Murder Must Advertise

Chapter XI. Inexcusable Invasion of a Ducal Entertainment

To Lord Peter Wimsey, the few weeks of his life spent in unravelling the Problem of the Iron Staircase possessed an odd dreamlike quality, noticeable at the time and still more insistent in retrospect. The very work that engaged him-or rather, the shadowy simulacrum of himself that signed itself on every morning in the name of Death Bredon-wafted him into a sphere of dim platonic archetypes, bearing a scarcely recognizable relationship to anything in the living world. Here those strange entities, the Thrifty Housewife, the Man of Discrimination, the Keen Buyer and the Good Judge, for ever young, for ever handsome, for ever virtuous, economical and inquisitive, moved to and fro upon their complicated orbits, comparing prices and values, making tests of purity, asking indiscreet questions about each other’s ailments, household expenses, bed-springs, shaving cream, diet, laundry work and boots, perpetually spending to save and saving to spend, cutting out coupons and collecting cartons, surprising husbands with margarine and wives with patent washers and vacuum cleaners, occupied from morning to night in washing, cooking, dusting, filing, saving their children from germs, their complexions from wind and weather, their teeth from decay and their stomachs from indigestion, and yet adding so many hours to the day by labour-saving appliances that they had always leisure for visiting the talkies, sprawling on the beach to picnic upon Potted Meats and Tinned Fruit, and (when adorned by So-and-so’s Silks, Blank’s Gloves, Dash’s Footwear, Whatnot’s Weatherproof Complexion Cream and Thingummy’s Beautifying Shampoos), even attending Ranelagh, Cowes, the Grand Stand at Ascot, Monte Carlo and the Queen’s Drawing-Rooms. Where, Bredon asked himself, did the money come from that was to be spent so variously and so lavishly? If this hell’s-dance of spending and saving were to stop for a moment, what would happen? If all the advertising in the world were to shut down tomorrow, would people still go on buying more soap, eating more apples, giving their children more vitamins, roughage, milk, olive oil, scooters and laxatives, learning more languages by gramophone, hearing more virtuosos by radio, re-decorating their houses, refreshing themselves with more non-alcoholic thirst-quenchers, cooking more new, appetizing dishes, affording themselves that little extra touch which means so much? Or would the whole desperate whirligig slow down, and the exhausted public relapse upon plain grub and elbow-grease? He did not know. Like all rich men, he had never before paid any attention to advertisements. He had never realized the enormous commercial importance of the comparatively poor. Not on the wealthy, who buy only what they want when they want it, was the vast superstructure of industry founded and built up, but on those who, aching for a luxury beyond their reach and for a leisure for ever denied them, could be bullied or wheedled into spending their few hardly won shillings on whatever might give them, if only for a moment, a leisured and luxurious illusion. Phantasmagoria-a city of dreadful day, of crude shapes and colours piled Babel-like in a heaven of harsh cobalt and rocking over a void of bankruptcy-a Cloud Cuckoo-land, peopled by pitiful ghosts, from the Thrifty Housewife providing a Grand Family Meal for Fourpence with the aid of Dairyfields’ Butter Beans in Margarine, to the Typist capturing the affections of Prince Charming by a liberal use of Muggins Magnolia Face Cream.

Among these phantasms, Death Bredon, driving his pen across reams of office foolscap, was a phantasm too, emerging from this nightmare toil to a still more fantastical existence amid people whose aspirations, rivalries and modes of thought were alien, and earnest beyond anything in his waking experience. Nor, when the Greenwich-driven clocks had jerked on to half-past five, had he any world of reality to which to return; for then the illusionary Mr. Bredon dislimned and became the still more illusionary Harlequin of a dope-addict’s dream; an advertising figure more crude and fanciful than any that postured in the columns of the Morning Star; a thing bodiless and absurd, a mouthpiece of stale clichés shouting in dull ears without a brain. From this abominable impersonation he could not now free himself, since at the sound of his name or the sight of his unmasked face, all the doors in that other dream-city-the city of dreadful night-would be closed to him.

From one haunting disquietude, Dian de Momerie’s moment of inexplicable insight had freed him. She no longer desired him. He thought she rather dreaded him; yet, at the note of the penny whistle she would come out and drive with him, hour after hour, in the great black Daimler, till night turned to daybreak. He sometimes wondered whether she believed in his existence at all; she treated him as though he were some hateful but fascinating figure in a hashish-vision. His fear now was that her unbalanced fancy might topple her over the edge of suicide. She asked him once what he was and what he wanted, and he told her stark truth, so far as it went.

“I am here because Victor Dean died. When the world knows how he died, I shall go back to the place from which I came.”

“To the place from which you came. I’ve heard that said before, but I can’t remember where.”

“If you ever heard a man condemned to death, then you heard it said then.”

“My God, yes! That was it. I went to a murder trial once. There was a horrible old man, the Judge-I forget his name. He was like a wicked old scarlet parrot, and he said it as though he liked it. ‘And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’ Do we have souls, Harlequin, or is that all nonsense? It is nonsense, isn’t it?”

“So far as you are concerned, it probably is.”

“But what have I got to do with Victor’s death?”

“Nothing, I hope. But you ought to know.”

“Of course I had nothing to do with it.”

And indeed, she might not have. This was the most phantasmal part of the illusion-the border where daydream and night-dream marched together in an eternal twilight. The man had been murdered-of that he was now certain; but what hand had struck the blow and why was still beyond all guessing. Bredon’s instinct told him to hold fast to Dian de Momerie. She was the guardian of the shadow-frontier; through her, Victor Dean, surely the most prosaic denizen of the garish city of daylight, had stepped into the place of bright flares and black abysses, whose ministers are drink and drugs and its monarch death. But question her as he might, he could get no help from her. She had told him one thing only, and over and over again he pondered it, wondering how it fitted into the plot. Milligan, the sinister Milligan, knew something about Pym’s, or somebody who worked at Pym’s. He had known of this before he met Dean, for he had said on meeting him: “So you’re the chap, are you?” What connection was there? What had Dean, at Pym’s, had to do with Milligan, before Milligan knew him? Was it merely that Dian had boasted, laughing, of having a lover from that respectable agency? Had Victor Dean died merely because of Dian’s fancy for him?

Wimsey could not believe it; the fancy had died first, and the death of Dean was, after that, surely superfluous. Besides, when they of the city of night slay for passion’s sake, they lay no elaborate schemes, wipe off no finger-prints and hold no discreet tongues before or after. Brawls and revolver-shots, with loud sobs and maudlin remorse, are the signs and tokens of fatal passion among leaders of the bright life.

One other piece of information Dian had indeed given him, but at that moment he could not interpret it, and was not even aware that he held it. He could only wait, like a cat at a mouse-hole, till something popped out that he could run after. And so he passed his nights very wearily, driving the car and playing upon a penny whistle, and snatching his sleep in the small hours, before taking up the daily grind at Pym’s.

Wimsey was quite right about Dian de Momerie’s feeling for him. He excited her and frightened her, and, on the whole, she got a sensation of rather titillating horror at the sound of the penny whistle. But the real reason of her anxiety to propitiate him was founded on a coincidence that he could not have known and that she did not tell him.

On the day after their first encounter, Dian had backed an outsider called Acrobat, and it had come in at 50 to 1. Three days after the adventure in the woods, she had backed another outsider called Harlequin, each way, and it had come in second at 100 to 1. Thereafter, she had entertained no doubt whatever that he was a powerful and heaven-sent mascot. The day after a meeting with him was her lucky day, and it was a fact that on those days she usually succeeded in winning money in one way or another. Horses, after those first two brilliant coups, had been rather disappointing, but her fortune with cards had been good. How much of this good fortune had been due to sheer self-confidence and the will to win, only a psychologist could say; the winnings were there, and she had no doubt at all about the reason for them. She did not tell him that he was a mascot, from a superstitious feeling that to do so would be to break the luck, but she had been to a crystal-gazer, who, reading her mind like a book, had encouraged her in the belief that a mysterious stranger would bring her good fortune.

Major Milligan, sprawling upon the couch in Dian’s flat with a whisky-and-soda, turned on her a pair of rather bilious eyes. He was a large, saturnine man, blank as to morals but comparatively sober in his habits, as people must be who make money out of other people’s vices.

“Ever see anything of that Dean girl nowadays, Dian?”

“No, darling,” said Dian, absently. She was getting rather tired of Milligan, and would have liked to break with him, if only he had not been so useful, and if she had not known too much to make a break-away healthy.

“Well, I wish you would.”

“Oh, why? She’s one of Nature’s worst bores, darling.”

“I want to know if she knows anything about that place where Dean used to work.”

“The advertising place? But, Tod, how too yawn-making, Why do you want to know about advertising?”

“Oh, never mind why. I was on to something rather useful there, that’s all.”

“Oh!” Dian considered. This, she thought, was interesting. Something to be made out of this, perhaps. “I’ll give her a ring if you like. But she’s about as wet as a drowned eel. What do you want to know?”

“That’s my business.”

“Tod, I’ve often wanted to ask you. Why did you say I’d got to chuck Victor? Not that I cared about him, the poor fish, but I just wondered, especially after you’d told me to string him along.”

“Because,” replied Major Milligan, “the young what-not was trying to double-cross me.”

“Good heavens, Tod-you ought to go on the talkies as Dog-faced Dick the Dope-King of the Underworld. Talk sense, darling.”

“That’s all very well, my girl, but your little Victor was getting to be a nuisance. Somebody had been talking to him-probably you.”

“Me? that’s good! There wasn’t anything I could tell him. You never tell me anything, Tod.”

“No-I’ve got some sense left.”

“How rude you are, darling. Well, you see, I couldn’t have split to Victor. Did you bump Victor off, Tod?”

“Who says he was bumped off?”

“A little bird told me.”

“Is that your friend in the black and white checks?”

Dian hesitated. In an expansive and not very sober moment, she had told Tod about her adventure in the woods, and now rather wished she had not. Milligan took her silence for consent and went on:

“Who is that fellow, Dian?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“What’s he want?”

“He doesn’t want me, at any rate,” said Dian. “Isn’t that humiliating, Tod?”

“It must be.” Milligan grinned. “But what’s the big idea?”

“I think he’s on Victor’s lay, whatever that was. He said he wouldn’t be here if Victor hadn’t popped off. Too thrilling, don’t you think?”

“Um,” said Milligan. “I think I’d like to meet this friend of yours. When’s he likely to turn up?”

“Damned if I know. He just arrives. I don’t think I’d have anything to do with him, Tod, if I were you. He’s dangerous-queer, somehow. I’ve got a hunch about him.”

“Your brain’s going to mush, sweetest,” said Milligan, “and he’s trading on it, that’s all.”

“Oh, well,” said Dian, “he amuses me, and you don’t any more. You’re getting to be a bit feeding, Tod.” She yawned and trailed over to the looking-glass, where she inspected her face narrowly. “I think I’ll give up dope, Tod. I’m getting puffy under the eyes. Do you think it would be amusing to go all good?”

“About as amusing as a Quaker meeting. Has your friend been trying to reform you? That’s damn good.”

“Reform me, nothing. But I’m looking horribly hag-like tonight. Oh, hell! what’s the odds, anyway? Let’s do something.”

“All right. Come on round to Slinker’s. He’s throwing a party.”

“I’m sick of Slinker’s parties. I say, Tod, let’s go and gatecrash something really virtuous. Who’s the stickiest old cat in London that’s got anything on?”

“Dunno.”

“Tell you what. We’ll scoop up Slinker’s party and go round and look for striped awnings, and crash the first thing we see.”

“Right-ho! I’m on.”

Half an hour later, a noisy gang, squashed into five cars and a taxi, were whooping through the quieter squares of the West End. Even today, a few strongholds of the grimly aristocratic are left in Mayfair, and Dian, leaning from the open window of the leading car, presently gave tongue before a tall, old-fashioned house, whose entrance was adorned with a striped awning, a crimson carpet and an array of hothouse plants in tubs upon the steps.

“Whoopee! Hit it up, boys! Here’s something! Whose is it?”

“My God!” said Slinger Braithwaite. “We’ve hit the bull, all right. It’s Denver ’s place.”

“You won’t get in there,” said Milligan. “The Duchess of Denver is heaven’s prize frozen-face. Look at the chucker-out in the doorway. Better try something easier.”

“Easier be damned. We said the first we came to, and this is the first. No ratting, darlings.”

“Well, look here,” said Milligan, “we’d better try the back entrance. There’s a gate into the garden round the other side, opening on the car-park. We’ve more chance there.”

From the other side, the assault turned out to be easy enough. The cars were parked in a back street, and on approaching the garden gate, they found it wide open, displaying a marquee, in which supper was being held. A bunch of guests came out just as they arrived, while, almost on their heels, two large cars drove up and disgorged a large party of people.

“Blow being announced,” said an immaculate person, “we’ll just barge right in and dodge the Ambassadors.”

“Freddy, you can’t.”

“Can’t I? You watch me.” Freddy tucked his partner’s arm firmly under his own and marched with determination up to the gate. “We’re certain to barge into old Peter or somebody in the garden.”

Dian nipped Milligan’s arm, and the pair of them fell in behind the new arrivals. The gate was passed-but a footman just inside presented an unexpected obstacle.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Arbuthnot,” said the immaculate gentleman. “And party,” he added, waving a vague hand behind him.

“Well, we’re in, anyhow,” exulted Dian.

Helen, Duchess of Denver, looked round with satisfaction upon her party. It was all going very nicely indeed. The Ambassador and his wife had expressed delight at the quality of the wine. The band was good, the refreshments more than adequate. A tone of mellow decorum pervaded the atmosphere. Her own dress, she thought, became her, although her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess, had said something rather acid about her spine. But then, the Dowager was always a little tiresome and incalculable. One must be fashionable, though one would not, of course, be vulgarly immodest. Helen considered that she was showing the exact number of vertebrae that the occasion demanded. One less would be incorrect; one more would be over-modern. She thanked Providence that at forty-five she still kept her figure-as indeed, she did, having been remarkably flat on both aspects the whole of her life.

She was just raising a well-earned glass of champagne to her lips when she paused, and set it down again. Something was wrong. She glanced hurriedly round for her husband. He was not there, but a few paces off an elegant black back and smooth, straw-coloured head of hair announced the presence of her brother-in-law, Wimsey. Hastily excusing herself to Lady Mendip, with whom she had been discussing the latest enormities of the Government, she edged her way through the crowd and caught Wimsey’s arm.

“Peter! Look over there. Who are those people?”

Wimsey turned and stared in the direction pointed by the Duchess’ fan.

“Good God, Helen! You’ve caught a pair of ripe ones this time! That’s the de Momerie girl and her tame dope-merchant.”

The Duchess shuddered.

“How horrible! Disgusting woman! How in the world did they get in?… Do you know them?”

“Not officially, no.”

“Thank goodness! I was afraid you’d let them in. I never know what you’re going to do next; you know so many impossible people.”

“Not guilty this time, Helen.”

“Ask Bracket how he came to let them in.”

“I fly,” said Wimsey, “to obey your behest.”

He finished the drink he had in his hand, and set off in a leisurely manner in pursuit of the footman. Presently he returned.

“Bracket says they came with Freddy Arbuthnot.”

“Find Freddy.”

The Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, when found, denied all knowledge of the intruders. “But there was a bit of a scrum at the gate, you know,” he admitted, ingenuously, “and I daresay they barged in with the crowd. The de Momerie girl, eh, what? Where is she? I must have a look at her. Hot stuff and all that, what?”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Freddy. Where in the world is Gerald? Not here. He never is when he’s wanted. You’ll have to go and turn them out, Peter.”

Wimsey, who had had time for a careful calculation, asked nothing better.

“I will turn them out,” he announced, “like one John Smith. Where are they?”

The Duchess, who had kept a glassy eye upon them, waved a stern hand in the direction of the terrace. Wimsey ambled off amiably.

“Forgive me, dear Lady Mendip,” said the Duchess, returning to her guest. “I had a little commission to give to my brother-in-law.”

Up the dimly-lit terrace steps went Wimsey. The shadow of a tall pillar-rose fell across his face and chequered his white shirt-front with dancing black; and as he went he whistled softly: “Tom, Tom, the piper’s son.”

Dian de Momerie clutched Milligan’s arm as she turned.

Wimsey stopped whistling.

“Er-good evening,” he said, “excuse me. Miss de Momerie, I think.”

“Harlequin!” cried Dian.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Harlequin. So here you are. I’ve got you this time. And I’m going to see your face properly if I die for it.”

“I’m afraid there is some mistake,” said Wimsey.

Milligan thought it time to interfere.

“Ah!” said he, “the mysterious stranger. I think it’s time you and I had a word, young man. May I ask why you have been tagging round after this lady in a mountebank get-up?”

“I fear,” said Wimsey, more elaborately, “that you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir, whoever you are. I have been dispatched by the Duchess on a-forgive me-somewhat distasteful errand. She regrets that she has not the honour of this lady’s acquaintance, nor, sir, of yours, and wishes me to ask you by whose invitation you are here.”

Dian laughed, rather noisily.

“You do it marvellously, darling,” she said. “We gate-crashed on the dear old bird-same as you did, I expect.”

“So the Duchess inferred,” replied Wimsey. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

“That’s pretty good,” said Milligan, insolently. “I’m afraid it won’t work. It may be a fact that we weren’t invited here, but we aren’t going to turn out for a nameless acrobat who’s afraid to show his face.”

“You must be mistaking me for a friend of yours,” said Wimsey. “Allow me.” He stepped across to the nearest pillar and pressed a switch, flooding that end of the terrace with light. “My name is Peter Wimsey; I am Denver ’s brother, and my face-such as it is, is entirely at your service.”

He fixed his monocle in his eye and stared unpleasantly at Milligan.

“But aren’t you my Harlequin?” protested Dian. “Don’t be such an ass-I know you are. I know your voice perfectly well-and your mouth and chin. Besides, you were whistling that tune.”

“This is very interesting,” said Wimsey. “Is it possible-I fear it is-I think you must have encountered my unfortunate cousin Bredon.”

“That was the name-” began Dian, uncertainly, and stopped.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Wimsey. “Sometimes he gives mine, which makes it very awkward.”

“See here, Dian,” broke in Milligan, “you seem to have dropped a brick. You’d better apologize and then we’ll clear. Sorry we crashed in, and all that-”

“One moment,” said Wimsey. “I should like to hear more about this. Be good enough to come into the house for a moment. This way.”

He ushered them courteously round the corner of the terrace, up a side path and by way of a French window into a small ante-room, laid out with tables and a cocktail bar.

“What will you drink? Whiskies? I might have known it. The abominable practice of putting whisky on top of mixed drinks late at night is responsible for more ruined complexions and reputations than any other single cause. There is many a woman now walking the streets of London through putting whisky on top of gin cocktails. Two stiff whiskies, Tomlin, and a liqueur brandy.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“You perceive,” said Wimsey, returning with the drinks, “the true object of this hospitable gesture. I have established my identity, by the evidence of the reliable Tomlin. Let us now seek a spot less open to interruption. I suggest the library. This way. My brother, being an English gentleman, possesses a library in all his houses, though he never opens a book. This is called fidelity to ancient tradition. The chairs, however, are comfortable. Pray be seated. And now, tell me all about your encounter with my scandalous cousin.”

“One moment,” said Milligan, before Dian could speak. “I think I know the stud-book pretty well. I was not aware that you had a cousin Bredon.”

“It is not every puppy that appears in the kennel-book,” replied Wimsey carelessly, “and it is a wise man that knows all his own cousins. But what matter? Family is family, though indicated by the border compony (or gobony if you prefer that form of the word) or by the bend or baton sinister, called by most writers of fiction the bar sinister, for reasons which I am unable to determine. My regrettable cousin Bredon, having no particular right to one family name more than another, makes it his practice to employ them all in turn, thus displaying a happy absence of favouritism. Please help yourselves to smokes. You will find the cigars passable, Mr.-er-”

“Milligan.”

“Ah the notor-the well-known Major Milligan? You have a residence on the river, I fancy. Charming, charming. Its fame has reached me from time to time through my good brother-in-law, Chief-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. A beautiful, retired spot, I believe?”

“Just so,” said Milligan. “I had the pleasure of entertaining your cousin there one night.”

“Did he gate-crash on you? That is exactly what he would do. And you have retorted upon my dear sister-in-law. Poetic justice, of course. I appreciate it-though possibly the Duchess will take a different view of the matter.”

“No; he was brought by a lady of my acquaintance.”

“He is improving. Major Milligan, painful though it may be to me, I feel that I ought to warn you against that cousin of mine. He is definitely not nice to know. If he has been thrusting his attentions upon Miss de Momerie, it is probably with some ulterior object. Not,” added Wimsey, “that any man would need an ulterior object for such attentions. Miss de Momerie is an object in herself-”

His eye wandered over Dian, scantily clothed and slightly intoxicated, with a cold appraisement which rendered the words almost impertinent.

“But,” he resumed, “I know my cousin Bredon-too well. Few people know him better. And I must confess that he is the last man to whom I should look for a disinterested attachment. I am unhappily obliged, in self-defence, to keep an eye on Cousin Bredon’s movements, and I should be deeply grateful to be informed of the details of his latest escapade.”

“All right, I’ll tell you,” said Dian. The whisky had strung her up to recklessness, and she became suddenly voluble, disregarding Milligan’s scowls. She poured out the tale of her adventures. The incident of the fountain-dive seemed to cause Lord Peter Wimsey acute distress.

“Vulgar ostentation!” he said, shaking his head. “How many times have I implored Bredon to conduct himself in a quiet and reasonable manner.”

“I thought he was too marvellous,” said Dian, and proceeded to relate the encounter in the wood.

“He always plays ‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son,’ so of course, when you came along whistling it, I thought it was him.”

Wimsey’s face darkened in a most convincing manner.

“Disgusting,” he said.

“Besides, you are so much alike-the same voice and the same face as far as one can see it, you know. But of course he never took off his mask-”

“No wonder,” said Wimsey, “no wonder.” He heaved a deep sigh. ‘The police are interested in my cousin Bredon.”

“How thrilling!”

“What for?” demanded Milligan.

“For impersonating me, among other things,” said Wimsey, now happily launched and well away. “I cannot tell you in the brief time at our disposal, the distress and humiliation I have been put to on Bredon’s account. Bailing him out at police stations-honouring cheques drawn in my name-rescuing him from haunts of infamy-I am telling you all these distressing details in confidence, of course.”

“We won’t split,” said Dian.

“He trades upon our unfortunate resemblance,” went on Wimsey. “He copies my habits, smokes my favourite brand of cigarettes, drives a car like mine, even whistles my favourite air-one, I may say, peculiarly well adapted for performance upon the penny whistle.”

“He must be pretty well off,” said Dian, “to drive a car like that.”

“That,” said Wimsey, “is the most melancholy thing of all. I suspect him-but perhaps I had better not say anything about that.”

“Oh, do tell,” urged Dian, her eyes dancing with excitement. “It sounds too terribly breath-taking.”

“I suspect him,” said Wimsey, in solemn and awful tones, “of having to do with-smug-druggling-I mean, dash it all-drug-smuggling.”

“You don’t say so,” said Milligan.

“Well, I can’t prove it. But I have received warnings from a certain quarter. You understand me.” Wimsey selected a fresh cigarette and tapped it, with the air of one who has closed the coffin-lid upon a dead secret and is nailing it down securely. “I don’t want to interfere in your affairs in any way at all, Major Milligan. I trust that I shall never be called upon to do so.”

Here he transfixed Milligan with another hard stare. “But you will perhaps allow me to give you, and this lady, a word of warning. Do not have too much to do with my cousin Bredon.”

“I think you’re talking rot,” said Dian. “Why, you can’t even get him to-”

“Cigarette, Dian?” interrupted Milligan, rather sharply.

“I do not say,” resumed Wimsey, raking Dian slowly with his eyes, and then turning again to Milligan, “that my deplorable cousin is himself an addict to cocaine or heroin or anything of that description. In some ways, it would be almost more respectable if he were. The man or woman who can batten on the weaknesses of his fellow-creatures without sharing them is, I admit, to me a singularly disgusting object. I may be old-fashioned, but there it is.”

“Quite so,” said Milligan.

“I do not know, and do not wish to know,” went on Wimsey, “how you came to allow my cousin Bredon into your house, nor what, on his side, can have brought him there. I prefer not to suppose that he found there any other attraction than good drinks and good company. You may think, Major Milligan, that because I have interested myself in certain police cases, I am a consistent busybody. That is not the case. Unless I am forced to take an interest in another man’s business, I greatly prefer to let him alone. But I think it only fair to tell you that I am forced to take an interest in my cousin Bredon and that he is a person whose acquaintance might prove-shall I say, embarrassing?-to any one who preferred to live a quiet life. I don’t think I need say any more, need I?”

“Not at all,” said Milligan. “I am much obliged to you for the warning, and so, I am sure, is Miss de Momerie.”

“Of course, I’m frightfully glad to know all about it,” said Dian. “Your cousin sounds a perfect lamb. I like ’ em dangerous. Pompous people are too terribly moribund, aren’t they?”

Wimsey bowed.

“My dear lady, your choice of friends is entirely at your own discretion.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I got the impression that the Duchess wasn’t too fearfully anxious to have both arms round my neck.”

“Ah! the Duchess-no. There, I fear, all the discretion is on the other side, what? Which reminds me-”

“Quite right,” said Milligan. “We have trespassed on your hospitality too long. We must really apologize and remove ourselves. By the way, there were some other members of our party-”

“I expect my sister-in-law will have dealt with them by now,” said Wimsey with a grin. “If not, I will make a point of seeing them and telling them that you have gone on to-where shall I say?”

Dian gave her own address.

“You’d better come round and have a drink, too,” she suggested.

“Alas!” said Wimsey, “duty and all that sort of thing, what? Can’t leave my sister-in-law in the lurch, greatly as I should enjoy the entertainment.” He rang the bell. “You will excuse me now, I trust. I must see to our other guests. Porlock, show this lady and gentleman out.”

He returned to the garden by way of the terrace, whistling a passage of Bach, as was his way when pleased.

“Nun gehn wir wo der Tudelsack, der Tudel, tudel, tudel, tudel, tudelsack…”

“I wonder, was the fly too big and gaudy? Will he rise to it? We shall see.”

“My dear Peter,” said the Duchess, fretfully, “what a terrible time you have been. Please go and fetch Mme. de Framboise-Douillet an ice. And tell your brother I want him.”