The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club · Chapter 13 (2/2)

If you want to meet Ann Dorland, would you care to come along to a “do” at the Rushworths Wednesday week? It will be very deadly, because Naomi Rushworth’s new young man is going to read a paper on ductless glands which nobody knows anything about. However, it appears that ductless glands will be ‘news’ in next to no time⁠—ever so much more up-to-date than vitamins⁠—so the Rushworths are all over glands⁠—in the social sense, I mean. Ann D. is certain to be there, because as I told you, she is taking to this healthy bodies for all stunt, or whatever it is, so you’d better come. It will be company for me!⁠—and I’ve got to go, anyway, as I’m supposed to be a friend of Naomi’s. Besides, they say that if one paints or sculps or models, one ought to know all about glands, because of the way they enlarge your jaw and alter your face, or something. Do come, because if you don’t I shall be fastened on by some deadly bore or other⁠—and I shall have to hear all Naomi’s raptures about the man, which will be too awful.

Wimsey made a note to be present at this enlivening party, and looking round, saw that they were arriving at the Necropolis⁠—so vast, so glittering with crystal-globed wreaths, so towering with sky-scraping monuments, that no lesser name would serve it. At the gate they were met by Mr. Pritchard in person (acidulated in his manner and elaborately polite to Mr. Murbles), and by the Home Office representative (suave and bland and disposed to see reporters lurking behind every tombstone.) A third person, coming up, proved to be an official from the Cemetery Company, who took charge of the party and guided them along the neat graveled walks to where digging operations were already in process.

The coffin, being at length produced and identified by its brass plate, was then carefully borne to a small outbuilding close at hand, which appeared to be a potting-shed in ordinary life, converted by a board and a couple of trestles into a temporary mortuary. Here a slight halt and confusion was caused by the doctors, demanding in aggressively cheerful and matter-of-fact tones more light and space to work in. The coffin was placed on a bench; somebody produced a mackintosh sheet and spread it on the trestle table; lamps were brought and suitably grouped. After which, the workmen advanced, a little reluctantly, to unscrew the coffin lid, preceded by Dr. Penberthy, scattering formalin from a spray, rather like an infernal thurifer at some particularly unwholesome sacrifice.

“Ah! very nice indeed,” said Dr. Horner, appreciatively, as the corpse was disengaged from the coffin and transferred to the table. “Excellent. Not much difficulty over this job. That’s the best of getting on to it at once. How long has he been buried, did you say? Three or four weeks? He doesn’t look it. Will you make the autopsy or shall I? Just as you like. Very well. Where did I put my bag? Ah! thank you, Mr.⁠—er⁠—er⁠—” (An unpleasantly occupied pause during which George Fentiman escaped, murmuring that he thought he’d have a smoke outside). “Undoubted heart trouble, of course, I don’t see any unusual appearances, do you?⁠ ⁠… I suppose we’d better secure the stomach as it stands⁠ ⁠… pass me the gut, would you? Thanks. D’you mind holding while I get this ligature on? Ta.” (Snip, snip.) “The jars are just behind you. Thanks. Look out! You’ll have it over. Ha! ha! that was a near thing. Reminds me of Palmer, you know⁠—and Cook’s stomach⁠—always think that a very funny story, ha, ha!⁠—I won’t take all the liver⁠—just a sample⁠—it’s only a matter of form⁠—and sections of the rest⁠—yes⁠—better have a look at the brain while we are about it, I suppose. Have you got the large saw?”

“How callous these medical men seem,” murmured Mr. Murbles.

“It’s nothing to them,” said Wimsey. “Horner does this kind of job several times a week.”

“Yes, but he need not be so noisy. Dr. Penberthy behaves with decorum.”

“Penberthy runs a practice,” said Wimsey with a faint grin. “He has to exercise a little restraint over himself. Besides, he knew old Fentiman, and Horner didn’t.”

At length the relevant portions of General Fentiman’s anatomy having been collected into suitable jars and bottles, the body was returned to the coffin and screwed down. Penberthy came across to Wimsey and took his arm.

“We ought to be able to get a pretty good idea of what you want to know,” he said. “Decomposition is very little advanced, owing to an exceptionally well-made coffin. By the way” (he dropped his voice) “that leg, you know⁠—did it ever occur to you⁠—or rather, did you ever discover any explanation of that?”

“I did have an idea about it,” admitted Wimsey, “but I don’t yet know whether it was the right one. I shall probably know for certain in a day or two.”

“You think the body was interfered with?” said Penberthy, looking him steadily in the face.

“Yes, and so do you,” replied Wimsey, returning the gaze.

“I’ve had my suspicions all the time, of course. I told you so, you know. I wonder whether⁠—you don’t think I was wrong to give the certificate, do you?”

“Not unless you suspected anything wrong with the death itself,” said Wimsey. “Have you and Horner noticed anything queer?”

“No. But⁠—oh, well! having patients dug up always makes me worried, you know. It’s easy to make a mistake and one looks an awful fool in court. I’d hate being made to look a fool just at present,” added the doctor with a nervous laugh. “I’m thinking of⁠—great Scott, man! how you startled me!”

Dr. Horner had brought a large, bony hand down on his shoulder. He was a red-faced, jovial man, and he smiled as he held up his bag before them.

“All packed up and ready,” he announced. “Got to be getting back now, aha! Got to be getting back.”

“Have the witnesses signed the labels?” asked Penberthy, rather shortly.

“Yes, yes, quite all right. Both the solicitor johnnies, so they can’t quarrel about that in the witness-box,” replied Horner. “Come along, please⁠—I’ve got to get off.”

They found George Fentiman outside, seated on a tombstone, and sucking at an empty pipe.

“Is it all over?”

“Yes.”

“Have they found anything?”

“Haven’t looked yet,” broke in Horner, genially. “Not at the part which interests you, that is. Leave that for my colleague Lubbock, you know. Soon give you an answer⁠—say, in a week’s time.”

George passed his handkerchief over his forehead, which was beaded with little drops of sweat.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “But I suppose it had to be done. What was that? I thought⁠—I’d swear I saw something moving over there.”

“A cat, probably,” said Penberthy, “there’s nothing to be alarmed at.”

“No,” said George, “but sitting about here, one⁠—fancies things.” He hunched his shoulders, squinting round at them with the whites of his eyeballs showing.

“Things,” he said, “people⁠—going to and fro⁠ ⁠… and walking up and down. Following one.”