nineveh_uk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nineveh_uk) wrote2009-07-29 09:51 pm
nineveh_uk) wrote2009-07-29 09:51 pm
Entry tags:
Wimseyfic: Any publicity
The "first lines of your last twenty fics" meme that is going round is making me feel guilty. I had a look, but I really haven't done as much fic in the past twelve months as I would like, and an awful lot of what I have done is pretty short or silly. It isn't that I haven't had ideas, just that the WIPs sit firmly as WIPS to which I add scraps, and Peter and Harriet are still stuck in a punt or engaged in various disastrous conversations, and Narcissa Malfoy is wondering what to do about the Dutch Elm disease.
So spurred on by guilt, I finally got round to the following. It's a missing scene from have His Carcase, in which Peter learns of Harriet's discovery.
Usual disclaimers, not my IP, rated harmlessly grown-up at most, if you read the books you can read this.
The news-editor, returning from the lavatory past the desk of his senior crime reporter, observed with satisfaction that the face that on his outward journey had recalled a basset hound who hasn’t had a sniff of a bone for weeks had taken on an altogether more lupine character.
“Who,” nodded Salcombe Hardy at the telephone, “do you think that was?”
“Astonish me.”
“Harriet Vane. You remember – the mystery writer. Lord Peter Wimsey’s bit of stuff.”
“And acquitted murderess. We’re not the women’s page.”
“She thinks of herself as a mystery writer – that’s why she phoned. She’s found a man on a beach with his throat cut.”
This was gratifying news, calculated to raise the eyebrows of even the most jaded pressman. Mr Lundy’s eyebrows duly rose.
“Of course,” continued Hardy, “What she really wants is a bit of publicity to coincide with her new book. Naturally I assured her of the Morning Star’s interest and sympathy.”
“Reckon you can get something decent out of it?”
“I expect so. Thought I’d run down tomorrow and take a look. We’ve been a bit quiet lately. All this stuff about the sun bringing out the criminals might fly in Italy, but the Anglo-Saxon murderer seems to suffer from heat lethargy. Besides, an unidentified bloke found with slashed neck in mysterious circs is always good. Not to mention the lady novelist herself.”
“Yes, we haven’t run anything on her for a while – bit slack, that. And see if you can get a quote out of Wimsey. He’s always good copy.”
The wolfish look returned.
“I’ll do that. He can run me down to Devon, too.”
*
Lord Peter Wimsey, arriving home from a pleasant hour or so getting the breath knocked out of him in an attempt to make up in martial skill what he lacked in weight and height, had looked forward to a quiet evening with the piano. The music might be interspersed with a little fretting as to the whereabouts of Harriet Vane, who was not answering her telephone, although he was comforted by the knowledge that whilst no doubt he was very far down the list of individuals who would be informed were she seriously ill, he knew she couldn’t be dead because it would have been in the newspapers.
It was therefore a little irritating to hear the shrill of the telephone followed not by Bunter’s resolute “His Lordship is not at home”, but his manservant’s approaching tread and appearance in the doorway of the dressing room to announce “Mr Salcombe Hardy, my lord.”
“Thanks, Bunter. I’ll take in the library.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Lord Peter collected his brandy, waited a moment to bring Mr Hardy up to the right pitch of frustration, and lifted the receiver.
“That you, Sally? Wimsey here. What have you got for me?”
“A good one. That Vane woman of yours has got herself mixed up in another queer story.”
“What the devil - ”
“She ‘phoned this afternoon. Enterprising young woman, isn’t she? She’s found a corpse on the beach –”
“What beach?”
“ - and thought she’d get what she could out of it.”
“And now you want to get what you can out of her?”
“Oh, she was more than willing – but you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
“Now look here, Hardy, you’d better – “
Salcombe Hardy laughed coarsely. “Come off it, Wimsey. It’s hardly a secret the way the two of you go about. I’m doing you a favour. Have the Wilvercombe police rung you yet?”
“What?”
“Don’t be naive. They’ll want to know what she’s been up to lately. Give me a quote, won’t you? I could do with a bit of colour.”
“Hardy, you’re drunk, you’re disreputable, and you’re insulting. I’ll give you a quote all right. Where are you?”
“The Morning Star, where do you think I am? I’ve a story to get out, and you aren’t making it any easier.”
“Then I’d better come round and give you a hand.” He slammed the telephone mouthpiece onto the hook, missed, and caught his wrist with an oath.
“Allow me, my lord.”
“Bunter. We are going to Wilvercombe, probably tomorrow, but possibly tonight. See to it, will you?”
“Very good, my lord.”
*
The reception clerks of Fleet Street are a tough breed, able to sum up the furious intruder in the blink of an eye. The young man behind the desk at the Morning Star observed that the whirlwind breaking upon him had, white face and set jaw notwithstanding, managed the revolving door without apparent difficulty, and though perhaps contemplating violence at least intended to direct it. He rose from his wheeled seat, pasting on a suitably placatory smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I be of service?”
Lord Peter, who had been carefully brought up, struggled inwardly for a moment, but lost.
“I want to see Salcombe Hardy.”
“Very good, sir. Is My Hardy expecting you?”
“Very much so.”
“Thank you, sir. If you take the lift to the third floor, Miss Elscombe will direct you.” He watched the doors closed, and picked up the telephone.
The lift, the slowness of which was a deliberate ploy by the management who relied on the impatience it engendered to ensure that their staff took at least a minimum of exercise during the day, did nothing for Wimsey’s temper. He thrust aside the cage and barrelled straight out into the arms of Miss Elscombl. Lucy Elscombe, small, blonde, and altogether elfin in appearance, was like that race vulnerable only to cold steel. She was employed by the Morning Star as secretary and watchdog, possessing a remarkable ability to arouse either the protective or the sex instinct of almost the entirety of the male population. On at least one occasion she had reduced a millionaire oil tycoon to profound apology at his misinterpretation of a story, and unknown numbers of politicians swore they’d never be taken in again and succumbed every time. Unfortunately for Hardy, both Wimsey’s protective and sex instincts were both already fully engaged in the case. He disentangled himself from Miss Elscombe, raised his hat, told her she looked charming, and was through the door without a heed for the well-formed bosom beneath the transparent blouse.
Sally Hardy was bent over a typewriter, clattering the keys with surprising delicacy.
“Half a jiff, Wimsey”, he called across the room, and Wimsey, taken aback by this unexpected industry, waited. He had not, with the privilege of a man who has never had to work for his living, previously considered that Sally Hardy’s undoubted professional renown might arise from professional efforts.
“That should do it. Wilkins, take this downstairs and tell them not to butcher it like last week. Got my quote, Wimsey? Knew you’d come through.”
“Oh, you wanted a quote, didn’t you?” He viewed the desk through narrowed eyes, sauntered across as though to perch casually upon the corner, and lunged for the typewriter.
A brief struggle left Hardy yielding with a bruised forearm, and the paper somewhat tattered in Wimsey’s hand. Hardy subsided with a glass of whisky as Wimsey read. The story was as squalid as expected, innuendo carefully pitched to provoke maximum speculation and minimum legal threat. With this in the press, Harriet would be fair game, and his own presence in Wilvercombe impossible. And he had to go to Wilvercombe.
“So what do you think? Pretty colourful, eh? Should get a few days out of this one. Of course, the young lady helps. A slashed throat is all very well, but an interesting young woman in the case does wonders for the circulation.”
“I dare say. But you’re not publishing this.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’m serious, Sally. If you do this you’ll never get another thing out of me.”
“I say, Peter!” Sally jerked upright, and knocked a glass across the desk. “Steady on, old chap. And have a drink – you could do with one. What’s wrong with it? Plenty of local colour, bit of stuff about helping the police, and a good plug for the girl’s new book.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Wimsey slammed the bottle into the desk. “What’s wrong? My God, man, have you even read it? Have you thought for a second what this will do to her? You know the police must suspect her – you said so yourself. As for the press, you’ve written it. Mysterious man on the beach: foreigner or artist? What’s he doing there? Does she know him? And why exactly is she out of town anyway – for her health?”
“Steady on, old chap!”
“Don’t you play naive. You know just what you’ve done here, and if you publish it I’ll do my damnedest to see that not only do you get nothing out of me, but that Scotland Yard becomes a hell of a lot less co-operative.”
“You wouldn’t do that!”
“Oh, I would. I could do it, too.”
“Well, I think that’s dashed unfair. Here am I, the faithful reporter letting you in on the story about your girl, and this is the thanks I get. It’s ungrateful, that’s what it is.”
“That’s life. Are you going to re-write it, or need I take steps?”
“It’s worth that much to you?”
“Yes.”
Hardy reached absently for the paper. “You really are gone on her, aren’t you?” He picked up a pencil and sighed. “It was a good story, but a newsman must protect his stories. If the ‘tec won’t let him have the girl – mind you, the girl won’t be pleased. The publicity was her idea.”
“There’s publicity and publicity.”
“So there is.” He hummed and scribbled a couple of lines. “You didn’t know where she was, did you? Not quite love’s young dream, is it?”
“Mind your own bloody business.”
“Tell you what, you give me a lift down in the morning – can’t stand trains - and I’ll tell you where she is. Hotel Resplendent, Wilvercombe. Decent place, she must be doing alright out of those books. Tell her to put the next serialisation our way, instead of the Yell. Reckon we could do something with it.” He flourished the foolscap. “Take a look at that.”
Wimsey wielded a red pen for a few moments and handed the paper back. “Better. Keep going; I’ve got all evening. Bunter can do the packing. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five.”
So spurred on by guilt, I finally got round to the following. It's a missing scene from have His Carcase, in which Peter learns of Harriet's discovery.
Usual disclaimers, not my IP, rated harmlessly grown-up at most, if you read the books you can read this.
The news-editor, returning from the lavatory past the desk of his senior crime reporter, observed with satisfaction that the face that on his outward journey had recalled a basset hound who hasn’t had a sniff of a bone for weeks had taken on an altogether more lupine character.
“Who,” nodded Salcombe Hardy at the telephone, “do you think that was?”
“Astonish me.”
“Harriet Vane. You remember – the mystery writer. Lord Peter Wimsey’s bit of stuff.”
“And acquitted murderess. We’re not the women’s page.”
“She thinks of herself as a mystery writer – that’s why she phoned. She’s found a man on a beach with his throat cut.”
This was gratifying news, calculated to raise the eyebrows of even the most jaded pressman. Mr Lundy’s eyebrows duly rose.
“Of course,” continued Hardy, “What she really wants is a bit of publicity to coincide with her new book. Naturally I assured her of the Morning Star’s interest and sympathy.”
“Reckon you can get something decent out of it?”
“I expect so. Thought I’d run down tomorrow and take a look. We’ve been a bit quiet lately. All this stuff about the sun bringing out the criminals might fly in Italy, but the Anglo-Saxon murderer seems to suffer from heat lethargy. Besides, an unidentified bloke found with slashed neck in mysterious circs is always good. Not to mention the lady novelist herself.”
“Yes, we haven’t run anything on her for a while – bit slack, that. And see if you can get a quote out of Wimsey. He’s always good copy.”
The wolfish look returned.
“I’ll do that. He can run me down to Devon, too.”
*
Lord Peter Wimsey, arriving home from a pleasant hour or so getting the breath knocked out of him in an attempt to make up in martial skill what he lacked in weight and height, had looked forward to a quiet evening with the piano. The music might be interspersed with a little fretting as to the whereabouts of Harriet Vane, who was not answering her telephone, although he was comforted by the knowledge that whilst no doubt he was very far down the list of individuals who would be informed were she seriously ill, he knew she couldn’t be dead because it would have been in the newspapers.
It was therefore a little irritating to hear the shrill of the telephone followed not by Bunter’s resolute “His Lordship is not at home”, but his manservant’s approaching tread and appearance in the doorway of the dressing room to announce “Mr Salcombe Hardy, my lord.”
“Thanks, Bunter. I’ll take in the library.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Lord Peter collected his brandy, waited a moment to bring Mr Hardy up to the right pitch of frustration, and lifted the receiver.
“That you, Sally? Wimsey here. What have you got for me?”
“A good one. That Vane woman of yours has got herself mixed up in another queer story.”
“What the devil - ”
“She ‘phoned this afternoon. Enterprising young woman, isn’t she? She’s found a corpse on the beach –”
“What beach?”
“ - and thought she’d get what she could out of it.”
“And now you want to get what you can out of her?”
“Oh, she was more than willing – but you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
“Now look here, Hardy, you’d better – “
Salcombe Hardy laughed coarsely. “Come off it, Wimsey. It’s hardly a secret the way the two of you go about. I’m doing you a favour. Have the Wilvercombe police rung you yet?”
“What?”
“Don’t be naive. They’ll want to know what she’s been up to lately. Give me a quote, won’t you? I could do with a bit of colour.”
“Hardy, you’re drunk, you’re disreputable, and you’re insulting. I’ll give you a quote all right. Where are you?”
“The Morning Star, where do you think I am? I’ve a story to get out, and you aren’t making it any easier.”
“Then I’d better come round and give you a hand.” He slammed the telephone mouthpiece onto the hook, missed, and caught his wrist with an oath.
“Allow me, my lord.”
“Bunter. We are going to Wilvercombe, probably tomorrow, but possibly tonight. See to it, will you?”
“Very good, my lord.”
*
The reception clerks of Fleet Street are a tough breed, able to sum up the furious intruder in the blink of an eye. The young man behind the desk at the Morning Star observed that the whirlwind breaking upon him had, white face and set jaw notwithstanding, managed the revolving door without apparent difficulty, and though perhaps contemplating violence at least intended to direct it. He rose from his wheeled seat, pasting on a suitably placatory smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I be of service?”
Lord Peter, who had been carefully brought up, struggled inwardly for a moment, but lost.
“I want to see Salcombe Hardy.”
“Very good, sir. Is My Hardy expecting you?”
“Very much so.”
“Thank you, sir. If you take the lift to the third floor, Miss Elscombe will direct you.” He watched the doors closed, and picked up the telephone.
The lift, the slowness of which was a deliberate ploy by the management who relied on the impatience it engendered to ensure that their staff took at least a minimum of exercise during the day, did nothing for Wimsey’s temper. He thrust aside the cage and barrelled straight out into the arms of Miss Elscombl. Lucy Elscombe, small, blonde, and altogether elfin in appearance, was like that race vulnerable only to cold steel. She was employed by the Morning Star as secretary and watchdog, possessing a remarkable ability to arouse either the protective or the sex instinct of almost the entirety of the male population. On at least one occasion she had reduced a millionaire oil tycoon to profound apology at his misinterpretation of a story, and unknown numbers of politicians swore they’d never be taken in again and succumbed every time. Unfortunately for Hardy, both Wimsey’s protective and sex instincts were both already fully engaged in the case. He disentangled himself from Miss Elscombe, raised his hat, told her she looked charming, and was through the door without a heed for the well-formed bosom beneath the transparent blouse.
Sally Hardy was bent over a typewriter, clattering the keys with surprising delicacy.
“Half a jiff, Wimsey”, he called across the room, and Wimsey, taken aback by this unexpected industry, waited. He had not, with the privilege of a man who has never had to work for his living, previously considered that Sally Hardy’s undoubted professional renown might arise from professional efforts.
“That should do it. Wilkins, take this downstairs and tell them not to butcher it like last week. Got my quote, Wimsey? Knew you’d come through.”
“Oh, you wanted a quote, didn’t you?” He viewed the desk through narrowed eyes, sauntered across as though to perch casually upon the corner, and lunged for the typewriter.
A brief struggle left Hardy yielding with a bruised forearm, and the paper somewhat tattered in Wimsey’s hand. Hardy subsided with a glass of whisky as Wimsey read. The story was as squalid as expected, innuendo carefully pitched to provoke maximum speculation and minimum legal threat. With this in the press, Harriet would be fair game, and his own presence in Wilvercombe impossible. And he had to go to Wilvercombe.
“So what do you think? Pretty colourful, eh? Should get a few days out of this one. Of course, the young lady helps. A slashed throat is all very well, but an interesting young woman in the case does wonders for the circulation.”
“I dare say. But you’re not publishing this.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’m serious, Sally. If you do this you’ll never get another thing out of me.”
“I say, Peter!” Sally jerked upright, and knocked a glass across the desk. “Steady on, old chap. And have a drink – you could do with one. What’s wrong with it? Plenty of local colour, bit of stuff about helping the police, and a good plug for the girl’s new book.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Wimsey slammed the bottle into the desk. “What’s wrong? My God, man, have you even read it? Have you thought for a second what this will do to her? You know the police must suspect her – you said so yourself. As for the press, you’ve written it. Mysterious man on the beach: foreigner or artist? What’s he doing there? Does she know him? And why exactly is she out of town anyway – for her health?”
“Steady on, old chap!”
“Don’t you play naive. You know just what you’ve done here, and if you publish it I’ll do my damnedest to see that not only do you get nothing out of me, but that Scotland Yard becomes a hell of a lot less co-operative.”
“You wouldn’t do that!”
“Oh, I would. I could do it, too.”
“Well, I think that’s dashed unfair. Here am I, the faithful reporter letting you in on the story about your girl, and this is the thanks I get. It’s ungrateful, that’s what it is.”
“That’s life. Are you going to re-write it, or need I take steps?”
“It’s worth that much to you?”
“Yes.”
Hardy reached absently for the paper. “You really are gone on her, aren’t you?” He picked up a pencil and sighed. “It was a good story, but a newsman must protect his stories. If the ‘tec won’t let him have the girl – mind you, the girl won’t be pleased. The publicity was her idea.”
“There’s publicity and publicity.”
“So there is.” He hummed and scribbled a couple of lines. “You didn’t know where she was, did you? Not quite love’s young dream, is it?”
“Mind your own bloody business.”
“Tell you what, you give me a lift down in the morning – can’t stand trains - and I’ll tell you where she is. Hotel Resplendent, Wilvercombe. Decent place, she must be doing alright out of those books. Tell her to put the next serialisation our way, instead of the Yell. Reckon we could do something with it.” He flourished the foolscap. “Take a look at that.”
Wimsey wielded a red pen for a few moments and handed the paper back. “Better. Keep going; I’ve got all evening. Bunter can do the packing. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five.”