Clouds of Witness

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  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 appointment in the C.I.D. rather by a combination of hard work, shrewdness, 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 café-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 recollected 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 little 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 crêpe-de-Chine had no recognisable relation to crape, and was astonishingly expensive for its bulk. The young lady had been charmingly sympathetic, 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 sauntering 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 diamonds 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 window. They were alike. They were astonishingly alike. They were identical. 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 window. 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 assured 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.’

  ‘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 monsieur 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 monsieur 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 beginning 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 eventually 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 compliments 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. l 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.’

  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 l’ai vu, ce monsieur-là. 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, especially when one is a woman. The gentleman bought a diamond cat and paid for – no, I am wrong. It was the lady who bought it, and I remember n
ow to have been surprised that she should pay like that at once in money, because ladies do not usually carry such large sums. The gentleman 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 à 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, ça 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.’

  ‘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 écaille 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 – better, 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 tomorrow as a colis postal.’

  After which he went to bed, and read himself to sleep with a commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.

  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 anyone 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 moment. 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 God! 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 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, because 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 perturbed 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 Elizabeth. 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 II’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 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 tem. 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 something correct and respectful; I forgot 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.

  6

  MARY QUITE CONTRARY

  ‘I 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, in
deed, every newspaper in the country had been announcing 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 inform the Lord Chancellor (who also, for the last fortnight, had been secretly calculating the accommodation in the Royal Gallery and choosing 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. 110A 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.

  ‘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 the 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 editions 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—’