The Lesson Plan Calendars provide daily suggestions about what to teach. They include detailed descriptions of when to assign reading, homework, in-class work, fun activities, quizzes, tests and more. Use the entire Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel calendar, or supplement it with your own curriculum ideas.
Calendars cover one, two, four, and eight week units. Determine how long your Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel unit will be, then use one of the calendars provided to plan out your entire lesson. Chapter abstracts are short descriptions of events that occur in each chapter of Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel. They highlight major plot events and detail the important relationships and characteristics of important characters. The Chapter Abstracts can be used to review what the students have read, or to prepare the students for what they will read.
Hand the abstracts out in class as a study guide, or use them as a "key" for a class discussion. They are relatively brief, but can serve to be an excellent refresher of Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel for either a student or teacher. Character and Object Descriptions provide descriptions of the significant characters as well as objects and places in Whose Body?: These can be printed out and used as an individual study guide for students, a "key" for leading a class discussion, a summary review prior to exams, or a refresher for an educator.
The character and object descriptions are also used in some of the quizzes and tests in this lesson plan. The longest descriptions run about words. They become shorter as the importance of the character or object declines. This section of the lesson plan contains 30 Daily Lessons. Daily Lessons each have a specific objective and offer at least three often more ways to teach that objective. Lessons include classroom discussions, group and partner activities, in-class handouts, individual writing assignments, at least one homework assignment, class participation exercises and other ways to teach students about Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel in a classroom setting.
You can combine daily lessons or use the ideas within them to create your own unique curriculum. They vary greatly from day to day and offer an array of creative ideas that provide many options for an educator. Fun Classroom Activities differ from Daily Lessons because they make "fun" a priority.
The 20 enjoyable, interactive classroom activities that are included will help students understand Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel in fun and entertaining ways. Fun Classroom Activities include group projects, games, critical thinking activities, brainstorming sessions, writing poems, drawing or sketching, and countless other creative exercises.
Many of the activities encourage students to interact with each other, be creative and think "outside of the box," and ultimately grasp key concepts from the text by "doing" rather than simply studying. Fun activities are a great way to keep students interested and engaged while still providing a deeper understanding of Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel and its themes.
Students should have a full understanding of the unit material in order to answer these questions. They often include multiple parts of the work and ask for a thorough analysis of the overall text. He does realise, I know, that in this case there can be no consent but free consent. Peter is forty-five now, it is really time he was settled. As you will see, I have been one of the important formative influences in his career, and, on the whole, I feel he does me credit.
He is a true Delagardie, with little of the Wimseys about him except I must be fair that underlying sense of social responsibility which prevents the English landed gentry from being a total loss, spiritually speaking. Detective or no detective, he is a scholar and a gentleman; it will amuse me to see what sort of shot he makes at being a husband and father.
I am getting an old man, and have no son of my own that I know of ; I should be glad to see Peter happy. This book is your fault. If it had not been for your brutal insistence, Lord Peter would never have staggered through to the end of this enquiry. Pray consider that he thanks you with his accustomed suavity. The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19 'bus, a b and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear.
D'you mind puttin' back to where we came from? His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola. The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks with a noise like the grinding of teeth. The block of new, perfect and expensive flats in which Lord Peter dwelt upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in a spot for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrate commercial enterprise.
As Lord Peter let himself in he heard his man's voice in the library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained persons using the telephone. I was just saying your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship's latchkey. I think I must have left it in my bedroom, or on the desk. He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat.
I'd just started off to Brocklebury's sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for the catalogue. You know little Mr. Oh, yes, the little architect man who's doing the church roof. He was so upset, poor little man. He'd found a dead body in his bath. Please don't cut us off. Is that you, Mother? What sort of body? Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I'm afraid people do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages.
She said he sounded quite distracted. He's such a respectable little man—and having the police in the house, and so on, really worried him. Uncommonly awkward for him. Let's see, he lives in Battersea, doesn't he? That big block just round the corner from the Hospital. I thought perhaps you'd like to run round and see him and ask if there's anything we can do. I always thought him a nice little man. The Duchess was always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal investigation, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite fiction of its non-existence.
She came up to me just before lunch—so tiresome, I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone. I don't mind being bored myself, but I hate having my guests bored. Well, thanks awfully for tellin' me. I think I'll send Bunter to the sale and toddle round to Battersea now an' try and console the poor little beast. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and Balliol had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue?
I am going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the sale for me. Don't lose time—I don't want to miss the Folio Dante  nor the de Voragine—here you are—see? Golden Legend —Wynkyn de Worde, —got that? I've marked the lots I want, and put my outside offer against each. Do your best for me. I shall be back to dinner. He may for you; he doesn't like me very much. Ten to one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker.
A grey suit, I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone suits my other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive introduced by solo bassoon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman. Invaluable fellow—never offers to do his job when you've told him to do somethin' else. Hope he doesn't miss the Four Sons of Aymon. Still, there is another copy of that—in the Vatican. He selected a dark-green tie to match his socks and tied it accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips; substituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle into a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with a heavy silver knob.
Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left eyebrows which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first greeting, he made a self-conscious apology for it, murmuring something about having run against the dining-room door in the dark.
He was touched almost to tears by Lord Peter's thoughtfulness and condescension in calling. It's what Mother and me have never been used to, always living very retired, and it's most distressing to a man of regular habits, my lord, and reely, I'm almost thankful Mother doesn't understand, for I'm sure it would worry her terribly if she was to know about it.
She was upset at first, but she's made up some idea of her own about it now, and I'm sure it's all for the best. Not but what it's just as well she's settled on that, because she understands we've locked up the bathroom and don't try to go in there. But it's been a terrible shock to me, sir—my lord, I should say, but there!
Such a thing has never 'appened—happened to me in all my born days. Such a state I was in this morning—I didn't know if I [Pg 15] was on my head or my heels—I reely didn't, and my heart not being too strong, I hardly knew how to get out of that horrid room and telephone for the police. It's affected me, sir, it's affected me, it reely has—I couldn't touch a bit of breakfast, nor lunch neither, and what with telephoning and putting off clients and interviewing people all morning, I've hardly known what to do with myself. Hate anything tiresome happenin' before breakfast.
Takes a man at such a confounded disadvantage, what? I'm not very strong, sir, and I get that sinking feeling sometimes in the morning, and what with one thing and another I 'ad—had to send the girl for a stiff brandy, or I don't know what mightn't have happened. I felt so queer, though I'm anything but partial to spirits as a rule. Still, I make it a rule never to be without brandy, in the house, in case of emergency, you know? Wonderful what a little nip'll do in case of need, and the less you're used to it the more good it does you.
Hope your girl is a sensible young woman, what? Nuisance to have women faintin' and shriekin' all over the place. She was shocked, of course, that's very understandable. I was shocked myself, and it wouldn't be proper in a young woman not to be shocked under the circumstances, but she is reely a helpful, energetic girl in a crisis, if you understand me. I consider myself very fortunate these days to have got a good, decent girl to do for me and Mother, even though she is a bit careless and forgetful about little things, but that's only natural. She was very sorry indeed about having left the bathroom window open, she reely was, and though I was angry at first, seeing what's come of it, it wasn't anything to speak of, not in the ordinary way, as you might say.
Girls will forget things, you know, my lord, and reely she was so distressed I didn't like to say too much to her. All I said was: Quite frightened her, and made her think he suspected her of something, though what good a body could be to her, poor girl, I can't imagine, and so I told the inspector. He was quite rude to me, my lord—I may say I [Pg 16] didn't like his manner at all. When he don't know what else to say, he's rude. Stands to reason you and the girl wouldn't go collectin' bodies. Who'd want to saddle himself with a body? Difficulty's usually to get rid of 'em.
Have you got rid of this one yet, by the way? I'm expecting them at any time. His manner as he led the way along the passage convinced Lord Peter of two things—first, that, gruesome as his exhibit was, he rejoiced in the importance it reflected upon himself and his flat, and secondly, that Inspector Sugg had forbidden him to exhibit it to anyone. The latter supposition was confirmed by the action of Mr. Thipps, who stopped to fetch the door-key from his bedroom, saying that he made it a rule to have two keys to every door, in case of accident.
The bathroom was in no way remarkable. It was long and narrow, the window being exactly over the head of the bath. The panes were of frosted glass; the frame wide enough to admit a man's body. Lord Peter stepped rapidly across to it, opened it and looked out. The flat was the top one of the building and situated about the middle of the block. The bathroom window looked out upon the backyards of the flats, which were occupied by various small outbuildings, coal-holes, garages, and the like.
Beyond these were the back gardens of a parallel line of houses. On the right rose the extensive edifice of St. Luke's Hospital, Battersea, with its grounds, and, connected with it by a covered way, the residence of the famous surgeon, Sir Julian Freke, who directed the surgical side of the great new hospital, and was, in addition, known in Harley Street as a distinguished neurologist with a highly individual point of view.
This information was poured into Lord Peter's ear at considerable length by Mr. Thipps, who seemed to feel that the neighbourhood of anybody so distinguished shed a kind of halo of glory over Queen Caroline Mansions. Inspector Sugg thought one of the young medical [Pg 17] gentlemen at the hospital might have brought the corpse round for a joke, as you might say, they always having bodies in the dissecting-room. So Inspector Sugg went round to see Sir Julian this morning to ask if there was a body missing.
He was very kind, was Sir Julian, very kind indeed, though he was at work when they got there, in the dissecting-room. He screwed his monocle into his eye, adding: Beastly nuisance, ain't it? I get it, too—spoils all my books, you know. Here, don't you trouble, if you don't care about lookin' at it. He took from Mr. Thipps's hesitating hand the sheet which had been flung over the bath, and turned it back.
The body which lay in the bath was that of a tall, stout man of about fifty. The hair, which was thick and black and naturally curly, had been cut and parted by a master hand, and exuded a faint violet perfume, perfectly recognisable in the close air of the bathroom. The features were thick, fleshy and strongly marked, with prominent dark eyes, and a long nose curving down to a heavy chin. The clean-shaven lips were full and sensual, and the dropped jaw showed teeth stained with tobacco. On the dead face the handsome pair of gold pince-nez mocked death with grotesque elegance; the fine gold chain curved over the naked breast.
The legs lay stiffly stretched out side by side; the arms reposed close to the body; the fingers were flexed naturally. Lord Peter lifted one arm, and looked at the hand with a little frown. The absurd eyeglasses slipped off, clattering into the bath, and the noise put the last touch to Mr. He slipped outside, and he had no sooner done so than Lord Peter, lifting the body quickly and cautiously, turned it over and inspected it [Pg 18] with his head on one side, bringing his monocle into play with the air of the late Joseph Chamberlain approving a rare orchid. He then laid the head over his arm, and bringing out the silver matchbox from his pocket, slipped it into the open mouth.
Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel Chapter Summaries (Sponsored)
Nothing appearing to come of these investigations, he withdrew his head, closed the window, and rejoined Mr. Thipps in the passage. Thipps, touched by this sympathetic interest in the younger son of a duke, took the liberty, on their return to the sitting-room, of offering him a cup of tea. Lord Peter, who had strolled over to the window and was admiring the outlook on Battersea Park, was about to accept, when an ambulance came into view at the end of Prince of Wales Road.
He was none too soon. As he stepped out of the door and turned towards the station, the ambulance drew up from the other direction, and Inspector Sugg emerged from it with two constables. The inspector spoke to the officer on duty at the Mansions, and turned a suspicious gaze on Lord Peter's retreating back. How he does hate me, to be sure. The thought of the Dante makes my mouth water—and the Four Sons of Aymon.
What shall we spend it on, Bunter? What do we want? Anything in your department? Would you like anything altered in the flat? It's no good talking as if you were announcing dinner—you're spilling the brandy. The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau. What does that blessed darkroom of yours want now? Or the wide-angled lens would be useful. It's as though the camera had eyes at the back of its head, my lord. Look—I've got it here. Lord Peter perused the description slowly, the corners of his long mouth lifted into a faint smile. Tell me, Bunter, in these democratic days, don't you think that's unfair?
Noblesse oblige —for a consideration. I daresay you're right. Then you're better off than I am, because I'd have to behave myself to Lady Worthington if I hadn't a penny. Bunter, if I sacked you here and now, would you tell me what you think of me? You're a demon for coffee, Bunter—I don't know how you do it, because I believe it to be witchcraft, and I don't want to burn eternally. You can buy your cross-eyed lens.
Lord Peter's library was one of the most delightful bachelor rooms in London.
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Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces of the houris. What a beastly foggy night, ain't it? Bunter, some more of that admirable coffee and another glass and the cigars.
Parker, I hope you're full of crime—nothing less than arson or murder will do for us to-night. Bunter, who did the bargaining, is going to have a lens which does all kinds of wonderful things with its eyes shut, and. It's mine at present, but we're going shares in it. Property of the firm. Won't you join us? You really must put something in the jack-pot. Perhaps you have a body. Oh, do have a body. He tips a glassy wink at yours truly and yours truly read the truth. So've I, and met Sugg, and he told me he'd seen you. He was cross, too. Unwarrantable interference, he calls it.
I see by the Star that he has excelled himself by taking the girl, Gladys What's-her-name, into custody. Sugg of the evening, beautiful Sugg! But what were you doing there? Thipps's bath was by any extraordinary chance Sir Reuben Levy. Wait a minute, I saw something about that.
I didn't read it carefully. It only happened this morning, and nobody would have thought anything about it, only it happened to be the day on which he had arranged to attend a most important financial meeting and do some deal involving millions—I haven't got all the details. But I know he's got enemies who'd just as soon the deal didn't come off, so when I got wind of this fellow in the bath, I buzzed round to have a look at him. It didn't seem likely, of course, but unlikelier things do happen in our profession.
The funny thing is, old Sugg has got bitten with the idea it is him, and is wildly telegraphing to Lady Levy to come and identify him.
Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel Lesson Plans for Teachers
Oddly enough, though, he would be really extraordinarily like Sir Reuben if he had a beard, and as Lady Levy is abroad with the family, somebody may say it's him, and Sugg will build up a lovely theory, like the Tower of Babel, and destined so to perish. Well, I don't know anything about Levy, but I've seen the body, and I should say the idea was preposterous upon the face of it. What do you think of the brandy? But I want your yarn.
Invaluable man, Bunter—amazin' fellow with a camera. And the odd thing is, he's always on the spot when I want my bath or my boots. I don't know when he develops things—I believe he does 'em in his sleep. Parker has a new trick: Absolutely [Pg 22] no deception. Will some gentleman from the audience kindly step upon the platform and inspect the cabinet?
The quickness of the 'and deceives the heye. Sir Reuben Levy dined last night with three friends at the Ritz. After dinner the friends went to the theatre. He refused to go with them on account of an appointment. I haven't yet been able to trace the appointment, but anyhow, he returned home to his house—9 a Park Lane—at twelve o'clock. He walked upstairs, leaving his greatcoat on the hall peg and his umbrella in the stand—you remember how it rained last night. He undressed and went to bed. Next morning he wasn't there. When his man came to call him he wasn't there.
The bed had been slept in. His pyjamas and all his clothes were there, the only odd thing being that they were thrown rather untidily on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, instead of being neatly folded on a chair, as is Sir Reuben's custom—looking as though he had been rather agitated or unwell. No clean clothes were missing, no suit, no boots—nothing.
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The boots he had worn were in his dressing-room as usual. He had washed and cleaned his teeth and done all the usual things. The housemaid was down cleaning the hall at half-past six, and can swear that nobody came in or out after that. So one is forced to suppose that a respectable middle-aged Hebrew financier either went mad between twelve and six a. No; contrary to custom, there was only the Yale lock on the door.
On the other hand, some of the maids had been given leave to go to the theatre, and Sir Reuben may quite conceivably have left the door open under the impression they had not come in. Such a thing has happened before. Lady Levy, as I said before, is in Mentone at the moment for her health. In her absence, Sir Reuben sleeps in the double bed as usual, and invariably on his own side—the outside—of the bed. Last night he put the two pillows together and slept in the middle, or, if anything, rather closer to the wall than otherwise.
The housemaid, who is a most intelligent girl, noticed this when she went up to make the bed, and, with really admirable detective instinct, refused to touch the bed or let anybody else touch it, though it wasn't till later that they actually sent for the police. The valet, cook, parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid were the only people in the house, and naturally wasted an hour or two squawking and gossiping.
I got there about ten. There may be some quite simple explanation, though I'm dashed if I can think of one for the moment. Hang it all, a man doesn't come in and go to bed and walk away again 'mid nodings on' in the middle of the night. But it's deuced odd, Wimsey. An important city man, on the eve of an important transaction, without a word of warning to anybody, slips off in the middle of the night, disguised down to his skin, leaving behind his watch, purse, cheque-book, and—most mysterious and important of all—his spectacles, without which he can't see a step, as he is extremely short-sighted.
Even if he'd gone out to commit suicide he'd have taken those. However, I didn't overlook the possibility. I've got particulars of all to-day's street accidents, and I can lay my hand on my heart and say that none of them is Sir Reuben. Besides, he took his latchkey with him, which looks as though he'd meant to come back. They said that he seemed in the best [Pg 24] of health and spirits, spoke of looking forward to joining Lady Levy later on—perhaps at Christmas—and referred with great satisfaction to this morning's business transaction, in which one of them—a man called Anderson of Wyndham's—was himself concerned.
Whatever happened to change his mind must have happened either at the mysterious appointment which he kept after dinner, or while he was in bed between midnight and 5. Except that it is odd that a gentleman who was too flurried or unwell to fold his clothes as usual should remember to clean his teeth and put his boots out. Those are two things that quite frequently get overlooked, my lord. It's a sweet little problem, Parker mine. Look here, I don't want to butt in, but I should dearly love to see that bedroom to-morrow.
Say me not nay—take another drop of brandy and a Villary Villar, but say not, say not nay! I look at you, and Sugg appears a myth, a fable, an idiot-boy, spawned in a moonlight hour by some fantastic poet's brain. Sugg is too perfect to be possible. What does he make of the body, by the way?
The doctor told him that. He says it's been dead a day or two. The doctor told him that, too. He says it's the body of a well-to-do Hebrew of about fifty. Anybody could have told him that. He says it's ridiculous to suppose it came in through the window without anybody knowing anything about it. He says it probably walked in through the front door and was murdered by the household. He's arrested the girl because she's short and frail-looking and quite unequal to downing a tall and sturdy Semite with a poker. He'd arrest Thipps, only Thipps was away in Manchester all yesterday and the day before and didn't come back till late last night—in fact, he wanted to arrest him till I reminded him that if the body had been a day or two dead, little Thipps couldn't have done him in at But he'll arrest him to-morrow as an accessory—and the old lady with the knitting, too, I shouldn't wonder.
Remember Impey Biggs defending in that Chelsea teashop affair? Six bloomin' medicos contradictin' each other in the box, an' old Impey elocutin' abnormal cases from Glaister and Dixon Mann till the eyes of the jury reeled in their heads! Thingumtight, that the onset of rigor mortis indicates the hour of death without the possibility of error? We can't get on without a minority report. Thingumtight, respects the rights of the minority, alive or dead.
My client—an upright and honourable gentleman—is being tried for his life—for his life, gentlemen—and it is the business of the prosecution to show his guilt—if they can—without a shadow of doubt. Thingumtight, I ask you again, can you solemnly swear, without the least shadow of doubt—probable, possible shadow of doubt—that this unhappy woman met her death neither sooner nor later than Thursday evening? Gentlemen, we are not Jesuits, we are straightforward Englishmen.
You cannot ask a British-born jury to convict any man on the authority of a probable opinion. Under certain circumstances, however, it may appear unusually early, or be retarded unusually long'! Helpful, ain't it, Parker? In certain cases not until lapse of 16 hours after death You can run the argument for what it's worth to Sugg. He won't know any better. What did you make of the body?
I should say he had been a rich man, but self-made, and that his good fortune had come to him fairly recently. Didn't that strike you as odd, in a person evidently well off? The blisters were two or three days old. He might have got stuck in the suburbs one night, perhaps—last train gone and no taxi—and had to walk home. By the way, they had a very beautiful and remarkable chain of flat links chased with a pattern. It struck me he might be traced through it. He smoked quantities of cigarettes without a holder. He was particular about his personal appearance.
You could hardly call it a print. Only it don't [Pg 27] do to wear it permanently—if people see you full-face they say: The gutter's only a couple of feet off the top of the window. I measured it with my stick—the gentleman-scout's vade-mecum, I call it—it's marked off in inches. Uncommonly handy companion at times. There's a sword inside and a compass in the head. Got it made specially. There are just one or two little contradictions. For instance, here's a man wears expensive gold-rimmed pince-nez and has had them long enough to be mended twice. Yet his teeth are not merely discoloured, but badly decayed and look as if he'd never cleaned them in his life.
There are four molars missing on one side and three on the other and one front tooth broken right across. He's a man careful of his personal appearance, as witness his hair and his hands. What do you say to that? D'you mean to tell me a man would put up with that if he could afford to get the tooth filed? I've known servants endure agonies rather than step over a dentist's door-mat.
How did you see that, Wimsey? Looks like a matchbox. Well—I daresay it's all right, but I just draw your attention to it. Gentleman with hair smellin' of Parma violet and manicured hands and all the rest of it, never washes inside his ears. Still—old bad habits die hard. Put it down at that. Gentleman with the manicure and the brilliantine and all the rest of it suffers from fleas. Still, that might happen to anybody. I loosed a whopper in the best hotel in Lincoln the week before last.
I hope it bit the next occupier! Gentleman who uses Parma violet for his hair, etc. Carefully got-up gentleman, with manicured, though masticated, finger-nails, has filthy black toenails which look as if they hadn't been cut for years. Now, sixth, and last point: This gentleman with the intermittently gentlemanly habits arrives in the middle of a pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when he has already been twenty-four hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr. Thipps's bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pince-nez.
Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective's elbow, the respectful man-servant all over. Bunter, we'll write one, and you shall illustrate it with photographs. He had a beard. He took his watch from his pocket, and drew out a couple of longish, stiff hairs, which he had imprisoned between the inner and the outer case. Parker turned them over once or twice in his fingers, looked at them close to the light, examined them with a lens, handed them to the impassible Bunter, and said:. Blest if I can make out why you're ever appointed.
He was shaved after he was dead. Uncommonly jolly little job for the barber, what? Here, sit down, man, and don't be an ass, stumpin' about the room like that. Worse things happen in war. This is only a blinkin' old shillin' shocker. But I'll tell you what, Parker, we're up against a criminal— the criminal—the real artist and blighter with imagination—real, artistic, finished stuff.
I'm enjoying this, Parker. L ord Peter finished a Scarlatti sonata, and sat looking thoughtfully at his own hands. The fingers were long and muscular, with wide, flat joints and square tips. When he was playing his rather hard grey eyes softened, and his long, indeterminate mouth hardened in compensation. At no other time had he any pretensions to good looks, and at all times he was spoilt by a long, narrow chin, and a long, receding forehead, accentuated by the brushed-back sleekness of his tow-coloured hair.
Labour papers, softening down the chin, caricatured him as a typical aristocrat. Piano's too modern—all thrills and overtones. No good for our job, Parker. Have you come to any conclusion? He was a labouring man, unemployed, but who had only recently lost his employment. He had been tramping about looking for a job when he met with his end. Somebody killed him and washed him and scented him and shaved him in order to disguise him, and put him into Thipps's bath without leaving a trace.
Obviously, the pince-nez never belonged to the body. One can't suppose the murderer left them in that obliging manner as a clue to his own identity. I'm afraid this man possessed what most criminals lack—a sense of humour. But a man who can afford to be humorous at all in such circumstances is a terrible fellow.
I wonder what he did with the body between the murder and depositing it chez Thipps. Then there are more questions. How did he get it there? Was it brought in at the door, as Sugg of our heart suggests? Had the murderer accomplices? Is little Thipps really in it, or the girl? It don't do to put the notion out of court merely because Sugg inclines to it. Even idiots occasionally speak the truth accidentally. If not, why was Thipps selected for such an abominable practical joke? Has anybody got a grudge against Thipps? Who are the people in the other flats? Eight Week Quiz C.
Eight Week Quiz D. Eight Week Quiz E. Eight Week Quiz F. Eight Week Quiz G. Mid-Book Test - Easy.
Whose Body?: A Lord Peter Wimsey Novel Essay Topics & Writing Assignments
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