Lord Peter Wimsey [02] Clouds of Witness

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Lord Peter passed the relic over without comment.

  "I observe," said Parker, "that the paper is rather crumpled and dirty, and smells powerfully of tobacco and Russian leather, and deduce that you have been keeping it in your pocketbook."

  "No!" said Wimsey incredulously. "And when you actually saw me take it out! Holmes, how do you do it?"

  "At one corner," pursued Parker, "I see two blots one rather larger than the other. I think someone must have shaken a pen there. Is there anything sinister about the blot?" "I haven't noticed anything." "Some way below the blots the Duke has signed his name two or three times--or, rather, his title. The inference is that his letters were not to intimates."

  "The inference is justifiable, I fancy."

  "Colonel Marchbanks has a neat signature."

  "He can hardly mean mischief," said Peter. "He signs his name like an honest man! Proceed."

  "There's a sprawly message about five something of fine something. Do you see anything occult there?" "The number five may have a cabalistic meaning, but I admit I don't know what it is. There are five senses, five fingers, five great Chinese precepts, five books of Moses, to say nothing of the mysterious entities hymned in the Dilly Song--'Five are the flamboys under the pole.' I must admit that I have always panted to know what the five flamboys were. But, not knowing, I get no help from it in this case."

  "Well, that's all, except a fragment consisting of 'oe' on one line, and 'is fou--' below it."

  "What do you make of that?"

  "'Is found,' I suppose."

  "Do you?" "That seems the simplest interpretation. Or possibly 'his foul'--there seems to have been a sudden rush of ink to the pen just there. Do you think it is 'his foul'? Was the Duke writing about Cathcart's foul play? Is that what you mean?"

  "No, I don't make that of it. Besides, I don't think it's Jerry's writing."

  "Whose is it?"

  "I don't know, but I can guess."

  "And it leads somewhere?"

  "It tells the whole story."

  "Oh, cough it up, Wimsey. Even Dr. Watson would lose patience."

  "Tut, tut! Try the line above."

  "Well, there's only 'oe.'"

  "Yes, well?"

  "Well, I don't know. Poet, poem, manoeuvre, Loeb edition, Citroen--it might be anything."

  "Dunno about that. There aren't lashings of English words with 'oe' in them--and it's written so close it almost looks like a diphthong at that."

  "Perhaps it isn't an English word." "Exactly; perhaps it isn't."

  "Oh! Oh, I see. French?"

  "Ah, you're gettin' warm."

  "Súur--úuvre--úuf--búuf----"

  "No, no. You were nearer the first time."

  "Súur--cúur!"

  "Cúur. Hold on a moment. Look at the scratch in front of that."

  "Wait a bit-er--cer----"

  "How about percer?"

  "I believe you're right. 'Percer le cúur.'"

  "Yes. Or 'perceras le cúur.'"

  "That's better. It seems to need another letter or two."

  "And now your 'is found' line."

  "Fou!"

  "Who?"

  "I didn't say 'who'; I said 'fou.'"

  "I know you did. I said who?"

  "Who?"

  "Who's fou?"

  "Oh, is. By Jove, 'suis'! 'Je suis fou.'"

  "A la bonne heure! And I suggest that the next words are 'de douleur,' or something like it."

  "They might be."

  "Cautious beast! I say they are."

  "Well, and suppose they are?"

  "It tells us everything." "Nothing!" "Everything, I say. Think. This was written on the day Cathcart died. Now who in the house would be likely to write these words, ' perceras le cúur Ö je suis fou de douleur'? Take everybody. I know it isn't Jerry's fist, and he wouldn't use those expressions. Colonel or Mrs. Marchbanks? Not Pygmalion likely! Freddy! Couldn't write passionate letters in French to save his life."

  "No, of course not. It would have to be either Cathcart or--Lady Mary."

  "Rot! It couldn't be Mary."

  "Why not?"

  "Not unless she changed her sex, you know."

  "Of course not. It would have to be 'je suis folle'. Then Cathcart----"

  "Of course. He lived in France all his life. Consider his bank-book. Consider----"

  "Lord! Wimsey, we've been blind."

  "Yes."

  "And listen! I was going to tell you. The Sureté write me that they've traced one of Cathcart's banknotes."

  "Where to?"

  "To a Mr. François who owns a lot of house property near the Etoile."

  "And lets it out in appartements!"

  "No doubt."

  "When's the next train? Bunter!"

  "My lord!"

  Mr. Bunter hurried to the door at the call.

  "The next boat-train for Paris?"

  "Eight-twenty, my lord, from Waterloo."

  "We're going by it. How long?"

  "Twenty minutes, my lord."

  "Pack my toothbrush and call a taxi."

  "Certainly, my lord."

  "But, Wimsey, what light does it throw on Cathcart's murder? Did this woman----"

  "I've no time," said Wimsey hurriedly. "But I'll be back in a day or two. Meanwhile----" He hunted hastily in the bookshelf, "Read this."

  He flung the book at his friend and plunged into his bedroom. At eleven o'clock, as a gap of dirty water disfigured with oil and bits of paper widened between the Normannia and the quay; while hardened passengers fortified their sea-stomachs with cold ham and pickles, and the more nervous studied the Boddy jackets in their cabins; while the harbour lights winked and swam right and left, and Lord Peter scraped acquaintance with a second-rate cinema actor in the bar, Charles Parker sat, with a puzzled frown, before the fire at 110A Piccadilly, making his first acquaintance with the delicate masterpiece of the Abbé Prevost.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Edge of the Axe towards Him Scene I: Westminster Hall. Enter as to the Parliament, Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and another Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot.

  Bolingbroke: Call forth Bagot.

  Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;

  What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death;

  Who wrought it with the king, and who performed

  The bloody office of his timeless end.

  Bagot: Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

  --King Richard II The historic trial of the Duke of Denver for murder opened as soon as Parliament reassembled after the Christmas vacation. The papers had leaderettes on "Trial by his Peers," by a Woman Barrister, and "The Privilege of Peers: should it be abolished?" by a Student of History. The Evening Banner got into trouble for contempt by publishing an article entitled "The Silken Rope" (by an Antiquarian), which was deemed to be prejudicial, and the Daily Trumpet--the Labour organ--inquired sarcastically why, when a peer was tried, the fun of seeing the show should be reserved to the few influential persons who could wangle tickets for the Royal Gallery.

  Murbles and Detective-Inspector Parker, in close consultation, went about with preoccupied faces, while Sir Impey Biggs retired into a complete eclipse for three days revolved about by Mr. Glibbery, K.C., Mr. Brownrigg-Fortescue, K.C., and a number of lesser satellites. The schemes of the Defence were kept dark indeed--the more so that they found themselves on the eve of the struggle deprived of their principal witness, and wholly ignorant whether or not he would be forthcoming with his testimony.

  Lord Peter had returned from Paris at the end of four days, and had burst in like a cyclone at Great Ormond Street. "I've got it," he said, "but it's touch and go. Listen!"

  For an hour Parker had listened, feverishly taking notes.

  "You can work on that," said Wimsey. "Tell Murbles. I'm off."

  His next appearance was at the American Embassy. The Ambassador, however, was not there, having
received a royal mandate to dine. Wimsey damned the dinner, abandoned the polite, horn-rimmed secretaries, and leapt back into his taxi with a demand to be driven to Buckingham Palace. Here a great deal of insistence with scandalised officials produced first a higher official, then a very high official, and, finally, the American Ambassador and a Royal Personage while the meat was yet in their mouths.

  "Oh, yes," said the Ambassador, "of course it can be done----" "Surely, surely," said the Personage genially, "we mustn't have any delay. Might cause an international misunderstanding, and a lot of paragraphs about Ellis Island. Terrible nuisance to have to adjourn the trial--dreadful fuss, isn't it? Our secretaries are everlastingly bringing things along to our place to sign about extra policemen and seating accommodation. Good luck to you, Wimsey! Come and have something while they get your papers through. When does your boat go?"

  "To-morrow morning, sir. I'm catching the Liverpool train in an hour--if I can."

  "You surely will," said the Ambassador cordially signing a note. "And they say the English can't hustle."

  So, with his papers all in order, his lordship set sail from Liverpool the next morning, leaving his legal representatives to draw up alternative schemes of defence.

  "Then the peers, two by two, in their order, beginning with the youngest baron." Garter King-of-Arms, very hot and bothered, fussed unhappily around the three hundred or so British peers who were sheepishly struggling into their robes, while the heralds did their best to line up the assembly and keep them from wandering away when once arranged.

  "Of all the farces!" grumbled Lord Attenbury irritably. He was a very short, stout gentleman of a choleric countenance, and was annoyed to find himself next to the Earl of Strathgillan and Begg, an extremely tall, lean nobleman, with pronounced views on Prohibition and the Legitimation question.

  "I say, Attenbury," said a kindly, brick-red peer, with five rows of ermine on his shoulder, "is it true that Wimsey hasn't come back? My daughter tells me she heard he'd gone to collect evidence in the States. Why the States?"

  "Dunno," said Attenbury; "but Wimsey's a dashed clever fellow. When he found those emeralds of mine, you know, I said----"

  "Your grace, your grace," cried Rouge Dragon desperately, diving in, "your grace is out of line again." "Eh, what?" said the brick-faced peer. "Oh, damme! Must obey orders, I suppose, what?" And was towed away from the mere earls and pushed into position next to the Duke of Wiltshire, who was deaf, and a distant connection of Denver's on the distaff side.

  The Royal Gallery was packed. In the seats reserved below the Bar for peeresses sat the Dowager Duchess of Denver, beautifully dressed and defiant. She suffered much from the adjacent presence of her daughter-in-law, whose misfortune it was to become disagreeable when she was unhappy--perhaps the heaviest curse that can be laid on man, who is born to sorrow.

  Behind the imposing array of Counsel in full-bottomed wigs in the body of the hall were seats reserved for witnesses, and here Mr. Bunter was accommodated--to be called if the defence should find it necessary to establish the alibi--the majority of the witnesses being pent up in the King's Robing-Room, gnawing their fingers and glaring at one another. On either side, above the Bar, were the benches for the peers--each in his own right a judge both of fact and law--while on the high dais the great chair of state stood ready for the Lord High Steward.

  The reporters at their little table were beginning to fidget and look at their watches. Muffled by the walls and the buzz of talk, Big Ben dropped eleven slow notes into the suspense. A door opened. The reporters started to their feet; counsel rose; everybody rose; the Dowager Duchess whispered irrepressibly to her neighbour that it reminded her of the Voice that breathed o'er Eden; and the procession streamed slowly in, lit by a shaft of wintry sunshine from the tall windows.

  The proceedings were opened by a Proclamation of Silence from the Sergeant-at-Arms, after which the Clerk of the Crown in Chancery, kneeling at the foot of the throne, presented the Commission under the Great Seal to the Lord High Steward, [The Lord Chancellor held the appointment on this occasion as usual.] who, finding no use for it, returned it with great solemnity to the Clerk of the Crown. The latter accordingly proceeded to read it at dismal and wearisome length, affording the assembly an opportunity of judging just how bad the acoustics of the chamber were. The Sergeant-at-Arms retorted with great emphasis, "God Save the King," whereupon Garter King-of-Arms and the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, kneeling again, handed the Lord High Steward his staff of office. ("So picturesque, isn't it?" said the Dowager--"quite High Church, you know.")

  The Certiorari and Return followed in a long, sonorous rigmarole, which, starting with George the Fifth by the Grace of God, called upon all the Justices and Judges of the Old Bailey, enumerated the Lord Mayor of London, the Recorder, and a quantity of assorted aldermen and justices, skipped back to our Lord the King, roamed about the City of London, Counties of London and Middlesex, Essex, Kent, and Surrey, mentioned our late Sovereign Lord King William the Fourth, branched off to the Local Government Act one thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight, lost its way in a list of all treasons, murders, felonies, and misdemeanours by whomsoever and in what manner soever done, committed or perpetrated and by whom or to whom, when, how and after what manner and of all other articles and circumstances concerning the premises and every one of them and any of them in any manner whatsoever, and at last, triumphantly, after reciting the names of the whole Grand Jury, came to the presentation of the indictment with a sudden, brutal brevity.

  "The Jurors for our Lord the King upon their oaths present that the most noble and puissant prince Gerald Christian Wimsey, Viscount St. George, Duke of Denver, a Peer of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, on the thirteenth day of October in the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and twenty-three in the Parish of Riddlesdale in the County of Yorkshire did kill and murder Denis Cathcart."

  "After which, Proclamation [ For report of the procedure see House of Lords Journal for the dates in question.] was made by the Sergeant-at-Arms for the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod to call in Gerald Christian Wimsey, Viscount St. George, Duke of Denver, to appear at the Bar to answer his indictment, who, being come to the Bar, kneeled until the Lord High Steward acquainted him that he might rise."

  The Duke of Denver looked very small and pink and lonely in his blue serge suit, the only head uncovered among all his peers, but he was not without a certain dignity as he was conducted to the "Stool placed within the Bar," which is deemed appropriate to noble prisoners, and he listened to the Lord High Steward's rehearsal of the charge with a simple gravity which became him very well.

  "Then the said Duke of Denver was arraigned by the Clerk of the Parliaments in the usual manner and asked whether he was Guilty or Not Guilty, to which he pleaded Not Guilty."

  Whereupon Sir Wigmore Wrinching, the Attorney-General, rose to open the case for the Crown. After the usual preliminaries to the effect that the case was a very painful one and the occasion a very solemn one, Sir Wigmore proceeded to unfold the story from the beginning: the quarrel, the shot at 3 A.M., the pistol, the finding of the body, the disappearance of the letter, and the rest of the familiar tale. He hinted, moreover, that evidence would be called to show that the quarrel between Denver and Cathcart had motives other than those alleged by the prisoner, and that the latter would turn out to have had "good reason to fear exposure at Cathcart's hands." At which point the accused was observed to glance uneasily at his solicitor. The exposition took only a short time, and Sir Wigmore proceeded to call witnesses.

  The prosecution being unable to call the Duke of Denver, the first important witness was Lady Mary Wimsey. After telling about her relations with the murdered man, and describing the quarrel, "At three o'clock," she proceeded, "I got up and went downstairs."

  "In consequence of what did you do so?" inquired Sir Wigmore, looking round the Court with the air of a man about to produce his great effect.

  "In consequence
of an appointment I had made to meet a friend."

  All the reporters looked up suddenly, like dogs expecting a piece of biscuit, and Sir Wigmore started so violently that he knocked his brief over upon the head of the Clerk to the House of Lords sitting below him.

  "Indeed! Now, witness, remember you are on your oath, and be very careful. What was it caused you to wake at three o'clock?"

  "I was not asleep. I was waiting for my appointment."

  "And while you were waiting did you hear anything?"

  "Nothing at all." "Now, Lady Mary, I have here your deposition sworn before the Coroner. I will read it to you. Please listen very carefully. You say, 'At three o'clock I was wakened by a shot. I thought it might be poachers. It sounded very loud, close to the house. I went down to find out what it was.' Do you remember making that statement?"

  "Yes, but it was not true."

  "Not true?"

  "No."

  "In the face of that statement, you still say that you heard nothing at three o'clock?"

  "I heard nothing at all. I went down because I had an appointment."

  "My lords," said Sir Wigmore, with a very red face. "I must ask leave to treat this witness as a hostile witness." Sir Wigmore's fiercest onslaught, however, produced no effect, except a reiteration of the statement that no shot had been heard at any time. With regard to the finding of the body, Lady Mary explained that when she said, "Oh, God! Gerald, you've killed him," she was under the impression that the body was that of the friend who had made the appointment. Here a fierce wrangle ensued as to whether the story of the appointment was relevant. The Lords decided that on the whole it was relevant; and the entire Goyles story came out, together with the intimation that Mr. Goyles was in court and could be produced. Eventually, with a loud snort, Sir Wigmore Wrinching gave up the witness to Sir Impey Biggs, who, rising suavely and looking extremely handsome, brought back the discussion to a point long previous.

  "Forgive the nature of the question," said Sir Impey, bowing blandly, "but will you tell us whether, in your opinion, the late Captain Cathcart was deeply in love with you?"