Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers

curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny. Well, he’s dead, and they can’t find his will.’
        ‘Perhaps he didn’t make one.’
        ‘Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hid it, and it can’t be found.’
        ‘Is the will in her favour?’
        ‘Yes.’
        ‘Who’s the next of kin?’
        ‘She and her mother are the only members of the family left.’
        ‘Well, then, she’s only got to sit tight and she’ll get the goods.’
        ‘No – because the horrid old man left two wills, and, if she can’t find the latest one, they’ll prove the first one. He explained that to her carefully.’
        ‘Oh. I see. H’m. By the way I thought the young woman was a Socialist.’
        ‘Oh, she is. Terrifically so. One really can’t help admiring her. She has done some wonderful work—’
        ‘Yes, I dare say. But in that case I don’t see why she need be so keen on getting uncle’s dollars.’
        Mary began to chuckle.
        ‘Ah! but that’s where Uncle Meleager—’
        ‘Uncle what ?’
        ‘Meleager. That’s his name. Meleager Finch.’
        ‘Oh!’
        ‘Yes – well, that’s where he’s been so clever. Unless she finds the new will, the old will comes into force and hands over every penny of the money to the funds of the Primrose League.’
        Lord Peter gave a little yelp of joy.
        ‘Good for Uncle Meleager! But, look here, Mary, I’m a Tory, if anything. I’m certainly not a Red. Why should I help to snatch the good gold from the Primrose Leaguers and hand it over to the Third International? Uncle Meleager’s a sport. I take to Uncle Meleager.’
        ‘Oh, but Peter, I really don’t think she’ll do that with it. Not at present, anyway. They’re awfully poor, and her mother ought to have some frightfully difficult operation or something, and go and live abroad, so it really is ever so important they should get the money. And perhaps Hannah wouldn’t be quite so Red if she’d ever had a bean of her own. Besides, you could make it a condition of helping her that she should go and get properly shingled at Bresil’s.’
        ‘You are a very cynically-minded person,’ said his lordship. ‘However, it would be fun to have a go at Uncle M. Was he obliging enough to give any clues for finding the will?’
        ‘He wrote a funny sort of letter, which we can’t make head or tail of. Come to the club tonight and she’ll show it to you.’
        ‘Right-hol! Seven o’clock do? And we could go on and see a show afterwards. Do you mind clearing out now? I’m going to get dressed.’
     
    Amid a deafening babble of voices in a low-pitched cellar, the Soviet Club meets and dines. Ethics and sociology, the latest vortices of the Whirligig school of verse, combine with the smoke of countless cigarettes to produce an inspissated atmosphere, through which flat, angular mural paintings dimly lower upon the revellers. There is painfully little room for the elbows, or indeed for any part of one’s body. Lord Peter – his feet curled under his chair to avoid the stray kicks of the heavy brogues opposite him – was acutely conscious of an unbecoming attitude and an overheated feeling about the head. He found it difficult to get any response from Hannah Marryat. Under her heavy ill-cut fringe her dark eyes gloomed sombrely at him. At the same time he received a strong impression of something enormously vital. He had a sudden fancy that if she were set free from self-defensiveness and the importance of being earnest, she would exhibit unexpected powers of enjoyment. He was interested, but oppressed. Mary, to his great relief, suggested that they should have their coffee upstairs.
        They found a quiet corner with comfortable chairs.
        ‘Well, now,’ said Mary encouragingly.
        ‘Of course you understand,’ said Miss Marryat mournfully, ‘that if it were not