Clouds of Witness. Дороти Ли Сэйерс
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old son, I'd rather Gerald's account had some element of truth in it. A nervy man doesn't sit down to the delicate enjoyment of a cigar before bed, and cherish the ash with such scrupulous care. On the other hand, if Freddy's right, and Cathcart was feelin' unusually sleek and pleased with life, that's just the sort of thing he would do."
"Do you think Mr. Arbuthnot would have invented all that, as a matter of fact?" said Parker thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me that way. He'd have to be imaginative and spiteful to make it up, and I really don't think he's either."
"I know," said Lord Peter. "I've known old Freddy all my life, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, he simply hasn't the wits to make up any sort of a story. But what bothers me is that Gerald most certainly hasn't the wits either to invent that Adelphi drama between him and Cathcart."
"On the other hand," said Parker, "if we allow for a moment that he shot Cathcart, he had an incentive to invent it. He would be trying to get his head out of the-I mean, when anything important is at stake it's wonderful how it sharpens one's wits. And the story being so farfetched does rather suggest an unpractised storyteller."
"True O King. Well, you've sat on all my discoveries so far. Never mind. My head is bloody but unbowed. Cathcart was sitting here-"
"So your brother said."
"Curse you, I say he was; at least, somebody was; he's left the impression of his sit-me-down-upon on the cushion."
"That might have been earlier in the day."
"Rot. They were out all day. You needn't overdo this Sadducee attitude, Charles. I say Cathcart was sitting here, and-hullo! hullo!"
He leaned forward and stared into the grate.
"There's some burnt paper here, Charles."
"I know. I was frightfully excited about that yesterday, but I found it was just the same in several of the rooms. They often let the bedroom fires go out when everybody's out during the day, and relight them about an hour before dinner. There's only the cook, housemaid, and Fleming here, you see, and they've got a lot to do with such a large party."
Lord Peter was picking the charred fragments over.
"I can find nothing to contradict your suggestion," he sadly said, "and this fragment of the Morning Post rather confirms it. Then we can only suppose that Cathcart sat here in a brown study, doing nothing at all. That doesn't get us much further, I'm afraid." He got up and went to the dressing-table.
"I like these tortoiseshell sets," he said, "and the perfume is 'Kaiser du Soir'-very nice too. New to me. "Must draw Bunter's attention to it. A charming manicure set, isn't it? You know, I like being clean and all that, but Cathcart was the kind of man who always impressed you as bein' just a little too well turned out. Poor devil! And he'll be buried at Golders Green after all. I only saw him once or twice, you know. He impressed me as knowin' about everything there was to know. I was rather surprised at Mary's takin' to him, but, then, I know really awfully little about Mary. You see, she's five years younger than me. When the war broke out she'd just left school and gone to a place in Paris, and I joined up, and she came back and did nursing and social work, so I only saw her occasionally. At that time she was rather taken up with new schemes for puttin' the world to rights and hadn't a lot to say to me. And she got hold of some pacifist fellow who was a bit of a stumer, I fancy. Then I was ill, you know, and after I got the chuck from Barbara I didn't feel much like botherin' about other people's heart-to-hearts, and then I got mixed up in the Attenbury diamond case-and the result is I know uncommonly little about my own sister. But it looks as though her taste in men had altered. I know my mother said Cathcart had charm; that means he was attractive to women, I suppose. No man can see what makes that in another man, but mother is usually right. What's become of this fellow's papers?"
"He left very little here," replied Parker. "There's a cheque-book on Cox's Charing Cross branch, but it's a new one and not very helpful. Apparently he only kept a small current account with them for convenience when he was in England. The cheques are mostly to self, with an occasional hotel or tailor."
"Any pass-book?"
"I think all his important papers are in Paris. He has a flat there, near the river somewhere. We're in communication with the Paris police. He had a room in Albany. I've told them to lock it up till I get there. I thought of running up to town tomorrow."
"Yes you'd better. Any pocket-book?"
"Yes; here you are. About £30 in various notes, a wine-merchant's card, and a bill for a pair of riding-breeches."
"No correspondence?"
"Not a line."
"No," said Wimsey, "he was the kind, I imagine, that didn't keep letters. Much too good an instinct of self-preservation."
"Yes. I asked the servants about his letters, as a matter of fact. They said he got a good number, but never left them about. They couldn't tell me much about the ones he wrote, because all the outgoing letters are dropped into the post-bag, which is carried down to the post-office as it is and opened there, or handed over to the postman when-or if-he calls. The general impression was that he didn't write much. The housemaid said she never found anything to speak of in the waste-paper basket."
"Well, that's uncommonly helpful. Wait a moment. Here's his fountain-pen. Very handsome-Onoto with complete gold casing. Dear me! entirely empty. Well, I don't know that one can deduce anything from that, exactly. I don't see any pencil about, by the way. I'm inclined to think you're wrong in supposing that he was writing letters."
"I didn't suppose anything," said Parker mildly. "I daresay you're right."
Lord Peter left the dressing-table, looked through the contents of the wardrobe, and turned over the two or three books on the pedestal beside the bed.
" La Patisserie de la Heine Pedauque, L'Anneau d'Amethyste, South Wind (our young friend works out very true to type), Chronique d'un Cadet de Contras (tut-tut, Charles!') Manon Lescaut. H'm! Is there anything else in this room I ought to look at?"
"I don't think so. Where'd you like to go now?"
"We'll follow 'em down. Wait a jiff. Who are in the other rooms? Oh, yes. Here's Gerald's room. Helen's at church. In we go. Of course, this has been dusted and cleaned up, and generally ruined for purposes of observation?"
"I'm afraid so. I could hardly keep the Duchess out of her bedroom."
"No. Here's the window Gerald shouted out of. H'm! Nothing in the grate here, naturally-the fire's been lit since. I say, I wonder where Gerald did put that letter to-Freeborn's, I mean."
"Nobody's been able to get a word out of him about it," said Parker. "Old Mr. Murbles had a fearful time with him. The Duke insists simply that he destroyed it. Mr. Murbles says that's absurd. So it is. If he was going to bring that sort of accusation against his sister's fiancé he'd want some evidence of a method in his madness, wouldn't he? Or was he one of those Roman brothers who say simply: 'As the head of the family I forbid the banns and that's enough'?"
"Gerald," said Wimsey, "is a good, clean, decent, thoroughbred public schoolboy, and a shocking ass. But I don't think he's so mediaeval as that."
"But if he has the letter, why not produce it?"
"Why, indeed? Letters from old college friends in Egypt aren't, as a rule, compromising."
"You don't suppose," suggested Parker tentatively, "that this Mr. Freeborn referred in his letter to any old-er-entanglement which your brother wouldn't wish the Duchess to know about?"
Lord Peter paused, while absently examining a row [missing] "That's an idea," he said. "There were occasions-mild ones, but Helen would make the most of them."
He whistled thoughtfully. "Still, when it comes to the gallows-"
"Do you suppose, Wimsey, that your brother really contemplates the gallows?" asked Parker.
"I think Murbles put it to him pretty straight," said Lord Peter.
"Quite so. But does he actually realise-imaginatively-that it is possible to hang an English peer for murder on circumstantial evidence?"
Lord