THE GREEN-EYED CAT
“_And here’s to the hound_
_With his nose unto the ground_—-“
DRINK, PUPPY, DRINK
Some people hold that breakfast is the best meal of the day. Others,
less robust, hold that it is the worst, and that, of all breakfasts in
the week, Sunday morning breakfast is incomparably the worst.
The party gathered about the breakfast-table at Riddlesdale Lodge held,
if one might judge from their faces, no brief for that day miscalled of
sweet refection and holy love. The only member of it who seemed neither
angry nor embarrassed was the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, and he was silent,
engaged in trying to take the whole skeleton out of a bloater at once.
The very presence of that undistinguished fish upon the Duchess’s
breakfast-table indicated a disorganised household.
The Duchess of Denver was pouring out coffee. This was one of her
uncomfortable habits. Persons arriving late for breakfast were thereby
made painfully aware of their sloth. She was a long-necked, long-backed
woman, who disciplined her hair and her children. She was never
embarrassed, and her anger, though never permitted to be visible, made
itself felt the more.
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks sat side by side. They had nothing beautiful
about them but a stolid mutual affection. Mrs. Marchbanks was not angry,
but she was embarrassed in the presence of the Duchess, because she
could not feel sorry for her. When you felt sorry for people you called
them “poor old dear” or “poor dear old man.” Since, obviously, you could
not call the Duchess poor old dear, you were not being properly sorry
for her. This distressed Mrs. Marchbanks. The Colonel was both
embarrassed and angry–embarrassed because, ‘pon my soul, it was very
difficult to know what to talk about in a house where your host had been
arrested for murder; angry in a dim way, like an injured animal, because
unpleasant things like this had no business to break in on the
shooting-season.
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson was not only angry, she was outraged. As a girl
she had adopted the motto stamped upon the school notepaper: _Quæcunque
honesta_. She had always thought it _wrong_ to let your mind _dwell_ on
anything that was not really nice. In middle life she still made a point
of ignoring those newspaper paragraphs which bore such headlines as:
“ASSAULT UPON A SCHOOLTEACHER AT CRICKLEWOOD”; “DEATH IN A PINT OF
STOUT”; “£75 FOR A KISS”; or “SHE CALLED HIM HUBBYKINS.” She said she
could not see what _good_ it did you to know about such things. She
regretted having consented to visit Riddlesdale Lodge in the absence of
the Duchess. She had never liked Lady Mary; she considered her a very
objectionable specimen of the modern independent young woman; besides,
there had been that very undignified incident connected with a
Bolshevist while Lady Mary was nursing in London during the war. Nor had
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson at all cared for Captain Denis Cathcart. She did
not like a young man to be handsome in that obvious kind of way. But, of
course, since Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had wanted to come to Riddlesdale,
it was her place to be with him. She was not to blame for the
unfortunate result.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson was angry, quite simply, because the detective
from Scotland Yard had not accepted his help in searching the house and
grounds for footprints. As an older man of some experience in these
matters (Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson was a county magistrate) he had gone out
of his way to place himself at the man’s disposal. Not only had the man
been short with him, but he had rudely ordered him out of the
conservatory, where he (Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson) had been reconstructing
the affair from the point of view of Lady Mary.
All these angers and embarrassments might have caused less pain to the
company had they not been aggravated by the presence of the detective
himself, a quiet young man in a tweed suit, eating curry at one end of
the table next to Mr. Murbles, the solicitor. This person had arrived
from London on Friday, had corrected the local police, and strongly
dissented from the opinion of Inspector Craikes. He had suppressed at
the inquest information which, if openly given, might have precluded the
arrest of the Duke. He had officiously detained the whole unhappy party,
on the grounds that he wanted to re-examine everybody, and was thus
keeping them miserably cooped up together over a horrible Sunday; and he
had put the coping-stone on his offences by turning out to be an
intimate friend of Lord Peter Wimsey’s, and having, in consequence, to
be accommodated with a bed in the gamekeeper’s cottage and breakfast at
the Lodge.
Mr. Murbles, who was elderly and had a delicate digestion, had travelled
up in a hurry on Thursday night. He had found the inquest very
improperly conducted and his client altogether impracticable. He had
spent all his time trying to get hold of Sir Impey Biggs, K.C., who had
vanished for the week-end, leaving no address. He was eating a little
dry toast, and was inclined to like the detective, who called him “Sir,”
and passed him the butter.
“Is anybody thinking of going to church?” asked the Duchess.
“Theodore and I should like to go,” said Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, “if it
is not too much trouble; or we could walk. It is not so _very_ far.”
“It’s two and a half miles, good,” said Colonel Marchbanks.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson looked at him gratefully.
“Of course you will come in the car,” said the Duchess. “I am going
myself.”
“Are you, though?” said the Hon. Freddy. “I say, won’t you get a bit
stared at, what?”
“Really, Freddy,” said the Duchess, “does that matter?”
“Well,” said the Hon. Freddy, “I mean to say, these bounders about here
are all Socialists and Methodists….”
“If they are Methodists,” said Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, “they will not
be at church.”
“Won’t they?” retorted the Hon. Freddy. “You bet they will if there’s
anything to see. Why, it’ll be better’n a funeral to ’em.”
“Surely,” said Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, “one has a _duty_ in the matter,
whatever our private feelings may be–especially at the present day,
when people are so terribly _slack_.”
She glanced at the Hon. Freddy.
“Oh, don’t you mind me, Mrs. P.,” said that youth amiably. “All _I_ say
is, if these blighters make things unpleasant, don’t blame me.”
“Whoever thought of blaming you, Freddy?” said the Duchess.
“Manner of speaking,” said the Hon. Freddy.
“What do you think, Mr. Murbles?” inquired her ladyship.
“I feel,” said the lawyer, carefully stirring his coffee, “that, while
your intention is a very admirable one, and does you very great credit,
my dear lady, yet Mr. Arbuthnot is right in saying it may involve you in
some–er–unpleasant publicity. Er–I have always been a sincere
Christian myself, but I cannot feel that our religion demands that we
should make ourselves conspicuous–er–in such very painful
circumstances.”
Mr. Parker reminded himself of a dictum of Lord Melbourne.
“Well, after all,” said Mrs. Marchbanks, “as Helen so rightly says, does
it matter? Nobody’s really got anything to be ashamed of. There has been
a stupid mistake, of course, but I don’t see why anybody who wants to
shouldn’t go to church.”
“Certainly not, certainly not, my dear,” said the Colonel heartily. “We
might look in ourselves, eh dear? Take a walk that way I mean, and come
out before the sermon. I think it’s a good thing. Shows _we_ don’t
believe old Denver’s done anything wrong, anyhow.”
“You forget, dear,” said his wife, “I’ve promised to stay at home with
Mary, poor girl.”
“Of course, of course–stupid of me,” said the Colonel. “How is she?”
“She was very restless last night, poor child,” said the Duchess.
“Perhaps she will get a little sleep this morning. It has been a shock
to her.”
“One which may prove a blessing in disguise,” said Mrs.
Pettigrew-Robinson.
“My dear!” said her husband.
“Wonder when we shall hear from Sir Impey,” said Colonel Marchbanks
hurriedly.
“Yes, indeed,” moaned Mr. Murbles. “I am counting on his influence with
the Duke.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, “he must speak out–for
everybody’s sake. He must say what he was doing out of doors at that
time. Or, if he does not, it must be discovered. Dear me! That’s what
these detectives are for, aren’t they?”
“That is their ungrateful task,” said Mr. Parker suddenly. He had said
nothing for a long time, and everybody jumped.
“There,” said Mrs. Marchbanks, “I expect you’ll clear it all up in no
time, Mr. Parker. Perhaps you’ve got the real mur–the culprit up your
sleeve all the time.”
“Not quite,” said Mr. Parker, “but I’ll do my best to get him. Besides,”
he added, with a grin, “I’ll probably have some help on the job.”
“From whom?” inquired Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson.
“Her grace’s brother-in-law.”
“Peter?” said the Duchess. “Mr. Parker must be amused at the family
amateur,” she added.
“Not at all,” said Parker. “Wimsey would be one of the finest detectives
in England if he wasn’t lazy. Only we can’t get hold of him.”
“I’ve wired to Ajaccio–poste restante,” said Mr. Murbles, “but I don’t
know when he’s likely to call there. He said nothing about when he was
coming back to England.”
“He’s a rummy old bird,” said the Hon. Freddy tactlessly, “but he
oughter be here, what? What I mean to say is, if anything happens to old
Denver, don’t you see, he’s the head of the family, ain’t he–till
little Pickled Gherkins comes of age.”
In the frightful silence which followed this remark, the sound of a
walking-stick being clattered into an umbrella-stand was distinctly
audible.
“Who’s that, I wonder,” said the Duchess.
The door waltzed open.
“Mornin’, dear old things,” said the newcomer cheerfully. “How are you
all? Hullo, Helen! Colonel, you owe me half a crown since last September
year. Mornin’, Mrs. Marchbanks, Mornin’ Mrs. P. Well, Mr. Murbles, how
d’you like this bili–beastly weather? Don’t trouble to get up, Freddy;
I’d simply hate to inconvenience you. Parker, old man, what a damned
reliable old bird you are! Always on the spot, like that patent ointment
thing. I say, have you all finished? I meant to get up earlier, but I
was snorin’ so Bunter hadn’t the heart to wake me. I nearly blew in last
night, only we didn’t arrive till 2 a.m. and I thought you wouldn’t half
bless me if I did. Eh, what, Colonel? Aeroplane. _Victoria_ from Paris
to London–North-Eastern to Northallerton–damn bad roads the rest of
the way, and a puncture just below Riddlesdale. Damn bad bed at the
‘Lord in Glory’; thought I’d blow in for the last sausage here, if I was
lucky. What? Sunday morning in an English family and no sausages? God
bless my soul, what’s the world coming to, eh, Colonel? I say, Helen,
old Gerald’s been an’ gone an’ done it this time, what? You’ve no
business to leave him on his own, you know; he always gets into
mischief. What’s that? Curry? Thanks, old man. Here, I say, you needn’t
be so stingy about it; I’ve been travelling for three days on end.
Freddy, pass the toast. Beg pardon, Mrs. Marchbanks? Oh, rather, yes;
Corsica was perfectly amazin’–all black-eyed fellows with knives in
their belts and jolly fine-looking girls. Old Bunter had a regular
affair with the inn-keeper’s daughter in one place. D’you know, he’s an
awfully susceptible old beggar. You’d never think it, would you? Jove! I
am hungry. I say, Helen, I meant to get you some fetchin’ crêpe-de-Chine
undies from Paris, but I saw that old Parker was gettin’ ahead of me
over the bloodstains, so we packed up our things and buzzed off.”
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson rose.
“Theodore,” she said, “I think we ought to be getting ready for church.”
“I will order the car,” said the Duchess. “Peter, of course I’m
exceedingly glad to see you. Your leaving no address was most
inconvenient. Ring for anything you want. It is a pity you didn’t arrive
in time to see Gerald.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Lord Peter cheerfully; “I’ll look him up in
quod. Y’know it’s rather a good idea to keep one’s crimes in the family;
one has so many more facilities. I’m sorry for poor old Polly, though.
How is she?”
“She must not be disturbed to-day,” said the Duchess with decision.
“Not a bit of it,” said Lord Peter; “she’ll keep. To-day Parker and I
hold high revel. To-day he shows me all the bloody footprints–it’s all
right, Helen, that’s not swearin’, that’s an adjective of quality. I
hope they aren’t all washed away, are they, old thing?”
“No,” said Parker, “I’ve got most of them under flower-pots.”
“Then pass the bread and squish,” said Lord Peter, “and tell me all
about it.”
The departure of the church-going element had induced a more
humanitarian atmosphere. Mrs. Marchbanks stumped off upstairs to tell
Mary that Peter had come, and the Colonel lit a large cigar. The Hon.
Freddy rose, stretched himself, pulled a leather arm-chair to the
fireside, and sat down with his feet on the brass fender, while Parker
marched round and poured himself out another cup of coffee.
“I suppose you’ve seen the papers,” he said.
“Oh yes, I read up the inquest,” said Lord Peter. “Y’know, if you’ll
excuse my saying so, I think you rather mucked it between you.”
“It was disgraceful,” said Mr. Murbles, “disgraceful. The Coroner
behaved most improperly. He had no business to give such a summing-up.
With a jury of ignorant country fellows, what could one expect? And the
details that were allowed to come out! If I could have got here
earlier—-“
“I’m afraid that was partly my fault, Wimsey,” said Parker penitently.
“Craikes rather resents me. The Chief Constable at Stapley sent to us
over his head, and when the message came through I ran along to the
Chief and asked for the job, because I thought if there should be any
misconception or difficulty, you see, you’d just as soon I tackled it as
anybody else. I had a few little arrangements to make about a forgery
I’ve been looking into, and, what with one thing and another, I didn’t
get off till the night express. By the time I turned up on Friday,
Craikes and the Coroner were already as thick as thieves, had fixed the
inquest for that morning–which was ridiculous–and arranged to produce
their blessed evidence as dramatically as possible. I only had time to
skim over the ground (disfigured, I’m sorry to say, by the prints of
Craikes and his local ruffians), and really had nothing for the jury.”
“Cheer up,” said Wimsey. “I’m not blaming you. Besides, it all lends
excitement to the chase.”
“Fact is,” said the Hon. Freddy, “that we ain’t popular with respectable
Coroners. Giddy aristocrats and immoral Frenchmen. I say, Peter, sorry
you’ve missed Miss Lydia Cathcart. You’d have loved her. She’s gone back
to Golders Green and taken the body with her.”
“Oh well,” said Wimsey. “I don’t suppose there was anything abstruse
about the body.”
“No,” said Parker, “the medical evidence was all right as far as it
went. He was shot through the lungs, and that’s all.”
“Though, mind you,” said the Hon. Freddy, “he didn’t shoot himself. I
didn’t say anything, not wishin’ to upset old Denver’s story, but, you
know, all that stuff about his bein’ so upset and go-to-blazes in his
manner was all my whiskers.”
“How do you know?” said Peter.
“Why, my dear man, Cathcart ‘n I toddled up to bed together. I was
rather fed up, havin’ dropped a lot on some shares, besides missin’
everything I shot at in the mornin’, an’ lost a bet I made with the
Colonel about the number of toes on the kitchen cat, an’ I said to
Cathcart it was a hell of a damn-fool world, or words to that effect.
‘Not a bit of it,’ he said; ‘it’s a damn good world. I’m goin’ to ask
Mary for a date to-morrow, an’ then we’ll go and live in Paris, where
they understand sex.’ I said somethin’ or other vague, and he went off
whistlin’.”
Parker looked grave. Colonel Marchbanks cleared his throat.
“Well, well,” he said, “there’s no accounting for a man like Cathcart,
no accounting at all. Brought up in France, you know. Not at all like a
straightforward Englishman. Always up and down, up and down! Very sad,
poor fellow. Well, well, Peter, hope you and Mr. Parker will find out
something about it. We mustn’t have poor old Denver cooped up in gaol
like this, you know. Awfully unpleasant for him, poor chap, and with the
birds so good this year. Well, I expect you’ll be making a tour of
inspection, eh, Mr. Parker? What do you say to shoving the balls about a
bit, Freddy?”
“Right you are,” said the Hon. Freddy; “you’ll have to give me a
hundred, though, Colonel.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said that veteran, in high good humour; “you play
an excellent game.”
Mr. Murbles having withdrawn, Wimsey and Parker faced each other over
the remains of the breakfast.
“Peter,” said the detective, “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing
by coming. If you feel—-“
“Look here, old man,” said his friend earnestly, “let’s cut out the
considerations of delicacy. We’re goin’ to work this case like any
other. If anything unpleasant turns up, I’d rather you saw it than
anybody else. It’s an uncommonly pretty little case, on its merits, and
I’m goin’ to put some damn good work into it.”
“If you’re sure it’s all right—-“
“My dear man, if you hadn’t been here I’d have sent for you. Now let’s
get to business. Of course, _I’m_ settin’ off with the assumption that
old Gerald didn’t do it.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” agreed Parker.
“No, no,” said Wimsey, “that isn’t your line. Nothing rash about
you–nothing trustful. You are expected to throw cold water on my hopes
and doubt all my conclusions.”
“Right ho!” said Parker. “Where would you like to begin?”
Peter considered. “I think we’ll start from Cathcart’s bedroom,” he
said.
* * * * *
The bedroom was of moderate size, with a single window overlooking the
front door. The bed was on the right-hand side, the dressing-table
before the window. On the left was the fireplace, with an arm-chair
before it, and a small writing-table.
“Everything’s as it was,” said Parker. “Craikes had that much sense.”
“Yes,” said Lord Peter. “Very well. Gerald says that when he charged
Cathcart with bein’ a scamp, Cathcart jumped up, nearly knockin’ the
table over. That’s the writin’-table, then, so Cathcart was sittin’ in
the arm-chair. Yes, he was–and he pushed it back violently and rumpled
up the carpet. See! So far, so good. Now what was he doin’ there? He
wasn’t readin’, because there’s no book about, and we know that he
rushed straight out of the room and never came back. Very good. Was he
writin’? No; virgin sheet of blottin’-paper—-“
“He might have been writing in pencil,” suggested Parker.
“That’s true, old Kill-Joy, so he might. Well, if he was he shoved the
paper into his pocket when Gerald came in, because it isn’t here; but he
didn’t, because it wasn’t found on his body; so he wasn’t writing.”
“Unless he threw the paper away somewhere else,” said Parker. “I haven’t
been all over the grounds, you know, and at the smallest computation–if
we accept the shot heard by Hardraw at 11.50 as _the_ shot–there’s an
hour and a half unaccounted for.”
“Very well. Let’s say there is nothing to show he was writing. Will that
do? Well, then—-“
Lord Peter drew out a lens and scrutinised the surface of the arm-chair
carefully before sitting down in it.
“Nothing helpful there,” he said. “To proceed, Cathcart sat where I am
sitting. He wasn’t writing; he–you’re sure this room hasn’t been
touched?”
“Certain.”
“Then he wasn’t smoking.”
“Why not? He might have chucked the stub of a cigar or cigarette into
the fire when Denver came in.”
“Not a cigarette,” said Peter, “or we should find traces somewhere–on
the floor or in the grate. That light ash blows about so. But a
cigar–well, he might have smoked a cigar without leaving a sign, I
suppose. But I hope he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, old son, I’d rather Gerald’s account had some element of truth
in it. A nervy man doesn’t sit down to the delicate enjoyment of a cigar
before bed, and cherish the ash with such scrupulous care. On the other
hand, if Freddy’s right and Cathcart was feelin’ unusually sleek and
pleased with life, that’s just the sort of thing he would do.”
“Do you think Mr. Arbuthnot would have invented all that, as a matter of
fact?” said Parker thoughtfully. “He doesn’t strike me that way. He’d
have to be imaginative and spiteful to make it up, and I really don’t
think he’s either.”
“I know,” said Lord Peter. “I’ve known old Freddy all my life, and he
wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, he simply hasn’t the wits to make up any
sort of a story. But what bothers me is that Gerald most certainly
hasn’t the wits either to invent that Adelphi drama between him and
Cathcart.”
“On the other hand,” said Parker, “if we allow for a moment that he shot
Cathcart, he had an incentive to invent it. He would be trying to get
his head out of the–I mean, when anything important is at stake it’s
wonderful how it sharpens one’s wits. And the story being so far-fetched
does rather suggest an unpractised story-teller.”
“True, O King. Well, you’ve sat on all my discoveries so far. Never
mind. My head is bloody but unbowed. Cathcart was sitting here—-“
“So your brother said.”
“Curse you, _I_ say he was; at least, somebody was; he’s left the
impression of his sit-me-down-upon on the cushion.”
“That might have been earlier in the day.”
“Rot. They were out all day. You needn’t overdo this Sadducee attitude,
Charles. I say Cathcart was sitting here, and–hullo! hullo!”
He leaned forward and stared into the grate.
“There’s some burnt paper here, Charles.”
“I know. I was frightfully excited about that yesterday, but I found it
was just the same in several of the rooms. They often let the bedroom
fires go out when everybody’s out during the day, and relight them about
an hour before dinner. There’s only the cook, housemaid, and Fleming
here, you see, and they’ve got a lot to do with such a large party.”
Lord Peter was picking the charred fragments over.
“I can find nothing to contradict your suggestion,” he sadly said, “and
this fragment of the _Morning Post_ rather confirms it. Then we can only
suppose that Cathcart sat here in a brown study, doing nothing at all.
That doesn’t get us much further, I’m afraid.” He got up and went to the
dressing-table.
“I like these tortoiseshell sets,” he said, “and the perfume is ‘_Baiser
du Soir_’–very nice too. New to me. I must draw Bunter’s attention to
it. A charming manicure set, isn’t it? You know, I like being clean and
neat and all that, but Cathcart was the kind of man who always impressed
you as bein’ just a little _too_ well turned out. Poor devil! And he’ll
be buried at Golders Green after all. I only saw him once or twice, you
know. He impressed me as knowin’ about everything there was to know. I
was rather surprised at Mary’s takin’ to him, but, then, I know really
awfully little about Mary. You see, she’s five years younger than me.
When the war broke out she’d just left school and gone to a place in
Paris, and I joined up, and she came back and did nursing and social
work, so I only saw her occasionally. At that time she was rather taken
up with new schemes for puttin’ the world to rights and hadn’t a lot to
say to me. And she got hold of some pacifist fellow who was a bit of a
stumer, I fancy. Then I was ill, you know, and after I got the chuck
from Barbara I didn’t feel much like botherin’ about other people’s
heart-to-hearts, and then I got mixed up in the Attenbury diamond
case–and the result is I know uncommonly little about my own sister.
But it looks as though her taste in men had altered. I know my mother
said Cathcart had charm; that means he was attractive to women, I
suppose. No man can see what makes that in another man, but mother is
usually right. What’s become of this fellow’s papers?”
“He left very little here,” replied Parker. “There’s a cheque-book on
Cox’s Charing Cross branch, but it’s a new one and not very helpful.
Apparently he only kept a small current account with them for
convenience when he was in England. The cheques are mostly to self, with
an occasional hotel or tailor.”
“Any pass-book?”
“I think all his important papers are in Paris. He has a flat there,
near the river somewhere. We’re in communication with the Paris police.
He had a room in Albany. I’ve told them to lock it up till I get there.
I thought of running up to town to-morrow.”
“Yes, you’d better. Any pocket-book?”
“Yes; here you are. About £30 in various notes, a wine-merchant’s card,
and a bill for a pair of riding-breeches.”
“No correspondence?”
“Not a line.”
“No,” said Wimsey, “he was the kind, I imagine, that didn’t keep
letters. Much too good an instinct of self-preservation.”
“Yes. I asked the servants about his letters, as a matter of fact. They
said he got a good number, but never left them about. They couldn’t tell
me much about the ones he wrote, because all the outgoing letters are
dropped into the post-bag, which is carried down to the post-office as
it is and opened there, or handed over to the postman when–or if–he
calls. The general impression was that he didn’t write much. The
housemaid said she never found anything to speak of in the waste-paper
basket.”
“Well, that’s uncommonly helpful. Wait a moment. Here’s his
fountain-pen. Very handsome–Onoto with complete gold casing. Dear me!
entirely empty. Well, I don’t know that one can deduce anything from
that, exactly. I don’t see any pencil about, by the way. I’m inclined to
think you’re wrong in supposing that he was writing letters.”
“I didn’t suppose anything,” said Parker mildly. “I daresay you’re
right.”
Lord Peter left the dressing-table, looked through the contents of the
wardrobe, and turned over the two or three books on the pedestal beside
the bed.
“_La Rôtisserie de la Reine Pédauque_, _L’Anneau d’Améthyste_, _South
Wind_ (our young friend works out very true to type), _Chronique d’un
Cadet de Coutras_ (tut-tut, Charles!), _Manon Lescaut_. H’m! Is there
anything else in this room I ought to look at?”
“I don’t think so. Where’d you like to go now?”
“We’ll follow ’em down. Wait a jiff. Who are in the other rooms? Oh yes.
Here’s Gerald’s room. Helen’s at church. In we go. Of course, this has
been dusted and cleaned up, and generally ruined for purposes of
observation?”
“I’m afraid so. I could hardly keep the Duchess out of her bedroom.”
“No. Here’s the window Gerald shouted out of. H’m! Nothing in the grate,
here, naturally–the fire’s been lit since. I say, I wonder where Gerald
did put that letter to–Freeborn’s, I mean.”
“Nobody’s been able to get a word out of him about it,” said Parker.
“Old Mr. Murbles had a fearful time with him. The Duke insists simply
that he destroyed it. Mr. Murbles says that’s absurd. So it is. If he
was going to bring that sort of accusation against his sister’s fiancé
he’d want _some_ evidence of a method in his madness, wouldn’t he? Or
was he one of those Roman brothers who say simply: ‘As the head of the
family I forbid the banns and that’s enough’?”
“Gerald,” said Wimsey, “is a good, clean, decent, thoroughbred public
schoolboy, and a shocking ass. But I don’t think he’s so mediæval as
that.”
“But if he has the letter, why not produce it?”
“Why, indeed? Letters from old college friends in Egypt aren’t, as a
rule, compromising.”
“You don’t suppose,” suggested Parker tentatively, “that this Mr.
Freeborn referred in his letter to any old–er–entanglement which your
brother wouldn’t wish the Duchess to know about?”
Lord Peter paused, while absently examining a row of boots.
“That’s an idea,” he said. “There were occasions–mild ones, but Helen
would make the most of them.” He whistled thoughtfully. “Still, when it
comes to the gallows—-“
“Do you suppose, Wimsey, that your brother really contemplates the
gallows?” asked Parker.
“I think Murbles put it to him pretty straight,” said Lord Peter.
“Quite so. But does he actually realise–imaginatively–that it is
possible to hang an English peer for murder on circumstantial evidence?”
Lord Peter considered this.
“Imagination isn’t Gerald’s strong point,” he admitted. “I suppose they
_do_ hang peers? They can’t be beheaded on Tower Hill or anything?”
“I’ll look it up,” said Parker; “but they certainly hanged Earl Ferrers
in 1760.”
“Did they, though?” said Lord Peter. “Ah well, as the old pagan said of
the Gospels, after all, it was a long time ago, and we’ll hope it wasn’t
true.”
“It’s true enough,” said Parker; “and he was dissected and anatomised
afterwards. But that part of the treatment is obsolete.”
“We’ll tell Gerald about it,” said Lord Peter, “and persuade him to take
the matter seriously. Which are the boots he wore Wednesday night?”
“These,” said Parker, “but the fool’s cleaned them.”
“Yes,” said Lord Peter bitterly. “M’m! a good heavy lace-up boot–the
sort that sends the blood to the head.”
“He wore leggings, too,” said Parker; “these.”
“Rather elaborate preparations for a stroll in the garden. But, as you
were just going to say, the night was wet. I must ask Helen if Gerald
ever suffered from insomnia.”
“I did. She said she thought not as a rule, but that he occasionally had
toothache, which made him restless.”
“It wouldn’t send one out of doors on a cold night, though. Well, let’s
get downstairs.”
They passed through the billiard-room, where the Colonel was making a
sensational break, and into the small conservatory which led from it.
Lord Peter looked gloomily round at the chrysanthemums and boxes of
bulbs.
“These damned flowers look jolly healthy,” he said. “Do you mean you’ve
been letting the gardener swarm in here every day to water ’em?”
“Yes,” said Parker apologetically, “I did. But he’s had strict orders
only to walk on these mats.”
“Good,” said Lord Peter. “Take ’em up, then, and let’s get to work.”
With his lens to his eye he crawled cautiously over the floor.
“They all came through this way, I suppose,” he said.
“Yes,” said Parker. “I’ve identified most of the marks. People went in
and out. Here’s the Duke. He comes in from outside. He trips over the
body.” (Parker had opened the outer door and lifted some matting, to
show a trampled patch of gravel, discoloured with blood.) “He kneels by
the body. Here are his knees and toes. Afterwards he goes into the
house, through the conservatory, leaving a good impression in black mud
and gravel just inside the door.”
Lord Peter squatted carefully over the marks.
“It’s lucky the gravel’s so soft here,” he said.
“Yes. It’s just a patch. The gardener tells me it gets very trampled and
messy just here owing to his coming to fill cans from the water-trough.
They fill the trough up from the well every so often, and then carry the
water away in cans. It got extra bad this year, and they put down fresh
gravel a few weeks ago.”
“Pity they didn’t extend their labours all down the path while they were
about it,” grunted Lord Peter, who was balancing himself precariously on
a small piece of sacking. “Well, that bears out old Gerald so far.
Here’s an elephant been over this bit of box border. Who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s a constable. I put him at eighteen stone. He’s nothing. And
this rubber sole with a patch on it is Craikes. He’s all over the place.
This squelchy-looking thing is Mr. Arbuthnot in bedroom slippers, and
the goloshes are Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson. We can dismiss all those. But
now here, just coming over the threshold, is a woman’s foot in a strong
shoe. I make that out to be Lady Mary’s. Here it is again, just at the
edge of the well. She came out to examine the body.”
“Quite so,” said Peter; “and then she came in again, with a few grains
of red gravel on her shoes. Well, that’s all right. Hullo!”
On the outer side of the conservatory were some shelves for small
plants, and, beneath these, a damp and dismal bed of earth, occupied, in
a sprawling and lackadaisical fashion, by stringy cactus plants and a
sporadic growth of maidenhair fern, and masked by a row of large
chrysanthemums in pots.
“What’ve you got?” inquired Parker, seeing his friend peering into this
green retreat.
Lord Peter withdrew his long nose from between two pots and said: “Who
put what down here?”
Parker hastened to the place. There, among the cacti, was certainly the
clear mark of some oblong object, with corners, that had been stood out
of sight on the earth behind the pots.
“It’s a good thing Gerald’s gardener ain’t one of those conscientious
blighters that can’t even let a cactus alone for the winter,” said Lord
Peter, “or he’d’ve tenderly lifted these little drooping heads–oh! damn
and blast the beastly plant for a crimson porcupine! _You_ measure it.”
Parker measured it.
“Two and a half feet by six inches,” he said. “And fairly heavy, for
it’s sunk in and broken the plants about. Was it a bar of anything?”
“I fancy not,” said Lord Peter. “The impression is deeper on the farther
side. I think it was something bulky set up on edge, and leaned against
the glass. If you ask for my private opinion I should guess that it was
a suit-case.”
“A suit-case!” exclaimed Parker. “Why a suit-case?”
“Why indeed? I think we may assume that it didn’t stay here very long.
It would have been exceedingly visible in the daytime. But somebody
might very well have shoved it in here if they were caught with it–say
at three o’clock in the morning–and didn’t want it to be seen.”
“Then when did they take it away?”
“Almost immediately, I should say. Before daylight, anyhow, or even
Inspector Craikes could hardly have failed to see it.”
“It’s not the doctor’s bag, I suppose?”
“No–unless the doctor’s a fool. Why put a bag inconveniently in a damp
and dirty place out of the way when every law of sense and convenience
would urge him to pop it down handy by the body? No. Unless Craikes or
the gardener has been leaving things about, it was thrust away there on
Wednesday night by Gerald, by Cathcart–or, I suppose, by Mary. Nobody
else could be supposed to have anything to hide.”
“Yes,” said Parker, “one person.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Person Unknown.”
“Who’s he?”
For answer Mr. Parker proudly stepped to a row of wooden frames,
carefully covered with matting. Stripping this away, with the air of a
bishop unveiling a memorial, he disclosed a V-shaped line of footprints.
“These,” said Parker, “belong to nobody–to nobody I’ve ever seen or
heard of, I mean.”
“Hurray!” said Peter.
“_Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge_
_They tracked the footmarks small_
(only they’re largish).”
“No such luck,” said Parker. “It’s more a case of:
“_They followed from the earthy bank_
_Those footsteps one by one,_
_Into the middle of the plank;_
_And farther there were none_!”
“Great poet, Wordsworth,” said Lord Peter; “how often I’ve had that
feeling. Now let’s see. These footmarks–a man’s No. 10 with worn-down
heels and a patch on the left inner side–advance from the hard bit of
the path which shows no footmarks; they come to the body–here, where
that pool of blood is. I say, that’s rather odd, don’t you think? No?
Perhaps not. There are no footmarks under the body? Can’t say, it’s such
a mess. Well, the Unknown gets so far–here’s a footmark deeply pressed
in. Was he just going to throw Cathcart into the well? He hears a sound;
he starts; he turns; he runs on tiptoe–into the shrubbery, by Jove!”
“Yes,” said Parker, “and the tracks come out on one of the grass paths
in the wood, and there’s an end of them.”
“H’m! Well, we’ll follow them later. Now where did they come from?”
Together the two friends followed the path away from the house. The
gravel, except for the little patch before the conservatory, was old and
hard, and afforded but little trace, particularly as the last few days
had been rainy. Parker, however, was able to assure Wimsey that there
had been definite traces of dragging and bloodstains.
“What sort of bloodstains? Smears?”
“Yes, smears mostly. There were pebbles displaced, too, all the way–and
now here is something odd.”
It was the clear impression of the palm of a man’s hand heavily pressed
into the earth of a herbaceous border, the fingers pointing towards the
house. On the path the gravel had been scraped up in two long furrows.
There was blood on the grass border between the path and the bed, and
the edge of the grass was broken and trampled.
“I don’t like that,” said Lord Peter.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” agreed Parker.
“Poor devil!” said Peter. “He made a determined effort to hang on here.
That explains the blood by the conservatory door. But what kind of a
devil drags a corpse that isn’t quite dead?”
A few yards farther the path ran into the main drive. This was bordered
with trees, widening into a thicket. At the point of intersection of the
two paths were some further indistinct marks, and in another twenty
yards or so they turned aside into the thicket. A large tree had fallen
at some time and made a little clearing, in the midst of which a
tarpaulin had been carefully spread out and pegged down. The air was
heavy with the smell of fungus and fallen leaves.
“Scene of the tragedy,” said Parker briefly, rolling back the tarpaulin.
Lord Peter gazed down sadly. Muffled in an overcoat and a thick grey
scarf, he looked, with his long, narrow face, like a melancholy adjutant
stork. The writhing body of the fallen man had scraped up the dead
leaves and left a depression in the sodden ground. At one place the
darker earth showed where a great pool of blood had soaked into it, and
the yellow leaves of a Spanish poplar were rusted with no autumnal
stain.
“That’s where they found the handkerchief and revolver,” said Parker. “I
looked for finger-marks, but the rain and mud had messed everything up.”
Wimsey took out his lens, lay down, and conducted a personal tour of the
whole space slowly on his stomach, Parker moving mutely after him.
“He paced up and down for some time,” said Lord Peter. “He wasn’t
smoking. He was turning something over in his mind, or waiting for
somebody. What’s this? Aha! Here’s our No. 10 foot again, coming in
through the trees on the farther side. No signs of a struggle. That’s
odd! Cathcart was shot close up, wasn’t he?”
“Yes; it singed his shirt-front.”
“Quite so. Why did he stand still to be shot at?”
“I imagine,” said Parker, “that if he had an appointment with No. 10
Boots it was somebody he knew, who could get close to him without
arousing suspicion.”
“Then the interview was a friendly one–on Cathcart’s side, anyhow. But
the revolver’s a difficulty. How did No. 10 get hold of Gerald’s
revolver?”
“The conservatory door was open,” said Parker dubiously.
“Nobody knew about that except Gerald and Fleming,” retorted Lord Peter.
“Besides, do you mean to tell me that No. 10 walked in here, went to the
study, fetched the revolver, walked back here, and shot Cathcart? It
seems a clumsy method. If he wanted to do any shooting, why didn’t he
come armed in the first place?”
“It seems more probable that Cathcart brought the revolver,” said
Parker.
“Then why no signs of a struggle?”
“Perhaps Cathcart shot himself,” said Parker.
“Then why should No. 10 drag him into a conspicuous position and then
run away?”
“Wait a minute,” said Parker. “How’s this? No. 10 has an appointment
with Cathcart–to blackmail him, let’s say. He somehow gets word of his
intention to him between 9.45 and 10.15. That would account for the
alteration in Cathcart’s manner, and allow both Mr. Arbuthnot and the
Duke to be telling the truth. Cathcart rushes violently out after his
row with your brother. He comes down here to keep his appointment. He
paces up and down waiting for No. 10. No. 10 arrives and parleys with
Cathcart. Cathcart offers him money. No. 10 stands out for more.
Cathcart says he really hasn’t got it. No. 10 says in that case he blows
the gaff. Cathcart retorts, ‘In that case you can go to the devil. I’m
going there myself.’ Cathcart, who has previously got hold of the
revolver, shoots himself. No. 10 is seized with remorse. He sees that
Cathcart isn’t quite dead. He picks him up and part drags, part carries
him to the house. He is smaller than Cathcart and not very strong, and
finds it a hard job. They have just got to the conservatory door when
Cathcart has a final hæmorrhage and gives up the ghost. No. 10 suddenly
becomes aware that his position in somebody else’s grounds, alone with a
corpse at 3 a.m., wants some explaining. He drops Cathcart–and bolts.
Enter the Duke of Denver and falls over the body. Tableau.”
“That’s good,” said Lord Peter; “that’s very good. But when do you
suppose it happened? Gerald found the body at 3 a.m.; the doctor was
here at 4.30, and said Cathcart had been dead several hours. Very well.
Now, how about that shot my sister heard at three o’clock?”
“Look here, old man,” said Parker, “I don’t want to appear rude to your
sister. May I put it like this? I suggest that that shot at 3 a.m. was
poachers.”
“Poachers by all means,” said Lord Peter. “Well, really, Parker, I think
that hangs together. Let’s adopt that explanation provisionally. The
first thing to do is now to find No. 10, since he can bear witness that
Cathcart committed suicide; and that, as far as my brother is concerned,
is the only thing that matters a rap. But for the satisfaction of my own
curiosity I’d like to know: What was No. 10 blackmailing Cathcart about?
Who hid a suit-case in the conservatory? And what was Gerald doing in
the garden at 3 a.m.?”
“Well,” said Parker, “suppose we begin by tracing where No. 10 came
from.”
“Hi, hi!” cried Wimsey, as they returned to the trail. “Here’s
something–here’s real treasure-trove, Parker!”
From amid the mud and the fallen leaves he retrieved a tiny, glittering
object–a flash of white and green between his finger-tips.
It was a little charm such as women hang upon a bracelet–a diminutive
diamond cat with eyes of bright emerald.
* * * * *
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