Unnatural Death · Part III · Chapter 19 (2/2)

“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 parlourmaid 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 weekday, 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 St. 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 St. 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 on 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 tomorrow.”

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 Caesar’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.