In The Teeth Of The Evidence

 

A LORD PETER WIMSEY STORY

 

‘WELL, OLD SON,’ SAID Mr Lamplough, ‘and what can we do for you

today?’

‘Oh, some of your whizz-bang business, I suppose,’ said Lord Peter

Wimsey, seating himself resentfully in the green velvet torture-chair and

making a face in the direction of the drill. ‘Jolly old left-hand upper grinder

come to bits on me. I was only eating an omelette, too. Can’t understand

why they always pick these moments. If I’d been cracking nuts or chewing

peppermint jumbles I could understand it.’

‘Yes?’ said Mr Lamplough, soothingly. He drew an electric bulb,

complete with mirror, as though by magic out of a kind of Maskelyne-and-

Devant contraption on Lord Peter’s left; a trail of flex followed it, issuing

apparently from the bowels of the earth. ‘Any pain?’

‘No pain,’ said Wimsey irritably, ‘unless you count a sharp edge fit to

saw your tongue off. Point is, why should it go pop like that? I wasn’t doing

anything to it.’

‘No?’ said Mr Lamplough, his manner hovering between the

professional and the friendly, for he was an old Winchester man and a

member of one of Wimsey’s clubs, and had frequently met him on the

cricket-field in the days of their youth. ‘Well, if you’ll stop talking half a

moment, we’ll have a look at it. Ah!’

‘Don’t say “Ah!” like that, as if you’d found pyorrhoea and necrosis of

the jaw and were gloating over it, you damned old ghoul. Just carve it out

and stop it up and be hanged to you. And, by the way, what have you been up to? Why should I meet an inspector of police on your doorstep? You

needn’t pretend he came to have his bridge-work attended to, because I saw

his sergeant waiting for him outside.’

‘Well, it was rather curious,’ said Mr Lamplough, dexterously gagging

his friend with one hand and dabbing cotton-wool into the offending cavity

with the other. ‘I suppose I oughtn’t to tell you, but if I don’t, you’ll get it

all out of your friends at Scotland Yard. They wanted to see my

predecessor’s books. Possibly you noticed that bit in the papers about a

dental man being found dead in a blazing garage on Wimbledon Common?’

‘Yonk – ugh?’ said Lord Peter Wimsey.

‘Last night,’ said Mr Lamplough. ‘Pooped off about nine pipemma, and

it took them three hours to put it out. One of those wooden garages – and

the big job was to keep the blaze away from the house. Fortunately it’s at

the end of the row, with nobody at home. Apparently this man Prendergast

was all alone there – just going off for a holiday or something – and he

contrived to set himself and his car and his garage alight last night and was

burnt to death. In fact, when they found him, he was so badly charred that

they couldn’t be sure it was he. So, being sticklers for routine, they had a

look at his teeth.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Wimsey, watching Mr Lamplough fitting a new drill into

its socket. ‘Didn’t anybody have a go at putting the fire out?’

‘Oh, yes – but as it was a wooden shed, full of petrol, it simply went up

like a bonfire. Just a little bit over this way, please. That’s splendid.’ Gr-r-r,

whizz, gr-r-r. ‘As a matter of fact, they seem to think it might just possibly

be suicide. The man’s married, with three children, and immured and all

that sort of thing.’ Whizz, gr-r-r, buzz, gr-r-r, whizz. ‘His family’s down at

Worthing, staying with his mother-in-law or something. Tell me if I hurt

you.’ Gr-r-r. ‘And I don’t suppose he was doing any too well. Still, of course, he may easily have had an accident when filling up. I gather he was

starting off that night to join them.’

‘A – ow – oo – oo – uh – ihi – ih?’ inquired Wimsey naturally enough.

‘How do I come into it?’ said Mr Lamplough, who, from long

experience was expert in the interpretation of mumblings. ‘Well, only

because the chap whose practice I took over here did this fellow

Prendergast’s dental work for him.’ Whizz. ‘He died, but left his books

behind him for my guidance, in case any of his old patients should feel

inclined to trust me.’ Gr-r-r, whizz. ‘I’m sorry. Did you feel that? As a

matter of fact, some of them actually do. I suppose it’s an instinct to trundle

round to the same old place when you’re in pain, like the dying elephants.

Will you rinse, please?’

‘I see,’ said Wimsey, when he had finished washing out chips of himself

and exploring his ravaged molar with his tongue. ‘How odd it is that these

cavities always seem so large. I feel as if I could put my head into this one.

Still, I suppose you know what you’re about. And are Prendergast’s teeth all

right?’

‘Haven’t had time to hunt through the ledger, yet, but I’ve said I’ll go

down and have a look at them as soon as I’ve finished with you. It’s my

lunch-time anyway, and my two o’clock patient isn’t coming, thank

goodness. She usually brings five spoilt children, and they all want to sit

round and watch, and play with the apparatus. One of them got loose last

time and tried to electrocute itself on the X-ray plant next door. And she

thinks that children should be done at half-price. A little wider if you can

manage it.’ Gr-r-r. ‘Yes, that’s very nice. Now we can dress that and put in a

temporary. Rinse please.’

‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘and for goodness’ sake make it firm and not too

much of your foul oil of cloves. I don’t want bits to come out in the middle of dinner. You can’t imagine the nastiness of caviar flavoured with cloves.’

‘No?’ said Mr Lamplough. ‘You may find this a little cold.’ Squirt,

swish. ‘Rinse, please. You may notice it when the dressing goes in. Oh, you

did notice it? Good. That shows that the nerve’s all right. Only a little

longer now. There! Yes, you may get down now. Another rinse? Certainly.

When would you like to come in again?’

‘Don’t be silly, old horse,’ said Wimsey. ‘I am coming out to

Wimbledon with you straight away. You’ll get there twice as fast if I drive

you. I’ve never had a corpse-in-blazing-garage before, and I want to learn.’

There is nothing really attractive about corpses in blazing garages. Even

Wimsey’s war experience did not quite reconcile him to the object that lay

on the mortuary slab in the police station. Charred out of all resemblance to

humanity, it turned even the police surgeon pale, while Mr Lamplough was

so overcome that he had to lay down the books he had brought with him

and retire into the open to recover himself. Meanwhile Wimsey, having put

himself on terms of mutual confidence and esteem with the police officials,

thoughtfully turned over the little pile of blackened odds and ends that

represented the contents of Mr Prendergast’s pockets. There was nothing

remarkable about them. The leather note-case still held the remains of a

thickish wad of notes – doubtless cash in hand for the holiday at Worthing.

The handsome gold watch (obviously a presentation) had stopped at seven

minutes past nine. Wimsey remarked on its good state of preservation.

Sheltered between the left arm and the body – that seemed to be the

explanation.

‘Looks as though the first sudden blaze had regularly overcome him,’

said the police inspector. ‘He evidently made no attempt to get out. He’d

simply fallen forward over the wheel, with his head on the dashboard.

That’s why the face is so disfigured. I’ll show you the remains of the car presently if you’re interested, my lord. If the other gentleman’s feeling

better we may as well take the body first.’

Taking the body was a long and unpleasant job. Mr Lamplough, nerving

himself with an effort and producing a pair of forceps and a probe, went

gingerly over the jaws – reduced almost to their bony structure by the

furnace heat to which they had been exposed -while the police surgeon

checked entries in the ledger. Mr Prendergast had a dental history extending

back over ten years in the ledger and had already had two or three fillings

done before that time. These had been noted at the time when he first came

to Mr Lamplough’s predecessor.

At the end of a long examination, the surgeon looked up from the notes

he had been making.

‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘let’s check that again. Allowing for renewal of old

work, I think we’ve got a pretty accurate picture of the present state of his

mouth. There ought to be nine fillings in all. Small amalgam filling in right

lower back wisdom tooth; big amalgam ditto in right lower back molar;

amalgam fillings in right upper first and second bicuspids at point of

contact; right upper incisor crowned – that all right?’

‘I expect so,’ said Mr Lamplough, ‘except that the right upper incisor

seems to be missing altogether, but possibly the crown came loose and fell

out.’ He probed delicately. ‘The jaw is very brittle – I can’t make anything

of the canal – but there’s nothing against it.’

‘We may find the crown in the garage,’ suggested the Inspector.

‘Fused porcelain filling in left upper canine,’ went on the surgeon;

‘amalgam fillings in left upper first bicuspid and lower second bicuspid and

left lower thirteen-year-old molar. That seems to be all. No teeth missing

and no artificials. How old was this man, Inspector?’

‘About forty-five, Doc.’

‘My age. I only wish I had as good a set of teeth,’ said the surgeon. Mr

Lamplough agreed with him.

‘Then I take it, this is Mr Prendergast all right,’ said the Inspector.

‘Not a doubt of it, I should say,’ replied Mr Lamplough; ‘though I

should like to find that missing crown.’

We’d better go round to the house, then,’ said the Inspector. ‘Well, yes,

thank you, my lord, I shouldn’t mind a lift in that. Some car. Well, the only

point now is, whether it was accident or suicide. Round to the right my lord,

and then second on the left – I’ll tell you as we go.’

‘A bit out of the way for a dental man,’ observed Mr Lamplough, as

they emerged upon some scattered houses near the Common.

The Inspector made a grimace.

‘I thought the same, sir, but it appears Mrs Prendergast persuaded him

to come here. So good for the children. Not so good for the practice,

though. If you ask me, I should say Mrs P. was the biggest argument we

have for suicide. Here we are.’

The last sentence was scarcely necessary. There was a little crowd about

the gate of a small detached villa at the end of a row of similar houses.

From a pile of dismal debris in the garden a smell of burning still rose,

disgustingly. The Inspector pushed through the gate with his companions,

pursued by the comments of the bystanders.

‘That’s the Inspector … that’s Dr Maggs … that’ll be another doctor,

him with the little bag … who’s the bloke in the eye-glass? … Looks a

proper nobleman, don’t he, Florrie? … Why he’ll be the insurance bloke …

Coo! look at his grand car … that’s where the money goes … That’s a

Rolls, that is … no, silly, it’s a Daimler … Ow, well, it’s all advertisement

these days.’ Wimsey giggled indecorously all the way up the garden path.

The sight of the skeleton car amid the sodden and fire-blackened remains of the garage sobered him. Two police constables, crouched over the ruin with

a sieve, stood up and saluted.

‘How are you getting on, Jenkins?’

‘Haven’t got anything very much yet, sir, bar an ivory cigarette-holder.

This gentleman’ – indicating a stout, bald man in spectacles, who was

squatting among the damaged coach-work – ‘is Mr Tolley, from the motor-

works, come with a note from the Superintendent, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. Can you give an opinion about this, Mr Tolley? Dr Maggs you

know. Mr Lamplough, Lord Peter Wimsey. By the way, Jenkins, Mr

Lamplough has been going into the corpse’s dentistry, and he’s looking for

a lost tooth. You might see if you can find it. Now, Mr Tolley?’

‘Can’t see much doubt about how it happened,’ said Mr Tolley, picking

his teeth thoughtfully. ‘Regular death-traps, these little saloons, when

anything goes wrong unexpectedly. There’s a front tank, you see, and it

looks as though there might have been a bit of a leak behind the dash,

somewhere. Possibly the seam of the tank had got strained a bit, or the

union had come loose. It’s loose now, as a matter of fact, but that’s not

unusual after a fire, Rouse case or no Rouse case. You can get quite a lot of

slow dripping from a damaged tank or pipe, and there seems to have been a

coconut mat round the controls, which would prevent you from noticing.

There’d be a smell, of course, but these little garages do often get to smell

of petrol, and he kept several cans of the stuff here. More than the legal

amount – but that’s not unusual either. Looks to me as though he’d filled up

his tank – there are two empty tins near the bonnet, with the caps loose –

got in, shut the door, started up the car, perhaps, and then lit a cigarette.

Then, if there were any petrol fumes about from a leak, the whole show

would go up in his face – whoosh!’

‘How was the ignition?’

‘Off. He may never have switched it on, but it’s quite likely he switched

it off again when the flames went up. Silly thing to do, but lots of people do

do it. The proper thing, of course, is to switch off the petrol and leave the

engine running so as to empty the carburettor, but you don’t always think

straight when you’re being burnt alive. Or he may have meant to turn off

the petrol and been overcome before he could manage it. The tank’s over

here to the left, you see.’

‘On the other hand,’ said Wimsey, ‘he may have committed suicide and

faked the accident.’

‘Nasty way of committing suicide.’

‘Suppose he’d taken poison first.’

‘He’d have had to stay alive long enough to fire the car.’

‘That’s true. Suppose he’d shot himself – would the flash from the – no,

that’s silly – you’d have found the weapon in the case. Or a hypodermic?

Same objection. Prussic acid might have done it – I mean, he might just

have had time to take a tablet and then fire the car. Prussic acid’s pretty

quick, but it isn’t absolutely instantaneous;’

‘I’ll have a look for it anyway,’ said Dr Maggs.

They were interrupted by the constable.

‘Excuse me, sir; but I think we’ve found the tooth. Mr Lamplough says

this is it.’

Between his pudgy finger and thumb he held up a small, bony object,

from which a small stalk of metal still protruded.

‘That’s a right upper incisor crown all right by the look of it,’ said Mr

Lamplough. ‘I suppose the cement gave way with the heat. Some cements

are sensitive to heat, some, on the other hand, to damp. Well, that settles it,

doesn’t it?’

‘Yes – well, we shall have to break it to the widow. Not that she can be

in very much doubt, I imagine.’

Mrs Prendergast – a very much made-up lady with a face set in lines of

habitual peevishness – received the news with a burst of loud sobs. She

informed them, when she was sufficiently recovered, that Arthur had

always been careless about petrol, that he smoked too much, that she had

often warned him about the danger of small saloons, that she had told him

he ought to get a bigger car, that the one he had was not really large enough

for her and the whole family, that he would drive at night, though she had

always said it was dangerous, and that if he’d listened to her, it would never

have happened.

‘Poor Arthur was not a good driver. Only last week, when he was taking

us down to Worthing, he drove the car right up on a bank in trying to pass a

lorry, and frightened us all dreadfully.’

‘Ah!’ said the Inspector. ‘No doubt that’s how the tank got strained.’

Very cautiously he inquired whether Mr Prendergast could have had any

reason for taking his own life. The widow was indignant. It was true that

the practice had been declining of late, but Arthur would never have been

so wicked as to do such a thing. Why, only three months ago, he had taken

out a life-insurance for £500 and he’d never have invalidated it by

committing suicide within the term stipulated by the policy. Inconsiderate

of her as Arthur was, and whatever injuries he had done her as a wife, he

wouldn’t rob his innocent children.

The Inspector pricked up his ears at the word ‘injuries’. What injuries?

Oh, well, of course, she’d known all the time that Arthur was carrying

on with that Mrs Fielding. You couldn’t deceive her with all this stuff about

teeth needing continual attention. And it was all very well to say that Mrs

Fielding’s house was better run than her own. That wasn’t surprising – a rich widow with no children and no responsibilities, of course she could

afford to have everything nice. You couldn’t expect a busy wife to do

miracles on such a small housekeeping allowance. If Arthur had wanted

things different, he should have been more generous, and it was easy

enough for Mrs Fielding to attract men, dressed up like a fashion plate and

no better than she should be. She’d told Arthur that if it didn’t stop she’d

divorce him. And since then he’d taken to spending all his evenings in

Town, and what was he doing there –

The Inspector stemmed the torrent by asking for Mrs Fielding’s address.

‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Mrs Prendergast. ‘She did live at Number

57, but she went abroad after I made it clear I wasn’t going to stand any

more of it. It’s very nice to be some people, with plenty of money to spend.

I’ve never been abroad since our honeymoon, and that was only to

Boulogne.’

At the end of this conversation, the Inspector sought Dr Maggs and

begged him to be thorough in his search for prussic acid.

The remaining testimony was that of Gladys, the general servant. She

had left Mr Prendergast’s house the day before at 6 o’clock. She was to

have taken a week’s holiday while the Prendergasts were at Worthing. She

had thought that Mr Prendergast had seemed worried and nervous the last

few days, but that had not surprised her, because she knew he disliked

staying with his wife’s people. She (Gladys) had finished her work and put

out a cold supper and then gone home with her employer’s permission. He

had a patient – a gentleman from Australia, or some such a place, who

wanted his teeth attended to in a hurry before going off on his travels again.

Mr Prendergast had explained that he would be working late, and would

shut up the house himself, and she need not wait. Further inquiry showed

that Mr Prendergast had ‘scarcely touched’ his supper, being, presumably, in a hurry to get off. Apparently, then, the patient had been the last person to

see Mr Prendergast alive.

The dentist’s appointment-book was next examined. The patient figured

there as ‘Mr Williams 5.30’, and the address-book placed Mr Williams at a

small hotel in Bloomsbury. The manager of the hotel said that Mr Williams

had stayed there for a week. He had given no address except ‘Adelaide’,

and had mentioned that he was revisiting the old country for the first time

after twenty years and had no friends in London. Unfortunately, he could

not be interviewed. At about half-past ten the previous night, a messenger

had called, bringing his card, to pay his bill and remove his luggage. No

address had been left for forwarding letters. It was not a district messenger,

but a man in a slouch hat and heavy dark overcoat. The night-porter had not

seen his face very clearly, as only one light was on in the hall. He had told

them to hurry up, as Mr Williams wanted to catch the boat-train from

Waterloo. Inquiry at the booking-office showed that a Mr Williams had

actually travelled on that train, being booked to Paris. The ticket had been

taken that same night. So Mr Williams had disappeared into the blue, and

even if they could trace him, it seemed unlikely that he could throw much

light on Mr Prendergast’s state of mind immediately previous to the

disaster. It seemed a little odd, at first, that Mr Williams, from Adelaide,

staying in Bloomsbury, should have travelled to Wimbledon to get his teeth

attended to, but the simple explanation was the likeliest: namely, that the

friendless Williams had struck up an acquaintance with Prendergast in a

café or some such place, and that a casual mention of his dental necessities

had led to a project of mutual profit and assistance.

After which, nothing seemed to be left but for the coroner to bring in a

verdict of Death by Misadventure and for the widow to send in her claim to

the Insurance Company, when Dr Maggs upset the whole scheme of things by announcing that he had discovered traces of a large injection of hyoscine

in the body, and what about it? The Inspector, on hearing this, observed

callously that he was not surprised. If ever a man had an excuse for suicide,

he thought it was Mrs Prendergast’s husband. He thought that it would be

desirable to make a careful search among the scorched laurels surrounding

what had been Mr Prendergast’s garage. Lord Peter Wimsey agreed, but

committed himself to the prophecy that the syringe would not be found.

Lord Peter Wimsey was entirely wrong. The syringe was found next

day, in a position suggesting that it had been thrown out of the window of

the garage after use. Traces of the poison were discovered to be present in

it. ‘It’s a slow-working drug,’ observed Dr Maggs. ‘No doubt he jabbed

himself, threw the syringe away, hoping it would never be looked for, and

then, before he lost consciousness, climbed into the car and set light to it. A

clumsy way of doing it’

‘A damned ingenious way of doing it,’ said Wimsey. ‘I don’t believe in

that syringe, somehow.’ He rang up his dentist ‘Lamplough, old horse,’ he

said, ‘I wish you’d do something for me. I wish you’d go over those teeth

again. No – not my teeth; Prendergast’s.’

‘Oh, blow it!’ said Mr Lamplough, uneasily.

‘No, but I wish you would,’ said his lordship.

The body was still unburied, Mr Lamplough, grumbling very much,

went down to Wimbledon with Wimsey, and again went through his

distasteful task. This time he started on the left side.

‘Lower thirteen-year-old molar and second bicuspid filled amalgam.

The fire’s got at those a bit, but they’re all right.

First upper bicuspid – bicuspids are stupid sort of teeth – always the

first to go. That filling looks to have been rather carelessly put in – not what I should call good work; it seems to extend over the next tooth – possibly

the fire did that. Left upper canine, cast porcelain filling on anterior face –’

‘Half a jiff,’ said Wimsey, ‘Maggs’s note says “fused porcelain”. Is it

the same thing?’

‘No. Different process. Well, I suppose it’s fused porcelain – difficult to

see. I should have said it was cast, myself, but that’s as may be.’

‘Let’s verify it in the ledger. I wish Maggs had put the dates in –

goodness knows how far I shall have to hunt back, and I don’t understand

this chap’s writing or his dashed abbreviations.’

‘You won’t have to go back very far if it’s cast. The stuff only came in

about 1928, from America. There was quite a rage for it then, but for some

reason it didn’t take on extraordinarily well over here. But some men use

it.’

‘Oh, then it isn’t cast,’ said Wimsey. ‘There’s nothing here about

canines, back to ’28. Let’s make sure; ’27, ’26, ’25, ’24, ’23. Here you are.

Canine, something or other.’

‘That’s it,’ said Lamplough, coming to look over his shoulder. ‘Fused

porcelain. I must be wrong, then. Easily see by taking it out. The grain’s

different, and so is the way it’s put in.’

‘How, different?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Lamplough, ‘one’s a cast, you see.’

‘And the other’s fused. I did grasp that much. Well, go ahead and take it

out.’

‘Can’t very well; not here.’

‘Then take it home and do it there. Don’t you see, Lamplough, how

important it is? If it is cast porcelain, or whatever you call it, it can’t have

been done in ’23. And if it was removed later, then another dentist must have done it. And he may have done other things – and in that case, those

things ought to be there, and they’re not. Don’t you see?’

‘I see you’re getting rather agitato,’ said Mr Lamplough; ‘all I can say

is, I refuse to have this thing taken along to my surgery. Corpses aren’t

popular in Harley Street.’

In the end, the body was removed, by permission, to the dental

department of the local hospital. Here Mr Lamplough, assisted by the staff

dental expert, Dr Maggs, and the police, delicately extracted the filling from

the canine.

‘If that,’ said he triumphantly, ‘is not cast porcelain I will extract all my

own teeth without an anaesthetic and swallow them. What do you say,

Benton?’

The hospital dentist agreed with him. Mr Lamplough, who had suddenly

developed an eager interest in the problem, nodded, and inserted a careful

probe between the upper right bicuspids, with their adjacent fillings.

‘Come and look at this, Benton. Allowing for the action of the fire and

all this muck, wouldn’t you have said this was a very recent filling? There,

at the point of contact. Might have been done yesterday. And – here – wait a

minute. Where’s the lower jaw gone to? Get that fitted up. Give me a bit of

carbon. Look at the tremendous bite there ought to be here, with that big

molar coming down on to it. That filling’s miles too high for the job.

Wimsey – when was this bottom right-hand back molar filled?’

‘Two years ago,’ said Wimsey.

‘That’s impossible,’ said the two dentists together, and Mr Benton

added:

‘If you clean away the mess, you’ll see it’s a new filling. Never been

bitten on, I should say. Look here, Mr Lamplough, there’s something odd

here.’

‘Odd? I should say there was. I never thought about it when I was

checking it up yesterday, but look at this old cavity in the lateral here. Why

didn’t he have that filled when all this other work was done? Now it’s

cleaned out you can see it plainly. Have you got a long probe? It’s quite

deep and must have given him jip. I say, Inspector, I want to have some of

these fillings out. Do you mind?’

‘Go ahead,’ said the Inspector, ‘we’ve got plenty of witnesses.’

With Mr. Benton supporting the grisly patient, and Mr Lamplough

manipulating the drill, the filling of one of the molars was speedily drilled

out, and Mr Lamplough said: ‘Oh, gosh!’ – which, as Lord Peter remarked,

just showed you what a dentist meant when he said ‘Ah!’

‘Try the bicuspids,’ suggested Mr Benton.

‘Or this thirteen-year-old,’ chimed in his colleague.

‘Hold hard, gentlemen,’ protested the Inspector, ‘don’t spoil the

specimen altogether.’

Mr Lamplough drilled away without heeding him. Another filling came

out, and Mr Lamplough said ‘Gosh!’ again.

‘It’s all right,’ said Wimsey, grinning, ‘you can get out your warrant,

Inspector.’

‘What’s that, my lord?’

‘Murder,’ said Wimsey.

‘Why?’ said the Inspector. ‘Do these gentlemen mean that Mr

Prendergast got a new dentist who poisoned his teeth for him?’

‘No,’ said Mr Lamplough; ‘at least, not what you mean by poisoning.

But I’ve never seen such work in my life. Why, in two places the man

hasn’t even troubled to clear out the decay at all. He’s just enlarged the

cavity and stopped it up again anyhow. Why this chap didn’t get thundering

abscesses I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Wimsey, ‘the stoppings were put in too recently. Hullo!

What now?’

‘This one’s all right. No decay here. Doesn’t look as if there ever had

been, either. But one can’t tell about that.’

‘I dare say there never was. Get your warrant out, Inspector.’

‘For the murder of Mr Prendergast? And against whom?’

‘No. Against Arthur Prendergast for the murder of one, Mr Williams,

and, incidentally, for arson and attempted fraud. And against Mrs Fielding

too, if you like, for conspiracy. Though you mayn’t be able to prove that

part of it.’

It turned out, when they found Mr Prendergast in Rouen, that he had

thought out the scheme well in advance. The one thing he had had to wait

for had been to find a patient of his own height and build, with a good set of

teeth and few home ties. When the unhappy Williams had fallen into his

clutches, he had few preparations to make. Mrs Prendergast had to be

packed off to Worthing – a journey she was ready enough to take at any

time – and the maid given a holiday. Then the necessary dental accessories

had to be prepared and the victim invited out to tea at Wimbledon. Then the

murder – a stunning blow from behind, followed by an injection. Then, the

slow and horrid process of faking the teeth to correspond with Mr

Prendergast’s own. Next, the exchange of clothes and the body carried

down and placed in the car. The hypodermic put where it might be

overlooked on a casual inspection and yet might plausibly be found if the

presence of the drug should be discovered; ready, in the one case, to support

a verdict of Accident and, in the second, of Suicide. Then the car soaked in

petrol, the union loosened, the cans left about. The garage door and window

left open, to lend colour to the story and provide a draught, and, finally,

light set to the car by means of a train of petrol laid through the garage door. Then, flight to the station through the winter darkness and so by

underground to London. The risk of being recognised on the underground

was small, in Williams’s hat and clothes and with a scarf wound about the

lower part of the face. The next step was to pick up Williams’s luggage and

take the boat-train to join the wealthy and enamoured Mrs Fielding in

France. After which, Williams and Mrs Williams could have returned to

England, or not, as they pleased.

‘Quite a student of criminology,’ remarked Wimsey, at the conclusion of

this little adventure. ‘He’d studied Rouse and Furnace all right, and profited

by their mistakes. Pity he overlooked that matter of the cast porcelain.

Makes a quicker job, does it, Lamplough? Well, more haste, less speed. I do

wonder, though, at what point of the proceedings Williams actually died.’

‘Shut up,’ said Mr Lamplough, ‘and, by the way, I’ve still got to finish

that filling for you.’