“I daresay. She might prove an ingenious alibi, for instance. Or, if she were very wicked, manage to push the blame on somebody else. Or lead people to suppose that her friend had made away with himself.”
“Too vague,” said Wimsey. “How would she do that?”
“I can’t say, offhand. I’ll give it careful thought and let you know. Or—here’s an idea!”
“Yes?”
“She is a person with a monomania—no, no—not a homicidal one. That’s dull, and not really fair to the reader. But there is somebody she wishes to benefit—somebody, say a father, mother, sister, lover or cause, that badly needs money. She makes a will in his, her or its favour, and lets herself be hanged for the crime; knowing that the beloved object will then come in for the money. How’s that?”
“Great!” cried Wimsey, carried away, “Only—wait a minute. They wouldn’t give her the friend’s money, would they? You’re not allowed to profit by a crime.”
“Oh, hang! That’s true. It would only be her own money, then. She could make that over by a deed of gift. Yes—look! If she did that immediately after the murder—a deed of gift of everything she possessed—that would include everything she came into under the friend’s will. It would then all go direct to the beloved object, and I don’t believe the law could stop it!”
She faced him with dancing eyes.
“See here,” said Wimsey. “You’re not safe. You’re too clever by half. But, I say, it’s a good plot, isn’t it?”
“It’s a winner! Shall we write it?”
“By jove, let’s!”
“Only, you know, I’m afraid we shan’t get the chance.”
“You’re not to say that. Of course we’re going to write it. Damn it, what am I here for? Even if I could be reconciled to losing you, I couldn’t lose the chance of writing my bestseller!”
“But what you’ve done so far is to provide me with a very convincing motive for murder. I don’t know that that’s going to help us a great lot.”
“What I’ve done,” said Wimsey, “is to prove that that was not the motive, anyway.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t have told me if it had been. You would have gently led me away from the subject. And besides—”
“Well?”
“Well, I’ve seen Mr. Cole of Grimsby & Cole, and I know who is going to get the major part of Philip Boyes’ profits. And I don’t somehow fancy that he is the beloved object.”
“No?” said Miss Vane, “and why not? Don’t you know that I passionately dote on every chin on his face?”
“If it’s chins you admire,” said Whimsey, “I will try to grow some, though it will be rather hard work. Anyway, keep smiling—it suits you.”
“It’s all very well, though,” he thought to himself, when the gates had closed behind him. “Bright backchat cheers the patient, but gets us no forrarder. How about this fellow Urquhart? He looked all right in Court, but you never can tell. I think I’d better pop round and see him.”
He presented himself accordingly in Woburn Square, but was disappointed. Mr. Urquhart had been called away to a sick relative. It was not Hannah Westlock who answered the door, but a stout elderly woman, whom Wimsey supposed to be the cook. He would have liked to question her, but felt that Mr. Urquhart would hardly receive him well if he discovered that his servants had been pumped behind his back. He therefore contented himself with enquiring how long Mr. Urquhart was likely to be away.
“I couldn’t rightly say, sir. I understand it depends how the sick lady gets on. If she gets over it, he’ll be back at once, for I know he is very busy just now. If she should pass away, he would be engaged some time, with settling up the estate.”
“I see,” said Wimsey. “It’s a bit awkward, because I wanted to speak to him rather urgently. You couldn’t give me his address, by any chance?”
“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know if Mr. Urquhart would wish it. If it’s a matter of business, sir, they could give you information at his office in Bedford Row.”
“Thanks very much,” said Wimsey, noting down the number. “I’ll call there. Possibly they’d be able to do what I want without bothering him.”
“Yes, sir. Who should I say called?”
Wimsey handed over his card, writing at the top, “In re R. V. Vane,” and added:
“But there is a chance he may be back quite soon?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Last time he wasn’t away more than a couple of days, and a merciful providence I am sure that was, with poor Mr. Boyes dying in that dreadful manner.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Wimsey, delighted to find the subject introducing itself of its own accord. “That must have been a shocking upset for you all.”
“Well there,” said the cook, “I don’t hardly like to think of it, even now. A gentleman dying in the house like that, and poisoned too, when one’s had the cooking of his dinner—it do seem to bring it home to one, like.”
“It wasn’t the dinner that was at fault, anyway,” said Wimsey, genially.
“Oh, dear, no, sir—we proved that most careful. Not that any accident could happen in my kitchen—I should like to see it! But people do say such things if they get half a chance. Still, there wasn’t a thing ate but master and Hannah and I had some of it, and very thankful I was for that, I needn’t tell you.”
“You must be; I am sure.” Wimsey was framing a further enquiry, when the violent ringing of the area bell interrupted them.
“There’s that butcher,” said the cook, “you’ll excuse me, sir. The parlourmaid’s in bed with the influenza, and I’m single-handed this morning. I’ll tell Mr. Urquhart you called.”
She shut the door, and Wimsey departed for Bedford Row, where he was received by an elderly clerk, who made no difficulty about supplying Mr. Urquhart’s address.
“Here it is, my lord. Care of Mrs. Wrayburn, Applefold, Windle, Westmorland. But I shouldn’t think he would be very long away. In the meantime, could we do
