“So you see,” said Wimsey, “it means a lot to me.”

Darling Mabel gave an ecstatic sigh.

“Is that all true? You’re not making it up? It’s better than any of the talkies.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t say one word. You’re the only person I’ve told. You won’t give me away to him?”

“Him? He’s a stingy pig. Catch me giving him anything. I’m on. I’ll do it for you. It’ll be a bit difficult, ’cause I’ll have to use the scissors, which we don’t do as a rule. But I’ll manage. You trust me. They won’t be big ones, you know. He comes in pretty often, but I’ll give you all I get. And I’ll fix Fred. He always has Fred. Fred’ll do it if I ask him. What’ll I do with them when I get them?”

Wimsey drew an envelope from his pocket.

“Sealed up inside this,” he said, impressively, “there are two little pillboxes. You mustn’t take them out till you get the specimens, because they’ve been carefully prepared so as to be absolutely chemically clean, if you see what I mean. When you’re ready, open the envelope, take out the pill-boxes, put the parings into one and the hair into the other, shut them up at once, put them into a clean envelope and post them to this address. Get that?”

“Yes.” She stretched out an eager hand.

“Good girl. And not a word.”

“Not – one – word!” She made a gesture of exaggerated caution…

“When’s your birthday?”

“Oh, I don’t have one. I never grow up.”

“Right; then I can send you an unbirthday present any day in the year. You’d look nice in mink, I think.”

“Mink, I think,” she mocked him. “Quite a poet, aren’t you?”

“You inspire me,” said Wimsey, politely.

CHAPTER XXII

“I have come round,” said Mr. Urquhart, “in answer to your letter. I am greatly interested to hear that you have some fresh information about my unfortunate cousin’s death. Of course I shall be delighted to give you any assistance I can.”

“Thank you,” said Wimsey. “Do sit down. You have dined, of course? But you will have a cup of coffee. You prefer the Turkish variety, I fancy. My man brews it rather well.”

Mr. Urquhart accepted the offer, and complimented Bunter on having achieved the right method of concocting that curiously syrupy brew, so offensive to the average Occidental.

Bunter thanked him gravely for his good opinion, and proffered a box of that equally nauseating mess called Turkish Delight, which not only gluts the palate and glues the teeth, but also smothers the consumer in a floury cloud of white sugar. Mr. Urquhart immediately plugged his mouth with a large lump of it, murmuring indistinctly that it was the genuine Eastern variety. Wimsey, with an austere smile, took a few sips of strong black coffee without sugar or milk, and poured himself out a glass of old brandy. Bunter retired, and Lord Peter, laying a note-book open upon his knee, glanced at the clock and began his narrative.

He recapitulated the circumstances of Philip Boyes’ life and death at some length. Mr. Urquhart, yawning surreptitiously, ate, drank and listened.

Wimsey, still with his eye on the clock, then embarked upon the story of Mrs. Wrayburn’s will.

Mr. Urquhart, considerably astonished, set his coffee-cup aside, wiped his sticky fingers upon his handkerchief, and stared.

Presently he said:

“May I ask how you have obtained this very remarkable information?”

Wimsey waved his hand.

“The police,” he said, “wonderful thing, police organisation. Surprisin’ what they find out when they put their minds to it. You’re not denying any of it, I presume?”

“I am listening,” said Mr. Urquhart, grimly. “When you have finished this extraordinary statement, I may perhaps discover exactly what it is I have to deny.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, “I’ll try to make that clear. I’m not a lawyer, of course, but I’m tryin’ to be as lucid as I can.”

He droned remorselessly on, and the hands of the clock went round.

“So far as I make it out,” he said, when he had reviewed the whole question of motive, “it was very much to your interest to get rid of Mr. Philip Boyes. And indeed the fellow was, in my opinion, a pimple and a wart, and in your place I should have felt much the same about him.”

“And is this the whole of your fantastic accusation?” enquired the solicitor.

“By no means. I am now coming to the point. Slow but sure is the motto of yours faithfully. I notice that I have taken up seventy minutes of your valuable time, but believe me, the hour has not been unprofitably spent.”

“Allowing that all this preposterous story were true, which I most emphatically deny,” observed Mr. Urquhart, “I should be greatly interested to know how you imagine that I administered the arsenic. Have you worked out something ingenious for that? Or am I supposed to have suborned my cook and parlourmaid to be my accomplices? A little rash of me, don’t you think, and affording remarkable opportunities for blackmail?”

“So rash,” said Wimsey, “that it is quite out of the question for a man so full of forethought as yourself. The sealing-up of that bottle of burgundy, for example, argues a mind alive to possibilities – unusually so. In fact, the episode attracted my attention from the start.”

“Indeed?”

“You ask me how and when you administered the poison. It was not before dinner, I think. The thoughtfulness shown in emptying the bedroom water-bottle – oh, no! that point was not missed – the care displayed in meeting your cousin before a witness and never being left alone with him – I think that rules out the period before dinner.”

“I should think it might.”

“The sherry,” pursued Wimsey, thoughtfully. “It was a new bottle, freshly decanted. The disappearance of the remains might be commented on. I fancy we can absolve the sherry.”

Mr. Urquhart bowed ironically.

“The soup – it was shared by the cook and parlourmaid and they survived. I am inclined to pass the soup, and the same thing applies to the fish. It would be easy to poison a portion of fish, but it would involve the co-operation of Hannah Westlock, and that conflicts with my theory. A theory is a sacred thing to me, Mr. Urquhart – almost a what d’you call it – a dogma.”

“An unsafe attitude of mind,” remarked the lawyer, “but in the circumstances I will not quarrel with it.”

“Besides,” said Wimsey, “if the poison had been given in the soup or the fish, it might have started to work before Philip – I may call him so, I hope? – had left the house. We come to the casserole. Mrs. Pettican and Hannah Westlock can give the casserole a clean bill of health, I fancy. And by the way, from the description it must have been most delicious. I speak as a man with some considerable experience in gastronomic matters, Mr. Urquhart.”

“I am well aware of it,” said Mr. Urquhart, politely.

“And now there remains only the omelette. A most admirable thing when well made and eaten – that is so important – eaten immediately. A charming idea to have the eggs and sugar brought to the table and prepared and cooked on the spot. By the way, I take it there was no omelette left over for the kitchen? No, no! One does not let a good thing like that go out half-eaten. Much better that the good cook should make a fine, fresh omelette for herself and her colleague. Nobody but yourself and Philip partook of the omelette, I am sure.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Urquhart, “I need not trouble to deny it. But you will bear in mind that I did partake of it, without ill-effects. And moreover, that my cousin made it himself.”

“So he did. Four eggs, if I remember rightly, with sugar and jam from what I may call the common stock. No – there would be nothing wrong with the sugar or the jam. Er – I believe I am right in saying that one of the eggs was cracked when it came to the table?”

“Possibly. I do not really remember.”