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    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
    Ebook361 pages5 hours

    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

    By Dorothy L. Sayers

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    About this ebook

    “The special qualities of Dorothy Sayers’ writing are seen here at their best” as Lord Peter battles to solve the murder of a war hero (Saturday Review).

    Even the Bellona Club’s most devoted members would never call it lively. Its atmosphere is that of a morgue—or, at best, a funeral parlor—and on Armistice Day the gloom is only heightened. Veterans of the Great War gather at the Bellona not to hash over old victories, but to stare into their whiskies and complain about old injuries, shrinking pensions, and the lingering effects of shell shock. Though he acts jolly, Lord Peter Wimsey finds the holiday grim. And this Armistice Day, death has come to join the festivities.
     
    The aged General Fentiman—a hero of the Crimean War—expires sitting up in his favorite chair. Across town, his sister dies on the same day, throwing the General’s half-million-pound inheritance into turmoil. As the nation celebrates and suspicions run riot, Lord Peter must discover what kind of soldier would have the nerve to murder a general.
     
    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club is the 5th book in the Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries, but you may enjoy the series by reading the books in any order.
     
    This ebook features an illustrated biography of Dorothy L. Sayers including rare images from the Marion E. Wade Center at Wheaton College.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJul 31, 2012
    ISBN9781453258880
    Author

    Dorothy L. Sayers

    Dorothy L. Sayers, the greatest of the golden age detective novelists, was born in Oxford in 1893. Her aristocratic detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, became one of the most popular fictional heroes of the twentieth century. She devoted the last 20 years of her life to playwriting, Christian scholarship, and a new translation of Dante. She died in 1957.

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    Reviews for The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

    4/5

    59 ratings49 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Quick read, classic peter whimsey.
    • 4/5
      A lovely old fashioned, frightfully British who-dun-it. Lord Peter Wimsey could be compared in character to Agatha Raisin - idiosyncratic, singular, snobbish, a civilian sleuth and loveable aristocrat. This mystery centers around a gentlemen's club, society parties and a dead body......I enjoyed the unravelling of the truth.
    • 5/5
      A cracking read!
    • 4/5
      The club is so muted and quiet it’s not hard to believe someone could die there unobserved. But then those nagging doubts creep in—those details Lord Peter Wimsey is so good at noticing. And then there are all those questions, because perhaps something far more unpleasant than old age caused this man’s demise. Evocative of time and place, polite with just the right touch of acid, and well-flavored with red herrings, Bellona Club is a fun book in the series, a nice characterization of the rich and less well-favored, and a cool blend of mystery and old-fashioned English manners. Disclosure: I love the series and am working my way slowly through rereading them all. (Very slowly—I savor the anticipation as well the read.)
    • 4/5
      Sayers portrays the time so well, in this case Armistice Day, 1928: young men were still suffering shell-shock while the elder gentry snoozed in clubs. Peter Wimsey is a wonderful character, intelligent, compassionate and observant, the perfect qualities for a sleuth. Everyone melts in his presence. This is a good mystery story, of course, but the characters, setting, and Sayers' writing make this a winner.
    • 4/5
      Holds up well in rereading. The plot has interesting twists and turns and the characters are well drawn. This early Lord Peter is still a fairly frivolous seeming gentleman, but he displays incisive intelligence in questioning witnesses and suspects. Several years ago I cited this novel in a conference paper rebutting the idea that Golden Age mysteries ignored the condition of society. A mystery set in a men's club for military gentlemen is very clear on the physical and mental damage done to the veterans of WWI and their disappointment in the society to which they had returned. From the fathers giving commemorative dinners for the comrades of sons lost in the war, to the shell shocked George Fentiman, to Tin-Tummy Challoner, to the numerous women who will never find husbands, the England of Dorothy Sayers has been heavily marked by the war.
    • 4/5
      It must be noted from the onset that from me 3.5 stars to DLS is equivalent to 5 stars for most other writers. I hold her very high in the firmament of writing in general, hence my standards for her are appreciably higher.One issue for me in terms of this most recent rereading was that I partly remembered whodunnit and why, probably because I watched the Ian Carmichael Wimsey series not so many years ago. Blessedly, my memory is flimsy enough that the ultimate crux of the matter escaped me completely, so from about the halfway point onwards I was as much in the dark as I was on first encountering this novel too many decades ago for me to care to count.Putting aside that small inconvenience, I was happy as usual to be lead hither and thither through Sayers' complicated and intelligent plot-line, with the puzzle aspect immeasurably enriched by flashes of almost cheeky humour and stunning moments of intensely insightful observation, on human nature and the human condition. The most incidental of Sayers' characters have flesh on their bones to a remarkable degree.The most enjoyable fleshing out for me, as ever, is that of our favourite characters: beloved Wimsey, of course, but also Parker and Bunter. The crumbs are coming together, the leavening is working its mysterious power, the dough is inexorably rising, I am mixing my metaphores like a mad thing, and the Wimsey loaf is beginning to show its bloom.
    • 4/5
      General Fentiman is discovered dead in his chair at his club and Lord Peter is asked to try to work out exactly when he died, since his rich sister also died that day and the order of their deaths affects who inherits her fortune. Very well plotted with unexpected twists for the most part, although the last third gets a bit less realistic. I found Ann Dorland's acceptance of what happened to her disappointing - Miss Climpson wouldn't have put up with it! Also, the way the murderer was treated at the end was unacceptable (at least to my modern sensibilities). The relationship between George and his wife was well-observed and I'm glad Ann got her happy ending.
    • 5/5
      To me, one of the better Wimsey novels, chiefly for its setting in an ultra-British club for military men on Armistice Day (the place and time both being significant clues to one aspect of the mystery) , though the murderer reminds me of the one in Whose Body; also there is some depressingly realistic material about the effects of the war on a young British officer and his long-suffering wife.
    • 4/5
      Thought I had this one figured out... but I was following one of the red herrings that the author had cleverly used. Will be looking for the next Wimsey.
    • 3/5
      Acceptable without being particularly awesome. It was hard to get too worked up about the murder, since everyone seemed to agree that because the old boy was 90ish it didn't much matter that he had died, the only question was exactly when - and that only because it affected his sisters' will. Several of the characters are flat unlikeable, and the various twists were not all that compelling. That said, Wimsey himself is always entertaining.
    • 3/5
      This is a review of the BBC radio dramatization. I suspect the book is superior. The murderer says "Right-o" in a bright sort of voice, even when he's just agreed to commit suicide.
    • 4/5
      I reread this as it seemed like a good read for November the 11th - the novel begins with the death of an aged General in the Bellona Club on Armistice day. Lord Peter Wimsey is called in to acertain the time of death and untangles a net of deception and murder, driven by a squabble over a huge inheritance. Nicely written, with an interesting sideline on bohemian London in the 20s as well as a sympathetic portrayal of a man suffering from what we would now call PTSD. Good solid read.
    • 4/5
      Premise of the story: Old so and so (90 year old General Fentiman) has keeled over in the Bellona Club. Because the old codger had a heart condition and was so old people assume he died of natural causes until his estranged sister's will is discovered. If he dies before Lady Dormer a distant relative would get her inheritance. If he dies after Lady Dormer he would get the inheritance. Since they both die on the same day suddenly it matters very much exactly when General Fentiman passed. Down to the minute. Did he die before or after Lady Dormer? When it is discovered that General Fentiman was murdered aristocrat and amateur detective Lord Peter Wimsey (don't you just love that name?) is called in to solve the mystery. The best part about this book is that it is really, really funny whether you read it or listen to it.
    • 4/5
      Peter Wimsey solves a classic locked-room mystery, as he tries to determine how the corpse of an elderly man came to be in the Bellona Club on Remembrance Day. The man died sometime after 10am, but the exact time of death is a mystery. It becomes a pressing mystery when it becomes clear that the time of death determines who will inherit a large fortune. The convoluted family argument and complex relationships make Wimsey's efforts more difficult. Halfway through the book the culprit seems to be apprehended, but Wimsey isn't so sure. I liked the model of a solution partway through the book that had to be unraveled. This book had little engagement with Wimsey's life outside of the mystery. It is a book dependent upon Wimsey entering an existing situation. The details are numerous, and we get an interesting look at a London gentlemen's club in the 1920s. Overall, an entertaining classic mystery.
    • 5/5
      Where I got the book: my bookshelf. A re-read.I have grown to love this Lord Peter Wimsey mystery because of its somberness, although I remember that when I first read it as a teen I found it uninteresting. Amazing how history (and, therefore, literature) becomes more complex and interesting as you age. The mystery LPW is called on to investigate is the time of death of ancient, doddery General Fentiman, which will make a big financial difference to one or more of three potential heirs. Of course things turn out to be way more complicated than the natural death of a very old soldier...This novel is set against the background of the aftermath of World War I, hence its more realistic, sober tone than the earlier novels. LPW comes very well out of this book, with far fewer fantastic speeches or superhuman feats of everything than some of the Wimsey novels are prone to. I feel, though, that the writing's a little rougher than usual, as if Sayers were on a short deadline. Another thing that struck me this time round (and I may be completely wrong) is that Ann Dorland, one of the heirs and thus a potential suspect, was a prototype of Harriet Vane, who will turn up in the next novel as LPW's love interest. Ann is an unhappy woman because she's been crossed in love, is a murder suspect but underneath it all (as LPW tells her) is a fine person with good taste. Does that sound familiar, Wimsey fans? Can't help thinking that at some point Sayers thought "hey, there's a little spark there. I could develop it for the next novel".A good mystery, of course: Sayers is nothing if not ingenious (although this is two times in quick succession that the victim has been an elderly person who would soon die anyway...) But it's the brooding, foggy feel of the book that really gives it its worth. Even Parker (inside whose head we dwell rather disconcertingly at times) seems to be permanently depressed, and the end of the book sort of drifts off into the mist. One to read by a cheerful log fire with a glass of old brandy...
    • 5/5
      A reread. I love this book as a mystery - all kinds of classic stuff - but by the time you figure out the first mystery, you're thrown into a second. A small problem - When did the dead gent at the club die? - becomes gradually more and more complex, until it all collapses into a solution at the end of the book. It's a lovely piece of music :)
    • 4/5
      The fourth Lord Peter Wimsey book. It's Armistice Day, and ninety-year-old General Fentiman is found dead in his favourite armchair at his club. Unsurprising for a man of his age, but it turns out that the exact time of death determines who inherits a very large sum of money, for his sister died on the same day. Lord Peter happens to be on the scene, and thus gets involved when it seems merely a matter of sorting out the inheritance, but the case gradually takes on a more sinister aspect as Lord Peter realises that he may be investigating a murder.That the case begins on Armistice Day is directly relevant to the plot, because Lord Peter isn't the only shell-shock victim amongst the cast. The book was written and set in 1928, the tenth anniversary of the end of the war. As with the first book of the series, there is a fine and chilling description of what the Great War did to some of the survivors, but here it's not just one scene. The whole book is suffused with the after-effects of the war, not just on the soldiers who served in the trenches, but on their whole society. There's an entertaining mystery to be had here, but it's wrapped in a superb portrait of 1928 England. The book is by turns heart-breaking and heart-warming, as Sayers turns in a virtuoso display of showing rather than telling what has happened to even the characters who on the surface seem unscathed.
    • 3/5
      My second Wimsey novel. Not bad, but not superb, either. A good murder mystery is "about" something other than the murder. The death is always just a route into some normally closed-off world -- a family, a class, an institution, a profession, whatever -- upended and exposed by the presence of the corpse. In the much better Murder Must Advertise, for example, the true subject was office work, and the ad industry.This novel didn't quite work, because it didn't open any doors in this way. One minute we're learning about old-time London "clubs", then about D.H. Lawrence-style bohemians, then about the gulf between the British military of the Empire's glory days, and the shell-shocked post-Great War one...there's no thread running through the book strong enough to unite all this disparate stuff. So: enjoyable but ultimately unsatisfying. But I'm not giving up on Sayers -- I've seen her do better.
    • 4/5
      Very clever and very sharp.
    • 3/5
      It's OK. Lots of people jumping through lots of hoops. Robert being too clever for his own good, for instance. But it came out OK. I'd forgotten that Peter's classic offer was in this one too. And the actual question was nicely tricky...
    • 4/5
      Ninety-year old General Fendman is found dead in his favorite chair at the Bellana Club. The time of his death will determine who will receive a half-million-pound inheritance. Lord Peter takes up the investigation and, of course, solves the mystery. I read this twice in the summer of 2007 and thoroughly enjoyed the story both times.
    • 3/5
      When an elderly retired general is found dead behind his newspaper in an armchair at the Bellona Club and Lord Peter Wimsey happens to be on the spot, the reader has a pretty good idea that it will turn out not to be a simple case of death from natural causes. I found this one less interesting than some of the other Wimsey stories seen purely as a detective story -- in the end, I didn't find myself very interested in who did it -- but it is worth reading for Sayers' sympathetic portrayal of the after-effects of World War I.
    • 5/5
      It's unpleasant enough when members of the Bellona Club discover that the elderly General Fentiman has apparently passed away in front of the fire. But unpleasantness continues when, due to some complications of inheritance, it becomes necessary to acertain when exactly the good general passed on -- and Lord Peter finds it may have been earlier, and in different circumstances, than anyone previously thought. This is a great puzzler, which takes the conventions of the detective genre and uses them to great advantage.
    • 4/5
      Nice combination of a complex scenario and believability. The female characters are a bit two-dimensional. Someday I may have to go back and read all the Lord Peter books in a row and see how his character develops over time.
    • 3/5
      Re-reading the Wimsey stories from beginning to end.
    • 4/5
      The book starts off as a departure from the usual books: there is no crime. The stakes are nonetheless high and Wimsey is on the case. What starts off as a charming and unique tales ends up as rather sordid with a gruesome ending. I'm not used to my cozy murder mysteries turning out nasty. Luckily Sayers's humour and Wimsey's charm save the day.
    • 4/5
      I love the DVD's made from Dorothy Sayers' books so was excited to get this one. Like all her stories the plot was clever...the story was unusual not offering an easy solution to the strange puzzle confronting Lord Wimsey. These books fall into the the category of good old fashion murder mysteries. If this is something that appeals to you...give one of this author's books a try or start with a DVD.
    • 3/5
      A writing style that was a bit over-the-top caricature of early 20th-century British society. The mystery was relayed in teasers and I found myself popped out of the story too frequently by such an uneven narrative. Having only read this one story, I don't know whether this is reflective of Sayers' writing as a whole. I'm unlikely to seek out any others, though.
    • 3/5
      One of the earlier Lord Peter Wimsey novels, and the only one which I hadn’t read. (I haven’t read all the short stories, either.)The elderly General Fentiman is discovered dead behind his newspaper at his London club. Some time later Wimsey is asked by the family’s solicitor to see if he can discover more precisely the time when General died, as the General’s sister also died that morning and her Will varies depending upon who survived whom.I enjoyed the novelty of an investigation which doesn’t begin as a whodunit, and enjoyed wondering if (and if so, how) it might turn into a murder investigation. Also interesting is that several of the characters - not just Wimsey - fought in the war, and this has affected them in different ways.Somewhere in the middle I began to find the clue-gathering a bit dry, but then the plot twisted in ways I hadn’t expected. There were more scenes which reminded me of the Sayers who wrote Gaudy Night. While there are women connected to the case, the Bellona Club is a wholly masculine world, and earlier on the women are often pushed to the edges. But when they do take centre stage, it’s in a way gives takes them and their concerns seriously, and highlights the way they have been mistreated or misrepresented by others. I’m not sure if Sayers is completely successful here -- I suppose, when she wrote this wasn’t yet exactly the person, or perhaps more accurately she wasn’t the writer, she was seven years later -- but it makes the novel potentially reread-able (for me).I suspect I am much more interested in Lord Peter as a person than I am in Wimsey as a detective. It is hard to separate the two, and then of course I’m usually most interested in the bits about detectives’ personal lives and opinions and so on... But what I appreciate most about Lord Peter Wimsey has a lot less to do with his his skills of deduction and investigation, and more to do with just how he talks to people -- his faculty for quotation, his intelligence and the way he respects others. (Would I be interested in a crime-free novel in which he goes to parties and talks to people about whatever is going on in their lives? Maybe?) “[...] It’s the books and paintings I want to look at. H’m! Books, you know, Charles, are like lobster-shells. We surround ourselves with ’em and leave ’em behind, as evidences of our earlier stages of development.”

    Book preview

    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club - Dorothy L. Sayers

    The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

    A Lord Peter Wimsey Mystery

    Dorothy L. Sayers

    CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I – OLD MOSSY-FACE

    CHAPTER II – THE QUEEN IS OUT

    CHAPTER III – HEARTS COUNT MORE THAN DIAMONDS

    CHAPTER IV – LORD PETER LEADS A CLUB

    CHAPTER V – —ANDS FINDS THE CLUB SUIT BLOCKED

    CHAPTER VI – A CARD OF RE-ENTRY

    CHAPTER VII – THE CURSE OF SCOTLAND

    CHAPTER VIII – LORD PETER LEADS THROUGH STRENGTH

    CHAPTER IX – KNAVE HIGH

    CHAPTER X – LORD PETER FORCES A CARD

    CHAPTER XI – LORD PETER CLEARS TRUMPS

    CHAPTER XII – LORD PETER TURNS A TRICK

    CHAPTER XIII – SPADES ARE TRUMPS

    CHAPTER XIV – GRAND SLAM IN SPADES

    CHAPTER XV – SHUFFLE THE CARDS AND DEAL AGAIN

    CHAPTER XVI – QUADRILLE

    CHAPTER XVII – PARKER PLAYS A HAND

    CHAPTER XVIII – PICTURE CARDS

    CHAPTER XIX – LORD PETER PLAYS DUMMY

    CHAPTER XX – ANN DORLAND GOES MISERE

    CHAPTER XXI – LORD PETER CALLS A BLUFF

    CHAPTER XXII – THE CARDS ON THE TABLE

    POST-MORTEM

    Preview: Strong Poison

    A Biography of Dorothy L. Sayers

    Biography of Lord Peter Wimsey

    CHAPTER 1

    OLD MOSSY-FACE

    WHAT IN THE WORLD, Wimsey, are you doing in this Morgue? demanded Captain Fentiman, flinging aside the Evening Banner with the air of a man released from an irksome duty.

    Oh, I wouldn’t call it that, retorted Wimsey amiably. Funeral Parlour at the very least. Look at the marble. Look at the furnishings. Look at the palms and the chaste bronze nude in the corner.

    "Yes, and look at the corpses. Place always reminds me of that old thing in Punch, you know—‘Waiter, take away Lord Whatsisname, he’s been dead two days.’ Look at Old Ormsby there, snoring like a hippopotamus. Look at my revered grandpa—dodders in here at ten every morning, collects the Morning Post and the arm-chair by the fire, and becomes part of the furniture till the evening. Poor old devil! Suppose I’ll be like that one of these days. I wish to God Jerry had put me out with the rest of ’em. What’s the good of coming through for this sort of thing? What’ll you have?"

    Dry Martini, said Wimsey. And you? Two dry Martinis, Fred, please. Cheer up. All this remembrance-day business gets on your nerves, don’t it? It’s my belief most of us would only be too pleased to chuck these community hysterics if the beastly newspapers didn’t run it for all it’s worth. However, it don’t do to say so. They’d hoof me out of the Club if I raised my voice beyond a whisper.

    They’d do that anyway, whatever you were saying, said Fentiman gloomily. "What are you doing here?"

    Waitin’ for Colonel Marchbanks, said Wimsey. Bung-ho!

    Dining with him?

    Yes.

    Fentiman nodded quietly. He knew that young Marchbanks had been killed at Hill 60, and that the Colonel was wont to give a small, informal dinner on Armistice night to his son’s intimate friends.

    I don’t mind old Marchbanks, he said, after a pause. He’s a dear old boy.

    Wimsey assented.

    And how are things going with you? he asked.

    Oh, rotten as usual. Tummy all wrong and no money. What’s the damn good of it, Wimsey? A man goes and fights for his country, gets his inside gassed out, and loses his job, and all they give him is the privilege of marching past the Cenotaph once a year and paying four shillings in the pound income-tax. Sheila’s queer, too—overwork, poor girl. It’s pretty damnable for a man to have to live on his wife’s earnings, isn’t it? I can’t help it, Wimsey. I go sick and have to chuck jobs up. Money—I never thought of money before the War, but I swear nowadays I’d commit any damned crime to get hold of a decent income.

    Fentiman’s voice had risen in nervous excitement. A shocked veteran, till then invisible in a neighbouring armchair, poked out a lean head like a tortoise and said Sh! viperishly.

    Oh, I wouldn’t do that, said Wimsey lightly. Crime’s a skilled occupation, y’know. Even a comparative imbecile like myself can play the giddy sleuth on the amateur Moriarty. If you’re thinkin’ of puttin’ on a false moustache and lammin’ a millionaire on the head, don’t do it. That disgustin’ habit you have of smoking cigarettes down to the last millimetre would betray you anywhere. I’d only have to come on with a magnifyin’ glass and a pair of callipers to say ‘The criminal is my dear old friend George Fentiman. Arrest that man!’ You might not think it, but I am ready to sacrifice my nearest and dearest in order to curry favour with the police and get a par in the papers.

    Fentiman laughed, and ground out the offending cigarette stub on the nearest ash-tray.

    I wonder anybody cares to know you, he said. The strain and bitterness had left his voice and he sounded merely amused.

    They wouldn’t, said Wimsey, only they think I’m too well-off to have any brains. It’s like hearing that the Earl of Somewhere is taking a leading part in a play. Everybody takes it for granted he must act rottenly. I’ll tell you my secret. All my criminological investigations are done for me by a ‘ghost’ at three pounds a week, while I get the headlines and frivol with well-known journalists at the Savoy.

    I find you refreshing, Wimsey, said Fentiman languidly. You’re not in the least witty, but you have a kind of obvious facetiousness which reminds me of the less exacting class of music-hall.

    It’s the self-defence of the first-class mind against the superior person, said Wimsey. But, look here, I’m sorry to hear about Sheila. I don’t want to be offensive, old man, but why don’t you let me——?

    Damned good of you, said Fentiman, but I don’t care to. There’s honestly not the faintest chance I could ever pay you, and I haven’t quite got to the point yet——

    Here’s Colonel Marchbanks, broke in Wimsey, we’ll talk about it another time. Good evening, Colonel.

    Evening, Peter. Evening, Fentiman. Beautiful day it’s been. No—no cocktails, thanks, I’ll stick to whisky. So sorry to keep you waiting like this, but I was having a yarn with poor old Grainger upstairs. He’s in a baddish way, I’m afraid. Between you and me, Penberthy doesn’t think he’ll last out the winter. Very sound man, Penberthy—wonderful, really, that he’s kept the old man going so long with his lungs in that frail state. Ah, well! it’s what we must all come to. Dear me, there’s your grandfather, Fentiman. He’s another of Penberthy’s miracles. He must be ninety, if he’s a day. Will you excuse me for a moment? I must just go and speak to him.

    Wimsey’s eyes followed the alert, elderly figure as it crossed the spacious smoking-room, pausing now and again to exchange greetings with a fellow-member of the Bellona Club. Drawn close to the huge fireplace stood a great chair with ears after the Victorian pattern. A pair of spindle shanks with neatly-buttoned shoes propped on a footstool was all that was visible of General Fentiman.

    Queer, isn’t it, muttered his grandson, "to think that for Old Mossy-face the Crimea is still the War, and the Boer business found him too old to go out. He was given his commission at seventeen, you know—was wounded at Majuba——"

    He broke off. Wimsey was not paying attention. He was still watching Colonel Marchbanks.

    The Colonel came back to them, walking very quietly and precisely. Wimsey rose and went to meet him.

    I say, Peter, said the Colonel, his kind face gravely troubled, Just come over here a moment. I’m afraid something rather unpleasant has happened.

    Fentiman looked round, and something in their manner made him get up and follow them over to the fire.

    Wimsey bent down over General Fentiman and drew the Morning Post gently away from the gnarled old hands, which lay clasped over the thin chest. He touched, the shoulder—put his hand under the white head huddled against the side of the chair. The Colonel watched him anxiously. Then, with a quick jerk, Wimsey lifted the quiet figure. It came up all of a piece, stiff as a wooden doll.

    Fentiman laughed. Peal after hysterical peal shook his throat. All round the room, scandalised Bellonians creaked to their gouty feet, shocked by the unmannerly noise.

    Take him away! said Fentiman, take him away. He’s been dead two days! So are you! So am I! We’re all dead and we never noticed it!

    CHAPTER II

    THE QUEEN IS OUT

    IT IS DOUBTFUL WHICH occurrence was more disagreeable to the senior members of the Bellona Club—the grotesque death of General Fentiman in their midst or the indecent neurasthenia of his grandson. Only the younger men felt no sense of outrage; they knew too much. Dick Challoner—known to his intimates as Tin-Tummy Challoner, owing to the fact that he had been fitted with a spare part after the second battle of the Somme—took the gasping Fentiman away into the deserted library for a stiffener. The Club Secretary hurried in, in his dress-shirt and trousers, the half-dried lather still clinging to his jaws. After one glance he sent an agitated waiter to see if Dr. Penberthy was still in the Club. Colonel Marchbanks laid a large silk handkerchief reverently over the rigid face in the arm-chair and remained quietly standing. A little circle formed about the edge of the hearth-rug, not quite certain what to do. From time to time it was swelled by fresh arrivals, whom the news had greeted in the hall as they wandered in. A little group appeared from the bar. What, old Fentiman? they said. Good God, you don’t say so. Poor old blighter. Heart gone at last, I suppose; and they extinguished cigars and cigarettes, and stood by, not liking to go away again.

    Dr. Penberthy was just changing for dinner. He came down hurriedly, caught just as he was going out to an Armistice dinner, his silk hat tilted to the back of his head, his coat and muffler pushed loosely open. He was a thin, dark man with the abrupt manner which distinguishes the Army Surgeon from the West End practitioner. The group by the fire made way for him, except Wimsey, who hung rather foolishly upon the big elbow-chair, gazing in a helpless way at the body.

    Penberthy ran practised hands quickly over neck, wrists and knee-joints.

    Dead several hours, he pronounced sharply. "Rigor well established—beginning to pass off. He moved the dead man’s left leg in illustration; it swung loose at the knee. I’ve been expecting this. Heart very weak. Might happen any moment. Anyone spoken to him to-day?"

    He glanced round interrogatively.

    I saw him here after lunch, volunteered somebody. I didn’t speak.

    I thought he was asleep, said another.

    Nobody remembered speaking to him. They were so used to old General Fentiman, slumbering by the fire.

    Ah, well, said the doctor. What’s the time? Seven? He seemed to make a rapid calculation. "Say five hours for rigor to set in—must have taken place very rapidly—he probably came in at his usual time, sat down and died straight away."

    He always walked from Dover Street, put in an elderly man. I told him it was too great an exertion at his age. You’ve heard me say so, Ormsby.

    Yes, yes, quite, said the purple-faced Ormsby. Dear me, just so.

    Well, there’s nothing to be done, said the doctor. Died in his sleep. Is there an empty bedroom we can take him to, Culyer?

    Yes, certainly, said the Secretary. "James, fetch the key of number sixteen from my office and tell them to put the bed in order. I suppose, eh, doctor?—when the rigor passes off we shall be able to—eh?"

    Oh, yes, you’ll be able to do everything that’s required. I’ll send the proper people in to lay him out for you. Somebody had better let his people know—only they’d better not show up till we can get him more presentable.

    Captain Fentiman knows already, said Colonel Marchbanks. And Major Fentiman is staying in the Club—he’ll probably be in before long. Then there’s a sister, I think.

    Yes, old Lady Dormer, said Penberthy, she lives round in Portman Square. They haven’t been on speaking terms for years. Still, she’ll have to know.

    I’ll ring them up, said the Colonel. We can’t leave it to Captain Fentiman, he’s in no fit state to be worried, poor fellow. You’ll have to have a look at him, doctor, when you’ve finished here. An attack of the old trouble—nerves, you know.

    All right. Ah! Is the room ready, Culyer? Then we’ll move him. Will somebody take his shoulders—no, not you, Culyer (for the Secretary had only one sound arm), Lord Peter, yes, thank you—lift carefully.

    Wimsey put his long, strong hands under the stiff arms; the doctor gathered up the legs; they moved away. They looked like a dreadful little Guy Fawkes procession, with that humped and unreverend manikin bobbing and swaying between them.

    The door closed after them, and a tension seemed removed. The circle broke up into groups. Somebody lit a cigarette. The planet’s tyrant, dotard Death, had held his grey mirror before them for a moment and shown them the image of things to come. But now it was taken away again. The unpleasantness had passed. Fortunate, indeed, that Penberthy was the old man’s own doctor. He knew all about it. He could give a certificate. No inquest. Nothing undesirable. The members of the Bellona Club could go to dinner.

    Colonel Marchbanks turned to go through the far door towards the library. In a narrow anteroom between the two rooms there was a convenient telephone-cabinet for the use of those members who did not wish to emerge into the semi-publicity of the entrance-hall.

    Hi, Colonel! not that one. That instrument’s out of order, said a man called Wetheridge, who saw him go. Disgraceful, I call it. I wanted to use the phone this morning, and—oh! hallo! the notice has gone. I suppose it’s all right again. They ought to let one know.

    Colonel Marchbanks paid little attention to Wetheridge. He was the Club grumbler, distinguished even in that fellowship of the dyspeptic and peremptory—always threatening to complain to the committee, harassing the secretary and constituting a perennial thorn in the sides of his fellow-members. He retired, murmuring, to his chair and the evening paper, and the Colonel stepped into the telephone-cabinet to call up Lady Dormer’s house in Portman Square.

    Presently he came out through the library into the entrance-hall, and met Penberthy and Wimsey just descending the staircase.

    Have you broken the news to Lady Dormer? asked Wimsey.

    Lady Dormer is dead, said the Colonel. Her maid tells me she passed quietly away at half-past ten this morning.

    CHAPTER III

    HEARTS COUNT MORE THAN DIAMONDS

    ABOUT TEN DAYS AFTER that notable Armistice Day, Lord Peter Wimsey was sitting in his library, reading a rare fourteenth-century manuscript of Justinian. It gave him particular pleasure, being embellished with a large number of drawings in sepia, extremely delicate in workmanship, and not always equally so in subject. Beside him on a convenient table stood a long-necked decanter of priceless old port. From time to time he stimulated his interest with a few sips, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and slowly savouring the balmy after-taste.

    A ring at the front door of the flat caused him to exclaim Oh, hell! and cock an attentive ear for the intruder’s voice. Apparently the result was satisfactory, for he closed the Justinian and had assumed a welcoming smile when the door opened.

    Mr. Murbles, my lord.

    The little elderly gentleman who entered was so perfectly the family solicitor as really to have no distinguishing personality at all, beyond a great kindness of heart and a weakness for soda-mint lozenges.

    I am not disturbing you, I trust, Lord Peter.

    Good lord, no, sir. Always delighted to see you. Bunter, a glass for Mr. Murbles. Very glad you’ve turned up, sir. The Cockburn ’86 always tastes a lot better in company—discernin’ company, that is. Once knew a fellow who polluted it with a Trichinopoly. He was not asked again. Eight months later, he committed suicide. I don’t say it was on that account. But he was ear-marked for a bad end, what?

    You horrify me, said Mr. Murbles gravely. I have seen many men sent to the gallows for crimes with which I could feel much more sympathy. Thank you, Bunter, thank you. You are quite well, I trust?

    I am in excellent health, I am obliged to you, sir.

    That’s good. Been doing any photography lately?

    A certain amount, sir. But merely of a pictorial description, if I may venture to call it so. Criminological material, sir, has been distressingly deficient of late.

    Perhaps Mr. Murbles has brought us something, suggested Wimsey.

    No, said Mr. Murbles, holding the Cockburn ’86 beneath his nostrils and gently agitating the glass to release the ethers, no, I can’t say I have, precisely. I will not disguise that I have come in the hope of deriving benefit from your trained habits of observation and deduction, but I fear—that is, I trust—in fact, I am confident—that nothing of an undesirable nature is involved. The fact is, he went on, as the door closed upon the retreating Bunter, a curious question has arisen with regard to the sad death of General Fentiman at the Bellona Club, to which, I understand, you were a witness.

    If you understand that, Murbles, said his lordship cryptically, you understand a damn sight more than I do. I did not witness the death—I witnessed the discovery of the death—which is a very different thing, by a long chalk.

    By how long a chalk? asked Mr. Murbles eagerly. That is just what I am trying to find out.

    That’s very inquisitive of you, said Wimsey. I think perhaps it would be better—he lifted his glass and tilted it thoughtfully, watching the wine coil down in thin flower-petallings from rim to stem——if you were to tell me exactly what you want to know…and why. After all…I’m a member of the Club…family associations chiefly, I suppose…but there it is.

    Mr. Murbles looked up sharply, but Wimsey’s attention seemed focused upon the port.

    Quite so, said the solicitor. "Very well. The facts of the matter are these. General Fentiman had, as you know, a sister Felicity, twelve years younger than himself. She was very beautiful and very wilful as a girl, and ought to have made a very fine match, but for the fact that the Fentimans, though extremely well-descended, were anything but well-off. As usual at that period, all the money there was went to educating the boy, buying him a commission in a crack regiment and supporting him there in the style which was considered indispensable for a Fentiman. Consequently there was nothing left to furnish a marriage-portion for Felicity, and that was rather disastrous for a young woman sixty years ago.

    "Well, Felicity got tired of being dragged through the social round in her darned muslins and gloves that had been to the cleaners—and she had the spirit to resent her mother’s perpetual strategies in the match-making line. There was a dreadful, decrepit old viscount, eaten up with diseases and dissipations, who would have been delighted to totter to the altar with a handsome young creature of eighteen, and I am sorry to say that the girl’s father and mother did everything they could to force her into accepting this disgraceful proposal. In fact, the engagement was announced and the wedding day fixed, when, to the extreme horror of her family, Felicity calmly informed them one morning that she had gone out before breakfast and actually got married, in the most indecent secrecy and haste, to a middle-aged man called Dormer, very honest and abundantly wealthy, and—horrid to relate—a prosperous manufacturer. Buttons, in fact—made of papier mâché or something, with a patent indestructible shank—were the revolting antecedents to which this headstrong young Victorian had allied herself.

    Naturally there was a terrible scandal, and the parents did their best—seeing that Felicity was a minor—to get the marriage annulled. However, Felicity checkmated their plans pretty effectually by escaping from her bedroom—I fear, indeed, that she actually climbed down a tree in the back garden, crinoline and all—and running away with her husband. After which, seeing that the worst had happened—indeed, Dormer, a man of prompt action, lost no time in putting his bride in the family way—the old people put the best face they could on it in the grand Victorian manner. That is, they gave their consent to the marriage, forwarded their daughter’s belongings to her new home in Manchester, and forbade her to darken their doors again.

    Highly proper, murmured Wimsey. I’m determined never to be a parent. Modern manners and the break-up of the fine old traditions have simply ruined the business. I shall devote my life and fortune to the endowment of research on the best method of producin’ human beings decorously and unobtrusively from eggs. All parental responsibility to devolve upon the incubator.

    I hope not, said Mr. Murbles. My own profession is largely supported by domestic entanglements. To proceed: Young Arthur Fentiman seems to have shared the family views. He was disgusted at having a brother-in-law in buttons, and the jests of his mess-mates did nothing to sweeten his feelings towards his sister. He became impenetrably military and professional, crusted over before his time, and refused to acknowledge the existence of anybody called Dormer. Mind you, the old boy was a fine soldier, and absolutely wrapped up in his army associations. In due course he married—not well, for he had not the means to entitle him to a noble wife, and he would not demean himself by marrying money, like the unspeakable Felicity. He married a suitable gentlewoman with a few thousand pounds. She died (largely, I believe, owing to the military regularity with which her husband ordained that she should perform her maternal functions), leaving a numerous but feeble family of children. Of these, the only one to attain maturity was the father of the two Fentimans you know—Major Robert and Captain George Fentiman.

    I don’t know Robert very well, interjected Wimsey. I’ve met him. Frightfully hearty and all that—regular army type.

    Yes, he’s of the old Fentiman stock. Poor George inherited a weakly strain from his grandmother, I’m afraid.

    Well, nervous, anyhow, said Wimsey, who knew better than the old solicitor the kind of mental and physical strain George Fentiman had undergone. The War pressed hardly upon imaginative men in responsible positions. And then he was gassed and all that, you know, he added apologetically.

    Just so, said Mr. Murbles. Robert, you know, is unmarried and still in the army. He’s not particularly well-off, naturally, for none of the Fentimans ever had a bean, as I believe one says nowadays; but he does very well. George——

    Poor old George! All right, sir, you needn’t tell me about him. Usual story. Decentish job—imprudent marriage—chucks everything to join up in 1914—invalided out—job gone—no money—heroic wife keeping the home fires burning—general fedupness. Don’t let’s harrow our feelings. Take it as read.

    Yes, I needn’t go into that. Their father is dead, of course, and up till ten days ago there were just the two surviving Fentimans of the earlier generation. The old General lived on the small fixed income which came to him through his wife and his retired pension. He had a solitary little flat in Dover Street and an elderly manservant, and he practically lived at the Bellona Club. And there was his sister, Felicity.

    How did she come to be Lady Dormer?

    Why, that’s where we come to the interesting part of the story. Henry Dormer——

    The button-maker?

    The button-maker. He became an exceedingly rich man indeed—so rich, in fact, that he was able to offer financial assistance to certain exalted persons who need not be mentioned, and so, in time, and in consideration of valuable services to the nation not very clearly specified in the Honours List, he became Sir Henry Dormer, Bart. His only child—a girl—had died, and there was no prospect of any further family, so there was, of course, no reason why he should not be made a baronet for his trouble.

    Acid man, you are, said Wimsey. No reverence, no simple faith or anything of that kind. Do lawyers ever go to heaven?

    I have no information on that point, said Mr. Murbles dryly. Lady Dormer——

    Did the marriage turn out well otherwise? inquired Wimsey.

    I believe it was perfectly happy, replied the lawyer; an unfortunate circumstance in one way, since it entirely precluded the possibility of any reconciliation with her relatives. Lady Dormer, who was a fine, generous-hearted woman, frequently made overtures of peace, but the General held sternly aloof. So did his son—partly out of respect for the old boy’s wishes, but chiefly, I fancy, because he belonged to an Indian regiment and spent most of his time abroad. Robert Fentiman, however, showed the old lady a certain amount of attention, paying occasional visits and so forth, and so did George at one time. Of course, they never let the General know a word about it, or he would have had a fit. After the War, George rather dropped his great-aunt—I don’t know why.

    I can guess, said Wimsey. "No job—no money, y’know. Didn’t want to look pointed. That sort of thing,

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