CHAPTER III

A Use for Spinsters

“_There are two million more females than males in England and Wales!

And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance._”

Gilbert Frankau

“What do you really think of that story?” inquired Parker. He had

dropped in to breakfast with Wimsey the next morning, before departing

in the Notting Dale direction, in quest of an elusive anonymous

letter-writer. “I thought it sounded rather as though our friend had

been a bit too cocksure about his grand medical specialising. After all,

the old girl might so easily have had some sort of heart attack. She was

very old and ill.”

“So she might, though I believe as a matter of fact cancer patients very

seldom pop off in that unexpected way. As a rule, they surprise

everybody by the way they cling to life. Still, I wouldn’t think much of

that if it wasn’t for the niece. She prepared the way for the death, you

see, by describing her aunt as so much worse than she was.”

“I thought the same when the doctor was telling his tale. But what did

the niece do? She can’t have poisoned her aunt or even smothered her, I

suppose, or they’d have found signs of it on the body. And the aunt

_did_ die—so perhaps the niece was right and the opinionated young

medico wrong.”

“Just so. And of course, we’ve only got his version of the niece and the

nurse—and he obviously had what the Scotch call ta’en a scunner at the

nurse. We mustn’t lose sight of her, by the way. She was the last person

to be with the old lady before her death, and it was she who

administered that injection.”

“Yes, yes—but the injection had nothing to do with it. If anything’s

clear, that is. I say, do you think the nurse can have said anything

that agitated the old lady and gave her a shock that way. The patient

was a bit gaga, but she may have had sense enough to understand

something really startling. Possibly the nurse just said something

stupid about dying—the old lady appears to have been very sensitive on

the point.”

“Ah!” said Lord Peter, “I was waiting for you to get on to that. Have

you realised that there really is one rather sinister figure in the

story, and that’s the family lawyer.”

“The one who came down to say something about the will, you mean, and

was so abruptly sent packing.”

“Yes. Suppose he’d wanted the patient to make a will in favour of

somebody quite different—somebody outside the story as we know it. And

when he found he couldn’t get any attention paid to him, he sent the new

nurse down as a sort of substitute.”

“It would be rather an elaborate plot,” said Parker, dubiously. “He

couldn’t know that the doctor’s fiancée was going to be sent away.

Unless he was in league with the niece, of course, and induced her to

engineer the change of nurses.”

“That cock won’t fight, Charles. The niece wouldn’t be in league with

the lawyer to get herself disinherited.”

“No, I suppose not. Still, I think there’s something in the idea that

the old girl was either accidentally or deliberately startled to death.”

“Yes—and whichever way it was, it probably wasn’t legal murder in that

case. However, I think it’s worth looking into. That reminds me.” He

rang the bell. “Bunter, just take a note to the post for me, would you?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Lord Peter drew a writing pad towards him.

“What are you going to write?” asked Parker, looking over his shoulder

with some amusement.

Lord Peter wrote:

“Isn’t civilisation wonderful?”

He signed this simple message and slipped it into an envelope.

“If you want to be immune from silly letters, Charles,” he said, “don’t

carry your monomark in your hat.”

“And what do you propose to do next?” asked Parker. “Not, I hope, to

send me round to Monomark House to get the name of a client. I couldn’t

do that without official authority, and they would probably kick up an

awful shindy.”

“No,” replied his friend, “I don’t propose violating the secrets of the

confessional. Not in that quarter at any rate. I think, if you can spare

a moment from your mysterious correspondent, who probably does not

intend to be found, I will ask you to come and pay a visit to a friend

of mine. It won’t take long. I think you’ll be interested. I—in fact,

you’ll be the first person I’ve ever taken to see her. She will be very

much touched and pleased.”

He laughed a little self-consciously.

“Oh,” said Parker, embarrassed. Although the men were great friends,

Wimsey had always preserved a reticence about his personal affairs—not

so much by concealing as by ignoring them. This revelation seemed to

mark a new stage of intimacy, and Parker was not sure that he liked it.

He conducted his own life with an earnest middle-class morality which he

owed to his birth and up-bringing, and, while theoretically recognising

that Lord Peter’s world acknowledged different standards, he had never

contemplated being personally faced with any result of their application

in practice.

“—rather an experiment,” Wimsey was saying a trifle shyly; “anyway,

she’s quite comfortably fixed in a little flat in Pimlico. You can come,

can’t you, Charles? I really should like you two to meet.”

“Oh, yes, rather,” said Parker, hastily, “I should like to very much.

Er—how long—I mean—”

“Oh, the arrangement’s only been going a few months,” said Wimsey,

leading the way to the lift, “but it really seems to be working out

quite satisfactorily. Of course, it makes things much easier for me.”

“Just so,” said Parker.

“Of course, as you’ll understand—I won’t go into it all till we get

there, and then you’ll see for yourself,” Wimsey chattered on, slamming

the gates of the lift with unnecessary violence—“but, as I was saying,

you’ll observe it’s quite a new departure. I don’t suppose there’s ever

been anything exactly like it before. Of course, there’s nothing new

under the sun, as Solomon said, but after all, I daresay all those wives

and porcupines, as the child said, must have soured his disposition a

little, don’t you know.”

“Quite,” said Parker. “Poor fish,” he added to himself, “they _always_

seem to think it’s different.”

“Outlet,” said Wimsey, energetically, “hi! taxi! . . . outlet—everybody

needs an outlet—97A, St. George’s Square—and after all, one can’t really

blame people if it’s just that they need an outlet. I mean, why be

bitter? They can’t help it. I think it’s much kinder to give them an

outlet than to make fun of them in books—and, after all, it isn’t really

difficult to write books. Especially if you either write a rotten story

in good English or a good story in rotten English, which is as far as

most people seem to get nowadays. Don’t you agree?”

Mr. Parker agreed, and Lord Peter wandered away along the paths of

literature, till the cab stopped before one of those tall, awkward

mansions which, originally designed for a Victorian family with

fatigue-proof servants, have lately been dissected each into half a

dozen inconvenient band-boxes and let off in flats.

Lord Peter rang the top bell, which was marked CLIMPSON, and relaxed

negligently against the porch.

“Six flights of stairs,” he explained; “it takes her some time to answer

the bell, because there’s no lift, you see. She wouldn’t have a more

expensive flat, though. She thought it wouldn’t be suitable.”

Mr. Parker was greatly relieved, if somewhat surprised, by the modesty

of the lady’s demands, and, placing his foot on the door-scraper in an

easy attitude, prepared to wait with patience. Before many minutes,

however, the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman, with a sharp,

sallow face and very vivacious manner. She wore a neat, dark coat and

skirt, a high-necked blouse and a long gold neck-chain with a variety of

small ornaments dangling from it at intervals, and her iron-grey hair

was dressed under a net, in the style fashionable in the reign of the

late King Edward.

“Oh, Lord Peter! How very nice to see you. Rather an _early_ visit, but

I’m sure you will excuse the sitting-room being a trifle in disorder.

_Do_ come in. The lists are _quite_ ready for you. I finished them last

night. In fact, I was just about to put on my hat and bring them round

to you. I do _hope_ you don’t think I have taken an _unconscionable_

time, but there was a quite _surprising_ number of entries. It is _too_

good of you to trouble to call.”

“Not at all, Miss Climpson. This is my friend, Detective-Inspector

Parker, whom I have mentioned to you.”

“How do you do, Mr. Parker—or ought I to say Inspector? Excuse me if I

make mistakes—this is really the first time I have been in the hands of

the police. I hope it’s not rude of me to say that. Please come up. A

great many stairs, I am afraid, but I hope you do not mind. I do so like

to be _high up_. The air is so much better, and you know, Mr. Parker,

thanks to Lord Peter’s great kindness, I have such a _beautiful, airy_

view, right over the houses. I think one can work so much _better_ when

one doesn’t feel cribbed, cabined and confined, as Hamlet says. Dear me!

Mrs. Winbottle _will_ leave the pail on the stairs, and always in that

very dark corner. I am _continually_ telling her about it. If you keep

close to the banisters you will avoid it nicely. Only one more flight.

Here we are. Please overlook the untidiness. I always think breakfast

things look so _ugly_ when one has finished with them—almost sordid, to

use a nasty word for a nasty subject. What a pity that some of these

clever people can’t invent _self-cleaning_ and _self-clearing_ plates,

is it not? But please _do_ sit down; I won’t keep you a moment. And I

know, Lord Peter, that you will not hesitate to smoke. I do so enjoy the

smell of your cigarettes—quite delicious—and you are so _very_ good

about extinguishing the ends.”

The little room was, as a matter of fact, most exquisitely neat, in

spite of the crowded array of knick-knacks and photographs that adorned

every available inch of space. The sole evidences of dissipation were an

empty eggshell, a used cup and a crumby plate on a breakfast tray. Miss

Climpson promptly subdued this riot by carrying the tray bodily on to

the landing.

Mr. Parker, a little bewildered, lowered himself cautiously into a small

arm-chair, embellished with a hard, fat little cushion which made it

impossible to lean back. Lord Peter wriggled into the window-seat, lit a

Sobranie and clasped his hands above his knees. Miss Climpson, seated

upright at the table, gazed at him with a gratified air which was

positively touching.

“I have gone _very_ carefully into all these cases,” she began, taking

up a thick wad of type-script. “I’m afraid, indeed, my notes are rather

_copious_, but I trust the typist’s bill will not be considered too

heavy. My handwriting is very clear, so I don’t think there can be any

errors. Dear me! such _sad_ stories some of these poor women had to tell

me! But I have investigated most fully, with the kind assistance of the

clergyman—a very nice man and so helpful—and I feel sure that in the

majority of the cases your assistance will be _well bestowed_. If you

would like to go through—”

“Not at the moment, Miss Climpson,” interrupted Lord Peter, hurriedly.

“It’s all right, Charles—nothing whatever to do with Our Dumb Friends or

supplying Flannel to Unmarried Mothers. I’ll tell you about it later.

Just now, Miss Climpson, we want your help on something quite

different.”

Miss Climpson produced a business-like notebook and sat at attention.

“The inquiry divides itself into two parts,” said Lord Peter. “The first

part, I’m afraid, is rather dull. I want you (if you will be so good) to

go down to Somerset House and search, or get them to search, through all

the death-certificates for Hampshire in the month of November, 1925. I

don’t know the town and I don’t know the name of the deceased. What you

are looking for is the death-certificate of an old lady of 73; cause of

death, cancer; immediate cause, heart failure; and the certificate will

have been signed by two doctors, one of whom will be either a Medical

Officer of Health, Police Surgeon, Certifying Surgeon under the Factory

and Workshops Act, Medical Referee under the Workmen’s Compensation Act,

Physician or Surgeon in a big General Hospital, or a man specially

appointed by the Cremation authorities. If you want to give any excuse

for the search, you can say that you are compiling statistics about

cancer; but what you really want is the names of the people concerned

and the name of the town.”

“Suppose there are more than one answering to the requirements?”

“Ah! that’s where the second part comes in, and where your remarkable

tact and shrewdness are going to be so helpful to us. When you have

collected all the ‘possibles,’ I shall ask you to go down to each of the

towns concerned and make very, very skilful inquiries, to find out which

is the case we want to get on to. Of course, you mustn’t appear to be

inquiring. You must find some good gossipy lady living in the

neighbourhood and just get her to talk in a natural way. You must

pretend to be gossipy yourself—it’s not in your nature, I know, but I’m

sure you can make a little pretense about it—and find out all you can. I

fancy you’ll find it pretty easy if you once strike the right town,

because I know for a certainty that there was a terrible lot of

ill-natured talk about this particular death, and it won’t have been

forgotten yet by a long chalk.”

“How shall I know when it’s the right one?”

“Well, if you can spare the time, I want you to listen to a little

story. Mind you, Miss Climpson, when you get to wherever it is, you are

not supposed ever to have heard a word of this tale before. But I

needn’t tell you that. Now, Charles, you’ve got an official kind of way

of puttin’ these things clearly. Will you just weigh in and give Miss

Climpson the gist of that rigmarole our friend served out to us last

night?”

Pulling his wits into order, Mr. Parker accordingly obliged with a

digest of the doctor’s story. Miss Climpson listened with great

attention, making notes of the dates and details. Parker observed that

she showed great acumen in seizing on the salient points; she asked a

number of very shrewd questions, and her grey eyes were intelligent.

When he had finished, she repeated the story, and he was able to

congratulate her on a clear head and retentive memory.

“A dear old friend of mine used to say that I should have made a very

good lawyer,” said Miss Climpson, complacently, “but of course, when I

was young, girls didn’t have the education or the _opportunities_ they

get nowadays, Mr. Parker. I should have liked a good education, but my

dear father didn’t believe in it for women. Very old-fashioned, you

young people would think him.”

“Never mind, Miss Climpson,” said Wimsey, “you’ve got just exactly the

qualifications we want, and they’re rather rare, so we’re in luck. Now

we want this matter pushed forward as fast as possible.”

“I’ll go down to Somerset House at once,” replied the lady, with great

energy, “and let you know the minute I’m ready to start for Hampshire.”

“That’s right,” said his lordship, rising. “And now we’ll just make a

noise like a hoop and roll away. Oh! and while I think of it, I’d better

give you something in hand for traveling expenses and so on. I think you

had better be just a retired lady in easy circumstances looking for a

nice little place to settle down in. I don’t think you’d better be

wealthy—wealthy people don’t inspire confidence. Perhaps you would

oblige me by living at the rate of about £800 a year—your own excellent

taste and experience will suggest the correct accessories and so on for

creating that impression. If you will allow me, I will give you a cheque

for £50 now, and when you start on your wanderings you will let me know

what you require.”

“Dear me,” said Miss Climpson, “I don’t—”

“This is a pure matter of business, of course,” said Wimsey, rather

rapidly, “and you will let me have a note of the expenses in your usual

business-like way.”

“Of course.” Miss Climpson was dignified. “And I will give you a proper

receipt immediately.

“Dear, dear,” she added, hunting through her purse, “I do not appear to

have any penny stamps. How extremely remiss of me. It is most _unusual_

for me not to have my little book of stamps—so handy I always think they

are—but only last night Mrs. Williams borrowed my last stamps to send a

very urgent letter to her son in Japan. If you will excuse me a moment—”

“I think I have some,” interposed Parker.

“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Here is the twopence. I _never_

allow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser,

you know. Such a very _sensible_ invention, most _convenient_, and

prevents _all_ dispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so

much. And now I sign my name _across_ the stamps. That’s right, isn’t

it? My dear father would be surprised to find his daughter so

business-like. He always said a woman should never _need_ to know

anything about money matters, but times have changed so greatly, have

they not?”

Miss Climpson ushered them down all six flights of stairs, volubly

protesting at their protests, and the door closed behind them.

“May I ask—?” began Parker.

“It is not what you think,” said his lordship, earnestly.

“Of course not,” agreed Parker.

“There, I knew you had a nasty mind. Even the closest of one’s friends

turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which

they publicly repudiate.”

“Don’t be a fool. Who _is_ Miss Climpson?”

“Miss Climpson,” said Lord Peter, “is a manifestation of the wasteful

way in which this country is run. Look at electricity. Look at

water-power. Look at the tides. Look at the sun. Millions of power units

being given off into space every minute. Thousands of old maids, simply

bursting with useful energy, forced by our stupid social system into

hydros and hotels and communities and hostels and posts as companions,

where their magnificent gossip-powers and units of inquisitiveness are

allowed to dissipate themselves or even become harmful to the community,

while the ratepayers’ money is spent on getting work for which these

women are providentially fitted, inefficiently carried out by

ill-equipped policemen like you. My god! it’s enough to make a man write

to _John Bull_. And then bright young men write nasty little patronising

books called ‘Elderly Women,’ and ‘On the Edge of the Explosion’—and the

drunkards make songs upon ’em, poor things.”

“Quite, quite,” said Parker. “You mean that Miss Climpson is a kind of

inquiry agent for you.”

“She is my ears and tongue,” said Lord Peter, dramatically, “and

especially my nose. She asks questions which a young man could not put

without a blush. She is the angel that rushes in where fools get a clump

on the head. She can smell a rat in the dark. In fact, she is the cat’s

whiskers.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Parker.

“Naturally—it is mine, therefore brilliant. Just think. People want

questions asked. Whom do they send? A man with large flat feet and a

notebook—the sort of man whose private life is conducted in a series of

inarticulate grunts. I send a lady with a long, woolly jumper on

knitting-needles and jingly things round her neck. Of course she asks

questions—everyone expects it. Nobody is surprised. Nobody is alarmed.

And so-called superfluity is agreeably and usefully disposed of. One of

these days you will put up a statue to me, with an inscription:

“‘To the Man who Made

Thousands of Superfluous Women

Happy

without Injury to their Modesty

or Exertion to Himself.’”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much,” complained his friend. “And how

about all those type-written reports? Are you turning philanthropist in

your old age?”

“No—no,” said Wimsey, rather hurriedly hailing a taxi. “Tell you about

that later. Little private pogrom of my own—Insurance against the

Socialist Revolution—when it comes. ‘What did you do with your great

wealth, comrade?’ ‘I bought First Editions.’ ‘Aristocrat! à la

lanterne!’ ‘Stay, spare me! I took proceedings against 500 money-lenders

who oppressed the workers.’ ‘Citizen, you have done well. We will spare

your life. You shall be promoted to cleaning out the sewers.’ Voilà! We

must move with the times. Citizen taxi-driver, take me to the British

Museum. Can I drop you anywhere? No? So long. I am going to collate a

12th century manuscript of Tristan, while the old order lasts.”

Mr. Parker thoughtfully boarded a westward-bound ’bus and was rolled

away to do some routine questioning, on his own account, among the

female population of Notting Dale. It did not appear to him to be a

milieu in which the talents of Miss Climpson could be usefully employed.