Chapter 3

A Use for Spinsters

“_There are two million more females than males in England and Wales!
And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance._”
Gilbert Frankau

“What do you really think of that story?” inquired Parker. He had
dropped in to breakfast with Wimsey the next morning, before departing
in the Notting Dale direction, in quest of an elusive anonymous
letter-writer. “I thought it sounded rather as though our friend had
been a bit too cocksure about his grand medical specialising. After all,
the old girl might so easily have had some sort of heart attack. She was
very old and ill.”

“So she might, though I believe as a matter of fact cancer patients very
seldom pop off in that unexpected way. As a rule, they surprise
everybody by the way they cling to life. Still, I wouldn’t think much of
that if it wasn’t for the niece. She prepared the way for the death, you
see, by describing her aunt as so much worse than she was.”

“I thought the same when the doctor was telling his tale. But what did
the niece do? She can’t have poisoned her aunt or even smothered her, I
suppose, or they’d have found signs of it on the body. And the aunt
_did_ die—so perhaps the niece was right and the opinionated young
medico wrong.”

“Just so. And of course, we’ve only got his version of the niece and the
nurse—and he obviously had what the Scotch call ta’en a scunner at the
nurse. We mustn’t lose sight of her, by the way. She was the last person
to be with the old lady before her death, and it was she who
administered that injection.”

“Yes, yes—but the injection had nothing to do with it. If anything’s
clear, that is. I say, do you think the nurse can have said anything
that agitated the old lady and gave her a shock that way. The patient
was a bit gaga, but she may have had sense enough to understand
something really startling. Possibly the nurse just said something
stupid about dying—the old lady appears to have been very sensitive on
the point.”

“Ah!” said Lord Peter, “I was waiting for you to get on to that. Have
you realised that there really is one rather sinister figure in the
story, and that’s the family lawyer.”

“The one who came down to say something about the will, you mean, and
was so abruptly sent packing.”

“Yes. Suppose he’d wanted the patient to make a will in favour of
somebody quite different—somebody outside the story as we know it. And
when he found he couldn’t get any attention paid to him, he sent the new
nurse down as a sort of substitute.”

“It would be rather an elaborate plot,” said Parker, dubiously. “He
couldn’t know that the doctor’s fiancée was going to be sent away.
Unless he was in league with the niece, of course, and induced her to
engineer the change of nurses.”

“That cock won’t fight, Charles. The niece wouldn’t be in league with
the lawyer to get herself disinherited.”

“No, I suppose not. Still, I think there’s something in the idea that
the old girl was either accidentally or deliberately startled to death.”

“Yes—and whichever way it was, it probably wasn’t legal murder in that
case. However, I think it’s worth looking into. That reminds me.” He
rang the bell. “Bunter, just take a note to the post for me, would you?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Lord Peter drew a writing pad towards him.

“What are you going to write?” asked Parker, looking over his shoulder
with some amusement.

Lord Peter wrote:

“Isn’t civilisation wonderful?”

He signed this simple message and slipped it into an envelope.

“If you want to be immune from silly letters, Charles,” he said, “don’t
carry your monomark in your hat.”

“And what do you propose to do next?” asked Parker. “Not, I hope, to
send me round to Monomark House to get the name of a client. I couldn’t
do that without official authority, and they would probably kick up an
awful shindy.”

“No,” replied his friend, “I don’t propose violating the secrets of the
confessional. Not in that quarter at any rate. I think, if you can spare
a moment from your mysterious correspondent, who probably does not
intend to be found, I will ask you to come and pay a visit to a friend
of mine. It won’t take long. I think you’ll be interested. I—in fact,
you’ll be the first person I’ve ever taken to see her. She will be very
much touched and pleased.”

He laughed a little self-consciously.

“Oh,” said Parker, embarrassed. Although the men were great friends,
Wimsey had always preserved a reticence about his personal affairs—not
so much by concealing as by ignoring them. This revelation seemed to
mark a new stage of intimacy, and Parker was not sure that he liked it.
He conducted his own life with an earnest middle-class morality which he
owed to his birth and up-bringing, and, while theoretically recognising
that Lord Peter’s world acknowledged different standards, he had never
contemplated being personally faced with any result of their application
in practice.

“—rather an experiment,” Wimsey was saying a trifle shyly; “anyway,
she’s quite comfortably fixed in a little flat in Pimlico. You can come,
can’t you, Charles? I really should like you two to meet.”

“Oh, yes, rather,” said Parker, hastily, “I should like to very much.
Er—how long—I mean—”

“Oh, the arrangement’s only been going a few months,” said Wimsey,
leading the way to the lift, “but it really seems to be working out
quite satisfactorily. Of course, it makes things much easier for me.”

“Just so,” said Parker.

“Of course, as you’ll understand—I won’t go into it all till we get
there, and then you’ll see for yourself,” Wimsey chattered on, slamming
the gates of the lift with unnecessary violence—“but, as I was saying,
you’ll observe it’s quite a new departure. I don’t suppose there’s ever
been anything exactly like it before. Of course, there’s nothing new
under the sun, as Solomon said, but after all, I daresay all those wives
and porcupines, as the child said, must have soured his disposition a
little, don’t you know.”

“Quite,” said Parker. “Poor fish,” he added to himself, “they _always_
seem to think it’s different.”

“Outlet,” said Wimsey, energetically, “hi! taxi! . . . outlet—everybody
needs an outlet—97A, St. George’s Square—and after all, one can’t really
blame people if it’s just that they need an outlet. I mean, why be
bitter? They can’t help it. I think it’s much kinder to give them an
outlet than to make fun of them in books—and, after all, it isn’t really
difficult to write books. Especially if you either write a rotten story
in good English or a good story in rotten English, which is as far as
most people seem to get nowadays. Don’t you agree?”

Mr. Parker agreed, and Lord Peter wandered away along the paths of
literature, till the cab stopped before one of those tall, awkward
mansions which, originally designed for a Victorian family with
fatigue-proof servants, have lately been dissected each into half a
dozen inconvenient band-boxes and let off in flats.

Lord Peter rang the top bell, which was marked CLIMPSON, and relaxed
negligently against the porch.

“Six flights of stairs,” he explained; “it takes her some time to answer
the bell, because there’s no lift, you see. She wouldn’t have a more
expensive flat, though. She thought it wouldn’t be suitable.”

Mr. Parker was greatly relieved, if somewhat surprised, by the modesty
of the lady’s demands, and, placing his foot on the door-scraper in an
easy attitude, prepared to wait with patience. Before many minutes,
however, the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman, with a sharp,
sallow face and very vivacious manner. She wore a neat, dark coat and
skirt, a high-necked blouse and a long gold neck-chain with a variety of
small ornaments dangling from it at intervals, and her iron-grey hair
was dressed under a net, in the style fashionable in the reign of the
late King Edward.

“Oh, Lord Peter! How very nice to see you. Rather an _early_ visit, but
I’m sure you will excuse the sitting-room being a trifle in disorder.
_Do_ come in. The lists are _quite_ ready for you. I finished them last
night. In fact, I was just about to put on my hat and bring them round
to you. I do _hope_ you don’t think I have taken an _unconscionable_
time, but there was a quite _surprising_ number of entries. It is _too_
good of you to trouble to call.”

“Not at all, Miss Climpson. This is my friend, Detective-Inspector
Parker, whom I have mentioned to you.”

“How do you do, Mr. Parker—or ought I to say Inspector? Excuse me if I
make mistakes—this is really the first time I have been in the hands of
the police. I hope it’s not rude of me to say that. Please come up. A
great many stairs, I am afraid, but I hope you do not mind. I do so like
to be _high up_. The air is so much better, and you know, Mr. Parker,
thanks to Lord Peter’s great kindness, I have such a _beautiful, airy_
view, right over the houses. I think one can work so much _better_ when
one doesn’t feel cribbed, cabined and confined, as Hamlet says. Dear me!
Mrs. Winbottle _will_ leave the pail on the stairs, and always in that
very dark corner. I am _continually_ telling her about it. If you keep
close to the banisters you will avoid it nicely. Only one more flight.
Here we are. Please overlook the untidiness. I always think breakfast
things look so _ugly_ when one has finished with them—almost sordid, to
use a nasty word for a nasty subject. What a pity that some of these
clever people can’t invent _self-cleaning_ and _self-clearing_ plates,
is it not? But please _do_ sit down; I won’t keep you a moment. And I
know, Lord Peter, that you will not hesitate to smoke. I do so enjoy the
smell of your cigarettes—quite delicious—and you are so _very_ good
about extinguishing the ends.”

The little room was, as a matter of fact, most exquisitely neat, in
spite of the crowded array of knick-knacks and photographs that adorned
every available inch of space. The sole evidences of dissipation were an
empty eggshell, a used cup and a crumby plate on a breakfast tray. Miss
Climpson promptly subdued this riot by carrying the tray bodily on to
the landing.

Mr. Parker, a little bewildered, lowered himself cautiously into a small
arm-chair, embellished with a hard, fat little cushion which made it
impossible to lean back. Lord Peter wriggled into the window-seat, lit a
Sobranie and clasped his hands above his knees. Miss Climpson, seated
upright at the table, gazed at him with a gratified air which was
positively touching.

“I have gone _very_ carefully into all these cases,” she began, taking
up a thick wad of type-script. “I’m afraid, indeed, my notes are rather
_copious_, but I trust the typist’s bill will not be considered too
heavy. My handwriting is very clear, so I don’t think there can be any
errors. Dear me! such _sad_ stories some of these poor women had to tell
me! But I have investigated most fully, with the kind assistance of the
clergyman—a very nice man and so helpful—and I feel sure that in the
majority of the cases your assistance will be _well bestowed_. If you
would like to go through—”

“Not at the moment, Miss Climpson,” interrupted Lord Peter, hurriedly.
“It’s all right, Charles—nothing whatever to do with Our Dumb Friends or
supplying Flannel to Unmarried Mothers. I’ll tell you about it later.
Just now, Miss Climpson, we want your help on something quite
different.”

Miss Climpson produced a business-like notebook and sat at attention.

“The inquiry divides itself into two parts,” said Lord Peter. “The first
part, I’m afraid, is rather dull. I want you (if you will be so good) to
go down to Somerset House and search, or get them to search, through all
the death-certificates for Hampshire in the month of November, 1925. I
don’t know the town and I don’t know the name of the deceased. What you
are looking for is the death-certificate of an old lady of 73; cause of
death, cancer; immediate cause, heart failure; and the certificate will
have been signed by two doctors, one of whom will be either a Medical
Officer of Health, Police Surgeon, Certifying Surgeon under the Factory
and Workshops Act, Medical Referee under the Workmen’s Compensation Act,
Physician or Surgeon in a big General Hospital, or a man specially
appointed by the Cremation authorities. If you want to give any excuse
for the search, you can say that you are compiling statistics about
cancer; but what you really want is the names of the people concerned
and the name of the town.”

“Suppose there are more than one answering to the requirements?”

“Ah! that’s where the second part comes in, and where your remarkable
tact and shrewdness are going to be so helpful to us. When you have
collected all the ‘possibles,’ I shall ask you to go down to each of the
towns concerned and make very, very skilful inquiries, to find out which
is the case we want to get on to. Of course, you mustn’t appear to be
inquiring. You must find some good gossipy lady living in the
neighbourhood and just get her to talk in a natural way. You must
pretend to be gossipy yourself—it’s not in your nature, I know, but I’m
sure you can make a little pretense about it—and find out all you can. I
fancy you’ll find it pretty easy if you once strike the right town,
because I know for a certainty that there was a terrible lot of
ill-natured talk about this particular death, and it won’t have been
forgotten yet by a long chalk.”

“How shall I know when it’s the right one?”

“Well, if you can spare the time, I want you to listen to a little
story. Mind you, Miss Climpson, when you get to wherever it is, you are
not supposed ever to have heard a word of this tale before. But I
needn’t tell you that. Now, Charles, you’ve got an official kind of way
of puttin’ these things clearly. Will you just weigh in and give Miss
Climpson the gist of that rigmarole our friend served out to us last
night?”

Pulling his wits into order, Mr. Parker accordingly obliged with a
digest of the doctor’s story. Miss Climpson listened with great
attention, making notes of the dates and details. Parker observed that
she showed great acumen in seizing on the salient points; she asked a
number of very shrewd questions, and her grey eyes were intelligent.
When he had finished, she repeated the story, and he was able to
congratulate her on a clear head and retentive memory.

“A dear old friend of mine used to say that I should have made a very
good lawyer,” said Miss Climpson, complacently, “but of course, when I
was young, girls didn’t have the education or the _opportunities_ they
get nowadays, Mr. Parker. I should have liked a good education, but my
dear father didn’t believe in it for women. Very old-fashioned, you
young people would think him.”

“Never mind, Miss Climpson,” said Wimsey, “you’ve got just exactly the
qualifications we want, and they’re rather rare, so we’re in luck. Now
we want this matter pushed forward as fast as possible.”

“I’ll go down to Somerset House at once,” replied the lady, with great
energy, “and let you know the minute I’m ready to start for Hampshire.”

“That’s right,” said his lordship, rising. “And now we’ll just make a
noise like a hoop and roll away. Oh! and while I think of it, I’d better
give you something in hand for traveling expenses and so on. I think you
had better be just a retired lady in easy circumstances looking for a
nice little place to settle down in. I don’t think you’d better be
wealthy—wealthy people don’t inspire confidence. Perhaps you would
oblige me by living at the rate of about £800 a year—your own excellent
taste and experience will suggest the correct accessories and so on for
creating that impression. If you will allow me, I will give you a cheque
for £50 now, and when you start on your wanderings you will let me know
what you require.”

“Dear me,” said Miss Climpson, “I don’t—”

“This is a pure matter of business, of course,” said Wimsey, rather
rapidly, “and you will let me have a note of the expenses in your usual
business-like way.”

“Of course.” Miss Climpson was dignified. “And I will give you a proper
receipt immediately.

“Dear, dear,” she added, hunting through her purse, “I do not appear to
have any penny stamps. How extremely remiss of me. It is most _unusual_
for me not to have my little book of stamps—so handy I always think they
are—but only last night Mrs. Williams borrowed my last stamps to send a
very urgent letter to her son in Japan. If you will excuse me a moment—”

“I think I have some,” interposed Parker.

“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Here is the twopence. I _never_
allow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser,
you know. Such a very _sensible_ invention, most _convenient_, and
prevents _all_ dispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so
much. And now I sign my name _across_ the stamps. That’s right, isn’t
it? My dear father would be surprised to find his daughter so
business-like. He always said a woman should never _need_ to know
anything about money matters, but times have changed so greatly, have
they not?”

Miss Climpson ushered them down all six flights of stairs, volubly
protesting at their protests, and the door closed behind them.

“May I ask—?” began Parker.

“It is not what you think,” said his lordship, earnestly.

“Of course not,” agreed Parker.

“There, I knew you had a nasty mind. Even the closest of one’s friends
turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which
they publicly repudiate.”

“Don’t be a fool. Who _is_ Miss Climpson?”

“Miss Climpson,” said Lord Peter, “is a manifestation of the wasteful
way in which this country is run. Look at electricity. Look at
water-power. Look at the tides. Look at the sun. Millions of power units
being given off into space every minute. Thousands of old maids, simply
bursting with useful energy, forced by our stupid social system into
hydros and hotels and communities and hostels and posts as companions,
where their magnificent gossip-powers and units of inquisitiveness are
allowed to dissipate themselves or even become harmful to the community,
while the ratepayers’ money is spent on getting work for which these
women are providentially fitted, inefficiently carried out by
ill-equipped policemen like you. My god! it’s enough to make a man write
to _John Bull_. And then bright young men write nasty little patronising
books called ‘Elderly Women,’ and ‘On the Edge of the Explosion’—and the
drunkards make songs upon ’em, poor things.”

“Quite, quite,” said Parker. “You mean that Miss Climpson is a kind of
inquiry agent for you.”

“She is my ears and tongue,” said Lord Peter, dramatically, “and
especially my nose. She asks questions which a young man could not put
without a blush. She is the angel that rushes in where fools get a clump
on the head. She can smell a rat in the dark. In fact, she is the cat’s
whiskers.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Parker.

“Naturally—it is mine, therefore brilliant. Just think. People want
questions asked. Whom do they send? A man with large flat feet and a
notebook—the sort of man whose private life is conducted in a series of
inarticulate grunts. I send a lady with a long, woolly jumper on
knitting-needles and jingly things round her neck. Of course she asks
questions—everyone expects it. Nobody is surprised. Nobody is alarmed.
And so-called superfluity is agreeably and usefully disposed of. One of
these days you will put up a statue to me, with an inscription:

“‘To the Man who Made
Thousands of Superfluous Women
Happy
without Injury to their Modesty
or Exertion to Himself.’”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much,” complained his friend. “And how
about all those type-written reports? Are you turning philanthropist in
your old age?”

“No—no,” said Wimsey, rather hurriedly hailing a taxi. “Tell you about
that later. Little private pogrom of my own—Insurance against the
Socialist Revolution—when it comes. ‘What did you do with your great
wealth, comrade?’ ‘I bought First Editions.’ ‘Aristocrat! à la
lanterne!’ ‘Stay, spare me! I took proceedings against 500 money-lenders
who oppressed the workers.’ ‘Citizen, you have done well. We will spare
your life. You shall be promoted to cleaning out the sewers.’ Voilà! We
must move with the times. Citizen taxi-driver, take me to the British
Museum. Can I drop you anywhere? No? So long. I am going to collate a
12th century manuscript of Tristan, while the old order lasts.”

Mr. Parker thoughtfully boarded a westward-bound ’bus and was rolled
away to do some routine questioning, on his own account, among the
female population of Notting Dale. It did not appear to him to be a
milieu in which the talents of Miss Climpson could be usefully employed.