CHAPTER VII

Ham and Brandy

“_Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are._”

Brillat-Savarin

“Well,” said Wimsey, as Parker was ushered in that same evening by

Bunter, “have you got anything fresh?”

“Yes, I’ve got a new theory of the crime, which knocks yours into a

cocked hat. I’ve got evidence to support it, too.”

“Which crime, by the way?”

“Oh, the Epping Forest business. I don’t believe the old Dawson person

was murdered at all. That’s just an idea of yours.”

“I see. And you’re now going to tell me that Bertha Gotobed was got hold

of by the White Slave people.”

“How did you know?” asked Parker, a little peevishly.

“Because Scotland Yard have two maggots which crop up whenever anything

happens to a young woman. Either it’s White Slavery or Dope

Dens—sometimes both. You are going to say it’s both.”

“Well, I was, as a matter of fact. It so often is, you know. We’ve

traced the £5 note.”

“That’s important, anyhow.”

“Yes. It seems to me to be the clue to the whole thing. It is one of a

series paid out to a Mrs. Forrest, living in South Audley Street. I’ve

been round to make some inquiries.”

“Did you see the lady?”

“No, she was out. She usually is, I’m told. In fact, her habits seem to

be expensive, irregular and mysterious. She has an elegantly furnished

flat over a flower-shop.”

“A service flat?”

“No. One of the quiet kind, with a lift you work yourself. She only

turns up occasionally, mostly in the evenings, spends a night or two and

departs. Food ordered in from Fortnum and Mason’s. Bills paid promptly

by note or cheque. Cleaning done by an elderly female who comes in about

eleven, by which time Mrs. Forrest has usually gone out.”

“Doesn’t anybody ever see her?”

“Oh dear, yes! The people in the flat below and the girl at the

flower-shop were able to give me quite a good description of her. Tall,

over-dressed, musquash and those abbreviated sort of shoes with jewelled

heels and hardly any uppers—you know the sort of thing. Heavily

peroxided; strong aroma of origan wafted out upon the passer-by; powder

too white for the fashion and mouth heavily obscured with sealing-wax

red; eyebrows painted black to startle, not deceive; finger-nails a

monument to Kraska—the pink variety.”

“I’d no idea you studied the Woman’s Page to such good purpose,

Charles.”

“Drives a Renault Four-seater, dark green with tapestry doings. Garages

just round the corner. I’ve seen the man, and he says the car was out on

the night of the 27th. Went out at 11:30. Returned about 8 the next

morning.”

“How much petrol had been used?”

“We worked that out. Just about enough for a run to Epping and back.

What’s more, the charwoman says that there had been supper for two in

the flat that night, and three bottles of champagne drunk. Also, there

is a ham in the flat.”

“A Bradenham ham?”

“How do you expect the charwoman to know that? But I think it probably

is, as I find from Fortnum & Mason’s that a Bradenham ham was delivered

to Mrs. Forrest’s address about a fortnight ago.”

“That sounds conclusive. I take it you think Bertha Gotobed was

inveigled there for some undesirable purpose by Mrs. Forrest, and had

supper with her—”

“No; I should think there was a man.”

“Yes, of course. Mrs. F. brings the parties together and leaves them to

it. The poor girl is made thoroughly drunk—and then something untoward

happens.”

“Yes—shock, perhaps, or a shot of dope.”

“And they bustle her off and get rid of her. It’s quite possible. The

post-mortem may tell us something about it. Yes, Bunter, what is it?”

“The telephone, my lord, for Mr. Parker.”

“Excuse me,” said Parker, “I asked the people at the flower-shop to ring

me up here, if Mrs. Forrest came in. If she’s there, would you like to

come round with me?”

“Very much.”

Parker returned from the telephone with an air of subdued triumph.

“She’s just gone up to her flat. Come along. We’ll take a taxi—not that

death-rattle of yours. Hurry up, I don’t want to miss her.”

The door of the flat in South Audley Street was opened by Mrs. Forrest

in person. Wimsey recognised her instantly from the description. On

seeing Parker’s card, she made no objection whatever to letting them in,

and led the way into a pink and mauve sitting-room, obviously furnished

by contract from a Regent Street establishment.

“Please sit down. Will you smoke? And your friend?”

“My colleague, Mr. Templeton,” said Parker, promptly.

Mrs. Forrest’s rather hard eyes appeared to sum up in a practised manner

the difference between Parker’s seven-guinea “fashionable lounge

suiting, tailored in our own workrooms, fits like a made-to-measure

suit,” and his “colleague’s” Savile Row outlines, but beyond a slight

additional defensiveness of manner she showed no disturbance. Parker

noted the glance. “She’s summing us up professionally,” was his mental

comment, “and she’s not quite sure whether Wimsey’s an outraged brother

or husband or what. Never mind. Let her wonder. We may get her rattled.”

“We are engaged, Madam,” he began, with formal severity, “on an inquiry

relative to certain events connected with the 26th of last month. I

think you were in Town at that time?”

Mrs. Forrest frowned slightly in the effort to recollect. Wimsey made a

mental note that she was not as young as her bouffant apple-green frock

made her appear. She was certainly nearing the thirties, and her eyes

were mature and aware.

“Yes, I think I was. Yes, certainly. I was in Town for several days

about that time. How can I help you?”

“It is a question of a certain bank-note which has been traced to your

possession,” said Parker, “a £5 note numbered x/y58929. It was issued to

you by Lloyds Bank in payment of a cheque on the 19th.”

“Very likely. I can’t say I remember the number, but I think I cashed a

cheque about that time. I can tell in a moment by my cheque-book.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. But it would help us very much if you can

recollect to whom you paid it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s rather difficult. I paid my dressmaker’s about

that time—no, that was by cheque. I paid cash to the garage, I know, and

I think there was a £5 note in that. Then I dined at Verry’s with a

woman friend—that took the second £5 note, I remember, but there was a

third. I drew out £25—three fives and ten ones. Where did the third note

go? Oh, of course, how stupid of me! I put it on a horse.”

“Through a Commission Agent?”

“No. I had nothing much to do one day, so I went down to Newmarket. I

put the £5 on some creature called Brighteye or Attaboy or some name

like that, at 50 to 1. Of course the wretched animal didn’t win, they

never do. A man in the train gave me the tip and wrote the name down for

me. I handed it to the nearest bookie I saw—a funny little grey-haired

man with a hoarse voice—and that was the last I saw of it.”

“Could you remember which day it was?”

“I think it was Saturday. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Forrest. It will be a great help if we can

trace those notes. One of them has turned up since in—other

circumstances.”

“May I know what the circumstances are, or is it an official secret?”

Parker hesitated. He rather wished now, that he had demanded point-blank

at the start how Mrs. Forrest’s £5 note had come to be found on the dead

body of the waitress at Epping. Taken by surprise, the woman might have

got flustered. Now, he had let her entrench herself securely behind this

horse story. Impossible to follow up the history of a bank-note handed

to an unknown bookie at a race-meeting. Before he could speak, Wimsey

broke in for the first time, in a high, petulant voice which quite took

his friend aback.

“You’re not getting anywhere with all this,” he complained. “I don’t

care a continental curse about the beastly note, and I’m sure Sylvia

doesn’t.”

“Who is Sylvia?” demanded Mrs. Forrest with considerable amazement.

“Who is Sylvia? What is she?” gabbled Wimsey, irrepressibly.

“Shakespeare always has the right word, hasn’t he? But, God bless my

soul, it’s no laughing matter. It’s very serious and you’ve no business

to laugh at it. Sylvia is very much upset, and the doctor is afraid it

may have an effect on her heart. You may not know it, Mrs. Forrest, but

Sylvia Lyndhurst is my cousin. And what she wants to know, and what we

all want to know—don’t interrupt me, Inspector, all this

shilly-shallying doesn’t get us anywhere—I want to know, Mrs. Forrest,

who was it dining here with you on the night of April 26th. Who was it?

Who was it? Can you tell me that?”

This time, Mrs. Forrest was visibly taken aback. Even under the thick

coat of powder they could see the red flush up into her cheeks and ebb

away, while her eyes took on an expression of something more than

alarm—a kind of vicious fury, such as one may see in those of a cornered

cat.

“On the 26th?” she faltered. “I can’t—”

“I knew it!” cried Wimsey. “And that girl Evelyn was sure of it too. Who

was it, Mrs. Forrest? Answer me that!”

“There—there was no one,” said Mrs. Forrest, with a thick gasp.

“Oh, come, Mrs. Forrest, think again,” said Parker, taking his cue

promptly, “you aren’t going to tell us that you accounted by yourself

for three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and two people’s dinners.”

“Not forgetting the ham,” put in Wimsey, with fussy self-importance,

“the Bradenham ham specially cooked and sent up by Fortnum & Mason. Now,

Mrs. Forrest—”

“Wait a moment. Just a moment. I’ll tell you everything.”

The woman’s hands clutched at the pink silk cushions, making little hot,

tight creases. “I—would you mind getting me something to drink? In the

dining-room, through there—on the sideboard.”

Wimsey got up quickly and disappeared into the next room. He took rather

a long time, Parker thought. Mrs. Forrest was lying back in a collapsed

attitude, but her breathing was more controlled, and she was, he

thought, recovering her wits. “Making up a story,” he muttered savagely

to himself. However, he could not, without brutality, press her at the

moment.

Lord Peter, behind the folding doors, was making a good deal of noise,

chinking the glasses and fumbling about. However, before very long, he

was back.

“’Scuse my taking such a time,” he apologised, handing Mrs. Forrest a

glass of brandy and soda. “Couldn’t find the syphon. Always was a bit

wool-gathering, y’know. All my friends say so. Starin’ me in the face

all the time, what? And then I sloshed a lot of soda on the sideboard.

Hand shakin’. Nerves all to pieces and so on. Feelin’ better? That’s

right. Put it down. That’s the stuff to pull you together. How about

another little one, what? Oh, rot, it can’t hurt you. Mind if I have one

myself? I’m feelin’ a bit flustered. Upsettin’, delicate business and

all that. Just another spot. That’s the idea.”

He trotted out again, glass in hand, while Parker fidgeted. The presence

of amateur detectives was sometimes an embarrassment. Wimsey clattered

in again, this time, with more common sense, bringing decanter, syphon

and three glasses, bodily, on a tray.

“Now, now,” said Wimsey, “now we’re feeling better, do you think you can

answer our question, Mrs. Forrest?”

“May I know, first of all, what right you have to ask it?”

Parker shot an exasperated glance at his friend. This came of giving

people time to think.

“Right?” burst in Wimsey. “Right? Of course, we’ve a right. The police

have a right to ask questions when anything’s the matter. Here’s murder

the matter! Right, indeed?”

“Murder?”

A curious intent look came into her eyes. Parker could not place it, but

Wimsey recognised it instantly. He had seen it last on the face of a

great financier as he took up his pen to sign a contract. Wimsey had

been called to witness the signature, and had refused. It was a contract

that ruined thousands of people. Incidentally, the financier had been

murdered soon after, and Wimsey had declined to investigate the matter,

with a sentence from Dumas: “Let pass the justice of God.”

“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Forrest was saying, “that in that case I can’t help

you. I _did_ have a friend dining with me on the 26th, but he has not,

so far as I know, been murdered, nor has he murdered anybody.”

“It was a man, then?” said Parker.

Mrs. Forrest bowed her head with a kind of mocking ruefulness. “I live

apart from my husband,” she murmured.

“I am sorry,” said Parker, “to have to press for this gentleman’s name

and address.”

“Isn’t that asking rather much? Perhaps if you would give me further

details—”

“Well, you see,” cut in Wimsey again, “if we could just know for certain

it wasn’t Lyndhurst. My cousin is so frightfully upset, as I said, and

that Evelyn girl is making trouble. In fact—of course one doesn’t want

it to go any further—but actually Sylvia lost her head very completely.

She made a savage attack on poor old Lyndhurst—with a revolver, in fact,

only fortunately she is a shocking bad shot. It went over his shoulder

and broke a vase—most distressin’ thing—a Famille Rose jar, worth

thousands—and of course it was smashed to atoms. Sylvia is really hardly

responsible when she’s in a temper. And, we thought, as Lyndhurst was

actually traced to this block of flats—if you could give us definite

proof it wasn’t him, it might calm her down and prevent murder being

done, don’t you know. Because, though they might call it Guilty but

Insane, still, it would be awfully awkward havin’ one’s cousin in

Broadmoor—a first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she’s not

irritated.”

Mrs. Forrest gradually softened into a faint smile.

“I think I understand the position, Mr. Templeton,” she said, “and if I

give you a name, it will be in strict confidence, I presume?”

“Of course, of course,” said Wimsey. “Dear me, I’m sure it’s uncommonly

kind of you.”

“You’ll swear you aren’t spies of my husband’s?” she said, quickly. “I

am trying to divorce him. How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“Madam,” said Wimsey, with intense gravity, “I swear to you on my honour

as a gentleman that I have not the slightest connection with your

husband. I have never even heard of him before.”

Mrs. Forrest shook her head.

“I don’t think, after all,” she said, “it would be much good my giving

you the name. In any case, if you asked him whether he’d been here, he

would say no, wouldn’t he? And if you’ve been sent by my husband, you’ve

got all the evidence you want already. But I give you my solemn

assurance, Mr. Templeton, that I know nothing about your friend, Mr.

Lyndhurst—”

“Major Lyndhurst,” put in Wimsey, plaintively.

“And if Mrs. Lyndhurst is not satisfied, and likes to come round and see

me, I will do my best to satisfy her of the fact. Will that do?”

“Thank you very much,” said Wimsey. “I’m sure it’s as much as any one

could expect. You’ll forgive my abruptness, won’t you? I’m

rather—er—nervously constituted, and the whole business is exceedingly

upsetting. _Good_ afternoon. Come on, Inspector, it’s quite all

right—you see it’s quite all right. I’m really very much

obliged—uncommonly so. Please don’t trouble to see us out.”

He teetered nervously down the narrow hall-way, in his imbecile and

well-bred way, Parker following with a policeman-like stiffness. No

sooner, however, had the flat-door closed behind them than Wimsey seized

his friend by the arm and bundled him helter-skelter into the lift.

“I thought we should never get away,” he panted. “Now quick—how do we

get round to the back of these flats?”

“What do you want with the back?” demanded Parker, annoyed. “And I wish

you wouldn’t stampede me like this. I’ve no business to let you come

with me on a job at all, and if I do, you might have the decency to keep

quiet.”

“Right you are,” said Wimsey, cheerfully, “just let’s do this little bit

and you can get all the virtuous indignation off your chest later on.

Round here, I fancy, up this back alley. Step lively and mind the

dust-bin. One, two, three, four—here we are! Just keep a look-out for

the passing stranger, will you?”

Selecting a back window which he judged to belong to Mrs. Forrest’s

flat, Wimsey promptly grasped a drain-pipe and began to swarm up it with

the agility of a cat-burglar. About fifteen feet from the ground he

paused, reached up, and appeared to detach something with a quick jerk,

and then slid very gingerly to the ground again, holding his right hand

at a cautious distance from his body, as though it were breakable.

And indeed, to his amazement, Parker observed that Wimsey now held a

long-stemmed glass in his fingers, similar to those from which they had

drunk in Mrs. Forrest’s sitting-room.

“What on earth—?” said Parker.

“Hush! I’m Hawkshaw the detective—gathering finger-prints. Here we come

a-wassailing and gathering prints in May. That’s why I took the glass

back. I brought a different one in the second time. Sorry I had to do

this athletic stunt, but the only cotton-reel I could find hadn’t much

on it. When I changed the glass, I tip-toed into the bathroom and hung

it out of the window. Hope she hasn’t been in there since. Just brush my

bags down, will you, old man? Gently—don’t touch the glass.”

“What the devil do you want finger-prints for?”

“You’re a grateful sort of person. Why, for all you know, Mrs. Forrest

is someone the Yard has been looking for for years. And anyway, you

could compare the prints with those on the Bass bottle, if any. Besides,

you never know when finger-prints mayn’t come in handy. They’re

excellent things to have about the house. Coast clear? Right. Hail a

taxi, will you? I can’t wave my hand with this glass in it. Look so

silly, don’t you know. I say!”

“Well?”

“I saw something else. The first time I went out for the drinks, I had a

peep into her bedroom.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think I found in the wash-stand drawer?”

“What?”

“A hypodermic syringe!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, and an innocent little box of ampullæ, with a doctor’s

prescription headed ‘The injection, Mrs. Forrest. One to be injected

when the pain is very severe.’ What do you think of that?”

“Tell you when we’ve got the results of that post-mortem,” said Parker,

really impressed. “You didn’t bring the prescription, I suppose?”

“No, and I didn’t inform the lady who we were or what we were after or

ask her permission to carry away the family crystal. But I made a note

of the chemist’s address.”

“Did you?” ejaculated Parker. “Occasionally, my lad, you have some

glimmerings of sound detective sense.”