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About
the Authors
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Brief
Contents
Prologue xxx
1 Perspectives on Sexuality 1
10 Contraception 297
vii
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Contents
Prologue xxx
ChapTEr 1
Perspectives on Sexuality 1
Sexual Intelligence 2
A Psychosocial Orientation 3
Controversy and Diversity in Human Sexuality 4
The United States 4
LET’S TaLK aBOUT IT A Child/Parent Sex Talk 5
The Islamic Middle East 7
China 8
Our Cultural Legacy: Sex for Procreation and Rigid Gender Roles 9
Sex for Procreation 9
Male and Female Gender Roles in Sexuality 10
Sexuality in the Western World: A Historical Perspective 12
Judaic and Christian Traditions 12
Sex as Sinful 13
Eve Versus Mary 14
A Sex-Positive Shift 14
The Victorian Era 15
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Slavery’s Assault on Sexuality and Gender Roles 16
The Beginning of the 20th Century 17
After World War II 18
The Times They Are a-Changin’ 19
The Media and Sexuality 20
Television 21
Music Videos 23
Advertising 24
Magazines 24
The Internet and Sexuality 24
Sexuality: Where the Personal Is Political 26
Summary 27
ix
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ChapTEr 2
ChapTEr 3
The Vulva 51
The Mons Veneris 51
The Labia Majora 53
The Labia Minora 53
Genital Alteration 53
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Genital Self-Exam for Women 54
The Clitoris 56
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Female Genital Cutting: Torture or Tradition? 57
The Vestibule 58
The Urethral Opening 59
The Introitus and the Hymen 59
The Perineum 59
Underlying Structures 60
Internal Structures 61
The Vagina 62
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Kegel Exercises 63
The Cervix 65
The Uterus 65
The Fallopian Tubes 65
The Ovaries 66
Menstruation 66
Attitudes About Menstruation 66
Menarche 68
Menstrual Physiology 68
The Menstrual Cycle 69
Sexual Activity and the Menstrual Cycle 71
Menstrual Cycle Problems 72
Menopause 74
Hormone Therapy 75
x Contents
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Gynecological Health Concerns 78
Urinary Tract Infections 78
Vaginal Infections 78
The Pap Smear 79
Surgical Removal of the Uterus and Ovaries 79
The Breasts 80
Breast Self-Exam 82
Breast Cancer Screening 83
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh How to Examine Your Breasts 84
Breast Lumps 84
Breast Cancer 85
Summary 88
ChapTEr 4
Sexual Anatomy 91
The Penis 91
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Male Genital Modification: Cultural Beliefs and Practices 92
Strengthening Musculature Around the Penis 94
The Scrotum 95
The Testes 96
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Male Genital Self-Examination 98
The Vas Deferens 99
The Seminal Vesicles 100
The Prostate Gland 100
The Cowper’s Glands 100
Semen 100
Male Sexual Functions 101
Erection 101
Ejaculation 102
Concerns About Sexual Functioning 103
Penis Size 104
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Koro: The Genital Retraction Syndrome 106
Circumcision 107
SEX aND pOLITICS “Intactivists” Attempt to Criminalize Infant Circumcision
in San Francisco 108
Male Genital Health Concerns 109
The Penis: Health-Care Issues 109
Testicular Cancer 111
Diseases of the Prostate 111
Summary 114
ChapTEr 5
Contents xi
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Gender-Identity Formation 118
Gender Identity as a Biological Process: Typical Prenatal Differentiation 118
Differences in Sexual Development 126
Sex-Chromosome Variations 126
Variations Affecting Prenatal Hormonal Processes 128
Social-Learning Influences on Gender Identity 130
Treatment Strategies for Intersex People: Debate and Controversy 132
The Interactional Model of Gender Development 134
Gender Identity: A Spectrum 134
Transgender Variations: An Evolving Terminology 135
LET’S TaLK aBOUT IT Respectful Communication With a Transgender Individual 136
Transitioning 137
Sexual Orientation of Transgender Men and Women 138
Understanding the Development of Transgender Individuals 138
Acceptance and Civil Rights 139
Gender Roles 140
SpOTLIGhT ON rESEarCh Cross-Cultural Sex Differences in Personality Traits 141
How Do We Learn Gender Roles? 142
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Ethnic Variations in Gender Roles 142
Gender-Role Expectations: Their Impact on Our Sexuality 147
Summary 150
ChapTEr 6
xii Contents
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SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Subjective Descriptions of Orgasm 176
The Grafenberg Spot 177
Aging and the Sexual Response Cycle 179
The Sexual Response Cycle of Older Women 179
The Sexual Response Cycle of Older Men 180
Differences Between the Sexes in Sexual Response 181
Greater Variability in Female Response 181
SpOTLIGhT ON rESEarCh Sex Differences in Sex Drive 182
The Male Refractory Period 183
Multiple Orgasms 183
Summary 186
ChapTEr 7
Contents xiii
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Provide Feedback 215
Support Your Partner’s Communication Efforts 215
Express Unconditional Positive Regard 215
Discovering Your Partner’s Needs 215
Asking Questions 216
Self-Disclosure 217
Discussing Sexual Preferences 219
Giving Permission 219
Learning to Make Requests 219
Taking Responsibility for Our Own Pleasure 220
Making Requests Specific 220
Using “I” Language 220
Expressing and Receiving Complaints 221
Constructive Strategies for Expressing Complaints 221
LET’S TaLK aBOUT IT Consent for Everyone! 222
Receiving Complaints 226
Saying No 227
A Three-Step Approach to Saying No 228
Avoid Sending Mixed Messages 228
Nonverbal Sexual Communication 229
Facial Expressions 229
Interpersonal Distance 230
Touching 230
Sounds 230
Communication Patterns in Successful and Unsuccessful Relationships 231
Gottman’s Constructive Communication Tactics 231
Gottman’s Destructive Communication Tactics 232
Summary 234
ChapTEr 8
Celibacy 238
Erotic Dreams and Fantasy 239
Erotic Dreams 239
Erotic Fantasy 239
Male/Female Similarities and Differences in Sexual Fantasy 241
Fantasies: Help or Hindrance? 241
Masturbation 242
Perspectives on Masturbation 242
Purposes of Masturbation 244
Ethnicity and Masturbation 246
Self-Pleasuring Techniques 246
Sexual Expression: The Importance of Context 247
The Context of Sexual Expression 248
The Maltz Hierarchy 248
Frequency of Partner Sexual Activity 250
Kissing and Touching 251
Kissing 251
Touching 252
xiv Contents
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Oral–Genital Stimulation 253
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Oral Sex Experiences Among American Men
and Women 255
Anal Sex Play and Penetration 256
Coitus and Coital Positions 257
Kink Lite 260
Intercourse the Tantric Way 261
Summary 262
ChapTEr 9
Summary 295
ChapTEr 10
Contraception 297
Contents xv
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YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Which Contraceptive Method Is Best for You? 310
Hormone-Based Contraceptives 310
Oral Contraceptives 310
The Vaginal Ring and the Transdermal Patch 313
Injected Contraceptives 313
Contraceptive Implant 314
Barrier and Spermicide Methods 314
Condoms 314
LET’S TaLK aBOUT IT Don’t Go Inside Without Your Rubbers On 316
Vaginal Spermicides 317
Cervical Barrier Devices 319
Intrauterine Devices 320
How the IUD Works 321
Emergency Contraception 322
Fertility Awareness Methods 324
Standard Days Method 324
Mucus Method 325
Calendar Method 325
Basal Body Temperature Method 325
Sterilization 326
Female Sterilization 326
Male Sterilization 327
Unreliable Methods 328
Nursing 328
Withdrawal 328
Douching 328
New Directions in Contraception 329
New Directions for Men 329
New Directions for Women 329
Summary 330
ChapTEr 11
xvi Contents
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Procedures for Abortion 345
Illegal Abortions 347
The Abortion Controversy 348
SEX aND pOLITICS Abortion Restrictions at the State Level 350
The Experience of Pregnancy 352
The Woman’s Experience 352
The Man’s Experience 353
Sexual Interaction During Pregnancy 353
A Healthy Pregnancy 354
Fetal Development 354
Prenatal Care 355
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Folic Acid and Fetal Development 357
Risks to Fetal Development 358
Pregnancy After Age 35 360
Fatherhood After Age 45 360
Childbirth 360
Contemporary Childbirth 361
Stages of Childbirth 361
After Childbirth 363
Breast-Feeding 364
Sexual Interaction After Childbirth 366
Summary 368
ChapTEr 12
Contents xvii
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Sex Education 394
Answering Children’s Questions About Sex 394
Initiating Conversations When Children Do Not Ask Questions 395
School-Based Sex Education 397
SEX aND pOLITICS Abstinence-Only Sex Education 398
Summary 399
ChapTEr 13
ChapTEr 14
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SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Suffering for Beauty 449
Relationship Factors 451
Basics of Sexual Enhancement and Sex Therapy 452
Self-Awareness 453
Communication 453
Sensate Focus 454
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY How Modern Sex Therapy Can Clash
With Cultural Values 455
Specific Suggestions for Women 456
Specific Suggestions for Men 458
Treating Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder 463
Seeking Professional Assistance 464
Summary 465
ChapTEr 15
Contents xix
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YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh The Only Way to Best Determine if You or Your Partner(s) Do
Not Have an STI is to Get Tested 514
Summary 517
ChapTEr 16
ChapTEr 17
Rape 543
Prevalence of Rape 543
False Beliefs About Rape 545
Factors Associated With Rape 546
YOUr SEXUaL hEaLTh Dealing With Rape and Attempted Rape 552
Wartime Rape 554
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Punishing Women Who Have Been Raped 555
The Aftermath of Rape 556
Rape and Sexual Assault of Males 557
LET’S TaLK aBOUT IT Helping a Partner or Friend Recover From Rape 558
Sexual Abuse of Children 560
SEXUaLITY & DIVErSITY Breast Ironing to Protect Girls From
Sexual Victimization 561
Characteristics of People Who Sexually Abuse Children 562
Prevalence of Child Sexual Abuse 563
Recovered Memories of Childhood Sexual Abuse 564
Pedophiles on the Internet 566
Effects of Child Sexual Abuse 567
Preventing Child Sexual Abuse 568
When the Child Tells 570
Sexual Harassment 570
Varieties and Incidence of Sexual Harassment on the Job 572
Cyberstalking 575
Sexual Harassment in Academic Settings 575
Summary 577
xx Contents
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ChapTEr 18
Pornography 581
To Each His or Her Own 581
Erotica 582
Variations in Straight, Gay, and Lesbian Pornographic Films 583
Historical Overview 583
Freedom of Speech Versus Censorship 584
SEX aND pOLITICS Pornography as Social Criticism 585
Child Pornography 588
The Marriage of Technology and Sexually Explicit Materials 588
The “Pornification” of U.S. Culture 589
Is Pornography Helpful? 589
Is Pornography Harmful? 590
Sex Work 592
History of Prostitution and Sex Work 593
The Legal Status of Sex Work 594
Adult Male and Female Sex Workers 596
The Internet and Sex Work 599
Teenagers in Sex Work 599
The Personal Costs of Sex Work 599
Customers of Sex Workers 600
Glorification of Pimps in the United States 601
Worldwide Trafficking of Women and Children in Prostitution 601
Summary 603
GLOSSarY G1
rEfErENCES R1
SUBjECT INDEX S1
aUThOr INDEX A1
Contents xxi
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"Outrageous!" added her husband. "I warned Hancock—he can't say I
didn't warn him. Still, however much one may disapprove of his
goings-on, there is no excuse whatever for such abominable conduct.
Once let me get hold of the beggars, whoever they are——"
"What's up?" said Wimsey, helping himself to broiled kidneys at the
sideboard.
"A most scandalous thing," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym. "The vicar came
up to Tom at once—I hope we didn't disturb you, by the way, with all
the excitement. It appears that when Mr. Hancock got to the church
this morning at 6 o'clock to take the early service——"
"No, no, my dear, you've got it wrong. Let me tell it. When Joe Grinch
—that's the sexton, you know, and he has to get there first to ring the
bell—when he arrived, he found the south door wide open and
nobody in the chapel, where they should have been, beside the
coffin. He was very much perplexed, of course, but he supposed that
Hubbard and young Rawlinson had got sick of it and gone off home.
So he went on to the vestry to get the vestments and things ready,
and to his amazement he heard women's voices, calling out to him
from inside. He was so astonished, didn't know where he was, but he
went on and unlocked the door——"
"With his own key?" put in Wimsey.
"The key was in the door. As a rule it's kept hanging up on a nail
under a curtain near the organ, but it was in the lock—where it ought
not to have been. And inside the vestry he found Mrs. Hancock and
her daughter, nearly dead with fright and annoyance."
"Great Scott!"
"Yes, indeed. They had a most extraordinary story to tell. They'd
taken over at 2 o'clock from the other pair of watchers, and had knelt
down by the coffin in the Lady-chapel, according to plan, to say the
proper sort of prayers, whatever they are. They'd been there, to the
best of their calculation, about ten minutes, when they heard a noise
up by the High Altar, as though somebody was creeping stealthily
about. Miss Hancock is a very plucky girl, and she got up and walked
up the aisle in the dark, with Mrs. Hancock following on behind
because, as she said, she didn't want to be left alone. When they'd
got as far as the rood-screen, Miss Hancock called out aloud, 'Who's
there?' At that they heard a sort of rustling sound, and a noise like
something being knocked over. Miss Hancock most courageously
snatched up one of the churchwarden's staffs, which was clipped on
to the choir-stalls, and ran forward, thinking, she says, that somebody
was trying to steal the ornaments off the altar. There's a very fine
fifteenth-century cross——"
"Never mind the cross, Tom. That hasn't been taken, at any rate."
"No, it hasn't, but she thought it might be. Anyhow, just as she got up
to the sanctuary steps, with Mrs. Hancock coming close after her and
begging her to be careful, somebody seemed to rush out of the choir-
stalls, and caught her by the arms and frog's-marched her—that's her
expression—into the vestry. And before she could get breath even to
shriek, Mrs. Hancock was pushed in beside her, and the door locked
on them."
"By Jove! You do have exciting times in your village."
"Well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "of course they were dreadfully
frightened, because they didn't know but what these wretches would
come back and murder them, and, in any case, they thought the
church was being robbed. But the vestry windows are very narrow
and barred, and they couldn't do anything except wait. They tried to
listen, but they couldn't hear much. Their only hope was that the four-
o'clock watchers might come early and catch the thieves at work. But
they waited and they waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and
nobody came."
"What had happened to what's-his-name and Rawlinson then?"
"They couldn't make out, and nor could Grinch. However, they had a
good look round the church, and nothing seemed to be taken or
disturbed in any way. Just then the vicar came along, and they told
him all about it. He was very much shocked, naturally, and his first
thought—when he found the ornaments were safe and the poor-box
all right—was that some Kensitite people had been stealing the
wafers from the what d'you call it."
"The tabernacle," suggested Wimsey.
"Yes, that's his name for it. That worried him very much, and he
unlocked it and had a look, but the wafers were all there all right, and,
as there's only one key, and that was on his own watch-chain, it
wasn't a case of anyone substituting unconsecrated wafers for
consecrated ones, or any practical joke of that kind. So he sent Mrs.
and Miss Hancock home, and had a look round the church outside,
and the first thing he saw, lying in the bushes near the south door,
was young Rawlinson's motor-cycle."
"Oho!"
"So his next idea was to hunt for Rawlinson and Hubbard. However,
he didn't have to look far. He'd got round the church as far as the
furnace-house on the north side, when he heard a terrific hullabaloo
going on, and people shouting and thumping on the door. So he
called Grinch, and they looked in through the little window, and there,
if you please, were Hubbard and young Rawlinson, bawling and
going on and using the most shocking language. It seems they were
set on in exactly the same way, only before they got inside the
church. Rawlinson had been passing the evening with Hubbard, I
understand, and they had a bit of a sleep downstairs in the back bar,
to avoid disturbing the house early—or so they say, though I dare say
if the truth was known they were having drinks; and if that's
Hancock's idea of a suitable preparation for going to church and
saying prayers, all I can say is, it isn't mine. Anyway, they started off
just before four, Hubbard going down on the carrier of Rawlinson's
bicycle. They had to get off at the south gate, which was pushed to,
and while Rawlinson was wheeling the machine up the path two or
three men—they couldn't see exactly—jumped out from the trees.
There was a bit of a scuffle, but what with the bicycle, and its being
so unexpected, they couldn't put up a very good fight, and the men
dropped blankets over their heads, or something. I don't know all the
details. At any rate, they were bundled into the furnace-house and left
there. They may be there still, for all I know, if they haven't found the
key. There should be a spare key, but I don't know what's become of
it. They sent up for it this morning, but I haven't seen it about for a
long time."
"It wasn't left in the lock this time, then?"
"No, it wasn't. They've had to send for the locksmith. I'm going down
now to see what's to be done about it. Like to come, if you're ready?"
Wimsey said he would. Anything in the nature of a problem always
fascinated him.
"You were back pretty late, by the way," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym
jovially, as they left the house. "Yarning over old times, I suppose."
"We were, indeed," said Wimsey.
"Hope the old girl carried you all right. Lonely bit of road, isn't it? I
don't suppose you saw anybody worse than yourself, as the saying
goes?"
"Only a policeman," said Wimsey untruthfully. He had not yet quite
decided about the phantom coach. No doubt Plunkett would be
relieved to know that he was not the only person to whom the
"warning" had come. But, then, had it really been the phantom coach,
or merely a delusion, begotten by whisky upon reminiscence?
Wimsey, in the cold light of day, was none too certain.
On arriving at the church, the magistrate and his guest found quite a
little crowd collected, conspicuous among whom were the vicar, in
cassock and biretta, gesticulating freely, and the local policeman, his
tunic buttoned awry and his dignity much impaired by the small fry of
the village, who clustered round his legs. He had just finished taking
down the statements of the two men who had been released from the
stoke-hole. The younger of these, a fresh-faced, impudent-looking
fellow of twenty-five or so, was in the act of starting up his motor-
cycle. He greeted Mr. Frobisher-Pym pleasantly. "Afraid they've made
us look a bit small, sir. You'll excuse me, won't you? I'll have to be
getting back to Herriotting. Mr. Graham won't be any too pleased if
I'm late for the office. I think some of the bright lads have been having
a joke with us." He grinned as he pushed the throttle-lever over and
departed in a smother of unnecessary smoke that made Mr.
Frobisher-Pym sneeze. His fellow-victim, a large, fat man, who
looked the sporting publican that he was, grinned shamefacedly at
the magistrate.
"Well, Hubbard," said the latter, "I hope you've enjoyed your
experience. I must say I'm surprised at a man of your size letting
himself be shut up in a coal-hole like a naughty urchin."
"Yes, sir, I was surprised myself at the time," retorted the publican,
good-humouredly enough. "When that there blanket came down on
my head, I was the most surprised man in this here country. I gave
'em a hack or two on the shins, though, to remember me by," he
added, with a reminiscent chuckle.
"How many of them were there?" asked Wimsey.
"Three or four, I should say, sir. But not 'avin' seen 'em, I can only tell
from 'earin' 'em talk. There was two laid 'old of me, I'm pretty sure,
and young Rawlinson thinks there was only one 'ad 'old of 'im, but 'e
was a wonderful strong 'un."
"We must leave no stone unturned to find out who these people
were," said the vicar excitedly. "Ah, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, come and see
what they have done in the church. It is as I thought—an anti-Catholic
protest. We must be most thankful that they have done no more than
they have."
He led the way in. Someone had lit two or three hanging lamps in the
gloomy little chancel. By their light Wimsey was able to see that the
neck of the eagle lectern was decorated with an enormous red-white-
and-blue bow, and bore a large placard—obviously pinched from the
local newspaper offices—"Vatican Bans Immodest Dress." In each
of the choir-stalls a teddy-bear sat, lumpishly amiable, apparently
absorbed in reading the choir-books upside-down, while on the ledge
before them copies of the Pink 'Un were obstrusively displayed. In the
pulpit, a waggish hand had set up a pantomime ass's head, elegantly
arrayed in a nightgown, and crowned with a handsome nimbus, cut
from gold paper.
"Disgraceful, isn't it?" said the vicar.
"Well, Hancock," replied Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "I must say I think you
have brought it upon yourself—though I quite agree, of course, that
this sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed, and the offenders must
be discovered and severely punished. But you must see that many of
your practices appear to these people to be papistical nonsense at
best, and while that is no excuse...."
His reprimanding voice barked on.
"... what I really can only look upon as this sacrilegious business with
old Burdock—a man whose life...."
The policeman had by this time shoved away the attendant villagers
and was standing beside Lord Peter at the entrance of the rood-
screen.
"Was that you was out on the road this morning, sir? Ah! I thought I
reckernised your voice. Did you get home all right, sir? Didn't meet
nothing?"
There seemed to be a shade more than idle questioning in the tone of
his voice. Wimsey turned quickly.
"No, I met nothing—more. Who is it drives a coach with four white
horses about this village of a night, sergeant?"
"Not sergeant, sir—I ain't due for promotion yet awhile. Well, sir, as to
white horses, I don't altogether like to say. Mr. Mortimer over at
Abbotts Bolton has some nice greys, and he's the biggest horse-
breeder about these parts—but, well, there, sir, he wouldn't be driving
out in all that rain, sir, would he?"
"It doesn't seem a sensible thing to do, certainly."
"No, sir. And"—the constable leaned close to Wimsey and spoke into
his ear—"and Mr. Mortimer is a man that's got a head on his
shoulders—and, what's more, so have his horses."
"Why," said Wimsey, a little startled by the aptness of this remark, "did
you ever know a horse that hadn't?"
"No, sir," said the policeman, with emphasis, "I never knew no livin'
horse that hadn't. But that's neether here nor there, as the sayin'
goes. But as to this church business, that's just a bit of a lark got up
among the boys, that's what that is. They don't mean no harm, you
know, sir; they likes to be up to their tricks. It's all very well for the
vicar to talk, sir, but this ain't no Kensitites nor anythink of that, as you
can see with half an eye. Just a bit of fun, that's all it is."
"I'd come to the same conclusion myself," said Wimsey, interested,
"but I'd rather like to know what makes you think so."
"Lord bless you, sir, ain't it plain as the nose on your face? If it had a-
bin these Kensitites, wouldn't they have gone for the crosses and the
images and the lights and—that there?" He extended a horny finger
in the direction of the tabernacle. "No, sir, these lads what did this
ain't laid a finger on the things what you might call sacred images—
and they ain't done no harm neether to the communion-table. So I
says as it ain't a case of controuversy, but more a bit of fun, like. And
they've treated Mr. Burdock's corpse respectful, sir, you see, too. That
shows they wasn't meaning anything wrong at heart, don't you see?"
"I agree absolutely," said Wimsey. "In fact, they've taken particular
care not to touch anything that a churchman holds really sacred. How
long have you been on this job, officer?"
"Three years, sir, come February."
"Ever had any idea of going to town or taking up the detective side of
the business?"
"Well, sir—I have—but it isn't just ask and have, as you might say."
Wimsey took a card from his note-case.
"If you ever think seriously about it," he said, "give this card to Chief
Inspector Parker, and have a chat with him. Tell him I think you
haven't got opportunities enough down here. He's a great friend of
mine, and he'll give you a good chance, I know."
"I've heard of you, my lord," said the constable, gratified, "and I'm
sure it's very kind of your lordship. Well, I suppose I'd best be getting
along now. You leave it to me, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, sir; we'll soon get
at the bottom of this here."
"I hope you do," said the magistrate. "Meanwhile, Mr. Hancock, I trust
you will realise the inadvisability of leaving the church doors open at
night. Well, come along, Wimsey; we'll leave them to get the church
straight for the funeral. What have you found there?"
"Nothing," said Wimsey, who had been peering at the floor of the
Lady-chapel. "I was afraid you'd got the worm in here, but I see it's
only sawdust." He dusted his fingers as he spoke, and followed Mr.
Frobisher-Pym out of the building.
When you are staying in a village, you are expected to take part in
the interests and amusements of the community. Accordingly, Lord
Peter duly attended the funeral of Squire Burdock, and beheld the
coffin safely committed to the ground, in a drizzle, certainly, but not
without the attendance of a large and reverent congregation. After
this ceremony, he was formally introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Haviland
Burdock, and was able to confirm his previous impression that the
lady was well, not to say too well, dressed, as might be expected
from one whose wardrobe was based upon silk stockings. She was a
handsome woman, in a large, bold style, and the hand that clasped
Wimsey's was quite painfully encrusted with diamonds. Haviland was
disposed to be friendly—and, indeed, silk manufacturers have no
reason to be otherwise to rich men of noble birth. He seemed to be
aware of Wimsey's reputation as an antiquarian and book-collector,
and extended a hearty invitation to him to come and see the old
house.
"My brother Martin is still abroad," he said, "but I'm sure he would be
delighted to have you come and look at the place. I'm told there are
some very fine old books in the library. We shall be staying here till
Monday—if Mrs. Hancock will be good enough to have us. Suppose
you come along to-morrow afternoon."
Wimsey said he would be delighted.
Mrs. Hancock interposed and said, wouldn't Lord Peter come to tea at
the vicarage first.
Wimsey said it was very good of her.
"Then that's settled," said Mrs. Burdock. "You and Mr. Pym come to
tea, and then we'll all go over the house together. I've hardly seen it
myself yet."
"It's very well worth seeing," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "Fine old place,
but takes some money to keep up. Has nothing been seen of the will
yet, Mr. Burdock?"
"Nothing whatever," said Haviland. "It's curious, because Mr. Graham
—the solicitor, you know, Lord Peter—certainly drew one up, just after
poor Martin's unfortunate difference with our father. He remembers it
perfectly."
"Can't he remember what's in it?"
"He could, of course, but he doesn't think it etiquette to say. He's one
of the crusted old type. Poor Martin always called him an old
scoundrel—but then, of course, he never approved of Martin, so
Martin was not altogether unprejudiced. Besides, as Mr. Graham
says, all that was some years ago, and it's quite possible that the
governor destroyed the will later, or made a new one in America."
"'Poor Martin' doesn't seem to have been popular hereabouts," said
Wimsey to Mr. Frobisher-Pym, as they parted from the Burdocks and
turned homewards.
"N-no," said the magistrate. "Not with Graham, anyway. Personally, I
rather liked the lad, though he was a bit harum-scarum. I dare say
he's sobered up with time—and marriage. It's odd that they can't find
the will. But, if it was made at the time of the rumpus, it's bound to be
in Haviland's favour."
"I think Haviland thinks so," said Wimsey. "His manner seemed to
convey a chastened satisfaction. I expect the discreet Graham made
it fairly clear that the advantage was not with the unspeakable
Martin."
The following morning turned out fine, and Wimsey, who was
supposed to be enjoying a rest-and-fresh-air cure in Little Doddering,
petitioned for a further loan of Polly Flinders. His host consented with
pleasure, and only regretted that he could not accompany his guest,
being booked to attend a Board of Guardians' meeting in connection
with the workhouse.
"But you could go up and get a good blow on the common," he
suggested. "Why not go round by Petering Friars, turn off across the
common till you get to Dead Man's Post, and come back by the
Frimpton road? It makes a very pleasant round—about nineteen
miles. You'll be back in nice time for lunch if you take it easy."
Wimsey fell in with the plan—the more readily that it exactly coincided
with his own inward purpose. He had a reason for wishing to ride over
the Frimpton road by daylight.
"You'll be careful about Dead Man's Post," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym a
little anxiously. "The horses have a way of shying at it. I don't know
why. People say, of course——"
"All nonsense," said her husband. "The villagers dislike the place and
that makes the horses nervous. It's remarkable how a rider's feelings
communicate themselves to his mount. I've never had any trouble at
Dead Man's Post."
It was a quiet and pretty road, even on a November day, that led to
Petering Friars. Jogging down the winding Essex lanes in the wintry
sunshine, Wimsey felt soothed and happy. A good burst across the
common raised his spirits to exhilaration pitch. He had entirely
forgotten Dead Man's Post and its uncanny reputation, when a violent
start and swerve, so sudden that it nearly unseated him, recalled him
to what he was doing. With some difficulty, he controlled Polly
Flinders, and brought her to a standstill.
He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-path
which was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A little
way ahead of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at the
junction of the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to
be a decayed sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-
post, and had no arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of
inscription on the face that was turned towards him.
He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She
took a few hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and
shivering.
"Queer!" said Wimsey. "If this is my state of mind communicating
itself to my mount, I'd better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a
rotten state. Come up, old lady! What's the matter with you?"
Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urged
her gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and he
saw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and,
putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward.
After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neck
and treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces,
she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on her
neck and found it wet with sweat.
"Damn it all!" said Wimsey. "Look here, I'm jolly well going to read
what's on that post. If you won't come, will you stand still?"
He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. He
left her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see that
she showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough,
however, only shifting her feet uneasily.
Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak,
newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blacked
in. It read:
ON THIS SPOT
George Winter
WAS FOULLY MURTHERED
IN DEFENSE OF
HIS MASTER'S GOODS
BY BLACK RALPH
OF HERRIOTTING
WHO WAS AFTERWARD
HANGED IN CHAINS
ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
9 NOVEMBER 1674
FEAR JUSTICE
"And very nice, too," said Wimsey. "Dead Man's Post without a doubt.
Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well,
Polly, if them's your sentiments, I won't do violence to them. But may I
ask why, if you're so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallow
a death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened
equanimity?"
The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips and
mumbled at it.
"Just so," said Wimsey. "I perfectly understand. You would if you
could, but you really can't. But those horses, Polly—did they bring
with them no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be that
they really exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of
stables?"
He mounted, and, turning Polly's head to the right, guided her in a
circle, so as to give Dead Man's Post a wide berth before striking the
path again.
"The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on a priori
grounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly's
senses. There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery.
Further investigation seems called for."
He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.
"Supposing I wanted, for some reason, to scare the neighbourhood
with the apparition of a coach and headless horses, I should choose
a dark, rainy night. Good! It was that kind of night. Now, if I took black
horses and painted their bodies white—poor devils! what a state
they'd be in. No. How do they do these Maskelyne-and-Devant stunts
where they cut off people's heads? White horses, of course—and
black felt clothing over their heads. Right! And luminous paint on the
harness, with a touch here and there on their bodies, to make good
contrast and ensure that the whole show wasn't invisible. No difficulty
about that. But they must go silently. Well, why not? Four stout black
cloth bags filled with bran, drawn well up and tied round the fetlocks
would make any horse go quietly enough, especially if there was a bit
of a wind going. Rags round the bridle-rings to prevent clinking, and
round the ends of the traces to keep 'em from squeaking. Give 'em a
coachman in a white coat and a black mask, hitch 'em to a rubber-
tyred fly, picked out with phosphorus and well-oiled at the joints—and
I swear I'd make something quite ghostly enough to startle a rather
well-irrigated gentleman on a lonely road at half-past two in the
morning."
He was pleased with this thought, and tapped his boot cheerfully with
his whip.
"But damn it all! They never passed me again. Where did they go to?
A coach-and-horses can't vanish into thin air, you know. There must
be a side-road after all—or else, Polly Flinders, you've been pulling
my leg all the time."
The bridle-path eventually debouched upon the highway at the now
familiar fork where Wimsey had met the policeman. As he slowly
ambled homewards, his lordship scanned the left-hand hedgerow,
looking for the lane which surely must exist. But nothing rewarded his
search. Enclosed fields with padlocked gates presented the only
breaks in the hedge, till he again found himself looking down the
avenue of trees up which the death-coach had come galloping two
nights before.
"Damn!" said Wimsey.
It occurred to him for the first time that the coach might perhaps have
turned round and gone back through Little Doddering. Certainly it had
been seen by Little Doddering Church on Wednesday. But on that
occasion, also, it had galloped off in the direction of Frimpton. In fact,
thinking it over, Wimsey concluded that it had approached from
Frimpton, gone round the church—widdershins, naturally—by the
Back Lane, and returned by the high-road whence it came. But in that
case——
"Turn again, Whittington," said Wimsey, and Polly Flinders rotated
obediently in the road. "Through one of those fields it went, or I'm a
Dutchman."
He pulled Polly into a slow walk, and passed along the strip of grass
at the right-hand side, staring at the ground as though he were an
Aberdonian who had lost a sixpence.
The first gate led into a ploughed field, harrowed smooth and sown
with autumn wheat. It was clear that no wheeled thing had been
across it for many weeks. The second gate looked more promising. It
gave upon fallow ground, and the entrance was seamed with
innumerable wheel-ruts. On further examination, however, it was
clear that this was the one and only gate. It seemed unlikely that the
mysterious coach should have been taken into a field from which
there was no way out. Wimsey decided to seek farther.
The third gate was in bad repair. It sagged heavily from its hinges; the
hasp was gone, and gate and post had been secured with elaborate
twists of wire. Wimsey dismounted and examined these, convincing
himself that their rusty surface had not been recently disturbed.
There remained only two more gates before he came to the cross-
roads. One led into plough again, where the dark ridge-and-furrow
showed no sign of disturbance, but at sight of the last gate Wimsey's
heart gave a leap.
There was plough-land here also, but round the edge of the field ran
a wide, beaten path, rutted and water-logged. The gate was not
locked, but opened simply with a spring catch. Wimsey examined the
approach. Among the wide ruts made by farm-wagons was the track
of four narrow wheels—the unmistakable prints of rubber tyres. He
pushed the gate open and passed through.
The path skirted two sides of the plough; then came another gate and
another field, containing a long barrow of mangold wurzels and a
couple of barns. At the sound of Polly's hoofs, a man emerged from
the nearest barn, with a paint-brush in his hand, and stood watching
Wimsey's approach.
"'Morning!" said the latter genially.
"'Morning, sir."
"Fine day after the rain."
"Yes, it is, sir."
"I hope I'm not trespassing?"
"Where was you wanting to go, sir?"
"I thought, as a matter of fact—hullo!"
"Anything wrong, sir?"
Wimsey shifted in the saddle.
"I fancy this girth's slipped a bit. It's a new one." (This was a fact.)
"Better have a look."
The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and
was tugging at the strap, with his head under the mare's belly.
"Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this a
short cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?"
"Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comes
out by Mr. Mortimer's stables."
"Ah, yes. This his land?"
"No, sir, it's Mr. Topham's land, but Mr. Mortimer rents this field and
the next for fodder."
"Oh, yes." Wimsey peered across the hedge. "Lucerne, I suppose. Or
clover."
"Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle."
"Oh—Mr. Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very jolly. Have a gasper?" Wimsey had sidled across to the barn in
his interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. It contained
a number of farm implements and a black fly of antique construction,
which seemed to be undergoing renovation with black varnish.
Wimsey pulled some vestas from his pocket. The box was apparently
damp, for, after one or two vain attempts he abandoned it, and struck
a match on the wall of the barn. The flame, lighting up the ancient fly,
showed it to be incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.
"Very fine stud, Mr. Mortimer's, I understand," said Wimsey
carelessly.
"Yes, sir, very fine indeed."
"I suppose he hasn't any greys, by any chance. My mother—queenly
woman, Victorian ideas, and all that—is rather keen on greys. Sports
a carriage and pay-ah, don't you know."
"Yes, sir? Well, Mr. Mortimer would be able to suit the lady, I think, sir.
He has several greys."
"No? has he though? I must really go over and see him. Is it far?"
"Matter of five or six mile by the fields, sir."
Wimsey looked at his watch.
"Oh, dear! I'm really afraid it's too far for this morning. I absolutely
promised to get back to lunch. I must come over another day. Thanks
so much. Is that girth right now? Oh, really, I'm immensely obliged.
Get yourself a drink, won't you—and tell Mr. Mortimer not to sell his
greys till I've seen them. Well, good morning, and many thanks."
He set Polly Flinders on the homeward path and trotted gently away.
Not till he was out of sight of the barn did he pull up and, stooping
from the saddle, thoughtfully examine his boots. They were liberally
plastered with bran.
"I must have picked it up in the barn," said Wimsey. "Curious, if true.
Why should Mr. Mortimer be lashing the stuffing out of his greys in an
old fly at dead of night—and with muffled hoofs and no heads to
boot? It's not a kind thing to do. It frightened Plunkett very much. It
made me think I was drunk—a thought I hate to think. Ought I to tell
the police? Are Mr. Mortimer's jokes any business of mine? What do
you think, Polly?"
The mare, hearing her name, energetically shook her head.
"You think not? Perhaps you are right. Let us say that Mr. Mortimer
did it for a wager. Who am I to interfere with his amusements? All the
same," added his lordship, "I'm glad to know it wasn't Lumsden's
whisky."
"This is the library," said Haviland, ushering in his guests. "A fine
room—and a fine collection of books, I'm told, though literature isn't
much in my line. It wasn't much in the governor's line, either, I'm
afraid. The place wants doing up, as you see. I don't know whether
Martin will take it in hand. It's a job that'll cost money, of course."
Wimsey shivered a little as he gazed round—more from sympathy
than from cold, though a white November fog lay curled against the
tall windows and filtered damply through the frames.
A long, mouldering room, in the frigid neo-classical style, the library
was melancholy enough in the sunless grey afternoon, even without
the signs of neglect which wrung the book-collector's heart. The
walls, panelled to half their height with book-cases, ran up in plaster
to the moulded ceiling. Damp had blotched them into grotesque
shapes, and here and there were ugly cracks and squamous patches,
from which the plaster had fallen in yellowish flakes. A wet chill
seemed to ooze from the books, from the calf bindings peeling and
perishing, from the stains of greenish mildew which spread horridly
from volume to volume. The curious musty odour of decayed leather
and damp paper added to the general cheerlessness of the
atmosphere.
"Oh, dear, dear!" said Wimsey, peering dismally into this sepulchre of
forgotten learning. With his shoulders hunched like the neck-feathers
of a chilly bird, with his long nose and half-shut eyes, he resembled a
dilapidated heron, brooding over the stagnation of a wintry pool.
"What a freezing-cold place!" exclaimed Mrs. Hancock. "You really
ought to scold Mrs. Lovall, Mr. Burdock. When she was put in here as
caretaker, I said to my husband—didn't I, Philip?—that your father
had chosen the laziest woman in Little Doddering. She ought to have
kept up big fires here, at least twice a week! It's really shameful, the
way she has let things go."
"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Haviland.
Wimsey said nothing. He was nosing along the shelves, every now
and then taking a volume down and glancing at it.
"It was always rather a depressing room," went on Haviland. "I
remember, when I was a kid, it used to overawe me rather. Martin
and I used to browse about among the books, you know, but I think
we were always afraid that something or somebody would stalk out
upon us from the dark corners. What's that you've got there, Lord
Peter? Oh, Foxe's Book of Martyrs. Dear me! How those pictures did
terrify me in the old days! And there was a Pilgrim's Progress, with a
most alarming picture of Apollyon straddling over the whole breadth
of the way, which gave me many nightmares. Let me see. It used to
live over in this bay, I think. Yes, here it is. How it does bring it all
back, to be sure! Is it valuable, by the way?"
"No, not really. But this first edition of Burton is worth money; badly
spotted, though—you'd better send it to be cleaned. And this is an
extremely fine Boccaccio; take care of it."
"John Boccace—The Dance of Machabree. It's a good title, anyhow.
Is that the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?"
"Yes," said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towards
Boccaccio.
"Never read them," said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, "but I've
seen 'em in the windows of those surgical shops—so I suppose
they're naughty, eh? The vicar's looking shocked."
"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Hancock, with a conscientious assumption of
broad-mindedness. "Et ego in Arcadia—that is to say, one doesn't
enter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and
making the acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than
Boccaccio. Those wood-cuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye."
"Very fine indeed," said Wimsey.
"There's another old book I remember, with jolly pictures," said
Haviland. "A chronicle of some sort—what's 'is name—place in
Germany—you know—where that hangman came from. They
published his diary the other day. I read it, but it wasn't really exciting;
not half as gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What's the name of
the place?"
"Nüremberg?" suggested Wimsey.
"That's it, of course—the Nüremberg Chronicle. I wonder if that's still
in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I remember rightly."
He led the way to the end of one of the bays, which ran up close
against a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A
pane of glass was broken, and rain had blown in.
"Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped
leather binding. I'd like to see the old Chronicle again. I haven't set
eyes on it for donkey's years."
His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with the book-
lover's instinct, was the first to spot the Chronicle, wedged at the
extreme end of the shelf, against the outer wall. He hitched his finger
into the top edge of the spine, but finding that the rotting leather was
ready to crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neighbouring book and
drew the Chronicle gently out, using his whole hand.
"Here he is—in pretty bad condition, I'm afraid. Hullo!"
As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchment
came away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.
"I say, Burdock—isn't this what you've been looking for?"
Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lower
shelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.
"By Jove!" he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement.
"Look at this, Winnie. It's the governor's will. What an extraordinary
thing! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of all
places?"
"Is it really the will?" cried Mrs. Hancock.
"No doubt about it, I should say," observed Wimsey coolly. "Last Will
and Testament of Simon Burdock." He stood, turning the grimy
document over and over in his hands, looking from the endorsement
to the plain side of the folded parchment.
"Well, well!" said Mr. Hancock. "How strange! It seems almost
providential that you should have taken that book down."
"What does the will say?" demanded Mrs. Burdock, in some
excitement.
"I beg your pardon," said Wimsey, handing it over to her. "Yes, as you
say, Mr. Hancock, it does almost seem as if I was meant to find it." He
glanced down again at the Chronicle, mournfully tracing with his
finger the outline of a damp stain which had rotted the cover and
spread to the inner pages, almost obliterating the colophon.
Haviland Burdock meanwhile had spread the will out on the nearest
table. His wife leaned over his shoulder. The Hancocks, barely
controlling their curiosity, stood near, awaiting the result. Wimsey, with
an elaborate pretence of non-interference in this family matter,
examined the wall against which the Chronicle had stood, feeling its
moist surface and examining the damp-stains. They had assumed the
appearance of a grinning face. He compared them with the
corresponding mark on the book, and shook his head desolately over
the damage.
Mr. Frobisher-Pym, who had wandered away some time before and
was absorbed in an ancient book of Farriery, now approached, and
enquired what the excitement was about.
"Listen to this!" cried Haviland. His voice was quiet, but a suppressed
triumph throbbed in it and glittered from his eyes.
"'I bequeath everything of which I die possessed'—there's a lot of
enumeration of properties here, which doesn't matter—'to my eldest
son, Martin'——"
Mr. Frobisher-Pym whistled.
"Listen! 'To my eldest son Martin, for so long as my body shall remain
above ground. But so soon as I am buried, I direct that the whole of
this property shall revert to my younger son Haviland absolutely'——"
"Good God!" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.
"There's a lot more," said Haviland, "but that's the gist of it."
"Let me see," said the magistrate.
He took the will from Haviland, and read it through with a frowning
face.
"That's right," he said. "No possible doubt about it. Martin has had his
property and lost it again. How very curious. Up till yesterday