A cop has need of patience

     "It's all very well sitting round with your large disguised policemen outside Mrs. Forrest's flat," he said irritably, over bacon and eggs on Monday morning, "but you do realize, don't you, that we've still got no proof of murder. Not in one single case."

    "That's so," replied Parker, placidly.

    "Well, doesn't it make your blood boil?" said Wimsey.

    "Hardly," said Parker. "This kind of thing happens too often. If my blood boiled every time there was a delay in getting evidence, I should be in a perpetual fever. Why worry? It may be that perfect crime you're so fond of talking about - the one that leaves no trace. You ought to be charmed with it."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Roaming Catholic

     "I don't see as how we was meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way - so disrespectful and nothing uplifting to the 'art about it. But there! we all 'as our failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one."

    Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Parker is not impressed

 "Well now, as to the medical problem - the means. I must say that up to now that appears completely insoluble. I am baffled, Watson (said he, his hawk-like eyes gleaming angrily from under the half-closed lids). Even I am baffled. But not for long! (he cried, with a magnificent burst of self-confidence). My Honour (capital H) is concerned to track this Human Fiend (capitals) to its hidden source, and nail the whited sepulchre to the mast even though it crush me in the attempt! Loud applause. His chin sank broodingly upon his dressing-gown, and he breathed a few gutteral notes into the bass saxophone which was the cherished companion of his solitary hours in the bathroom."

Parker ostentatiously took up the book which he had laid aside on Wimsey's entrance.

"Tell me when you've finished," he said, caustically.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Taken for granted

     Mr. Murbles read this letter through twice, very thoughtfully. To even his cautious mind, the thing began to look like the makings of a case. In his neat, elderly hand, he wrote a little note to Detective-Inspector Parker, begging him to call at Staple Inn at his earliest convenience.

    Mr. Parker, however, was experiencing nothing at that moment but inconvenience. He had been calling on solicitors for two whole days, and his soul sickened at the sight of a brass plate. He glanced at the long list in his hand, and distastefully counted up the scores of names that still remained unticked.

    Parker was one of those methodical, painstaking people whom the world could so ill spare. When he worked with Wimsey on a case, it was an understood thing that anything lengthy, intricate, tedious and soul-destroying was done by Parker. He sometimes felt that it was irritating of Wimsey to take this so much for granted. He felt so now.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Masculine friendships

     "Miss Climpson, you do believe, don't you, that a friendship ought to be fifty-fifty?"

    "That is the ideal friendship, I suppose," said Miss Climpson, thoughtfully, "but I think it is a very rare thing. Among women, that is. I doubt very much if I've ever seen an example of it. Men, I believe, find it easier to give and take in that way - probably because they have so many outside interests."

    "Men's friendships - oh yes! I know one hears a lot about them. But half the time, I don't believe they're real friendships at all. Men can go off for years and forget all about their friends. And they don't really confide in one another. Mary and I tell each other all our thoughts and feelings. Men seem just content to think each other good sorts without ever bothering about their inmost selves."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Epicene

 "She struck him as spinsterish - even epicene." (from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

I must admit that "epicene" is not a word that I have used often, or ever. I figure my vocabulary is at least average, but that simply is not a term that I have used. When my wife entered the room just now, I did not say, "My, you look simply epicene this morning, my dear," on the outside chance that it is a word that she knows but I do not. At least it is not something that she has ever told me that she tried to look. Stunning, perhaps - maybe ravishing - but never epicene, at least not until I look it up.

Before I look it up, I am going to assume that it has some kinship to "epicurean," and I have used that before, but not often to remember at this late date what it does mean.

[Pause for internet search]

Well, I missed it. It has nothing to do with the Greek philosopher Epicurus. What it means is "of indeterminate sex," which I ought to have reasoned from the context, but did not. Oh well, the way you learn words is to miss words (and I am very glad that I did not apply it to my wife).

Stick with the rough draft

     "Look here, Wimsey," he said, "I've had a call from Mrs. Forrest. She wants to write to you. I wouldn't give her your number, so if she calls and asks for Mr. Templeton, you will remember who you are, won't you?"

    "Righty-ho! Wonder what the fair lady wants."

    "It's probably occurred to her that she might have told a better story, and she wants to work off a few additions and improvements on you."

    "Then she'll probably give herself away. The rough sketch is frequently so much more convincing than the worked-up canvas."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)