Whose Body?, Dorothy L. Sayers [good summer reads .txt] 📗

“It would have been, and is, a breach of confidence,” said Sir Julian, “and I only tell you now because Sir Reuben was accidentally seen, and because I would rather tell you in private than have you ferretting round here and questioning my servants, Mr. Parker. You will excuse my frankness.”

“Certainly,” said Parker. “I hold no brief for the pleasantness of my profession, Sir Julian. I am very much obliged to you for telling me this. I might otherwise have wasted valuable time following up a false trail.”

“I am sure I need not ask you, in your turn, to respect this confidence,” said the doctor. “To publish the matter abroad could only harm Sir Reuben and pain his wife, besides placing me in no favourable light with my patients.”

“I promise to keep the thing to myself,” said Parker, “except of course,” he added hastily, “that I must inform my colleague.”

“You have a colleague in the case?”

“I have.”

“What sort of person is he?”

“He will be perfectly discreet, Sir Julian.”

“Is he a police officer?”

“You need not be afraid of your confidence getting into the records at Scotland Yard.”

“I see that you know how to be discreet, Mr. Parker.”

“We also have our professional etiquette, Sir Julian.”

On returning to Great Ormond Street, Mr. Parker found a wire awaiting him, which said: “Do not trouble to come. All well. Returning tomorrow. Wimsey.”

On returning to the flat just before lunchtime on the following morning, after a few confirmatory researches in Balham and the neighbourhood of Victoria Station, Lord Peter was greeted at the door by Mr. Bunter (who had gone straight home from Waterloo) with a telephone message and a severe and nursemaid-like eye.

“Lady Swaffham rang up, my lord, and said she hoped your lordship had not forgotten you were lunching with her.”

“I have forgotten, Bunter, and I mean to forget. I trust you told her I had succumbed to lethargic encephalitis suddenly, no flowers by request.”

“Lady Swaffham said, my lord, she was counting on you. She met the Duchess of Denver yesterday⁠—”

“If my sister-in-law’s there I won’t go, that’s flat,” said Lord Peter.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, the Dowager Duchess.”

“What’s she doing in town?”

“I imagine she came up for the inquest, my lord.”

“Oh, yes⁠—we missed that, Bunter.”

“Yes, my lord. Her Grace is lunching with Lady Swaffham.”

“Bunter, I can’t. I can’t, really. Say I’m in bed with whooping cough, and ask my mother to come round after lunch.”

“Very well, my lord. Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham’s, my lord, and Mr. Milligan⁠—”

“Mr. who?”

“Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and⁠—”

“Good God, Bunter, why didn’t you say so before? Have I time to get there before he does? All right. I’m off. With a taxi I can just⁠—”

“Not in those trousers, my lord,” said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to the door with deferential firmness.

“Oh, Bunter,” pleaded his lordship, “do let me⁠—just this once. You don’t know how important it is.”

“Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth.”

“The trousers are all right, Bunter.”

“Not for Lady Swaffham’s, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets the man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury.”

And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease showing across the light cloth.

“I wish to God I’d never let you grow into a privileged family retainer, Bunter,” said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the umbrella-stand. “You’ve no conception of the mistakes my mother may be making.”

Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away.

When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch, into Lady Swaffham’s drawing-room, the Dowager Duchess of Denver was seated on a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P. Milligan of Chicago.

“I’m vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess,” had been that financier’s opening remark, “to thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I assure you it’s a compliment I deeply appreciate.”

The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her intellectual forces.

“Do come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan,” she said. “I do so love talking to you great business men⁠—let me see, is it a railway king you are or something about puss-in-the-corner⁠—at least, I don’t mean that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, too⁠—or was it a horse?⁠—no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid of it and it used to get so dreadfully crumpled and torn, poor thing, always being handed about, one got to recognise it, and then one had to buy a new pack⁠—so foolish it must seem to you, knowing the real thing, and dreadfully noisy, but really excellent for breaking the ice with rather stiff people who didn’t know each other⁠—I’m quite sorry it’s gone out.”

Mr. Milligan sat down.

“Wal, now,” he said, “I guess it’s as interesting for us business men to meet British aristocrats as it is for Britishers to meet American railway kings, Duchess. And I guess I’ll make as many mistakes talking your kind of talk as you would make if you were tryin’ to run a corner in wheat in Chicago. Fancy now, I called that fine lad of yours Lord Wimsey the other day, and he thought I’d mistaken him for his brother. That made me feel rather green.”

This was an unhoped-for lead. The Duchess walked warily.

“Dear boy,” she said, “I am so glad you met him, Mr. Milligan. Both my sons are a great comfort to me, you know, though, of course, Gerald is more conventional⁠—just the right kind of person for the House of Lords, you know, and a splendid farmer. I can’t see Peter down at Denver half so well, though he is always going to all the right things in town, and very amusing sometimes, poor boy.”

“I was vurry much gratified by Lord Peter’s suggestion,” pursued Mr. Milligan, “for which I understand you are responsible, and I’ll surely be very pleased to