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
Parlor 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 be only 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 neighboring arm-chair, 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 mustache and lammin' a millionaire on the head, don't do it.
That disgustin' habit you have of smoking cigarettes down to the last
millimeter 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 favor 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 £3 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-defense 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 foot stool were
all that was visible of General Fentiman.

"Queer, isn't it," muttered his grandson, "to think that for Old
Mossy-face there 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, scandalized 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!"