Clouds of Witness · Chapter 11 (1/2)

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 honor, 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 notebook 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 ashplant. It was with regret that he abandoned his favorite 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 dogcarts, 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 today, 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 today?”

“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.”

“Ah!”

“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 Grider’s Hole.”

“Why didn’t tha say so? Oh, him? Ay.”

“He’s here today?”

“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. 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 infantrymen in trench helmets. A thin stream of water gushed from a bronze knob halfway up, a roll of honor 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 recognizing 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.

“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 contrast 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 Northerners. 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 Yorkshire man,” 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 somewhere?”

“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 counter. “I knowed as I knowed your fice! Don’t you live over at Riddlesdale, 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 Sherlock 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-parlor, 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.”