Lord Peter Views The body
“‘Is there anything I can do?’ The valet’s face brightened as he released his employer’s grey trousers from the press.
‘Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think,’ he said hopefully, ‘of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaning two.’ ‘Also,’ suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.
‘I beg your lordship’s pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Lord Peter. ‘How about that bath?’ ‘It should be just about ready, my lord.’ Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge of the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June that year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam wreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into the bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In the husky light tenor he carolled a few bars of ‘Maman, dîtes-moi.’ Then a thought struck him, and he turned back.
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