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Mr. Milliganā€”ā€

ā€œMr. who?ā€

ā€œMr. John P. Milligan, my lord, andā€”ā€

ā€œGood God, Bunter, why didnā€™t you say so before? Have I time to get there before he does? All right. Iā€™m off. With a taxi I can justā€”ā€

ā€œNot in those trousers, my lord,ā€ said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to the door with deferential firmness.

ā€œOh, Bunter,ā€ pleaded his lordship, ā€œdo let meā€”just this once. You donā€™t know how important it is.ā€

ā€œNot on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth.ā€

ā€œThe trousers are all right, Bunter.ā€

ā€œNot for Lady Swaffhamā€™s, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets the man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury.ā€

And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease showing across the light cloth.

ā€œI wish to God Iā€™d never let you grow into a privileged family retainer, Bunter,ā€ said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the umbrella-stand. ā€œYouā€™ve no conception of the mistakes my mother may be making.ā€

Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away.

When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch, into Lady Swaffhamā€™s drawing-room, the Dowager Duchess of Denver was seated on 146 a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P. Milligan of Chicago.

ā€œIā€™m vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess,ā€ had been that financierā€™s opening remark, ā€œto thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I assure you itā€™s a compliment I deeply appreciate.ā€

The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her intellectual forces.

ā€œDo come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan,ā€ she said. ā€œI do so love talking to you great business menā€”let me see, is it a railway king you are or something about puss-in-the-cornerā€”at least, I donā€™t mean that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, tooā€”or was it a horse?ā€”no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid of it and it used to get so dreadfully crumpled and torn, poor thing, always being handed about, one got to recognise it, and then one had to buy a new packā€”so foolish it must seem to you, knowing the real thing, and dreadfully noisy, but really excellent for breaking the ice with rather stiff people who didnā€™t know each otherā€”Iā€™m quite sorry itā€™s gone out.ā€

Mr. Milligan sat down.

ā€œWal, now,ā€ he said, ā€œI guess itā€™s as interesting for us business men to meet British aristocrats as it is for Britishers to meet American railway kings, Duchess. And I guess Iā€™ll make as many mistakes talking your kind of talk as you would make if you were tryinā€™ to 147 run a corner in wheat in Chicago. Fancy now, I called that fine lad of yours Lord Wimsey the other day, and he thought Iā€™d mistaken him for his brother. That made me feel rather green.ā€

This was an unhoped-for lead. The Duchess walked warily.

ā€œDear boy,ā€ she said, ā€œI am so glad you met him, Mr. Milligan. Both my sons are a great comfort to me, you know, though, of course, Gerald is more conventionalā€”just the right kind of person for the House of Lords, you know, and a splendid farmer. I canā€™t see Peter down at Denver half so well, though he is always going to all the right things in town, and very amusing sometimes, poor boy.ā€

ā€œI was vurry much gratified by Lord Peterā€™s suggestion,ā€ pursued Mr. Milligan, ā€œfor which I understand you are responsible, and Iā€™ll surely be very pleased to come any day you like, though I think youā€™re flattering me too much.ā€

ā€œAh, well,ā€ said the Duchess, ā€œI donā€™t know if youā€™re the best judge of that, Mr. Milligan. Not that I know anything about business myself,ā€ she added. ā€œIā€™m rather old-fashioned for these days, you know, and I canā€™t pretend to do more than know a nice man when I see him; for the other things I rely on my son.ā€

The accent of this speech was so flattering that Mr. Milligan purred almost audibly, and said:

ā€œWal, Duchess, I guess thatā€™s where a lady with a real, beautiful, old-fashioned soul has the advantage of these modern young blatherskitesā€”there arenā€™t 148 many men who wouldnā€™t be niceā€”to her, and even then, if they arenā€™t rock-bottom she can see through them.ā€

ā€œBut that leaves me where I was,ā€ thought the Duchess. ā€œI believe,ā€ she said aloud, ā€œthat I ought to be thanking you in the name of the vicar of Dukeā€™s Denver for a very munificent cheque which reached him yesterday for the Church Restoration Fund. He was so delighted and astonished, poor dear man.ā€

ā€œOh, thatā€™s nothing,ā€ said Mr. Milligan, ā€œwe havenā€™t any fine old crusted buildings like yours over on our side, so itā€™s a privilege to be allowed to drop a little kerosene into the worm-holes when we hear of one in the old country suffering from senile decay. So when your lad told me about Dukeā€™s Denver I took the liberty to subscribe without waiting for the Bazaar.ā€

ā€œIā€™m sure it was very kind of you,ā€ said the Duchess. ā€œYou are coming to the Bazaar, then?ā€ she continued, gazing into his face appealingly.

ā€œSure thing,ā€ said Mr. Milligan, with great promptness. ā€œLord Peter said youā€™d let me know for sure about the date, but we can always make time for a little bit of good work anyway. Of course Iā€™m hoping to be able to avail myself of your kind invitation to stop, but if Iā€™m rushed, Iā€™ll manage anyhow to pop over and speak my piece and pop back again.ā€

ā€œI hope so very much,ā€ said the Duchess. ā€œI must see what can be done about the dateā€”of course, I canā€™t promiseā€”ā€

ā€œNo, no,ā€ said Mr. Milligan heartily. ā€œI know what 149 these things are to fix up. And then thereā€™s not only meā€”thereā€™s all the real big men of European eminence your son mentioned, to be consulted.ā€

The Duchess turned pale at the thought that any one of these illustrious persons might some time turn up in somebodyā€™s drawing-room, but by this time she had dug herself in comfortably, and was even beginning to find her range.

ā€œI canā€™t say how grateful we are to you,ā€ she said; ā€œit will be such a treat. Do tell me what you think of saying.ā€

ā€œWalā€”ā€ began Mr. Milligan.

Suddenly everybody was standing up and a penitent voice was heard to say:

ā€œReally, most awfully sorry, yā€™knowā€”hope youā€™ll forgive me, Lady Swaffham, what? Dear lady, could I possibly forget an invitation from you? Fact is, I had to go anā€™ see a man down in Salisburyā€”absolutely true, ā€™pon my word, and the fellow wouldnā€™t let me get away. Iā€™m simply grovellinā€™ before you, Lady Swaffham. Shall I go anā€™ eat my lunch in the corner?ā€

Lady Swaffham gracefully forgave the culprit.

ā€œYour dear mother is here,ā€ she said.

ā€œHow do, Mother?ā€ said Lord Peter, uneasily.

ā€œHow are you, dear?ā€ replied the Duchess. ā€œYou really oughtnā€™t to have turned up just yet. Mr. Milligan was just going to tell me what a thrilling speech heā€™s preparing for the Bazaar, when you came and interrupted us.ā€

Conversation at lunch turned, not unnaturally, on the Battersea inquest, the Duchess giving a vivid impersonation 150 of Mrs. Thipps being interrogated by the Coroner.

ā€œā€˜Did you hear anything unusual in the night?ā€™ says the little man, leaning forward and screaming at her, and so crimson in the face and his ears sticking out soā€”just like a cherubim in that poem of Tennysonā€™sā€”or is a cherub blue?ā€”perhaps itā€™s a seraphim I meanā€”anyway, you know what I mean, all eyes, with little wings on its head. And dear old Mrs. Thipps saying, ā€˜Of course I have, any time these eighty years,ā€™ and such a sensation in court till they found out she thought heā€™d said, ā€˜Do you sleep without a light?ā€™ and everybody laughing, and then the Coroner said quite loudly, ā€˜Damn the woman,ā€™ and she heard that, I canā€™t think why, and said: ā€˜Donā€™t you get swearing, young man, sitting there in the presence of Providence, as you may say. I donā€™t know what young people are coming to nowadaysā€™ā€”and heā€™s sixty if heā€™s a day, you know,ā€ said the Duchess.

By a natural transition, Mrs. Tommy Frayle referred to the man who was hanged for murdering three brides in a bath.

ā€œI always thought that was so ingenious,ā€ she said, gazing soulfully at Lord Peter, ā€œand do you know, as it happened, Tommy had just made me insure my life, and I got so frightened, I gave up my morning bath and took to having it in the afternoon when he was in the Houseā€”I mean, when he was not in the houseā€”not at home, I mean.ā€

ā€œDear lady,ā€ said Lord Peter, reproachfully, ā€œI 151 have a distinct recollection that all those brides were thoroughly unattractive. But it was an uncommonly ingenious planā€”the first time of askinā€™ā€”only he shouldnā€™t have repeated himself.ā€

ā€œOne demands a little originality in these days, even from murderers,ā€ said Lady Swaffham. ā€œLike dramatists, you knowā€”so much easier in Shakespeareā€™s time, wasnā€™t it? Always the same girl dressed up as a man, and even that borrowed from Boccaccio or Dante or somebody. Iā€™m sure if Iā€™d been a Shakespeare hero, the very minute I saw a slim-legged young page-boy Iā€™d have said: ā€˜Odsbodikins! Thereā€™s that girl again!ā€™ā€

ā€œThatā€™s just what happened, as a matter of fact,ā€ said Lord Peter. ā€œYou see, Lady Swaffham, if ever you want to commit a murder, the thing youā€™ve got to do is to prevent people from associatinā€™ their ideas. Most people donā€™t associate anythinā€™ā€”their ideas just roll about like so many dry peas on a tray, makinā€™ a lot of noise and goinā€™ nowhere, but once you begin lettinā€™ ā€™em string their peas into a necklace, itā€™s goinā€™ to be strong enough to hang you, what?ā€

ā€œDear me!ā€ said Mrs. Tommy Frayle, with a little scream, ā€œwhat a blessing it is none of my friends have any ideas at all!ā€

ā€œYā€™see,ā€ said Lord Peter, balancing a piece of duck on his fork and frowning, ā€œitā€™s only in Sherlock Holmes and stories like that, that people think things out logically. Orā€™narā€™ly, if somebody tells you somethinā€™ out of the way, you just say, ā€˜By Jove!ā€™ or ā€˜How sad!ā€™ anā€™ leave it at that, anā€™ half the time you forget 152 about it, ā€™nless somethinā€™ turns up afterwards to drive it home. Fā€™r instance, Lady Swaffham, I told you when I came in that Iā€™d been down to Salisbury, ā€™nā€™ thatā€™s true, only I donā€™t suppose it impressed you much; ā€™nā€™ I donā€™t suppose itā€™d impress you much if you read in the paper tomorrow of a tragic discovery of a dead lawyer down in Salisbury, but if I went to Salisbury again next week ā€™nā€™ there was a Salisbury doctor found dead the day after, you might begin to think I was a bird of ill omen for Salisbury residents; and if I went there again the week after, ā€™nā€™ you heard next day that the see of Salisbury had fallen vacant suddenly, you might begin to wonder what took me to Salisbury, anā€™ why Iā€™d never mentioned before that I had friends down there, donā€™t you see, anā€™ you might think of goinā€™ down to Salisbury yourself, anā€™ askinā€™ all kinds of people if theyā€™d happened to see a young man in plum-coloured socks hanginā€™ round the Bishopā€™s Palace.ā€

ā€œI daresay I should,ā€ said Lady Swaffham.

ā€œQuite. Anā€™ if you found that the lawyer and the doctor had once upon a time been in business at Poggleton-on-the-Marsh when the Bishop had been vicar there, youā€™d begin to remember youā€™d once heard of me payinā€™ a visit to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh a long time ago, anā€™ youā€™d begin to look up the parish registers there anā€™ discover Iā€™d been married under an assumed name by the vicar to the widow of a wealthy farmer, whoā€™d died suddenly of peritonitis, as certified by the doctor, after the lawyerā€™d made a will leavinā€™ me all her money, and then youā€™d begin 153 to think I might have very good reasons for gettinā€™ rid of such promisinā€™ blackmailers as the lawyer, the doctor anā€™ the bishop. Only, if I hadnā€™t started an association in your mind by gettinā€™ rid of ā€™em all in the same place, youā€™d never have thought of goinā€™ to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh, ā€™nā€™ you wouldnā€™t even have remembered Iā€™d ever been there.ā€

ā€œWere you ever there, Lord Peter?ā€ inquired Mrs. Tommy, anxiously.

ā€œI donā€™t think so,ā€ said Lord Peter; ā€œthe name threads no beads in my mind. But it might, any day, you know.ā€

ā€œBut if you were investigating a crime,ā€ said Lady Swaffham, ā€œyouā€™d have to begin by the usual things, I supposeā€”finding out what the person had been doing, and whoā€™d been to call, and looking for a motive, wouldnā€™t you?ā€

ā€œOh, yes,ā€ said Lord Peter, ā€œbut most of us have such dozens of motives for murderinā€™ all sorts of inoffensive people. Thereā€™s lots of people Iā€™d like to murder, wouldnā€™t you?ā€

ā€œHeaps,ā€ said Lady Swaffham. ā€œThereā€™s that dreadfulā€”perhaps Iā€™d better not say it, though, for fear you should remember it later on.ā€

ā€œWell, I wouldnā€™t if I were you,ā€ said Peter,

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