"Alas!" said Hiya, "the sentiments which this person expressed with irreproachable honorableness, when the sun was high in the heavens and the probability of secretly leaving an undoubtedly well-appointed home was engagingly remote, seem to have an entirely different significance when recalled by night in a damp orchard, and on the eve of their fulfillment."THE WALLET OF KAI-LUNG
"Alas!" said Hiya, "the sentiments which this person expressed with irreproachable honorableness, when the sun was high in the heavens and the probability of secretly leaving an undoubtedly well-appointed home was engagingly remote, seem to have an entirely different significance when recalled by night in a damp orchard, and on the eve of their fulfillment."
THE WALLET OF KAI-LUNG
And his short minute, after noon, is night.DONNE
Mr. Goyles was interviewed the next day at the police-station. Mr. Murbles was present, and Mary insisted on coming. The young man began by blustering a little, but the solicitor's dry manner made its impression.
"Lord Peter Wimsey identifies you," said Mr. Murbles, "as the man who made a murderous attack upon him last night. With remarkable generosity, he has forborne to press the charge. Now we know further that you were present at Riddlesdale Lodge on the night when Captain Cathcart was shot. You will no doubt be called as a witness in the case. But you would greatly assist justice by making a statement to us now. This is a purely friendly and private interview, Mr. Goyles. As you see, no representative of the police is present. We simply ask for your help. I ought, however, to warn you that, whereas it is, of course, fully competent for you to refuse to answer any of our questions, a refusal might lay you open to the gravest imputations."
"In fact," said Goyles, "it's a threat. If I don't tell you, you'll have me arrested on suspicion of murder."
"Dear me, no, Mr. Goyles," returned the solicitor. "We should merely place what information we hold in the hands of the police, who would then act as they thought fit. God bless my soul, no—anything like a threat would be highly irregular. In the matter of the assault upon Lord Peter, his lordship will, of course, use his own discretion."
"Well," said Goyles sullenly, "it's a threat, call it what you like. However, I don't mind speaking—especially as you'll be jolly well disappointed. I suppose you gave me away, Mary."
Mary flushed indignantly.
"My sister has been extraordinarily loyal to you, Mr. Goyles," said Lord Peter. "I may tell you, indeed, that she put herself into a position of grave personal inconvenience—not to say danger—on your behalf. You were traced to London in consequence of your having left unequivocal traces in your exceedingly hasty retreat. When my sister accidentally opened a telegram addressed to me at Riddlesdale by my family name she hurried immediately to town, to shield you if she could, at any cost to herself. Fortunately I had already received a duplicate wire at my flat. Even then I was not certain of your identity when I accidentally ran across you at the Soviet Club. Your own energetic efforts, however, to avoid an interview gave me complete certainty, together with an excellent excuse for detaining you. In fact, I'm uncommonly obliged to you for your assistance."
Mr. Goyles looked resentful.
"I don't know how you could think, George—" said Mary.
"Never mind what I think," said the young man, roughly. "I gather you've told 'em all about it now, anyhow. Well, I'll tell you my story as shortly as I can, and you'll see I know damn all about it. If you don't believe me I can't help it. I came along at about a quarter to three, and parked the 'bus in the lane."
"Where were you at 11:50?"
"On the road from Northallerton. My meeting didn't finish till 10:45. I can bring a hundred witnesses to prove it."
Wimsey made a note of the address where the meeting had been held, and nodded to Goyles to proceed.
"I climbed over the wall and walked through the shrubbery."
"You saw no person, and no body?"
"Nobody, alive or dead."
"Did you notice any blood or footprints on the path?"
"No. I didn't like to use my torch, for fear of being seen from the house. There was just light enough to see the path. I came to the door of the conservatory just before three. As I came up I stumbled over something. I felt it, and it was like a body. I was alarmed. I thought it might be Mary—ill or fainted or something. I ventured to turn on my light. Then I saw it was Cathcart, dead."
"You are sure he was dead?"
"Stone dead."
"One moment," interposed the solicitor. "You say you saw that it was Cathcart. Had you known Cathcart previously?"
"No, never. I meant that I saw it was a dead man, and learnt afterwards that it was Cathcart."
"In fact, you do not, now, know of your own knowledge, that it was Cathcart?"
"Yes—at least, I recognized the photographs in the papers afterwards."
"It is very necessary to be accurate in making a statement, Mr. Goyles. A remark such as you made just now might give a most unfortunate impression to the police or to a jury."
So saying, Mr. Murbles blew his nose, and resettled his pince-nez.
"What next?" inquired Peter.
"I fancied I heard somebody coming up the path. I did not think it wise to be found there with the corpse, so I cleared out."
"Oh," said Peter, with an indescribable expression, "that was a very simple solution. You left the girl you were going to marry to make for herself the unpleasant discovery that there was a dead man in the garden and that her gallant wooer had made tracks. What did you expectherto think?"
"Well, I thought she'd keep quiet for her own sake. As a matter of fact, I didn't think very clearly about anything. I knew I'd broken in where I had no business, and that if I was found with a murdered man it might look jolly queer for me."
"In fact," said Mr. Murbles, "you lost your head, young man, and ran away in a very foolish and cowardly manner."
"You needn't put it that way," retorted Mr. Goyles. "I was in a very awkward and stupid situation to start with."
"Yes," said Lord Peter ironically, "and 3 a.m. is a nasty, chilly time of day. Next time you arrange an elopement, make it for six o'clock in the evening, or twelve o'clock at night. You seem better at framing conspiracies than carrying them out. A little thing upsets your nerves, Mr. Goyles. I don't really think, you know, that a person of your temperament should carry fire-arms. What in the world, you blitherin' young ass, made you loose off that pop-gun at me last night? Youwouldhave been in a damned awkward situation then, if you'd accidentally hit me in the head or the heart or anywhere that mattered. If you're so frightened of a dead body, why go about shootin' at people? Why, why, why? That's what beats me. If you're tellin' the truth now, you never stood in the slightest danger. Lord! and to think of the time and trouble we've had to waste catchin' you—you ass! And poor old Mary, workin' away and half killin' herself, because she thought at least you wouldn't have run away unless there was somethin' to run from!"
"You must make allowance for a nervous temperament," said Mary in a hard voice.
"If you knew what it felt like to be shadowed and followed and badgered—" began Mr. Goyles.
"But I thought you Soviet Club people enjoyed being suspected of things," said Lord Peter. "Why, it ought to be the proudest moment of your life when you're really looked on as a dangerous fellow."
"It's the sneering of men like you," said Goyles passionately, "that does more to breed hatred between class and class—"
"Never mind about that," interposed Mr. Murbles. "The law's the law for everybody, and you have managed to put yourself in a very awkward position, young man." He touched a bell on the table, and Parker entered with a constable. "We shall be obliged to you," said Mr. Murbles, "if you will kindly have this young man kept under observation. We make no charge against him so long as he behaves himself, but he must not attempt to abscond before the Riddlesdale case comes up for trial."
"Certainly not, sir," said Mr. Parker.
"One moment," said Mary. "Mr. Goyles, here is the ring you gave me. Good-bye. When next you make a public speech calling for decisive action I will come and applaud it. You speak so well about that sort of thing. But otherwise, I think we had better not meet again."
"Of course," said the young man bitterly, "your people have forced me into this position, and you turn round and sneer at me too."
"I didn't mind thinking you were a murderer," said Lady Mary spitefully, "but Idomind your being such an ass."
Before Mr. Goyles could reply, Mr. Parker, bewildered but not wholly displeased, maneuvered his charge out of the room. Mary walked over to the window, and stood biting her lips.
Presently Lord Peter came across to her. "I say, Polly, old Murbles has asked us to lunch. Would you like to come? Sir Impey Biggs will be there."
"I don't want to meet him today. It's very kind of Mr. Murbles—"
"Oh, come along, old thing. Biggs is some celebrity, you know, and perfectly toppin' to look at, in a marbly kind of way. He'll tell you all about his canaries—"
Mary giggled through her obstinate tears.
"It's perfectly sweet of you, Peter, to try and amuse the baby. But I can't. I'd make a fool of myself. I've been made enough of a fool of for one day."
"Bosh," said Peter. "Of course, Goyles didn't show up very well this morning, but, then, he was in an awfully difficult position.Docome."
"I hope Lady Mary consents to adorn my bachelor establishment," said the solicitor, coming up. "I shall esteem it a very great honor. I really do not think I have entertained a lady in my chambers for twenty years—dear me, twenty years indeed it must be."
"In that case," said Lady Mary, "I simplycan'trefuse."
Mr. Murbles inhabited a delightful old set of rooms in Staple Inn, with windows looking out upon the formal garden, with its odd little flower-beds and tinkling fountain. The chambers kept up to a miracle the old-fashioned law atmosphere which hung about his own prim person. His dining-room was furnished in mahogany, with a Turkey carpet and crimson curtains. On his sideboard stood some pieces of handsome Sheffield plate and a number of decanters with engraved silver labels round their necks. There was a bookcase full of large volumes bound in law calf, and an oil-painting of a harsh-featured judge over the mantelpiece. Lady Mary felt a sudden gratitude for this discreet and solid Victorianism.
"I fear we may have to wait a few moments for Sir Impey," said Mr. Murbles, consulting his watch. "He is engaged in Quangle & Hamper v.Truth, but they expect to be through this morning—in fact, Sir Impey fancied that midday would see the end of it. Brilliant man, Sir Impey. He is defendingTruth."
"Astonishin' position for a lawyer, what?" said Peter.
"The newspaper," said Mr. Murbles, acknowledging the pleasantry with a slight unbending of the lips, "against these people who profess to cure fifty-nine different diseases with the same pill. Quangle & Hamper produced some of their patients in court to testify to the benefits they'd enjoyed from the cure. To hear Sir Impey handling them was an intellectual treat. His kindly manner goes a long way with old ladies. When he suggested that one of them should show her leg to the Bench the sensation in court was really phenomenal."
"And did she show it?" inquired Lord Peter.
"Panting for the opportunity, my dear Lord Peter, panting for the opportunity."
"I wonder they had the nerve to call her."
"Nerve?" said Mr. Murbles. "The nerve of men like Quangle & Hamper has not its fellow in the universe, to adopt the expression of the great Shakespeare. But Sir Impey is not the man to take liberties with. We are really extremely fortunate to have secured his help.—Ah, I think I hear him!"
A hurried footstep on the stair indeed announced learned counsel, who burst in, still in wig and gown, and full of apology.
"Extremely sorry, Murbles," said Sir Impey. "We became excessively tedious at the end, I regret to say. I really did my best, but dear old Dowson is getting as deaf as a post, you know, and terribly fumbling in his movements.—And how are you, Wimsey? You look as if you'd been in the wars. Can we bring an action for assault against anybody?"
"Much better than that," put in Mr. Murbles; "attempted murder, if you please."
"Excellent, excellent," said Sir Impey.
"Ah, but we've decided not to prosecute," said Mr. Murbles, shaking his head.
"Really! Oh, my dear Wimsey, this will never do. Lawyers have to live, you know. Your sister? I hadn't the pleasure of meeting you at Riddlesdale, Lady Mary. I trust you are fully recovered."
"Entirely, thank you," said Mary with emphasis.
"Mr. Parker—of course your name is very familiar. Wimsey, here, can't do a thing without you, I know. Murbles, are these gentlemen full of valuable information? I am immensely interested in this case."
"Not just this moment, though," put in the solicitor.
"Indeed, no. Nothing but that excellent saddle of mutton has the slightest attraction for me just now. Forgive my greed."
"Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, beaming mildly, "let's make a start. I fear, my dear young people, I am old-fashioned enough not to have adopted the modern practice of cocktail-drinking."
"Quite right too," said Wimsey emphatically. "Ruins the palate and spoils the digestion. Not an English custom—rank sacrilege in this old Inn. Came from America—result, prohibition. That's what happens to people who don't understand how to drink. God bless me, sir, why, you're giving us the famous claret. It's a sin so much as to mention a cocktail in its presence."
"Yes," said Mr. Murbles, "yes, that's the Lafite '75. It's very seldom, very seldom, I bring it out for anybody under fifty years of age—but you, Lord Peter, have a discrimination which would do honor to one of twice your years."
"Thanks very much, sir; that's a testimonial I deeply appreciate. May I circulate the bottle, sir?"
"Do, do—we will wait on ourselves, Simpson, thank you. After lunch," continued Mr. Murbles, "I will ask you to try something really curious. An odd old client of mine died the other day, and left me a dozen of '47 port."
"Gad!" said Peter. "'47! It'll hardly be drinkable, will it, sir?"
"I very greatly fear," replied Mr. Murbles, "that it will not. A great pity. But I feel that some kind of homage should be paid to so notable an antiquity."
"It would be something to say that one had tasted it," said Peter. "Like goin' to see the divine Sarah, you know. Voice gone, bloom gone, savor gone—but still a classic."
"Ah," said Mr. Murbles. "I remember her in her great days. We old fellows have the compensation of some very wonderful memories."
"Quite right, sir," said Peter, "and you'll pile up plenty more yet. But what was this old gentleman doing to let a vintage like that get past its prime?"
"Mr. Featherstone was a very singular man," said Mr. Murbles. "And yet—I don't know. He may have been profoundly wise. He had the reputation for extreme avarice. Never bought a new suit, never took a holiday, never married, lived all his life in the same dark, narrow chambers he occupied as a briefless barrister. Yet he inherited a huge income from his father, all of which he left to accumulate. The port was laid down by the old man, who died in 1860, when my client was thirty-four. He—the son, I mean—was ninety-six when he deceased. He said no pleasure ever came up to the anticipation, and so he lived like a hermit—doing nothing, but planning all the things he might have done. He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the '47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened, at the close of his frugal meal. An earnest Christian, he anticipated great happiness after death, but, as you see, he put the pleasure off as long as possible. He died with the words, 'He is faithful that promised'—feeling to the end the need of assurance. A very singular man, very singular indeed—far removed from the adventurous spirit of the present generation."
"How curious and pathetic," said Mary.
"Perhaps he had at some time set his heart on something unattainable," said Parker.
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Murbles. "People used to say that the dream-lady had not always been a dream, but that he never could bring himself to propose."
"Ah," said Sir Impey briskly, "the more I see and hear in the courts the more I am inclined to feel that Mr. Featherstone chose the better part."
"And are determined to follow his example—in that respect at any rate? Eh, Sir Impey!" replied Mr. Murbles, with a mild chuckle.
Mr. Parker glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain.
Truly enough the '47 port was a dead thing; the merest ghost of its old flame and flavor hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a moment.
"It is like the taste of a passion that has passed its noon and turned to weariness," he said, with sudden gravity. "The only thing to do is to recognize bravely that it is dead, and put it away." With a determined movement, he flung the remainder of the wine into the fire. The mocking smile came back to his face:
"What I like about CliveIs that he is no longer alive—There is a great deal to be saidFor being dead.
"What I like about CliveIs that he is no longer alive—There is a great deal to be saidFor being dead.
"What I like about CliveIs that he is no longer alive—There is a great deal to be saidFor being dead.
"What I like about Clive
Is that he is no longer alive—
There is a great deal to be said
For being dead.
"What classic pith and brevity in those four lines! However, in the matter of this case, we've a good deal to tell you, sir."
With the assistance of Parker, he laid before the two men of law the whole train of the investigation up to date, Lady Mary coming loyally up to the scratch with her version of the night's proceedings.
"In fact, you see," said Peter, "this Mr. Goyles has lost a lot bynotbeing a murderer. We feel he would have cut a fine, sinister figure as a midnight assassin. But things bein' as they are, you see, we must make what we can of him as a witness, what?"
"Well, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles slowly, "I congratulate you and Mr. Parker on a great deal of industry and ingenuity in working the matter out."
"I think we may say we have made some progress," said Parker.
"If only negatively," added Peter.
"Exactly," said Sir Impey turning on him with staggering abruptness. "Very negatively indeed. And, having seriously hampered the case for the defense, what are you going to do next?"
"That's a nice thing to say," cried Peter indignantly, "when we've cleared up such a lot of points for you!"
"I daresay," said the barrister, "but they're the sorts of points which are much better left muffled up."
"Damn it all, we want to get at the truth!"
"Do you?" said Sir Impey drily. "I don't. I don't care twopence about the truth. I want a case. It doesn't matter to me who killed Cathcart, provided I can prove it wasn't Denver. It's really enough if I can throw reasonable doubt on its being Denver. Here's a client comes to me with a story of a quarrel, a suspicious revolver, a refusal to produce evidence of his statements, and a totally inadequate and idiotic alibi. I arrange to obfuscate the jury with mysterious footprints, a discrepancy as to time, a young woman with a secret, and a general vague suggestion of something between a burglary and acrime passionel. And here you come explaining the footprints, exculpating the unknown man, abolishing the discrepancies, clearing up the motives of the young woman, and most carefully throwing back suspicion to where it rested in the first place. Whatdoyou expect?"
"I've always said," growled Peter, "that the professional advocate was the most immoral fellow on the face of the earth, and now I know for certain."
"Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, "all this just means that we mustn't rest upon our oars. You must go on, my dear boy, and get more evidence of a positive kind. If this Mr. Goyles did not kill Cathcart we must be able to find the person who did."
"Anyhow," said Biggs, "there's one thing to be thankful for—and that is, that you were still too unwell to go before the Grand Jury last Thursday, Lady Mary"—Lady Mary blushed—"and the prosecution will be building their case on a shot fired at three a.m. Don't answer any questions if you can help it, and we'll spring it on 'em."
"But will they believe anything she says at the trial after that?" asked Peter dubiously.
"All the better if they don't. She'll be their witness. You'll get a nasty heckling, Lady Mary, but you mustn't mind that. It's all in the game. Just stick to your story and we'll deliver the goods. See!" Sir Impey wagged a menacing finger.
"I see," said Mary. "And I'll be heckled like anything. Just go on stubbornly saying, 'I am telling the truth now.' That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Exactly so," said Biggs. "By the way, Denver still refuses to explain his movements, I suppose?"
"Cat-e-gori-cally," replied the solicitor. "The Wimseys are a very determined family," he added, "and I fear that, for the present, it is useless to pursue that line of investigation. If we could discover the truth in some other way, and confront the Duke with it, he might then be persuaded to add his confirmation."
"Well, now," said Parker, "we have, as it seems to me, still three lines to go upon. First, we must try to establish the Duke's alibi from external sources. Secondly, we can examine the evidence afresh with a view to finding the real murderer. And thirdly, the Paris police may give us some light upon Cathcart's past history."
"And I fancy I know where to go next for information on the second point," said Wimsey suddenly. "Grider's Hole."
"Whew-w!" Parker whistled. "I was forgetting that. That's where that bloodthirsty farmer fellow lives, isn't it, who set the dogs on you?"
"With the remarkable wife. Yes. See here, how does this strike you? This fellow is ferociously jealous of his wife, and inclined to suspect every man who comes near her. When I went up there that day, and mentioned that a friend of mine might have been hanging about there the previous week, he got frightfully excited and threatened to have the fellow's blood. Seemed to know who I was referrin' to. Now, of course, with my mind full of No. 10—Goyles, you know—I never thought but what he was the man. But supposin' it was Cathcart? You see, we know now, Goyles hadn't even been in the neighborhood til the Wednesday, so you wouldn't expect what's-his-name—Grimethorpe—to know about him, but Cathcart might have wandered over to Grider's Hole any day and been seen. And look here! Here's another thing that fits in. When I went up there Mrs. Grimethorpe evidently mistook me for somebody she knew, and hurried down to warn me off. Well, of course, I've been thinkin' all the time she must have seen my old cap and Burberry from the window and mistaken me for Goyles, but, now I come to think of it, I told the kid who came to the door that I was from Riddlesdale Lodge. If the child told her mother, she must have thought it was Cathcart."
"No, no, Wimsey, that won't do," put in Parker; "she must have known Cathcart was dead by that time."
"Oh, damn it! Yes, I suppose she must. Unless that surly old devil kept the news from her. By Jove! that's just what he would do if he'd killed Cathcart himself. He'd never say a word to her—and I don't suppose he would let her look at a paper, even if they take one in. It's a primitive sort of place."
"But didn't you say Grimethorpe had an alibi?"
"Yes, but we didn't really test it."
"And how d'you suppose he knew Cathcart was going to be in the thicket that night?"
Peter considered.
"Perhaps he sent for him," suggested Mary.
"That's right, that's right," cried Peter eagerly. "You remember we thought Cathcart must somehow or other have heard from Goyles, making an appointment—but suppose the message was from Grimethorpe, threatening to split on Cathcart to Jerry."
"You are suggesting, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles, in a tone calculated to chill Peter's blithe impetuosity, "that, at the very time Mr. Cathcart was betrothed to your sister, he was carrying on a disgraceful intrigue with a married woman very much his social inferior."
"I beg your pardon, Polly," said Wimsey.
"It's all right," said Mary, "I—as a matter of fact, it wouldn't surprise me frightfully. Denis was always—I mean, he had rather Continental ideas about marriage and that sort of thing. I don't think he'd have thought that mattered very much. He'd probably have said there was a time and place for everything."
"One of those watertight compartment minds," said Wimsey thoughtfully. Mr. Parker, despite his long acquaintance with the seamy side of things in London, had his brows set in a gloomy frown of as fierce a provincial disapproval as ever came from Barrow-in-Furness.
"If you can upset this Grimethorpe's alibi," said Sir Impey, fitting his right-hand fingertips neatly between the fingers of his left hand, "we might make some sort of a case of it. What do you think, Murbles?"
"After all," said the solicitor, "Grimethorpe and the servant both admit that he, Grimethorpe, was not at Grider's Hole on Wednesday night. If he can't prove he was at Stapley he may have been at Riddlesdale."
"By Jove!" cried Wimsey; "driven off alone, stopped somewhere, left the gee, sneaked back, met Cathcart, done him in, and toddled home next day with a tale about machinery."
"Or he may even have been to Stapley," put in Parker; "left early or gone late, and put in the murder on the way. We shall have to check the precise times very carefully."
"Hurray!" cried Wimsey. "I think I'll be gettin' back to Riddlesdale."
"I'd better stay here," said Parker. "There may be something from Paris."
"Right you are. Let me know the minute anything comes through. I say, old thing!"
"Yes?"
"Does it occur to you that what's the matter with this case is that there are too many clues? Dozens of people with secrets and elopements bargin' about all over the place—"
"I hate you, Peter," said Lady Mary.
Oh-ho, my friend! You are gotten into Lob's pond.
JACK THE GIANT-KILLER
Lord Peter broke his journey north at York, whither the Duke of Denver had been transferred after the Assizes, owing to the imminent closing-down of Northallerton Gaol. By dint of judicious persuasion, Peter contrived to obtain an interview with his brother. He found him looking ill at ease, and pulled down by the prison atmosphere, but still unquenchably defiant.
"Bad luck, old man," said Peter, "but you're keepin' your tail up fine. Beastly slow business, all this legal stuff, what? But it gives us time, an' that's all to the good."
"It's a confounded nuisance," said his grace. "And I'd like to know what Murbles means. Comes down and tries to bully me—damned impudence! Anybody'd think he suspected me."
"Look here, Jerry," said his brother earnestly, "why can't you let up on that alibi of yours? It'd help no end, you know. After all, if a fellow won't say what he's been doin'—"
"It ain't my business to prove anything," retorted his grace, with dignity. "They've got to show I was there, murderin' the fellow. I'm not bound to say where I was. I'm presumed innocent, aren't I, till they prove me guilty? I call it a disgrace. Here's a murder committed, and they aren't taking the slightest trouble to find the real criminal. I give 'em my word of honor, to say nothin' of an oath, that I didn't kill Cathcart—though, mind you, the swine deserved it—but they pay no attention. Meanwhile, the real man's escapin' at his confounded leisure. If I were only free, I'd make a fuss about it."
"Well, why the devil don't you cut it short, then?" urged Peter. "I don't mean here and now to me"—with a glance at the warder, within earshot—"but to Murbles. Then we could get to work."
"I wish you'd jolly well keep out of it," grunted the Duke. "Isn't it all damnable enough for Helen, poor girl, and mother, and everyone, without you makin' it an opportunity to play Sherlock Holmes? I'd have thought you'd have had the decency to keep quiet, for the family's sake. I may be in a damned rotten position, but I ain't makin' a public spectacle of myself, by Jove!"
"Hell!" said Lord Peter, with such vehemence that the wooden-faced warder actually jumped. "It's you that's makin' the spectacle! It need never have started, but for you. Do you thinkIlike havin' my brother and sister dragged through the Courts, and reporters swarmin' over the place, and paragraphs and news-bills with your name starin' at me from every corner, and all this ghastly business, endin' up in a great show in the House of Lords, with a lot of people togged up in scarlet and ermine, and all the rest of the damn-fool jiggery-pokery? People are beginnin' to look oddly at me in the Club, and I can jolly well hear 'em whisperin' that 'Denver's attitude looks jolly fishy, b'gad!' Cut it out, Jerry."
"Well, we're in for it now," said his brother, "and thank heaven there are still a few decent fellows left in the peerage who'll know how to take a gentleman's word, even if my own brother can't see beyond his rotten legal evidence."
As they stared angrily at one another, that mysterious sympathy of the flesh which we call family likeness sprang out from its hiding-place, stamping their totally dissimilar features with an elfish effect of mutual caricature. It was as though each saw himself in a distorting mirror, while the voices might have been one voice with its echo.
"Look here, old chap," said Peter, recovering himself, "I'm frightfully sorry. I didn't mean to let myself go like that. If you won't say anything, you won't. Anyhow, we're all working like blazes, and we're sure to find the right man before very long."
"You'd better leave it to the police," said Denver. "I know you like playin' at detectives, but I do think you might draw the line somewhere."
"That's a nasty one," said Wimsey. "But I don't look on this as a game, and I can't say I'll keep out of it, because I know I'm doin' valuable work. Still, I can—honestly, I can—see your point of view. I'm jolly sorry you find me such an irritatin' sort of person. I suppose it's hard for you to believe I feel anything. But I do, and I'm goin' to get you out of this, if Bunter and I both perish in the attempt. Well, so long—that warder's just wakin' up to say, 'Time, gentlemen.' Cheer-oh, old thing! Good luck!"
He rejoined Bunter outside.
"Bunter," he said, as they walked through the streets of the old city, "is my mannerreallyoffensive, when I don't mean it to be?"
"It is possible, my lord, if your lordship will excuse my saying so, that the liveliness of your lordship's manner may be misleading to persons of limited—"
"Be careful, Bunter!"
"Limited imagination, my lord."
"Well-bred English people never have imagination, Bunter."
"Certainly not, my lord. I meant nothing disparaging."
"Well, Bunter—oh, lord! there's a reporter! Hide me, quick!"
"In here, my lord."
Mr. Bunter whisked his master into the cool emptiness of the Cathedral.
"I venture to suggest, my lord," he urged in a hurried whisper, "that we adopt the attitude and external appearance of prayer, if your lordship will excuse me."
Peeping through his fingers, Lord Peter saw a verger hastening towards them, rebuke depicted on his face. At that moment, however, the reporter entered in headlong pursuit, tugging a note-book from his pocket. The verger leapt swiftly on this new prey.
"The winder h'under which we stand," he began in a reverential monotone, "is called the Seven Sisters of York. They say—"
Master and man stole quietly out.
For his visit to the market town of Stapley Lord Peter attired himself in an aged Norfolk suit, stockings with sober tops, an ancient hat turned down all round, stout shoes, and carried a heavy ashplant. It was with regret that he abandoned his favorite stick—a handsome malacca, marked off in inches for detective convenience, and concealing a sword in its belly and a compass in its head. He decided, however, that it would prejudice the natives against him, as having a town-bred, not to say supercilious, air about it. The sequel to this commendable devotion to his art forcibly illustrated the truth of Gertrude Rhead's observation, "All this self-sacrifice is a sad mistake."
The little town was sleepy enough as he drove into it in one of the Riddlesdale dog-carts, Bunter beside him, and the under-gardener on the back seat. For choice, he would have come on a market-day, in the hope of meeting Grimethorpe himself, but things were moving fast now, and he dared not lose a day. It was a raw, cold morning, inclined to rain.
"Which is the best inn to put up at, Wilkes?"
"There's t' 'Bricklayers' Arms,' my lord—a fine, well-thought of place, or t' 'Bridge and Bottle,' i' t' square, or t' 'Rose and Crown,' t'other side o' square."
"Where do the folks usually put up on market-days?"
"Mebbe 'Rose and Crown' is most popular, so to say—Tim Watchett, t' landlord, is a rare gossip. Now Greg Smith ower t'way at 'Bridge and Bottle,' he's nobbut a grimly, surly man, but he keeps good drink."
"H'm—I fancy, Bunter, our man will be more attracted by surliness and good drink than by a genial host. The 'Bridge and Bottle' for us, I fancy, and, if we draw blank there, we'll toddle over to the 'Rose and Crown,' and pump the garrulous Watchett."
Accordingly they turned into the yard of a large, stony-faced house, whose long-unpainted sign bore the dim outline of a "Bridge Embattled," which local etymology had (by a natural association of ideas) transmogrified into the "Bridge and Bottle." To the grumpy ostler who took the horse Peter, with his most companionable manner, addressed himself:
"Nasty raw morning, isn't it?"
"Eea."
"Give him a good feed. I may be here some time."
"Ugh!"
"Not many people about today, what?"
"Ugh!"
"But I expect you're busy enough market-days."
"Eea."
"People come in from a long way round, I suppose."
"Co-oop!" said the ostler. The horse walked three steps forward.
"Wo!" said the ostler. The horse stopped, with the shafts free of the tugs; the man lowered the shafts, to grate viciously on the gravel.
"Coom on oop!" said the ostler, and walked calmly off into the stable, leaving the affable Lord Peter as thoroughly snubbed as that young sprig of the nobility had ever found himself.
"I am more and more convinced," said his lordship, "that this is Farmer Grimethorpe's usual house of call. Let's try the bar. Wilkes, I shan't want you for a bit. Get yourself lunch if necessary. I don't know how long we shall be."
"Very good, my lord."
In the bar of the "Bridge and Bottle" they found Mr. Greg Smith gloomily checking a long invoice. Lord Peter ordered drinks for Bunter and himself. The landlord appeared to resent this as a liberty, and jerked his head towards the barmaid. It was only right and proper that Bunter, after respectfully returning thanks to his master for his half-pint, should fall into conversation with the girl, while Lord Peter paid his respects to Mr. Smith.
"Ah!" said his lordship, "good stuff, that, Mr. Smith. I was told to come here for real good beer, and, by Jove! I've been sent to the right place."
"Ugh!" said Mr. Smith, "'tisn't what it was. Nowt's good these times."
"Well, I don't want better. By the way, is Mr. Grimethorpe here today?"
"Eh?"
"Is Mr. Grimethorpe in Stapley this morning, d'you know?"
"How'd I know?"
"I thought he always put up here."
"Ah!"
"Perhaps I mistook the name. But I fancied he'd be the man to go where the best beer is."
"Ay?"
"Oh, well, if you haven't seen him, I don't suppose he's come over today."
"Coom where?"
"Into Stapley."
"Doosn't 'e live here? He can go and coom without my knowing."
"Oh, of course!" Wimsey staggered under the shock, and then grasped the misunderstanding. "I don't mean Mr. Grimethorpe of Stapley, but Mr. Grimethorpe of Grider's Hole."
"Why didn't tha say so? Oh, him? Ay."
"He's here today?"
"Nay, I knaw nowt about 'un."
"He comes in on market-days, I expect."
"Sometimes."
"It's a longish way. One can put up for the night, I suppose?"
"Doosta want t'stay t'night?"
"Well, no, I don't think so. I was thinking about my friend Mr. Grimethorpe. I daresay he often has to stay the night."
"Happen a does."
"Doesn't he stay here, then?"
"Naay."
"Oh!" said Wimsey, and thought impatiently: "If all these natives are as oyster-like Ishallhave to stay the night.... Well, well," he added aloud, "next time he drops in say I asked after him."
"And who mought tha be?" inquired Mr. Smith in a hostile manner.
"Oh, only Brooks of Sheffield," said Lord Peter, with a happy grin. "Good morning. I won't forget to recommend your beer."
Mr. Smith grunted. Lord Peter strolled slowly out, and before long Mr. Bunter joined him, coming out with a brisk step and the lingering remains of what, in anyone else, might have been taken for a smirk.
"Well?" inquired his lordship. "I hope the young lady was more communicative than that fellow."
"I found the young person" ("Snubbed again," muttered Lord Peter) "perfectly amiable, my lord, but unhappily ill-informed. Mr. Grimethorpe is not unknown to her, but he does not stay here. She has sometimes seen him in company with a man called Zedekiah Bone."
"Well," said his lordship, "suppose you look for Bone, and come and report progress to me in a couple of hours' time. I'll try the 'Rose and Crown.' We'll meet at noon under that thing."
"That thing," was a tall erection in pink granite, neatly tooled to represent a craggy rock, and guarded by two petrified infantry-men in trench helmets. A thin stream of water gushed from a bronze knob half-way up, a roll of honor was engraved on the octagonal base, and four gas-lamps on cast-iron standards put the finishing touch to a very monument of incongruity. Mr. Bunter looked carefully at it, to be sure of recognizing it again, and moved respectfully away. Lord Peter walked ten brisk steps in the direction of the "Rose and Crown," then a thought struck him.
"Bunter!"
Mr. Bunter hurried back to his side.
"Oh, nothing!" said his lordship. "Only I've just thought of a name for it."
"For—"
"That memorial," said Lord Peter. "I choose to call it 'Meribah.'"
"Yes, my lord. The waters of strife. Exceedingly apt, my lord. Nothing harmonious about it, if I may say so. Will there be anything further, my lord?"
"No, that's all."
Mr. Timothy Watchett of the "Rose and Crown" was certainly a contrast to Mr. Greg Smith. He was a small, spare, sharp-eyed man of about fifty-five, with so twinkling and humorous an eye and so alert a cock of the head that Lord Peter summed up his origin the moment he set eyes on him.
"Morning, landlord," said he genially, "and when didyoulast see Piccadilly Circus?"
"'Ard to say, sir. Gettin' on for thirty-five year, I reckon. Many's the time I said to my wife, 'Liz, I'll tike you ter see the 'Olborn Empire afore I die.' But, with one thing and another, time slips aw'y. One day's so like another—blowed if I ever remember 'ow old I'm gettin', sir."
"Oh, well, you've lots of time yet," said Lord Peter.
"I 'ope so, sir. I ain't never wot you may call got used ter these Northerners. That slow, they are, sir—it fair giv' me the 'ump when I first come. And the w'y they speak—that took some gettin' used to. Call that English, I useter say, give me the Frenchies in the Chantycleer Restaurong, I ses. But there, sir, custom's everything. Blowed if I didn't ketch myself a-syin' 'yon side the square' the other day. Me!"
"I don't think there's much fear of your turning into a Yorkshire man," said Lord Peter, "didn't I know you the minute I set eyes on you? In Mr. Watchett's bar I said to myself, 'My foot is on my native paving-stones.'"
"That's raight, sir. And, bein' there, sir, what can I 'ave the pleasure of offerin' you?... Excuse me, sir, but 'aven't I seen your fice somewhere?"
"I don't think so," said Peter; "but that reminds me. Do you know one Mr. Grimethorpe?"
"I know five Mr. Grimethorpes. W'ich of 'em was you meanin', sir?"
"Mr. Grimethorpe of Grider's Hole."
The landlord's cheerful face darkened.
"Friend of yours, sir?"
"Not exactly. An acquaintance."
"There naow!" cried Mr. Watchett, smacking his hand down upon the counter. "I knowed as I knowed your fice! Don't you live over at Riddlesdale, sir?"
"I'm stayin' there."
"I knowed it," retorted Mr. Watchett triumphantly. He dived behind the counter and brought up a bundle of newspapers, turning over the sheets excitedly with a well-licked thumb. "There! Riddlesdale! That's it, of course."
He smacked open aDaily Mirrorof a fortnight or so ago. The front page bore a heavy block headline: THE RIDDLESDALE MYSTERY. And beneath was a lifelike snapshot entitled, "Lord Peter Wimsey, the Sherlock Holmes of the West End, who is devoting all his time and energies to proving the innocence of his brother, the Duke of Denver." Mr. Watchett gloated.
"You won't mind my syin' 'ow proud I am to 'ave you in my bar, my lord.—'Ere, Jem, you attend ter them gentlemen; don't you see they're wytin'?—Follered all yer caises I 'ave, my lord, in the pipers—jest like a book they are. An' ter think—"
"Look here, old thing," said Lord Peter, "d'you mind not talkin' quite so loud. Seein' dear old Felix is out of the bag, so to speak, do you think you could give me some information and keep your mouth shut, what?"
"Come be'ind into the bar-parlor, my lord. Nobody'll 'ear us there," said Mr. Watchett eagerly, lifting up the flap. "Jem, 'ere! Bring a bottle of—what'll you 'ave, my lord?"
"Well, I don't know how many places I may have to visit," said his lordship dubiously.
"Jem, bring a quart of the old ale.—It's special, that's wot it is, my lord. I ain't never found none like it, except it might be once at Oxford. Thanks, Jem. Naow you get along sharp and attend to the customers. Now, my lord."
Mr. Watchett's information amounted to this. That Mr. Grimethorpe used to come to the "Rose and Crown" pretty often, especially on market-days. About ten days previously he had come in lateish, very drunk and quarrelsome, with his wife, who seemed, as usual, terrified of him. Grimethorpe had demanded spirits, but Mr. Watchett had refused to serve him. There had been a row, and Mrs. Grimethorpe had endeavored to get her husband away. Grimethorpe had promptly knocked her down, with epithets reflecting upon her virtue, and Mr. Watchett had at once called upon the potmen to turn Grimethorpe out, refusing to have him in the house again. He had heard it said on all sides that Grimethorpe's temper, always notoriously bad, had become positively diabolical of late.
"Could you hazard, so to speak, a calculation as to how long, or since when?"
"Well, my lord, come to think of it, especially since the middle of last month—p'r'aps a bit earlier."
"M'm!"
"Not that I'd go for to insinuate anythink, nor your lordship, neither, of course," said Mr. Watchett quickly.
"Certainly not," said Lord Peter. "What about?"
"Ah!" said Mr. Watchett, "there it is, wot abaht?"
"Tell me," said Lord Peter, "do you recollect Grimethorpe comin' into Stapley on October 13th—a Wednesday, it was."
"That would be the day of the—ah! to be sure! Yes, I do recollect it, for I remember thinking it was odd him comin' here except on a market-day. Said he 'ad ter look at some machinery—drills and such, that's raight. 'E was 'ere raight enough."
"Do you remember what time he came in?"
"Well, naow, I've a fancy 'e was 'ere ter lunch. The waitress'd know. 'Ere, Bet!" he called through the side door, "d'yer 'appen to recollect whether Mr. Grimethorpe lunched 'ere October the 13th—Wednesday it were, the d'y the pore gent was murdered over at Riddlesdale?"
"Grimethorpe o' Grider's Hole?" said the girl, a well-grown young Yorkshire woman. "Yes! 'E took loonch, and coom back to sleep. Ah'm not mistook, for ah waited on 'un, an' took up 'is watter i' t'morning, and 'e only gied me tuppence."
"Monstrous!" said Lord Peter. "Look here, Miss Elizabeth, you're sure it was the thirteenth? Because I've got a bet on it with a friend, and I don't want to lose the money if I can help it. You're positive it was Wednesday night he slept here? I could have sworn it was Thursday."
"Naay, sir, t'wor Wednesday for I remember hearing the men talking o' t'murder i' t'bar, an' telling Mester Grimethorpe next daay."
"Sounds conclusive. What did Mr. Grimethorpe say about it?"
"There now," cried the young woman, "'tis queer you should ask that; everyone noticed how strange he acted. He turned all white like a sheet, and looked at both his hands, one after the other, and then he pushes 'es hair off 's forehead—dazed-like. We reckoned he hadn't got over the drink. He's more often drunk than not. Ah wouldn't be his wife for five hundred pounds."
"I should think not," said Peter; "you can do a lot better than that. Well, I suppose I've lost my money, then. By the way, what time did Mr. Grimethorpe come in to bed?"
"Close on two i' t'morning," said the girl, tossing her head. "He were locked oot, an' Jem had to go down and let 'un in."
"That so?" said Peter. "Well, I might try to get out on a technicality, eh, Mr. Watchett? Two o'clock is Thursday, isn't it? I'll work that for all it's worth. Thanks frightfully. That's all I want to know."
Bet grinned and giggled herself away, comparing the generosity of the strange gentleman with the stinginess of Mr. Grimethorpe. Peter rose.
"I'm no end obliged, Mr. Watchett," he said. "I'll just have a word with Jem. Don't say anything, by the way."
"Not me," said Mr. Watchett; "I knows wot's wot. Good luck, my lord."
Jem corroborated Bet. Grimethorpe had returned at about 1:50 a.m. on October 14th, drunk, and plastered with mud. He had muttered something about having run up against a man called Watson.
The ostler was next interrogated. He did not think that anybody could get a horse and trap out of the stable at night without his knowing it. He knew Watson. He was a carrier by trade, and lived in Windon Street. Lord Peter rewarded his informant suitably, and set out for Windon Street.
But the recital of his quest would be tedious. At a quarter past noon he joined Bunter at the Meribah memorial.
"Any luck?"
"I have secured certain information, my lord, which I have duly noted. Total expenditure on beer for self and witnesses 7s.2d., my lord."
Lord Peter paid the 7s.2d.without a word, and they adjourned to the "Rose and Crown." Being accommodated in a private parlor, and having ordered lunch, they proceeded to draw up the following schedule:
Grimethorpe's Movements.
Wednesday, October 13thtoThursday, October 14th.
Lord Peter looked at this for a few minutes, and put his finger on the great gap of six hours after 7:20.
"How far to Riddlesdale, Bunter?"
"About thirteen and three-quarter miles, my lord."
"And the shot was heard at 10:55. It couldn't be done on foot. Did Watson explain why he didn't get back from his round till two in the morning?"
"Yes, my lord. He says he reckons to be back about eleven, but his horse cast a shoe between King's Fenton and Riddlesdale. He had to walk him quietly into Riddlesdale—about 3-1/2 miles—getting there about ten, and knock up the blacksmith. He turned in to the 'Lord in Glory' till closing time, and then went home with a friend and had a few more. At 12:40 he started off home, and picked Grimethorpe up a mile or so out, near the cross roads."
"Sounds circumstantial. The blacksmith and the friend ought to be able to substantiate it. But we simply must find those men at the 'Pig and Whistle.'"
"Yes, my lord. I will try again after lunch."
It was a good lunch. But that seemed to exhaust their luck for the day, for by three o'clock the men had not been identified, and the scent seemed cold.
Wilkes, the groom, however, had his own contribution to the inquiry. He had met a man from King's Fenton at lunch, and they had, naturally, got to talking over the mysterious murder at the Lodge, and the man had said that he knew an old man living in a hut on the Fell, who said that on the night of the murder he'd seen a man walking over Whemmeling Fell in the middle of the night. "And it coom to me, all of a sooden, it mought be his grace," said Wilkes brightly.
Further inquiries elicited that the old man's name was Groot, and that Wilkes could easily drop Lord Peter and Bunter at the beginning of the sheep-path which led up to his hut.
Now, had Lord Peter taken his brother's advice, and paid more attention to English country sports than to incunabula and criminals in London—or had Bunter been brought up on the moors, rather than in a Kentish village—or had Wilkes (who was a Yorkshire man bred and born, and ought to have known better) not been so outrageously puffed up with the sense of his own importance in suggesting a clue, and with impatience to have that clue followed up without delay—or had any one of the three exercised common sense—this preposterous suggestion would never have been made, much less carried out, on a November day in the North Riding. As it was, however, Lord Peter and Bunter left the trap at the foot of the moor-path at ten minutes to four, and, dismissing Wilkes, climbed steadily up to the wee hut on the edge of the Fell.
The old man was extremely deaf, and, after half an hour of interrogation, his story did not amount to much. On a night in October, which he thought might be the night of the murder, he had been sitting by his peat fire when—about midnight, as he guessed—a tall man had loomed up out of the darkness. He spoke like a Southerner, and said he had got lost on the moor. Old Groot had come to his door and pointed out the track down towards Riddlesdale. The stranger had then vanished, leaving a shilling in his hand. He could not describe the stranger's dress more particularly than that he wore a soft hat and an overcoat, and, he thought, leggings. He was pretty near sure it was the night of the murder, because afterwards he had turned it over in his mind and made out that it might have been one of yon folk at the Lodge—possibly the Duke. He had only arrived at this result by a slow process of thought, and had not "come forward," not knowing whom or where to come to.
With this the inquirers had to be content, and, presenting Groot with half a crown, they emerged upon the moor at something after five o'clock.
"Bunter," said Lord Peter through the dusk, "I am abso-bally-lutely positive that the answer to all this business is at Grider's Hole."
"Very possibly, my lord."
Lord Peter extended his finger in a south-easterly direction. "That is Grider's Hole," he said. "Let's go."
"Very good, my lord."
So, like two Cockney innocents, Lord Peter and Bunter set forth at a brisk pace down the narrow moor-track towards Grider's Hole, with never a glance behind them for the great white menace rolling silently down through the November dusk from the wide loneliness of Whemmeling Fell.
"Bunter!"
"Here, my lord!"
The voice was close at his ear.
"Thank God! I thought you'd disappeared for good. I say, we ought to have known."
"Yes, my lord."
It had come on them from behind, in a single stride, thick, cold, choking—blotting each from the other, though they were only a yard or two apart.
"I'm a fool, Bunter," said Lord Peter.
"Not at all, my lord."
"Don't move; go on speaking."
"Yes, my lord."
Peter groped to the right and clutched the other's sleeve.
"Ah! Now what are we to do?"
"I couldn't say, my lord, having no experience. Has the—er—phenomenon any habits, my lord?"
"No regular habits, I believe. Sometimes it moves. Other times it stays in one place for days. We can wait all night, and see if it lifts at daybreak."
"Yes, my lord. It is unhappily somewhat damp."
"Somewhat—as you say," agreed his lordship, with a short laugh.
Bunter sneezed, and begged pardon politely.
"If we go on going south-east," said his lordship, "we shall get to Grider's Hole all right, and they'll jolly wellhaveto put us up for the night—or give us an escort. I've got my torch in my pocket, and we can go by compass—oh, hell!"
"My lord?"
"I've got the wrong stick. This beastly ash! No compass, Bunter—we're done in."
"Couldn't we keep on going downhill, my lord?"
Lord Peter hesitated. Recollections of what he had heard and read surged up in his mind to tell him that uphill or downhill seems much the same thing in a fog. But man walks in a vain shadow. It is hard to believe that one is really helpless. The cold was icy. "We might try," he said weakly.
"I have heard it said, my lord, that in a fog one always walked round in a circle," said Mr. Bunter, seized with a tardy diffidence.
"Not on a slope, surely," said Lord Peter, beginning to feel bold out of sheer contrariness.
Bunter, being out of his element, had, for once, no good counsel to offer.
"Well, we can't be much worse off than we are," said Lord Peter. "We'll try it, and keep on shouting."
He grasped Bunter's hand, and they strode gingerly forward into the thick coldness of the fog.
How long that nightmare lasted neither could have said. The world might have died about them. Their own shouts terrified them; when they stopped shouting the dead silence was more terrifying still. They stumbled over tufts of thick heather. It was amazing how, deprived of sight, they exaggerated the inequalities of the ground. It was with very little confidence that they could distinguish uphill from downhill. They were shrammed through with cold, yet the sweat was running from their faces with strain and terror.
Suddenly—from directly before them as it seemed, and only a few yards away—there rose a long, horrible shriek—and another—and another.
"My God! What's that?"
"It's a horse, my lord."
"Of course." They remembered having heard horses scream like that. There had been a burning stable near Poperinghe—
"Poor devil," said Peter. He started off impulsively in the direction of the sound, dropping Bunter's hand.
"Come back, my lord," cried the man in a sudden agony. And then, with a frightened burst of enlightenment:
"For God's sake stop, my lord—the bog!"
A sharp shout in the utter blackness.
"Keep away there—don't move—it's got me!"
And a dreadful sucking noise.