Clouds of Witness · Chapter 10 (2/2)

“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 flavor hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a moment.

“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 recognize bravely that it is dead, and put it away.” With a determined movement, 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 matter 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 matter 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 defense, 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 something between a burglary and a crime passionel. And here you come explaining 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?”

“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 neighborhood 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 fingertips 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.”

“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.