“But what has old Levy got to do with it?” asked Wimsey, his mind running over the incidents in that half-forgotten murder-episode.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said the Hon. Freddy, a little nervously, “I’ve – er – done the trick as you might say. Rachel Levy is – er, in fact – going to become Mrs. Freddy and all that sort of thing.”

“The devil she is,” said Wimsey, ringing the bell. “Tremendous congratters and all that. It’s been a long time working up, hasn’t it?”

“Why, yes,” said Freddy. “Yes, it has. You see, the trouble was that I was a Christian – at least, I was christened and that, though I pointed out I wasn’t at all a good one, except, of course, that one keeps up the family pew and turns out on Christmas Day and so on. Only it seems they didn’t mind that so much as my being’ a Gentile. Well that, of course, is past prayin’ for. And then there was the difficulty about the kids – if any. But I explained that I didn’t mind what they counted them as – and I don’t, you know, because, as I was saying, it would be all to the little beggars’ advantage to be in with the Levy and Goldberg crowd, especially if the boys were to turn out anything in the financial way. And then I rather got round Lady Levy by sayin’ I had served nearly seven years for Rachel – that was rather smart, don’t you think?”

“Two more whiskies, James,” said Lord Peter. “It was brilliant, Freddy. How did you come to think of it?”

“In church,” said Freddy, “at Diana Rigby’s wedding. The bride was fifty minutes late and I had to do something, and somebody had left a Bible in the pew. I saw that – I say, old Laban was a bit of a tough, wasn’t he? – and I said to myself, ‘I’ll work that off next time I call,’ and so I did, and the old lady was uncommonly touched by it.”

“And the long and the short of it is, you’re fixed up,” said Wimsey. “Well, cheerio, here’s to it. Am I best man, Freddy, or do you bring it off at the Synagogue?”

“Well, yes – it is to be at the Synagogue – I had to agree to that,” said Freddy, “but I believe some sort of bridegroom’s friend comes into it. You’ll stand by me, old bean, won’t you? You keep your hat on, don’t forget.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Wimsey, “and Bunter will explain the procedure to me. He’s bound to know. He knows everything. But look here, Freddy, you won’t forget about this little enquiry, will you?”

“I won’t, old chap – upon my word I won’t. I’ll let you know the very second I hear anything. But I really think you may count on there being something in it.”

Wimsey found some consolation in this. At any rate, he so far pulled himself together as to be the life and soul of the rather restrained revels at Duke’s Denver. The Duchess Helen, indeed, observed rather acidly to the Duke that Peter was surely getting too old to play the buffoon, and that it would be better if he took things seriously and settled down.

“Oh, I dunno,” said the Duke, “Peter’s a weird fish – you never know what he’s thinkin’ about. He pulled me out of the soup once and I’m not going to interfere with him. You leave him alone, Helen.”

Lady Mary Wimsey, who had arrived late on Christmas Eve, took another view of the matter. She marched into her younger brother’s bedroom at 2 o’clock on the morning of Boxing Day. There had been dinner and dancing and charades of the most exhausting kind. Wimsey was sitting thoughtfully over the fire in his dressing gown.

“I say, old Peter,” said Lady Mary, “you’re being a bit fevered, aren’t you? Anything up?”

“Too much plum-pudding,” said Wimsey, “and too much county. I’m a martyr, that’s what I am – burning in brandy to make a family holiday.”

“Yes, it’s ghastly, isn’t it? But how’s life? I haven’t seen you for an age. You’ve been away such a long time.”

“Yes – and you seem very much taken up with this house-decorating job you’re running.”

“One must do something. I get rather sick of being aimless, you know.”

“Yes. I say, Mary, do you ever see anything of old Parker these days?1

Lady Mary stared into the fire.

“I’ve had dinner with him once or twice, when I was in town.”

“Have you? He’s a very decent sort. Reliable, homespun – that sort of thing. Not amusing, exactly.”

”A little solid.”

“As you say – a little solid.” Wimsey lit a cigarette. “I should hate anything upsettin’ to happen to Parker. He’d take it hard. I mean to say, it wouldn’t be fair to muck about with his feelin’s and so on.”

Mary laughed. “Worried, Peter?”

“N-no. But I’d rather like him to have fair play.”

“Well, Peter – I can’t very well say yes or no till he asks me, can I?”

“Can’t you?”

“Well, not to him. It would upset his ideas of decorum, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it would. But it would probably upset them just as much if he did ask you. He would feel that the mere idea of hearing a butler announce ‘Chief Detective-Inspector and Lady Mary Parker’ would have something shocking about it.”

“It’s stalemate, then, isn’t it?”

“You could stop dining with him.”

“I could do that, of course.”

“And the mere fact that you don’t – I see. Would it be any good if I demanded to know his intentions in the true Victorian manner?”

“Why this sudden thirst for getting your family off your hands, old man? Peter – nobody’s being horrible to you, are they?”

“No, no. I’m just feeling rather like a benevolent uncle, that’s all. Old age creeping on. That passion for being useful which attacks the best of us when we’re getting past our prime.”

“Like me with the house-decorating. I designed these pajamas, by the way. Don’t you think they’re rather entertaining? But I expect Chief-Inspector Parker prefers the old-fashioned night-gown, like Dr. Spooner or whoever it was.”

“That would be a wrench,” said Wimsey.

“Never mind. I’ll be brave and devoted. Here and now I cast off my pajamas for ever!”

“No, no,” said Wimsey, “not here and now. Respect a brother’s feelings. Very well. I am to tell my friend Charles Parker, that if he will abandon his natural modesty and propose, you will abandon your pajamas and say yes.”

“It will be a great shock for Helen, Peter.”

“Blast Helen. I daresay it won’t be the worst shock she’ll get.”

“Peter, you’re plotting something devilish. All right. If you want me to administer the first shock and let her down by degrees – I’ll do it.”

“Right-ho!” said Wimsey, casually.

Lady Mary twisted one arm about his neck and bestowed on him one of her rare sisterly caresses.

“You’re a decent old idiot,” she said, “and you look played-out. Go to bed.”

“Go to blazes,” said Lord Peter amiably.

CHAPTER XIII

Miss Murchison felt a touch of excitement in her well-regulated heart, as she rang the bell of Lord Peter’s flat. It was not caused by the consideration of his title or his wealth or his bachelorhood, for Miss Murchison had been a business woman all her life, and was accustomed to visiting bachelors of all descriptions without giving a second thought to the matter. But his note had been rather exciting.

Miss Murchison was thirty-eight, and plain. She had worked in the same financier’s office for twelve years. They had been good years on the whole, and it was not until the last two that she had even begun to realise that the brilliant financier who juggled with so many spectacular undertakings was juggling for his life under circumstances of increasing difficulty. As the pace grew faster, he added egg after egg to those which were already spinning in the air. There is a limit to the number of eggs which can be spun by human hands. One day an egg slipped and smashed – then another – then a whole omelette of eggs. The juggler fled from the stage and escaped abroad, his chief assistant blew out his brains, the audience booed, the curtain came down, and Miss Murchison, at 37, was out of a job.