UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA CRUZ
3 2106 01445 2566


DAVID KIRK
115 Marnell Avenue
Santa Cruz, California








Three for
Lord Peter Wimsey
These are the first three celebrated cases of Lord Peter, Peter
Death Bredon Wimsey, D.S.O., second son of the fifteenth
Duke of Denver. Lord Peter, athlete and scholar, witty and
charming, masterful and magnificent detective, is the inventive
and memorable creation of Dorothy L. Sayers, one of the great
mystery story writers of this century.


UAS.MY.WHI
Y.TAKES.M


DOROTHY L. SAYERS
Three For
Lord Peter Wimsey
WHOSE BODY?
CLOUDS OF WITNESS
UNNATURAL DEATH
HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS


Univ. Library, UC Santa Cruz 1997
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


Contents
WHOSE BODY?
CLOUDS OF WITNESS
UNNATURAL DEATH





Whose Body?


Copyright, 1923, by Dorothy Sayers


CHAPTER I
"oh, damn!" said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. "Hi, driver!"
The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the
intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19
'bus, a 38-B and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear.
"I've left the catalogue behind," said Lord Peter deprecatingly. "Un-
commonly careless of me. D'you mind puttin' back to where we came
from?"
"To the Savile Club, sir?"
"No—110 Piccadilly—just beyond—thank you."
"Thought you was in a hurry," said the man, overcome with a sense
of injury.
"I'm afraid it's an awkward place to turn in," said Lord Peter, an-
swering the thought rather than the words. His long, amiable face looked
as if it had generated spontaneously from his top-hat, as white maggots
breed from Gorgonzola.
The taxi, under the severe eye of a policeman, revolved by slow jerks,
with a noise like the grinding of teeth.
The block of new, perfect and expensive flats in which Lord Peter
dwelt upon the second floor, stood directly opposite the Green Park, in
a spot for many years occupied by the skeleton of a frustrate commercial
enterprise. As Lord Peter let himself in he heard his man's voice in the
library, uplifted in that throttled stridency peculiar to well-trained per-
sons using the telephone.
"I believe that's his lordship just coming in again—if your Grace would
kindly hold the line a moment."
"What is it, Bunter?"
"Her Grace has just called up from Denver, my lord. I was just saying
your lordship had gone to the sale when I heard your lordship's latch-
key."
"Thanks," said Lord Peter; "and you might find me my catalogue,
would you? I think I must have left it in my bedroom, or on the desk."
He sat down to the telephone with an air of leisurely courtesy, as
though it were an acquaintance dropped in for a chat.
"Hullo, Mother—that you?"


4
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Oh, there you are, dear," replied the voice of the Dowager Duchess.
"I was afraid I'd just missed you."
"Well, you had, as a matter of fact. I'd just started off to Brocklebury's
sale to pick up a book or two, but I had to come back for the catalogue.
What's up?"
"Such a quaint thing," said the Duchess. "I thought I'd tell you. You
know little Mr. Thipps?"
"Thipps?" said Lord Peter. "Thipps? Oh, yes, the little architect man
who's doing the church roof. Yes. What about him?"
"Mrs. Throgmorton's just been in, in quite a state of mind."
"Sorry, Mother, I can't hear. Mrs. Who?"
"Throgmorton—Throgmorton—the vicar's wife."
"Oh, Throgmorton, yes?"
"Mr. Thipps rang them up this morning. It was his day to come down,
you know."
"Yes?"
"He rang them up to say he couldn't. He was so upset, poor little man.
He'd found a dead body in his bath."
"Sorry, Mother, I can't hear; found what, where?"
"A dead body, dear, in bis bath."
"What?—no, no, we haven't finished. Please don't cut us off. Hullo!
Hullo! Is that you, Mother? Hullo!—Mother!—Oh, yes—sorry, the girl was
trying to cut us off. What sort of body?"
"A dead man, dear, with nothing on but a pair of pince-nez. Mrs.
Throgmorton positively blushed when she was telling me. I'm afraid peo-
ple do get a little narrow-minded in country vicarages."
"Well, it sounds a bit unusual. Was it anybody he knew?"
"No, dear, I don't think so, but, of course, he couldn't give her many
details. She said he sounded quite distracted. He's such a respectable lit-
tle man—and having the police in the house and so on, really worried
him."
"Poor little Thipps! Uncommonly awkward for him. Let's see, he lives
in Battersea, doesn't he?"
"Yes, dear; 59, Queen Caroline Mansions; opposite the Park. That
big block just round the corner from the Hospital. I thought perhaps
you'd like to run round and see him and ask if there's anything we can
do. I always thought him a nice little man."
"Oh, quite," said Lord Peter, grinning at the telephone. The Duchess
was always of the greatest assistance to his hobby of criminal investiga-
tion, though she never alluded to it, and maintained a polite fiction of its
non-existence.
"What time did it happen, Mother?"


WHOSE BODY?
5
"I think he found it early this morning, but, of course, he didn't think
of telling the Throgmortons just at first. She came up to me just before
lunch—so tiresome, I had to ask her to stay. Fortunately, I was alone. I
don't mind being bored myself, but I hate having my guests bored."
"Poor old Mother! Well, thanks awfully for tellin' me. I think I'll send
Bunter to the sale and toddle round to Battersea now an' try and console
the poor little beast. So-long."
"Good-bye, dear."
"Bunter!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has dis-
covered a dead man in his bath."
"Indeed, my lord? That's very gratifying."
"Very, Bunter. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and
Balliol had done as much for me. Have you found the catalogue?"
"Here it is, my lord."
"Thanks. I am going to Battersea at once. I want you to attend the
sale for me. Don't lose time—I don't want to miss the Folio Dante* nor
the de Voragine—here you are—see? 'Golden Legend'—Wynkyn de
Worde, 1493—got that?—and, I say, make a special effort for the Caxton
folio of the 'Four Sons of Aymon'—it's the 1489 folio and unique. Look!
I've marked the lots I want, and put my outside offer against each. Do
your best for me. I shall be back to dinner."
"Very good, my lord."
"Take my cab and tell him to hurry. He may for you; he doesn't like
me very much. Can I," said Lord Peter, looking at himself in the eight-
eenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece, "can I have the heart to
fluster the flustered Thipps further—that's very difficult to say quickly—by
appearing in a top-hat and frock-coat? I think not. Ten to one he will
overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A grey suit, I
fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone, suits my other self better.
Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive introduced by solo bas-
soon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman. There
goes Bunter. Invaluable fellow—never offers to do his job when you've
told him to do somethin' else. Hope he doesn't miss the 'Four Sons of
♦This is the first Florence edition, 1481, by Niccolo di Lorenzo. Lord Peter's
collection of printed Dantes is worth inspection. It includes, besides the famous
Aldine 8vo. of 1502, the Naples folio of 1477—"edizione rarissima," according to
Colomb. This copy has no history, and Mr. Parker's private belief is that its present
owner conveyed it away by stealth from somewhere or other. Lord Peter's own
account is that he "picked it up in a little place in the hills," when making a walk-
ing-tour through Italy.


6
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Aymon.' Still, there is another copy of that—in the Vatican.* It might be-
come available, you never know—if the Church of Rome went to pot or
Switzerland invaded Italy—whereas a strange corpse doesn't turn up in a
suburban bathroom more than once in a lifetime—at least, I should think
not—at any rate, the number of times it's happened, with a pince-nez,
might be counted on the fingers of one hand, I imagine. Dear me! it's a
dreadful mistake to ride two hobbies at once."
He had drifted across the passage into his bedroom, and was chang-
ing with a rapidity one might not have expected from a man of his man-
nerisms. He selected a dark-green tie to match his socks and tied it
accurately without hesitation or the slightest compression of his lips; sub-
stituted a pair of brown shoes for his black ones, slipped a monocle into
a breast pocket, and took up a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with a
heavy silver knob.
"That's all, I think," he murmured to himself. "Stay—I may as well
have you—you may come in useful—one never knows." He added a flat
silver matchbox to his equipment, glanced at his watch, and seeing that
it was already a quarter to three, ran briskly downstairs, and, hailing a
taxi, was carried to Battersea Park.
Mr. Alfred Thipps was a small, nervous man, whose flaxen hair was
beginning to abandon the unequal struggle with destiny. One might say
that his only really marked feature was a large bruise over the left eye-
brow, which gave him a faintly dissipated air incongruous with the rest
of his appearance. Almost in the same breath with his first greeting, he
made a self-conscious apology for it, murmuring something about hav-
ing run against the dining-room door in the dark. He was touched
almost to tears by Lord Peter's thoughtfulness and condescension in call-
ing.
"I'm sure it's most kind of your lordship," he repeated for the dozenth
time, rapidly blinking his weak little eyelids. "I appreciate it very deeply,
very deeply, indeed, and so would Mother, only she's so deaf, I don't like
to trouble you with making her understand. It's been very hard all day,"
he added, "with the policemen in the house and all this commotion. It's
what Mother and me have never been used to, always living very retired,
and it's most distressing to a man of regular habits, my lord, and reely,
I'm almost thankful Mother doesn't understand, for I'm sure it would
worry her terribly if she was to know about it. She was upset at first, but
* Lord Peter's wits were wool-gathering. The book is in the possession of Earl
Spencer. The Brocklebury copy is incomplete, the last five signatures being alto-
gether missing, but is unique in possessing the colophon.


WHOSE BODY?
7
she's made up some idea of her own about it now, and I'm sure it's all for
the best."
The old lady who sat knitting by the fire nodded grimly in response to
a look from her son.
"I always said as you ought to complain about that bath, Alfred," she
said suddenly, in the high, piping voice peculiar to the deaf, "and it's to
be 'oped the landlord'll see about it now; not but what I think you might
have managed without having the police in, but there! you always were
one to make a fuss about a little thing, from chicken-pox up."
"There now," said Mr. Thipps apologetically, "you see how it is. Not
but what it's just as well she's settled on that, because she understands
we've locked up the bathroom and don't try to go in there. But it's been
a terrible shock to me, sir—my lord, I should say, but there! my nerves
are all to pieces. Such a thing has never 'appened—happened to me in
all my born days. Such a state I was in this morning—I didn't know if I
was on my head or my heels—I reely didn't, and my heart not being too
strong, I hardly knew how to get out of that horrid room and telephone
for the police. It's affected me, sir, it's affected me, it reely has—I couldn't
touch a bit of breakfast, nor lunch neither, and what with telephoning
and putting off clients and interviewing people all morning, I've hardly
known what to do with myself."
"I'm sure it must have been uncommonly distressin'," said Lord Peter,
sympathetically, "especially comin' like that before breakfast. Hate any-
thing tiresome happenin' before breakfast. Takes a man at such a con-
founded disadvantage, what?"
"That's just it, that's just it," said Mr. Thipps, eagerly. "When I saw
that dreadful thing lying there in my bath, mother-naked, too, except
for a pair of eyeglasses, I assure you, my lord, it regularly turned my
stomach, if you'll excuse the expression. I'm not very strong, sir, and I
get that sinking feeling sometimes in the morning, and what with one
thing and another I 'ad—had to send the girl for a stiff brandy, or I don't
know what mightn't have happened. I felt so queer, though I'm any-
thing but partial to spirits as a rule. Still, I make it a rule never to be
without brandy in the house, in case of emergency, you know?"
"Very wise of you," said Lord Peter, cheerfully. "You're a very far-
seein' man, Mr. Thipps. Wonderful what a little nip'll do in case of need,
and the less you're used to it the more good it does you. Hope your girl
is a sensible young woman, what? Nuisance to have women faintin' and
shriekin' all over the place."
"Oh, Gladys is a good girl," said Mr. Thipps, "very reasonable in-
deed. She was shocked, of course; that's very understandable. I was
shocked myself, and it wouldn't be proper in a young woman not to be


8
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
shocked under the circumstances, but she is reely a helpful, energetic
girl in a crisis, if you understand me. I consider myself very fortunate
these days to have got a good, decent girl to do for me and Mother, even
though she is a bit careless and forgetful about little things, but that's
only natural. She was very sorry indeed about having left the bathroom
window open, she reely was, and though I was angry at first, seeing
what's come of it, it wasn't anything to speak of, not in the ordinary
way, as you might say. Girls will forget things, you know, my lord, and
reely she was so distressed I didn't like to say too much to her. All I said
was: 'It might have been burglars,' I said, 'remember that, next time you
leave a window open all night; this time it was a dead man,' I said, 'and
that's unpleasant enough, but next time it might be burglars,' I said, 'and
all of us murdered in our beds.' But the police-inspector—Inspector Sugg,
they called him, from the Yard—he was very sharp with her, poor girl.
Quite frightened her, and made her think he suspected her of something,
though what good a body could be to her, poor girl, I can't imagine, and
so I told the Inspector. He was quite rude to me, my lord—I may say I
didn't like his manner at all. 'If you've got anything definite to accuse
Gladys or me of, Inspector,' I said to him, 'bring it forward, that's what
you have to do,' I said, 'but I've yet to learn that you're paid to be rude
to a gentleman in his own 'ouse—house.' Reely," said Mr. Thipps, grow-
ing quite pink on the top of his head, "he regularly roused me, regularly
roused me, my lord, and I'm a mild man as a rule."
"Sugg all over," said Lord Peter. "I know him. When he don't know
what else to say, he's rude. Stands to reason you and the girl wouldn't go
collectin' bodies. Who'd want to saddle himself with a body? Difficulty's
usually to get rid of 'em. Have you got rid of this one yet, by the way?"
"It's still in the bathroom," said Mr. Thipps. "Inspector Sugg said
nothing was to be touched till his men came in to move it. I'm expecting
them at any time. If it would interest your lordship to have a look at it—"
"Thanks awfully," said Lord Peter. "I'd like to very much, if I'm not
puttin' you out."
"Not at all," said Mr. Thipps. His manner as he led the way along the
passage convinced Lord Peter of two things—first, that, gruesome as his
exhibit was, he rejoiced in the importance it reflected upon himself and
his flat, and secondly, that Inspector Sugg had forbidden him to exhibit
it to anyone. The latter supposition was confirmed by the action of Mr.
Thipps, who stopped to fetch the door-key from his bedroom, saying that
the police had the other, but that he made it a rule to have two keys to
every door, in case of accident.
The bathroom was in no way remarkable. It was long and narrow, the
window being exactly over the head of the bath. The panes were of


WHOSE BODY?
9
frosted glass; the frame wide enough to admit a man's body. Lord Peter
stepped rapidly across to it, opened it and looked out.
The flat was the top one of the building and situated about the middle
of the block. The bathroom window looked out upon the back-yards of
the flats, which were occupied by various small outbuildings, coal-holes,
garages, and the like. Beyond these were the back gardens of a parallel
line of houses. On the right rose the extensive edifice of St. Luke's Hos-
pital, Battersea, with its grounds, and, connected with it by a covered
way, the residence of the famous surgeon, Sir Julian Freke, who directed
the surgical side of the great new hospital, and was, in addition, known
in Harley Street as a distinguished neurologist with a highly individual
point of view.
This information was poured into Lord Peter's ear at considerable
length by Mr. Thipps, who seemed to feel that the neighbourhood of any-
body so distinguished shed a kind of halo of glory over Queen Caroline
Mansions.
"We had him round here himself this morning," he said, "about this
horrid business. Inspector Sugg thought one of the young medical gentle-
men at the hospital might have brought the corpse round for a joke, as
you might say, they always having bodies in the dissecting-room. So In-
spector Sugg went round to see Sir Julian this morning to ask if there was
a body missing. He was very kind, was Sir Julian, very kind indeed,
though he was at work when they got there, in the dissecting-room. He
looked up the books to see that all the bodies were accounted for, and
then very obligingly came round here to look at this"—he indicated the
bath—"and said he was afraid he couldn't help us—there was no corpse
missing from the hospital, and this one didn't answer to the description
of any they'd had."
"Nor to the description of any of the patients, I hope," suggested Lord
Peter casually.
At this grisly hint Mr. Thipps turned pale.
"I didn't hear Inspector Sugg inquire," he said, with some agitation.
"What a very horrid thing that would be—God bless my soul, my lord, I
never thought of it."
"Well, if they had missed a patient they'd probably have discovered it
by now," said Lord Peter. "Let's have a look at this one."
He screwed his monocle into his eye, adding: "I see you're troubled
here with the soot blowing in. Beastly nuisance, ain't it? I get it, too—
spoils all my books, you know. Here, don't you trouble, if you don't care
about lookin' at it."
He took from Mr. Thipps's hesitating hand the sheet which had been
flung over the bath, and turned it back.


10
THREE FOR LORD PETER WTMSEY
The body which lay in the bath was that of a tall, stout man of about
fifty. The hair, which was thick and black and naturally curly, had been
cut and parted by a master hand, and exuded a faint violet perfume,
perfectly recognisable in the close air of the bathroom. The features were
thick, fleshy and strongly marked, with prominent dark eyes, and a long
nose curving down to a heavy chin. The clean-shaven lips were full and
sensual, and the dropped jaw showed teeth stained with tobacco. On the
dead face the handsome pair of gold pince-nez mocked death with gro-
tesque elegance; the fine gold chain curved over the naked breast. The
legs lay stiffly stretched out side by side; the arms reposed close to the
body; the fingers were flexed naturally. Lord Peter lifted one arm, and
looked at the hand with a little frown.
"Bit of a dandy, your visitor, what?" he murmured. "Parma violet and
manicure." He bent again, slipping his hand beneath the head. The ab-
surd eyeglasses slipped off, clattering into the bath, and the noise put the
last touch to Mr. Thipps's growing nervousness.
"If you'll excuse me," he murmured, "it makes me feel quite faint, it
reely does."
He slipped outside, and he had no sooner done so than Lord Peter,
lifting the body quickly and cautiously, turned it over and inspected it
with his head on one side, bringing his monocle into play with the air of
the late Joseph Chamberlain approving a rare orchid. He then laid the
head over his arm, and bringing out the silver matchbox from his pocket,
slipped it into the open mouth. Then making the noise usually written
"Tut-tut," he laid the body down, picked up the mysterious pince-nez,
looked at it, put it on his nose and looked through it, made the same
noise again, readjusted the pince-nez upon the nose of the corpse, so as
to leave no traces of interference for the irritation of Inspector Sugg; re-
arranged the body; returned to the window and, leaning out, reached
upwards and sideways with his walking-stick, which he had somewhat
incongruously brought along with him. Nothing appearing to come of
these investigations, he withdrew his head, closed the window, and re-
joined Mr. Thipps in the passage.
Mr. Thipps, touched by this sympathetic interest in the younger son of
a duke, took the liberty, on their return to the sitting-room, of offering
him a cup of tea. Lord Peter, who had strolled over to the window and
was admiring the outlook on Battersea Park, was about to accept, when
an ambulance came into view at the end of Prince of Wales Road. Its
appearance reminded Lord Peter of an important engagement, and with a
hurried "By Jove!" he took his leave of Mr. Thipps.
"My mother sent kind regards and all that," he said, shaking hands
fervently; "hopes you'll soon be down at Denver again. Good-bye, Mrs.


WHOSE BODY?
11
Thipps," he bawled kindly into the ear of the old lady. "Oh, no, my dear
sir, please don't trouble to come down."
He was none too soon. As he stepped out of the door and turned to-
wards the station, the ambulance drew up from the other direction, and
Inspector Sugg emerged from it with two constables. The Inspector spoke
to the officer on duty at the Mansions, and turned a suspicious gaze on
Lord Peter's retreating back.
"Dear old Sugg," said that nobleman, fondly, "dear, dear old bird!
How he does hate me, to be sure."
CHAPTER II
"excellent, bunter," said Lord Peter, sinking with a sigh into a luxu-
rious armchair. "I couldn't have done better myself. The thought of the
Dante makes my mouth water—and the 'Four Sons of Aymon.' And
you've saved me £ 60—that's glorious. What shall we spend it on, Bunter?
Think of it—all ours, to do as we like with, for as Harold Skimpole so
rightly observes, £60 saved is £60 gained, and I'd reckoned on spend-
ing it all. It's your saving, Bunter, and properly speaking, your £60.
What do we want? Anything in your department? Would you like any-
thing altered in the flat?"
"Well, my lord, as your lordship is so good"—the man-servant paused,
about to pour an old brandy into a liqueur glass.
"Well, out with it, my Bunter, you imperturbable old hypocrite. It's
no good talking as if you were announcing dinner—you're spilling the
brandy. The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.
What does that blessed darkroom of yours want now?"
"There's a Double Anastigmat with a set of supplementary lenses, my
lord," said Bunter, with a note almost of religious fervour. "If it was a
case of forgery now—or footprints—I could enlarge them right up on the
plate. Or the wide-angled lens would be useful. It's as though the camera
had eyes at the back of its head, my lord. Look—I've got it here."
He pulled a catalogue from his pocket, and submitted it, quivering,
to his employer's gaze.
Lord Peter perused the description slowly, the corners of his long
mouth lifted into a faint smile.
"It's Greek to me," he said, "and £50 seems a ridiculous price for"


12
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
few bits of glass. I suppose, Bunter, you'd say £750 was a bit out of the
way for a dirty old book in a dead language, wouldn't you?"
"It wouldn't be my place to say so, my lord."
"No, Bunter, I pay you £200 a year to keep your thoughts to your-
self. Tell me, Bunter, in these democratic days, don't you think that's
unfair?"
"No, my lord."
"You don't . D'you mind telling me frankly why you don't think it
unfair?"
"Frankly, my lord, your lordship is paid a nobleman's income to take
Lady Worthington in to dinner and refrain from exercising your lord-
ship's undoubted powers of repartee."
Lord Peter considered this.
"That's your idea, is it, Bunter? Noblesse oblige—for a consideration.
I daresay you're right. Then you're better off than I am, because I'd have
to behave myself to Lady Worthington if I hadn't a penny. Bunter, if I
sacked you here and now, would you tell me what you think of me?"
"No, my lord."
"You'd have a perfect right to, my Bunter, and if I sacked you on top
of drinking the kind of coffee you make, I'd deserve everything you could
say of me. You're a demon for coffee, Bunter—I don't want to know how
you do it, because I believe it to be witchcraft, and I don't want to burn
eternally. You can buy your cross-eyed lens."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Have you finished in the dining-room?"
"Not quite, my lord."
"Well, come back when you have. I have many things to tell you.
Hullo! who's that?"
The doorbell had rung sharply.
"Unless it's anybody interestin' I'm not at home."
"Very good, my lord."
Lord Peter's library was one of the most delightful bachelor rooms in
London. Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with
rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces
of the houris. In one corner stood a black baby grand, a wood fire leaped
on a wide old-fashioned hearth, and the Sevres vases on the chimney-
piece were filled with ruddy and gold chrysanthemums. To the eyes of
the young man who was ushered in from the raw November fog it seemed
not only rare and unattainable, but friendly and familiar, like a colour-
ful and gilded paradise in a mediaeval painting.
"Mr. Parker, my lord."
Lord Peter jumped up with genuine eagerness.


WHOSE BODY?
13
"My dear man, I'm delighted to see you. What a beastly foggy night,
ain't it? Bunter, some more of that admirable coffee and another glass
and the cigars. Parker, I hope you're full of crime—nothing less than
arson or murder will do for us tonight. 'On such a night as this—' Bunter
and I were just sitting down to carouse. I've got a Dante, and a Caxton
folio that is practically unique, at Sir Ralph Brocklebury's sale. Bunter,
who did the bargaining, is going to have a lens which does all kinds of
wonderful things with its eyes shut, and
We both have got a body in a bath,
We both have got a body in a bath—
For in spite of all temptations
To go in for cheap sensations
We insist upon a body in a bath—
Nothing less will do for us, Parker. It's mine at present, but we're going
shares in it. Property of the firm. Won't you join us? You really must put
something in the jack-pot. Perhaps you have a body. Oh, do have a body.
Every body welcome.
Gin a body meet a body
Hauled before the beak,
Gin a body jolly well knows who murdered a
body and that old Sugg is on the wrong tack.
Need a body speak?
Not a bit of it. He tips a glassy wink to yours truly and yours truly reads
the truth."
"Ah," said Parker, "I knew you'd been round to Queen Caroline
Mansions. So've I, and met Sugg, and he told me he'd seen you. He was
cross, too. Unwarrantable interference, he calls it."
"I knew he would," said Lord Peter. "I love taking a rise out of dear
old Sugg, he's always so rude. I see by the Star that he has excelled him-
self by taking the girl, Gladys What's-her-name, into custody. Sugg of
the evening, beautiful Sugg! But what were you doing there?"
"To tell you the truth," said Parker, "I went round to see if the Se-
mitic-looking stranger in Mr. Thipps's bath was by any extraordinary
chance Sir Reuben Levy. But he isn't."
"Sir Reuben Levy? Wait a minute, I saw something about that. I know!
A headline: 'Mysterious disappearance of famous financier.' What's it
all about? I didn't read it carefully."
"Well, it's a bit odd, though I daresay it's nothing really—old chap
may have cleared for some reason best known to himself. It only hap-
pened this morning, and nobody would have thought anything about it,


14
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
only it happened to be the day on which he had arranged to attend a
most important financial meeting and do some deal involving millions
—I haven't got all the details. But I know he's got enemies who'd just as
soon the deal didn't come off, so when I got wind of this fellow in the
bath, I buzzed round to have a look at him. It didn't seem likely, of
course, but unlikelier things do happen in our profession. The funny
thing is, old Sugg had got bitten with the idea it is him, and is wildly
telegraphing to Lady Levy to come and identify him. But as a matter
of fact, the man in the bath is no more Sir Reuben Levy than Adolf Beck,
poor devil, was John Smith. Oddly enough, though, he would be really
extraordinarily like Sir Reuben if he had a beard, and as Lady Levy is
abroad with the family, somebody may say it's him, and Sugg will build
up a lovely theory, like the Tower of Babel, and destined so to perish."
"Sugg's a beautiful, braying ass," said Lord Peter. "He's like a detec-
tive in a novel. Well, I don't know anything about Levy, but I've seen
the body, and I should say the idea was preposterous upon the face of it.
What do you think of the brandy?"
"Unbelievable, Wimsey—sort of thing makes one believe in heaven.
But I want your yarn."
"D'you mind if Bunter hears it, too? Invaluable man, Bunter—amazin'
fellow with a camera. And the odd thing is, he's always on the spot when
I want my bath or my boots. I don't know when he develops things—I
believe he does 'em in his sleep. Bunter!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Stop fiddling about in there, and get yourself the proper things to
drink and join the merry throng."
"Certainly, my lord."
"Mr. Parker has a new trick: The Vanishing Financier. Absolutely no
deception. Hey, presto, pass! and where is he? Will some gentleman from
the audience kindly step upon the platform and inspect the cabinet?
Thank you, sir. The quickness of the 'and deceives the heye."
"I'm afraid mine isn't much of a story," said Parker. "It's just one of
those simple things that offer no handle. Sir Reuben Levy dined last night
with three friends at the Ritz. After dinner the friends went to the thea-
tre. He refused to go with them on account of an appointment. I haven't
yet been able to trace the appointment, but anyhow, he returned home
to his house—9a, Park Lane—at twelve o'clock."
"Who saw him?"
"The cook, who had just gone up to bed, saw him on the doorstep, and
heard him let himself in. He walked upstairs, leaving his greatcoat on the
hall peg and his umbrella in the stand—you remember how it rained last


WHOSE BODY?
15
night. He undressed and went to bed. Next morning he wasn't there.
That's all," said Parker abruptly, with a wave of the hand.
"It isn't all, it isn't all. Daddy, go on, that's not half a story," pleaded
Lord Peter.
"But it is all. When his man came to call him he wasn't there. The bed
had been slept in. His pyjamas and all his clothes were there, the only
odd thing being that they were thrown rather untidily on the ottoman at
the foot of the bed, instead of being neatly folded on a chair, as is Sir
Reuben's custom—looking as though he had been rather agitated or un-
well. No clean clothes were missing, no suit, no boots—nothing. The
boots he had worn were in his dressing-room as usual. He had washed
and cleaned his teeth and done all the usual things. The housemaid was
down cleaning the hall at half-past six, and can swear that nobody came
in or out after that. So one is forced to suppose that a respectable middle-
aged Hebrew financier either went mad between twelve and six a.m. and
walked quietly out of the house in his birthday suit on a November night,
or else was spirited away like the lady in the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' body
and bones, leaving only a heap of crumpled clothes behind him."
"Was the front door bolted?"
"That's the sort of question you would ask, straight off; it took me an
hour to think of it. No; contrary to custom, there was only the Yale lock
on the door. On the other hand, some of the maids had been given leave
to go to the theatre, and Sir Reuben may quite conceivably have left the
door open under the impression they had not come in. Such a thing has
happened before."
"And that's really all?"
"Really all. Except for one very trifling circumstance."
"I love trifling circumstances," said Lord Peter, with childish delight;
"so many men have been hanged by trifling circumstances. What was it?"
"Sir Reuben and Lady Levy, who are a most devoted couple, always
share the same room. Lady Levy, as I said before, is in Mentonne at the
moment for her health. In her absence, Sir Reuben sleeps in the double
bed as usual, and invariably on his own side—the outside—of the bed.
Last night he put the two pillows together and slept in the middle, or, if
anything, rather closer to the wall than otherwise. The housemaid, who
is a most intelligent girl, noticed this when she went up to make the bed,
and, with really admirable detective instinct, refused to touch the bed or
let anybody else touch it, though it wasn't till later that they actually sent
for the police."
"Was nobody in the house but Sir Reuben and the servants?"
"No; Lady Levy was away with her daughter and her maid. The valet,
cook, parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid were the only people;


WHOSE BODY?
17
"Well, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "what do you make of it?"
"Not in my department, my lord. Except that it is odd that a gentle-
man who was too flurried or unwell to fold his clothes as usual should
remember to clean his teeth and put his boots out. Those are two things
that quite frequently get overlooked, my lord."
"If you mean anything personal, Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I can only
say that I think the speech an unworthy one. It's a sweet little problem,
Parker mine. Look here, I don't want to butt in, but I should dearly love
to see that bedroom tomorrow. 'Tis not that I mistrust thee, dear, but I
should uncommonly like to see it. Say me not nay—take another drop of
brandy and a Villar Villar, but say not, say not nay!"
"Of course you can come and see it—you'll probably find lots of things
I've overlooked," said the other, equably, accepting the proffered hos-
pitality.
"Parker, acushla, you're an honour to Scotland Yard. I look at you,
and Sugg appears a myth, a fable, an idiot-boy, spawned in a moonlight
hour by some fantastic poet's brain. Sugg is too perfect to be possible.
What does he make of the body, by the way?"
"Sugg says," replied Parker, with precision, "that the body died from
a blow on the back of the neck. The doctor told him that. He says it's
been dead a day or two. The doctor told him that, too. He says it's the
body of a well-to-do Hebrew of about fifty. Anybody could have told
him that. He says it's ridiculous to suppose it came in through the win-
dow without anybody knowing anything about it. He says it probably
walked in through the front door and was murdered by the household.
He's arrested the girl because she's short and frail-looking and quite un-
equal to downing a tall and sturdy Semite with a poker. He'd arrest
Thipps, only Thipps was away in Manchester all yesterday and the day
before and didn't come back till late last night—in fact, he wanted to
arrest him till I reminded him that if the body had been a day or two
dead, little Thipps couldn't have done him in at 10.30 last night. But he'll
arrest him tomorrow as an accessory—and the old lady with the knitting,
too, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, I'm glad the little man has so much of an alibi," said Lord
Peter, "though if you're only glueing your faith to cadaveric lividity,
rigidity, and all the other quiddities, you must be prepared to have some
sceptical beast of a prosecuting counsel walk slap-bang through the medi-
cal evidence. Remember Impey Biggs defending in that Chelsea tea-shop
affair? Six bloomin' medicos contradictin' each other in the box, an' old
Impey elocutin' abnormal cases from Glaister and Dixon Mann till the
eyes of the jury reeled in their heads! 'Are you prepared to swear, Dr.
Thingumtight, that the onset of rigor mortis indicates the hour of death


18
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
without the possibility of error?' 'So far as my experience goes, in the
majority of cases,' says the doctor, all stiff. 'Ah!' says Biggs, but this is a
Court of Justice, Doctor, not a Parliamentary election. We can't get on
without a minority report. The law, Dr. Thingumtight, respects the rights
of the minority, alive or dead.' Some ass laughs, and old Biggs sticks
his chest out and gets impressive. "Gentlemen, this is no laughing matter.
My client-an upright and honourable gentleman-is being tried for his
life-for his life, gentlemen-and it is the business of the prosecution to
show his guilt-if they can—without a shadow of doubt. Now, Dr. Thing-
umtight, I ask you again, can you solemnly swear, without the least
shadow of doubt,-probable, possible shadow of doubt-that this un-
happy woman met her death neither sooner nor later than Thursday
evening? A probable opinion? Gentlemen, we are not Jesuits, we are
straightforward Englishmen. You cannot ask a British-born jury to con-
vict any man on the authority of a probable opinion.' Hum of applause."
“Biggs's man was guilty all the same,” said Parker.
"Of course he was. But he was acquitted all the same, an’ what you've
just said is libel.” Wimsey walked over to the bookshelf and took down
a volume of Medical Jurisprudence. “Rigor mortis-can only be stated
in a very general way-many factors determine the result.' Cautious brute.
‘On the average, however, stiffening will have begun-neck and jaw-5
to 6 hours after death?-m'm-'in all likelihood have passed off in the
bulk of cases by the end of 36 hours. Under certain circumstances, how-
ever, it may appear unusually early, or be retarded unusually long!'
Helpful, ain't it, Parker? 'Brown-Séquard states . . .342 minutes after
death. . . . In certain cases not until lapse of 16 hours after death . ..
present as long as 21 days thereafter.' Lord! ‘Modifying factors-age-
muscular state-or febrile diseases or where temperature of environment
is high'-and so on and so on-any bloomin' thing. Never mind. You can
run the argument for what it's worth to Sugg. He won't know any better."
He tossed the book away. "Come back to facts. What did you make of
the body?”
"Well," said the detective, “not very much-I was puzzled-frankly. I
should say he had been a rich man, but self-made, and that his good
fortune had come to him fairly recently."
"Ah, you noticed the calluses on the hands-I thought you wouldn't
miss that.”
“Both his feet were badly blistered-he had been wearing tight shoes."
“Walking a long way in them, too,” said Lord Peter, “to get such
blisters as that. Didn't that strike you as odd, in a person evidently well
off?"
"Well I don't know. The blisters were two or three days old. He might


WHOSE BODY?
19
have got stuck in the suburbs one night, perhaps—last train gone and no
taxi—and had to walk home."
"Possibly."
"There were some little red marks all over his back and one leg I
couldn't quite account for."
"I saw them."
"What did you make of them?"
"IU tell you afterwards. Go on."
"He was very long-sighted—oddly long-sighted for a man in the prime
of life; the glasses were like a very old man's. By the way, they had a very
beautiful and remarkable chain of flat links chased with a pattern. It
struck me he might be traced through it."
"I've just put an advertisement in the Times about it," said Lord Peter.
"Go on."
"He had had the glasses some time—they had been mended twice."
"Beautiful, Parker, beautiful. Did you realize the importance of that?"
"Not specially, I'm afraid—why?"
"Never mind—go on."
"He was probably a sullen, ill-tempered man—his nails were filed down
to the quick as though he habitually bit them, and his fingers were bitten
as well. He smoked quantities of cigarettes without a holder. He was
particular about his personal appearance."
"Did you examine the room at all? I didn't get a chance."
"I couldn't find much in the way of footprints. Sugg & Co. had
tramped all over the place, to say nothing of little Thipps and the maid,
but I noticed a very indefinite patch just behind the head of the bath, as
though something damp might have stood there. You could hardly call
it a print."
"It rained hard all last night, of course."
"Yes; did you notice that the soot on the window-sill was vaguely
marked?"
"I did," said Wimsey, "and I examined it hard with this little fellow,
but I could make nothing of it except that something or other had rested
on the sill." He drew out his monocle and handed it to Parker.
"My word, that's a powerful lens."
"It is," said Wimsey, "and jolly useful when you want to take a good
squint at somethin' and look like a bally fool all the time. Only it don't
do to wear it permanently—if people see you full-face they say: 'Dear
me! how weak the sight of that eye must be!' Still, it's useful."
"Sugg and I explored the ground at the back of the building," went on
Parker, "but there wasn't a trace."
"That's interestin'. Did you try the roof?"


20
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No."
"We'll go over it tomorrow. The gutter's only a couple of feet off the
top of the window. I measured it with my stick—the gentleman-scout's
vade-mecum, I call it—it's marked off in inches. Uncommonly handy
companion at times. There's a sword inside and a compass in the head.
Got it made specially. Anything more?"
"Afraid not. Let's hear your version, Wimsey."
"Well, I think you've got most of the points. There are just one or two
little contradictions. For instance, here's a man wears expensive gold-
rimmed pince-nez and has had them long enough to be mended twice.
Yet his teeth are not merely discoloured, but badly decayed and look as
if he'd never cleaned them in his life. There are four molars missing on
one side and three on the other and one front tooth broken right across.
He's a man careful of his personal appearance, as witness his hair and
his hands. What do you say to that?"
"Oh, these self-made men of low origin don't think much about teeth,
and are terrified of dentists."
"True; but one of the molars has a broken edge so rough that it had
made a sore place on the tongue. Nothing's more painful. D'you mean
to tell me a man would put up with that if he could afford to get the tooth
filed?"
"Well, people are queer. I've known servants endure agonies rather
than step over a dentist's doormat. How did you see that, Wimsey?"
"Had a look inside; electric torch," said Lord Peter. "Handy little
gadget. Looks like a matchbox. Well—I daresay it's all right, but I just
draw your attention to it. Second point: Gentleman with hair smellin'
of Parma violet and manicured hands and all the rest of it, never washes
the inside of his ears. Full of wax. Nasty."
"You've got me there, Wimsey; I never noticed it. Still—old bad habits
die hard."
"Right oh! Put it down at that. Third point: Gentleman with the mani-
cure and the brilliantine and all the rest of it suffers from fleas."
"By Jove, you're right! Flea-bites. It never occurred to me."
"No doubt about it, old son. The marks were faint and old, but un-
mistakable."
"Of course, now you mention it. Still, that might happen to anybody.
I loosed a whopper in the best hotel in Lincoln the week before last. I
hope it bit the next occupier!"
"Oh, all these things might happen to anybody—separately. Fourth
point: Gentleman who uses Parma violet for his hair, etc., etc., washes
his body in strong carbolic soap—so strong that the smell hangs about
twenty-four hours later."


WHOSE BODY?
21
“Carbolic to get rid of the fleas.”
"I will say for you, Parker, you've an answer for everything. Fifth
point: Carefully got-up gentleman, with manicured, though masticated,
finger-nails, has filthy black toe-nails which look as if they hadn't been
cut for years.”
"All of a piece with habits as indicated.”
“Yes, I know, but such habits! Now, sixth and last point: This gentle-
man with the intermittently gentlemanly habits arrives in the middle of a
pouring wet night, and apparently through the window, when he has al-
ready been twenty-four hours dead, and lies down quietly in Mr. Thipps's
bath, unseasonably dressed in a pair of pince-nez. Not a hair on his head
is ruffled—the hair has been cut so recently that there are quite a number
of little short hairs stuck on his neck and the sides of the bath-and he
has shaved so recently that there is a line of dried soap on his cheek—"
“Wimsey!"
“Wait a minute-and dried soap in his mouth.”
Bunter got up and appeared suddenly at the detective's elbow, the
respectful man-servant all over.
“A little more brandy, sir?” he murmured.
"Wimsey," said Parker, "you are making me feel cold all over." He
emptied his glass-stared at it as though he were surprised to find it
empty, set it down, got up, walked across to the bookcase, turned round,
stood with his back against it and said:
“Look here, Wimsey-you've been reading detective stories; you're
talking nonsense.”
"No, I ain't,” said Lord Peter, sleepily, "uncommon good incident
for a detective story, though, what? Bunter, we'll write one, and you shall
illustrate it with photographs."
"Soap in his, Rubbish!” said Parker. “It was something else-some
discoloration,”
"No," said Lord Peter, “there were hairs as well. Bristly ones. He had
a beard."
He took his watch from his pocket, and drew out a couple of longish,
stiff hairs, which he had imprisoned between the inner and the outer case.
Parker turned them over once or twice in his fingers, looked at them
close to the light, examined them with a lens, handed them to the im-
passible Bunter, and said:
“Do you mean to tell me, Wimsey, that any man alive would”-he
laughed harshly-"shave off his beard with his mouth open, and then go
and get killed with his mouth full of hairs? You're mad.”
"I don't tell you so," said Wimsey. "You policemen are all alike-only
one idea in your skulls. Blest if I can make out why you're ever ap-


22
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
pointed. He was shaved after he was dead. Pretty, ain't it? Uncommonly
jolly little job for the barber, what? Here, sit down, man, and don't be an
ass, stumpin' about the room like that. Worse things happen in war. This
is only a blinkin' old shillin' shocker. But IH tell you what, Parker, we're
up against a criminal—the criminal—the real artist and blighter with im-
agination—real, artistic, finished stuff. I'm enjoyin' this, Parker."
CHAPTER m
lord peter finished a Scarlatti sonata, and sat looking thoughtfully
at his own hands. The fingers were long and muscular, with wide, flat
joints and square tips. When he was playing, his rather hard grey eyes
softened, and his long, indeterminate mouth hardened in compensation.
At no other time had he any pretensions to good looks, and at all times
he was spoilt by a long, narrow chin, and a long, receding forehead,
accentuated by the brushed-back sleekness of his tow-coloured hair.
Labour papers, softening down the chin, caricatured him as a typical
aristocrat.
"That's a wonderful instrument," said Parker.
"It ain't so bad," said Lord Peter, "but Scarlatti wants a harpsichord.
Piano's too modern—all thrills and overtones. No good for our job,
Parker. Have you come to any conclusion?"
"The man in the bath," said Parker, methodically, "was not a well-off
man careful of his personal appearance. He was a labouring man, un-
employed, but who had only recently lost his employment. He had been
tramping about looking for a job when he met with his end. Somebody
killed him and washed him and scented him and shaved him in order
to disguise him, and put him into Thipps's bath without leaving a trace.
Conclusion: the murderer was a powerful man, since he killed him with
a single blow on the neck, a man of cool head and masterly intellect,
since he did all that ghastly business without leaving a mark, a man of
wealth and refinement, since he had all the apparatus of an elegant toilet
handy, and a man of bizarre, and almost perverted imagination, as is
shown in the two horrible touches of putting the body in the bath and of
adorning it with a pair of pince-nez."
"He is a poet of crime," said Wimsey. "By the way, your difficulty


WHOSE BODY?
23
about the pince-nez is cleared up. Obviously, the pince-nez never be-
longed to the body."
"That only makes a fresh puzzle. One can't suppose the murderer left
them in that obliging manner as a clue to his own identity."
"We can hardly suppose that; I'm afraid this man possessed what
most criminals lack—a sense of humour."
"Rather macabre humour."
"True. But a man who can afford to be humorous at all in such cir-
cumstances is a terrible fellow. I wonder what he did with the body be-
tween the murder and depositing it chez Thipps. Then there are more
questions. How did he get it there? And why? Was it brought in at the
door, as Sugg of our heart suggests? or through the window, as we think,
on the not very adequate testimony of a smudge on the window-sill? Had
the murderer accomplices? Is little Thipps really in it, or the girl? It don't
do to put the notion out of court merely because Sugg inclines to it. Even
idiots occasionally speak the truth accidentally. If not, why was Thipps
selected for such an abominable practical joke? Has anybody got a
grudge against Thipps? Who are the people in the other flats? We must
find out that. Does Thipps play the piano at midnight over their heads
or damage the reputation of the staircase by bringing home dubiously
respectable ladies? Are there unsuccessful architects thirsting for his
blood? Damn it all, Parker, there must be a motive somewhere. Can't
have a crime without a motive, you know."
"A madman—" suggested Parker, doubtfully.
"With a deuced lot of method in his madness. He hasn't made a mis-
take—not one, unless leaving hairs in the corpse's mouth can be called a
mistake. Well, anyhow, it's not Levy—you're right there. I say, old thing,
neither your man nor mine has left much clue to go upon, has he? And
there don't seem to be any motives knockin' about, either. And we seem
to be two suits of clothes short in last night's work. Sir Reuben makes
tracks without so much as a fig-leaf, and a mysterious individual turns
up with a pince-nez, which is quite useless for purposes of decency. Dash
it all! If only I had some good excuse for takin' up this body case
officially—"
The telephone bell rang. The silent Bunter, whom the other two had
almost forgotten, padded across to it.
"It's an elderly lady, my lord," he said. "I think she's deaf—I can't
make her hear anything, but she's asking for your lordship."
Lord Peter seized the receiver, and yelled into it a "Hullo!" that might
have cracked the vulcanite. He listened for some minutes with an in-
credulous smile, which gradually broadened into a grin of delight. At
length he screamed: "All right! all right!" several times, and rang off.


24
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"By Jove!" he announced, beaming, "sportin' old bird! It's old Mrs.
Thipps. Deaf as a post. Never used the 'phone before. But determined.
Perfect Napoleon. The incomparable Sugg has made a discovery and
arrested little Thipps. Old lady abandoned in the flat. Thipps's last shriek
to her: 'Tell Lord Peter Wimsey.' Old girl undaunted. Wrestles with tele-
phone book. Wakes up the people at the exchange. Won't take no for an
answer (not bein' able to hear it), gets through, says: 'Will I do what I
can?' Says she would feel safe in the hands of a real gentleman. Oh,
Parker, Parker! I could kiss her, I reely could, as Thipps says. I'll write
to her instead—no, hang it, Parker, we'll go round. Bunter, get your in-
fernal machine and the magnesium. I say, we'll all go into partnership
—pool the two cases and work 'em out together. You shall see my body
tonight, Parker, and I'll look for your wandering Jew tomorrow. I feel
so happy, I shall explode. O Sugg, Sugg, how art thou suggified! Bunter,
my shoes. I say, Parker, I suppose yours are rubber-soled. Not? Tut, tut,
you mustn't go out like that. We'll lend you a pair. Gloves? Here. My
stick, my torch, the lampblack, the forceps, knife, pill-boxes—all com-
plete?"
"Certainly, my lord."
"Oh, Bunter, don't look so offended. I mean no harm. I believe in
you, I trust you—what money have I got? That'll do. I knew a man once,
Parker, who let a world-famous poisoner slip through his fingers because
the machine on the Underground took nothing but pennies. There was a
queue at the booking office and the man at the barrier stopped him, and
while they were arguing about accepting a five-pound-note (which
was all he had) for a two-penny ride to Baker Street, the criminal had
sprung into a Circle train, and was next heard of in Constantinople, dis-
guised as an elderly Church of England clergyman touring with his niece.
Are we all ready? Go!"
They stepped out, Bunter carefully switching off the lights behind
them.
As they emerged into the gloom and gleam of Piccadilly, Wimsey
stopped short with a little exclamation.
"Wait a second," he said. "I've thought of something. If Sugg's there
he'll make trouble. I must short-circuit him."
He ran back, and the other two men employed the few minutes of his
absence in capturing a taxi.
Inspector Sugg and a subordinate Cerberus were on guard at 59,
Queen Caroline Mansions, and showed no disposition to admit unofficial
inquirers. Parker, indeed, they could not easily turn away, but Lord Peter
found himself confronted with a surly manner and what Lord Beacons-


WHOSE BODY?
25
field described as a masterly inactivity. It was in vain that Lord Peter
pleaded that he had been retained by Mrs. Thipps on behalf of her son.
"Retained!" said Inspector Sugg, with a snort. "She'll be retained if
she doesn't look out. Shouldn't wonder if she wasn't in it herself, only
she's so deaf, she's no good for anything at all."
"Look here, Inspector," said Lord Peter, "what's the use of bein' so
bally obstructive? You'd much better let me in—you know I'll get there
in the end. Dash it all, it's not as if I was takin' the bread out of your
children's mouths. Nobody paid me for finding Lord Attenbury's emer-
alds for you."
"It's my duty to keep out the public," said Inspector Sugg, morosely,
"and it's going to stay out."
"I never said anything about your keeping out of the public," said
Lord Peter, easily, sitting down on the staircase to thrash the matter out
comfortably, "though I've no doubt pussyfoot's a good thing, on prin-
ciple, if not exaggerated. The golden mean, Sugg, as Aristotle says, keeps
you from bein' a golden ass. Ever been a golden ass, Sugg? I have. It
would take a whole rose-garden to cure me, Sugg—
"'You are my garden of beautiful roses,
My own rose, my one rose, that's you!'"
"I'm not going to stay any longer talking to you," said the harassed
Sugg; "it's bad enough— Hullo, drat that telephone. Here, Cawthorn, go
and see what it is, if that old catamaran will let you into the room.
Shutting herself up there and screaming," said the Inspector, "it's enough
to make a man give up crime and take to hedging and ditching."
The constable came back:
"It's from the Yard, sir," he said, coughing apologetically; "the Chief
says every facility is to be given to Lord Peter Wimsey, sir. Um!" He
stood apart non-committally, glazing his eyes.
"Five aces," said Lord Peter, cheerfully. "The Chiefs a dear friend of
my mother's. No go, Sugg, it's no good buckin'; you've got a full house.
I'm goin' to make it a bit fuller."
He walked in with his followers.
The body had been removed a few hours previously, and when the
bathroom and the whole flat had been explored by the naked eye and
the camera of the competent Bunter, it became evident that the real prob-
lem of the household was old Mrs. Thipps. Her son and servant had both
been removed, and it appeared that they had no friends in town, beyond
a few business acquaintances of Thipps's, whose very addresses the old
lady did not know. The other flats in the building were occupied respec-
tively by a family of seven, at present departed to winter abroad, an


26
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
elderly Indian colonel of ferocious manners, who lived alone with an
Indian man-servant, and a highly respectable family on the third floor,
whom the disturbance over their heads had outraged to the last degree.
The husband, indeed, when appealed to by Lord Peter, showed a little
human weakness, but Mrs. Appledore, appearing suddenly in a warm
dressing-gown, extricated him from the difficulties into which he was
carelessly wandering.
"I am sorry," she said, "I'm afraid we can't interfere in any way. This
is a very unpleasant business, Mr.— I'm afraid I didn't catch your name,
and we have always found it better not to be mixed up with the police.
Of course, // the Thippses are innocent, and I am sure I hope they are, it
is very unfortunate for them, but I must say that the circumstances seem
to me most suspicious, and to Theophilus too, and I should not like to
have it said that we had assisted murderers. We might even be supposed
to be accessories. Of course you are young, Mr.—"
"This is Lord Peter Wimsey, my dear," said Theophilus mildly.
She was unimpressed.
"Ah, yes," she said, "I believe you are distantly related to my late
cousin, the Bishop of Carisbrooke. Poor man! He was always being taken
in by impostors; he died without ever learning any better. I imagine you
take after him, Lord Peter."
"I doubt it," said Lord Peter. "So far as I know he is only a connec-
tion, though it's a wise child that knows its own father. I congratulate
you, dear lady, on takin' after the other side of the family. You'll forgive
my buttin' in upon you like this in the middle of the night, though, as you
say, it's all in the family, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, and
for permittin' me to admire that awfully fetchin' thing you've got on.
Now, don't you worry, Mr. Appledore. I'm thinkin' the best thing I can
do is to trundle the old lady down to my mother and take her out of your
way, otherwise you might be findin' your Christian feelin's gettin' the bet-
ter of you some fine day, and there's nothin' like Christian feelin's for
upsettin' a man's domestic comfort. Good-night, sir—good-night, dear
lady—it's simply rippin' of you to let me drop in like this."
"Well!" said Mrs. Appledore, as the door closed behind him.
And—
"/ thank the goodness and the grace
That on my birth have smiled,"
said Lord Peter, "and taught me to be bestially impertinent when I
choose. Cat!"
Two a.m. saw Lord Peter Wimsey arrive in a friend's car at the Dower


WHOSE BODY?
27
House, Denver Castle, in company with a deaf and aged lady and an
antique portmanteau.
"It's very nice to see you, dear," said the Dowager Duchess, placidly.
She was a small, plump woman, with perfectly white hair and exquisite
hands. In feature she was as unlike her second son as she was like him
in character; her black eyes twinkled cheerfully, and her manners and
movements were marked with a neat and rapid decision. She wore a
charming wrap from Liberty's, and sat watching Lord Peter eat cold beef
and cheese as though his arrival in such incongruous circumstances and
company were the most ordinary event possible, which with him, indeed,
it was.
"Have you got the old lady to bed?" asked Lord Peter.
"Oh, yes, dear. Such a striking old person, isn't she? And very coura-
geous. She tells me she has never been in a motor-car before. But she
thinks you a very nice lad, dear—that careful of her, you remind her of
her own son. Poor little Mr. Thipps—whatever made your friend the in-
spector think he could have murdered anybody?"
"My friend the inspector—no, no more, thank you, Mother—is deter-
mined to prove that the intrusive person in Thipps's bath is Sir Reuben
Levy, who disappeared mysteriously from his house last night. His line
of reasoning is: We've lost a middle-aged gentleman without any clothes
on in Park Lane; we've found a middle-aged gentleman without any
clothes on in Battersea. Therefore they're one and the same person,
Q.E.D., and put little Thipps in quod."
"You're very elliptical, dear," said the Duchess, mildly. "Why should
Mr. Thipps be arrested even if they are the same?"
"Sugg must arrest somebody," said Lord Peter, "but there is one odd
little bit of evidence come out which goes a long way to support Sugg's
theory, only that I know it to be no go by the evidence of my own eyes.
Last night at about 9.15 a young woman was strollin' up the Battersea
Park Road for purposes best known to herself, when she saw a gentleman
in a fur coat and top-hat saunterin' along under an umbrella, lookin' at
the names of all the streets. He looked a bit out of place, so, not bein' a
shy girl, you see, she walked up to him, and said: 'Good-evening.' 'Can
you tell me, please,' says the mysterious stranger, *whether this street
leads into Prince of Wales Road?' She said it did, and further asked him
in a jocular manner what he was doing with himself and all the rest of it,
only she wasn't altogether so explicit about that part of the conversation,
because she was unburdenin' her heart to Sugg, d'you see, and he's paid
by a grateful country to have very pure, high-minded ideals, what? Any-
way, the old boy said he couldn't attend to her just then as he had an ap-


28
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
pointment. 'I've got to go and see a man, my dear,' was how she said he
put it, and he walked on up Alexandra Avenue towards Prince of Wales
Road. She was starin' after him, still rather surprised, when she was
joined by a friend of hers, who said: 'It's no good wasting your time with
him—that's Levy—I knew him when I lived in the West End, and the
girls used to call him Peagreen Incorruptible'—friend's name suppressed,
owing to implications of story, but girl vouches for what was said. She
thought no more about it till the milkman brought news this morning of
the excitement at Queen Caroline Mansions; then she went round, though
not likin' the police as a rule, and asked the man there whether the dead
gentleman had a beard and glasses. Told he had glasses but no beard,
she incautiously said: 'Oh, then, it isn't him,' and the man said: 'Isn't
who?' and collared her. That's her story. Sugg's delighted, of course, and
quodded Thipps on the strength of it."
"Dear me," said the Duchess, "I hope the poor girl won't get into
trouble."
"Shouldn't think so," said Lord Peter. "Thipps is the one that's going
to get it in the neck. Besides, he's done a silly thing. I got that out of
Sugg, too, though he was sittin' tight on the information. Seems Thipps
got into a confusion about the train he took back from Manchester.
Said first he got home at 10.30. Then they pumped Gladys Horrocks,
who let out he wasn't back till after 11.45. Then Thipps, bein' asked to
explain the discrepancy, stammers and bungles and says, first, that he
missed the train. Then Sugg makes inquiries at St. Pancras and discovers
that he left a bag in the cloakroom there at ten. Thipps, again asked to
explain, stammers worse an' says he walked about for a few hours—met
a friend—can't say who—didn't meet a friend—can't say what he did with
his time—can't explain why he didn't go back for his bag—can't say what
time he did get in—can't explain how he got a bruise on his forehead. In
fact, can't explain himself at all. Gladys Horrocks interrogated again.
Says, this time, Thipps came in at 10.30. Then admits she didn't hear
him come in. Can't say why she didn't hear him come in. Can't say why
she said first of all that she did hear him. Bursts into tears. Contradicts
herself. Everybody's suspicion roused. Quod 'em both."
"As you put it, dear," said the Duchess, "it all sounds very confusing,
and not quite respectable. Poor little Mr. Thipps would be terribly upset
by anything that wasn't respectable."
"I wonder what he did with himself," said Lord Peter thoughtfully.
"I really don't think he was committing a murder. Besides, I believe the
fellow has been dead a day or two, though it don't do to build too much
on doctors' evidence. It's an entertainin' little problem."
"Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Reuben. I must write


WHOSE BODY?
29
a few lines to Lady Levy; I used to know her quite well, you know, dear,
down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Ford, she was then,
and I remember so well the dreadful trouble there was about her marry-
ing a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil
business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freke,
who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family, but she
fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very hand-
some, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way, but he hadn't any
means, and the Fords didn't like his religion. Of course we're all Jews
nowadays, and they wouldn't have minded so much if he'd pretended to
be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester's, who
always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the Renaissance,
and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Bella Simonetta
—so foolish, you know, dear—as if anybody believed it; and I'm sure
some Jews are very good people, and personally I'd much rather they
believed something, though of course it must be very inconvenient, what
with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little babies
and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of
meat they have with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able
to have bacon for breakfast. Still, there it was, and it was much better
for the girl to marry him if she was really fond of him, though I believe
young Freke was really devoted to her, and they're still great friends. Not
that there was ever a real engagement, only a sort of understanding with
her father, but he's never married, you know, and lives all by himself in
that big house next to the hospital, though he's very rich and distin-
guished now, and I know ever so many people have tried to get hold of
him—there was Lady Mainwaring wanted him for that eldest girl of hers,
though I remember saying at the time it was no use expecting a surgeon
to be taken in by a figure that was all padding—they have so many op-
portunities of judging, you know, dear."
"Lady Levy seems to have had the knack of makin' people devoted
to her," said Peter. "Look at the peagreen incorruptible Levy."
"That's quite true, dear; she was a most delightful girl, and they say
her daughter is just like her. I rather lost sight of them when she married,
and you know your father didn't care much about business people, but
I know everybody always said they were a model couple. In fact it was a
proverb that Sir Reuben was as well loved at home as he was hated
abroad. I don't mean in foreign countries, you know, dear—just the pro-
verbial way of putting things—like 'a saint abroad and a devil at home'
—only the other way on, reminding one of the Pilgrim's Progress."
"Yes," said Peter, "I daresay the old man made one or two enemies."
"Dozens, dear—such a dreadful place, the City, isn't it? Everybody


30
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Ishmaels together—though I don't suppose Sir Reuben would like to be
called that, would he? Doesn't it mean illegitimate, or not a proper Jew,
anyway? I always did get confused with those Old Testament characters."
Lord Peter laughed and yawned.
"I think I'll turn in for an hour or two," he said. "I must be back in
town at eight—Parker's coming to breakfast."
The Duchess looked at the clock, which marked five minutes to three.
"I'll send up your breakfast at half-past six, dear," she said. "I hope
you'll find everything all right. I told them just to slip a hot-water bottle
in; those linen sheets are so chilly; you can put it out if it's in your way."
CHAPTER IV
"—so there rr is, Parker," said Lord Peter, pushing his coffee-cup aside
and lighting his after-breakfast pipe; "you may find it leads you to some-
thing, though it don't seem to get me any further with my bathroom
problem. Did you do anything more at that after I left?"
"No; but I've been on the roof this morning."
"The deuce you have—what an energetic devil you are! I say, Parker,
I think this co-operative scheme is an uncommonly good one. It's much
easier to work on someone else's job than one's own—gives one that de-
lightful feelin' of interferin' and bossin' about, combined with the glori-
ous sensation that another fellow is takin' all one's own work off one's
hands. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, what? Did you find
anything?"
"Not very much. I looked for any footmarks of course, but naturally,
with all this rain, there wasn't a sign. Of course, if this were a detective
story, there'd have been a convenient shower exactly an hour before the
crime and a beautiful set of marks which could only have come there
between two and three in the morning, but this being real life in a Lon-
don November, you might as well expect footprints in Niagara. I searched
the roofs right along—and came to the jolly conclusion that any person in
any blessed flat in the blessed row might have done it. All the staircases
open on to the roof and the leads are quite flat; you can walk along as
easy as along Shaftesbury Avenue. Still, I've got some evidence that the
body did walk along there.
"What's that?"


WHOSE BODY?
31
Parker brought out his pocketbook and extracted a few shreds of
material, which he laid before his friend.
"One was caught in the gutter just above Thipps's bathroom window,
another in a crack of the stone parapet just over it, and the rest came
from the chimney-stack behind, where they had caught in an iron stan-
chion. What do you make of them?"
Lord Peter scrutinized them very carefully through his lens.
"Interesting," he said, "damned interesting. Have you developed those
plates, Bunter?" he added, as that discreet assistant came in with the
post.
"Yes, my lord."
"Caught anything?"
"I don't know whether to call it anything or not, my lord," said Bunter,
dubiously. "I'll bring the prints in."
"Do," said Wimsey. "Hallo! here's our advertisement about the gold
chain in the Times—very nice it looks: 'Write, 'phone or call 110, Picca-
dilly.' Perhaps it would have been safer to put a box number, though I
always think that the franker you are with people, the more you're likely
to deceive 'em; so unused is the modern world to the open hand and the
guileless heart, what?"
"But you don't think the fellow who left that chain on the body is going
to give himself away by coming here and inquiring about it?"
"I don't, fathead," said Lord Peter, with the easy politeness of the
real aristocracy; "that's why I've tried to get hold of the jeweller who
originally sold the chain. See?" He pointed to the paragraph. "It's not an
old chain—hardly worn at all. Oh, thanks, Bunter. Now, see here, Parker,
these are the finger-marks you noticed yesterday on the window-sash and
on the far edge of the bath. I'd overlooked them; I give you full credit
for the discovery, I crawl, I grovel, my name is Watson, and you need
not say what you were just going to say, because I admit it all. Now we
shall— Hullo, hullo, hullo!"
The three men stared at the photographs.
"The criminal," said Lord Peter, bitterly, "climbed over the roofs in
the wet and not unnaturally got soot on his fingers. He arranged the
body in the bath, and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which
he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learn from a smudge
on the floor that he wore india rubber boots, and from this admirable set
of finger-prints on the edge of the bath that he had the usual number of
fingers and wore rubber gloves. That's the kind of man he is. Take the
fool away, gentlemen."
He put the prints aside, and returned to an examination of the shreds
of material in his hand. Suddenly he whistled softly.


32
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Do you make anything of these, Parker?"
"They seemed to me to be ravellings of some coarse cotton stuff—a
sheet, perhaps, or an improvised rope."
"Yes," said Lord Peter—"yes. It may be a mistake—it may be our mis-
take. I wonder. Tell me, d'you think these tiny threads are long enough
and strong enough to hang a man?"
He was silent, his long eyes narrowing into slits behind the smoke of
his pipe.
"What do you suggest doing this morning?" asked Parker.
"Well," said Lord Peter, "it seems to me it's about time I took a hand
in your job. Let's go round to Park Lane and see what larks Sir Reuben
Levy was up to in bed last night."
"And now, Mrs. Pemming, if you would be so kind as to give me a
blanket," said Mr. Bunter, coming down into the kitchen, "and permit
of me hanging a sheet across the lower part of this window, and drawing
the screen across here, so—so as to shut off any reflections, if you under-
stand me, we'll get to work."
Sir Reuben Levy's cook, with her eye upon Mr. Bunter's gentlemanly
and well-tailored appearance, hastened to produce what was necessary.
Her visitor placed on the table a basket, containing a water-bottle, a
silver-backed hair-brush, a pair of boots, a small roll of linoleum, and
the "Letters of a Self-made Merchant to His Son," bound in polished
morocco. He drew an umbrella from beneath his arm and added it to
the collection. He then advanced a ponderous photographic machine and
set it up in the neighbourhood of the kitchen range; then, spreading a
newspaper over the fair, scrubbed surface of the table, he began to roll
up his sleeves and insinuate himself into a pair of surgical gloves. Sir
Reuben Levy's valet, entering at the moment and finding him thus en-
gaged, put aside the kitchen-maid, who was staring from a front-row
position, and inspected the apparatus critically. Mr. Bunter nodded
brightly to him, and uncorked a small bottle of grey powder.
"Odd sort of fish, your employer, isn't he?" said the valet, carelessly.
"Very singular, indeed," said Mr. Bunter. "Now, my dear," he added,
ingratiatingly, to the kitchen-maid, "I wonder if you'd just pour a little
of this grey powder over the edge of the bottle while I'm holding it—and
the same with this boot—here, at the top—thank you, Miss—what is your
name? Price? Oh, but you've got another name besides Price, haven't
you? Mabel, eh? That's a name I'm uncommonly partial to—that's very
nicely done, you've a steady hand, Miss Mabel—see that? That's the fin-
ger-marks—three there, and two here, and smudged over in both places.
No, don't you touch 'em, my dear, or you'll rub the bloom off. We'll


WHOSE BODY?
33
stand 'em up here till they're ready to have their portraits taken. Now
then, let's take the hair-brush next. Perhaps, Mrs. Pemming, you'd like to
lift him up very carefully by the bristles."
"By the bristles, Mr. Bunter?"
"If you please, Mrs. Pemming—and lay him here. Now, Miss Mabel,
another little exhibition of your skill, // you please. No—we'll try lamp-
black this time. Perfect. Couldn't have done it better myself. Ah! there's
a beautiful set. No smudges this time. That'll interest his lordship. Now
the little book—no, I'll pick that up myself—with these gloves, you see,
and by the edges—I'm a careful criminal, Mrs. Pemming, I don't want
to leave any traces. Dust the cover all over, Miss Mabel; now this side
—that's the way to do it. Lots of prints and no smudges. All according to
plan. Oh, please, Mr. Graves, you mustn't touch it—it's as much as my
place is worth to have it touched."
"D'you have to do much of this sort of thing?" inquired Mr. Graves,
from a superior standpoint.
"Any amount," replied Mr. Bunter, with a groan calculated to appeal
to Mr. Graves's heart and unlock his confidence. "If you'd kindly hold
one end of this bit of linoleum, Mrs. Pemming, I'll hold up this end while
Miss Mabel operates. Yes, Mr. Graves, it's a hard life, valeting by day
and developing by night—morning tea at any time from 6.30 to 11, and
criminal investigation at all hours. It's wonderful, the ideas these rich
men with nothing to do get into their heads."
"I wonder you stand it," said Mr. Graves. "Now there's none of that
here. A quiet, orderly, domestic life, Mr. Bunter, has much to be said for
it. Meals at regular hours; decent, respectable families to dinner—none
of your painted women—and no valeting at night, there's much to be
said for it. I don't hold with Hebrews as a rule, Mr. Bunter, and of
course I understand that you may find it to your advantage to be in a
titled family, but there's less thought of that these days, and I will say,
for a self-made man, no one could call Sir Reuben vulgar, and my lady at
any rate is county—Miss Ford, she was, one of the Hampshire Fords, and
both of them always most considerate."
"I agree with you, Mr. Graves—his lordship and me have never held
with being narrow-minded—why, yes, my dear, of course it's a footmark,
this is the washstand linoleum. A good Jew can be a good man, that's
what I've always said. And regular hours and considerate habits have a
great deal to recommend them. Very simple in his tastes, now, Sir Reu-
ben, isn't he? for such a rich man, I mean."
"Very simple indeed," said the cook; "the meals he and her ladyship
have when they're by themselves with Miss Rachel—well, there now—if it
wasn't for the dinners, which is always good when there's company, I'd


34
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
be wastin' my talents and education here, if you understand me, Mr.
Bunter."
Mr. Bunter added the handle of the umbrella to his collection, and
began to pin a sheet across the window, aided by the housemaid.
"Admirable," said he. "Now, if I might have this blanket on the table
and another on a towel-horse or something of that kind by way of a
background—you're very kind, Mrs. Pemming. . . . Ah! I wish his lord-
ship never wanted valeting at night. Many's the time I've sat up till three
and four, and up again to call him early to go off Sherlocking at the
other end of the country. And the mud he gets on his clothes and his
boots!"
"I'm sure it's a shame, Mr. Bunter," said Mrs. Pemming, warmly.
"Low, I calls it. In my opinion, police-work ain't no fit occupation for a
gentleman, let alone a lordship."
"Everything made so difficult, too," said Mr. Bunter nobly sacrificing
his employer's character and his own feelings in a good cause; "boots
chucked into a corner, clothes hung up on the floor, as they say—"
"That's often the case with these men as are born with a silver spoon
in their mouths," said Mr. Graves. "Now, Sir Reuben, he's never lost his
good old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put out in his
dressing-room, so as a man could get them in the morning, everything
made easy."
"He forgot them the night before last, though."
"The clothes, not the boots. Always thoughtful for others, is Sir Reu-
ben. Ah! I hope nothing's happened to him."
"Indeed, no, poor gentleman," chimed in the cook, "and as for what
they're sayin', that he'd 'ave gone out surrepshous-like to do something
he didn't ought, well, I'd never believe it of him, Mr. Bunter, not if I was
to take my dying oath upon it."
"Ah!" said Mr. Bunter, adjusting his arc-lamps and connecting them
with the nearest electric light, "and that's more than most of us could
say of them as pays us."
"Five foot ten," said Lord Peter, "and not an inch more." He peered
dubiously at the depression in the bed clothes, and measured it a second
time with the gentleman-scout's vade-mecum. Parker entered this par-
ticular in a neat pocketbook.
"I suppose," he said, "a six-foot-two man might leave a five-foot-ten
depression if he curled himself up."
"Have you any Scotch blood in you, Parker?" inquired his colleague,
bitterly.
"Not that I know of," replied Parker. "Why?"


WHOSE BODY?
35
"Because of all the cautious, ungenerous, deliberate and cold-blooded
devils I know," said Lord Peter, "you are the most cautious, ungenerous,
deliberate and cold-blooded. Here am I, sweating my brains out to in-
troduce a really sensational incident into your dull and disreputable little
police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of enthu-
siasm."
"Well, it's no good jumping at conclusions."
"Jump? You don't even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I
believe if you caught the cat with her head in the cream-jug you'd say it
was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there."
"Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn't it?"
"Curse you," said Lord Peter. He screwed his monocle into his eye,
and bent over the pillow, breathing hard and tightly through his nose.
"Here, give me the tweezers," he said presently. "Good heavens, man,
don't blow like that, you might be a whale." He nipped up an almost
invisible object from the linen.
"What is it?" asked Parker.
"It's a hair," said Wimsey grimly, his hard eyes growing harder. "Let's
go and look at Levy's hats, shall we? And you might just ring for that
fellow with the churchyard name, do you mind?"
Mr. Graves, when summoned, found Lord Peter Wimsey squatting on
the floor of the dressing-room before a row of hats arranged upside
down before him.
"Here you are," said that nobleman cheerfully. "Now, Graves, this is
a guessin' competition—a sort of three-hat trick, to mix metaphors. Here
are nine hats, including three top-hats. Do you identify all these hats as
belonging to Sir Reuben Levy? You do? Very good. Now I have three
guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared, and if I guess
right, I win; if I don't, you win. See? Ready? Go. I suppose you know
the answer yourself, by the way?"
"Do I understand your lordship to be asking which hat Sir Reuben
wore when he went out on Monday night, your lordship?"
"No, you don't understand a bit," said Lord Peter. "I'm asking if you
know—don't tell me, I'm going to guess."
"I do know, your lordship," said Mr. Graves, reprovingly.
"Well," said Lord Peter, "as he was dinin' at the Ritz he wore a topper.
Here are three toppers. In three guesses I'd be bound to hit the right one,
wouldn't I? That don't seem very sportin'. IH take one guess. It was this
one."
He indicated the hat next the window.
"Am I right, Graves—have I got the prize?"


36
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"That is the hat in question, my lord," said Mr. Graves, without ex-
citement.
"Thanks," said Lord Peter, "that's all I wanted to know. Ask Bunter
to step up, would you?"
Mr. Bunter stepped up with an aggrieved air, and his usually smooth
hair ruffled by the focussing cloth.
"Oh, there you are, Bunter," said Lord Peter; "look here—"
"Here I am, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, with respectful reproach, "but
if you'll excuse me saying so, downstairs is where I ought to be, with all
those young women about—they'll be fingering the evidence, my lord."
"I cry your mercy," said Lord Peter, "but I've quarrelled hopelessly
with Mr. Parker and distracted the estimable Graves, and I want you to
tell me what finger-prints you have found. I shan't be happy till I get it,
so don't be harsh with me, Bunter."
"Well, my lord, your lordship understands I haven't photographed
them yet, but I won't deny that their appearance is interesting, my lord.
The little book off the night table, my lord, has only the marks of one set
of fingers—there's a little scar on the right thumb which makes them easy
recognised. The hair-brush, too, my lord, has only the same set of marks.
The umbrella, the toothglass and the boots all have two sets: the hand
with the scarred thumb, which I take to be Sir Reuben's, my lord, and a
set of smudges superimposed upon them, if I may put it that way, my
lord, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber gloves. I could
tell you better when I've got the photographs made, to measure them,
my lord. The linoleum in front of the washstand is very gratifying in-
deed, my lord, if you will excuse my mentioning it. Besides the marks of
Sir Reuben's boots which your lordship pointed out, there's the print of
a man's naked foot—a much smaller one, my lord, not much more than
a ten-inch sock, I should say if you asked me."
Lord Peter's face became irradiated with almost a dim, religious light.
"A mistake," he breathed, "a mistake, a little one, but he can't afford
it. When was the linoleum washed last, Bunter?"
"Monday morning, my lord. The housemaid did it and remembered
to mention it. Only remark she's made yet, and it's to the point. The other
domestics—"
His features expressed disdain.
"What did I say, Parker? Five-foot-ten and not an inch longer. And
he didn't dare to use the hair-brush. Beautiful. But he had to risk the
top-hat. Gentleman can't walk home in the rain late at night without a
hat, you know, Parker. Look! what do you make of it? Two sets of finger-
prints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of feet on the
linoleum, and two kinds of hair in the hat!"


WHOSE BODY?
37
He lifted the top-hat to the light, and extracted the evidence with
tweezers.
"Think of it, Parker—to remember the hair-brush and forget the hat
—to remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step
on the tell-tale linoleum. Here they are, you see, black hair and tan hair
—black hair in the bowler and the panama, and black and tan in last
night's topper. And then, just to make certain that we're on the right
track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow, on this pillow, Parker,
which isn't quite in the right place. It almost brings tears to my eyes."
"Do you mean to say—" said the detective, slowly.
"I mean to say," said Lord Peter, "that it was not Sir Reuben Levy
whom the cook saw last night on the doorstep. I say that it was another
man, perhaps a couple of inches shorter, who came here in Levy's clothes
and let himself in with Levy's latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil,
Parker. He had on Levy's boots, and every stitch of Levy's clothing
down to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands which he never
took off, and he did everything he could to make us think that Levy slept
here last night. He took his chances, and won. He walked upstairs, he
undressed, he even washed and cleaned his teeth, though he didn't use
the hair-brush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess what
Levy did with boots and clothes; one guess was wrong and the other
right, as it happened. The bed must look as if it had been slept in, so he
gets in, and lies there in his victim's very pyjamas. Then, in the morning
sometime, probably in the deadest hour between two and three, he gets
up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he has brought with him in a
bag, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but he is a bold
man, and he takes his chance. He knows that people do not wake as a
rule—and they don't wake. He opens the street door which he left on the
latch when he came in—he listens for the stray passer-by or the policeman
on his beat. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly to with the latchkey.
He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes—he's the kind of criminal
who isn't complete without rubber-soled shoes. In a few minutes he is
at Hyde Park Corner. After that—"
He paused, and added:
"He did all that, and unless he had nothing at stake, he had everything
at stake. Either Sir Reuben Levy has been spirited away for some silly
practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder
upon his soul."
"Dear me!" ejaculated the detective, "you're very dramatic about it."
Lord Peter passed his hand rather wearily over his hair.
"My true friend," he murmured in a voice surcharged with emotion,


38
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"you recall me to the nursery rhymes of my youth—the sacred duty of
flippancy:
"There was an old man of Whitehaven
Who danced a quadrille with a raven,
But they said: It's absurd
To encourage that bird—
So they smashed that old man of Whitehaven.
That's the correct attitude, Parker. Here's a poor old buffer spirited away
—such a joke—and I don't believe he'd hurt a fly himself—that makes it
funnier. D'you know, Parker, I don't care frightfully about this case
after all."
"Which, this or yours?"
"Both. I say, Parker, shall we go quietly home and have lunch and go
to the Coliseum?"
"You can if you like," replied the detective; "but you forget I do this
for my bread and butter."
"And I haven't even that excuse," said Lord Peter; "well, what's the
next move? What would you do in my case?"
"I'd do some good, hard grind," said Parker. "I'd distrust every bit of
work Sugg ever did, and I'd get the family history of every tenant of
every flat in Queen Caroline Mansions. I'd examine all their box-rooms
and rooftraps, and I would inveigle them into conversations and sud-
denly bring in the words 'body' and 'pince-nez,' and see if they wriggled,
like those modern psycho-what's-his-names."
"You would, would you?" said Lord Peter with a grin. "Well, we've
exchanged cases, you know, so just you toddle off and do it. I'm going
to have a jolly time at Wyndham's."
Parker made a grimace.
"Well," he said, "I don't suppose you'd ever do it, so I'd better. You'll
never become a professional till you learn to do a little work, Wimsey.
How about lunch?"
"I'm invited out," said Lord Peter, magnificently. "I'll run around and
change at the club. Can't feed with Freddy Arbuthnot in these bags;
Bunted"
"Yes, my lord."
"Pack up if you're ready, and come round and wash my face and
hands for me at the club."
"Work here for another two hours, my lord. Can't do with less than
thirty minutes' exposure. The current's none too strong."
"You see how I'm bullied by my own man, Parker? Well, I must bear
it, I suppose. Ta-ta!"


WHOSE BODY?
39
He whistled his way downstairs.
The conscientious Mr. Parker, with a groan, settled down to a system-
atic search through Sir Reuben Levy's papers, with the assistance of a
plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Bass.
Lord Peter and the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot, looking together
like an advertisement for gents' trouserings, strolled into the dining-room
at Wyndham's.
"Haven't seen you for an age," said the Honourable Freddy. "What
have you been doin' with yourself?"
"Oh, foolin' about," said Lord Peter, languidly.
"Thick or clear, sir?" inquired the waiter of the Honourable Freddy.
"Which'll you have, Wimsey?" said that gentleman, transferring the
burden of selection to his guest. "They're both equally poisonous."
"Well, dear's less trouble to lick out of the spoon," said Lord Peter.
"Clear," said the Honourable Freddy.
"Consommé Polonais," agreed the waiter. "Very nice, sir."
Conversation languished until the Honourable Freddy found a bone
in the filleted sole, and sent for the head waiter to explain its presence.
When this matter had been adjusted Lord Peter found energy to say:
"Sorry to hear about your gov'nor, old man."
"Yes, poor old buffer," said the Honourable Freddy; "they say he
can't last long now. What? Oh! the Montrachet '08. There's nothing fit
to drink in this place," he added gloomily.
After this deliberate insult to a noble vintage there was a further
pause, till Lord Peter said: "How's 'Change?"
"Rotten," said the Honourable Freddy.
He helped himself gloomily to salmis of game.
"Can I do anything?" asked Lord Peter.
"Oh, no, thanks—very decent of you, but it'll pan out all right in time."
"This isn't a bad salmis," said Lord Peter.
"I've eaten worse," admitted his friend.
"What about those Argentines?" inquired Lord Peter. "Here, waiter,
there's a bit of cork in my glass."
"Cork?" cried the Honourable Freddy, with something approaching
animation; "you'll hear about this, waiter. It's an amazing thing a fellow
who's paid to do the job can't manage to take a cork out of a bottle.
What you say? Argentines? Gone all to hell. Old Levy bunkin' off like
that's knocked the bottom out of the market."
"You don't say so," said Lord Peter. "What d'you suppose has hap-
pened to the old man?"


40
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Cursed if I know," said the Honourable Freddy; "knocked on the
head by the bears, I should think."
"P'r'aps he's gone off on his own," suggested Lord Peter. "Double
life, you know. Giddy old blighters, some of these City men."
"Oh, no," said the Honourable Freddy, faintly roused; "no, hang it
all, Wimsey, I wouldn't care to say that. He's a decent old domestic bird,
and his daughter's a charmin' girl. Besides, he's straight enough—he'd
do you down fast enough, but he wouldn't let you down. Old Anderson
is badly cut up about it."
"Who's Anderson?"
"Chap with property out there. He belongs here. He was goin' to meet
Levy on Tuesday. He's afraid those railway people will get in now, and
then it'll be all U. P."
"Who's runnin' the railway people over here?" inquired Lord Peter.
"Yankee blighter, John P. Milligan. He's got an option, or says he has.
You can't trust these brutes."
"Can't Anderson hold on?"
"Anderson isn't Levy. Hasn't got the shekels. Besides, he's only one.
Levy covers the ground—he could boycott Milligan's beastly railway if
he liked. That's where he's got the pull, you see."
"B'lieve I met the Milligan man somewhere," said Lord Peter, thought-
fully. "Ain't he a hulking brute with black hair and a beard?"
"You're thinkin' of somebody else," said the Honourable Freddy.
"Milligan don't stand any higher than I do, unless you call five-feet-ten
hulking—and he's bald, anyway."
Lord Peter considered this over the Gorgonzola. Then he said: "Didn't
know Levy had a charmin' daughter."
"Oh, yes," said the Honourable Freddy, with an elaborate detach-
ment. "Met her and Mamma last year abroad. That's how I got to know
the old man. He's been very decent. Let me into this Argentine business
on the ground floor, don't you know?"
"Well," said Lord Peter, "you might do worse. Money's money, ain't
it? And Lady Levy is quite a redeemin' point. At least, my mother knew
her people."
"Oh, she's all right," said the Honourable Freddy, "and the old man's
nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. He's self-made, of course, but he
don't pretend to be anything else. No side. Toddles off to business on a
96 'bus every morning. 'Can't make up my mind to taxis, my boy,' he
says. 'I had to look at every halfpenny when I was a young man, and I
can't get out of the way of it now.' Though, if he's takin' his family out,
nothing's too good. Rachel—that's the girl—always laughs at the old man's
little economies."


WHOSE BODY?
41
"I suppose they've sent for Lady Levy," said Lord Peter.
"I suppose so," agreed the other. "I'd better pop round and express
sympathy or somethin', what? Wouldn't look well not to, d'you think?
But it's deuced awkward. What am I to say?"
"I don't think it matters much what you say," said Lord Peter, help-
fully. "I should ask if you can do anything."
"Thanks," said the lover, "I will. Energetic young man. Count on me.
Always at your service. Ring me up any time of the day or night. That's
the line to take, don't you think?"
"That's the idea," said Lord Peter.
Mr. John P. Milligan, the London representative of the great Milligan
railroad and shipping company, was dictating code cables to his secre-
tary in an office in Lombard Street, when a card was brought up to him,
bearing the simple legend:
LORD PETER WIMSEY
Marlborough Club
Mr. Milligan was annoyed at the interruption, but, like many of his
nation, if he had a weak point, it was the British aristocracy. He post-
poned for a few minutes the elimination from the map of a modest but
promising farm, and directed that the visitor should be shown up.
"Good-afternoon," said that nobleman, ambling genially in, "it's most
uncommonly good of you to let me come round wastin' your time like
this, m try not to be too long about it, though I'm not awfully good at
comin' to the point. My brother never would let me stand for the county,
y'know—said I wandered on so nobody'd know what I was talkin' about."
"Pleased to meet you, Lord Wimsey," said Mr. Milligan. "Won't you
take a seat?"
"Thanks," said Lord Peter, "but I'm not a peer, you know—that's my
brother Denver. My name's Peter. It's a silly name, I always think, so
old-world and full of homely virtue and that sort of thing, but my god-
fathers and godmothers in my baptism are responsible for that, I sup-
pose, officially—which is rather hard on them, you know, as they didn't
actually choose it. But we always have a Peter, after the third duke, who
betrayed five kings somewhere about the Wars of the Roses, though come
to think of it, it ain't anything to be proud of. Still, one has to make the
best of it."
Mr. Milligan, thus ingeniously placed at that disadvantage which at-
tends ignorance, manoeuvred for position, and offered his interrupter a
Corona Corona.
"Thanks, awfully," said Lord Peter, "though you really mustn't tempt


42
THREE FOR LORD PETER
WIMSE
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
me to stay here burblin' all afternoon. By Jove, Mr. Milligan, if you offer
people such comfortable chairs and cigars like these, I wonder they
don't come an' live in your office.” He added mentally: “I wish to good-
ness I could get those long-toed boots off you. How's a man to know the
size of your feet? And a head like a potato. It's enough to make one
swear."
"Say now, Lord Peter," said Mr. Milligan, “can I do anything for
you?”
"Well, d’you know,” said Lord Peter, “I'm wonderin' if you would.
It's damned cheek to ask you, but fact is, it's my mother, you know.
Wonderful woman, but don't realise what it means, demands on the
time of a busy man like you. We don't understand hustle over here, you
know, Mr. Milligan."
“Now don't you mention that,” said Mr. Milligan; “I'd be surely
charmed to do anything to oblige the Duchess."
He felt a momentary qualm as to whether a duke's mother were also
a duchess, but breathed more freely as Lord Peter went on:
"Thanks-that's uncommonly good of you. Well, now, it's like this.
My mother-most energetic, self-sacrificin' woman, don't you see, is
thinkin' of gettin' up a sort of a charity bazaar down at Denver this win-
ter, in aid of the church roof, y'know. Very sad case, Mr. Milligan-fine
old antique-early English windows and decorated angel roof, and all
that-all tumblin' to pieces, rain pourin' in and so on-vicar catchin'
rheumatism at early service, owin' to the draught blowin' in over the
altar-you know the sort of thing. They've got a man down startin' on
it-little beggar called Thipps-lives with an aged mother in Battersea-
vulgar little beast, but quite good on angel roofs and things, I'm told.”
At this point, Lord Peter watched his interlocutor narrowly, but find-
ing that this rigmarole produced in him no reaction more startling than
polite interest tinged with faint bewilderment, he abandoned this line of
investigation, and proceeded:
"I say, I beg your pardon, frightfully-I'm afraid I'm bein' beastly
long-winded. Fact is, my mother is gettin' up this bazaar, and she
thought it'd be an awfully interestin' side-show to have some lectures-
sort of little talks, y'know-by eminent business men of all nations. 'How
I Did It kind of touch, y'know—'A Drop of Oil with a Kerosene King
-"Cash Conscience and Cocoa' and so on. It would interest people down
there no end. You see, all my mother's friends will be there, and we've
none of us any money-not what you'd call money, I mean-I expect
our incomes wouldn't pay your telephone calls, would they?-but we like
awfully to hear about the people who can make money. Gives us a sort
of uplifted feelin', don't you know. Well, anyway, I mean, my mother'd


WHOSE BODY?
43
be frightfully pleased and grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, if you'd come
down and give us a few words as a representative American. It needn't
take more than ten minutes or so, y'know, because the local people can't
understand much beyond shootin' and huntin', and my mother's crowd
can't keep their minds on anythin' more than ten minutes together, but
we'd really appreciate it very much if you'd come and stay a day or two
and just give us a little breezy word on the almighty dollar."
"Why, yes," said Mr. Milligan, "I'd like to, Lord Peter. It's kind of the
Duchess to suggest it. It's a very sad thing when these fine old antiques
begin to wear out. I'll come with great pleasure. And perhaps you'd be
kind enough to accept a little donation to the Restoration Fund."
This unexpected development nearly brought Lord Peter up all stand-
ing. To pump, by means of an ingenious lie, a hospitable gentleman
whom you are inclined to suspect of a peculiarly malicious murder, and
to accept from him in the course of the proceedings a large cheque for a
charitable object, has something about it unpalatable to any but the
hardened Secret Service agent. Lord Peter temporized.
"That's awfully decent of you," he said. "I'm sure they'd be no end
grateful. But you'd better not give it to me, you know. I might spend it,
or lose it. I'm not very reliable, I'm afraid. The vicar's the right person
—the Rev. Constantine Throgmorton, St. John-before-the-Latin-Gate
Vicarage, Duke's Denver, if you like to send it there."
"I will," said Mr. Milligan. "Will you write it out now for a thousand
pounds, Scoot, in case it slips my mind later?"
The secretary, a sandy-haired young man with a long chin and no
eyebrows, silently did as he was requested. Lord Peter looked from the
bald head of Mr. Milligan to the red head of the secretary, hardened his
heart and tried again.
"Well, I'm no end grateful to you, Mr. Milligan, and soil my mother
be when I tell her. I'll let you know the date of the bazaar—it's not quite
settled yet, and I've got to see some other business men, don't you know.
I thought of askin' someone from one of the big newspaper combines to
represent British advertisin' talent, what?—and a friend of mine promises
me a leadin' German financier—very interestin' if there ain't too much
feelin' against it down in the country, and I'll have to find somebody or
other to do the Hebrew point of view. I thought of askin' Levy, y'know,
only he's floated off in this inconvenient way."
"Yes," said Mr. Milligan, "that's a very curious thing, though I don't
mind saying, Lord Peter, that it's a convenience to me. He had a cinch
on my railroad combine, but I'd nothing against him personally, and if
he turns up after I've brought off a little deal I've got on, I'll be happy to
give him the right hand of welcome."


44
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
A vision passed through Lord Peter's mind of Sir Reuben kept some-
where in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly
possible, and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture; it also agreed
better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Milligan.
"Well, it's a rum go," said Lord Peter, "but I daresay he had his rea-
sons. Much better not inquire into people's reasons, y'know, what? Spe-
cially as a police friend of mine who's connected with the case says the
old johnnie dyed his hair before he went."
Out of the tail of his eye, Lord Peter saw the red-headed secretary add
up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer.
"Dyed his hair, did he?" said Mr. Milligan.
"Dyed it red," said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. "Odd thing
is," continued Wimsey, "they can't lay hands on the bottle. Somethin'
fishy there, don't you think, what?"
The secretary's interest seemed to have evaporated. He inserted a
fresh sheet into his looseleaf ledger, and carried forward a row of digits
from the preceding page.
"I daresay there's nothin' in it," said Lord Peter, rising to go. "Well,
it's uncommonly good of you to be bothered with me like this, Mr. Milli-
gan—my mother'll be no end pleased. She'll write you about the date."
"I'm charmed," said Mr. Milligan. "Very pleased to have met you."
Mr. Scoot rose silently to open the door, uncoiling as he did so a por-
tentous length of thin leg, hitherto hidden by the desk. With a mental
sigh Lord Peter estimated him at six-foot-four.
"It's a pity I can't put Scoot's head on Milligan's shoulders," said Lord
Peter, emerging into the swirl of the city. "And what will my mother
say?"
CHAPTER V
mr. parker was a bachelor, and occupied a Georgian but inconvenient
flat at No. 12a Great Ormond Street, for which he paid a pound a week.
His exertions in the cause of civilization were rewarded, not by the gift
of diamond rings from empresses or munificent cheques from grateful
Prime Ministers, but by a modest, though sufficient, salary, drawn from
the pockets of the British taxpayer. He awoke, after a long day of ardu-
ous and inconclusive labour, to the smell of burnt porridge. Through his
bedroom window, hygienically open top and bottom, a raw fog was roll-


WHOSE BODY?
45
ing slowly in, and the sight of a pair of winter pants, flung hastily over a
chair the previous night, fretted him with a sense of the sordid absurdity
of the human form. The telephone bell rang, and he crawled wretchedly
out of bed and into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Munns, who did for
him by the day, was laying the table, sneezing as she went.
Mr. Bunter was speaking.
"His lordship says he'd be very glad, sir, if you could make it con-
venient to step round to breakfast."
If the odour of kidneys and bacon had been wafted along the wire,
Mr. Parker could not have experienced a more vivid sense of consolation.
"Tell his lordship IH be with him in half an hour," he said, thankfully,
and plunging into the bathroom, which was also the kitchen, he informed
Mrs. Munns, who was just making tea from a kettle which had gone off
the boil, that he should be out to breakfast.
"You can take the porridge home for the family," he added, viciously,
and flung off his dressing-gown with such determination that Mrs. Munns
could only scuttle away with a snort.
A 19 Tjus deposited him in Piccadilly only fifteen minutes later than
his rather sanguine impulse had prompted him to suggest, and Mr.
Bunter served him with glorious food, incomparable coffee, and the
Daily Mail before a blazing fire of wood and coal. A distant voice sing-
ing the "et iterum venturus est" from Bach's Mass in B minor proclaimed
that for the owner of the flat cleanliness and godliness met at least once a
day, and presently Lord Peter roamed in, moist and verbena-scented, in
a bath-robe cheerfully patterned with unnaturally variegated peacocks.
"Mornin', old dear," said that gentleman. "Beast of a day, ain't it?
Very good of you to trundle out in it, but I had a letter I wanted you to
see, and I hadn't the energy to come round to your place. Bunter and
I've been makin' a night of it."
"What's the letter?" asked Parker.
"Never talk business with your mouth full," said Lord Peter, reprov-
ingly; "have some Oxford marmalade—and then I'll show you my Dante;
they brought it round last night. What ought I to read this morning,
Bunter?"
"Lord Erith's collection is going to be sold, my lord. There is a column
about it in the Morning Post. I think your lordship should look at this
review of Sir Julian Freke's new book on "The Physiological Bases of
the Conscience' in the Times Literary Supplement. Then there is a very
singular little burglary in the Chronicle, my lord, and an attack on titled
families in the Herald—rather ill-written, if I may say so, but not without
unconscious humour which your lordship will appreciate."
"All right, give me that and the burglary," said his lordship.


46
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I have looked over the other papers,” pursued Mr. Bunter, indicating
a formidable pile, "and marked your lordship’s after-breakfast reading."
"Oh, pray don't allude to it,” said Lord Peter; "you take my appetite
away."
There was silence, but for the crunching of toast and the crackling of
paper.
“I see they adjourned the inquest,” said Parker presently.
"Nothing else to do,” said Lord Peter; "but Lady Levy arrived last
night, and will have to go and fail to identify the body this morning for
Sugg's benefit."
"Time, too,” said Mr. Parker shortly.
Silence fell again.
"I don't think much of your burglary, Bunter," said Lord Peter. “Com-
petent, of course, but no imagination. I want imagination in a criminal.
Where's the Morning Post?”
After a further silence, Lord Peter said: “You might send for the
catalogue, Bunter, that Apollonios Rhodios* might be worth looking at.
No, I'm damned if I'm going to stodge through that review, but you can
stick the book on the library list if you like. His book on crime was en-
tertainin' enough as far as it went, but the fellow's got a bee in his bonnet.
Thinks God's a secretion of the liver-all right once in a way, but there's
no need to keep on about it. There's nothing you can't prove if your out-
look is only sufficiently limited. Look at Sugg."
"I beg your pardon," said Parker; “I wasn't attending. Argentines are
steadying a little, I see.”
“Milligan,” said Lord Peter.
“Oil's in a bad way. Levy's made a difference there. That funny little
boom in Peruvians that came on just before he disappeared has died
away again. I wonder if he was concerned in it. D’you know at all?”
"I'll find out,” said Lord Peter. "What was it?"
“Oh, an absolutely dud enterprise that hadn't been heard of for years.
It suddenly took a little lease of life last week. I happened to notice it
because my mother got let in for a couple of hundred shares a long time
ago. It never paid a dividend. Now it's petered out again."
Wimsey pushed his plate aside and lit a pipe.
“Having finished, I don't mind doing some work," he said. “How did
you get on yesterday?"
"I didn't,” replied Parker. "I sleuthed up and down those flats in my
* Apollonios Rhodios. Lorenzobodi Alopa. Firenze. 1496. (4to.) The excitement
attendant on the solution of the Battersea Mystery did not prevent Lord Peter from
securing this rare work before his departure for Corsica.


WHOSE BODY?
47
own bodily shape and two different disguises. I was a gas-meter man and
a collector for a Home for Lost Doggies, and I didn't get a thing to go
on, except a servant in the top flat at the Battersea Bridge Road end of
the row who said she thought she heard a bump on the roof one night.
Asked which night, she couldn't rightly say. Asked if it was Monday
night, she thought it very likely. Asked if it mightn't have been in that
high wind on Saturday night that blew my chimney-pot off, she couldn't
say but what it might have been. Asked if she was sure it was on the roof
and not inside the flat, said to be sure they did find a picture tumbled
down next morning. Very suggestible girl. I saw your friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Appledore, who received me coldly, but could make no definite
complaint about Thipps except that his mother dropped her h's, and that
he once called on them uninvited, armed with a pamphlet about anti-
vivisection. The Indian Colonel on the first floor was loud, but unex-
pectedly friendly. He gave me Indian curry for supper and some very
good whisky, but he's a sort of hermit, and all he could tell me was that
he couldn't stand Mrs. Appledore.”
"Did you get nothing at the house?”
“Only Levy's private diary. I brought it away with me. Here it is. It
doesn't tell one much, though. It's full of entries like: 'Tom and Annie
to dinner'; and “My dear wife's birthday; gave her an old opal ring';
‘Mr. Arbuthnot dropped in to tea; he wants to marry Rachel, but I
should like someone steadier for my treasure.' Still, I thought it would
show who came to the house and so on. He evidently wrote it up at
night. There's no entry for Monday.”
“I expect it'll be useful,” said Lord Peter, turning over the pages.
"Poor old buffer. I say, I'm not so certain now he was done away with.”
He detailed to Mr. Parker his day's work.
"Arbuthnot?” said Parker. "Is that the Arbuthnot of the diary?”
"I suppose so. I hunted him up because I knew he was fond of fooling
round the Stock Exchange. As for Milligan, he looks all right, but I be-
lieve he's pretty ruthless in business and you never can tell. Then there's
the red-haired secretary-lightnin' calculator man with a face like a fish,
keeps on sayin' nuthin'-got the Tarbaby in his family tree, I should
think. Milligan's got a jolly good motive for, at any rate, suspendin' Levy
for a few days. Then there's the new man."
"What new man?”
"Ah, that's the letter I mentioned to you. Where did I put it? Here we
are. Good parchment paper, printed address of solicitor's office in Salis-
bury, and postmark to correspond. Very precisely written with a fine nib
by an elderly business man of old-fashioned habits."


48
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Parker took the letter and read:
Crimplesham and Wicks,
Solicitors,
Milford Hill, Salisbury,
17 November, 192-.
Sir,
With reference to your advertisement today in the personal col-
umn of The Times, I am disposed to believe that the eyeglasses and
chain in question may be those I lost on the L. B. & S. C. Electric
Railway while visiting London last Monday. I left Victoria by the
5.45 train, and did not notice my loss till I arrived at Balaam. This
indication and the optician's specification of the glasses, which I en-
close, should suffice at once as an identification and a guarantee of
my bona fides. If the glasses should prove to be mine, I should be
greatly obliged to you if you would kindly forward them to me by
registered post, as the chain was a present from my daughter, and is
one of my dearest possessions.
Thanking you in advance for this kindness, and regretting the
trouble to which I shall be putting you, I am,
Yours very truly,
Thos. Crimplesham
Lord Peter Wimsey,
110, Piccadilly, W.
(Encl.)
"Dear me," said Parker, "this is what you might call unexpected."
"Either it is some extraordinary misunderstanding," said Lord Peter,
"or Mr. Crimplesham is a very bold and cunning villain. Or possibly, of
course, they are the wrong glasses. We may as well get a ruling on that
point at once. I suppose the glasses are at the Yard. I wish you'd just
ring 'em up and ask 'em to send round an optician's description of them
at once—and you might ask at the same time whether it's a very common
prescription."
"Right you are," said Parker, and took the receiver off its hook.
"And now," said his friend, when the message was delivered, "just
come into the library for a minute."
On the library table, Lord Peter had spread out a series of bromide
prints, some dry, some damp, and some but half-washed.
"These little ones are the originals of the photos we've been taking,"
said Lord Peter, "and these big ones are enlargements all made to pre-
cisely the same scale. This one here is the footmark on the linoleum;
we'll put that by itself at present. Now these finger-prints can be divided
into five lots. I've numbered 'em on the prints—see?—and made a list:
"A. The finger-prints of Levy himself, off his little bedside book and


WHOSE BODY?
49
his hair-brush—this and this—you can't mistake the little scar on the
thumb.
"B. The smudges made by the gloved fingers of the man who slept in
Levy's room on Monday night. They show clearly on the water-bottle
and on the boots—superimposed on Levy's. They are very distinct on the
boots—surprisingly so for gloved hands, and I deduce that the gloves
were rubber ones and had recently been in water.
"Here's another interestin' point. Levy walked in the rain on Monday
night, as we know, and these dark marks are mud-splashes. You see they
lie over Levy's finger-prints in every case. Now see: on this left boot we
find the stranger's thumb-mark over the mud on the leather above the
heel. That's a funny place to find a thumb-mark on a boot, isn't it? That
is, if Levy took off his own boots. But it's the place where you'd expect
to see it if somebody forcibly removed his boots for him. Again, most of
the stranger's finger-marks come over the mud-marks, but here is one
splash of mud which comes on top of them again. Which makes me infer
that the stranger came back to Park Lane, wearing Levy's boots, in a
cab, carriage or car, but that at some point or other he walked a little
way—just enough to tread in a puddle and get a splash on the boots.
What do you say?"
"Very pretty," said Parker. "A bit intricate, though, and the marks are
not all that I could wish a finger-print to be."
"Well, I won't lay too much stress on it. But it fits in with our previous
ideas. Now let's turn to:
"C. The prints obligingly left by my own particular villain on the
further edge of Thipps's bath, where you spotted them, and I ought to
be scourged for not having spotted them. The left hand, you notice, the
base of the palm and the fingers, but not the tips, looking as though he
had steadied himself on the edge of the bath while leaning down to adjust
something at the bottom, the pince-nez perhaps. Gloved, you see, but
showing no ridge or seam of any kind—I say rubber, you say rubber.
That's that. Now see here:
"D and E come off a visiting-card of mine. There's this thing at the
corner, marked F, but that you can disregard; in the original document
it's a sticky mark left by the thumb of the youth who took it from me,
after first removing a piece of chewing-gum from his teeth with his finger
to tell me that Mr. Milligan might or might not be disengaged. D and E
are the thumb-marks of Mr. Milligan and his red-haired secretary. I'm
not clear which is which, but I saw the youth with the chewing-gum hand
the card to the secretary, and when I got into the inner shrine I saw John
P. Milligan standing with it in his hand, so it's one or the other, and for


50
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
the moment it's immaterial to our purpose which is which. I boned the
card from the table when I left.
"Well, now, Parker, here's what's been keeping Bunter and me up till
the small hours. I've measured and measured every way backwards and
forwards till my head's spinnin', and I've stared till I'm nearly blind, but
I'm hanged if I can make my mind up. Question 1. Is C identical with
B? Question 2. Is D or E identical with B? There's nothing to go on but
the size and shape, of course, and the marks are so faint—what do you
think?"
Parker shook his head doubtfully.
"I think E might almost be put out of the question," he said; "it seems
such an excessively long and narrow thumb. But I think there is a decided
resemblance between the span of B on the water-bottle and C on the
bath. And I don't see any reason why D shouldn't be the same as B, only
there's so little to judge from."
"Your untutored judgment and my measurements have brought us
both to the same conclusion—if you can call it a conclusion," said Lord
Peter, bitterly.
"Another thing," said Parker. "Why on earth should we try to connect
B with C? The fact that you and I happen to be friends doesn't make it
necessary to conclude that the two cases we happen to be interested in
have any organic connection with one another. Why should they? The
only person who thinks they have is Sugg, and he's nothing to go by. It
would be different if there were any truth in the suggestion that the man
in the bath was Levy, but we know for a certainty he wasn't. It's ridicu-
lous to suppose that the same man was employed in committing two
totally distinct crimes on the same night, one in Battersea and the other
in Park Lane."
"I know," said Wimsey, "though of course we mustn't forget that Levy
was in Battersea at the time, and now we know he didn't return home at
twelve as was supposed, we've no reason to think he ever left Battersea
at all."
"True. But there are other places in Battersea besides Thipps's bath-
room. And he wasn't in Thipps's bathroom. In fact, come to think of it,
that's the one place in the universe where we know definitely that he
wasn't. So what's Thipps's bath got to do with it?"
"I don't know," said Lord Peter. "Well, perhaps we shall get some-
thing better to go on today."
He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully for some time
over the papers which Bunter had marked for him.
"They've got you out in the limelight," he said. "Thank Heaven, Sugg
hates me too much to give me any publicity. What a dull Agony Col-


WHOSE BODY?
51
umn! 'Darling Pipsey—Come back soon to your distracted Popsey'—and
the usual young man in need of financial assistance, and the usual in-
junction to 'Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' Hullo!
there's the bell. Oh, it's our answer from Scotland Yard."
The note from Scotland Yard enclosed an optician's specification iden-
tical with that sent by Mr. Crimplesham, and added that it was an un-
usual one, owing to the peculiar strength of the lenses and the marked
difference between the sight of the two eyes.
"That's good enough," said Parker.
"Yes," said Wimsey. "Then Possibility No. 3 is knocked on the head.
There remain Possibility No. 1: Accident or Misunderstanding, and No.
2: Deliberate Villainy, of a remarkably bold and calculating kind—of a
kind, in fact, characteristic of the author or authors of our two prob-
lems. Following the methods inculcated at that University of which I
have the honour to be a member, we will now examine severally the
various suggestions afforded by Possibility No. 2. This Possibility may be
again subdivided into two or more Hypotheses. On Hypothesis 1
(strongly advocated by my distinguished colleague Professor Snupshed),
the criminal, whom we may designate as X, is not identical with Crimple-
sham, but is using the name of Crimplesham as his shield, or aegis. This
hypothesis may be further subdivided into two alternatives. Alternative
A: Crimplesham is an innocent and unconscious accomplice, and X is
in his employment. X writes in Crimplesham's name on Crimplesham's
office-paper and obtains that the object in question, i.e., the eyeglasses,
be despatched to Crimplesham's address. He is in a position to intercept
the parcel before it reaches Crimplesham. The presumption is that X is
Crimplesham's charwoman, office-boy, clerk, secretary or porter. This
offers a wide field of investigation. The method of inquiry will be to in-
terview Crimplesham and discover whether he sent the letter, and if not,
who has access to his correspondence. Alternative B: Crimplesham is
under X's influence or in his power, and has been induced to write the
letter by (a) bribery, (b) misrepresentation or (c) threats. X may in
that case be a persuasive relation or friend, or else a creditor, black-
mailer or assassin; Crimplesham, on the other hand, is obviously venal
or a fool. The method of inquiry in this case, I would tentatively sug-
gest, is again to interview Crimplesham, put the facts of the case strongly
before him, and assure him in the most intimidating terms that he is lia-
ble to a prolonged term of penal servitude as an accessory after the fact
in the crime of murder— Ah-hem! Trusting, gentlemen, that you have
followed me thus far, we will pass to the consideration of Hypothesis
No. 2, to which I personally incline, and according to which X is iden-
tical with Crimplesham.


52
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"In this case, Crimplesham, who is, in the words of an English classic,
a man-of-infinite-resource-and-sagacity, correctly deduces that, of all
people, the last whom we shall expect to find answering our advertise-
ment is the criminal himself. Accordingly, he plays a bold game of bluff.
He invents an occasion on which the glasses may very easily have been
lost or stolen, and applies for them. If confronted, nobody will be more
astonished than he to learn where they were found. He will produce
witnesses to prove that he left Victoria at 5.45 and emerged from the
train at Balham at the scheduled time, and sat up all Monday night play-
ing chess with a respectable gentleman well known in Balham. In this
case, the method of inquiry will be to pump the respectable gentleman
in Balham, and if he should happen to be a single gentleman with a deaf
housekeeper, it may be no easy matter to impugn the alibi, since, outside
detective romances, few ticket-collectors and 'bus-conductors keep an
exact remembrance of all the passengers passing between Balham and
London on any and every evening of the week.
"Finally, gentlemen, I will frankly point out the weak point of all these
hypotheses, namely: that none of them offers any explanation as to why
the incriminating article was left so conspicuously on the body in the
first instance."
Mr. Parker had listened with commendable patience to this academic
exposition.
"Might not X," he suggested, "be an enemy of Crimplesham's, who
designed to throw suspicion upon him?"
"He might. In that case he should be easy to discover, since he ob-
viously lives in close proximity to Crimplesham and his glasses, and
Crimplesham in fear of his life will then be a valuable ally for the prose-
cution."
"How about the first possibility of all, misunderstanding or accident?"
"Well! Well, for purposes of discussion, nothing, because it really
doesn't afford any data for discussion."
"In any case," said Parker, "the obvious course appears to be to go to
Salisbury."
"That seems indicated," said Lord Peter.
"Very well," said the detective, "is it to be you or me or both of us?"
"It is to be me," said Lord Peter, "and that for two reasons. First, be-
cause, if (by Possibility No. 2, Hypothesis 1, Alternative A) Crimple-
sham is an innocent catspaw, the person who put in the advertisement is
the proper person to hand over the property. Secondly, because, if we
are to adopt Hypothesis 2, we must not overlook the sinister possibility
that Crimplesham-X is laying a careful trap to rid himself of the person


WHOSE BODY?
53
who so unwarily advertised in the daily press his interest in the solution
of the Battersea Park mystery."
"That appears to me to be an argument for our both going," objected
the detective.
"Far from it," said Lord Peter. "Why play into the hands of Crim-
plesham-X by delivering over to him the only two men in London with
the evidence, such as it is, and shall I say the wits, to connect him with
the Battersea body?"
"But if we told the Yard where we were going, and we both got nob-
bled," said Mr. Parker, "it would afford strong presumptive evidence of
Crimplesham's guilt, and anyhow, if he didn't get hanged for murdering
the man in the bath he'd at least get hanged for murdering us."
"Well," said Lord Peter, "if he only murdered me you could still hang
him—what's the good of wasting a sound, marriageable young male like
yourself? Besides, how about old Levy? If you're incapacitated, do you
think anybody else is going to find him?"
"But we could frighten Crimplesham by threatening him with the
Yard."
"Well, dash it all, if it comes to that, / can frighten him by threatening
him with you, which, seeing you hold what evidence there is, is much
more to the point. And, then, suppose it's a wild-goose chase after all,
you'll have wasted time when you might have been getting on with the
case. There are several things that need doing."
"Well," said Parker, silenced but reluctant, "why can't I go, in that
case?"
"Bosh!" said Lord Peter. "I am retained (by old Mrs. Thipps, for
whom I entertain the greatest respect) to deal with this case, and it's only
by courtesy I allow you to have anything to do with it."
Mr. Parker groaned.
"Will you at least take Bunter?" he said.
"In deference to your feelings," replied Lord Peter, "I will take
Bunter, though he could be far more usefully employed taking photo-
graphs or overhauling my wardrobe. When is there a good train to Salis-
bury, Bunter?"
"There is an excellent train at 10.50, my lord."
"Kindly make arrangements to catch it," said Lord Peter, throwing off
his bath-robe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. "And, Parker
—if you have nothing else to do you might get hold of Levy's secretary
and look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil."
Lord Peter took with him, for light reading in the train, Sir Reuben
Levy's diary. It was a simple, and in the light of recent facts, rather a


54
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the Stock Exchange, who could
with one nod set the surly bear dancing, or bring the savage bull to feed
out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with famine or
swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in private life
as kindly, domestic, innocently proud of himself and his belongings,
confiding, generous and a little dull. His own small economies were duly
chronicled side by side with extravagant presents to his wife and daugh-
ter. Small incidents of household routine appeared, such as: "Man came
to mend the conservatory roof," or "The new butler (Simpson) has
arrived, recommended by the Goldbergs. I think he will be satisfactory."
All visitors and entertainments were duly entered, from a very magnifi-
cent lunch to Lord Dewsbury, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and Dr.
Jabez K. Wort, the American plenipotentiary, through a series of diplo-
matic dinners to eminent financiers, down to intimate family gatherings
of persons designated by Christian names or nicknames. About May
there came a mention of Lady Levy's nerves, and further reference was
made to the subject in subsequent months. In September it was stated
that "Freke came to see my dear wife and advised complete rest and
change of scene. She thinks of going abroad with Rachel." The name of
the famous nerve-specialist occurred as a diner or luncher about once a
month, and it came into Lord Peter's mind that Freke would be a good
person to consult about Levy himself. "People sometimes tell things to
the doctor," he murmured to himself. "And, by Jove! if Levy was simply
going round to see Freke on Monday night, that rather disposes of the
Battersea incident, doesn't it?" He made a note to look up Sir Julian and
turned on further. On September 18th, Lady Levy and her daughter had
left for the south of France. Then suddenly, under the date October 5th,
Lord Peter found what he was looking for: "Goldberg, Skriner and
Milligan to dinner."
There was the evidence that Milligan had been in that house. There
had been a formal entertainment—a meeting as of two duellists shaking
hands before the fight. Skriner was a well-known picture-dealer; Lord
Peter imagined an after-dinner excursion upstairs to see the two Corots
in the drawing-room, and the portrait of the oldest Levy girl, who had
died at the age of sixteen. It was by Augustus John, and hung in the bed-
room. The name of the red-haired secretary was nowhere mentioned,
unless the initial S., occurring in another entry, referred to him. Through-
out September and October, Anderson (of Wyndham's) had been a
frequent visitor.
Lord Peter shook his head over the diary, and turned to the consider-
ation of the Battersea Park mystery. Whereas in the Levy affair it was
easy enough to supply a motive for the crime, if crime it were, and the


WHOSE BODY?
55
difficulty was to discover the method of its carrying out and the where-
abouts of the victim, in the other case the chief obstacle to inquiry was
the entire absence of any imaginable motive. It was odd that, although
the papers had carried news of the affair from one end of the country to
the other and a description of the body had been sent to every police
station in the country, nobody had as yet come forward to identify the
mysterious occupant of Mr. Thipps's bath. It was true that the descrip-
tion, which mentioned the clean-shaven chin, elegantly cut hair and the
pince-nez, was rather misleading, but on the other hand, the police had
managed to discover the number of molars missing, and the height, com-
plexion and other data were correctly enough stated, as also the date at
which death had presumably occurred. It seemed, however, as though
the man had melted out of society without leaving a gap or so much as
a ripple. Assigning a motive for the murder of a person without rela-
tions or antecedents or even clothes is like trying to visualize the fourth
dimension—admirable exercise for the imagination, but arduous and in-
conclusive. Even if the day's interview should disclose black spots in
the past or present of Mr. Crimplesham, how were they to be brought
into connection with a person apparently without a past, and whose
present was confined to the narrow limits of a bath and a police mor-
tuary?
"Bunter," said Lord Peter, "I beg that in the future you will restrain
me from starting two hares at once. These cases are gettin' to be a strain
on my constitution. One hare has nowhere to run from, and the other
has nowhere to run to. It's a kind of mental D.T., Bunter. When this is
over I shall turn pussy-foot, forswear the police news, and take to an
emollient diet of the works of the late Charles Garvice."
It was its comparative proximity to Milford Hill that induced Lord
Peter to lunch at the Minster Hotel rather than at the White Hart or
some other more picturesquely situated hostel. It was not a lunch cal-
culated to cheer his mind; as in all Cathedral cities, the atmosphere of
the Close pervades every nook and corner of Salisbury, and no food in
that city but seems faintly flavoured with prayer-books. As he sat sadly
consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as
"cheese" unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their
names, as Stilton, Camembert, Gruyere, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola,
but "cheese" is cheese and everywhere the same), he inquired of the
waiter the whereabouts of Mr. Crimplesham's office.
The waiter directed him to a house rather further up the street on the
opposite side, adding: "But anybody'll tell you, sir; Mr. Crimplesham's
very well known hereabouts."


56
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"He's a good solicitor, I suppose?" said Lord Peter.
"Oh, yes, sir," said the waiter, "you couldn't do better than trust to
Mr. Crimplesham, sir. There's folk say he's old-fashioned, but I'd rather
have my little bits of business done by Mr. Crimplesham than by one of
these fly-away young men. Not but what Mr. Crimplesham'll be retiring
soon, sir, I don't doubt, for he must be close on eighty, sir, if he's a day,
but then there's young Mr. Wicks to carry on the business, and he's a
very nice, steady-like young gentleman."
"Is Mr. Crimplesham really as old as that?" said Lord Peter. "Dear
me! He must be very active for his years. A friend of mine was doing
business with him in town last week."
"Wonderful active, sir," agreed the waiter, "and with his game leg,
too, you'd be surprised. But there, sir, I often think when a man's once
past a certain age, the older he grows the tougher he gets, and women
the same or more so."
"Very likely," said Lord Peter, calling up and dismissing the mental
picture of a gentleman of eighty with a game leg carrying a dead body
over the roof of a Battersea flat at midnight. "'He's tough, sir, tough, is
old Joey Bagstock, tough and devilish sly,'" he added, thoughtlessly.
"Indeed, sir?" said the waiter. "I couldn't say, I'm sure."
"I beg your pardon," said Lord Peter; "I was quoting poetry. Very
silly of me. I got the habit at my mother's knee and I can't break my-
self of it."
"No, sir," said the waiter, pocketing a liberal tip. "Thank you very
much, sir. You'll find the house easy. Just afore you come to Penny-
farthing Street, sir, about two turnings off, on the right-hand side op-
posite."
"Afraid that disposes of Crimplesham-X," said Lord Peter. "I'm
rather sorry; he was a fine sinister figure as I had pictured him. Still, his
may yet be the brain behind the hands—the aged spider sitting invisible
in the centre of the vibrating web, you know, Bunter."
"Yes, my lord," said Bunter. They were walking up the street together.
"There is the office over the way," pursued Lord Peter. "I think, Bun-
ter, you might step into this little shop and purchase a sporting paper,
and if I do not emerge from the villain's lair—say within three-quarters of
an hour, you may take such steps as your perspicuity may suggest."
Mr. Bunter turned into the shop as desired, and Lord Peter walked
across and rang the lawyer's bell with decision.
"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth is my long suit
here, I fancy," he murmured, and when the door was opened by a clerk
he delivered over his card with an unflinching air.
He was ushered immediately into a confidential-looking office, ob-


WHOSE BODY?
57
viously furnished in the early years of Queen Victoria's reign, and never
altered since. A lean, frail-looking old gentleman rose briskly from his
chair as he entered and limped forward to meet him.
"My dear sir," exclaimed the lawyer, "how extremely good of you to
come in person! Indeed, I am ashamed to have given you so much trou-
ble. I trust you were passing this way, and that my glasses have not put
you to any great inconvenience. Pray take a seat, Lord Peter." He
peered gratefully at the young man over a pince-nez obviously the fellow
of that now adorning a dossier in Scotland Yard.
Lord Peter sat down. The lawyer sat down. Lord Peter picked up a
glass paper-weight from the desk and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand.
Subconsciously he noted what an admirable set of finger-prints he was
leaving upon it. He replaced it with precision on the exact centre of a
pile of letters.
"It's quite all right," said Lord Peter. "I was here on business. Very
happy to be of service to you. Very awkward to lose one's glasses, Mr.
Crimplesham."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "I assure you I feel quite lost without them. I
have this pair, but they do not fit my nose so well—besides, that chain
has a great sentimental value for me. I was terribly distressed on arriv-
ing at Balham to find that I had lost them. I made inquiries of the rail-
way, but to no purpose. I feared they had been stolen. There were such
crowds at Victoria, and the carriage was packed with people all the way
to Balham. Did you come across them in the train?"
"Well, no," said Lord Peter, "I found them in rather an unexpected
place. Do you mind telling me if you recognised any of your fellow-
travellers on that occasion?"
The lawyer stared at him.
"Not a soul," he answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well," said Lord Peter, "I thought perhaps the—the person with
whom I found them might have taken them for a joke."
The lawyer looked puzzled.
"Did the person claim to be an acquaintance of mine?" he inquired.
"I know practically nobody in London, except the friend with whom I
was staying in Balham, Dr. Philpots, and I should be very greatly sur-
prised at his practising a jest upon me. He knew very well how distressed
I was at the loss of the glasses. My business was to attend a meeting of
shareholders in Medlicott's Bank, but the other gentlemen present were
all personally unknown to me, and I cannot think that any of them would
take so great a liberty. In any case," he added, "as the glasses are here, I
will not inquire too closely into the manner of their restoration. I am
deeply obliged to you for your trouble."


58
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Lord Peter hesitated.
"Pray forgive my seeming inquisitiveness," he said, "but I must ask
you another question. It sounds rather melodramatic, I'm afraid, but
it's this. Are you aware that you have any enemy—anyone, I mean, who
would profit by your—er—decease or disgrace?"
Mr. Crimplesham sat frozen into stony surprise and disapproval.
"May I ask the meaning of this extraordinary question?" he inquired
stiffly.
"Well," said Lord Peter, "the circumstances are a little unusual. You
may recollect that my advertisement was addressed to the jeweller who
sold the chain."
"That surprised me at the time," said Mr. Crimplesham, "but I begin
to think your advertisement and your behaviour are all of a piece."
"They are," said Lord Peter. "As a matter of fact I did not expect the
owner of the glasses to answer my advertisement. Mr. Crimplesham, you
have no doubt read what the papers have to say about the Battersea Park
mystery. Your glasses are the pair that was found on the body, and they
are now in the possession of the police at Scotland Yard, as you may see
by this." He placed the specification of the glasses and the official note
before Crimplesham.
"Good God!" exclaimed the lawyer. He glanced at the paper, and
then looked narrowly at Lord Peter.
"Are you yourself connected with the police?" he inquired.
"Not officially," said Lord Peter. "I am investigating the matter pri-
vately, in the interests of one of the parties."
Mr. Crimplesham rose to his feet.
"My good man," he said, "this is a very impudent attempt, but black-
mail is an indictable offence, and I advise you to leave my office before
you commit yourself." He rang the bell.
"I was afraid you'd take it like that," said Lord Peter. "It looks as
though this ought to have been my friend Detective Parker's job, after
all." He laid Parker's card on the table beside the specification, and
added: "If you should wish to see me again, Mr. Crimplesham, before
tomorrow morning, you will find me at the Minster Hotel."
Mr. Crimplesham disdained to reply further than to direct the clerk
who entered to "show this person out."
In the entrance Lord Peter brushed against a tall young man who was
just coming in, and who stared at him with surprised recognition. His
face, however, aroused no memories in Lord Peter's mind, and that
baffled nobleman, calling out Bunter from the newspaper shop, departed
to his hotel to get a trunk-call through to Parker.


WHOSE BODY? 59
Meanwhile, in the office, the meditations of the indignant Mr. Crim-
plesham were interrupted by the entrance of his junior partner.
"I say," said the latter gentleman, "has somebody done something
really wicked at last? Whatever brings such a distinguished amateur of
crime on our sober doorstep?"
"I have been the victim of a vulgar attempt at blackmail," said the
lawyer; "an individual passing himself off as Lord Peter Wimsey—"
"But that is Lord Peter Wimsey," said Mr. Wicks, "there's no mis-
taking him. I saw him give evidence in the Attenbury emerald case. He's
a big little pot in his way, you know, and goes fishing with the head of
Scotland Yard."
"Oh, dear," said Mr. Crimplesham.
Fate arranged that the nerves of Mr. Crimplesham should be tried
that afternoon. When, escorted by Mr. Wicks, he arrived at the Minster
Hotel, he was informed by the porter that Lord Peter Wimsey had
strolled out, mentioning that he thought of attending Evensong. "But his
man is here, sir," he added, "if you'd like to leave a message."
Mr. Wicks thought that on the whole it would be well to leave a mes-
sage. Mr. Bunter, on inquiry, was found to be sitting by the telephone,
waiting for a trunk-call. As Mr. Wicks addressed him the bell rang, and
Mr. Bunter, politely excusing himself, took down the receiver.
"Hullo!" he said. "Is that Mr. Parker? Oh, thanks! Exchange! Ex-
change! Sorry, can you put me through to Scotland Yard? Excuse me,
gentlemen, keeping you waiting.—Exchange! all right—Scotland Yard—
Hullo! Is that Scotland Yard?—Is Detective Parker round there?—Can I
speak to him?—I shall have done in a moment, gentlemen.—Hullo! is
that you, Mr. Parker? Lord Peter would be much obliged if you could
find it convenient to step down to Salisbury, sir. Oh, no, sir, he's in ex-
cellent health, sir—just stepped round to hear Evensong, sir—oh, no, I
think tomorrow morning would do excellently, sir, thank you, sir."
CHAPTER VI
it was, in fact, inconvenient for Mr. Parker to leave London. He had
had to go and see Lady Levy towards the end of the morning, and sub-
sequently his plans for the day had been thrown out of gear and his


60
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
movements delayed by the discovery that the adjourned inquest of Mr.
Thipps's unknown visitor was to be held that afternoon, since nothing
very definite seemed forthcoming from Inspector Sugg's inquiries. Jury
and witnesses had been convened accordingly for three o'clock. Mr.
Parker might altogether have missed the event, had he not run against
Sugg that morning at the Yard and extracted the information from him
as one would a reluctant tooth. Inspector Sugg, indeed, considered Mr.
Parker rather interfering; moreover, he was hand-in-glove with Lord
Peter Wimsey, and Inspector Sugg had no words for the interferingness
of Lord Peter. He could not, however, when directly questioned, deny
that there was to be an inquest that afternoon, nor could he prevent Mr.
Parker from enjoying the inalienable right of any interested British citi-
zen to be present. At a little before three, therefore, Mr. Parker was in
his place, and amusing himself with watching the efforts of those persons
who arrived after the room was packed to insinuate, bribe or bully them-
selves into a position of vantage. The Coroner, a medical man of precise
habits and unimaginative aspect, arrived punctually, and looking pee-
vishly round at the crowded assembly, directed all the windows to be
opened, thus letting in a stream of drizzling fog upon the heads of the
unfortunates on that side of the room. This caused a commotion and
some expressions of disapproval, checked sternly by the Coroner, who
said that with the influenza about again an unventilated room was a
death-trap; that anybody who chose to object to open windows had the
obvious remedy of leaving the court, and further, that if any disturbance
was made he would clear the court. He then took a Formamint lozenge,
and proceeded, after the usual preliminaries, to call up fourteen good
and lawful persons and swear them diligently to inquire and a true pre-
sentment make of all matters touching the death of the gentleman with
the pince-nez and to give a true verdict according to the evidence, so
help them God. When an expostulation by a woman juror—an elderly
lady in spectacles who kept a sweetshop, and appeared to wish she was
back there—had been summarily quashed by the Coroner, the jury de-
parted to view the body. Mr. Parker gazed round again and identified
the unhappy Mr. Thipps and the girl Gladys led into an adjoining room
under the grim guard of the police. They were soon followed by a gaunt
old lady in a bonnet and mantle. With her, in a wonderful fur coat and a
motor bonnet of fascinating construction, came the Dowager Duchess of
Denver, her quick, dark eyes darting hither and thither about the crowd.
The next moment they had lighted on Mr. Parker, who had several
times visited the Dower House, and she nodded to him, and spoke to a
policeman. Before long, a way opened magically through the press, and
Mr. Parker found himself accommodated with a front seat just behind


WHOSE BODY?
61
the Duchess, who greeted him charmingly, and said: "What's happened
to poor Peter?" Parker began to explain, and the Coroner glanced irrita-
bly in their direction. Somebody went up and whispered in his ear, at
which he coughed, and took another Formamint.
"We came up by car," said the Duchess—"so tiresome—such bad roads
between Denver and Gunbury St. Walters—and there were people coming
to lunch—I had to put them off—I couldn't let the old lady go alone, could
I? By the way, such an odd thing's happened about the Church Restora-
tion Fund—the Vicar—oh, dear, here are these people coming back again;
well, I'll tell you afterwards—do look at that woman looking shocked,
and the girl in tweeds trying to look as if she sat on undraped gentlemen
every day of her life—I don't mean that—corpses of course—but one finds
oneself being so Elizabethan nowadays—what an awful little man the
coroner is, isn't he? He's looking daggers at me—do you think he'll dare
to clear me out of the court or commit me for what-you-may-call-it?"
The first part of the evidence was not of great interest to Mr. Parker.
The wretched Mr. Thipps, who had caught cold in gaol, deposed in an
unhappy croak to having discovered the body when he went in to take
his bath at eight o'clock. He had had such a shock, he had to sit down
and send the girl for brandy. He had never seen the deceased before. He
had no idea how he came there.
Yes, he had been in Manchester the day before. He had arrived at St.
Pancras at ten o'clock. He had cloak-roomed his bag. At this point Mr.
Thipps became very red, unhappy and confused, and glanced nervously
about the court.
"Now, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, briskly, "we must have your
movements quite clear. You must appreciate the importance of the mat-
ter. You have chosen to give evidence, which you need not have done,
but having done so, you will find it best to be perfectly explicit."
"Yes," said Mr. Thipps faintly.
"Have you cautioned this witness, officer?" inquired the Coroner,
turning sharply to Inspector Sugg.
The Inspector replied that he had told Mr. Thipps that anything he
said might be used agin' him at his trial. Mr. Thipps became ashy, and
said in a bleating voice that he 'adn't—hadn't meant to do anything that
wasn't right.
This remark produced a mild sensation, and the Coroner became
even more acidulated in manner than before.
"Is anybody representing Mr. Thipps?" he asked, irritably. "No? Did
you not explain to him that he could—that he ought to be represented?
You did not? Really, Inspector! Did you not know, Mr. Thipps, that you
had a right to be legally represented?"


62
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Mr. Thipps clung to a chair-back for support, and said, "No," in a
voice barely audible.
"It is incredible," said the Coroner, "that so-called educated people
should be so ignorant of the legal procedure of their own country. This
places us in a very awkward position. I doubt, Inspector, whether I
should permit the prisoner—Mr. Thipps—to give evidence at all. It is a
delicate position."
The perspiration stood on Mr. Thipps's forehead.
"Save us from our friends," whispered the Duchess to Parker. "If that
cough-drop-devouring creature had openly instructed those fourteen peo-
ple—and what unfinished-looking faces they have—so characteristic, I
always think, of the lower middle-class, rather like sheep, or calves'
head (boiled, I mean), to bring in wilful murder against the poor little
man, he couldn't have made himself plainer."
"He can't let him incriminate himself, you know," said Parker.
"Stuff!" said the Duchess. "How could the man incriminate himself
when he never did anything in his life? You men never think of anything
but your red tape."
Meanwhile Mr. Thipps, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, had
summoned up courage. He stood up with a kind of weak dignity, like a
small white rabbit brought to bay.
"I would rather tell you," he said, "though it's reelly very unpleasant
for a man in my position. But I reelly couldn't have it thought for a mo-
ment that I'd committed this dreadful crime. I assure you, gentlemen, I
couldn't bear that. No. I'd rather tell you the truth, though I'm afraid it
places me in rather a—well, I'll tell you."
"You fully understand the gravity of making such a statement, Mr.
Thipps," said the Coroner.
"Quite," said Mr. Thipps. "It's all right—I—might I have a drink of
water?"
"Take your time," said the Coroner, at the same time robbing his re-
mark of all conviction by an impatient glance at his watch.
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Thipps. "Well, then, it's true I got to St.
Pancras at ten. But there was a man in the carriage with me. He'd got in
at Leicester. I didn't recognise him at first, but he turned out to be an old
school-fellow of mine."
"What was this gentleman's name?" inquired the Coroner, his pencil
poised.
Mr. Thipps shrank together visibly.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he said. "You see—that is, you will
see—it would get him into trouble, and I couldn't do that—no, I reelly
couldn't do that, not if my life depended on it. No!" he added, as the


WHOSE BODY?
63
ominous pertinence of the last phrase smote upon him, "I'm sure I
couldn't do that."
"Well, well," said the Coroner.
The Duchess leaned over to Parker again. "I'm beginning quite to ad-
mire the little man," she said.
Mr. Thipps resumed.
"When we got to St. Pancras I was going home, but my friend said no.
We hadn't met for a long time and we ought to—to make a night of it,
was his expression. I fear I was weak, and let him overpersuade me to
accompany him to one of his haunts. I use the word advisedly," said
Mr. Thipps, "and I assure you, sir, that if I had known beforehand where
we were going I never would have set foot in the place.
"I cloak-roomed my bag, for he did not like the notion of our being
encumbered with it, and we got into a taxicab and drove to the corner
of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. We then walked a little
way, and turned into a side street (I do not recollect which) where there
was an open door, with the light shining out. There was a man at
a counter, and my friend bought some tickets, and I heard the man at the
counter say something to him about 'Your friend,' meaning me, and my
friend said, 'Oh, yes, he's been here before, haven't you, Alf?' (which
was what they called me at school), though I assure you, sir"—here Mr.
Thipps grew very earnest—"I never had, and nothing in the world should
induce me to go to such a place again.
"Well, we went down into a room underneath, where there were
drinks, and my friend had several, and made me take one or two—
though I am an abstemious man as a rule—and he talked to some other
men and girls who were there—a very vulgar set of people, I thought
them, though I wouldn't say but what some of the young ladies were
nice-looking enough. One of them sat on my friend's knee and called him
a slow old thing, and told him to come on—so we went into another room,
where there were a lot of people dancing all these up-to-date dances.
My friend went and danced, and I sat on a sofa. One of the young ladies
came up to me and said, didn't I dance, and I said 'No,' so she
said wouldn't I stand her a drink then. 'You'll stand us a drink then,
darling,' that was what she said, and I said, 'Wasn't it after hours?' and
she said that didn't matter. So I ordered the drink—a gin and bitters it
was—for I didn't like not to, the young lady seemed to expect it of me
and I felt it wouldn't be gentlemanly to refuse when she asked. But it
went against my conscience—such a young girl as she was—and she put
her arm round my neck afterwards and kissed me just like as if she was
paying for the drink—and it reelly went to my 'eart," said Mr. Thipps,
a little ambiguously, but with uncommon emphasis.


64
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Here somebody at the back said, "Cheer-oh!" and a sound was heard
as of the noisy smacking of lips.
"Remove the person who made that improper noise," said the Cor-
oner, with great indignation. "Go on, please, Mr. Thipps."
"Well," said Mr. Thipps, "about half-past twelve, as I should reckon,
things began to get a bit lively, and I was looking for my friend to say
good-night, not wishing to stay longer, as you will understand, when I
saw him with one of the young ladies, and they seemed to be getting on
altogether too well, if you follow me, my friend pulling the ribbons off
her shoulder and the young lady laughing—and so on," said Mr. Thipps,
hurriedly, "so I thought I'd just slip quietly out, when I heard a scuffle
and a shout—and before I knew what was happening there were half-a-
dozen policemen in, and the lights went out, and everybody stampeding
and shouting—quite horrid, it was. I was knocked down in the rush, and
hit my head a nasty knock on a chair—that was where I got that bruise
they asked me about—and I was dreadfully afraid I'd never get away
and it would all come out, and perhaps my photograph in the papers,
when someone caught hold of me—I think it was the young lady I'd given
the gin and bitters to—and she said, 'This way,' and pushed me along a
passage and out at the back somewhere. So I ran through some streets,
and found myself in Goodge Street, and there I got a taxi and came
home. I saw the account of the raid afterwards in the papers, and saw
my friend had escaped, and so, as it wasn't the sort of thing I wanted
made public, and I didn't want to get him into difficulties, I just said
nothing. But that's the truth."
"Well, Mr. Thipps," said the Coroner, "we shall be able to substanti-
ate a certain amount of this story. Your friend's name—"
"No," said Mr. Thipps, stoutly, "not on any account."
"Very good," said the Coroner. "Now, can you tell us what time you
did get in?"
"About half-past one, I should think. Though reelly, I was so upset—"
"Quite so. Did you go straight to bed?"
"Yes, I took my sandwich and glass of milk first. I thought it might
settle my inside, so to speak," added the witness, apologetically, "not
being accustomed to alcohol so late at night and on an empty stomach,
as you may say."
"Quite so. Nobody sat up for you?"
"Nobody."
"How long did you take getting to bed first and last?"
Mr. Thipps thought it might have been half-an-hour.
"Did you visit the bathroom before turning in?"
"No."


WHOSE BODY?
65
"And you heard nothing in the night?"
"No. I fell fast asleep. I was rather agitated, so I took a little dose to
make me sleep, and what with being so tired and the milk and the dose,
I just tumbled right off and didn't wake till Gladys called me."
Further questioning elicited little from Mr. Thipps. Yes, the bathroom
window had been open when he went in in the morning, he was sure of
that, and he had spoken very sharply to the girl about it. He was ready
to answer any questions; he would be only too 'appy—happy to have
this dreadful affair sifted to the bottom.
Gladys Horrocks stated that she had been in Mr. Thipps's employ-
ment about three months. Her previous employers would speak to her
character. It was her duty to make the round of the flat at night, when
she had seen Mrs. Thipps to bed at ten. Yes, she remembered doing so
on Monday evening. She had looked into all the rooms. Did she recol-
lect shutting the bathroom window that night? Well, no, she couldn't
swear to it, not in particular, but when Mr. Thipps called her into the
bathroom in the morning it certainly was open. She had not been into
the bathroom before Mr. Thipps went in. Well, yes, it had happened
that she had left that window open before, when anyone had been 'aving
a bath in the evening and 'ad left the blind down. Mrs. Thipps 'ad 'ad a
bath on Monday evening, Mondays was one of her regular bath nights.
She was very much afraid she 'adn't shut the window on Monday night,
though she wished her 'ead 'ad been cut off afore she'd been so forgetful.
Here the witness burst into tears and was given some water, while the
Coroner refreshed himself with a third lozenge.
Recovering, witness stated that she had certainly looked into all the
rooms before going to bed. No, it was quite impossible for a body to be
'idden in the flat without her seeing of it. She 'ad been in the kitchen all
evening, and there wasn't 'ardly room to keep the best dinner service
there, let alone a body. Old Mrs. Thipps sat in the drawing-room. Yes,
she was sure she'd been into the dining-room. How? Because she put
Mr. Thipps's milk and sandwiches there ready for him. There had been
nothing in there—that she could swear to. Nor yet in her own bedroom,
nor in the 'all. Had she searched the bedroom cupboard and the box-
room? Well, no, not to say searched; she wasn't use to searchin' people's
'ouses for skelintons every night. So that a man might have concealed
himself in the box-room or a wardrobe? She supposed he might.
In reply to a woman juror—well, yes, she was walking out with a
young man. Williams was his name, Bill Williams,—well, yes, William
Williams, if they insisted. He was a glazier by profession. Well, yes, he
'ad been in the flat sometimes. Well, she supposed you might say he was
acquainted with the flat. Had she ever—no, she 'adn't, and if she'd


66
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
thought such a question was going to be put to a respectable girl she
wouldn't 'ave offered to give evidence. The vicar of St. Mary's would
speak to her character and to Mr. Williams's. Last time Mr. Williams
was at the flat was a fortnight ago.
Well, no, it wasn't exactly the last time she 'ad seen Mr. Williams.
Well, yes, the last time was Monday—well, yes, Monday night. Well, if
she must tell the truth, she must. Yes, the officer had cautioned her, but
there wasn't any 'arm in it, and it was better to lose her place than to be
'ung, though it was a cruel shame a girl couldn't 'ave a bit of fun with-
out a nasty corpse comin' in through the window to get 'er into difficul-
ties. After she 'ad put Mrs. Thipps to bed, she 'ad slipped out to go to the
Plumbers' and Glaziers' Ball at the "Black Faced Ram." Mr. Williams
'ad met 'er and brought 'er back. 'E could testify to where she'd been and
that there wasn't no 'arm in it. She'd left before the end of the ball. It
might 'ave been two o'clock when she got back. She'd got the keys of the
flat from Mrs. Thipps's drawer when Mrs. Thipps wasn't looking. She
'ad asked leave to go, but couldn't get it, along of Mr. Thipps bein' away
that night. She was bitterly sorry she 'ad be'aved so, and she was sure
she'd been punished for it. She had 'eard nothing suspicious when she
came in. She had gone straight to bed without looking round the flat. She
wished she were dead.
No, Mr. and Mrs. Thipps didn't 'ardly ever 'ave any visitors; they kep'
themselves very retired. She had found the outside door bolted that
morning as usual. She wouldn't never believe any 'arm of Mr. Thipps.
Thank you, Miss Horrocks. Call Georgiana Thipps, and the Coroner
thought we had better light the gas.
The examination of Mrs. Thipps provided more entertainment than
enlightenment, affording as it did an excellent example of the game called
"cross questions and crooked answers." After fifteen minutes' suffering,
both in voice and temper, the Coroner abandoned the struggle, leaving
the lady with the last word.
"You needn't try to bully me, young man," said that octogenarian
with spirit, "settin' there spoilin' your stomach with them nasty jujubes."
At this point a young man arose in court and demanded to give evi-
dence. Having explained that he was William Williams, glazier, he was
sworn, and corroborated the evidence of Gladys Horrocks in the matter
of her presence at the "Black Faced Ram" on the Monday night . They
had returned to the flat rather before two, he thought, but certainly later
than 1.30. He was sorry that he had persuaded Miss Horrocks to come
out with him when she didn't ought. He had observed nothing of a sus-
picious nature in Prince of Wales Road at either visit.
Inspector Sugg gave evidence of having been called in at about half-


WHOSE BODY?
67
past eight on Monday morning. He had considered the girl's manner to
be suspicious and had arrested her. On later information, leading him
to suspect that the deceased might have been murdered that night, he
had arrested Mr. Thipps. He had found no trace of breaking into the
flat. There were marks on the bathroom window-sill which pointed to
somebody having got in that way. There were no ladder marks or foot-
marks in the yard; the yard was paved with asphalt. He had examined
the roof, but found nothing on the roof. In his opinion the body had
been brought into the flat previously and concealed till the evening by
someone who had then gone out during the night by the bathroom win-
dow, with the connivance of the girl. In that case, why should not the
girl have let the person out by the door? Well, it might have been so. Had
he found traces of a body or a man or both having been hidden in the
flat? He found nothing to show that they might not have been so con-
cealed. What was the evidence that led him to suppose that the death
had occurred that night?
At this point Inspector Sugg appeared uneasy, and endeavoured to
retire upon his professional dignity. On being pressed, however, he ad-
mitted that the evidence in question had come to nothing.
One of the jurors: Was it the case that any finger-marks had been left
by the criminal?
Some marks had been found on the bath, but the criminal had worn
gloves.
The Coroner: Do you draw any conclusion from this fact as to the
experience of the criminal?
Inspector Sugg: Looks as if he was an old hand, sir.
The Juror: Is that very consistent with the charge against Alfred
Thipps, Inspector?
The Inspector was silent.
The Coroner: In the light of the evidence which you have just heard,
do you still press the charge against Alfred Thipps and Gladys Horrocks?
Inspector Sugg: I consider the whole set-out highly suspicious.
Thipps's story isn't corroborated, and as for the girl Horrocks, how do
we know this Williams ain't in it as well?
William Williams: Now, you drop that. I can bring a 'undred wit-
nesses—
The Coroner: Silence, if you please. I am surprised, Inspector, that
you should make this suggestion in that manner. It is highly improper.
By the way, can you tell us whether a police raid was actually carried out
on the Monday night on any Night Club in the neighbourhood of St.
Giles's Circus?
Inspector Sugg (sulkily): I believe there was something of the sort.


68
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
The Coroner: You will, no doubt, inquire into the matter. I seem to
recollect having seen some mention of it in the newspapers. Thank you,
Inspector, that will do.
Several witnesses having appeared and testified to the characters of
Mr. Thipps and Gladys Horrocks, the Coroner stated his intention of
proceeding to the medical evidence.
"Sir Julian Freke."
There was considerable stir in the court as the great specialist walked
up to give evidence. He was not only a distinguished man, but a striking
figure, with his wide shoulders, upright carriage and leonine head. His
manner as he kissed the Book presented to him with the usual depreca-
tory mumble by the Coroner's officer, was that of a St. Paul condescend-
ing to humour the timid mumbo-jumbo of superstitious Corinthians.
"So handsome, I always think," whispered the Duchess to Mr. Parker;
"just exactly like William Morris, with that bush of hair and beard and
those exciting eyes looking out of it—so splendid, these dear men always
devoted to something or other—not but what I think socialism is a mis-
take—of course it works with all those nice people, so good and happy
in art linen and the weather always perfect—Morris, I mean, you know
—but so difficult in real life. Science is different—I'm sure if I had nerves
I should go to Sir Julian just to look at him—eyes like that give one some-
thing to think about, and that's what most of these people want, only I
never had any—nerves, I mean. Don't you think so?"
"You are Sir Julian Freke," said the Coroner, "and live at St. Luke's
House, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea, where you exercise a general
direction over the surgical side of St. Luke's Hospital?"
Sir Julian assented briefly to this definition of his personality.
"You were the first medical man to see the deceased?"
"I was."
"And you have since conducted an examination in collaboration with
Dr. Grimbold of Scotland Yard?"
"I have."
"You are in agreement as to the cause of death?"
"Generally speaking, yes."
"Will you communicate your impressions to the Jury?"
"I was engaged in research work in the dissecting room at St. Luke's
Hospital at about nine o'clock on Monday morning, when I was in-
formed that Inspector Sugg wished to see me. He told me that the dead
body of a man had been discovered under mysterious circumstances at
59 Queen Caroline Mansions. He asked me whether it could be supposed
to be a joke perpetrated by any of the medical students at the hospital. I


WHOSE BODY?
69
was able to assure him, by an examination of the hospital's books, that
there was no subject missing from the dissecting room."
"Who would be in charge of such bodies?"
"William Watts, the dissecting-room attendant."
"Is William Watts present?" inquired the Coroner of the officer.
William Watts was present, and could be called if the Coroner thought
it necessary.
"I suppose no dead body would be delivered to the hospital without
your knowledge, Sir Julian?"
"Certainly not."
"Thank you. Will you proceed with your statement?"
"Inspector Sugg then asked me whether I would send a medical man
round to view the body. I said that I would go myself."
"Why did you do that?"
"I confess to my share of ordinary human curiosity, Mr. Coroner."
Laughter from a medical student at the back of the room.
"On arriving at the flat I found the deceased lying on his back in the
bath. I examined him, and came to the conclusion that death had been
caused by a blow on the back of the neck, dislocating the fourth and fifth
cervical vertebrae, bruising the spinal cord and producing internal haem-
orrhage and partial paralysis of the brain. I judged the deceased to have
been dead at least twelve hours, possibly more. I observed no other sign
of violence of any kind upon the body. Deceased was a strong, well-
nourished man of about fifty to fifty-five years of age."
"In your opinion, could the blow have been self-inflicted?"
"Certainly not. It had been made with a heavy, blunt instrument from
behind, with great force and considerable judgment. It is quite impos-
sible that it was self-inflicted."
"Could it have been the result of an accident?"
"That is possible, of course."
"If, for example, the deceased had been looking out of the window,
and the sash had shut violently down upon him?"
"No; in that case there would have been signs of strangulation and a
bruise upon the throat as well."
"But deceased might have been killed through a heavy weight acci-
dentally falling upon him?"
"He might."
"Was death instantaneous, in your opinion?"
"It is difficult to say. Such a blow might very well cause death instan-
taneously, or the patient might linger in a partially paralyzed condition
for some time. In the present case I should be disposed to think that
deceased might have fingered for some hours. I base my decision upon


70
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
the condition of the brain revealed at the autopsy. I may say, however,
that Dr. Grimbold and I are not in complete agreement on the point."
"I understand that a suggestion has been made as to the identification
of the deceased. You are not in a position to identify him?"
"Certainly not. I never saw him before. The suggestion to which you
refer is a preposterous one, and ought never to have been made. I was
not aware until this morning that it had been made; had it been made to
me earlier, I should have known how to deal with it, and I should like to
express my strong disapproval of the unnecessary shock and distress in-
flicted upon a lady with whom I have the honour to be acquainted."
The Coroner: It was not my fault, Sir Julian; I had nothing to do
with it; I agree with you that it was unfortunate you were not consulted.
The reporters scribbled busily, and the court asked each other what
was meant, while the jury tried to look as if they knew already.
"In the matter of the eyeglasses found upon the body, Sir Julian. Do
these give any indication to a medical man?"
"They are somewhat unusual lenses; an oculist would be able to
speak more definitely, but I will say for myself that I should have ex-
pected them to belong to an older man than the deceased."
"Speaking as a physician, who has had many opportunities of observ-
ing the human body, did you gather anything from the appearance of
the deceased as to his personal habits?"
"I should say that he was a man in easy circumstances, but who had
only recently come into money. His teeth are in a bad state, and his hands
shows signs of recent manual labour."
"An Australian colonist, for instance, who had made money?"
"Something of that sort; of course, I could not say positively."
"Of course not. Thank you, Sir Julian."
Dr. Grimbold, called, corroborated bis distinguished colleague in
every particular, except that, in his opinion, death had not occurred for
several days after the blow. It was with the greatest hesitancy that he ven-
tured to differ from Sir Julian Freke, and he might be wrong. It was diffi-
cult to tell in any case, and when he saw the body, deceased had been
dead at least twenty-four hours, in his opinion.
Inspector Sugg, recalled. Would he tell the jury what steps had been
taken to identify the deceased?
A description had been sent to every police station and had been in-
serted in all the newspapers. In view of the suggestion made by Sir Julian
Freke, had inquiries been made at all the seaports? They had. And with
no results? With no results at all. No one had come forward to identify
the body? Plenty of people had come forward; but nobody had succeeded
in identifying it. Had any effort been made to follow up the clue afforded


WHOSE BODY?
71
by the eyeglasses? Inspector Sugg submitted that, having regard to the
interests of justice, he would beg to be excused from answering that
question. Might the jury see the eyeglasses? The eyeglasses were handed
to the jury.
William Watts, called, confirmed the evidence of Sir Julian Freke with
regard to dissecting-room subjects. He explained the system by which
they were entered. They usually were supplied by the workhouses and
free hospitals. They were under his sole charge. The young gentlemen
could not possibly get the keys. Had Sir Julian Freke, or any of the house
surgeons, the keys? No, not even Sir Julian Freke. The keys had remained
in his possession on Monday night? They had. And, in any case, the
inquiry was irrelevant, as there was no body missing, nor ever had been?
That was the case.
The Coroner then addressed the jury, reminding them with some as-
perity that they were not there to gossip about who the deceased could
or could not have been, but to give their opinion as to the cause of death.
He reminded them that they should consider whether, according to the
medical evidence, death could have been accidental or self-inflicted, or
whether it was deliberate murder, or homicide. If they considered the
evidence on this point insufficient, they could return an open verdict. In
any case, their verdict could not prejudice any person; if they brought it
in "murder," all the whole evidence would have to be gone through
again before the magistrate. He then dismissed them, with the unspoken
adjuration to be quick about it.
Sir Julian Freke, after giving his evidence, had caught the eye of the
Duchess, and now came over and greeted her.
"I haven't seen you for an age," said that lady. "How are you?"
"Hard at work," said the specialist. "Just got my new book out. This
kind of thing wastes time. Have you seen Lady Levy yet?"
"No, poor dear," said the Duchess. "I only came up this morning, for
this. Mrs. Thipps is staying with me—one of Peter's eccentricities, you
know. Poor Christine! I must run round and see her. This is Mr. Parker,"
she added, "who is investigating that case."
"Oh," said Sir Julian, and paused. "Do you know," he said in a low
voice to Parker, "I am very glad to meet you. Have you seen Lady Levy
yet?"
"I saw her this morning."
"Did she ask you to go on with the inquiry?"
"Yes," said Parker; "she thinks," he added, "that Sir Reuben may be
detained in the hands of some financial rival or that perhaps some scoun-
drels are holding him to ransom."
"And is that your opinion?" asked Sir Julian.


72
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I think it very likely," said Parker, frankly.
Sir Julian hesitated again.
"I wish you would walk back with me when this is over," he said.
"I should be delighted," said Parker.
At this moment the jury returned and took their places, and there was
a little rustle and hush. The Coroner addressed the foreman and inquired
if they were agreed upon their verdict.
"We are agreed, Mr. Coroner, that deceased died of the effects of a
blow upon the spine, but how that injury was inflicted we consider that
there is not sufficient evidence to show."
Mr. Parker and Sir Julian Freke walked up the road together.
"I had absolutely no idea until I saw Lady Levy this morning," said
the doctor, "that there was any idea of connecting this matter with the
disappearance of Sir Reuben. The suggestion was perfectly monstrous,
and could only have grown up in the mind of that ridiculous police offi-
cer. If I had had any idea what was in his mind I could have disabused
him and avoided all this."
"I did my best to do so," said Parker, "as soon as I was called in to
the Levy case—"
"Who called you in, if I may ask?" inquired Sir Julian.
"Well, the household first of all, and then Sir Reuben's uncle, Mr.
Levy of Portman Square, wrote to me to go on with the investigation."
"And now Lady Levy has confirmed those instructions?"
"Certainly," said Parker in some surprise.
Sir Julian was silent for a little time.
"I'm afraid I was the first person to put the idea into Sugg's head,"
said Parker, rather penitently. "When Sir Reuben disappeared, my first
step, almost, was to hunt up all the street accidents and suicides and so
on that had turned up during the day, and I went down to see this Bat-
tersea Park body as a matter of routine. Of course, I saw that the thing
was ridiculous as soon as I got there, but Sugg froze on to the idea—and
it's true there was a good deal of resemblance between the dead man and
the portraits I've seen of Sir Reuben."
"A strong superficial likeness," said Sir Julian. "The upper part of the
face is a not uncommon type, and as Sir Reuben wore a heavy beard and
there was no opportunity of comparing the mouths and chins, I can
understand the idea occurring to anybody. But only to be dismissed at
once. I am sorry," he added, "as the whole matter has been painful to
Lady Levy. You may know, Mr. Parker, that I am an old, though I
should not call myself an intimate, friend of the Levys."
"I understood something of the sort."


WHOSE BODY?
73
"Yes. When I was a young man I—in short, Mr. Parker, I hoped once
to marry Lady Levy." (Mr. Parker gave the usual sympathetic groan.)
"I have never married, as you know," pursued Sir Julian. "We have re-
mained good friends. I have always done what I could to spare her pain."
"Believe me, Sir Julian," said Parker, "that I sympathize very much
with you and with Lady Levy, and that I did all I could to disabuse
Inspector Sugg of this notion. Unhappily, the coincidence of Sir Reu-
ben's being seen that evening in the Battersea Park Road—"
"Ah, yes," said Sir Julian. "Dear me, here we are at home. Perhaps
you would come in for a moment, Mr. Parker, and have tea or a whisky-
and-soda or something."
Parker promptly accepted this invitation, feeling that there were other
things to be said.
The two men stepped into a square, finely furnished hall with a fire-
place on the same side as the door, and a staircase opposite. The dining-
room door stood open on their right, and as Sir Julian rang the bell a
man-servant appeared at the far end of the hall.
"What will you take?" asked the doctor.
"After that dreadfully cold place," said Parker, "what I really want is
gallons of hot tea, if you, as a nerve specialist, can bear the thought of
it."
"Provided you allow of a judicious blend of China in it," replied Sir
Julian in the same tone, "I have no objection to make. Tea in the library
at once," he added to the servant, and led the way upstairs.
"I don't use the downstairs rooms much, except the dining-room," he
explained as he ushered his guest into a small but cheerful library on the
first floor. "This room leads out of my bedroom and is more convenient.
I only live part of my time here, but it's very handy for my research work
at the hospital. That's what I do there, mostly. It's a fatal thing for a
theorist, Mr. Parker, to let the practical work get behindhand. Dissec-
tion is the basis of all good theory and all correct diagnosis. One must
keep one's hand and eye in training. This place is far more important to
me than Harley Street, and some day I shall abandon my consulting
practice altogether and settle down here to cut up my subjects and write
my books in peace. So many things in this life are a waste of time, Mr.
Parker."
Mr. Parker assented to this.
"Very often," said Sir Julian, "the only time I get for any research
work—necessitating as it does the keenest observation and the faculties
at their acutest—has to be at night, after a long day's work and by artifi-
cial light, which, magnificent as the lighting of the dissecting room here


74
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
is, is always more trying to the eyes than daylight. Doubtless your own
work has to be carried on under even more trying conditions."
"Yes, sometimes," said Parker; "but then you see," he added, "the
conditions are, so to speak, part of the work."
"Quite so, quite so," said Sir Julian; "you mean that the burglar, for
example, does not demonstrate his methods in the light of day, or plant
the perfect footmark in the middle of a damp patch of sand for you to
analyze."
"Not as a rule," said the detective, "but I have no doubt many of
your diseases work quite as insidiously as any burglar."
"They do, they do," said Sir Julian, laughing, "and it is my pride, as
it is yours, to track them down for the good of society. The neuroses,
you know, are particularly clever criminals—they break out into as many
disguises as—"
"As Leon Kestrel, the Master-Mummer," suggested Parker, who read
railway-stall detective stories on the principle of the 'busman's holiday.
"No doubt," said Sir Julian, who did not, "and they cover up their
tracks wonderfully. But when you can really investigate, Mr. Parker,
and break up the dead, or for preference the living body with the scalpel,
you always find the footmarks—the little trail of ruin or disorder left by
madness or disease or drink or any other similar pest. But the difficulty
is to trace them back, merely by observing the surface symptoms—the
hysteria, crime, religion, fear, shyness, conscience, or whatever it may
be; just as you observe a theft or a murder and look for the footsteps of
the criminal, so I observe a fit of hysterics or an outburst of piety and
hunt for the little mechanical irritation which has produced it."
"You regard all these things as physical?"
"Undoubtedly. I am not ignorant of the rise of another school of
thought, Mr. Parker, but its exponents are mostly charlatans or self-
deceivers. 'Sie haben sich so weit darin eingeheimnisst' that, like Sludge
the Medium, they are beginning to believe their own nonsense. I should
like to have the exploring of some of their brains, Mr. Parker; I would
show you the little faults and landslips in the cells—the misfiring and
short-circuiting of the nerves, which produce these notions and these
books. At least," he added, gazing sombrely at his guest, "at least, if I
could not quite show you today, I shall be able to do so tomorrow—or
in a year's time—or before I die."
He sat for some minutes gazing into the fire, while the red light played
upon his tawny beard and struck out answering gleams from his com-
pelling eyes.
Parker drank tea in silence, watching him. On the whole, however, he
remained but little interested in the causes of nervous phenomena and


WHOSE BODY?
75
his mind strayed to Lord Peter, coping with the redoubtable Crimple-
sham down in Salisbury. Lord Peter had wanted him to come: that
meant, either that Crimplesham was proving recalcitrant or that a clue
wanted following. But Bunter had said that tomorrow would do, and it
was just as well. After all, the Battersea affair was not Parker's case; he
had already wasted valuable time attending an inconclusive inquest, and
he really ought to get on with his legitimate work. There was still Levy's
secretary to see and the little matter of the Peruvian Oil to be looked into.
He looked at his watch.
"I am very much afraid—if you will excuse me—" he murmured.
Sir Julian came back with a start to the consideration of actuality.
"Your work calls you?" he said, smiling. "Well, I can understand that.
I won't keep you. But I wanted to say something to you in connection
with your present inquiry—only I hardly know—I hardly like—"
Parker sat down again, and banished every indication of hurry from
his face and attitude.
"I shall be very grateful for any help you can give me," he said.
"I'm afraid it's more in the nature of hindrance," said Sir Julian, with
a short laugh. "It's a case of destroying a clue for you, and a breach of
professional confidence on my side. But since—accidentally—a certain
amount has come out, perhaps the whole had better do so."
Mr. Parker made the encouraging noise which, among laymen, sup-
plies the place of the priest's insinuating, "Yes, my son?"
"Sir Reuben Levy's visit on Monday night was to me," said Sir Julian.
"Yes?" said Mr. Parker, without expression.
"He found cause for certain grave suspicions concerning his health,"
said Sir Julian, slowly, as though weighing how much he could in honour
disclose to a stranger. "He came to me, in preference to his own medical
man, as he was particularly anxious that the matter should be kept from
his wife. As I told you, he knew me fairly well, and Lady Levy had con-
sulted me about a nervous disorder in the summer."
"Did he make an appointment with you?" asked Parker.
"I beg your pardon," said the other, absently.
"Did he make an appointment?"
"An appointment? Oh, no! He turned up suddenly in the evening after
dinner when I wasn't expecting him. I took him up here and examined
him, and he left me somewhere about ten o'clock, I should think."
"May I ask what was the result of your examination?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"It might illuminate—well, conjecture as to his subsequent conduct,"
said Parker, cautiously. This story seemed to have little coherence with
the rest of the business, and he wondered whether coincidence was alone


76
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
responsible for Sir Reuben's disappearance on the same night that he
visited the doctor.
"I see," said Sir Julian. "Yes. Well, I will tell you in confidence that I
saw grave grounds of suspicion, but as yet, no absolute certainty of mis-
chief."
"Thank you. Sir Reuben left you at ten o'clock?"
"Then or thereabouts. I did not at first mention the matter as it was
so very much Sir Reuben's wish to keep his visit to me secret, and there
was no question of accident in the street or anything of that kind, since
he reached home safely at midnight."
"Quite so," said Parker.
"It would have been, and is, a breach of confidence," said Sir Julian,
"and I only tell you now because Sir Reuben was accidentally seen, and
because I would rather tell you in private than have you ferreting round
here and questioning my servants, Mr. Parker. You will excuse my
frankness."
"Certainly," said Parker. "I hold no brief for the pleasantness of my
profession, Sir Julian. I am very much obliged to you for telling me this.
I might otherwise have wasted valuable time following up a false trail."
"I am sure I need not ask you, in your turn, to respect this confidence,"
said the doctor. "To publish the matter abroad could only harm Sir
Reuben and pain his wife, besides placing me in no favourable fight with
my patients."
"I promise to keep the thing to myself," said Parker, "except of
course," he added hastily, "that I must inform my colleague."
"You have a colleague in the case?"
"I have."
"What sort of person is he?"
"He will be perfectly discreet, Sir Julian."
"Is he a police officer?"
"You need not be afraid of your confidence getting into the records
at Scotland Yard."
"I see that you know how to be discreet, Mr. Parker."
"We also have our professional etiquette, Sir Julian."
On returning to Great Ormond Street, Mr. Parker found a wire await-
ing him, which said: "Do not trouble to come. All well. Returning to-
morrow. Wimsey."


CHAPTER VU
on returning to the flat just before lunch-time on the following morn-
ing, after a few confirmatory researches in Balaam and the neighbour-
hood of Victoria Station, Lord Peter was greeted at the door by Mr.
Bunter (who had gone straight home from Waterloo) with a telephone
message and a severe and nursemaid-like eye.
"Lady Swaffham rang up, my lord, and said she hoped your lordship
had not forgotten you were lunching with her."
"I have forgotten, Bunter, and I mean to forget. I trust you told her I
had succumbed to lethargic encephalitis suddenly, no flowers by re-
quest."
"Lady Swaffham said, my lord, she was counting on you. She met the
Duchess of Denver yesterday—"
"If my sister-in-law's there I won't go, that's flat," said Lord Peter.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, the Dowager Duchess."
"What's she doing in town?"
"I imagine she came up for the inquest, my lord."
"Oh, yes—we missed that, Bunter."
"Yes, my lord. Her Grace is lunching with Lady Swaffham."
"Bunter, I can't. I can't, really. Say I'm in bed with whooping cough,
and ask my mother to come round after lunch."
"Very well, my lord. Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham's,
my lord, and Mr. Milligan—"
"Mr. who?"
"Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and—"
"Good God, Bunter, why didn't you say so before? Have I time to
get there before he does? All right. I'm off. With a taxi I can just—"
"Not in those trousers, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way
to the door with deferential firmness.
"Oh, Bunter," pleaded his lordship, "do let me—just this once. You
don't know how important it is."
"Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is
worth."
"The trousers are all right, Bunter."
"Not for Lady Swaffham's, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets
the man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury."


78
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease
showing across the light cloth.
"I wish to God I'd never let you grow into a privileged family retainer,
Bunter," said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the um-
brella-stand. "You've no conception of the mistakes my mother may be
making."
Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away.
When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch,
into Lady Swaffham's drawing-room, the Dowager Duchess of Denver
was seated on a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P.
Milligan of Chicago.
"I'm vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess," had been that financier's
opening remark, "to thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I
assure you it's a compliment I deeply appreciate."
The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her
intellectual forces.
"Do come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan," she said. "I
do so love talking to you great business men—let me see, is it a railway
king you are or something about puss-in-the-corner—at least, I don't
mean that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about
wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, too—or was it a horse?
—no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid of it
and it used to get so dreadfully crumpled and torn, poor thing, always
being handed about, one got to recognise it, and then one had to buy a
new pack—so foolish it must seem to you, knowing the real thing, and
dreadfully noisy, but really excellent for breaking the ice with rather stiff
people who didn't know each other—I'm quite sorry it's gone out."
Mr. Milligan sat down.
"Wal, now," he said, "I guess it's as interesting for us business men to
meet British aristocrats as it is for Britishers to meet American railway
kings, Duchess. And I guess I'll make as many mistakes talking your
kind of talk as you would make if you were tryin' to run a corner in
wheat in Chicago. Fancy now, I called that fine lad of yours Lord Wim-
sey the other day, and he thought I'd mistaken him for his brother. That
made me feel rather green."
This was an unhoped-for lead. The Duchess walked warily.
"Dear boy," she said, "I am so glad you met him, Mr. Milligan. Both
my sons are a great comfort to me, you know, though, of course, Gerald
is more conventional—just the right kind of person for the House of
Lords, you know, and a splendid farmer. I can't see Peter down at Den-


WHOSE BODY?
79
ver half so well, though he is always going to all the right things in town,
and very amusing sometimes, poor boy."
"I was vurry much gratified by Lord Peter's suggestion," pursued Mr.
Milligan, "for which I understand you are Responsible, and I'll surely be
very pleased to come any day you like, though I think you're flattering
me too much."
"Ah, well," said the Duchess, "I don't know if you're the best judge
of that, Mr. Milligan. Not that I know anything about business myself,"
she added. "I'm rather old-fashioned for these days, you know, and I
can't pretend to do more than know a nice man when I see him; for the
other things I rely on my son."
The accent of this speech was so flattering that Mr. Milligan purred
almost audibly, and said:
"Wal, Duchess, I guess that's where a lady with a real, beautiful, old-
fashioned soul has the advantage of these modern young blatherskites
—there aren't many men who wouldn't be nice—to her, and even then, if
they aren't rock-bottom she can see through them."
"But that leaves me where I was," thought the Duchess. "I believe,"
she said aloud, "that I ought to be thanking you in the name of the vicar
of Duke's Denver for a very munificent cheque which reached him yes-
terday for the Church Restoration Fund. He was so delighted and as-
tonished, poor dear man."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Mr. Milligan, "we haven't any fine old
crusted buildings like yours over on our side, so it's a privilege to be
allowed to drop a little kerosene into the worm-holes when we hear of
one in the old country suffering from senile decay. So when your lad told
me about Duke's Denver I took the liberty to subscribe without waiting
for the Bazaar."
"I'm sure it was very kind of you," said the Duchess. "You are com-
ing to the Bazaar, then?" she continued, gazing into his face appealingly.
"Sure thing," said Mr. Milligan, with great promptness. "Lord Peter
said you'd let me know for sure about the date, but we can always make
time for a little bit of good work anyway. Of course I'm hoping to be
able to avail myself of your kind invitation to stop, but if I'm rushed, I'll
manage anyhow to pop over and speak my piece and pop back again."
"I hope so very much," said the Duchess. "I must see what can be
done about the date—of course, I can't promise—"
"No, no," said Mr. Milligan heartily. "I know what these things are to
fix up. And then there's not only me—there's all the real big men of Euro-
pean eminence your son mentioned, to be consulted."
The Duchess turned pale at the thought that any one of these illustri-
ous persons might some time turn up in somebody's drawing-room, but


80
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
by this time she had dug herself in comfortably, and was even beginning
to find her range.
"I can't say how grateful we are to you," she said; "it will be such a
treat. Do tell me what you think of saying."
"Wal—" began Mr. Milligan.
Suddenly everybody was standing up and a penitent voice was heard
to say:
"Really, most awfully sorry, y'know—hope you'll forgive me, Lady
Swaffham, what? Dear lady, could I possibly forget an invitation from
you? Fact is, I had to go an' see a man down in Salisbury—absolutely
true, 'pon my word, and the fellow wouldn't let me get away. I'm simply
grovellin' before you, Lady Swaffham. Shall I go an' eat my lunch in
the corner?"
Lady Swaffham gracefully forgave the culprit.
"Your dear mother is here," she said.
"How do, Mother?" said Lord Peter, uneasily.
"How are you, dear?" replied the Duchess. "You really oughtn't to
have turned up just yet. Mr. Milligan was just going to tell me what a
thrilling speech he's preparing for the Bazaar, when you came and in-
terrupted us."
Conversation at lunch turned, not unnaturally, on the Battersea in-
quest, the Duchess giving a vivid impersonation of Mrs. Thipps being
interrogated by the Coroner.
'"Did you hear anything unusual in the night?' says the little man,
leaning forward and screaming at her, and so crimson in the face and his
ears sticking out so—just like a cherubim in that poem of Tennyson's—or
is a cherub blue?—perhaps it's a seraphim I mean—anyway, you know
what I mean, all eyes, with little wings on its head. And dear old Mrs.
Thipps saying, 'Of course I have, any time these eighty years,' and such
a sensation in court till they found out she thought he'd said, 'Do you
sleep without a light?' and everybody laughing, and then the Coroner
said quite loudly, 'Damn the woman,' and she heard that, I can't think
why, and said: 'Don't you get swearing, young man, sitting there in the
presence of Providence, as you may say. I don't know what young people
are coming to nowadays'—and he's sixty if he's a day, you know," said
the Duchess.
By a natural transition, Mrs. Tommy Frayle referred to the man who
was hanged for murdering three brides in a bath.
"I always thought that was so ingenious," she said, gazing soulfully at
Lord Peter, "and do you know, as it happened, Tommy had just made
me insure my life, and I got so frightened, I gave up my morning bath


WHOSE BODY?
81
and took to having it in the afternoon when he was in the House—I
mean, when he was not in the house—not at home, I mean."
"Dear lady," said Lord Peter, reproachfully, "I have a distinct recol-
lection that all those brides were thoroughly unattractive. But it was an
uncommonly ingenious plan—the first time of askin'—only he shouldn't
have repeated himself."
"One demands a little originality in these days, even from murderers,"
said Lady Swaffham. "Like dramatists, you know—so much easier in
Shakespeare's time, wasn't it? Always the same girl dressed up as a man,
and even that borrowed from Boccaccio or Dante or somebody. I'm sure
if I'd been a Shakespeare hero, the very minute I saw a slim-legged
young page-boy I'd have said: 'Odsbodikins! There's that girl again!'"
"That's just what happened, as a matter of fact," said Lord Peter.
"You see, Lady Swaffham, if ever you want to commit a murder, the
thing you've got to do is to prevent people from associatin' their ideas.
Most people don't associate anythin'—their ideas just roll about like so
many dry peas on a tray, makin' a lot of noise and goin' nowhere, but
once you begin lettin' 'em string their peas into a necklace, it's goin' to be
strong enough to hang you, what?"
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Tommy Frayle, with a little scream, "what a
blessing it is none of my friends have any ideas at all!"
"Y'see," said Lord Peter, balancing a piece of duck on his fork and
frowning, "it's only in Sherlock Holmes and stories like that, that peo-
ple think things out logically. Or'nar'ly, if somebody tells you somethin'
out of the way, you just say, 'By Jove!' or 'How sad!' an' leave it at that,
an' half the time you forget about it, 'nless somethin' turns up afterwards
to drive it home. F'r instance, Lady Swaffham, I told you when I came
in that I'd been down to Salisbury, 'n' that's true, only I don't suppose it
impressed you much; 'n' I don't suppose it'd impress you much if you
read in the paper tomorrow of a tragic discovery of a dead lawyer down
in Salisbury, but if I went to Salisbury again next week V there was a
Salisbury doctor found dead the day after, you might begin to think I was
a bird of ill omen for Salisbury residents; and if I went there again the
week after, 'n' you heard next day that the see of Salisbury had fallen
vacant suddenly, you might begin to wonder what took me to Salisbury,
an' why I'd never mentioned before that I had friends down there, don't
you see, an' you might think of goin' down to Salisbury yourself, an'
askin' all kinds of people if they'd happened to see a young man in plum-
coloured socks hangin' round the Bishop's Palace."
"I daresay I should," said Lady Swaffham.
"Quite. An' if you found that the lawyer and the doctor had once upon
a time been in business at Poggleton-on-the-Marsh when the Bishop had


82
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
been vicar there, you'd begin to remember you'd once heard of me payin'
a visit to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh a long time ago, an' you'd begin to
look up the parish registers there an' discover I'd been married under an
assumed name by the vicar to the widow of a wealthy farmer, who'd
died suddenly of peritonitis, as certified by the doctor, after the lawyer'd
made a will leavin' me all her money, and then you'd begin to think I
might have very good reasons for gettin' rid of such promisin' black-
mailers as the lawyer, the doctor an' the bishop. Only, if I hadn't started
an association in your mind by gettin' rid of 'em all in the same place,
you'd never have thought of goin' to Poggleton-on-the-Marsh, 'n' you
wouldn't even have remembered I'd ever been there."
"Were you ever there, Lord Peter?" inquired Mrs. Tommy, anxiously.
"I don't think so," said Lord Peter; "the name threads no beads in
my mind. But it might, any day, you know."
"But if you were investigating a crime," said Lady Swaffham, "you'd
have to begin by the usual things, I suppose—finding out what the person
had been doing, and who'd been to call, and looking for a motive,
wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes," said Lord Peter, "but most of us have such dozens of mo-
tives for murderin' all sorts of inoffensive people. There's lots of people
I'd like to murder, wouldn't you?"
"Heaps," said Lady Swaffham. "There's that dreadful—perhaps I'd
better not say it, though, for fear you should remember it later on."
"Well, I wouldn't if I were you," said Peter, amiably. "You never
know. It'd be beastly awkward if the person died suddenly tomorrow."
"The difficulty with this Battersea case, I guess," said Mr. Milligan,
"is that nobody seems to have any associations with the gentleman in
the bath."
"So hard on poor Inspector Sugg," said the Duchess. "I quite felt for
the man, having to stand up there and answer a lot of questions when
he had nothing at all to say."
Lord Peter applied himself to the duck, having got a little behindhand.
Presently he heard somebody ask the Duchess if she had seen Lady
Levy.
"She is in great distress," said the woman who had spoken, a Mrs.
Freemantle, "though she clings to the hope that he will turn up. I suppose
you knew him, Mr. Milligan—know him, I should say, for I hope he's
still alive somewhere."
Mrs. Freemantle was the wife of an eminent railway director, and
celebrated for her ignorance of the world of finance. Her faux pas in this
connection enlivened the tea parties of City men's wives.
"Wal, I've dined with him," said Mr. Milligan, good-naturedly. "I


WHOSE BODY?
83
think he and I've done our best to ruin each other, Mrs. Freemantle. If
this were the States," he added, "I'd be much inclined to suspect myself
of having put Sir Reuben in a safe place. But we can't do business that
way in your old country; no, ma'am."
"It must be exciting work doing business in America," said Lord
Peter.
"It is," said Mr. Milligan. "I guess my brothers are having a good time
there now. I'll be joining them again before long, as soon as I've fixed up
a little bit of work for them on this side."
"Well, you mustn't go till after my bazaar," said the Duchess.
Lord Peter spent the afternoon in a vain hunt for Mr. Parker. He
ran him down eventually after dinner in Great Ormond Street.
Parker was sitting in an elderly but affectionate armchair, with his
feet on the mantelpiece, relaxing his mind with a modern commentary
on the Epistle to the Galatians. He received Lord Peter with quiet pleas-
ure, though without rapturous enthusiasm, and mixed him a whisky-
and-soda. Peter took up the book his friend had laid down and glanced
over the pages.
"All these men work with a bias in their minds, one way or other," he
said; "they find what they are looking for."
"Oh, they do," agreed the detective; "but one learns to discount that
almost automatically, you know. When I was at college, I was all on the
other side—Conybeare and Robertson and Drews and those people, you
know, till I found they were all so busy looking for a burglar whom no-
body had ever seen, that they couldn't recognise the footprints of the
household, so to speak. Then I spent two years learning to be cautious."
"Hum," said Lord Peter, "theology must be good exercise for the
brain then, for you're easily the most cautious devil I know. But I say,
do go on reading—it's a shame for me to come and root you up in your
off-time like this."
"It's all right, old man," said Parker.
The two men sat silent for a little, and then Lord Peter said:
"D'you like your job?"
The detective considered the question, and replied:
"Yes—yes, I do. I know it to be useful, and I am fitted to it. I do it
quite well—not with inspiration, perhaps, but sufficiently well to take a
pride in it. It is full of variety and it forces one to keep up to the mark
and not get slack. And there's a future to it. Yes, I like it. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," said Peter. "It's a hobby to me, you see. I took it up
when the bottom of things was rather knocked out for me, because it was
so damned exciting, and the worst of it is, I enjoy it—up to a point. If i(


84
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
was all on paper I'd enjoy every bit of it. I love the beginning of a job—
when one doesn't know any of the people and it's just exciting and amus-
ing. But if it comes to really running down a live person and getting him
hanged, or even quodded, poor devil, there don't seem as if there was
any excuse for me buttin' in, since I don't have to make my livin' by it.
And I feel as if I oughtn't ever to find it amusin'. But I do."
Parker gave this speech his careful attention.
"I see what you mean," he said.
"There's old Milligan, fr instance," said Lord Peter. "On paper,
nothin' would be funnier than to catch old Milligan out. But he's rather a
decent old bird to talk to. Mother likes him. He's taken a fancy to me.
It's awfully entertainin' goin' and pumpin' him with stuff about a bazaar
for church expenses, but when he's so jolly pleased about it and that, I
feel a worm. S'pose old Milligan has cut Levy's throat and plugged him
into the Thames. It ain't my business."
"It's as much yours as anybody's," said Parker; "it's no better to do it
for money than to do it for nothing."
"Yes, it is," said Peter stubbornly. "Havin' to live is the only excuse
there is for doin' that kind of thing."
"Well, but look here!" said Parker. "If Milligan has cut poor old
Levy's throat for no reason except to make himself richer, I don't see
why he should buy himself off by giving £1,000 to Duke's Denver
church roof, or why he should be forgiven just because he's childishly
vain, or childishly snobbish."
"That's a nasty one," said Lord Peter.
"Well, if you like, even because he has taken a fancy to you."
"No, but—"
"Look here, Wimsey—do you think he has murdered Levy?"
"Well, he may have."
"But do you think he has?"
"I don't want to think so."
"Because he has taken a fancy to you?"
"Well, that biases me, of course—"
"I daresay it's quite a legitimate bias. You don't think a callous mur-
derer would be likely to take a fancy to you?"
"Well—besides, I've taken rather a fancy to him."
"I daresay that's quite legitimate, too. You've observed him and made
a subconscious deduction from your observations, and the result is, you
don't think he did it. Well, why not? You're entitled to take that into
account."
"But perhaps I'm wrong and he did do it."
"Then why let your vainglorious conceit in your own power of esti-


WHOSE BODY?
85
mating character stand in the way of unmasking the singularly cold-
blooded murder of an innocent and lovable man?"
"I know—but I don't feel I'm playing the game somehow."
"Look here, Peter," said the other with some earnestness, "suppose
you get this playing-fields-of-Eton complex out of your system once and
for all. There doesn't seem to be much doubt that something unpleasant
has happened to Sir Reuben Levy. Call it murder, to strengthen the argu-
ment. If Sir Reuben has been murdered, is it a game? and is it fair to
treat it as a game?"
"That's what I'm ashamed of, really," said Lord Peter. "It is a game to
me, to begin with, and I go on cheerfully, and then I suddenly see that
somebody is going to be hurt, and I want to get out of it."
"Yes, yes, I know," said the detective, "but that's because you're
thinking about your attitude. You want to be consistent, you want to
look pretty, you want to swagger debonairly through a comedy of pup-
pets or else to stalk magnificently through a tragedy of human sorrows
and things. But that's childish. If you've any duty to society in the way of
finding out the truth about murders, you must do it in any attitude that
comes handy. You want to be elegant and detached? That's all right, if
you find the truth out that way, but it hasn't any value in itself, you know.
You want to look dignified and consistent—what's that got to do with it?
You want to hunt down a murderer for the sport of the thing and then
shake hands with him and say, 'Well played—hard luck—you shall have
your revenge tomorrow!' Well, you can't do it like that. Life's not a foot-
ball match. You want to be a sportsman. You can't be a sportsman.
You're a responsible person."
"I don't think you ought to read so much theology," said Lord Peter.
"It has a brutalizing influence."
He got up and paced about the room, looking idly over the book-
shelves. Then he sat down again, filled and lit his pipe, and said:
"Well, I'd better tell you about the ferocious and hardened Crim-
plesham."
He detailed his visit to Salisbury. Once assured of his bona fides, Mr.
Crimplesham had given him the fullest details of his visit to town.
"And I've substantiated it all," groaned Lord Peter, "and unless he's
corrupted half Balham, there's no doubt he spent the night there. And
the afternoon was really spent with the bank people. And half the resi-
dents of Salisbury seem to have seen him off on Monday before lunch.
And nobody but his own family or young Wicks seems to have anything
to gain by his death. And even if young Wicks wanted to make away with
him, it's rather far-fetched to go and murder an unknown man in


86
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Thipps's place in order to stick Crimplesham's eyeglasses on his nose."
"Where was young Wicks on Monday?" asked Parker.
"At a dance given by the Precentor," said Lord Peter, wildly. "David
—his name is David—dancing before the ark of the Lord in the face of
the whole Cathedral Close."
There was a pause.
"Tell me about the inquest," said Wimsey.
Parker obliged with a summary of the evidence.
"Do you believe the body could have been concealed in the flat after
all?" he asked. "I know we looked, but I suppose we might have missed
something."
"We might. But Sugg looked as well."
"Sugg!"
"You do Sugg an injustice," said Lord Peter; "if there had been any
signs of Thipps's complicity in the crime, Sugg would have found them."
"Why?"
"Why? Because he was looking for them. He's like your commentators
on Galatians. He thinks that either Thipps, or Gladys Horrocks, or
Gladys Horrocks's young man did it. Therefore he found marks on the
window sill where Gladys Horrocks's young man might have come in or
handed something in to Gladys Horrocks. He didn't find any signs on
the roof, because he wasn't looking for them."
"But he went over the roof before me."
"Yes, but only in order to prove that there were no marks there. He
reasons like this: Gladys Horrocks's young man is a glazier. Glaziers
come on ladders. Glaziers have ready access to ladders. Therefore
Gladys Horrocks's young man had ready access to a ladder. Therefore
Gladys Horrocks's young man came on a ladder. Therefore there will be
marks on the window sill and none on the roof. Therefore he finds marks
on the window sill but none on the roof. He finds no marks on the
ground, but he thinks he would have found them if the yard didn't hap-
pen to be paved with asphalt. Similarly, he thinks Mr. Thipps may have
concealed the body in the box-room or elsewhere. Therefore you may be
sure he searched the box-room and all the other places for signs of occu-
pation. If they had been there he would have found them, because he was
looking for them. Therefore, if he didn't find them it's because they
weren't there."
"All right," said Parker, "stop talking. I believe you."
He went on to detail the medical evidence.
"By the way," said Lord Peter, "to skip across for a moment to the
other case, has it occurred to you that perhaps Levy was going out to
see Freke on Monday night?"


WHOSE BODY?
87
"He was; he did," said Parker, rather unexpectedly, and proceeded to
recount his interview with the nerve-specialist.
"Humph!" said Lord Peter. "I say, Parker, these are funny cases, ain't
they? Every line of inquiry seems to peter out. It's awfully exciting up to
a point, you know, and then nothing comes of it. It's like rivers getting
lost in the sand."
"Yes," said Parker. "And there's another one I lost this morning."
"What's that?"
"Oh, I was pumping Levy's secretary about his business. I couldn't get
much that seemed important except further details about the Argentine
and so on. Then I thought I'd just ask round in the City about those
Peruvian Oil shares, but Levy hadn't even heard of them so far as I
could make out. I routed out the brokers, and found a lot of mystery and
concealment, as one always does, you know, when somebody's been
rigging the market, and at last I found one name at the back of it. But it
wasn't Levy's."
"No? Whose was it?"
"Oddly enough, Freke's. It seems mysterious. He bought a lot of
shares last week, in a secret kind of way, a few of them in his own name,
and then quietly sold 'em out on Tuesday at a small profit—a few hun-
dreds, not worth going to all that trouble about, you wouldn't think."
"Shouldn't have thought he ever went in for that kind of gamble."
"He doesn't as a rule. That's the funny part of it."
"Well, you never know," said Lord Peter; "people do these things just
to prove to themselves or somebody else that they could make a fortune
that way if they liked. I've done it myself in a small way."
He knocked out his pipe and rose to go.
"I say, old man," he said suddenly, as Parker was letting him out,
"does it occur to you that Freke's story doesn't fit in awfully well with
what Anderson said about the old boy having been so jolly at dinner on
Monday night? Would you be, if you thought you'd got anything of that
sort?"
"No, I shouldn't," said Parker; "but," he added with his habitual
caution, "some men will jest in the dentist's waiting-room. You, for one."
"Well, that's true," said Lord Peter, and went downstairs.


CHAPTER VIII
lord peter reached home about midnight, feeling extraordinarily wake-
ful and alert. Something was jigging and worrying in his brain; it felt like
a hive of bees, stirred up by a stick. He felt as though he were looking at
a complicated riddle, of which he had once been told the answer but had
forgotten it and was always on the point of remembering.
"Somewhere," said Lord Peter to himself, "somewhere I've got the key
to these two things. I know I've got it, only I can't remember what it is.
Somebody said it. Perhaps I said it. I can't remember where, but I know
I've got it. Go to bed, Bunter, I shall sit up a little. I'll just slip on a
dressing-gown."
Before the fire he sat down with his pipe in his mouth and his jazz-
coloured peacocks gathered about him. He traced out this line and that
line of investigation—rivers running into the sand. They ran out from
the thought of Levy, last seen at ten o'clock in Prince of Wales Road.
They ran back from the picture of the grotesque dead man in Mr.
Thipps's bathroom—they ran over the roof, and were lost—lost in the
sand. Rivers running into the sand—rivers running underground, very far
down—
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
By leaning his head down, it seemed to Lord Peter that he could hear
them, very faintly, lipping and gurgling somewhere in the darkness. But
where? He felt quite sure that somebody had told him once, only he had
forgotten.
He roused himself, threw a log on the fire, and picked up a book which
the indefatigable Bunter, carrying on his daily fatigues amid the excite-
ments of special duty, had brought from the Times Book Club. It hap-
pened to be Sir Julian Freke's "Physiological Bases of the Conscience,"
which he had seen reviewed two days before.
"This ought to send one to sleep," said Lord Peter; "if I can't leave
these problems to my subconscious I'll be as limp as a rag tomorrow."
He opened the book slowly, and glanced carelessly through the preface.
"I wonder if that's true about Levy being ill," he thought, putting the


WHOSE BODY?
89
book down; "it doesn't seem likely. And yet— Dash it all, I'll take my
mind off it."
He read on resolutely for a little.
"I don't suppose Mother's kept up with the Levys much," was the
next importunate train of thought. "Dad always hated self-made people
and wouldn't have 'em at Denver. And old Gerald keeps up the tradition.
I wonder if she knew Freke well in those days. She seems to get on with
Milligan. I trust Mother's judgment a good deal. She was a brick about
that bazaar business. I ought to have warned her. She said something
once—"
He pursued an elusive memory for some minutes, till it vanished al-
together with a mocking flicker of the tail. He returned to his reading.
Presently another thought crossed his mind aroused by a photograph
of some experiment in surgery.
"If the evidence of Freke and that man Watts hadn't been so positive,"
he said to himself, "I should be inclined to look into the matter of those
shreds of lint on the chimney."
He considered this, shook his head and read with determination.
Mind and matter were one thing, that was the theme of the physiolo-
gist. Matter could erupt, as it were, into ideas. You could carve passions
in the brain with a knife. You could get rid of imagination with drugs
and cure an outworn convention like a disease. "The knowledge of good
and evil is an observed phenomenon, attendant upon a certain condition
of the brain-cells, which is removable." That was one phrase; and again:
"Conscience in man may, in fact, be compared to the sting of a hive-
bee, which, so far from conducing to the welfare of its possessor, cannot
function, even in a single instance, without occasioning its death. The
survival-value in each case is thus purely social; and if humanity ever
passes from its present phase of social development into that of a higher
individualism, as some of our philosophers have ventured to speculate,
we may suppose that this interesting mental phenomenon may gradually
cease to appear; just as the nerves and muscles which once controlled the
movements of our ears and scalps have, in all save a few backward in-
dividuals, become atrophied and of interest only to the physiologist."
"By Jove!" thought Lord Peter, idly, "that's an ideal doctrine for the
criminal. A man who believed that would never—"
And then it happened—the thing he had been half-unconsciously ex-
pecting. It happened suddenly, surely, as unmistakably, as sunrise. He
remembered—not one thing, nor another thing, nor a logical succession
of things, but everything—the whole thing, perfect, complete, in all its di-
mensions as it were and instantaneously; as if he stood outside the world


90
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
and saw it suspended in infinitely dimensional space. He no longer
needed to reason about it, or even to think about it. He knew it.
There is a game in which one is presented with a jumble of letters and
is required to make a word out of them, as thus:
COSSSSRI
The slow way of solving the problem is to try out all the permutations
and combinations in turn, throwing away impossible conjunctions of
letters, as:
SSSIRC
or
SCSRSO
Another way is to stare at the inco-ordinate elements until, by no logical
process that the conscious mind can detect, or under some adventitious
external stimulus, the combination:
SCISSORS
presents itself with calm certainty. After that, one does not even need to
arrange the letters in order. The thing is done.
Even so, the scattered elements of two grotesque conundrums, flung
higgledy-piggledy into Lord Peter's mind, resolved themselves, unques-
tioned henceforward. A bump on the roof of the end house—Levy in a
welter of cold rain talking to a prostitute in the Battersea Park Road—a
single ruddy hair—lint bandages—Inspector Sugg calling the great sur-
geon from the dissecting-room of the hospital—Lady Levy with a nervous
attack—the smell of carbolic soap—the Duchess's voice—"not really an
engagement, only a sort of understanding with her father"—shares in
Peruvian Oil—the dark skin and curved, fleshy profile of the man in the
bath—Dr. Grimbold giving evidence, "In my opinion, death did not occur
for several days after the blow"—india-rubber gloves—even, faintly, the
voice of Mr. Appledore, "He called on me, sir, with an anti-vivisectionist
pamphlet"—all these things and many others rang together and made
one sound, they swung together like bells in a steeple, with the deep
tenor booming through the clamour:
"The knowledge of good and evil is a phenomenon of the brain, and
is removable, removable, removable. The knowledge of good and evil is
removable."
Lord Peter Wimsey was not a young man who habitually took himself
very seriously, but this time he was frankly appalled. "It's impossible,"
said his reason, feebly; "credo quia impossibile," said his interior cer-


WHOSE BODY?
91
tainty with impervious self-satisfaction. "All right," said conscience,
instantly allying itself with blind faith, "what are you going to do about
it?"
Lord Peter got up and paced the room: "Good Lord!" he said. "Good
Lord!" He took down "Who's Who" from the little shelf over the tele-
phone and sought comfort in its pages:
FREKE, Sir Julian, Kt. cr. 1916; G.C.V.O. cr. 1919; K.C.V.O.
1917; K.C.B. 1918; M.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S., Dr. en Méd. Paris;
D. Sci. Cantab.; Knight of Grace of the Order of S. John of Jeru-
salem; Consulting Surgeon of St. Luke's Hospital, Battersea. b.
Gryllingham, 16 March, 1872, only son of Edward Curzon Freke,
Esq., of Gryll Court, Gryllingham. Educ. Harrow and Trinity Coll.,
Cambridge; Col. A.M.S.; late Member of the Advisory Board of the
Army Medical Service. Publications: Some Notes on the Pathologi-
cal Aspects of Genius, 1892; Statistical Contributions to the Study
of Infantile Paralysis in England and Wales, 1894; Functional Dis-
turbances of the Nervous System, 1899; Cerebro-Spinal Diseases,
1904; The Borderland of Insanity, 1906; An Examination into the
Treatment of Pauper Lunacy in the United Kingdom, 1906; Mod-
ern Developments in Psycho-Therapy: A Criticism, 1910; Criminal
Lunacy, 1914; The Application of Psycho-Therapy to the Treat-
ment of Shell-Shock, 1917; An Answer to Professor Freud, with a
Description of Some Experiments Carried Out at the Base Hospital
at Amiens, 1919; Structural Modifications Accompanying the More
Important Neuroses, 1920. Clubs: White's; Oxford and Cambridge;
Alpine, etc. Recreations: Chess, Mountaineering, Fishing. Address:
282, Harley Street and St. Luke's House, Prince of Wales Road,
Battersea Park, S.W.ll."
He flung the book away. "Confirmation!" he groaned. "As if I needed
it!"
He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. He remembered
quite suddenly how, years ago, he had stood before the breakfast table
at Denver Castle—a small, peaky boy in blue knickers, with a thunder-
ously beating heart. The family had not come down; there was a great
silver urn with a spirit lamp under it, and an elaborate coffee-pot boiling
in a glass dome. He had twitched the corner of the tablecloth—twitched
it harder, and the urn moved ponderously forward and all the teaspoons
rattled. He seized the tablecloth in a firm grip and pulled his hardest—he
could feel now the delicate and awful thrill as the urn and the coffee
machine and the whole of a Sevres breakfast service had crashed down
in one stupendous ruin—he remembered the horrified face of the butler,
and the screams of a lady guest.


92
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
A log broke across and sank into a fluff of white ash. A belated motor-
lorry rumbled past the window.
Mr. Bunter, sleeping the sleep of the true and faithful servant, was
aroused in the small hours by a hoarse whisper, "Bunter!"
"Yes, my lord," said Bunter, sitting up and switching on the light.
"Put that light out, damn you!" said the voice. "Listen—over there—
listen—can't you hear it?"
"It's nothing, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, hastily getting out of bed
and catching hold of his master; "it's all right, you get to bed quick and
I'll fetch you a drop of bromide. Why, you're all shivering—you've been
sitting up too late."
"Hush! no, no—it's the water," said Lord Peter with chattering teeth;
"it's up to their waists down there, poor devils. But listen! can't you hear
it? Tap, tap, tap—they're mining us—but I don't know where—I can't hear
—I can't. Listen, you! There it is again—we must find it—we must stop
it. . . . Listen! Oh, my God! I can't hear—I can't hear anything for the
noise of the guns. Can't they stop the guns?"
"Oh, dear!" said Mr. Bunter to himself. "No, no—it's all right, Major
—don't you worry."
"But I hear it," protested Peter.
"So do I," said Mr. Bunter stoutly; "very good hearing, too, my lord.
That's our own sappers at work in the communication trench. Don't you
fret about that, sir."
Lord Peter grasped his wrist with a feverish hand.
"Our own sappers," he said; "sure of that?"
"Certain of it," said Mr. Bunter, cheerfully.
"They'll bring down the tower," said Lord Peter.
"To be sure they will," said Mr. Bunter, "and very nice, too. You just
come and lay down a bit, sir—they've come to take over this section."
"You're sure it's safe to leave it?" said Lord Peter.
"Safe as houses, sir," said Mr. Bunter, tucking his master's arm under
his and walking him off to his bedroom.
Lord Peter allowed himself to be dosed and put to bed without further
resistance. Mr. Bunter, looking singularly un-Bunterlike in striped py-
jamas, with his stiff black hair ruffled about his head, sat grimly watching
the younger man's sharp cheekbones and the purple stains under his eyes.
"Thought we'd had the last of these attacks," he said. "Been overdoin'
of himself. Asleep?" He peered at him anxiously. An affectionate note
crept into his voice. "Bloody little fool!" said Sergeant Bunter.


CHAPTER IX
MR. parker, summoned the next morning to 110 Piccadilly, arrived to
find the Dowager Duchess in possession. She greeted him charmingly.
"I am going to take this silly boy down to Denver for the week-end,"
she said, indicating Peter, who was writing and only acknowledged his
friend's entrance with a brief nod. "He's been doing too much—running
about to Salisbury and places and up till all hours of the night—you
really shouldn't encourage him, Mr. Parker, it's very naughty of you—
waking poor Bunter up in the middle of the night with scares about Ger-
mans, as if that wasn't all over years ago, and he hasn't had an attack for
ages, but there! Nerves are such funny things, and Peter always did have
nightmares when he was quite a little boy—though very often of course it
was only a little pill he wanted; but he was so dreadfully bad in 1918,
you know, and I suppose we can't expect to forget all about a great war
in a year or two, and, really, I ought to be very thankful with both my
boys safe. Still, I think a little peace and quiet at Denver won't do him
any harm."
"Sorry you've been having a bad turn, old man," said Parker, vaguely
sympathetic; "you're looking a bit seedy."
"Clarles," said Lord Peter, in a voice entirely void of expression, "I
am going away for a couple of days because I can be no use to you in
London. What has got to be done for the moment can be much better
done by you than by me. I want you to take this"—he folded up his writ-
ing and placed it in an envelope—"to Scotland Yard immediately and get
it sent out to all the workhouses, infirmaries, police stations, Y.M.C.A.'s
and so on in London. It is a description of Thipps's corpse as he was
before he was shaved and cleaned up. I want to know whether any man
answering to that description has been taken in anywhere, alive or dead,
during the last fortnight. You will see Sir Andrew Mackenzie personally,
and get the paper sent out at once, by his authority; you will tell him that
you have solved the problems of the Levy murder and the Battersea mys-
tery"—Mr. Parker made an astonished noise to which his friend paid no
attention—"and you will ask him to have men in readiness with a warrant
to arrest a very dangerous and important criminal at any moment on
your information. When the replies to this paper come in, you will search


94
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
for any mention of St. Luke's Hospital, or of any person connected with
St. Luke's Hospital, and you will send for me at once.
"Meanwhile you will scrape acquaintance—I don't care how—with one
of the students at St. Luke's. Don't march in there blowing about mur-
ders and police warrants, or you may find yourself in Queer Street. I
shall come up to town as soon as I hear from you, and I shall expect to
find a nice ingenuous Sawbones here to meet me." He grinned faintly.
"D'you mean you've got to the bottom of this thing?" asked Parker.
"Yes. I may be wrong. I hope I am, but I know I'm not."
"You won't tell me?"
"D'you know," said Peter, "honestly I'd rather not. I say I may be
wrong—and I'd feel as if I'd libelled the Archbishop of Canterbury."
"Well, tell me—is it one mystery or two?"
"One."
"You talked of the Levy murder. Is Levy dead?"
"God—yes!" said Peter, with a strong shudder.
The Duchess looked up from where she was reading the Tatler.
"Peter," she said, "is that your ague coming on again? Whatever you
two are chattering about, you'd better stop it at once if it excites you.
Besides, it's about time to be off."
"All right, Mother," said Peter. He turned to Bunter, standing respect-
fully in the door with an overcoat and suitcase. "You understand what
you have to do, don't you?" he said.
"Perfectly, thank you, my lord. The car is just arriving, your Grace."
"With Mrs. Thipps inside it," said the Duchess. "She'll be delighted to
see you again, Peter. You remind her so of Mr. Thipps. Good-morning,
Bunter."
"Good-morning, your Grace."
Parker accompanied them downstairs.
When they had gone he looked blankly at the paper in his hand—then,
remembering that it was Saturday and there was need for haste, he hailed
a taxi.
"Scotland Yard!" he cried.
Tuesday morning saw Lord Peter and a man in a velveteen jacket
swishing merrily through seven acres of turnip-tops, streaked yellow with
early frosts. A litUe way ahead, a sinuous undercurrent of excitement
among the leaves proclaimed the unseen yet ever-near presence of one
of the Duke of Denver's setter pups. Presently a partridge flew up with
a noise like a police rattle, and Lord Peter accounted for it very credit-
ably for a man who, a few nights before, had been listening to imaginary


WHOSE BODY?
95
German sappers. The setter bounded foolishly through the turnips, and
fetched back the dead bird.
"Good dog," said Lord Peter.
Encouraged by this, the dog gave a sudden ridiculous gambol and
barked, its ear tossed inside out over its head.
"Heel," said the man in velveteen, violently. The animal sidled up,
ashamed.
"Fool of a dog, that," said the man in velveteen; "can't keep quiet.
Too nervous, my lord. One of old Black Lass's pups."
"Dear me," said Peter, "is the old dog still going?"
"No, my lord; we had to put her away in the spring."
Peter nodded. He always proclaimed that he hated the country and
was thankful to have nothing to do with the family estates, but this morn-
ing he enjoyed the crisp air and the wet leaves washing darkly over his
polished boots. At Denver things moved in an orderly way; no one died
sudden and violent deaths except aged setters—and partridges, to be sure.
He sniffed up the autumn smell with appreciation. There was a letter in
his pocket which had come by the morning post, but he did not intend
to read it just yet. Parker had not wired; there was no hurry.
He read it in the smoking-room after lunch. His brother was there,
dozing over the Times—a good, clean Englishman, sturdy and conven-
tional, rather like Henry VIII in his youth; Gerald, sixteenth Duke of
Denver. The Duke considered his cadet rather degenerate, and not quite
good form; he disliked his taste for police-court news.
The letter was from Mr. Bunter.
110, Piccadilly,
W.l.
My Lord:
I write (Mr. Bunter had been carefully educated and knew that noth-
ing is more vulgar than a careful avoidance of beginning a letter with the
first person singular) as your lordship directed, to inform you of the
result of my investigations.
I experienced no difficulty in* becoming acquainted with Sir Julian
Freke's man-servant. He belongs to the same club as the Hon. Frederick
Arbuthnot's man, who is a friend of mine, and was very willing to in-
troduce me. He took me to the club yesterday (Sunday) evening, and
we dined with the man, whose name is John Cummings, and afterwards
I invited Cummings to drinks and a cigar in the flat. Your lordship will
excuse me doing this, knowing that it is not my habit, but it has always


96
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
been my experience that the best way to gain a man's confidence is to
let him suppose that one takes advantage of one's employer.
("I always suspected Bunter of being a student of human nature,"
commented Lord Peter.)
I gave him the best old port ("The deuce you did," said Lord Peter),
having heard you and Mr. Arbuthnot talk over it. ("Hum!" said Lord
Peter.)
Its effects were quite equal to my expectations as regards the principal
matter in hand, but I very much regret to state that the man had so little
understanding of what was offered to him that he smoked a cigar with it
(one of your lordship's Villar Villars). You will understand that I made
no comment on this at the time, but your lordship will sympathize with
my feelings. May I take this opportunity of expressing my grateful ap-
preciation of your lordship's excellent taste in food, drink and dress? It
is, if I may say so, more than a pleasure—it is an education, to valet and
buttle your lordship.
Lord Peter bowed his head gravely.
"What on earth are you doing, Peter, sittin' there noddin' an' grinnin'
like a what-you-may-call-it?" demanded the Duke, coming suddenly
out of a snooze. "Someone writin' pretty things to you, what?"
"Charming things," said Lord Peter.
The Duke eyed him doubtfully.
"Hope to goodness you don't go and marry a chorus beauty," he mut-
tered inwardly, and returned to the Times.
Over dinner I had set myself to discover Cummings's tastes, and found
them to run in the direction of the music-hall stage. During his first glass
I drew him out in this direction, your lordship having kindly given me
opportunities of seeing every performance in London, and I spoke more
freely than I should consider becoming in the ordinary way in order to
make myself pleasant to him. I may say that his views on women and
the stage were such as I should have expected from a man who would
smoke with your lordship's port.
With the second glass I introduced the subject of your lordship's in-
quiries. In order to save time I will write our conversation in the form
of a dialogue, as nearly as possible as it actually took place.
Cummings: You seem to get many opportunities of seeing a bit of life,
Mr. Bunter.
Bunter: One can always make opportunities if one knows how.
Cummings: Ah, it's very easy for you to talk, Mr. Bunter. You're not
married, for one thing.


WHOSE BODY?
97
Bunter: I know better than that, Mr. Cummings.
Cummings: So do I—now, when it's too late. (He sighed heavily, and
I filled up his glass.)
Bunter: Does Mrs. Cummings live with you at Battersea?
Cummings: Yes, her and me we do for my governor. Such a life! Not
but what there's a char comes in by the day. But what's a char? I can tell
you it's dull all by ourselves in that d—d Battersea suburb.
Bunter: Not very convenient for the Halls, of course.
Cummings: I believe you. It's all right for you, here in Piccadilly, right
on the spot as you might say. And I daresay your governor's often out
all night, eh?
Bunter: Oh, frequently, Mr. Cummings.
Cummings: And I daresay you take the opportunity to slip off your-
self every so often, eh?
Bunter: Well, what do you think, Mr. Cummings?
Cummings: That's it; there you are! But what's a man to do with a
nagging fool of a wife and a blasted scientific doctor for a governor, as
sits up all night cutting up dead bodies and experimenting with frogs?
Bunter: Surely he goes out sometimes.
Cummings: Not often. And always back before twelve. And the way
he goes on if he rings the bell and you ain't there. I give you my word,
Mr. Bunter.
Bunter: Temper?
Cummings: No-o-o—but looking through you, nasty-like, as if you was
on that operating table of his and he was going to cut you up. Nothing a
man could rightly complain of, you understand, Mr. Bunter, just nasty
looks. Not but what I will say he's very correct. Apologizes if he's been
inconsiderate. But what's the good of that when he's been and gone and
lost you your night's rest?
Bunter: How does he do that? Keeps you up late, you mean?
Cummings: Not him; far from it. House locked up and household to
bed at half-past ten. That's his little rule. Not but what I'm glad enough
to go as a rule, it's that dreary. Still, when I do go to bed I like to go to
sleep.
Bunter: What does he do? Walk about the house?
Cummings: Doesn't he? All night. And in and out of the private door
to the hospital.
Bunter: You don't mean to say, Mr. Cummings, a great specialist like
Sir Julian Freke does night work at the hospital?
Cummings: No, no; he does his own work—research work, as you may
say. Cuts people up. They say he's very clever. Could take you or me to
pieces like a clock, Mr. Bunter, and put us together again.


98
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Bunter: Do you sleep in the basement, then, to hear him so plain?
Cummings: No; our bedroom's at the top. But, Lord! what's that?
He'll bang the door so you can hear him all over the house.
Bunter: Ah, many's the time I've had to speak to Lord Peter about
that. And talking all night. And baths.
Cummings: Baths? You may well say that, Mr. Bunter. Baths? Me
and my wife sleep next to the cistern-room. Noise fit to wake the dead.
All hours. When d'you think he chose to have a bath, no later than last
Monday night, Mr. Bunter?
Bunter: I've known them to do it at two in the morning, Mr. Cum-
mings.
Cummings: Have you, now? Well, this was at three. Three o'clock in
the morning we was waked up. I give you my word.
Bunter: You don't say so, Mr. Cummings.
Cummings: He cuts up diseases, you see, Mr. Bunter, and then he
don't like to go to bed till he's washed the bacilluses off, if you under-
stand me. Very natural, too, I daresay. But what I say is, the middle of
the night's no time for a gentleman to be occupying his mind with
diseases.
Bunter: These great men have their own way of doing things.
Cummings: Well, all I can say is, it isn't my way.
(I could believe that, your lordship. Cummings has no signs of great-
ness about him, and his trousers are not what I would wish to see in a
man of his profession.)
Bunter: Is he habitually as late as that, Mr. Cummings?
Cummings: Well, no, Mr. Bunter, I will say, not as a general rule.
He apologized, too, in the morning, and said he would have the cistern
seen to—and very necessary, in my opinion, for the air gets into the pipes,
and the groaning and screeching as goes on is something awful. Just like
Niagara, if you follow me, Mr. Bunter, I give you my word.
Bunter: Well, that's as it should be, Mr. Cummings. One can put up
with a great deal from a gentleman that has the manners to apologize.
And, of course, sometimes they can't help themselves. A visitor will come
in unexpectedly and keep them late, perhaps.
Cummings: That's true enough, Mr. Bunter. Now I come to think of
it, there was a gentleman come in on Monday evening. Not that he came
late, but he stayed about an hour, and may have put Sir Julian behind-
hand.
Bunter: Very likely. Let me give you some more port, Mr. Cummings.
Or a little of Lord Peter's old brandy.
Cummings: A little of the brandy, thank you, Mr. Bunter. I suppose
you have the run of the cellar here. (He winked at me.)


WHOSE BODY?
99
"Trust me for that," I said, and I fetched him the Napoleon. I assure
your lordship it went to my heart to pour it out for a man like that. How-
ever, seeing we had got on the right tack, I felt it wouldn't be wasted.
"I'm sure I wish it was always gentlemen that come here at night," I
said. (Your lordship will excuse me, I am sure, making such a sug-
gestion. )
("Good God," said Lord Peter, "I wish Bunter was less thorough in
his methods.")
Cummings: Oh, he's that sort, his lordship, is he? (He chuckled and
poked me. I suppress a portion of his conversation here, which could not
fail to be as offensive to your lordship as it was to myself. He went on:)
No, it's none of that with Sir Julian. Very few visitors at night, and al-
ways gentlemen. And going early as a rule, like the one I mentioned.
Bunter: Just as well. There's nothing I find more wearisome, Mr.
Cummings, than sitting up to see visitors out.
Cummings: Oh, I didn't see this one out. Sir Julian let him out himself
at ten o'clock or thereabouts. I heard the gentleman shout "Good-night"
and off he goes.
Bunter: Does Sir Julian always do that?
Cummings: Well, that depends. If he sees visitors downstairs, he lets
them out himself: if he sees them upstairs in the library, he rings for me.
Bunter: This was a downstairs visitor, then?
Cummings: Oh, yes. Sir Julian opened the door to him, I remember.
He happened to be working in the hall. Though now I come to think of
it, they went up to the library afterwards. That's funny. I know they did,
because I happened to go up to the hall with coals, and I heard them
upstairs. Besides, Sir Julian rang for me in the library a few minutes
later. Still, anyway, we heard him go at ten, or it may have been a bit
before. He hadn't only stayed about three-quarters of an hour. However,
as I was saying, there was Sir Julian banging in and out of the private
door all night, and a bath at three in the morning, and up again for
breakfast at eight—it beats me. If I had all his money, curse me if I'd go
poking about with dead men in the middle of the night. I'd find some-
thing better to do with my time, eh, Mr. Bunter—
I need not repeat any more of his conversation, as it became unpleas-
ant and incoherent, and I could not bring him back to the events of Mon-
day night. I was unable to get rid of him till three. He cried on my neck,
and said I was the bird, and you were the governor for him. He said that
Sir Julian would be greatly annoyed with him for coming home so late,
but Sunday night was his night out and if anything was said about it he
would give notice. I think he will be ill-advised to do so, as I feel he is


100
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
not a man I could conscientiously recommend if I were in Sir Julian
Freke's place. I noticed that his boot-heels were slightly worn down.
I should wish to add, as a tribute to the great merits of your lordship's
cellar, that, although I was obliged to drink a somewhat large quantity
both of the Cockburn '68 and the 1800 Napoleon I feel no headache or
other ill effects this morning.
Trusting that your lordship is deriving real benefit from the country
air, and that the little information I have been able to obtain will prove
satisfactory, I remain.
With respectful duty to all the family,
Obediently yours,
Mervyn Bunter.
"Y'know," said Lord Peter thoughtfully to himself, "I sometimes think
Mervyn Bunter's pullin' my leg. What is it, Soames?"
"A telegram, my lord."
"Parker," said Lord Peter, opening it. It said:
"Description recognised Chelsea Workhouse. Unknown vagrant in-
jured street accident Wednesday week. Died workhouse Monday. De-
livered St. Luke's same evening by order Freke. Much puzzled. Parker."
"Hurray!" said Lord Peter, suddenly sparkling. "I'm glad I've puzzled
Parker. Gives me confidence in myself. Makes me feel like Sherlock
Holmes. 'Perfectly simple, Watson.' Dash it all, though! this is a beastly
business. Still, it's puzzled Parker."
"What's the matter?" asked the Duke, getting up and yawning.
"Marching orders," said Peter, "back to town. Many thanks for your
hospitality, old bird—I'm feelin' no end better. Ready to tackle Professor
Moriarty or Leon Kestrel or any of 'em."
"I do wish you'd keep out of the police courts," grumbled the Duke.
"It makes it so dashed awkward for me, havin' a brother makin' himself
conspicuous."
"Sorry, Gerald," said the other; "I know I'm a beastly blot on the
'scutcheon."
"Why can't you marry and settle down and live quietly, doin' some-
thing useful?" said the Duke, unappeased.
"Because that was a wash-out as you perfectly well know," said Peter;
"besides," he added cheerfully, "I'm bein' no end useful. You may come
to want me yourself, you never know. When anybody comes blackmailin'
you, Gerald, or your first deserted wife turns up unexpectedly from the
West Indies, you'll realise the pull of havin' a private detective in the
family. 'Delicate private business arranged with tact and discretion. In-


WHOSE BODY?
101
vestigations undertaken. Divorce evidence a specialty. Every guarantee!'
Come, now."
"Ass!" said Lord Denver, throwing the newspaper violently into his
armchair. "When do you want the car?"
"Almost at once. I say, Jerry, I'm taking Mother up with me."
"Why should she be mixed up in it?"
"Well, I want her help."
"I call it most unsuitable," said the Duke.
The Dowager Duchess, however, made no objection.
"I used to know her quite well," she said, "when she was Christine
Ford. Why, dear?"
"Because," said Lord Peter, "there's a terrible piece of news to be
broken to her about her husband."
"Is he dead, dear?"
"Yes; and she will have to come and identify him."
"Poor Christine."
"Under very revolting circumstances, Mother."
"I'll come with you, dear."
"Thank you, Mother, you're a brick. D'you mind gettin' your things
on straight away and comin' up with me? I'll tell you about it in the car."
CHAPTER X
MR. parker, a faithful though doubting Thomas, had duly secured his
medical student: a large young man like an overgrown puppy, with inno-
cent eyes and a freckled face. He sat on the Chesterfield before Lord
Peter's library fire, bewildered in equal measure by his errand, his sur-
roundings and the drink which he was absorbing. His palate, though
untutored, was naturally a good one, and he realised that even to call
this liquid a drink—the term ordinarily used by him to designate cheap
whisky, post-war beer or a dubious glass of claret in a Soho restaurant
—was a sacrilege; this was something outside normal experience: a genie
in a bottle.
The man called Parker, whom he had happened to run across the
evening before in the public-house at the corner of Prince of Wales
Road, seemed to be a good sort. He had insisted on bringing him round
to see this friend of his, who lived splendidly in Piccadilly. Parker was


102
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
quite understandable; he put him down as a government servant, or per-
haps something in the City. The friend was embarrassing; he was a lord,
to begin with, and his clothes were a kind of rebuke to the world at large.
He talked the most fatuous nonsense, certainly, but in a disconcerting
way. He didn't dig into a joke and get all the fun out of it; he made it in
passing, so to speak, and skipped away to something else before your
retort was ready. He had a truly terrible man-servant—the sort you read
about in books—who froze the marrow in your bones with silent criti-
cism. Parker appeared to bear up under the strain, and this made you
think more highly of Parker; he must be more habituated to the sur-
roundings of the great than you would think to look at him. You won-
dered what the carpet had cost on which Parker was carelessly spilling
cigar ash; your father was an upholsterer—Mr. Piggott, of Piggott & Pig-
gott, Liverpool—and you knew enough about carpets to know that you
couldn't even guess at the price of this one. When you moved your head
on the bulging silk cushion in the corner of the sofa, it made you wish
you shaved more often and more carefully. The sofa was a monster—but
even so, it hardly seemed big enough to contain you. This Lord Peter was
not very tall—in fact, he was rather a small man, but he didn't look un-
dersized. He looked right; he made you feel that to be six-foot-three was
rather vulgarly assertive; you felt like Mother's new drawing-room cur-
tains—all over great big blobs. But everybody was very decent to you,
and nobody said anything you couldn't understand, or sneered at you.
There were some frightfully deep-looking books on the shelves all round,
and you had looked into a great folio Dante which was lying on the
table, but your hosts were talking quite ordinarily and rationally about
the sort of books you read yourself—clinking good love stories and de-
tective stories. You had read a lot of those, and could give an opinion,
and they listened to what you had to say, though Lord Peter had a funny
way of talking about books, too, as if the author had confided in him
beforehand, and told him how the story was put together, and which bit
was written first. It reminded you of the way old Freke took a body to
pieces.
"Thing I object to in detective stories," said Mr. Piggott, "is the way
fellows remember every bloomin' thing that's happened to 'em within the
last six months. They're always ready with their time of day and was it
rainin' or not, and what were they doin' on such an' such a day. Reel it
all off like a page of poetry. But one ain't like that in real life, d'you think
so, Lord Peter?" Lord Peter smiled, and young Piggott, instantly em-
barrassed, appealed to his earlier acquaintance. "You know what I
mean, Parker. Come now. One day's so like another, I'm sure I couldn't


WHOSE BODY?
103
remember—well, I might remember yesterday, p'r'aps, but I couldn't be
certain about what I was doin' last week if I was to be shot for it."
"No," said Parker, "and evidence given in police statements sounds
just as impossible. But they don't really get it like that, you know. I mean,
a man doesn't just say, 'Last Friday I went out at 10 a.m. to buy a mut-
ton chop. As I was turning into Mortimer Street I noticed a girl of about
twenty-two with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a green jumper,
check skirt, Panama hat and black shoes, riding a Royal Sunbeam Cycle
at about ten miles an hour turning the corner by the Church of St. Simon
and St. Jude on the wrong side of the road riding towards the market
place!' It amounts to that, of course, but it's really wormed out of him
by a series of questions."
"And in short stories," said Lord Peter, "it has to be put in statement
form, because the real conversation would be so long and twaddly and
tedious, and nobody would have the patience to read it. Writers have
to consider their readers, if any, y'see."
"Yes," said Mr. Piggott, "but I bet you most people would find it
jolly difficult to remember, even if you asked 'em things. I should—of
course, I know I'm a bit of a fool, but then, most people are, ain't they?
You know what I mean. Witnesses ain't detectives, they're just average
idiots like you and me."
"Quite so," said Lord Peter, smiling as the force of the last phrase
sank into its unhappy perpetrator; "you mean, if I were to ask you in a
general way what you were doin'—say, a week ago today, you wouldn't
be able to tell me a thing about it offhand?"
"No—I'm sure I shouldn't." He considered. "No. I was in at the Hos-
pital as usual, I suppose, and, being Tuesday, there'd be a lecture on
something or the other—dashed if I know what—and in the evening I
went out with Tommy Pringle—no, that must have been Monday—or was
it Wednesday? I tell you, I couldn't swear to anything."
"You do yourself an injustice," said Lord Peter gravely. "I'm sure,
for instance, you recollect what work you were doing in the dissecting-
room on that day, for example."
'Lord, no! not for certain. I mean, I daresay it might come back to me
if I thought for a long time, but I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law."
"I'll bet you half-a-crown to sixpence," said Lord Peter, "that you'll
remember within five minutes."
"I'm sure I can't."
"We'll see. Do you keep a notebook of the work you do when you
dissect? Drawings or anything?"
"Oh, yes."
"Think of that. What's the last thing you did in it?"


104
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"That's easy, because I only did it this morning. It was leg muscles."
"Yes. Who was the subject?"
"An old woman of sorts; died of pneumonia."
"Yes. Turn back the pages of your drawing book in your mind. What
came before that?"
"Oh, some animals—still legs; I'm doing motor muscles at present. Yes.
That was old Cunningham's demonstration on comparative anatomy. I
did rather a good thing of a hare's legs and a frog's, and rudimentary
legs on a snake."
"Yes. Which day does Mr. Cunningham lecture?"
"Friday."
"Friday; yes. Turn back again. What comes before that?"
Mr. Piggott shook his head.
"Do your drawings of legs begin on the right-hand page or the left-
hand page? Can you see the first drawing?"
"Yes—yes—I can see the date written at the top. It's a section of a frog's
hind leg, on the right-hand page."
"Yes. Think of the open book in your mind's eye. What is opposite
to it?"
This demanded some mental concentration.
"Something round—coloured—oh, yes—it's a hand."
"Yes. You went on from the muscles of the hand and arm to leg- and
foot-muscles?"
"Yes; that's right. I've got a set of drawings of arms."
"Yes. Did you make those on the Thursday?"
"No; I'm never in the dissecting-room on Thursday."
"On Wednesday, perhaps?"
"Yes; I must have made them on Wednesday. Yes; I did. I went in
there after we'd seen those tetanus patients in the morning. I did them
on Wednesday afternoon. I know I went back because I wanted to finish
'em. I worked rather hard—for me. That's why I remember."
"Yes; you went back to finish them. When had you begun them, then?"
"Why, the day before."
"The day before. That was Tuesday, wasn't it?"
"I've lost count—yes, the day before Wednesday—yes, Tuesday."
"Yes. Were they a man's arms or a woman's arms?"
"Oh, a man's arms."
"Yes; last Tuesday, a week ago today, you were dissecting a man's
arms in the dissecting-room. Sixpence, please."
"By Jove!"
"Wait a moment. You know a lot more about it than that. You've no
idea how much you know. You know what kind of man he was."


WHOSE BODY?
105
"Oh, I never saw him complete, you know. I got there a bit late that
day, I remember. I'd asked for an arm specially, because I was rather
weak in arms, and Watts—that's the attendant—had promised to save me
one."
"Yes. You have arrived late and found your arm waiting for you. You
are dissecting it—taking your scissors and slitting up the skin and pinning
it back. Was it very young, fair skin?"
"Oh, no—no. Ordinary skin, I think—with dark hairs on it—yes, that
was it."
"Yes. A lean, stringy arm, perhaps, with no extra fat anywhere?"
"Oh, no—I was rather annoyed about that. I wanted a good, muscular
arm, but it was rather poorly developed and the fat got in my way."
"Yes; a sedentary man who didn't do much manual work."
"That's right."
"Yes. You dissected the hand, for instance, and made a drawing of it.
You would have noticed any hard calluses."
"Oh, there was nothing of that sort."
"No. But should you say it was a young man's arm? Firm young flesh
and limber joints?"
"No—no."
"No. Old and stringy, perhaps."
"No. Middle-aged—with rheumatism. I mean, there was a chalky de-
posit in the joints, and the fingers were a bit swollen."
"Yes. A man about fifty."
"About that."
"Yes. There were other students at work on the same body."
"Oh, yes."
"Yes. And they made all the usual sort of jokes about it."
"I expect so—oh, yes!"
"You can remember some of them. Who is your local funny man, so
to speak?"
'Tommy Pringle."
"What was Tommy Pringle doing?"
"Can't remember."
"Whereabouts was Tommy Pringle working?"
"Over by the instrument cupboard—by sink C."
"Yes. Get a picture of Tommy Pringle in your mind's eye."
Piggott began to laugh.
"I remember now. Tommy Pringle said the old Sheeny—"
"Why did he call him a Sheeny?"
"I don't know. But I know he did."
"Perhaps he looked like it. Did you see his head?"


106
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No."
"Who had the head?"
"I don't know—oh, yes, I do, though. Old Freke bagged the head him-
self, and little Bouncible Binns was very cross about it, because he'd been
promised a head to do with old Scrooger."
"I see. What was Sir Julian doing with the head?"
"He called us up and gave us a jaw on spinal haemorrhage and nerv-
ous lesions."
"Yes. Well, go back to Tommy Pringle."
Tommy Pringle's joke was repeated, not without some embarrassment.
"Quite so. Was that all?"
"No. The chap who was working with Tommy said that sort of thing
came from over-feeding."
"I deduce that Tommy Pringle's partner was interested in the alimen-
tary canal."
"Yes; and Tommy said, if he'd thought they'd feed you like that he'd
go to the workhouse himself."
"Then the man was a pauper from the workhouse?"
"Well, he must have been, I suppose."
"Are workhouse paupers usually fat and well-fed?"
"Well, no—come to think of it, not as a rule."
"In fact, it struck Tommy Pringle and his friend that this was some-
thing a little out of the way in a workhouse subject?"
"Yes."
"And if the alimentary canal was so entertaining to these gentlemen,
I imagine the subject had come by his death shortly after a full meal."
"Yes—oh, yes—he'd have had to, wouldn't he?"
"Well, I don't know," said Lord Peter. "That's in your department,
you know. That would be your inference, from what they said."
"Oh, yes. Undoubtedly."
"Yes; you wouldn't, for example, expect them to make that observa-
tion if the patient had been ill for a long time and fed on slops."
"Of course not."
"Well, you see, you really know a lot about it. On Tuesday week you
were dissecting the arm muscles of a rheumatic middle-aged Jew, of
sedentary habits, who had died shortly after eating a heavy meal, of
some injury producing spinal haemorrhage and nervous lesions, and so
forth, and who was presumed to come from the workhouse?"
"Yes."
"And you could swear to those facts, if need were?"
"Well, if you put it in that way, I suppose I could."
"Of course you could."


WHOSE BODY?
107
Mr. Piggott sat for some moments in contemplation.
"I say," he said at last, "I did know all that, didn't I?"
"Oh, yes—you knew it all right—like Socrates's slave."
"Who's he?"
"A person in a book I used to read as a boy."
"Oh—does he come in 'The Last Days of Pompeii'?"
"No—another book—I daresay you escaped it. It's rather dull."
"I never read much except Henty and Fenimore Cooper at school.
. . . But—have I got rather an extra good memory, then?"
"You have a better memory than you credit yourself with."
"Then why can't I remember all the medical stuff? It all goes out of
my head like a sieve."
"Well, why can't you?" said Lord Peter, standing on the hearthrug
and smiling down at his guest.
"Well," said the young man, "the chaps who examine one don't ask
the same sort of questions you do."
"No?"
"No—they leave you to remember all by yourself. And it's beastly hard.
Nothing to catch hold of, don't you know? But, I say—how did you know
about Tommy Pringle being the funny man and—"
"I didn't, till you told me."
"No; I know. But how did you know he'd be there if you did ask? I
mean to say—I say," said Mr. Piggott, who was becoming mellowed by
influences themselves not unconnected with the alimentary canal—"I say,
are you rather clever, or am I rather stupid?"
"No, no," said Lord Peter, "it's me. I'm always askin' such stupid
questions, everybody thinks I must mean somethin' by 'em."
This was too involved for Mr. Piggott.
"Never mind," said Parker, soothingly, "he's always like that. You
mustn't take any notice. He can't help it. It's premature senile decay,
often observed in the families of hereditary legislators. Go away, Wimsey,
and play us the 'Beggar's Opera,' or something."
"That's good enough, isn't it?" said Lord Peter, when the happy Mr.
Piggott had been despatched home after a really delightful evening.
"I'm afraid so," said Parker. "But it seems almost incredible."
"There's nothing incredible in human nature," said Lord Peter; "at
least, in educated human nature. Have you got that exhumation order?"
"I shall have it tomorrow. I thought of fixing up with the workhouse
people for tomorrow afternoon. I shall have to go and see them first."
"Right you are; IH let my mother know."
"I begin to feel like you, Wimsey, I don't like this job."
"I like it a deal better than I did."


108
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"You are really certain we're not making a mistake?"
Lord Peter had strolled across to the window. The curtain was not
perfectly drawn, and he stood gazing out through the gap into lighted
Piccadilly. At this he turned round:
"If we are," he said, "we shall know tomorrow, and no harm will have
been done. But I rather think you will receive a certain amount of con-
firmation on your way home. Look here, Parker, d'you know, if I were
you I'd spend the night here. There's a spare bedroom; I can easily put
you up."
Parker stared at him.
"Do you mean—I'm likely to be attacked?"
"I think it very likely indeed."
"Is there anybody in the street?"
"Not now; there was half-an-hour ago."
"When Piggott left?"
"Yes."
"I say—I hope the boy is in no danger."
"That's what I went down to see. I don't think so. Fact is, I don't
suppose anybody would imagine we'd exactly made a confidant of Pig-
gott. But I think you and I are in danger. You'll stay?"
"I'm damned if I will, Wimsey. Why should I run away?"
"Bosh!" said Peter. "You'd run away all right if you believed me, and
why not? You don't believe me. In fact, you're still not certain I'm on
the right tack. Go in peace, but don't say I didn't warn you."
"I won't; I'll dictate a message with my dying breath to say I was
convinced."
"Well, don't walk—take a taxi."
"Very well, I'll do that."
"And don't let anybody else get into it."
"No."
It was a raw, unpleasant night. A taxi deposited a load of people re-
turning from the theatre at the block of flats next door, and Parker se-
cured it for himself. He was just giving the address to the driver, when a
man came hastily running up from a side street. He was in evening dress
and an overcoat. He rushed up, signalling frantically.
"Sir—sir!—dear me! why, it's Mr. Parker! How fortunate! If you would
be so kind—summoned from the club—a sick friend—can't find a taxi—
everybody going home from the theatre—if I might share your cab—you
are returning to Bloomsbury? I want Russell Square—if I might presume
—a matter of life and death."
He spoke in hurried gasps, as though he had been running violently
and far. Parker promptly stepped out of the taxi.


WHOSE BODY?
109
"Delighted to be of service to you, Sir Julian," he said; "take my taxi.
I am going down to Craven Street myself, but I'm in no hurry. Pray
make use of the cab."
"It's extremely kind of you," said the surgeon. "I am ashamed—"
"That's all right," said Parker, cheerily. "I can wait." He assisted
Freke into the taxi. "What number? 24 Russell Square, driver, and look
sharp."
The taxi drove off. Parker remounted the stairs and rang Lord Peter's
bell.
"Thanks, old man," he said. "I'll stop the night, after all."
"Come in," said Wimsey.
"Did you see that?" asked Parker.
"I saw something. What happened exactly?"
Parker told his story. "Frankly," he said, "I've been thinking you a bit
mad, but now I'm not quite so sure of it."
Peter laughed.
"Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed. Bunter,
Mr. Parker will stay the night."
"Look here, Wimsey, let's have another look at this business. Where's
that letter?"
Lord Peter produced Bunter's essay in dialogue. Parker studied it for
a short time in silence.
"You know, Wimsey, I'm as full of objections to this idea as an egg
is of meat."
"So'm I, old son. That's why I want to dig up our Chelsea pauper.
But trot out your objections."
"Well—"
"Well, look here, I don't pretend to be able to fill in all the blanks
myself. But here we have two mysterious occurrences in one night, and
a complete chain connecting the one with another through one particular
person. It's beastly, but it's not unthinkable."
"Yes, I know all that. But there are one or two quite definite stum-
bling-blocks."
"Yes, I know. But, see here. On the one hand, Levy disappeared after
being last seen looking for Prince of Wales Road at nine o'clock. At
eight next morning a dead man, not unlike him in general outline, is
discovered in a bath in Queen Caroline Mansions. Levy, by Freke's own
admission, was going to see Freke. By information received from Chelsea
workhouse a dead man, answering to the description of the Battersea
corpse in its natural state, was delivered that same day to Freke. We
have Levy with a past, and no future, as it were; an unknown vagrant


110
THREE FOR LORD PETER W1MSEY
with a future (in the cemetery) and no past, and Freke stands between
their future and their past."
"That looks all right—"
"Yes. Now, further: Freke has a motive for getting rid of Levy—an
old jealousy."
"Very old—and not much of a motive."
"People have been known to do that sort of thing.* You're thinking
that people don't keep up old jealousies for twenty years or so. Perhaps
not. Not just primitive, brute jealousy. That means a word and a blow.
But the thing that rankles is hurt vanity. That sticks. Humiliation. And
we've all got a sore spot we don't like to have touched. I've got it. You've
got it. Some blighter said hell knew no fury like a woman scorned.
Stickin' it on to women, poor devils. Sex is every man's loco spot—you
needn't fidget, you know it's true—he'll take a disappointment, but not a
humiliation. I knew a man once who'd been turned down—not too chari-
tably—by a girl he was engaged to. He spoke quite decently about her. I
asked what had become of her. 'Oh,' he said, 'she married the other fel-
low.' And then burst out-couldn't help himself. 'Lord, yes!' he cried. 'To
think of it—jilted for a Scotchman!' I don't know why he didn't like Scots,
but that was what got him on the raw. Look at Freke. I've read his books.
His attacks on his antagonists are savage. And he's a scientist. Yet he
can't bear opposition, even in his work, which is where any first-class
man is most sane and open-minded. Do you think he's a man to take a
beating from any man on a side-issue? On a man's most sensitive side-
issue? People are opinionated about side-issues, you know. I see red if
anybody questions my judgment about a book. And Levy—who was no-
body twenty years ago—romps in and carries off Freke's girl from under
his nose. It isn't the girl Freke would bother about—it's having his aristo-
cratic nose put out of joint by a little Jewish nobody.
"There's another thing. Freke's got another side-issue. He likes crime.
In that criminology book of his he gloats over a hardened murderer. I've
* Lord Peter was not without authority for his opinion: "With respect to the
alleged motive, it is of great importance to see whether there was a motive for com-
mitting such a crime, or whether there was not, or whether there is an improba-
bility of its having been committed so strong as not to be overpowered by positive
evidence. But // there be any motive which can be assigned, I am bound to tell you
that the inadequacy of that motive is of little importance. We know, from the ex-
perience of criminal courts, that atrocious crimes of this sort have been committed
from very slight motives; not merely from malice and revenge, but to gain a small
pecuniary advantage, and to drive off for a time pressing difficulties."—L. C. J.
Campbell, summing up in Reg. v. Palmer, Shorthand Report, p. 308 C. C. C, May,
1856, Sess. Pa. 5. (Italics mine. D. L. S.)


WHOSE BODY?
Ill
read it, and I've seen the admiration simply glaring out between the lines
whenever he writes about a callous and successful criminal. He reserves
his contempt for the victims or the penitents or the men who lose their
heads and get found out. His heroes are Edmond de la Pommerais, who
persuaded his mistress into becoming an accessory to her own murder,
and George Joseph Smith of Brides-in-a-bath fame, who could make
passionate love to his wife in the night and carry out his plot to murder
her in the morning. After all, he thinks conscience is a sort of vermiform
appendix. Chop it out and you'll feel all the better. Freke isn't troubled
by the usual conscientious deterrent. Witness his own hand in his books.
Now again. The man who went to Levy's house in his place knew the
house: Freke knew the house; he was a red-haired man, smaller than
Levy, but not much smaller, since he could wear his clothes without
appearing ludicrous: you have seen Freke—you know his height—about
five-foot-eleven, I suppose, and his auburn mane; he probably wore sur-
gical gloves: Freke is a surgeon; he was a methodical and daring man:
surgeons are obliged to be both daring and methodical. Now take the
other side. The man who got hold of the Battersea corpse had to have
access to dead bodies. Freke obviously had access to dead bodies. He
had to be cool and quick and callous about handling a dead body. Sur-
geons are all that. He had to be a strong man to carry the body across
the roofs and dump it in at Thipps's window. Freke is a powerful man
and a member of the Alpine Club. He probably wore surgical gloves and
he let the body down from the roof with a surgical bandage. This points
to a surgeon again. He undoubtedly lived in the neighbourhood. Freke
lives next door. The girl you interviewed heard a bump on the roof of
the end house. That is the house next to Freke's. Every time we look at
Freke, he leads somewhere, whereas Milligan and Thipps and Crim-
plesham and all the other people we've honoured with our suspicion
simply led nowhere."
"Yes; but it's not quite so simple as you make out. What was Levy
doing in that surreptitious way at Freke's on Monday night?"
"Well, you have Freke's explanation."
"Rot, Wimsey. You said yourself it wouldn't do."
"Excellent. It won't do. Therefore Freke was lying. Why should he lie
about it, unless he had some object in hiding the truth?"
"Well, but why mention it at all?"
"Because Levy, contrary to all expectation, had been seen at the corner
of the road. That was a nasty accident for Freke. He thought it best to
be beforehand with an explanation—of sorts. He reckoned, of course, on
nobody's ever connecting Levy with Battersea Park."


112
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Well, then, we come back to the first question: Why did Levy go
there?”
“I don't know, but he was got there somehow. Why did Freke buy
all those Peruvian Oil shares?”
"I don't know,” said Parker in his turn.
“Anyway,” went on Wimsey, “Freke expected him, and made arrange-
ments to let him in himself, so that Cummings shouldn't see who the
caller was."
"But the caller left again at ten.”
"Oh, Charles! I did not expect this of you. This is the purest Suggery!
Who saw him go? Somebody said 'Good-night and walked away down
the street. And you believe it was Levy because Freke didn't go out of
his way to explain that it wasn't.”
“D'you mean that Freke walked cheerfully out of the house to Park
Lane, and left Levy behind-dead or alive-for Cummings to find?”
“We have Cummings's word that he did nothing of the sort. A few
minutes after the steps walked away from the house, Freke rang the li-
brary bell and told Cummings to shut up for the night."
“Then,”
"Well-there's a side door to the house, I suppose—in fact, you know
there is-Cummings said so-through the hospital.”
"Yes-well, where was Levy?”
"Levy went up into the library and never came down. You've been in
Freke's library. Where would you have put him?”
"In my bedroom next door.”
“Then that's where he did put him.”
“But suppose the man went in to turn down the bed?”
“Beds are turned down by the housekeeper, earlier than ten o'clock."
“Yes. . . . But Cummings heard Freke about the house all night."
"He heard him go in and out two or three times. He'd expect him to
do that, anyway.”
“Do you mean to say Freke got all that job finished before three in
the morning?”
“Why not?"
“Quick work."
"Well, call it quick work. Besides, why three? Cummings never saw
him again till he called him for eight o'clock breakfast.”
“But he was having a bath at three.”
"I don't say he didn't get back from Park Lane before three. But I
don't suppose Cummings went and looked through the bathroom key-
hole to see if he was in the bath.”
Parker considered again.


WHOSE BODY?
113
"How about Crimplesham's pince-nez?" he asked.
"That is a bit mysterious," said Lord Peter.
"And why Thipps's bathroom?"
"Why, indeed? Pure accident, perhaps—or pure devilry."
"Do you think all this elaborate scheme could have been put together
in a night, Wimsey?"
"Far from it. It was conceived as soon as that man who bore a super-
ficial resemblance to Levy came into the workhouse. He had several
days."
"I see."
"Freke gave himself away at the inquest. He and Grimbold disagreed
about the length of the man's illness. If a small man (comparatively
speaking) like Grimbold presumes to disagree with a man like Freke,
it's because he is sure of his ground."
"Then—if your theory is sound—Freke made a mistake."
"Yes. A very slight one. He was guarding, with unnecessary caution,
against starting a train of thought in the mind of anybody—say, the work-
house doctor. Up till then he'd been reckoning on the fact that people
don't think a second time about anything (a body, say) that's once been
accounted for."
"What made him lose his head?"
"A chain of unforeseen accidents. Levy's having been recognised—my
mother's son having foolishly advertised in the Times his connection with
the Battersea end of the mystery—Detective Parker (whose photograph
has been a little prominent in the illustrated press lately) seen sitting
next door to the Duchess of Denver at the inquest. His aim in life was
to prevent the two ends of the problem from linking up. And there were
two of the links, literally side by side. Many criminals are wrecked by
over-caution."
Parker was silent.
CHAPTER XI
"a regular pea-souper, by Jove," said Lord Peter.
Parker grunted, and struggled irritably into an overcoat.
"It affords me, if I may say so, the greatest satisfaction," continued


114
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
the noble lord, "that in a collaboration like ours all the uninteresting
and disagreeable routine work is done by you."
Parker grunted again.
"Do you anticipate any difficulty about the warrant?" inquired Lord
Peter.
Parker grunted a third time.
"I suppose you've seen to it that all this business is kept quiet?"
"Of course."
"You've muzzled the workhouse people?"
"Of course."
"And the police?"
"Yes."
"Because, if you haven't there'll probably be nobody to arrest."
"My dear Wimsey, do you think I'm a fool?"
"I had no such hope."
Parker grunted finally and departed.
Lord Peter settled down to a perusal of his Dante. It afforded him no
solace. Lord Peter was hampered in his career as a private detective by
a public-school education. Despite Parker's admonitions, he was not
always able to discount it. His mind had been warped in its young
growth by "Raffles" and "Sherlock Holmes," or the sentiments for which
they stand. He belonged to a family which had never shot a fox.
"I am an amateur," said Lord Peter.
Nevertheless, while communing with Dante, he made up his mind.
In the afternoon he found himself in Harley Street. Sir Julian Freke
might be consulted about one's nerves from two till four on Tuesdays
and Fridays. Lord Peter rang the bell.
"Have you an appointment, sir?" inquired the man who opened the
door.
"No," said Lord Peter, "but will you give Sir Julian my card? I think
it possible he may see me without one."
He sat down in the beautiful room in which Sir Julian's patients
awaited his healing counsel. It was full of people. Two or three fashion-
ably dressed women were discussing shops and servants together, and
teasing a toy griffon. A big, worried-looking man by himself in a corner
looked at his watch twenty times a minute. Lord Peter knew him by
sight. It was Wintrington, a millionaire, who had tried to kill himself a
few months ago. He controlled the finances of five countries, but he
could not control his nerves. The finances of five countries were in Sir
Julian Freke's capable hands. By the fireplace sat a soldierly-looking
young man, of about Lord Peter's own age. His face was prematurely


WHOSE BODY?
115
lined and worn; he sat bolt upright, his restless eyes darting in the direc-
tion of every slightest sound. On the sofa was an elderly woman of mod-
est appearance, with a young girl. The girl seemed listless and wretched;
the woman's look showed deep affection, and anxiety tempered with a
timid hope. Close beside Lord Peter was another younger woman, with
a little girl, and Lord Peter noticed in both of them the broad cheekbones
and beautiful grey, slanting eyes of the Slav. The child, moving restlessly
about, trod on Lord Peter's patent-leather toe, and the mother admon-
ished her in French before turning to apologize to Lord Peter.
"Mais je vous en prie, madame," said the young man, "it is nothing."
"She is nervous, pauvre petite," said the young woman.
"You are seeking advice for her?"
"Yes. He is wonderful, the doctor. Figure to yourself, monsieur, she
cannot forget, poor child, the things she has seen." She leaned nearer, so
that the child might not hear. "We have escaped—from starving Russia
—six months ago. I dare not tell you—she has such quick ears, and then,
the cries, the tremblings, the convulsions—they all begin again. We were
skeletons when we arrived—mon Dieu!—but that is better now. See, she
is thin, but she is not starved. She would be fatter but for the nerves that
keep her from eating. We who are older, we forget—enfin, on apprend
a ne pas y penser—but these children! When one is young, monsieur, tout
ca impressionne trop."
Lord Peter, escaping from the thraldom of British good form, ex-
pressed himself in that language in which sympathy is not condemned
to mutism.
"But she is much better, much better," said the mother, proudly; "the
great doctor, he does marvels."
"C'est un homme precieux," said Lord Peter.
"Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint qui opere des miracles! Nous prions
pour lui, Natasha et moi, tous les jours. N'est-ce pas, chérie? And con-
sider, monsieur, that he does it all, ce grand homme, cet homme illustre,
for nothing at all. When we come here, we have not even the clothes
upon our backs—we are ruined, famished. Et avec ca que nous sommes
de bonne famille—mais hélas! monsieur, en Russie, comme vous savez,
?a ne vous vaut que des insultes—des atrocitSs. Enfin! the great Sir Julian
sees us, he says—'Madame, your little girl is very interesting to me. Say
no more. I cure her for nothing—pour ses beaux yeux,' a-t-il ajouté en
raint. Ah, monsieur, c'est un saint, un véritable saint! and Natasha is
much, much better."
"Madame, je vous en fdlicite."
"And you, monsieur? You are young, well, strong—you also suffer? It
is still the war, perhaps?"


WHOSE BODY?
117
"Yes."
"Heavy traffic sometimes goes past during the night, I expect."
"Oh, frequently."
"Just so. Now this decision you refer to—you had taken that decision."
"Yes."
"Your mind was made up?"
"Oh, yes."
"You had decided to take the action, whatever it was."
"Yes."
"Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction."
"Of comparative inaction—yes."
"Of suspense, shall we say?"
"Yes—of suspense, certainly."
"Possibly of some danger?"
"I don't know that that was in my mind at the time."
"No—it was a case in which you could not possibly consider yourself."
"If you like to put it that way."
"Quite so. Yes. You had these attacks frequently in 1918?"
"Yes—I was very ill for some months."
"Quite. Since then they have recurred less frequently?"
"Much less frequently."
"Yes—when did the last occur?"
"About nine months ago."
"Under what circumstances?"
"I was being worried by certain family matters. It was a question of
deciding about some investments, and I was largely responsible."
"Yes. You were interested last year, I think, in some police case?"
"Yes—in the recovery of Lord Attenbury's emerald necklace."
"That involved some severe mental exercise?"
"I suppose so. But I enjoyed it very much."
"Yes. Was the exertion of solving the problem attended by any bad
results physically?"
"None."
"No. You were interested, but not distressed."
"Exactly."
"Yes. You have been engaged in other investigations of the kind?"
"Yes. Little ones."
"With bad results for your health?"
"Not a bit of it. On the contrary. I took up these cases as a sort of
distraction. I had a bad knock just after the war, which didn't make
matters any better for me, don't you know."
"Ah! you are not married?"


118
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No."
"No. Will you allow me to make an examination? Just come a little
nearer to the light. I want to see your eyes. Whose advice have you had
till now?"
"Sir James Hodges'."
"Ah! yes—he was a sad loss to the medical profession. A really great
man—a true scientist. Yes. Thank you. Now I should like to try you with
this little invention."
"What's it do?"
"Well—it tells me about your nervous reactions. Will you sit here?"
The examination that followed was purely medical. When it was con-
cluded, Sir Julian said:
"Now, Lord Peter, I'll tell you about yourself in quite untechnical
language—"
"Thanks," said Peter, "that's kind of you. I'm an awful fool about
long words."
"Yes. Are you fond of private theatricals, Lord Peter?"
"Not particularly," said Peter, genuinely surprised. "Awful bore as a
rule. Why?"
"I thought you might be," said the specialist, drily. "Well, now. You
know quite well that the strain you put on your nerves during the war
has left its mark on you. It has left what I may call old wounds in your
brain. Sensations received by your nerve-endings sent messages to your
brain, and produced minute physical changes there—changes we are only
beginning to be able to detect, even with our most delicate instruments.
These changes in their turn set up sensations; or I should say, more
accurately, that sensations are the names we give to these changes of
tissue when we perceive them: we call them horror, fear, sense of re-
sponsibility and so on."
"Yes, I follow you."
"Very well. Now, if you stimulate those damaged places in your brain
again, you run the risk of opening up the old wounds. I mean, that if
you get nerve-sensations of any kind producing the reactions which we
call horror, fear, and sense of responsibility, they may go on to make
disturbance right along the old channel, and produce in their turn physi-
cal changes which you will call by the names you were accustomed to
associate with them—dread of German mines, responsibility for the lives
of your men, strained attention and the inability to distinguish small
sounds through the overpowering noise of guns."
"I see."
"This effect would be increased by extraneous circumstances produc-


WHOSE BODY?
119
ing other familiar physical sensations—night, cold or the rattling of heavy
traffic, for instance."
"Yes."
"Yes. The old wounds are nearly healed, but not quite. The ordinary
exercise of your mental faculties has no bad effect. It is only when you
excite the injured part of your brain."
"Yes, I see."
"Yes. You must avoid these occasions. You must learn to be irre-
sponsible, Lord Peter."
"My friends say I'm only too irresponsible already."
"Very likely. A sensitive nervous temperament often appears so, owing
to its mental nimbleness."
"Oh!"
"Yes. This particular responsibility you were speaking of still rests
upon you?"
"Yes, it does."
"You have not yet completed the course of action on which you have
decided?"
"Not yet."
"You feel bound to carry it through?"
"Oh, yes—I can't back out of it now."
"No. You are expecting further strain?"
"A certain amount."
"Do you expect it to last much longer?"
"Very little longer now."
"Ah! Your nerves are not all they should be."
"No?"
"No. Nothing to be alarmed about, but you must exercise care while
undergoing this strain, and afterwards you should take a complete rest.
How about a voyage in the Mediterranean or the South Seas or some-
where?"
"Thanks. I'll think about it."
"Meanwhile, to carry you over the immediate trouble I will give you
something to strengthen your nerves. It will do you no permanent good,
you understand, but it will tide you over the bad time. And I will give
you a prescription."
"Thank you."
Sir Julian got up and went into a small surgery leading out of the
consulting-room. Lord Peter watched him moving about—boiling some-
thing and writing. Presently he returned with a paper and a hypodermic
syringe.


120
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Here is the prescription. And now, if you will just roll up your sleeve,
I will deal with the necessity of the immediate moment."
Lord Peter obediently rolled up his sleeve. Sir Julian Freke selected a
portion of his forearm and anointed it with iodine.
"What's that you're goin' to stick into me. Bugs?"
The surgeon laughed.
"Not exactly," he said. He pinched up a portion of flesh between his
finger and thumb. "You've had this kind of thing before, I expect."
"Oh, yes," said Lord Peter. He watched the cool fingers, fascinated,
and the steady approach of the needle. "Yes—I've had it before—and,
d'you know—I don't care frightfully about it."
He had brought up his right hand, and it closed over the surgeon's
wrist like a vice.
The silence was like a shock. The blue eyes did not waver; they burned
down steadily upon the heavy white lids below them. Then these slowly
lifted; the grey eyes met the blue—coldly, steadily—and held them.
When lovers embrace, there seems no sound in the world but their
own breathing. So the two men breathed face to face.
"As you like, of course, Lord Peter," said Sir Julian, courteously.
"Afraid I'm rather a silly ass," said Lord Peter, "but I never could
abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me a
rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous."
"In that case," replied Sir Julian, "it would certainly be better not to
have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are
desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what
you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible."
"Oh, yes—I'll take it easy, thanks," said Lord Peter. He rolled his
sleeve down neatly. "I'm much obliged to you. If I have any further
trouble I'll look in again."
"Do—do—" said Sir Julian, cheerfully. "Only make an appointment
another time. I'm rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite
well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have
been there. It would have interested you."


CHAPTER XII
the vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could
not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men's graves.
The feel of Parker's old trench-coat beneath your fingers was com-
forting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you
should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like
Brocken spectres.
"Take care, gentlemen," said a toneless voice out of the yellow dark-
ness, "there's an open grave just hereabouts."
You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned
clay.
"Hold up, old man," said Parker.
"Where is Lady Levy?"
"In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is
wonderful, Peter."
"Isn't she?" said Lord Peter.
A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.
"Here you are," said a voice.
Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.
"Have you finished?" asked somebody.
"Nearly done, sir." The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks
—no, spades.
Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.
"Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We
are sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett."
"It's all in the day's work," said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled
to the eyes.
The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools
thrown down. Demons stooping and straining.
A black-bearded spectre at your elbow. Introduced. The Master of
the Workhouse.
"A very painful matter, Lord Peter. You will forgive me for hoping
you and Mr. Parker may be mistaken."
"I should like to be able to hope so too."
Something heaving, straining, coming up out of the ground.


122
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Steady, men. This way. Can you see? Be careful of the graves—they
lie pretty thick hereabouts. Are you ready?”
“Right you are, sir. You go on with the lantern. We can follow you.”
Lumbering footsteps. Catch hold of Parker's trench-coat again. “That
you, old man? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Levett-thought you were
Parker."
“Hullo, Wimsey-here you are.”
More graves. A headstone shouldered crookedly aslant. A trip and
jerk over the edge of the rough grass. The squeal of gravel under your
feet.
“This way, gentlemen, mind the step."
The mortuary. Raw red brick and sizzling gas-jets. Two women in
black, and Dr. Grimbold. The coffin laid on the table with a heavy
thump.
“'Ave you got that there screw-driver, Bill? Thank 'ee. Be keerful wi'
the chisel now. Not much substance to these 'ere boards, sir."
Several long creaks. A sob. The Duchess's voice, kind but peremptory.
“Hush, Christine. You mustn't cry."
A mutter of voices. The lurching departure of the Dante demons-
good, decent demons in corduroy.
Dr. Grimbold's voice-cool and detached as if in the consulting-room.
"Now-have you got that lamp, Mr. Wingate? Thank you. Yes, here
on the table, please. Be careful not to catch your elbow in the flex, Mr.
Levett. It would be better, I think, if you came on this side. Yes-yes-
thank you. That's excellent.”
The sudden brilliant circle of an electric lamp over the table. Dr.
Grimbold's beard and spectacles. Mr. Levett blowing his nose. Parker
bending close. The Master of the Workhouse peering over him. The
rest of the room in the enhanced dimness of the gas-jets and the fog.
A low murmur of voices. All heads bent over the work.
Dr. Grimbold again-beyond the circle of the lamplight.
"We don't want to distress you unnecessarily, Lady Levy. If you will
just tell us what to look for-the-? Yes, yes, certainly-and-yes-stopped
with gold? Yes—the lower jaw, the last but one on the right? Yes-no
teeth missing-no-yes? What kind of a mole? Yes—just over the left
breast? Oh, I beg your pardon, just under-yes-appendicitis? Yes,a long
one-yes—in the middle? Yes, I quite understand-a scar on the arm? Yes,
I don't know if we shall be able to find that-yes-any little constitutional
weakness that might-? Oh, yes-arthritis-yes-thank you, Lady Levy
--that's very clear. Don't come unless I ask you to. Now, Wingate."
A pause. A murmur. “Pulled out? After death, you think-well, so do
I. Where is Dr. Colegrove? You attended this man in the workhouse?


WHOSE BODY?
123
Yes. Do you recollect—? No? You're quite certain about that? Yes-we
mustn't make a mistake, you know. Yes, but there are reasons why Sir
Julian can't be present; I'm asking you, Dr. Colegrove. Well, you're cer-
tain-that's all I want to know. Just bring the light closer, Mr. Wingate,
if you please. These miserable shells let the damp in so quickly. Ah!
what do you make of this? Yes-yes-well, that's rather unmistakable,
isn't it? Who did the head? Oh, Freke-of course. I was going to say they
did good work at St. Luke's. Beautiful, isn't it, Dr. Colegrove? A won-
derful surgeon-I saw him when he was at Guy's. Oh, no, gave it up
years ago. Nothing like keeping your hand in. Ah-yes, undoubtedly
that's it. Have you a towel handy, sir? Thank you. Over the head, if you
please-I think we might have another here. Now, Lady Levy-I am going
to ask you to look at a scar, and see if you recognise it. I'm sure you are
going to help us by being very firm. Take your time-you won't see any-
thing more than you absolutely must.”
"Lucy, don't leave me.”
"No, dear.”
A space cleared at the table. The lamplight on the Duchess's white
hair.
"Oh, yes-oh, yes! No, no-I couldn't be mistaken. There's that funny
little kink in it. I've seen it hundreds of times. Oh, Lucy-Reuben!"
“Only a moment more, Lady Levy. The mole—"
“I-I think so-oh, yes, that is the very place.”
“Yes. And the scar-was it three-cornered, just above the elbow?"
“Yes, oh, yes.”
"Is this it?”
"Yes-yes—"
"I must ask you definitely, Lady Levy. Do you, from these three marks
identify the body as that of your husband?”
"Oh! I must, mustn't I? Nobody else could have them just the same in
just those places? It is my husband. It is Reuben. Oh—"
"Thank you, Lady Levy. You have been very brave and very helpful.”
"But-I don't understand yet. How did he come here? Who did this
dreadful thing?"
"Hush, dear,” said the Duchess; "the man is going to be punished.”
"Oh, but-how cruel! Poor Reuben! Who could have wanted to hurt
him? Can I see his face?”.
"No, dear," said the Duchess. “That isn't possible. Come away-you
mustn't distress the doctors and people."
"No-10-they've all been so kind. Oh, Lucy!"
"We'll go home, dear. You don't want us any more, Dr. Grimbold?”


124
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No, Duchess, thank you. We are very grateful to you and to Lady
Levy for coming."
There was a pause, while the two women went out, Parker, collected
and helpful, escorting them to their waiting car. Then Dr. Grimbold
again:
"I think Lord Peter Wimsey ought to see-the correctness of his deduc-
tions-Lord Peter–very painful-you may wish to see-yes, I was uneasy
at the inquest-yes-Lady Levy-remarkably clear evidence-yes-most
shocking case-ah, here's Mr. Parker-you and Lord Peter Wimsey en-
tirely justified-do I really understand—? Really? I can hardly believe it
-so distinguished a man-as you say, when a great brain turns to crime
-yes-look here! Marvellous work-marvellous-somewhat obscured by
this time, of course—but the most beautiful sections-here, you see, the
left hemisphere--and here-through the corpus striatum-here again-the
very track of the damage done by the blow-wonderful-guessed it-saw
the effect of the blow as he struck it, you know-ah, I should like to see
his brain, Mr. Parker-and to think that-heavens, Lord Peter, you don't
know what a blow you have struck at the whole profession-the whole
civilized world! Oh, my dear sir! Can you ask me? My lips are sealed of
course—all our lips are sealed.”
The way back through the burial ground. Fog again, and the squeal
of wet gravel.
“Are your men ready, Charles?”
“They have gone. I sent them off when I saw Lady Levy to the car.”
“Who is with them?”.
“Sugg."
"Sugg?"
"Yes-poor devil. They've had him up on the mat at headquarters for
bungling the case. All that evidence of Thipps's about the night club was
corroborated, you know. That girl he gave the gin-and-bitters to was
caught, and came and identified him, and they decided their case wasn't
good enough, and let Thipps and the Horrocks girl go. Then they told
Sugg he had overstepped his duty and ought to have been more careful.
So he ought, but he can't help being a fool. I was sorry for him. It may
do him some good to be in at the death. After all, Peter, you and I had
special advantages."
“Yes. Well, it doesn't matter. Whoever goes won't get there in time.
Sugg's as good as another."
But Sugg-an experience rare in his career-was in time.
Parker and Lord Peter were at 110 Piccadilly, Lord Peter was playing
Bach and Parker was reading Origen when Sugg was announced.


WHOSE BODY?
125
"We've got our man, sir," said he.
"Good God!" said Peter. "Alive?"
"We were just in time, my lord. We rang the bell and marched straight
up past his man to the library. He was sitting there doing some writing.
When we came in, he made a grab for his hypodermic, but we were too
quick for him, my lord. We didn't mean to let him slip through our hands,
having got so far. We searched him thoroughly and marched him off."
"He is actually in gaol, then?"
"Oh, yes—safe enough—with two warders to see he doesn't make away
with himself."
"You surprise me, Inspector. Have a drink."
"Thank you, my lord. I may say that I'm very grateful to you—this
case was turning out a pretty bad egg for me. If I was rude to your lord-
ship—"
"Oh, it's all right, Inspector," said Lord Peter, hastily. "I don't see
how you could possibly have worked it out. I had the good luck to know
something about it from other sources."
"That's what Freke says." Already the great surgeon was a common
criminal in the inspector's eyes—a mere surname. "He was writing a full
confession when we got hold of him, addressed to your lordship. The
police will have to have it, of course, but seeing it's written for you, I
brought it along for you to see first. Here it is."
He handed Lord Peter a bulky document.
"Thanks," said Peter. "Like to hear it, Charles?"
"Rather."
Accordingly Lord Peter read it aloud.
CHAPTER XIII
dear lord peter—when I was a young man I used to play chess with an
old friend of my father's. He was a very bad, and a very slow, player, and
he could never see when a checkmate was inevitable, but insisted on
playing every move out. I never had any patience with that kind of atti-
tude, and I will freely admit now that the game is yours. I must either
stay at home and be hanged or escape abroad and live in an idle and
insecure obscurity. I prefer to acknowledge defeat.
If you have read my book on "Criminal Lunacy," you will remember


126
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
that I wrote: "In the majority of cases, the criminal betrays himself by
some abnormality attendant upon this pathological condition of the nerv-
ous tissues. His mental instability shows itself in various forms: an
overweening vanity, leading him to brag of his achievement; a dispro-
portionate sense of the importance of the offence, resulting from the
hallucination of religion, and driving him to confession; egomania, pro-
ducing the sense of horror or conviction of sin, and driving him to head-
long flight without covering his tracks; a reckless confidence, resulting
in the neglect of the most ordinary precautions, as in the case of Henry
Wainwright, who left a boy in charge of the murdered woman's remains
while he went to call a cab, or on the other hand, a nervous distrust of
apperceptions in the past, causing him to revisit the scene of the crime to
assure himself that all traces have been as safely removed as his own
judgment knows them to be. I will not hesitate to assert that a perfectly
sane man, not intimidated by religious or other delusions, could always
render himself perfectly secure from detection, provided, that is, that the
crime were sufficiently premeditated and that he were not pressed for
time or thrown out in his calculations by purely fortuitous coincidence.
You know as well as I do, how far I have made this assertion good in
practice. The two accidents which betrayed me, I could not by any pos-
sibility have foreseen. The first was the chance recognition of Levy by
the girl in the Battersea Park Road, which suggested a connection be-
tween the two problems. The second was that Thipps should have ar-
ranged to go down to Denver on the Tuesday morning, thus enabling
your mother to get word of the matter through to you before the body
was removed by the police and to suggest a motive for the murder out of
what she knew of my previous personal history. If I had been able to
destroy these two accidentally forged links of circumstance, I will ven-
ture to say that you would never have so much as suspected me, still less
obtained sufficient evidence to convict.
Of all human emotions, except perhaps those of hunger and fear, the
sexual appetite produces the most violent, and, under some circum-
stances, the most persistent reactions; I think, however, I am right in
saying that at the time when I wrote my book, my original sensual im-
pulse to kill Sir Reuben Levy had already become profoundly modified
by my habits of thought. To the animal lust to slay and the primitive
human desire for revenge, there was added the rational intention of sub-
stantiating my own theories for the satisfaction of myself and the world.
If all had turned out as I had planned, I should have deposited a sealed
account of my experiment with the Bank of England, instructing my ex-
ecutors to publish it after my death. Now that accident has spoiled the
completeness of my demonstration, I entrust the account to you, whom


WHOSE BODY?
127
it cannot fail to interest, with the request that you will make it known
among scientific men, in justice to my professional reputation.
The really essential factors of success in any undertaking are money
and opportunity, and as a rule, the man who can make the first can
make the second. During my early career, though I was fairly well-off,
I had not absolute command of circumstance. Accordingly I devoted
myself to my profession, and contented myself with keeping up a friendly
connection with Reuben Levy and his family. This enabled me to remain
in touch with his fortunes and interests, so that, when the moment for
action should arrive, I might know what weapons to use.
Meanwhile, I carefully studied criminology in fiction and fact—my
work on "Criminal Lunacy" was a side-product of this activity—and saw
how, in every murder, the real crux of the problem was the disposal of
the body. As a doctor, the means of death were always ready to my
hand, and I was not likely to make any error in that connection. Nor
was I likely to betray myself on account of any illusory sense of wrong-
doing. The sole difficulty would be that of destroying all connection be-
tween my personality and that of the corpse. You will remember that
Michael Finsbury, in Stevenson's entertaining romance, observes: "What
hangs people is the unfortunate circumstance of guilt." It became clear
to me that the mere leaving about of a superfluous corpse could convict
nobody, provided that nobody was guilty in connection with that par-
ticular corpse. Thus the idea of substituting the one body for the other
was early arrived at, though it was not till I obtained the practical direc-
tion of St. Luke's Hospital that I found myself perfectly unfettered in the
choice and handling of dead bodies. From this period on, I kept a care-
ful watch on all the material brought in for dissection.
My opportunity did not present itself until the week before Sir Reuben's
disappearance, when the medical officer at the Chelsea workhouse sent
word to me that an unknown vagrant had been injured that morning by
the fall of a piece of scaffolding, and was exhibiting some very interesting
nervous and cerebral reactions. I went round and saw the case, and
was immediately struck by the man's strong superficial resemblance to
Sir Reuben. He had been heavily struck on the back of the neck, dis-
locating the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae and heavily bruising the
spinal cord. It seemed highly unlikely that he could ever recover, either
mentally or physically, and in any case there appeared to me to be no
object in indefinitely prolonging so unprofitable an existence. He had
obviously been able to support life until recently, as he was fairly well
nourished, but the state of his feet and clothing showed that he was un-
employed, and under present conditions he was likely to remain so. I
decided that he would suit my purpose very well, and immediately put


WHOSE BODY?
129
mind doing you and Christine a good turn. You know, I've always kept
a soft place in my heart for her, ever since the old days. You got in ahead
of me that time, and now it's up to me to heap coals of fire on you both."
I was a little excited by this time, and he thought I was drunk.
"It's very kind of you, old man," he said, "but I'm a cautious bird,
you know, always was. I'd like a bit of proof."
And he shrugged up his shoulders and looked like a pawnbroker.
"I'll give it to you," I said, "but it isn't safe here. Come round to my
place tonight after dinner, and IH show you the report."
"How d'you get hold of it?" said he.
"I'll tell you tonight," said I. "Come round after dinner—any time
after nine, say."
"To Harley Street?" he asked, and I saw that he meant coming.
"No," I said, "to Battersea—Prince of Wales Road; I've got some
work to do at the hospital. And look here," I said, "don't you let on to a
soul that you're coming. I bought a couple of hundred shares today, in
my own name, and people are sure to get wind of it. If we're known to
be about together, someone'll twig something. In fact, it's anything but
safe talking about it in this place."
"All right," he said, "I won't say a word to anybody. I'll turn up about
nine o'clock. You're sure it's a sound thing?"
"It can't go wrong," I assured him. And I meant it.
We parted after that, and I went round to the workhouse. My man
had died at about eleven o'clock. I had seen him just after breakfast,
and was not surprised. I completed the usual formalities with the work-
house authorities, and arranged for his delivery at the hospital at about
seven o'clock.
In the afternoon, as it was not one of my days to be in Harley Street,
I looked up an old friend who lives close to Hyde Park, and found that
he was just off to Brighton on some business or other. I had tea with
him, and saw him off by the 5.35 from Victoria. On issuing from the
barrier it occurred to me to purchase an evening paper, and I thought-
lessly turned my steps to the bookstall. The usual crowds were rushing
to catch suburban trains home, and on moving away I found myself in-
volved in a contrary stream of travellers coming up out of the Under-
ground, or bolting from all sides for the 5.45 to Battersea Park and
Wandsworth Common. I disengaged myself after some buffeting and
went home in a taxi; and it was not till I was safely seated there that
I discovered somebody's gold-rimmed pince-nez involved in the astra-
khan collar of my overcoat. The time from 6.15 to seven I spent con-
cocting something to look like a bogus report for Sir Reuben.
At seven I went through to the hospital, and found the workhouse


130
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
van just delivering my subject at the side door. I had him taken straight
up to the theatre, and told the attendant, William Watts, that I intended
to work there that night. I told him I would prepare the body myself—
the injection of a preservative would have been a most regrettable com-
plication. I sent him about his business, and then went home and had
dinner. I told my man that I should be working in the hospital that
evening, and that he could go to bed at 10.30 as usual, as I could not
tell whether I should be late or not. He is used to my erratic ways. I
only keep two servants in the Battersea house—the man-servant and his
wife, who cooks for me. The rougher domestic work is done by a char-
woman, who sleeps out. The servants' bedroom is at the top of the
house, overlooking Prince of Wales Road.
As soon as I had dined I established myself in the hall with some
papers. My man had cleared dinner by a quarter past eight, and I told
him to give me the syphon and tantalus; and sent him downstairs. Levy
rang the bell at twenty minutes past nine, and I opened the door to him
myself. My man appeared at the other end of the hall, but I called to
him that it was all right, and he went away. Levy wore an overcoat with
evening dress and carried an umbrella. "Why, how wet you are!" I said.
"How did you come?" "By 'bus," he said, "and the fool of a conductor
forgot to put me down at the end of the road. It's pouring cats and
dogs and pitch-dark—I couldn't see where I was." I was glad he hadn't
taken a taxi, but I had rather reckoned on his not doing so. "Your little
economies will be the death of you one of these days," I said. I was
right there, but I hadn't reckoned on their being the death of me as well.
I say again, I could not have foreseen it.
I sat him down by the fire, and gave him a whisky. He was in high
spirits about some deal in Argentines he was bringing off the next day.
We talked money for about a quarter of an hour and then he said:
"Well, how about this Peruvian mare's-nest of yours?"
"It's no mare's-nest," I said; "come and have a look at it."
I took him upstairs into the library, and switched on the centre light
and the reading lamp on the writing table. I gave him a chair at the
table with his back to the fire, and fetched the papers I had been faking,
out of the safe. He took them, and began to read them, poking over
them in his short-sighted way, while I mended the fire. As soon as I
saw his head in a favourable position I struck him heavily with the
poker, just over the fourth cervical. It was delicate work calculating
the exact force necessary to kill him without breaking the skin, but my
professional experience was useful to me. He gave one loud gasp, and
tumbled forward on to the table quite noiselessly. I put the poker back,
and examined him. His neck was broken, and he was quite dead. I


WHOSE BODY?
131
carried him into my bedroom and undressed him. It was about ten
minutes to ten when I had finished. I put him away under my bed,
which had been turned down for the night, and cleared up the papers
in the library. Then I went downstairs, took Levy's umbrella, and let
myself out at the hall door, shouting "Good-night" loudly enough to
be heard in the basement if the servants should be listening. I walked
briskly away down the street, went in by the hospital side door, and
returned to the house noiselessly by way of the private passage. It would
have been awkward if anybody had seen me then, but I leaned over the
back stairs and heard the cook and her husband still talking in the
kitchen. I slipped back into the hall, replaced the umbrella in the stand,
cleared up my papers there, went up into the library and rang the bell.
When the man appeared I told him to lock up everything except the
private door to the hospital. I waited in the library until he had done
so, and about 10.30 I heard both servants go up to bed. I waited a
quarter of an hour longer and then went through to the dissecting-room.
I wheeled one of the stretcher tables through the passage to the house
door, and then went to fetch Levy. It was a nuisance having to get him
downstairs, but I had not liked to make away with him in any of the
ground-floor rooms, in case my servant should take a fancy to poke his
head in during the few minutes that I was out of the house, or while
locking up. Besides, that was a fleabite to what I should have to do
later. I put Levy on the table, wheeled him across to the hospital and
substituted him for my interesting pauper. I was sorry to have to abandon
the idea of getting a look at the latter's brain, but I could not afford to
incur suspicion. It was still rather early, so I knocked down a few min-
utes getting Levy ready for dissection. Then I put my pauper on the
table and trundled him over to the house. It was now five past eleven,
and I thought I might conclude that the servants were in bed. I carried
the body into my bedroom. He was rather heavy, but less so than Levy,
and my Alpine experience had taught me how to handle bodies. It is
as much a matter of knack as of strength, and I am, in any case, a
powerful man for my height. I put the body into the bed—not that I
expected anyone to look in during my absence, but if they should they
might just as well see me apparently asleep in bed. I drew the clothes
a little over his head, stripped, and put on Levy's clothes, which were
fortunately a little big for me everywhere, not forgetting to take his
spectacles, watch and other oddments. At a little before half-past eleven
I was in the road looking for a cab. People were just beginning to come
home from the theatre, and I easily secured one at the corner of Prince
of Wales Road. I told the man to drive me to Hyde Park Corner.
There I got out, tipped him well, and asked him to pick me up again


132
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
at the same place in an hour's time. He assented with an understanding
grin, and I walked on up Park Lane. I had my own clothes with me
in a suitcase, and carried my own overcoat and Levy's umbrella. When
I got to No. 9a there were lights in some of the top windows. I was very
nearly too early, owing to the old man's having sent the servants to the
theatre. I waited about for a few minutes, and heard it strike the quarter
past midnight. The lights were extinguished shortly after, and I let myself
in with Levy's key.
It had been my original intention, when I thought over this plan of
murder, to let Levy disappear from the study or the dining-room, leav-
ing only a heap of clothes on the hearth-rug. The accident of my having
been able to secure Lady Levy's absence from London, however, made
possible a solution more misleading, though less pleasantly fantastic.
I turned on the hall light, hung up Levy's wet overcoat and placed his
umbrella in the stand. I walked up noisily and heavily to the bedroom
and turned off the light by the duplicate switch on the landing. I knew
the house well enough, of course. There was no chance of my running
into the man-servant. Old Levy was a simple old man, who liked doing
things for himself. He gave his valet little work, and never required any
attendance at night. In the bedroom I took off Levy's gloves and put
on a surgical pair, so as to leave no tell-tale finger-prints. As I wished
to convey the impression that Levy had gone to bed in the usual way,
I simply went to bed. The surest and simplest method of making a
thing appear to have been done is to do it. A bed that has been rumpled
about with one's hands, for instance, never looks like a bed that has
been slept in. I dared not use Levy's brush, of course, as my hair is not
of his colour, but I did everything else. I supposed that a thoughtful
old man like Levy would put his boots handy for his valet, and I ought
to have deduced that he would fold up his clothes. That was a mis-
take, but not an important one. Remembering that well-thought-out lit-
tle work of Mr. Bentley's, I had examined Levy's mouth for false teeth,
but he had none. I did not forget, however, to wet his tooth-brush.
At one o'clock I got up and dressed in my own clothes by the light
of my own pocket torch. I dared not turn on the bedroom lights, as
there were light blinds to the windows. I put on my own boots and an
old pair of galoshes outside the door. There was a thick Turkey carpet
on the stairs and hall-floor, and I was not afraid of leaving marks. I
hesitated whether to chance the banging of the front door, but decided
it would be safer to take the latchkey. (It is now in the Thames. I
dropped it over Battersea Bridge the next day.) I slipped quietly down,
and listened for a few minutes with my ear to the letterbox. I heard a
constable tramp past. As soon as his steps had died away in the dis-


WHOSE BODY?
133
tance I stepped out and pulled the door gingerly to. It closed almost
soundlessly, and I walked away to pick up my cab. I had an overcoat
of much the same pattern as Levy's, and had taken the precaution to
pack an opera hat in my suitcase. I hoped the man would not notice
that I had no umbrella this time. Fortunately the rain had diminished
for the moment to a sort of drizzle, and if he noticed anything he made
no observation. I told him to stop at 50 Overstrand Mansions, and I
paid him off there, and stood under the porch till he had driven away.
Then I hurried round to my own side door and let myself in. It was
about a quarter to two, and the harder part of my task still lay before
me.
My first step was so to alter the appearance of my subject as to
eliminate any immediate suggestion either of Levy or of the workhouse
vagrant. A fairly superficial alteration was all I considered necessary,
since there was not likely to be any hue-and-cry after the pauper. He
was fairly accounted for, and his deputy was at hand to represent him.
Nor, if Levy was after all traced to my house, would it be difficult to
show that the body in evidence was, as a matter of fact, not his. A
clean shave and a little hair-oiling and manicuring seemed sufficient to
suggest a distinct personality for my silent accomplice. His hands had
been well washed in hospital, and though calloused, were not grimy. I
was not able to do the work as thoroughly as I should have liked, be-
cause time was getting on. I was not sure how long it would take me to
dispose of him, and moreover, I feared the onset of rigor mortis, which
would make my task more difficult. When I had him barbered to my
satisfaction, I fetched a strong sheet and a couple of wide roller band-
ages, and fastened him up carefully, padding him with cotton wool
wherever the bandages might chafe or leave a bruise.
Now came the really ticklish part of the business. I had already de-
cided in my own mind that the only way of conveying him from the
house was by the roof. To go through the garden at the back in this
soft wet weather was to leave a ruinous trail behind us. To carry a dead
man down a suburban street in the middle of the night seemed outside
the range of practical politics. On the roof, on the other hand, the rain,
which would have betrayed me on the ground, would stand my friend.
To reach the roof, it was necessary to carry my burden to the top of
the house, past my servants' room, and hoist him out through the trap-
door in the box-room roof. Had it merely been a question of going
quietly up there myself, I should have had no fear of waking the serv-
ants, but to do so burdened by a heavy body was more difficult. It
would be possible, provided that the man and his wife were soundly
asleep, but if not, the lumbering tread on the narrow stair and the noise


134
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
of opening the trap-door would be only too plainly audible. I tiptoed
delicately up the stair and listened at their door. To my disgust I heard
the man give a grunt and mutter something as he moved in his bed.
I looked at my watch. My preparations had taken nearly an hour,
first and last, and I dared not be too late on the roof. I determined to
take a bold step and, as it were, bluff out an alibi. I went without pre-
caution against noise into the bathroom, turned on the hot and cold
water taps to the full and pulled out the plug.
My household has often had occasion to complain of my habit of
using the bath at irregular night hours. Not only does the rush of water
into the cistern disturb any sleepers on the Prince of Wales Road side
of the house, but my cistern is afflicted with peculiarly loud gurglings
and thumpings, while frequently the pipes emit a loud groaning sound.
To my delight, on this particular occasion, the cistern was in excellent
form, honking, whistling and booming like a railway terminus. I gave
the noise five minutes' start, and when I calculated that the sleepers
would have finished cursing me and put their heads under the clothes to
shut out the din, I reduced the flow of water to a small stream and
left the bathroom, taking good care to leave the light burning and lock
the door after me. Then I picked up my pauper and carried him upstairs
as lightly as possible.
The box-room is a small attic on the side of the landing opposite to
the servants' bedroom and the cistern-room. It has a trap-door, reached
by a short, wooden ladder. I set this up, hoisted up my pauper and
climbed up after him. The water was still racing into the cistern, which
was making a noise as though it were trying to digest an iron chain, and
with the reduced flow in the bathroom the groaning of the pipes had
risen almost to a hoot. I was not afraid of anybody hearing other
noises. I pulled the ladder through on to the roof after me.
Between my house and the last house in Queen Caroline Mansions
there is a space of only a few feet. Indeed, when the Mansions were
put up, I believe there was some trouble about ancient lights, but I
suppose the parties compromised somehow. Anyhow, my seven-foot
ladder reached well across. I tied the body firmly to the ladder, and
pushed it over till the far end was resting on the parapet of the opposite
house. Then I took a short run across the cistern-room and the box-
room roof, and landed easily on the other side, the parapet being hap-
pily both low and narrow.
The rest was simple. I carried my pauper along the flat roofs, intend-
ing to leave him, like the hunchback in the story, on someone's staircase
or down a chimney. I had got about half-way along when I suddenly
thought, "Why, this must be about little Thipps's place," and I remem-


WHOSE BODY?
135
bered his silly face, and his silly chatter about vivisection. It occurred
to me pleasantly how delightful it would be to deposit my parcel with
him and see what he made of it. I lay down and peered over the parapet
at the back. It was pitch-dark and pouring with rain again by this time,
and I risked using my torch. That was the only incautious thing I did,
and the odds against being seen from the houses opposite were long
enough. One second's flash showed me what I had hardly dared to hope
—an open window just below me.
I knew those flats well enough to be sure it was either the bathroom
or the kitchen. I made a noose in a third bandage that I had brought
with me, and made it fast under the arms of the corpse. I twisted it
into a double rope, and secured the end to the iron stanchion of a
chimney-stack. Then I dangled our friend over. I went down after him
myself with the aid of a drain-pipe and was soon hauling him in by
Thipps's bathroom window.
By that time I had got a little conceited with myself, and spared a
few minutes to lay him out prettily and make him shipshape. A sudden
inspiration suggested that I should give him the pair of pince-nez which
I had happened to pick up at Victoria. I came across them in my
pocket while I was looking for a penknife to loosen a knot, and I saw
what distinction they would lend his appearance, besides making it more
misleading. I fixed them on him, effaced all traces of my presence as
far as possible, and departed as I had come, going easily up between
the drain-pipe and the rope.
I walked quietly back, re-crossed my crevasse and carried in my lad-
der and sheet. My discreet accomplice greeted me with a reassuring
gurgle and thump. I didn't make a sound on the stairs. Seeing that I
had now been having a bath for about three-quarters of an hour, I
turned the water off, and enabled my deserving domestics to get a little
sleep. I also felt it was time I had a little myself.
First, however, I had to go over to the hospital and make all safe
there. I took off Levy's head, and started to open up the face. In twenty
minutes his own wife could not have recognised him. I returned, leav-
ing my wet galoshes and mackintosh by the garden door. My trousers
I dried by the gas stove in my bedroom, and brushed away all traces
of mud and brickdust. My pauper's beard I burned in the library.
I got a good two hours' sleep from five to seven, when my man called
me as usual. I apologized for having kept the water running so long
and so late, and added that I thought I would have the cistern seen to.
I was interested to note that I was rather extra hungry at breakfast,
showing that my night's work had caused a certain wear-and-tear of
tissue. I went over afterwards to continue my dissection. During the


136
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
morning a peculiarly thick-headed police inspector came to inquire
whether a body had escaped from the hospital. I had him brought to me
where I was, and had the pleasure of showing him the work I was doing
on Sir Reuben Levy's head. Afterwards I went round with him to
Thipps's and was able to satisfy myself that my pauper looked very
convincing.
As soon as the Stock Exchange opened I telephoned my various
brokers, and by exercising a little care, was able to sell out the greater
part of my Peruvian stock on a rising market. Towards the end of the
day, however, buyers became rather unsettled as a result of Levy's death,
and in the end I did not make more than a few hundreds by the trans-
action.
Trusting I have now made clear to you any point which you may
have found obscure, and with congratulations on the good fortune and
perspicacity which have enabled you to defeat me, I remain, with kind
remembrances to your mother,
Yours very truly,
Julian Freke
Post-Scriptum: My will is made, leaving my money to St. Luke's Hos-
pital, and bequeathing my body to the same institution for dissection.
I feel sure that my brain will be of interest to the scientific world. As
I shall die by my own hand, I imagine that there may be a little diffi-
culty about this. Will you do me the favour, if you can, of seeing the
persons concerned in the inquest, and obtaining that the brain is not
damaged by an unskilful practitioner at the post-mortem, and that the
body is disposed of according to my wish?
By the way, it may be of interest to you to know that I appreciated
your motive in calling this afternoon. It conveyed a warning, and I am
acting upon it in spite of the disastrous consequences to myself. I was
pleased to realise that you had not underestimated my nerve and in-
telligence, and refused the injection. Had you submitted to it, you would,
of course, never have reached home alive. No trace would have been
left in your body of the injection, which consisted of a harmless prepa-
ration of strychnine, mixed with an almost unknown poison, for which
there is at present no recognised test, a concentrated solution of sn—
At this point the manuscript broke off.
"Well, that's all clear enough," said Parker.
"Isn't it queer?" said Lord Peter. "All that coolness, all those brains
—and then he couldn't resist writing a confession to show how clever he
was, even to keep his head out of the noose."


WHOSE BODY?
137
"And a very good thing for us,” said Inspector Sugg, “but Lord bless
you, sir, these criminals are all alike.”
"Freke's epitaph,” said Parker, when the Inspector had departed.
"What next, Peter?”
“I shall now give a dinner party,” said Lord Peter, “to Mr. John P.
Milligan and his secretary and to Messrs. Crimplesham and Wicks. I
feel they deserve it for not having murdered Levy."
"Well, don't forget the Thippses,” said Mr. Parker.
"On no account,” said Lord Peter, “would I deprive myself of the
pleasure of Mrs. Thipps's company. Bunter!”
"My lord?”
"The Napoleon brandy."





Clouds Of Witness





CHAPTER I
“OF HIS MALICE AFORETHOUGHT”
0, who hath done this deed?
-Othello.
LORD PETER WIMSEY stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets
provided by the Hôtel Meurice. After his exertions in the unravelling of
the Battersea Mystery, he had followed Sir Julian Freke's advice and
taken a holiday. He had felt suddenly weary of breakfasting every
morning before his view over the Green Park; he had realised that the
picking up of first editions at sales afforded insufficient exercise for a
man of thirty-three; the very crimes of London were over-sophisticated.
He had abandoned his flat and his friends and fled to the wilds of
Corsica. For the last three months he had forsworn letters, newspapers,
and telegrams. He had tramped about the mountains, admiring from a
cautious distance the wild beauty of Corsican peasant-women, and
studying the vendetta in its natural haunt. In such conditions murder
seemed not only reasonable, but lovable. Bunter, his confidential man
and assistant sleuth, had nobly sacrificed his civilised habits, had let his
master go dirty and even unshaven, and had turned his faithful camera
from the recording of finger-prints to that of craggy scenery. It had been
very refreshing.
Now, however, the call of the blood was upon Lord Peter. They had
returned late last night in a vile train to Paris, and had picked up their
luggage. The autumn light, filtering through the curtains, touched ca-
ressingly the silver-topped bottles on the dressing-table, outlined an
electric lamp-shade and the shape of the telephone. A noise of running
water near by proclaimed that Bunter had turned on the bath (h. & c.)
and was laying out scented soap, bath-salts, the huge bath-sponge, for
which there had been no scope in Corsica, and the delightful flesh-
brush with the long handle, which rasped you so agreeably all down
the spine. “Contrast,” philosophised Lord Peter sleepily, "is life. Corsica
-Paris-then London. . . . Good morning, Bunter."
"Good morning, my lord. Fine morning, my lord. Your lordship's
bath-water is ready."
“Thanks,” said Lord Peter. He blinked at the sunlight.


142
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
It was a glorious bath. He wondered, as he soaked in it, how he
could have existed in Corsica. He wallowed happily and sang a few bars
of a song. In a soporific interval he heard the valet de chambre bringing
in coffee and rolls. Coffee and rolls! He heaved himself out with a splash,
towelled himself luxuriously, enveloped his long-mortified body in a
silken bath-robe, and wandered back.
To his immense surprise he perceived Mr. Bunter calmly replacing
all the fittings in his dressing-case. Another astonished glance showed
him the bags—scarcely opened the previous night—repacked, relabelled,
and standing ready for a journey.
"I say, Bunter, what's up?" said his lordship. "We're stayin' here a
fortnight y'know."
"Excuse me, my lord," said Mr. Bunter, deferentially, "but, having
seen The Times (delivered here every morning by air, my lord; and
very expeditious I'm sure, all things considered), I made no doubt your
lordship would be wishing to go to Riddlesdale at once."
"Riddlesdale!" exclaimed Peter. "What's the matter? Anything wrong
with my brother?"
For answer Mr. Bunter handed him the paper, folded open at the
heading:
RIDDLESDALE INQUEST.
DUKE OF DENVER ARRESTED
ON MURDER CHARGE.
Lord Peter stared as if hypnotised.
"I thought your lordship wouldn't wish to miss anything," said Mr.
Bunter, "so I took the liberty—"
Lord Peter pulled himself together.
"When's the next train?" he asked.
"I beg your lordship's pardon—I thought your lordship would wish
to take the quickest route. I took it on myself to book two seats in the
aeroplane Victoria. She starts at 11.30."
Lord Peter looked at his watch.
"Ten o'clock," he said. "Very well. You did quite right. Dear me!
Poor old Gerald arrested for murder. Uncommonly worryin' for him,
poor chap. Always hated my bein' mixed up with police-courts. Now
he's there himself. Lord Peter Wimsey in the witness-box—very distressin'
to feelin's of a brother. Duke of Denver in the dock—worse still. Dear
me! Well, I suppose one must have breakfast."
"Yes, my lord. Full account of the inquest in the paper, my lord."
"Yes. Who's on the case, by the way?"
"Mr. Parker, my lord."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
143
"Parker? That's good. Splendid old Parker! Wonder how he man-
aged to get put on to it. How do things look, Bunter?"
"If I may say so, my lord, I fancy the investigations will prove very
interesting. There are several extremely suggestive points in the evidence,
my lord."
"From a criminological point of view I daresay it is interesting," re-
plied his lordship, sitting down cheerfully to his cafi au lait, "but it's
deuced awkward for my brother, all the same, havin' no turn for crim-
inology, what?"
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Bunter, "they say, my lord, there's nothing like
having a personal interest."
"The inquest was held to-day at Riddlesdale, in the North Riding
of Yorkshire, on the body of Captain Denis Cathcart, which was
found at three o'clock on Thursday morning lying just outside the
conservatory door of the Duke of Denver's shooting-box, Riddles-
dale Lodge. Evidence was given to show that deceased had quar-
relled with the Duke of Denver on the preceding evening, and was
subsequently shot in a small thicket adjoining the house. A pistol
belonging to the Duke was found near the scene of the crime. A
verdict of murder was returned against the Duke of Denver. Lady
Mary Wimsey, sister of the Duke, who was engaged to be married
to the deceased, collapsed after giving evidence, and is now lying
seriously ill at the Lodge. The Duchess of Denver hastened from
town yesterday and was present at the inquest. Full report on p. 12."
"Poor old Gerald!" thought Lord Peter, as he turned to page 12;
"and poor old Mary! I wonder if she really was fond of the fellow.
Mother always said not, but Mary never would let on about herself."
The full report began by describing the little village of Riddlesdale,
where the Duke of Denver had recently taken a small shooting-box for
the season. When the tragedy occurred the Duke had been staying there
with a party of guests. In the Duchess's absence Lady Mary Wimsey
had acted as hostess. The other guests were Colonel and Mrs. March-
banks, the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot, Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew-Robin-
son, and the dead man, Denis Cathcart.
The first witness was the Duke of Denver, who claimed to have dis-
covered the body. He gave evidence that he was coming into the house
by the conservatory door at three o'clock in the morning of Thursday,
October 14th, when his foot struck against something. He had switched
on his electric torch and seen the body of Denis Cathcart at his feet.
He had at once turned it over, and seen that Cathcart had been shot
in the chest. He was quite dead. As Denver was bending over the body,


144
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
he heard a cry in the conservatory, and, looking up, saw Lady Mary
Wimsey gazing out horror-struck. She came out by the conservatory
door, and exclaimed at once, "O God, Gerald, you've killed him!”
(Sensation.)*
The Coroner: "Were you surprised by that remark?”
Duke of D.: "Well, I was so shocked and surprised at the whole
thing. I think I said to her, 'Don't look,' and she said, 'Oh, it's Denis!
Whatever can have happened? Has there been an accident?' I stayed
with the body, and sent her up to rouse the house."
The Coroner: "Did you expect to see Lady Mary Wimsey in the
conservatory?”
Duke of D.: "Really, as I say, I was so astonished all round, don't
you know, I didn't think about it."
The Coroner: "Do you remember how she was dressed?"
Duke of D.: “I don't think she was in her pyjamas.” (Laughter.)
“I think she had a coat on.”
The Coroner: "I understand that Lady Mary Wimsey was engaged
to be married to the deceased?"
Duke of D.: “Yes.”
The Coroner: "He was well known to you?”
Duke of D.: "He was the son of an old friend of my father's; his
parents are dead. I believe he lived chiefly abroad. I ran across him
during the war, and in 1919 he came to stay at Denver. He became
engaged to my sister at the beginning of this year.”
The Coroner: "With your consent, and with that of the family?”
Duke of D.: “Oh, yes, certainly."
The Coroner: “What kind of man was Captain Cathcart?”
Duke of D.: “Well-he was a Sahib and all that. I don't know what
he did before he joined in 1914. I think he lived on his income; his
father was well off. Crack shot, good at games, and so on. I never
heard anything against him-till that evening.”
The Coroner: "What was that?”
Duke of D.: "Well, the fact is-it was deuced queer. He- If any-
body but Tommy Freeborn had said it I should never have believed
it.” (Sensation.)
The Coroner: "I'm afraid I must ask your grace of what exactly you
had to accuse the deceased.”
Duke of D.: "Well, I didn't-I don't-exactly accuse him. An old
friend of mine made a suggestion. Of course I thought it must be all
* This report, though substantially the same as that read by Lord Peter in The
Times, has been corrected, amplified and annotated from the shorthand report
made at the time by Mr. Parker.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
145
a mistake, so I went to Cathcart, and, to my amazement, he practically
admitted it! Then we both got angry, and he told me to go to the devil,
and rushed out of the house." (Renewed sensation.)
The Coroner: "When did this quarrel occur?"
Duke of D.: "On Wednesday night. That was the last I saw of him."
(Unparalleled sensation.)
The Coroner: "Please, please, we cannot have this disturbance. Now,
will your grace kindly give me, as far as you can remember it, the exact
history of this quarrel?"
Duke of D.: "Well, it was like this. We'd had a long day on the
moors and had dinner early, and about half-past nine we began to feel
like turning in. My sister and Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson toddled on up,
and we were havin' a last peg in the billiard-room when Fleming—that's
my man—came in with the letters. They come rather any old time in the
evening, you know, we being two and a half miles from the village.
No—I wasn't in the billiard-room at the time—I was lockin' up the gun-
room. The letter was from an old friend of mine I hadn't seen for years
—Tom Freeborn—used to know him at the House—"
The Coroner: "Whose house?"
Duke of D.: "Oh, Christ Church, Oxford. He wrote to say he'd seen
the announcement of my sister's engagement in Egypt."
The Coroner: "In Egypt?"
Duke of D.: "I mean, he was in Egypt—Tom Freeborn, you see—
that's why he hadn't written before. He engineers. He went out there
after the war was over, you see, and, bein' somewhere up near the
sources of the Nile, he doesn't get the papers regularly. He said, would
I 'scuse him for interferin' in a very delicate matter, and all that, but
did I know who Cathcart was? Said he'd met him in Paris during the
war, and he lived by cheatin' at cards—said he could swear to it, with
details of a row there'd been in some French place or other. Said he
knew I'd want to chaw his head off—Freeborn's, I mean—for buttin' in,
but he'd seen the man's photo in the paper, an' he thought I ought to
know."
The Coroner: "Did this letter surprise you?"
Duke of D.: "Couldn't believe it at first. If it hadn't been old Tom
Freeborn I'd have put the thing in the fire straight off, and, even as it
was, I didn't quite know what to think. I mean, it wasn't as if it had hap-
pened in England, you know. I mean to say, Frenchmen get so excited
about nothing. Only there was Freeborn, and he isn't the kind of man
that makes mistakes."
The Coroner: "What did you do?"
Duke of D.: "Well, the more I looked at it the less I liked it, you


146
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
know. Still, I couldn't quite leave it like that, so I thought the best way
was to go straight to Cathcart. They'd all gone up while I was sittin'
thinkin' about it, so I went up and knocked at Cathcart's door. He said,
'What's that?' or 'Who the devil's that? or somethin' of the sort, and I
went in. 'Look here,' I said, 'can I just have a word with you?' 'Well, cut
it short, then,' he said. I was surprised-he wasn't usually rude. 'Well,' I
said, 'fact is, I've had a letter I don't much like the look of, and I thought
the best thing to do was to bring it straight away to you an' have the
whole thing cleared up. It's from a man-a very decent sort-old college
friend, who says he's met you in Paris.' 'Paris!' he said, in a most uncom-
monly unpleasant way. ‘Paris! What the hell do you want to come talkin'
to me about Paris for?' 'Well,' I said, 'don't talk like that, because it's
misleadin' under the circumstances.' 'What are you drivin' at?' says Cath-
cart. 'Spit it out and go to bed, for God's sake.' I said, 'Right oh! I will.
It's a man called Freeborn, who says he knew you in Paris and that you
made money cheatin' at cards.' I thought he'd break out at that, but all
he said was, 'What about it?' 'What about it?' I said. “Well, of course, it's
not the sort of thing I'm goin' to believe like that, right bang-slap off,
without any proofs.' Then he said a funny thing. He said, 'Beliefs don't
matter-it's what one knows about people.' 'Do you mean to say you
don't deny it?' I said, 'It's no good my denying it,” he said; 'you must
make up your own mind. Nobody could disprove it.' And then he sud-
denly jumped up, nearly knocking the table over, and said, 'I don't care
what you think or what you do, if you'll only get out. For God's sake
leave me alone!' 'Look here,' I said, 'you needn't take it that way. I don't
say I do believe it-in fact,'I said, 'I'm sure there must be some mistake;
only, you bein' engaged to Mary,' I said, 'I couldn't just let it go at that
without looking into it, could I?' 'Oh! says Cathcart, 'if that's what's
worrying you, it needn't. That's off.' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Our en-
gagement.' 'Off?' I said. “But I was talking to Mary about it only yester-
day.' 'I haven't told her yet,' he said. “Well,' I said, 'I think that's damned
cool. Who the hell do you think you are, to come here and jilt my sister?'
Well, I said quite a lot, first and last. 'You can get out,' I said; “I've no
use for swine like you.' 'I will,' he said, and he pushed past me an'
slammed downstairs and out of the front door, an' banged it after him."
The Coroner: “What did you do?”
Duke of D.: “I ran into my bedroom, which has a window over the
conservatory, and shouted out to him not to be a silly fool. It was pourin'
with rain and beastly cold. He didn't come back, so I told Fleming to
leave the conservatory door open-in case he thought better of it-and
went to bed.”


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
147
The Coroner: "What explanation can you suggest for Cathcart's be-
haviour?"
Duke of D.: “None. I was simply staggered. But I think he must some-
how have got wind of the letter, and knew the game was up."
The Coroner: “Did you mention the matter to anybody else?”
Duke of D.: “No. It wasn't pleasant, and I thought I'd better leave it
till the morning.”
The Coroner: “So you did nothing further in the matter?”
Duke of D.: “No. I didn't want to go out huntin' for the fellow. I was
too angry. Besides, I thought he'd change his mind before long-it was a
brute of a night and he'd only a dinner-jacket."
The Coroner: "Then you just went quietly to bed and never saw de-
ceased again?”
Duke of D.: "Not till I fell over him outside the conservatory at three
in the morning."
The Coroner: “Ah yes. Now can you tell us how you came to be out
of doors at that time?”
Duke of D. (hesitating): “I didn't sleep well. I went out for a stroll.”
The Coroner: “At three o'clock in the morning?”
Duke of D.: “Yes.” With sudden inspiration: "You see, my wife's
away.” (Laughter and some remarks from the back of the room.)
The Coroner: "Silence, please. . . . You mean to say that you got
up at that hour of an October night to take a walk in the garden in the
pouring rain?”
Duke of D.: "Yes, just a stroll.” (Laughter.)
The Coroner: “At what time did you leave your bedroom?”'
Duke of D.: “Oh-oh, about half-past two, I should think."
The Coroner: “Which way did you go out?”
Duke of D.: “By the conservatory door.”
The Coroner: “The body was not there when you went out?”
Duke of D.: "Oh, no!"
The Coroner: “Or you would have seen it?”
Duke of D.: “Lord, yes! I'd have had to walk over it."
The Coroner: “Exactly where did you go?”
Duke of D. (vaguely): “Oh, just round about."
The Coroner: “You heard no shot?”
Duke of D.: "No."
The Coroner: "Did you go far away from the conservatory door and
the shrubbery?”
Duke of D.: "Well-I was some way away. Perhaps that's why I didn't
hear anything. It must have been."
The Coroner: "Were you as much as a quarter of a mile away?”


148
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Duke of D.: "I should think I was—oh, yes, quite!"
The Coroner: "More than a quarter of a mile away?"
Duke of D.: "Possibly. I walked about briskly because it was cold."
The Coroner: "In which direction?"
Duke of D. (with visible hesitation): "Round at the back of the house-
To wards the bowling-green."
The Coroner: "The bowling-green?"
Duke of D. (more confidently): "Yes."
The Coroner: "But if you were more than a quarter of a mile away,
you must have left the grounds?"
Duke of D.: "I—oh, yes—I think I did. Yes, I walked about on the
moor a bit, you know."
The Coroner: "Can you show us the letter you had from Mr. Free-
born?"
Duke of D.: "Oh, certainly—if I can find it. I thought I put it in my
pocket, but I couldn't find it for that Scotland Yard fellow."
The Coroner: "Can you have accidentally destroyed it?"
Duke of D.: "No—I'm sure I remember putting it— Oh"—here the
witness paused in very patent confusion, and grew red—"I remember
now. I destroyed it."
The Coroner: "That is unfortunate. How was that?"
Duke of D.: "I had forgotten; it has come back to me now. I'm afraid
it has gone for good."
The Coroner: "Perhaps you kept the envelope?"
Witness shook his head.
The Coroner: "Then you can show the jury no proof of having re-
ceived it?"
Duke of D.: "Not unless Fleming remembers it."
The Coroner: "Ah, yes! No doubt we can check it that way. Thank
you, your grace. Call Lady Mary Wimsey."
The noble lady, who was, until the tragic morning of October 14th,
the fiancée of the deceased, aroused a murmur of sympathy on her ap-
pearance. Fair and slender, her naturally rose-pink cheeks ashy pale,
she seemed overwhelmed with grief. She was dressed entirely in black,
and gave her evidence in a very low tone which was at times almost in-
audible.*
After expressing his sympathy, the Coroner asked, "How long had you
been engaged to the deceased?"
Witness: "About eight months."
The Coroner: "Where did you first meet him?"
* From the newspaper report—not Mr. Parker.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
149
Witness: "At my sister-in-law's house in London."
The Coroner: "When was that?"
Witness: "I think it was June last year."
The Coroner: "You were quite happy in your engagement?"
Witness: "Quite."
The Coroner: "You naturally saw a good deal of Captain Cathcart.
Did he tell you much about his previous life?"
Witness: "Not very much. We were not given to mutual confidences.
We usually discussed subjects of common interest."
The Coroner: "You had many such subjects?"
Witness: "Oh, yes."
The Coroner: "You never gathered at any time that Captain Cathcart
had anything on his mind?"
Witness: "Not particularly. He had seemed a little anxious the last
few days."
The Coroner: "Did he speak of his life in Paris?"
Witness: "He spoke of theatres and amusements there. He knew Paris
very well. I was staying in Paris with some friends last February, when
he was there, and he took us about. That was shortly after our engage-
ment."
The Coroner: "Did he ever speak of playing cards in Paris?"
Witness: "I don't remember."
The Coroner: "With regard to your marriage—had any money set-
tlements been gone into?"
Witness: "I don't think so. The date of the marriage was not in any
way fixed."
The Coroner: "He always appeared to have plenty of money?"
Witness: "I suppose so; I didn't think about it."
The Coroner: "You never heard him complain of being hard up?"
Witness: "Everybody complains of that, don't they?"
The Coroner: "Was he a man of cheerful disposition?"
Witness: "He was very moody, never the same two days together."
The Coroner: "You have heard what your brother says about the
deceased wishing to break off the engagement. Had you any idea of
this?"
Witness: "Not the slightest."
The Coroner: "Can you think of any explanation now?"
Witness: "Absolutely none."
The Coroner: "There had been no quarrel?"
Witness: "No."
The Coroner: "So far as you knew, on the Wednesday evening, you


150
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
were still engaged to deceased with every prospect of being married to
him shortly?"
Witness: "Ye-es. Yes, certainly, of course."
The Coroner: "He was not—forgive me this very painful question—
the sort of man who would have been likely to lay violent hands on
himself?"
Witness: "Oh, I never thought—well, I don't know—I suppose he
might have done. That would explain it, wouldn't it?"
The Coroner: "Now, Lady Mary—please don't distress yourself, take
your own time—will you tell us exactly what you heard and saw on
Wednesday night and Thursday morning."
Witness: "I went up to bed with Mrs. Marchbanks and Mrs. Pettigrew-
Robinson at about half-past nine, leaving all the men downstairs. I said
good night to Denis, who seemed quite as usual. I was not downstairs
when the post came. I went to my room at once. My room is at the back
of the house. I heard Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson come up at about ten.
The Pettigrew-Robinsons sleep next door to me. Some of the other men
came up with him. I did not hear my brother come upstairs. At about a
quarter past ten I heard two men talking loudly in the passage, and then
I heard someone run downstairs and bang the front door. Afterwards I
heard rapid steps in the passage, and finally I heard my brother shut his
door. Then I went to bed."
The Coroner: "You did not inquire the cause of the disturbance?"
Witness (indifferently): "I thought it was probably something about
the dop."
The Coroner: "What happened next?"
Witness: "I woke up at three o'clock."
The Coroner: "What wakened you?"
Witness: "I heard a shot."
The Coroner: "You were not awake before you heard it?"
Witness: "I may have been partly awake. I heard it very distinctly. I
was sure it was a shot. I listened for a few minutes, and then went down
to see if anything was wrong."
The Coroner: "Why did you not call your brother or some other gen-
tleman?"
Witness (scornfully): "Why should I? I thought it was probably only
poachers, and I didn't want to make an unnecessary fuss at that un-
earthly hour."
The Coroner: "Did the shot sound close to the house?"
Witness: "Fairly, I think—it is hard to tell when one is wakened by a
noise—it always sounds so extra loud."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
151
The Coroner: "It did not seem to be in the house or in the conserv-
atory?”
Witness: "No it was outside.”
The Coroner: "So you went downstairs by yourself. That was very
plucky of you, Lady Mary. Did you go immediately?”
Witness: “Not quite immediately. I thought it over for a few minutes;
then I put on walking-shoes over bare feet, a heavy covert-coat, and a
Gin-room
Sitting
Room,
Kitchen and
Offices.
lavatarys
Vel
Billiard
Room.
Servant's
Hall.
Study.
I weater dining road
french Windows
Front Door,
Conservatory)
GROUND PLAN
Nell.
Mr.ond Mrs.
Rettigrew-Robinson
Lady
Mary
Servants Wings.
Bathroom]
Lav.
pour
CUTBOARD
WADUT
Dressing
Room.
Maidi Roon. Coland Mrs. arbe
* | Arbuthnot. Cartheart.
Dressing March banks.
The Duke.
Room
X.- Old Oak Chest.
woolly cap. It may have been five minutes after hearing the shot that I
left my bedroom. I went downstairs and through the billiard-room to the
conservatory.”
The Coroner: "Why did you go out that way?”


152
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Witness: "Because it was quicker than unbolting either the front door
or the back door."
At this point a plan of Riddlesdale Lodge was handed to the jury. It is
a roomy, two-storied house, built in a plain style, and leased by the pres-
ent owner, Mr. Walter Montague, to Lord Denver for the season, Mr.
Montague being in the States.
Witness (resuming): “When I got to the conservatory door I saw a
man outside, bending over something on the ground. When he looked up
I was astonished to see my brother.”
The Coroner: "Before you saw who it was, what did you expect?”
Witness: “I hardly know-it all happened so quickly. I thought it was
burglars, I think.”
The Coroner: "His grace has told us that when you saw him you cried
out, 'O God! you've killed him! Can you tell us why you did that?”
Witness (very pale): “I thought my brother must have come upon the
burglar and fired at him in self-defence-that is, if I thought at all.”
The Coroner: “Quite so. You knew that the Duke possessed a re-
volver?”
Witness: “Oh, yes, I think so.”
The Coroner: "What did you do next?”
Witness: "My brother sent me up to get help. I knocked up Mr.
Arbuthnot and Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson. Then I suddenly felt
very faint, and went back to my bedroom and took some sal volatile."
The Coroner: “Alone?"
Witness: “Yes, everybody was running about and calling out. I couldn't
bear it-I-_"
Here the witness, who up till this moment had given her evidence
very collectedly, though in a low voice, collapsed suddenly, and had to
be assisted from the room.
The next witness called was James Fleming, the man-servant. He re-
membered having brought the letters from Riddlesdale at 9.45 on
Wednesday evening. He had taken three or four letters to the Duke in
the gun-room. He could not remember at all whether one of them had
had an Egyptian stamp. He did not collect stamps; his hobby was auto-
graphs.
The Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot then gave evidence. He had gone up to
bed with the rest at a little before ten. He had heard Denver come up by
himself some time later-couldn't say how much later-he was brushing
his teeth at the time. (Laughter.) Had certainly heard loud voices and a
row going on next door and in the passage. Had heard somebody go for
the stairs hell-for-leather. Had stuck his head out and seen Denver in
the passage. Had said, "Hello, Denver, what's the row?” The Duke's re-


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
153
ply had been inaudible. Denver had bolted into his bedroom and shouted
out of the window, "Don't be an ass, man!" He had seemed very angry
indeed, but the Hon. Freddy attached no importance to that. One was
always getting across Denver, but it never came to anything. More dust
than kick in his opinion. Hadn't known Cathcart long—always found him
all right—no, he didn't like Cathcart, but he was all right, you know, noth-
ing wrong about him that he knew of. Good lord, no, he'd never heard
it suggested he cheated at cards! Well, no, of course, he didn't go about
looking out for people cheating at cards—it wasn't a thing one expected.
He'd been had that way in a club at Monte once—he'd had no hand in
bringing it to light—hadn't noticed anything till the fun began. Had not
noticed anything particular in Cathcart's manner to Lady Mary, or hers
to him. Didn't suppose he ever would notice anything; did not consider
himself an observing sort of man. Was not interfering by nature; had
thought Wednesday evening's dust-up none of his business. Had gone to
bed and to sleep.
The Coroner: "Did you hear anything further that night?"
Hon. Frederick: "Not till poor little Mary knocked me up. Then I
toddled down and found Denver in the conservatory, bathing Cathcart's
head. We thought we ought to clean the gravel and mud off his face, you
know."
The Coroner: "You heard no shot?"
Hon. Frederick: "Not a sound. But I sleep pretty heavily."
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks slept in the room over what was called
the study—more a sort of smoking-room really. They both gave the same
account of a conversation which they had had at 11.30. Mrs. Marchbanks
had sat up to write some letters after the Colonel was in bed. They had
heard voices and someone running about, but had paid no attention. It
was not unusual for members of the party to shout and run about. At
last the Colonel had said, "Come to bed, my dear, it's half-past eleven,
and we're making an early start to-morrow. You won't be fit for any-
thing." He said this because Mrs. Marchbanks was a keen sportswoman
and always carried her gun with the rest. She replied, "I'm just coming."
The Colonel said, "You're the only sinner burning the midnight oil—
everybody's turned in." Mrs. Marchbanks replied, "No, the Duke's still
up; I can hear him moving about in the study." Colonel Marchbanks
listened and heard it too. Neither of them heard the Duke come up
again. They had heard no noise of any kind in the night.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson appeared to give evidence with extreme re-
luctance. He and his wife had gone to bed at ten. They had heard the
quarrel with Cathcart. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, fearing that something


154
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
might be going to happen, opened his door in time to hear the Duke say,
"If you dare to speak to my sister again I'll break every bone in your
body," or words to that effect. Cathcart had rushed downstairs. The Duke
was scarlet in the face. He had not seen Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, but
had spoken a few words to Mr. Arbuthnot, and rushed into his own bed-
room. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had run out, and said to Mr. Arbuthnot,
"I say, Arbuthnot," and Mr. Arbuthnot had very rudely slammed the
door in his face. He had then gone to the Duke's door and said, "I say,
Denver." The Duke had come out, pushing past him, without even no-
ticing him, and gone to the head of the stairs. He had heard him tell Flem-
ing to leave the conservatory door open, as Mr. Cathcart had gone out.
The Duke had then returned. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had tried to catch
him as he passed, and had said again, "I say, Denver, what's up?" The
Duke had said nothing, and had shut his bedroom door with great de-
cision. Later on, however, at 11.30 to be precise, Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson
had heard the Duke's door open, and stealthy feet moving about the pas-
sage. He could not hear whether they had gone downstairs. The bath-
room and lavatory were at his end of the passage, and, if anybody had
entered either of them, he thought he should have heard. He had not
heard the footsteps return. He had heard his travelling clock strike twelve
before falling asleep. There was no mistaking the Duke's bedroom door,
as the hinge creaked in a peculiar manner.
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson confirmed her husband's evidence. She had
fallen asleep before midnight, and had slept heavily. She was a heavy
sleeper at the beginning of the night, but slept lightly in the early morning.
She had been annoyed by all the disturbance in the house that evening,
as it had prevented her from getting off. In fact, she had dropped off about
10.30, and Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had had to wake her an hour after
to tell her about the footsteps. What with one thing and another she only
got a couple of hours' good sleep. She woke up again at two, and re-
mained broad awake till the alarm was given by Lady Mary. She could
swear positively that she heard no shot in the night. Her window was
next to Lady Mary's, on the opposite side from the conservatory. She had
always been accustomed from a child to sleep with her window open. In
reply to a question from the Coroner, Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson said
she had never felt there was a real, true affection between Lady Mary
Wimsey and deceased. They seemed very off-hand, but that sort of thing
was the fashion nowadays. She had never heard of any disagreement.
Miss Lydia Cathcart, who had been hurriedly summoned from town,
then gave evidence about the deceased man. She told the Coroner that
she was the Captain's aunt and his only surviving relative. She had seen
very little of him since he came into possession of his father's money. He


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
155
had always lived with his own friends in Paris, and they were such as she
could not approve of.
"My brother and I never got on very well," said Miss Cathcart, "and he
had my nephew educated abroad till he was eighteen. I fear Denis's no-
tions were always quite French. After my brother's death Denis went to
Cambridge, by his father's desire. I was left executrix of the will, and
guardian till Denis came of age. I do not know why, after neglecting me
all his life, my brother should have chosen to put such a responsibility
upon me at his death, but I did not care to refuse. My house was open to
Denis during his holidays from college, but he preferred, as a rule, to go
and stay with his rich friends. I cannot now recall any of their names.
When Denis was twenty-one he came into £10,000 a year. I believe it
was in some kind of foreign property. I inherited a certain amount under
the will as executrix, but I converted it all, at once, into good, sound,
British securities. I cannot say what Denis did with his. It would not sur-
prise me at all to hear that he had been cheating at cards. I have heard
that the persons he consorted with in Paris were most undesirable. I
never met any of them. I have never been in France."
John Hardraw, the gamekeeper, was next called. He and his wife in-
habit a small cottage just inside the gate of Riddlesdale Lodge. The
grounds, which measure twenty acres or so, are surrounded at this point
by a strong paling; the gate is locked at night. Hardraw stated that he
had heard a shot fired at about ten minutes to twelve on Wednesday
night, close to the cottage, as it seemed to him. Behind the cottage are
ten acres of preserved plantation. He supposed that there were poachers
about; they occasionally came in after hares. He went out with his gun in
that direction, but saw nobody. He returned home at one o'clock by his
watch.
The Coroner: "Did you fire your gun at any time?"
Witness: "No."
The Coroner: "You did not go out again?"
Witness: "I did not."
The Coroner: "Nor hear any other shots?"
Witness: "Only that one; but I fell asleep after I got back, and was
wakened up by the chauffeur going out for the doctor. That would be at
about a quarter-past three."
The Coroner: "Is it not unusual for poachers to shoot so very near the
cottage?"
Witness: "Yes, rather. If poachers do come, it is usually on the other
side of the preserve, towards the moor."
Dr. Thorpe gave evidence of having been called to see deceased. He


156
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
lived in Stapley, nearly fourteen miles from Riddlesdale. There was no
medical man in Riddlesdale. The chauffeur had knocked him up at 3.45
a.m., and he had dressed quickly and come with him at once. They were
at Riddlesdale Lodge at half-past four. Deceased, when he saw him, he
judged to have been dead three or four hours. The lungs had been pierced
by a bullet, and death had resulted from loss of blood, and suffocation.
Death would not have resulted immediately-deceased might have lingered
some time. He had made a post-mortem investigation, and found that the
bullet had been deflected from a rib. There was nothing to show whether
the wound had been self-inflicted or fired from another hand, at close
quarters. There were no other marks of violence.
Inspector Craikes from Stapley had been brought back in the car with
Dr. Thorpe. He had seen the body. It was then lying on its back, between
the door of the conservatory and the covered well just outside. As soon as
it became light, Inspector Craikes had examined the house and grounds.
He had found bloody marks all along the path leading to the conserva-
tory, and signs as though a body had been dragged along. This path ran
into the main path leading from the gate to the front door. (Plan pro-
duced.) Where the two paths joined, a shrubbery began, and ran down
on both sides of the path to the gate and the gamekeeper's cottage. The
blood-tracks had led to a little clearing in the middle of the shrubbery,
about half-way between the house and the gate. Here the Inspector found
a great pool of blood, a handkerchief soaked in blood, and a revolver.
The handkerchief bore the initials D. C., and the revolver was a small
weapon of American pattern, and bore no mark. The conservatory door
was open when the Inspector arrived, and the key was inside.
Deceased, when he saw him, was in dinner-jacket and pumps, without
hat or overcoat. He was wet through, and his clothes, besides being much
blood-stained, were very muddy and greatly disordered through the drag-
ging of the body. The pocket contained a cigar-case and a small, flat
pocket-knife. Deceased's bedroom had been searched for papers, etc.,
but so far nothing had been found to shed very much light on his cir-
cumstances.
The Duke of Denver was then recalled.
The Coroner: "I should like to ask your grace whether you ever saw
deceased in possession of a revolver?"
Duke of D.: "Not since the war."
The Coroner: "You do not know if he carried one about with him?”
Duke of D.: "I have no idea.”
The Coroner: "You can make no guess, I suppose, to whom this re-
volver belongs?”


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
157
Duke of D. (in great surprise): "That's my revolver—out of the study
table drawer. How did you get hold of that?"—(Sensation.)
The Coroner: "You are certain?"
Duke of D.: "Positive. I saw it there only the other day, when I was
hunting out some photos of Mary for Cathcart, and I remember saying
then that it was getting rusty lying about. There's the speck of rust."
The Coroner: "Did you keep it loaded?"
Duke of D.: "Lord, no! I really don't know why it was there. I fancy
I turned it out one day with some old Army stuff, and found it among
my shooting things when I was up at Riddlesdale in August. I think the
cartridges were with it."
The Coroner: "Was the drawer locked?"
Duke of D.: "Yes; but the key was in the lock. My wife tells me I'm
careless."
The Coroner: "Did anybody else know the revolver was there?"
Duke of D.: "Fleming did, I think. I don't know of anybody else."
Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard, having only arrived on
Friday, had been unable as yet to make any very close investigation. Cer-
tain indications led him to think that some person or persons had been
on the scene of the tragedy in addition to those who had taken part in the
discovery. He preferred to say nothing more at present.
The Coroner then reconstructed the evidence in chronological order.
At, or a little after, ten o'clock there had been a quarrel between de-
ceased and the Duke of Denver, after which deceased had left the house
never to be seen alive again. They had the evidence of Mr. Pettigrew-
Robinson that the Duke had gone downstairs at 11.30, and that of Colo-
nel Marchbanks that he had been heard immediately afterwards moving
about in the study, the room in which the revolver produced in evidence
was usually kept. Against this they had the Duke's own sworn statement
that he had not left his bedroom till half-past two in the morning. The jury
would have to consider what weight was to be attached to those con-
flicting statements. Then, as to the shots heard in the night; the game-
keeper had said he heard a shot at ten minutes to twelve, but he had
supposed it to be fired by poachers. It was, in fact, quite possible that
there had been poachers about. On the other hand, Lady Mary's state-
ment that she had heard the shot at about three a.m. did not fit in very
well with the doctor's evidence that when he arrived at Riddlesdale at
4.30 deceased had been already three or four hours dead. They would
remember also that, in Dr. Thorpe's opinion, death had not immediately
followed the wound. If they believed this evidence, therefore, they would
have to put back the moment of death to between eleven p.m. and mid-
night, and this might very well have been the shot which the gamekeeper


158
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
heard. In that case they had still to ask themselves about the shot which
had awakened Lady Mary Wimsey. Of course, if they liked to put that
down to poachers, there was no inherent impossibility.
They next came to the body of deceased, which had been discovered
by the Duke of Denver at three a.m. lying outside the door of the small
conservatory, near the covered well. There seemed little doubt, from the
medical evidence, that the shot which killed deceased had been fired in
the shrubbery, about seven minutes' distance from the house, and that
the body of deceased had been dragged from that place to the house. De-
ceased had undoubtedly died as the result of being shot in the lungs. The
jury would have to decide whether that shot was fired by his own hand or
by the hand of another; and, if the latter, whether by accident, in self-de-
fence, or by malice aforethought with intent to murder. As regards sui-
cide, they must consider what they knew of deceased's character and
circumstances. Deceased was a young man in the prime of his strength,
and apparently of considerable fortune. He had had a meritorious mili-
tary career, and was liked by his friends. The Duke of Denver had
thought sufficiently well of him to consent to his own sister's engagement
to deceased. There was evidence to show that the fiances, though perhaps
not demonstrative, were on excellent terms. The Duke affirmed that on
the Wednesday night deceased had announced his intention of breaking
off the engagement. Did they believe that deceased, without even com-
municating with the lady, or writing a word of explanation or farewell,
would thereupon rush out and shoot himself? Again, the jury must con-
sider the accusation which the Duke of Denver said he had brought
against deceased. He had accused him of cheating at cards. In the kind
of society to which the persons involved in this inquiry belonged, such a
misdemeanour as cheating at cards was regarded as far more shameful
than such sins as murder and adultery. Possibly the mere suggestion of
such a thing, whether well-founded or not, might well cause a gentleman
of sensitive honour to make away with himself. But was deceased hon-
ourable? Deceased had been educated in France, and French notions of
the honest thing were very different from British ones. The Coroner him-
self had had business relations with French persons in his capacity as a
solicitor, and could assure such of the jury as had never been in France
that they ought to allow for these different standards. Unhappily, the al-
leged letter giving details of the accusation had not been produced to
them. Next, they might ask themselves whether it was not more usual
for a suicide to shoot himself in the head. They should ask themselves
how deceased came by the revolver. And, finally, they must consider, in
that case, who had dragged the body towards the house, and why the per-
son had chosen to do so, with great labour to himself and at the risk of


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
159
extinguishing any lingering remnant of the vital spark,* instead of arous-
ing the household and fetching help.
If they excluded suicide, there remained accident, manslaughter, or
murder. As to the first, if they thought it likely that deceased or any other
person had taken out the Duke of Denver's revolver that night for any
purpose, and that, in looking at, cleaning, shooting with, or otherwise
handling the weapon, it had gone off and killed deceased accidentally,
then they would return a verdict of death by misadventure accordingly.
In that case, how did they explain the conduct of the person, whoever it
was, who had dragged the body to the door?
The Coroner then passed on to speak of the law concerning manslaugh-
ter. He reminded them that no mere words, however insulting or threat-
ening, can be an efficient excuse for killing anybody, and that the conflict
must be sudden and unpremeditated. Did they think, for example, that
the Duke had gone out, wishing to induce his guest to return and sleep
in the house, and that deceased had retorted upon him with blows or
menaces of assault? If so, and the Duke, having a weapon in his hand,
had shot deceased in self-defence, that was only manslaughter. But, in
that case, they must ask themselves how the Duke came to go out to de-
ceased with a lethal weapon in his hand? And this suggestion was in di-
rect conflict with the Duke's own evidence.
Lastly, they must consider whether there was sufficient evidence of
malice to justify a verdict of murder. They must consider whether any
person had a motive, means, and opportunity for killing deceased; and
whether they could reasonably account for that person's conduct on any
other hypothesis. And, if they thought there was such a person, and that
his conduct was in any way suspicious or secretive, or that he had wilfully
suppressed evidence which might have had a bearing on the case, or
(here the Coroner spoke with great emphasis, staring over the Duke's
head) fabricated other evidence with intent to mislead—then all these
circumstances might be sufficient to amount to a violent presumption of
guilt against some party, in which case they were in duty bound to bring
in a verdict of wilful murder against that party. And, in considering this
aspect of the question, the Coroner added, they would have to decide in
their own minds whether the person who had dragged deceased towards
the conservatory door had done so with the object of obtaining assistance
or of thrusting the body down the garden well, which, as they had heard
from Inspector Craikes, was situate close by the spot where the body had
been found. If the jury were satisfied that deceased had been murdered,
but were not prepared to accuse any particular person on the evidence,
* Verbatim.


160
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
they might bring in a verdict of murder against an unknown person, or
persons; but, if they felt justified in laying the killing at any person's door,
then they must allow no respect of persons to prevent them from doing
their duty.
Guided by these extremely plain hints, the jury, without very long
consultation, returned a verdict of wilful murder against Gerald, Duke
of Denver.
CHAPTER II
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 reflection and holy love. The only member of it who seemed nei-
ther 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 em-
barrassed, and her anger, though never permitted to be visible, made it-
self felt the more.
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks sat side by side. They had nothing beau-
tiful 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


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
161
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:
Quacunque 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 htm 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 mat-
ters (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 con-
servatory, 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 detec-
tive 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 dis-
sented from the opinion of Inspector Craikes. He had suppressed at the
inquest information which, if openly given, might have precluded the ar-
rest 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


162
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
he had put the coping-stone on his offences by turning out to be an inti-
mate 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 trav-
elled 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 mat-
ter, 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 /
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 Chris-
tian myself, but I cannot feel that our religion demands that we should
make ourselves conspicuous—er—in such very painful circumstances."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
163
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. "Per-
haps 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 March-
banks 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 IH 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 detec-
tives 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


164
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 au-
dible.
"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 Sep-
tember 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-keep-
er'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' crepe-de-Chine undies from
Paris, but I saw that old Parker was gettin' ahead of me over the blood-
stains, 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 exceed-
ingly 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."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
165
"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 hu-
manitarian 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 armchair 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 youH
excuse my saying so, I think you rather mucked it between you."
"It was disgraceful," said Mr. Murbles, "disgraceful. The Coroner be-
haved 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 Superintendent 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 miscon-
ception 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 (dis-
figured, 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 respecta-


166
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ble 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 man-
ner 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' every-
thing 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 inspec-
tion, 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 hun-
dred, 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 con-
siderations 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


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
167
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 armchair be-
fore 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 ta-
ble 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 com-
putation—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."


168
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 mat-
ter 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, / say he was; at least, somebody was; he's left the impres-
sion 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 atti-
tude, 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.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
169
"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
Soir1—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 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 then I got the chuck from
Barbara and 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 con-
venience 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 at the 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."


170
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No," said Wimsey, "he was the kind, I imagine, that didn't keep let-
ters. 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 house-
maid said she never found anything to speak of in the waste-paper
basket."
"Well, that's uncommonly helpful. Wait a moment. Here's his foun-
tain-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 Rotisserie de la Reine Pidauque, L'Anneau d'Amethyste, 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 pub-


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
171
lic schoolboy, and a shocking ass. But I don't think he's so mediaeval 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. Free-
born 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 pos-
sible 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


172
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 precari-
ously 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 galoshes 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. v


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
173
"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 far-
ther side. I think it was something bulky set up on edge, and leaned
against the glass. If you asked 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 con-
venience 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."


174
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 to-
wards 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?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
175
A few yards farther the path ran into the main drive. This was bor-
dered 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 au-
tumnal 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.


176
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 appoint-
ment 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 appoint-
ment. 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 haemorrhage and gives up the ghost. No. 10 sud-
denly 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 con-
cerned, 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 Cath-
cart 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 some-
thing—here's real treasure-trove, Parker!"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS 177
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 diminu-
tive diamond cat with eyes of bright emerald.
CHAPTER UI
MUDSTAINS AND BLOODSTAINS
Other things are all very well in their way, but give me Blood
. . . We say, "There it is! thafs Blood!" It is an actual matter of
fact. We point it out. It admits of no doubt. . . . We must have
Blood, you know.—David Copperfield.
"hitherto," said Lord Peter, as they picked their painful way through
the little wood on the trail of Gent's No. 10's, "I have always main-
tained that those obliging criminals who strew their tracks with little arti-
cles of personal adornment—here he is, on a squashed fungus—were an
invention of detective fiction for the benefit of the author. I see that I
have still something to learn about my job."
"Well, you haven't been at it very long, have you?" said Parker. "Be-
sides, we don't know that the diamond cat is the criminal's. It may be-
long to a member of your own family, and have been lying here for days.
It may belong to Mr. What's-his-name in the States, or to the last tenant
but one, and have been lying here for years. This broken branch may
be our friend—I think it is."
"I'll ask the family," said Lord Peter, "and we could find out in the
village if anyone's ever inquired for a lost cat. They're pukka stones.
It ain't the sort of thing one would drop without making a fuss about—
I've lost him altogether."
"It's all right—I've got him. He's tripped over a root."
"Serve him glad," said Lord Peter viciously, straightening his back.
"I say, I don't think the human frame is very thoughtfully constructed
for this sleuth-hound business. If one could go on all-fours, or had eyes
in one's knees, it would be a lot more practical."
"There are many difficulties inherent in a teleological view of crea-
tion," said Parker placidly. "Ah! here we are at the park palings."
"And here's where he got over," said Lord Peter, pointing to a place
where the chevaux de frise on the top was broken away. "Here's t'


178
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
dent where his heels came down, and here's where he fell forward on
hands and knees. Hum! Give us a back, old man, would you? Thanks.
An old break, I see. Mr. Montague-now-in-the-States should keep his
palings in better order. No. 10 tore his coat on the spikes all the same;
he left a fragment of Burberry behind him. What luck! Here's a deep,
damp ditch on the other side, which I shall now proceed to fall into."
A slithering crash proclaimed that he had carried out his intention.
Parker, thus callously abandoned, looked round, and, seeing that they
were only a hundred yards or so from the gate, ran along and was let
out, decorously, by Hardraw, the gamekeeper, who happened to be com-
ing out of the lodge.
"By the way," said Parker to him, "did you ever find any signs of
any poachers on Wednesday night after all?"
"Nay," said the man, "not so much as a dead rabbit. I reckon t'lady
wor mistaken, an 'twore the shot I heard as killed t'Captain."
"Possibly," said Parker. "Do you know how long the spikes have been
broken off the palings over there?"
"A moonth or two, happen. They should 'a' bin put right, but the
man's sick."
"The gate's locked at night, I suppose?"
"Aye."
"Anybody wishing to get in would have to waken you?"
"Aye, that he would."
"You didn't see any suspicious character loitering about outside these
palings last Wednesday, I suppose?"
"Nay, sir, but my wife may ha' done. Hey, lass!"
Mrs. Hardraw, thus summoned, appeared at the door with a small
boy clinging to her skirts.
"Wednesday?" said she. "Nay, I saw no loiterin' folks. I keep a look-
out for tramps and such, as it be such a lonely place. Wednesday. Eh,
now, John, that wad be t'day t'young mon called wi' t'motor-bike."
"Young man with a motor-bike?"
"I reckon 'twas. He said he'd had a puncture and asked for a bucket
o' watter."
"Was that all the asking he did?"
"He asked what were t'name o' t'place and whose house it were."
"Did you tell him the Duke of Denver was living here?"
"Aye, sir, and he said he supposed a many gentlemen came up for
t'shooting."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"He said he'd coom oop fra' Weirdale an' were makin' a trip into
Coomberland."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
179
"How long was he here?"
"Happen half an hour. An' then he tried to get his machine started,
an' I see him hop-hoppitin' away towards King's Fenton."
She pointed away to the right, where Lord Peter might be seen gesticu-
lating in the middle of the road.
"What sort of a man was he?"
Like most people, Mrs. Hardraw was poor at definition. She thought
he was youngish and tallish, neither dark nor fair, in such a long coat
as motor-bicyclists use, with a belt round it.
"Was he a gentleman?"
Mrs. Hardraw hesitated, and Mr. Parker mentally classed the stranger
as "Not quite quite."
"You didn't happen to notice the number of the bicycle?"
Mrs. Hardraw had not. "But it had a side-car," she added.
Lord Peter's gesticulations were becoming quite violent, and Mr.
Parker hastened to rejoin him.
"Come on, gossiping old thing," said Lord Peter unreasonably. "This
is a beautiful ditch.
From such a ditch as this,
When the soft wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise, from such a ditch
Our friend, methinks, mounted the Troyan walls,
And wiped his soles upon the greasy mud.
Look at my trousers!"
"It's a bit of a climb from this side," said Parker.
"It is. He stood here in the ditch, and put one foot into this place
where the paling's broken away and one hand on the top, and hauled
himself up. No. 10 must have been a man of exceptional height, strength,
and agility. I couldn't get my foot up, let alone reaching the top with
my hand. I'm five foot nine. Could you?"
Parker was six foot, and could just touch the top of the wall with
his hand.
"I might do it—on one of my best days," he said, "for an adequate
object, or after adequate stimulant."
"Just so," said Lord Peter. "Hence we deduce No. 10's exceptional
height and strength."
"Yes," said Parker. "It's a bit unfortunate that we had to deduce
his exceptional shortness and weakness just now, isn't it?"
"Oh!" said Peter. "Well—well, as you so rightly say, that is a bit un-
fortunate."


180
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Well, it may clear up presently. He didn't have a confederate to give
him a back or a leg, I suppose?"
"Not unless the confederate was a being without feet or any visible
means of support," said Lord Peter, indicating the solitary print of a pair
of patched 10's. "By the way, how did he make straight in the dark for
the place where the spikes were missing? Looks as though he belonged
to the neighbourhood, or had reconnoitred previously."
"Arising out of that reply," said Parker, "I will now relate to you the
entertaining 'gossip' I have had with Mrs. Hardraw."
"Humph!" said Wimsey at the end of it. "That's interesting. We'd
better make inquiries at Riddlesdale and King's Fenton. Meanwhile we
know where No. 10 came from; now where did he go after leaving
Cathcart's body by the well?"
"The footsteps went into the preserve," said Parker. "I lost them there.
There is a regular carpet of dead leaves and bracken."
"Well, but we needn't go through all that sleuth grind again," ob-
jected his friend. "The fellow went in, and, as he presumably is not there
still, he came out again. He didn't come out through the gate or Har-
draw would have seen him; he didn't come out the same way he went
in or he would have left some traces. Therefore he came out elsewhere.
Let's walk round the wall."
"Then we'll turn to the left," said Parker, "since that's the side of the
preserve, and he apparently went through there."
"True, O King; and as this isn't a church, there's no harm in going
round it widdershins. Talking of church, there's Helen coming back. Get
a move on, old thing."
They crossed the drive, passed the cottage, and then, leaving the road,
followed the paling across some open grass fields. It was not long before
they found what they sought. From one of the iron spikes above them
dangled forlornly a strip of material. With Parker's assistance Wimsey
scrambled up in a state of almost lyric excitement.
"Here we are," he cried. "The belt of a Burberry! No sort of pre-
caution here. Here are the toe-prints of a fellow sprinting for his life.
He tore off his Burberry; he made desperate leaps—one, two, three—at
the palings. At the third leap he hooked it on to the spikes. He scrambled
up, scoring long, scrabbling marks on the paling. He reached the top.
Oh, here's a bloodstain run into this crack. He tore his hands. He
dropped off. He wrenched the coat away, leaving the belt dangling—"
"I wish you'd drop off," grumbled Parker. "You're breaking my col-
lar-bone."
Lord Peter dropped off obediently, and stood there holding the belt
between his fingers. His narrow grey eyes wandered restlessly over the


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
181
field. Suddenly he seized Parker's arm and marched briskly in the direc-
tion of the wall on the farther side—a low erection of unmortared stone
in the fashion of the country. Here he hunted along like a terrier, nose
foremost, the tip of his tongue caught absurdly between his teeth, then
jumped over, and, turning to Parker, said:
"Did you ever read The Lay of the Last Minstrel?"
"I learnt a good deal of it at school," said Parker. "Why?"
"Because there was a goblin page-boy in it," said Lord Peter, "who
was always yelling 'Found! Found! Found!' at the most unnecessary mo-
ments. I always thought him a terrible nuisance, but now I know how
he felt. See here."
Close under the wall, and sunk heavily into the narrow and muddy
lane which ran up here at right angles to the main road, was the track
of a side-car combination.
"Very nice too," said Mr. Parker approvingly. "New Dunlop tyre on
the front wheel. Old tyre on the back. Gaiter on the side-car tyre. Noth-
ing could be better. Tracks come in from the road and go back to the
road. Fellow shoved the machine in here in case anybody of an inquisi-
tive turn of mind should pass on the road and make off with it, or take
its number. Then he went round on shank's mare to the gap he'd spotted
in the daytime and got over. After the Cathcart affair he took fright,
bolted into the preserve, and took the shortest way to his bus, regardless.
Well, now."
He sat down on the wall, and, drawing out his notebook, began to
jot down a description of the man from the data already known.
"Things begin to look a bit more comfortable for old Jerry," said
Lord Peter. He leaned on the wall and began whistling softly, but with
great accuracy, that elaborate passage of Bach which begins "Let Zion's
children."
■ • ■ • «
"I wonder," said the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, "what damn silly fool
invented Sunday afternoon."
He shovelled coals on to the library fire with a vicious clatter, waking
Colonel Marchbanks, who said, "Eh? Yes, quite right," and fell asleep
again instantly.
"Don't you grumble, Freddy," said Lord Peter, who had been occu-
pied for some time in opening and shutting all the drawers of the writing-
table in a thoroughly irritating manner, and idly snapping to and fro
the catch of the French window. "Think how dull old Jerry must feel.
'Spose I'd better write him a line."
He returned to the table and took a sheet of paper. "Do people use
this room much to write letters in, do you know?"


182
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No idea," said the Hon. Freddy. "Never write 'em myself. Where's
the point of writin' when you can wire? Encourages people to write back,
that's all. I think Denver writes here when he writes anywhere, and I
saw the Colonel wrestlin' with pen and ink a day or two ago, didn't
you, Colonel?" (The Colonel grunted, answering to his name like a dog
that wags its tail in its sleep.) "What's the matter? Ain't there any ink?"
"I only wondered," replied Peter placidly. He slipped a paper-knife
under the top sheet of the blotting-pad and held it up to the light. "Quite
right, old man. Give you full marks for observation. Here's Jerry's sig-
nature, and the Colonel's, and a big, sprawly hand, which I should
judge to be feminine." He looked at the sheet again, shook his head,
folded it up, and placed it in his pocket-book. "Doesn't seem to be any-
thing there," he commented, "but you never know. 'Five something of
fine something'—grouse, probably; 'oe—is fou'—is found, I suppose. Well,
it can't do any harm to keep it." He spread out his paper and began:
"Dear Jerry,—Here I am, the family sleuth on the trail, and it's
damned exciting—"
The Colonel snored.
Sunday afternoon. Parker had gone with the car to King's Fenton,
with orders to look in at Riddlesdale on the way and inquire for a green-
eyed cat, also for a young man with a side-car. The Duchess was lying
down. Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson had taken her husband for a brisk walk.
Upstairs, somewhere, Mrs. Marchbanks enjoyed a perfect communion
of thought with her husband.
Lord Peter's pen gritted gently over the paper, stopped, moved on
again, stopped altogether. He leaned his long chin on his hands and
stared out of the window, against which there came sudden little swishes
of rain, and from time to time a soft, dead leaf. The Colonel snored;
the fire tinkled; the Hon. Freddy began to hum and tap his fingers on
the arms of his chair. The clock moved slothfully on to five o'clock,
which brought teatime and the Duchess.
"How's Mary?" asked Lord Peter, coming suddenly into the firelight.
"I'm really worried about her," said the Duchess. "She is giving way
to her nerves in the strangest manner. It is so unlike her. She will hardly
let anybody come near her. I have sent for Dr. Thorpe again."
"Don't you think she'd be better if she got up an' came downstairs a
bit?" suggested Wimsey. "Gets broodin' about things all by herself, I
shouldn't wonder. Wants a bit of Freddy's intellectual conversation to
cheer her up."
"You forget; poor girl," said the Duchess, "she was engaged to Cap-
tain Cathcart. Everybody isn't as callous as you are."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
183
"Any more letters, your grace?" asked the footman, appearing with
the post-bag.
"Oh, are you going down now?" said Wimsey. "Yes, here you are—
and there's one other, if you don't mind waitin' a minute while I write
it. Wish I could write at the rate people do on the cinema," he added,
scribbling rapidly as he spoke. "'Dear Lilian,—Your father has killed
Mr. William Snooks, and unless you send me £1,000 by bearer, I shall
disclose all to your husband.—Sincerely, Earl of Digglesbrake.' That's
the style; and all done in one scrape of the pen. Here you are, Fleming."
The letter was addressed to her grace the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
From the Morning Post of Monday, November—, 19—:
"Abandoned Motor-cycle
"A singular discovery was made yesterday by a cattle-drover. He
is accustomed to water his animals in a certain pond lying a little
off the road about twelve miles south of Ripley. On this occasion he
saw that one of them appeared to be in difficulties. On going to the
rescue, he found the animal entangled in a motor-cycle, which had
been driven into the pond and abandoned. With the assistance of a
couple of workmen he extricated the machine. It is a Douglas, with
dark-grey side-car. The number-plates and licence-holder have been
carefully removed. The pond is a deep one, and the outfit was en-
tirely submerged. It seems probable, however, that it could not
have been there for more than a week, since the pond is much used
on Sundays and Mondays for the watering of cattle. The police are
making search for the owner. The front tyre of the bicycle is a new
Dunlop, and the side-car tyre has been repaired with a gaiter. The
machine is a 1914 model, much worn."
"That seems to strike a chord," said Lord Peter musingly. He con-
sulted a time-table for the time of the next train to Ripley, and ordered
the car.
"And send Bunter to me," he added.
That gentleman arrived just as his master was struggling into an
overcoat.
"What was that thing in last Thursday's paper about a number-plate,
Bunter?" inquired his lordship.
Mr. Bunter produced, apparently by legerdemain, a cutting from an
evening paper:
"Number-plate Mystery
"The Rev. Nathaniel Foulis, of St . Simon's, North Fellcote, was
stopped at six o'clock this morning for riding a motor-cycle without


184
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
number-plates. The reverend gentleman seemed thunderstruck when
his attention was called to the matter. He explained that he had been
sent for in great haste at 4 a.m. to administer the Sacrament to a
dying parishioner six miles away. He hastened out on his motor-
cycle, which he confidingly left by the roadside while executing his
sacred duties. Mr. Foulis left the house at 5.30 without noticing that
anything was wrong. Mr. Foulis is well known in North Fellcote
and the surrounding country, and there seems little doubt that he
has been the victim of a senseless practical joke. North Fellcote is a
small village a couple of miles north of Ripley."
"I'm going to Ripley, Bunter," said Lord Peter.
"Yes, my lord. Does your lordship require me?"
"No," said Lord Peter, "but—who has been lady's maiding my sister,
Bunter?"
"Ellen, my lord—the housemaid."
"Then I wish you'd exercise your powers of conversation on Ellen."
"Very good, my lord."
"Does she mend my sister's clothes, and brush her skirts, and all
that?"
"I believe so, my lord."
"Nothing she may think is of any importance, you know, Bunter."
"I wouldn't suggest such a thing to a woman, my lord. It goes to
their heads, if I may say so."
"When did Mr. Parker leave for town?"
"At six o'clock this morning, my lord."
Circumstances favoured Mr. Bunter's inquiries. He bumped into Ellen
as she was descending the back stairs with an armful of clothing. A pair
of leather gauntlets was jerked from the top of the pile, and, picking
them up, he apologetically followed the young woman into the servants'
hall.
"There," said Ellen, flinging her burden on the table, "and the work
I've had to get them, I'm sure. Tantrums, that's what I call it, pretending
you've got such a headache you can't let a person into the room to take
your things down to brush, and, as soon as they're out of the way,
'opping out of bed and trapesing all over the place. 'Tisn't what I call
a headache, would you, now? But there! I daresay you don't get them
like I do. Regular fit to split, my head is sometimes—couldn't keep on
my feet, not if the house was burning down. I just have to lay down
and keep laying—something cruel it is. And gives a person such wrinkles
in one's forehead."
"I'm sure I don't see any wrinkles," said Mr. Bunter, "but perhaps I


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
185
haven't looked hard enough." An interlude followed, during which Mr.
Bunter looked hard enough and close enough to distinguish wrinkles.
"No," said he, "wrinkles? I don't believe I'd see any if I was to take
his lordship's big microscope he keeps up in town."
"Lot' now, Mr. Bunter," said Ellen, fetching a sponge and a bottle
of benzene from the cupboard, "what would his lordship be using a
thing like that for, now?"
"Why, in our hobby, you see, Miss Ellen, which is criminal investiga-
tion, we might want to see something magnified extra big—as it might be
handwriting in a forgery case, to see if anything's been altered or rubbed
out, or if different kinds of ink have been used. Or we might want to
look at the roots of a lock of hair, to see if it's been torn out or fallen
out. Or take bloodstains, now; we'd want to know if it was animals'
blood or human blood, or maybe only a glass of port."
"Now is it really true, Mr. Bunter," said Ellen, laying a tweed skirt
out upon the table and unstoppering the benzene, "that you and Lord
Peter can find out all that?"
"Of course, we aren't analytical chemists," Mr. Bunter replied, "but
his lordship's dabbled in a lot of things—enough to know when any-
thing looks suspicious, and if we've any doubts we send to a very fa-
mous scientific gentleman." (He gallantly intercepted Ellen's hand as it
approached the skirt with a benzene-soaked sponge.) "For instance,
now, here's a stain on the hem of this skirt, just at the bottom of the
side-seam. Now, supposing it was a case of murder, we'll say, and the
person that had worn this skirt was suspected, I should examine that
stain." (Here Mr. Bunter whipped a lens out of his pocket.) "Then I
might try it at one edge with a wet handkerchief." (He suited the action
to the word.) "And I should find, you see, that it came off red. Then
I should turn the skirt inside-out, I should see that the stain went right
through, and I should take my scissors" (Mr. Bunter produced a small,
sharp pair) "and snip off a tiny bit of the inside edge of the seam, like
this" (he did so) "and pop it into a little pill-box, so" (the pill-box
appeared magically from an inner pocket), "and seal it up both sides
with a wafer, and write on the top 'Lady Mary Wimsey's skirt,' and the
date. Then I should send it straight off to the analytical gentleman in
London, and he'd look through his microscope, and tell me right off that
it was rabbit's blood, maybe, and how many days it had been there,
and that would be the end of that," finished Mr. Bunter triumphantly,
replacing his nail-scissors and thoughtlessly pocketing the pill-box with
its contents.
"Well, he'd be wrong, then," said Ellen, with an engaging toss of the
head, "because it's bird's blood, and not rabbit's at all, because her lady-


186
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ship told me so; and wouldn't it be quicker just to go and ask the person
than get fiddling round with your silly old microscope and things?"
"Well, I only mentioned rabbits for an example," said Mr. Bunter.
"Funny she should have got a stain down there. Must have regularly
knelt in it."
"Yes. Bled a lot, hasn't it, poor thing? Somebody must 'a' been
shootin' careless-like. 'Twasn't his grace, nor yet the Captain, poor man.
Perhaps it was Mr. Arbuthnot. He shoots a bit wild sometimes. It's a
nasty mess, anyway, and it's so hard to clean off, being left so long. I'm
sure I wasn't thinking about cleaning nothing the day the poor Captain
was killed; and then the Coroner's inquest—'orrid, it was—and his grace
being took off like that! Well, there, it upset me. I suppose I'm a bit
sensitive. Anyhow, we was all at sixes and sevens for a day or two, and
then her ladyship shuts herself up in her room and won't let me go near
the wardrobe. 'Ow!' she says, 'do leave that wardrobe door alone. Don't
you know it squeaks, and my head's so bad and my nerves so bad I
can't stand it,' she says. 'I was only going to brush your skirts, my lady,'
I says. 'Bother my skirts,' says her ladyship, 'and do go away, Ellen. I
shall scream if I see you fidgeting about there. You get on my nerves,'
she says. Well, I didn't see why I should go on, not after being spoken
to like that. It's very nice to be a ladyship, and all your tempers coddled
and called nervous prostration. I know I was dreadfully cut up about
poor Bert, my young man what was killed in the war—nearly cried my
eyes out, I did; but, law! Mr. Bunter, I'd be ashamed to go on so. Be-
sides, between you and I and the gate-post, Lady Mary wasn't that fond
of the Captain. Never appreciated him, that's what I said to cook at the
time, and she agreed with me. He had a way with him, the Captain
had. Always quite the gentleman, of course, and never said anything
as wasn't his place—I don't mean that—but I mean as it was a pleasure
to do anything for him. Such a handsome man as he was, too, Mr.
Bunter."
"Ah!" said Mr. Bunter. "So on the whole her ladyship was a bit
more upset than you expected her to be?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Bunter, I think it's just temper. She
wanted to get married and away from home. Drat this stain! It's regular
dried in. She and his grace never could get on, and when she was away
in London during the war she had a rare old time, nursing officers, and
going about with all kinds of queer people his grace didn't approve of.
Then she had some sort of a love-affair with some quite low-down sort
of fellow, so cook says; I think he was one of them dirty Russians as
wants to blow us all to smithereens—as if there hadn't been enough peo-
ple blown up in the war already! Anyhow, his grace made a dreadful


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
187
fuss, and stopped supplies, and sent for her ladyship home, and ever
since then she's been just mad to be off with somebody. Full of notions,
she is. Makes me tired, I can tell you. Now, I'm sorry for his grace. I
can see what he thinks. Poor gentleman! And then to be taken up for
murder and put in gaol, just like one of them nasty tramps. Fancy!"
Ellen, having exhausted her breath and finished cleaning off the blood-
stains, paused and straightened her back.
"Hard work it is," she said, "rubbing; I quite ache."
"If you would allow me to help you," said Mr. Bunter, appropriating
the hot water, the benzene bottle, and the sponge.
He turned up another breadth of the skirt.
"Have you got a brush handy," he asked, "to take this mud off?"
"You're as blind as a bat, Mr. Bunter," said Ellen, giggling. "Can't
you see it just in front of you?"
"Ah, yes," said the valet. "But that's not as hard a one as I'd like.
Just you run and get me a real hard one, there's a dear good girl, and
I'll fix this for you."
"Cheek!" said Ellen. "But," she added, relenting before the admiring
gleam in Mr. Bunter's eye, "I'll get the clothes-brush out of the hall for
you. That's as hard as a brick-bat, that is."
No sooner was she out of the room than Mr. Bunter produced a
pocket-knife and two more pill-boxes. In a twinkling of an eye he had
scraped the surface of the skirt in two places and written two fresh
labels:
"Gravel from Lady Mary's skirt, about 6 in. from hem."
"Silver sand from hem of Lady Mary's skirt."
He added the date, and had hardly pocketed the boxes when Ellen
returned with the clothes-brush. The cleaning process continued for some
time, to the accompaniment of desultory conversation. A third stain on
the skirt caused Mr. Bunter to stare critically.
"Hullo!" he said. "Her ladyship's been trying her hand at cleaning
this herself."
"What?" cried Ellen. She peered closely at the mark, which at one
edge was smeared and whitened, and had a slightly greasy appearance.
"Well, I never," she exclaimed, "so she has! Whatever's that for, I
wonder? And her pretending to be so ill she couldn't raise her head off
the pillow. She's a sly one, she is."
"Couldn't it have been done before?" suggested Mr. Bunter.
"Well, she might have been at it between the day the Captain was
killed and the inquest," agreed Ellen, "though you wouldn't think that
was a time to choose to begin learning domestic work. She ain't much


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
189
number-plates. What d'you s'pose he'd pinch the curate's plates for if
he wanted to advertise his own about the neighbourhood? Once you
drop on them you've got his name and address; s'long as they're in his
trousers pocket you're up a gum-tree. Now, forgive me, Superintend-
ent, for shovin' along with my opinion, but I simply can't bear to think
of you takin' all that trouble for nothin'—draggin' ponds an' turnin'
over rubbish-heaps to look for number-plates that ain't there. You just
scour the railway-stations for a young man six foot one or two with a
No. 10 shoe, and dressed in a Burberry that's lost its belt, and with a
deep scratch on one of his hands. And look here, here's my address, and
I'll be very grateful if you'll let me know anything that turns up. So
awkward for my brother, y'know, all this. Sensitive man; feels it keenly.
By the way, I'm a very uncertain bird—always hoppin' about; you
might wire me any news in duplicate, to Riddlesdale and to town—110
Piccadilly. Always delighted to see you, by the way, if ever you're in
town. You'll forgive me slopin' off now, won't you? I've got a lot to do."
• • • • •
Returning to Riddlesdale, Lord Peter found a new visitor seated at
the tea-table. At Peter's entry he rose into towering height, and extended
a shapely, expressive hand that would have made an actor's fortune.
He was not an actor, but he found this hand useful, nevertheless, in the
exploitation of dramatic moments. His magnificent build and the nobility
of his head and mask were impressive; his features were flawless; his
eyes ruthless. The Dowager Duchess had once remarked: "Sir Impey
Biggs is the handsomest man in England, and no woman will ever care
twopence for him." He was, in fact, thirty-eight, and a bachelor, and
was celebrated for his rhetoric and his suave but pitiless dissection of
hostile witnesses. The breeding of canaries was his unexpected hobby,
and besides their song he could appreciate no music but revue airs.
He answered Wimsey's greeting in his beautiful, resonant, and exqui-
sitely controlled voice. Tragic irony, cutting contempt, or a savage indig-
nation were the emotions by which Sir Impey Biggs swayed court and
jury; he prosecuted murderers of the innocent, defended in actions for
criminal libel, and, moving others, was himself as stone. Wimsey ex-
pressed himself delighted to see him in a voice, by contrast, more husky
and hesitant even than usual.
"You just come from Jerry?" he asked. "Fresh toast, please Fleming.
How is he? Enjoyin' it? I never knew a fellow like Jerry for gettin' the
least possible out of any situation. I'd rather like the experience myself,
you know; only I'd hate bein' shut up and watchin' the other idiots
bunglin' my case. No reflection on Murbles and you, Biggs. I mean my-
self—I mean the man who'd be me if I was Jerry. You follow me?"


190
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I was just saying to Sir Impey," said the Duchess, "that he really
must make Gerald say what he was doing in the garden at three in the
morning. If only I'd been at Riddlesdale none of this would have hap-
pened. Of course, we all know that he wasn't doing any harm, but we
can't expect the jurymen to understand that. The lower orders are so
prejudiced. It is absurd of Gerald not to realise that he must speak out.
He has no consideration."
"I am doing my very best to persuade him, Duchess," said Sir Impey,
"but you must have patience. Lawyers enjoy a little mystery, you know.
Why, if everybody came forward and told the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth straight out, we should all retire to the workhouse."
"Captain Cathcart's death is very mysterious," said the Duchess,
"though when I think of the things that have come out about him it
really seems quite providential, as far as my sister-in-law is concerned."
"I s'pose you couldn't get 'em to bring it in 'Death by the Visitation
of God,' could you, Biggs?" suggested Lord Peter. "Sort of judgment for
wantin' to marry into our family, what?"
"I have known less reasonable verdicts," returned Biggs dryly. "It's
wonderful what you can suggest to a jury if you try. I remember once
at the Liverpool Assizes—"
He steered skilfully away into a quiet channel of reminiscence. Lord
Peter watched his statuesque profile against the fire; it reminded him of
the severe beauty of the charioteer of Delphi and was about as com-
municative.
It was not until after dinner that Sir Impey opened his mind to
Wimsey. The Duchess had gone to bed, and the two men were alone in
the library. Peter, scrupulously in evening dress, had been valeted by
Bunter, and had been more than usually rambling and cheerful all eve-
ning. He now took a cigar, retired to the largest chair, and effaced him-
self in a complete silence.
Sir Impey Biggs walked up and down for some half-hour, smoking.
Then he came across with determination, brutally switched on a reading-
lamp right into Peter's face, sat down opposite to him, and said:
"Now, Wimsey, I want to know all you know."
"Do you, though?" said Peter. He got up, disconnected the reading-
lamp, and carried it away to a side-table.
"No bullying of the witness, though," he added, and grinned.
"I don't care so long as you wake up," said Biggs, unperturbed.
"Now then."
Lord Peter removed his cigar from his mouth, considered it with his
head on one side, turned it carefully over, decided that the ash could


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
191
hang on to its parent leaf for another minute or two, smoked without
speaking until collapse was inevitable, took the cigar out again, deposited
the ash entire in the exact centre of the ash-tray, and began his state-
ment, omitting only the matter of the suit-case and Bunter's information
obtained from Ellen.
Sir Impey Biggs listened with what Peter irritably described as a cross-
examining countenance, putting a sharp question every now and again.
He made a few notes, and, when Wimsey had finished, sat tapping his
"I think we can make a case out of this," he said, "even if the po-
lice don't find your mysterious man. Denver's silence is an awkward
complication, of course." He hooded his eyes for a moment. "Did you
say you'd put the police on to find the fellow?"
"Yes."
"Have you a very poor opinion of the police?"
"Not for that kind of thing. That's in their line; they have all the
facilities, and do it well."
"Ah! You expect to find the man, do you?"
"I hope to."
"Ah! What do you think is going to happen to my case if you do find
him, Wimsey?"
"What do I—"
"See here, Wimsey," said the barrister, "you are not a fool, and it's
no use trying to look like a country policeman. You are really trying to
find this man?"
"Certainly."
"Just as you like, of course, but my hands are rather tied already.
Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps he'd better not be found?"
Wimsey stared at the lawyer with such honest astonishment as ac-
tually to disarm him.
"Remember this," said the latter earnestly, "that if once the police
get hold of a thing or a person it's no use relying on my, or Murbles's,
or anybody's professional discretion. Everything's raked out into the
light of common day, and very common it is. Here's Denver accused of
murder, and he refuses in the most categorical way to give me the small-
est assistance."
"Jerry's an ass. He doesn't realise—"
"Do you suppose," broke in Biggs, "I have not made it my business
to make him realise? All he says is, "They can't hang me; I didn't kill
the man, though I think it's a jolly good thing he's dead. It's no business
of theirs what I was doing in the garden.' Now I ask you, Wimsey, is
that a reasonable attitude for a man in Denver's position to take up?"


192
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Peter muttered something about "Never had any sense."
"Had anybody told Denver about this other man?"
"Something vague was said about footsteps at the inquest, I believe."
"That Scotland Yard man is your personal friend, I'm told?"
"Yes."
"So much the better. He can hold his tongue."
"Look here, Biggs, this is all damned impressive and mysterious, but
what are you gettin' at? Why shouldn't I lay hold of the beggar if I can?"
"I'll answer that question by another." Sir Impey leaned forward a
little. "Why is Denver screening him?"
Sir Impey Biggs was accustomed to boast that no witness could per-
jure himself in his presence undetected. As he put the question, he re-
leased the other's eyes from his, and glanced down with finest cunning at
Wimsey's long, flexible mouth and nervous hands. When he glanced up
again a second later he met the eyes passing, guarded and inscrutable,
through all the changes expressive of surprised enlightenment; but by
that time it was too late; he had seen a little line at the corner of the
mouth fade out, and the fingers relax ever so slightly. The first move-
ment had been one of relief.
"B'Jove!" said Peter. "I never thought of that. What sleuths you law-
yers are. If that's so, I'd better be careful, hadn't I? Always was a bit
rash. My mother says—"
"You're a clever devil, Wimsey," said the barrister. "I may be wrong,
then. Find your man by all means. There's just one other thing I'd like
to ask. Whom are you screening?"
"Look here, Biggs," said Wimsey, "you're not paid to ask that kind
of question here, you know. You can jolly well wait till you get into
court. It's your job to make the best of the stuff we serve up to you, not
to give us the third degree. Suppose I murdered Cathcart myself—"
"You didn't."
"I know I didn't, but if I did I'm not goin' to have you askin' ques-
tions and lookin' at me in that tone of voice. However, just to oblige
you, I don't mind sayin' plainly that I don't know who did away with
the fellow. When I do IH tell you."
"You will?"
"Yes, I will, but not till I'm sure. You people can make such a little
circumstantial evidence go such a damn long way, you might hang me
while I was only in the early stages of suspectin' myself."
"H'm!" said Biggs. "Meanwhile, I tell you candidly, I am taking the
line that they can't make out a case."
"Not proven, eh? Well, anyhow, Biggs, I swear my brother shan't
hang for lack of my evidence."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
193
"Of course not," said Biggs, adding inwardly: "but you hope it won't
come to that."
A spurt of rain plashed down the wide chimney and sizzled on the
logs.
• • • • •
"Craven Hotel,
"Strand, W.C.,
"Tuesday.
"My Dear Wimsey,—A line as I promised, to report progress,
but it's precious little. On the journey up I sat next to Mrs. Petti-
grew-Robinson, and opened and shut the window for her and
looked after her parcels. She mentioned that when your sister roused
the household on Thursday morning she went first to Mr. Arbuth-
not's room—a circumstance which the lady seemed to think odd, but
which is natural enough when you come to think of it, the room
being directly opposite the head of the staircase. It was Mr. Arbuth-
not who knocked up the Pettigrew-Robinsons, and Mr. P. ran down-
stairs immediately. Mrs. P. then saw that Lady Mary was looking
very faint, and tried to support her. Your sister threw her off—
rudely, Mrs. P. says—declined 'in a most savage manner' all offers
of assistance, rushed to her own room, and locked herself in. Mrs.
Pettigrew-Robinson listened at the door to make sure,' as she says,
'that everything was all right,' but, hearing her moving about and
slamming cupboards, she concluded that she would have more
chance of poking her finger into the pie downstairs, and departed.
"If Mrs. Marchbanks had told me this, I admit I should have
thought the episode worth looking into, but I feel strongly that if I
were dying I should still lock the door between myself and Mrs.
Pettigrew-Robinson. Mrs. P. was quite sure that at no time had
Lady Mary anything in her hand. She was dressed as described at
the inquest—a long coat over her pyjamas (sleeping suit was Mrs.
P's expression), stout shoes, and a woolly cap, and she kept these
garments on throughout the subsequent visit of the doctor. Another
odd little circumstance is that Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson (who was
awake, you remember, from 2. a.m. onwards) is certain that just
before Lady Mary knocked on Mr. Arbuthnot's door she heard a
door slam somewhere in the passage. I don't know what to make of
this—perhaps there's nothing in it, but I just mention it.
"I've had a rotten time in town. Your brother-in-law elect was a
model of discretion. His room at the Albany is a desert from a de-
tecting point of view; no papers except a few English bills and re-
ceipts, and invitations. I looked up a few of his inviters, but they
were mostly men who had met him at the club or knew him in the
Army, and could tell me nothing about his private life. He is known
at several night-clubs. I made the round of them last night—or,


194
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
rather, this morning. General verdict: generous but impervious. By
the way, poker seems to have been his great game. No suggestion
of anything crooked. He won pretty consistently on the whole, but
never very spectacularly.
"I think the information we want must be in Paris. I have written
to the Sureté and the Crédit Lyonnais to produce his papers, es-
pecially his account and cheque-book.
"I'm pretty dead with yesterday's and to-day's work. Dancing all
night on top of a journey is a jolly poor joke. Unless you want me,
I'll wait here for the papers, or I may run over to Paris myself.
"Cathcart's books here consist of a few modern French novels of
the usual kind, and another copy of Manon with what the catalogues
call 'curious' plates. He must have had a life somewhere, mustn't
he?
"The enclosed bill from a beauty specialist in Bond Street may in-
terest you. I called on her. She says he came regularly every week
when he was in England.
"I drew quite blank at King's Fenton on Sunday—oh, but I told
you that. I don't think the fellow ever went there. I wonder if he
slunk off up into the moor. Is it worth rummaging about, do you
think? Rather like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. It's odd
about that diamond cat. You've got nothing out of the household, I
suppose? It doesn't seem to fit No. 10, somehow—and yet you'd
think somebody would have heard about it in the village if it had
been lost. Well, so long,
"Yours ever,
"Ch. Parker."
CHAPTER IV
—AND HIS DAUGHTER, MUCH-AFRAID
The women also looked pale and wan.—
The Pilgrim's Progress.
mr. bunter brought Parker's letter up to Lord Peter in bed on the
Wednesday morning. The house was almost deserted, everybody having
gone to attend the police-court proceedings at Northallerton. The thing
would be purely formal, of course, but it seemed only proper that the
family should be fully represented. The Dowager Duchess, indeed, was


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
195
there—she had promptly hastened to her son's side and was living heroi-
cally in furnished lodgings, but the younger Duchess thought her mother-
in-law more energetic than dignified. There was no knowing what she
might do if left to herself. She might even give an interview to a news-
paper reporter. Besides, at these moments of crisis a wife's right place is
at her husband's side. Lady Mary was ill, and nothing could be said
about that, and if Peter chose to stay smoking cigarettes in his pyjamas
while his only brother was undergoing public humiliation, that was only
what might be expected. Peter took after his mother. How that eccentric
strain had got into the family her grace could not imagine, for the
Dowager came of a good Hampshire family; there must have been some
foreign blood somewhere. Her own duty was clear, and she would do it.
Lord Peter was awake, and looked rather fagged, as though he had
been sleuthing in his sleep. Mr. Bunter wrapped him solicitously in a
brilliant Oriental robe, and placed the tray on his knees.
"Bunter," said Lord Peter rather fretfully, "your cafi cat hit is the
one tolerable incident in this beastly place."
"Thank you, my lord. Very chilly again this morning, my lord, but
not actually raining."
Lord Peter frowned over his letter.
"Anything in the paper, Bunter?"
"Nothing urgent, my lord. A sale next week at Northbury Hall—Mr.
Fleetwhite's library, my lord—a Caxton Confessio Amantis—"
"What's the good of tellin' me that when we're stuck up here for
God knows how long? I wish to heaven I'd stuck to books and never
touched crime. Did you send those specimens up to Lubbock?"
"Yes, my lord," said Bunter gently. Dr. Lubbock was the "analytical
gentleman."
"Must have facts," said Lord Peter, "facts. When I was a small boy
I always hated facts. Thought of 'em as nasty, hard things, all knobs.
Uncompromisin'."
"Yes, my lord. My old mother—"
"Your mother, Bunter? I didn't know you had one. I always imag-
ined you were turned out ready-made, so to speak. 'Scuse me. Infernally
rude of me. Beg your pardon, I'm sure."
"Not at all, my lord. My mother lives in Kent, my lord, near Maid-
stone. Seventy-five, my lord, and an extremely active woman for her
years, if you'll excuse my mentioning it. I was one of seven."
"That is an invention, Bunter. I know better. You are unique. But I
interrupted you. You were goin' to tell me about your mother."
"She always says, my lord, that facts are like cows. If you look them


196
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
in the face hard enough they generally run away. She is a very coura-
geous woman, my lord."
Lord Peter stretched out his hand impulsively, but Mr. Bunter was
too well trained to see it. He had, indeed, already begun to strop a razor.
Lord Peter suddenly bundled out of bed with a violent jerk and sped
across the landing to the bathroom.
Here he revived sufficiently to lift up his voice in "Come unto these
Yellow Sands." Thence, feeling in a Purcellish mood, he passed to "I
attempt from Love's Fever to Fly," with such improvement of spirits
that, against all custom, he ran several gallons of cold water into the
bath and sponged himself vigorously. Wherefore, after a rough towel-
ling, he burst explosively from the bathroom, and caught his shin some-
what violently against the lid of a large oak chest which stood at the
head of the staircase—so violently, indeed, that the lid lifted with the
shock and shut down with a protesting bang.
Lord Peter stopped to say something expressive and to caress his leg
softly with the palm of his hand. Then a thought struck him. He set
down his towels, soap, sponge, loofah, bath-brush, and other belongings,
and quietly lifted the lid of the chest.
Whether, like the heroine of Northanger Abbey, he expected to find
anything gruesome inside was not apparent. It is certain that, like her,
he beheld nothing more startling than certain sheets and counterpanes
neatly folded at the bottom. Unsatisfied, he lifted the top one of these
gingerly and inspected it for a few moments in the light of the staircase
window. He was just returning it to its place, whistling softly the while,
when a little hiss of indrawn breath caused him to look up with a start.
His sister was at his elbow. He had not heard her come, but she stood
there in her dressing-gown, her hands clutched together on her breast.
Her blue eyes were dilated till they looked almost black, and her skin
seemed nearly the colour of her ash-blonde hair. Wimsey stared at her
over the sheet he held in his arms, and the terror in her face passed
over into his, stamping them suddenly with the mysterious likeness of
blood-relationship.
Peter's own impression was that he stared "like a stuck pig" for about
a minute. He knew, as a matter of fact, that he had recovered himself
in a fraction of a second. He dropped the sheet into the chest and stood
up.
"Hullo, Polly, old thing," he said, "where've you been hidin' all this
time? First time I've seen you. 'Fraid you've been havin' a pretty thin
time of it."
He put his arm round her, and felt her shrink.
"What's the matter?" he demanded. "What's up, old girl? Look here,


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
197
Mary, we've never seen enough of each other, but I am your brother.
Are you in trouble? Can't I—"
"Trouble?" she said. "Why, you silly old Peter, of course I'm in trou-
ble. Don't you know they've killed my man and put my brother in
prison? Isn't that enough to be in trouble about?" She laughed, and
Peter suddenly thought, "She's talking like somebody in a blood-and-
thunder novel." She went on more naturally. "It's all right, Peter, truly
—only my head's so bad. I really don't know what I'm doing. What are
you after? You made such a noise, I came out. I thought it was a door
banging."
"You'd better toddle back to bed," said Lord Peter. "You're gettin'
all cold. Why do girls wear such mimsy little pyjimjams in this damn cold
climate? There, don't you worry. I'll drop in on you later and we'll have
a jolly old pow-wow, what?"
"Not to-day—not to-day, Peter. I'm going mad, I think." ("Sensation
fiction again," thought Peter.) "Are they trying Gerald to-day?"
"Not exactly trying," said Peter, urging her gently along to her room.
"It's just formal, y'lmow. The jolly old magistrate bird hears the charge
read, and then old Murbles pops up and says please he wants only formal
evidence given as he has to instruct counsel. That's Biggy, y'know. Then
they hear the evidence of arrest, and Murbles says old Gerald reserves
his defence. That's all till the Assizes—evidence before the Grand Jury
—a lot of bosh! That'll be early next month, I suppose. You'll have to
buck up and be fit by then."
Mary shuddered.
"No—no! Couldn't I get out of it? I couldn't go through it all again. I
should be sick. I'm feeling awful. No, don't come in. I don't want you.
Ring the bell for Ellen. No, let go; go away! I don't want you, Peter!"
Peter hesitated, a little alarmed.
"Much better not, my lord, if you'll excuse me," said Bunter's voice at
his ear. "Only produce hysterics," he added, as he drew his master gently
from the door. "Very distressing for both parties, and altogether unpro-
ductive of results. Better to wait for the return of her grace, the
Dowager."
"Quite right," said Peter. He turned back to pick up his paraphernalia,
but was dexterously forestalled. Once again he lifted the lid of the chest
and looked in.
"What did you say you found on that skirt, Bunter?"
"Gravel, my lord, and silver sand."
"Silver sand."


198
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Behind Riddlesdale Lodge the moor stretched starkly away and up-
ward. The heather was brown and wet, and the little streams had no
colour in them. It was six o'clock, but there was no sunset. Only a pale-
ness had moved behind the thick sky from east to west all day. Lord
Peter, tramping back after a long and fruitless search for tidings of the
man with the motor-cycle, voiced the dull suffering of his gregarious
spirit. "I wish old Parker was here," he muttered, and squelched down
a sheep-track.
He was making, not directly for the Lodge, but for a farmhouse about
two and a half miles distant from it, known as Grider's Hole. It lay al-
most due north of Riddlesdale village, a lonely outpost on the edge of
the moor, in a valley of fertile land between two wide swells of heather.
The track wound down from the height called Whemmeling Fell, skirted
a vile swamp, and crossed the little river Ridd about half a mile before
reaching the farm. Peter had small hope of hearing any news at Grider's
Hole, but he was filled with a sullen determination to leave no stone un-
turned. Privately, however, he felt convinced that the motor-cycle had
come by the high road, Parker's investigations notwithstanding, and per-
haps passed directly through King's Fenton without stopping or attract-
ing attention. Still, he had said he would search the neighbourhood, and
Grider's Hole was in the neighbourhood. He paused to relight his pipe,
then squelched steadily on. The path was marked with stout white posts
at regular intervals, and presently with hurdles. The reason for this was
apparent as one came to the bottom of the valley, for only a few yards
on the left began the stretch of rough, reedy tussocks, with slobbering
black bog between them, in which anything heavier than a water-wagtail
would speedily suffer change into a succession of little bubbles. Wimsey
stooped for an empty sardine-tin which lay, horridly battered, at his
feet, and slung it idly into the quag. It struck the surface with a noise like
a wet kiss, and vanished instantly. With that instinct which prompts one,
when depressed, to wallow in every circumstance of gloom, Peter leaned
sadly upon the hurdles and abandoned himself to a variety of shallow
considerations upon (1) The vanity of human wishes; (2) Mutability;
(3) First love; (4) The decay of idealism; (5) The aftermath of the
Great War; (6) Birth-control; and (7) The fallacy of free-will. This was
his nadir, however. Realising that his feet were cold and his stomach
empty, and that he had still some miles to go, he crossed the stream on a
row of slippery stepping-stones and approached the gate of the farm,
which was not an ordinary five-barred one, but solid and uncompro-
mising. A man was leaning over it, sucking a straw. He made no attempt
to move at Wimsey's approach. "Good evening," said that nobleman in
a sprightly manner, laying his hand on the catch. "Chilly, ain't it?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
199
The man made no reply, but leaned more heavily, and breathed. He
wore a rough coat and breeches, and his leggings were covered with
manure.
"Seasonable, of course, what?" said Peter. "Good for the sheep, I
daresay. Makes their wool curl, and so on."
The man removed the straw and spat in the direction of Peter's right
boot.
"Do you lose many animals in the bog?" went on Peter, carelessly
unlatching the gate, and leaning upon it in the opposite direction. "I see
you have a good wall all round the house. Must be a bit dangerous in
the dark, what, if you're thinkm' of takin' a little evenin' stroll with a
friend?"
The man spat again, pulled his hat over his forehead, and said briefly:
"What doost 'a want?"
"Well," said Peter, "I thought of payin' a little friendly call on Mr.—
on the owner of this farm, that is to say. Country neighbours, and all
that. Lonely kind of country, don't you see. Is he in, d'ye think?"
The man grunted.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Peter; "it's so uncommonly jolly findin' all
you Yorkshire people so kind and hospitable, what? Never mind who
you are, always a seat at the fireside and that kind of thing. Excuse me,
but do you know you're leanin' on the gate so as I can't open it? I'm sure
it's a pure oversight, only you mayn't realise that just where you're
standin' you get the maximum of leverage. What an awfully charmin'
house this is, isn't it? All so jolly stark and grim and all the rest of it. No
creepers or little rose-grown porches or anything suburban of that sort.
Who lives in it?"
The man surveyed him up and down for some moments, and replied,
"Mester Grimethorpe."
"No, does he now?" said Lord Peter. "To think of that. Just the fellow
I want to see. Model farmer, what? Wherever I go throughout the length
and breadth of the North Riding I hear of Mr. Grimethorpe. 'Grime-
thorpe's butter is the best'; 'Grimethorpe's fleeces Never go to pieces';
'Grimethorpe's pork Melts on the fork'; 'For Irish stews Take Grime-
thorpe's ewes'; 'A tummy lined with Grimethorpe's beef, Never, never
comes to grief.' It has been my life's ambition to see Mr. Grimethorpe in
the flesh. And you no doubt are his sturdy henchman and right-hand
man. You leap from bed before the breaking-day, To milk the kine amid
the scented hay. You, when the shades of evening gather deep, Home
from the mountain lead the mild-eyed sheep. You, by the ingle's red and
welcoming blaze, Tell your sweet infants tales of olden days! A wonder-


200
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ful life, though a trifle monotonous p'raps in the winter. Allow me to
clasp your honest hand."
Whether the man was moved by this lyric outburst, or whether the
failing light was not too dim to strike a pale sheen from the metal in
Lord Peter's palm, at any rate he moved a trifle back from the gate.
"Thanks awfully, old bean," said Peter, stepping briskly past him. "I
take it I shall find Mr. Grimethorpe in the house?"
The man said nothing till Wimsey had proceeded about a dozen yards
up the flagged path, then he hailed him, but without turning round.
"Mester!"
"Yes, old thing?" said Peter affably, returning.
"Happen he'll set dog on tha."
"You don't say so?" said Peter. "The faithful hound welcomes the re-
turn of the prodigal. Scene of family rejoicing. 'My own long lost boy!'
Sobs and speeches, beer all round for the delighted tenantry. Glees by
the old fireside, till the rafters ring and all the smoked hams tumble
down to join in the revelry. Good night, sweet Prince, until the cows
come home and the dogs eat Jezebel in the portion of Jezreel when the
hounds of spring are on winter's traces. I suppose," he added to him-
self, "they will have finished tea."
As Lord Peter approached the door of the farm his spirits rose. He
enjoyed paying this kind of visit. Although he had taken to detecting as
he might, with another conscience or constitution, have taken to Indian
hemp—for its exhilarating properties—at a moment when life seemed dust
and ashes, he had not primarily the detective temperament. He expected
next to nothing from inquiries at Glider's Hole, and, if he had, he might
probably have extracted all the information he wanted by a judicious
display of Treasury notes to the glum man at the gate. Parker would in
all likelihood have done so; he was paid to detect and to do nothing
else, and neither his natural gifts nor his education (at Barrow-in-Furness
Grammar School) prompted him to stray into side-tracks at the beck
of an ill-regulated imagination. But to Lord Peter the world presented
itself as an entertaining labyrinth of side-issues. He was a respectable
scholar in five or six languages, a musician of some skill and more un-
derstanding, something of an expert in toxicology, a collector of rare
editions, an entertaining man-about-town, and a common sensationalist.
He had been seen at half-past twelve on a Sunday morning walking in
Hyde Park in a top-hat and frock-coat, reading the News of the World.
His passion for the unexplored led him to hunt up obscure pamphlets in
the British Museum, to unravel the emotional history of income-tax
collectors, and to find out where his own drains led to. In this case, the
fascinating problem of a Yorkshire farmer who habitually set the dogs on


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
201
casual visitors imperatively demanded investigation in a personal inter-
view. The result was unexpected.
His first summons was unheeded, and he knocked again. This time
there was a movement, and a surly male voice called out:
"Well, let 'un in then, dang 'un—and dang thee," emphasised by the
sound of something falling or thrown across the room.
The door was opened unexpectedly by a little girl of about seven,
very dark and pretty, and rubbing her arm as though the missile had
caught her there. She stood defensively, blocking the threshold, till the
same voice growled impatiently:
"Well, who is it?"
"Good evening," said Wimsey, removing his hat. "I hope you'll excuse
me droppin' in like this. I'm livin' at Riddlesdale Lodge."
"What of it?" demanded the voice. Above the child's head Wimsey
saw the outline of a big, thickset man smoking in the inglenook of an
immense fireplace. There was no light but the firelight, for the window
was small, and dusk had already fallen. It seemed to be a large room,
but a high oak settle on the farther side of the chimney ran out across it,
leaving a cavern of impenetrable blackness beyond.
"May I come in?" said Wimsey.
"If tha must," said the man ungraciously. "Shoot door, lass; what art
starin' at? Go to thi moother and bid her mend thi manners for thee."
This seemed a case of the pot lecturing the kettle on cleanliness, but
the child vanished hurriedly into the blackness behind the settle, and
Peter walked in.
"Are you Mr. Grimethorpe?" he asked politely.
"What if I am?" retorted the farmer. "I've no call to be ashamed o'
my name."
"Rather not," said Lord Peter, "nor of your farm. Delightful place,
what? My name's Wimsey, by the way—Lord Peter Wimsey, in fact, the
Duke of Denver's brother, y'know. I'm sure I hate interruptin' you—you
must be busy with the sheep and all that—but I thought you wouldn't
mind if I just ran over in a neighbourly way. Lonely sort of country,
ain't it? I like to know the people next door, and all that sort of thing.
I'm used to London, you see, where people live pretty thick on the
ground. I suppose very few strangers ever pass this way?"
"None," said Mr. Grimethorpe, with decision.
"Well, perhaps it's as well," pursued Lord Peter. "Makes one appreci-
ate one's home circle more, what? Often think one sees too many stran-
gers in town. Nothing like one's family when all's said and done—cosy,
don't you know. You a married man, Mr. Grimethorpe?"
"What the hell's that to you?" growled the farmer, rounding on him


202
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
with such ferocity that Wimsey looked about quite nervously for the
dogs before-mentioned.
"Oh, nothin',” he replied, “only I thought that charmin' little girl might
be yours.”
"And if I thought she weren't,” said Mr. Grimethorpe, “I'd strangle
the bitch and her mother together. What hast got to say to that?”
As a matter of fact, the remark, considered as a conversational for-
mula, seemed to leave so much to be desired that Wimsey's natural lo-
quacity suffered a severe check. He fell back, however, on the usual
resource of the male, and offered Mr. Grimethorpe a cigar, thinking to
himself as he did so:
“What a hell of a life the woman must lead.”
The farmer declined the cigar with a single word, and was silent. Wim-
sey lit a cigarette for himself and became meditative, watching his com-
panion. He was a man of about forty-five, apparently, rough, harsh,
and weather-beaten, with great ridgy shoulders and short, thick thighs-a
bull-terrier with a bad temper. Deciding that delicate hints would be
wasted on such an organism, Wimsey adopted a franker method.
"To tell the truth, Mr. Grimethorpe,” he said, “I didn't blow in
without any excuse at all. Always best to provide oneself with an excuse
for a call, what? Though it's so perfectly delightful to see you-I mean,
no excuse might appear necessary. But fact is, I'm looking for a young
man-a-an acquaintance of mine—who said he'd be roamin' about this
neighbourhood some time or other about now. Only I'm afraid I may
have missed him. You see, I've only just got over from Corsica-inter-
estin' country and all that, Mr. Grimethorpe, but a trifle out of the way
-and from what my friend said I think he must have turned up here
about a week ago and found me out. Just my luck. But he didn't leave
his card, so I can't be quite sure, you see. You didn't happen to come
across him by any chance? Tall fellow with big feet on a motor-cycle
with a side-car. I thought he might have come rootin' about here. Hullo!
d'you know him?"
The farmer's face had become swollen and almost black with rage.
"What day sayst tha?” he demanded thickly.
"I should think last Wednesday night or Thursday morning,” said
Peter, with a hand on his heavy malacca cane.
"I knew it," growled Mr. Grimethorpe. “_ the slut, and all these
dommed women wi’ their dirty ways. Look here, mester. The tyke were
a friend o’ thine? Well, I wor at Stapley Wednesday and Thursday-tha
knew that, didn't tha? And so did thi friend, didn't ’un? An' if I hadn't,
it'd 'a' bin the worse for 'un. He'd 'a' been in Peter's Pot if I'd 'a' cot 'un,
an' that's where tha’ll be thesen in a minute, blast tha! And if I find 'un


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
203
like that. Nasey for the Prose string roum
sneakin' here again, I'll blast every boon in a's body and send ’un to look
for thee there.”
And with these surprising words he made for Peter's throat like a bull-
dog.
“That won't do," said Peter, disengaging himself with an ease which
astonished his opponent, and catching his wrist in a grip of mysterious
and excruciating agony. “ 'Tisn't wise, y'know-might murder a fellow
like that. Nasty business, murder. Coroner's inquest and all that sort of
thing. Counsel for the Prosecution askin' all sorts of inquisitive ques-
tions, and a feller puttin' a string round your neck. Besides, your
method's a bit primitive. Stand still, you fool, or you'll break your arm.
Feelin' better? That's right. Sit down. You'll get into trouble one of these
days, behavin' like that when you're asked a civil question."
“Get out o’t’house," said Mr. Grimethorpe sullenly.
"Certainly,” said Peter. "I have to thank you for a very entertainin'
evenin', Mr. Grimethorpe. I'm sorry you can give me no news of my
friend-”
Mr. Grimethorpe sprang up with a blasphemous ejaculation, and made
for the door, shouting “Jabez!” Lord Peter stared after him for a mo-
ment, and then stared round the room.
"Something fishy here,” he said. "Fellow knows somethin'. Murderous
sort of brute. I wonder--"
He peered round the settle, and came face to face with a woman-a
dim patch of whiteness in the thick shadow.
"You?" she said, in a low, hoarse gasp. "You? You are mad to come
here. Quick, quick! He has gone for the dogs."
She placed her two hands on his breast, thrusting him urgently back.
Then, as the firelight fell upon his face, she uttered a stifled shriek and
stood petrified-a Medusa-head of terror.
Medusa was beautiful, says the tale, and so was this woman; a broad
white forehead under massed, dusky hair, black eyes glowing under
straight brows, a wide, passionate mouth-a shape so wonderful that
even in that strenuous moment sixteen generations of feudal privilege
stirred in Lord Peter's blood. His hands closed over hers instinctively,
but she pulled herself hurriedly away and shrank back.
"Madam," said Wimsey, recovering himself, “I don't quite--"
A thousand questions surged up in his mind, but before he could
frame them a long yell, and another, and then another came from the
back of the house.
“Run, run!” she said. “The dogs! My God, my God, what will become
of me? Go, if you don't want to see me killed. Go, go! Have pity!"
“Look here," said Peter, “can't I stay and protect-"


204
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"You can stay and murder me," said the woman. "Go!"
Peter cast Public School tradition to the winds, caught up his stick,
and went. The brutes were at his heels as he fled. He struck the foremost
with his stick, and it dropped back, snarling. The man was still leaning
on the gate, and Grimethorpe's hoarse voice was heard shouting to him
to seize the fugitive. Peter closed with him; there was a scuffle of dogs
and men, and suddenly Peter found himself thrown bodily over the gate.
As he picked himself up and ran, he heard the farmer cursing the man
and the man retorting that he couldn't help it; then the woman's voice,
uplifted in a frightened wail. He glanced over his shoulder. The man and
the woman and a second man who had now joined the party, were beat-
ing the dogs back, and seemed to be persuading Grimethorpe not to let
them through. Apparently their remonstrances had some effect, for the
farmer turned moodily away, and the second man called the dogs off,
with much whip-cracking and noise. The woman said something, and
her husband turned furiously upon her and struck her to the ground.
Peter made a movement to go back, but a strong conviction that he
could only make matters worse for her arrested him. He stood still, and
waited till she had picked herself up and gone in, wiping the blood and
dirt from her face with her shawl. The farmer looked round, shook his
fist at him, and followed her into the house. Jabez collected the dogs and
drove them back, and Peter's friend returned to lean over the gate.
Peter waited till the door had closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Grimethorpe;
then he pulled out his handkerchief and, in the half-darkness, signalled
cautiously to the man, who slipped through the gate and came slowly
down to him.
"Thanks very much," said Wimsey, putting money into his hand. "I'm
afraid I've done unintentional mischief."
The man looked at the money and at him.
"Tes t'master's way wi' them as cooms t'look at t'missus," he said.
"Tha's best keep away if so be tha wutna' have her blood on tha heid."
"See here," said Peter, "did you by any chance meet a young man with
a motor-cycle wanderin' round here last Wednesday or thereabouts?"
"Naay. Wednesday? T'wod be day t'mester went to Stapley, Ah
reckon, after machines. Naay, Ah seed nowt."
"All right. If you find anybody who did, let me know. Here's my name,
and I'm staying at Riddlesdale Lodge. Good night; many thanks."
The man took the card from him and slouched back without a word
of farewell.
Lord Peter walked slowly, his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled
over his eyes. This cinematographic episode had troubled bis logical


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
205
faculty. With an effort he sorted out his ideas and arranged them in
some kind of order.
"First item," said he, "Mr. Grimethorpe. A gentleman who will stick
at nothing. Hefty. Unamiable. Inhospitable. Dominant characteristic—
jealousy of his very astonishing wife. Was at Stapley last Wednesday and
Thursday buying machinery. (Helpful gentleman at the gate corroborates
this, by the way, so that at this stage of the proceedings one may allow it
to be a sound alibi.) Did not, therefore, see our mysterious friend with
the side-car, // he was there. But is disposed to think he was there, and
has very little doubt about what he came for. Which raises an interestin'
point. Why the side-car? Awkward thing to tour about with. Very good.
But if our friend came after Mrs. G. he obviously didn't take her. Good
again.
"Second item, Mrs. Grimethorpe. Very singular item. By Jove!" He
paused meditatively to reconstruct a thrilling moment. "Let us at once
admit that if No. 10 came for the purpose suspected he had every excuse
for it. Well! Mrs. G. goes in terror of her husband, who thinks nothing
of knocking her down on suspicion. I wish to God—but I'd only have
made things worse. Only thing you can do for the wife of a brute like
that is to keep away from her. Hope there won't be murder done. One's
enough at a time. Where was I?
"Yes—well, Mrs. Grimethorpe knows something—and she knows some-
body. She took me for somebody who had every reason for not coming
to Grider's Hole. Where was she, I wonder, while I was talking to Grime-
thorpe? She wasn't in the room. Perhaps the child warned her. No, that
won't wash; I told the child who I was. Aha! wait a minute. Do I see
light? She looked out of the window and saw a bloke in an aged Bur-
berry. No. 10 is a bloke in an aged Burberry. Now, let's suppose for a
moment she takes me for No. 10. What does she do? She sensibly keeps
out of the way—can't think why I'm such a fool as to turn up. Then, when
Grimethorpe runs out shoutin' for the kennelman, she nips down with
her life in her hands to warn her—her—shall we say boldly her lover?—to
get away. She finds it isn't her lover, but only a gaping ass of (I fear) a
very comin'-on disposition. New compromisin' position. She tells the ass
to save himself and herself by clearin' out. Ass clears—not too grace-
fully. The next instalment of this enthrallin' drama will be shown in this
theatre—when? I'd jolly well like to know."
He tramped on for some time.
"All the same," he retorted upon himself, "all this throws no light on
what No. 10 was doing at Riddlesdale Lodge."
At the end of his walk he had reached no conclusion.


206
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Whatever happens," he said to himself, "and if it can be done with-
out danger to her life, I must see Mrs. Grimethorpe again."
CHAPTER V
THE RUE ST. HONORE AND THE RUE DE LA
PAIX
/ think it was the cat.—H.M.S. Pinafore
mr. parker sat disconsolate in a small appartement in the Rue St.
Honore\ It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Paris was full of a sub-
dued but cheerful autumn sunlight, but the room faced north, and was
depressing, with its plain, dark furniture and its deserted air. It was a
man's room, well appointed after the manner of a discreet club; a room
that kept its dead owner's counsel imperturbably. Two large saddlebag
chairs in crimson leather stood by the cold hearth. On the mantelpiece
was a bronze clock, flanked by two polished German shells, a stone
tobacco-jar, and an Oriental brass bowl containing a long-cold pipe.
There were several excellent engravings in narrow pearwood frames, and
the portrait in oils of a rather florid lady of the period of Charles II.
The window-curtains were crimson, and the floor covered with a solid
Turkey carpet. Opposite the fireplace stood a tall mahogany book-case
with glass doors, containing a number of English and French classics,
a large collection of books on history and international politics, various
French novels, a number of works on military and sporting subjects, and
a famous French edition of the Decameron with the additional plates.
Under the window stood a large bureau.
Parker shook his head, took out a sheet of paper, and began to write
a report. He had breakfasted on coffee and rolls at seven; he had made
an exhaustive search of the flat; he had interviewed the concierge, the
manager of the Crédit Lyonnais, and the Prefect of Police for the
Quartier, and the result was very poor indeed.
Information obtained from Captain Cathcart's papers:
Before the war Denis Cathcart had undoubtedly been a rich man. He
had considerable investments in Russia and Germany and a large share
in a prosperous vineyard in Champagne. After coming into his property
at the age of twenty-one he had concluded his three years' residence at


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
207
Cambridge, and had then travelled a good deal, visiting persons of im-
portance in various countries, and apparently studying with a view to a
diplomatic career. During the period from 1913 to 1918 the story told
by the books became intensely interesting, baffling, and depressing. At
the outbreak of war he had taken a commission in the 15th —shires.
With the help of the cheque-book, Parker reconstructed the whole eco-
nomic life of a young British officer—clothes, horses, equipment, travel-
ling, wine and dinners when on leave, bridge debts, rent of the flat in the
Rue St . Honord, club subscriptions, and what not. This outlay was strictly
moderate and proportioned to his income. Receipted bills, neatly dock-
eted, occupied one drawer of the bureau, and a careful comparison of
these with the cheque-book and the returned cheques revealed no dis-
crepancy. But, beyond these, there appeared to have been another heavy
drain upon Cathcart's resources. Beginning in 1913, certain large
cheques, payable to self, appeared regularly at every quarter, and some-
times at shorter intervals. As to the destination of these sums, the bureau
preserved the closest discretion; there were no receipts, no memoranda
of their expenditure.
The great crash which in 1914 shook the credits of the world was
mirrored in little in the pass-book. The credits from Russian and Ger-
man sources stopped dead; those from the French shares slumped to a
quarter of the original amount, as the tide of war washed over the vine-
yards and carried the workers away. For the first year or so there were
substantial dividends from capital invested in French rentes; then came
an ominous entry of 20,000 francs on the credit side of the account, and,
six months after, another of 30,000 francs. After that the landslide fol-
lowed fast. Parker could picture those curt notes from the Front, directing
the sale of Government securities, as the savings of the past six years
whirled away in the maelstrom of rising prices and collapsing currencies.
The dividends grew less and less and ceased; then, more ominous still,
came a series of debits representing the charges on renewal of promissory
notes.
About 1918 the situation had become acute, and several entries
showed a desperate attempt to put matters straight by gambling in foreign
exchanges. There were purchases, through the bank, of German marks,
Russian roubles, and Roumanian lei. Mr. Parker sighed sympathetically,
when he saw this, thinking of £12 worth of these delusive specimens of
the engraver's art laid up in his own desk at home. He knew them to be
waste-paper, yet his tidy mind could not bear the thought of destroying
them. Evidently Cathcart had found marks and roubles very broken
reeds.
It was about this time that Cathcart's pass-book began to reveal the


208
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
paying in of various sums in cash, some large, some small, at irregular
dates and with no particular consistency. In December, 1919, there had
been one of these amounting to as much as 35,000 francs. Parker at first
supposed that these sums might represent dividends from some separate
securities which Cathcart was handling for himself without passing them
through the bank. He made a careful search of the room in the hope of
finding either the bonds themselves or at least some memorandum con-
cerning them, but the search was in vain, and he was forced to conclude
either that Cathcart had deposited them in some secret place or that the
credits in question represented some different source of income.
Cathcart had apparently contrived to be demobilised almost at once
(owing, no doubt, to his previous frequentation of distinguished govern-
mental personages), and to have taken a prolonged holiday upon the
Riviera. Subsequently a visit to London coincided with the acquisition of
£700, which, converted into francs at the then rate of exchange, made
a very respectable item in the account. From that time on, the outgoings
and receipts presented a similar aspect and were more or less evenly
balanced, the cheques to self becoming rather larger and more frequent
as time went on, while during 1921 the income from the vineyard began
to show signs of recovery.
Mr. Parker noted down all this information in detail, and, leaning
back in his chair, looked round the flat. He felt, not for the first time, a
distaste for his profession, which cut him off from the great masculine
community whose members take each other for granted and respect their
privacy. He relighted his pipe, which had gone out, and proceeded with
his report.
Information obtained from Monsieur Turgeot, the manager of the
Credit Lyonnais, confirmed the evidence of the pass-book in every par-
ticular. Monsieur Cathcart had recently made all his payments in notes,
usually in notes of small denominations. Once or twice he had had an
overdraft—never very large, and always made up within a few months.
He had, of course, suffered a diminution of income, like everybody else,
but the account had never given the bank any uneasiness. At the moment
it was some 14,000 francs on the right side. Monsieur Cathcart was
always very agreeable, but not communicative—tres correct.
Information obtained from the concierge:
One did not see much of Monsieur Cathcart, but he was tres gentil.
He never failed to say, "Bon jour, Bourgois," when he came in or out.
He received visitors sometimes—gentlemen in evening dress. One made
card-parties. Monsieur Bourgois had never directed any ladies to his
rooms; except once, last February, when he had given a lunch-party to
some ladies tres comme il faut who brought with them his fiancee, une


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
209
jolie blonde. Monsieur Cathcart used the flat as a pied a terre, and often
he would shut it up and go away for several weeks or months. He was
un jeune homme tres range*. He had never kept a valet. Madame Le-
blanc, the cousin of one's late wife, kept his appartement clean. Madame
Leblanc was very respectable. But certainly monsieur might have Mad-
ame Leblanc's address.
Information obtained from Madame Leblanc:
Monsieur Cathcart was a charming young man, and very pleasant to
work for. Very generous and took a great interest in the family. Madame
Leblanc was desolated to hear that he was dead, and on the eve of his
marriage to the daughter of the English milady. Madame Leblanc had
seen Mademoiselle last year when she visited Monsieur Cathcart in
Paris; she considered the young lady very fortunate. Very few young
men were as serious as Monsieur Cathcart, especially when they were
so good-looking. Madame Leblanc had had experience of young men,
and she could relate many histories if she were disposed, but none of
Monsieur Cathcart. He would not always be using his rooms; he had the
habit of letting her know when he would be at home, and she then went
round to put the fiat in order. He kept his things very tidy; he was not
like English gentlemen in that respect. Madame Leblanc had known
many of them, who kept their affairs sens dessus dessous. Monsieur
Cathcart was always very well dressed; he was particular about his bath;
he was like a woman for his toilet, the poor gentleman. And so he was
dead, he pauvre gargon! Really it had taken away Madame Leblanc's
appetite.
Information obtained from Monsieur the Prefect of Police:
Absolutely nothing. Monsieur Cathcart had never caught the eye of
the police in any way. With regard to the sums of money mentioned by
Monsieur Parker, if monsieur would give him the numbers of some of
the notes, efforts would be made to trace them.
Where had the money gone? Parker could think only of two destina-
tions—an irregular establishment or a blackmailer. Certainly a handsome
man like Cathcart might very well have a woman or two in his life, even
without the knowledge of the concierge. Certainly a man who habitually
cheated at cards—if he did cheat at cards—might very well have got him-
self into the power of somebody who knew too much. It was noteworthy
that his mysterious receipts in cash began just as his economies were ex-
hausted; it seemed likely that they represented irregular gains from gam-
bling—in the casinos, on the exchange, or, if Denver's story had any truth
in it, from crooked play. On the whole, Parker rather inclined to the
blackmailing theory. It fitted in with the rest of the business, as he and
Lord Peter had reconstructed it at Riddlesdale.


210
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Two or three things, however, still puzzled Parker. Why should the
blackmailer have been trailing about the Yorkshire moors with a cycle
and side-car? Whose was the green-eyed cat? It was a valuable trinket.
Had Cathcart offered it as part of his payment? That seemed somehow
foolish. One could only suppose that the blackmailer had tossed it away
with contempt. The cat was in Parker's possession, and it occurred to
him that it might be worth while to get a jeweller to estimate its value.
But the side-car was a difficulty, the cat was a difficulty, and, more than
all, Lady Mary was a difficulty.
Why had Lady Mary lied at the inquest? For that she had lied, Parker
had no manner of doubt. He disbelieved the whole story of the second
shot which had awakened her. What had brought her to the conservatory
door at three o'clock in the morning? Whose was the suit-case—if it was
a suit-case—that had lain concealed among the cactus-plants? Why this
prolonged nervous breakdown, with no particular symptoms, which pre-
vented Lady Mary from giving evidence before the magistrate or answer-
ing her brother's inquiries? Could Lady Mary have been present at the
interview in the shrubbery? If so, surely Wimsey and he would have
found her footprints. Was she in league with the blackmailer? That was
an unpleasant thought. Was she endeavouring to help her fiance? She
had an allowance of her own—a generous one, as Parker knew from the
Duchess. Could she have tried to assist Cathcart with money? But in
that case, why not tell all she knew? The worst about Cathcart—always
supposing that card-sharping were the worst—was now matter of public
knowledge, and the man himself was dead. If she knew the truth, why
did she not come forward and save her brother?
And at this point he was visited by a thought even more unpleasant.
If, after all, it had not been Denver whom Mrs. Marchbanks had heard
in the library, but someone else—someone who had likewise an appoint-
ment with the blackmailer—someone who was on his side as against Cath-
cart—who knew that there might be danger in the interview. Had he
himself paid proper attention to the grass lawn between the house and
the thicket? Might Thursday morning perhaps have revealed here and
there a trodden blade that rain and sap had since restored to upright-
ness? Had Peter and he found all the footsteps in the wood? Had some
more trusted hand fired that shot at close quarters? Once again—whose
was the green-eyed cat?
Surmises and surmises, each uglier than the last, thronged into Parker's
mind. He took up a photograph of Cathcart with which Wimsey had
supplied him, and looked at it long and curiously. It was a dark, hand-
some face; the hair was black, with a slight wave, the nose large and well
shaped, the big, dark eyes at once pleasing and arrogant. The mouth was


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
211
good, though a little thick, with a hint of sensuality in its close curves;
the chin showed a cleft. Frankly, Parker confessed to himself, it did not
attract him; he would have been inclined to dismiss the man as a "By-
ronic blighter," but experience told him that this kind of face might be
powerful with a woman, either for love or hatred.
Coincidences usually have the air of being practical jokes on the part
of Providence. Mr. Parker was shortly to be favoured—if the term is a
suitable one—with a special display of this Olympian humour. As a rule,
that kind of thing did not happen to him; it was more in Wimsey's line.
Parker had made his way from modest beginnings to a respectable ap-
pointment in the C.I.D. rather by a combination of hard work, shrewd-
ness, and caution than by spectacular displays of happy guesswork or
any knack for taking fortune's tide at the flood. This time, however, he
was given a "leading" from above, and it was only part of the nature of
things and men that he should have felt distinctly ungrateful for it.
He finished his report, replaced everything tidily in the desk and went
round to the police-station to arrange with the Prefect about the keys
and the fixing of the seals. It was still early evening and not too cold; he
determined, therefore, to banish gloomy thoughts by a cafe-cognac in the
Boul' Mich', followed by a stroll through the Paris of the shops. Being
of a kindly, domestic nature, indeed, he turned over in his mind the idea
of buying something Parisian for his elder sister, who was unmarried
and lived a rather depressing life in Barrow-in-Furness. Parker knew that
she would take pathetic delight in some filmy scrap of lace underwear
which no one but herself would ever see. Mr. Parker was not the kind of
man to be deterred by the difficulty of buying ladies' underwear in a
foreign language; he was not very imaginative. He remembered that a
learned judge had one day asked in court what a camisole was, and recol-
lected that there had seemed to be nothing particularly embarrassing
about the garment when explained. He determined that he would find a
really Parisian shop, and ask for a camisole. That would give him a
start, and then mademoiselle would show him other things without being
asked further.
Accordingly, towards six o'clock, he was strolling along the Rue de la
Paix with a Uttle carton under his arm. He had spent rather more money
than he intended, but he had acquired knowledge. He knew for certain
what a camisole was, and he had grasped for the first time in his life that
crepe-de-Chine had no recognisable relation to crape, and was astonish-
ingly expensive for its bulk. The young lady had been charmingly sym-
pathetic, and, without actually insinuating anything, had contrived to
make her customer feel just a little bit of a dog. He felt that his French
accent was improving. The street was crowded with people, slowly saun-


212
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
tering past the brilliant shop-windows. Mr. Parker stopped and gazed
nonchalantly over a gorgeous display of jewellery, as though hesitating
between a pearl necklace valued at 80,000 francs and a pendant of dia-
monds and aquamarines set in platinum.
And there, balefully winking at him from under a label inscribed
"Bonne fortune" hung a green-eyed cat.
The cat stared at Mr. Parker, and Mr. Parker stared at the cat. It was
no ordinary cat. It was a cat with a personality. Its tiny arched body
sparkled with diamonds, and its platinum paws, set close together, and
its erect and glittering tail were instinct in every line with the sensuous
delight of friction against some beloved object. Its head, cocked slightly
to one side, seemed to demand a titillating finger under the jaw. It was a
minute work of art, by no journeyman hand. Mr. Parker fished in his
pocket-book. He looked from the cat in his hand to the cat in the win-
dow. They were alike. They were astonishingly alike. They were identi-
cal. Mr. Parker marched into the shop.
"I have here," said Mr. Parker to the young man at the counter, "a
diamond cat which greatly resembles one which I perceive in your win-
dow. Could you have the obligingness to inform me what would be the
value of such a cat?"
The young man replied instantly:
"But certainly, monsieur. The price of the cat is 5,000 francs. It is,
as you perceive, made of the finest materials. Moreover, it is the work of
an artist; it is worth more than the market value of the stones."
"It is, I suppose, a mascot?"
"Yes, monsieur; it brings great good luck, especially at cards. Many
ladies buy these little objects. We have here other mascots, but all of this
special design are of similar quality and price. Monsieur may rest as-
sured that his cat is a cat of pedigree."
"I suppose that such cats are everywhere obtainable in Paris," said
Mr. Parker nonchalantly.
"But no, monsieur. If you desire to match your cat I recommend you
to do it quickly. Monsieur Briquet had only a score of these cats to begin
with, and there are now only three left, including the one in the window.
I believe that he will not make any more. To repeat a thing often is to
vulgarise it. There will, of course, be other cats—"
"I don't want another cat," said Mr. Parker, suddenly interested. "Do
I understand you to say that cats such as this are only sold by Monsieur
Briquet? That my cat originally came from this shop?"
"Undoubtedly, monsieur, it is one of our cats. These little animals
are made by a workman of ours—a genius who is responsible for many
of our finest articles."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS 213
"It would, I imagine, be impossible to find out to whom this cat was
originally sold?"
"If it was sold over the counter for cash it would be difficult, but if it
was entered in our books it might not be impossible to discover, if mon-
sieur desired it."
"I do desire it very much," said Parker, producing his card. "I am an
agent of the British police, and it is of great importance that I should
know to whom this cat originally belonged."
"In that case," said the young man, "I shall do better to inform mon-
sieur the proprietor."
He carried away the card into the back premises, and presently
emerged with a stout gentleman, whom he introduced as Monsieur
Briquet.
In Monsieur Briquet's private office the books of the establishment
were brought out and laid on the desk.
"You will understand, monsieur," said Monsieur Briquet, "that I can
only inform you of the names and addresses of such purchasers of these
cats as have had an account sent them. It is, however, unlikely that an
object of such value was paid for in cash. Still, with rich Anglo-Saxons,
such an incident may occur. We need not go back further than the be-
ginning of the year, when these cats were made." He ran a podgy finger
down the pages of the ledger. "The first purchase was on January 19th."
Mr. Parker noted various names and addresses, and at the end of half
an hour Monsieur Briquet said in a final manner:
"That is all, monsieur. How many names have you there?"
"Thirteen," said Parker.
"And there are still three cats in stock—the original number was twenty
—so that four must have been sold for cash. If monsieur wishes to verify
the matter we can consult the day-book."
The search in the day-book was longer and more tiresome, but even-
tually four cats were duly found to have been sold; one on January 31st,
another on February 6th, the third on May 17th, and the last on August
9th.
Mr. Parker had risen, and embarked upon a long string of compli-
ments and thanks, when a sudden association of ideas and dates
prompted him to hand Cathcart's photograph to Monsieur Briquet and
ask whether he recognised it.
Monsieur Briquet shook his head.
"I am sure he is not one of our regular customers," he said, "and I
have a very good memory for faces. I make a point of knowing anyone
who has any considerable account with me. And this gentleman has not
everybody's face. But we will ask my assistants."


214
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
The majority of the staff failed to recognise the photograph, and Parker
was on the point of putting it back in his pocket-book when a young lady,
who had just finished selling an engagement-ring to an obese and elderly
Jew, arrived, and said, without any hesitation:
"Mais oui, je I'ai vu, ce monsieur-Id. It is the Englishman who bought
a diamond cat for the jolie blonde."
"Mademoiselle," said Parker eagerly, "I beseech you to do me the
favour to remember all about it."
"Parfaitement," said she. "It is not the face one would forget, espe-
cially when one is a woman. The gentleman bought a diamond cat and
paid for it—no, I am wrong. It was the lady who bought it, and I remem-
ber now to have been surprised that she should pay like that at once in
money, because ladies do not usually carry such large sums. The gentle-
man bought too. He bought a diamond and tortoiseshell comb for the
lady to wear, and then she said she must give him something pour porter
bonheur, and asked me for a mascot that was good for cards. I showed
her some jewels more suitable for a gentleman, but she saw these cats
and fell in love with them, and said he should have a cat and nothing
else; she was sure it would bring him good hands. She asked me if it was
not so, and I said, 'Undoubtedly, and monsieur must be sure never to
play without it,' and he laughed very much, and promised always to
have it upon him when he was playing."
"And how was she, this lady?"
"Blonde, monsieur, and very pretty; rather tall and svelte, and very
well dressed. A big hat and dark blue costume. Quoi encore? Voyons—
yes, she was a foreigner."
"English?"
"I do not know. She spoke French very, very well, almost like a French
person, but she had just the little suspicion of accent."
"What language did she speak with the gentleman?"
"French, monsieur. You see, we were speaking together, and they
both appealed to me continually, and so all the talk was in French. The
gentleman spoke French a merveille, it was only by his clothes and a je
ne sais quoi in his appearance that I guessed he was English. The lady
spoke equally fluently, but one remarked just the accent from time to
time. Of course, I went away from them once or twice to get goods from
the window, and they talked then; I do not know in what language."
"Now, mademoiselle, can you tell me how long ago this was?"
"Ah, mon Dieu, ga c'est plus difficile. Monsieur sait que les jours se
suivent et se ressemblent. Voyons."
"We can see by the day-book," put in Monsieur Briquet, "on what
occasion a diamond comb was sold with a diamond cat."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
215
"Of course," said Parker hastily. "Let us go back."
They went back and turned to the January volume, where they found
no help. But on February 6th they read:
Peigne en dcaille et diamants . . . f.7,500
Chat en diamants (Dessin C-5) . . f.5,000
"That settles it," said Parker gloomily.
"Monsieur does not appear content," suggested the jeweller.
"Monsieur," said Parker, "I am more grateful than I can say for your
very great kindness, but I will frankly confess that, of all the twelve
months in the year, I had rather it had been any other."
Parker found this whole episode so annoying to his feelings that he
bought two comic papers and, carrying them away to Boudet's at the
corner of the Rue Auguste Léopold, read them solemnly through over
his dinner, by way of settling his mind. Then, returning to his modest
hotel, he ordered a drink, and sat down to compose a letter to Lord
Peter. It was a slow job, and he did not appear to relish it very much.
His concluding paragraph was as follows:
"I have put all these things down for you without any comment.
You will be able to draw your own inferences as well as I can—bet-
ter, I hope, for my own are perplexing and worrying me no end.
They may be all rubbish—I hope they are; I daresay something will
turn up at your end to put quite a different interpretation upon the
facts. But I do feel that they must be cleared up. I would offer to
hand over the job, but another man might jump at conclusions even
faster than I do, and make a mess of it . But of course, if you say so,
I will be taken suddenly ill at any moment. Let me know. If you
think I'd better go on grubbing about over here, can you get hold
of a photograph of Lady Mary Wimsey, and find out if possible
about the diamond comb and the green-eyed cat—also at exactly
what date Lady Mary was in Paris in February. Does she speak
French as well as you do? Let me know how you are getting on.
"Yours ever,
"Charles Parker."
He re-read the letter and report carefully and sealed them up. Then
he wrote to his sister, did up his parcel neatly, and rang for the valet de
chambre.
"I want this letter sent off at once, registered," he said, "and the parcel
is to go to-morrow as a colis postal."
After which he went to bed, and read himself to sleep with a com-
mentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.


216
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Lord Peter's reply arrived by return:
"Dear Charles,—Don't worry. I don't like the look of things
myself frightfully, but I'd rather you tackled the business than any-
one else. As you say, the ordinary police bloke doesn't mind whom
he arrests, provided he arrests someone, and is altogether a most
damnable fellow to have poking into one's affairs. I'm putting my
mind to getting my brother cleared—that is the first consideration,
after all, and really anything else would be better than having Jerry
hanged for a crime he didn't commit. Whoever did it, it's better the
right person should suffer than the wrong. So go ahead.
"I enclose two photographs—all I can lay hands on for the mo-
ment . The one in nursing-kit is rather rotten, and the other's all
smothered up in a big hat.
"I had a damn' queer little adventure here on Wednesday, which
I'll tell you about when we meet. I've found a woman who obviously
knows more than she ought, and a most promising ruffian—only I'm
afraid he's got an alibi. Also I've got a faint suggestion of a clue
about No. 10. Nothing much happened at Northallerton, except
that Jerry was of course committed for trial. My mother is here,
thank Godl and I'm hoping she'll get some sense out of Mary, but
she's been worse the last two days—Mary, I mean, not my mother—
beastly sick and all that sort of thing. Dr. Thingummy—who is an ass
—can't make it out . Mother says it's as clear as noonday, and she'll
stop it if I have patience a day or two. I made her ask about the
comb and the cat. M. denies the cat altogether, but admits to a
diamond comb bought in Paris—says she bought it herself. It's in
town—I'll get it and send it on. She says she can't remember where
she bought it has lost the bill, but it didn't cost anything like 7,500
francs. She was in Paris from February 2nd to February 20th. My
chief business now is to see Lubbock and clear up a little matter
concerning silver sand.
"The Assizes will be the first week in November—in fact, the end
of next week. This rushes things a bit but it doesn't matter, be-
cause they can't try him there; nothing will matter but the Grand
Jury, who are bound to find a true bill on the face of it. After that
we can hang matters up as long as we like. It's going to be a deuce
of a business, Parliament sitting and all. Old Biggs is fearfully per-
turbed under that marble outside of his. I hadn't really grasped
what a fuss it was to try peers. It's only happened about once in
every sixty years, and the procedure's about as old as Queen Eliza-
beth. They have to appoint a Lord High Steward for the occasion,
and God knows what. They have to make it frightfully clear in the
Commission that it is only for the occasion, because, somewhere
about Richard Hi's time, the L.H.S. was such a terrifically big pot
that he got to ruling the roost. So when Henry IV came to the


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
217
throne, and the office came into the hands of the Crown, he jolly
well kept it there, and now they only appoint a man pro tern, for
the Coronation and shows like Jerry's. The King always pretends
not to know there isn't a L.H.S. till the time comes, and is no end
surprised at having to think of somebody to take on the job. Did you
know all this? I didn't. I got it out of Biggy.
"Cheer up. Pretend you don't know that any of these people are
relations of mine. My mother sends you her kindest regards and
what not, and hopes she'll see you again soon. Bunter sends some-
thing correct and respectful; I forget what
.
"Yours in the brotherhood of detection,
"P.W."
It may as well be said at once that the evidence from the photographs
was wholly inconclusive.
CHAPTER VI
MARY QUITE CONTRARY
/ am striving to take into public life what any man gets from his
mother.—Lady Astor.
on the opening day of the York Assizes, the Grand Jury brought in a
true bill, against Gerald, Duke of Denver, for murder. Gerald, Duke of
Denver, being accordingly produced in the court, the Judge affected to
discover—what, indeed, every newspaper in the country had been an-
nouncing to the world for the last fortnight—that he, being but a common
or garden judge with a plebeian jury, was incompetent to try a peer of
the realm. He added, however, that he would make it his business to in-
form the Lord Chancellor (who also, for the last fortnight, had been
secretly calculating the accommodation in the Royal Gallery and choos-
ing lords to form the Select Committee). Order being taken accordingly,
the noble prisoner was led away.
• • • • •
A day or two later, in the gloom of a London afternoon, Mr. Charles
Parker rang the bell of a second-floor flat at No. 110 Piccadilly. The
door was opened by Bunter, who informed him with a gracious smile
that Lord Peter had stepped out for a few minutes but was expecting
him, and would he kindly come in and wait.


218
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"We only came up this morning," added the valet, "and are not quite
straight yet, sir, if you will excuse us. Would you feel inclined for a cup
of tea?"
Parker accepted the offer, and sank luxuriously into a corner of the
Chesterfield. After the extraordinary discomfort of French furniture
there was solace in the enervating springiness beneath him, the cushions
behind his head, and Wimsey's excellent cigarettes. What Bunter had
meant by saying that things were "not quite straight yet" he could not
divine. A leaping wood fire was merrily reflected in the spotless surface of
the black baby grand; the mellow calf bindings of Lord Peter's rare edi-
tions glowed softly against the black and primrose walls; the vases were
filled with tawny chrysanthemums; the latest editions of all the papers
were on the table—as though the owner had never been absent.
Over his tea Mr. Parker drew out the photographs of Lady Mary and
Denis Cathcart from his breast pocket. He stood them up against the
teapot and stared at them, looking from one to the other as if trying to
force a meaning from their faintly smirking, self-conscious gaze. He
referred again to his Paris notes, ticking off various points with a pencil.
"Damn!" said Mr. Parker, gazing at Lady Mary. "Damn—damn—
damn—"
The train of thought he was pursuing was an extraordinarily interesting
one. Image after image, each rich in suggestion, crowded into his mind.
Of course, one couldn't think properly in Paris—it was so uncomfortable
and the houses were central heated. Here, where so many problems had
been unravelled, there was a good fire. Cathcart had been sitting before
the fire. Of course, he wanted to think out a problem. When cats sat
staring into the fire they were thinking out problems. It was odd he should
not have thought of that before. When the green-eyed cat sat before the
fire one sank right down into a sort of rich, black, velvety suggestiveness
which was most important. It was luxurious to be able to think so lucidly
as this, because otherwise it would be a pity to exceed the speed limit
—and the black moors were reeling by so fast. But now he had really got
the formula he wouldn't forget it again. The connection was just there—
close, thick, richly coherent.
"The glass-blower's cat is bompstable," said Mr. Parker aloud and
distinctly.
"I'm charmed to hear it," replied Lord Peter, with a friendly grin.
"Had a good nap, old man?"
"I—what?" said Mr. Parker. "Hullo! Watcher mean, nap? I had got
hold of a most important train of thought, and you've put it out of my
head. What was it? Cat—cat—cat—" He groped wildly.
"You said 'The glass-blower's cat is bompstable,'" retorted Lord


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
219
Peter. "It's a perfectly rippin' word, but I don't know what you mean
by it."
"Bompstable?" said Mr. Parker, blushing slightly. "Bomp—oh, well,
perhaps you're right—I may have dozed off. But, you know, I thought
I'd just got the clue to the whole thing. I attached the greatest importance
to that phrase. Even now— No, now I come to think of it, my train of
thought doesn't seem quite to hold together. What a pity. I thought it
was so lucid."
"Never mind," said Lord Peter. "Just back?"
"Crossed last night. Any news?"
"Lots."
"Good?"
"No."
Parker's eyes wandered to the photographs.
"I don't believe it," he said obstinately. "I'm damned if I'm going to
believe a word of it."
"A word of what?"
"Of whatever it is."
"You'll have to believe it, Charles, as far as it goes," said his friend
softly, filling his pipe with decided little digs of the fingers. "I don't say"
—dig—"that Mary"—dig—"shot Cathcart"—dig, dig—"but she has lied"
—dig—"again and again."—Dig, dig—"She knows who did it"—dig—"she
was prepared for it"—dig—"she's malingering and lying to keep the fel-
low shielded"—dig—"and we shall have to make her speak." Here he
struck a match and lit the pipe in a series of angry little puffs.
"If you can think," said Mr. Parker, with some heat, "that that
woman"—he indicated the photographs—"had any hand in murdering
Cathcart, I don't care what your evidence is, you—hang it all, Wimsey,
she's your own sister."
"Gerald is my brother," said Wimsey quietly. "You don't suppose I'm
exactly enjoying this business, do you? But I think we shall get along
very much better if we try to keep our tempers."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Parker. "Can't think why I said that—rotten
bad form—beg pardon, old man."
"The best thing we can do," said Wimsey, "is to look the evidence in
the face, however ugly. And I don't mind admittin' that some of it's a
positive gargoyle.
"My mother turned up at Riddlesdale on Friday. She marched up-
stairs at once and took possession of Mary, while I drooped about in
the hall and teased the cat, and generally made a nuisance of myself.
You know. Presently old Dr. Thorpe called. I went and sat on the chest
on the landing. PresenUy the bell rings and Ellen comes upstairs. Mother


220
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
and Thorpe popped out and caught her just outside Mary's room, and
they jibber-jabbered a lot, and presently mother came barging down the
passage to the bathroom with her heels tapping and her earrings simply
dancing with irritation. I sneaked after 'em to the bathroom door, but I
couldn't see anything, because they were blocking the doorway, but I
heard mother say, 'There, now, what did I tell you'; and Ellen said,
'Lawks! your grace, who'd 'a' thought it?'; and my mother said, 'All I
can say is, if I had to depend on you people to save me from being mur-
dered with arsenic or that other stuff with the name like anemones*—you
know what I mean—that that very attractive-looking man with the pre-
posterous beard used to make away with his wife and mother-in-law
(who was vastly the more attractive of the two, poor thing), I might be
being cut up and analysed by Dr. Spilsbury now—such a horrid, distaste-
ful job he must have of it, poor man, and the poor little rabbits, too.'"
Wimsey paused for breath, and Parker laughed in spite of his anxiety.
"I won't vouch for the exact words," said Wimsey, "but it was to that
effect—you know my mother's style. Old Thorpe tried to look dignified,
but mother ruffled up like a little hen and said, looking beadily at him:
'In my day we called that kind of thing hysterics and naughtiness. We
didn't let girls pull the wool over our eyes like that. I suppose you call it
a neurosis, or a suppressed desire, or a reflex, and coddle it. You might
have let that silly child make herself really ill. You are all perfectly ridic-
ulous, and no more fit to take care of yourselves than a lot of babies—
not but what there are plenty of poor little things in the slums that look
after whole families and show more sense than the lot of you put to-
gether. I am very angry with Mary, advertising herself in this way, and
she's not to be pitied.' You know," said Wimsey, "I think there's often a
great deal in what one's mother says."
"I believe you," said Parker.
"Well, I got hold of mother afterwards and asked her what it was all
about. She said Mary wouldn't tell her anything about herself or her ill-
ness; just asked to be let alone. Then Thorpe came along and talked
about nervous shock—said he couldn't understand these fits of sickness,
or the way Mary's temperature hopped about. Mother listened, and told
him to go and see what the temperature was now. Which he did, and in
the middle mother called him away to the dressing-table. But, bein' a wily
old bird, you see, she kept her eyes on the looking-glass, and nipped
round just in time to catch Mary stimulatin' the thermometer to terrific
leaps on the hot-water bottle."
"Well, I'm damned!" said Parker.
* Antimony? The Duchess appears to have had Dr. Pritchard's case in mind.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
221
"So was Thorpe. All mother said was, that if he wasn't too old a bird
yet to be taken in by that hoary trick he'd no business to be gettin' him-
self up as a grey-haired family practitioner. So then she asked the girl
about the sick fits—when they happened, and how often, and was it after
meals or before, and so on, and at last she got out of them that it gen-
erally happened a bit after breakfast and occasionally at other times.
Mother said she couldn't make it out at first, because she'd hunted all
over the room for bottles and things, till at last she asked who made the
bed, tMnkin', you see, Mary might have hidden something under the
mattress. So Ellen said she usually made it while Mary had her bath.
'When's that?' says mother. 'Just before her breakfast,' bleats the girl.
'God forgive you all for a set of nincompoops,' says my mother. 'Why
didn't you say so before?' So away they all trailed to the bathroom, and
there, sittin' up quietly on the bathroom shelf among the bath salts and
the Elliman's embrocation and the Kruschen feelings and the tooth-
brushes and things, was the family bottle of ipecacuanha—three-quarters
empty! Mother said—well, I told you what she said. By the way, how do
you spell ipecacuanha?"
Mr. Parker spelt it
.
"Damn you!" said Lord Peter. "I did think I'd stumped you that time.
I believe you went and looked it up beforehand. No decent-minded per-
son would know how to spell ipecacuanha out of his own head. Anyway,
as you were saying, it's easy to see which side of the family has the de-
tective instinct."
"I didn't say so—"
"I know. Why didn't you? I think my mother's talents deserve a little
acknowledgment. I said so to her, as a matter of fact, and she replied in
these memorable words: 'My dear child, you can give it a long name if
you like, but I'm an old-fashioned woman and I call it mother-wit, and
it's so rare for a man to have it that if he does you write a book about
him and call him Sherlock Holmes.' However, apart from all that, I said
to mother (in private, of course), 'It's all very well, but I can't believe
that Mary has been going to all this trouble to make herself horribly sick
and frighten us all just to show off. Surely she isn't that sort.' Mother
looked at me as steady as an owl, and quoted a whole lot of examples of
hysteria, ending up with the servant-girl who threw paraffin about all
over somebody's house to make them think it was haunted, and finished
up—that if all these new-fangled doctors went out of their way to invent
subconsciousness and kleptomania, and complexes and other fancy de-
scriptions to explain away when people had done naughty things, she
thought one might just as well take advantage of the fact."


222
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Wimsey," said Parker, much excited, "did she mean she suspected
something?"
"My dear old chap," replied Lord Peter, "whatever can be known
about Mary by putting two and two together my mother knows. I told
her all we knew up to that point, and she took it all in, in her funny way,
you know, never answering anything directly, and then she put her head
on one side and said: 'If Mary had listened to me, and done something
useful instead of that V.A.D. work, which never came to much, if you
ask me—not that I have anything against V.A.D.'s in a general way, but
that silly woman Mary worked under was the most terrible snob on God's
earth—and there were very much more sensible things which Mary might
really have done well, only that she was so crazy to get to London—I
shall always say it was the fault of that ridiculous club—what could you
expect of a place where you ate such horrible food, all packed into an
underground cellar painted pink and talking away at the tops of their
voices, and never any evening dress—only Soviet jumpers and side-
whiskers. Anyhow, I've told that silly old man what to say about it, and
they'll never be able to think of a better explanation for themselves.'
Indeed, you know," said Peter, "I think if any of them start getting in-
quisitive, they'll have mother down on them like a ton of bricks."
"What do you really think yourself?" asked Parker.
"I haven't come yet to the unpleasantest bit of the lot," said Peter.
"I've only just heard it, and it did give me a nasty jar, I'll admit. Yester-
day I got a letter from Lubbock saying he would like to see me, so I
trotted up here and dropped in on him this morning. You remember I
sent him a stain off one of Mary's skirts which Bunter had cut out for me?
I had taken a squint at it myself, and didn't like the look of it, so I sent it
up to Lubbock, ex abundantia cautehe; and I'm sorry to say he confirms
me. It's human blood, Charles, and I'm afraid it's Cathcart's."
"But—I've lost the thread of this a bit."
"Well, the skirt must have got stained the day Cathcart—died, as
that was the last day on which the party was out on the moors, and if it
had been there earlier Ellen would have cleaned it off. Afterwards Mary
strenuously resisted Ellen's efforts to take the skirt away, and made an
amateurish effort to tidy it up herself with soap. So I think we may con-
clude that Mary knew the stains were there, and wanted to avoid discov-
ery. She told Ellen that the blood was from a grouse—which must have
been a deliberate untruth."
"Perhaps," said Parker, struggling against hope to make out a case for
Lady Mary, "she only said, 'Oh! one of the birds must have bled,' or
something like that."
"I don't believe," said Peter, "that one could get a great patch of hu-


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
223
man blood on one's clothes like that and not know what it was. She must
have knelt right in it. It was three or four inches across."
Parker shook his head dismally, and consoled himself by making a
note.
"Well, now," went on Peter, "on Wednesday night everybody comes
in and dines and goes to bed except Cathcart, who rushes out and stays
out. At 11.50 the gamekeeper, Hardraw, hears a shot which may very
well have been fired in the clearing where the—well, let's say the accident
—took place. The time also agrees with the medical evidence about Cath-
cart having already been dead three or four hours when he was examined
at 4.30. Very well. At 3 a.m. Jerry comes home from somewhere or other
and finds the body. As he is bending over it, Mary arrives in the most
apropos manner from the house in her coat and cap and walking shoes.
Now what is her story? She says that at three o'clock she was awakened
by a shot. Now nobody else heard that shot, and we have the evidence
of Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, who slept in the next room to Mary, with
her window open according to her immemorial custom, that she lay broad
awake from 2 a.m. till a little after 3 a.m., when the alarm was given,
and heard no shot. According to Mary, the shot was loud enough to
waken her on the other side of the building. It's odd, isn't it, that the per-
son already awake should swear so positively that she heard nothing of a
noise loud enough to waken a healthy young sleeper next door? And, in
any case, // that was the shot that killed Cathcart, he can barely have
been dead when my brother found him—and again, in that case, how
was there time for him to be carried up from the shrubbery to the con-
servatory?"
"We've been over all this ground," said Parker, with an expression of
distaste. "We agreed that we couldn't attach any importance to the story
of the shot."
"I'm afraid we've got to attach a great deal of importance to it," said
Lord Peter gravely. "Now, what does Mary do? Either she thought the
shot—"
"There was no shot."
"I know that. But I'm examining the discrepancies of her story. She
said she did not give the alarm because she thought it was probably only
poachers. But, if it was poachers, it would be absurd to go down and in-
vestigate. So she explains that she thought it might be burglars. Now how
does she dress to go and look for burglars? What would you or I have
done? I think we would have taken a dressing-gown, a stealthy kind of
pair of slippers, and perhaps a poker or a stout stick—not a pair of walking
shoes, a coat, and a cap, of all things!"
"It was a wet night," mumbled Parker.


224
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"My dear chap, if it's burglars you're looking for you don't expect to go
and hunt them round the garden. Your first thought is that they're get-
ting into the house, and your idea is to slip down quietly and survey them
from the staircase or behind the dining-room door. Anyhow, fancy a
present-day girl, who rushes about bareheaded in all weathers, stopping
to embellish herself in a cap for a burglar-hunt—damn it all, Charles, it
won't wash, you know! And she walks straight off to the conservatory and
comes upon the corpse, exactly as if she knew where to look for it be-
forehand."
Parker shook his head again.
"Well, now. She sees Gerald stooping over Cathcart's body. What
does she say? Does she ask what's the matter? Does she ask who it is?
She exclaims: 'O God! Gerald, you've killed him,' and then she says, as if
on second thoughts, 'Oh, it's Denis! What has happened? Has there been
an accident?' Now, does that strike you as natural?"
"No. But it rather suggests to me that it wasn't Cathcart she expected
to see there, but somebody else."
"Does it? It rather sounds to me as if she was pretending not to know
who it was. First she says, 'You've killed him!' and then, recollecting that
she isn't supposed to know who 'he' is, she says, 'Why, it's Denis!'"
"In any case, then, if her first exclamation was genuine, she didn't ex-
pect to find the man dead."
"No—no—we must remember that. The death was a surprise. Very
well. Then Gerald sends Mary up for help. And here's where a little bit of
evidence comes in that you picked up and sent along. Do you remember
what Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson said to you in the train?"
"About the door slamming on the landing, do you mean?"
"Yes. Now I'll tell you something that happened to me the other morn-
ing. I was burstin' out of the bathroom in my usual breezy way when I
caught myself a hell of a whack on that old chest on the landin', and the
lid lifted up and shut down, plonk! That gave me an idea, and I thought
I'd have a squint inside. I'd got the lid up and was lookin' at some sheets
and stuff that were folded up at the bottom, when I heard a sort of gasp,
and there was Mary, starin' at me, as white as a ghost. She gave me a
turn, by Jove, but nothin' like the turn I'd given her. Well, she wouldn't
say anything to me, and got hysterical, and I hauled her back to her room.
But I'd seen something on those sheets."
"What?"
"Silver sand."
"Silver—"
"D'you remember those cacti in the greenhouse, and the place where
somebody'd put a suit-case or something down?"


CLIDS OF WITNESS
"Yes."
"Well, there was a lot of silver sand scanized about–che sont people
stick round some kinds of bulbs and things.
"And that was inside the chest 100**
“Yes. Wait a moment. After the noise Mis. Pedigre-Robinson beard,
Mary woke up Freddy and then she Pertiger-Robidsons and then
what?"
"She locked berself into be room*
“Yes. And shortly afterwards she came down and joined the others
in the conservatory, and it was at this point everybody remembered no-
ticing that she was wearing a cap and coat and walking shoes over pyja-
mas and bare feet"
“You are suggesting," said Parker, “that Lady Mary was already
awake and dressed at three o'clock, that she went out by the conservatory
door with ber suit-case, expecting to meet the-the murderer of her-
damn it, Wimsey!"
“We needn't go so far as that,” said Peter; "we decided that she didn't
expect to find Cathcart dead.”
"No. Well, she went, presumably to meet somebody."
“Shall we say, pro tem., she went to meet No. 10?” suggested Wimsey
softly.
“I suppose we may as well say so. When she turned on the torch and
saw the Duke stooping over Cathcart she thought-by Jove, Wimsey, I
was right after all! When she said, 'You've killed him!' she meant
No. 10—she thought it was No. 10's body."
"Of course!” cried Wimsey. "I'm a fool! Yes. Then she said, 'It's Denis
-what has happened? That's quite clear. And, meanwhile, what did she
do with the suit-case?"
"I see it all now,” cried Parker. "When she saw that the body wasn't
the body of No. 10 she realised that No. 10 must be the murderer. So
her game was to prevent anybody knowing that No. 10 had been there.
So she shoved the suit-case behind the cacti. Then, when she went up-
stairs, she pulled it out again, and hid it in the oak chest on the landing.
She couldn't take it to her room, of course, because if anybody'd heard
her come upstairs it would seem odd that she should run to her room be-
fore calling the others. Then she knocked up Arbuthnot and the Petti-
grew-Robinsons-she'd be in the dark, and they'd be flustered and
wouldn't see exactly what she had on. Then she escaped from Mrs. P.,
ran into her room, took off the skirt in which she had knelt by Cathcart's
side, and the rest of her clothes, and put on her pyjamas and the cap,
which someone might have noticed, and the coat, which they must have
noticed, and the shoes, which had probably left footmarks already. Then


226
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
she could go down and show herself. Meantime she'd concocted the bur-
glar story for the Coroner's benefit."
"That's about it," said Peter. "I suppose she was so desperately anxious
to throw us off the scent of No. 10 that it never occurred to her that her
story was going to help implicate her brother."
"She realised it at the inquest," said Parker eagerly. "Don't you re-
member how hastily she grasped at the suicide theory?"
And when she found that she was simply saving her—well, No. 10—
in order to hang her brother, she lost her head, took to her bed, and re-
fused to give any evidence at all. Seems to me there's an extra allowance
of fools in my family," said Peter gloomily.
"Well, what could she have done, poor girl?" asked Parker. He had
been growing almost cheerful again. "Anyway, she's cleared—"
"After a fashion," said Peter, "but we're not out of the wood yet by a
long way. Why is she hand-in-glove with No. 10 who is at least a black-
mailer if not a murderer? How did Gerald's revolver come on the scene?
And the green-eyed cat? How much did Mary know of that meeting be-
tween No. 10 and Denis Cathcart? And if she was seeing and meeting the
man she might have put the revolver into his hands any time."
"No, no," said Parker. "Wimsey, don't think such ugly things as that."
"Hell!" cried Peter, exploding. "IH have the truth of this beastly busi-
ness if we all go to the gallows together!"
At this moment Bunter entered with a telegram addressed to Wimsey.
Lord Peter read as follows:
"Party traced London; seen Marylebone Friday. Further infor-
mation from Scotland Yard.—Police-Superintendent Gosling,
Ripley."
"Good egg!" cried Wimsey. "Now we're gettin' down to it. Stay here,
there's a good man, in case anything turns up. I'll run round to the Yard
now. They'll send you up dinner, and tell Bunter to give you a bottle of
the Chateau Yquem—it's rather decent. So long."
He leapt out of the flat, and a moment later his taxi buzzed away up
Piccadilly.


CHAPTER VII
THE CLUB AND THE BULLET
He is dead, and by my hand. It were better that I were dead
myself, for the guilty wretch I am.—Adventures of Sexton Blake.
hour after hour Mr. Parker sat waiting for his friend's return. Again
and again he went over the Riddlesdale Case, checking his notes here,
amplifying them there, involving his tired brain in speculations of the most
fantastic kind. He wandered about the room, taking down here and
there a book from the shelves, stramming a few unskilful bars upon the
piano, glancing through the weeklies, fidgeting restlessly. At length he
selected a volume from the criminological section of the bookshelves, and
forced himself to read with attention that most fascinating and dramatic
of poison trials—the Seddon Case. Gradually the mystery gripped him,
as it invariably did, and it was with a start of astonishment that he looked
up at a long and vigorous whirring of the door-bell, to find that it was al-
ready long past midnight.
His first thought was that Wimsey must have left his latchkey behind,
and he was preparing a facetious greeting when the door opened—exactly
as in the beginning of a Sherlock Holmes story—to admit a tall and beau-
tiful young woman, in an extreme state of nervous agitation, with halo
of golden hair, violet-blue eyes, and disordered apparel all complete;
for as she threw back her heavy travelling-coat he observed that she wore
evening dress, with light green silk stockings and heavy brogue shoes
thickly covered with mud.
"His lordship has not yet returned, my lady," said Mr. Bunter, "but
Mr. Parker is here waiting for him, and we are expecting him at any min-
ute now. Will your ladyship take anything?"
"No, no," said the vision hastily, "nothing, thanks. I'll wait. Good eve-
ning, Mr. Parker. Where's Peter?"
"He has been called out, Lady Mary," said Parker. "I can't think why
he isn't back yet. Do sit down."
"Where did he go?"
"To Scotland Yard—but that was about six o'clock. I can't imagine—"
Lady Mary made a gesture of despair.
"I knew it. Oh, Mr. Parker, what am I to do?"


228
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Mr. Parker was speechless.
"I must see Peter," cried Lady Mary. "It's a matter of life and death.
Can't you send for him?"
"But I don't know where he is," said Parker. "Please, Lady Mary—"
"He's doing something dreadful—he's all wrong," cried the young
woman, wringing her hands with desperate vehemence. "I must see him—
tell him— Oh! did anybody ever get into such dreadful trouble! I—
oh!—"
Here the lady laughed loudly and burst into tears.
"Lady Mary—I beg you—please don't," cried Mr. Parker anxiously,
with a strong feeling that he was being incompetent and rather ridicu-
lous. "Please sit down. Drink a glass of wine. YouH be ill if you cry like
that. If it is crying," he added dubiously to himself. "It sounds like hic-
cups. Bunter!"
Mr. Bunter was not far off. In fact, he was just outside the door with
a small tray. With a respectful "Allow me, sir," he stepped forward to
the writhing Lady Mary and presented a small phial to her nose. The
effect was startling. The patient gave two or three fearful whoops, and
sat up, erect and furious.
"How dare you, Bunter!" said Lady Mary. "Go away at once!"
"Your ladyship had better take a drop of brandy," said Mr. Bunter,
replacing the stopper in the smelling-bottle, but not before Parker had
caught the pungent, reek of ammonia. "This is the 1800 Napoleon brandy
my lady. Please don't snort so, if I may make the suggestion. His lordship
would be greatly distressed to think that any of it should be wasted. Did
your ladyship dine on the way up? No? Most unwise, my lady, to under-
take a long journey on a vacant interior. I will take the liberty of sending
in an omelette for your ladyship. Perhaps you would like a little snack of
something yourself, sir, as it is getting late?"
"Anything you like," said Mr. Parker, waving him off hurriedly. "Now,
Lady Mary, you're feeling better, aren't you? Let me help you off with
your coat."
No more of an exciting nature was said until the omelette was disposed
of, and Lady Mary comfortably settled on the Chesterfield. She had by
now recovered her poise. Looking at her, Parker noticed how her recent
illness (however produced) had left its mark upon her. Her complexion
had nothing of the brilliance which he remembered; she looked strained
and white, with purple hollows under her eyes.
"I am sorry I was so foolish just now, Mr. Parker," she said, looking
into his eyes with a charming frankness and confidence, "but I was dread-
fully distressed, and I came up from Riddlesdale so hurriedly."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
229
"Not at all," said Parker meaninglessly. "Is there anything I can do in
your brother's absence?"
"I suppose you and Peter do everything together?"
"I think I may say that neither of us knows anything about this investi-
gation which he has not communicated to the other."
"If I tell you, it's the same thing?"
"Exactly the same thing. If you can bring yourself to honour me with
your confidence—"
"Wait a minute, Mr. Parker. I'm in a difficult position. I don't quite
know what I ought— Can you tell me just how far you've got—what
you have discovered?"
Mr. Parker was a little taken aback. Although the face of Lady Mary
had been haunting his imagination ever since the inquest, and although
the agitation of his feelings had risen to boiling-point during this romantic
interview, the official instinct of caution had not wholly deserted him.
Holding, as he did, proofs of Lady Mary's complicity in the crime, what-
ever it was, he was not so far gone as to fling all his cards on the table.
"I'm afraid," he said, "that I can't quite tell you that. You see, so much
of what we've got is only suspicion as yet. I might accidentally do great
mischief to an innocent person."
"Ah! You definitely suspect somebody, then?"
"/^definitely would be a better word for it," said Mr. Parker with a
smile. "But if you have anything to tell us which may throw light on the
matter, I beg you to speak. We may be suspecting a totally wrong person."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Lady Mary, with a sharp, nervous little
laugh. Her hand strayed to the table and began pleating the orange en-
velope into folds. "What do you want to know?" she asked suddenly, with
a change of tone. Parker was conscious of a new hardness in her man-
ner—a something braced and rigid.
He opened his note-book, and as he began his questioning his nervous-
ness left him; the official reasserted himself.
"You were in Paris last February?"
Lady Mary assented.
"Do you recollect going with Captain Cathcart—oh! by the way, you
speak French, I presume?"
"Yes, very fluently."
"As well as your brother—practically without accent?"
"Quite as well. We always had French governesses as children, and
mother was very particular about it."
"I see. Well, now, do you remember going with Captain Cathcart on
February 6th to a jeweller's in the Rue de la Paix and buying, or his buy-


230
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ing for you, a tortoiseshell comb set with diamonds and a diamond and
platinum cat with emerald eyes?"
He saw a lurking awareness come into the girl's eyes.
"Is that the cat you have been making inquiries about in Riddlesdale?"
she demanded.
It being never worth while to deny the obvious, Parker replied "Yes."
"It was found in the shrubbery, wasn't it?"
"Had you lost it? Or was it Cathcart's?"
"If I said it was his—"
"I should be ready to believe you. Was it his?"
"No"—a long breath—"it was mine."
"When did you lose it?"
"That night."
"Where?"
"I suppose in the shrubbery. Wherever you found it. I didn't miss it
till later."
"Is it the one you bought in Paris?"
"Yes."
"Why did you say before that it was not yours?"
"I was afraid."
"And now?"
"I am going to speak the truth."
Parker looked at her again. She met his eye frankly, but there was a
tenseness in her manner which showed that it had cost her something to
make her mind up.
"Very well," said Parker, "we shall all be glad of that, for I think there
were one or two points at the inquest on which you didn't tell the truth,
weren't there?"
"Yes."
"Do believe," said Parker, "that I am sorry to have to ask these ques-
tions. The terrible position in which your brother is placed—"
"In which I helped to place him."
"I don't say that."
"I do. I helped to put him in gaol. Don't say I didn't, because I did."
"Well," said Parker, "don't worry. There's plenty of time to put it all
right again. Shall I go on?"
"Yes."
"Well, now, Lady Mary, it wasn't true about hearing that shot at three
o'clock, was it?"
"No."
"Did you hear the shot at all?"
"Yes."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
231
"When?"
"At 11.50."
"What was it, then, Lady Mary, you hid behind the plants in the con-
servatory?"
"I hid nothing there."
"And in the oak chest on the landing?"
"My skirt."
"You went out—why?—to meet Cathcart?"
"Yes."
"Who was the other man?"
"What other man?"
"The other man who was in the shrubbery. A tall, fair man dressed in
a Burberry?"
"There was no other man."
"Oh, pardon me, Lady Mary. We saw his footmarks all the way up
from the shrubbery to the conservatory."
"It must have been some tramp. I know nothing about him."
"But we have proof that he was there—of what he did, and how he
escaped. For heaven's sake, and your brother's sake, Lady Mary, tell us
the truth—for that man in the Burberry was the man who shot Cathcart."
"No," said the girl, with a white face, "that is impossible."
"Why impossible?"
"I shot Denis Cathcart myself."
p • • • •
"So that's how the matter stands, you see, Lord Peter," said the Chief
of Scotland Yard, rising from his desk with a friendly gesture of dis-
missal. "The man was undoubtedly seen at Marylebone on the Friday
morning, and, though we have unfortunately lost him again for the mo-
ment, I have no doubt whatever that we shall lay hands on him before
long. The delay has been due to the unfortunate illness of the porter
Morrison, whose evidence has been so material. But we are wasting no
time now."
"I'm sure I may leave it to you with every confidence, Sir Andrew," re-
plied Wimsey, cordially shaking hands. "I'm diggin' away too; between
us we ought to get somethin'—you in your small corner and I in mine, as
the hymn says—or is it a hymn? I remember readin' it in a book about
missionaries when I was small. Did you want to be a missionary in your
youth? I did. I think most kids do some time or another, which is odd,
seein' how unsatisfactory most of us turn out."
"Meanwhile," said Sir Andrew Mackenzie, "if you run across the man
yourself, let us know. I would never deny your extraordinary good for-


232
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
tune, or it may be good judgment, in running across the criminals we may
be wanting."
"If I catch the bloke," said Lord Peter, "I'll come and shriek under
your windows till you let me in, if it's the middle of the night and you in
your little night-shirt. And talking of night-shirts reminds me that we
hope to see you down at Denver one of these days, as soon as this busi-
ness is over. Mother sends kind regards, of course."
"Thanks very much," replied Sir Andrew. "I hope you feel that all is
going well. I had Parker in here this morning to report, and he seemed a
little dissatisfied."
"He's been doing a lot of ungrateful routine work," said Wimsey, "and
being altogether the fine, sound man he always is. He's been a damn good
friend to me, Sir Andrew, and it's a real privilege to be allowed to work
with him. Well, so long, Chief."
He found that his interview with Sir Andrew Mackenzie had taken up
a couple of hours, and that it was nearly eight o'clock. He was just trying
to make up his mind where to dine when he was accosted by a cheerful
young woman with bobbed red hair, dressed in a short checked skirt,
brilliant jumper, corduroy jacket, and a rakish green velvet tam-o'-
shanter.
"Surely," said the young woman, extending a shapely, ungloved hand,
"it's Lord Peter Wimsey. How're you? And how's Mary?"
"B'Jove!" said Wimsey gallantry, "it's Miss Tarrant. How perfectly rip-
pin' to see you again. Absolutely delightful. Thanks, Mary ain't as fit as
she might be—worryin' about this murder business, y'know. You've heard
that we're what the poor so kindly and tactfully call 'in trouble,' I expect,
what?"
"Yes, of course," replied Miss Tarrant eagerly, "and, of course, as a
good Socialist, I can't help rejoicing rather when a peer gets taken up,
because it does make him look so silly, you know, and the House of
Lords is silly, isn't it? But, really, I'd rather it was anybody else's brother.
Mary and I were such great friends, you know, and, of course, you do
investigate things, don't you, not just live on your estates in the country
and shoot birds? So I suppose that makes a difference."
"That's very kind of you," said Peter. "If you can prevail upon yourself
to overlook the misfortune of my birth and my other deficiencies, p'raps
you would honour me by comin' along and havin' a bit of dinner some-
where, what?"
"Oh, I'd have loved to," cried Miss Tarrant, with enormous energy,
"but I've promised to be at the club to-night. There's a meeting at nine.
Mr. Coke—the Labour leader, you know—is going to make a speech about
converting the Army and Navy to Communism. We expect to be raided,


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
233
and there's going to be a grand hunt for spies before we begin. But look
here, do come along and dine with me there, and, if you like, I'll try to
smuggle you in to the meeting, and you'll be seized and turned out. I sup-
pose I oughtn't to have told you anything about it, because you ought
to be a deadly enemy, but I can't really believe you're dangerous."
"I'm just an ordinary capitalist, I expect," said Lord Peter, "highly
obnoxious."
"Well, come to dinner, anyhow. I do so want to hear all the news."
Peter reflected that the dinner at the Soviet Club would be worse than
execrable, and was just preparing an excuse when it occurred to him
that Miss Tarrant might be able to tell him a good many of the things that
he didn't know, and really ought to know, about his own sister. Accord-
ingly, he altered his polite refusal into a polite acceptance, and, plunging
after Miss Tarrant, was led at a reckless pace and by a series of grimy
short cuts into Gerrard Street, where an orange door, flanked by win-
dows with magenta curtains, sufficiently indicated the Soviet Club.
The Soviet Club, being founded to accommodate free thinking rather
than high living, had that curious amateur air which pervades all worldly
institutions planned by unworldly people. Exactly why it made Lord Peter
instantly think of mission teas he could not say, unless it was that all the
members looked as though they cherished a purpose in life, and that the
staff seemed rather sketchily trained and strongly in evidence. Wimsey
reminded himself that in so democratic an institution one could hardly ex-
pect the assistants to assume that air of superiority which marks the serv-
ants in a West End club. For one thing, they would not be such
capitalists. In the dining-room below the resemblance to a mission tea
was increased by the exceedingly heated atmosphere, the babel of con-
versation, and the curious inequalities of the cutlery. Miss Tarrant se-
cured seats at a rather crumby table near the serving-hatch, and Peter
wedged himself in with some difficulty next to a very large, curly-haired
man in a velvet coat, who was earnestly conversing with a thin, eager
young woman in a Russian blouse, Venetian beads, a Hungarian shawl
and a Spanish comb, looking like a personification of the United Front
of the "Internationale."
Lord Peter endeavoured to please his hostess by a question about the
great Mr. Coke, but was checked by an agitated "Hush!"
"Please don't shout about it," said Miss Tarrant, leaning across till her
auburn mop positively tickled his eyebrows. "It's so secret."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Wimsey apologetically. "I say, d'you know
you're dipping those jolly little beads of yours in the soup?"
"Oh, am I?" cried Miss Tarrant, withdrawing hastily. "Oh, thank you


234
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
so much. Especially as the colour runs. I hope it isn't arsenic or any-
thing." Then, leaning forward again, she whispered hoarsely:
"The girl next me is Erica Heath-Warburton—the writer, you know."
Wimsey looked with a new respect at the lady in the Russian blouse.
Few books were capable of calling up a blush to his cheek, but he remem-
bered that one of Miss Heath-Warburton's had done it. The authoress was
just saying impressively to her companion:
"—ever know a sincere emotion to express itself in a subordinate
clause?"
"Joyce has freed us from the superstition of syntax," agreed the curly
man.
"Scenes which make emotional history," said Miss Heath-Warburton,
"should ideally be expressed in a series of animal squeals."
"The D. H. Lawrence formula," said the other.
"Or even Dada," said the authoress.
"We need a new notation," said the curly-haired man, putting both
elbows on the table and knocking Wimsey's bread on to the floor. "Have
you heard Robert Snoates recite his own verse to the tom-tom and the
penny whistle?"
Lord Peter with difficulty detached his attention from this fascinating
discussion to find that Miss Tarrant was saying something about Mary.
"One misses your sister very much," she said. "Her wonderful enthu-
siasm. She spoke so well at meetings. She had such a real sympathy with
the worker."
"It seems astonishing to me," said Wimsey, "seeing Mary's never had
to do a stroke of work in her life."
"Oh," cried Miss Tarrant, "but she did work. She worked for us. Won-
derfully! She was secretary to our Propaganda Society for nearly six
months. And then she worked so hard for Mr. Goyles. To say nothing of
her nursing in the war. Of course, I don't approve of England's attitude
in the war, but nobody would say the work wasn't hard."
"Who is Mr. Goyles?"
"Oh, one of our leading speakers—quite young, but the Government
are really afraid of him. I expect he'll be here to-night. He has been lec-
turing in the North, but I believe he's back now."
"I say, do look out," said Peter. "Your beads are in your plate again."
"Are they? Well, perhaps they'll flavour the mutton. I'm afraid the
cooking isn't very good here, but the subscription's so small, you see. I
wonder Mary never told you about Mr. Goyles. They were so very
friendly, you know, some time ago. Everybody thought she was going to
marry him—but it seemed to fall through. And then your sister left town.
Do you know about it?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
235
"That was the fellow, was it? Yes—well, my people didn't altogether
see it, you know. Thought Mr. Goyles wasn't quite the son-in-law they'd
take to. Family row and so on. Wasn't there myself; besides, Mary'd never
listen to me. Still, that's what I gathered."
"Another instance of the absurd, old-fashioned tyranny of parents,"
said Miss Tarrant warmly. "You wouldn't think it could still be possible
—in post-war times."
"I don't know," said Wimsey, "that you could exactly call it that. Not
parents exactly. My mother's a remarkable woman. I don't think she in-
terfered. Fact, I fancy she wanted to ask Mr. Goyles to Denver. But my
brother put his foot down."
"Oh, well, what can you expect?" said Miss Tarrant scornfully. "But
I don't see what business it was of his."
"Oh, none," agreed Wimsey. "Only, owin' to my late father's circum-
scribed ideas of what was owin' to women, my brother has the handlin'
of Mary's money till she marries with his consent. I don't say it's a good
plan—I think it's a rotten plan. But there it is."
"Monstrous!" said Miss Tarrant, shaking her head so angrily that
she looked like shock-headed Peter. "Barbarous! Simply feudal, you
know. But, after all, what's money?"
"Nothing, of course," said Peter. "But if you've been brought up to
havin' it it's a bit awkward to drop it suddenly. Like baths, you know."
"I can't understand how it could have made any difference to Mary,"
persisted Miss Tarrant mournfully. "She liked being a worker. We once
tried living in a workman's cottage for eight weeks, five of us, on eighteen
shillings a week. It was a marvellous experience—on the very edge of
the New Forest."
"In the winter?"
"Well, no—we thought we'd better not begin with winter. But we had
nine wet days, and the kitchen chimney smoked all the time. You see, the
wood came out of the forest, so it was all damp."
"I see. It must have been uncommonly interestin'."
"It was an experience I shall never forget," said Miss Tarrant. "One
felt so close to the earth and the primitive things. If only we could abolish
industrialism. I'm afraid, though, we shall never get it put right without a
'bloody revolution,' you know. It's very terrible, of course, but salutary
and inevitable. Shall we have coffee? We shall have to carry it upstairs
ourselves, if you don't mind. The maids don't bring it up after dinner."
Miss Tarrant settled her bill and returned, thrusting a cup of coffee
into his hand. It had already overflowed into the saucer, and as he groped
his way round a screen and up a steep and twisted staircase it over-
flowed quite an amount more.


236
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Emerging from the basement, they almost ran into a young man with
fair hair who was hunting for letters in a dark little row of pigeon-holes.
Finding nothing, he retreated into the lounge. Miss Tarrant uttered an ex-
clamation of pleasure.
"Why, there is Mr. Goyles," she cried.
Wimsey glanced across, and at the sight of the tall, slightly stooping
figure with the untidy fair hair and the gloved right hand he gave an ir-
repressible little gasp.
"Won't you introduce me?" he said.
"I'll fetch him," said Miss Tarrant. She made off across the lounge and
addressed the young agitator, who started, looked across at Wimsey,
shook his head, appeared to apologise, gave a hurried glance at his watch,
and darted out by the entrance. Wimsey sprang forward in pursuit.
"Extraordinary," cried Miss Tarrant, with a blank face. "He says he
has an appointment—but he can't surely be missing the—"
"Excuse me," said Peter. He dashed out, in time to perceive a dark fig-
ure retreating across the street. He gave chase. The man took to his heels,
and seemed to plunge into the dark little alley which leads into the Char-
ing Cross Road. Hurrying in pursuit, Wimsey was almost blinded by a
sudden flash and smoke nearly in his face. A crashing blow on the left
shoulder and a deafening report whirled his surroundings away. He stag-
gered violently, and collapsed on to a second-hand brass bedstead.
CHAPTER VIII
MR. PARKER TAKES NOTES
A man was taken to the Zoo and shown the giraffe. A fter gazing
at it a little in silence: "I don't believe it," he said.
Parker's first rMPULSE was to doubt his own sanity; his next, to doubt
Lady Mary's. Then, as the clouds rolled away from his brain, he decided
that she was merely not speaking the truth.
"Come, Lady Mary," he said encouragingly, but with an accent of
reprimand as to an over-imaginative child, "you can't expect us to believe
that, you know."
"But you must," said the girl gravely; "it's a fact. I shot him. I did,
really. I didn't exactly mean to do it; it was a—well, a sort of accident."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
237
Mr. Parker got up and paced about the room.
"You have put me in a terrible position, Lady Mary," he said. "You
see, I'm a police-officer. I never imagined—"
"It doesn't matter," said Lady Mary. "Of course you'll have to arrest
me, or detain me, or whatever you call it. That's what I came for. I'm
quite ready to go quietly—that's the right expression, isn't it? I'd like to
explain about it, though, first. Of course I ought to have done it long ago,
but I'm afraid I lost my head. I didn't realise that Gerald would get
blamed. I hoped they'd bring it in suicide. Do I make a statement to you
now? Or do I do it at the police-station?"
Parker groaned.
"They won't—they won't punish me so badly if it was an accident,
will they?" There was a quiver in the voice.
"No, of course not—of course not. But if only you had spoken earlier!
No," said Parker, stopping suddenly short in his distracted pacing and
sitting down beside her. "It's impossible—absurd." He caught the girl's
hand suddenly in his own. "Nothing will convince me," he said. "It's ab-
surd. It's not like you."
"But an accident—"
"I don't mean that—you know I don't mean that. But that you should
keep silence—"
"I was afraid. I'm telling you now."
"No, no, no," cried the detective. "You're lying to me. Nobly, I know;
but it's not worth it. No man could be worth it. Let him go, I implore you.
Tell the truth. Don't shield this man. If he murdered Denis Cathcart—"
"No/" The girl sprang to her feet, wrenching her hand away. "There
was no other man. How dare you say it or think it! I killed Denis Cath-
cart, I tell you, and you shall believe it. I swear to you that there was no
other man."
Parker pulled himself together.
"Sit down, please. Lady Mary, you are determined to make this state-
ment?"
"Yes."
"Knowing that I have no choice but to act upon it?"
"If you will not hear it I shall go straight to the police."
Parker pulled out his note-book. "Go on," he said.
With no other sign of emotion than a nervous fidgeting with her gloves,
Lady Mary began her confession in a clear, hard voice, as though she
were reciting it by heart.
"On the evening of Wednesday, October 13th, I went upstairs at half-
past nine. I sat up writing a letter. At a quarter-past ten I heard


238
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
my brother and Denis quarrelling in the passage. I heard my brother call
Denis a cheat, and tell him that he was never to speak to me again. I
heard Denis run out. I listened for some time, but did not hear him re-
turn. At half-past eleven I became alarmed. I changed my dress and went
out to try and find Denis and bring him in. I feared he might do some-
thing desperate. After some time I found him in the shrubbery. I begged
him to come in. He refused, and he told me about my brother's accusa-
tion and the quarrel. I was very much horrified, of course. He said where
was the good of denying anything, as Gerald was determined to ruin him,
and asked me to go away and marry him and live abroad. I said I was
surprised that he should suggest such a thing in the circumstances. We
both became very angry. I said 'Come in now. To-morrow you can leave
by the first train.' He seemed almost crazy. He pulled out a pistol and
said that he'd come to the end of things, that his life was ruined, that we
were a lot of hypocrites, and that I had never cared for him, or I
shouldn't have minded what he'd done. Anyway, he said, if I wouldn't
come with him it was all over, and he might as well be hanged for a sheep
as a lamb—he'd shoot me and himself. I think he was quite out of his
mind He pulled out a revolver; I caught his hand; we struggled; I got
the muzzle right up against his chest, and—either I pulled the trigger or
it went off of itself—I'm not clear which. It was all in such a whirl."
She paused. Parker's pen took down the words, and his face showed
growing concern. Lady Mary went on:
"He wasn't quite dead. I helped him up. We struggled back nearly to
the house. He fell once—"
"Why," asked Parker, "did you not leave him and run into the house
to fetch help?"
Lady Mary hesitated.
"It didn't occur to me. It was a nightmare. I could only think of get-
ting him along. I think—/ think I wanted him to die."
There was a dreadful pause.
"He did die. He died at the door. I went into the conservatory and sat
down. I sat for hours and tried to think. I hated him for being a cheat
and a scoundrel. I'd been taken in, you see—made a fool of by a common
sharper. I was glad he was dead. I must have sat there for hours without
a coherent thought. It wasn't till my brother came along that I realised
what I'd done, and that I might be suspected of murdering him. I was
simply terrified. I made up my mind all in a moment that I'd pretend I
knew nothing—that I'd heard a shot and come down. You know what I
did."
"Why, Lady Mary," said Parker, in a perfectly toneless voice, "why
did you say to your brother 'Good God, Gerald, you've killed him'?"


240
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Only don't you say anything about the attack on me," said his lordship.
"Tell 'em he's to be detained in connection with the Riddlesdale case.
That's good enough for them." It was now eleven, and Mr. Parker
had returned, gloomy and hungry, and was consuming a belated omelette
and a glass of claret.
Lady Mary Wimsey was hunched up in the window-seat. Her bobbed
golden hair made a little blur of light about her in the pale autumn sun-
shine. She had made an attempt to breakfast earlier, and now sat gazing
out into Piccadilly. Her first appearance that morning had been made in
Lord Peter's dressing-gown, but she now wore a serge skirt and jade-
green jumper, which had been brought to town for her by the fourth
member of the party, now composedly eating a mixed grill and sharing
the decanter with Parker.
This was a rather short, rather plump, very brisk elderly lady, with
bright black eyes like a bird's, and very handsome white hair exquisitely
dressed. Far from looking as though she had just taken a long night
journey, she was easily the most composed and trim of the four. She was,
however, annoyed, and said so at considerable length. This was the Dow-
ager Duchess of Denver.
"It is not so much, Mary, that you went off so abruptly last night—just
before dinner, too—inconveniencing and alarming us very much—indeed,
poor Helen was totally unable to eat her dinner, which was extremely
distressing to her feelings, because, you know, she always makes such a
point of never being upset about anything—I really don't know why, for
some of the greatest men have not minded showing their feelings, I don't
mean Southerners necessarily, but, as Mr. Chesterton very rightly points
out—Nelson, too, who was certainly English if he wasn't Irish or Scotch,
I forget, but United Kingdom, anyway (if that means anything nowadays
with a Free State—such a ridiculous title, especially as it always makes
one think of the Orange Free State, and I'm sure they wouldn't care to be
mixed up with that, being so very green themselves). And going off with-
out even proper clothes, and taking the car, so that I had to wait till the
1.15 from Northallerton—a ridiculous time to start, and such a bad train,
too, not getting up till 10.30. Besides, if you must run off to town, why
do it in that unfinished manner? If you had only looked up the trains be-
fore starting you would have seen you would have half an hour's wait
at Northallerton, and you could quite easily have packed a bag. It's so
much better to do things neatly and thoroughly—even stupid things. And
it was very stupid of you indeed to dash off like that, to embarrass and
bore poor Mr. Parker with a lot of twaddle—though I suppose it was
Peter you meant to see. You know, Peter, if you will haunt low places
full of Russians and sucking Socialists taking themselves seriously, you


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
241
ought to know better than to encourage them by running after them,
however futile, and given to drinking coffee and writing poems with no
shape to them, and generally ruining their nerves. And, in any case, it
makes not the slightest difference; I could have told Peter all about it
myself, if he doesn't know already, as he probably does."
Lady Mary turned very white at this and glanced at Parker, who re-
plied rather to her than to the Dowager:
"No, Lord Peter and I haven't had time to discuss anything yet."
"Lest it should ruin my shattered nerves and bring a fever to my ach-
ing brow," added that nobleman amiably. "You're a kind, thoughtful soul,
Charles, and I don't know what I should do without you. I wish that rot-
ten old second-hand dealer had been a bit brisker about takin' in his
stock-in-trade for the night, though. Perfectly 'straor'nary number of
knobs there are on a brass bedstead. Saw it comin', y'know, an' couldn't
stop myself. However, what's a mere brass bedstead? The great detective,
though at first stunned and dizzy from his brutal treatment by the fifteen
veiled assassins all armed with meat-choppers, soon regained his senses,
thanks to his sound constitution and healthy manner of life. Despite the
severe gassing he had endured in the underground room—eh? A telegram?
Oh, thanks, Bunter."
Lord Peter appeared to read the message with great inward satisfac-
tion, for his long lips twitched at the corners, and he tucked the slip of
paper away in his pocket-book with a little sigh of satisfaction. He called
to Bunter to take away the breakfast-tray and to renew the cooling
bandage about his brow. This done, Lord Peter leaned back among his
cushions, and with an air of malicious enjoyment launched at Mr. Parker
the inquiry:
"Well, now, how did you and Mary get on last night? Polly, did you
tell him you'd done the murder?"
Few things are more irritating than to discover, after you have been
at great pains to spare a person some painful intelligence, that he has
known it all along and is not nearly so much affected by it as he properly
should be. Mr. Parker quite simply and suddenly lost his temper. He
bounded to his feet, and exclaimed, without the least reason: "Oh, it's
perfectly hopeless trying to do anything!"
Lady Mary sprang from the window-seat.
"Yes, I did," she said. "It's quite true. Your precious case is finished,
Peter."
The Dowager said, without the least discomposure: "You must allow
your brother to be the best judge of his own affairs, my dear."
"As a matter of fact," replied his lordship, "I rather fancy Polly's


242
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
right. Hope so, I'm sure. Anyway, we've got the fellow, so now we shall
know."
Lady Mary gave a sort of gasp, and stepped forward with her chin up
and her hands tightly clenched. It caught at Parker's heart to see over-
whelming catastrophe so bravely faced. The official side of him was
thoroughly bewildered, but the human part ranged itself instantly in sup-
port of that gallant defiance.
"Whom have they got?" he demanded, in a voice quite unlike his own.
"The Goyles person," said Lord Peter carelessly. "Uncommon quick
work, what? But since he'd no more original idea than to take the boat-
train to Folkestone they didn't have much difficulty."
"It isn't true," said Lady Mary. She stamped. "It's a lie. He wasn't
there. He's innocent. I killed Denis."
"Fine," thought Parker, "fine! Damn Goyles, anyway, what's he done
to deserve it?"
Lord Peter said: "Mary, don't be an ass."
"Yes," said the Dowager placidly. "I was going to suggest to you,
Peter, that this Mr. Goyles—such a terrible name, Mary dear, I can't
say I ever cared for it, even if there had been nothing else against him—
especially as he would sign himself Geo. Goyles—G. e. o. you know, Mr.
Parker, for George, and I never could help reading it as Gargoyles—I
very nearly wrote to you, my dear, mentioning Mr. Goyles, and asking
if you could see him in town, because there was something", when I came
to think of it, about that ipecacuanha business that made me feel he might
have something to do with it."
"Yes," said Peter, with a grin, "you always did find him a bit sickenin',
didn't you?"
"How can you, Wimsey?" growled Parker reproachfully, with his eyes
on Mary's face.
"Never mind him," said the girl. "If you can't be a gentleman,
Peter—"
"Damn it all!" cried the invalid explosively. "Here's a fellow who,
without the slightest provocation, plugs a bullet into my shoulder, breaks
my collar-bone, brings me up head foremost on a knobbly second-hand
brass bedstead and vamooses, and when, in what seems to me jolly mild,
parliamentary language, I call him a sickenin' feller my own sister says
I'm no gentleman. Look at me! In my own house, forced to sit here with
a perfectly beastly headache, and lap up toast and tea, while you people
distend and bloat yourselves on mixed grills and omelettes and a damn
good vintage claret—"
"Silly boy," said the Duchess, "don't get so excited. And it's time for
your medicine. Mr. Parker, kindly touch the bell."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
243
Mr. Parker obeyed in silence. Lady Mary came slowly across, and
stood looking at her brother.
"Peter," she said, "what makes you say that he did it?"
"Did what?"
"Shot—you?" The words were only a whisper.
The entrance of Mr. Bunter at this moment with a cooling draught
dissipated the tense atmosphere. Lord Peter quaffed his potion, had his
pillows re-arranged, submitted to have his temperature taken and his
pulse counted, asked if he might not have an egg for his lunch, and lit a
cigarette. Mr. Bunter retired, people distributed themselves into more
comfortable chairs, and felt happier.
"Now, Polly, old girl," said Peter, "cut out the sob-stuff. I accidentally
ran into this Goyles chap last night at your Soviet Club. I asked that Miss
Tarrant to introduce me, but the minute Goyles heard my name, he
made tracks. I rushed out after him, only meanin' to have a word with
him, when the idiot stopped at the corner of Newport Court, potted me,
and bunked. Silly-ass thing to do. I knew who he was. He couldn't help
gettin' caught."
"Peter—" said Mary in a ghastly voice.
"Look here, Polly," said Wimsey. "I did think of you. Honest injun,
I did. I haven't had the man arrested. I've made no charge at all—have I,
Parker? What did you tell 'em to do when you were down at the Yard this
morning?"
"To detain Goyles pending inquiries, because he was wanted as a wit-
ness in the Riddlesdale case," said Parker slowly.
"He knows nothing about it," said Mary, doggedly now. "He wasn't
anywhere near. He is innocent of that!"
"Do you think so?" said Lord Peter gravely. "If you know he is inno-
cent, why tell all these lies to screen him? It won't do, Mary. You know
he was there—and you think he is guilty."
"No!"
"Yes," said Wimsey, grasping her with his sound hand as she shrank
away. "Mary, have you thought what you are doing? You are perjuring
yourself and putting Gerald in peril of his life, in order to shield from jus-
tice a man whom you suspect of murdering your lover and who has most
certainly tried to murder me."
"Oh," cried Parker, in an agony, "all this interrogation is horribly ir-
regular."
"Never mind him," said Peter. "Do you really think you're doing the
right thing, Mary?"
The girl looked helplessly at her brother for a minute or two. Peter


244
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
cocked up a whimsical, appealing eye from under his bandages. The de-
fiance melted out of her face.
"IH tell the truth," said Lady Mary.
"Good egg," said Peter, extending a hand. "I'm sorry. I know you like
the fellow, and we appreciate your decision enormously. Truly, we do.
Now, sail ahead, old thing, and you take it down, Parker."
"Well, it really all started years ago with George. You were at the
Front then, Peter, but I suppose they told you about it—and put every-
thing in the worst possible light."
"I wouldn't say that, dear," put in the Duchess. "I think I told Peter
that your brother and I were not altogether pleased with what we had
seen of the young man—which was not very much, if you remember. He
invited himself down one week-end when the house was very full, and he
seemed to make a point of consulting nobody's convenience but his own.
And you know, dear, you even said yourself you thought he was unneces-
sarily rude to poor old Lord Mountweazle."
"He said what he thought," said Mary. "Of course, Lord Mount-
weazle, poor dear, doesn't understand that the present generation is ac-
customed to discuss things with its elders, not just kow-tow to them.
When George gave his opinion, he thought he was just contradicting."
"To be sure," said the Dowager, "when you flatly deny everything a
person says it does sound like contradiction to the uninitiated. But all I
remember saying to Peter was that Mr. Goyles's manners seemed to me
to lack polish, and that he showed a lack of independence in his opin-
ions."
"A lack of independence?" said Mary, wide-eyed.
"Well, dear, I thought so. What oft was thought and frequently much
better expressed, as Pope says—or was it somebody else? But the worse
you express yourself these days the more profound people think you—
though that's nothing new. Like Browning and those quaint metaphysical
people, when you never know whether they really mean their mistress or
the Established Church, so bridegroomy and biblical—to say nothing of
dear S. Augustine—the Hippo man, I mean, not the one who missionised
over here, though I daresay he was delightful too, and in those days I
suppose they didn't have annual sales of work and tea in the parish room,
so it doesn't seem quite like what we mean nowadays by missionaries—
he knew all about it—you remember about that mandrake—or is that the
thing you had to get a big black dog for? Manichee, that's the word. What
was his name? Was it Faustus? Or am I mixing him up with the old man
in the opera?"
"Well, anyway," said Mary, without stopping to disentangle the Duch-
ess's sequence of ideas, "George was the only person I really cared about


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
245
—he still is. Only it did seem so hopeless. Perhaps you didn't say much
about him, mother, but Gerald said lots—dreadful things!"
"Yes," said the Duchess, "he said what he thought. The present gen-
eration does, you know. To the uninitiated, I admit, dear, it does sound a
little rude."
Peter grinned, but Mary went on unheeding.
"George had simply no money. He'd really given everything he had to
the Labour Party one way and another, and he'd lost his job in the Min-
istry of Information: they found he had too much sympathy with the
Socialists abroad. It was awfully unfair. Anyhow, one couldn't be a bur-
den on him; and Gerald was a beast, and said he'd absolutely stop my
allowance if I didn't send George away. So I did, but of course it didn't
make a bit of difference to the way we both felt. I will say for mother
she was a bit more decent. She said she'd help us if George got a job; but,
as I pointed out, if George got a job we shouldn't need helping!"
"But, my dear, I could hardly insult Mr. Goyles by suggesting that he
should live on his mother-in-law," said the Dowager.
"Why not?" said Mary. "George doesn't believe in those old-fashioned
ideas about property. Besides, if you'd given it to me, it would be my
money. We believe in men and women being equal. Why should the one
always be the bread-winner more than the other?"
"I can't imagine, dear," said the Dowager. "Still, I could hardly expect
poor Mr. Goyles to live on unearned increment when he didn't believe in
inherited property."
"That's a fallacy," said Mary, rather vaguely. "Anyhow," she added
hastily, "that's what happened. Then, after the war, George went to Ger-
many to study Socialism and Labour questions there, and nothing seemed
any good. So when Denis Cathcart turned up, I said I'd marry him."
"Why?" asked Peter. "He never sounded to me a bit the kind of bloke
for you. I mean, as far as I could make out, he was Tory and diplomatic
and—well, quite crusted old tawny, so to speak, I shouldn't have thought
you had an idea in common."
"No; but then he didn't care twopence whether I had any ideas or not.
I made him promise he wouldn't bother me with diplomats and people,
and he said no, I could do as I liked, provided I didn't compromise him.
And we were to live in Paris and go our own ways and not bother. And
anything was better than staying here, and marrying somebody in one's
own set, and opening bazaars and watching polo and meeting the Prince
of Wales. So I said I'd marry Denis, because I didn't care about him, and
I'm pretty sure he didn't care a halfpenny about me, and we should have
left each other alone. I did so want to be left alone!"
"Was Jerry all right about your money?" inquired Peter.


246
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Oh, yes. He said Denis was no great catch—I do wish Gerald wasn't
so vulgar, in that flat, early-Victorian way—but he said that, after George,
he could only thank his stars it wasn't worse."
"Make a note of that, Charles," said Wimsey.
"Well, it seemed all right at first, but, as things went on, I got more and
more depressed. Do you know, there was something a little alarming
about Denis. He was so extraordinarily reserved. I know I wanted to be
left alone, but—well, it was uncanny! He was correct. Even when he went
off the deep end and was passionate—which didn't often happen—he was
correct about it. Extraordinary. Like one of those odd French novels, you
know, Peter: frightfully hot stuff, but absolutely impersonal."
"Charles, old man!" said Lord Peter.
"M'm?"
"That's important. You realise the bearing of that?"
"No."
"Never mind. Drive on, Polly."
"Aren't I making your head ache?"
"Damnably; but I like it. Do go on. I'm not sprouting a lily with an-
guish moist and fever-dew, or anything like that. I'm getting really
thrilled. What you've just said is more illuminating than anything I've
struck for a week."
"Really!" Mary stared at Peter with every trace of hostility vanished.
"I thought you'd never understand that part."
"Lord!" said Peter. "Why not?"
Mary shook her head. "Well, I'd been corresponding all the time with
George, and suddenly he wrote to me at the beginning of this month to
say he'd come back from Germany, and had got a job on the Thunderclap
—the Socialist weekly, you know—at a beginning screw of £4 a week,
and wouldn't I chuck these capitalists and so on, and come and be an hon-
est working woman with him. He could get me a secretarial job on the
paper. I was to type and so on for him, and help him get his articles to-
gether. And he thought between us we should make £6 or £7 a week,
which would be heaps to live on. And I was getting more frightened of
Denis every day. So I said I would. But I knew there'd be an awful row
with Gerald. And really I was rather ashamed—the engagement had been
announced and there'd be a ghastly lot of talk and people trying to per-
suade me. And Denis might have made things horribly uncomfortable
for Gerald—he was rather that sort. So we decided the best thing to do
would be just to run away and get married first, and escape the wran-
gling."
"Quite so," said Peter. "Besides, it would look rather well in the paper,


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
247
wouldn't it? 'Peer's Daughter Weds Socialist—Romantic Side-car
Elopement—"£6 a week Plenty," says Her Ladyship.'"
"Pig!" said Lady Mary.
"Very good," said Peter, "I get you! So it was arranged that the ro-
mantic Goyles should fetch you away from Riddlesdale—why Riddles-
dale? It would be twice as easy from London or Denver."
"No. For one thing he had to be up North. And everybody knows one
in town, and—anyhow, we didn't want to wait."
"Besides, one would miss the Young Lochinvar touch. Well, then, why
at the unearthly hour of 3 a.m.?"
"He had a meeting on Wednesday night at Northallerton. He was go-
ing to come straight on and pick me up, and run me down to town to be
married by special license. We allowed ample time. George had to be at
the office next day."
"I see. Well, I'll go on now, and you stop me if I'm wrong. You went
up at 9.30 on Wednesday night. You packed a suit-case. You—did you
think of writing any sort of letter to comfort your sorrowing friends and
relations?"
"Yes, I wrote one. But I—"
"Of course. Then you went to bed, I fancy, or, at any rate, turned the
clothes back and lay down."
"Yes. I lay down. It was a good thing I did, as it happened—"
"True, you wouldn't have had much time to make the bed look prob-
able in the morning, and we should have heard about it. By the way,
Parker, when Mary confessed her sins to you last night, did you make any
notes?"
"Yes," said Parker, "if you can read my shorthand."
"Quite so," said Peter. "Well, the rumpled bed disposes of your story
about never having gone to bed at all, doesn't it?"
"And I thought it was such a good story!"
"Want of practice," replied her brother kindly. "You'll do better, next
time. It's just as well, really that it's so hard to tell a long, consistent lie.
Did you, as a matter of fact, hear Gerald go out at 11.30, as Pettigrew-
Robinson (damn his ears!) said?"
"I fancy I did hear somebody moving about," said Mary, "but I didn't
think much about it."
"Quite right," said Peter, "when I hear people movin' about the house
at night, I'm much too delicate-minded to think anything at all."
"Of course," interposed the Duchess, "particularly in England, where
it is so oddly improper to think. I will say for Peter that, if he can put a
continental interpretation on anything, he will—so considerate of you,
dear, as soon as you took to doing it in silence and not mentioning it, as


248
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
you so intelligently did as a child. You were really a very observant little
boy, dear."
"And still is," said Mary, smiling at Peter with surprising friendliness.
"Old bad habits die hard," said Wimsey. "To proceed. At three o'clock
you went down to meet Goyles. Why did he come all the way up to the
house? It would have been safer to meet him in the lane."
"I knew I couldn't get out of the lodge-gate without waking Hardraw,
and so I'd have to get over the palings somewhere. I might have man-
aged alone, but not with a heavy suit-case. So, as George would have to
climb over, anyhow, we thought he'd better come and help carry the suit-
case. And then we couldn't miss each other by the conservatory door. I
sent him a little plan of the path."
"Was Goyles there when you got downstairs?"
"No—at least—no, I didn't see him. But there was poor Denis's body,
and Gerald bending over it. My first idea was that Gerald had killed
George. That's why I said, 'Oh, God! you've killed him!'" (Peter glanced
across at Parker and nodded.) "Then Gerald turned him over, and I saw
it was Denis—and then I'm sure I heard something moving a long way off
in the shrubbery—a noise like twigs snapping—and it suddenly came over
me, where was George? Oh, Peter, I saw everything then, so clearly. I
saw that Denis must have come on George waiting there, and attacked
him—I'm sure Denis must have attacked him. Probably he thought it was
a burglar. Or he found out who he was and tried to drive him away. And
in the struggle George must have shot him. It was awful!"
Peter patted his sister on the shoulder. "Poor kid," he said.
"I didn't know what to do," went on the girl. "I'd so awfully little time,
you see. My one idea was that nobody must suspect anybody had been
there. So I had quickly to invent an excuse for being there myself. I
shoved my suit-case behind the cactus-plants to start with. Jerry was
taken up with the body and didn't notice—you know, Jerry never does
notice things till you shove them under his nose. But I knew if there'd
been a shot Freddy and the Marchbankses must have heard it. So I pre-
tended I'd heard it too, and rushed down to look for burglars. It was a
bit lame, but the best thing I could think of. Gerald sent me up to alarm
the house, and I had the story all ready by the time I reached the landing.
Oh, and I was quite proud of myself for "not forgetting the suit-case!"
"You dumped it into the chest," said Peter.
"Yes. I had a horrible shock the other morning when I found you
looking in."
"Nothing like the shock I had when I found the silver sand there."
"Silver sand?"
"Out of the conservatory."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
249
"Good gracious!" said Mary.
"Well, go on. You knocked up Freddy and the Pettigrew-Robinsons.
Then you had to bolt into your room to destroy your farewell letter and
take your clothes off."
"Yes. Fm afraid I didn't do that very naturally. But I couldn't expect
anybody to believe that I went burglar-hunting in a complete set of silk
undies and a carefully knotted tie with a gold safety-pin."
"No. I see your difficulty."
"It turned out quite well, too, because they were all quite ready to be-
lieve that I wanted to escape from Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson—except Mrs.
P. herself, of course."
"Yes; even Parker swallowed that, didn't you, old man?"
"Oh, quite, quite so," said Parker gloomily.
"I made a dreadful mistake about that shot," resumed Lady Mary.
"You see, I explained it all so elaborately—and then I found that nobody
had heard a shot at all. And afterwards they discovered that it had all
happened in the shrubbery—and the time wasn't right, either. Then at
the inquest I had to stick to my story—and it got to look worse and worse
—and then they put the blame on Gerald. In my wildest moments I'd
never thought of that. Of course, I see now how my wretched evidence
helped."
"Hence the ipecacuanha," said Peter.
"I'd got into such a frightful tangle," said poor Lady Mary, "I thought
I had better shut up altogether for fear of making things still worse."
"And did you still think Goyles had done it?"
"I—I didn't know what to think," said the girl. "I don't now. Peter,
who else could have done it?"
"Honestly, old thing," said his lordship, "if he didn't do it, I don't
know who did."
"He ran away, you see," said Lady Mary.
"He seems rather good at shootin' and runnin' away," said Peter
grimly.
"If he hadn't done that to you," said Mary slowly, "I'd never have told
you. I'd have died first. But of course, with his revolutionary doctrines—
and when you think of red Russia and all the blood spilt in riots and in-
surrections and things—I suppose it does teach a contempt for human
life."
"My dear," said the Duchess, "it seems to me that Mr. Goyles shows
no especial contempt for his own life. You must try to look at the thing
fairly. Shooting people and running away is not very heroic—according
to our standards."


250
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"The thing I don't understand," struck in Wimsey hurriedly, "is how
Gerald's revolver got into the shrubbery."
"The thing I should like to know about," said the Duchess, "is, was
Denis really a card-sharper?"
"The thing / should like to know about," said Parker, "is the green-
eyed cat."
"Denis never gave me a cat," said Mary. "That was a tarradiddle."
"Were you ever in a jeweller's with him in the Rue de la Paix?"
"Oh, yes; heaps of times. And he gave me a diamond and tortoiseshell
comb. But never a cat."
"Then we may disregard the whole of last night's elaborate confes-
sion," said Lord Peter, looking through Parker's notes, with a smile. "It's
really not bad, Polly, not bad at all. You've quite a talent for romantic
fiction—no, I mean it! Just here and there you need more attention to de-
tail. For instance, you couldn't have dragged that badly wounded man all
up the path to the house without getting blood all over your coat, you
know. By the way, did Goyles know Cathcart at all?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Because Parker and I had an alternative theory, which would clear
Goyles from the worst part of the charge, anyhow. Tell her, old man; it
was your idea."
Thus urged, Parker outlined the blackmail and suicide theory.
"That sounds plausible," said Mary—"academically speaking, I mean;
but it isn't a bit like George—I mean, blackmail is so beastly, isn't it?"
"Well," said Peter, "I think the best thing is to go and see Goyles.
Whatever the key to Wednesday night's riddle is, he holds it . Parker, old
man, we're nearing the end of the chase."


CHAPTER X
NOTHING ABIDES AT THE NOON
"Alas!" said Hiya, "the sentiments which this person expressed
with irreproachable honourableness, 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 fulfilment."—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. Mur-
bles 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. How-
ever, I don't mind speaking—especially as you'll be jolly well disap-
pointed. I suppose you gave me away, Mary."
Mary flushed indignantly.
"My sister has been extraordinarily loyal to you, Mr. Goyles," said


252
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 be-
lieve me I can't help it. I came along at about a quarter to three, and
parked the Tjus 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 some-
thing. 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 after-
wards that it was Cathcart."
"In fact, you do not, now, know of your own knowledge, that it was
Cathcart?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
253
"Yes—at least, I recognised 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 unfortu-
nate 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 expect her to
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 conspira-
cies 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? You would have 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 badg-
ered—" began Mr. Goyles.
"But I thought you Soviet Club people enjoyed being suspected of


254
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 ac-
tion 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 spite-
fully, "but I do mind your being such an ass."
Before Mr. Goyles could reply, Mr. Parker, bewildered but not wholly
displeased, manoeuvred 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 to-day. 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. Do come."
"I hope Lady Mary consents to adorn my bachelor establishment,"
said the solicitor, coming up. "I shall esteem it a very great honour. 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 simply can't refuse."
Mr. Murbles inhabited a delightful old set of rooms in Staple Inn, with


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
255
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 crim-
son 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 defending Truth."
"Astonishhr* 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 intel-
lectual 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 sen-
sation 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 & Ham-
per 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 Dow-
son 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."


256
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 Rid-
dlesdale, 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 wwktailKlrinking."
"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 honour 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! ItH 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, savour
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."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
257
"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 repu-
tation for extreme avarice. Never bought a new suit, never took a holi-
day, 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 flavour hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a mo-
ment.
"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 rec-
ognise bravely that it is dead, and put it away." With a determined move-


258
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ment, he flung the remainder of the wine into the fire. The mocking smile
came back to his face:
"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 mat-
ter 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 by not
being 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 mat-
ter 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 defence, 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 some-
thing between a burglary and a crime passionel. And here you come ex-
plaining 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.
What do you expect?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
259
"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 Thurs-
day, 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 ques-
tions 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 stub-
bornly 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 de-
termined 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 men-
tioned that a friend of mine might have been hanging about there the
previous week, he got frightfully excited and threatened to have the fel-


260
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
low'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 neighbourhood till 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, mak-
ing 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 calcu-
lated to chill Peter's blithe impetuosity, "that, at the very time Mr. Cath-
cart 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 thought-


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
261
fully. 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 pro-
vincial disapproval as ever came from Barrow-in-Furness.
"If you can upset this Grimethorpe's alibi," said Sir Impey, fitting his
right-hand finger-tips 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 ad-
mit 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."
"Ox 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 IH 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.
CHAPTER XI
MERIBAH
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 Den-
ver had been transferred after the Assizes, owing to the imminent closing-
down of Northallerton Gaol. By dint of judicious persuasion, Peter con-
trived to obtain an interview with his brother. He found him looking ill


262
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
at ease, and pulled down by the prison atmosphere, but still unquench-
ably 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 im-
pudence! 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 dig-
nity. "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 honour, to say nothin' of an oath, that I didn't kill Cathcart—
though, mind you, the swine deserved it—but they pay no attention. Mean-
while, 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 spec-
tacle 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 think / like 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


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
263
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 manner really offensive, 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 Cathe-
dral.
"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.


264
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 favourite 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) trans-
mogrified into the "Bridge and Bottle." To the grumpy ostler who took
the horse, Peter, with his most companionable manner, addressed him-
self:
"Nasty raw morning, isn't it?"
"Eea."
"Give him a good feed. I may be here some time."
"Ugh!"
"Not many people about to-day, what?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
265
"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 to-
day?"
"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
to-day."
"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


266
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 to-day?"
"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. Grime-
thorpe. 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 I shall have 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 com-
municative 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 repre-
sent 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 honour 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 recognising
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.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
267
"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 con-
trast 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 did you last 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 North-
erners. 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 Yorkshireman,"
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 some-
where?"
"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


268
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
counter. "I knowed as I knowed your fice! Don't you live over at Riddles-
dale, 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 a Daily Mirror of 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 Sher-
lock 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-parlour, 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
endeavoured 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.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
269
"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. TE 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.
Tire, 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' Glider's Hole?" said the girl, a well-grown young
Yorkshire woman. "Yes! 13 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."


270
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"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 some-
thing 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 parlour, and
having ordered lunch, they proceeded to draw up the following schedule:
Grtmethorpe's Movements. Wednesday, October 13th to
Thursday, October 14th.
October 13th:
12.30 p.m. Arrives "Rose and Crown."
1.0 p.m. Lunches.
3.0 p.m. Orders two drills from man called Gooch in
Trimmer's Lane.
4.30 p.m. Drink with Gooch to clinch bargain.
5.0 p.m. Calls at house of John Watson carrier, about de-
livering some dog-food. Watson absent . Mrs.
Watson says W. expected back that night. G.
says will call again.
5.30 p.m. Calls on Mark Dolby, grocer, to complain about
some tinned salmon.
5.45 p.m. Calls on Mr. Hewitt, optician, to pay bill for
spectacles and dispute the amount.
6.0 p.m. Drinks with Zedekiah Bone at "Bridge and
Bottle."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
271
6.45 p.m. Calls again on Mrs. Watson. Watson not yet
home.
7.0 p.m. Seen by Constable Z1S drinking with several men
at "Pig and Whistle." Heard to use threatening
language with regard to some person un-
known.
7.20 p.m. Seen to leave "Pig and Whistle" with two men
(not yet identified).
October 14th:
1.15 a.m. Picked up by Watson, carrier, about a mile out
on road to Riddlesdale, very dirty and ill-tem-
pered, and not quite sober.
I. 45 a.m. Let into "Rose and Crown" by James Johnson,
potman.
9.0 a.m. Called by Elizabeth Dobbin.
9.30 a.m. In Bar of "Rose and Crown." Hears of man
murdered at Riddlesdale. Behaves suspiciously.
10.15 a.m. Cashes cheque £129 17s. 8d. at Lloyds Bank.
10.30 a.m. Pays Gooch for drills.
II. 5 a.m. Leaves "Rose and Crown" for Grider's Hole.
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 reckoned 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 J 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.


272
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 Whem-
meling 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 at-
tention 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, dismiss-
ing 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 inter-
rogation, 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."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
273
“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 Whem-
meling 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, chok-
ing-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-phenome-
non 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 day-
break.”
“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 well have to 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


274
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
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 stum-
bled 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.


CHAPTER XII
THE ALIBI
When actually in the embrace of a voracious and powerful wild
animal, the desirability of leaving a limb is not a matter to be sub-
jected to lengthy consideration.—The Wallet of Kai-Lung.
"i tripped right into it," said Wimsey's voice steadily, out of the black-
ness. "One sinks very fast. You'd better not come near, or you'll go too.
We'll yell a bit. I don't think we can be very far from Glider's Hole."
"If your lordship will keep shouting," returned Mr. Bunter, "I think—
I can—get to you," he panted, untying with his teeth the hard knot of a
coil of string.
"Oy!" cried Lord Peter obediently. "Help! Oy! Oy!"
Mr. Bunter groped towards the voice, feeling cautiously before him
with his walking-stick.
"Wish you'd keep away, Bunter," said Lord Peter peevishly. "Where's
the sense of both of us—?" He squelched and floundered again.
"Don't do that, my lord," cried the man entreatingly. "You'll sink
farther in."
"I'm up to my thighs now," said Lord Peter.
"I'm coming," said Bunter. "Go on shouting. Ah, here's where it gets
soggy."
He felt the ground carefully, selected a tussocky bit which seemed
reasonably firm, and drove his stick well into it.
"Oy! Hi! Help!" said Lord Peter, shouting lustily.
Mr. Bunter tied one end of the string to the walking-stick, belted his
Burberry tightly about him, and, laying himself cautiously down upon his
belly, advanced, clue in hand, like a very Gothic Theseus of a late and de-
generate school.
The bog heaved horribly as he crawled over it, and slimy water
squelched up into his face. He felt with his hands for tussocks of grass,
and got support from them when he could.
"Call out again, my lord!"
"Here!" The voice was fainter and came from the right. Bunter had
lost his line a little, hunting for tussocks. "I daren't come faster," he ex-
plained. He felt as though he had been crawling for years.


276
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Get out while there's time," said Peter. "I'm up to my waist. Lord!
this is rather a beastly way to peg out."
"You won't peg out," grunted Bunter. His voice was suddenly quite
close. "Your hands now."
For a few agonising minutes two pairs of hands groped over the in-
visible slime. Then:
"Keep yours still," said Bunter. He made a slow, circling movement.
It was hard work keeping his face out of the mud. His hands slithered over
the slobbery surface—and suddenly closed on an arm.
"Thank God!" said Bunter. "Hang on here, my lord."
He felt forward. The arms were perilously close to the sucking mud.
The hands crawled clingingly up his arms and rested on his shoulders. He
grasped Wimsey beneath the armpits and heaved. The exertion drove
his own knees deep into the bog. He straightened himself hurriedly.
Without using his knees he could get no purchase, but to use them meant
certain death. They could only hang on desperately till help came—or till
the strain became too great. He could not even shout; it was almost more
than he could do to keep his mouth free of water. The dragging strain on
his shoulders was intolerable; the mere effort to breathe meant an
agonising crick in the neck.
"You must go on shouting, my lord."
Wimsey shouted. His voice was breaking and fading.
"Bunter, old thing," said Lord Peter, "I'm simply beastly sorry to
have let you in for this."
"Don't mention it, my lord," said Bunter, with his mouth in the slime.
A thought struck him.
"What became of your stick, my lord?"
"I dropped it. It should be somewhere near, if it hasn't sunk in."
Bunter cautiously released his left hand and felt about.
"Hi! Hi! Help!"
Bunter's hand closed over the stick, which, by a happy accident, had
fallen across a stable tuft of grass. He pulled it over to him, and laid it
across his arms, so that he could just rest his chin upon it. The relief to
his neck was momentarily so enormous that his courage was renewed.
He felt he could hang on for ever.
"Help!"
• • • • •
Minutes passed like hours.
• • • • •
"See that?"
A faint, flickering gleam somewhere away to the right. With desper-
ate energy both shouted together.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
277
"Help! Help! Oy! Oy! Help!"
An answering yell. The light swayed-came nearer-a spreading blur
in the fog.
“We must keep it up,” panted Wimsey. They yelled again.
“Where be?”
"Here!"
“Hello!” A pause. Then:
"Here be stick," said a voice, suddenly near.
"Follow the string!” yelled Bunter. They heard two voices, apparently
arguing. Then the string was twitched.
"Here! Here! Two of us! Make haste!”
More consultation.
"Hang on, canst a?”
“Yes, if you're quick."
"Fetchin' hurdle. Two on 'ee, sayst a?”
“Yes."
“Deep in?”
“One of us.”
“Aw reet. Jem's comin'."
A splattering noise marked the arrival of Jem with a hurdle. Then
came an endless wait. Then another hurdle, the string twitching, and the
blur of the lantern bobbing violently about. Then a third hurdle was flung
down, and the light came suddenly out of the mist. A hand caught Bunter
by the ankle.
"Where's t'other?”
“Here-nearly up to his neck. Have you a rope?”
“Aye, sure. Jem! T'rope!”.
The rope came snaking out of the fog. Bunter grasped it, and passed it
round his master's body.
"Now-coom tha back and heave.”
Bunter crawled cautiously backwards upon the hurdle. All three set
hands upon the rope. It was like trying to heave the earth out of her
course.
“ 'Fraid I'm rooted to Australia,” panted Peter apologetically. Bunter
sweated and sobbed.
"It's aw reet-he's coomin'!"
With slow heavings the rope began to come towards them. Their mus-
cles cracked.
Suddenly, with a great plop! the bog let go its hold. The three at the
rope were hurled head over heels upon the hurdles. Something unrecog-
nisable in slime lay ilat, heaving helplessly. They dragged at him in a


278
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
kind of frenzy, as though he might be snatched back from them again.
The evil bog stench rose thickly round them. They crossed the first hurdle
--the second the third-and rose staggeringly to their feet on firm ground.
"What a beastly place,” said Lord Peter faintly. “ 'Pologise, stupid of
me to have forgotten-what'sy name?”.
"Well, tha's loocky,” said one of their rescuers. “We thowt we heerd
someun a-shouting. There be few folks as cooms oot o' Peter's Pot
dead or alive, I reckon."
"Well, it was nearly potted Peter that time,” said his lordship, and
fainted.
To Lord Peter the memory of his entry that night into the farmhouse
at Grider's Hole always brought with it a sensation of nightmare. The
coils of fog rolled in with them as the door opened, and through them the
firelight leapt steamily. A hanging lamp made a blur. The Medusa-head
of Mrs. Grimethorpe, terribly white against her black hair, peered over
him. A hairy paw caught her by the shoulder and wrenched her aside.
"Shameless! A mon-ony mon-that's a' tha thinks on. Bide till tha's
wanted. What's this?”
Voices-voices--ever so many fierce faces peering down all round.
"Peter's Pot? An' what were 'ee a-wanting on t'moor this time night?
No good. Nobbody but a fool or a thief 'ud coom oop 'ere i' t'fog.”
One of the men, a farm labourer with wry shoulders and a thin, mali-
cious face, suddenly burst into tuneless song:
"I been a-courtin' Mary Jane
On Ilkla' Moor bar t'at.”
"Howd toong!” yelled Grimethorpe, in a fury. "Doost want Ah should
break ivery bwoan i' thi body?” He turned on Bunter. “Tak thesen off,
Ah tell tha. Tha'rt here for no good.”
"But, William—" began his wife. He snapped round at her like a
dog, and she shrank back
"Naay now, naay now," said a man, whom Wimsey dimly recognised
as the fellow who had befriended him on his previous visit, "tha mun'
taak them in for tºnight, racken, or there'll be trouble wi' i' fok down
yonder at t' Lodge, lat aloan what police 'ull saay. Ef t' fellow 'm coom
to do harm, 'ee's doon it already-to 'unself. Woan't do no more to-night-
look at 'un. Bring 'un to fire, mon," he added to Bunter, and then, turning
to the farmer again, “ Tes tha'll be in Qucer Street ef 'e wor to goo an
die on us wi' noomony or rhoomaticks."
This reasoning seemed partly to cuavine Grim herge. He made way,


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
279
grumbling, and the two chilled and exhausted men were brought near the
fire. Somebody brought two large, steaming tumblers of spirits. Wimsey's
brain seemed to clear, then swim again drowsily, drunkenly.
Presently he became aware that he was being carried upstairs and put
to bed. A big, old-fashioned room, with a fire on the hearth and a huge,
grim four-poster. Bunter was helping him out of soaked clothes; rubbing
him. Another man appeared from time to time to help him. From below
came the bellowing sound of Grimethorpe's voice, blasphemously up-
lifted. Then the harsh, brassy singing of the wry-shouldered man:
"Then woorms will coom an' ate thee oop
On llkUt Moor bar fat ... .
Then doocks will coom an' ate oop woorms
On llkld Moor
Lord Peter rolled into bed.
"Bunter—where—you all right? Never said thank you—dunno what
I'm doing—anywhere to sleep—what?"
He drifted away into oblivion. The old song came up mockingly, and
wound its horrible fancies into his dreams:
"Then we shall coom an' ate oop doocks
On llkla' Moor bar fat ... .
An' that is how—an' that is how—is how . . . ."
When Wimsey next opened his eyes a pale November sun was strug-
gling in at the window. It seemed that the fog had fulfilled its mission and
departed. For some time he lay, vaguely unaware of how he came to be
where he was; then the outlines of recollection straightened themselves,
the drifting outposts of dreams were called back, the burden of his pre-
occupation settled down as usual. He became aware of an extreme bodily
lassitude, and of the dragging pain of wrenched shoulder muscles. Ex-
amining himself perfunctorily, he found a bruised and tender zone be-
neath the armpits and round his chest and back, where the rescuing rope
had hauled at him. It was painful to move, so he lay back and closed his
eyes once more.
Presently the door opened to admit Bunter, neatly clothed and bearing
a tray from which rose a most excellent odour of ham and eggs.
"Hullo, Bunter!"
"Good morning, my lord! I trust your lordship has rested."
"Feel as fit as a fiddle, thanks—come to think of it, why fiddle?—except


280
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
for a general feeling of havin' been violently massaged by some fellow
with cast-iron fingers and knobbly joints. How about you?"
"The arms are a trifle fatigued, thank you, my lord; otherwise, I am
happy to say, I feel no trace of the misadventure. Allow me, my lord."
He set the tray tenderly upon Lord Peter's ready knees.
"They must be jolly well dragged out of their sockets," said his lord-
ship, "holdin' me up all that ghastly long time. I'm so beastly deep in debt
to you already, Bunter, it's not a bit of use tryin' to repay it. You know I
won't forget, anyhow, don't you? All right, I won't be embarrassin' or
anything—thanks awfully, anyhow. That's that . What? Did they give you
anywhere decent to sleep? I didn't seem to be able to sit up an' take no-
tice last night."
"I slept excellently, I thank your lordship." Mr. Bunter indicated a
kind of truckle-bed in a corner of the room. "They would have given me
another room, my lord, but in the circumstances, I preferred to remain
with your lordship, trusting you would excuse the liberty. I told them that
I feared the effects of prolonged immersion upon your lordship's health.
I was uneasy, besides, about the intention of Grimethorpe. I feared he
might not feel altogether hospitably disposed, and that he might be led
into some hasty action if we were not together."
"I shouldn't wonder. Most murderous-lookin' fellow I ever set eyes on.
I'll have to talk to him this morning—or to Mrs. Grimethorpe. I'd take
my oath she could tell us something, what?"
"I should say there was very little doubt of it, my lord."
"Trouble is," pursued Wimsey, with his mouth full of egg, "I don't
know how to get at her. That jolly husband of hers seems to cherish the
most unpleasant suspicions of anything that comes this way in trousers.
If he found out we'd been talkin' to her, what you may call privately, he
might, as you say, be hurried by his feelin's into doin' something regret-
table."
"Just so, my lord."
"Still, the fellow must go an' look after his bally old farm some time,
and then, p'raps, we'll be able to tackle her. Queer sort of woman—damn
fine one, what? Wonder what she made of Cathcart?" he added musingly.
Mr. Bunter volunteered no opinion on this delicate point.
"Well, Bunter, I think I'll get up. I don't suppose we're altogether wel-
come here. I didn't fancy the look in our host's eye last night."
"No, my lord. He made a deal of opposition about having your lord-
ship conveyed to this room."
"Why, whose room is it?"
"His own and Mrs. Grimethorpe's, my lord. It appeared most suitable,
there being a fireplace, and the bed already made up. Mrs. Grimethorpe


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
281
showed great kindness, my lord, and the man Jake pointed out to Grime-
thorpe that it would doubtless be to his pecuniary advantage to treat your
lordship with consideration."
"H'm. Nice, graspin' character, ain't he? Well, it's up and away for
me. O Lord! I am stiff. I say, Bunter, have I any clothes to put on?"
"I have dried and brushed your lordship's suit to the best of my ability,
my lord. It is not as I should wish to see it, but I think your lordship will
be able to wear it to Riddlesdale."
"Well, I don't suppose the streets will be precisely crowded," retorted
his lordship. "I do so want a hot bath. How about shavin' water?"
"I can procure that from the kitchen, my lord."
Bunter padded away, and Lord Peter, having pulled on a shirt and
trousers with many grunts and groans, roamed over to the window. As
usual with hardy country dwellers, it was tightly shut, and a thick wedge
of paper had been rammed in to keep the sash from rattling. He removed
this and flung up the sash. The wind rollicked in, laden with peaty moor
scents. He drank it in gladly. It was good to see the jolly old sun after all
—he would have hated to die a sticky death in Peter's Pot . For a few min-
utes he stood there, returning thanks vaguely in his mind for the benefits
of existence. Then he withdrew to finish dressing. The wad of paper was
still in his hand, and he was about to fling it into the fire, when a word
caught his eye. He unrolled the paper. As he read it his eyebrows went
up and his mouth pursed itself into an indescribable expression of whim-
sical enlightenment. Bunter, returning with the hot water, found his master
transfixed, the paper in one hand, and his socks in the other, and whis-
tling a complicated passage of Bach under his breath.
"Bunter," said his lordship, "I am, without exception, the biggest ass
in Christendom. When a thing is close under my nose I can't see it. I get a
telescope, and look for the explanation in Stapley. I deserve to be cruci-
fied upside-down, as a cure for anaemia of the brain. Jerry! Jerry! But,
naturally, of course, you rotten ass, isn't it obvious? Silly old blighter.
Why couldn't he tell Murbles or me?"
Mr. Bunter advanced, the picture of respectful inquiry.
"Look at it—look at it!" said Wimsey, with a hysterical squeak of
laughter. "O Lord! O Lord! Stuck into the window-frame for anybody
to find. Just like Jerry. Signs his name to the business in letters a foot
long, leaves it conspicuously about, and then goes away and is chival-
rously silent."
Mr. Bunter put the jug down upon the washstand in case of accident,
and took the paper.
It was the missing letter from Tommy Freeborn.


282
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
No doubt about it. There it was—the evidence which established the
truth of Denver's evidence. More—which established his alibi for the
night of the 13th.
Not Cathcart—Denver.
Denver suggesting that the shooting party should return in October to
Riddlesdale, where they had opened the grouse season in August. Denver
sneaking hurriedly out at 11.30 to walk two miles across the fields on a
night when Farmer Grimethorpe had gone to buy machinery. Denver
carelessly plugging a rattling sash on a stormy night with an important
letter bearing his title on it for all to see. Denver padding back at three in
the morning like a homing tom-cat, to fall over his guest's dead body by
the conservatory. Denver, with his kind, stupid, English-gentleman ideas
about honour, going obstinately off to prison, rather than tell his solicitor
where he had been. Denver misleading them all into the wildest and most
ingenious solutions of a mystery which now stood out clear as seven sun-
beams. Denver, whose voice the woman had thought she recognised on
the memorable day when she flung herself into the arms of his brother.
Denver calmly setting in motion the enormous, creaking machinery of a
trial by his noble peers in order to safeguard a woman's reputation.
This very day, probably, a Select Committee of lords was sitting "to
inspect the Journals of this House upon former trials of peers in criminal
cases, in order to bring the Duke of Denver to a speedy trial, and to re-
port to the House what they should think proper thereupon." There they
were: moving that an address be presented to His Majesty by the lords
with white staves, to acquaint His Majesty of the date proposed for the
trial; arranging for fitting up the Royal Gallery at Westminster; humbly
requesting the attendance of a sufficient police force to keep clear the ap-
proaches leading to the House; petitioning His Majesty graciously to ap-
point a Lord High Steward; ordering, in sheeplike accordance with prece-
dent, that all lords be summoned to attend in their robes; that every lord,
in giving judgment, disclose his opinion upon his honour, laying his right
hand upon his heart; that the Sergeant-at-Arms be within the House to
make proclamations in the King's name for keeping silence—and so on,
and on, unendingly. And there, jammed in the window-sash, was the dirty
little bit of paper which, discovered earlier, would have made the whole
monstrous ceremonial unnecessary.
Wimsey's adventure in the bog had unsettled his nerves. He sat down
on the bed and laughed, with the tears streaming down his face.
Mr. Bunter was speechless. Speechlessly he produced a razor—and to
the end of his days Wimsey never knew how or from whom he had so
adequately procured it—and began to strop it thoughtfully upon the palm
of his hand.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
283
Presently Wimsey pulled himself together and staggered to the window
for a little cooling draught of moor air. As he did so, a loud hullabaloo
smote his ear, and he perceived, in the courtyard below, Farmer Grime-
thorpe striding among his dogs; when they howled he struck at them with
a whip, and they howled again. Suddenly he glanced up at the window,
with an expression of such livid hatred that Wimsey stepped hurriedly
back as though struck.
While Bunter shaved him he was silent.
• • • • •
The interview before Lord Peter was a delicate one; the situation,
however one looked at it, unpleasant. He was under a considerable debt
of gratitude to his hostess; on the other hand, Denver's position was such
that minor considerations really had to go to the wall. His lordship had,
nevertheless, never felt quite such a cad as he did while descending the
staircase at Grider's Hole.
In the big farm kitchen he found a stout countrywoman, stirring a pot
of stew. He asked for Mr. Grimethorpe, and was told that he had gone
out.
"Can I speak to Mrs. Grimethorpe, please?"
The woman looked doubtfully at him, wiped her hands on her apron,
and, going into the scullery, shouted, "Mrs. Grimethorpe!" A voice re-
plied from somewhere outside.
"Gentieman wants see tha."
"Where is Mrs. Grimethorpe?" broke in Peter hurriedly.
"I' t'dairy, recken."
"I'll go to her there," said Wimsey, stepping briskly out. He passed
through a stone-paved scullery, and across a yard, in time to see Mrs.
Grimethorpe emerging from a dark doorway opposite.
Framed there, the cold sunlight just lighting upon her still, dead-white
face and heavy, dark hair, she was more wonderful than ever. There was
no trace of Yorkshire descent in the long, dark eyes and curled mouth.
The curve of nose and cheekbones vouched for an origin immensely re-
mote; coming out of the darkness, she might have just risen from her far
tomb in the Pyramids, dropping the dry and perfumed grave-bands from
her fingers.
Lord Peter pulled himself together.
"Foreign," he said to himself matter-of-factly. "Touch of Jew perhaps,
or Spanish, is it? Remarkable type. Don't blame Jerry. Couldn't live
with Helen myself. Now for it."
He advanced quickly.
"Good morning," she said, "are you better?"


284
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Perfectly all right, thank you—thanks to your kindness, which I do not
know how to repay."
"You will repay any kindness best by going at once," she answered in
her remote voice. "My husband does not care for strangers, and 'twas
unfortunate the way you met before."
"I will go directly. But I must first beg for the favour of a word with
you." He peered past her into the dimness of the dairy. "In here, per-
haps?"
"What do you want with me?"
She stepped back, however, and allowed him to follow her in.
"Mrs. Grimethorpe, I am placed in a most painful position. You
know that my brother, the Duke of Denver, is in prison, awaiting his trial
for a murder which took place on the night of October 13th?"
Her face did not change. "I have heard so."
"He has, in the most decided manner, refused to state where he was
between eleven and three on that night. His refusal has brought him into
great danger of his life."
She looked at him steadily.
"He feels bound in honour not to disclose his whereabouts, though I
know that, if he chose to speak, he could bring a witness to clear him."
"He seems to be a very honourable man." The cold voice wavered a
trifle, then steadied again.
"Yes. Undoubtedly, from his point of view, he is doing the right thing.
You will understand, however, that, as his brother, I am naturally anxious
to have the matter put in its proper light."
"I don't understand why you are telling me all this. I suppose, if the
thing is disgraceful, he doesn't want it known."
"Obviously. But to us—to his wife and young son, and to his sister and
myself—his life and safety are matters of the first importance."
"Of more importance than his honour?"
"The secret is a disgraceful one in a sense, and will give pain to his
family. But it would be an infinitely greater disgrace that he should be
executed for murder. The stigma in that case would involve all those who
bear his name. The shame of the truth will, I fear, in this very unjust so-
ciety of ours, rest more upon the witness to his alibi than upon himself."
"Can you in that case expect the witness to come forward?"
"To prevent the condemnation of an innocent man? Yes, I think I
may venture to expect even that."
"I repeat—why are you telling me all this?"
"Because, Mrs. Grimethorpe, you know, even better than I, how in-
nocent my brother is of this murder. Believe me, I am deeply distressed
at having to say these things to you."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
285
"I know nothing about your brother."
"Forgive me, that is not true."
"I know nothing. And surely, if the Duke will not speak, you should
respect his reasons."
"I am not bound in any way."
"I am afraid I cannot help you. You are wasting time. If you cannot
produce your missing witness, why do you not set about finding the real
murderer? If you do so you surely need not trouble about this alibi. Your
brother's movements are his own business."
"I could wish," said Wimsey, "you had not taken up this attitude. Be-
lieve me, I would have done all I could to spare you. I have been working
hard to find, as you say, the real murderer, but with no success. The trial
will probably take place at the end of the month."
Her lips twitched a little at that, but she said nothing.
"I had hoped that with your help we might agree on some explanation
—less than the truth, perhaps, but sufficient to clear my brother. As it is,
I fear I shall have to produce the proof I hold, and let matters take their
course."
That, at last, struck under her guard. A dull flush crept up her cheeks;
one hand tightened upon the handle of the churn, where she had rested it.
"What do you mean by proof?"
"I can prove that on the night of the 13th my brother slept in the room
I occupied last night," said Wimsey, with calculated brutality.
She winced. "It is a lie. You cannot prove it. He will deny it. I shall
deny it."
"He was not there?"
"No."
"Then how did this come to be wedged in the sash of the bedroom
window?"
At sight of the letter she broke down, crumpling up in a heap against
the table. The set lines of her face distorted themselves into a mere cari-
cature of terror.
"No, no, no! It is a lie! God help me!"
"Hush!" said Wimsey peremptorily. "Someone will hear you." He
dragged her to her feet. "Tell the truth, and we will see if we can find a
way out . It is true—he was here that night?"
"You know it."
"When did he come?"
"At a quarter-past twelve."
"Who let him in?"


286
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"He had the keys."
"When did he leave you?"
"A little after two."
"Yes, that fits in all right. Three quarters of an hour to go and three
quarters to come back. He stuck this into the window, I suppose, to keep
it from rattling?"
"There was a high wind—I was nervous. I thought every sound was my
husband coming back."
"Where was your husband?"
"At Stapley."
"Had he suspected this?"
"Yes, for some time."
"Since my brother was here in August?"
"Yes. But he could get no proof. If he had had proof he would have
killed me. You have seen him. He is a devil."
"M'm."
Wimsey was silent. The woman glanced fearfully at his face and
seemed to read some hope there, for she clutched him by the arm.
"If you call me to give evidence," she said, "he will know. He will kill
me. For God's sake, have pity. That letter is my death-warrant. Oh, for
the mother that bore you, have mercy upon me. My life is a hell, and
when I die I shall go to hell for my sin. Find some other way—you can—
you must."
Wimsey gently released himself.
"Don't do that, Mrs. Grimethorpe. We might be seen. I am deeply
sorry for you, and, if I can get my brother out of this without bringing
you in, I promise you I will. But you see the difficulty. Why don't you
leave this man? He is openly brutal to you."
She laughed.
"Do you think he'd leave me alive while the law was slowly releasing
me? Knowing him, do you think so?"
Wimsey really did not think so.
"I will promise you this, Mrs. Grimethorpe. I will do all I can to avoid
having to use your evidence. But if there should be no other way, I will
see that you have police protection from the moment that the subpoena
is served on you."
"And for the rest of my life?"
"When you are once in London we will see about freeing you from
this man."
"No. If you call upon me, I am a lost woman. But you will find an-
other way?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
287
"I will try, but I can promise nothing. I will do everything that is pos-
sible to protect you. If you care at all for my brother—"
"I don't know. I am so horribly afraid. He was kind and good to me.
He was—so different. But I am afraid—I'm afraid."
Wimsey turned. Her terrified eyes had seen the shadow cross the
threshold. Grimethorpe was at the door, glowering in upon them.
"Ah, Mr. Grimethorpe," exclaimed Wimsey cheerfully, "there you
are. Awfully pleased to see you and thank you, don'tcherknow, for put-
tin' me up. I was just saying so to Mrs. Grimethorpe, an' asking her to
say good-bye to you for me. Must be off now, I'm afraid. Bunter and I
are ever so grateful to you both for all your kindness. Oh, and I say,
could you find me the stout fellows who hauled us out of that Pot of
yours last night—if it is yours. Nasty, damp thing to keep outside the front
door, what? I'd like to thank 'em."
"Dom good thing for unwelcome guests," said the man ferociously.
"An' tha'd better be off afore Ah throws thee out."
"I'm just off," said Peter. "Good-bye again, Mrs. Grimethorpe, and a
thousand thanks."
He collected Bunter, rewarded his rescuers suitably, took an affection-
ate farewell of the enraged farmer, and departed, sore in body and des-
perately confused in mind.
CHAPTER Xm
MANON
"That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the
whole story, had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of
depicting."—Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.
"thank god," said Parker. "Well, that settles it."
"It does—and yet again, it doesn't," retorted Lord Peter. He leaned
back against the fat silk cushion in the sofa corner meditatively.
"Of course, it's disagreeable having to give this woman away," said
Parker sensibly and pleasantly, "but these things have to be done."
"I know. It's all simply awfully nice and all that. And Jerry, who's
got the poor woman into this mess, has to be considered first. I know. And
if we don't restrain Grimethorpe quite successfully, and he cuts her


288
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
throat for her, it'll be simply rippin' for Jerry to think of all his life. . . .
Jerry! I say, you know, what frightful idiots we were not to see the
truth right off! I mean—of course, my sister-in-law is an awfully good
woman, and all that, but Mrs. Grimethorpe—whew! I told you about the
time she mistook me for Jerry. One crowded, split second of glorious all-
overishness. I ought to have known then. Our voices are alike, of course,
and she couldn't see in that dark kitchen. I don't believe there's an ounce
of any feeling left in the woman except sheer terror—but, ye gods! what
eyes and skin! Well, never mind. Some undeserving fellows have all the
luck. Have you got any really good stories? No? Well, I'll tell you some—
enlarge your mind and all that. Do you know the rhyme about the young
man at the War Office?"
Mr. Parker endured five stories with commendable patience, and then
suddenly broke down.
"Hurray!" said Wimsey. "Splendid man! I love to see you melt into a
refined snigger from time to time. I'll spare you the really outrageous
one about the young housewife and the traveller in bicycle-pumps. You
know, Charles, I really should like to know who did Cathcart in. Legally,
it's enough to prove Jerry innocent, but, Mrs. Grimethorpe or no Mrs.
Grimethorpe, it doesn't do us credit in a professional capacity. 'The fa-
ther weakens, but the governor is firm'; that is, as a brother I am satisfied
—I may say light-hearted—but as a sleuth I am cast down, humiliated,
thrown back upon myself, a lodge in a garden of cucumbers. Besides, of
all defences an alibi is the most awkward to establish, unless a number of
independent and disinterested witnesses combine to make it thoroughly
air-tight. If Jerry sticks to his denial, the most they can be sure of is that
either he or Mrs. Grimethorpe is being chivalrous."
"But you've got the letter."
"Yes. But how are we going to prove that it came that evening? The
envelope is destroyed. Fleming remembers nothing about it. Jerry might
have received it days earlier. Or it might be a complete fake. Who is to
say that I didn't put it in the window myself and pretend to find it. After
all, I'm hardly what you would call disinterested."
"Bunter saw you find it."
"He didn't, Charles. At that precise moment he was out of the room
fetching shaving-water."
"Oh, was he?"
"Moreover, only Mrs. Grimethorpe can swear to what is really the im-
portant point—the moment of Jerry's arrival and departure. Unless he
was at Grider's Hole before 12.30 at least, it's immaterial whether he
was there or not."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
289
"Well," said Parker, "can't we keep Mrs. Grimethorpe up our sleeve,
so to speak—"
"Sounds a bit abandoned," said Lord Peter, "but we will keep her with
pleasure if you like."
"—and meanwhile," pursued Mr. Parker, unheeding, "do our best to
find the actual criminal?"
"Oh, yes," said Lord Peter, "and that reminds me. I made a discovery
at the Lodge—at least, I think so. Did you notice that somebody had
been forcing one of the study windows?"
"No, really?"
"Yes; I found distinct marks. Of course, it was a long time after the
murder, but there were scratches on the catch all right—the sort of thing
a penknife would leave."
"What fools we were not to make an examination at the time!"
"Come to think of it, why should you have? Anyhow, I asked Fleming
about it, and he said he did remember, now he came to think of it, that
on the Thursday morning he'd found the window open, and couldn't ac-
count for it. And here's another thing. I've had a letter from my friend
Tim Watchett. Here it is:
"My Lord.—About our conversation. I have found a Man who
was with the Party in question at the 'Pig and Whistle' on the night
of the 13th ult. and he tells me that the Party borrowed his bicycle,
and same was found afterwards in the ditch where Party was picked
up with the Handlebars bent and wheels buckled.
"Trusting to the Continuance of your esteemed favour.
"Timothy Watchett."
"What do you think of that?"
"Good enough to go on," said Parker. "At least, we are no longer ham-
pered with horrible doubts."
"No. And, though she's my sister, I must say that of all the blithering
she-asses Mary is the blitheringest. Taking up with that awful bounder
to start with—"
"She was jolly fine about it," said Mr. Parker, getting rather red in
the face. "It's just because she's your sister that you can't appreciate
what a fine thing she did. How should a big, chivalrous nature like hers
see through a man like that? She's so sincere and thorough herself, she
judges everyone by the same standard. She wouldn't believe anybody
could be so thin and wobbly-minded as Goyles till it was proved to her.
And even then she couldn't bring herself to think ill of him till he'd
given himself away out of his own mouth. It was wonderful, the way
she fought for him. Think what it must have meant to such a splendid,
straightforward woman to—"


290
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"All right, all right," cried Peter, who had been staring at his friend,
transfixed with astonishment. "Don't get worked up. I believe you. Spare
me. I'm only a brother. All brothers are fools. All lovers are lunatics—
Shakespeare says so. Do you want Mary, old man? You surprise me,
but I believe brothers always are surprised. Bless you, dear children!"
"Damn it all, Wimsey," said Parker, very angry, "you've no right to
talk like that. I only said how greatly I admired your sister—everyone
must admire such pluck and staunchness. You needn't be insulting. I
know she's Lady Mary Wimsey and damnably rich, and I'm only a
common police official with nothing a year and a pension to look for-
ward to, but there's no need to sneer about it."
"I'm not sneering," retorted Peter indignantly. "I can't imagine why
anybody should want to marry my sister, but you're a friend of mine
and a damn good sort, and you've my good word for what it's worth.
Besides—dash it all, man!—to put it on the lowest grounds, do look what
it might have been! A Socialist Conchy of neither bowels nor breeding,
or a card-sharping dark horse with a mysterious past! Mother and Jerry
must have got to the point when they'd welcome a decent, God-fearing
plumber, let alone a policeman. Only thing I'm afraid of is that Mary,
havin' such beastly bad taste in blokes, won't know how to appreciate a
really decent fellow like you, old son."
Mr. Parker begged his friend's pardon for his unworthy suspicions,
and they sat a little time in silence. Parker sipped his port, and saw
unimaginable visions warmly glowing in its rosy depths. Wimsey pulled
out his pocket-book, and began idly turning over its contents, throwing
old letters into the fire, unfolding and refolding memoranda, and re-
viewing a miscellaneous series of other people's visiting-cards. He came
at length to the slip of blotting-paper from the study at Riddlesdale, to
whose fragmentary markings he had since given scarcely a thought.
Presently Mr. Parker, finishing his port and recalling his mind with
an effort, remembered that he had been meaning to tell Peter something
before the name of Lady Mary had driven all other thoughts out of his
head. He turned to his host, open-mouthed for speech, but his remark
never got beyond a preliminary click like that of a clock about to strike,
for, even as he turned, Lord Peter brought his fist down on the little
table with a bang that made the decanters ring, and cried out in the
loud voice of complete and sudden enlightenment:
"Manon Lescaut!"
"Eh?" said Mr. Parker.
"Boil my brains!" said Lord Peter. "Boil 'em and mash 'em and serve
'em up with butter as a dish of turnips, for it's damn well all they're fit
for! Look at me!" (Mr. Parker scarcely needed this exhortation.) "Here


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
291
we've been worryin' over Jerry, an' worryin' over Mary, an' huntin' for
Goyleses an' Grimethorpes and God knows who—and all the time I'd
got this little bit of paper tucked away in my pocket. The blot upon the
paper's rim a blotted paper was to him, and it was nothing more. But
Manon, Manon! Charles, if I'd had the grey matter of a woodlouse
that book ought to have told me the whole story. And think what we'd
have been saved!"
"I wish you wouldn't be so excited," said Parker. "I'm sure it's per-
fectly splendid for you to see your way so clearly, but I never read
Manon Lescaut, and you haven't shown me the blotting-paper, and I
haven't the foggiest idea what you've discovered."
Lord Peter passed the relic over without comment.
"I observe," said Parker, "that the paper is rather crumpled and
dirty, and smells powerfully of tobacco and Russian leather, and deduce
that you have been keeping it in your pocket-book."
"No!" said Wimsey incredulously. "And when you actually saw me
take it out! Holmes, how do you do it?"
"At one corner," pursued Parker, "I see two blots, one rather larger
than the other. I think someone must have shaken a pen there. Is there
anything sinister about the blot?"
"I haven't noticed anything."
"Some way below the blots the Duke has signed his name two or
three times—or, rather, his title. The inference is that his letters were not
to intimates."
"The inference is justifiable, I fancy."
"Colonel Marchbanks has a neat signature."
"He can hardly mean mischief," said Peter. "He signs his name like
an honest man! Proceed."
"There's a sprawly message about five something of fine something.
Do you see anything occult there?"
"The number five may have a cabalistic meaning, but I admit I don't
know what it is. There are five senses, five fingers, five great Chinese
precepts, five books of Moses, to say nothing of the mysterious entities
hymned in the Dilly Song—Tive are the flamboys under the pole.' I must
admit that I have always panted to know what the five flamboys were.
But, not knowing, I get no help from it in this case."
"Well, that's all, except a fragment consisting of 'oe' on one line, and
'is fou—' below it."
"What do you make of that?"
"Ts found,' I suppose."
"Do you?"
"That seems the simplest interpretation. Or possibly 'his foul'—there


292
THREE FOR LORD PETER WTMSEY
seems to have been a sudden rush of ink to the pen just there. Do you
think it is 'his foul'? Was the Duke writing about Cathcart's foul play?
Is that what you mean?"
"No, I don't make that of it. Besides, I don't think it's Jerry's writing."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know, but I can guess."
"And it leads somewhere?"
"It tells the whole story."
"Oh, cough it up, Wimsey. Even Dr. Watson would lose patience."
"Tut, tut! Try the line above."
"Well, there's only 'oe.'"
"Yes, well?"
"Well, I don't know. Poet, poem, manoeuvre, Loeb edition, Citroen
—it might be anything."
"Dunno about that. There aren't lashings of English words with 'oe'
in them—and it's written so close it almost looks like a diphthong at
that."
"Perhaps it isn't an English word."
"Exactly; perhaps it isn't."
"Oh! Oh, I see. French?"
"Ah, you're gettin' warm."
"Saeur—aeuvre—aeuf—baeuf—"
"No, no. You were nearer the first time."
"Saeur—caeur!"
"Caeur. Hold on a moment. Look at the scratch in front of that."
"Wait a bit—er—cer—"
"How about percer?"
"I believe you're right. 'Percer le caeur.'"
"Yes. Or 'perceras le caeur.'"
"That's better. It seems to need another letter or two."
"And now your 'is found' line."
"Fou!"
"Who?"
"I didn't say 'who'; I said 'fou.'"
"I know you did. I said who?"
"Who?"
"Who's fou?"
"Oh, is. By Jove, 'suis'! 'Je suis fou.'"
"A la bonne heure! And I suggest that the next words are 'de douleur,'
or something like it."
"They might be."
"Cautious beast! I say they are."


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
293
"Well, and suppose they are?"
"It tells us everything."
"Nothing!"
"Everything, I say. Think. This was written on the day Cathcart died.
Now who in the house would be likely to write these words, 'perceras
le caeur . . . ]e suts foil de douleur"! Take everybody. I know it isn't
Jerry's fist, and he wouldn't use those expressions. Colonel or Mrs.
Marchbanks? Not Pygmalion likely! Freddy? Couldn't write passionate
letters in French to save his life."
"No, of course not. It would have to be either Cathcart or—Lady
Mary."
"Rot! It couldn't be Mary."
"Why not?"
"Not unless she changed her sex, you know."
"Of course not. It would have to be 'je suis folle-' Then Cathcart—"
"Of course. He lived in France all his life. Consider his bank-book.
Consider—"
"Lord! Wimsey, we've been blind."
"Yes."
"And listen! I was going to tell you. The Surete" write me that they've
traced one of Cathcart's banknotes."
"Where to?"
"To a Mr. Francois who owns a lot of house property near the Etoile."
"And lets it out in appartements!"
"No doubt."
"When's the next train? Bunter!"
"My lord!"
Mr. Bunter hurried to the door at the call.
"The next boat-train for Paris?"
"Eight-twenty, my lord, from Waterloo."
"We're going by it. How long?"
"Twenty minutes, my lord."
"Pack my toothbrush and call a taxi."
"Certainly, my lord."
"But, Wimsey, what light does it throw on Cathcart's murder? Did this
woman—"
"I've no time," said Wimsey hurriedly. "But I'll be back in a day or
two. Meanwhile—"
He hunted hastily in the bookshelf.
"Read this."
He flung the book at his friend and plunged into his bedroom.
At eleven o'clock, as a gap of dirty water disfigured with oil and bits


294
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
of paper widened between the Normannia and the quay; while hard-
ened passengers fortified their sea-stomachs with cold ham and pickles,
and the more nervous studied the Boddy jackets in their cabins; while
the harbour lights winked and swam right and left, and Lord Peter
scraped acquaintance with a second-rate cinema actor in the bar, Charles
Parker sat, with a puzzled frown, before the fire at 110 Piccadilly,
making his first acquaintance with the delicate masterpiece of the Abbe"
Prévost.
CHAPTER XIV
THE EDGE OF THE AXE TOWARDS HIM
Scene L Westminster Hall. Enter as to the Parliament, Bolingbroke,
Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, the
Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and another
Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot.
Bolingbroke: Call forth Bagot.
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;
What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death;
Who wrought it with the king, and who performed
The bloody office of his timeless end.
Bagot: Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.
King Richard II.
the historic trial of the Duke of Denver for murder opened as soon
as Parliament reassembled after the Christmas vacation. The papers had
leaderettes on "Trial by his Peers," by a Woman Barrister, and "The
Privilege of Peers: should it be abolished?" by a Student of History.
The Evening Banner got into trouble for contempt by publishing an
article entitled "The Silken Rope" (by an Antiquarian), which was
deemed to be prejudicial, and the Daily Trumpet—the Labour organ—
inquired sarcastically why, when a peer was tried, the fun of seeing the
show should be reserved to the few influential persons who could wangle
tickets for the Royal Gallery.
Mr. Murbles and Detective-Inspector Parker, in close consultation,
went about with preoccupied faces, while Sir Impey Biggs retired into a
complete eclipse for three days, revolved about by Mr. Glibbery, K.C.,


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
295
Mr. Brownrigg-Fortescue, K.C., and a number of lesser satellites. The
schemes of the Defence were kept dark indeed—the more so that they
found themselves on the eve of the struggle deprived of their principal
witness, and wholly ignorant whether or not he would be forthcoming
with his testimony.
Lord Peter had returned from Paris at the end of four days, and had
burst in like a cyclone at Great Ormond Street. "I've got it," he said,
"but it's touch and go. Listen!"
For an hour Parker had listened, feverishly taking notes.
"You can work on that," said Wimsey. "Tell Murbles. I'm off."
His next appearance was at the American Embassy. The Ambassa-
dor, however, was not there, having received a royal mandate to dine.
Wimsey damned the dinner, abandoned the polite, horn-rimmed secre-
taries, and leapt back into his taxi with a demand to be driven to Buck-
ingham Palace. Here a great deal of insistence with scandalised officials
produced first a higher official, then a very high official, and, finally,
the American Ambassador and a Royal Personage while the meat was
yet in their mouths.
"Oh, yes," said the Ambassador, "of course it can be done—"
"Surely, surely," said the Personage genially, "we mustn't have any
delay. Might cause an international misunderstanding, and a lot of
paragraphs about Ellis Island. Terrible nuisance to have to adjourn the
trial—dreadful fuss, isn't it? Our secretaries are everlastingly bringing
things along to our place to sign about extra policemen and seating
accommodation. Good luck to you, Wimsey! Come and have something
while they get your papers through. When does your boat go?"
"To-morrow morning, sir. I'm catching the Liverpool train in an hour
—if I can."
"You surely will," said the Ambassador cordially, signing a note.
"And they say the English can't hustle."
So, with his papers all in order, his lordship set sail from Liverpool
the next morning, leaving his legal representatives to draw up alternative
schemes of defence.
• • • • •
"Then the peers, two by two, in their order, beginning with the young-
est baron."
Garter King-of-Arms, very hot and bothered, fussed unhappily around
the three hundred or so British peers who were sheepishly struggling
into their robes, while the heralds did their best to line up the assembly
and keep them from wandering away when once arranged.
"Of all the farces!" grumbled Lord Attenbury irritably. He was a
very short, stout gentleman of a choleric countenance, and was annoyed


296
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
to find himself next to the Earl of Strathgillan and Begg, an extremely
tall, lean nobleman, with pronounced views on Prohibition and the
Legitimation question.
"I say, Attenbury," said a kindly, brick-red peer, with five rows of
ermine on his shoulder, "is it true that Wimsey hasn't come back? My
daughter tells me she heard he'd gone to collect evidence in the States.
Why the States?"
"Dunno," said Attenbury; "but Wimsey's a dashed clever fellow.
When he found those emeralds of mine, you know, I said—"
"Your grace, your grace," cried Rouge Dragon desperately, diving
in, "your grace is out of line again."
"Eh, what?" said the brick-faced peer. "Oh, damme! Must obey or-
ders, I suppose, what?" And was towed away from the mere earls and
pushed into position next to the Duke of Wiltshire, who was deaf, and a
distant connection of Denver's on the distaff side.
The Royal Gallery was packed. In the seats reserved below the Bar
for peeresses sat the Dowager Duchess of Denver, beautifully dressed
and defiant. She suffered much from the adjacent presence of her daugh-
ter-in-law, whose misfortune it was to become disagreeable when she
was unhappy—perhaps the heaviest curse that can be laid on man, who
is born to sorrow.
Behind the imposing array of Counsel in full-bottomed wigs in the
body of the hall were seats reserved for witnesses, and here Mr. Bunter
was accommodated—to be called if the defence should find it necessary
to establish the alibi—the majority of the witnesses being pent up in the
King's Robing-Room, gnawing their fingers and glaring at one another.
On either side, above the Bar, were the benches for the peers—each in
his own right a judge both of fact and law—while on the high dais the
great chair of state stood ready for the Lord High Steward.
The reporters at their little table were beginning to fidget and look
at their watches. Muffled by the walls and the buzz of talk, Big Ben
dropped eleven slow notes into the suspense. A door opened. The re-
porters started to their feet; counsel rose; everybody rose; the Dowager
Duchess whispered irrepressibly to her neighbour that it reminded her
of the Voice that breathed o'er Eden; and the procession streamed slowly
in, lit by a shaft of wintry sunshine from the tall windows.
The proceedings were opened by a Proclamation of Silence from the
Sergeant-at-Arms, after which the Clerk of the Crown in Chancery,
kneeling at the foot of the throne, presented the Commission under the
Great Seal to the Lord High Steward,* who, finding no use for it, re-
* The Lord Chancellor held the appointment on this occasion as usual.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
297
turned it with great solemnity to the Clerk of the Crown. The latter ac-
cordingly proceeded to read it at dismal and wearisome length, affording
the assembly an opportunity of judging just how bad the acoustics of
the chamber were. The Sergeant-at-Anns retorted with great emphasis,
"God Save the King," whereupon Garter King-of-Arms and the Gentle-
man Usher of the Black Rod, kneeling again, handed the Lord High
Steward his staff of office. ("So picturesque, isn't it?" said the Dowager
—"quite High Church, you know.")
The Certiorari and Return followed in a long, sonorous rigmarole,
which, starting with George the Fifth by the Grace of God, called upon
all the Justices and Judges of the Old Bailey, enumerated the Lord Mayor
of London, the Recorder, and a quantity of assorted aldermen and jus-
tices, skipped back to our Lord the King, roamed about the City of
London, Counties of London and Middlesex, Essex, Kent, and Surrey,
mentioned our late Sovereign Lord King William the Fourth, branched
off to the Local Government Act one thousand eight hundred and
eighty-eight, lost its way in a list of all treasons, murders, felonies, and
misdemeanours by whomsoever and in what manner soever done, com-
mitted or perpetrated and by whom or to whom, when, how and after
what manner and of all other articles and circumstances concerning the
premises and every one of them and any of them in any manner what-
soever, and at last, triumphantly, after reciting the names of the whole
Grand Jury, came to the presentation of the indictment with a sudden,
brutal brevity.
"The Jurors for our Lord the King upon their oaths present that the
most noble and puissant prince Gerald Christian Wimsey, Viscount St.
George, Duke of Denver, a Peer of the United Kingdom of Great Brit-
ain and Ireland, on the thirteenth day of October in the year of Our
Lord one thousand nine hundred and twenty—in the Parish of Riddles-
dale in the County of Yorkshire did kill and murder Denis Cathcart."
"After which, Proclamation* was made by the Sergeant-at-Arms for
the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod to call in Gerald Christian Wim-
sey, Viscount St. George, Duke of Denver, to appear at the Bar to an-
swer his indictment, who, being come to the Bar, kneeled until the Lord
High Steward acquainted him that he might rise."
The Duke of Denver looked very small and pink and lonely in his
blue serge suit, the only head uncovered among all his peers, but he was
not without a certain dignity as he was conducted to the "Stool placed
within the Bar," which is deemed appropriate to noble prisoners, and
* For Report of the procedure see House of Lords Journal for the dates in ques-
tion.


298
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
he listened to the Lord High Steward's rehearsal of the charge with a
simple gravity which became him very well.
"Then the said Duke of Denver was arraigned by the Clerk of the
Parliaments in the usual manner and asked whether he was Guilty or
Not Guilty, to which he pleaded Not Guilty."
Whereupon Sir Wigmore Wrinching, the Attorney-General, rose to
open the case for the Crown.
After the usual preliminaries to the effect that the case was a very
painful one and the occasion a very solemn one, Sir Wigmore proceeded
to unfold the story from the beginning: the quarrel, the shot at 3 a.m.,
the pistol, the finding of the body, the disappearance of the letter, and
the rest of the familiar tale. He hinted, moreover, that evidence would
be called to show that the quarrel between Denver and Cathcart had
motives other than those alleged by the prisoner, and that the latter
would turn out to have had "good reason to fear exposure at Cath-
cart's hands." At which point the accused was observed to glance un-
easily at his solicitor. The exposition took only a short time, and Sir
Wigmore proceeded to call witnesses.
The prosecution being unable to call the Duke of Denver, the first
important witness was Lady Mary Wimsey. After telling about her rela-
tions with the murdered man, and describing the quarrel, "At three
o'clock," she proceeded, "I got up and went downstairs."
"In consequence of what did you do so?" inquired Sir Wigmore, look-
ing round the Court with the air of a man about to produce his great
effect.
"In consequence of an appointment I had made to meet a friend."
All the reporters looked up suddenly, like dogs expecting a piece of
biscuit, and Sir Wigmore started so violently that he knocked his brief
over upon the head of the Clerk to the House of Lords sitting below
him.
"Indeed! Now, witness, remember you are on your oath, and be very
careful. What was it caused you to wake at three o'clock?"
"I was not asleep. I was waiting for my appointment."
"And while you were waiting did you hear anything?"
"Nothing at all."
"Now, Lady Mary, I have here your deposition sworn before the
Coroner. I will read it to you. Please listen very carefully. You say,
'At three o'clock I was wakened by a shot. I thought it might be poach-
ers. It sounded very loud, close to the house. I went down to find out
what it was.' Do you remember making that statement?"
"Yes, but it was not true."
"Not true?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
299
"No."
"In the face of that statement, you still say that you heard nothing
at three o'clock?"
"I heard nothing at all. I went down because I had an appointment."
"My lords," said Sir Wigmore, with a very red face, "I must ask leave
to treat this witness as a hostile witness."
Sir Wigmore's fiercest onslaught, however, produced no effect, except
a reiteration of the statement that no shot had been heard at any time.
With regard to the finding of the body, Lady Mary explained that when
she said, "Oh, God! Gerald, you've killed him," she was under the im-
pression that the body was that of the friend who had made the appoint-
ment. Here a fierce wrangle ensued as to whether the story of the
appointment was relevant. The Lords decided that on the whole it was
relevant; and the entire Goyles story came out, together with the intima-
tion that Mr. Goyles was in court and could be produced. Eventually,
with a loud snort, Sir Wigmore Wrinching gave up the witness to Sir
Impey Biggs, who, rising suavely and looking extremely handsome,
brought back the discussion to a point long previous.
"Forgive the nature of the question," said Sir Impey, bowing blandly,
"but will you tell us whether, in your opinion, the late Captain Cathcart
was deeply in love with you?"
"No, I am sure he was not; it was an arrangement for our mutual
convenience."
"From your knowledge of his character, do you suppose he was ca-
pable of a very deep affection?"
"I think he might have been, for the right woman. I should say he
had a very passionate nature."
"Thank you. You have told us that you met Captain Cathcart several
times when you were staying in Paris last February. Do you remember
going with him to a jeweller's—Monsieur Briquet's in the Rue de la Paix?"
"I may have done; I cannot exactly remember."
"The date to which I should like to draw your attention is the sixth."
"I could not say."
"Do you recognise this trinket?"
Here the green-eyed cat was handed to witness.
"No; I have never seen it before."
"Did Captain Cathcart ever give you one like it?"
"Never."
"Did you ever possess such a jewel?"
"I am quite positive I never did."
"My lords, I put in this diamond and platinum cat. Thank you, Lady
Mary."


300
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
James Fleming, being questioned closely as to the delivery of the post,
continued to be vague and forgetful, leaving the Court, on the whole,
with the impression that no letter had ever been delivered to the Duke.
Sir Wigmore, whose opening speech had contained sinister allusions to
an attempt to blacken the character of the victim, smiled disagreeably,
and handed the witness over to Sir Impey. The latter contented himself
with extracting an admission that witness could not swear positively one
way or the other, and passed on immediately to another point
.
"Do you recollect whether any letters came by the same post for any
of the other members of the party?"
"Yes; I took three or four into the billiard-room."
"Can you say to whom they were addressed?"
"There were several for Colonel Marchbanks and one for Captain
Cathcart."
"Did Captain Cathcart open his letter there and then?"
"I couldn't say, sir. I left the room immediately to take his grace's
letters to the study."
"Now will you tell us how the letters are collected for the post in the
morning at the Lodge?"
"They are put into the post-bag, which is locked. His grace keeps one
key and the post-office has the other. The letters are put in through a
slit in the top."
"On the morning after Captain Cathcart's death were the letters taken
to the post as usual?"
"Yes, sir."
"By whom?"
"I took the bag down myself, sir."
"Had you an opportunity of seeing what letters were in it?"
"I saw there was two or three when the postmistress took 'em out of
the bag, but I couldn't say who they was addressed to or anythink of
that."
"Thank you."
Sir Wigmore Wrinching here bounced up like a very irritable jack-in-
the-box.
"Is this the first time you have mentioned this letter which you say
you delivered to Captain Cathcart on the night of his murder?"
"My lords," cried Sir Impey. "I protest against this language. We have
as yet had no proof that any murder was committed."
This was the first indication of the line of defence which Sir Impey
proposed to take, and caused a little rustle of excitement.
"My lords," went on Counsel, replying to a question of the Lord
High Steward, "I submit that so far there has been no attempt to prove


302
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No, sir. I reckoned if it had been of any importance the police would
have asked about it, sir."
"Now, James Fleming, I put it to you again that it never occurred to
you that Captain Cathcart might have received a letter the night he died
till the idea was put into your head by the defence."
The witness, baffled by this interrogative negative, made a confused
reply, and Sir Wigmore, glancing round the house as much as to say,
"You see this shifty fellow," proceeded:
"I suppose it didn't occur to you either to mention to the police about
the letters in the post-bag?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"I didn't think it was my place, sir."
"Did you think about it at all?"
"No, sir."
"Do you ever think?"
"No, sir—I mean, yes, sir."
"Then will you please think what you are saying now."
"Yes, sir."
"You say that you took all these important letters out of the house
without authority and without acquainting the police?"
"I had my orders, sir."
"From whom?"
"They was his grace's orders, sir."
"Ah! His grace's orders. When did you get that order?"
"It was part of my regular duty, sir, to take the bag to the post each
morning."
"And did it not occur to you that in a case like this the proper in-
formation of the police might be more important than your orders?"
"No, sir."
Sir Wigmore sat down with a disgusted look; and Sir Impey took the
witness in hand again.
"Did the thought of this letter delivered to Captain Cathcart never
pass through your mind between the day of the death and the day when
Mr. Murbles spoke to you about it?"
"Well, it did pass through my mind, in a manner of speaking, sir."
"When was that?"
"Before the Grand Jury, sir."
"And how was it you didn't speak about it then?"
"The gentleman said I was to confine myself to the questions, and not
say nothing on my own, sir."
"Who was this very peremptory gentleman?"


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
303
"The lawyer that came down to ask questions for the Crown, sir."
"Thank you," said Sir Impey smoothly, sitting down, and leaning over
to say something, apparently of an amusing nature, to Mr. Glibbery.
The question of the letter was further pursued in the examination of
the Hon. Freddy. Sir Wigmore Wrinching laid great stress upon this wit-
ness's assertion that deceased had been in excellent health and spirits
when retiring to bed on the Wednesday evening, and had spoken of his
approaching marriage. "He seemed particularly cheerio, you know," said
the Hon. Freddy.
"Particularly what?" inquired the Lord High Steward.
"Cheerio, my lord," said Sir Wigmore, with a deprecatory bow.
"I do not know whether that is a dictionary word," said his lord-
ship, entering it upon his notes with meticulous exactness, "but I take
it to be synonymous with cheerful."
The Hon. Freddy, appealed to, said he thought he meant more than
just cheerful, more merry and bright, you know.
"May we take it that he was in exceptionally lively spirits?" sug-
gested Counsel.
"Take it in any spirit you like," muttered the witness, adding, more
happily, "Take a peg of John Begg."
"The deceased was particularly lively and merry when he went to
bed," said Sir Wigmore, frowning horribly, "and looking forward to his
marriage in the near future. Would that be a fair statement of his con-
dition?"
The Hon. Freddy agreed to this.
Sir Impey did not cross-examine as to witness's account of the quar-
rel, but went straight to his point.
"Do you recollect anything about the letters that were brought in the
night of the death?"
"Yes; I had one from my aunt. The Colonel had some, I fancy, and
there was one for Cathcart."
"Did Captain Cathcart read his letter there and then?"
"No, I'm sure he didn't. You see, I opened mine, and then I saw he
was shoving his away in his pocket, and I thought—"
"Never mind what you thought," said Sir Impey. "What did you do?"
"I said, 'Excuse me, you don't mind, do you?' And he said, 'Not at
all'; but he didn't read his; and I remember thinking—"
"We can't have that, you know," said the Lord High Steward.
"But that's why I'm so sure he didn't open it," said the Hon. Freddy,
hurt. "You see, I said to myself at the time what a secretive fellow he
was, and that's how I know."


304
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Sir Wigmore, who had bounced up with his mouth open, sat down
again.
"Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot," said Sir Impey, smiling.
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks testified to having heard movements
in the Duke's study at 11.30. They had heard no shot or other noise.
There was no cross-examination.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson gave a vivid account of the quarrel, and as-
serted very positively that there could be no mistaking the sound of the
Duke's bedroom door.
"We were then called up by Mr. Arbuthnot at a little after 3 a.m.,"
proceeded witness, "and went down to the conservatory, where I saw the
accused and Mr. Arbuthnot washing the face of the deceased. I pointed
out to them what an unwise thing it was to do this, as they might be
destroying valuable evidence for the police. They paid no attention to
me. There were a number of footmarks round about the door which I
wanted to examine, because it was my theory that—"
"My lords," cried Sir Impey, "we really cannot have this witness's
theory."
"Certainly not!" said the Lord High Steward. "Answer the questions,
please, and don't add anything on your own account."
"Of course," said Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson. "I don't mean to imply
that there was anything wrong about it, but I considered—"
"Never mind what you considered. Attend to me, please. When you
first saw the body, how was it lying?"
"On its back, with Denver and Arbuthnot washing its face. It had
evidently been turned over, because—"
"Sir Wigmore," interposed the Lord High Steward, "you really must
control your witness."
"Kindly confine yourself to the evidence," said Sir Wigmore, rather
heated. "We do not want your deductions from it. You say that when
you saw the body it was lying on its back. Is that correct?"
"And Denver and Arbuthnot were washing it."
"Yes. Now I want to pass to another point. Do you remember an
occasion when you lunched at the Royal Automobile Club?"
"I do. I lunched there one day in the middle of last August—I think
it was about the sixteenth or seventeenth."
"Will you tell us what happened on that occasion?"
"I had gone into the smoke-room after lunch, and was reading in a
high-backed armchair, when I saw the prisoner at the Bar come in with
the late Captain Cathcart. That is to say, I saw them in the big mirror
over the mantelpiece. They did not notice there was anyone there, or
they would have been a little more careful what they said, I fancy. They


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
305
sat down near me and started talking, and presently Cathcart leaned over
and said something in a low tone which I couldn't catch. The prisoner
leapt up with a horrified face, exclaiming, 'For God's sake, don't give
me away, Cathcart—there'd be the devil to pay.' Cathcart said some-
thing reassuring—I didn't hear what, he had a furtive sort of voice—and
the prisoner replied, 'Well, don't, that's all. I couldn't afford to let any-
body get hold of it.' The prisoner seemed greatly alarmed. Captain Cath-
cart was laughing. They dropped their voices again, and that was all I
heard."
"Thank you."
Sir Impey took over the witness with a Belial-like politeness.
"You are gifted with very excellent powers of observation and de-
duction, Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson," he began, "and no doubt you like to
exercise your sympathetic imagination in a scrutiny of people's mo-
tives and characters?"
"I think I may call myself a student of human nature," replied Mr.
Pettigrew-Robinson, much mollified.
"Doubtless, people are inclined to confide in you?"
"Certainly. I may say I am a great repository of human documents."
"On the night of Captain Cathcart's death your wide knowledge of the
world was doubtless of great comfort and assistance to the family?"
"They did not avail themselves of my experience, sir," said Mr. Pet-
tigrew-Robinson, exploding suddenly. "I was ignored completely. If only
my advice had been taken at the time—"
"Thank you, thank you," said Sir Impey, cutting short an impatient
exclamation from the Attorney-General, who thereupon rose and de-
manded:
"If Captain Cathcart had had any secret or trouble of any kind in
his life, you would have expected him to tell you about it?"
"From any right-minded young man I might certainly have expected
it," said Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson blusteringly; "but Captain Cathcart
was disagreeably secretive. On the only occasion when I showed a
friendly interest in his affairs he was very rude indeed. He called me—"
"That'll do," interposed Sir Impey hastily, the answer to the question
not having turned out as he expected. "What the deceased called you is
immaterial."
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson retired, leaving behind him the impression of
a man with a grudge—an impression which seemed to please Mr. Glibbery
and Mr. Brownrigg-Fortescue extremely, for they chuckled continu-
ously through the evidence of the next two witnesses.
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson had little to add to her previous evidence
at the inquest. Miss Cathcart was asked by Sir Impey about Cathcart's


306
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
parentage, and explained, with deep disapproval in her voice, that her
brother, when an all-too-experienced and middle-aged man of the world,
had nevertheless "been entangled by" an Italian singer of nineteen, who
had "contrived" to make him marry her. Eighteen years later both par-
ents had died. "No wonder," said Miss Cathcart, "with the rackety life
they led," and the boy had been left to her care. She explained how Denis
had always chafed at her influence, gone about with men she disapproved
of, and eventually gone to Paris to make a diplomatic career for himself,
since which time she had hardly seen him.
An interesting point was raised in the cross-examination of Inspector
Craikes. A penknife being shown him, he identified it as the one found
on Cathcart's body.
By Mr. Glibbery: "Do you observe any marks on the blade?"
"Yes, there is a slight notch near the handle."
"Might the mark have been caused by forcing back the catch of a
window?"
Inspector Craikes agreed that it might, but doubted whether so small
a knife would have been adequate for such a purpose. The revolver was
produced, and the question of ownership raised.
"My lords," put in Sir Impey, "we do not dispute the Duke's owner-
ship of the revolver."
The Court looked surprised, and, after Hardraw the gamekeeper had
given evidence of the shot heard at 11.30, the medical evidence was
taken.
Sir Impey Biggs: "Could the wound have been self-inflicted?"
"It could, certainly."
"Would it have been instantly fatal?"
"No. From the amount of blood found upon the path it was obviously
not immediately fatal."
"Are the marks found, in your opinion, consistent with deceased hav-
ing crawled towards the house?"
"Yes, quite. He might have had sufficient strength to do so."
"Would such a wound cause fever?"
"It is quite possible. He might have lost consciousness for some time,
and contracted a chill and fever by lying in the wet."
"Are the appearances consistent with his having lived for some hours
after being wounded?"
"They strongly suggest it."
Re-examining, Sir Wigmore Wrinching established that the wound
and general appearance of the ground were equally consistent with the
theory that deceased had been shot by another hand at very close
quarters, and dragged to the house before life was extinct.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
307
"In your experience is it more usual for a person committing suicide
to shoot himself in the chest or in the head?"
"In the head is perhaps more usual."
"So much as almost to create a presumption of murder when the
wound is in the chest?"
"I would not go so far as that."
"But, other things being equal, you would say that a wound in the
head is more suggestive of suicide than a body-wound?"
"That is so."
Sir Impey Biggs: "But suicide by shooting in the heart is not by any
means impossible?"
"Oh, dear, no."
"There have been such cases?"
"Oh, certainly; many such."
"There is nothing in the medical evidence before you to exclude the
idea of suicide?"
"Nothing whatever."
This closed the case for the Crown.
CHAPTER XV
BAR FALLING
Copyright by Reuter, Press Association Exchange Telegraph, and
Central News.
when sir impey biggs rose to make his opening speech for the defence
on the second day, it was observed that he looked somewhat worried—
a thing very unusual in him. His remarks were very brief, yet in those
few words he sent a thrill through the great assembly.
"My lords, in rising to open this defence I find myself in a more than
usually anxious position. Not that I have any doubt of your lordships'
verdict. Never perhaps has it been possible so clearly to prove the in-
nocence of any accused person as in the case of my noble client. But
I will explain to your lordships at once that I may be obliged to ask
for an adjournment, since we are at present without an important wit-
ness and a decisive piece of evidence. My lords, I hold here in my hand
a cablegram from this witness—I will tell you his name; it is Lord Peter


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
309
footprints and marks of dragging, especially the imprint of a hand in the
flower-bed. The piece of blotting-paper was then produced, and photo-
graphs of it circulated among the peers. A long discussion ensued on
both these points, Sir Impey Biggs endeavouring to show that the im-
print on the flower-bed was such as would have been caused by a man
endeavouring to lift himself from a prone position, Sir Wigmore Wrinch-
ing doing his best to force an admission that it might have been made
by deceased in trying to prevent himself from being dragged along.
"The position of the fingers being towards the house appears, does it
not, to negative the suggestion of dragging?" suggested Sir Impey.
Sir Wigmore, however, put it to the witness that the wounded man
might have been dragged head foremost.
"If, now," said Sir Wigmore, "I were to drag you by the coat-collar—
my lords will grasp my contention—"
"It appears," observed the Lord High Steward, "to be a case for
solvitur ambulando." (Laughter.) "I suggest that when the House rises
for lunch, some of us should make the experiment, choosing a member
of similar height and weight to the deceased." (All the noble lords
looked round at one another to see which unfortunate might be chosen
for the part.)
Inspector Parker then mentioned the marks of forcing on the study
window.
"In your opinion, could the catch have been forced back by the knife
found on the body of the deceased?"
"I know it could, for I made the experiment myself with a knife of
exactly similar pattern."
After this the message on the blotting-paper was read backwards and
forwards and interpreted in every possible way, the defence insisting
that the language was French and the words "Je suis fou de douleur,"
the prosecution scouting the suggestion as far-fetched, and offering an
English interpretation, such as "is found" or "his foul." A handwriting
expert was then called, who compared the handwriting with that of an
authentic letter of Cathcart's, and was subsequently severely handled by
the prosecution.
These knotty points being left for the consideration of the noble
lords, the defence then called a tedious series of witnesses: the manager
of Cox's and Monsieur Turgeot of the Crédit Lyonnais, who went with
much detail into Cathcart's financial affairs; the concierge and Madame
Leblanc from the Rue St. Honoré; and the noble lords began to yawn,
with the exception of a few of the soap and pickles lords, who suddenly
started to make computations in their note-books, and exchanged looks
of intelligence as from one financier to another.


310
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Then came Monsieur Briquet, the jeweller from the Rue de la Paix,
and the girl from his shop, who told the story of the tall, fair, foreign
lady and the purchase of the green-eyed cat—whereat everybody woke
up. After reminding the assembly that this incident took place in Feb-
ruary, when Cathcart's fiancée was in Paris, Sir Impey invited the
jeweller's assistant to look round the house and tell them if she saw the
foreign lady. This proved a lengthy business, but the answer was finally
in the negative.
"I do not want there to be any doubt about this," said Sir Impey,
"and, with the learned Attorney-General's permission, I am now going
to confront this witness with Lady Mary Wimsey."
Lady Mary was accordingly placed before the witness, who replied
immediately and positively: "No, this is not the lady; I have never seen
this lady in my life. There is the resemblance of height and colour and
the hair bobbed, but there is nothing else at all—not the least in the
world. It is not the same type at all. Mademoiselle is a charming Eng-
lish lady, and the man who marries her will be very happy, but the
other was belle d se suicider—a woman to kill, suicide one's self, or send
all to the devil for, and believe me, gentlemen" (with a wide smile to
her distinguished audience), "we have the opportunity to see them in
my business."
There was a profound sensation as this witness took her departure,
and Sir Impey scribbled a note and passed it down to Mr. Murbles. It
contained the one word, "Magnificent!" Mr. Murbles scribbled back:
"Never said a word to her. Can you beat it?" and leaned back in his
seat smirking like a very neat little grotesque from a Gothic corbel.
The witness who followed was Professor Hubert, a distinguished expo-
nent of international law, who described Cathcart's promising career as
a rising young diplomat in Paris before the war. He was followed by a
number of officers who testified to the excellent war record of the de-
ceased. Then came a witness who gave the aristocratic name of du Bois-
Gobey Houdin, who perfectly recollected a very uncomfortable dispute
on a certain occasion when playing cards with le Capitaine Cathcart,
and having subsequently mentioned the matter to Monsieur Thomas
Freeborn, the distinguished English engineer. It was Parker's diligence
that had unearthed this witness, and he looked across with an undis-
guised grin at the discomfited Sir Wigmore Wrinching. When Mr. Glib-
bery had dealt with all these the afternoon was well advanced, and the
Lord High Steward accordingly asked the lords if it was their pleasure
that the House be adjourned till the next day at 10.30 of the clock in
the forenoon, and the lords replying "Aye" in a most exemplary chorus,
the House was accordingly adjourned.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
311
A scurry of swift black clouds with ragged edges was driving bleakly
westward as they streamed out into Parliament Square, and the seagulls
screeched and wheeled inwards from the river. Charles Parker wrapped
his ancient Burberry closely about him as he scrambled on to a 'bus to
get home to Great Ormond Street. It was only one more drop in his
cup of discomfort that the conductor greeted him with “Outside only!"
and rang the bell before he could get off again. He climbed to the top
and sat there holding his hat on. Mr. Bunter returned sadly to 110 Pic-
cadilly, and wandered restlessly about the flat till seven o'clock, when
he came into the sitting-room and switched on the loud speaker.
“London calling," said the unseen voice impartially. “2LO calling.
Here is the weather forecast. A deep depression is crossing the Atlantic,
and a secondary is stationary over the British Isles. Storms, with heavy
rain and sleet, will be prevalent, rising to a gale in the south and
south-west. ..."
“You never know," said Bunter. "I suppose I'd better light a fire in
his bedroom.”
“Further outlook similar."
CHAPTER XVI
THE SECOND STRING
0, whan he came to broken briggs
He bent his bow and swam,
And whan he came to the green grass growin'
He slacked his shoone and ran.
0, whan he came to Lord William's gates
He baed na to chap na ca',
But set his bent bow till his breast,
An' lightly lap the wa'.
-Ballad of Lady Maisry.
LORD PETER peered out through the cold scurry of cloud. The thin
struts of steel, incredibly fragile, swung slowly across the gleam and glint
far below, where the wide country dizzied out and spread like a revolv-
ing map. In front the sleek leather back of his companion humped stub-
bornly, sheeted with rain. He hoped that Grant was feeling confident.


312
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
The roar of the engine drowned the occasional shout he threw to his
passenger as they lurched from gust to gust.
He withdrew his mind from present discomforts and went over that
last, strange, hurried scene. Fragments of conversation spun through his
head.
"Mademoiselle, I have scoured two continents in search of you."
"Voyons, then, it is urgent. But be quick for the big bear may come
in and be grumpy, and I do not like des histoires."
There had been a lamp on a low table; he remembered the gleam
through the haze of short gold hair. She was a tall girl, but slender,
looking up at him from the huge black-and-gold cushions.
"Mademoiselle, it is incredible to me that you should ever—dine or
dance—with a person called Van Humperdinck."
Now what had possessed him to say that—when there was so little
time, and Jerry's affairs were of such importance?
"Monsieur van Humperdinck does not dance. Did you seek me
through two continents to say that?"
"No, I am serious."
"Eh bien, sit down."
She had been quite frank about it.
"Yes, poor soul. But life was very expensive since the war. I refused
several good things. But always des histoires. And so little money. You
see, one must be sensible. There is one's old age. It is necessary to be
provident, hein?"
"Assuredly." She had a little accent—very familiar. At first he could
not place it. Then -it came to him—Vienna before the war, that capital
of incredible follies.
"Yes, yes, I wrote. I was very kind, very sensible. I said, 'Je ne suis
pas femme a supporter de gros ennuis.' Cela se comprend, n'est-ce pas?"
That was readily understood. The 'plane dived sickly into a sudden
pocket, the propeller whirring helplessly in the void, then steadied and
began to nose up the opposite spiral.
"I saw it in the papers—yes. Poor boy! Why should anybody have
shot him?"
"Mademoiselle, it is for that I have come to you. My brother, whom
I dearly love, is accused of the murder. He may be hanged."
"Brr!"
"For a murder he did not commit."
"Mon pauvre enfant—"
"Mademoiselle, I implore you to be serious. My brother is accused,
and will be standing his trial—"
Once her attention had been caught she had been all sympathy. Her


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
313
blue eyes had a curious and attractive trick—a full lower lid that shut
them into glimmering slits.
"Mademoiselle, I implore you, try to remember what was in his letter."
"But, mon pauvre ami, how can I? I did not read it. It was very
long, very tedious, full of histoires. The thing was finished—I never
bother about what cannot be helped, do you?"
But his real agony at this failure had touched her.
"Listen, then; all is perhaps not lost. It is possible the letter is still
somewhere about. Or we will ask Adele. She is my maid. She collects
letters to blackmail people—oh, yes, I know! But she is habile comme
tout pour la toilette. Wait—we will look first."
Tossing out letters, trinkets, endless perfumed rubbish from the little
gimcrack secretaire, from drawers full of lingerie ("I am so untidy—I
am Adele's despair") from bags—hundreds of bags—and at last Adele,
thin-lipped and wary-eyed, denying everything till her mistress suddenly
slapped her face in a fury, and called her ugly little names in French
and German.
"It is useless, then," said Lord Peter. "What a pity that Mademoiselle
Adele cannot find a thing so valuable to me."
The word "valuable" suggested an idea to Adele. There was Made-
moiselle's jewel-case which had not been searched. She would fetch it.
"C'est cela que cherche monsieur?"
After that the sudden arrival of Mr. Cornelius van Humperdinck, very
rich and stout and suspicious, and the rewarding of Adele in a tactful,
unobtrusive fashion by the elevator shaft.
Grant shouted, but the words flipped feebly away into the blackness
and were lost. "What?" bawled Wimsey in his ear. He shouted again,
and this time the word "juice" shot into sound and fluttered away. But
whether the news was good or bad Lord Peter could not tell.
Mr. Murbles was aroused a little after midnight by a thunderous
knocking upon his door. Thrusting his head out of the window in some
alarm, he saw the porter with his lantern steaming through the rain, and
behind him a shapeless figure which for the moment Mr. Murbles could
not make out.
"What's the matter?" said the solicitor.
"Young lady askin' urgently for you, sir."
The shapeless figure looked up, and he caught the spangle of gold hair
in the lantern-light under the little tight hat.
"Mr. Murbles, please come. Bunter rang me up. There's a woman
come to give evidence. Bunter doesn't like to leave her—she's frightened


314
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
—but he says it's frightfully important, and Bunter's always right, you
know."
"Did he mention the name?"
"A Mrs. Grimethorpe."
"God bless me! Just a moment, my dear young lady, and I will let
you in."
And, indeed, more quickly than might have been expected, Mr. Mur-
bles made his appearance in a Jaeger dressing-gown at the front door.
"Come in, my dear. I will get dressed in a very few minutes. It was
quite right of you to come to me. I'm very, very glad you did. What
a terrible night! Perkins, would you kindly wake up Mr. Murphy and
ask him to oblige me with the use of his telephone?"
Mr. Murphy—a noisy Irish barrister with a hearty manner—needed no
waking. He was entertaining a party of friends, and was delighted to be
of service.
"Is that you Biggs? Murbles speaking. That alibi—"
"Yes?"
"Has come along of its own accord."
"My God! You don't say so!"
"Can you come round to 110 Piccadilly?"
"Straight away."
It was a strange little party gathered round Lord Peter's fire—the
white-faced woman, who started at every sound; the men of law, with
their keen, disciplined faces; Lady Mary; Bunter, the efficient. Mrs.
Grimethorpe's story was simple enough. She had suffered the torments
of knowledge ever since Lord Peter had spoken to her. She had seized
an hour when her husband was drunk in the "Lord in Glory," and had
harnessed the horse and driven in to Stapley.
"I couldn't keep silence. It's better my man should kill me, for I'm
unhappy enough, and maybe I couldn't be any worse off in the Lord's
hand—rather than they should hang him for a thing he never done. He
was kind, and I was desperate miserable, that's the truth, and I'm hoping
his lady won't be hard on him when she knows it all."
"No, no," said Mr. Murbles, clearing his throat. "Excuse me a mo-
ment, madam. Sir Impey—"
The lawyers whispered together in the window-seat.
"You see," said Sir Impey, "she has burnt her boats pretty well now
by coming at all. The great question for us is, Is it worth the risk? After
all, we don't know what Wimsey's evidence amounts to."
"No, that is why I feel inclined—in spite of the risk—to put this evi-
dence in," said Mr. Murbles.
"I am ready to take the risk," interposed Mrs. Grimethorpe starkly.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
315
"We quite appreciate that," replied Sir Impey. "It is the risk to our
client we have to consider first of all."
"Risk?" cried Mary. "But surely this clears him!"
"Will you swear absolutely to the time when his grace of Denver ar-
rived at Glider's Hole, Mrs. Grimethorpe?" went on the lawyer, as
though he had not heard her.
"It was a quarter-past twelve by the kitchen clock—'tis a very good
clock."
"And he left you at—"
"About five minutes past two."
"And how long would it take a man, walking quickly, to get back to
Riddlesdale Lodge?"
"Oh, wellnigh an hour. It's rough walking, and a steep bank up and
down to the beck."
"You mustn't let the other counsel upset you on those points, Mrs.
Grimethorpe, because they will try to prove that he had time to kill
Cathcart either before he started or after he returned, and by admitting
that the Duke had something in his life that he wanted kept secret we
shall be supplying the very thing the prosecution lack—a motive for
murdering anyone who might have found him out."
There was a stricken silence.
"If I may ask, madam," said Sir Impey, "has any person any suspi-
cion?"
"My husband guessed," she answered hoarsely. "I am sure of it. He
has always known. But he couldn't prove it. That very night—"
"What night?"
"The night of the murder—he laid a trap for me. He came back from
Stapley in the night, hoping to catch us and do murder. But he drank
too much before he started, and spent the night in the ditch, or it
might be Gerald's death you'd be inquiring into, and mine, as well as
the other."
It gave Mary an odd shock to hear her brother's name spoken like
that, by that speaker and in that company. She asked suddenly, apropos
of nothing, "Isn't Mr. Parker here?"
"No, my dear," said Mr. Murbles reprovingly, "this is not a police
matter."
"The best thing we can do, I think," said Sir Impey, "is to put in
the evidence, and, if necessary, arrange for some kind of protection
for this lady. In the meantime—"
"She is coming round with me to mother," said Lady Mary deter-
minedly.


316
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"My dear lady," expostulated Mr. Murbles, "that would be very un-
suitable in the circumstances. I think you hardly grasp—"
"Mother said so," retorted her ladyship. "Bunter, call a taxi."
Mr. Murbles waved his hands helplessly, but Sir Impey was rather
amused. "It's no good, Murbles," he said. "Time and trouble will tame
an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncon-
trollable by any earthly force."
So it was from the Dowager's town house that Lady Mary rang up
Mr. Charles Parker to tell him the news.
CHAPTER XVII
THE ELOQUENT DEAD
Je connaissais Manon: pourquoi m'affliger tant dun malheur
que favals du privoir.—Manon Lescaut
.
the gale had blown itself out into a wonderful fresh day, with clear
spaces of sky, and a high wind rolling boulders of cumulus down the
blue slopes of air.
The prisoner had been wrangling for an hour with his advisers
when finally they came into court, and even Sir Impey's classical face
showed flushed between the wings of his wig.
"I'm not going to say anything," said the Duke obstinately. "Rotten
thing to do. I suppose I can't prevent you callin' her if she insists on
comin'—damn' good of her—makes me feel no end of a beast."
"Better leave it at that," said Mr. Murbles. "Makes a good impres-
sion, you know. Let him go into the box and behave like a perfect
gentleman. They'll like it."
Sir Impey, who had sat through the small hours altering his speech,
nodded.
The first witness that day came as something of a surprise. She gave
her name and address as Eliza Briggs, known as Madame Brigette of
New Bond Street, and her occupation as beauty specialist and perfumer.
She had a large and aristocratic clientele of both sexes, and a branch in
Paris.
Deceased had been a client of hers in both cities for several years.
He had massage and manicure. After the war he had come to her about


318
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"The handwriting must be identified as that of the deceased," inter-
posed the Lord High Steward.
The ravening pencils of the reporters tore along the paper. The lean
young man who worked for the Daily Trumpet scented a scandal in high
life and licked his lips, never knowing what a much bigger one had es-
caped him by a bare minute or so.
Miss Lydia Cathcart was recalled to identify the handwriting, and the
letter was handed to the Lord High Steward, who announced:
"The letter is in French. We shall have to swear an interpreter."
"You will find," said the witness suddenly, "that those bits of words
on the blotting-paper come out of the letter. You'll 'scuse my mention-
ing it."
"Is this person put forward as an expert witness?" inquired Sir Wig-
more witheringly.
"Right ho!" said Lord Peter. "Only, you see, it has been rather sprung
on Biggy as you might say.
"Biggy and Wiggy
Were two pretty men.
They went into court
When the clock—"
"Sir Impey, I must really ask you to keep your witness in order."
Lord Peter grinned, and a pause ensued while an interpreter was
fetched and sworn. Then, at last, the letter was read, amid a breathless
silence:
"Riddlesdale Lodge,
"Stapley,
"N.E. Yorks.
"le 13 Octobre, 192-
"Simone,—Je viens de recevoir ta lettre. Que dire? Inutiles, les
prières ou les reproches. Tu ne comprendras—tu ne liras même pas.
"N'ai-je pas toujours su, d'ailleurs, que tu devais infailliblement
me trahir? Depuis huit ans déjà je souffre tous les torments que
puisse infliger la jalousie. Je comprends bien que tu n'as jamais
voulu me faire de la peine. C'est tout justement cette insouciance,
cette légèreté, cette façon séduisante d'être malhonnête, que
j'adorais en toi. J'ai tout su, et je t'ai aimée.
"Ma foi, non, ma chère, jamais je n'ai eu la moindre illusion. Te
rappelles-tu cette première rencontre, un soir au Casino? Tu avais
dix-sept ans, et tu étais jolie à ravir. Le lendemain tu fus à moi. Tu
m'as dit, si gentiment, que tu m'aimais bien, et que j'étais, moi, le
premier. Ma pauvre enfant, tu en as menti. Tu riais, toute seule, de


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
319
ma naiveté-il y avait bien de quoi rire! Dès notre premier baiser,
j'ai prévu ce moment.
"Mais écoute, Simone. J'ai la faiblesse de vouloir te montrer ex-
actement ce que tu as fait de moi. Tu regretteras peut-être en peu.
Mais, non-si tu pouvais regretter quoi que ce fût, tu ne serais plus
Simone.
"Il y a huit ans, la veille de la guerre, j'étais riche-moins riche
que ton Américain, mais assez riche pour te donner l'establisse-
ment qu'il te fallait. Tu étais moins exigeante avant la guerre,
Simone-qui est-ce qui, pendant mon absence, t'a enseigné le goût
du luxe? Charmante discrétion de ma part de ne jamais te le de-
mander! Eh bien, une grande partie de ma fortune se trouvant
placée en Russie et en Allemagne, j'en ai perdu plus des trois-quarts.
Ce que m'en restait en France a beaucoup diminué en valeur. Il
est vrai que j'avais mon traitement de capitaine dans l'armée britan-
nique, mais c'est peu de chose, tu sais. Avant même la fin de la
guerre, tu m'avais mangé toutes mes économies. C'était idiot, quoi?
Un jeune homme qui a perdu les trois-quarts de ses rentes ne se
permet plus une maîtresse et un appartement Avenue Kléber. Ou
il congédie madame, ou bien il lui demande quelques sacrifices.
Je n'ai rien osé demander. Si j'étais venu un jour te dire, 'Simone,
je suis pauvre'-que m'aurais-tu répondu?
"Sais-tu ce que j'ai fait? Non-tu n'as jamais pensé à demander
d'où venait cet argent. Qu'est-ce que cela pouvait te faire que j'ai
tout jeté-fortune, honneur, bonheur-pour te posséder? J'ai joué,
désespérément, éperdument-j'ai fait pis: j'ai triché au jeu. Je te
vois hausser les épaules-tu ris-tu dis, 'Tiens, c'est malin, çal' Oui,
mais cela ne se fait pas. On m'aurait chassé du régiment. Je deve-
nais le dernier des hommes.
“D'ailleurs, cela ne pouvait durer. Déjà un soir à Paris on m'a
fait une scène désagréable, bien qu'on n'ait rien pu prouver. C'est
alors que je me suis fiancé avec cette demoiselle dont je t'ai parlé,
la fille du duc anglais. Le beau projet, quoi! Entretenir ma maîtresse
avec l'argent de ma femme! Et je l'aurais fait-et je le ferais encore
demain, si c'était pour te reposséder.
“Mais tu me quittes. Cet Américain est riche-archi-riche. Depuis
longtemps tu me répètes que ton appartement est trop petit et que
tu t'ennuies à mourir. Cet ‘ami bienveillant toffre les autos, les
diamants, les mille-et-une nuits, la lune! Auprès de ces merveilles,
évidemment, que valent l'amour et l'honneur?
"Enfin, le bon duc est d'une stupidité très commode. Il laisse
traîner son révolver dans le tiroir de son bureau. D'ailleurs, il vient
de me demander une explication à propos de cette histoire de
cartes. Tu vois qu'en tout cas la partie était finie. Pourquoi t'en
vouloir? On mettra sans doute mon suicide au compte de cet exposé.


320
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Tant mieux, je ne veux pas qu'on afflche mon histoire amoureuse
dans les journaux.
"Adieu, ma bien-aimee—mon adoree, mon adoree, ma Simone.
Sois heureuse avec ton nouvel amant. Ne pense plus a moi. Qu'est-ce
tout cela peut bien te faire? Mon Dieu, comme je t'ai aimée—
comme je t'aime toujours, malgre moi. Mais c'en est fini. Jamais
plus tu ne me perceras le cceur. Oh! J'enrage—je suis fou de
douleur! Adieu.
"Denis Cathcart."
translation
"Simone,—I have just got your letter. What am I to say? It is use-
less to entreat or reproach you. You would not understand, or even
read the letter.
"Besides, I always knew you must betray me some day. I have
suffered a hell of jealousy for the last eight years. I know perfectly
well you never meant to hurt me. It was just your utter lightness and
carelessness and your attractive way of being dishonest which was
so adorable. I knew everything, and loved you all the same.
"Oh, no, my dear, I never had any illusions. You remember our
first meeting that night at the Casino. You were seventeen, and
heart-breakingly lovely. You came to me the very next day. You
told me, very prettily, that you loved me and that I was the first. My
poor little girl, that wasn't true. I expect, when you were alone, you
laughed to think I was so easily taken in. But there was nothing to
laugh at. From our very first kiss I foresaw this moment
.
"I'm afraid I'm weak enough, though, to want to tell you just
what you have done for me. You may be sorry. But no—if you could
regret anything, you wouldn't be Simone any longer.
"Eight years ago, before the war, I was rich—not so rich as your
new American, but rich enough to give you what you wanted. You
didn't want quite so much before the war, Simone. Who taught you
to be so extravagant while I was away? I think it was very nice of
me never to ask you. Well, most of my money was in Russian and
German securities, and more than three-quarters of it went west.
The remainder in France went down considerably in value. I had
my captain's pay, of course, but that didn't amount to much. Even
before the end of the war you had managed to get through all my
savings. Of course, I was a fool. A young man whose income has
been reduced by three-quarters can't afford an expensive mistress
and a flat in the Avenue Kleber. He ought either to dismiss the lady
or to demand a little self-sacrifice. But I didn't dare demand any-
thing. Suppose I had come to you one day and said, 'Simone, I've
lost my money'—what would you have said to me?
"What do you think I did? I don't suppose you ever thought


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
321
about it at all. You didn't care if I was chucking away my money
and my honour and my happiness to keep you. I gambled desper-
ately. I did worse, I cheated at cards. I can see you shrug your
shoulders and say, 'Good for youl' But it's a rotten thing to do—a
rotter's game. If anybody had found out they'd have cashiered me.
"Besides, it couldn't go on for ever. There was one row in Paris,
though they couldn't prove anything. So then I got engaged to the
English girl I told you about—the duke's daughter. Pretty, wasn't it?
I actually brought myself to consider keeping my mistress on my
wife's money! But I'd have done it, and I'd do it again, to get you
back.
"And now you've chucked me. This American is colossally rich.
For a long time you've been dinning into my ears that the flat is too
small and that you're bored to death. Your 'good friend' can offer
you cars, diamonds—Aladdin's palace—the moon! I admit that love
and honour look pretty small by comparison.
"Ah, well, the Duke is most obligingly stupid. He leaves his re-
volver about in his desk drawer. Besides, he's just been in to ask
what about this card-sharping story. So you see the game's up, any-
how. I don't blame you. I suppose they'll put my suicide down to
fear of exposure. All the better. I don't want my love-affairs in the
Sunday Press.
"Good-bye, my dear—oh, Simone, my darling, my darling, good-
bye. Be happy with your new lover. Never mind me—what does it
all matter? My God—how I loved you, and how I still love you in
spite of myself. It's all done with. You'll never break my heart again.
I'm mad—mad with misery! Good-bye."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SPEECH FOR THE DEFENCE
"Nobody; I myself; farewelV'-OthtWo.
after the reading of Cathcart's letter even the appearance of the pris-
oner in the witness-box came as an anti-climax. In the face of the Attor-
ney-General's cross-examination he maintained stoutly that he had
wandered on the moor for several hours without meeting anybody,
though he was forced to admit that he had gone downstairs at 11.30,
and not at 2.30, as he had stated at the inquest . Sir Wigmore Wrinching


322
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
made a great point of this, and, in a spirited endeavour to suggest that
Cathcart was blackmailing Denver, pressed his questions so hard that
Sir Impey Biggs, Mr. Murbles, Lady Mary, and Bunter had a nervous
feeling that learned counsel's eyes were boring through the walls to the
side-room where, apart from the other witnesses, Mrs. Grimethorpe sat
waiting. After lunch Sir Impey Biggs rose to make his plea for the de-
fence.
"My lords,—Your lordships have now heard—and I, who have
watched and pleaded here for these three anxious days, know with what
eager interest and with what ready sympathy you have heard—the evi-
dence brought by my noble client to defend him against this dreadful
charge of murder. You have listened while as it were from his narrow
grave, the dead man has lifted his voice to tell you the story of that fatal
night of the thirteenth of October, and I feel sure you can have no doubt
in your hearts that that story is the true one. As your lordships know, I
was myself totally ignorant of the contents of that letter until I heard it
read in Court just now, and, by the profound impression it made upon
my own mind, I can judge how tremendously and how painfully it must
have affected your lordships. In my long experience at the criminal bar,
I think I have never met with a history more melancholy than that of the
unhappy young man whom a fatal passion—for here indeed we may use
that well-worn expression in all the fulness of its significance—whom a
truly fatal passion thus urged into deep after deep of degradation, and
finally to a violent death by his own hand.
"The noble peer at the Bar has been indicted before your lordships of
the murder of this young man. That he is wholly innocent of the charge
must, in the light of what we have heard, be so plain to your lordships
that any words from me might seem altogether superfluous. In the ma-
jority of cases of this kind the evidence is confused, contradictory; here,
however, the course of events is so clear, so coherent, that had we our-
selves been present to see the drama unrolled before us, as before the
all-seeing eye of God, we could hardly have a more vivid or a more
accurate vision of that night's adventures. Indeed, had the death of Denis
Cathcart been the sole event of the night, I will venture to say that the
truth could never have been one single moment in doubt. Since, however,
by a series of unheard-of coincidences, the threads of Denis Cathcart's
story became entangled with so many others, I will venture to tell it once
again from the beginning, lest, in the confusion of so great a cloud of
witnesses, any point should still remain obscure.
"Let me, then, go back to the beginning. You have heard how Denis
Cathcart was bora of mixed parentage—from the union of a young and


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
323
lovely southern girl with an Englishman twenty years older than herself:
imperious, passionate, and cynical. Till the age of 18 he lives on the
Continent with his parents, travelling from place to place, seeing more
of the world even than the average young Frenchman of his age, learning
the code of love in a country where the crime passionel is understood
and forgiven as it never can be over here.
"At the age of 18 a terrible loss befalls him. In a very short space of
time he loses both his parents—his beautiful and adored mother and his
father, who might, had he lived, have understood how to guide the im-
petuous nature which he had brought into the world. But the father dies,
expressing two last wishes, both of which, natural as they were, turned
out in the circumstances to be disastrously ill-advised. He left his son to
the care of his sister, whom he had not seen for many years, with the
direction that the boy should be sent to his own old University.
"My lords, you have seen Miss Lydia Cathcart, and heard her evi-
dence. You will have realised how uprightly, how conscientiously, with
what Christian disregard of self, she performed the duty entrusted to her,
and yet how inevitably she failed to establish any real sympathy be-
tween herself and her young ward. He, poor lad, missing his parents at
every turn, was plunged at Cambridge into the society of young men of
totally different upbringing from himself. To a young man of his cos-
mopolitan experience the youth of Cambridge, with its sports and rags
and naive excursions into philosophy o' nights, must have seemed un-
believably childish. You all, from your own recollections of your Alma
Mater, can reconstruct Denis Cathcart's life at Cambridge, its outward
gaiety, its inner emptiness.
"Ambitious of embracing a diplomatic career, Cathcart made exten-
sive acquaintances among the sons of rich and influential men. From a
worldly point of view he was doing well, and his inheritance of a hand-
some fortune at the age of twenty-one seemed to open up the path to
very great success. Shaking the academic dust of Cambridge from his
feet as soon as his Tripos was passed, he went over to France, established
himself in Paris, and began, in a quiet, determined kind of way, to carve
out a little niche for himself in the world of international politics.
"But now comes into his life that terrible influence which was to rob
him of fortune, honour, and life itself. He falls in love with a young
woman of that exquisite, irresistible charm and beauty for which the
Austrian capital is world-famous. He is enthralled body and soul, as
utterly as any Chevalier des Grieux, by Simone Vonderaa.
"Mark that in this matter he follows the strict, continental code: com-
plete devotion, complete discretion. You have heard how quietly he
lived, how rangi he appeared to be. We have had in evidence his discrete


324
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
banking-account, with its generous cheques drawn to self, and cashed
in notes of moderate denominations, and with its regular accumulation
of sufficient 'economies' quarter by quarter. Life has expanded for Denis
Cathcart. Rich, ambitious, possessed of a beautiful and complaisant mis-
tress, the world is open before him.
"Then, my lords, across this promising career there falls the thunder-
bolt of the Great War—ruthlessly smashing through his safeguards, over-
throwing the edifice of his ambition, destroying and devastating here, as
everywhere, all that made life beautiful and desirable.
"You have heard the story of Denis Cathcart's distinguished army
career. On that I need not dwell. Like thousands of other young men,
he went gallantly through those five years of strain and disillusionment,
to find himself left, in the end, with his life and health indeed, and, so
far, happy beyond many of his comrades, but with his life in ruins about
him.
"Of his great fortune—all of which had been invested in Russian and
German securities—literally nothing is left to him. What, you say, did
that matter to a young man so well equipped, with such excellent con-
nections, with so many favourable openings, ready to his hand? He
needed only to wait quietly for a few years, to reconstruct much of what
he had lost. Alas! my lords, he could not afford to wait. He stood in peril
of losing something dearer to him than fortune or ambition; he needed
money in quantity, and at once.
"My lords, in that pathetic letter which we have heard read nothing is
more touching and terrible than that confession: 'I knew you could not
but be unfaithful to me.' All through that time of seeming happiness he
knew—none better—that his house was built on sand. 'I was never de-
ceived by you,' he says. From their earliest acquaintance she had lied to
him, and he knew it, and that knowledge was yet powerless to loosen
the bands of his fatal fascination. If any of you, my lords, have known
the power of love exercised in this irresistible—I may say, this predestined
manner—let your experience interpret the situation to you better than
any poor words of mine can do. One great French poet and one great
English poet have summed the matter up in a few words. Racine says of
such a fascination:
Cest V6nus tout entiere a sa proie attachie.
And Shakespeare has put the lover's despairing obstinacy into two pite-
ous lines:
// my love swears that she is made of truth
I will believe her, though I know she lies.


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
325
My lords, Denis Cathcart is dead; it is not our place to condemn him,
but only to understand and pity him.
"My lords, I need not put before you in detail the shocking shifts to
which this soldier and gentleman unhappily condescended. You have
heard the story in all its cold, ugly details upon the lips of Monsieur du
Bois-Gobey Houdin, and, accompanied by unavailing expressions of
shame and remorse, in the last words of the deceased. You know how he
gambled, at first honestly—then dishonestly. You know from whence he
derived those large sums of money which came at irregular intervals,
mysteriously and in cash, to bolster up a bank-account always perilously
on the verge of depletion. We need not, my lords, judge too harshly of
the woman. According to her own lights, she did not treat him unfairly.
She had her interests to consider. While he could pay for her she could
give him beauty and passion and good humour and a moderate faithful-
ness. When he could pay no longer she would find it only reasonable to
take another position. This Cathcart understood. Money he must have,
by hook or by crook. And so, by an inevitable descent, he found himself
reduced to the final deep of dishonour.
"It is at this point, my lords, that Denis Cathcart and his miserable
fortunes come into the life of my noble client and of his sister. From this
point begin all those complications which led to the tragedy of October
14th, and which we are met in this solemn and historic assembly to un-
ravel.
"About eighteen months ago Cathcart, desperately searching for a
secure source of income, met the Duke of Denver, whose father had been
a friend of Cathcart's father many years before. The acquaintance pros-
pered, and Cathcart was introduced to Lady Mary Wimsey, at that time
(as she has very frankly told us) 'at a loose end,' 'fed up,' and distressed
by the dismissal of her fiancé, Mr. Goyles. Lady Mary felt the need of
an establishment of her own, and accepted Denis Cathcart, with the pro-
viso that she should be considered a free agent, living her own life in
her own way, with the minimum of interference. As to Cathcart's object
in all this, we have his own bitter comment, on which no words of mine
could improve: 'I actually brought myself to consider keeping my mis-
tress on my wife's money.'
"So matters go on until October of this year. Cathcart is now obliged
to pass a good deal of his time in England with his fiancee, leaving Si-
mone Vonderaa unguarded in the Avenue Kléber. He seems to have felt
fairly secure so far; the only drawback was that Lady Mary, with a natu-
ral reluctance to commit herself to the hands of a man she could not
really love, had so far avoided fixing a definite date for the wedding.
Money is shorter than it used to be in the Avenue K1éber, and the cost


326
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
of robes and millinery, amusements and so forth, has not diminished.
And, meanwhile, Mr. Cornelius van Humperdinck, the American mil-
lionaire, has seen Simone in the Bois, at the races, at the opera, in Denis
Cathcart's flat.
"But Lady Mary is becoming more and more uneasy about her en-
gagement. And at this critical moment, Mr. Goyles suddenly sees the
prospect of a position, modest but assured, which will enable him to
maintain a wife. Lady Mary makes her choice. She consents to elope with
Mr. Goyles, and by an extraordinary fatality the day and hour selected
are 3 a.m. on the morning of October 14th.
"At about 9.30 on the night of Wednesday, October 13th, the party
at Riddlesdale Lodge are just separating to go to bed. The Duke of Den-
ver was in the gun-room, the other men were in the billiard-room, the
ladies had already retired, when the manservant, Fleming, came up from
the village with the evening post. To the Duke of Denver he brought a
letter with news of a startling and very unpleasant kind. To Denis Cath-
cart he brought another letter—one which we shall never see, but whose
contents it is easy enough to guess.
"You have heard the evidence of Mr. Arbuthnot that, before reading
this letter, Cathcart had gone upstairs gay and hopeful, mentioning that
he hoped soon to get a date fixed for the marriage. At a little after ten,
when the Duke of Denver went up to see him, there was a great change.
Before his grace could broach the matter in hand Cathcart spoke rudely
and harshly, appearing to be all on edge, and entreating to be left alone.
Is it very difficult, my lords, in the face of what we have heard to-day—in
the face of our knowledge that Mademoiselle Vonderaa crossed to New
York on the Berengaria on October 15th—to guess what news had
reached Denis Cathcart in that interval to change his whole outlook
upon life?
"At this unhappy moment, when Cathcart is brought face to face with
the stupefying knowledge that his mistress has left him, comes the Duke
of Denver with a frightful accusation. He taxes Cathcart with the vile
truth—that this man, who has eaten his bread and sheltered under his
roof, and who is about to marry his sister, is nothing more nor less than
a card-sharper. And when Cathcart refuses to deny the charge—when he,
most insolently, as it seems, declares that he is no longer willing to wed
the noble lady to whom he is affianced—is it surprising that the Duke
should turn upon the impostor and forbid him ever to touch or speak to
Lady Mary Wimsey again? I say, my lords, that no man with a spark of
honourable feeling would have done otherwise. My client contents him-
self with directing Cathcart to leave the house next day; and when Cath-
cart rushes madly out into the storm he calls after him to return, and


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
327
even takes the trouble to direct the footman to leave open the conserva-
tory door for Cathcart's convenience. It is true that he called Cathcart a
dirty scoundrel, and told him he should have been kicked out of his
regiment, but he was justified; while the words he shouted from the win-
dow—'Come back, you fool,' or even, according to one witness, 'you
b— fool'—have almost an affectionate ring in them. (Laughter.)
"And now I will direct your lordships' attention to the extreme weak-
ness of the case against my noble client from the point of view of motive.
It has been suggested that the cause of the quarrel between them was not
that mentioned by the Duke of Denver in his evidence, but something
even more closely personal to themselves. Of this contention not a jot or
tittle, not the slightest shadow of evidence, has been put forward except,
indeed, that of the extraordinary witness, Robinson, who appears to bear
a grudge against his whole acquaintance, and to have magnified some
trifling allusion into a matter of vast importance. Your lordships have
seen this person's demeanour in the box, and will judge for yourselves
how much weight is to be attached to his observations. While we on our
side have been able to show that the alleged cause of complaint was per-
fectly well founded in fact.
"So Cathcart rushes out into the garden. In the pelting rain he paces
heedlessly about, envisaging a future stricken at once suddenly barren
of love, wealth, and honour.
"And, meanwhile, a passage door opens, and a stealthy foot creeps
down the stair. We know now whose it is—Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson has
not mistaken the creak of the door. It is the Duke of Denver.
"That is admitted. But from this point we join issue with my learned
friend for the prosecution. It is suggested that the Duke, on thinking mat-
ters over, determines that Cathcart is a danger to society and better dead
—or that his insult to the Denver family can only be washed out in blood.
And we are invited to believe that the Duke creeps downstairs, fetches
his revolver from the study table, and prowls out into the night to find
Cathcart and make away with him in cold blood.
"My lords, is it necessary for me to point out the inherent absurdity of
this suggestion? What conceivable reason could the Duke of Denver have
for killing, in this cold-blooded manner, a man of whom a single word
has rid him already and for ever? It has been suggested to you that the
injury had grown greater in the Duke's mind by brooding—had assumed
gigantic proportions. Of that suggestion, my lords, I can only say that
a more flimsy pretext for fixing an impulse to murder upon the shoulders
of an innocent man was never devised, even by the ingenuity of an ad-
vocate. I will not waste my time or insult you by arguing about it. Again
it has been suggested that the cause of quarrel was not what it appeared,


328
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
and the Duke had reason to fear some disastrous action on Cathcart's
part. Of this contention I think we have already disposed; it is an as-
sumption constructed in vacuo, to meet a set of circumstances which my
learned friend is at a loss to explain in conformity with the known facts.
The very number and variety of motives suggested by the prosecution is
proof that they are aware of the weakness of their own case. Frantically
they cast about for any sort of explanation to give colour to this unrea-
sonable indictment.
"And here I will direct your lordships' attention to the very important
evidence of Inspector Parker in the matter of the study window. He has
told you that it was forced from outside by the latch being slipped back
with a knife. If it was the Duke of Denver, who was in the study at 11.30,
what need had he to force the window? He was already inside the house.
When, in addition, we find that Cathcart had in his pocket a knife, and
that there are scratches upon the blade such as might come from forcing
back a metal catch, it surely becomes evident that not the Duke, but
Cathcart himself forced the window and crept in for the pistol, not know-
ing that the conservatory door had been left open for him.
"But there is no need to labour this point—we know that Captain
Cathcart was in the study at that time, for we have seen in evidence the
sheet of blotting-paper on which he blotted his letter to Simone Von-
deraa, and Lord Peter Wimsey has told us how he himself removed that
sheet from the study blotting-pad a few days after Cathcart's death.
"And let me here draw your attention to the significance of one point
in the evidence. The Duke of Denver has told us that he saw the revolver
in his drawer a short time before the fatal 13th, when he and Cathcart
were together."
The Lord High Steward: "One moment, Sir Impey, that is not quite
as I have it in my notes."
Counsel: "I beg your lordship's pardon if I am wrong."
L.H.S.: "I will read what I have. T was hunting for an old photograph
of Mary to give Cathcart, and that was how I came across it.' There is
nothing about Cathcart being there."
Counsel: "If your lordship will read the next sentence—"
L.H.S.: "Certainly. The next sentence is: 'I remember saying at the
time how rusty it was getting.'"
Counsel: "And the next?"
L.H.S.: '"To whom did you make that observation?' Answer: 1
really don't know, but I distinctly remember saying it.'"
Counsel: "I am much obliged to your lordship. When the noble peer
made that remark he was looking out some photographs to give to Cap-


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
329
tain Cathcart. I think we may reasonably infer that the remark was made
to the deceased."
L.H.S. (to the House): "My lords, your lordships will, of course, use
your own judgment as to the value of this suggestion."
Counsel: "If your lordships can accept that Denis Cathcart may have
known of the existence of the revolver, it is immaterial at what exact
moment he saw it. As you have heard, the table-drawer was always left
with the key in it. He might have seen it himself at any time, when search-
ing for an envelope or sealing-wax or what not. In any case, I contend
that the movements heard by Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks on Wednes-
day night were those of Denis Cathcart. While he was writing his fare-
well letter, perhaps with the pistol before him on the table—yes, at that
very moment the Duke of Denver slipped down the stairs and out
through the conservatory door. Here is the incredible part of this affair—
that again and again we find two series of events, wholly unconnected
between themselves, converging upon the same point of time, and caus-
ing endless confusion. I have used the word 'incredible'—not because any
coincidence is incredible, for we see more remarkable examples every
day of our lives than any writer of fiction would dare to invent—but
merely in order to take it out of the mouth of the learned Attorney-
General, who is preparing to make it return, boomerang-fashion, against
me. (Laughter.)
"My lords, this is the first of these incredible—I am not afraid of the
word—coincidences. At 11.30 the Duke goes downstairs and Cathcart
enters the study. The learned Attorney-General, in his cross-examination
of my noble client, very justifiably made what capital he could out of
the discrepancy between witness's statement at the inquest—which was
that he did not leave the house till 2.30—and his present statement—that
he left it at half-past eleven. My lords, whatever interpretation you like
to place upon the motives of the noble Duke in so doing, I must remind
you once more that at the time when that first statement was made every-
body supposed that the shot had been fired at three o'clock, and that the
misstatement was then useless for the purpose of establishing an alibi.
"Great stress, too, has been laid on the noble Duke's inability to es-
tablish this alibi for the hours from 11.30 to 3 a.m. But, my lords, if he
is telling the truth in saying that he walked all that time upon the moors
without meeting anyone, what alibi could he establish? He is not bound
to supply a motive for all his minor actions during the twenty-four hours.
No rebutting evidence has been brought to discredit his story. And it is
perfectly reasonable that, unable to sleep after the scene with Cathcart,
he should go for a walk to calm himself down.
"Meanwhile, Cathcart has finished his letter and tossed it into the post-


330
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
bag. There is nothing more ironical in the whole of this case than that
letter. While the body of a murdered man lay stark upon the threshold,
and detectives and doctors searched everywhere for clues, the normal
routine of an ordinary English household went, unquestioned, on. That
letter, which contained the whole story, lay undisturbed in the post-bag,
till it was taken away and put in the post as a matter of course, to be
fetched back again, at enormous cost, delay, and risk of life, two months
later in vindication of the great English motto: 'Business as usual.'
"Upstairs, Lady Mary Wimsey was packing her suit-case and writing a
farewell letter to her people. At length Cathcart signs his name; he takes
up the revolver and hurries out into the shrubbery. Still he paces up and
down, with what thoughts God alone knows—reviewing the past, no
doubt, racked with vain remorse, most of all, bitter against the woman
who has ruined him. He bethinks him of the little love-token, the
platinum-and-diamond cat which his mistress gave him for good luck!
At any rate, he will not die with that pressing upon his heart. With a
furious gesture he hurls it far from him. He puts the pistol to his head.
"But something arrests him. Not that! Not that! He sees in fancy his
own hideously disfigured corpse—the shattered jaw—the burst eyeball—
blood and brains horribly splashed about. No. Let the bullet go cleanly
to the heart. Not even in death can he bear the thought of looking—so.'
"He places the revolver against his breast and draws the trigger. With
a little moan, he drops to the sodden ground. The weapon falls from his
hand; his fingers scrabble a little at his breast.
"The gamekeeper who heard the shot is puzzled that poachers should
come so close. Why are they not on the moors? He thinks of the hares in
the plantation. He takes his lantern and searches in the thick drizzle.
Nothing. Only soggy grass and dripping trees. He is human. He concludes
his ears deceived him, and he returns to his warm bed. Midnight passes.
One o'clock passes.
"The rain is less heavy now. Look! In the shrubbery—what was that?
A movement. The shot man is moving—groaning a little—crawling to his
feet. Chilled to the bone, weak from loss of blood, shaking with the fever
of his wound, he but dimly remembers his purpose. His groping hands
go to the wound in his breast. He pulls out a handkerchief and presses it
upon the place. He drags himself up, slipping and stumbling. The hand-
kerchief slides to the ground, and lies there beside the revolver among
the fallen leaves.
"Something in his aching brain tells him to crawl back to the house.
He is sick, in pain, hot and cold by turns, and horribly thirsty. There
someone will take him in and be kind to him—give him things to drink.
Swaying and starting, now falling on hands and knees, now reeling to


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
331
and fro, he makes that terrible nightmare journey to the house. Now he
walks, now he crawls, dragging his heavy limbs after him. At last, the
conservatory door! Here there will be help. And water for his fever in
the trough by the well. He crawls up to it on hands and knees, and strains
to lift himself. It is growing very difficult to breathe—a heavy weight
seems to be bursting his chest. He lifts himself—a frightful hiccuping
cough catches him—the blood rushes from his mouth. He drops down.
It is indeed all over.
"Once more the hours pass. Three o'clock, the hour of rendezvous,
draws on. Eagerly the young lover leaps the wall and comes hurrying
through the shrubbery to greet his bride to be. It is cold and wet, but his
happiness gives him no time to think of his surroundings. He passes
through the shrubbery without a thought. He reaches the conservatory
door, through which in a few moments love and happiness will come to
him. And in that moment he stumbles across—the dead body of a man!
"Fear possesses him. He hears a distant footstep. With but one idea
—escape from this horror of horrors—he dashes into the shrubbery, just
as, fatigued perhaps a little, but with a mind soothed by his little expedi-
tion, the Duke of Denver comes briskly up the path, to meet the eager
bride over the body of her betrothed.
"My lords, the rest is clear. Lady Mary Wimsey, forced by a horrible
appearance of things into suspecting her lover of murder, undertook—
with what courage every man amongst you will realise—to conceal that
George Goyles ever was upon the scene. Of this ill-considered action of
hers came much mystery and perplexity. Yet, my lords, while chivalry
holds its own, not one amongst us will breathe one word of blame against
that gallant lady. As the old song says:
God send each man at his end
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a friend.
"I think, my lords, that there is nothing more for me to say. To you I
leave the solemn and joyful task of freeing the noble peer, your com-
panion, from this unjust charge. You are but human, my lords, and
some among you will have grumbled, some will have mocked on assum-
ing these mediaeval splendours of scarlet and ermine, so foreign to the
taste and habit of a utilitarian age. You know well enough that
Til not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farcid title, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shores of the world


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
333
"but I wish you hadn't such an unkind way of putting things. Besides--
I say, are they coming out?”
The crowd in Parliament Square was beginning to stir and spread.
Sparse streams of people began to drift across the street. A splash of
scarlet appeared against the grey stone of St. Stephen's. Mr. Murbles's
clerk dashed in suddenly at the door.
"All right, my lord-acquitted-unanimously-and will you please come
across, my lord?”
They ran out. At sight of Lord Peter some excited bystanders raised a
cheer. The great wind tore suddenly through the Square, bellying out the
scarlet robes of the emerging peers. Lord Peter was bandied from one to
the other, till he reached the centre of the group.
"Excuse me, your grace.”
It was Bunter. Bunter, miraculously, with his arms full of scarlet and
ermine, enveloping the shameful blue serge suit which had been a badge
of disgrace.
"Allow me to offer my respectful congratulations, your grace.”
"Bunter!” cried Lord Peter. “Great God, the man's gone mad! Damn
you, man, take that thing away,” he added, plunging at a tall photog-
rapher in a made-up tie.
“Too late, my lord,” said the offender, jubilantly pushing in the slide.
"Peter," said the Duke. "Er-thanks, old man.”
“All right,” said his lordship. “Very jolly trip and all that. You're
lookin' very fit. Oh, don't shake hands-there, I knew it! I heard that
man's confounded shutter go."
They pushed their way through the surging mob to the cars. The two
Duchesses got in, and the Duke was following, when a bullet crashed
through the glass of the window, missing Denver's head by an inch, and
ricocheting from the wind-screen among the crowd.
A rush and a yell. A big bearded man struggled for a moment with
three constables; then came a succession of wild shots, and a fierce rush
-the crowd parting, then closing in, like hounds on the fox, streaming
past the Houses of Parliament, heading for Westminster Bridge.
"He's shot a woman-he's under that 'bus-no, he isn't-hi!-murder!
-stop him!” Shrill screams and yells-police whistles blowing-constables
darting from every corner-swooping down in taxis-running.
The driver of a taxi spinning across the bridge saw the fierce face just
ahead of his bonnet, and jammed on the brakes, as the madman's fingers
closed for the last time on the trigger. Shot and tyre exploded almost
simultaneously; the taxi slewed giddily over to the right, scooping the
fugitive with it, and crashed horribly into a tram standing vacant on the
Embankment dead-end.


334
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I couldn't 'elp it," yelled the taxi-man, " 'e fired at me. Ow, Gawd, I
couldn't 'elp it."
Lord Peter and Parker arrived together, panting.
"Here, constable," gasped his lordship; "I know this man. He has an
unfortunate grudge against my brother. In connection with a poaching
matter—up in Yorkshire. Tell the coroner to come to me for informa-
tion."
"Very good, my lord."
"Don't photograph that," said Lord Peter to the man with the reflex,
whom he suddenly found at his elbow.
The photographer shook his head.
"They wouldn't like to see that, my lord. Only the scene of the crash
and the ambulance-men. Bright, newsy pictures, you know. Nothing
gruesome"—with an explanatory jerk of the head at the great dark
splotches in the roadway—"it doesn't pay."
A red-haired reporter appeared from nowhere with a note-book.
"Here," said his lordship, "do you want the story? IH give it you now."
There was not, after all the slightest trouble in the matter of Mrs.
Grimethorpe. Seldom, perhaps, has a ducal escapade resolved itself with
so little embarrassment. His grace, indeed, who was nothing if not a gen-
tleman, braced himself gallantly for a regretful and sentimental inter-
view. In all his rather stupid affairs he had never run away from a scene,
or countered a storm of sobs with that maddening "Well, I'd better be
going now" which has led to so many despairs and occasionally to cold
shot. But, on this occasion, the whole business fell flat. The lady was not
interested.
"I am free now," she said. "I am going back to my own people in
Cornwall. I do not want anything, now that he is dead." The Duke's
dutiful caress was a most uninteresting failure.
Lord Peter saw her home to a respectable little hotel in Bloomsbury.
She liked the taxi, and the large, glittering shops, and the sky-signs. They
stopped at Piccadilly Circus to see the Bonzo dog smoke his gasper and
the Nestle's baby consume his bottle of milk. She was amazed to find
that the prices of the things in Swan & Edgar's window were, if anything,
more reasonable than those current in Stapley.
"I should like one of those blue scarves," she said, "but I'm thinking
'twould not be fitting, and me a widow."
"You could buy it now, and wear it later on," suggested his lordship,
"in Cornwall, you know."
"Yes." She glanced at her brown stuff gown. "Could I buy my blacks


CLOUDS OF WITNESS
335
here? I shall have to get some for the funeral. Just a dress and a hat—
and a coat, maybe."
"I should think it would be a very good idea."
"Now?"
"Why not?"
"I have money," she said; "I took it from his desk. It's mine now, I
suppose. Not that I'd wish to be beholden to him. But I don't look at it
that way."
"I shouldn't think twice about it, if I were you," said Lord Peter.
She walked before him into the shop—her own woman at last.
• * • • •
In the early hours of the morning Inspector Sugg, who happened to
be passing Parliament Square, came upon a taxi-man apparently ad-
dressing a heated expostulation to the statue of Lord Palmerston. Indig-
nant at this senseless proceeding, Mr. Sugg advanced, and then observed
that the statesman was sharing his pedestal with a gentleman in evening
dress, who clung precariously with one hand, while with the other he
held an empty champagne-bottle to his eye, and surveyed the surround-
ing streets.
"Hi," said the policeman, "what are you doing there? Come off of it!"
"Hullo!" said the gentleman, losing his balance quite suddenly, and
coming down in a jumbled manner. "Have you seen my friend? Very odd
thing—damned odd. 'Spec you know where find him, what? When in
doubt—tasker pleeshman, what? Friend of mine. Very dignified sort of
man 'nopera-hat. Freddy—good ol ' Freddy. Alwaysh answersh t'name
—jush like jolly ol ' bloodhound!" He got to his feet and stood beaming
on the officer.
"Why, if it ain't his lordship," said Inspector Sugg, who had met Lord
Peter in other circumstances. "Better be gettin' home, my lord. Night
air's chilly-like, ain't it? You'll catch a cold or summat o' that. Here's
your taxi—just you jump in now."
"No," said Lord Peter. "No. Couldn' do that. Not without frien'.
Good ol ' Freddy. Never—desert—friend! Dear ol ' Sugg. Wouldn't desert
Freddy." He attempted an attitude, with one foot poised on the step of
the taxi, but, miscalculating his distance, stepped heavily into the gutter,
thus entering the vehicle unexpectedly, head first.
Mr. Sugg tried to tuck his legs in and shut him up, but his lordship
thwarted this movement with unlooked-for agility, and sat firmly on the
step.
"Not my taxi," he explained solemnly. "Freddy's taxi. Not right—run
away with frien's taxi. Very odd. Jush went roun' corner to fesh Fred'sh


336
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
taxshi—Freddy jush went roun' comer fesh my taxi—fesh friend'sh taxshi
—friendship sush a beautiful thing—don't you thing-so, Shugg? Can't
leave frien'. Beshides—there'sh dear ol ' Parker."
"Mr. Parker?" said the Inspector apprehensively. "Where?"
"Hush!" said his lordship. "Don' wake baby, theresh good shoul.
Neshle'sh baby—jush shee'm neshle, don't he neshle nishely?"
Following his lordship's gaze, the horrified Sugg observed his official
superior cosily tucked up on the far side of Palmerston and smiling a
happy smile in his sleep. With an exclamation of alarm he bent over and
shook the sleeper.
"Unkind!" cried Lord Peter in a deep, reproachful tone. "Dishturb
poor fellow—poor hardworkin' pleeshman. Never getsh up till alarm
goes. . . . 'Stra'or'nary thing," he added, as though struck by a new
idea, "why hashn't alarm gone off, Shugg?" He pointed a wavering finger
at Big Ben. "They've for-forgotten to wind it up. Dishgrayshful. I'll write
to The T-T-Timesh about it."
Mr. Sugg wasted no words, but picked up the slumbering Parker and
hoisted him into the taxi.
"Never—never—deshert—" began Lord Peter, resisting all efforts to
dislodge him from the step, when a second taxi, advancing from White-
hall, drew up, with the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot cheering loudly at the
window.
"Look who's here!" cried the Hon. Freddy. "Jolly, jolly, jolly ol ' Sugg.
Let'sh all go home together."
"That'sh my taxshi," interposed his lordship, with dignity, staggering
across to it. The two whirled together for a moment; then the Hon.
Freddy was flung into Sugg's arms, while his lordship, with a satisfied
air, cried "Home!" to the new taxi-man, and instantly fell asleep in a cor-
ner of the vehicle.
Mr. Sugg scratched his head, gave Lord Peter's address, and watched
the cab drive off. Then, supporting the Hon. Freddy on his ample bosom,
he directed the other man to convey Mr. Parker to 12a Great Ormond
Street.
"Take me home," cried the Hon. Freddy, bursting into tears, "they've
all gone and left me!"
"You leave it to me, sir," said the Inspector. He glanced over his
shoulder at St. Stephen's, whence a group of Commons were just issuing
from an all-night sitting.
"Mr. Parker an' all," said Inspector Sugg, adding devoutly, "Thank
Gawd there weren't no witnesses."


Unnatural Death
(The Dawson Pedigree)


Copyright 1927, 1955, by Dorothy Leigh Sayers Fleming.
Published in England under the title of The Dawson Pedigree.


PART I
THE MEDICAL PROBLEM
"But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn."
Merchant of Venice


CHAPTER I
OVERHEARD
"The death was certainly sudden, unexpected, and to me mysterious."
Letter from Dr. Paterson to the Registrar in the case
of Reg. v. Pritchard.
"but if he thought the woman was being murdered—"
"My dear Charles," said the young man with the monocle, "it doesn't
do for people, especially doctors, to go about 'thinking' things. They may
get into frightful trouble. In Pritchard's case, I consider Dr. Paterson did
all he reasonably could by refusing a certificate for Mrs. Taylor and
sending that uncommonly disquieting letter to the Registrar. He couldn't
help the man's being a fool. If there had only been an inquest on Mrs.
Taylor, Pritchard would probably have been frightened off and left his
wife alone. After all, Paterson hadn't a spark of real evidence. And sup-
pose he'd been quite wrong—what a dust-up there'd have been!"
"All the same," urged the nondescript young man, dubiously extract-
ing a bubbling-hot Helix Pomatia from its shell, and eyeing it nervously
before putting it in his mouth, "surely it's a clear case of public duty to
voice one's suspicions."
"Of your duty—yes," said the other. "By the way, it's not a public duty
to eat snails if you don't like 'em. No, I thought you didn't. Why wrestle
with a harsh fate any longer? Waiter, take the gentleman's snails away
and bring oysters instead. . . . No—as I was saying, it may be part of
your duty to have suspicions and invite investigation and generally raise
hell for everybody, and if you're mistaken nobody says much, beyond
that you're a smart, painstaking officer though a little over-zealous. But
doctors, poor devils! are everlastingly walking a kind of social tight-rope.
People don't fancy calling in a man who's liable to bring out accusations
of murder on the smallest provocation."
"Excuse me."
The thin-faced young man sitting alone at the next table had turned
round eagerly.
"It's frightfully rude of me to break in, but every word you say is ab-
solutely true, and mine is a case in point. A doctor—you can't have any
idea how dependent he is on the fancies and prejudices of his patients.


UNNATURAL DEATH
341
They resent the most elementary precautions. If you dare to suggest a
post-mortem, they're up in arms at the idea of 'cutting poor dear So-
and-so up,' and even if you only ask permission to investigate an obscure
disease in the interests of research, they imagine you're hinting at some-
thing unpleasant. Of course, if you let things go, and it turns out after-
wards there's been any jiggery-pokery, the coroner jumps down your
throat and the newspapers make a butt of you, and, whichever way it is,
you wish you'd never been born."
"You speak with personal feeling," said the man with the monocle,
with an agreeable air of interest.
"I do," said the thin-faced man, emphatically. "If I had behaved like
a man of the world instead of a zealous citizen, I shouldn't be hunting
about for a new job to-day."
The man with the monocle glanced round the little Soho restaurant
with a faint smile. The fat man on their right was unctuously entertaining
two ladies of the chorus; beyond him, two elderly habitues were show-
ing their acquaintance with the fare at the "Au Bon Bourgeois" by con-
suming a Tripes a la Mode de Caen (which they do very excellently
there) and a bottle of Chablis Moutonne 1916; on the other side of the
room a provincial and his wife were stupidly clamouring for a cut off
the joint with lemonade for the lady and whisky and soda for the gen-
tleman, while at the adjoining table, the handsome silver-haired proprie-
tor, absorbed in fatiguing a salad for a family party, had for the moment
no thoughts beyond the nice adjustment of the chopped herbs and garlic.
The head waiter, presenting for inspection a plate of Blue River Trout,
helped the monocled man and his companion and retired, leaving them
in the privacy which unsophisticated people always seek in genteel tea-
shops and never, never find there.
"I feel," said the monocled man, "exactly like Prince Florizel of Bo-
hemia. I am confident that you, sir, have an interesting story to relate,
and shall be greatly obliged if you will favour us with the recital. I per-
ceive that you have finished your dinner, and it will therefore perhaps
not be disagreeable to you to remove to this table and entertain us with
your story while we eat. Pardon my Stevensonian manner—my sympathy
is none the less sincere on that account."
"Don't be an ass, Peter," said the nondescript man. "My friend is a
much more rational person than you might suppose to hear him talk,"
he added, turning to the stranger, "and if there's anything you'd like to
get off your chest, you may be perfectly certain it won't go any farther."
The other smiled a little grimly.
"IH tell you about it with pleasure if it won't bore you. It just happens
to be a case in point, that's all."


342
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"On my side of the argument," said the man called Peter, with triumph.
"Do carry on. Have something to drink. It's a poor heart that never
rejoices. And begin right at the beginning, if you will, please. I have a
very trivial mind. Detail delights me. Ramifications enchant me. Distance
no object. No reasonable offer refused. Charles here will say the same."
"Well," said the stranger, "to begin from the very beginning, I am a
medical man, particularly interested in the subject of Cancer. I had
hoped, as so many people do, to specialise on the subject, but there
wasn't money enough, when I'd done my exams., to allow me to settle
down to research work. I had to take a country practice, but I kept in
touch with the important men up here, hoping to be able to come back
to it some day. I may say I have quite decent expectations from an uncle,
and in the meanwhile they agreed it would be quite good for me to get
some all-round experience as a G.P. Keeps one from getting narrow and
all that.
"Consequently, when I bought a nice little practice at. . . —I'd better
not mention any names, let's call it X, down Hampshire way, a little
country town of about 5,000 people—I was greatly pleased to find a
cancer case on my list of patients. The old lady—"
"How long ago was this?" interrupted Peter.
"Three years ago. There wasn't much to be done with the case. The
old lady was seventy-two, and had already had one operation. She was a
game old girl, though, and was making a good fight of it, with a very
tough constitution to back her up. She was not, I should say, and had
never been, a woman of very powerful intellect or strong character as
far as her dealings with other people went, but she was extremely obsti-
nate in certain ways and was possessed by a positive determination not
to die. At this time she lived alone with her niece, a young woman of
twenty-five or so. Previously to that, she had been living with another
old lady, the girl's aunt on the other side of the family, who had been her
devoted friend since their school days. When this other old aunt died,
the girl, who was their only living relative, threw up her job as a nurse
at the Royal Free Hospital to look after the survivor—my patient—and
they had come and settled down at X about a year before I took over the
practice. I hope I am making myself clear."
"Perfectly. Was there another nurse?"
"Not at that time. The patient was able to get about, visit acquaint-
ances, do light work about the house, flowers and knitting and reading
and so on, and to drive about the place—in fact, most of the things that
old ladies do occupy their time with. Of course, she had her bad days of
pain from time to time, but the niece's training was quite sufficient to
enable her to do all that was necessary."


UNNATURAL DEATH
343
"What was the niece like?"
"Oh, a very nice, well-educated, capable girl, with a great deal more
brain than her aunt. Self-reliant, cool, all that sort of thing. Quite the
modern type. The sort of woman one can trust to keep her head and not
forget things. Of course, after a time, the wretched growth made its ap-
pearance again, as it always does if it isn't tackled at the very beginning,
and another operation became necessary. That was when I had been in
X about eight months. I took her up to London, to my own old chief,
Sir Warburton Giles, and it was performed very successfully as far as
the operation itself went, though it was then only too evident that a vital
organ was being encroached upon, and that the end could only be a
matter of time. I needn't go into details. Everything was done that could
be done. I wanted the old lady to stay in town under Sir Warburton's
eye, but she was vigorously opposed to this. She was accustomed to a
country life and could not be happy except in her own home. So she
went back to X, and I was able to keep her going with visits for treat-
ment at the nearest large town, where there is an excellent hospital. She
rallied amazingly after the operation and eventually was able to dismiss
her nurse and go on in the old way under the care of the niece."
"One moment, doctor," put in the man called Charles, "you say you
took her to Sir Warburton Giles and so on. I gather she was pretty well
off."
"Oh, yes, she was quite a wealthy woman."
"Do you happen to know whether she made a will?"
"No. I think I mentioned her extreme aversion to the idea of death.
She had always refused to make any kind of will because it upset her to
think about such things. I did once venture to speak of the subject in
the most casual way I could, shortly before she underwent her operation,
but the effect was to excite her very undesirably. Also she said, which
was quite true, that it was quite unnecessary. 'You, my dear,' she said to
the niece, 'are the only kith and kin I've got in the world, and all I've got
will be yours some day, whatever happens. I know I can trust you to re-
member my servants and my little charities.' So, of course, I didn't insist.
"I remember, by the way—but that was a good deal later on and has
nothing to do with the story—"
"Please," said Peter, "all the details."
"Well, I remember going there one day and finding my patient not so
well as I could have wished and very much agitated. The niece told me
that the trouble was caused by a visit from her solicitor—a family lawyer
from her home town, not our local man. He had insisted on a private
interview with the old lady, at the close of which she had appeared ter-
ribly excited and angry, declaring that everyone was in a conspiracy to


344
THREE FOR LORD PETER W1MSEY
kill her before her time. The solicitor, before leaving, had given no ex-
planation to the niece, but had impressed upon her that if at any time
her aunt expressed a wish to see him, she was to send for him at any hour
of the day or night and he would come at once."
"And was he ever sent for?"
"No. The old lady was deeply offended with him, and almost the last
bit of business she did for herself was to take her affairs out of his hands
and transfer them to the local solicitor. Shortly afterwards, a third opera-
tion became necessary, and after this she gradually became more and
more of an invalid. Her head began to get weak, too, and she grew in-
capable of understanding anything complicated, and indeed she was in
too much pain to be bothered about business. The niece had a power of
attorney, and took over the management of her aunt's money entirely."
"When was this?"
"In April, 1925. Mind you, though she was getting a bit 'gaga'—after
all, she was getting on in years—her bodily strength was quite remark-
able. I was investigating a new method of treatment and the results were
extraordinarily interesting. That made it all the more annoying to me
when the surprising thing happened.
"I should mention that by this time we were obliged to have an outside
nurse for her, as the niece could not do both the day and night duty. The
first nurse came in April. She was a most charming and capable young
woman—the ideal nurse. I placed absolute dependence on her. She had
been specially recommended to me by Sir Warburton Giles, and though
she was not then more than twenty-eight, she had the discretion and
judgment of a woman twice her age. I may as well tell you at once that
I became deeply attached to this lady and she to me. We are engaged,
and had hoped to be married this year—if it hadn't been for my damned
conscientiousness and public spirit."
The doctor grimaced wryly at Charles, who murmured rather lamely
that it was very bad luck.
"My fiancée, like myself, took a keen interest in the case—partly be-
cause it was my case and partly because she was herself greatly interested
in the disease. She looks forward to being of great assistance to me in my
life work if I ever get the chance to do anything at it. But that's by the
way.
"Things went on like this till September. Then, for some reason, the
patient began to take one of those unaccountable dislikes that feeble-
minded patients do take sometimes. She got it into her head that the
nurse wanted to kill her—the same idea she'd had about the lawyer, you
see—and earnestly assured her niece that she was being poisoned. No
doubt she attributed her attacks of pain to this cause. Reasoning was


UNNATURAL DEATH
345
useless—she cried out and refused to let the nurse come near her. When
that happens, naturally, there's nothing for it but to get rid of the nurse,
as she can do the patient no possible good. I sent my fiancee back to
town and wired to Sir Warburton's Clinic to send me down another
nurse.
"The new nurse arrived the next day. Naturally, after the other, she
was a second-best as far as I was concerned, but she seemed quite up to
her work and the patient made no objection. However, now I began to
have trouble with the niece. Poor girl, all this long-drawn-out business
was getting on her nerves, I suppose. She took it into her head that her
aunt was very much worse. I said that of course she must gradually get
worse, but that she was putting up a wonderful fight and there was no
cause for alarm. The girl wasn't satisfied, however, and on one occasion
early in November sent for me hurriedly in the middle of the night be-
cause her aunt was dying.
"When I arrived, I found the patient in great pain, certainly, but in
no immediate danger. I told the nurse to give her a morphia injection,
and administered a dose of bromide to the girl, telling her to go to bed
and not to do any nursing for the next few days. The following day I
overhauled the patient very carefully and found that she was doing even
better than I supposed. Her heart was exceptionally strong and steady,
she was taking nourishment remarkably well and the progress of the
disease was temporarily arrested.
"The niece apologised for her agitation, and said she really thought
her aunt was going. I said that, on the contrary, I could now affirm posi-
tively that she would live for another five or six months. As you know,
in cases like hers, one can speak with very fair certainty.
"'In any case,' I said, T shouldn't distress yourself too much. Death,
when it does come, will be a release from suffering.'
"'Yes,' she said, 'poor Auntie. I'm afraid I'm selfish, but she's the only
relative I have left in the world.'
"Three days later, I was just sitting down to dinner when a telephone
message came. Would I go over at once? The patient was dead."
"Good gracious!" cried Charles, "it's perfectly obvious—"
"Shut up, Sherlock," said his friend, "the doctor's story is not going to
be obvious. Far from it, as the private said when he aimed at the bull's-
eye and hit the gunnery instructor. But I observe the waiter hovering un-
easily about us while his colleagues pile up chairs and carry away the
cruets. Will you not come and finish the story in my flat? I can give you a
glass of very decent port. You will? Good. Waiter, call a taxi. . . .
110a, Piccadilly."


CHAPTER II
MICHING MALLECHO
"By the pricking of my thumbs
Something evil this way comes."
Macbeth
the april night was clear and chilly, and a brisk wood fire burned in a
welcoming manner on the hearth. The bookcases which lined the walls
were filled with rich old calf bindings, mellow and glowing in the lamp-
light. There was a grand piano, open, a huge chesterfield piled deep with
cushions and two arm-chairs of the build that invites one to wallow. The
port was brought in by an impressive man-servant and placed on a very
beautiful little Chippendale table. Some big bowls of scarlet and yellow
parrot tulips beckoned, banner-like, from dark corners.
The doctor had just written his new acquaintance down as an aesthete
with a literary turn, looking for the ingredients of a human drama, when
the man-servant re-entered.
"Inspector Sugg rang up, my lord, and left this message, and said
would you be good enough to give him a call as soon as you came in."
"Oh, did he?—well, just get him for me, would you? This is the Wor-
plesham business, Charles. Sugg's mucked it up as usual. The baker has
an alibi—naturally—he would have. Oh, thanks. . . . Hullo! that you,
Inspector? What did I tell you?—Oh, routine be hanged. Now, look here.
You get hold of that gamekeeper fellow, and find out from him what he
saw in the sand-pit. . . . No, I know, but I fancy if you ask him impres-
sively enough he will come across with it. No, of course not—if you ask
if he was there, he'll say no. Say you know he was there and what did he
see—and, look here! if he hums and haws about it, say you're sending a
gang down to have the stream diverted. ... All right. Not at all. Let
me know if anything comes of it."
He put the receiver down.
"Excuse me, Doctor. A little matter of business. Now go on with your
story. The old lady was dead, eh? Died in her sleep, I suppose. Passed
away in the most innocent manner possible. Everything all ship-shape


348
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"You mean you offered to perform the post-mortem yourself."
"Yes—I made no doubt that I should find a sufficient cause of death to
enable me to give a certificate. I had one bit of luck, and that was that the
old lady had at some time or the other expressed in a general way an
opinion in favour of cremation, and the niece wished this to be carried
out. This meant getting a man with special qualifications to sign the cer-
tificate with me, so I persuaded this other doctor to come and help me to
do the autopsy."
"And did you find anything?"
"Not a thing. The other man, of course, said I was a fool to kick up a
fuss. He thought that as the old lady was certainly dying in any case, it
would be quite enough to put in, Cause of death, Cancer; immediate
cause, Heart Failure, and leave it at that. But I was a damned conscien-
tious ass, and said I wasn't satisfied. There was absolutely nothing about
the body to explain the death naturally, and I insisted on an analysis."
"Did you actually suspect—?"
"Well, no, not exactly. But—well, I wasn't satisfied. By the way, it
was very clear at the autopsy that the morphine had nothing to do with it.
Death had occurred so soon after the injection that the drug had only
partially dispersed from the arm. Now I think it over, I suppose it must
have been shock, somehow."
"Was the analysis privately made?"
"Yes; but of course the funeral was held up and things got round. The
coroner heard about it and started to make inquiries, and the nurse, who
got it into her head that I was accusing her of neglect or something, be-
haved in a very unprofessional way and created a lot of talk and
trouble."
"And nothing came of it?"
"Nothing. There was no trace of poison or anything of that sort, and
the analysis left us exactly where we were. Naturally, I began to think I
had made a ghastly exhibition of myself. Rather against my own profes-
sional judgment, I signed the certificate—heart failure following on shock,
and my patient was finally got into her grave after a week of worry, with-
out an inquest."
"Grave?"
"Oh, yes. That was another scandal. The crematorium authorities, who
are pretty particular, heard about the fuss and refused to act in the mat-
ter, so the body is filed in the churchyard for reference if necessary. There
was a huge attendance at the funeral and a great deal of sympathy for the
niece. The next day I got a note from one of my most influential patients,
saying that my professional services would no longer be required. The


UNNATURAL DEATH
349
day after that, I was avoided in the street by the Mayor's wife. Presently
I found my practice dropping away from me, and discovered I was get-
ting known as 'the man who practically accused that charming Miss So-
and-so of murder.' Sometimes it was the niece I was supposed to be
accusing. Sometimes it was 'that nice Nurse—not the flighty one who was
dismissed, the other one, you know.' Another version was, that I had
tried to get the nurse into trouble because I resented the dismissal of my
fiancee. Finally, I heard a rumour that the patient had discovered me
'canoodling'—that was the beastly word—with my fiancée, instead of do-
ing my job, and had done away with the old lady myself out of revenge—
though why, in that case, I should have refused a certificate, my scandal-
mongers didn't trouble to explain.
"I stuck it out for a year, but my position became intolerable. The
practice dwindled to practically nothing, so I sold it, took a holiday to
get the taste out of my mouth—and here I am, looking for another open-
ing. So that's that—and the moral is, Don't be officious about public
duties."
The doctor gave an irritated laugh, and flung himself back in his chair.
"I don't care," he added, combatantly, "the cats! Confusion to 'em!"
and he drained his glass.
"Hear, hear!" agreed his host. He sat for a few moments looking
thoughtfully into the fire.
"Do you know," he said, suddenly, "I'm feeling rather interested by
this case. I have a sensation of internal gloating which assures me that
there is something to be investigated. That feeling has never failed me yet
—I trust it never will. It warned me the other day to look into my Income-
tax assessment, and I discovered that I had been paying about £900 too
much for the last three years. It urged me only last week to ask a bloke
who was preparing to drive me over the Horseshoe Pass whether he had
any petrol in the tank, and he discovered he had just about a pint—
enough to get us nicely half-way round. It's a very lonely spot. Of course,
I knew the man, so it wasn't all intuition. Still, I always make it a rule to
investigate anything I feel like investigating. I believe," he added, in a
reminiscent tone, "I was a terror in my nursery days. Anyhow, curious
cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact, I'm not just being the perfect
listener. I have deceived you. I have an ulterior motive, said he, throwing
off his side-whiskers and disclosing the well-known hollow jaws of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes."
"I was beginning to have my suspicions," said the doctor, after a short
pause. "I think you must be Lord Peter Wimsey. I wondered why your
face was so familiar, but of course it was in all the papers a few years ago
when you disentangled the Riddlesdale Mystery."


350
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Quite right. It's a silly kind of face, of course, but rather disarming,
don't you think? I don't know that I'd have chosen it, but I do my best
with it. I do hope it isn't contracting a sleuth-like expression, or anything
unpleasant. This is the real sleuth—my friend Detective-Inspector Parker
of Scotland Yard. He's the one who really does the work. I make imbe-
cile suggestions and he does the work of elaborately disproving them.
Then, by a process of elimination, we find the right explanation, and the
world says, 'My god, what intuition that young man has!' Well, look
here—if you don't mind, I'd like to have a go at this. If you'll entrust me
with your name and address and the names of the parties concerned,
I'd like very much to have a shot at looking into it."
The doctor considered a moment, then shook his head.
"It's very good of you, but I think I'd rather not. I've got into enough
bothers already. Anyway, it isn't professional to talk, and if I stirred up
any more fuss, I should probably have to chuck this country altogether
and end up as one of those drunken ship's doctors in the South Seas or
somewhere, who are always telling their life-history to people and de-
livering awful warnings. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. Thanks very much,
all the same."
"As you like," said Wimsey. "But I'll think it over, and if any useful
suggestion occurs to me, I'll let you know."
"It's very good of you," replied the visitor, absently, taking his hat and
stick from the man-servant, who had answered Wimsey's ring. "Well,
good night, and many thanks for hearing me so patiently. By the way,
though," he added, turning suddenly at the door, "how do you propose
to let me know when you haven't got my name and address?"
Lord Peter laughed.
"I'm Hawkshaw, the detective," he answered, "and you shall hear
from me anyhow before the end of the week."


CHAPTER HI
A USE FOR SPINSTERS
"There are two million more females than males in England and Wales!
And this is an awe-inspiring circumstance."
Gilbert Frankau
"what do you really think of that story?" inquired Parker. He had
dropped in to breakfast with Wimsey the next morning, before departing
in the Notting Dale direction, in quest of an elusive anonymous letter-
writer. "I thought it sounded rather as though our friend had been a bit
too cocksure about his grand medical specialising. After all, the old girl
might so easily have had some sort of heart attack. She was very old and
flL"
"So she might, though I believe as a matter of fact cancer patients very
seldom pop off in that unexpected way. As a rule, they surprise everybody
by the way they cling to life. Still, I wouldn't think much of that if it
wasn't for the niece. She prepared the way for the death, you see, by de-
scribing her aunt as so much worse than she was."
"I thought the same when the doctor was telling his tale. But what did
the niece do? She can't have poisoned her aunt or even smothered her, I
suppose, or they'd have found signs of it on the body. And the aunt did
die—so perhaps the niece was right and the opinionated young medico
wrong."
"Just so. And of course, we've only got his version of the niece and
the nurse—and he obviously has what the Scotch call ta'en a scunner at
the nurse. We mustn't lose sight of her, by the way. She was the last per-
son to be with the old lady before her death, and it was she who admin-
istered that injection."
"Yes, yes—but the injection had nothing to do with it. If anything's
clear, that is. I say, do you think the nurse can have said anything that
agitated the old lady and gave her a shock that way. The patient was a
bit gaga, but she may have had sense enough to understand something
really startling. Possibly the nurse just said something stupid about dying
—the old lady appears to have been very sensitive on the point."
"Ah!" said Lord Peter, "I was waiting for you to get on to that. Have


352
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
you realised that there really is one rather sinister figure in the story, and
that's the family lawyer."
"The one who came down to say something about the will, you mean,
and was so abruptly sent packing."
"Yes." Suppose he'd wanted the patient to make a will in favour of
somebody quite different—somebody outside the story as we know it.
And when he found he couldn't get any attention paid to him, he sent the
new nurse down as a sort of substitute."
"It would be rather an elaborate plot," said Parker, dubiously. "He
couldn't know that the doctor's fiancde was going to be sent away. Unless
he was in league with the niece, of course, and induced her to engineer
the change of nurses."
"That cock won't fight, Charles. The niece wouldn't be in league with
the lawyer to get herself disinherited."
"No, I suppose not. Still, I think there's something in the idea that the
old girl was either accidentally or deliberately startled to death."
"Yes—and whichever way it was, it probably wasn't legal murder in
that case. However, I think it's worth looking into. That reminds me."
He rang the bell. "Bunter, just take a note to the post for me, would
you?"
"Certainly, my lord."
Lord Peter drew a writing pad towards him.
"What are you going to write?" asked Parker, looking over his shoulder
with some amusement.
Lord Peter wrote:
"Isn't civilisation wonderful?"
He signed this simple message and slipped it into an envelope.
"If you want to be immune from silly letters, Charles," he said, "don't
carry your monomark in your hat."
"And what do you propose to do next?" asked Parker. "Not, I hope,
to send me round to Monomark House to get the name of a client. I
couldn't do that without official authority, and they would probably kick
up an awful shindy."
"No," replied his friend, "I don't propose violating the secrets of the
confessional. Not in that quarter at any rate. I think, if you can spare a
moment from your mysterious correspondent, who probably does not in-
tend to be found, I will ask you to come and pay a visit to a friend of
mine. It won't take long. I think you'll be interested. I—in fact, you'll be
the first person I've ever taken to see her. She will be very much touched
and pleased."


UNNATURAL DEATH
353
He laughed a little self-consciously.
"Oh," said Parker, embarrassed. Although the men were great friends,
Wimsey had always preserved a reticence about his personal affairs—not
so much by concealing as by ignoring them. This revelation seemed to
mark a new stage of intimacy, and Parker was not sure that he liked it.
He conducted his own life with an earnest middle-class morality which he
owed to his birth and up-bringing, and, while theoretically recognising
that Lord Peter's world acknowledged different standards, he had never
contemplated being personally faced with any result of their application
in practice.
"—rather an experiment," Wimsey was saying a trifle shyly; "anyway,
she's quite comfortably fixed in a little flat in Pimlico. You can come,
can't you, Charles? I really should like you two to meet."
"Oh, yes, rather," said Parker, hastily, "I should like to very much. Er
—how long—I mean—"
"Oh, the arrangement's only been going a few months," said Wimsey,
leading the way to the lift, "but it really seems to be working out quite
satisfactorily. Of course, it makes things much easier for me."
"Just so," said Parker.
"Of course, as you'll understand—I won't go into it all till we get there,
and then you'll see for yourself," Wimsey chattered on, slamming the
gates of the lift with unnecessary violence—"but, as I was saying, you'll
observe it's quite a new departure. I don't suppose there's ever been any-
thing exactly like it before. Of course, there's nothing new under the sun,
as Solomon said, but after all, I daresay all those wives and porcupines,
as the child said, must have soured his disposition a little, don't you
know."
"Quite," said Parker. "Poor fish," he added to himself, "they always
seem to think it's different."
"Outlet," said Wimsey, energetically, "hi! taxi! . . . outlet—everybody
needs an outlet—97a, St. George's Square—and after all, one can't really
blame people if it's just that they need an outlet. I mean, why be bitter?
They can't help it . I think it's much kinder to give them an outlet than
to make fun of them in books—and, after all, it isn't really difficult to
write books. Especially if you either write a rotten story in good English
or a good story in rotten English, which is as far as most people seem to
get nowadays. Don't you agree?"
Mr. Parker agreed, and Lord Peter wandered away along the paths of
literature, till the cab stopped before one of those tall, awkward mansions
which, originally designed for a Victorian family with fatigue-proof serv-
ants, have lately been dissected each into half a dozen inconvenient band-
boxes and let off in flats.


354
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Lord Peter rang the top bell, which was marked "climpson," and re-
laxed negligently against the porch.
"Six nights of stairs," he explained; "it takes her some time to answer
the bell, because there's no lift, you see. She wouldn't have a more expen-
sive flat, though. She thought it wouldn't be suitable."
Mr. Parker was greatly relieved, if somewhat surprised, by the mod-
esty of the lady's demands, and, placing his foot on the door-scraper in
an easy attitude, prepared to wait with patience. Before many minutes,
however, the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman, with a
sharp, sallow face and very vivacious manner. She wore a neat, dark
coat and skirt, a high-necked blouse and a long gold neck-chain with a
variety of small ornaments dangling from it at intervals, and her iron-grey
hair was dressed under a net, in the style fashionable in the reign of the
late King Edward.
"Oh, Lord Peter! How very nice to see you. Rather an early visit,
but I'm sure you will excuse the sitting-room being a trifle in disorder. Do
come in. The lists are quite ready for you. I finished them last night. In
fact, I was just about to put on my hat and bring them round to you. I do
hope you don't think I have taken an unconscionable time, but there was
a quite surprising number of entries. It is too good of you to trouble to
call."
"Not at all, Miss Climpson. This is my friend, Detective-Inspector Par-
ker, whom I have mentioned to you."
"How do you do, Mr. Parker—or ought I to say Inspector? Excuse
me if I make mistakes—this is really the first time I have been in the
hands of the police. I hope it's not rude of me to say that. Please come up.
A great many stairs, I am afraid, but I hope you do not mind. I do so like
to be high up. The air is so much better, and you know, Mr. Parker,
thanks to Lord Peter's great kindness, I have such a beautiful, airy view,
right over the houses. I think one can work so much better when one
doesn't feel cribbed, cabined and confined, as Hamlet says. Dear me!
Mrs. Winbottle will leave the pail on the stairs, and always in that very
dark corner. I am continually telling her about it. If you keep close to the
banisters you will avoid it nicely. Only one more flight. Here we are.
Please overlook the untidiness. I always think breakfast things look so
ugly when one has finished with them—almost sordid, to use a nasty word
for a nasty subject. What a pity that some of these clever people can't in-
vent self-cleaning and self-clearing plates, is it not? But please do sit
down; I won't keep you a moment. And I know, Lord Peter, that you
will not hesitate to smoke. I do so enjoy the smell of your cigarettes—
quite delicious—and you are so very good about extinguishing the ends."
The little room was, as a matter of fact, more exquisitely neat, in spite


UNNATURAL DEATH
355
of the crowded array of knick-knacks and photographs that adorned ev-
ery available inch of space. The sole evidences of dissipation were an
empty eggshell, a used cup and a crumby plate on a breakfast tray. Miss
Climpson promptly subdued this riot by carrying the tray bodily on to the
landing.
Mr. Parker, a little bewildered, lowered himself cautiously into a small
arm-chair, embellished with a hard, fat little cushion which made it im-
possible to lean back. Lord Peter wriggled into the window-seat, lit a
Sobranie and clasped his hands about his knees. Miss Climpson, seated
upright at the table, gazed at him with a gratified air which was positively
touching.
"I have gone very carefully into all these cases," she began, taking up
a thick wad of type-script. "I'm afraid, indeed, my notes are rather copi-
ous, but I trust the typist's bill will not be considered too heavy. My
handwriting is very clear, so I don't think there can be any errors. Dear
me! such sad stories some of these poor women had to tell me! But I
have investigated most fully, with the kind assistance of the clergyman—
a very nice man and so helpful—and I feel sure that in the majority of
the cases your assistance will be well bestowed. If you would like to go
through—"
"Not at the moment, Miss Climpson," interrupted Lord Peter, hur-
riedly. "It's all right, Charles—nothing whatever to do with Our Dumb
Friends or supplying Flannel to Unmarried Mothers. I'll tell you about it
later. Just now, Miss Climpson, we want your help on something quite
different."
Miss Climpson produced a business-like notebook and sat at attention.
"The inquiry divides itself into two parts," said Lord Peter. "The first
part, I'm afraid, is rather dull. I want you (if you will be so good) to go
down to Somerset House and search, or get them to search, through all
the death-certificates for Hampshire in the month of November, 1925.
I don't know the town and I don't know the name of the deceased. What
you are looking for is the death-certificate of an old lady of 73; cause of
death, cancer; immediate cause, heart-failure; and the certificate will
have been signed by two doctors, one of whom will be either a Medical
Officer of Health, Police Surgeon, Certifying Surgeon under the Factory
and Workshops Act, Medical Referee under the Workmen's Compensa-
tion Act, Physician or Surgeon in a big General Hospital, or a man
specially appointed by the Cremation authorities. If you want to give any
excuse for the search, you can say that you are compiling statistics about
cancer; but what you really want is the names of the people concerned
and the name of the town."
"Suppose there are more than one answering to the requirements?"


356
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Ah! that's where the second part comes in, and where your remarka-
ble tact and shrewdness are going to be so helpful to us. When you have
collected all the 'possibles,' I shall ask you to go down to each of the
towns concerned and make very, very skilful inquiries, to find out which
is the case we want to get on to. Of course, you mustn't appear to be in-
quiring. You must find some good gossipy lady living in the neighbour-
hood and just get her to talk in a natural way. You must pretend to be
gossipy yourself—it's not in your nature, I know, but I'm sure you can
make a little pretence about it—and find out all you can. I fancy you'll
find it pretty easy if you once strike the right town, because I know for a
certainty that there was a terrible lot of ill-natured talk about this par-
ticular death, and it won't have been forgotten yet by a long chalk."
"How shall I know when it's the right one?"
"Well, if you can spare the time, I want you to listen to a little story.
Mind you. Miss Climpson, when you get to wherever it is, you are not
supposed ever to have heard a word of this tale before. But I needn't tell
you that. Now, Charles, you've got an official kind of way of puttin' these
things clearly. Will you just weigh in and give Miss Climpson the gist of
that rigmarole our friend served out to us last night?"
Pulling his wits into order, Mr. Parker accordingly obliged with a digest
of the doctor's story. Miss Climpson listened with great attention, making
notes of the dates and details. Parker observed that she showed great
acumen in seizing on the salient points; she asked a number of very
shrewd questions, and her grey eyes were intelligent. When he had fin-
ished, she repeated the story, and he was able to congratulate her on a
clear head and retentive memory.
"A dear old friend of mine used to say that I should have made a very
good lawyer," said Miss Climpson, complacently, "but of course, when I
was young, girls didn't have the education or the opportunities they get
nowadays, Mr. Parker. I should have liked a good education, but my
dear father didn't believe in it for women. Very old-fashioned, you young
people would think him."
"Never mind, Miss Climpson," said Wimsey, "you've got just exactly
the qualifications we want, and they're rather rare, so we're in luck. Now
we want this matter pushed forward as fast as possible."
"IH go down to Somerset House at once," replied the lady, with great
energy, "and let you know the minute I'm ready to start for Hampshire."
"That's right," said his lordship, rising. "And now we'll just make a
noise like a hoop and roll away. Ohl and while I think of it, I'd better
give you something in hand for travelling expenses and so on. I think you
had better be just a retired lady in easy circumstances looking for a nice
little place to settle down in. I don't think you'd better be wealthy—


UNNATURAL DEATH
357
wealthy people don't inspire confidence. Perhaps you would oblige me by
living at the rate of about £800 a year—your own excellent taste and ex-
perience will suggest the correct accessories and so on for creating that
impression. If you will allow me, I will give you a cheque for £50 now,
and when you start on your wanderings you will let me know what you
require."
"Dear me," said Miss Climpson, "I don't—"
"This is a pure matter of business, of course," said Wimsey, rather
rapidly, "and you will let me have a note of the expenses in your usual
business-like way."
"Of course." Miss Climpson was dignified. "And I will give you a
proper receipt immediately.
"Dear, dear," she added, hunting through her purse, "I do not appear
to have any penny stamps. How extremely remiss of me. It is most un-
usual for me not to have my little book of stamps—so handy I always
think they are—but only last night Mrs. Williams borrowed my last
stamps to send a very urgent letter to her son in Japan. If you will excuse
me a moment—"
"I think I have some," interposed Parker.
"Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Parker. Here is the twopence. I never
allow myself to be without pennies—on account of the bathroom geyser,
you know. Such a very sensible invention, most convenient, and prevents
all dispute about hot water among the tenants. Thank you so much. And
now I sign my name across the stamps. That's right, isn't it? My dear fa-
ther would be surprised to find his daughter so business-like. He always
said a woman should never need to know anything about money matters,
but times have changed so greatly, have they not?"
Miss Climpson ushered them down all six flights of stairs, volubly
protesting at their protests, and the door closed behind them.
"May I ask—7" began Parker.
"It is not what you think," said his lordship, earnestly.
"Of course not," agreed Parker.
"There, I knew you had a nasty mind. Even the closest of one's friends
turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which they
publicly repudiate."
"Don't be a fool. Who is Miss Climpson?"
"Miss Climpson," said Lord Peter, "is a manifestation of the wasteful
way in which this country is run. Look at electricity. Look at water-
power. Look at the tides. Look at the sun. Millions of power units being
given off into space every minute. Thousands of old maids, simply burst-
ing with useful energy, forced by our stupid social system into hydros and
hotels and communities and hostels and posts as companions, where their


358
THREE FOR LORD PETER WTMSEY
magnificent gossip-powers and units of inquisitiveness are allowed to dis-
sipate themselves or even become harmful to the community, while the
ratepayers' money is spent on getting work for which these women are
providentially fitted, inefficiently carried out by ill-equipped policemen
like you. My god! it's enough to make a man write to John Bull. And
then bright young men write nasty little patronising books called 'Elderly
Women,' and 'On the Edge of the Explosion'—and the drunkards make
songs upon 'em, poor things."
"Quite, quite," said Parker. "You mean that Miss Climpson is a kind
of inquiry agent for you."
"She is my ears and tongue," said Lord Peter, dramatically, "and es-
pecially my nose. She asks questions which a young man could not put
without a blush. She is the angel that rushes in where fools get a clump
on the head. She can smell a rat in the dark. In fact, she is the cat's
whiskers."
"That's not a bad idea," said Parker.
"Naturally—it is mine, therefore brilliant. Just think. People want
questions asked. Whom do they send? A man with large flat feet and a
notebook—the sort of man whose private life is conducted in a series of
inarticulate grunts. I send a lady with a long, woolly jumper on knitting-
needles and jingly things round her neck. Of course she asks questions—
everyone expects it. Nobody is surprised. Nobody is alarmed. And so-
called superfluity is agreeable and usefully disposed of. One of these days
they will put up a statue to me, with an inscription:
"To the Man who Made
Thousands of Superfluous Women
Happy
without Injury to their Modesty
or Exertion to Himself.'"
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much," complained his friend. "And how
about all those type-written reports? Are you turning philanthropist in
your old age?"
"No—no," said Wimsey, rather hurriedly hailing a taxi. "Tell you
about that later. Little private pogrom of my own—Insurance against the
Socialist Revolution—when it comes. 'What did you do with your great
wealth, comrade?' 'I bought First Editions.' 'Aristocrat! a la lanterne!'
'Stay, spare me! I took proceedings against 500 money-lenders who op-
pressed the workers.' 'Citizen, you have done well. We will spare your
life. You shall be promoted to cleaning out the sewers.' Voila! We must
move with the times. Citizen taxi-driver, take me to the British Mu-


UNNATURAL DEATH
361
peep at Miss Dawson's—now Miss Whittaker's—house, The Grove,'
at the same time.
"Believe me,
"Sincerely yours,
"Alexandra Katherine Climpson."
• • • • •
The little red-headed nurse gave her visitor a quick, slightly hostile
look-over.
"It's quite all right," he said apologetically, "I haven't come to sell you
soap or gramophones, or to borrow money or enrol you in the Ancient
Froth-blowers or anything charitable. I really am Lord Peter Wimsey—I
mean, that really is my title, don't you know, not a Christian name like
Sanger's Circus or Earl Derr Biggers. I've come to ask you some ques-
tions, and I've no real excuse, I'm afraid, for butting in on you—do you
ever read the News of the World!"
Nurse Philliter decided that she was to be asked to go to a mental case,
and that the patient had come to fetch her in person.
"Sometimes," she said, guardedly.
"Oh—well, you may have noticed my name croppin' up in a few mur-
ders and things lately. I sleuth, you know. For a hobby. Harmless outlet
for natural inquisitiveness, don't you see, which might otherwise strike
inward and produce introspection an' suicide. Very natural, healthy pur-
suit—not too strenuous, not too sedentary; trains and invigorates the
mind."
"I know who you are now," said Nurse Philliter, slowly. "You—you
gave evidence against Sir Julian Freke. In fact, you traced the murder to
him, didn't you?"
"I did—it was rather unpleasant," said Lord Peter, simply, "and I've
got another little job of the same kind in hand now, and I want your
help."
"Won't you sit down?" said Nurse Philliter, setting the example.
"How am I concerned in the matter?"
"You know Dr. Edward Carr, I think—late of Leahampton—conscien-
tious but a little lackin' in worldly wisdom—not serpentine at all, as the
Bible advises, but far otherwise."
"What!" she cried, "do you believe it was murder, then?"
Lord Peter looked at her for a few seconds. Her face was eager, her
eyes gleaming curiously under her thick, level brows. She had expressive
hands, rather large and with strong, flat joints. He noticed how they
gripped the arms of her chair.
"Haven't the faintest," he replied, nonchalantly, "but I wanted your
opinion."


362
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Mine?"—she checked herself. "You know, I am not supposed to give
opinions about my cases."
"You have given it me already," said his lordship, grinning. "Though
possibly I ought to allow for a little prejudice in favour of Dr. Carr's
diagnosis."
"Well, yes—but it's not merely personal. I mean, my being engaged
to Dr. Carr wouldn't affect my judgment of a cancer case. I have worked
with him on a great many of them, and I know that his opinion is really
trustworthy—just as I know that, as a motorist, he's exactly the opposite."
"Right. I take it that if he says the death was inexplicable, it really was
so. That's one point gained. Now about the old lady herself. I gather she
was a little queer towards the end—a bit mental, I think you people call
it?"
"I don't know that I'd say that either. Of course, when she was under
morphia, she would be unconscious, or only semi-conscious, for hours to-
gether. But up to the time when I left, I should say she was quite—well,
quite all there. She was obstinate, you know, and what they call a charac-
ter, at the best of times."
"But Dr. Carr told me she got odd fancies—about people poisoning
her?"
The red-haired nurse rubbed her fingers slowly along the arm of the
chair, and hesitated.
"If it will make you feel any less unprofessional," said Lord Peter,
guessing what was in her mind, "I may say that my friend Detective-
Inspector Parker is looking into this matter with me, which gives me a
sort of right to ask questions."
"In that case—yes—in that case I think I can speak freely. I never un-
derstood about that poisoning idea. I never saw anything of it—no aver-
sion, I mean, or fear of me. As a rule, a patient will show it, if she's got
any queer ideas about the nurse. Poor Miss Dawson was always most
kind and affectionate. She kissed me when I went away and gave me a
little present, and said she was sorry to lose me."
"She didn't show any sort of nervousness about taking food from
you?"
"Well, I wasn't allowed to give her any food that last week. Miss Whit-
taker said her aunt had taken this funny notion, and gave her all her
meals herself."
"Oh! that's very interestin'. Was it Miss Whittaker, then, who first
mentioned this little eccentricity to you?"
"Yes. And she begged me not to say anything about it to Miss Daw-
son, for fear of agitating her."
"And did you?"


UNNATURAL DEATH
363
"I did not. I wouldn't mention it in any case to a patient. It does no
good."
"Did Miss Dawson ever speak about it to anyone else? Dr. Carr, for
instance?"
"No. According to Miss Whittaker, her aunt was frightened of the
doctor too, because she imagined he was in league with me. Of course,
that story rather lent colour to the unkind things that were said after-
wards. I suppose it's just possible that she saw us glancing at one another
or speaking aside, and got the idea that we were plotting something."
"How about the maids?"
"There were new maids about that time. She probably wouldn't talk
about it to them, and anyhow, I wouldn't be discussing my patient with
her servants."
"Of course not. Why did the other maids leave? How many were there?
Did they all go at once?"
"Two of them went. They were sisters. One was a terrible crockery-
smasher, and Miss Whittaker gave her notice, so the other left with her."
"Ah, well! one can have too much of seeing the Crown Derby rollin'
round the floor. Quite. Then it had nothing to do with—it wasn't on ac-
count of any little—"
"It wasn't because they couldn't get along with the nurse, if you mean
that," said Nurse Philliter, with a smile. "They were very obliging girls,
but not very bright."
"Quite. Well, now, is there any little odd, out-of-the-way incident you
can think of that might throw light on the thing. There was a visit from a
lawyer, I believe, that agitated your patient quite a lot. Was that in your
time?"
"No. I only heard about it from Dr. Carr. And he never heard the
name of the lawyer, what he came about, or anything."
"A pity," said his lordship. "I have been hoping great things of the
lawyer. There's such a sinister charm, don't you think, about lawyers
who appear unexpectedly with little bags, and alarm people with mys-
terious conferences, and then go away leaving urgent messages that if
anything happens they are to be sent for. If it hadn't been for the lawyer,
I probably shouldn't have treated Dr. Carr's medical problem with the
respect it deserves. He never came again, or wrote, I suppose?"
"I don't know. Wait a minute. I do remember one thing. I remember
Miss Dawson having another hysterical attack of the same sort, and say-
ing just what she said then—'that they were trying to kill her before her
time.'"
"When was that?"
"Oh, a couple of weeks before I left. Miss Whittaker had been up to


364
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
her with the post, I think, and there were some papers of some kind to
sign, and it seems to have upset her. I came in from my walk and found
her in a dreadful state. The maids could have told you more about it
than I could, really, for they were doing some dusting on the landing at
the time and heard her going on, and they ran down and fetched me up
to her. I didn't ask them about what happened myself, naturally—it
doesn't do for nurses to gossip with the maids behind their employers'
backs. Miss Whittaker said that her aunt had had an annoying communi-
cation from a solicitor."
"Yes, it sounds as though there might be something there. Do you re-
member what the maids were called?"
"What was the name now? A funny one, or I shouldn't remember it
—Gotobed, that was it—Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed. I don't know where
they went, but I daresay you could find out."
"Now one last question, and I want you to forget all about Christian
kindliness and the law of slander when you answer it. What is Miss Whit-
taker like?"
An indefinable expression crossed the nurse's face.
"Tall, handsome, very decided in manner," she said, with an air of
doing strict justice against her will, "an extremely competent nurse—she
was at the Royal Free, you know, till she went to live with her aunt. I
think she would have made a perfectly wonderful theatre nurse. She
did not like me, nor I her, you know, Lord Peter—and it's better I should
be telling you so at once, the way you can take everything I say about
her with a grain of charity added—but we both knew good hospital work
when we saw it, and respected one another."
"Why in the world didn't she like you, Miss Philliter? I really don't
know when I've seen a more likeable kind of person, if you'll 'scuse my
mentionin' it."
"I don't know." The nurse seemed a little embarrassed. "The dislike
seemed to grow on her. You—perhaps you heard the kind of things peo-
ple said in the town? when I left?—that Dr. Carr and I— Oh! it really
was damnable, and I had the most dreadful interview with Matron
when I got back here. She must have spread those stories. Who else could
have done it?"
"Well—you did become engaged to Dr. Carr, didn't you?" said his lord-
ship, gently. "Mind you, I'm not sayin' it wasn't a very agreeable occur-
rence and all that, but—"
"But she said I neglected the patient. I never did. I wouldn't think of
such a thing."
"Of course not. No. But, do you suppose that possibly getting engaged


366
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Didn't you send him? I think he's very nice," said Nurse Philliter.
"He's mad," said Dr. Carr.
"He's clever," said the red-haired nurse.
CHAPTER V
GOSSIP
"With vollies of eternal babble."
Butler: Hudibras
"so you are thinking of coming to live in Leahampton," said Miss Mur-
gatroyd. "How very nice. I do hope you will be settling down in the
parish. We are not too well off for week-day congregations—there is so
much indifference and so much Protestantism about. There! I have
dropped a stitch. Provoking! Perhaps it was meant as a little reminder
to me not to think uncharitably about Protestants. All is well—I have
retrieved it. Were you thinking of taking a house, Miss Climpson?"
"I am not quite sure," replied Miss Climpson. "Rents are so very high
nowadays, and I fear that to buy a house would be almost beyond my
means. I must look round very carefully, and view the question from all
sides. I should certainly prefer to be in this parish—and close to the
Church, if possible. Perhaps the Vicar would know whether there is likely
to be anything suitable."
"Oh, yes, he would doubtless be able to suggest something. It is such a
very nice, residential neighbourhood. I am sure you would like it. Let
me see—you are staying in Nelson Avenue, I think Mrs. Tredgold said?"
"Yes—with Mrs. Budge at Fairview."
"I am sure she makes you comfortable. Such a nice woman, though
I'm afraid she never stops talking. Hasn't she got any ideas on the sub-
ject? I'm sure if there's any news going about, Mrs. Budge never fails to
get hold of it."
"Well," said Miss Climpson, seizing the opening with a swiftness which
would have done credit to Napoleon, "she did say something about a
house in Wellington Avenue which she thought might be to let before
long."
"Wellington Avenue? You surprise me! I thought I knew almost every-


UNNATURAL DEATH
367
body there. Could it be the Parfitts—really moving at last! They have
been talking about it for at least seven years, and I really had begun to
think it was all talk. Mrs. Peasgood, do you hear that? Miss Climpson
says the Parfitts are really leaving that house at last!"
"Bless me," cried Mrs. Peasgood, raising her rather prominent eyes
from a piece of plain needlework and focusing them on Miss Climpson
like a pair of opera-glasses. "Well, that is news. It must be that brother
of hers who was staying with them last week. Possibly he is going to live
with them permanently, and that would clinch the matter, of course, for
they couldn't get on without another bedroom when the girls come home
from school. A very sensible arrangement, I should think. I believe he is
quite well off, you know, and it will be a very good thing for those chil-
dren. I wonder where they will go. I expect it will be one of the new
houses out on the Winchester Road, though of course that would mean
keeping a car. Still, I expect he would want them to do that in any case.
Most likely he will have it himself, and let them have the use of it."
"I don't think Parfitt was the name," broke in Miss Climpson hur-
riedly, "I'm sure it wasn't. It was a Miss somebody—a Miss Whittaker, I
think, Mrs. Budge mentioned."
"Miss Whittaker?" cried both the ladies in chorus. "Oh, no! surely
not?"
"I'm sure Miss Whittaker would have told me if she thought of giving
up her house," pursued Miss Murgatroyd. "We are such great friends. I
think Mrs. Budge must have run away with a wrong idea. People do
build up such amazing stories out of nothing at all."
"I wouldn't go so far as that," put in Mrs. Peasgood, rebukingly.
"There may be something in it. I know dear Miss Whittaker has some-
times spoken to me about wishing to take up chicken-farming. I daresay
she had not mentioned the matter generally, but then she always confides
in me. Depend upon it, that is what she intends to do."
"Mrs. Budge didn't actually say Miss Whittaker was moving," inter-
posed Miss Climpson. "She said, I think, that Miss Whittaker had been
left alone by some relation's death, and she wouldn't be surprised if she
found the house lonely."
"Ah! that's Mrs. Budge all over!" said Mrs. Peasgood, nodding omi-
nously. "A most excellent woman, but she sometimes gets hold of the
wrong end of the stick. Not but what I've often thought the same thing
myself. I said to poor Mary Whittaker only the other day, 'Don't you
find it very lonely in that house, my dear, now that your poor dear Aunt
is no more?' I'm sure it would be a very good thing if she did move, or
got someone to live with her. It's not a natural life for a young woman,


368
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
all alone like that, and so I told her. I'm one of those that believe in
speaking their mind, you know, Miss Climpson."
"Well, now, so am I, Mrs. Peasgood," rejoined Miss Climpson
promptly, "and that is what I said to Mrs. Budge at the time. I said, 'Do
I understand that there was anything odd about the old lady's death?'—
because she had spoken of the peculiar circumstances of the case, and
you know, I should not at all like to live in a house which could be called
in any way notorious. I should really feel quite uncomfortable about it."
In saying which, Miss Climpson no doubt spoke with perfect sincerity.
"But not at all—not at all," cried Miss Murgatroyd, so eagerly that
Mrs. Peasgood, who had paused to purse up her face and assume an
expression of portentous secrecy before replying, was completely crowded
out and left at the post. "There never was a more wicked story. The
death was natural—perfectly natural, and a most happy release, poor
soul, I'm sure, for her sufferings at the last were truly terrible. It was all a
scandalous story put about by that young Dr. Carr (whom I'm sure I
never liked) simply to aggrandise himself. As though any doctor would
pronounce so definitely upon what exact date it would please God to call
a poor sufferer to Himself 1 Human pride and vanity make a most shock-
ing exhibition, Miss Climpson, when they lead us to cast suspicion on
innocent people, simply because we are wedded to our own presumptu-
ous opinions. Poor Miss Whittaker! She went through a most terrible
time. But it was proved—absolutely proved, that there was nothing in
the story at all, and I hope that young man was properly ashamed of
himself."
"There may be two opinions about that, Miss Murgatroyd," said Mrs.
Peasgood. "I say what I think, Miss Climpson, and in my opinion there
should have been an inquest. I try to be up-to-date, and I believe Dr.
Carr to have been a very able young man, though of course, he was not
the kind of old-fashioned family doctor that appeals to elderly people.
It was a great pity that nice Nurse Philliter was sent away—that woman
Forbes was no more use than a headache—to use my brother's rather
vigorous expression. I don't think she knew her job, and that's a fact."
"Nurse Forbes was a charming person," snapped Miss Murgatroyd,
pink with indignation at being called elderly.
"That may be," retorted Mrs. Peasgood, "but you can't get over the
fact that she nearly killed herself one day by taking nine grains of calomel
by mistake for three. She told me that herself, and what she did in one
case she might do in another."
"But Miss Dawson wasn't given anything," said Miss Murgatroyd,
"and at any rate, Nurse Forbes' mind was on her patient, and not on
flirting with the doctor. I've always thought that Dr. Carr felt a spite


UNNATURAL DEATH
369
against her for taking his young woman's place, and nothing would have
pleased him better than to get her into trouble."
"You don't mean," said Miss Climpson, "that he would refuse a cer-
tificate and cause all that trouble, just to annoy the nurse. Surely no doc-
tor would dare to do that."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Peasgood, "and nobody with a grain of
sense would suppose it for a moment."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Peasgood," cried Miss Murgatroyd,
"thank you very much, I'm sure—"
"I say what I think," said Mrs. Peasgood.
"Then I'm glad I haven't such uncharitable thoughts," said Miss Mur-
gatroyd.
"I don't think your own observations are so remarkable for their
charity," retorted Mrs. Peasgood.
Fortunately, at this moment Miss Murgatroyd, in her agitation, gave
a vicious tweak to the wrong needle and dropped twenty-nine stitches
at once. The Vicar's wife, scenting battle from afar, hurried over with a
plate of scones, and helped to bring about a diversion. To her, Miss
Climpson, doggedly sticking to her mission in life, broached the subject
of the house in Wellington Avenue.
"Well, I don't know, I'm sure," replied Mrs. Tredgold, "but there's
Miss Whittaker just arrived. Come over to my corner and I'll introduce
her to you, and you can have a nice chat about it. You will like each
other so much, she is such a keen worker. Oh! and Mrs. Peasgood, my
husband is so anxious to have a word with you about the choirboys'
social. He is discussing it now with Mrs. Findlater. I wonder if you'd be
so very good as to come and give him your opinion? He values it so
much."
Thus tactfully the good lady parted the disputants and, having de-
posited Mrs. Peasgood safely under the clerical wing, towed Miss Climp-
son away to an arm-chair near the tea-table.
"Dear Miss Whittaker, I so want you to know Miss Climpson. She is
a near neighbour of yours—in Nelson Avenue, and I hope we shall per-
suade her to make her home among us."
"That will be delightful," said Miss Whittaker.
The first impression which Miss Climpson got of Mary Whittaker was
that she was totally out of place among the tea-tables of S. Onesimus.
With her handsome, strongly-marked features and quiet air of authority,
she was of the type that "does well" in City offices. She had a pleasant
and self-possessed manner, and was beautifully tailored—not mannishly,
and yet with a severe fineness of outline that negatived the appeal of a
beautiful figure. With her long and melancholy experience of frustrated


370
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
womanhood, observed in a dreary succession of cheap boarding-houses,
Miss Climpson was able to dismiss one theory which had vaguely formed
itself in her mind. This was no passionate nature, cramped by association
with an old woman and eager to be free to mate before youth should
depart. That look she knew well—she could diagnose it with dreadful
accuracy at the first glance, in the tone of a voice saying, "How do you
do?" But meeting Mary Whittaker's clear, fight eyes under their well-
shaped brows, she was struck by a sudden sense of familiarity. She had
seen that look before, though the where and the when escaped her. Chat-
ting volubly about her arrival in Leahampton, her introduction to the
Vicar and her approval of the Hampshire air and sandy soil, Miss Climp-
son racked her shrewd brain for a clue. But the memory remained ob-
stinately somewhere at the back of her head. "It will come to me in the
night," thought Miss Climpson, confidently, "and meanwhile I won't say
anything about the house; it would seem so pushing on a first acquaint-
ance."
Whereupon, fate instantly intervened to overthrow this prudent re-
solve, and very nearly ruined the whole effect of Miss Climpson's diplo-
macy at one fell swoop.
The form which the avenging Errinyes assumed was that of the
youngest Miss Findlater—the gushing one—who came romping over to
them, her hands filled with baby-linen, and plumped down on the end
of the sofa beside Miss Whittaker.
"Mary my dearl Why didn't you tell me? You really are going to start
your chicken-farming scheme at once. I'd no idea you'd got on so far
with your plans. How could you let me hear it first from somebody else?
You promised to tell me before anybody."
"But I didn't know it myself," replied Miss Whittaker, coolly. "Who
told you this wonderful story?"
"Why, Mrs. Peasgood said that she heard it from . . ." Here Miss
Findlater was in a difficulty. She had not yet been introduced to Miss
Climpson and hardly knew how to refer to her before her face. "This
lady" was what a shop-girl would say; "Miss Climpson" would hardly
do, as she had, so to speak, no official cognisance of the name; "Mrs.
Budge's new lodger" was obviously impossible in the circumstances. She
hesitated—then beamed a bright appeal at Miss Climpson, and said:
"Our new helper—may I introduce myself? I do so detest formality, don't
you, and to belong to the Vicarage work-party is a sort of introduction
in itself, don't you think? Miss Climpson, I believe? How do you do? It is
true, isn't it, Mary?—that you are letting your house to Miss Climpson,
and starting a poultry-farm at Alford."
"Certainly not that I know of. Miss Climpson and I have only just met


372
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
it really was merciful that she should be released—all the same—"
Evidently, thought Miss Climpson, she was turning the matter off. The
atmosphere of suspicion surrounding the death had been in her mind,
but she shied at referring to it.
"There are very few houses in which somebody hasn't died sometime
or other," said Miss Whittaker. "I really can't see why people should
worry about it. I suppose it's just a question of not realising. We are not
sensitive to the past lives of people we don't know. Just as we are much
less upset about epidemics and accidents that happen a long way off. Do
you really suppose, by the way, Miss Climpson, that this Chinese busi-
ness is coming to anything? Everybody seems to take it very casually. If
all this rioting and Bolshevism was happening in Hyde Park, there'd be a
lot more fuss made about it."
Miss Climpson made a suitable reply. That night she wrote to Lord
Peter:
"Miss Whittaker has asked me to tea. She tells me that, much as she
would enjoy an active, country life, with something definite to do, she
has a deep affection for the house in Wellington Avenue, and cannot tear
herself away. She seems very anxious to give this impression. Would it
be fair for me to say 'The lady doth protest too much, methinks'7 The
Prince of Denmark might even add: 'Let the galled jade wince'—if one
can use that expression of a lady. How wonderful Shakespeare is! One
can always find a phrase in his works for any situation!"
CHAPTER VI
FOUND DEAD
"Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies."
Chapman: The Widow's Tears
"you know, wimsey, I think you've found a mare's nest," objected Mr.
Parker. "I don't believe there's the slightest reason for supposing that
there was anything odd about the Dawson woman's death. You've noth-
to go on but a conceited young doctor's opinion and a lot of silly
ve got an official mind, Charles," replied his friend. "Your offi-


374
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
traces which they haven't left, and so invite, seriatim, Suspicion, Inquiry,
Proof, Conviction and the Gallows. Eminent legal writers—no, pax! don't
chuck that S. Augustine about, it's valuable. Anyhow, not to cast the
jewels of my eloquence into the pig-bucket, I propose to insert this ad-
vertisement in all the morning papers. Miss Whittaker must read some
product of our brilliant journalistic age, I suppose. By this means, we
shall kill two birds with one stone."
"Start two hares at once, you mean," grumbled Parker. "Hand it
over."
"Bertha and Evelyn Gotobed, formerly in the service of Miss
Agatha Dawson, of The Grove,' Wellington Avenue, Leahampton,
are requested to communicate with J. Murbles, solicitor, of Staple
Inn, when they will hear of something to their advantage."
"Rather good, I think, don't you?" said Wimsey. "Calculated to rouse
suspicion in the most innocent mind. I bet you Mary Whittaker will fall
for that."
"In what way?"
"I don't know. That's what's so interesting. I hope nothing unpleasant
will happen to dear old Murbles. I should hate to lose him. He's such a
perfect type of the family solicitor. Still, a man in his profession must be
prepared to take risks."
"Oh, bosh!" said Parker. "But I agree that it might be as well to get
hold of the girls, if you really want to find out about the Dawson house-
hold. Servants always know everything."
"It isn't only that. Don't you remember that Nurse Philliter said the
girls were sacked shortly before she left herself? Now, passing over the
odd circumstances of the Nurse's own dismissal—the story about Miss
Dawson's refusing to take food from her hands, which wasn't at all
borne out by the old lady's own attitude to her nurse—isn't it worth con-
siderin' that these girls should have been pushed off on some excuse
just about three weeks after one of those hysterical attacks of Miss
Dawson's? Doesn't it rather look as though everybody who was likely
to remember anything about that particular episode had been got out
of the way?"
"Well, there was a good reason for getting rid of the girls."
"Crockery?—well, nowadays it's not so easy to get good servants. Mis-
tresses put up with a deal more carelessness than they did in the dear
dead days beyond recall. Then, about that attack. Why did Miss Whit-
taker choose just the very moment when the highly-intelligent Nurse
Philliter had gone for her walk, to bother Miss Dawson about signin'


UNNATURAL DEATH
375
some tiresome old lease or other? If business was liable to upset the old
girl, why not have a capable person at hand to calm her down?"
"Oh, but Miss Whittaker is a trained nurse. She was surely capable
enough to see to her aunt herself."
"I'm perfectly sure she was a very capable woman indeed," said Wim-
sey, with emphasis.
"Oh, all right. You're prejudiced. But stick the ad. in by all means.
It can't do any harm."
Lord Peter paused, in the very act of ringing the bell. His jaw slack-
ened, giving his long, narrow face a faintly foolish and hesitant look,
reminiscent of the heroes of Mr. P. G. Wodehouse.
"You don't think—" he began. "Oh! rats!" He pressed the button.
"It can't do any harm, as you say. Bunter, see that this advertisement
appears in the personal columns of all this list of papers, every day until
further notice."
• • • • •
The advertisement made its first appearance on the Tuesday morning.
Nothing of any note happened during the week, except that Miss Climp-
son wrote in some distress to say that the youngest Miss Findlater had
at length succeeded in persuading Miss Whittaker to take definite steps
about the poultry farm. They had gone away together to look at a busi-
ness which they had seen advertised in the Poultry News, and proposed
to be away for some weeks. Miss Climpson feared that under the circum-
stances she would not be able to carry on any investigations of sufficient
importance to justify her far too generous salary. She had, however, be-
come friendly with Miss Findlater, who had promised to tell her all
about their doings. Lord Peter replied in reassuring terms.
On the Tuesday following, Mr. Parker was just wrestling in prayer
with his charlady, who had a tiresome habit of boiling his breakfast kip-
pers till they resembled heavily pickled loofahs, when the telephone
whirred aggressively.
"Is that you, Charles?" asked Lord Peter's voice. "I say, Murbles has
had a letter about that girl, Bertha Gotobed. She disappeared from her
lodgings last Thursday, and her landlady, getting anxious, and having
seen the advertisement, is coming to tell us all she knows. Can you come
round to Staple Inn at eleven?"
"Dunno," said Parker, a little irritably. "I've got a job to see to. Surely
you can tackle it by yourself."
"Oh, yes!" The voice was peevish. "But I thought you'd like to have
some of the fun. What an ungrateful devil you are. You aren't taking
the faintest interest in this case."
"Well—I don't believe in it, you know. All right—don't use language


UNNATURAL DEATH
377
"Pigs may fly. Use your common sense. Oh! and Charles, does it
mention the sister?"
"Yes. There was a letter from her on the body, by which they identified
it. She got married last month and went to Canada."
"That's saved her life. She'll be in absolutely horrible danger, if she
comes back. We must get hold of her and warn her. And find out what
she knows. Good-bye. I must get some clothes on. Oh, hell!"
Cluck! the line went dead again, and Mr. Parker, abandoning the
kippers without regret, ran feverishly out of the house and down Lamb's
Conduit Street to catch a diver tram to Westminster.
The Chief of Scotland Yard, Sir Andrew Mackenzie, was a very old
friend of Lord Peter's. He received that agitated young man kindly and
listened with attention to his slightly involved story of cancer, wills, mys-
terious solicitors and advertisements in the agony column.
"It's a curious coincidence," he said, indulgently, "and I can under-
stand your feeling upset about it. But you may set your mind at rest. I
have the police-surgeon's report, and he is quite convinced that the death
was perfectly natural. No signs whatever of any assault. They will make
an examination, of course, but I don't think there is the slightest reason
to suspect foul play."
"But what was she doing in Epping Forest?"
Sir Andrew shrugged gently.
"That must be inquired into, of course. Still—young people do wander
about, you know. There's a fiance' somewhere. Something to do with the
railway, I believe. Collins has gone down to interview him. Or she may
have been with some other friend."
"But if the death was natural, no one would leave a sick or dying girl
like that?"
"You wouldn't. But say there had been some running about—some
horse-play—and the girl fell dead, as these heart cases sometimes do.
The companion may well have taken fright and cleared out. It's not
unheard of."
Lord Peter looked unconvinced.
"How long has she been dead?"
"About five or six days, our man thinks. It was quite by accident that
she was found then at all; it's quite an unfrequented part of the Forest.
A party of young people were exploring with a couple of terriers, and
one of the dogs nosed out the body."
"Was it out in the open?"
"Not exactly. It lay among some bushes—the sort of place where a
frolicsome young couple might go to play hide-and-seek."


378
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Or where a murderer might go to play hide and let the police seek,"
said Wimsey.
"Well, well. Have it your own way," said Sir Andrew, smiling. "If it
was murder, it must have been a poisoning job, for, as I say, there was
not the slightest sign of a wound or a struggle. I'll let you have the re-
port of the autopsy. In the meanwhile, if you'd like to run down there
with Inspector Parker, you can of course have any facilities you want
.
And if you discover anything, let me know."
Wimsey thanked him, and collecting Parker from an adjacent office,
rushed him briskly down the corridor.
"I don't like it," he said, "that is, of course, it's very gratifying to
know that our first steps in psychology have led to action, so to speak,
but I wish to God it hadn't been quite such decisive action. We'd better
trot down to Epping straight away, and see the landlady later. I've got
a new car, by the way, which you'll like."
Mr. Parker took one look at the slim black monster, with its long
rakish body and polished-copper twin exhausts, and decided there and
then that the only hope of getting down to Epping without interference
was to look as official as possible and wave his police authority under
the eyes of every man in blue along the route. He shoe-horned himself
into his seat without protest, and was more unnerved than relieved to
find himself shoot suddenly ahead of the traffic—not with the bellowing
roar of the ordinary racing engine, but in a smooth, uncanny silence.
"The new Daimler Twin-Six," said Lord Peter, skimming dexterously
round a lorry without appearing to look at it. "With a racing body. Spe-
cially built. . . useful. . . gadgets ... no row—hate row . . . like Ed-
mund Sparkler . . . very anxious there should be no row . . . Little
Dorrit . . . remember . . . call her Mrs. Merdle ... for that reason
. . . presently we'll see what she can do."
The promise was fulfilled before their arrival at the spot where the
body had been found. Their arrival made a considerable sensation among
the little crowd which business or curiosity had drawn to the spot. Lord
Peter was instantly pounced upon by four reporters and a synod of
Press photographers, whom his presence encouraged in the hope that
the mystery might turn out to be a three-column splash after all. Parker,
to his annoyance, was photographed in the undignified act of extricating
himself from "Mrs. Merdle." Superintendent Walmisley came politely to
his assistance, rebuked the onlookers, and led him to the scene of action.
The body had been already removed to the mortuary, but a depression
in the moist ground showed clearly enough where it had lain. Lord Peter
groaned faintly as he saw it.
"Damn this nasty warm spring weather," he said, with feeling. "April


UNNATURAL DEATH
379
showers—sun and water-couldn't be worse. Body much altered, Su-
perintendent?"
"Well, yes, rather, my lord, especially in the exposed parts. But there's
no doubt about the identity."
"I didn't suppose there was. How was it lying?"
"On the back, quite quiet and natural-like. No disarrangement of
clothing, or anything. She must just have sat down when she felt herself
bad and fallen back."
"M'm. The rain has spoilt any footprints or signs on the ground. And
it's grassy. Beastly stuff, grass, eh, Charles?"
"Yes. These twigs don't seem to have been broken at all, Superin-
tendent."
"Oh, no," said the officer, "no signs of a struggle, as I pointed out in
my report."
"No—but if she'd sat down here and fallen back as you suggest, don't
you think her weight would have snapped some of these young shoots?"
The Superintendent glanced sharply at the Scotland Yard man.
"You don't suppose she was brought and put here, do you, sir?"
"I don't suppose anything," retorted Parker, "I merely drew attention
to a point which I think you should consider. What are these wheel-
marks?"
"That's our car, sir. We backed it up here and took her up that way."
"And all this trampling is your men too, I suppose?"
"Partly that, sir, and partly the party as found her."
"You noticed no other person's tracks, I suppose?"
"No, sir. But it's rained considerably this last week. Besides, the rab-
bits have been all over the place, as you can see, and other creatures
too, I fancy. Weasels, or something of that sort."
"Oh! Well, I think you'd better take a look round. There might be
traces of some kind a bit further away. Make a circle, and report any-
thing you see. And you oughtn't to have let all that bunch of people get
so near. Put a cordon round and tell 'em to move on. Have you seen
all you want, Peter?"
Wimsey had been poking his stick aimlessly into the bole of an oak-
tree at a few yards' distance. Now he stooped and lifted out a package
which had been stuffed into a cleft. The two policemen hurried forward
with eager interest, which evaporated somewhat at sight of the find—a ham
sandwich and an empty Bass bottle, roughly wrapped up in a greasy
newspaper.
"Picnickers," said Walmisley, with a snort. "Nothing to do with the
body, I daresay."


380
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I think you're mistaken," said Wimsey, placidly. "When did the girl
disappear, exactly?"
"Well, she went off duty at the Corner House at five a week ago to-
morrow, that's Wednesday, 27th," said Parker.
"And this is the Evening Views of Wednesday, 27th," said Wimsey.
"Late Final edition. Now that edition isn't on the streets till about 6
o'clock. So unless somebody brought it down and had supper here, it was
probably brought by the girl herself or her companion. It's hardly likely
anyone would come and picnic here afterwards, not with the body there.
Not that bodies need necessarily interfere with one's enjoyment of one's
food. A la guerre comme a la guerre. But for the moment there isn't a
war on."
"That's true, sir. But you're assuming the death took place on the
Wednesday or Thursday. She may have been somewhere else—living
with someone in town or anywhere."
"Crushed again," said Wimsey. "Still, it's a curious coincidence."
"It is, my lord, and I'm very glad you found the things. Will you take
charge of 'em, Mr. Parker, or shall I?"
"Better take them along and put them with the other things," said
Parker, extending his hand to take them from Wimsey, whom they
seemed to interest quite disproportionately. "I fancy his lordship's right
and that the parcel came here along with the girl. And that certainly
looks as if she didn't come alone. Possibly that young man of hers was
with her. Looks like the old, old story. Take care of that bottle, old man,
it may have finger-prints on it."
"You can have the bottle," said Wimsey. "May we ne'er lack a friend
or a bottle to give him, as Dick Swiveller says. But I earnestly beg that
before you caution your respectable young railway clerk that anything
he says may be taken down and used against him, you will cast your eye,
and your nose, upon this ham sandwich."
"What's wrong with it?" inquired Parker.
"Nothing. It appears to be in astonishingly good preservation, thanks
to this admirable oak-tree. The stalwart oak—for so many centuries
Britain's bulwark against the invader! Heart of oak are our ships—not
hearts, by the way, as it is usually misquoted. But I am puzzled by the
incongruity between the sandwich and the rest of the outfit."
"It's an ordinary ham sandwich, isn't it?"
"Oh, gods of the wine-flask and the board, how long? how long?—
it is a ham sandwich, Goth, but not an ordinary one. Never did it see
Lyons' kitchen, or the counter of the multiple store or the delicatessen
shop in the back street. The pig that was sacrificed to make this dainty
titbit fattened in no dull style, never knew the daily ration of pig-wash


UNNATURAL DEATH
381
or the not unmixed rapture of the domestic garbage-pail. Observe the
hard texture, the deep brownish tint of the lean; the rich fat, yellow as a
Chinaman's cheek; the dark spot where the black treacle cure has
soaked in, to make a dish fit to lure Zeus from Olympus. And tell me,
man of no discrimination and worthy to be fed on boiled cod all the
year round, tell me how it comes that your little waitress and her rail-
way clerk come down to Epping Forest to regale themselves on sand-
wiches made from coal-black, treacle-cured Bradenham ham, which
long ago ran as a young wild boar about the woodlands, till death trans-
lated it to an incorruptible and more glorious body? I may add that it
costs about 3j. a pound uncooked—an argument which you will allow
to be weighty."
"That's odd, certainly," said Parker. "I imagine that only rich peo-
ple—»
"Only rich people or people who understand eating as a fine art," said
Wimsey. "The two classes are by no means identical, though they occa-
sionally overlap."
"It may be very important," said Parker, wrapping the exhibits up
carefully. "We'd better go along now and see the body."
The examination was not a very pleasant matter, for the weather had
been damp and warm and there had certainly been weasels. In fact,
after a brief glance, Wimsey left the two policemen to carry on alone,
and devoted his attention to the dead girl's handbag. He glanced through
the letter from Evelyn Gotobed— (now Evelyn Cropper)—and noted
down the Canadian address. He turned the cutting of his own advertise-
ment out of an inner compartment, and remained for some time in con-
sideration of the £5 note which lay, folded up, side by side with a 10s.
Treasury note, Is. 8d. in silver and copper, a latch-key and a powder
compacte.
"You're having this note traced, Walmisley, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, my lord, certainly."
"And the latch-key, I imagine, belongs to the girl's lodgings."
"No doubt it does. We have asked her landlady to come and identify
the body. Not that there's any doubt about it, but just as a matter of rou-
tine. She may give us some help. Ah!"—the Superintendent peered out of
the mortuary door—"I think this must be the lady."
The stout and motherly woman who emerged from a taxi in charge
of a youthful policeman, identified the body without difficulty, and amid
many sobs, as that of Bertha Gotobed. "Such a nice young lady," she
mourned. "What a terrible thing, oh, dear! who would go to do a thing
like that? I've been in such a state of worriment ever since she didn't
come home last Wednesday. I'm sure many's the time I've said to myself


382
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
I wished I'd had my tongue cut out before I ever showed her that wicked
advertisement. Ah, I see you've got it there, sir. A dreadful thing it is
that people should be luring young girls away with stories about some-
thing to their advantage. A sinful old devil—calling himself a lawyer, too!
When she didn't come back and didn't come back I wrote to the wretch,
telling him I was on his track and was coming round to have the law on
him as sure as my name's Dorcas Gulliver. He wouldn't have got round
me—not that I'd be the bird he was looking for, being sixty-one come
Mid-Summer Day—and so I told him."
Lord Peter's gravity was somewhat upset by this diatribe against the
highly respectable Mr. Murbles of Staple Inn, whose own version of
Mrs. Gulliver's communication had been decently expurgated. "How
shocked the old boy must have been," he murmured to Parker. "I'm for
it next time I see him."
Mrs. Gulliver's voice moaned on and on.
"Such respectable girls, both of them, and Miss Evelyn married to that
nice young man from Canada. Deary me, it will be a terrible upset for
her. And there's poor John Ironsides, was to have married Miss Bertha,
the poor lamb, this very Whitsuntide as ever is. A very steady, respecta-
ble man—a clurk on the Southern, which he always used to say, joking
like, 'Slow but safe, like the Southern—that's me, Mrs. G.' T'ch, t'ch—
who'd a believed it? And it's not as if she was one of the flighty sort. I
give her a latch-key gladly, for she'd sometimes be on late duty, but
never any staying out after her time. That's why it worried me so, her
not coming back. There's many nowadays as would wash one's hands
and glad to be rid of them, knowing what they might be up to. No.
When the time passed and she didn't come back, I said, Mark my words,
I said, she's bin kidnapped, I said, by that Murbles."
"Had she been long with you, Mrs. Gulliver?" asked Parker.
"Not above a fifteen month or so, she hadn't, but bless you, I don't
have to know a young lady fifteen days to know if she's a good girl or
not. You gets to know by the look of 'em almost, when you've 'ad my
experience."
"Did she and her sister come to you together?"
"They did. They come to me when they was lookin' for work in Lon-
don. And they could a' fallen into a deal worse hands I can tell you, two
young things from the country, and them that fresh and pretty looking."
"They were uncommonly lucky, I'm sure, Mrs. Gulliver," said Lord
Peter, "and they must have found it a great comfort to be able to confide
in you and get your good advice."
"Well, I think they did," said Mrs. Gulliver, "not that young people
nowadays seems to want much guidance from them as is older. Train up


UNNATURAL DEATH
383
a child and away she go, as the Good Book says. But Miss Evelyn, that's
now Mrs. Cropper—she'd had this London idea put into her head, and up
they comes with the idea of bein' made ladies of, havin' only been in
service before, though what's the difference between serving in one of
them tea-shops at the beck of all the nasty tagrag and bobtail and serv-
ing in a lady's home, I don't see, except that you works harder and don't
get your meals so comfortable. Still, Miss Evelyn, she was always the
go-ahead one of the two, and she did very well for herself, I will say,
meetin' Mr. Cropper as used to take his breakfast regular at the Corner
House every morning and took a liking to the girl in the most honour-
able way."
"That was very fortunate. Have you any idea what gave them the
notion of coming to town?"
"Well, now, sir, it's funny you should ask that, because it was a thing
I never could understand. The lady as they used to be in service with,
down in the country, she put it into Miss Evelyn's head. Now, sir,
wouldn't you think that with good service that 'ard to come by, she'd
have done all she could to keep them with her? But no! There was a bit
of trouble one day, it seems, over Bertha—this poor girl here, poor lamb
—it do break one's 'eart to see her like that, don't it, sir?—over Bertha
'avin' broke an old teapot—a very valuable one by all accounts, and the
lady told 'er she couldn't put up with 'avin' her things broke no more. So
she says: 'YouH 'ave to go,' she says, 'but,' she says, 'IH give you a very
good character and youH soon get a good place. And I expect Evelyn'l
l
want to go with you,' she says, 'so I'll have to find someone else to do for
me,' she says. 'But,' she says, 'why not go to London? You'll do better
there and have a much more interesting life than what you would at
home,' she says. And the end of it was, she filled 'em up so with stories
of how fine a place London was and how grand situations was to be had
for the asking, that they was mad to go, and she give them a present of
money and behaved very handsome, take it all round."
"H'm," said Wimsey, "she seems to have been very particular about
her teapot. Was Bertha a great crockery-breaker?"
"Well, sir, she never broke nothing of mine. But this Miss Whittaker—
that was the name—she was one of these opiniated ladies, as will 'ave
their own way in everythink. A fine temper she 'ad, or so poor Bertha
said, though Miss Evelyn—her as is now Mrs. Cropper—she always 'ad an
idea as there was somethink at the back of it. Miss Evelyn was always the
sharp one, as you might say. But there, sir, we all 'as our peculiarities,
don't we? It's my own belief as the lady had somebody of her own choice
as she wanted to put in the place of Bertha—that's this one—and Evelyn


384
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
—as is now Mrs. Cropper, you understand me—and she jest trampled up
an excuse, as they say, to get rid of 'em."
"Very possibly," said Wimsey. "I suppose, Inspector, Evelyn Goto-
bed—"
"Now Mrs. Cropper," put in Mrs. Gulliver with a sob.
"Mrs. Cropper, I should say—has been communicated with?"
"Oh, yes, my lord. We cabled her at once."
"Good. I wish you'd let me know when you hear from her."
"We shall be in touch with Inspector Parker, my lord, of course."
"Of course. Well, Charles, I'm going to leave you to it. I've got a tele-
gram to send. Or will you come with me?"
"Thanks, no," said Parker. "To be frank, I don't like your methods of
driving. Being in the Force, I prefer to keep on the windy side of the
law."
"Windy is the word for you," said Peter, "I'll see you in Town, then."
CHAPTER VH
HAM AND BRANDY
"Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are."
Bwllat-Savarin
"well," said Wimsey, as Parker was ushered in that same evening by
Bunter, "have you got anything fresh?"
"Yes, I've got a new theory of the crime, which knocks yours into a
cocked hat. I've got evidence to support it, too."
"Which crime, by the way?"
"Oh, the Epping Forest business. I don't believe the old Dawson per-
son was murdered at all. That's just an idea of yours."
"I see. And you're now going to tell me that Bertha Gotobed was got
hold of by the White Slave people."
"How did you know?" asked Parker, a little peevishly.
"Because Scotland Yard have two maggots which crop up whenever
anything happens to a young woman. Either it's White Slavery or Dope
Dens—sometimes both. You are going to say it's both."
"Well, I was, as a matter of fact. It so often is, you know. We've
traced the £5 note."
"That's important, anyhow."


386
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
it. The poor girl is made thoroughly drunk—and then something unto-
ward happens."
"Yes—shock, perhaps, or a shot of dope."
"And they bustle her off and get rid of her. It's quite possible. The
post-mortem may tell us something about it. Yes, Bunter, what is it?"
"The telephone, my lord, for Mr. Parker."
"Excuse me," said Parker, "I asked the people at the flower-shop to
ring me up here, if Mrs. Forrest came in. If she's there, would you like
to come round with me?"
"Very much."
Parker returned from the telephone with an air of subdued triumph.
"She's just gone up to her flat. Come along. We'll take a taxi—not that
death-rattle of yours. Hurry up, I don't want to miss her."
The door of the flat in South Audley Street was opened by Mrs. For-
rest in person. Wimsey recognised her instantly from the description. On
seeing Parker's card, she made no objection whatever to letting them in,
and led the way into a pink and mauve sitting-room, obviously furnished
by contract from a Regent Street establishment.
"Please sit down. Will you smoke? And your friend?"
"My colleague, Mr. Templeton," said Parker, promptly.
Mrs. Forrest's rather hard eyes appeared to sum up in a practised
manner the difference between Parker's seven-guinea "fashionable lounge
suiting, tailored in our own workrooms, fits like a made-to-measure suit,"
and his "colleague's" Savile Row outlines, but beyond a slight additional
defensiveness of manner she showed no disturbance. Parker noted the
glance. "She's summing us up professionally," was his mental comment,
"and she's not quite sure whether Wimsey's an outraged brother or hus-
band or what. Never mind. Let her wonder. We may get her rattled."
"We are engaged, Madam," he began, with formal severity, "on an in-
quiry relative to certain events connected with the 26th of last month. I
think you were in town at that time?"
Mrs. Forrest frowned slightly in the effort to recollect. Wimsey made
a mental note that she was not as young as her bouffant apple-green
frock made her appear. She was certainly nearing the thirties, and her
eyes were mature and aware.
"Yes, I think I was. Yes, certainly. I was in town for several days
about that time. How can I help you?"
"It is a question of a certain bank-note which has been traced to your
possession," said Parker, "a £5 note numbered x/y58929. It was
issued to you by Lloyds Bank in payment of a cheque on the 19th."
"Very likely. I can't say I remember the number, but I think I cashed
a cheque about that time. I can tell in a moment by my cheque-book."


UNNATURAL DEATH
387
"I don't think it's necessary. But it would help us very much if you
can recollect to whom you paid it."
"Oh, I see. Well, that's rather difficult. I paid my dressmaker's about
that time—no, that was by cheque. I paid cash to the garage, I know, and
I think there was a £5 note in that. Then I dined at Verry's with a
woman friend—that took the second £5 note, I remember, but there
was a third. I drew out £25—three fives and ten ones. Where did the
third note go? Oh, of course, how stupid of me! I put it on a horse."
"Through a Commission Agent?"
"No. I had nothing much to do one day, so I went down to Newmar-
ket. I put the £5 on some creature called Brighteye or Attaboy or some
name like that, at 50 to 1. Of course the wretched animal didn't win,
they never do. A man in the train gave me the tip and wrote the name
down for me. I handed it to the nearest bookie I saw—a funny little
grey-haired man with a hoarse voice—and that was the last I saw of it."
"Could you remember which day it was?"
"I think it was Saturday. Yes, I'm sure it was."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Forrest. It will be a great help if we can
trace those notes. One of them has turned up since in—other circum-
stances."
"May I know what the circumstances are, or is it an official secret?"
Parker hesitated. He rather wished, now, that he had demanded point-
blank at the start how Mrs. Forrest's £5 note had come to be found on
the dead body of the waitress at Epping. Taken by surprise, the woman
might have got flustered. Now, he had let her entrench herself securely
behind this horse story. Impossible to follow up the history of a bank-
note handed to an unknown bookie at a race-meeting. Before he could
speak, Wimsey broke in for the first time, in a high, petulant voice which
quite took his friend aback.
"You're not getting anywhere with all this," he complained. "I don't
care a continental curse about the beastly note, and I'm sure Sylvia
doesn't."
"Who is Sylvia?" demanded Mrs. Forrest with considerable amaze-
ment.
"Who is Sylvia? What is she?" gabbled Wimsey, irrepressibly. "Shake-
speare always has the right word, hasn't he? But, God bless my soul, it's
no laughing matter. It's very serious and you've no business to laugh at
it. Sylvia is very much upset, and the doctor is afraid it may have an
effect on her heart. You may not know it, Mrs. Forrest, but Sylvia Lynd-
hurst is my cousin. And what she wants to know, and what we all want
to know—don't interrupt me, Inspector, all this shilly-shallying doesn't
get us anywhere—I want to know, Mrs. Forrest, who was it dining here


388
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
with you on the night of April 26th. Who was it? Who was it? Can you
tell me that?"
This time, Mrs. Forrest was visibly taken aback. Even under the thick
coat of powder they could see the red flush up into her cheeks and ebb
away, while her eyes took on an expression of something more than alarm
—a kind of vicious fury, such as one may see in those of a cornered cat.
"On the 26th?" she faltered. "I can't—"
"I knew it!" cried Wimsey. "And that girl Evelyn was sure of it too.
Who was it, Mrs. Forrest? Answer me that!"
"There—there was no one," said Mrs. Forrest, with a thick gasp.
"Oh, come, Mrs. Forrest, think again," said Parker, taking his cue
promptly, "you aren't going to tell us that you accounted by yourself for
three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and two people's dinners."
"Not forgetting the ham," put in Wimsey, with fussy self-importance,
"the Bradenham ham specially cooked and sent up by Fortnum &
Mason. Now, Mrs. Forrest—"
"Wait a moment. Just a moment. I'll tell you everything."
The woman's hands clutched at the pink silk cushions, making little
hot, tight creases. "I—would you mind getting me something to drink?
In the dining-room, through there—on the sideboard."
Wimsey got up quickly and disappeared into the next room. He took
rather a long time, Parker thought. Mrs. Forrest was lying back in a
collapsed attitude, but her breathing was more controlled, and she was,
he thought, recovering her wits. "Making up a story," he muttered sav-
agely to himself. However, he could not, without brutality, press her at
the moment.
Lord Peter, behind the folding doors, was making a good deal of
noise, chinking the glasses and fumbling about. However, before very
long, he was back.
"'Scuse my taking such a time," he apologised, handing Mrs. For-
rest a glass of brandy and soda. "Couldn't find the syphon. Always was
a bit wool-gathering, y'know. All my friends say so. Starin' me in the
face all the time, what? And then I sloshed a lot of soda on the side-
board. Hand shakin'. Nerves all to pieces and so on. Feelin' better?
That's right. Put it down. That's the stuff to pull you together. How
about another little one, what? Oh, rot, it can't hurt you. Mind if I have
one myself? I'm feelin' a bit flustered. Upsettin', delicate business and
all that. Just another spot. That's the idea."
He trotted out again, glass in hand, while Parker fidgeted. The presence
of amateur detectives was sometimes an embarrassment. Wimsey clat-
tered in again, this time, with more common sense, bringing decanter,
syphon and three glasses, bodily, on a tray.


UNNATURAL DEATH
389
"Now, now," said Wimsey, "now we're feeling better, do you think
you can answer our question, Mrs. Forrest?"
"May I know, first of all, what right you have to ask it?"
Parker shot an exasperated glance at his friend. This came of giving
people time to think.
"Right?" burst in Wimsey. "Right? Of course, we've a right. The police
have a right to ask questions when anything's the matter. Here's murder
the matter! Right, indeed?"
"Murder?"
A curious intent look came into her eyes. Parker could not place it,
but Wimsey recognised it instantly. He had seen it last on the face of a
great financier as he took up his pen to sign a contract. Wimsey had been
called to witness the signature, and had refused. It was a contract that
ruined thousands of people. Incidentally, the financier had been mur-
dered soon after, and Wimsey had declined to investigate the matter,
with a sentence from Dumas: "Let pass the justice of God."
"I'm afraid," Mrs. Forrest was saying, "that in that case I can't help
you. I did have a friend dining with me on the 26th, but he has not, so
far as I know, been murdered, nor has he murdered anybody."
"It was a man, then?" said Parker.
Mrs. Forrest bowed her head with a kind of mocking ruefulness. "I
live apart from my husband," she murmured.
"I am sorry," said Parker, "to have to press for this gentleman's name
and address."
"Isn't that asking rather much? Perhaps if you would give me further
details—?"
"Well, you see," cut in Wimsey again, "if we could just know for cer-
tain it wasn't Lyndhurst. My cousin is so frightfully upset, as I said, and
that Evelyn girl is making trouble. In fact—of course one doesn't want
it to go any further—but actually Sylvia lost her head very completely.
She made a savage attack on poor old Lyndhurst—with a revolver, in
fact, only fortunately she is a shocking bad shot. It went over his shoul-
der and broke a vase—most distressin' thing—a Famille Rose jar, worth
thousands—and of course it was smashed to atoms. Sylvia is really hardly
responsible when she's in a temper. And, we thought, as Lyndhurst was
actually traced to this block of flats—if you could give us definite proof it
wasn't him, it might calm her down and prevent murder being done,
don't you know. Because, though they might call it Guilty but Insane,
still, it would be awfully awkward havin' one's cousin in Broadmoor—a
first cousin, and really a very nice woman, when she's not irritated."
Mrs. Forrest gradually softened into a faint smile.


390
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I think I understand the position, Mr. Templeton," she said, "and if
I give you a name, it will be in strict confidence, I presume?"
"Of course, of course," said Wimsey. "Dear me, I'm sure it's uncom-
monly kind of you."
"YouH swear you aren't spies of my husband's?" she said, quickly.
"I am trying to divorce him. How do I know this isn't a trap?"
"Madam," said Wimsey, with intense gravity, "I swear to you on my
honour as a gentleman that I have not the slightest connection with your
husband. I have never even heard of him before."
Mrs. Forrest shook her head.
"I don't think, after all," she said, "it would be much good my giving
you the name. In any case, if you asked him whether he'd been here, he
would say no, wouldn't he? And if you've been sent by my husband,
you've got all the evidence you want already. But I give you my solemn
assurance, Mr. Templeton, that I know nothing about your friend, Mr.
Lyndhurst—"
"Major Lyndhurst," put in Wimsey, plaintively.
"And if Mrs. Lyndhurst is not satisfied, and likes to come round and
see me, I will do my best to satisfy her of the fact. Will that do?"
"Thank you very much," said Wimsey. "I'm sure it's as much as any
one could expect. You'll forgive my abruptness, won't you? I'm rather—
er—nervously constituted, and the whole business is exceedingly upset-
ting. Good afternoon. Come on, Inspector, it's quite all right—you see
it's quite all right. I'm really very much obliged—uncommonly so.
Please don't trouble to see us out."
He teetered nervously down the narrow hall-way, in his imbecile and
well-bred way, Parker following with a policeman-like stiffness. No
sooner, however, had the flat-door closed behind them than Wimsey
seized his friend by the arm and bundled him helter-skelter into the lift
.
"I thought we should never get away," he panted. "Now, quick—how
do we get round to the back of these flats?"
"What do you want with the back?" demanded Parker, annoyed. "And
I wish you wouldn't stampede me like this. I've no business to let you
come with me on a job at all, and if I do, you might have the decency
to keep quiet."
"Right you are," said Wimsey, cheerfully, "just let's do this little bit
and you can get all the virtuous indignation off your chest later on. Round
here, I fancy, up this back alley. Step lively and mind the dust-bin. One,
two, three, four—here we are! Just keep a look-out for the passing stran-
ger, will you?"
Selecting a back window which he judged to belong to Mrs. Forrest's
flat, Wimsey promptly grasped a drain-pipe and began to swarm up it


UNNATURAL DEATH
391
with the agility of a cat-burglar. About fifteen feet from the ground he
paused, reached up, appeared to detach something with a quick jerk, and
then slid very gingerly to the ground again, holding his right hand at a
cautious distance from his body, as though it were breakable.
And indeed, to his amazement, Parker observed that Wimsey now held
a long-stemmed glass in his fingers, similar to those from which they had
drunk in Mrs. Forrest's sitting-room.
"What on earth—?" said Parker.
"Hush! I'm Hawkshaw the detective—gathering finger-prints. Here we
come a-wassailing and gathering prints in May. That's why I took the
glass back. I brought a different one in the second time. Sorry I had to
do this athletic stunt, but the only cotton-reel I could find hadn't much
on it. When I changed the glass, I tip-toed into the bathroom and hung
it out of the window. Hope she hasn't been in there since. Just brush
my bags down, will you, old man? Gently—don't touch the glass."
"What the devil do you want finger-prints for?"
"You're a grateful sort of person. Why, for all you know, Mrs. For-
rest is someone the Yard has been looking for for years. And anyway,
you could compare the prints with those on the Bass bottle, if any. Be-
sides, you never know when finger-prints mayn't come in handy. They're
excellent things to have about the house. Coast clear? Right. Hail a taxi,
will you? I can't wave my hand with this glass in it. Look so silly, don't
you know. I say!"
"Well?"
"I saw something else. The first time I went out for the drinks, I had a
peep into her bedroom."
"Yes?"
"What do you think I found in the wash-stand drawer?"
"What?"
"A hypodermic syringe!"
"Really?"
"Oh, yes, and an innocent little box of ampulla;, with a doctor's pre-
scription headed 'The injection, Mrs. Forrest. One to be injected when
the pain is very severe.' What do you think of that?"
"Tell you when we've got the results of that post-mortem," said
Parker, really impressed. "You didn't bring the prescription, I suppose?"
"No, and I didn't inform the lady who we were or what we were after
or ask her permission to carry away the family crystal. But I made a note
of the chemist's address."
"Did you?" ejaculated Parker. "Occasionally, my lad, you have some
glimmerings of sound detective sense."


CHAPTER VIE
CONCERNING CRIME
"Society is at the mercy of a murderer who is remorseless, who takes no accom-
plices and who keeps his head."
Edmund Pearson: Murder at Smutty Nose
Letter from Miss Alexandra Katherine Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey.
"'Fair View,'
"Nelson Avenue,
"Leahampton.
"12 May, 1927.
"My dear Lord Peter,
"I have not yet been able to get all the information you ask for,
as Miss Whittaker has been away for some weeks, inspecting
chicken-farmsl] With a view to purchase, I mean, of course, and
not in any sanitary capacity (I). I really think she means to set up
farming with Miss Findlater, though what Miss Whittaker can see
in that very gushing and really silly young woman I cannot think.
However, Miss Findlater has evidently quite a 'pash' (as we used to
call it at school) for Miss Whittaker, and I am afraid none of us are
above being flattered by such outspoken admiration. I must say, I
think it rather unhealthy—you may remember Miss Clemence
Dane's very clever book on the subject?—I have seen so much of
that kind of thing in my rather woman-ridden existence! It has
such a bad effect, as a rule, upon the weaker character of the
two— But I must not take up your time with my twaddleII
"Miss Murgatroyd, who was quite a friend of old Miss Dawson,
however, has been able to tell me a little about her past life.
"It seems that, until five years ago, Miss Dawson lived in War-
wickshire with her cousin, a Miss Clara Whittaker, Mary Whit-
taker's great-aunt on the father's side. This Miss Clara was evi-
dently rather a 'character,' as my dear father used to call it. In her
day she was considered very 'advanced' and not quite nice (!)
because she refused several good offers, cut her hair short (!!)
and set up in business for herself as a horse-breeder!!! Of course,
nowadays, nobody would think anything of it, but then the old lady


UNNATURAL DEATH
—or young lady as she was when she embarked on this revolutionary
proceeding, was quite a pioneer.
"Agatha Dawson was a school-fellow of hers, and deeply at-
tached to her. And as a result of this friendship, Agatha's sister,
Harriet, married Clara Whittaker's brother James! But Agatha did
not care about marriage, any more than Clara, and the two ladies
lived together in a big old house, with immense stables, in a village
in Warwickshire—Crofton, I think the name was. Clara Whittaker
turned out to be a remarkably good business woman, and worked
up a big 'connection' among the hunting folk in those parts. Her
hunters became quite famous, and from a capital of a few thousand
pounds with which she started she made quite a fortune, and was a
very rich woman before her death I Agatha Dawson never had any-
thing to do with the horsey part of the business. She was the 'do-
mestic' partner, and looked after the house and the servants.
"When Clara Whittaker died, she left all her money to Agatha,
passing over her own family, with whom she was not on very good
terms—owing to the narrow-minded attitude they had taken up
about her horse-dealing!! Her nephew, Charles Whittaker, who was
a clergyman, and the father of our Miss Whittaker, resented very
much not getting the money, though, as he had kept up the feud in
a very un-Christian manner, he had really no right to complain, es-
pecially as Clara had built up her fortune entirely by her own exer-
tions. But, of course, he inherited the bad, old-fashioned idea that
women ought not to be their own mistresses, or make money for
themselves, or do what they liked with their own!
"He and his family were the only surviving Whittaker relations,
and when he and his wife were killed in a motor-car accident, Miss
Dawson asked Mary to leave her work as a nurse and make her
home with her. So that, you see, Clara Whittaker's money was des-
tined to come back to James Whittaker's daughter in the end!! Miss
Dawson made it quite clear that this was her intention, provided
Mary would come and cheer the declining days of a lonely old lady!
"Mary accepted, and as her aunt—or, to speak more exactly, her
great-aunt—had given up the big old Warwickshire house after
Clara's death, they lived in London for a short time and then moved
to Leahampton. As you know, poor old Miss Dawson was then al-
ready suffering from the terrible disease of which she died, so that
Mary did not have to wait very long for Clara Whittaker's money!!
"I hope this information will be of some use to you. Miss Murga-
troyd did not, of course, know anything about the rest of the family,
but she always understood that there were no other surviving rela-
tives, either on the Whittaker or the Dawson side.
"When Miss Whittaker returns, I hope to see more of her. I en-
close my account for expenses up to date. I do trust you will not


394
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
consider it extravagant. How are your money-lenders progressing? I
was sorry not to see more of those poor women whose cases I in-
vestigated—their stories were so pathetic 1
"I am,
"Very sincerely yours,
"Alexandra K. Climpson."
"P.S.—I forgot to say that Miss Whittaker has a little motor-car.
I do not, of course, know anything about these matters, but Mrs.
Budge's maid tells me that Miss Whittaker's maid says it is an
Austen 7 (is this right?). It is grey, and the number is XX9917."
Mr. Parker was announced, just as Lord Peter finished reading this
document, and sank rather wearily in a corner of the chesterfield.
"What luck?" inquired his lordship, tossing the letter over to him. "Do
you know, I'm beginning to think you were right about the Bertha Goto-
bed business, and I'm rather relieved. I don't believe one word of Mrs.
Forrest's story, for reasons of my own, and I'm now hoping that the
wiping out of Bertha was a pure coincidence and nothing to do with my
advertisement."
"Are you?" said Parker, bitterly, helping himself to whisky and soda.
"Well, I hope youH be cheered to learn that the analysis of the body has
been made, and that there is not the slightest sign of foul play. There is
no trace of violence or of poisoning. There was a heart weakness of
fairly long standing, and the verdict is syncope after a heavy meal."
"That doesn't worry me," said Wimsey. "We suggested shock, you
know. Amiable gentleman met at flat of friendly lady suddenly turns
funny after dinner and makes undesirable overtures. Virtuous young
woman is horribly shocked. Weak heart gives way. Collapse. Exit. Agi-
tation of amiable gentleman and friendly lady, left with corpse on then-
hands. Happy thought: motor-car; Epping Forest; exeunt omnes, sing-
ing and washing their hands. Where's the difficulty?"
"Proving it is the difficulty, that's all. By the way, there were no
finger-marks on the bottle—only smears."
"Gloves, I suppose. Which looks like camouflage, anyhow. An ordinary
picnicking couple wouldn't put on gloves to handle a bottle of Bass."
"I know. But we can't arrest all the people who wear gloves."
"I weep for you, the Walrus said, I deeply sympathise. I see the diffi-
culty, but it's early days yet. How about those injections?"
"Perfectly O.K. We've interrogated the chemist and interviewed the
doctor. Mrs. Forrest suffers from violent neuralgic pains, and the injec-
tions were duly prescribed. Nothing wrong there, and no history of
doping or anything. The prescription is a very mild one, and couldn't


396
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
to kill her before her time? Mary may really have been impatient with
her for being such an unconscionable time a-dying. If Miss Dawson
became aware of that, she would certainly have resented it and may
very well have expressed an intention of making her will in someone
else's favour—as a kind of insurance against premature decease!"
"Then why didn't she send for her solicitor?"
"She may have tried to. But after all, she was bed-ridden and help-
less. Mary may have prevented the message from being sent."
"That sounds quite plausible."
"Doesn't it? That's why I want Evelyn Cropper's evidence. I'm per-
fectly certain those girls were packed off because they had heard more
than they should. Or why such enthusiasm over sending them to Lon-
don?"
"Yes. I thought that part of Mrs. Gulliver's story was a bit odd. I say,
how about the other nurse?"
"Nurse Forbes? That's a good idea. I was forgetting her. Think you
can trace her?"
"Of course, if you really think it important."
"I do. I think it's damned important. Look here, Charles, you don't
seem very enthusiastic about this case."
"Well, you know, I'm not so certain it is a case at all. What makes
you so fearfully keen about it? You seem dead set on making it a mur-
der, with practically nothing to go upon. Why?"
Lord Peter got up and paced the room. The light from the solitary
reading-lamp threw his lean shadow, diffused and monstrously elon-
gated, up to the ceiling. He walked over to a book-shelf, and the shadow
shrank, blackened, settled down. He stretched his hand, and the hand's
shadow flew with it, hovering over the gilded titles of the books and
blotting them out one by one.
"Why?" repeated Wimsey. "Because I believe this is the case I have
always been looking for. The case of cases. The murder without dis-
cernible means, or motive or clue. The norm. All these"—he swept his
extended hand across the book-shelf, and the shadow outlined a vaster
and more menacing gesture—"all these books on this side of the room
are books about crimes. But they only deal with the abnormal crimes."
"What do you mean by abnormal crimes?"
"The failures. The crimes that have been found out. What proportion
do you suppose they bear to the successful crimes—the ones we hear
nothing about?"
"In this country," said Parker,- rather stiffly, "we manage to trace and
convict the majority of criminals—"
"My good man, I know that where a crime is known to have been


UNNATURAL DEATH
397
committed, you people manage to catch the perpetrator in at least sixty
per cent of the cases. But the moment a crime is even suspected, it falls,
ipso facto, into the category of failures. After that, the thing is merely
a question of greater or less efficiency on the part of the police. But
how about the crimes which are never even suspected?"
Parker shrugged his shoulders.
"How can anybody answer that?"
"Well—one may guess. Read any newspaper to-day. Read the News
of the World. Or, now that the Press has been muzzled, read the divorce
court lists. Wouldn't they give you the idea that marriage is a failure?
Isn't the sillier sort of journalism packed with articles to the same effect?
And yet, looking round among the marriages you know of personally,
aren't the majority of them a success, in a hum-drum, undemonstrative
sort of way? Only you don't hear of them. People don't bother to come
into court and explain that they dodder along very comfortably on the
whole, thank you. Similarly, if you read all the books on this shelf, you'd
come to the conclusion that murder was a failure. But bless you, it's
always the failures that make the noise. Successful murderers don't write
to the papers about it. They don't even join in imbecile symposia to tell
an inquisitive world 'What Murder means to me,' or 'How I became a
Successful Poisoner.' Happy murderers, like happy wives, keep quiet
tongues. And they probably bear just about the same proportion to the
failures as the divorced couples do to the happily mated."
"Aren't you putting it rather high?"
"I don't know. Nor does anybody. That's the devil of it. But you ask
any doctor, when you've got him in an unbuttoned, well-lubricated
frame of mind, if he hasn't often had grisly suspicions which he could
not and dared not take steps to verify. You see by our friend Carr what
happens when one doctor is a trifle more courageous than the rest."
"Well, he couldn't prove anything."
"I know. But that doesn't mean there's nothing to be proved. Look
at the scores and scores of murders that have gone unproved and un-
suspected till the fool of a murderer went too far and did something
silly which blew up the whole show. Palmer, for instance. His wife and
brother and mother-in-law and various illegitimate children, all peace-
fully put away—till he made the mistake of polishing Cook off in that
spectacular manner. Look at George Joseph Smith. Nobody'd have
thought of bothering any more about those first two wives he drowned.
It was only when he did it the third time that he aroused suspicion.
Armstrong, too, is supposed to have got away with many more crimes
than he was tried for—it was being clumsy over Martin and the choco-
lates that stirred up the hornets' nest in the end. Burke and Hare were


CHAPTER DC
THE WILL
"Our wills are ours to make them thine."
Tennyson: In Memoriam
"hullo! hullo—ullo! oh, operator, shall I call thee bird or but a wander-
ing voice? . . . Not at all, I had no intention of being rude, my child,
that was a quotation from the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth . . . well,
ring him again . . . thank you, is that Dr. Carr? . . . Lord Peter Wim-
sey speaking ... oh, yes ... yes .. • aha! . . . not a bit of it. . . .
We are about to vindicate you and lead you home, decorated with tri-
umphal wreaths of cinnamon and senna-pods. . . . No, really . . .
we've come to the conclusion that the thing is serious. . . . Yes. . . .
I want Nurse Forbes' address. . . . Right, IH hold on. . . . Luton?
... oh, Tooting, yes, I've got that. . . . Certainly, I've no doubt she's
a tartar, but I'm the Grand Panjandrum with the little round button
a-top. . . . Thanks awfully . . . cheer-frightfully-ho!—oh! I say!—hullo!
—I say, she doesn't do Maternity work, does she? Maternity work?—M
for Mother-in-law—Maternity?—No—You're sure? ... It would be sim-
ply awful if she did and came along. ... I couldn't possibly produce a
baby for her. ... As long as you're quite sure. . . . Right—right—yes
—not for the world—nothing to do with you at alL Good-bye, old thing,
good-bye."
Lord Peter hung up, whistling cheerfully, and called for Bunter.
"My lord?"
"What is the proper suit to put on, Bunter, when one is an expectant
father?"
"I regret, my lord, to have seen no recent fashions in paternity wear.
I should say, my lord, whichever suit your lordship fancies will induce
a calm and cheerful frame of mind in the lady."
"Unfortunately I don't know the lady. She is, in fact, only the figment
of an over-teeming brain. But I think the garments should express bright
hope, self-congratulation, and a tinge of tender anxiety."
"A newly married situation, my lord, I take it. Then I would suggest
the lounge suit in pale grey—the willow-pussy cloth, my lord—with a dull


UNNATURAL DEATH
401
wasn't she? A little bit eccentric, like the rest of the family, but a charm-
ing old lady, don't you think?"
"I became very much attached to her," said Nurse Forbes. "When
she was in full possession of her faculties, she was a most pleasant and
thoughtful patient. Of course, she was in great pain, and we had to keep
her under morphia a great part of the time."
"Ah, yes! poor old soul! I sometimes think, Nurse, it's a great pity
we aren't allowed just to help people off, y'loiow, when they're so far
gone. After all, they're practically dead already, as you might say.
What's the point of keepin' them sufferin' on like that?"
Nurse Forbes looked rather sharply at him.
"I'm afraid that wouldn't do," she said, "though one understands the
lay person's point of view, of course. Dr. Carr was not of your opinion,"
she added, a little acidly.
"I think all that fuss was simply shockin'," said the gentleman
warmly. "Poor old soul! I said to my wife at the time, why couldn't they
let the poor old thing rest. Fancy cuttin' her about, when obviously
she'd just mercifully gone off in a natural way! My wife quite agreed
with me. She was quite upset about it, don't you know."
"It was very distressing to everybody concerned," said Nurse Forbes,
"and of course, it put me in a very awkward position. I ought not to
talk about it, but as you are one of the family, you will quite under-
stand."
"Just so. Did it ever occur to you, Nurse"—Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe
leaned forward, crushing his soft hat between his hands in a nervous
manner—"that there might be something behind all that?"
Nurse Forbes primmed up her lips.
"You know," said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, "there have been cases of
doctors tryin' to get rich old ladies to make wills in their favour. You
don't think—eh?"
Nurse Forbes intimated that it was not her business to think things.
"No, of course not, certainly not. But as man to man—I mean, be-
tween you and me, what?—wasn't there a little—er—friction, perhaps,
about sending for the solicitor-johnnie, don't you know? Of course, my
Cousin Mary—I call her cousin, so to speak, but it's no relation at all,
really—of course, I mean, she's an awfully nice girl and all that sort
of thing, but I'd got a sort of idea perhaps she wasn't altogether keen
on having the will-making wallah sent for, what?"
"Oh, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, I'm sure you're quite wrong there. Miss
Whittaker was most anxious that her aunt should have every facility in
that way. In fact—I don't think I'm betraying any confidence in telling
you this—she said to me, 'If at any time Miss Dawson should express a


402
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
wish to see a lawyer, be sure you send for him at once.' And so, of
course, I did."
"You did? And didn't he come, then?"
"Certainly he came. There was no difficulty about it at all."
"There! That just shows, doesn't it? how wrong some of these gos-
sipy females can be! Excuse me, but y'know, I'd got absolutely the
wrong impression about the thing. I'm quite sure Mrs. Peasgood said
that no lawyer had been sent for."
"I don't know what Mrs. Peasgood could have known about it," said
Nurse Forbes with a sniff, "her permission was not asked in the matter."
"Certainly not—but you know how these ideas get about. But, I say
—if there was a will, why wasn't it produced?"
"I didn't say that, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe. There was no will. The
lawyer came to draw up a power of attorney, so that Miss Whittaker
could sign cheques and so on for her aunt. That was very necessary,
you know, on account of the old lady's failing powers."
"Yes—I suppose she was pretty woolly towards the end."
"Well, she was quite sensible when I took over from Nurse Philliter
in September, except, of course, for that fancy she had about poison-
ing."
"She really was afraid of that?"
"She said once or twice, 'I'm not going to die to please anybody,
Nurse.' She had great confidence in me. She got on better with me than
with Miss Whittaker, to tell you the truth, Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe. But
during October, her mind began to give way altogether, and she ram-
bled a lot. She used to wake up sometimes all in a fright and say, 'Have
they passed it yet, Nurse?'—just like that. I'd say, 'No, they haven't got
that far yet,' and that would quiet her. Thinking of her hunting days,
I expect she was. They often go back like that, you know, when they're
being kept under drugs. Dreaming, like, they are, half the time."
"Then in the last month or so, I suppose she could hardly have made
a will, even if she had wanted to."
"No, I don't think she could have managed it then."
"But earlier on, when the lawyer was there, she could have done so
if she had liked?"
"Certainly she could."
"But she didn't?"
"Oh no. I was there with her all the time, at her particular request."
"I see. Just you and Miss Whittaker."
"Not even Miss Whittaker most of the time. I see what you mean,
Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, but indeed you should clear your mind of any
unkind suspicions of Miss Whittaker. The lawyer and Miss Dawson and


UNNATURAL DEATH
403
myself were alone together for nearly an hour, while the clerk drew up
the necessary papers in the next room. It was all done then, you see,
because we thought that a second visit would be too much for Miss
Dawson. Miss Whittaker only came in quite at the end. If Miss Dawson
had wished to make a will, she had ample opportunity to do so."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said Mr. Simms-Gaythorpe, rising to
go. "These little doubts are so apt to make unpleasantness in families,
don't you know. Well, I must be toddlin' now. I'm frightfully sorry you
can't come to us, Nurse—my wife will be so disappointed. I must try to
find somebody else equally charmin' if possible. Good-bye."
Lord Peter removed his hat in the taxi and scratched his head thought-
fully.
"Another good theory gone wrong," he murmured. "Well, there's an-
other string to the jolly old bow yet. Cropper first and then Crofton—
that's the line to take, I fancy."


PART II
THE LEGAL PROBLEM
"The gladsome light of jurisprudence."
SIR EDWARD COKE
Note-A genealogical table is printed
at the end of the book


CHAPTER X
THE WILL AGAIN
"The will! the will! We will hear Caesar's will!"
Julius Cesar
"oh, miss evelyn, my dear, oh, poor dear!"
The tall girl in black started, and looked round.
"Why, Mrs. Gulliver—how very, very kind of you to come and meet
me!"
"And glad I am to have the chance, my dear, all owing to these kind
gentlemen," cried the landlady, flinging her arms round the girl and cling-
ing to her to the great annoyance of the other passengers pouring off
the gangway. The elder of the two gentlemen referred to gently put his
hand on her arm, and drew them out of the stream of traffic.
"Poor lamb!" mourned Mrs. Gulliver, "coming all this way by your
lonesome, and poor dear Miss Bertha in her grave and such terrible
things said, and her such a good girl always."
"It's poor mother I'm thinking about," said the girl. "I couldn't rest
.
I said to my husband, 'I must go,' I said, and he said, 'My honey, if I
could come with you I would, but I can't leave the farm, but if you feel
you ought to go, you shall,' he said."
"Dear Mr. Cropper—he was always that good and kind," said Mrs.
Gulliver, "but here I am, forgittin' all about the good gentlemen as
brought me all this way to see you. This is Lord Peter Wimsey, and this
is Mr. Murbles, as put in that unfortnit advertisement, as I truly believes
was the beginnin' of it all. 'Ow I wish I'd never showed it to your poor
sister, not but wot I believe the gentleman acted with the best intentions,
'avin' now seen 'im, which at first I thought 'e was a wrong 'un."
"Pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Cropper, turning with the ready
address derived from service in a big restaurant. "Just before I sailed I
got a letter from poor Bertha enclosing your ad. I couldn't make any-
thing of it, but I'd be glad to know anything which can clear up this
shocking business. What have they said it is—murder?"
"There was a verdict of natural death at the inquiry," said Mr. Mur-
bles, "but we feel that the case presents some inconsistencies, and shall
be exceedingly grateful for your co-operation in looking into the matter,


UNNATURAL DEATH
407
and also in connection with another matter which may or may not have
some bearing upon it."
"Righto," said Mrs. Cropper. "I'm sure you're proper gentlemen, if
Mrs. Gulliver answers for you, for I've never known her mistaken in a
person yet, have I, Mrs. G? I'll tell you anything I know, which isn't
much, for it's all a horrible mystery to me. Only I don't want you to
delay me, for I've got to go straight on down to Mother. She'll be in a
dreadful way, so fond as she was of Bertha, and she's all alone except
for the young girl that looks after her, and that's not much comfort
when you've lost your daughter so sudden."
"We shall not detain you a moment, Mrs. Cropper," said Mr. Mur-
bles. "We propose, if you will allow us, to accompany you to London,
and to ask you a few questions on the way, and then—again with your
permission—we should like to see you safely home to Mrs. Gotobed's
house, wherever that may be."
"Christchurch, near Bournemouth," said Lord Peter. "IH run you
down straight away, if you like. It will save time."
"I say, you know all about it, don't you?" exclaimed Mrs. Cropper
with some admiration. "Well, hadn't we better get a move on, or we'll
miss this train?"
"Quite right," said Mr. Murbles. "Allow me to offer you my arm."
Mrs. Cropper approving of this arrangement, the party made its way
to the station, after the usual disembarkation formalities. As they passed
the barrier on to the platform Mrs. Cropper gave a little exclamation
and leaned forward as though something had caught her eye.
"What is it, Mrs. Cropper?" said Lord Peter's voice in her ear. "Did
you think you recognised somebody?"
"You're a noticing one, aren't you?" said Mrs. Cropper. "Make a
good waiter—you would—not meaning any offence, sir, that's a real com-
pliment from one who knows. Yes, I did think I saw someone, but it
couldn't be, because the minute she caught my eye she went away."
"Who did you think it was?"
"Why, I thought it looked like Miss Whittaker, as Bertha and me
used to work for."
"Where was she?"
"Just down by that pillar there, a tall dark lady in a crimson hat and
grey fur. But she's gone now."
"Excuse me."
Lord Peter unhitched Mrs. Gulliver from his arm, hitched her smartly
on to the unoccupied arm of Mr. Murbles, and plunged into the crowd.
Mr. Murbles, quite unperturbed by this eccentric behaviour, shepherded
the two women into an empty first-class carriage which, Mrs. Cropper


408
THREE FOR LORD PETER WTMSEY
noted, bore a large label, "Reserved for Lord Peter Wimsey and party."
Mrs. Cropper made some protesting observation about her ticket, but
Mr. Murbles merely replied that everything was provided for, and that
privacy could be more conveniently secured in this way.
"Your friend's going to be left behind," said Mrs. Cropper as the
train moved out
.
"That would be very unlike him," replied Mr. Murbles, calmly un-
folding a couple of rugs and exchanging his old-fashioned top-hat for a
curious kind of travelling cap with flaps to it. Mrs. Cropper, in the midst
of her anxiety, could not help wondering where in the world he had
contrived to purchase this Victorian relic. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Murbles' caps were specially made to his own design by an exceedingly
expensive West End hatter, who held Mr. Murbles in deep respect as a
real gentleman of the old school.
Nothing, however, was seen of Lord Peter for something like a quarter
of an hour, when he suddenly put his head in with an amiable smile
and said:
"One red-haired woman in a crimson hat; three dark women in black
hats; several nondescript women in those pull-on sort of dust-coloured
hats; old women with grey hair, various; sixteen flappers without
hats—hats on rack, I mean, but none of 'em crimson; two obvious brides
in blue hats; innumerable fair women in hats of all colours; one ash-
blonde dressed as a nurse, none of 'em our friend as far as I know.
Thought I'd best just toddle along the train to make sure. There's just
one dark sort of female whose hat I can't see because it's tucked down
beside her. Wonder if Mrs. Cropper would mind doin' a little stagger
down the corridor to take a squint at her."
Mrs. Cropper, with some surprise, consented to do so.
"Right you are. 'Splain later. About four carriages along. Now, look
here, Mrs. Cropper, if it should be anybody you know, I'd rather on
the whole she didn't spot you watching her. I want you to walk along
behind me, just glancin' into the compartments but keepin' your collar
turned up. When we come to the party I have in mind, I'll make a
screen for you, what?"
These manoeuvres were successfully accomplished, Lord Peter lighting
a cigarette opposite the suspected compartment, while Mrs. Cropper
viewed the hatless lady under cover of his raised elbows. But the result
was disappointing. Mrs. Cropper had never seen the lady before, and a
further promenade from end to end of the train produced no better
results.
"We must leave it to Bunter, then," said his lordship, cheerfully, as
they returned to their seats. "I put him on the trail as soon as you gave


UNNATURAL DEATH
409
me the good word. Now, Mrs. Cropper, we really get down to business.
First of all, we should be glad of any suggestions you may have to make
about your sister's death. We don't want to distress you, but we have got
an idea that there might, just possibly, be something behind it."
"There's just one thing, sir—your lordship, I suppose I should say.
Bertha was a real good girl—I can answer for that absolutely. There
wouldn't have been any carryings-on with her young man—nothing of
that. I know people have been saying all sorts of things, and perhaps,
with lots of girls as they are, it isn't to be wondered at. But, believe me,
Bertha wouldn't go for to do anything that wasn't right. Perhaps you'd
like to see this last letter she wrote me. I'm sure nothing could be nicer
and properer from a girl just looking forward to a happy marriage. Now,
a girl as wrote like that wouldn't be going larking about, sir, would she?
I couldn't rest, thinking they was saying that about her."
Lord Peter took the letter, glanced through it, and handed it reverently
to Mr. Murbles.
"We're not thinking that at all, Mrs. Cropper, though of course we're
very glad to have your point of view, don't you see. Now, do you think
it possible your sister might have been—what shall I say?—got hold of
by some woman with a plausible story and all that, and—well—pushed
into some position which shocked her very much? Was she cautious and
up to the tricks of London people and all that?"
And he outlined Parker's theory of the engaging Mrs. Forrest and
the supposed dinner in the flat.
"Well, my lord, I wouldn't say Bertha was a very quick girl—not as
quick as me, you know. She'd always be ready to believe what she was
told and give people credit for the best. Took more after her father,
like. I'm mother's girl, they always said, and I don't trust anybody fur-
ther than I can see them. But I'd warned her very careful against taking
up with women as talks to a girl in the street, and she did ought to have
been on her guard."
"Of course," said Peter, "it may have been somebody she'd got to
know quite well—say, at the restaurant, and she thought she was a nice
lady and there'd be no harm in going to see her. Or the lady might
have suggested taking her into good service. One never knows."
"I think she'd have mentioned it in her letters if she'd talked to the
lady much, my lord. It's wonderful what a lot of things she'd find to
tell me about the customers. And I don't think she'd be for going into
service again. We got real fed up with service, down in Leahampton."
"Ah, yes. Now that brings us to quite a different point—the thing we
wanted to ask you or your sister about before this sad accident took
place. You were in service with this Miss Whittaker whom you men-


410
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
tioned just now. I wonder if you'd mind telling us just exactly why you
left. It was a good place, I suppose?"
"Yes, my lord, quite a good place as places go, though of course a
girl doesn't get her freedom the way she does in a restaurant. And natu-
rally there was a good deal of waiting on the old lady. Not as we minded
that, for she was a very kind, good lady, and generous too."
"But when she became so ill, I suppose Miss Whittaker managed ev-
erything, what?"
"Yes, my lord; but it wasn't a hard place—lots of the girls envied us.
Only Miss Whittaker was very particular."
"Especially about the china, what?"
"Ah, they told you about that, then?"
"I told 'em, dearie," put in Mrs. Gulliver, "I told 'em all about how
you come to leave your place and go to London."
"And it struck us," put in Mr. Murbles, "that it was, shall we say,
somewhat rash of Miss Whittaker to dismiss so competent and, if I
may put it so, so well-spoken and personable a pair of maids on so
trivial a pretext."
"You're right there, sir. Bertha—I told you she was the trusting one—
she was quite ready to believe as she done wrong, and thought how
good it was of Miss Whittaker to forgive her breaking the china, and
take so much interest in sending us to London, but I always thought
there was something more than met the eye. Didn't I, Mrs. Gulliver?"
"That you did, dear; something more than meets the eye, that's what
you says to me, and what I agrees with."
"And did you, in your own mind," pursued Mr. Murbles, "connect
this sudden dismissal with anything which had taken place?"
"Well, I did then," replied Mrs. Cropper, with some spirit. "I said
to Bertha—but she would hear nothing of it, taking after her father as I
tell you—I said, 'Mark my words,' I said, 'Miss Whittaker don't care to
have us in the house after the row she had with the old lady.'"
"And what row was that?" inquired Mr. Murbles.
"Well, I don't know as I ought rightly to tell you about it, seeing it's
all over now and we promised to say nothing about it."
"That, of course," said Mr. Murbles, checking Lord Peter, who was
about to burst in impetuously, "depends upon your own conscience. But,
if it will be of any help to you in making up your mind, I think I may
say, in the strictest confidence, that this information may be of the ut-
most importance to us—in a roundabout way which I won't trouble you
with—in investigating a very singular set of circumstances which have
been brought to our notice. And it is just barely possible—again in a very
roundabout way—that it may assist us in throwing some light on the


412
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"The old lady was capable of dealing with her own affairs, I under-
stand?"
"Up till then, sir. Afterwards, as I understood, she made it all over
to Miss Whittaker—that was just before she got feeble-like, and was kept
under drugs. Miss Whittaker signed the cheques then."
"The power of attorney," said Mr. Murbles, with a nod. "Well now,
did you sign this mysterious paper?"
"No, sir, IH tell you how that was. When me and Bertha had been
waiting a little time, Miss Whittaker comes to the door and makes us a
sign to come in quiet. So we comes and stands just inside the door.
There was a screen by the head of the bed, so we couldn't see Miss Daw-
son nor she us, but we could see her reflection quite well in a big look-
ing-glass she had on the left side of the bed."
Mr. Murbles exchanged a significant glance with Lord Peter.
"Now be sure you tell us every detail," said Wimsey, "no matter how
small and silly it may sound. I believe this is goin' to be very excitin'."
"Yes, my lord. Well, there wasn't much else, except that just inside
the door, on the left-hand side as you went in, there was a little table,
where Nurse mostly used to set down trays and things that had to go
down, and it was cleared, and a piece of blotting-paper on it and an ink-
stand and pen, all ready for us to sign with."
"Could Miss Dawson see that?" asked Mr. Murbles.
"No, sir, because of the screen."
"But it was inside the room."
"Yes, sir."
"We want to be quite clear about this. Do you think you could draw
—quite roughly—a little plan of the room, showing where the bed was
and the screen and the minor, and so on?"
"I'm not much of a hand at drawing," said Mrs. Cropper dubiously,
"but IH try."
Mr. Murbles produced a notebook and fountain pen, and after a few
false starts, the following rough sketch was produced. (See next page.)
"Thank you, that is very clear indeed. You notice, Lord Peter, the
careful arrangements to have the document signed in presence of the
witnesses, and witnessed by them in the presence of Miss Dawson and
of each other. I needn't tell you for what kind of document that arrange-
ment is indispensable."
"Was that it, sir? We couldn't understand why it was all arranged
like that."
"It might have happened," explained Mr. Murbles, "that in case of
some dispute about this document, you and your sister would have had


UNNATURAL DEATH
413
NOSS
Vuren
Table with
17 writing enatorials
c
ontested
to come into court and give evidence about it. And if so, you would
have been asked whether you actually saw Miss Dawson write her signa-
ture, and whether you and your sister and Miss Dawson were all in the
same room together when you signed your names as witnesses. And
if that had happened, you could have said yes, couldn't you, and sworn
to it?”
"Oh, yes.”
“And yet, actually, Miss Dawson would have known nothing about
your being there."
"No, sir.”
“That was it, you see.”
"I see now, sir, but at the time Bertha and me couldn't make noth-
ing of it.”
"But the document, you say, was never signed.”
"No, sir. At any rate, we never witnessed anything. We saw Miss
Dawson write her name—at least, I suppose it was her name-to one or
two papers, and then Miss Whittaker puts another lot in front of her
and says, 'Here's another little lot, auntie, some more of those income-
tax forms.' So the old lady says, 'What are they exactly, dear, let me
see?' So Miss Whittaker says, 'Oh, only the usual things.' And Miss Daw-
son says, 'Dear, dear, what a lot of them. How complicated they do
make these things to be sure.' And we could see that Miss Whittaker
was giving her several papers, all laid on top of one another, with just


CHAPTER XI
CROSS-ROADS
"Patience—and shuffle the cards."
Don Quixote
lord peter took Mrs. Cropper down to Christchurch and returned to
town to have a conference with Mr. Parker. The latter had just listened
to his recital of Mrs. Cropper's story, when the discreet opening and
closing of the flat door announced the return of Bunter.
"Any luck?" inquired Wimsey.
"I regret exceedingly to have to inform your lordship that I lost track
of the lady. In fact, if your lordship will kindly excuse the expression, I
was completely done in the eye."
"Thank God, Bunter, you're human after all. I didn't know anybody
could do you. Have a drink."
"I am much obliged to your lordship. According to instructions, I
searched the platform for a lady in a crimson hat and a grey fur, and
at length was fortunate enough to observe her making her way out by
the station entrance towards the big bookstall. She was some way ahead
of me, but the hat was very conspicuous, and, in the words of the poet,
if I may so express myself, I followed the gleam."
"Stout fellow."
"Thank you, my lord. The lady walked into the Station Hotel, which,
as you know, has two entrances, one upon the platform, and the other
upon the street. I hurried after her for fear she should give me the
slip, and made my way through the revolving doors just in time to see
her back disappearing into the Ladies' Retiring Room."
"Whither, as a modest man, you could not follow her. I quite under-
stand."
"Quite so, my lord. I took a seat in the entrance hall, in a position
from which I could watch the door without appearing to do so."
"And discovered too late that the place had two exits, I suppose. Un-
usual and distressin'."
"No, my lord. That was not the trouble. I sat watching for three quar-


418
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ters of an hour, but the crimson hat did not reappear. Your lordship
will bear in mind that I had never seen the lady's face."
Lord Peter groaned.
"I foresee the end of this story, Bunter. Not your fault . Proceed."
"At the end of this time, my lord, I felt bound to conclude either that
the lady had been taken ill or that something untoward had occurred. I
summoned a female attendant who happened to cross the hall and in-
formed her that I had been entrusted with a message for a lady whose
dress I described. I begged her to ascertain from the attendant in the
Ladies' Room whether the lady in question was still there. The girl went
away and presently returned to say that the lady had changed her cos-
tume in the cloak-room and had gone out half an hour previously."
"Oh, Bunter, Bunter. Didn't you spot the suitcase or whatever it was
when she came out again?"
"Excuse me, my lord. The lady had come in earlier in the day and
had left an attache-case in charge of the attendant. On returning, she had
transferred her hat and fur to the attaché-case and put on a small black
felt hat and a light-weight raincoat which she had packed there in readi-
ness. So that her dress was concealed when she emerged and she was
carrying the attaché-case, whereas, when I first saw her, she had been
empty-handed."
"Everything foreseen. What a woman!"
"I made immediate inquiries, my lord, in the region of the hotel and
the station, but without result. The black hat and raincoat were entirely
inconspicuous, and no one remembered having seen her. I went to the
Central Station to discover if she had travelled by any train. Several
women answering to the description had taken tickets for various desti-
nations, but I could get no definite information. I also visited all the
garages in Liverpool, with the same lack of success. I am greatly dis-
tressed to have failed your lordship."
"Can't be helped. You did everything you could do. Cheer up. Never
say die. And you must be tired to death. Take the day off and go to bed."
"I thank your lordship, but I slept excellently in the train on the way
up."
"Just as you like, Bunter. But I did hope you sometimes got tired
like other people."
Bunter smiled discreetly and withdrew.
"Well, we've gained this much, anyhow," said Parker. "We know
now that this Miss Whittaker has something to conceal, since she takes
such precautions to avoid being followed."
"We know more than that. We know that she was desperately anxious
to get hold of the Cropper woman before anybody else could see her,


UNNATURAL DEATH
419
no doubt to stop her mouth by bribery or by worse means. By the way,
how did she know she was coming by that boat?"
"Mrs. Cropper sent a cable, which was read at the inquest."
"Damn these inquests. They give away all the information one wants
kept quiet, and produce no evidence worth having."
"Hear, hear," said Parker, with emphasis, "not to mention that we
had to sit through a lot of moral punk by the Coroner, about the preva-
lence of jazz and the immoral behaviour of modern girls in going off
alone with young men to Epping Forest."
"It's a pity these busy-bodies can't be had up for libel. Never mind.
We'll get the Whittaker woman yet."
"Always provided it was the Whittaker woman. After all, Mrs. Crop-
per may have been mistaken. Lots of people do change their hats in
cloak-rooms without any criminal intention."
"Oh, of course. Miss Whittaker's supposed to be in the country with
Miss Findlater, isn't she? We'll get the invaluable Miss Climpson to
pump the girl when they turn up again. Meanwhile, what do you think
of Mrs. Cropper's story?"
"There's no doubt about what happened there. Miss Whittaker was
trying to get the old lady to sign a will without knowing it. She gave it
to her all mixed up with the income-tax papers, hoping she'd put her
name to it without reading it. It must have been a will, I think, because
that's the only document I know of which is invalid unless it's witnessed
by two persons in the presence of the testatrix and of each other."
"Exactly. And since Miss Whittaker couldn't be one of the witnesses
herself, but had to get the two maids to sign, the will must have been
in Miss Whittaker's favour."
"Obviously. She wouldn't go to all that trouble to disinherit herself."
"But that brings us to another difficulty. Miss Whittaker, as next of
kin, would have taken all the old lady had to leave in any case. As a
matter of fact, she did. Why bother about a will?"
"Perhaps, as we said before, she was afraid Miss Dawson would
change her mind, and wanted to get a will made out before—no, that
won't work."
"No—because, anyhow, any will made later would invalidate the first
will. Besides, the old lady sent for her solicitor some time later, and Miss
Whittaker put no obstacle of any kind in her way."
"According to Nurse Forbes, she was particularly anxious that every
facility should be given."
"Seeing how Miss Dawson distrusted her niece, it's a bit surprising,
really, that she didn't will the money away. Then it would have been to
Miss Whittaker's advantage to keep her alive as long as possible."


UNNATURAL DEATH
421
with the cheerful brutality of the man who has never in his life been
short of money.
"If this bright idea is correct," said Parker, "it rather messes up your
murder theory, doesn't it? Because Mary would obviously take the line
of keeping her aunt alive as long as possible, in hopes she might make a
will after all."
"That's true. Curse you, Charles, I see that bet of mine going west.
What a blow for friend Carr, too. I did hope I was going to vindicate
him and have him played home by the village band under a triumphal
arch with 'Welcome, Champion of Truth!' picked out in red-white-and-
blue electric bulbs. Never mind. It's better to lose a wager and see
the light than walk in ignorance bloated with gold.—Or stop!—why
shouldn't Carr be right after all? Perhaps it's just my choice of a mur-
derer that's wrong. Aha! I see a new and even more sinister villain step
upon the scene. The new claimant, warned by his minions—"
"What minions?"
"Oh, don't be so pernickety, Charles. Nurse Forbes, probably. I
shouldn't wonder if she's in his pay. Where was I? I wish you wouldn't
interrupt."
"Warned by his minions—" prompted Parker.
"Oh, yes—warned by his minions that Miss Dawson is hob-nobbing
with solicitors and being tempted into making wills and things, gets the
said minions to polish her off before she can do any mischief."
"Yes, but how?"
"Oh, by one of those native poisons which slay in a split second and
defy the skill of the analyst. They are familiar to the meanest writer of
mystery stories. I'm not going to let a trifle like that stand in my way."
"And why hasn't this hypothetical gentleman brought forward any
claim to the property so far?"
"He's biding his time. The fuss about the death scared him, and he's
lying low till it's all blown over."
"He'll find it much more awkward to dispossess Miss Whittaker now
she's taken possession. Possession is nine points of the law, you know."
"I know, but he's going to pretend he wasn't anywhere near at the
time of Miss Dawson's death. He only read about it a few weeks ago
in a sheet of newspaper wrapped round a salmon-tin, and now he's rush-
ing home from his distant farm in thing-ma-jig to proclaim himself as
the long-lost Cousin Tom. . . . Great Scott! that reminds me."
He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a letter.
"This came this morning just as I was going out, and I met Freddy
Arbuthnot on the doorstep and shoved it into my pocket before I'd read


422
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
it properly. But I do believe there was something in it about a Cousin
Somebody from some god-forsaken spot. Let's see."
He unfolded the letter, which was written in Miss Climpson's old-
fashioned flowing hand, and ornamented with such a variety of under-
linings and exclamation marks as to look like an exercise in musical
notation.
"Oh, lord!” said Parker.
“Yes, it's worse than usual, isn't it?-it must be of desperate impor-
tance. Luckily it's comparatively short.”
“MY DEAR LORD PETER,
“I heard something this morning which may be of use, so I
HASTEN to communicate it!! You remember I mentioned before that
Mrs. Budge's maid is the SISTER of the present maid at Miss Whit-
taker's? WELL!!! The AUNT of these two girls came to pay a visit
to Mrs. Budge's girl this afternoon, and was introduced to me-of
course, as boarder at Mrs. Budge's I am naturally an object of local
interest-and, bearing your instructions in mind, I encourage this to
an extent I should not otherwise do!!
“It appears that this aunt was well acquainted with a former
housekeeper of Miss Dawson's-before the time of the Gotobed
girls, I mean. The aunt is a highly respectable person of FORBIDDING
ASPECT!-with a bonnet (!), and to my mind, a most disagreeable
CENSORIOUS woman. However!-We got to speaking of Miss Daw-
son's death, and this aunt-her name is Timmins-primmed up her
mouth and said: 'No unpleasant scandal would surprise me about
that family, Miss Climpson. They were most UNDESIRABLY con-
nected! You recollect, Mrs. Budge, that I felt obliged to leave after
the appearance of that most EXTRAORDINARY person who announced
himself as Miss Dawson's cousin.' Naturally, I asked who this might
be, not having heard of any other relations! She said that this per-
son, whom she described as a nasty, DIRTY NIGGER (!!!) arrived
one morning, dressed up as a CLERGYMAN!!!-and sent her-Miss
Timmins-to announce him to Miss Dawson as her COUSIN HALLE-
LUJAH!!! Miss Timmins showed him up, much against her will, she
said, into the nice, CLEAN, drawing-room! Miss Dawson, she said,
actually came down to see this 'creature' instead of sending him
about his 'black business' (!), and as a crowning scandal, asked him
to stay to lunch!-'with her niece there, too,' Miss Timmins said,
‘and this horrible blackamoor ROLLING his dreadful eyes at her.'
Miss Timmins said that it 'regularly turned her stomach'-that was
her phrase, and I trust you will excuse it-I understand that these
parts of the body are frequently referred to in polite (!) society
nowadays. In fact, it appears she refused to cook the lunch for the
poor black man-(after all, even blacks are God's creatures and we


UNNATURAL DEATH
423
might all be black ourselves if He had not in His infinite kindness
seen fit to favour us with white skins!!)—and walked straight out of
the house!!! So that unfortunately she cannot tell us anything fur-
ther about this remarkable incident! She is certain, however, that
the 'nigger' had a visiting-card, with the name 'Rev. H. Dawson'
upon it, and an address in foreign parts. It does seem strange, does
it not, but I believe many of these native preachers are called to do
splendid work among their own people, and no doubt a minister
is entitled to have a visiting-card, even when black!!!
"In great haste,
"Sincerely yours,
"A. K. Climpson."
"God bless my soul," said Lord Peter, when he had disentangled this
screed—"here's our claimant ready made."
"With a hide as black as his heart, apparently," replied Parker. "I
wonder where the Rev. Hallelujah has got to—and where he came from.
He-er—he wouldn't be in 'Crockford,' I suppose."
"He would be, probably, if he's Church of England," said Lord Peter,
dubiously, going in search of that valuable work of reference. "Daw-
son—Rev. George, Rev. Gordon, Rev. Gurney, Rev. Habbakuk, Rev.
Hadrian, Rev. Hammond—no, there's no Rev. Hallelujah. I was afraid
the name hadn't altogether an established sound. It would be easier if we
had an idea what part of the world the gentleman came from. 'Nigger,'
to a Miss Timmins, may mean anything from a high-caste Brahmin to
Sambo and Rastus at the Coliseum—it may even, at a pinch, be an Ar-
gentine or an Esquimaux."
"I suppose other religious bodies have their Crockfords," suggested
Parker, a little hopelessly.
"Yes, no doubt—except perhaps the more exclusive sects—like the
Agapemonites and those people who gather together to say OM. Was it
Voltaire who said that the English had three hundred and sixty-five re-
ligions and only one sauce?"
"Judging from the War Tribunals," said Parker, "I should say that
was an under-statement. And then there's America—a country, I under-
stand, remarkably well supplied with religions."
"Too true. Hunting for a single dog-collar in the States must be like
the proverbial needle. Still, we could make a few discreet inquiries, and
meanwhile I'm going to totter up to Crofton with the jolly old "bus."
"Crofton?"
"Where Miss Clara Whittaker and Miss Dawson used to live. I'm go-
ing to look for the man with the little black bag—the strange, suspicious
solicitor, you remember, who came to see Miss Dawson two years ago,


424
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
and was so anxious that she should make a will. I fancy he knows all
there is to know about the Rev. Hallelujah and his claim. Will you
come too?"
"Can't—not without special permission. I'm not officially on this case,
you know."
"You're on the Gotobed business. Tell the Chief you think they're
connected. I shall need your restraining presence. No less ignoble pres-
sure than that of the regular police force will induce a smoke-dried
family lawyer to spill the beans."
"Well, I'll try—if you'll promise to drive with reasonable precaution."
"Be thou as chaste as ice and have a licence as pure as snow, thou
shalt not escape calumny. I am not a dangerous driver. Buck up and
get your leave. The snow-white horsepower foams and frets and the
blue bonnet—black in this case—is already, in a manner of speaking,
over the border."
"You'll drive me over the border one of these days," grumbled
Parker, and went to the 'phone to call up Sir Andrew Mackenzie at
Scotland Yard.
Crofton is a delightful little old-world village, tucked away amid the
maze of criss-cross country roads which fills the triangle of which Cov-
entry, Warwick and Birmingham mark the angles. Through the falling
night, "Mrs. Merdle" purred her way delicately round hedge-blinded
corners and down devious lanes, her quest made no easier by the fact
that the Warwick County Council had pitched upon that particular
week for a grand repainting of signposts and had reached the preliminary
stage of laying a couple of thick coats of gleaming white paint over all
the lettering. At intervals the patient Bunter unpacked himself from the
back seat and climbed one of these uncommunicative guides to peer at
its blank surface with a torch—a process which reminded Parker of
Alan Quartermaine trying to trace the features of the departed Kings of
the Kukuanas under their calcareous shrouds of stalactite. One of the
posts turned out to be in the wet-paint stage, which added to the depres-
sion of the party. Finally, after several misdirections, blind alleys and re-
versings back to the main road, they came to a fourways. The signpost
here must have been in extra need of repairs, for its arms had been
removed bodily; it stood, stark and ghastly—a long, livid finger erected
in wild protest to the unsympathetic heavens.
"It's starting to rain," observed Parker, conversationally.
"Look here, Charles, if you're going to bear up cheerfully and be the
life and soul of the expedition, say so and have done with it. I've got a


426
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
The young man, thus urged, grasped the handle-bars, and with the
energy of despair delivered a kick which would have done credit to an
army mule. The engine roared into life in a fury of vibration, racing
heart-rendingly.
"Good God!" said the youth, "it's a miracle."
Lord Peter laid a gentle hand on the throttle-lever and the shattering
bellow calmed into a grateful purr.
"What did you do to it?" demanded the cyclist.
"Blew through the filler-cap," said his lordship with a grin. "Air-lock
in the feed, old son, that's all."
"I'm frightfully grateful."
"That's all right. Look here, can you tell us the way to Crofton?"
"Sure. Straight down here. I'm going there, as a matter of fact."
"Thank Heaven. Lead and I follow, as Sir Galahad says. How far?"
"Five miles."
"Decent inn?"
"My governor keeps the 'Fox-and-Hounds.' Would that do? We'd
give you awfully decent grub."
"Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan passed. Buzz off, my lad.
No, Charles, I will not wait while you put on a Burberry. Back and
side go bare, go bare, hand and foot go cold, so belly-god send us good
ale enough, whether it be new or old."
The starter hummed—the youth mounted his machine and led off
down the lane after one alarming wobble—Wimsey slipped in the clutch
and followed in his wake.
The "Fox-and-Hounds" turned out to be one of those pleasant, old-
fashioned inns where everything is upholstered in horse-hair and it is
never too late to obtain a good meal of cold roast sirloin and home-
grown salad. The landlady, Mrs. Piggin, served the travellers herself.
She wore a decent black satin dress and a front of curls of the fashion
favoured by the Royal Family. Her round, cheerful face glowed in the
firelight, seeming to reflect the radiance of the scarlet-coated huntsmen
who galloped and leapt and fell on every wall through a series of sport-
ing prints. Lord Peter's mood softened under the influence of the atmos-
phere and the house's excellent ale, and by a series of inquiries directed
to the hunting-season, just concluded, the neighbouring families and the
price of horseflesh, he dexterously led the conversation round to the
subject of the late Miss Clara Whittaker.
"Oh, dear, yes," said Mrs. Piggin, "to be sure, we knew Miss Whit-
taker. Everybody knew her in these parts. A wonderful old lady she
was. There's a many of her horses still in the country. Mr. Cleveland, he
bought the best part of the stock, and is doin' well with them. Fine hon-


UNNATURAL DEATH
427
est stock she bred, and they all used to say she was a woman of wonder-
ful judgment with a horse—or a man either. Nobody ever got the better
of her twice, and very few, once."
"Ah!" said Lord Peter, sagaciously.
"I remember her well, riding to hounds when she was well over sixty,"
went on Mrs. Piggin, "and she wasn't one to wait for a gap, neither. Now
Miss Dawson—that was her friend as lived with her—over at the Manor
beyond the stone bridge—she was more timid-like. She'd go by the gates,
and we often used to say she'd never be riding at all, but for bein' that
fond of Miss Whittaker and not wanting to let her out of her sight. But
there, we can't all be alike, can we, sir?—and Miss Whittaker was alto-
gether out of the way. They don't make them like that nowadays. Not
but what these modern girls are good goers, many of them, and does a
lot of things as would have been thought very fast in the old days, but
Miss Whittaker had the knowledge as well. Bought her own horses and
physicked 'em and bred 'em, and needed no advice from anybody."
"She sounds a wonderful old girl," said Wimsey, heartily. "I'd have
liked to know her. I've got some friends who knew Miss Dawson quite
well—when she was living in Hampshire, you know."
"Indeed, sir? Well, that's strange, isn't it? She was a very kind, nice
lady. We heard she'd died, too. Of this cancer, was it? That's a terrible
thing, poor soul. And fancy you being connected with her, so to speak.
I expect you'd be interested in some of our photographs of the Crofton
Hunt. Jim?"
"Hullo!"
"Show these gentlemen the photographs of Miss Whittaker and Miss
Dawson. They're acquainted with some friends of Miss Dawson down in
Hampshire. Step this way—if you're sure you won't take anything more,
sir."
Mrs. Piggin led the way into a cosy little private bar, where a number
of hunting-looking gentlemen were enjoying a filial glass before closing-
time. Mr. Piggin, stout and genial as his wife, moved forward to do the
honours.
"WhatH you have, gentlemen?—Joe, two pints of the winter ale. And
fancy you knowing our Miss Dawson. Dear me, the world's a very small
place, as I often says to my wife. Here's the last group as was ever took
of them, when the meet was held at the Manor in 1918. Of course, you'll
understand, it wasn't a regular meet, like, owing to the War and the gen-
tlemen being away and the horses too—we couldn't keep things up regu-
lar like in the old days. But what with the foxes gettin' so terrible many,
and the packs all going to the dogs—ha! ha!—that's what I often used to
say in this bar—the 'ounds is going to the dogs, I says. Very good, they


428
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
used to think it. There's many a gentleman has laughed at me sayin' that
—the 'ounds, I says, is goin' to the dogs—well, as I was sayin', Colonel
Fletcher and some of the older gentlemen, they says, we must carry on
somehow, they says, and so they 'ad one or two scratch meets as you
might say, just to keep the pack from fallin' to pieces, as you might say.
And Miss Whittaker, she says, ''Ave the meet at the Manor, Colonel,'
she says, 'it's the last meet I'll ever see, perhaps,' she says. And so it was,
poor lady, for she 'ad a stroke in the New Year. She died in 1922. That's
'er, sitting in the pony-carriage and Miss Dawson beside 'er. Of course,
Miss Whittaker 'ad 'ad to give up riding to 'ounds some years before.
She was gettin' on, but she always followed in the trap, up to the very
last. 'Andsome old lady, ain't she, sir?"
Lord Peter and Parker looked with considerable interest at the rather
grim old woman sitting so uncompromisingly upright with the reins in
her hand. A dour, weather-beaten old face, but certainly handsome still,
with its large nose and straight, heavy eyebrows. And beside her,
smaller, plumper and more feminine, was the Agatha Dawson whose
curious death had led them to this quiet country place. She had a sweet,
smiling face—less dominating than that of her redoubtable friend, but
full of spirit and character. Without doubt they had been a remarkable
pair of old ladies.
Lord Peter asked a question or two about the family.
"Well, sir, I can't say as I knows much about that. We always under-
stood as Miss Whittaker had quarrelled with her people on account of
comin' here and settin' up for herself. It wasn't usual in them days for
girls to leave home the way it is now. But if you're particularly inter-
ested, sir, there's an old gentleman here as can tell you all about the
Whittakers and the Dawsons too, and that's Ben Cobling. He was Miss
Whittaker's groom for forty years, and he married Miss Dawson's maid
as come with her from Norfolk. Eighty-six 'e was, last birthday, but a
grand old fellow still. We thinks a lot of Ben Cobling in these parts. 'Im
and his wife lives in the little cottage what Miss Whittaker left them
when she died. If you'd like to go round and see them to-morrow, sir,
you'll find Ben's memory as good as ever it was. Excuse me, sir, but it's
time. I must get 'em out of the bar.—Time, gentlemen, please! Three and
eightpence, sir, thank you, sir. Hurry up, gentlemen, please. Now then,
Joe, look sharp."
"Great place, Crofton," said Lord Peter, when he and Parker were
left alone in a great, low-ceilinged bedroom, where the sheets smelt of
lavender. "Ben Cobling's sure to know all about Cousin Hallelujah. I'm
looking forward to Ben Cobling."


CHAPTER XII
A TALE OF TWO SPINSTERS
"The power of perpetuating our property in our families is one of the most valuable
and interesting circumstances belonging to it"
Burke: Reflections on the Revolution
the rainy night was followed by a sun-streaked morning. Lord Peter,
having wrapped himself affectionately round an abnormal quantity of
bacon and eggs, strolled out to bask at the door of the "Fox-and-
Hounds." He filled a pipe slowly and meditated. Within, a cheerful bus-
tle in the bar announced the near arrival of opening time. Eight ducks
crossed the road in Indian file. A cat sprang up upon the bench,
stretched herself, tucked her hind legs under her and coiled her tail
tightly round them as though to prevent them from accidentally working
loose. A groom passed, riding a tall bay horse and leading a chestnut
with a hogged mane; a spaniel followed them, running ridiculously, with
one ear flopped inside-out over his foolish head.
Lord Peter said, "Hah!"
The inn-door was set hospitably open by the barman, who said,
"Good morning, sir; fine morning, sir," and vanished within again.
Lord Peter said, "Umph." He uncrossed his right foot from over his
left and straddled happily across the threshold.
Round the corner by the church-yard wall a little bent figure hove
into sight—an aged man with a wrinkled face and legs incredibly bowed,
his spare shanks enclosed in leather gaiters. He advanced at a kind of
brisk totter and civilly bared bis ancient head before lowering himself
with an audible creak on to the bench beside the cat.
"Good morning, sir," said he.
"Good morning," said Lord Peter. "A beautiful day."
"That it be, sir, that it be," said the old man, heartily. "When I sees a
beautiful May day like this, I pray the Lord He'll spare me to live in this
wonderful world of His a few years longer. I do indeed."
"You look uncommonly fit," said his lordship, "I should think there
was every chance of it."


430
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I'm still very hearty, sir, thank you, though I'm eighty-seven next
Michaelmas."
Lord Peter expressed a proper astonishment.
"Yes, sir, eighty-seven, and if it wasn't for the rheumatics I'd have
nothin' to complain on. I'm stronger maybe than what I look. I knows
I'm a bit bent, sir, but that's the 'osses, sir, more than age. Regular
brought up with 'osses I've been all my life. Worked with 'em, slept with
'em—lived in a stable, you might say, sir."
"You couldn't have better company," said Lord Peter.
"That's right, sir, you couldn't. My wife always used to say she was
jealous of the 'osses. Said I preferred their conversation to hers. Well,
maybe she was right, sir. A 'oss never talks no foolishness, I says to her,
and that's more than you can always say of women, ain't it, sir?"
"It is indeed," said Wimsey. "What are you going to have?"
"Thank you, sir, IH have my usual pint of bitter. Jim knows. Jim!
Always start the day with a pint of bitter, sir. It's 'olesomer than tea to
my mind and don't fret the coats of the stomach."
"I dare say you're right," said Wimsey. "Now you mention it, there is
something fretful about tea. Mr. Piggin, two pints of bitter, please, and
will you join us?"
"Thank you, my lord," said the landlord. "Joe! Two large bitters and
a Guinness. Beautiful morning, my lord—'morning, Mr. Cobling—I see
you've made each other's acquaintance already."
"By Jove! so this is Mr. Cobling. I'm delighted to see you. I wanted
particularly to have a chat with you."
"Indeed, sir?"
"I was telling this gentleman—Lord Peter Wimsey his name is—as you
could tell him all about Miss Whittaker and Miss Dawson. He knows
friends of Miss Dawson's."
"Indeed? Ah! There ain't much I couldn't tell you about them ladies.
And proud I'd be to do it. Fifty years I was with Miss Whittaker. I come
to her as under-groom in old Johnny Blackthorne's time, and stayed on
as head-groom after he died. A rare young lady she was in them days.
Deary me. Straight as a switch, with a fine, high colour in her cheeks and
shiny black hair—just like a beautiful two-year-old filly she was. And
very sperrited. Wonnerful sperrited. There was a many gentlemen as
would have been glad to hitch up with her, but she was never broke to
harness. Like dirt, she treated 'em. Wouldn't look at 'em, except it might
be the grooms and stable-hands in a matter of 'osses. And in the way of
business, of course. Well, there is some creatures like that. I 'ad a terrier-
bitch that way. Great ratter she was. But a business woman—nothin'
else. I tried 'er with all the dogs I could lay 'and to, but it weren't no


432
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
had gone to the big house as stillroom maid when she wasn't but fifteen.
That was when Miss Harriet was only three years old—her as afterwards
married Mr. James Whittaker. Yes, and she'd been there when the rest
of the family was born. Mr. Stephen—him as should have been the heir—
ah, dear! only the trouble came and that killed his poor father and there
was nothing left. Yes, a sad business that was. Poor Mr. Henry specu-
lated with something—Mrs. Cobling wasn't clear what, but it was all very
wicked and happened in London where there were so many wicked peo-
ple—and the long and the short was, he lost it all, poor gentleman, and
never held up his head again. Only fifty-four he was when he died; such
a fine upright gentleman with a pleasant word for everybody. And his
wife didn't live long after him, poor lamb. She was a Frenchwoman and
a sweet lady, but she was very lonely in England, having no family and
her two sisters walled up alive in one of them dreadful Romish Con-
vents.
"And what did Mr. Stephen do when the money went?" asked
Wimsey.
"Him? Oh, he went into business—a strange thing that did seem,
though I have heard tell as old Barnabas Dawson, Mr. Henry's grand-
father that was, was nought but a grocer or something of that—and they
do say, don't they, that from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves is three genera-
tions? Still, it was very hard on Mr. Stephen, as had always been brought
up to have everything of the best. And engaged to be married to a beau-
tiful lady, too, and a very rich heiress. But it was all for the best, for
when she heard Mr. Stephen was a poor man after all, she threw him
over, and that showed she had no heart in her at all. Mr. Stephen never
married till he was over forty, and then it was a lady with no family at
all—not lawful, that is, though she was a dear, sweet girl and made Mr.
Stephen a most splendid wife—she did indeed. And Mr. John, he was
their only son. They thought the world of him. It was a terrible day when
the news came that he was killed in the War. A cruel business that was,
sir, wasn't it?—and nobody the better for it as I can see, but all these
shocking hard taxes, and the price of everything gone up so, and so
many out of work."
"So he was killed? That must have been a terrible grief to his
parents."
"Yes, sir, terrible. Oh, it was an awful thing altogether, sir, for poor
Mr. Stephen, as had had so much trouble all his life, he went out of his
poor mind and shot hisself. Out of his mind he must have been, sir, to
do it—and what was more dreadful still, he shot his dear lady as well.
You may remember it, sir. There was pieces in the paper about it."
"I seem to have some vague recollection of it," said Peter, quite un-


UNNATURAL DEATH
433
truthfully, but anxious not to seem to belittle the local tragedy. "And
young John—he wasn't married, I suppose."
"No, sir. That was very sad, too. He was engaged to a young lady—a
nurse in one of the English hospitals, as we understood, and he was
hoping to get back and be married to her on his next leave. Everything
did seem to go all wrong together them terrible years."
The old lady sighed, and wiped her eyes.
"Mr. Stephen was the only son, then?"
"Well, not exactly, sir. There was the darling twins. Such pretty chil-
dren, but they only lived two days. They come four years after Miss
Harriet—her as married Mr. James Whittaker."
"Yes, of course. That was how the families became connected."
"Yes, sir. Miss Agatha and Miss Harriet and Miss Clara Whittaker
was all at the same school together, and Mrs. Whittaker asked the two
young ladies to go and spend their holidays with Miss Clara, and that
was when Mr. James fell in love with Miss Harriet. She wasn't as pretty
as Miss Agatha, to my thinking, but she was livelier and quicker—and
then, of course, Miss Agatha was never one for flirting and foolishness.
Often she used to say to me, 'Betty,' she said, T mean to be an old
maid and so does Miss Clara, and we're going to live together and be
ever so happy, without any stupid, tiresome gentlemen.' And so it turned
out, sir, as you know, for Miss Agatha, for all she was so quiet, was very
determined. Once she'd said a thing, you couldn't turn her from it—not
with reasons, nor with threats, nor with coaxings—nothing! Many's the
time I've tried when she was a child—for I used to give a little help in
the nursery sometimes, sir. You might drive her into a temper or into
the sulks, but you couldn't make her change her little mind, even then."
There came to Wimsey's mind the picture of the stricken, helpless old
woman, holding to her own way in spite of her lawyer's reasoning and
her niece's subterfuge. A remarkable old lady, certainly, in her way.
"I suppose the Dawson family has practically died out, then," he said.
"Oh, yes, sir. There's only Miss Mary now—and she's a Whittaker, of
course. She is Miss Harriet's granddaughter, Mr. Charles Whittaker's
only child. She was left all alone, too, when she went to live with Miss
Dawson. Mr. Charles and his wife was killed in one of these dreadful
motors—dear, dear—it seemed we was fated to have nothing but one
tragedy after another. Just to think of Ben and me outliving them all."
"Cheer up, Mother," said Ben, laying his hand on hers. "The Lord
have been wonderful good to us."
"That He have. Three sons we have, sir, and two daughters, and four-
teen grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Maybe you'd like to
see their pictures, sir."


434
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Lord Peter said he should like to very much, and Parker made con-
firmatory noises. The life-histories of all the children and descendants
were detailed at suitable length. Whenever a pause seemed discernible,
Parker would mutter hopefully in Wimsey's ear, "How about Cousin
Hallelujah?” but before a question could be put, the interminable family
chronicle was resumed.
"And for God's sake, Charles,” whispered Peter, savagely, when Mrs.
Cobling had risen to hunt for the shawl which Grandson William had
sent home from the Dardanelles, “don't keep saying Hallelujah at me!
I'm not a revival meeting."
The shawl being duly admired, the conversation turned upon foreign
parts, natives and black people generally, following on which, Lord
Peter added carelessly:
"By the way, hasn't the Dawson family got some sort of connections
in those foreign countries, somewhere?”
Well, yes, said Mrs. Cobling, in rather a shocked tone. There had
been Mr. Paul, Mr. Henry's brother. But he was not mentioned much.
He had been a terrible shock to his family. In fact-a gasp here, and a
lowering of the voice-he had turned Papist and become-a monk! (Had
he become a murderer, apparently, he could hardly have done worse.)
Mr. Henry had always blamed himself very much in the matter.
"How was it his fault?”
"Well, of course, Mr. Henry's wife-my dear mistress, you see, sir-
she was French, as I told you, and of course, she was a Papist. Being
brought up that way, she wouldn't know any better, naturally, and she
was very young when she was married. But Mr. Henry soon taught her
to be a Christian, and she put away her idolatrous ideas and went to the
parish church. But Mr. Paul, he fell in love with one of her sisters, and
the sister had been vowed to religion, as they called it, and had shut her-
self up in a nunnery.” And then Mr. Paul had broken his heart and
'gone over” to the Scarlet Woman and-again the pause and the hush-
become a monk. A terrible to-do it made. And he'd lived to be a very
old man, and for all Mrs. Cobling knew was living yet, still in the error
of his ways.
"If he's alive," murmured Parker, "he's probably the real heir. He'd
be Agatha Dawson's uncle and her nearest relation.”
Wimsey frowned and returned to the charge.
"Well, it couldn't have been Mr. Paul I had in mind,” he said, "be-
cause this sort of relation of Miss Agatha Dawson's that I heard about
was a real foreigner-in fact, a very dark-complexioned man-almost a
black man, or so I was told.”
"Black?” cried the old lady_"oh, no, sir-that couldn't be. Unless


UNNATURAL DEATH
435
-dear Lord a' mercy, it couldn't be that, surely! Ben, do you think it
could be that?-Old Simon, you know?"
Ben shook his head. “I never heard tell much about him.”
"Nor nobody did,” replied Mrs. Cobling, energetically. "He was a
long way back, but they had tales of him in the family. 'Wicked Simon,'
they called him. He sailed away to the Indies, many years ago, and no-
body knew what became of him. Wouldn't it be a queer thing, like, if he
was to have married a black wife out in them parts, and this was his-
oh, dear-his grandson it ’ud have to be, if not his great-grandson, for
he was Mr. Henry's uncle, and that's a long time ago.”
This was disappointing. A grandson of "old Simon's” would surely be
too distant a relative to dispute Mary Whittaker's title. However:
"That's very interesting," said Wimsey. "Was it the East Indies or the
West Indies he went to, I wonder?”
Mrs. Cobling didn't know, but she believed it was something to do
with America.
"It's a pity as Mr. Probyn ain't in England any longer. He could have
told you more about the family than what I can. But he retired last year
and went away to Italy or some such place.”
“Who was he?"
“He was Miss Whittaker's solicitor,” said Ben, “and he managed all
Miss Dawson's business, too. A nice gentleman he was, but uncommon
sharp-ha, ha! Never gave nothing away. But that's lawyers all the world
over,” added he, shrewdly, "take all and give nothing.”
"Did he live in Crofton?”
"No, sir, in Croftover Magna, twelve miles from here. Pointer &
Winkin have his business now, but they're young men, and I don't know
much about them."
Having by this time heard all the Coblings had to tell, Wimsey and
Parker gradually disentangled themselves and took their leave.
"Well, Cousin Hallelujah's a wash-out,” said Parker.
"Possibly-possibly not. There may be some connection. Still, I cer-
tainly think the disgraceful and papistical Mr. Paul is more promising.
Obviously Mr. Probyn is the bird to get hold of. You realise who he is?”
“He's the mysterious solicitor, I suppose."
"Of course he is. He knows why Miss Dawson ought to have made
her will. And we're going straight off to Croftover Magna to look up
Messrs. Pointer & Winkin, and see what they have to say about it.”
Unhappily, Messrs. Pointer & Winkin had nothing to say whatever.
Miss Dawson had withdrawn her affairs from Mr. Probyn's hands and
had lodged all the papers with her new solicitor. Messrs. Pointer &
Winkin had never had any connection with the Dawson family. They


438
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I takes care o' yer car fer 'arf a crahn. An' ef the 'orn goes, you
docks a copper 'orf of it."
"That's right."
"Right you are, mister. I'll see none on 'em touches it."
"Good girl. Now, sir."
The spectacled young man led them into a gloomy little waiting-room,
suggestive of a railway station and hung with Old Testament prints.
"I'll tell Mr. Dawson you're here," said he, and vanished, with the
volume of theology still clutched in his hand.
Presently a shuffling step was heard on the coconut matting, and Wim-
sey and Parker braced themselves to confront the villainous claimant.
The door, however, opened to admit an elderly West Indian, of so
humble and inoffensive an appearance that the hearts of the two detec-
tives sank into their boots. Anything less murderous could scarcely be
imagined, as he stood blinking nervously at them from behind a pair of
steel-rimmed spectacles, the frames of which had at one time been
broken and bound with twine.
The Rev. Hallelujah Dawson was undoubtedly a man of colour. He
had the pleasant, slightly aquiline features and brown-olive skin of the
Polynesian. His hair was scanty and greyish—not woolly, but closely
curled. His stooping shoulders were clad in a threadbare clerical coat
.
His black eyes, yellow about the whites and slightly protruding, rolled
amiably at them, and his smile was open and frank.
"You asked to see me?" he began, in perfect English, but with the
soft native intonation. "I think I have not the pleasure—?"
"How do you do, Mr. Dawson? Yes. We are—er—makin' certain in-
quiries—er—in connection with the family of the Dawsons of Crofton in
Warwickshire, and it has been suggested that you might be able to en-
lighten us, what? as to their West Indian connections—if you would be
so good."
"Ah, yes!" The old man drew himself up slightly. "I am myself—in a
way—a descendant of the family. Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you. We thought you might be."
"You do not come from Miss Whittaker?"
There was something eager, yet defensive in the tone. Wimsey, not
quite knowing what was behind it, chose the discreeter part.
"Oh, no. We are—preparin' a work on County Families, don't you
know. Tombstones and genealogies and that sort of thing."
"Oh!—yes—I hoped perhaps—" The mild tones died away in a sigh.
"But I shall be very happy to help you in any way."
"Well, the question now is, what became of Simon Dawson? We know


UNNATURAL DEATH
441
the Rev. Hallelujah, with a kind of proud humility. "But she gave me
lunch, and spoke very kindly."
"And—forgive my askin'—hope it isn't impertinent—but does Miss
Whittaker keep up the allowance?"
"Well, no—I—perhaps I should not expect it, but it would have made
a great difference to our circumstances. And Miss Dawson rather led me
to hope that it might be continued. She told me that she did not like the
idea of making a will, but, she said, 'It is not necessary at all, Cousin
Hallelujah, Mary will have all my money when I am gone, and she can
continue the allowance on my behalf.' But perhaps Miss Whittaker did
not get the money after all?"
"Oh, yes, she did. It is very odd. She may have forgotten about it."
"I took the liberty of writing her a few words of spiritual comfort
when her aunt died. Perhaps that did not please her. Of course, I did not
write again. Yet I am loath to believe that she has hardened her heart
against the unfortunate. No doubt there is some explanation."
"No doubt," said Lord Peter. "Well, I'm very grateful to you for your
kindness. That has quite cleared up the little matter of Simon and his
descendants. I'll just make a note of the names and dates, if I may."
"Certainly. I will bring you the paper which Mr. Probyn kindly made
out for me, showing the whole of the family. Excuse me."
He was not gone long, and soon reappeared with a genealogy, neatly
typed out on a legal-looking sheet of blue paper.
Wimsey began to note down the particulars concerning Simon Dawson
and his son, Bosun, and his grandson, Hallelujah. Suddenly he put his
finger on an entry further along.
"Look here, Charles," he said. "Here is our Father Paul—the bad boy
who turned R.C. and became a monk."
"So he is. But—he's dead, Peter—died in 1922, three years before Aga-
tha Dawson."
"Yes. We must wash him out. Well, these little setbacks will occur."
They finished their notes, bade farewell to the Rev. Hallelujah, and
emerged to find Esmeralda valiantly defending Mrs. Merdle against all-
comers. Lord Peter handed over the half-crown and took delivery of the
car.
"The more I hear of Mary Whittaker," he said, "the less I like her.
She might at least have given poor old Cousin Hallelujah his hundred
quid."
"She's a rapacious female," agreed Parker. "Well, anyway, Father
Paul's safely dead, and Cousin Hallelujah is illegitimately descended.
So there's an end of the long-lost claimant from overseas."
"Damn it all!" cried Wimsey, taking both hands from the steering-


442
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
wheel and scratching his head, to Parker's extreme alarm, "that strikes
a familiar chord. Now where in thunder have I heard those words
before?"
CHAPTER XIV
SHARP QUILLETS OF THE LAW
"Things done without example—in their issue
Are to be feared."
Henry VIII, I, 2
"murbles is coming round to dinner to-night, Charles," said Wimsey.
"I wish you'd stop and have grub with us too. I want to put all this fam-
ily history business before him."
"Where are you dining?"
"Oh, at the flat. I'm sick of restaurant meals. Bunter does a wonder-
ful bloody steak and there are new peas and potatoes and genuine Eng-
lish grass. Gerald sent it up from Denver specially. You can't buy it.
Come along. Ye olde English fare, don't you know, and a bottle of what
Pepys calls Ho Bryon. Do you good."
Parker accepted. But he noticed that, even when speaking on his be-
loved subject of food, Wimsey was vague and abstracted. Something
seemed to be worrying at the back of his mind, and even when Mr.
Murbles appeared, full of mild legal humour, Wimsey listened to him
with extreme courtesy indeed, but with only half his attention.
They were partly through dinner when, a propos of nothing, Wimsey
suddenly brought his fist down on the mahogany with a crash that star-
tled even Bunter, causing him to jerk a great crimson splash of the Haut
Brion over the edge of the glass upon the tablecloth.
"Got it!" said Lord Peter.
Bunter in a low shocked voice begged his lordship's pardon.
"Murbles," said Wimsey, without heeding him, "isn't there a new
Property Act?"
"Why, yes," said Mr. Murbles, in some surprise. He had been in the
middle of a story about a young barrister and a Jewish pawnbroker
when the interruption occurred, and was a fittle put out
.


444
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Yes. That is to say, if it were you that died intestate and your brother
Gerald and your sister Mary were already dead, your money would be
equally divided among your nieces and nephews."
"Yes, but suppose they were already dead too—suppose I'd gone tedi-
ously living on till I'd nothing left but great-nephews and great-nieces
—would they inherit?"
"Why—why, yes, I suppose they would," said Mr. Murbles, with less
certainty, however. "Oh, yes, I think they would."
"Clearly they would," said Parker, a little impatiently, "if it says to the
issue of the deceased's brothers and sisters."
"Ah! but we must not be precipitate," said Mr. Murbles, rounding
upon him. "To the lay mind, doubtless, the word 'issue' appears a sim-
ple one. But in law"—(Mr. Murbles, who up till this point had held the
index-finger of the right-hand poised against the ring-finger of the left,
in recognition of the claims of the brothers and sisters of the half-blood,
now placed his left palm upon the table and wagged his right index-
finger admonishingly in Parker's direction)—"in law the word may bear
one of two, or indeed several interpretations, according to the nature of
the document in which it occurs and the date of that document."
"But in the new Act—" urged Lord Peter.
"I am not, particularly," said Mr. Murbles, "a specialist in the law
concerning property, and I should not like to give a decided opinion as
to its interpretation, all the more as, up to the present, no case has come
before the Courts bearing on the present issue—no pun intended, ha,
ha, ha! But my immediate and entirely tentative opinion—which, how-
ever, I should advise you not to accept without the support of some
weightier authority—would be, I think, that issue in this case means issue
ad infinitum, and that therefore the great-nephews and great-nieces
would be entitled to inherit."
"But there might be another opinion?"
"Yes—the question is a complicated one—"
"What did I tell you?" groaned Peter. "I knew this simplifying Act
would cause a shockin' lot of muddle."
"May I ask," said Mr. Murbles, "exactly why you want to know all
this?"
"Why, sir," said Wimsey, taking from his pocket-book the genealogy
of the Dawson family which he had received from the Rev. Hallelujah
Dawson, "here is the point. We have always talked about Mary Whit-
taker as Agatha Dawson's niece; she was always called so and she speaks
of the old lady as her aunt. But if you look at this, you will see that ac-
tually she was no nearer to her than great-niece: she was the grand-
daughter of Agatha's sister Harriet."


UNNATURAL DEATH
445
"Quite true," said Mr. Murbles, "but still, she was apparently the
nearest surviving relative, and since Agatha Dawson died in 1925, the
money passed without any question to Mary Whittaker under the old
Property Act. There's no ambiguity there."
"No," said Wimsey, "none whatever, that's the point. But—"
"Good God!" broke in Parker, "I see what you're driving at. When
did the new Act come into force, sir?"
"In January, 1926," replied Mr. Murbles.
"And Miss Dawson died, rather unexpectedly, as we know, in Novem-
ber, 1925," went on Peter. "But supposing she had lived, as the doctor
fully expected her to do, till February or March, 1926—are you abso-
lutely positive, sir, that Mary Whittaker would have inherited then?"
Mr. Murbles opened his mouth to speak—and shut it again. He
rubbed his hands very slowly the one over the other. He removed his
eyeglasses and resettled them more firmly on his nose. Then:
"You are quite right, Lord Peter," he said in a grave tone, "this is a
very serious and important point. Much too serious for me to give an
opinion on. If I understand you rightly, you are suggesting that any
ambiguity in the interpretation of the new Act might provide an inter-
ested party with a very good and sufficient motive for hastening the
death of Agatha Dawson."
"I do mean exactly that. Of course, if the great-niece inherits anyhow,
the old lady might as well die under the new Act as under the old. But if
there was any doubt about it—how tempting, don't you see, to give her a
little push over the edge, so as to make her die in 1925. Especially as she
couldn't live long anyhow, and there were no other relatives to be de-
frauded."
"That reminds me," put in Parker, "suppose the great-niece is ex-
cluded from the inheritance, where does the money go?"
"It goes to the Duchy of Lancaster—or in other words, to the Crown."
"In fact," said Wimsey, "to no one in particular. Upon my soul, I
really can't see that it's very much of a crime to bump a poor old thing
off a bit previously when she's sufferin' horribly, just to get the money she
intends you to have. Why the devil should the Duchy of Lancaster
have it? Who cares about the Duchy of Lancaster? It's like defrauding
the Income Tax."
"Ethically," observed Mr. Murbles, "there may be much to be said
for your point of view. Legally, I am afraid, murder is murder, however
frail the victim or convenient the result."
"And Agatha Dawson didn't want to die," added Parker, "she said


446
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No," said Wimsey, thoughtfully, "and I suppose she had a right to an
opinion."
"I think," said Mr. Murbles, "that before we go any further, we ought
to consult a specialist in this branch of the law. I wonder whether Tow-
kington is at home. He is quite the ablest authority I could name. Greatly
as I dislike that modern invention, the telephone, I think it might be
advisable to ring him up."
Mr. Towkington proved to be at home and at liberty. The case of the
great-niece was put to him over the 'phone. Mr. Towkington, taken at a
disadvantage without his authorities, and hazarding an opinion on the
spur of the moment, thought that in all probability the great-niece
would be excluded from the succession under the new Act. But it was an
interesting point, and he would be glad of an opportunity to verify his
references. Would not Mr. Murbles come round and talk it over with
him? Mr. Murbles explained that he was at that moment dining with two
friends who were interested in the question. In that case, would not the
two friends also come round and see Mr. Towkington?
"Towkington has some very excellent port," said Mr. Murbles, in a
cautious aside, and clapping his hand over the mouthpiece of the tele-
phone.
"Then why not go and try it?" said Wimsey, cheerfully.
"It's only as far as Gray's Inn," continued Mr. Murbles.
"All the better," said Lord Peter.
Mr. Murbles released the telephone and thanked Mr. Towkington.
The party would start at once for Gray's Inn. Mr. Towkington was
heard to say, "Good, good," in a hearty manner before ringing off.
On their arrival at Mr. Towkington's chambers the oak was found
to be hospitably unsported, and almost before they could knock, Mr.
Towkington himself flung open the door and greeted them in a loud and
cheerful tone. He was a large, square man with a florid face and a harsh
voice. In court, he was famous for a way of saying, "Come now," as a
preface to tying recalcitrant witnesses into tight knots, which he would
then proceed to slash open with a brilliant confutation. He knew Wimsey
by sight, expressed himself delighted to meet Inspector Parker, and bus-
tled his guests into the room with jovial shouts.
"I've been going into this little matter while you were coming along,"
he said. "Awkward, eh? ha! Astonishing thing that people can't say what
they mean when they draw Acts, eh? ha! Why do you suppose it is, Lord
Peter, eh? ha! Come now!"
"I suspect it's because Acts are drawn up by lawyers," said Wimsey
with a grin.
"To make work for themselves, eh? I daresay you're right. Even law-


UNNATURAL DEATH
447
yers must live, eh? ha! Very good. Well now, Murbles, let's just have
this case again, in greater detail, d'you mind?"
Mr. Murbles explained the matter again, displaying the genealogical
table and putting forward the point as regards a possible motive for
murder.
"Eh, ha!" exclaimed Mr. Towkington, much delighted, "that's good
—very good—your idea, Lord Peter? Very ingenious. Too ingenious. The
dock at the Old Bailey is peopled by gentlemen who are too ingenious.
Ha! Come to a bad end one of these days, young man. Eh? Yes—well,
now, Murbles, the question here turns on the interpretation of the word
'issue'—you grasp that, eh, ha! Yes. Well, you seem to think it means
issue ad infinitum. How do you make that out, come now?"
"I didn't say I thought it did; I said I thought it might," remonstrated
Mr. Murbles, mildly. "The general intention of the Act appears to be to
exclude any remote kin where the common ancestor is further back than
the grandparents—not to cut off the descendants of the brothers and
sisters."
"Intention?" snapped Mr. Towkington. "I'm astonished at you, Mur-
bles! The law has nothing to do with good intentions. What does the
Act say? It says, To the brothers and sisters of the whole blood and their
issue.' Now, in the absence of any new definition, I should say that the
word is here to be construed as before the Act it was construed on in-
testacy—in so far, at any rate, as it refers to personal property, which I
understand the property in question to be, eh?"
"Yes," said Mr. Murbles.
"Then I don't see that you and your great-niece have a leg to stand
on—come now!"
"Excuse me," said Wimsey, "but d'you mind—I know lay people are
awful ignorant nuisances—but if you would be so good as to explain what
the beastly word did or does mean, it would be frightfully helpful, don't
you know."
"Ha! Well, it's like this," said Mr. Towkington, graciously. "Before
1837—"
"Queen Victoria, I know," said Peter, intelligently.
"Quite so. At the time when Queen Victoria came to the throne, the
word 'issue' had no legal meaning—no legal meaning at all."
"You surprise me!"
"You are too easily surprised," said Mr. Towkington. "Many words
have no legal meaning. Others have a legal meaning very unlike their
ordinary meaning. For example, the word 'daffy-down-dilly.' It is a crimi-
nal libel to call a lawyer a daffy-down-dilly. Ha! Yes, I advise you never
to do such a thing. No, I certainly advise you never to do it. Then again,


448
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
words which are quite meaningless in your ordinary conversation may
have a meaning in law. For instance, I might say to a young man like
yourself, 'You wish to leave such-and-such property to so-and-so.' And
you would very likely reply, 'Oh, yes, absolutely'—meaning nothing in
particular by that. But if you were to write in your will, 'I leave such-
and-such property to so-and-so absolutely,' then that word would bear
a definite legal meaning, and would condition your bequest in a certain
manner, and might even prove an embarrassment and produce results
very far from your actual intentions. Eh, ha! You see?"
"Quite."
"Very well. Prior to 1837, the word 'issue' meant nothing. A grant
'to A. and his issue' merely gave A. a life estate. Ha! But this was altered
by the Wills Act of 1837."
"As far as a will was concerned," put in Mr. Murbles.
"Precisely. After 1837, in a will, 'issue' means 'heirs of the body'—
that is to say, 'issue ad infinitum? In a deed, on the other hand, 'issue'
retained its old meaning—or lack of meaning, eh, ha! You follow?"
"Yes," said Mr. Murbles, "and on intestacy of personal property—"
"I am coming to that," said Mr. Towkington.
"—the word 'issue' continued to mean 'heirs of the body,' and that
held good till 1926."
"Stop!" said Mr. Towkington, "issue of the child or children of the
deceased certainly meant 'issue ad infinitum'-but-issue of any person
not a child of the deceased only meant the child of that person and did
not include other descendants. And that undoubtedly held good till
1926. And since the new Act contains no statement to the contrary, I
think we must presume that it continues to hold good. Ha! Come now!
In the case before us, you observe that the claimant is not the child of
the deceased nor issue of the child of the deceased; nor is she the child
of the deceased's sister. She is merely the grandchild of the deceased
sister of the deceased. Accordingly, I think she is debarred from in-
heriting under the new Act, eh? ha!"
"I see your point," said Mr. Murbles.
"And moreover," went on Mr. Towkington, "after 1925, 'issue' in a
will or deed does not mean 'issue ad infinitum.' That at least is clearly
stated, and the Wills Act of 1837 is revoked on that point. Not that that
has any direct bearing on the question. But it may be an indication of
the tendency of modern interpretation, and might possibly affect the
mind of the court in deciding how the word 'issue' was to be construed
for the purposes of the new Act."
"Well," said Mr. Murbles, "I bow to your superior knowledge."
"In any case," broke in Parker, "any uncertainty in the matter would


UNNATURAL DEATH
449
provide as good a motive for murder as the certainty of exclusion from
inheritance. If Mary Whittaker only thought she might lose the money
in the event of her great-aunt's surviving into 1926, she might quite well
be tempted to polish her off a little earlier, and make sure."
"That's true enough," said Mr. Murbles.
"Shrewd, very shrewd, ha!" added Mr. Towkington. "But you realise
that all this theory of yours depends on Mary Whittaker's having known
about the new Act and its probable consequences as early as October,
1925, eh, ha!"
"There's no reason why she shouldn't," said Wimsey. "I remember
reading an article in the Evening Banner, I think it was, some months
earlier—about the time when the Act was having its second reading.
That's what put the thing into my head—I was trying to remember all
evening where I'd seen that thing about washing out the long-lost heir,
you know. Mary Whittaker may easily have seen it too."
"Well, she'd probably have taken advice about it if she did," said Mr.
Murbles. "Who is her usual man of affairs?"
Wimsey shook his head.
"I don't think she'd have asked him," he objected. "Not if she was
wise, that is. You see, if she did, and he said she probably wouldn't get
anything unless Miss Dawson either made a will or died before January,
1926, and if after that the old lady did unexpectedly pop off in October,
1925, wouldn't the solicitor-johnnie feel inclined to ask questions? It
wouldn't be safe, don't y'know. I 'xpect she went to some stranger and
asked a few innocent little questions under another name, what?"
"Probably," said Mr. Towkington. "You show a remarkable disposi-
tion for crime, don't you, eh?"
"Well, if I did go in for it, I'd take reasonable precautions," retorted
Wimsey. "'S wonderful, of course, the tom-fool things murderers do do.
But I have the highest opinion of Miss Whittaker's brains. I bet she
covered her tracks pretty well."
"You don't think Mr. Probyn mentioned the matter," suggested
Parker, "the time he went down and tried to get Miss Dawson to make
her will."
"I don't," said Wimsey, with energy, "but I'm pretty certain he tried
to explain matters to the old lady, only she was so terrified of the very
idea of a will she wouldn't let him get a word in. But I fancy old Probyn
was too downy a bird to tell the heir that her only chance of gettin' the
dollars was to see that her great-aunt died off before the Act went
through. Would you tell anybody that, Mr. Towkington?"
"Not if I knew it," said that gentleman, grinning.
"It would be highly undesirable," agreed Mr. Murbles.


452
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Probably. Well, you'll deal with the matter. I'm going to make a
search for that solicitor."
"Rather a vague sort of search, isn't it?"
"Well, I've got an idea which may work out. I'll let you know if I get
any results."
Mrs. Forrest's call duly came through in about twenty minutes' time.
Mrs. Forrest had changed her mind. Would Mr. Templeton come round
and see her that evening—about nine o'clock, if that was convenient? She
had thought the matter over and preferred not to put her information on
paper.
Mr. Templeton would be very happy to come round. He had no other
engagement. It was no inconvenience at all. He begged Mrs. Forrest
not to mention it.
Would Mr. Templeton be so very good as not to tell anybody about
his visit? Mr. Forrest and his sleuths were continually on the watch to
get Mrs. Forrest into trouble, and the decree absolute was due to come
up in a month's time. Any trouble with the King's Proctor would be
positively disastrous. It would be better if Mr. Templeton would come
by Underground to Bond Street, and proceed to the flats on foot, so as
not to leave a car standing outside the door or put a taxi-driver into a
position to give testimony against Mrs. Forrest.
Mr. Templeton chivalrously promised to obey these directions.
Mrs. Forrest was greatly obliged, and would expect him at nine
o'clock.
"Bunter!"
"My lord."
"I am going out to-night. I've been asked not to say where, so I won't.
On the other hand, I've got a kind of feelin' that it's unwise to disappear
from mortal ken, so to speak. Anything might happen. One might have
a stroke, don't you know. So I'm going to leave the address in a sealed
envelope. If I don't turn up before to-morrow mornin', I shall consider
myself absolved from all promises, what?"
"Very good, my lord."
"And if I'm not to be found at that address, there wouldn't be any
harm in tryin'—say Epping Forest, or Wimbledon Common."
"Quite so, my lord."
"By the way, you made the photographs of those finger-prints I
brought you some time ago?"
"Oh, yes, my lord."
"Because possibly Mr. Parker may be wanting them presently for
some inquiries he will be making."


454
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
bian Nights. Her heavily ringed hands busied themselves with the coffee-
cups.
"Well-I felt that your inquiries were really serious, you know, and
though, as I told you, it had nothing to do with me, I was interested and
mentioned the matter in a letter to-to my friend, you see, who was with
me that night.”
"Just so," said Wimsey, taking the cup from her, "yes-er-that was
very-er-it was kind of you to be interested.”
“He-my friend—is abroad at the moment. My letter had to follow him,
and I only got his reply to-day.”
Mrs. Forrest took a sip or two of coffee as though to clear her rec-
ollection.
"His letter rather surprised me. He reminded me that after dinner he
had felt the room rather close, and had opened the sitting-room window
--that window, there—which overlooks South Audley Street. He noticed
a car standing there—a small closed one, black or dark blue or some such
colour. And while he was looking idly at it—the way one does, you know
- he saw a man and woman come out of this block of flats-not this door,
but one or two along to the left-and get in and drive off. The man was in
evening dress and he thought it might have been your friend.”
Lord Peter, with his coffee-cup at his lips, paused and listened with
great attention.
“Was the girl in evening dress, too?"
“No-that struck my friend particularly. She was in just a plain little
dark suit, with a hat on.”
Lord Peter recalled to mind as nearly as possible Bertha Gotobed's
costume. Was this going to be real evidence at last?
"Th-that's very interesting," he stammered. “I suppose your friend
couldn't give any more exact details of the dress?”
"No," replied Mrs. Forrest, regretfully, “but he said the man's arm
was round the girl as though she was feeling tired or unwell, and he
heard him say, “That's right-the fresh air will do you good.' But you're
not drinking your coffee.”
"I beg your pardon-_” Wimsey recalled himself with a start. "I was
dreamin'-puttin' two and two together, as you might say. So he was along
here all the time-the artful beggar. Oh, the coffee. D’you mind if I put
this away and have some without sugar?”
"I'm so sorry. Men always seem to take sugar in black coffee. Give it
to me-I'll empty it away."
"Allow me.” There was no slop-basin on the little table, but Wimsey
quickly got up and poured the coffee into the window-box outside.
“That's all right. How about another cup for you?”


UNNATURAL DEATH
455
"Thank you—I oughtn't to take it really, it keeps me awake."
"Just a drop."
"Oh, well, if you like." She filled both cups and sat sipping quietly.
"Well—that's all, really, but I thought perhaps I ought to let you know."
"It was very good of you," said Wimsey.
They sat talking a little longer—about plays in Town ("I go out very
little, you know, it's better to keep oneself out of the limelight on these
occasions"), and books ("I adore Michael Arlen"). Had she read Young
Men in Love yet? No—she had ordered it from the library. Wouldn't
Mr. Templeton have something to eat or drink? Really? A brandy? A
liqueur?
No, thank you. And Mr. Templeton felt he really ought to be slippin'
along now.
"No—don't go yet—I get so lonely, these long evenings."
There was a desperate kind of appeal in her voice. Lord Peter sat
down again.
She began a rambling and rather confused story about her "friend."
She had given up so much for the friend. And now that her divorce was
really coming off, she had a terrible feeling that perhaps the friend was
not as affectionate as he used to be. It was very difficult for a woman,
and life was very hard.
And so on.
As the minutes passed, Lord Peter became uncomfortably aware that
she was watching him. The words tumbled out—hurriedly, yet lifelessly,
like a set task, but her eyes were the eyes of a person who expects some-
thing. Something alarming, he decided, yet something she was deter-
minded to have. It reminded him of a man waiting for an operation—
keyed up to it—knowing that it will do him good—yet shrinking from it
with all his senses.
He kept up his end of the fatuous conversation. Behind a barrage of
small-talk, his mind ran quickly to and fro, analysing the position, getting
the range . . .
Suddenly he became aware that she was trying—clumsily, stupidly and
as though in spite of herself—to get him to make love to her.
The fact itself did not strike Wimsey as odd. He was rich enough,
well-bred enough, attractive enough and man of the world enough to
have received similar invitations fairly often in his thirty-seven years of
life. And not always from experienced women. There had been those
who sought experience as well as those qualified to bestow it. But so
awkward an approach by a woman who admitted to already possessing
a husband and a lover was a phenomenon outside his previous knowl-
edge.


456
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Moreover, he felt that the thing would be a nuisance. Mrs. Forrest was
handsome enough, but she had not a particle of attraction for him. For
all her make-up and her somewhat outspoken costume, she struck him
as spinsterish—even epicene. That was the thing which puzzled him dur-
ing their previous interview. Parker—a young man of rigid virtue and
limited worldly knowledge—was not sensitive to these emanations. But
Wimsey had felt her as something essentially sexless, even then. And he
felt it even more strongly now. Never had he met a woman in whom
"the great It," eloquently hymned by Mrs. Elinor Glyn, was so com-
pletely lacking.
Her bare shoulder was against him now, marking his broadcloth with
white patches of powder.
Blackmail was the first explanation that occurred to him. The next
move would be for the fabulous Mr. Forrest, or someone representing
him, to appear suddenly in the doorway, aglow with virtuous wrath and
outraged sensibilities.
"A very pretty little trap," thought Wimsey, adding aloud, "Well, I
really must be getting along."
She caught him by the arm.
"Don't go."
There was no caress in the touch—only a kind of desperation.
He thought, "If she really made a practice of this, she would do it
better."
"Truly," he said, "I oughtn't to stay longer. It wouldn't be safe for
you."
"I'll risk it," she said.
A passionate woman might have said it passionately. Or with a brave
gaiety. Or challengingly. Or alluringly. Or mysteriously.
She said it grimly. Her fingers dug at his arm.
"Well, damn it all, /'// risk it," thought Wimsey. "I must and will know
what it's all about."
"Poor little woman." He coaxed into his voice the throaty, fatuous
tone of the man who is preparing to make an amorous fool of himself.
He felt her body stiffen as he slipped his arm round her, but she gave
a little sigh of relief.
He pulled her suddenly and violently to him, and kissed her mouth
with a practised exaggeration of passion.
He knew then. No one who has ever encountered it can ever again
mistake that awful shrinking, that uncontrollable revulsion of the flesh
against a caress that is nauseous. He thought for a moment that she was
going to be actually sick.


UNNATURAL DEATH
459
much cleverer than I am. It's absolutely settled that we're to take the
farm and run it together. Won't it be wonderful?"
"Won't you find it rather dull and lonely—just you two girls together?
You mustn't forget that you've been accustomed to see quite a lot of
young people in Leahampton. Shan't you miss the tennis-parties, and the
young men, and so on?"
"Oh, no! If you only knew what a stupid lot they are! Anyway, I've
no use for men!" Miss Findlater tossed her head. "They haven't got any
ideas. And they always look on women as sort of pets or playthings. As
if a woman like Mary wasn't worth fifty of them! You should have heard
that Markham man the other day—talking politics to Mr. Tredgold, so
that nobody could get a word in edgeways, and then saying, 'I'm afraid
this is a very dull subject of conversation for you, Miss Whittaker,' in his
condescending way. Mary said in that quiet way of hers, 'Oh, I think the
subject is anything but dull, Mr. Markham.' But he was so stupid, he
couldn't even grasp that and said, 'One doesn't expect ladies to be inter-
ested in politics, you know. But perhaps you are one of the modern young
ladies who want the flapper's vote.' Ladies, indeed! Why are men so in-
sufferable when they talk about ladies?"
"I think men are apt to be jealous of women," replied Miss Climpson,
thoughtfully, "and jealousy does make people rather peevish and ill-
mannered. I suppose that when one would like to despise a set of people
and yet has a horrid suspicion that one can't genuinely despise them, it
makes one exaggerate one's contempt for them in conversation. That is
why, my dear, I am always very careful not to speak sneeringly about
men—even though they often deserve it, you know. But if I did, every-
body would think I was an envious old maid, wouldn't they?"
"Well, I mean to be an old maid, anyhow," retorted Miss Findlater.
"Mary and I have quite decided that. We're interested in things, not in
men."
"You've made a good start at finding out how it's going to work," said
Miss Climpson. "Living with a person for a month is an excellent test. I
suppose you had somebody to do the housework for you."
"Not a soul. We did every bit of it, and it was great fun. I'm ever so
good at scrubbing floors and laying fires and things, and Mary's a simply
marvellous cook. It was such a change from having the servants always
bothering round like they do at home. Of course, it was quite a modern,
labour-saving cottage—it belongs to some theatrical people, I think."
"And what did you do when you weren't inquiring into the poultry
business?"
"Oh, we ran round in the car and saw places and attended markets.
Markets are frightfully amusing, with all the funny old farmers and peo-


460
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
ple. Of course, I'd often been to markets before, but Mary made it all so
interesting—and then, too, we were picking up hints all the time for our
own marketing later on."
"Did you run up to Town at all?"
"No."
"I should have thought you'd have taken the opportunity for a little
jaunt."
"Mary hates Town."
"I thought you rather enjoyed a run up now and then."
"I'm not keen. Not now. I used to think I was, but I expect that was
only the sort of spiritual restlessness one gets when one hasn't an object
in life. There's nothing in it."
Miss Findlater spoke with the air of a disillusioned rake, who has
sucked life's orange and found it dead sea fruit. Miss Climpson did not
smile. She was accustomed to the role of confidante.
"So you were together—just you two—all the time?"
"Every minute of it. And we weren't bored with one another a bit."
"I hope your experiment will prove very successful," said Miss Climp-
son. "But when you really start on your life together, don't you think it
would be wise to arrange for a few breaks in it? A little change of com-
panionship is good for everybody. I've known so many happy friendships
spoilt by people seeing too much of one another."
"They couldn't have been real friendships, then," asserted the girl,
dogmatically. "Mary and I are absolutely happy together."
"Still," said Miss Climpson, "if you don't mind an old woman giving
you a word of warning, I should be inclined not to keep the bow always
bent. Suppose Miss Whittaker, for instance, wanted to go off and have a
day in Town on her own, say—or go to stay with friends—you would
have to learn not to mind that."
"Of course I shouldn't mind. Why—" she checked herself. "I mean,
I'm quite sure that Mary would be every bit as loyal to me as I am
to her."
"That's right," said Miss Climpson. "The longer I live, my dear, the
more certain I become that jealousy is the most fatal of feelings. The
Bible calls it 'cruel as the grave,' and I'm sure that is so. Absolute
loyalty, without jealousy, is the essential thing."
"Yes. Though naturally one would hate to think that the person one
was really friends with was putting another person in one's place . . .
Miss Climpson, you do believe, don't you, that a friendship ought to be
'fifty-fifty'?"
"That is the ideal friendship, I suppose," said Miss Climpson, thought-
fully, "but I think it is a very rare thing. Among women, that is. I doubt


462
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
seen at Liverpool, it was not Miss Whittaker. The attached Miss
Findlater, who had never left her friend's side, was sufficient guarantee
of that
.
CHAPTER XVH
THE COUNTRY LAWYER'S STORY
"And he that gives us in these days new lords may give us new laws."
Wither: Contented Man's Morrice
Letter from Mr. Probyn, retired Solicitor, of Villa Bianca, Fiesole, to
Mr. Murbles, Solicitor, of Staple Inn.
"Private and confidential.
"Dear Sir,
"I was much interested in your letter relative to the death of Miss
Agatha Dawson, late of Leahampton, and will do my best to answer
your inquiries as briefly as possible, always, of course, on the un-
derstanding that all information as to the affairs of my late client
will be treated as strictly confidential. I make an exception, of
course, in favour of the police officer you mention in connection
with the matter.
"You wish to know (1) whether Miss Agatha Dawson was aware
that it might possibly prove necessary, under the provisions of the
new Act, for her to make a testamentary disposition, in order to en-
sure that her great-niece, Miss Mary Whittaker, should inherit her
personal property. (2) Whether I ever urged her to make this testa-
mentary disposition and what her reply was. (3) Whether I had
made Miss Mary Whittaker aware of the situation in which she
might be placed, supposing her great-aunt to die intestate later than
December 31, 1925.
"In the course of the Spring of 1925, my attention was called by
a learned friend to the ambiguity of the wording of certain clauses
in the Act, especially in respect of the failure to define the precise
interpretation to be placed on the word 'Issue.' I immediately passed
in review the affairs of my various clients, with a view to satisfying
myself that the proper dispositions had been made in each case to
avoid misunderstanding and litigation in case of intestacy. I at once
realised that Miss Whittaker's inheritance of Miss Dawson's prop-


UNNATURAL DEATH
463
erty entirely depended on the interpretation given to the clauses
in question. I was aware that Miss Dawson was extremely averse
from making a will, owing to that superstitious dread of decease
which we meet with so frequently in our profession. However, I
thought it my duty to make her understand the question and to do
my utmost to get a will signed. Accordingly, I went down to Lea-
hampton and laid the matter before her. This was on March the
14th, or thereabouts—I am not certain to the precise day.
"Unhappily, I encountered Miss Dawson at a moment when her
opposition to the obnoxious idea of making a will was at its
strongest. Her doctor had informed her that a further operation
would become necessary in the course of the next few weeks, and I
could have selected no more unfortunate occasion for intruding the
subject of death upon her mind. She resented any such suggestion
—there was a conspiracy, she declared, to frighten her into dying
under the operation. It appears that that very tactless practitioner
of hers had frightened her with a similar suggestion before her pre-
vious operation. But she had come through that and she meant to
come through this, if only people would not anger and alarm her.
"Of course, if she had died under the operation, the whole ques-
tion would have settled itself and there would have been no need of
any will. I pointed out that the very reason why I was anxious for
the will to be made was that I fully expected her to live on into the
following year, and I explained the provisions of the Act once more,
as clearly as I could. She retorted that in that case I had no business
to come and trouble her about the question at all. It would be time
enough when the Act was passed.
"Naturally, the fool of a doctor had insisted that she was not to
be told what her disease was—they always do—and she was con-
vinced that the next operation would make all right and that she
would live for years. When I ventured to insist—giving as my reason
that we men of law always preferred to be on the safe and cautious
side, she became exceedingly angry with me, and practically or-
dered me out of the house. A few days afterwards I received a
letter from her, complaining of my impertinence, and saying that
she could no longer feel any confidence in a person who treated her
with such inconsiderate rudeness. At her request, I forwarded all
her private papers in my possession to Mr. Hodgson, of Leahamp-
ton, and I have not held any communication with any member of
the family since that date.
"This answers your first and second questions. With regard to the
third: I certainly did not think it proper to inform Miss Whittaker
that her inheritance might depend upon her great-aunt's either mak-
ing a will or else dying before December 31, 1925. While I know
nothing to the young lady's disadvantage, I have always held it in-


464
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
advisable that persons should know too exactly how much they
stand to gain by the unexpected decease of other persons. In case
of any unforeseen accident, the heirs may find themselves in an
equivocal position, where the fact of their possessing such knowl-
edge might-if made public-be highly prejudicial to their interests.
The most that I thought it proper to say was that if at any time Miss
Dawson should express a wish to see me, I should like to be sent for
without delay. Of course, the withdrawal of Miss Dawson's affairs
from my hands put it out of my power to interfere any further.
“In October, 1925, feeling that my health was not what it had
been, I retired from business and came to Italy. In this country the
English papers do not always arrive regularly, and I missed the an-
nouncement of Miss Dawson's death. That it should have occurred
so suddenly and under circumstances somewhat mysterious, is cer-
tainly interesting.
"You say further that you would be glad of my opinion on Miss
Agatha Dawson's mental condition at the time when I last saw her.
It was perfectly clear and competent-in so far as she was ever
competent to deal with business. She was in no way gifted to grapple
with legal problems, and I had extreme difficulty in getting her to
understand what the trouble was with regard to the new Property
Act. Having been brought up all her life to the idea that property
went of right to the next of kin, she found it inconceivable that this
state of things should ever alter. She assured me that the law would
never permit the Government to pass such an Act. When I had
reluctantly persuaded her that it would, she was quite sure that no
court would be wicked enough to interpret the Act so as to give the
money to anybody but Miss Whittaker, when she was clearly the
proper person to have it. 'Why should the Duchy of Lancaster have
any right to it?' she kept on saying. 'I don't even know the Duke of
Lancaster.' She was not a particularly sensible woman, and in the
end I was not at all sure that I had made her comprehend the situa-
tion-quite apart from the dislike she had of pursuing the subject.
However, there is no doubt that she was then quite compos mentis.
My reason for urging her to make the will before her final opera-
tion was, of course, that I feared she might subsequently lose the use
of her faculties, or-which comes to the same thing from a business
point of view-might have to be kept continually under the influ-
ence of opiates.
“Trusting that you will find here the information you require,
“I remain,
“Yours faithfully,
“THOS. PROBYN."
Mr. Murbles read this letter through twice, very thoughtfully. To even
his cautious mind, the thing began to look like the makings of a case. In


UNNATURAL DEATH
465
his neat, elderly hand, he wrote a little note to Detective-Inspector Par-
ker, begging him to call at Staple Inn at his earliest convenience.
Mr. Parker, however, was experiencing nothing at that moment but
inconvenience. He had been calling on solicitors for two whole days, and
his soul sickened at the sight of a brass plate. He glanced at the long list
in his hand, and distastefully counted up the scores of names that still
remained unticked.
Parker was one of those methodical, painstaking people whom the
world could so ill spare. When he worked with Wimsey on a case, it was
an understood thing that anything lengthy, intricate, tedious and soul-
destroying was done by Parker. He sometimes felt that it was irritating of
Wimsey to take this so much for granted. He felt so now. It was a hot day.
The pavements were dusty. Pieces of paper blew about the streets. Buses
were grilling outside and stuffy inside. The Express Dairy, where Parker
was eating a hurried lunch, seemed full of the odours of fried plaice and
boiling tea-urns. Wimsey, he knew, was lunching at his club, before run-
ning down with Freddy Arbuthnot to see the New Zealanders at some-
where or other. He had seen him-a vision of exquisite pale grey, ambling
gently along Pall Mall. Damn Wimsey! Why couldn't he have let Miss
Dawson rest quietly in her grave? There she was, doing no harm to any-
body-and Wimsey must insist on prying into her affairs and bringing the
inquiry to such a point that Parker simply had to take official notice of
it. Oh well! he supposed he must go on with these infernal solicitors.
He was proceeding on a system of his own, which might or might not
prove fruitful. He had reviewed the subject of the new Property Act, and
decided that if and when Miss Whittaker had become aware of its pos-
sible effect on her own expectations, she would at once consider taking
legal advice.
Her first thought would no doubt be to consult a solicitor in Leahamp-
ton, and unless she already had the idea of foul play in her mind, there
was nothing to deter her from doing so. Accordingly, Parker's first move
had been to run down to Leahampton and interview the three firms of
solicitors there. All three were able to reply quite positively that they had
never received such an inquiry from Miss Whittaker, or from anybody,
during the year 1925. One solicitor, indeed-the senior partner of Hodg-
son & Hodgson, to whom Miss Dawson had entrusted her affairs after her
quarrel with Mr. Probyn-looked a little oddly at Parker when he heard
the question.
"I assure you, Inspector,” he said, "that if the point had been brought
to my notice in such a way, I should certainly have remembered it, in the
light of subsequent events."
“The matter never crossed your mind, I suppose," said Parker, "when


466
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
the question arose of winding up the estate and proving Miss Whittaker's
claim to inherit?"
"I can't say it did. Had there been any question of searching for next-
of-kin it might—I don't say it would—have occurred to me. But I had a
very clear history of the family connections from Mr. Probyn, the death
took place nearly two months before the Act came into force, and the
formalities all went through more or less automatically. In fact, I never
thought about the Act one way or another in that connection."
Parker said he was not surprised to hear it, and favoured Mr. Hodg-
son with Mr. Towkington's learned opinion on the subject, which inter-
ested Mr. Hodgson very much. And that was all he got at Leahampton,
except that he fluttered Miss Climpson very much by calling upon her
and hearing all about her interview with Vera Findlater. Miss Climpson
walked to the station with him, in the hope that they might meet Miss
Whittaker—"I am sure you would be interested to see her"—but they
were unlucky. On the whole, thought Parker, it might be just as well.
After all, though he would like to see Miss Whittaker, he was not par-
ticularly keen on her seeing him, especially in Miss Climpson's com-
pany. "By the way," he said to Miss Climpson, "you had better explain
me in some way to Mrs. Budge, or she may be a bit inquisitive."
"But I have," replied Miss Climpson, with an engaging giggle, "when
Mrs. Budge said there was a Mr. Parker to see me, of course I realised
at once that she mustn't know who you were, so I said, quite quickly,
'Mr. Parker! Oh, that must be my nephew Adolphus.' You don't mind
being Adolphus, do you? It's funny, but that was the only name that
came into my mind at the moment. I can't think why, for I've never
known an Adolphus."
"Miss Climpson," said Parker, solemnly, "you are a marvellous
woman, and I wouldn't mind even if you'd called me Marmaduke."
So here he was, working out his second line of inquiry. If Miss Whit-
taker did not go to a Leahampton solicitor, to whom would she go? There
was Mr. Probyn, of course, but he did not think she would have selected
him. She would not have known him at Crofton, of course—she had never
actually lived with her great-aunts. She had met him the day he came
down to Leahampton to see Miss Dawson. He had not then taken her
into his confidence about the object of his visit, but she must have known
from what her aunt said that it had to do with the making of a will. In
the light of her new knowledge, she would guess that Mr. Probyn had
then had the Act in his mind, and had not thought fit to trust her with
the facts. If she asked him now, he would probably reply that Miss
Dawson's affairs were no longer in his hands, and refer her to Mr.
Hodgson. And besides, if she asked the question and anything were to


UNNATURAL DEATH
467
happen—Mr. Probyn might remember it. No, she would not have ap-
proached Mr. Probyn.
What then?
To the person who has anything to conceal—to the person who wants
to lose his identity as one leaf among the leaves of a forest—to the person
who asks no more than to pass by and be forgotten, there is one name
above others which promises a haven of safety and oblivion. London.
Where no one knows his neighbour. Where shops do not know their cus-
tomers. Where physicians are suddenly called to unknown patients whom
they never see again. Where you may lie dead in your house for months
together unmissed and unnoticed till the gas-inspector comes to look at
the meter. Where strangers are friendly and friends are casual. London,
whose rather untidy and grubby bosom is the repository of so many odd
secrets. Discreet, incurious and all-enfolding London.
Not that Parker put it that way to himself. He merely thought, "Ten
to one she'd try London. They mostly think they're safer there."
Miss Whittaker knew London, of course. She had trained at the Royal
Free. That meant she would know Bloomsbury better than any other
district. For nobody knew better than Parker how rarely Londoners
move out of their own particular little orbit. Unless, of course, she had
at some time during her time at the hospital been recommended to a
solicitor in another quarter, the chances were that she would have gone
to a solicitor in the Bloomsbury or Holborn district.
Unfortunately for Parker, this is a quarter which swarms with solici-
tors. Gray's Inn Road, Gray's Inn itself, Bedford Row, Holborn, Lin-
coln's Inn—the brass plates grow all about as thick as blackberries.
Which was why Parker was feeling so hot, tired and fed-up that June
afternoon.
With an impatient grunt he pushed away his eggy plate, paid-at-the-
desk-please, and crossed the road towards Bedford Row, which he had
marked down as his portion for the afternoon.
He started at the first solicitor's he came to, which happened to be the
office of one J. F. Trigg. He was lucky. The youth in the outer office in-
formed him that Mr. Trigg had just returned from lunch, was disen-
gaged, and would see him. Would he walk in?
Mr. Trigg was a pleasant, fresh-faced man in his early forties. He
begged Mr. Parker to be seated and asked what he could do for him.
For the thirty-seventh time, Parker started on the opening gambit
which he had devised to suit his purpose.
"I am only temporarily in London, Mr. Trigg, and finding I needed
legal advice I was recommended to you by a man I met in a restaurant.
He did give me his name, but it has escaped me, and anyway, it's of no


468
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
great importance, is it? The point is this. My wife and I have come up to
Town to see her great-aunt, who is in a very bad way. In fact, she isn't
expected to live.
"Well, now, the old lady has always been very fond of my wife, don't
you see, and it has always been an understood thing that Mrs. Parker was
to come into her money when she died. It's quite a tidy bit, and we have
been—I won't say looking forward to it, but in a kind of mild way count-
ing on it as something for us to retire upon later on. You understand.
There aren't any other relations at all, so, though the old lady has often
talked about making a will, we didn't worry much, one way or the
other, because we took it for granted my wife would come in for any-
thing there was. But we were talking about it to a friend yesterday,
and he took us rather aback by saying that there was a new law or some-
thing, and that if my wife's great-aunt hadn't made a will we shouldn't
get anything at all. I think he said it would all go to the Crown. I didn't
think that could be right and told him so, but my wife is a bit nervous—
there are the children to be considered, you see—and she urged me to get
legal advice, because her great-aunt may go off at any minute, and we
don't know whether there is a will or not. Now, how does a great-niece
stand under the new arrangements?"
"The point has not been made very clear," said Mr. Trigg, "but my
advice to you is, to find out whether a will has been made and if not, to
get one made without delay if the testatrix is capable of making one.
Otherwise I think there is a very real danger of your wife's losing her in-
heritance."
"You seem quite familiar with the question," said Parker, with a
smile; "I suppose you are always being asked it since this new Act
came in?"
"I wouldn't say 'always.' It is comparatively rare for a great-niece to
be left as sole next-of-kin."
"Is it? Well, yes, I should think it must be. Do you remember being
asked that question in the summer of 1925, Mr. Trigg?"
A most curious expression came over the solicitor's face—it looked
almost like alarm.
"What makes you ask that?"
"You need have no hesitation in answering," said Parker, taking out
his official card. "I am a police officer and have a good reason for asking.
I put the legal point to you first as a problem of my own, because I was
anxious to have your professional opinion first."
"I see. Well, Inspector, in that case I suppose I am justified in telling
you all about it. I was asked that question in June, 1925."
"Do you remember the circumstances?"


UNNATURAL DEATH
469
"Clearly. I am not likely to forget them—or rather, the sequel to them."
"That sounds interesting. Will you tell the story in your own way and
with all the details you can remember?"
"Certainly. Just a moment." Mr. Trigg put his head out into the outer
office. "Badcock, I am engaged with Mr. Parker and can't see anybody.
Now, Mr. Parker, I am at your service. Won't you smoke?"
Parker accepted the invitation and lit up his well-worn briar, while Mr.
Trigg, rapidly smoking cigarette after cigarette, unfolded his remarkable
story.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LONDON LAWYER'S STORY
"l who am given to novel-reading, how often have I gone out with the doctor
when the stranger has summoned him to visit the unknown patient in the lonely
house. . . . This Strange Adventure may lead, in a later chapter, to the revealing
of a mysterious crime."
The Londoner
"i thtnk," said Mr. Trigg, "that it was on the 15th, or 16th June, 1925,
that a lady called to ask almost exactly the same question that you have
done—only that she represented herself as inquiring on behalf of a friend
whose name she did not mention. Yes—I think I can describe her pretty
well. She was tall and handsome, with a very clear skin, dark hair and
blue eyes—an attractive girl. I remember that she had very fine brows,
rather straight, and not much colour in her face, and she was dressed in
something summery but very neat. I should think it would be called an
embroidered linen dress—I am not an expert on those things—and a shady
white hat of panama straw."
"Your recollection seems very clear," said Parker.
"It is; I have rather a good memory; besides, I saw her on other occa-
sions, as you shall hear.
"At this first visit she told me—much as you did—that she was only
temporarily in Town, and had been casually recommended to me. I told
her that I should not like to answer her question off-hand. The Act, you
may remember, had only recently passed its Final Reading, and I was
by no means up in it. Besides, from just skimming through it, I had con-


472
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
leaving no address. In the hotel register, she had merely given her ad-
dress as Manchester. I was somewhat disappointed, but thought no
more about the matter.
"About a month later—on January 26th, to be exact, I was sitting at
home reading a book, preparatory to retiring to bed. I should say that I
occupy a flat, or rather maisonette, in a small house which has been di-
vided to make two establishments. The people on the ground floor were
away at that time, so that I was quite alone in the house. My house-
keeper only comes in by the day. The telephone rang—I noticed the time.
It was a quarter to eleven. I answered it, and a woman's voice spoke,
begging me to come instantly to a certain house on Hampstead Heath,
to make a will for someone who was at the point of death."
"Did you recognise the voice?"
"No. It sounded like a servant's voice. At any rate, it had a strong
cockney accent. I asked whether to-morrow would not be time enough,
but the voice urged me to hurry or it might be too late. Rather annoyed,
I put my things on and went out. It was a most unpleasant night, cold
and foggy. I was lucky enough to find a taxi on the nearest rank. We
drove to the address, which we had great difficulty in finding, as every-
thing was pitch-black. It turned out to be a small house in a very iso-
lated position on the Heath—in fact, there was no proper approach to
it. I left the taxi on the road, about a couple of hundred yards off, and
asked the man to wait for me, as I was very doubtful of ever finding
another taxi in that spot at that time of night. He grumbled a good deal,
but consented to wait if I promised not to be very long.
"I made my way to the house. At first I thought it was quite dark, but
presently I saw a faint glimmer in a ground-floor room. I rang the bell.
No answer, though I could hear it trilling loudly. I rang again and
knocked. Still no answer. It was bitterly cold. I struck a match to be sure
I had come to the right house, and then I noticed that the front door was
ajar.
"I thought that perhaps the servant who had called me was so much
occupied with her sick mistress as to be unable to leave her to come to
the door. Thinking that in that case I might be of assistance to her, I
pushed the door open and went in. The hall was perfectly dark, and I
bumped against an umbrella-stand in entering. I thought I heard a faint
voice calling or moaning, and when my eyes had become accustomed
to the darkness, I stumbled forward, and saw a dim light coming from a
door on the left."
"Was that the room which you had seen to be illumined from out-
side?"
"I think so. I called out, 'May I come in?' and a very low, weak voice


474
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
tacked her. She replied, 'My husband. He thinks he has killed me. But
I am going to live long enough to will the money away.' She then said
that her name was Mrs. Marion Mead, and proceeded to make a will,
leaving her estate, which amounted to about £10,000, among various
legatees, including a daughter and three or four sisters. It was rather a
complicated will, as it included various devices for tying up the daugh-
ter's money in a trust, so as to prevent her from ever handing over any
of it to the father."
"Did you make a note of the names and addresses of the people in-
volved?"
"I did, but, as you will see later on, I could make no use of them. The
testatrix was certainly clear-headed enough about the provisions of the
will, though she seemed terribly weak, and her voice never rose above a
whisper after that one time when she had called to me not to turn on
the light.
"At length I finished my notes of the will, and started to draft it out on
to the proper form. There were no signs of the servant's return, and I
began to be really anxious. Also the extreme cold—or something else—
added to the fact that it was now long past my bed-time, was making me
appallingly sleepy. I poured out another stiff little dose of the brandy to
warm me up, and went on writing out the will.
"When I had finished I said:
"'How about signing this? We need another witness to make it legal.'
"She said, 'My servant must be here in a minute or two. I can't think
what has happened to her.'
"'I expect she has missed her way in the fog,' I said. 'However, I will
wait a little longer. I can't go and leave you like this.'
"She thanked me feebly, and we sat for some time in silence. As time
went on, I began to feel the situation to be increasingly uncanny. The
sick woman breathed heavily, and moaned from time to time. The desire
for sleep overpowered me more and more. I could not understand it.
"Presently it occurred to me, stupefied though I felt, that the most
sensible thing would be to get the taxi-man—if he was still there—to come
in and witness the will with me, and then to go myself to find a doctor. I
sat, sleepily revolving this in my mind, and trying to summon energy to
speak. I felt as though a great weight of inertia was pressing down upon
me. Exertion of any kind seemed almost beyond my powers.
"Suddenly something happened which brought me back to myself.
Mrs. Mead turned a little over upon the couch and peered at me intently,
as it seemed, in the lamplight. To support herself, she put both her hands
on the edge of the table. I noticed, with a vague sense of something un-


UNNATURAL DEATH
475
expected, that the left hand bore no wedding-ring. And then I noticed
something else.
"Across the back of the fingers of the right hand went a curious scar
—as though a chisel or some such thing had slipped and cut them."
Parker sat upright in his chair.
"Yes," said Mr. Trigg, "that interests you. It startled me. Or rather,
startled isn't quite the word. In my oppressed state, it affected me like
some kind of nightmare. I struggled upright in my chair, and the woman
sank back upon her pillows.
"At that moment there came a violent ring at the bell."
"The servant?"
"No—thank Heaven it was my taxi-driver, who had become tired of
waiting. I thought—I don't quite know what I thought—but I was
alarmed. I gave some kind of shout or groan, and the man came
straight in. Happily, I had left the door open as I had found it.
"I pulled myself together sufficiently to ask him to witness the will. I
must have looked queer and spoken in a strange way, for I remember
how he looked from me to the brandy-bottle. However, he signed the
paper after Mrs. Mead, who wrote her name in a weak, straggling hand
as she lay on her back.
"'Wot next, guv'nor?' asked the man, when this was done.
"I was feeling dreadfully ill by now. I could only say, 'Take me
home.'
"He looked at Mrs. Mead and then at me, and said, 'Ain't there no-
body to see to the lady, sir?'
"I said, 'Fetch a doctor. But take me home first.'
"I stumbled out of the house on his arm. I heard him muttering some-
thing about its being a rum start. I don't remember the drive home. When
I came back to life, I was in my own bed, and one of the local doctors
was standing over me.
"I'm afraid this story is getting very long and tedious. To cut matters
short, it seems the taxi-driver, who was a very decent, intelligent fellow,
had found me completely insensible at the end of the drive. He didn't
know who I was, but he hunted in my pocket and found my visiting-card
and my latch-key. He took me home, got me upstairs and, deciding that
if I was drunk, I was a worse drunk than he had ever encountered in his
experience, humanely went round and fetched a doctor.
"The doctor's opinion was that I had been heavily drugged with ver-
onal or something of that kind. Fortunately, if the idea was to murder
me, the dose had been very much under-estimated. We went into the
matter thoroughly, and the upshot was that I must have taken about 30
grains of the stuff. It appears that it is a difficult drug to trace by analy-


476
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
sis, but that was the conclusion the doctor came to, looking at the mat-
ter all round. Undoubtedly the brandy had been doped.
"Of course, we went round to look at the house next day. It was all
shut up, and the local milkman informed us that the occupiers had been
away for a week and were not expected home for another ten days. We
got into communication with them, but they appeared to be perfectly
genuine, ordinary people, and they declared they knew nothing what-
ever about it. They were accustomed to go away every so often, just
shutting the house and not bothering about a caretaker or anything. The
man came along at once, naturally, to investigate matters, but couldn't
find that anything had been stolen or disturbed, except that a pair of
sheets and some pillows showed signs of use, and a scuttle of coal had
been used in the sitting-room. The coal-cellar, which also contained the
electric meter, had been left locked and the meter turned off before the
family left—they apparently had a few grains of sense—which accounts
for the chill darkness of the house when I entered it. The visitor had ap-
parently slipped back the catch of the pantry window—one of the usual
gimcrack affairs—with a knife or something, and had brought her own
lamp, siphon and brandy. Daring, but not really difficult.
"No Mrs. Mead or Miss Grant was to be heard of anywhere, as I
needn't tell you. The tenants of the house were not keen to start expen-
sive inquiries—after all, they'd lost nothing but a shilling's worth of coals
—and on consideration, and seeing that I hadn't actually been murdered
or anything, I thought it best to let the matter slide. It was a most un-
pleasant adventure."
"I'm sure it was. Did you ever hear from Miss Grant again?"
"Why, yes. She rang me up twice—once, after three months, and again
only a fortnight ago, asking for an appointment. You may think me
cowardly, Mr. Parker, but each time I put her off. I didn't quite know
what might happen. As a matter of fact, the opinion I formed in my own
mind was that I had been entrapped into that house with the idea of
making me spend the night there and afterwards blackmailing me. That
was the only explanation I could think of which would account for the
sleeping-draught. I thought discretion was the better part of valour, and
gave my clerks and my housekeeper instructions that if Miss Grant
should call at any time I was out and not expected back."
"H'm. Do you suppose she knew you had recognised the scar on her
hand?"
"I'm sure she didn't. Otherwise she would hardly have made advances
to me in her own name again."
"No. I think you are right. Well, Mr. Trigg, I am much obliged to you
for this information, which may turn out to be very valuable. And if


UNNATURAL DEATH
477
Miss Grant should ring you up again—where did she call from, by the
way?"
"From call-boxes, each time. I know that, because the operator always
tells one when the call is from a public box. I didn't have the calls
traced."
"No, of course not. Well, if she does it again, will you please make an
appointment with her, and then let me know about it at once? A call to
Scotland Yard will always find me."
Mr. Trigg promised that he would do this, and Parker took his leave.
"And now we know," thought Parker as he returned home, "that
somebody—an odd unscrupulous somebody—was making inquiries about
great-nieces in 1925. A word to Miss Climpson, I fancy, is indicated—
just to find out whether Mary Whittaker has a scar on her right hand, or
whether I've got to hunt up any more solicitors."
The hot streets seemed less oppressively oven-like than before. In
fact, Parker was so cheered by his interview that he actually bestowed a
cigarette-card upon the next urchin who accosted him.


一一一一一
​


UNNATURAL DEATH
481
"Well now, as to the medical problem—the means. I must say that up
to now that appears completely insoluble. I am baffled, Watson (said
he, his hawk-like eyes gleaming angrily from under the half-closed lids).
Even I am baffled. But not for long! (he cried, with a magnificent burst
of self-confidence). My Honour (capital H) is concerned to track this
Human Fiend (capitals) to its hidden source, and nail the whited sepul-
chre to the mast even though it crush me in the attempt! Loud applause.
His chin sank broodingly upon his dressing-gown, and he breathed a few
guttural notes into the bass saxophone which was the cherished com-
panion of his solitary hours in the bathroom."
Parker ostentatiously took up the book which he had laid aside on
Wimsey's entrance.
"Tell me when you've finished," he said, caustically.
"I've hardly begun. The means, I repeat, seems insoluble—and so the
criminal evidently thinks. There has been no exaggerated mortality
among the doctors and nurses. On that side of the business the lady feels
herself safe. No. The motive is the weak point—hence the hurry to stop
the mouths of the people who knew about the legal part of the problem."
"Yes, I see. Mrs. Cropper had started back to Canada, by the way.
She doesn't seem to have been molested at all."
"No—and that's why I still think there was somebody on the watch in
Liverpool. Mrs. Cropper was only worth silencing so long as she had told
nobody her story. That is why I was careful to meet her and accompany
her ostentatiously to Town."
"Oh, rot, Peter! Even if Miss Whittaker had been there—which we
know she couldn't have been—how was she to know that you were going
to ask about the Dawson business? She doesn't know you from Adam."
"She might have found out who Murbles was. The advertisement
which started the whole business was in his name, you know."
"In that case, why hasn't she attacked Murbles or you?"
"Murbles is a wise old bird. In vain are nets spread in his sight. He is
seeing no female clients, answering no invitations, and never goes out
without an escort."
"I didn't know he took it so seriously."
"Oh, yes. Murbles is old enough to have learnt the value of his own
skin. As for me—have you noticed the remarkable similarity in some
ways between Mr. Trigg's adventure and my own little adventurelet, as
you might say, in South Audley Street?"
"What, with Mrs. Forrest?"
"Yes. The secret appointment. The drink. The endeavour to get one to
stay the night at all costs. I'm positive there was something in that sugar,


482
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Charles, that no sugar should contain—see Public Health (Adulteration
of Food) Acts, various."
"You think Mrs. Forrest is an accomplice?"
"I do. I don't know what she has to gain by it—probably money. But
I feel sure there is some connection. Partly because of Bertha Gotobed's
£5 note; partly because Mrs. Forrest's story was a palpable fake—I'm
certain the woman's never had a lover, let alone a husband—you can't
mistake real inexperience; and chiefly because of the similarity of
method. Criminals always tend to repeat their effects. Look at George
Joseph Smith and his brides. Look at Neill Cream. Look at Armstrong
and his tea-parties."
"Well, if there's an accomplice, all the better. Accomplices generally
end by giving the show away."
"True. And we are in a good position because up till now I don't
think they know that we suspect any connection between them."
"But I still think, you know, we ought to get some evidence that ac-
tual crimes have been committed. Call me finicking, if you like. If you
could suggest a means of doing away with these people so as to leave no
trace, I should feel happier about it."
"The means, eh?—Well, we do know something about it."
"As what?"
"Well—take the two victims—"
"Alleged."
"All right, old particular. The two alleged victims and the two (al-
leged) intended victims. Miss Dawson was ill and helpless; Bertha Goto-
bed possibly stupefied by a heavy meal and an unaccustomed quantity
of wine; Trigg was given a sufficient dose of veronal to send him to sleep,
and I was offered something of probably the same kind—I wish I could
have kept the remains of that coffee. So we deduce from that, what?"
"I suppose that it was a means of death which could only be used on
somebody more or less helpless or unconscious."
"Exactly. As for instance, a hypodermic injection—only nothing ap-
pears to have been injected. Or a delicate operation of some kind—if we
could only think of one to fit the case. Or the inhalation of something—
such as chloroform—only we could find no traces of suffocation."
"Yes. That doesn't get us very far, though."
"It's something. Then, again, it may very well be something that a
trained nurse would have learnt or heard about. Miss Whittaker was
trained, you know—which, by the way, was what made it so easy for her
to bandage up her own head and provide a pitiful and unrecognisable
spectacle for the stupid Mr. Trigg."
"It wouldn't have to be anything very out of the way—nothing, I


UNNATURAL DEATH
483
mean, that only a trained surgeon could do, or that required very spe-
cialised knowledge."
"Oh, no. Probably something picked up in conversation with a doctor
or the other nurses. I say, how about getting hold of Dr. Carr again?
Or, no—if he'd got any ideas on the subject he'd have trotted 'em out
before now. I know! I'D ask Lubbock, the analyst. He'l l do. IU get in
touch with him to-morrow."
"And meanwhile," said Parker, "I suppose we just sit round and wait
for somebody else to be murdered."
"It's beastly, isn't it? I still feel poor Bertha Gotobed's blood on my
head, so to speak. I say!"
"Yes?"
"We've practically got clear proof on the Trigg business. Couldn't
you put the lady in quod on a charge of burglary while we think out the
rest of the dope? It's often done. It was a burglary, you know. She broke
into a house after dark and appropriated a scuttleful of coal to her own
use. Trigg could identify her—he seems to have paid the lady particular
attention on more than one occasion—and we could rake up his taxi-man
for corroborative detaU."
Parker pulled at his pipe for a few minutes.
"There's something in that," he said finally. "I think perhaps it's worth
while putting it before the authorities. But we mustn't be in too much of
a hurry, you know. I wish we were further ahead with our other proofs.
There's such a thing as Habeas Corpus—you can't hold on to people
indefinitely just on a charge of stealing coal—"
"There's the breaking and entering, don't forget that. It's burglary,
after all. You can get penal servitude for life for burglary."
"But it all depends on the view the law takes of the coal. It might de-
cide that there was no original intention of stealing coal, and treat the
thing as a mere misdemeanour or civil trespass. Anyhow, we don't really
want a conviction for stealing coal. But I'l l see what they think about it
at our place, and meanwhUe I'l l get hold of Trigg again and try and find
the taxi-driver. And Trigg's doctor. We might get it as an attempt to
murder Trigg, or at least to inflict grievous bodily harm. But I should
like some more evidence about—"
"Cuckoo! So should I. But I can't manufacture evidence out of noth-
ing. Dash it afl, be reasonable. I've buflt you up a case out of nothing.
Isn't that handsome enough? Base ingratitude—that's what's the matter
with you."
Parker's inquiries took some time, and June lingered into its longest
days.


UNNATURAL DEATH
485
death, of course—if you call that a symptom. Isn't there a poison with
no symptoms and no test? Something that just makes you go off, Pouf!
like that?"
"Certainly not," said the analyst, rather annoyed—for your medical
analyst lives by symptoms and tests, and nobody likes suggestions that
undermine the very foundations of his profession—"not even old age or
mental decay. There are always symptoms."
Fortunately, before the symptoms of mental decay could become too
pronounced in Lord Peter, Parker sounded the call to action.
"I'm going down to Leahampton with a warrant," he said. "I may
not use it, but the chief thinks it might be worth while to make an in-
quiry. What with the Battersea mystery and the Daniels business, and
Bertha Gotobed, there seems to be a feeling that there have been too
many unexplained tragedies this year, and the Press have begun yelping
again, blast them! There's an article in John Citizen this week, with a
poster: 'Ninety-six Murderers at Large,' and the Evening Views is start-
ing its reports with 'Six weeks have now passed, and the police are no
nearer the solution—' you know the kind of thing. We'll simply have
to get some sort of move on. Do you want to come?"
"Certainly—a breath of country air would do me good, I fancy. Blow
away the cobwebs, don't you know. It might even inspire me to invent
a good way of murderin' people. 'O Inspiration, solitary child, warbling
thy native wood-notes wild—' Did somebody write that, or did I invent
it? It sounds reminiscent, somehow."
Parker, who was out of temper, replied rather shortly, and intimated
that the police car would be starting for Leahampton in an hour's time.
"I will be there," said Wimsey, "though, mind you, I hate being driven
by another fellow. It feels so unsafe. Never mind. I will be bloody, bold
and resolute, as Queen Victoria said to the Archbishop of Canterbury."
• • • • •
They reached Leahampton without any incident to justify Lord
Peter's fears. Parker had brought another officer with him, and on the
way they picked up the Chief Constable of the County, who appeared
very dubiously disposed towards their errand. Lord Peter, observing
their array of five strong men, going out to seize upon one young
woman, was reminded of the Marquise de Brinvilliers—("What! all that
water for a little person like me?")—but this led him back to the subject
of poison, and he remained steeped in thought and gloom till the car
drew up before the house in Wellington Avenue.
Parker got out, and went up the path with the Chief Constable. The
door was opened to them by a frightened-looking maid, who gave a
little shriek at sight of them.


486
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"Oh, sir! have you come to say something's happened to Miss Whit-
taker?"
"Isn't Miss Whittaker at home, then?"
"No, sir. She went out in the car with Miss Vera Findlater on Monday
—that's four days back, sir, and she hasn't come home, nor Miss Find-
later neither, and I'm frightened something's happened to them. When
I see you, sir, I thought you was the police come to say there had been
an accident. I didn't know what to do, sir."
"Skipped, by God!" was Parker's instant thought, but he controlled
his annoyance, and asked:
"Do you know where they were going?"
"Crow's Beach, Miss Whittaker said, sir."
"That's a good fifty miles," said the Chief Constable. "Probably
they've just decided to stay there a day or two."
"More likely gone in the opposite direction," thought Parker.
"They didn't take no things for the night, sir. They went off about
ten in the morning. They said they was going to have lunch there and
come home in the evening. And Miss Whittaker hasn't written nor
nothing. And her always so particular. Cook and me, we didn't know
what—"
"Oh, well, I expect it's all right," said the Chief Constable. "It's a
pity, as we particularly wanted to see Miss Whittaker. When you hear
from her, you might say Sir Charles Pillington called with a friend."
"Yes, sir. But please, sir, what ought we to do, sir?"
"Nothing. Don't worry. I'll have inquiries made. I'm the Chief Con-
stable, you know, and I can soon find out whether there's been an acci-
dent or anything. But if there had been, depend upon it we should have
heard about it. Come, my girl, pull yourself together, there's nothing to
cry about. We'll let you know as soon as we hear anything."
But Sir Charles looked disturbed. Coming on top of Parker's arrival
in the district, the thing had an unpleasant look about it.
Lord Peter received the news cheerfully.
"Good," said he, "joggle 'em up. Keep 'em moving. That's the spirit
.
Always like it when somethin' happens. My worst suspicions are goin' to
be justified. That always makes one feel so important and virtuous, don't
you think? Wonder why she took the girl with her, though. By the way,
we'd better look up the Findlaters. They may have heard something."
This obvious suggestion was acted upon at once. But at the Findlaters'
house they drew blank. The family were at the seaside, with the excep-
tion of Miss Vera, who was staying in Wellington Avenue with Miss
Whittaker. No anxiety was expressed by the parlour-maid and none,
apparently, felt. The investigators took care not to arouse any alarm,


UNNATURAL DEATH
487
and, leaving a trivial and polite message from Sir Charles, withdrew for
a consultation.
"There's nothing for it, so far as I can see," said Parker, "but an all-
stations call to look out for the car and the ladies. And we must put
inquiries through to all the ports, of course. With four days' start, they
may be anywhere by now. I wish to Heaven I'd risked a bit and started
earlier, approval or no approval. What's this Findlater girl like? I'd
better go back to the house and get photographs of her and the Whit-
taker woman. And, Wimsey, I wish you'd look in on Miss Climpson
and see if she has any information."
"And you might tell 'em at the Yard to keep an eye on Mrs. Forrest's
place," said Wimsey. "When anything sensational happens to a criminal
it's a good tip to watch the accomplice."
"I feel sure you are both quite mistaken about this," urged Sir Charles
Pillington. "Criminal—accomplice—bless me! I have had considerable
experience in the course of a long life—longer than either of yours—and
I really feel convinced that Miss Whittaker, whom I know quite well, is
as good and nice a girl as you could wish to find. But there has un-
doubtedly been an accident of some kind, and it is our duty to make the
fullest investigation. I will get on to Crow's Beach police immediately,
as soon as I know the description of the car."
"It's an Austin Seven and the number is XX9917," said Wimsey,
much to the Chief Constable's surprise. "But I doubt very much whether
youH find it at Crow's Beach, or anywhere near it."
"Well, we'd better get a move on," snapped Parker. "We'd better
separate. How about a spot of lunch in an hour's time at the George?"
Wimsey was unlucky. Miss Climpson was not to be found. She had
had her lunch early and gone out, saying she felt that a long country
walk would do her good. Mrs. Budge was rather afraid she had had
some bad news—she had seemed so upset and worried since yesterday
evening.
"But indeed, sir," she added, "if you was quick, you might find her
up at the church. She often drops in there to say her prayers like. Not a
respectful way to approach a place of worship to my mind, do you think
so yourself, sir? Popping in and out on a week-day, the same as if it
was a friend's house. And coming home from Communion as cheerful
as anything and ready to laugh and make jokes. I don't see as how we
was meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way—so disrespect-
ful and nothing uplifting to the 'art about it. But there! we all 'as our
failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if
she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one."
Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate


488
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
name for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At
the moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious dis-
cussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.
The doors of S. Onesimus were hospitably open, and the red Sanc-
tuary lamp made a little spot of welcoming brightness in the rather dark
building. Coming in from the June sunshine, Wimsey blinked a little
before he could distinguish anything else. Presently he was able to make
out a dark, bowed figure kneeling before the lamp. For a moment he
hoped it was Miss Climpson, but presently saw to his disappointment
that it was merely a Sister in a black habit, presumably taking her turn
to watch before the Host. The only other occupant of the church was a
priest in a cassock, who was busy with the ornaments on the High Altar.
It was the Feast of S. John, Wimsey remembered suddenly. He walked
up the aisle, hoping to find his quarry hidden in some obscure corner.
His shoes squeaked. This annoyed him. It was a thing which Bunter
never permitted. He was seized with a fancy that the squeak was pro-
duced by diabolic possession—a protest against a religious atmosphere
on the part of his own particular besetting devil. Pleased with this
thought, he moved forward more confidently.
The priest's attention was attracted by the squeak. He turned and
came down towards the intruder. No doubt, thought Wimsey, to offer
his professional services to exorcise the evil spirit.
"Were you looking for anybody?" inquired the priest, courteously.
"Well, I was looking for a lady," began Wimsey. Then it struck him
that this sounded a little odd under the circumstances, and he hastened
to explain more fully, in the stifled tones considered appropriate to con-
secrated surroundings.
"Oh, yes," said the priest, quite unperturbed, "Miss Climpson was
here a little time ago, but I fancy she has gone. Not that I usually keep
tabs on my flock," he added, with a laugh, "but she spoke to me before
she went. Was it urgent? What a pity you should have missed her. Can
I give any kind of message or help you in any way?"
"No, thanks," said Wimsey. "Sorry to bother you. Unseemly to come
and try to haul people out of church, but—yes, it was rather important
.
I'll leave a message at the house. Thanks frightfully."
He turned away; then stopped and came back.
"I say," he said, "you give advice on moral problems and all that sort
of thing, don't you?"
"Well, we're supposed to try," said the priest. "Is anything bothering
you in particular?"
"Ye-es," said Wimsey, "nothing religious, I don't mean—nothing about


UNNATURAL DEATH
489
infallibility or the Virgin Mary or anything of that sort. Just something
I'm not comfortable about."
The priest—who was, in fact, the vicar, Mr. Tredgold—indicated that
he was quite at Lord Peter's service.
"It's very good of you. Could we come somewhere where I didn't
have to whisper so much. I never can explain things in a whisper. Sort
of paralyses one, don't you know."
"Let's go outside," said Mr. Tredgold.
So they went out and sat on a flat tombstone.
"It's like this," said Wimsey. "Hypothetical case, you see, and so on.
S'posin' one knows somebody who's very, very ill and can't last long
anyhow. And they're in awful pain and all that, and kept under morphia
—practically dead to the world, you know. And suppose that by dyin'
straight away they could make something happen which they really
wanted to happen and which couldn't happen if they lived on a little
longer (I can't explain exactly how, because I don't want to give per-
sonal details and so on)—you get the idea? Well, supposin' somebody
who knew all that was just to give 'em a little push off so to speak—
hurry matters on—why should that be a very dreadful crime?"
"The law—" began Mr. Tredgold.
"Oh, the law says it's a crime, fast enough," said Wimsey. "But do
you honestly think it's very bad? I know you'd call it a sin, of course,
but why is it so very dreadful? It doesn't do the person any harm, does
it?"
"We can't answer that," said Mr. Tredgold, "without knowing the
ways of God with the soul. In those last weeks or hours of pain and
unconsciousness, the soul may be undergoing some necessary part of its
pilgrimage on earth. It isn't our business to cut it short. Who are we to
take life and death into our hands?"
"Well, we do it all day, one way and another. Juries—soldiers—doc-
tors—all that. And yet I do feel, somehow, that it isn't a right thing in
this case. And yet, by interfering—finding things out and so on—one may
do far worse harm. Start all kinds of things."
"I think," said Mr. Tredgold, "that the sin—I won't use that word—
the damage to Society, the wrongness of the thing lies much more in
the harm it does the killer than in anything it can do to the person who
is killed. Especially, of course, if the killing is to the killer's own ad-
vantage. The consequence you mention—this thing which the sick per-
son wants done—does the other person stand to benefit by it, may I ask?"
"Yes. That's just it. He—she—they do."
"That puts it at once on a different plane from just hastening a per-
son's death out of pity. Sin is in the intention, not the deed. That is the


490
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
difference between divine law and human law. It is bad for a human
being to get to feel that he has any right whatever to dispose of another
person's life to his own advantage. It leads him on to think himself above
all laws—Society is never safe from the man who has deliberately com-
mitted murder with impunity. That is why—or one reason why—God
forbids private vengeance."
"You mean that one murder leads to another."
"Very often. In any case it leads to a readiness to commit others."
"It has. That's the trouble. But it wouldn't have if I hadn't started
trying to find things out. Ought I to have left it alone?"
"I see. That is very difficult. Terrible, too, for you. You feel respon-
sible."
"Yes."
"You yourself are not serving a private vengeance?"
"Oh, no. Nothing really to do with me. Started in like a fool to help
somebody who'd got into trouble about the thing through having suspi-
cions himself. And my beastly interference started the crimes all over
again."
"I shouldn't be too troubled. Probably the murderer's own guilty fears
would have led him into fresh crimes even without your interference."
"That's true," said Wimsey, remembering Mr. Trigg.
"My advice to you is to do what you think is right, according to the
laws which we have been brought up to respect. Leave the consequences
to God. And try to think charitably, even of wicked people. You know
what I mean. Bring the offender to justice, but remember that if we all
got justice, you and I wouldn't escape either."
"I know. Knock the man down but don't dance on the body. Quite.
Forgive my troublin' you—and excuse my bargin' off, because I've got
a date with a friend. Thanks so much. I don't feel quite so rotten about
it now. But I was gettin' worried."
Mr. Tredgold watched him as he trotted away between the graves.
"Dear, dear," he said, "how nice they are. So kindly and scrupulous
and so vague outside their public-school code. And much more nervous
and sensitive than people think. A very difficult class to reach. I must
make a special intention for him at Mass to-morrow."
Being a practical man, Mr. Tredgold made a knot in his handkerchief
to remind himself of this pious resolve.
"The problem—to interfere or not to interfere—God's law and Cae-
sar's. Policemen, now—it's no problem to them. But for the ordinary
man—how hard to disentangle his own motives. I wonder what brought
him here. Could it possibly be—No!" said the vicar, checking himself,


492
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
covered that XX9917 had actually been observed on the previous Mon-
day by an A.A. scout on the road to Crow's Beach. Having maintained
all along that the Crow's Beach excursion was a genuine one, he was
inclined to exult over the Scotland Yard man. Wimsey and Parker dis-
piritedly agreed that they had better go down and make inquiries at
Crow's Beach.
Meanwhile, one of the photographers, whose cousin was on the staff
of the Leahampton Mercury, had put a call through to the office of that
up-to-date paper, which was just going to press. A stop-press announce-
ment was followed by a special edition; somebody rang up the London
Evening Views which burst out into a front-page scoop; the fat was in
the fire, and the Daily Yell, Daily Views, Daily Wire and Daily Tidings,
who were all suffering from lack of excitement, came brightly out next
morning with bold headlines about disappearing young women.
Crow's Beach, indeed, that pleasant and respectable watering-place,
knew nothing of Miss Whittaker, Miss Findlater, or car XX9917. No
hotel had received them; no garage had refuelled or repaired them; no
policeman had observed them. The Chief Constable held to his theory
of an accident, and scouting parties were sent out. Wires arrived at
Scotland Yard from all over the place. They had been seen at Dover,
at Newcastle, at Sheffield, at Winchester, at Rugby. Two young women
had had tea in a suspicious manner at Folkestone; a car had passed
noisily through Dorchester at a late hour on Monday night; a dark-
haired girl in an "agitated condition" had entered a public-house in
New Alresford just before closing-time and asked the way to Hazelmere.
Among all these reports, Parker selected that of a boy-scout, who re-
ported on the Saturday morning that he had noticed two ladies with a
car having a picnic on the downs on the previous Monday, not far from
Shelly Head. The car was an Austin Seven—he knew that, because he
was keen on motors (an unanswerable reason for accuracy in a boy of
his age), and he had noticed that it was a London number, though he
couldn't say positively what the number was.
Shelly Head lies about ten miles along the coast from Crow's Beach,
and is curiously lonely, considering how near it lies to the watering-
place. Under the cliffs is a long stretch of clear sandy beach, never vis-
ited, and overlooked by no houses. The cliffs themselves are chalk, and
covered with short turf, running back into a wide expanse of downs,
covered with gorse and heather. Then comes a belt of pine-trees, be-
yond which is a steep, narrow and rutty road, leading at length into the
tarmac high-road between Ramborough and Ryders Heath. The downs
are by no means frequented, though there are plenty of rough tracks


494
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
He scrambled up to the rim of the hollow and shouted.
A small black figure at some distance stopped and turned. He saw
its face as a white spot with no expression on it. He shouted again, and
waved his arms in wide gestures of explanation. The figure came run-
ning; it lurched slowly and awkwardly over the heathy ground. It was
the policeman—a heavy man, not built for running in the heat. Wimsey
shouted again, and the policeman shouted too. Wimsey saw the others
closing in upon him. The grotesque figure of the boy-scout topped a
ridge, waving its staff—then disappeared again. The policeman was quite
near now. His bowler hat was thrust back on his head, and there was
something on his watch-chain that glinted in the sun as he ran. Wimsey
found himself running to meet him and calling—explaining at great
length. It was too far off to make himself heard, but he explained,
wordily, with emphasis, pointing, indicating. He was quite breathless
when the policeman and he came together. They were both breathless.
They wagged their heads and gasped. It was ludicrous. He started run-
ning again, with the man at his heels. Presently they were all there, point-
ing, measuring, taking notes, grubbing under the gorse-bushes. Wimsey
sat down. He was dreadfully tired.
"Peter," said Parker's voice, "come and look at this."
He got up wearily.
There were the remains of a picnic lunch a little farther down the
hollow. The policeman had a little bag in his hand—he had taken it
from under the body, and was now turning over the trifles it contained.
On the ground, close to the dead girl's head, was a thick, heavy spanner
—unpleasantly discoloured and with a few fair hairs sticking to its jaws.
But what Parker was calling his attention to was none of these, but a
man's mauve-grey cap.
"Where did you find that?" asked Wimsey.
"Alf here picked it up at the top of the hollow," said Parker.
"Tumbled off into the gorse it was," corroborated the scout, "just up
here, lying upside down just as if it had fallen off somebody's head."
"Any footmarks?"
"Not likely. But there's a place where the bushes are all trodden and
broken. Looks as if there'd been some sort of struggle. What's become
of the Austin? Hi! don't touch that spanner, my lad. There may be
finger-prints on it. This looks like an attack by some gang or other. Any
money in that purse? Ten-shilling note, sixpence and a few coppers—oh!
Well, the other woman may have had more on her. She's very well off,
you know. Held up for ransom, I shouldn't wonder." Parker bent down
and very gingerly enfolded the spanner in a silk handkerchief, carrying
it slung by the four corners. "Well, we'd better spread about and have a


UNNATURAL DEATH
495
look for the car. Better try that belt of trees over there. Looks a likely
spot. And, Hopkins—I think you'd better run back with our car to
Crow's Beach and let 'em know at the station, and come back with a
photographer. And take this wire and send it to the Chief Commis-
sioner at Scotland Yard, and find a doctor and bring him along with
you. And you'd better hire another car while you're about it, in case we
don't find the Austin—we shall be too many to get away in this one.
Take Alf back with you if you're not sure of finding the place again.
Oh! and Hopkins, fetch us along something to eat and drink, will you,
we may be at it a long time. Here's some money—that enough?"
"Yes, thank you, sir."
The constable went off, taking Alf, who was torn between a desire to
stay and do some more detecting, and the pride and glory of being first
back with the news. Parker gave a few words of praise for his valuable
assistance which filled him with delight, and then turned to the Chief
Constable.
"They obviously went off in this direction. Would you bear away to
the left, sir, and enter the trees from that end, and Peter, will you bear
to the right and work through from the other end, while I go straight
up the middle?"
The Chief Constable, who seemed a good deal shaken by the dis-
covery of the body, obeyed without a word. Wimsey caught Parker by
the arm.
"I say," he said, "have you looked at the wound? Something funny,
isn't there? There ought to be more mess, somehow. What do you
think?"
"I'm not thinking anything for the moment," said Parker, a little
grimly. "We'll wait for the doctor's report. Come on, Steve! We want to
dig out that car."
"Let's have a look at the cap. H'm. Sold by a gentleman of the Jew-
ish persuasion, resident in Stepney. Almost new. Smells strongly of Cali-
fornian Poppy—rather a swell sort of gangsman, apparently. Quite one
of the lads of the village."
"Yes—we ought to be able to trace that. Thank Heaven, they always
overlook something. Well, we'd better get along."
The search for the car presented no difficulties. Parker stumbled upon
it almost as soon as he got in under the trees. There was a clearing,
with a little rivulet of water running through it, beside which stood the
missing Austin. There were other trees here, mingled with the pines, and
the water made an elbow and spread into a shallow pool, with a kind
of muddy beach.
The hood of the car was up, and Parker approached with an uncom-


UNNATURAL DEATH
499
"As far as one can tell, with all these post-mortem changes," he ven-
tured, "it looks as though the face had been roughened or burnt about
the nose and lips. Yet there is no appearance of the kind on the bridge
of the nose, neck or forehead. Tst, tst—otherwise I should have put it
down to severe sunburn."
"How about chloroform burns?" suggested Parker.
"Tst, tst," said the doctor, annoyed at not having thought of this
himself—"I wish you gentlemen of the police force would not be quite
so abrupt. You want everything decided in too great a hurry. I was
about to remark—if you had not anticipated me—that since I could not
put the appearance down to sunburn, there remains some such possi-
bility as you suggest. I can't possibly say that it is the result of chloro-
form—medical pronouncements of that kind cannot be hastily made
without cautious investigation—but I was about to remark that it might
be."
"In that case," put in Wimsey, "could she have died from the effects
of the chloroform? Supposing she was given too much or that her heart
was weak?"
"My good sir," said the doctor, deeply offended this time, "look at
that blow upon the head, and ask yourself whether it is necessary to
suggest any other cause of death. Moreover, if she had died of the
chloroform, where would be the necessity for the blow?"
"That is exactly what I was wondering," said Wimsey.
"I suppose," went on the doctor, "you will hardly dispute my medical
knowledge?"
"Certainly not," said Wimsey, "but as you say, it is unwise to make
any medical pronouncement without cautious investigation."
"And this is not the place for it," put in Parker, hastily. "I think we
have done all there is to do here. Will you go with the body to the mor-
tuary, doctor. Mr. Andrews, I shall be obliged if you will come and take
a few photographs of some footmarks and so on up in the wood. The
light is bad, I'm afraid, but we must do our best."
He took Wimsey by the arm.
"The man is a fool, of course," he said, "but we can get a second
opinion. In the meantime, we had better let it be supposed that we ac-
cept the surface explanation of all this."
"What is the difficulty?" asked Sir Charles, curiously.
"Oh, nothing much," replied Parker. "All the appearances are in fa-
vour of the girls having been attacked by a couple of ruffians, who have
carried Miss Whittaker off with a view to ransom, after brutally knock-
ing Miss Findlater on the head when she offered resistance. Probably
that is the true explanation. Any minor discrepancies will doubtless


500
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
clear themselves up in time. We shall know better when we have had a
proper medical examination."
They returned to the wood, where photographs were taken and care-
ful measurements made of the footprints. The Chief Constable followed
these activities with intense interest, looking over Parker's shoulder as
he entered the particulars in his notebook.
"I say," he said, suddenly, "isn't it rather odd—"
"Here's somebody coming," broke in Parker.
The sound of a motor-cycle being urged in second gear over the
rough ground proved to be the herald of a young man armed with a
camera.
"Oh, God!" groaned Parker. "The damned Press already."
He received the journalist courteously enough, showing him the
wheel-tracks and the footprints, and outlining the kidnapping theory as
they walked back to the place where the body was found.
"Can you give us any idea, Inspector, of the appearance of the two
wanted men?"
"Well," said Parker, "one of them appears to be something of a
dandy; he wears a loathsome mauve cap and narrow pointed shoes, and,
if those marks on the magazine cover mean anything, one or other of
the men may possibly be a coloured man of some kind. Of the second
man, all we can definitely say is that he wears number 10 shoes, with
rubber heels."
"I was going to say," said Pillington, "that, a propos de bottes, it is
rather remarkable—"
"And this is where we found the body of Miss Findlater," went on
Parker, ruthlessly. He described the injuries and the position of the
body, and the journalist gratefully occupied himself with taking photo-
graphs, including a group of Wimsey, Parker and the Chief Constable
standing among the gorse-bushes, while the latter majestically indicated
the fatal spot with his walking-stick.
"And now you've got what you want, old son," said Parker, benevo-
lently, "buzz off, won't you, and tell the rest of the boys. You've got all
we can tell you, and we've got other things to do beyond granting spe-
cial interviews."
The reporter asked no better. This was tantamount to making his
information exclusive, and no Victorian matron could have a more
delicate appreciation of the virtues of exclusiveness than a modern news-
paper man.
"Well now, Sir Charles," said Parker, when the man had happily
chugged and popped himself away, "what were you about to say in the
matter of the footprints?"


UNNATURAL DEATH
501
But Sir Charles was offended. The Scotland Yard man had snubbed
him and thrown doubt on his discretion.
"Nothing," he replied. "I feel sure that my conclusions would appear
very elementary to you."
And he preserved a dignified silence throughout the return journey.
The Whittaker case had begun almost imperceptibly, in the overhear-
ing of a casual remark dropped in a Soho restaurant; it ended amid a
roar of publicity that shook England from end to end and crowded
even Wimbledon into the second place. The bare facts of the murder
and kidnapping appeared exclusively that night in a Late Extra edition
of the Evening Views. Next morning it sprawled over the Sunday papers
with photographs and full details, actual and imaginary. The idea of
two English girls—the one brutally killed, the other carried off for some
end unthinkably sinister, by a black man—aroused all the passion of hor-
ror and indignation of which the English temperament is capable. Re-
porters swarmed down upon Crow's Beach like locusts—the downs near
Shelly Head were like a fair with motors, bicycles and parties on foot,
rushing out to spend a happy week-end amid surroundings of mystery
and bloodshed. Parker, who with Wimsey had taken rooms at the
Green Lion, sat answering the telephone and receiving the letters and
wires which descended upon him from all sides, with a stalwart police-
man posted at the end of the passage to keep out all intruders.
Wimsey fidgeted about the room, smoking cigarette after cigarette in
his excitement.
"This time we've got them," he said. "They've overreached them-
selves, thank God!"
"Yes. But have a little patience, old man. We can't lose them—but we
must have all the facts first."
"You're sure those fellows have got Mrs. Forrest safe?"
"Oh, yes. She came back to the flat on Monday night—or so the garage
man says. Our men are shadowing her continually and will let us know
the moment anybody comes to the flat."
"Monday night!"
"Yes. But that's no proof in itself. Monday night is quite a usual
time for week-enders to return to Town. Besides, I don't want to frighten
her till we know whether she's the principal or merely the accomplice.
Look here, Peter, I've had a message from another of our men. He's
been looking into the finances of Miss Whittaker and Mrs. Forrest. Miss
Whittaker has been drawing out big sums, ever since last December year
in cheques to Self, and these correspond almost exactly, amount for
amount, with sums which Mrs. Forrest has been paying into her own ac-


UNNATURAL DEATH
505
"And now we come to the most suggestive thing of all. One of the
supposed men had very much bigger feet than the other, from which
you would expect a taller and possibly heavier man with a longer stride.
But on measuring the footprints, what do we find? In all three cases—
the big man, the little man and the woman—we have exactly the same
length of stride. Not only that, but the footprints have sunk into the
ground to precisely the same depth, indicating that all three people were
of the same weight. Now, the other discrepancies might pass, but that
is absolutely beyond the reach of coincidence."
Dr. Faulkner considered this for a moment.
"You've proved your point," he said at length. "I consider that ab-
solutely convincing."
"It struck even Sir Charles Pillington, who is none too bright," said
Parker. "I had the greatest difficulty in preventing him from blurting
out the extraordinary agreement of the measurements to that Evening
Views man."
"You think, then, that Miss Whittaker had come provided with these
shoes and produced the tracks herself."
"Yes, returning each time through the bracken. Cleverly done. She
had made no mistake about superimposing the footprints. It was all
worked out to a nicety—each set over and under the two others, to pro-
duce the impression that three people had been there at the same time.
Intensive study of the works of Mr. Austin Freeman, I should say."
"And what next?"
"Well, I think we shall find that this Mrs. Forrest, who we think has
been her accomplice all along, had brought her car down—the big car,
that is—and was waiting there for her. Possibly she did the making of the
footprints while Mary Whittaker was staging the assault. Anyhow, she
probably arrived there after Mary Whittaker and Vera Findlater had
left the Austin and departed to the hollow on the downs. When Mary
Whittaker had finished her part of the job, they put the handkerchief
and the magazine called The Black Mask into the Austin and drove
off in Mrs. Forrest's car. I'm having the movements of the car investi-
gated, naturally. It's a dark blue Renault four-seater, with Michelin
balloon-tyres, and the number is X04247. We know that it returned
to Mrs. Forrest's garage on the Monday night with Mrs. Forrest in it."
"But where is Miss Whittaker?"
"In hiding somewhere. We shall get her all right. She can't get money
from her own bank—they're warned. If Mrs. Forrest tries to get money
for her, she will be followed. So if the worst comes to the worst, we
can starve her out in time with any luck. But we've got another clue.
There has been a most determined attempt to throw suspicion on an un-


506
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
fortunate relative of Miss Whittaker's—a black Nonconformist parson,
with the remarkable name of Hallelujah Dawson. He has certain pe-
cuniary claims on Miss Whittaker—not legal claims, but claims which
any decent and humane person should have respected. She didn't respect
them, and the poor old man might very well have been expected to nurse
a grudge against her. Yesterday morning he tried to cash a Bearer
cheque of hers for £10,000, with a lame-sounding story to the effect
that it had arrived by the first post, without explanation, in an envelope.
So, of course, he's had to be detained as one of the kidnappers."
"But that is very clumsy, surely. He's almost certain to have an alibi."
"I fancy the story will be that he hired some gangsters to do the job
for him. He belongs to a Mission in Stepney—where that mauve cap
came from—and no doubt there are plenty of tough lads in his neigh-
bourhood. Of course we shall make close inquiries and publish details
broadcast in all the papers."
"And then?"
"Well then, I fancy, the idea is that Miss Whittaker will turn up some-
where in an agitated condition with a story of assault and holding to
ransom made to fit the case. If Cousin Hallelujah has not produced a
satisfactory alibi, we shall learn that he was on the spot directing the
murderers. If he has definitely shown that he wasn't there, his name
will have been mentioned, or he will have turned up at some time which
the poor dear girl couldn't exactly ascertain, in some dreadful den to
which she was taken in a place which she won't be able to identify."
"What a devilish plot."
"Yes. Miss Whittaker is a charming young woman. If there's any-
thing she'd stop at, I don't know what it is. And the amiable Mrs. For-
rest appears to be another of the same kidney. Of course, doctor, we're
taking you into our confidence. You understand that our catching Mary
Whittaker depends on her believing that we've swallowed all these false
clues of hers."
"I'm not a talker," said the doctor. "Gang you call it, and gang it is,
as far as I'm concerned. And Miss Findlater was hit on the head and
died of it. I only hope my colleague and the Chief Constable will be
equally discreet. I warned them, naturally, after what you said last
night."
"It's all very well," said Wimsey, "but what positive evidence have
we, after all, against this woman? A clever defending counsel would tear
the whole thing to rags. The only thing we can absolutely prove her to
have done is the burgling that house on Hampstead Heath and stealing
the coal. The other deaths were returned natural deaths at the inquest.
And as for Miss Findlater—even if we show it to be chloroform—well,


CHAPTER XXII
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE
"I know thou art religious,
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies
Which I have seen thee careful to observe."
Titus Andronicus
Thursday, June 23rd, was the Eve of S. John. The sober green worka-
day dress in which the church settles down to her daily duties after the
bridal raptures of Pentecost, had been put away, and the altar was white
and shining once again. Vespers were over in the Lady Chapel at S.
Onesimus—a faint reek of incense hung cloudily under the dim beams
of the roof. A very short acolyte with a very long brass extinguisher
snuffed out the candles, adding the faintly unpleasant yet sanctified
odour of hot wax. The small congregation of elderly ladies rose up
lingeringly from their devotions and slipped away in a series of deep
genuflections. Miss Climpson gathered up a quantity of little manuals,
and groped for her gloves. In doing so, she dropped her office-book. It
fell, annoyingly, behind the long kneeler, scattering as it went a small
Pentecostal shower of Easter cards, book-markers, sacred pictures, dried
palms and Ave Marias into the dark corner behind the confessional.
Miss Climpson gave a little exclamation of wrath as she dived after
them—and immediately repented this improper outburst of anger in a
sacred place. "Discipline," she murmured, retrieving the last lost sheep
from under a hassock, "discipline. I must learn self-control." She
crammed the papers back into the office-book, grasped her gloves and
handbag, bowed to the Sanctuary, dropped her bag, picked it up this
time in a kind of glow of martyrdom, bustled down the aisle and across
the church to the south door, where the sacristan stood, key in hand,
waiting to let her out. As she went, she glanced up at the High Altar,
unlit and lonely, with the tall candles like faint ghosts in the twilight of
the apse. It had a grim and awful look she thought, suddenly.
"Good night, Mr. Stanniforth," she said, quickly.
"Good night, Miss Climpson, good night."


UNNATURAL DEATH
509
She was glad to come out of the shadowy porch into the green glow
of the June evening. She had felt a menace. Was it the thought of the
stern Baptist, with his call to repentance? the prayer for grace to speak
the truth and boldly rebuke vice? Miss Climpson decided that she would
hurry home and read the Epistle and Gospel—curiously tender and com-
fortable for the festival of that harsh and uncompromising Saint. "And
I can tidy up these cards at the same time," she thought.
Mrs. Budge's first-floor front seemed stuffy after the scented loveli-
ness of the walk home. Miss Climpson flung the window open and sat
down by it to rearrange her sanctified oddments. The card of the Last
Supper went in at the Prayer of Consecration; the Fra Angelico An-
nunciation had strayed out of the office for March 25th and was wan-
dering among the Sundays after Trinity; the Sacred Heart with its French
text belonged to Corpus Christi; the . . . "Dear me!" said Miss Climp-
son, "I must have picked this up in church."
Certainly the little sheet of paper was not in her writing. Somebody
must have dropped it. It was natural to look and see whether it was
anything of importance.
Miss Climpson was one of those people who say: "I am not the kind
of person who reads other people's postcards." This is clear notice to all
and sundry that they are, precisely, that kind of person. They are not
untruthful; the delusion is real to them. It is merely that Providence
has provided them with a warning rattle, like that of the rattle-snake.
After that, if you are so foolish as to leave your correspondence in
their way, it is your own affair.
Miss Climpson perused the paper.
In the manuals for self-examination issued to the Catholic-minded,
there is often included an unwise little paragraph which speaks volumes
for the innocent unworldliness of the compilers. You are advised, when
preparing for confession, to make a little list of your misdeeds, lest one
or two peccadilloes should slip your mind. It is true that you are cau-
tioned against writing down the names of other people or showing your
list to your friends, or leaving it about. But accidents may happen—and
it may be that this recording of sins is contrary to the mind of the
church, who bids you whisper them with fleeting breath into the ear of
a priest and bids him, in the same moment that he absolves, forget them
as though they had never been spoken.
At any rate, somebody had been recently shriven of the sins set forth
upon the paper—probably the previous Saturday—and the document
had fluttered down unnoticed between the confession-box and the has-
sock, escaping the eye of the cleaner. And here it was—the tale that


518
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"No thanks,” said Mrs. Forrest, shortly, and in a hurried, breathless
tone, as if there was somebody behind her who she was anxious should
not overhear her, “I'm not interested in Missions."
She tried to shut the door. But Miss Climpson had seen and heard
enough.
“Good gracious!" she cried, staring, "why, it's—"
“Come in.” Mrs. Forrest caught her by the arm almost roughly and
pulled her over the threshold, slamming the door behind them.
"How extraordinary!” said Miss Climpson, "I hardly recognised you,
Miss Whittaker, with your hair like that.”
"You!" said Mary Whittaker. "You-of all people!" They sat facing
one another in the sitting-room with its tawdry pink silk cushions. "I
knew you were a meddler. How did you get here? Is there anyone with
you?”
"No-yes-I just happened,” began Miss Climpson vaguely. One
thought was uppermost in her mind. “How did you get free? What hap-
pened? Who killed Vera?” She knew she was asking her questions
crudely and stupidly. “Why are you disguised like that?”
“Who sent you?" reiterated Mary Whittaker.
"Who is the man with you?” pursued Miss Climpson. "Is he here?
Did he do the murder?”
“What man?"
"The man Vera saw leaving your flat. Did he ?"
“So that's it. Vera told you. The liar. I thought I had been quick
enough.”
Suddenly, something which had been troubling Miss Climpson for
weeks crystallised and became plain to her. The expression in Mary
Whittaker's eyes. A long time ago, Miss Climpson had assisted a rela-
tive to run a boarding-house, and there had been a young man who
paid his bill by cheque. She had had to make a certain amount of un-
pleasantness about the bill, and he had written the cheque unwillingly,
sitting, with her eye upon him, at the little plush-covered table in the
drawing-room. Then he had gone away-slinking out with his bag when
no one was about. And the cheque had come back, like the bad penny
that it was. A forgery. Miss Climpson had had to give evidence. She
remembered now the odd, defiant look with which the young man had
taken up his pen for his first plunge into crime. And to-day she was see-
ing it again-an unattractive mingling of recklessness and calculation. It
was with the look which had once warned Wimsey and should have
warned her. She breathed more quickly.
“Who was the man?”


524
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
Miss Climpson's second letter was brought up from the police-station
too late to catch him.
They reached Town at twelve-owing to Wimsey's brisk work at the
wheel—and went straight to Scotland Yard, dropping Bunter, at his own
request, as he was anxious to return to the flat. They found the Chief
Commissioner in rather a brusque mood—angry with the Banner and
annoyed with Parker for having failed to muzzle Pillington.
"God knows where she will be found next. She's probably got a dis-
guise and a get-away all ready."
"Probably gone already," said Wimsey. "She could easily have left
England on the Monday or Tuesday and nobody a penny the wiser. If
the coast had seemed clear, she'd have come back and taken possession
of her goods again. Now she'll stay abroad. That's all."
"I'm very much afraid you're right," agreed Parker, gloomily.
"Meanwhile, what is Mrs. Forrest doing?"
"Behaving quite normally. She's been carefully shadowed, of course,
but not interfered with in any way. We've got three men out there now
—one as a coster—one as a dear friend of the hall-porter's who drops in
every so often with racing tips, and an odd-job man doing a spot of
work in the back-yard. They report that she has been in and out, shop-
ping and so on, but mostly having her meals at home. No one has called.
The men deputed to shadow her away from the flat have watched care-
fully to see if she speaks to anyone or slips money to anyone. We're
pretty sure the two haven't met yet."
"Excuse me, sir." An officer put his head in at the door. "Here's Lord
Peter Wimsey's man, sir, with an urgent message."
Bunter entered, trimly correct in bearing, but with a glitter in his eye.
He laid down two photographs on the table.
"Excuse me, my lord and gentlemen, but would you be so good as to
cast your eyes on these two photographs?"
"Finger-prints?" said the Chief, interrogatively.
"One of them is our own official photograph of the prints on the
£10,000 cheque," said Parker. "The other—where did you get this,
Bunter? It looks like the same set of prints, but it's not one of ours."
"They appeared similar, sir, to my uninstructed eye. I thought it bet-
ter to place the matter before you."
"Send Dewsby here," said the Chief Commissioner.
Dewsby was the head of the finger-print department, and he had no
hesitation at all.
"They are undoubtedly the same prints," he said.
A light was slowly breaking in on Wimsey.


UNNATURAL DEATH
529
Gotobed. If it hadn't been for that, we might never have known any-
thing about Mrs. Forrest. It must have rattled her horribly when we
turned up there. After that, she was known to the police in both her
characters. The Findlater business was a desperate attempt to cover up
her tracks—and it was bound to fail, because it was so complicated."
"Yes. But the Dawson murder was beautiful in its ease and sim-
plicity."
"If she had stuck to that and left well alone, we could never have
proved anything. We can't prove it now, which is why I left it off the
charge-sheet. I don't think I've ever met a more greedy and heartless
murderer. She probably really thought that anyone who inconvenienced
her had no right to exist."
"Greedy and malicious. Fancy tryin' to shove the blame on poor old
Hallelujah. I suppose he'd committed the unforgivable sin of askin' her
for money."
"Well, he'll get it, that's one good thing. The pit digged for Cousin
Hallelujah has turned into a gold-mine. That £10,000 cheque has been
honoured. I saw to that first thing, before Whittaker could remember to
try and stop it. Probably she couldn't have stopped it anyway, as it was
duly presented last Saturday."
"Is the money legally hers?"
"Of course it is. We know it was gained by a crime, but we haven't
charged her with the crime, so that legally no such crime was committed.
I've not said anything to Cousin Hallelujah, of course, or he mightn't
like to take it. He thinks it was sent him in a burst of contrition, poor
old dear."
"So Cousin Hallelujah and all the little Hallelujahs will be rich. That's
splendid. How about the rest of the money? Will the Crown get it after
all?"
"No. Unless she wills it to someone, it will go to the Whittaker next-
of-kin—a first cousin, I believe, called Allcock. A very decent fellow,
living in Birmingham. That is," he added, assailed by sudden doubt,
"if first cousins do inherit under this confounded Act."
"Oh, I think first cousins are safe," said Wimsey, "though nothing
seems safe nowadays. Still, dash it all, some relations must still be al-
lowed a look-in, or what becomes of the sanctity of family life? If so,
that's the most cheering thing about the beastly business. Do you know,
when I rang up that man Carr and told him all about it, he wasn't a bit
interested or grateful. Said he'd always suspected something like that,
and he hoped we weren't going to rake it all up again, because he'd
come into that money he told us about and was setting up for himself in
Harley Street, so he didn't want any more scandals."


530
THREE FOR LORD PETER WIMSEY
"I never did like that man. I'm sorry for Nurse Philliter."
"You needn't be. I put my foot in it again over that. Carr's too grand
to marry a nurse now—at least, I fancy that's what it is. Anyway, the
engagement's off. And I was so pleased at the idea of playing Providence
to two deserving young people," added Wimsey, pathetically.
"Dear, dear! Well, the girl's well out of it. Hullo! there's the 'phone.
Who on earth—? Some damned thing at the Yard, I suppose. At three
ack emma! Who'd be a policeman?—Yes?—Oh!—right, I'll come round.
The case has gone west, Peter."
"How?"
"Suicide. Strangled herself with a sheet. I'd better go round, I sup-
pose."
"IH come with you."
"An evil woman, if ever there was one," said Parker, softly, as they
looked at the rigid body, with its swollen face and the deep, red ring
about the throat,
Wimsey said nothing. He felt cold and sick. While Parker and the
Governor of the prison made the necessary arrangements and discussed
the case, he sat hunched unhappily upon his chair. Their voices went
on and on interminably. Six o'clock had struck some time before they
rose to go. It reminded him of the eight strokes of the clock which an-
nounce the running-up of the black and hideous flag.
As the gate clanged open to let them out, they stepped into a wan and
awful darkness. The June day had risen long ago, but only a pale and
yellowish gleam lit the half-deserted streets. And it was bitterly cold and
raining.
"What is the matter with the day?" said Wimsey. "Is the world com-
ing to an end?"
"No," said Parker, "it is the eclipse."


CABLE
Rupert Danby
Yeoman; only survivor of 4 brothers,
of whom the remainder were killed an
fled the country after the '45.
leaving no hains,
Henrietta Danby
1752; M. 1785; d. 1822
Elizabeth Danby
6.1754-m. 1779 Stephen
Armstrong: descendants of the
4th. generation still living. :
(Kin of 8th. degree)
Agatha Dawson
b. 1791;d. of the
Small-por 1801
No Issue
Frederick Dawson
6.1798;m. Lucy, daughter
of Geo. Marston, orphan
without kin.
Killed by falling from
his horse 1833.
Simon Dawson
6.1794. Sailed to the
West Indies.
Mo legitimate ISSUE
lary Ann Dawson
1831; d. of a decline
16348, uninarricd
No Issue
Paul Dawson
6. 1832. Turned R.C.
& entered a monastery
d. 1922
No Issue
Bosun Dawson
Natural son of Simon by
a W. Indian woman.
6.1892 m. 1887, Gloria,
a woman of his mother's
nationality.
AL
Agatha Dawson
10.1852; d unmarried
Rev. Hallelujah Dawson
6. 1869:
21.1920 Issue
Stephen Dawson
6. 1859; M. 1897;
Rose, natural
daughter of J. Fairbanks
d. 1917.
John Dawson
6.1893. Killed in the
Great War, 1916
unmarried.





I


1
.


THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ
This book is due on the last DATE stamped below.
To renew by phone, call 459-2756
Books not returned or renewed within 14 days
after due date are subject to billing.
DUE
JUL 24 1997 REC'D
MAR 30 2003
7.PR 15 200
UC SANTA CRUZ
INTERLIBRARY LOAN
4116092
JUL 05 2000 RECU
JUL 0 6 2000 RECO
MAR 1 9 2001
APR 1 4 2003 20)
APR 15 2004
MAR 13 2001 RECO
MAR 1 4 2001 RECOL DEC 22 2003 REO
APR 15 2003
DUE
SEP 19 2002 RECO
Series 2373