Have His Carcase by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

right,’ said Harriet, again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a shock.
    Perhaps you’d like to bathe your eyes a bit. It’l make you feel better, don’t
    you think?’
    She supplied a sponge and towel. Mrs Weldon removed the grotesque
    traces of her grief and made her appearance from within the folds of the towel
    as a salow-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, infinitely more dignified in
    her natural complexion. She made an instinctive movement towards her

    handbag, and then abandoned it.
    ‘I look awful,’ she said, with a dreary little laugh, ‘but – what’s it matter,
    now?’
    ‘I shouldn’t mind about it,’ said Harriet. ‘You look quite nice. Realy and
    truly. Come and sit down. Have a cigarette. And let me give you a phenacetin
    or something. I expect you’ve got a bit of a headache.’
    ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I won’t be stupid again. I’m giving you a lot
    of trouble.’
    ‘Not a bit. I only wish I could help you.’
    ‘You can. If you only would. I’m sure you’re clever. You look clever. I’m
    not clever. I do wish I was. I think I should have been happier if I’d been
    clever. It must be nice to do things. I’ve so often thought that if I could have
    painted pictures or ridden a motor-cycle or something, I should have got more
    out of life.’
    Harriet agreed, gravely, that it was perhaps a good thing to have an
    occupation of some sort.
    ‘But of course,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘I was never brought up to that. I have
    lived for my emotions. I can’t help it. I suppose I am made that way. Of course,
    my married life was a tragedy. But that’s al over now. And my son – you might
    not think I was old enough to have a grown-up son, my dear, but I was married
    scandalously young – my son has been a sad disappointment to me. He has no
    heart – and that does seem strange, seeing that I am realy al heart myself. I am
    devoted to my son, dear Miss Vane, but young people are so unsympathetic. If
    only he had been kinder to me, I could have lived in and for him. Everybody
    always said what a wonderful mother I was. But it’s terribly lonely when one’s
    own child deserts one, and one can’t be blamed for snatching a little happiness,
    can one?’
    ‘I know that,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve tried snatching. It didn’t work, though.’
    ‘Didn’t it?’
    ‘No. We quarreled, and then – wel, he died and they thought I’d murdered
    him. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Somebody else did; but it was al very
    disagreeable.’
    ‘You poor thing. But, of course, you are clever. You do things. That must

    make it easier. But what am I to do? I don’t even know how to set about
    clearing up al this terrible business about Paul. But you are clever and you wil
    help me – won’t you?’
    ‘Suppose you tel me just exactly what you want done.’
    ‘Yes, of course. I’m so stupid – I can’t even explain things properly. But you
    see, Miss Vane, I know , I know absolutely, that poor Paul couldn’t have –
    done anything rash. He couldn’t. He was so utterly happy with me, and looking
    forward to it al.’
    ‘To what?’ asked Harriet.
    ‘Why, to our marriage,’ said Mrs Weldon, as though the matter was self-
    evident.
    ‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be married.
    When?’
    ‘In a fortnight’s time. As soon as I could be ready for it. We were so happy
    – like children—’
    Tears gathered again in Mrs Weldon’s eyes.
    ‘I wil tel you al about it. I came here last January. I had been very il and
    the doctor said I needed a mild climate, and I was so tired of the Riviera. I
    thought I’d try Wilvercombe just for a change. I came here. It realy is a very
    nice hotel, you know, and I’d been here once before with Lady Hartlepool –
    but she died last year, you know. The very first night I was here, Paul came
    over and asked me to dance. We seemed to be drawn together. From the
    moment our eyes met, we knew we had found one