The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club (Lord Peter Wimsey, #5)

by Dorothy L. Sayers

Considering the obliging care we take in criminal prosecutions to inform the public at large that two or three grains of arsenic will successfully account for an unpopular individual, however tough, it’s surprising how wasteful people are with their drugs. You can’t teach ’em. An office-boy who was as incompetent as the average murderer would be sacked with a kick in the bottom.

The servant still stood mutely by, with an air of almost violently disassociating himself from all commentary.

“Thanks very much. Not for a day or two, though. We’re run off our feet with this crate business.” “Oh, I know—the gentleman who was sent from Sheffield to Euston in a crate, disguised as York hams. Splendid. Work hard and you will be happy.

After which the workmen advanced, a little reluctantly, to unscrew the coffin-lid, preceded by Dr. Penberthy, scattering formalin from a spray, rather like an infernal thurifer at some particularly unwholesome sacrifice.

“I read detective stories, too. They were about the only thing I could read. All the others had the War in them—or love…or some damn’ thing I didn’t want to think about.”