Lord Peter Views the Body · The Undignified Melodrama of the Bone of Contention (7/8)

Wimsey paused. Mr. Frobisher-Pym and the Hancocks were looking only puzzled and angry, but Haviland’s face was green. Mrs. Haviland showed a red, painted spot on each cheek, and her mouth was haggard. Wimsey picked up the Nüremberg Chronicle and caressed its covers thoughtfully as he went on.

“Meanwhile, of course, young Rawlinson and his companion were doing the camouflage in the church, to give the idea of a Protestant outrage. Having fixed everything up neat and pretty, all they had to do was to lock themselves up in the furnace-house and chuck the key through the window. You’ll probably find it there, Mr. Hancock, if you care to look. Didn’t you think that story of an assault by two or three men was a bit thin? Hubbard is a hefty great fellow, and Rawlinson’s a sturdy lad⁠—and yet, on their own showing, they were bundled into a coal-hole like helpless infants, without a scratch on either of ’em. Look for the men in buckram, my dear sir, look for the men in buckram!”

“Look here, Wimsey, are you sure you’re not romancing?” said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. “One would need some very clear proof before⁠—”

“Certainly,” said Wimsey. “Get a Home Office order. Open the grave. You’ll soon see whether it’s true or whether it’s just my diseased imagination.”

“I think this whole conversation is disgusting,” cried Mrs. Burdock. “Don’t listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day after father’s funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting story I simply can’t imagine. It is not worth paying a moment’s attention to. You will certainly not permit your father’s body to be disturbed. It’s horrible. It’s a desecration.”

“It is very unpleasant indeed,” said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gravely, “but if Lord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, which I can scarcely credit⁠—”

Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.

“⁠—then I feel bound to remind you, Mr. Burdock, that your brother, when he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated.”

“But he can’t, can he?” said Mrs. Burdock.

“Of course he can, Winnie,” snapped her husband savagely. “He’s an executor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have to forbid it. Don’t be a fool.”

“If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too,” said Mrs. Burdock.

“Oh, well!” said Mrs. Hancock, “shocking as it may seem, there’s the money to be considered. Mr. Martin might think it a duty to his wife, and his family, if he should ever have any⁠—”

“The whole thing is preposterous,” said Haviland decidedly. “I don’t believe a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first person to take action in the matter⁠—not only in justice to Martin, but on my own account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man like Mortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church⁠—the thing only has to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable it is. I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, with criminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can only say that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become so blunted to all decent feeling. That’s all. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Frobisher-Pym jumped up.

“Come, come, Burdock, don’t take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peter intended no discourtesy. I must say I think he’s all wrong, but, ’pon my soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last few days, I’m not surprised anybody should think there was something behind it. Now, let’s forget about it⁠—and hadn’t we better be moving out of this terribly cold room? It’s nearly dinnertime. Bless me, what will Agatha think of us?”

Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” said Wimsey. “I suffer from hypertrophy of the imagination, y’know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don’t mind me. I apologise, and all that.”

“I don’t think, Lord Peter,” said Mrs. Burdock acidly, “you ought to exercise your imagination at the expense of good taste.”

Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was so disturbed that he carried away the Nüremberg Chronicle beneath his arm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circumstances.

“I am gravely distressed,” said Mr. Hancock.

He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon the Frobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed with anxiety.

“I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been a grievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing a dead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is grave enough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour⁠—the mockery of sacred things⁠—the making use of the holy services of his religion to further worldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, and exhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems to realise the sinfulness of his conduct. I feel it very much, as a priest and as a pastor⁠—very much indeed.”

“Oh, well, Hancock,” said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, “you must make allowances, you know. Hubbard’s not a bad fellow, but you can’t expect refinement of feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to do about it? Mr. Burdock must be told, of course. It’s a most awkward situation. Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say? How did he come to do that?”

“I taxed him with it,” said the parson. “When I came to think over Lord Peter Wimsey’s remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed to me⁠—I cannot say why⁠—that there might be some truth in the story, wild as it appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floor of the Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantity of sawdust among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key of the furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a little distance⁠—in fact, within a stone’s throw⁠—of the furnace-house window. I sought guidance in prayer⁠—and from my wife, whose judgment I greatly respect⁠—and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. It was a great relief to me that he did not present himself at Early Celebration. Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples.”

“Just so, just so,” said the magistrate, a little impatiently. “Well, you taxed him with it, and he confessed?”

“He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He even laughed. It was a most painful interview.”

“I am sure it must have been,” said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.

“We must go and see Mr. Burdock,” said the magistrate, rising. “Whatever old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitous will of his, it’s quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinson were entirely in the wrong. Upon my word, I’ve no idea whether it’s an indictable offense to steal a body. I must look it up. But I should say it was. If there is any property in a corpse, it must belong to the family or the executors. And in any case, it’s sacrilege, to say nothing of the scandal in the parish. I must say, Hancock, it won’t do us any good in the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt you realise that. Well, it’s an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackle it the better. I’ll run over to the vicarage with you and help you to break it to the Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, after all, and I think Burdock owes you an apology.”

“Oh, I’ll keep out of it,” said Wimsey. “I shan’t be exactly persona grata, don’t you know. It’s going to mean a deuce of a big financial loss to the Haviland Burdocks.”

“So it is. Most unpleasant. Well, perhaps you’re right. Come along, vicar.”

Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for half an hour or so, when Mr. Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:

“I say, Wimsey⁠—we’re all going over to Mortimer’s. I wish you’d come and drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and I don’t care about driving at night, particularly in this fog.”

“Right you are,” said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in a few moments wearing a heavy leather flying coat, and with a parcel under his arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into the driving-seat, and was soon steering cautiously through the mist along the Herriotting Road.

He smiled a little grimly to himself as they came up under the trees to the spot where the phantom coach had passed him. As they passed the gate through which the ingenious apparition had vanished, he indulged himself by pointing it out, and was rewarded by hearing a snarl from Haviland. At the well-remembered fork, he took the right-hand turning into Frimpton and drove steadily for six miles or so, till a warning shout from Mr. Frobisher-Pym summoned him to look out for the turning up to Mortimer’s.

Mr. Mortimer’s house, with its extensive stabling and farm buildings, stood about two miles back from the main road. In the darkness Wimsey could see little of it; but he noticed that the ground-floor windows were all lit up, and, when the door opened to the magistrate’s imperative ring, a loud burst of laughter from the interior gave evidence that Mr. Mortimer was not taking his misdoings too seriously.

“Is Mr. Mortimer at home?” demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym, in the tone of a man not to be trifled with.

“Yes, sir. Will you come in, please?”

They stepped into a large, old-fashioned hall, brilliantly lit, and made cosy with a heavy oak screen across the door. As Wimsey advanced, blinking, from the darkness, he saw a large thickset man, with a ruddy face, advancing with hand outstretched in welcome.

“Frobisher-Pym! By Jove! how decent of you to come over! We’ve got some old friends of yours here. Oh!” (in a slightly altered tone) “Burdock! Well, well⁠—”

“Damn you!” said Haviland Burdock, thrusting furiously past the magistrate, who was trying to hold him back. “Damn you, you swine! Chuck this bloody farce. What have you done with the body?”

“The body, eh?” said Mr. Mortimer, retreating in some confusion.

“Yes, curse you! Your friend Hubbard’s split. It’s no good denying it. What the devil do you mean by it? You’ve got the body here somewhere. Where is it? Hand it over!”

He strode threateningly round the screen into the lamplight. A tall, thin man rose up unexpectedly from the depths of an armchair and confronted him.

“Hold hard, old man!”

“Good God!” said Haviland, stepping heavily back on Wimsey’s toes. “Martin!”

“Sure,” said the other. “Here I am. Come back like a bad halfpenny. How are you?”

“So you’re at the bottom of this!” stormed Haviland. “I might have known it. You damned, dirty hound! I suppose you think it’s decent to drag your father out of his coffin and tote him about the country like a circus. It’s degrading. It’s disgusting. It’s abominable. You must be perfectly dead to all decent feeling. You don’t deny it, I suppose?”

“I say, Burdock!” expostulated Mortimer.

“Shut up, curse you!” said Haviland. “I’ll deal with you in a minute. Now, look here, Martin, I’m not going to stand any more of this disgraceful behaviour. You’ll give up that body, and⁠—”

“Just a moment, just a moment,” said Martin. He stood, smiling a little, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner-jacket. “This éclaircissement seems to be rather public. Who are all these people? Oh, it’s the vicar, I see. I’m afraid we owe you a little explanation, vicar. And, er⁠—”

“This is Lord Peter Wimsey,” put in Mr. Frobisher-Pym, “who discovered your⁠—I’m afraid, Burdock, I must agree with your brother in calling it your disgraceful plot.”

“Oh, Lord!” said Martin. “I say, Mortimer, you didn’t know you were up against Lord Peter Wimsey, did you? No wonder the cat got out of the bag. The man’s known to be a perfect Sherlock. However, I seem to have got home at the crucial moment, so there’s no harm done. Diana, this is Lord Peter Wimsey⁠—my wife.”

A young and pretty woman in a black evening dress greeted Wimsey with a shy smile, and turned deprecatingly to her brother-in-law.

“Haviland, we want to explain⁠—”

He paid no attention to her.

“Now then, Martin, the game’s up.”

“I think it is, Haviland. But why make all this racket?”

“Racket! I like that. You take your own father’s body out of its coffin⁠—”

“No, no, Haviland. I knew nothing about it. I swear that. I only got the news of his death a few days ago. We were right out in the wilds, filming a show in the Pyrenees, and I came straight back as soon as I could get away. Mortimer here, with Rawlinson and Hubbard, staged the whole show by themselves. I never heard a word about it till yesterday morning in Paris, when I found his letter waiting at my old digs. Honestly, Haviland, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I? I didn’t need to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I’d been here, I should only have had to speak to stop the funeral altogether. Why on earth should I have gone to the trouble of stealing the body? Quite apart from the irreverence and all that. As it is, when Mortimer told me about it, I must say I was a bit revolted at the idea, though I appreciated the kindness and the trouble they’d been to on my account. I think Mr. Hancock has most cause for wrath, really. But Mortimer has been as careful as possible, sir⁠—really he has. He has placed the old governor quite reverently and decently in what used to be the chapel, and put flowers round him and so on. You will be quite satisfied, I’m sure.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mortimer. “No disrespect intended, don’t you know. Come and see him.”

“This is dreadful,” said the vicar helplessly.

“They had to do the best they could, don’t you see, in my absence,” said Martin. “As soon as I can, I’ll make proper arrangements for a suitable tomb⁠—above ground, of course. Or possibly cremation would fit the case.”

“What!” gasped Haviland. “Do you mean to say you imagine I’m going to let my father stay unburied, simply because of your disgusting greed about money?”

“My dear chap, do you think I’m going to let you put him underground, simply to enable you to grab my property?”

“I’m the executor of his will, and I say he shall be buried, whether you like it or not!”

“And I’m an executor too⁠—and I say he shan’t be buried. He can be kept absolutely decently above ground, and he shall be.”

“But hear me,” said the vicar, distracted between these two disagreeable and angry young men.

“I’ll see what Graham says about you,” bawled Haviland.

“Oh, yes⁠—the honest lawyer, Graham,” sneered Martin. “He knew what was in the will, didn’t he? I suppose he didn’t mention it to you by any chance?”

“He did not,” retorted Haviland. “He knew too well the sort of skunk you were to say anything about it. Not content with disgracing us with your miserable, blackmailing marriage⁠—”

“Mr. Burdock, Mr. Burdock⁠—”

“Take care, Haviland!”

“You have no more decency⁠—”

“Stop it!”

“Than to steal your father’s body and my money so that you and your damned wife can carry on your loose-living, beastly ways with a parcel of film-actors and chorus-girls⁠—”

“Now then, Haviland. Keep your tongue off my wife and my friends. How about your own? Somebody told me Winnie’d been going the pace pretty well⁠—next door to bankruptcy, aren’t you, with the gees and the tables and God knows what! No wonder you want to do your brother out of his money. I never thought much of you, Haviland, but by God⁠—”

“One moment!”

Mr. Frobisher-Pym at last succeeded in asserting himself, partly through the habit of authority, and partly because the brothers had shouted themselves breathless.