"Oh!—a few text-books—first steps in chemistry. What's that tumbled down at the back of the book-case? Louis Berman, eh? The Personal Equation. And here's Why We Behave Like Human Beings. And Julian Huxley's essays. A determined effort at self-education here, what?"
"Girls seem to go in for that sort of thing nowadays."
"Yes—hardly nice, is it? Hullo!"
"What?"
"Over here by the couch. This represents the latest of our lobster-shells, I fancy. Austin Freeman, Austin Freeman, Austin Freeman—bless me! she must have ordered him in wholesale. Through the Wall—that's a good 'tec story, Charles—all about the third degree—Isabel Ostrander—three Edgar Wallaces—the girl's been indulging in an orgy of crime!"
"I shouldn't wonder," said Parker, with emphasis. "That fellow Freeman is full of plots about poisonings and wills and survivorship, isn't he?"
"Yes"—Wimsey balanced A Silent Witness gently in his hand, and laid it down again. "This one, for instance, is all about a bloke who murdered somebody and kept him in cold storage till he was ready to dispose of him. It would suit Robert Fentiman."
Parker grinned.
"A bit elaborate for the ordinary criminal. But I daresay people do get ideas out of these books. Like to look at the pictures? They're pretty awful."
"Don't try to break it gently. Show us the worst at once.... Oh, lord!"