Harriet was silent. She suddenly saw Wimsey in a new light. She knew him to be intelligent, clean, courteous, wealthy, well-read, amusing and enamoured, but he had not so far produced in her that crushing sense of utter inferiority which leads to prostration and hero-worship. But she now realised that there was, after all, something godlike about him. He could control a horse.
This is brilliant. I love how much fun Sayers was having with her characters.
Even if she might have been serious about Harriet's epiphany, the scene just before where Peter and Harriet are scouring the beach for clues was hilarious (and was obviously meant to be funny by Sayers).
Harriet: (after a long and unproductive pause, meeting Peter with a sodden Gold Flake packet in one hand and half a Bible in the other): Dr Livingstone, I presume. Do murderers read the Bible?
Peter: Any book had served as well, Any book had stopped the bullet – that may be; I cannot tell.
Harriet (reading): ‘Last of all the woman died also’ – probably from backache.
Peter: My back aches, and a drowsy numbness stills My brain, as though of hemlock –
Harriet (suddenly practical): Look at the cigarette-card.
Peter: It belongs to the new series.
Harriet: Then it may be quite recent.
Peter (wearily): All right; keep it; we’ll call it a clue. How about the Holy Writ?
Harriet (in a marked manner): You can keep that; it might be good for you.
Peter: Very well. (In a still more marked manner) Shall we begin with the Song of Songs.
Harriet: Get on with your job.
Peter: I am. How far have we come?
Harriet: How many leagues to Babylon?
Peter: We have walked a mile and a half, and we are still in full view of the Flat-Iron.
Peter: I just wanted to ask whether you’d given any further thought to that suggestion about marrying me.
Harriet (sarcastically): I suppose you were thinking how delightful it would be to go through life like this together?
Peter: Well, not quite like this. Hand in hand was more my idea.
Harriet: What is that in your hand?
Peter: A dead starfish.
Harriet: Poor fish!
Peter: No ill-feeling, I trust.
Harriet: Oh, dear no.