Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey 03] by Unnatural Death

natural-like. No disarrangement of clothing, or anything. She must just have sat down when she felt herself bad and fallen back.”
    “M’m. The rain has spoilt any footprints or signs on the ground. And it’s grassy. Beastly stuff, grass, eh, Charles?”
    “Yes. These twigs don’t seem to have been broken at all, Superintendent.”
    “Oh, no,” said the officer, “no signs of a struggle, as I pointed out in my report.”
    “No—but if she’d sat down here and fallen back as you suggest, don’t you think her weight would have snapped some of these young shoots?”
    The Superintendent glanced sharply at the Scotland Yard man.
    “You don’t suppose she was brought and put here, do you, sir?”
    “I don’t suppose anything,” retorted Parker, “I merely drew attention to a point which I think you should consider. What are these wheel-marks?”
    “That’s our car, sir. We backed it up here and took her up that way.”
    “And all this trampling is your men too, I suppose?”
    “Partly that, sir, and partly the party as found her.”
    “You noticed no other person’s tracks, I suppose?”
    “No, sir. But it’s rained considerably this last week. Besides, the rabbits have been all over the place, as you can see, and other creatures too, I fancy. Weasels, or something of that sort.”
    “Oh! Well, I think you’d better take a look round. There might be traces of some kind a bit further away. Make a circle, and report anything you see. And you oughtn’t to have let all that bunch of people get so near. Put a cordon round and tell ’em to move on. Have you seen all you want, Peter?”
    Wimsey had been poking his stick aimlessly into the bole of an oak tree at â few yards’ distance. Now he stooped and lifted out a package which had been stuffed into a cleft. The two policemen hurried forward with eager interest, which evaporated somewhat at sight of the find—a ham sandwich and an empty Bass bottle, roughly wrapped up in a greasy newspaper.
    “Picnickers,” said Walmisley, with a snort. “Nothing to do with the body, I daresay.”
    “I think you’re mistaken,” said Wimsey, placidly. “When did the girl disappear, exactly?”
    “Well, she went off duty at the Corner House at five a week ago tomorrow, that’s Wednesday, 27th,” said Parker.
    “And this is the Evening Views of Wednesday, 27th,” said Wimsey. “Late Final edition. Now that edition isn’t on the streets till about 6 o’clock. So unless somebody brought it down and had supper here, it was probably brought by the girl herself or her companion. It’s hardly likely anyone would come and picnic here afterwards, not with the body there. Not that bodies need necessarily interfere with one’s enjoyment of one’s food. A la guerre comme à la guerre. But for the moment there isn’t a war on.”
    “That’s true, sir. But you’re assuming the death took place on the Wednesday or Thursday. She may have been somewhere else—living with someone in town or anywhere.”
    “Crushed again,” said Wimsey. “Still, it’s a curious coincidence.”
    “It is, my lord, and I’m very glad you found the things. Will you take charge of ’em, Mr. Parker, or shall I?”
    “Better take them along and put them with the other things,” said Parker, extending his hand to take them from Wimsey, whom they seemed to interest quite disproportionately. “I fancy his lordship’s right and that the parcel came here along with the girl. And that certainly looks as if she didn’t come alone. Possibly that young man of hers was with her. Looks like the old, old story. Take care of that bottle, old man, it may have finger-prints on it.”
    “You can have the bottle,” said Wimsey. “May we ne’er lack a friend or a bottle to give him, as Dick Swiveller says. But I earnestly beg that before you caution your respectable young railway clerk that anything he says may be taken down and used against him, you will cast your eye, and your nose, upon this