Lord Peter Wimsey [02] Clouds of Witness

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  "I've always said," growled Peter, "that the professional advocate was the most immoral fellow on the face of the earth, and now I know for certain." "Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, "all this just means that we mustn't rest upon our oars. You must go on, my dear boy, and get more evidence of a positive kind. If this Mr. Goyles did not kill Cathcart we must be able to find the person who did."

  "Anyhow," said Biggs, "there's one thing to be thankful for--and that is, that you were still too unwell to go before the Grand Jury last Thursday, Lady Mary"--Lady Mary blushed--"and the prosecution will be building their case on a shot fired at three A.M. Don't answer any questions if you can help it, and we'll spring it on 'em."

  "But will they believe anything she says at the trial after that?" asked Peter dubiously. "All the better if they don't. She'll be their witness. You'll get a nasty heckling, Lady Mary, but you mustn't mind that. It's all in the game. Just stick to your story and we'll deliver the goods. See!" Sir Impey wagged a menacing finger.

  "I see," said Mary. "And I'll be heckled like anything. Just go on stubbornly saying, 'I am telling the truth now.' That's the idea, isn't it?"

  "Exactly so," said Biggs. "By the way, Denver still refuses to explain his movements, I suppose?" "Cat-e-gori-cally," replied the solicitor. "The Wimseys are a very determined family," he added, "and I fear that, for the present, it is useless to pursue that line of investigation. If we could discover the truth in some other way, and confront the Duke with it, he might then be persuaded to add his confirmation."

  "Well, now," said Parker, "we have, as it seems to me, still three lines to go upon. First, we must try to establish the Duke's alibi from external sources. Secondly, we can examine the evidence afresh with a view to finding the real murderer. And thirdly, the Paris police may give us some light upon Cathcart's past history."

  "And I fancy I know where to go next for information on the second point," said Wimsey suddenly. "Grider's Hole."

  "Whew-w!" Parker whistled. "I was forgetting that. That's where that bloodthirsty farmer fellow lives, isn't it, who set the dogs on you?" "With the remarkable wife. Yes. See here, how does this strike you? This fellow is ferociously jealous of his wife, and inclined to suspect every man who comes near her. When I went up there that day, and mentioned that a friend of mine might have been hanging about there the previous week, he got frightfully excited and threatened to have the fellow's blood. Seemed to know who I was referrin' to. Now, of course, with my mind full of No. 10--Goyles, you know--I never thought but what he was the man. But supposin' it was Cathcart? You see, we know now Goyles hadn't even been in the 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, making an appointment--but suppose the message was from Grimethorpe, threatening to split on Cathcart to Jerry."

  "You are suggesting, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles, in a tone calculated to chill Peter's blithe impetuosity, "that, at the very time Mr. Cathcart was betrothed to your sister, he was carrying on a disgraceful intrigue with a married woman very much his social inferior."

  "I beg your pardon, Polly," said Wimsey.

  "It's all right," said Mary. "I--as a matter of fact, it wouldn't surprise me frightfully. Denis was always--I mean, he had rather Continental ideas about marriage and that sort of thing. I don't think he'd have thought that mattered very much. He'd probably have said there was a time and place for everything."

  "One of those watertight compartment minds," said Wimsey thoughtfully. Mr. Parker, despite his long acquaintance with the seamy side of things in London, had his brows set in a gloomy frown of as fierce a provincial disapproval as ever came from Barrow-in-Furness.

  "If you can upset this Grimethorpe's alibi," said Sir Impey, fitting his right-hand 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 admit that he, Grimethorpe, was not at Grider's Hole on Wednesday night. If he can't prove he was at Stapley he may have been at Riddlesdale Lodge.

  "By Jove!" cried Wimsey; "driven off alone, stopped somewhere, left the gee, sneaked back, met Cathcart, done him in, and toddled home next day with a tale about machinery."

  "Or he may even have been to Stapley," put in Parker; "left early or gone late, and put in the murder on the way. We shall have to check the precise times very carefully."

  "Hurray!" cried Wimsey. "I think I'll be gettin' back to Riddlesdale."

  "I'd better stay here," said Parker. "There may be something from Paris."

  "Right you are. Let me know the minute anything comes through. I say, old thing!"

  "Yes?"

  "Does it occur to you that what's the matter with this case is that there are too many clues? Dozens of people with secrets and elopements bargin' about all over the place----"

  "I hate you, Peter," said Lady Mary.

  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 Denver had been transferred after the Assizes, owing to the imminent closing-down of Northallerton Gaol. By dint of judicious persuasion, Peter contrived to obtain an interview with his brother.

  He found him looking ill at ease, and pulled down by the prison atmosphere, but still unquenchably defiant.

  "Bad luck, old man," said Peter, "but you're keepin' your tail up fine. Beastly slow business, all this legal stuff, what? But it gives us time, an' that's all to the good."

  "It's a confounded nuisance," said his grace. "And I'd like to know what Murbles means. Comes down and tries to bully me--damned impudence! Anybody'd think he suspected me."

  "Look here, Jerry," said his brother earnestly, "why can't you let up on that alibi of yours? It'd help no end, you know. After all, if a fellow won't say what he's been doin'----" "It ain't my business to prove anything," retorted his grace, with dignity. "They've got to show I was there, murderin' the fellow. I'm not bound to say where I was. I'm presumed innocent, aren't I, till they prove me guilty? I call it a disgrace. Here's a murder committed, and they aren't taking the slightest trouble to find the real criminal. I give 'em my word of 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. Meanwhile, the real man's escapin' at his confounded leisure. If I were only free, I'd make a fuss about it."

  "Well, why the devil don't you cut it short, then?" urged Peter. "I don't mean here and now to me"--with a glance at the warder, within earshot--"but to Murbles. Then we could get to work." "I wish you'd jolly well keep out of it," grunted the Duke. "Isn't it all damnable
enough for Helen, poor girl, and mother, and everyone, without you makin' it an opportunity to play Sherlock Holmes? I'd have thought you'd have had the decency to keep quiet, for the family's sake. I may be in a damned rotten position, but I ain't makin' a public spectacle of myself, by Jove!"

  "Hell!" said Lord Peter, with such vehemence that the wooden-faced warder actually jumped. "It's you that's makin' the spectacle! It need never have started, but for you. Do you think I 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 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 Cathedral.

  "I venture to suggest, my lord," he urged in a hurried whisper, "that we adopt the attitude and external appearance of prayer, if your lordship will excuse me."

  Peeping through his fingers, Lord Peter saw a verger hastening towards them, rebuke depicted on his face.

  At that moment, however, the reporter entered in headlong pursuit, tugging a note-book from his pocket.

  The verger leapt swiftly on this new prey. "The winder h'under which we stand," he began in a reverential monotone, "is called the Seven Sisters of York. They say----"

  Master and man stole quietly out. * * * For his visit to the market town of Stapley Lord Peter attired himself in an aged Norfolk suit, stockings with sober tops, an ancient hat turned down all round, stout shoes, and carried a heavy ash-plant. 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) transmogrified into the "Bridge and Bottle." To the grumpy ostler who took the horse Peter, with his most companionable manner, addressed himself:

  "Nasty raw morning, isn't it?"

  "Eea."

  "Give him a good feed. I may be here some time."

  "Ugh!"

  "Not many people about to-day, what?"

  "Ugh!"

  "But I expect you're busy enough market-days."

  "Eea."

  "People come in from a long way round, I suppose." "Co-oop!" said the ostler. The horse walked three steps forward.

  "Wo!" said the ostler. The horse stopped, with the shafts free of the tugs; the man lowered the shafts, to grate viciously on the gravel.

  "Coom on oop!" said the ostler, and walked calmly off into the stable, leaving the affable Lord Peter as thoroughly snubbed as that young sprig of the nobility had ever found himself. "I am more and more convinced," said his lordship, "that this is Farmer Grimethorpe's usual house of call. Let's try the bar. Wilkes, I shan't want you for a bit. Get yourself lunch if necessary. I don't know how long we shall be."

  "Very good, my lord."

  In the bar of the "Bridge and Bottle" they found Mr. Greg Smith gloomily checking a long invoice. Lord Peter ordered drinks for Bunter and himself. The landlord appeared to resent this as a liberty, and jerked his head towards the barmaid. It was only right and proper that Bunter, after respectfully returning thanks to his master for his half-pint, should fall into conversation with the girl, while Lord Peter paid his respects to Mr. Smith.

  "Ah!" said his lordship, "good stuff, that, Mr. Smith. I was told to come here for real good beer, and, by Jove! I've been sent to the right place."

  "Ugh!" said Mr. Smith, "'tisn't what it was. Nowt's good these times."

  "Well, I don't want better. By the way, is Mr. Grimethorpe here 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 today."

  "Coom where?"

  "Into Stapley."

  "Doosn't 'e live here? He can go and coom without my knowing."

  "Oh, of course!" Wimsey staggered under the shock, and then grasped the misunderstanding. "I don't mean Mr. Grimethorpe of Stapley, but Mr. Grimethorpe of G
rider'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 longish way. One can put up for the night I suppose."

  "Doosta want t'stay t'night?"

  "Well, no, I don't think so. I was thinking about my friend Mr. Grimethorpe. I daresay he often has to stay the night."

  "Happen a does."

  "Doesn't he stay here, then?"

  "Naay."

  "Oh!" said Wimsey, and thought impatiently: "If all these natives are as oyster-like 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 communicative than that fellow." "I found the young person" ("Snubbed again," muttered Lord Peter) "perfectly amiable, my lord, but unhappily ill-informed. Mr. Grimethorpe is not unknown to her, but he does not stay here. She has sometimes seen him in company with a man called Zedekiah Bone."

  "Well," said his lordship, "suppose you look for Bone, and come and report progress to me in a couple of hours' time. I'll try the 'Rose and Crown.' We'll meet at noon under that thing." "That thing," was a tall erection in pink granite, neatly tooled to represent a craggy rock, and guarded by two petrified infantry-men in trench helmets. A thin stream of water gushed from a bronze knob halfway 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.