Have His Carcase by Dorothy L. Sayers

and clasping her lean
    hands over her expensive handbag – ‘it’s about – Mr Alexis. The chamber-
    maid told me a horrible story – I went to the manager – he wouldn’t tel me

    anything – I saw you with the police – and al those reporters were talking –
    they pointed you out – oh, Miss Vane, please tel me what has happened.’
    Harriet cleared her throat and began searching her pockets instinctively for
    cigarettes.
    ‘I’m awfuly sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid something rather beastly has
    happened. You see – I happened to be down on the shore yesterday
    afternoon, and I found a man lying there – dead. And from what they say, I’m
    dreadfuly afraid it was Mr Alexis.’
    No use beating about the bush. This forlorn creature with the dyed hair and
    haggard, painted face would have to know the truth. She struck a match and
    kept her eye on the flame.
    ‘That’s what I heard. Was it, do you know, was it a heart attack?’
    ‘Afraid not. No. They – seem to think he’ – (what was the gentlest form of
    words?) – ‘did it himself.’ (At any rate that avoided the word ‘suicide’.)
    ‘Oh, he couldn’t have! he couldn’t have! Indeed, Miss Vane, there must be
    a mistake. He must have had an accident.’
    Harriet shook her head.
    ‘But you don’t know – how could you? – how impossible it al is. But people
    shouldn’t say such cruel things. He was so perfectly happy – he couldn’t have
    done anything like that. Why, he—’ Mrs Weldon stopped, searching Harriet’s
    face with her famished eyes. ‘I heard them saying something about a razor –
    Miss Vane! What kiled him?’
    There were no kindly words for this – not even a long, scientific, Latin name.
    ‘His throat was cut, Mrs Weldon.’
    (Brutal Saxon monosylables.)
    ‘Oh!’ Mrs Weldon seemed to shrink into a mere set of eyes and bones.
    ‘Yes – they said – they said – I couldn’t hear properly – I didn’t like to ask –
    and they al seemed so pleased about it.’
    ‘I know,’ said Harriet. ‘You see – these newspaper men – it’s what they live
    by. They don’t mean anything. It’s bread-and-butter to them. They can’t help
    it. And they couldn’t possibly know that it meant anything to you.’
    ‘No – but it does. But you – you don’t want to make it out worse than it is. I
    can trust you .’

    ‘You can trust me,’ said Harriet slowly, ‘but realy and truly it could not have
    been an accident. I don’t want to give you the details, but believe me, there’s
    no possibility of accident.’
    ‘Then it can’t be Mr Alexis. Where is he? Can I see him?’
    Harriet explained that the body had not been recovered.
    ‘Then it must be somebody else! How do they know it is Paul?’
    Harriet reluctantly mentioned the photograph, knowing what the next request
    would be.
    ‘Show me the photograph.’
    ‘It isn’t very pleasant to look at.’
    ‘Show me the photograph. I couldn’t be deceived about it.’
    Better, perhaps, to set al doubt at rest. Harriet slowly produced the print.
    Mrs Weldon snatched it from her hand.
    ‘Oh, God! Oh, God! . . .’
    Harriet rang the bel and, stepping out into the corridor, caught the waiter
    and asked for a stiff whisky-and-soda. When it came, she took it in herself and
    made Mrs Weldon drink it. Then she fetched a clean handkerchief and waited
    for the storm to subside. She sat on the arm of the chair and patted Mrs
    Weldon rather helplessly on the shoulder. Mercifuly, the crisis took the form of
    violent sobbing and not of hysterics. She felt an increased respect for Mrs
    Weldon. When the sobs had subsided a little, and the groping fingers began to
    fumble with the handbag, Harriet pushed the handkerchief into them.
    ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Weldon, meekly. She began to wipe her
    eyes, daubing the linen with red and black streaks from her make-up. Then she
    blew her nose and sat up.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, forlornly.
    ‘That’s al