“A murderess might make quite a good wife,” said Harringay. “There was Madeleine Smith, you know—she used arsenic too, by the way—she married somebody and lived happily to a respectable old age.”
“But did her husband live to a respectable old age?” demanded Miss Titterton. “That’s more to the point, isn’t it?”
“Once a poisoner, always a poisoner, I believe,” said Mrs. Featherstone. “It’s a passion that grows upon you—like drink or drugs.”
“It’s the intoxicating sensation of power,” said Mrs. Dimsworthy. “But, Lord Peter, do tell us—”
“Peter!” said his mother, “I do wish you’d go and see what’s happened to Gerald. Tell him his tea is getting cold. I think he’s in the stables talking to Freddy about thrush or cracked heels or something, so tiresome the way horses are always getting something the matter with them. You haven’t trained Gerald properly, Helen, he used to be quite punctual as a boy. Peter was always the tiresome one, but he’s becoming almost human in his old age. It’s that wonderful man of his who keeps him in order, really a remarkable character and so intelligent, quite one of the old sort, you know, a perfect autocrat, and such manners too. He would be worth thousands to an American millionaire, most impressive, I wonder Peter isn’t afraid he’ll give warning one of these days, but I really believe he is positively attached to him, Bunter attached to Peter, I mean, though the other way on would be true too, I’m sure Peter pays more attention to his opinion than he does to mine.”
Wimsey had escaped, and was by now on his way to the stables. He met Gerald, Duke of Denver, returning, with Freddy Arbuthnot in tow. The former received the Dowager’s message with a grin.
“Got to turn up, I suppose,” he said. “I wish nobody had ever invented tea. Ruins your nerves and spoils your appetite for dinner.”
“Beastly sloppy stuff,” agreed the Hon. Freddy. “I say, Peter, I’ve been wanting to get hold of you.”
“Same here,” said Wimsey, promptly. “I’m feelin’ rather exhausted with conversation. Let’s wander through the billiard room and build our constitutions up before we face the barrage.”
“Today’s great thought,” said Freddy, enthusiastically. He pattered happily after Wimsey into the billiard room, and flung himself down in a large chair. “Great bore, Christmas, isn’t it? All the people one hates most gathered together in the name of goodwill and all that.”
“Bring a couple of whiskies,” said Wimsey to the footman. “And, James, if anybody asks for Mr. Arbuthnot or me, you rather think we have gone out. Well, Freddy, here’s luck! Has anything transpired, as the journalists say?”
“I’ve been sleuthing like stink on the tracks of your man,” said Mr. Arbuthnot. “Really, don’t you know, I shall soon be qualified to set up in your line of business. Our financial column, edited by Uncle Buthie—that sort of thing. Friend Urquhart has been very careful, though. Bound to be—respectable family lawyer and all that. But I saw a man yesterday who knows a fellow who had it from a chappie that said Urquhart had been dipping himself a bit recklessly off the deep end.”
“Are you sure, Freddy?”
“Well, not to say sure. But this man, you see, owes me one, so to speak, for having warned him off the Megatherium before the band began to play, and he thinks, if he can get hold of the chappie that knows, not the fellow that told him, you understand, but the other one, that he might be able to get something out of him, don’t you see, especially if I was able to put this other chappie in the way of something or the other, what?”
“And no doubt you have secrets to sell.”
“Oh, well, I daresay I could make it worth this other chappie’s while, because I’ve got an idea, through this other fellow that my bloke knows, that the chappie is rather up against it, as you might say, through being caught short on some Airways stock, and if I was to put him in touch with Goldberg, don’t you see, it might get him out of a hole and so on. And Goldberg will be all right, because, don’t you see, he’s a cousin of old Levy’s, who was murdered, you know, and all these Jews stick together like leeches and as a matter of fact, I think it’s very fine of them.”
“But what has old Levy got to do with it?” asked Wimsey, his mind running over the incidents in that half forgotten murder episode.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said the Hon. Freddy, a little nervously, “I’ve—er—done the trick as you might say. Rachel Levy is—er, in fact—going to become Mrs. Freddy and all that sort of thing.”
“The devil she is,” said Wimsey, ringing the bell. “Tremendous congratters and all that. It’s been a long time working up, hasn’t it?”
“Why, yes,” said Freddy. “Yes, it has. You see, the trouble was that I was a Christian—at least, I was christened and all that, though I pointed out I wasn’t at all a good one, except, of course, that one keeps up the family pew and turns out on Christmas Day and so on. Only it seems they didn’t mind that so much as my bein’ a Gentile. Well that, of course, is past prayin’ for. And then there was the difficulty about the kids—if any. But I explained that I didn’t mind what they counted them as—and I don’t, you know, because, as I was saying, it would be all to the little beggars’ advantage to be in with the Levy and Goldberg crowd, especially if the boys were to turn out anything in the financial way. And then I rather got round Lady Levy by sayin’ I had served nearly seven years for Rachel—that was rather smart, don’t
