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The chatter approaching the door was unmistakable. With jovial laughter it burst open and spilled Philip and Ryland Vaughan into the small living room where she had been reading. “Harriet, what on earth…” Phil paused, surprised at finding her at home. “I thought you’d be out on some research errand or ‘nother”. “Always looking for someone else’s work to copy” Vaughan snidely remarked and Phil shushed him with a grin. Both were clearly inebriated despite the relative early hour of the afternoon, due to what seemed to have been a liquid lunch. Harriet was trying to gather up the newspapers covering the table. She had, in fact, been out earlier on a visit to the British Library and while there had been interrupted by the ruckus on the street. Paperboys had been loudly screaming about the breakup of a malicious clan, all connected to the explosion in Hemptstead Heath in the wee hours of the previous day. Her natural curiosity roused, she packed up and, on her way home, had purchased several different newspapers to see if she could gather more information.
She had just finished with the last one, the Daily Yell, which had postulated, that there may be an official press briefing at Scotland Yard this afternoon, at which the infiltrator responsible for the bust would appear. As a mystery writer, she had naturally studied Lord Peter Whimsy’s career with interest, and decided that this was an opportunity to see him in the flesh. The grainy black and white photos that had accompanied news about him over the years had given her some idea of his appearance, smallish, potentially blond and monocled, but since her day was already interrupted, she had decided to join the mob to see for herself.
Ryland Vaughan ’s jealousy of her relationship with Phil was nothing new, but it was tiring, so she tried to leave as expeditiously as possible now that the two had disturbed her peace. While collecting her bag and donning winter coat, hat and gloves, Vaughan had noticed the headlines and began spewing a running commentary on them. “I hear he’s a silly ass. Doesn’t the gentry have better things to do?” Intoning a BBC announcer voice ”… Peer’s Son busts crime ring. Scotland Yard eternally grateful for his lordship’s help”. While Phil held his sides laughing he continued “he should find better things to do with his time and surely ample money. Who does he think he is, anyway, conceited idiot”. Phil reminded him that this was not the first time he had appeared in the papers having solved a crime and Harriet thought back to a story she vaguely recalled, somehow involving the Duke of Denver, his sister and a daring flight across the Atlantic by Lord Peter. Leaving, she closed the door on the ensuing discussion about redistributing the Lord in question’s fortunes among the starving artist of Bloomsbury.
Once on the street, she inhaled deeply, straightened her back and her coat and shook off the unpleasantness that Vaughan alway seemed to embody. Eiluned called him odious for a reason. Whatever did Phil see in him, she wondered, and also if he would eventually grow weary of Ryland’s tirades and personal attacks against her.
Checking her watch she decided that she had ample time to get to the Yard if she walked briskly in the January sun. She hadn’t tired yet of Robert Templeton, but she was wondering if there was anything in the life of Lord Peter Wimsey that she could mine for her next book or short story. A gentleman detective seemed a much too brazen direct copy of his adventures, but she would take the time to do some research on him next time she was at the British Library later this week to finish up her reading on arsenical cases. Definitely not worth an extra trip, but she’d plan for an extra hour when she went.
When Harriet approached Scotland Yard, a small crowd huddled together against the cold had gathered on Whitehall, blocking southbound traffic. She decided to stand back but was jostled around when a large gaggle of reporters exited a bus and she found herself encompassed by a group of them, eagerly taking out their notepads and licking their pencils, awaiting the Scotland Yard man along with Lord Peter Wimsey. In an unconventional move, it appeared that the long-nosed open car that was inching its way northbound, contained them both, essentially reversing what the waiting crowd had assumed to be the front and back, with Harriet now in a prime second row spot. The man in the backseat stood up, introducing himself as Chief Inspector Charles Parker, in charge of the case. While he explained the essence of the story, Harriet could make out the man in the passenger seat who was quietly tapping a melody on the top of the driver seat’s backrest with his gloved fingers. He seemed to be putting on airs and neither the monocle nor the expensive looking suit and overcoat helped smooth the impression. His hair peaking out under the hat was tow colored after all, and only now, seeing him in person, did she notice the rather pronounced shape of his nose. She was surprised that someone as noticeable as him had been able to penetrate a crime ring as well organized as Mr Parker made it sound. When he finally stood up to much cheer of the assembled reporters and the interested public, her gauge of his appearance changed. He was of a slim built, surprisingly short, and seemed to not fully fill out his clothes. Considering he had only reappeared yesterday after almost 2 years of pretending to be dead, if she had followed the story correctly, it wasn’t entirely surprising that his old suit did not fit perfectly.
When Lord Peter Wimsey began to speak the reporters and photographers pushed for a better position Harriet found herself being moved off to the side and next to a pair of what appeared to be newspaperwomen. In a surprisingly melodious yet high pitched voice Lord Peter recounted the harrowing moments of his reveal and capture by the gang and his cunning resurrection right into the arms of the waiting police force. Harriet followed the stranger-than-fiction retelling with concern for the man and gladness that his ruse had concluded successfully. Despite his foppish way, one was still amazed by his forethought and clever execution of the plan. Clearly this Lord was doing something good for society, even if Ryland Vaughan and Philip Boyes didn’t see it that way. Momentarily lost in thought, she picked out the glimmer of the early setting sun reflecting off of the unusual golden mechanical pencil, inscribed SH Benson the woman next to her was using to take notes. “Come on, Dorothy, you know how the story ends, let’s move on” the lady-reporter was addressed by another. Her round, bespectacled face turned to Harriet with a smile and a nod before she toddled off, pulled by her friend towards the edge of the throng.
Some commotion in the group indicated that the press conference was concluding and with both men seated again, the car slowly made it’s way off. As it passed her, she heard Lord Peter: “...coming round, Charles, for some of Bunter’s best and a bottle of Port for the proper debrief?” Chief Inspector Parker’s answer was lost to the smooth hum of the engine and the increased distance.
Harriet slowly made her way out of the remnants of the crowd and walked towards Bloomsbury, enjoying the imagery the story had evoked in her mind. Maybe she’d stop at Sylvia’s studio for a tea and a debrief of her own. She would pick up some meringues to bring.