“No, thanks. I rather wanted to see him personally, don’t you know. As a matter of fact, it’s about that very sad death of his cousin, Mr. Philip Boyes.”
“Indeed, my lord? Shocking affair, that. Mr. Urquhart was greatly upset, with it happening in his own house. A very fine young man, was Mr. Boyes. He and Mr. Urquhart were great friends, and he took it greatly to heart. Were you present at the trial, my lord?”
“Yes. What did you think of the verdict?”
The clerk pursed up his lips.
“I don’t mind saying I was surprised. It seemed to me a very clear case. But juries are very unreliable, especially nowadays, with women on them. We see a good deal of the fair sex in this profession,” said the clerk, with a sly smile, “and very few of them are remarkable for possessing the legal mind.”
“How true that is,” said Wimsey. “If it wasn’t for them, though, there’d be much less litigation, so it’s all good for business.”
“Ha, ha! Very good, my lord. Well, we have to take things as they come, but in my opinion—I’m an old-fashioned man—the ladies were most adorable when they adorned and inspired and did not take an active part in affairs. Here’s our young lady clerk—I don’t say she wasn’t a good worker—but a whim comes over her and away she goes to get married, leaving me in the lurch, just when Mr. Urquhart is away. Now, with a young man, marriage steadies him, and makes him stick closer to his job, but with a young woman, it’s the other way about. It’s right she should get married, but it’s inconvenient, and in a solicitor’s office one can’t get temporary assistance very well. Some of the work is confidential, of course, and in any case, an atmosphere of permanence is desirable.”
Wimsey sympathised with the head clerk’s grievance, and bade him an affable good morning. There is a telephone box in Bedford Row, and he darted into it and immediately rang up Miss Climpson.
“Lord Peter Wimsey speaking—oh, hullo, Miss Climpson! How is everything? All bright and beautiful? Good!—Yes, now listen. There’s a vacancy for a confidential female clerk at Mr. Norman Urquhart’s, the solicitor’s, in Bedford Row—Have you got anybody?—Oh, good!—Yes, send them all along—I particularly want to get someone in there—Oh, no! no special enquiry—just to pick up any gossip about the Vane business—Yes, pick out the steadiest looking, not too much face powder, and see that their skirts are the regulation four inches below the knee—the head clerk’s in charge, and the last girl left to be married, so he’s feeling anti-sex appeal. Right ho! Get her in and I’ll give her her instructions. Bless you, may your shadow never grow bulkier!”
VIII
“Bunter!”
“My lord?”
Wimsey tapped with his fingers a letter he had just received.
“Do you feel at your brightest and most truly fascinating? Does a livelier iris, winter weather notwithstanding, shine upon the burnished Bunter? Have you got that sort of conquering feeling? The Don Juan touch, so to speak?”
Bunter, balancing the breakfast tray on his fingers, coughed deprecatingly.
“You have a good, upstanding, impressive figure, if I may say so,” pursued Wimsey, “a bold and roving eye when off duty, a ready tongue, Bunter—and, I am persuaded, you have a way with you. What more should any cook or house parlourmaid want?”
“I am always happy,” replied Bunter, “to exert myself to the best of my capacity in your lordship’s service.”
“I am aware of it,” admitted his lordship. “Again and again I say to myself, Wimsey, this cannot last. One of these days this worthy man will cast off the yoke of servitude and settle down in a pub or something, but nothing happens. Still, morning by morning, my coffee is brought, my bath is prepared, my razor laid out, my ties and socks sorted and my bacon and eggs brought to me in a lordly dish. No matter. This time I demand a more perilous devotion—perilous for us both, my Bunter, for if you were to be carried away, a helpless martyr to matrimony, who then would bring my coffee, prepare my bath, lay out my razor and perform all those other sacrificial rites? And yet—”
“Who is the party, my lord?”
“There are two of them, Bunter, two ladies lived in a bower, Binnorie, O Binnorie! The parlourmaid you have seen. Her name is Hannah Westlock. A woman in her thirties, I fancy, and not ill-favored. The other, the cook—I cannot lisp the tender syllables of her name, for I do not know it, but doubtless it is Gertrude, Cecily, Magdalen, Margaret, Rosalys or some other sweet symphonious sound—a fine woman, Bunter, on the mature side, perhaps, but none the worse for that.”
“Certainly not, my lord. If I may say so, the woman of ripe years and queenly figure is frequently more susceptible to delicate attentions than the giddy and thoughtless young beauty.”
“True. Let us suppose, Bunter, that you were to be the bearer of a courteous missive to one Mr. Norman Urquhart of Woburn Square. Could you, in the short space of time at your disposal, insinuate yourself, snakelike, as it were, into the bosom of the household?”
“If you desire it, my lord, I will endeavour to insinuate myself to your lordship’s satisfaction.”
“Noble fellow. In case of an action for breach, or any consequence of that description, the charges will, of course, be borne by the management.”
“I am obliged to your lordship. When would your lordship wish me to commence?”
“As soon as I have written a note to Mr. Urquhart. I will ring.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Wimsey moved over to the writing desk. After a few moments he looked up, a little peevishly.
“Bunter, I have a sensation of being hovered over. I do not like it. It is unusual and it unnerves me. I implore you not to hover. Is the proposition distasteful, or do you want me to get a new hat? What is troubling your conscience?”
“I beg
