“Yes, my lord. It gave Mrs. Rogers quite a turn when I told her about it.”
“Seems almost unbelievable, don’t it? Sittin’ round all those hours—must have been several hours, I gather, from what the doctor says. I suppose the old boy came in at his usual time, eh?”
“Ah! regular as clockwork, the General was. Always on the stroke of ten. ‘Good morning, Rogers’, he’d say, a bit stifflike, but very friendly. And then, ‘Fine morning,’ he’d say, as like as not. And sometimes ask after Mrs. Rogers and the family. A fine old gentleman, my lord. We shall all miss him.”
“Did you notice whether he seemed specially feeble or tired that morning at all?” inquired Wimsey, casually, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand.
“Why, no, my lord. I beg your pardon, I fancied you knew. I wasn’t on duty that day, my lord. I was kindly given permission to attend the ceremony at the Cenotaph. Very grand sight, it was, too, my lord. Mrs. Rogers was greatly moved.”
“Oh, of course, Rogers—I was forgetting. Naturally, you would be there. So you didn’t see the General to say goodbye, as it were. Still, it wouldn’t have done to miss the Cenotaph. Matthews took your duty over, I suppose.”
“No, my lord. Matthews is laid up with ’flu, I am sorry to say. It was Weston was at the door all morning, my lord.”
“Weston? Who’s he?”
“He’s new, my lord. Took the place of Briggs. You recollect Briggs—his uncle died and left him a fish-shop.”
“Of course he did; just so. When does Weston come on parade? I must make his acquaintance.”
“He’ll be here at one o’clock, when I go to my lunch, my lord.”
“Oh, right! I’ll probably be about then. Hallo, Penberthy! You’re just the man I want to see. Had your morning’s inspiration? Or come in to look for it?”
“Just tracking it to its lair. Have it with me.”
“Right you are, old chap—half a mo’ while I deposit my outer husk. I’ll follow you.”
He glanced irresolutely at the hall-porter’s desk, but seeing the man already engaged with two or three inquiries, plunged abruptly into the cloakroom, where the attendant, a bright cockney with a Sam Weller face and an artificial leg, was ready enough to talk about General Fentiman.
“Well, now, my lord, that’s funny you should ask me that,” he said, when Wimsey had dexterously worked in an inquiry as to the time of the General’s arrival at the Bellona. “Dr. Penberthy was askin’ the same question. It’s a fair puzzle, that is. I could count on the fingers of one ’and the mornings I’ve missed seein’ the General come in. Wonderful regular, the General was, and him being such a very old gentleman, I’d make a point of being ’andy, to ’elp him off with his overcoat and such. But there! He must a’ come in a bit late, that morning, for I never see him, and I thought at lunchtime, ‘The General must be ill,’ I thinks. And I goes round, and there I see his coat and ’at ’ung up on his usual peg. So I must ’a missed him. There was a lot of gentlemen in and out that morning, my lord, bein’ Armistice Day. A number of members come up from the country and wanting their ’ats and boots attended to, my lord, so that’s how I come not to notice, I suppose.”
“Possibly. Well, he was in before lunch, at any rate.”
“Oh, yes, my lord. ’Alf-past twelve I goes off, and his hat and coat were on the peg then, because I see ’em.”
“That gives us a terminus ad quem at any rate,” said Wimsey, half to himself.
“I beg your lordship’s pardon?”
“I was saying, that shows he came in before half-past twelve—and later than ten o’clock, you think.”
“Yes, my lord. I couldn’t say to a fraction, but I’m sure if ’e’d arrived before a quarter-past ten I should have seen ’em. But after that, I recollect I was very busy, and he must ’a slipped in without me noticing him.”
“Ah, yes—poor old boy! Still, no doubt he’d have liked to pass out quietly like that. Not a bad way to go home, Williamson.”
“Very good way, my lord. We’ve seen worse than that. And what’s it all come to, after all? They’re all sayin’ as it’s an unpleasant thing for the Club, but I say, where’s the odds? There ain’t many ’ouses what somebody ain’t died in, some time or another. We don’t think any the worse of the ’ouses, so why think the worse of the Club?”
“You’re a philosopher, Williamson.” Wimsey climbed the short flight of marble steps and turned into the bar. “It’s narrowin’ down,” he muttered to himself. “Between ten-fifteen and twelve-thirty. Looks as if it was goin’ to be a close run for the Dormer stakes. But—dash it all! Let’s hear what Penberthy has to say.”
The doctor was already standing at the bar with a whisky-and-soda before him. Wimsey demanded a Worthington and dived into his subject without more ado.
“Look here,” he said, “I just wanted a word with you about old Fentiman. Frightfully confidential, and all that. But it seems the exact time of the poor old blighter’s departure has become an important item. Question of succession. Get me? They don’t want a row made. Asked me, as friend of the family and all that, don’t y’know, to barge round and ask questions. Obviously, you’re the first man to come to. What’s your opinion? Medical opinion, apart from anything else?”
Penberthy raised his eyebrows.
“Oh? there’s a question, is there? Thought there might be. That lawyer-fellow, what’s-his-name, was here the other day, trying to pin me down. Seemed to think one can say to a minute when a man died by looking at his back teeth. I told him it wasn’t possible. Once give these birds an
