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Waterloo.’
     
    Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room at 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table smiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced in from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up from a handsome edition of the Contes de La Fontaine, whose handsome hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.
        ‘Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?’
        ‘I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is Célestine Berger.’
        ‘You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is called Célestine. You should say “under the name of Célestine Berger”. And the man?’
        ‘He is domiciled at this address in Guildford Street, Bloomsbury, my lord.’
        ‘Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me Who’s Who . Was it a very tiresome job?’
        ‘Not exceptionally so, my lord.’
        ‘One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you will jib at,’ said his lordship, ‘and you will leave me and I shall cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club.’
        The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words Who’s Who embossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no public library and in no bookseller’s shop. It was a bulky manuscript, closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr Bunter, in part with Lord Peter’s neat and altogether illegible hand. It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to a very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled, closed the book, and went to the telephone.
        ‘Yes – this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?’
        The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the imperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famous beauty in the London of the ’sixties.
        ‘It’s Peter Wimsey, duchess.’
        ‘Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental jaunting?’
        ‘Just home – and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most fascinating lady in England.’
        ‘God bless my soul, child, what do you want?’ demanded the duchess. ‘Boys like you don’t flatter an old woman for nothing.’
        ‘I want to tell you my sins, duchess.’
        ‘You should have lived in the great days,’ said the voice appreciatively. ‘Your talents are wasted on the young fry.’
        ‘That is why I want to talk to you, duchess.’
        ‘Well, my dear, if you’ve committed any sins worth hearing I shall enjoy your visit.’
        ‘You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming this afternoon.’
        ‘I will be at home to you and no one else. There.’
        ‘Dear lady, I kiss your hands,’ said Lord Peter, and he heard a deep chuckle as the duchess rang off.
     
    ‘You may say what you like, duchess,’ said Lord Peter from his reverential position on the fender-stool, ‘but you are the youngest grandmother in London, not excepting my own mother.’
        ‘Dear Honoria is the merest child,’ said the duchess. ‘I have twenty years more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when we boast of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmother before I die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight’s time, to that stupid son of Attenbury’s.’
        ‘Abcock?’
        ‘Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn’t know still champagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so I dare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have either brains or beauty to get on – preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems to be required but a