Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers Read Free Book Online Page B

worried, Bunter,’ said his lordship kindly to his manservant. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
        The valet’s face brightened as he released his employer’s grey trousers from the press.
        ‘Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think,’ he said hopefully, ‘of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaning two.’
        ‘Also,’ suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.
        ‘I beg your lordship’s pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters.’
        ‘Nonsense!’ said Lord Peter. ‘How about that bath?’
        ‘It should be just about ready, my lord.’
        Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge of the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June that year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam wreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into the bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In the husky light tenor he carolled a few bars of ‘ Maman, dîtes-moi .’ Then a thought struck him, and he turned back.
        ‘Bunter!’
        ‘My lord?’
        ‘No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell.’
        ‘I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord.’
        ‘Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch,’ said his lordship approvingly.
        His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into the verbena-scented water, His eyes roamed vaguely over the pale blue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.
        Mr Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stove when the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It was empty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been the bathroom bell. The words ‘heart-attack’ formed swiftly in his mind, to be displaced by the still more alarming thought, ‘No soap.’ He opened the door almost nervously.
        ‘Did you ring, my lord?’ he demanded of Lord Peter’s head, alone visible.
        ‘Yes,’ said his lordship abruptly; ‘Ambsace.’
        ‘I beg your lordship’s pardon?’
        ‘Ambsace. Word of seven letters. Meaning two. With S in the middle. Two aces. Ambsace.’
        Bunter’s expression became beatified.
        ‘Undoubtedly correct,’ he said, pulling a small sheet of paper from his pocket, and entering the word upon it in pencil. ‘I am extremely obliged to your lordship. In that case the “indifferent cook in six letters ending with red ” must be Alfred.’
        Lord Peter waved a dismissive hand.
     
    On re-entering his bedroom, Lord Peter was astonished to see his sister Mary seated in his own particular chair and consuming his buttered eggs. He greeted her with a friendly acerbity, demanding why she look him up at that unearthly hour.
        ‘I’m riding with Freddy Arbuthnot,’ said her ladyship, ‘as you might see by my legs, if you were really as big a Sherlock as you make out.’
        ‘Riding,’ replied her brother, ‘I had already deduced, though I admit that Freddy’s name was not writ large, to my before-breakfast eye, upon the knees of your breeches. But why this visit?’
        ‘Well, because you were on the way,’ said Lady Mary, ‘and I’m booked up all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with me tonight.’
        ‘Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking’s beastly, the men don’t shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last time I went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thought you’d chucked the Soviet Club.’
        ‘It isn’t me. It’s Hannah Marryat.’
        ‘What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and the brogues?’
        ‘Well, she’s never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That’s just what I want your help about.’
        ‘My dear child, I can’t cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can do most things.’
        ‘Silly. No. But she’s got – that is, she used to have – an uncle, the very rich,