Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers

no need to go into the story. Harriet has succeeded in making a fool of herself and me, so there’s no more to be said.’ Then later I heard that he had not been feeling well – but all that you know already.”
    “Did he suggest any reason for these illnesses of his?”
    “Oh, no – we took it for granted that it was a recurrence of the old gastric trouble. He was never a very robust lad. He wrote in very hopeful mood from Harlech, saying that he was much better, and mentioning his plan of a voyage to Barbados.”
    “He did?”
    “Yes. I thought it would do him a great deal of good, and take his mind off other things. He spoke of it only as a vague project, not as though anything were settled.”
    “Did he say anything more about Miss Vane?”
    “He never mentioned her name to me again until he lay dying.”
    “Yes – and what did you think of what he said then?”
    “I didn’t know what to think. We had no idea of any poisoning then, naturally, and I fancied it must refer to the quarrel between them that had caused the separation.”
    “I see. Well now, Mr. Boyes. Supposing it was not self-destruction -”
    “I really do not think it could have been.”
    “Now is there anybody else at all who could have an interest in his death?”
    “Who could there be?”
    “No – no other woman, for instance?”
    “I never heard of any. And I think I should have done. He was not secretive about these things, Lord Peter. He was remarkably open and straightforward.”
    “Yes,” commented Wimsey internally, “liked to swagger about it, I suppose. Anything to give pain. Damn the fellow.” Aloud he merely said: “There are other possibilities. Did he, for instance, make a will?”
    “He did. Not that he had much to leave, poor boy. His books were very cleverly written – he had a fine intellect, Lord Peter – but they did not bring him in any great sums of money. I helped him with a little allowance, and he managed on that and on what he made from his articles in the periodicals.”
    “He left his copyrights to somebody, though, I take it?”
    “Yes. He wished to leave them to me, but I was obliged to tell him that I could not accept the bequest. You see, I did not approve of his opinions, and I should not have thought it right to profit by them. No; he left them to his friend Mr. Vaughan.”
    “Oh! – may I ask when this will was made?”
    “It is dated at the period of his visit to Wales. I believe that before that he had made one leaving everything to Miss Vane.”
    “Indeed!” said Wimsey. “I suppose she knew about it.” His mind reviewed a number of contradictory possibilities, and he added: “But it would not amount to an important sum, in any case?”
    “Oh, no. If my son made 50 pounds a year by his books, that was the utmost. Though they tell me,” added the old gentleman, with a sad smile, “that, after this, his new book will do better.”
    “Very likely,” said Wimsey. “Provided you get into the papers, the delightful reading public don’t mind what it’s for. Still – Well, that’s that. I gather he would have no private money to leave?”
    “Nothing whatever. There has never been any money in our family, Lord Peter, nor yet in my wife’s. We’re quite the proverbial Church mice.” He smiled faintly at this little clerical jest. “Except, I suppose, for Cremorna Garden.”
    “For – I beg your pardon?”
    “My wife’s aunt, the notorious Cremorna Garden of the ’sixties.”
    “Good Lord, yes – the actress?”
    “Yes. But she, of course, was never, never mentioned. One did not enquire into the way she got her money. No worse than others, I dare say – but in those days we were very easily shocked. We have seen and heard nothing of her for well over fifty years. I believe she is quite childish now.”
    “By Jove! I’d no idea she was still alive!”
    “Yes, I believe she is, though she must be well over ninety. Certainly Philip never had any money from