Free Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey 03] by Unnatural Death Page A

Staple Inn at eleven?”
    “Dunno,” said Parker, a little irritably. “I’ve got a job to see to. Surely you can tackle it by yourself.”
    “Oh, yes!” The voice was peevish. “But I thought you’d like to have some of the fun. What an ungrateful devil you are. You aren’t taking the faintest interest in this case.”
    “Well—I don’t believe in it, you know. All right—don’t use language like that—you’ll frighten the girl at the Exchange. I’ll see what I can do. Eleven?—right!—Oh, I say!”
    “Cluck!” said the telephone.
    “Rung off,” said Parker, bitterly. “Bertha Gotobed. H’m! I could have sworn—”
    He reached across to the breakfast-table for the Daily Yell, which was propped against the marmalade jar, and read with pursed lips a paragraph whose heavily leaded headlines had caught his eye, just before the interruption of the kipper episode.
    “NIPPY” FOUND DEAD
    IN EPPING FOREST
    £5 Note in Hand-bag.
    He took up the receiver again and asked for Wimsey’s number. The manservant answered him.
    “His lordship is in his bath, sir. Shall I put you through?”
    “Please,” said Parker.
    The telephone clucked again. Presently Lord Peter’s voice came faintly, “Hullo!”
    “Did the landlady mention where Bertha Gotobed was employed?”
    “Yes—she was a waitress at the Corner House. Why this interest all of a sudden? You snub me in my bed, but you woo me in my bath. It sounds like a music-hall song of the less refined sort. Why, oh why?”
    “Haven’t you see the papers?”
    “No. I leave these follies till breąkfast-time. What’s up? Are we ordered to Shanghai? or have they taken sixpence off the income-tax?”
    “Shut up, you fool, it’s serious. You’re too late.”
    “What for?”
    “Bertha Gotobed was found dead in Epping Forest this morning.”
    “Good God! Dead? How? What of?”
    “No idea. Poison or something. Or heart failure. No violence. No robbery. No clue. I’m going down to the Yard about it now.”
    “God forgive me, Charles. D’you know, I had a sort of awful feeling when you said that ad could do no harm. Dead. Poor girl! Charles, I feel like a murderer. Oh, damn! and I’m all wet. It does make one feel so helpless. Look here, you spin down to the Yard and tell ’em what you know and I’ll join you there in half a tick. Anyway, there’s no doubt about it now.”
    “Oh, but, look here. It may be something quite different. Nothing to do with your ad.”
    “Pigs may fly. Use your common sense. Oh! and Charles, does it mention the sister?”
    “Yes. There was a letter from her on the body, by which they identified it. She got married last month and went to Canada.”
    “That’s saved her life. She’ll be in absolutely horrible danger, if she comes back. We must get hold of her and warn her. And find out what she knows. Good-bye. I must get some clothes on. Oh, hell!”
    Cluck! the line went dead again, and Mr. Parker, abandoning the kippers without regret, ran feverishly out of the house and down Lamb’s Conduit Street to catch a diver tram to Westminster.
    The Chief of Scotland Yard, Sir Andrew Mackenzie, was a very old friend of Lord Peter’s. He received that agitated young man kindly and listened with attention to his slightly involved story of cancer, wills, mysterious solicitors and advertisements in the agony column.
    “It’s a curious coincidence,” he said, indulgently, “and I can understand your feeling upset about it. But you may set your mind at rest. I have the police-surgeon’s report, and he is quite convinced that the death was perfectly natural. No signs whatever of any assault. They will make an examination, of course, but I don’t think there is the slightest reason to suspect foul play.”
    “But what was she doing in Epping Forest?”
    Sir Andrew shrugged gently.
    “That must be inquired into, of course. Still—young people do wander about, you know. There’s a fiancé somewhere. Something to do with the