“Such a strange taste,” said Miss Climpson. “No sugar, I think? – You know, dear Lord Peter, it has been my melancholy duty to attend many deathbeds, and, though a number of them – such as my dear father’s – were most Christian and beautiful, I could not call them fun. People have very different ideas of fun, of course, and personally I have never greatly cared for George Robey, though Charlie Chaplin always makes me laugh – still, you know, there are disagreeable details attending any deathbed which one would think could hardly be to anybody’s taste, however depraved.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Wimsey. “But it must be fun, in one sense, to feel that you can control the issues of life and death, don’t you know.”

“That is an infringement upon the prerogative of the Creator,” said Miss Climpson.

“But rather jolly to know yourself divine, so to speak. Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky. I admit the fascination. But for practical purposes that theory is the devil – I beg your pardon, Miss Climpson, respect for sacred personages – I mean, it’s unsatisfactory, because it would suit one person just as well as another. If I’ve got to find a homicidal maniac, I may as well cut my throat at once.”

“Don’t say that,” pleaded Miss Climpson, ”even in jest. Your work here – so good, so valuable – would be worth living for in spite of the saddest personal disappointments. And I have known jokes of that kind turn out very badly, in the most surprising ways. There was a young man we used to know, who was given to talking in a sadly random way – a long time ago, dear Lord Peter, while you were still in the nursery, but young men were wild, even then, whatever they say now about the ’eighties – and he said one day to my poor, dear Mother, ‘Mrs. Climpson, if I don’t make a good bag today, I shall shoot myself’ (for he was very fond of sport), and he went out with his gun and as he was getting over a stile, he caught the trigger in the hedge and the gun went off and blew his head to pieces. I was quite a girl, and it upset me dreadfully, because he was a very handsome young man, with whiskers which we all admired very much, though today they would be smiled at, and they were burnt right off him with the explosion, and a shocking hole in the side of his head, so they said, for of course I was not allowed to see him.”

“Poor chap,” said his lordship. “Well, let’s dismiss homicidal mania from our minds for the moment. What else do people kill people for?”

“There is – passion,” said Miss Climpson, with a slight initial hesitation at the word, “for I should not like to call it love, when it is so unregulated.”

“That is the explanation put forward by the prosecution,” said Wimsey. “I don’t accept it.”

“Certainly not. But – it might be possible, might it not, that there was some other unfortunate young woman who was attached to this Mr. Boyes, and felt vindictively towards him?”

“Yes, or a man who was jealous. But the time is the difficulty. You’ve got to have some plausible pretext for giving a bloke arsenic. You can’t just catch him standing on a doorstep, and say, ‘Here, have a drink of this,’ can you?”

“But there were ten minutes unaccounted for,” said Miss Climpson, shrewdly. “Might he not have entered some public-house for refreshment, and there met an enemy?”

“By jove, that’s a possibility.” Wimsey made a note, and shook his head dubiously. “But it’s rather a coincidence. Unless there was a previous appointment to meet there. Still, it’s worth looking into. At any rate, it’s obvious that Mr. Urquhart’s house and Miss Vane’s flat were not the only conceivable places where Boyes might have eaten or drunk between seven and 10.10 that evening. Very well: under the head ‘Passion’ we find (1) Miss Vane (ruled out ex hypothesi), (2) jealous lover, (3) ditto rival. Place, Public-house (query). Now we go on to the next motive, and that’s Money. A very good motive for murdering anybody who has any, but a poor one in Boyes’ case. Still, let us say, Money. I can think of three subheadings for that: (1) Robbery from the person (very improbable); (2) insurance; (3) inheritance.”

“What a clear mind you have,” said Miss Climpson.

“When I die you will find ‘Efficiency’ written on my heart. I don’t know what money Boyes had on him, but I shouldn’t think it was much. Urquhart and Vaughan might know; still, it’s not very important, because arsenic isn’t a sensible drug to use on anyone you want to rob. It takes a long time, comparatively, to begin business, and it doesn’t make the victim helpless enough. Unless we suppose the taxi-driver drugged and robbed him, there was no one who could possibly profit by such a silly crime.”

Miss Climpson agreed, and buttered a second teacake.

“Then, insurance. Now we come to the region of the possible. Was Boyes insured? It doesn’t seem to have occurred to anybody to find out. Probably he wasn’t. Literary blokes have very little forethought, and are careless about trifles like premiums. But one ought to know. Who might have an insurable interest? His father, his cousin (possibly), other relations (if any), his children (if any) and – I suppose – Miss Vane, if he took out the policy while he was living with her. Also, anybody who may have lent him money on the strength of such insurance. Plenty of possibilities there. I’m feeling better already, Miss Climpson, fitter and brighter in every way. Either I’m getting a line on the thing, or else it’s your tea. That’s a good, stout-looking pot. Has it got any more in it?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Climpson, eagerly. “My dear father used to say I was a great hand at getting the utmost out of a tea-pot. The secret is to fill up as you go and never empty the pot completely.”

“Inheritance,” pursued Lord Peter. “Had he anything to leave? Not much, I shouldn’t think. I’d better hop round and see his publisher. Or had he lately come into anything? His father or cousin would know. The father is a parson – ‘slashing trade, that,’ as the naughty bully says to the new boy in one of Dean Farrar’s books. He has a thread-bare look. I shouldn’t think there was much money in the family. Still, you never know. Somebody might have left Boyes a fortune for his beaux yeux or out of admiration for his books. If so, to whom did Boyes leave it? Query: did he make a will? But surely the defence must have thought of these things. I am getting depressed again.”

“Have a sandwich,” said Miss Climpson.

“Thank you,” said Wimsey, “or some hay. There is nothing like it when you are feeling faint, as the White King truly remarked. Well, that more or less disposes of the money motive. There remains Blackmail.”

Miss Climpson, whose professional connection with the Cattery had taught her something about blackmail, assented with a sigh.

“Who was this fellow Boyes?” enquired Wimsey rhetorically. “I know nothing about him. He may have been a blackguard of the deepest dye. He may have known unmentionable things about all his friends. Why not? Or he may have been writing a book to show somebody up, so that he had to be suppressed at all costs. Dash it all, his cousin’s a solicitor. Suppose he has been embezzling Trust deeds or something, and Boyes was threatening to split on him? He’d been living in Urquhart’s house, and had every opportunity for finding out. Urquhart drops some arsenic into his soup, and – Ah! there’s the snag. He puts arsenic into the soup and eats it himself. That’s awkward. I’m afraid Hannah Westlock’s evidence rather knocks that on the head. We shall have to fall back on the mysterious stranger in the pub.”

He considered a little, and then said:

“And there’s suicide, of course, which is what I’m really rather inclined to believe in. Aarsenic is tomfool stuff to commit suicide with, but it has been done. There was the Duc de Praslin, for instance – if his was suicide. Only, where’s the bottle?”