“It wouldn’t satisfy you, Peter. I’m sorry. Forget it.”
“I won’t forget it. It’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever had paid me. Great Scott! I only wish …”
“There! that’s all right, you needn’t make a speech. And you won’t go away tactfully forever, will you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“And you won’t be embarrassed?”
“No, I won’t be embarrassed. Portrait of a young man poking the fire to bits to indicate complete freedom from embarrassment. Let’s go and feed somewhere, shall we? …”
“… Well, and how did you get on with the heiress and the lawyers and all that lot?”
“Oh! there was a long argument. Miss Dorland insisted on dividing the money, and I said no, I couldn’t think of it. She said it was only hers as the result of a crime, and Pritchard and Murbles said she wasn’t responsible for other people’s crimes. And I said it would look like my profiting by my own attempt at fraud, and she said, not at all, and we went on and on, don’t you know. That’s a damned decent girl, Wimsey.”
“Yes, I know. The moment I found she preferred burgundy to champagne I had the highest opinion of her.”
“No, really—there’s something very fine and straightforward about her.”
“Oh, yes—not a bad girl at all; though I shouldn’t have said she was quite your sort.”
“Why not?”
“Well—arty and all that. And her looks aren’t her strong point.”
“You needn’t be offensive, Wimsey. Surely I may be allowed to appreciate
