CHAPTER XIX

Gone Away

“_There is nothing good or evil save in the will._”

Epictetus

“You will not, I imagine, deny,” observed Lord Peter, “that very odd

things seem to happen to the people who are in a position to give

information about the last days of Agatha Dawson. Bertha Gotobed dies

suddenly, under suspicious circumstances; her sister thinks she sees

Miss Whittaker lying in wait for her at Liverpool docks; Mr. Trigg is

inveigled into a house of mystery and is semi-poisoned. I wonder what

would have happened to Mr. Probyn, if he had been careless enough to

remain in England.”

“I deny nothing,” replied Parker. “I will only point out to you that

during the month in which these disasters occurred to the Gotobed

family, the object of your suspicions was in Kent with Miss Vera

Findlater, who never left her side.”

“As against that undoubted snag,” rejoined Wimsey, “I bring forward a

letter from Miss Climpson, in which—amid a lot of rigmarole with which I

will not trouble you—she informs me that upon Miss Whittaker’s right

hand there is a scar, precisely similar to the one which Mr. Trigg

describes.”

“Is there? That does seem to connect Miss Whittaker pretty definitely

with the Trigg business. But is it your theory that she is trying to

polish off all the people who know anything about Miss Dawson? Rather a

big job, don’t you think, for a single-handed female? And if so, why is

Dr. Carr spared? and Nurse Philliter? and Nurse Forbes? And the other

doctor chappie? And the rest of the population of Leahampton, if it

comes to that?”

“That’s an interesting point which had already occurred to me. I think I

know why. Up to the present, the Dawson case has presented two different

problems, one legal and one medical—the motive and the means, if you

like that better. As far as opportunity goes, only two people figure as

possibles—Miss Whittaker and Nurse Forbes. The Forbes woman had nothing

to gain by killin’ a good patient, so for the moment we can wash her

out.

“Well now, as to the medical problem—the means. I must say that up to

now that appears completely insoluble. I am baffled, Watson (said he,

his hawk-like eyes gleaming angrily from under the half-closed lids).

Even I am baffled. But not for long! (he cried, with a magnificent burst

of self-confidence). My Honour (capital H) is concerned to track this

Human Fiend (capitals) to its hidden source, and nail the whited

sepulchre to the mast even though it crush me in the attempt! Loud

applause. His chin sank broodingly upon his dressing-gown, and he

breathed a few guttural notes into the bass saxophone which was the

cherished companion of his solitary hours in the bathroom.”

Parker ostentatiously took up the book which he had laid aside on

Wimsey’s entrance.

“Tell me when you’ve finished,” he said, caustically.

“I’ve hardly begun. The means, I repeat, seems insoluble—and so the

criminal evidently thinks. There has been no exaggerated mortality among

the doctors and nurses. On that side of the business the lady feels

herself safe. No. The motive is the weak point—hence the hurry to stop

the mouths of the people who knew about the legal part of the problem.”

“Yes, I see. Mrs. Cropper has started back to Canada, by the way. She

doesn’t seem to have been molested at all.”

“No—and that’s why I still think there was somebody on the watch in

Liverpool. Mrs. Cropper was only worth silencing so long as she had told

nobody her story. That is why I was careful to meet her and accompany

her ostentatiously to Town.”

“Oh, rot, Peter! Even if Miss Whittaker had been there—which we know she

couldn’t have been—how was she to know that you were going to ask about

the Dawson business? She doesn’t know you from Adam.”

“She might have found out who Murbles was. The advertisement which

started the whole business was in his name, you know.”

“In that case, why hasn’t she attacked Murbles or you?”

“Murbles is a wise old bird. In vain are nets spread in his sight. He is

seeing no female clients, answering no invitations, and never goes out

without an escort.”

“I didn’t know he took it so seriously.”

“Oh, yes. Murbles is old enough to have learnt the value of his own

skin. As for me—have you noticed the remarkable similarity in some ways

between Mr. Trigg’s adventure and my own little adventurelet, as you

might say, in South Audley Street?”

“What, with Mrs. Forrest?”

“Yes. The secret appointment. The drink. The endeavour to get one to

stay the night at all costs. I’m positive there was something in that

sugar, Charles, that no sugar should contain—see Public Health

(Adulteration of Food) Acts, various.”

“You think Mrs. Forrest is an accomplice?”

“I do. I don’t know what she has to gain by it—probably money. But I

feel sure there is some connection. Partly because of Bertha Gotobed’s

£5 note; partly because Mrs. Forrest’s story was a palpable fake—I’m

certain the woman’s never had a lover, let alone a husband—you can’t

mistake real inexperience; and chiefly because of the similarity of

method. Criminals always tend to repeat their effects. Look at George

Joseph Smith and his brides. Look at Neill Cream. Look at Armstrong and

his tea-parties.”

“Well, if there’s an accomplice, all the better. Accomplices generally

end up by giving the show away.”

“True. And we are in a good position because up till now I don’t think

they know that we suspect any connection between them.”

“But I still think, you know, we ought to get some evidence that actual

crimes have been committed. Call me finicking, if you like. If you

_could_ suggest a means of doing away with these people so as to leave

no trace, I should feel happier about it.”

“The means, eh?—Well, we do know something about it.”

“As what?”

“Well—take the two victims—”

“Alleged.”

“All right, old particular. The two alleged victims and the two

(alleged) intended victims. Miss Dawson was ill and helpless; Bertha

Gotobed possibly stupefied by a heavy meal and an unaccustomed quantity

of wine; Trigg was given a sufficient dose of veronal to send him to

sleep, and I was offered something of probably the same kind—I wish I

could have kept the remains of that coffee. So we deduce from that,

what?”

“I suppose that it was a means of death which could only be used on

somebody more or less helpless or unconscious.”

“Exactly. As for instance, a hypodermic injection—only nothing appears

to have been injected. Or a delicate operation of some kind—if we could

only think of one to fit the case. Or the inhalation of something—such

as chloroform—only we could find no traces of suffocation.”

“Yes. That doesn’t get us very far, though.”

“It’s something. Then again, it may very well be something that a

trained nurse would have learnt or heard about. Miss Whittaker was

trained, you know—which, by the way, was what made it so easy for her to

bandage up her own head and provide a pitiful and unrecognisable

spectacle for the stupid Mr. Trigg.”

“It wouldn’t have to be anything very out of the way—nothing, I mean,

that only a trained surgeon could do, or that required very specialised

knowledge.”

“Oh, no. Probably something picked up in conversation with a doctor or

the other nurses. I say, how about getting hold of Dr. Carr again? Or,

no—if he’d got any ideas on the subject he’d have trotted ’em out before

now. I know! I’ll ask Lubbock, the analyst. He’ll do. I’ll get in touch

with him to-morrow.”

“And meanwhile,” said Parker, “I suppose we just sit round and wait for

somebody else to be murdered.”

“It’s beastly, isn’t it? I still feel poor Bertha Gotobed’s blood on my

head, so to speak. I say!”

“Yes?”

“We’ve practically got clear proof on the Trigg business. Couldn’t you

put the lady in quod on a charge of burglary while we think out the rest

of the dope? It’s often done. It _was_ a burglary, you know. She broke

into a house after dark and appropriated a scuttleful of coal to her own

use. Trigg could identify her—he seems to have paid the lady particular

attention on more than one occasion—and we could rake up his taxi-man

for corroborative detail.”

Parker pulled at his pipe for a few minutes.

“There’s something in that,” he said finally. “I think perhaps it’s

worth while putting it before the authorities. But we mustn’t be in too

much of a hurry, you know. I wish we were further ahead with our other

proofs. There’s such a thing as Habeas Corpus—you can’t hold on to

people indefinitely just on a charge of stealing coal—”

“There’s the breaking and entering, don’t forget that. It’s burglary,

after all. You can get penal servitude for life for burglary.”

“But it all depends on the view the law takes of the coal. It might

decide that there was no original intention of stealing coal, and treat

the thing as a mere misdemeanour or civil trespass. Anyhow, we don’t

really _want_ a conviction for stealing coal. But I’ll see what they

think about it at our place, and meanwhile I’ll get hold of Trigg again

and try and find the taxi-driver. And Trigg’s doctor. We might get it as

an attempt to murder Trigg, or at least to inflict grievous bodily harm.

But I should like some more evidence about—”

“Cuckoo! So should I. But I can’t manufacture evidence out of nothing.

Dash it all, be reasonable. I’ve built you up a case out of nothing.

Isn’t that handsome enough? Base ingratitude—that’s what’s the matter

with you.”

Parker’s inquiries took some time, and June lingered into its longest

days.

Chamberlin and Levine flew the Atlantic, and Segrave bade farewell to

Brooklands. The _Daily Yell_ wrote anti-Red leaders and discovered a

plot, somebody laid claim to a marquisate, and a Czecho-Slovakian

pretended to swim the Channel. Hammond out-graced Grace, there was an

outburst of murder at Moscow, Foxlaw won the Gold Cup and the earth

opened at Oxhey and swallowed up somebody’s front garden. Oxford decided

that women were dangerous, and the electric hare consented to run at the

White City. England’s supremacy was challenged at Wimbledon, and the

House of Lords made the gesture of stooping to conquer.

Meanwhile, Lord Peter’s projected _magnum opus_ on a-hundred-and-one

ways of causing sudden death had advanced by the accumulation of a mass

of notes which flowed all over the library at the flat, and threatened

to engulf Bunter, whose task it was to file and cross-reference and

generally to produce order from chaos. Oriental scholars and explorers

were button-holed in clubs and strenuously pumped on the subject of

abstruse native poisons; horrid experiments performed in German

laboratories were communicated in unreadable documents; and the life of

Sir James Lubbock, who had the misfortune to be a particular friend of

Lord Peter’s, was made a burden to him with daily inquiries as to the

post-mortem detection of such varying substances as chloroform, curate,

hydrocyanic acid gas and diethylsulphonmethylethylmetane.

“But surely there _must_ be something which kills without leaving a

trace,” pleaded Lord Peter, when at length informed that the persecution

must cease. “A thing in such universal demand—surely it is not beyond

the wit of scientists to invent it. It must exist. Why isn’t it properly

advertised? There ought to be a company to exploit it. It’s simply

ridiculous. Why, it’s a thing one might be wantin’ one’s self any day.”

“You don’t understand,” said Sir James Lubbock. “Plenty of poisons leave

no particular post-mortem appearances. And plenty of them—especially the

vegetable ones—are difficult to find by analysis, unless you know what

you are looking for. For instance, if you’re testing for arsenic, that

test won’t tell you whether strychnine is present or not. And if you’re

testing for strychnine, you won’t find morphia. You’ve got to try one

test after another till you hit the right one. And of course there are

certain poisons for which no recognised tests exist.”

“I know all that,” said Wimsey. “I’ve tested things myself. But these

poisons with no recognised test—how do you set about proving that

they’re there?”

“Well, of course, you’d take the symptoms into account, and so on. You

would look at the history of the case.”

“Yes—but I want a poison that doesn’t produce any symptoms. Except

death, of course—if you call that a symptom. Isn’t there a poison with

no symptoms and no test? Something that just makes you go off, Pouf!

like that?”

“Certainly not,” said the analyst, rather annoyed—for your medical

analyst lives by symptoms and tests, and nobody likes suggestions that

undermine the very foundations of his profession—“not even old age or

mental decay. There are always symptoms.”

Fortunately, before symptoms of mental decay could become too pronounced

in Lord Peter, Parker sounded the call to action.

“I’m going down to Leahampton with a warrant,” he said. “I may not use

it, but the chief thinks it might be worth while to make an inquiry.

What with the Battersea mystery and the Daniels business, and Bertha

Gotobed, there seems to be a feeling that there have been too many

unexplained tragedies this year, and the Press have begun yelping again,

blast them! There’s an article in _John Citizen_ this week, with a

poster: ‘Ninety-six Murderers at Large,’ and the _Evening Views_ is

starting its reports with ‘Six weeks have now passed, and the police are

no nearer the solution—’ you know the kind of thing. We’ll simply have

to get some sort of move on. Do you want to come?”

“Certainly—a breath of country air would do me good, I fancy. Blow away

the cobwebs, don’t you know. It might even inspire me to invent a good

way of murderin’ people. ‘O Inspiration, solitary child, warbling thy

native wood-notes wild—’ Did somebody write that, or did I invent it? It

sounds reminiscent, somehow.”

Parker, who was out of temper, replied rather shortly, and intimated

that the police car would be starting for Leahampton in an hour’s time.

“I will be there,” said Wimsey, “though, mind you, I hate being driven

by another fellow. It feels so unsafe. Never mind. I will be bloody,

bold and resolute, as Queen Victoria said to the Archbishop of

Canterbury.”

They reached Leahampton without any incident to justify Lord Peter’s

fears. Parker had brought another officer with him, and on the way they

picked up the Chief Constable of the County, who appeared very dubiously

disposed towards their errand. Lord Peter, observing their array of five

strong men, going out to seize upon one young woman, was reminded of the

Marquise de Brinvilliers—(“What! all that water for a little person like

me?”)—but this led him back to the subject of poison, and he remained

steeped in thought and gloom till the car drew up before the house in

Wellington Avenue.

Parker got out, and went up the path with the Chief Constable. The door

was opened to them by a frightened-looking maid, who gave a little

shriek at sight of them.

“Oh, sir! have you come to say something’s happened to Miss Whittaker?”

“Isn’t Miss Whittaker at home, then?”

“No, sir. She went out in the car with Miss Vera Findlater on

Monday—that’s four days back, sir, and she hasn’t come home, nor Miss

Findlater neither, and I’m frightened something’s happened to them. When

I see you, sir, I thought you was the police come to say there had been

an accident. I didn’t know what to do, sir.”

“Skipped, by God!” was Parker’s instant thought, but he controlled his

annoyance, and asked:

“Do you know where they were going?”

“Crow’s Beach, Miss Whittaker said, sir.”

“That’s a good fifty miles,” said the Chief Constable. “Probably they’ve

just decided to stay there a day or two.”

“More likely gone in the opposite direction,” thought Parker.

“They didn’t take no things for the night, sir. They went off about ten

in the morning. They said they was going to have lunch there and come

home in the evening. And Miss Whittaker hasn’t written nor nothing. And

her always so particular. Cook and me, we didn’t know what—”

“Oh, well, I expect it’s all right,” said the Chief Constable. “It’s a

pity, as we particularly wanted to see Miss Whittaker. When you hear

from her, you might say Sir Charles Pillington called with a friend.”

“Yes, sir. But please, sir, what ought we to do, sir?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll have inquiries made. I’m the Chief

Constable, you know, and I can soon find out whether there’s been an

accident or anything. But if there had been, depend upon it we should

have heard about it. Come, my girl, pull yourself together, there’s

nothing to cry about. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

But Sir Charles looked disturbed. Coming on top of Parker’s arrival in

the district, the thing had an unpleasant look about it.

Lord Peter received the news cheerfully.

“Good,” said he, “joggle ’em up. Keep ’em moving. That’s the spirit.

Always like it when somethin’ happens. My worst suspicions are goin’ to

be justified. That always makes one feel so important and virtuous,

don’t you think? Wonder why she took the girl with her, though. By the

way, we’d better look up the Findlaters. They may have heard something.”

This obvious suggestion was acted upon at once. But at the Findlaters’

house they drew blank. The family were at the seaside, with the

exception of Miss Vera, who was staying in Wellington Avenue with Miss

Whittaker. No anxiety was expressed by the parlour-maid and none,

apparently, felt. The investigators took care not to arouse any alarm,

and, leaving a trivial and polite message from Sir Charles, withdrew for

a consultation.

“There’s nothing for it, so far as I can see,” said Parker, “but an

all-stations call to look out for the car and the ladies. And we must

put inquiries through to all the ports, of course. With four days’

start, they may be anywhere by now. I wish to Heaven I’d risked a bit

and started earlier, approval or no approval. What’s this Findlater girl

like? I’d better go back to the house and get photographs of her and the

Whittaker woman. And, Wimsey, I wish you’d look in on Miss Climpson and

see if she has any information.”

“And you might tell ’em at the Yard to keep an eye on Mrs. Forrest’s

place,” said Wimsey. “When anything sensational happens to a criminal

it’s a good tip to watch the accomplice.”

“I feel sure you are both quite mistaken about this,” urged Sir Charles

Pillington. “Criminal—accomplice—bless me! I have had considerable

experience in the course of a long life—longer than either of yours—and

I really feel convinced that Miss Whittaker, whom I know quite well, is

as good and nice a girl as you could wish to find. But there has

undoubtedly been an accident of some kind, and it is our duty to make

the fullest investigation. I will get on to Crow’s Beach police

immediately, as soon as I know the description of the car.”

“It’s an Austin Seven and the number is XX9917,” said Wimsey, much to

the Chief Constable’s surprise. “But I doubt very much whether you’ll

find it at Crow’s Beach, or anywhere near it.”

“Well, we’d better get a move on,” snapped Parker. “We’d better

separate. How about a spot of lunch in an hour’s time at the George?”

Wimsey was unlucky. Miss Climpson was not to be found. She had had her

lunch early and gone out, saying she felt that a long country walk would

do her good. Mrs. Budge was rather afraid she had had some bad news—she

had seemed so upset and worried since yesterday evening.

“But indeed, sir,” she added, “if you was quick, you might find her up

at the church. She often drops in there to say her prayers like. Not a

respectful way to approach a place of worship to my mind, do you think

so yourself, sir? Popping in and out on a week-day, the same as if it

was a friend’s house. And coming home from Communion as cheerful as

anything and ready to laugh and make jokes. I don’t see as how we was

meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way—so disrespectful

and nothing uplifting to the ’art about it. But there! we all ’as our

failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if

she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one.”

Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name

for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the

moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious

discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.

The doors of S. Onesimus were hospitably open, and the red Sanctuary

lamp made a little spot of welcoming brightness in the rather dark

building. Coming in from the June sunshine, Wimsey blinked a little

before he could distinguish anything else. Presently he was able to make

out a dark, bowed figure kneeling before the lamp. For a moment he hoped

it was Miss Climpson, but presently saw to his disappointment that it

was merely a Sister in a black habit, presumably taking her turn to

watch before the Host. The only other occupant of the church was a

priest in a cassock, who was busy with the ornaments on the High Altar.

It was the Feast of S. John, Wimsey remembered suddenly. He walked up

the aisle, hoping to find his quarry hidden in some obscure corner. His

shoes squeaked. This annoyed him. It was a thing which Bunter never

permitted. He was seized with a fancy that the squeak was produced by

diabolic possession—a protest against a religious atmosphere on the part

of his own particular besetting devil. Pleased with this thought, he

moved forward more confidently.

The priest’s attention was attracted by the squeak. He turned and came

down towards the intruder. No doubt, thought Wimsey, to offer his

professional services to exorcise the evil spirit.

“Were you looking for anybody?” inquired the priest, courteously.

“Well, I was looking for a lady,” began Wimsey. Then it struck him that

this sounded a little odd under the circumstances, and he hastened to

explain more fully, in the stifled tones considered appropriate to

consecrated surroundings.

“Oh, yes,” said the priest, quite unperturbed, “Miss Climpson was here a

little time ago, but I fancy she has gone. Not that I usually keep tabs

on my flock,” he added, with a laugh, “but she spoke to me before she

went. Was it urgent? What a pity you should have missed her. Can I give

any kind of message or help you in any way?”

“No, thanks,” said Wimsey. “Sorry to bother you. Unseemly to come and

try to haul people out of church, but—yes, it was rather important. I’ll

leave a message at the house. Thanks frightfully.”

He turned away; then stopped and came back.

“I say,” he said, “you give advice on moral problems and all that sort

of thing, don’t you?”

“Well, we’re supposed to try,” said the priest. “Is anything bothering

you in particular?”

“Ye-es,” said Wimsey, “nothing religious, I don’t mean—nothing about

infallibility or the Virgin Mary or anything of that sort. Just

something I’m not comfortable about.”

The priest—who was, in fact, the vicar, Mr. Tredgold—indicated that he

was quite at Lord Peter’s service.

“It’s very good of you. Could we come somewhere where I didn’t have to

whisper so much. I never can explain things in a whisper. Sort of

paralyses one, don’t you know.”

“Let’s go outside,” said Mr. Tredgold.

So they went out and sat on a flat tombstone.

“It’s like this,” said Wimsey. “Hypothetical case, you see, and so on.

S’posin’ one knows somebody who’s very, very ill and can’t last long

anyhow. And they’re in awful pain and all that, and kept under

morphia—practically dead to the world, you know. And suppose that by

dyin’ straight away they could make something happen which they really

wanted to happen and which couldn’t happen if they lived on a little

longer (I can’t explain exactly how, because I don’t want to give

personal details and so on)—you get the idea? Well, supposin’ somebody

who knew all that was just to give ’em a little push off so to

speak—hurry matters on—why should that be a very dreadful crime?”

“The law—” began Mr. Tredgold.

“Oh, the law says it’s a crime, fast enough,” said Wimsey. “But do you

honestly think it’s very bad? I know you’d call it a sin, of course, but

why is it so very dreadful? It doesn’t do the person any harm, does it?”

“We can’t answer that,” said Mr. Tredgold, “without knowing the ways of

God with the soul. In those last weeks or hours of pain and

unconsciousness, the soul may be undergoing some necessary part of its

pilgrimage on earth. It isn’t our business to cut it short. Who are we

to take life and death into our hands?”

“Well, we do it all day, one way and another.

Juries—soldiers—doctors—all that. And yet I do feel, somehow, that it

isn’t a right thing in this case. And yet, by interfering—finding things

out and so on—one may do far worse harm. Start all kinds of things.”

“I think,” said Mr. Tredgold, “that the sin—I won’t use that word—the

damage to Society, the wrongness of the thing lies much more in the harm

it does the killer than in anything it can do to the person who is

killed. Especially, of course, if the killing is to the killer’s own

advantage. The consequence you mention—this thing which the sick person

wants done—does the other person stand to benefit by it, may I ask?”

“Yes. That’s just it. He—she—they do.”

“That puts it at once on a different plane from just hastening a

person’s death out of pity. Sin is in the intention, not the deed. That

is the difference between divine law and human law. It is bad for a

human being to get to feel that he has any right whatever to dispose of

another person’s life to his own advantage. It leads him to think

himself above all laws—Society is never safe from the man who has

deliberately committed murder with impunity. That is why—or one reason

why—God forbids private vengeance.”

“You mean that one murder leads to another.”

“Very often. In any case it leads to a readiness to commit others.”

“It has. That’s the trouble. But it wouldn’t have if I hadn’t started

trying to find things out. Ought I to have left it alone?”

“I see. That is very difficult. Terrible, too, for you. You feel

responsible.”

“Yes.”

“You yourself are not serving a private vengeance?”

“Oh, no. Nothing really to do with me. Started in like a fool to help

somebody who’d got into trouble about the thing through having

suspicions himself. And my beastly interference started the crimes all

over again.”

“I shouldn’t be too troubled. Probably the murderer’s own guilty fears

would have led him into fresh crimes even without your interference.”

“That’s true,” said Wimsey, remembering Mr. Trigg.

“My advice to you is to do what you think is right, according to the

laws which we have been brought up to respect. Leave the consequences to

God. And try to think charitably, even of wicked people. You know what I

mean. Bring the offender to justice, but remember that if we all got

justice, you and I wouldn’t escape either.”

“I know. Knock the man down but don’t dance on the body. Quite. Forgive

my troublin’ you—and excuse my bargin’ off, because I’ve got a date with

a friend. Thanks so much. I don’t feel quite so rotten about it now. But

I was gettin’ worried.”

Mr. Tredgold watched him as he trotted away between the graves. “Dear,

dear,” he said, “how nice they are. So kindly and scrupulous and so

vague outside their public-school code. And much more nervous and

sensitive than people think. A very difficult class to reach. I must

make a special intention for him at Mass to-morrow.”

Being a practical man, Mr. Tredgold made a knot in his handkerchief to

remind himself of this pious resolve.

“The problem—to interfere or not to interfere—God’s law and Cæsar’s.

Policemen, now—it’s no problem to them. But for the ordinary man—how

hard to disentangle his own motives. I wonder what brought him here.

Could it possibly be—No!” said the vicar, checking himself, “I have no

right to speculate.” He drew out his handkerchief again and made another

mnemonic knot as a reminder against his next confession that he had

fallen into the sin of inquisitiveness.