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as if that wasnā€™t all over years ago, and he hasnā€™t had an attack for ages, but there! Nerves are such funny things, and Peter always did have nightmares when he was quite a little boyā€”though very often of course it was only a little pill he wanted; but he was so dreadfully bad in 1918, you know, and I suppose we canā€™t expect to forget all about a great war in a year or two, and, really, I ought to be very thankful with both my boys safe. Still, I think a little peace and quiet at Denver wonā€™t do him any harm.ā€

ā€œSorry youā€™ve been having a bad turn, old man,ā€ said Parker, vaguely sympathetic; ā€œyouā€™re looking a bit seedy.ā€

ā€œCharles,ā€ said Lord Peter, in a voice entirely void 174 of expression, ā€œI am going away for a couple of days because I can be no use to you in London. What has got to be done for the moment can be much better done by you than by me. I want you to take thisā€ā€”he folded up his writing and placed it in an envelopeā€”ā€œto Scotland Yard immediately and get it sent out to all the workhouses, infirmaries, police stations, Y.M.C.A.ā€™s and so on in London. It is a description of Thippsā€™s corpse as he was before he was shaved and cleaned up. I want to know whether any man answering to that description has been taken in anywhere, alive or dead, during the last fortnight. You will see Sir Andrew Mackenzie personally, and get the paper sent out at once, by his authority; you will tell him that you have solved the problems of the Levy murder and the Battersea mysteryā€ā€”Mr. Parker made an astonished noise to which his friend paid no attentionā€”ā€œand you will ask him to have men in readiness with a warrant to arrest a very dangerous and important criminal at any moment on your information. When the replies to this paper come in, you will search for any mention of St. Lukeā€™s Hospital, or of any person connected with St. Lukeā€™s Hospital, and you will send for me at once.

ā€œMeanwhile you will scrape acquaintanceā€”I donā€™t care howā€”with one of the students at St. Lukeā€™s. Donā€™t march in there blowing about murders and police warrants, or you may find yourself in Queer Street. I shall come up to town as soon as I hear from you, and I shall expect to find a nice ingenuous Sawbones here to meet me.ā€ He grinned faintly. 175

ā€œDā€™you mean youā€™ve got to the bottom of this thing?ā€ asked Parker.

ā€œYes. I may be wrong. I hope I am, but I know Iā€™m not.ā€

ā€œYou wonā€™t tell me?ā€

ā€œDā€™you know,ā€ said Peter, ā€œhonestly Iā€™d rather not. I say I may be wrongā€”and Iā€™d feel as if Iā€™d libelled the Archbishop of Canterbury.ā€

ā€œWell, tell meā€”is it one mystery or two?ā€

ā€œOne.ā€

ā€œYou talked of the Levy murder. Is Levy dead?ā€

ā€œGodā€”yes!ā€ said Peter, with a strong shudder.

The Duchess looked up from where she was reading the Tatler.

ā€œPeter,ā€ she said, ā€œis that your ague coming on again? Whatever you two are chattering about, youā€™d better stop it at once if it excites you. Besides, itā€™s about time to be off.ā€

ā€œAll right, Mother,ā€ said Peter. He turned to Bunter, standing respectfully in the door with an overcoat and suitcase. ā€œYou understand what you have to do, donā€™t you?ā€ he said.

ā€œPerfectly, thank you, my lord. The car is just arriving, your Grace.ā€

ā€œWith Mrs. Thipps inside it,ā€ said the Duchess. ā€œSheā€™ll be delighted to see you again, Peter. You remind her so of Mr. Thipps. Good-morning, Bunter.ā€

ā€œGood-morning, your Grace.ā€

Parker accompanied them downstairs.

When they had gone he looked blankly at the paper 176 in his handā€”then, remembering that it was Saturday and there was need for haste, he hailed a taxi.

ā€œScotland Yard!ā€ he cried.

Tuesday morning saw Lord Peter and a man in a velveteen jacket swishing merrily through seven acres of turnip-tops, streaked yellow with early frosts. A little way ahead, a sinuous undercurrent of excitement among the leaves proclaimed the unseen yet ever-near presence of one of the Duke of Denverā€™s setter pups. Presently a partridge flew up with a noise like a police rattle, and Lord Peter accounted for it very creditably for a man who, a few nights before, had been listening to imaginary German sappers. The setter bounded foolishly through the turnips, and fetched back the dead bird.

ā€œGood dog,ā€ said Lord Peter.

Encouraged by this, the dog gave a sudden ridiculous gambol and barked, its ear tossed inside out over its head.

ā€œHeel,ā€ said the man in velveteen, violently. The animal sidled up, ashamed.

ā€œFool of a dog, that,ā€ said the man in velveteen; ā€œcanā€™t keep quiet. Too nervous, my lord. One of old Black Lassā€™s pups.ā€

ā€œDear me,ā€ said Peter, ā€œis the old dog still going?ā€

ā€œNo, my lord; we had to put her away in the spring.ā€

Peter nodded. He always proclaimed that he hated the country and was thankful to have nothing to do with the family estates, but this morning he enjoyed 177 the crisp air and the wet leaves washing darkly over his polished boots. At Denver things moved in an orderly way; no one died sudden and violent deaths except aged settersā€”and partridges, to be sure. He sniffed up the autumn smell with appreciation. There was a letter in his pocket which had come by the morning post, but he did not intend to read it just yet. Parker had not wired; there was no hurry.

He read it in the smoking-room after lunch. His brother was there, dozing over the Timesā€”a good, clean Englishman, sturdy and conventional, rather like Henry VIII in his youth; Gerald, sixteenth Duke of Denver. The Duke considered his cadet rather degenerate, and not quite good form; he disliked his taste for police-court news.

The letter was from Mr. Bunter.

110, Piccadilly,
W.1.

My Lord:

I write (Mr. Bunter had been carefully educated and knew that nothing is more vulgar than a careful avoidance of beginning a letter with the first person singular) as your lordship directed, to inform you of the result of my investigations.

I experienced no difficulty in becoming acquainted with Sir Julian Frekeā€™s man-servant. He belongs to the same club as the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnotā€™s man, who is a friend of mine, and was very willing to introduce me. He took me to the club yesterday 178 (Sunday) evening, and we dined with the man, whose name is John Cummings, and afterwards I invited Cummings to drinks and a cigar in the flat. Your lordship will excuse me doing this, knowing that it is not my habit, but it has always been my experience that the best way to gain a manā€™s confidence is to let him suppose that one takes advantage of oneā€™s employer.

(ā€œI always suspected Bunter of being a student of human nature,ā€ commented Lord Peter.)

I gave him the best old port (ā€œThe deuce you did,ā€ said Lord Peter), having heard you and Mr. Arbuthnot talk over it. (ā€œHum!ā€ said Lord Peter.)

Its effects were quite equal to my expectations as regards the principal matter in hand, but I very much regret to state that the man had so little understanding of what was offered to him that he smoked a cigar with it (one of your lordshipā€™s Villar Villars). You will understand that I made no comment on this at the time, but your lordship will sympathize with my feelings. May I take this opportunity of expressing my grateful appreciation of your lordshipā€™s excellent taste in food, drink and dress? It is, if I may say so, more than a pleasureā€”it is an education, to valet and buttle your lordship.

Lord Peter bowed his head gravely.

ā€œWhat on earth are you doing, Peter, sittinā€™ there noddinā€™ anā€™ grinninā€™ like a what-you-may-call-it?ā€ demanded the Duke, coming suddenly out of a snooze. ā€œSomeone writinā€™ pretty things to you, what?ā€ 179

ā€œCharming things,ā€ said Lord Peter.

The Duke eyed him doubtfully.

ā€œHope to goodness you donā€™t go and marry a chorus beauty,ā€ he muttered inwardly, and returned to the Times.

Over dinner I had set myself to discover Cummingsā€™s tastes, and found them to run in the direction of the music-hall stage. During his first glass I drew him out in this direction, your lordship having kindly given me opportunities of seeing every performance in London, and I spoke more freely than I should consider becoming in the ordinary way in order to make myself pleasant to him. I may say that his views on women and the stage were such as I should have expected from a man who would smoke with your lordshipā€™s port.

With the second glass I introduced the subject of your lordshipā€™s inquiries. In order to save time I will write our conversation in the form of a dialogue, as nearly as possible as it actually took place.

Cummings: You seem to get many opportunities of seeing a bit of life, Mr. Bunter.

Bunter: One can always make opportunities if one knows how.

Cummings: Ah, itā€™s very easy for you to talk, Mr. Bunter. Youā€™re not married, for one thing.

Bunter: I know better than that, Mr. Cummings.

Cummings: So do Iā€”now, when itā€™s too late. (He sighed heavily, and I filled up his glass.) 180

Bunter: Does Mrs. Cummings live with you at Battersea?

Cummings: Yes, her and me we do for my governor. Such a life! Not but what thereā€™s a char comes in by the day. But whatā€™s a char? I can tell you itā€™s dull all by ourselves in that dā€”d Battersea suburb.

Bunter: Not very convenient for the Halls, of course.

Cummings: I believe you. Itā€™s all right for you, here in Piccadilly, right on the spot as you might say. And I daresay your governorā€™s often out all night, eh?

Bunter: Oh, frequently, Mr. Cummings.

Cummings: And I daresay you take the opportunity to slip off yourself every so often, eh?

Bunter: Well, what do you think, Mr. Cummings?

Cummings: Thatā€™s it; there you are! But whatā€™s a man to do with a nagging fool of a wife and a blasted scientific doctor for a governor, as sits up all night cutting up dead bodies and experimenting with frogs?

Bunter: Surely he goes out sometimes.

Cummings: Not often. And always back before twelve. And the way he goes on if he rings the bell and you ainā€™t there. I give you my word, Mr. Bunter.

Bunter: Temper?

Cummings: No-o-oā€”but looking through you, nasty-like, as if you was on that operating table of his and he was going to cut you up. Nothing a man could rightly complain of, you understand, Mr. Bunter, just nasty looks. Not but what I will say heā€™s very correct. Apologizes if heā€™s been inconsiderate. 181 But whatā€™s the good of that when heā€™s been and gone and lost you your nightā€™s rest?

Bunter: How does he do that? Keeps you up late, you mean?

Cummings: Not him; far from it. House locked up and household to bed at half-past ten. Thatā€™s his little rule. Not but what Iā€™m glad enough to go as a rule, itā€™s that dreary. Still, when I do go to bed I like to go to sleep.

Bunter: What does he do? Walk about the house?

Cummings: Doesnā€™t he? All night. And in and out of the private door to the hospital.

Bunter: You donā€™t mean to say, Mr. Cummings, a great specialist like Sir Julian Freke does night work at the hospital?

Cummings: No, no; he does his own workā€”research work, as you may say. Cuts people up. They say heā€™s very clever. Could take you or me to pieces like a clock, Mr. Bunter, and put us together again.

Bunter: Do you sleep in the basement, then, to hear him so plain?

Cummings: No; our bedroomā€™s at the top. But, Lord! whatā€™s that? Heā€™ll bang the door so you can hear him all over the house.

Bunter: Ah, manyā€™s the time Iā€™ve had to speak to Lord Peter about that. And talking all night. And baths.

Cummings: Baths? You may well say that, Mr. Bunter. Baths? Me and my wife sleep next to the cistern-room. Noise fit to wake the dead. All hours. 182 When dā€™you think he chose to have a bath, no later than last Monday night, Mr. Bunter?

Bunter: Iā€™ve known them to do it at two in the morning, Mr. Cummings.

Cummings: Have you, now? Well, this was at three. Three oā€™clock in the morning we was waked up. I give you my word.

Bunter: You donā€™t say so, Mr. Cummings.

Cummings: He cuts up diseases, you see, Mr. Bunter, and then he donā€™t like to go to bed till heā€™s washed the bacilluses off, if you understand me. Very natural, too, I daresay. But what I say is, the middle of the nightā€™s no time for a gentleman to be occupying his mind with diseases.

Bunter: These great men have their own way of doing things.

Cummings: Well, all I can say is, it isnā€™t my way.

(I could believe that, your lordship. Cummings has no signs of greatness about him, and his trousers are not what I would wish to see in a man of his profession.)

Bunter: Is he

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