Striding Folly by Dorothy L. Sayers

tonight. Perhaps they changed the numbering of the street on account of it – I’ve heard tell of such things – and when the same night comes round the house goes back to what it was before. But there I am, with a black mark against me, and it ain’t a fair trick for no ghost to go getting a plain man into trouble. And I’m sure, sir, you’ll agree with me.’
        The policeman’s narrative had lasted some time, and the hands of the grandfather clock stood at a quarter to five. Peter Wimsey gazed benevolently at his companion, for whom he was beginning to feel a positive affection. He was, if anything, slightly more drunk than the policeman, for he had missed tea and had no appetite for his dinner; but the wine had not clouded his wits; it had only increased excitability and postponed sleep. He said:
        ‘When you looked through the letter-box, could you see any part of the ceiling, or the lights?’
        ‘No, sir; on account, you see, of the flap. I could see right and left and straight forward; but not upwards, and none of the near part of the floor.’
        ‘When you looked at the house from outside, there was no light except through the fanlight. But when you looked through the flap, all the rooms were lit, right and left and at the back?’
        ‘That’s so, sir.’
        ‘Are there back doors to the houses?’
        ‘Yes, sir. Coming out of Merriman’s End, you turn to the right, and there’s an opening a little way along which takes you to the back doors.’
        ‘You seem to have a very distinct visual memory. I wonder if your other kinds of memory are as good. Can you tell me, for instance, whether any of the houses you went into had any particular smell? Especially 10, 12 and 14?’
        ‘Smell, sir?’ The policeman closed his eyes to stimulate recollection. ‘Why, yes, sir. Number 10, where the two ladies live, that had a sort of an old-fashioned smell. I can’t put me tongue to it. Not lavender – but something as ladies keeps in bowls and such – rose-leaves and what not. Pot-pourri, that’s the stuff. Pot-pourri. And Number 12 – well, no there was nothing particular there, except I remember thinking they must keep pretty good servants, though we didn’t see anybody except the family. All that floor and panelling was polished beautiful – you could see your face in it. Beeswax and turpentine, I says to meself. And elbow-grease. What you’d call a clean house with a good, clean smell. But Number 14 – that was different. I didn’t like the smell of that. Stuffy, like as if the nigger had been burning some o’ that there incense to his idols, maybe. I never could abide niggers.’
        ‘Ah!’ said Peter. ‘What you say is very suggestive.’ He placed his finger-tips together and shot his last question over them:
        ‘Ever been inside the National Gallery?’
        ‘No, sir,’ said the policeman, astonished. ‘I can’t say as I ever was.’
        ‘That’s London again,’ said Peter. ‘We’re the last people in the world to know anything of our great metropolitan institutions. Now, what is the best way to tackle this bunch of toughs, I wonder? It’s a little early for a call. Still, there’s nothing like doing one’s good deed before breakfast, and the sooner you’re set right with the sergeant, the better. Let me see. Yes – I think that may do it. Costume pieces are not as a rule in my line, but my routine has been so much upset already, one way and another, that an irregularity more or less will hardly matter. Wait there for me while I have a bath and change. I may be a little time; but it would hardly be decent to get there before six.’
        The bath had been an attractive thought, but was perhaps ill-advised, for a curious languor stole over him with the touch of the hot water. The champagne was losing its effervescence. It was with an effort that he dragged himself out and re-awakened himself with a cold shower. The