The Lord Peter Wimsey Short Story Collection by Dorothy L. Sayers

The Lord Peter Wimsey Short Story Collection by Dorothy L. Sayers

Author:Dorothy L. Sayers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2017-07-27T00:00:00+00:00


MURDER IN THE MORNING

“HALF A MILE ALONG the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the left at the signpost,” said the Traveller in Mangles; “but I think you’ll be wasting your time.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Montague Egg cheerfully, “I’ll have a shot at the old bird. As the Salesman’s Handbook says: ‘Don’t let the smallest chance slip by; you never know until you try.’ After all, he’s supposed to be rich, isn’t he?”

“Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,” acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. “But they’d say anything.”

“Thought you said there weren’t any neighbours.”

“No more they are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!”

Mr. Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and let his clutch in with quiet determination.

The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday morning in June—worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for the seashore about Beachampton—but as soon as he turned into the little narrow lane by the sign-post which said “Hatchford Mill 2 Miles,” he was plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry of an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own Morris. Whatever else the mysterious Mr. Pinchbeck might be, he certainly was a solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down the lane, Monty caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the middle of a neglected-looking field, he began to think that the Traveller in Mangles had been right. Rich though he might be, Mr. Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and spirits supplied by Messrs. Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly. But, remembering Maxim Five of the Salesman’s Handbook, “If you’re a salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors to a billiard-ball,” Mr. Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted the sagging gate and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and drove forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-weather traffic.

The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr. Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature persistent and inquisitive, Mr. Egg stepped up to the window and looked in. What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door, pushed it open and entered.

When you arrive at a person’s house with no intention beyond selling him a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find him stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp. Mr. Egg had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like what he saw.



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