Wimsey pulled himself together, called for his hat and coat, and went away in a taxi to call on Miss Climpson.
“I have a job,” he said to her, more abruptly than was his wont, “which I should like you to undertake yourself. I can’t trust anybody else.”
“How kind of you to put it like that,” said Miss Climpson.
“The trouble is, I can’t in the least tell you how to set about it. It all depends on what you find when you get there. I want you to go to Windle in Westmorland and get hold of an imbecile and paralysed old lady called Mrs. Wrayburn, who lives at a house called Appleford. I don’t know who looks after her, or how you are to get into the house. But you’ve got to find out where her will is kept, and, if possible, see it.”
“Dear me!” said Miss Climpson.
“You see,” said Wimsey, “unless we can give some very good reason for delay, they’re bound to take the Vane case almost first thing next sessions. If I could persuade the lawyers for the defence that there is the least chance of securing fresh evidence, they could apply for a postponement. But at present I have nothing that could be called evidence—only the vaguest possible hunch.”
“I see,” said Miss Climpson. “Well, none of us can do more than our best, and it is very necessary to have Faith. That moves mountains, we are told.”
“Then for Heaven’s sake lay in a good stock of it,” said Wimsey, gloomily, “because as far as I can see, this job is like shifting the Himalayas and the Alps, with a spot of frosty Caucasus and a touch of the Rockies thrown in.”
“You may count on me to do my poor best,” replied Miss Climpson, “and I will ask the dear vicar to say a Mass of special intention for one engaged in a difficult undertaking. When would you like me to start?”
“At once,” said Wimsey. “I think you had better go just as your ordinary self, and put up at the local hotel—no—a boardinghouse, there will be more opportunities for gossip. I don’t know much about Windle, except that there is a boot factory there and rather a good view, but it’s not a large place, and I should think everybody would know about Mrs. Wrayburn. She is very rich, and was notorious in her time. The person you’ll have to cotton on to is the female—there must be one of some sort—who nurses and waits on Mrs. Wrayburn and is, generally speaking, about her path and about her bed and all that. When you find out her special weakness, drive a wedge into it like one o’clock. Oh! by the way—it’s quite possible the will isn’t there at all, but in the hands of a solicitor fellow called Norman Urquhart who hangs out in Bedford Row. If so, all you can do is to get the pump to work and find out anything—anything at all—to his disadvantage. He’s Mrs. Wrayburn’s great nephew, and goes to see her sometimes.”
Miss Climpson made a note of these instructions.
“And now I’ll tootle off and leave you to it,” said Wimsey. “Draw on the firm for any money you want. And if you need any special outfit, send me a wire.”
On leaving Miss Climpson, Lord Peter Wimsey again found himself a prey to Weltschmerz and self-pity. But it now took the form of a gentle, pervading melancholy. Convinced of his own futility, he determined to do what little good lay in his power before retiring to a monastery or to the frozen wastes of the Antarctic. He taxied purposefully round to Scotland Yard, and asked for Chief Inspector Parker.
Parker was in his office, reading a report which had just come in. He greeted Wimsey with an expression which seemed more embarrassed than delighted.
“Have you come about that packet of powder?”
“Not this time,” said Wimsey, “I don’t suppose you’ll ever hear anything more of that. No. It’s—rather a more—er—delicate matter. It’s about my sister.”
Parker started and pushed the report to one side.
“About Lady Mary?”
“Er—yes. I understand she’s been going about with you—er—dining—and all that sort of thing, what?”
“Lady Mary has honoured me—on one or two occasions—with her company,” said Parker. “I did not think—I did not know—that is I understood—”
“Ah! but did you understand, that’s the point?” said Wimsey, solemnly. “You see, Mary’s a very nice minded sort of girl, though I say it, and—”
“I assure you,” said Parker, “that there is no need to tell me that. Do you suppose that I should misinterpret her kindness. It is the custom nowadays for women of the highest character to dine unchaperoned with their friends, and Lady Mary has—”
“I’m not suggesting a chaperon,” said Wimsey, “Mary wouldn’t stick it for one thing, and I think it’s all bosh, anyhow. Still, bein’ her brother, and all that—it’s Gerald’s job really, of course, but Mary and he don’t altogether hit it off, you know, and she wouldn’t be likely to burble any secrets into his ear, especially as it would all be handed on to Helen—what was I going to say? Oh, yes—as Mary’s brother, you know, I suppose it’s my so to speak duty to push round and drop the helpful word here and there.”
Parker jabbed the blotting paper thoughtfully.
“Don’t do that,” said Wimsey, “it’s bad for your pen. Take a pencil.”
“I suppose,” said Parker, “I ought not to have presumed—”
“What did you presume, old thing?” said Wimsey, his head cocked, sparrow fashion.
“Nothing to which anybody could object,” said Parker, hotly. “What are you thinking of, Wimsey? I quite see that it is unsuitable, from your point of view, that Lady Mary
