Authors: Dorothy L. Sayers
gentlemen’s lavatory.’
Mrs Lefranc cried bitterly for a few moments.
‘But there!’ she exclaimed, suddenly puling herself together and blowing her
nose, ‘life’s a funny thing and you can’t account for it, can you? Let’s be happy
while we can. We’l al be having a little white stone over us before long and it
don’t matter so much how or when. When was you wanting to take the room,
dearie?’
‘I’l be coming in tonight,’ said Harriet. ‘I don’t know whether I’l want my
board or not, but if I leave my suitcase and pay you the twelve shilings for the
room in advance, that’l be al right, won’t it?’
‘That’s O.K., dearie,’ said Mrs Lefranc, obviously cheered. ‘Just you come
when you like, you’l be happy with Ma Lefranc. There, now, you’l think I’ve
been talking enough to fetch the hind leg off a donkey, but what I say is, a good
cry now and again does you good when the world ain’t using you wel. Al my
young people brings their troubles to me. I only wish poor Mr Alexis had told
me al his worries and he’d be here now. But he was a foreigner, when al’s
said and done and they aren’t like us, are they? Mind that dustpan, dearie.
Time and again I tel them not to leave things on the stairs, but you might as wel
talk to the cat. Five mice she left on my door-mat yesterday morning, if you’l
believe me, not that they ever come upstairs, dearie, and don’t you think it, but
the celars is overrun with them, the dirty little beasts. Wel, so long, dearie, and
by the way, here’s your latch-key. It’s lucky I had a new one cut; poor Mr
Alexis took his away with him when he went and goodness knows where it is
now. I let my visitors come in when and how they like; you’l find yourself
comfortable here.’
XVI
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SANDS
‘This is the oft-wished hour, when we together
May walk upon the sea-shore.’
Death’s Jest-Book
Tuesday, 23 June
If either Harriet Vane or Lord Peter Wimsey felt any embarrassment at meeting
again after their burst of free speech, they did not show it. Both had a story to
tel, and were thus spared the awkwardness of being graveled for lack of
matter.
‘Cipher letters? Is it possible that Mrs Weldon is al right and that we are al
wrong? It makes it look more like murder, anyhow, which is one up to us. I
don’t think much of Mrs Lefranc’s suggestion about speculations, but it’s
perfectly obvious that Alexis had some scheme in hand, and it may be that the
scheme went wrong. I don’t know. . . . I don’t know. . . . Were there, perhaps,
two different sets of circumstances? Is it an accident that Alexis should have
been kiled just as his plans were maturing? He seems to have been surrounded
by a bunch of curiously unpleasant people – liars and half-wits and prostitutes
and dagoes.’
‘Yes; I can’t say we’re moving in very exalted circles. Antoine is the
decentest of them – but probably you don’t approve of Antoine.’
‘Is that meant for a chalenge? I know al about Antoine. Vetted him last
night.’
‘To see if he was nice for me to know?’
‘Not altogether. Part of the process of exploring the ground. He seems a
modest, sensible felow. It’s not his fault that he suffers from lack of vitality and
incipient melancholia. He’s supporting a mother in an asylum and looks after an
imbecile brother at home.’
‘Does he?’
‘Apparently; but that doesn’t mean that his own wits are not quite reliable at
the moment. He was a little more frank about Alexis’ love-affairs than he could
be to you. Alexis seems to have taken a fairly robust view of his association
with Mrs Weldon, and to have got rid of Leila with more than ordinary tact and
ability. Da Soto is a bad egg, of course, but good enough for Leila, and he is
probably vain enough to believe quite sincerely that he took her from Alexis
vi
et armis
. But
why
al this? Wel, never mind; let’s have our tea. Hulo! Great
activity out at sea! Two boats stationed off the Grinders.’
‘Fishermen?’
‘Fishers of men, I fancy,’ replied Wimsey, grimly. ‘It’s Umpelty and his
merry men. Pass me the field-glasses, Bunter. Yes. They look very busy.
They’ve got the drags out. Have a squint.’
He passed the glasses to Harriet, who exclaimed:
‘They’re hauling something up. It must be pretty heavy. The Inspector’s
lending a hand and one of the men is hanging on at the other end for dear life to
trim the boat. Oh, oh! you didn’t see that. What a pity! Something gave way
suddenly, and Inspector Umpelty has gone head over heels backwards into the
boat. Now he’s sitting up and rubbing himself.’
‘Dear Umpelty!’ Wimsey helped himself to a sandwich.
‘They’re dragging again; he’s left it to the fishermen this time. . . . They’ve
got it – they’re hauling – it’s coming up!’
‘Sit down and have your tea.’
‘Don’t be sily. They’re puling away like anything. There’s something black
just showing –’
‘Here! Let’s have a look.’
Harriet surrendered the glasses. They were Wimsey’s, after al, though if he
thought that she would be upset by a distant view of what she had once seen so
unpleasantly close –
Wimsey looked and began to laugh.
‘Here, take them, quick! It’s a bit of old iron. It looks like a boiler or
something. Don’t miss Umpelty’s face; it’s worth seeing.’
‘Yes; that’s what it is – a sort of cylinder. I wonder how that got there.
They’re examining it very carefuly. Perhaps they think they’l find the body
inside it. No go. They’ve dropped it back again.’
‘What a disappointment!’
‘Poor Umpelty! I say, these are lovely sandwiches. Did Bunter make them?
He’s a genius.’
‘Yes. Hurry up. I want to have another look at that cleft in the rock before
we start.’
The cleft, however, remained an enigma. Wimsey’s attention was
concentrated on the ring-bolt.
‘I’l swear,’ he said, ‘that this hasn’t been here more than a fortnight. It looks
perfectly new, and the ring isn’t worn anywhere. What the devil he can have
wanted that for – Wel, let us be going. I’l take the high road and you take the
low road; that is, I’l scramble among the loose stuff at high-water mark, and
you walk along by the sea’s edge, and we’l work to-and-fro between the two.
Anybody who finds anything shouts and we compare notes.’
‘Right-ho!’
To walk along a solitary shore with one’s heart’s idol in the calm of a
summer’s afternoon may be classed as an agreeable occupation; but it loses
much of its charm when the couple have to proceed, separated by the whole
width of the beach, searching with backs bent double and eyes fixed on the
ground for something which neither can define and which in al probability is not
there. Harriet, mystified, but resolutely believing that Wimsey had some idea in
his mind, kept steady to her job; Wimsey, though he searched carefuly, paused
a good many times to scan sea and shore, and appeared to be computing
distances and memorising landmarks. Each explorer carried a satchel in which
to store treasure-trove, and the conversation, such as it was, rather resembled
the dialogue of a Russian tragedy. Thus:
Harriet:
Oy!
Peter:
Hulo!
(They meet, centre.)
Harriet:
A boot! I’ve found a boot!
Peter:
Alas! alas! What boots it to repeat.
Harriet:
Hobnailed and frightfuly ancient.
Peter:
Only one boot!
Harriet:
Yes; if it had been two boots, it might mark the place where the
murderer started to paddle.
Peter:
One foot on sea and one on shore. The tide has risen and falen ten
times since then. It isn’t a good boot.
Harriet:
No, it’s a bad boot.
Peter:
It’s a rotten boot.
Harriet:
Can I throw it away?
Peter:
No; after al, it
is
a boot.
Harriet:
It’s an awfuly heavy boot.
Peter:
I can’t help that; it’s a
boot
. Dr Thorndyke likes boots.
Harriet:
Oh, death! where is thy sting?
(They separate, Harriet carrying the boot.)
Peter:
Oy!
Harriet:
Hulo!
(They meet again.)
Peter:
Here is an empty sardine-tin, and here is a broken bottle.
Harriet:
Have you the pen of the gardener’s aunt?
Peter:
No; but my (female) cousin has (some) ink, (some) paper and (some)
papers (use du, de la, des, de l’ apostrophe).
Harriet:
How long has the bottle been there?
Peter:
The edges are much abraded by the action of the water.
Harriet:
Do murderers eat sardines?
Peter:
Do cats eat rats?
Harriet:
I have cut my foot on a razor-shel; Paul Alexis had his throat cut with
a razor.
Peter:
The tide is going out.
(They separate.)
Harriet:
(after a long and unproductive pause, meeting Peter with a sodden
Gold Flake packet in one hand and half a Bible in the other): Dr Livingstone,
I presume. Do murderers read the Bible?
Peter:
Any book had served as wel, Any book had stopped the bulet – that
may be; I cannot tel.
Harriet
(reading): ‘Last of al the woman died also’ – probably from backache.
Peter:
My back aches, and a drowsy numbness stils My brain, as though of
hemlock –
Harriet
(suddenly practical): Look at the cigarette-card.
Peter:
It belongs to the new series.
Harriet:
Then it may be quite recent.
Peter
(wearily): Al right; keep it; we’l cal it a clue. How about the Holy Writ?
Harriet
(in a marked manner):
You
can keep that; it might be good for you.
Peter:
Very wel. (In a stil more marked manner) Shal we begin with the Song
of Songs.
Harriet:
Get on with your job.
Peter:
I am. How far have we come?
Harriet:
How many leagues to Babylon?
Peter:
We have walked a mile and a half, and we are stil in ful view of the
Flat-Iron.
(They separate.)
Peter:
Oy!
Harriet:
Hulo!
Peter:
I just wanted to ask whether you’d given any further thought to that
suggestion about marrying me.
Harriet
(sarcasticaly): I suppose you were thinking how delightful it would be
to go through life like this together?
Peter:
Wel, not quite like this. Hand in hand was more my idea.
Harriet:
What is that in your hand?
Peter:
A dead starfish.
Harriet:
Poor fish!
Peter:
No il-feeling, I trust.
Harriet:
Oh, dear no.
They toiled along, presently coming abreast of the spot where the lane led
down from Polock’s cottage. Here the beach became more shingly, with a
number of biggish stones. Wimsey took the search more seriously here,
scrutinising the stones above and around high-water mark very carefuly, and
even going part of the way up the lane. He seemed not to find anything of
importance, and they went on, noticing that the high ground hid the cottages
from sight of the beach.
A few hundred yards farther on, Harriet gave tongue again.
‘Oy, oy, oy!’
‘Hulo!’
‘I realy have found something this time.’
Peter came galoping down the sand.
‘If you’re puling my leg, I’l wring your neck. Let your Uncle Peter look. . . .
Ah! . . . we are interested, distinctly interested.’
‘It ought to mean good luck, anyway.’
‘You’re holding it wrong way up; al the luck wil drop out if you’re not
careful, and a black day it wil be for – somebody. Hand it over.’
He ran his fingers gently round the hoop of metal, clearing the sand away.
‘It’s a new shoe – and it hasn’t been here very long. Perhaps a week,
perhaps a little more. Belongs to a nice little cob, about fourteen hands. Pretty
little animal, fairly wel-bred, rather given to kicking her shoes off, pecks a little
with the off-fore.’
‘Holmes, this is wonderful! How do you do it?’
‘Perfectly simple, my dear Watson. The shoe hasn’t been worn thin by the
’ammer, ’ammer, ’ammer on the ’ard ’igh road, therefore it’s reasonably new.
It’s a little rusty from lying in the water, but hardly at al rubbed by sand and
stones, and not at al corroded, which suggests that it hasn’t been here long.
The size of the shoe gives the size of the nag, and the shape suggests a nice little
round, wel-bred hoof. Though newish, the shoe isn’t fire-new, and it is worn
down a little on the inner front edge, which shows that the wearer was disposed
to peck a little; while the way the nails are placed and clinched indicates that the
smith wanted to make the shoe extra secure – which is why I said that a lost