Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers

younger of the two, who carried a small bag, was turning to apologise, when a light of recognition flashed across his face.
        ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Storey!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Where are you off to? I haven’t seen you for an age.’
        ‘I’m afraid,’ said Philip Storey, ‘I haven’t the pleasure—’
        ‘Cut it out,’ said the other, laughing. ‘I’d know that scar of yours anywhere. Going to the States?’
        ‘Well, yes,’ said the other, seeing that his acquaintance’s boisterous manner was attracting attention. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s Lord Peter Wimsey, isn’t it? Yes, I’m joining the wife out there.’
        ‘And how is she?’ enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar and sitting down at a table. ‘Left last week, didn’t she? I saw it in the papers.’
        ‘Yes. She’s cabled me to join her. We’re – er – taking a holiday in – er – the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer.’
        ‘Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd how things turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute. Chasing criminals – my hobby, you know.’
        ‘Oh, really?’ Mr Storey licked his lips.
        ‘Yes. This is Defective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard – great pal of mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag that ought to have been reposin’ peacefully at Paddington turns up at Eaton Socon. No business there, what?’
        He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.
        Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across the opening of the bag as though to hide its contents.
        ‘How did you get that?’ he screamed. ‘Eaton Socon? It – I never—’
        ‘It’s mine,’ said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back, realising that he had betrayed himself. ‘Some jewellery of my mother’s. What did you think it was?’
        Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.
        ‘You needn’t answer that,’ he said. ‘I arrest you, Philip Storey, for the murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you.’

THE UNPRINCIPLED AFFAIR OF THE PRACTICAL JOKER
    The Zambesi , they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning. Mrs Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband. After that would begin the sickening period of waiting – it might be days, it might be weeks, possibly even months – for the inevitable discovery.
        The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:
        ‘Lord Peter Wimsey and valet – London – Suite 24.’
        Mrs Ruyslaender’s heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possible that, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little from Him – all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor. It was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a man she had never even seen.
        Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. She dismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at her own haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to the door – then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time she turned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without giving herself time to think.
        A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was 11 o’clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs Ruyslaender gave a sharp knock on Lord Peter Wimsey’s door and stood back, waiting, with the sort of desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerous letter thump the bottom of the pillar-box. Whatever the adventure, she was committed to it.
        The manservant was of the imperturbable sort. He neither invited nor rejected, but stood respectfully upon the threshold.
        ‘Lord Peter