Clouds of Witness · Chapter 9 (2/2)

“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.

“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 realize 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 anguish 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 honest 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 together. 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 persuade 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 wrangling.”

“Quite so,” said Peter. “Besides, it would look rather well in the paper, wouldn’t it? ‘Peer’s Daughter Weds Socialist⁠—Romantic Sidecar 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 romantic Goyles should fetch you away from Riddlesdale⁠—why Riddlesdale? 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 going 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 suitcase. 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 probable 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 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 managed alone, but not with a heavy suitcase. So, as George would have to climb over, anyhow, we thought he’d better come and help carry the suitcase. 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 suitcase 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 pretended 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 suitcase!”

“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.”

“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. I’m 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 believe 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 know. 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 insurrections 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.”

“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 cardsharper?”

“The thing I 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 jeweler’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 confession,” 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 detail. 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.”