Parker looked troubled.
“There’s something in what you say. I’ve heard some funny tales myself. We all do, I suppose. But Miss Dawson—”
“Miss Dawson fascinates me, Charles. Such a beautiful subject. So old and ill. So likely to die soon. Bound to die before long. No near relations to make inquiries. No connections or old friends in the neighbourhood. And so rich. Upon my soul, Charles, I lie in bed licking my lips over ways and means of murdering Miss Dawson.”
“Well, anyhow, till you can think of one that defies analysis and doesn’t seem to need a motive, you haven’t found the right one,” said Parker, practically, rather revolted by this ghoulish conversation.
“I admit that,” replied Lord Peter, “but that only shows that as yet I’m merely a third-rate murderer. Wait till I’ve perfected my method and then I’ll show you—perhaps. Some wise old buffer has said that each of us holds the life of one other person between his hands—but only one, Charles, only one.”
IX
The Will
“Our wills are ours to make them thine.”
Tennyson: In Memoriam
“Hullo! hullo—ullo! oh, operator, shall I call thee bird or but a wandering voice? … Not at all, I had no intention of being rude, my child, that was a quotation from the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth … well, ring him again … thank you, is that Dr. Carr? … Lord Peter Wimsey speaking … oh, yes … yes … aha! … not a bit of it … We are about to vindicate you and lead you home, decorated with triumphal wreaths of cinnamon and senna-pods … No, really … we’ve come to the conclusion that the thing is serious … Yes … I want Nurse Forbes’ address … Right, I’ll hold on … Luton? … oh, Tooting, yes, I’ve got that … Certainly, I’ve no doubt she’s a tartar, but I’m the Grand Panjandrum with the little round button atop … Thanks awfully … cheer-frightfully-ho!—oh! I say!—hullo!—I say, she doesn’t do Maternity work, does she? Maternity work?—M for Mother-in-law—Maternity?—No—You’re sure? … It would be simply awful if she did and came along … I couldn’t possibly produce a baby for her … As long as you’re quite sure … Right—right—yes—not for the world—nothing to do with you at all. Goodbye, old thing, goodbye.”
Lord Peter hung up, whistling cheerfully, and called for Bunter.
“My lord?”
“What is the proper suit to put on, Bunter, when one is an expectant father?”
“I regret, my lord, to have seen no recent fashions in paternity wear. I should say, my lord, whichever suit your lordship fancies will induce a calm and cheerful frame of mind in the lady.”
“Unfortunately I don’t know the lady. She is, in fact, only the figment of an over-teeming brain. But I think the garments should express bright hope, self-congratulation, and a tinge of tender anxiety.”
“A newly married situation, my lord, I take it. Then I would suggest the lounge suit in pale grey—the willow-pussy cloth, my lord—with a dull amethyst tie and socks and a soft hat. I would not recommend a bowler, my lord. The anxiety expressed in a bowler hat would be rather of the financial kind.”
“No doubt you are right, Bunter. And I will wear those gloves that got so unfortunately soiled yesterday at Charing Cross. I am too agitated to worry about a clean pair.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“No stick, perhaps.”
“Subject to your lordship’s better judgment, I should suggest that a stick may be suitably handled to express emotion.”
“You are always right, Bunter. Call me a taxi, and tell the man to drive to Tooting.”
Nurse Forbes regretted very much. She would have liked to oblige Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, but she never undertook maternity work. She wondered who could have misled Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe by giving him her name.
“Well, y’know, I can’t say I was misled,” said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, dropping his walking-stick and retrieving it with an ingenuous laugh. “Miss Murgatroyd—you know Miss Murgatroyd of Leahampton, I think—yes—she—that is, I heard about you through her” (this was a fact), “and she said what a charming person—excuse my repeatin’ these personal remarks, won’t you?—what a charmin’ person you were and all that, and how nice it would be if we could persuade you to come, don’t you see. But she said she was afraid perhaps you didn’t do maternity work. Still, y’know, I thought it was worth tryin’, what? Bein’ so anxious, what?—about my wife, that is, you see. So necessary to have someone young and cheery at these—er—critical times, don’t you know. Maternity nurses often such ancient and ponderous sort of people—if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. My wife’s highly nervous—naturally—first effort and all that—doesn’t like middle-aged people tramplin’ round—you see the idea?”
Nurse Forbes, who was a bony woman of about forty, saw the point perfectly, and was very sorry she really could not see her way to undertaking the work.
“It was very kind of Miss Murgatroyd,” she said. “Do you know her well? Such a delightful woman, is she not?”
The expectant father agreed.
“Miss Murgatroyd was so very much impressed by your sympathetic way—don’t you know—of nursin’ that poor old lady, Miss Dawson, y’know. Distant connection of my own, as a matter of fact—er, yes—somewhere about fifteenth cousin twelve times removed. So nervous, wasn’t she? A little bit eccentric, like the rest of the family, but a charming old lady, don’t you think?”
“I became very much attached to her,” said Nurse Forbes. “When she was in full possession of her faculties, she was a most pleasant and thoughtful patient. Of course, she was in great pain, and we had to keep her under morphia a
