nineveh_uk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nineveh_uk) wrote2008-06-16 11:25 am
nineveh_uk) wrote2008-06-16 11:25 am
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Eleven Things that Weren’t Written by Dorothy L. Sayers, VII
Spoilers and disclaimers (incl. for directly quoted text) as usual.
Have his Carcase
I
Harriet Vane looked out at the sweeping rain. She had started on a solitary walking-tour of the south coast: plenty of exercise, no responsibilities, and no letters forwarded. The time was June, the weather hitherto perfect. She had intended to spend the day walking the sixteen miles along the cliffs to Wilvercombe. But the sky was black, her lodgings comfortable, and she had had an idea for The Fountain-Pen Mystery. She turned her back on the lowering clouds and ran down the stairs to reserve her room for a second night.
II
Harriet watched Wimsey as he ran, bathing-suited, down over the sand.
‘And he strips better than I expected,’ she admitted candidly to herself. ‘Better shoulders than I realised, and calves to his legs, and really a very nice bum.’
III
‘I say, Peter! That’s not a bad idea for a novel.’
‘What?’
‘The blood. If one could contrive a situation in which the only evidence for the time of death was that the blood hadn’t clotted, and contrive some way that the blood wouldn’t clot, then the murderer could arrange a false alibi.’
‘Harriet!’
‘My God, Peter. You don’t think that Henry Weldon – ’
‘No. Not arrange it – you said that Henry Weldon was stupid. And arranging that sort of thing would require a good deal of ingenuity. But there is another possibility.’
IV
And dinner. And dancing. And so to bed.
‘Oh my Lord!’
***
Plus one or two extras in the comments courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
azdak.
Have his Carcase
I
Harriet Vane looked out at the sweeping rain. She had started on a solitary walking-tour of the south coast: plenty of exercise, no responsibilities, and no letters forwarded. The time was June, the weather hitherto perfect. She had intended to spend the day walking the sixteen miles along the cliffs to Wilvercombe. But the sky was black, her lodgings comfortable, and she had had an idea for The Fountain-Pen Mystery. She turned her back on the lowering clouds and ran down the stairs to reserve her room for a second night.
II
Harriet watched Wimsey as he ran, bathing-suited, down over the sand.
‘And he strips better than I expected,’ she admitted candidly to herself. ‘Better shoulders than I realised, and calves to his legs, and really a very nice bum.’
III
‘I say, Peter! That’s not a bad idea for a novel.’
‘What?’
‘The blood. If one could contrive a situation in which the only evidence for the time of death was that the blood hadn’t clotted, and contrive some way that the blood wouldn’t clot, then the murderer could arrange a false alibi.’
‘Harriet!’
‘My God, Peter. You don’t think that Henry Weldon – ’
‘No. Not arrange it – you said that Henry Weldon was stupid. And arranging that sort of thing would require a good deal of ingenuity. But there is another possibility.’
IV
And dinner. And dancing. And so to bed.
‘Oh my Lord!’
***
Plus one or two extras in the comments courtesy of
azdak.
Re: The highwayman came riding, riding, riding