“Right you are,” said the Hon. Freddy; “you’ll have to give me a hundred, though, Colonel.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said that veteran, in high good humor; “you play an excellent game.”
Mr. Murbles having withdrawn, Wimsey and Parker faced each other over the remains of the breakfast.
“Peter,” said the detective, “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing by coming. If you feel—”
“Look here, old man,” said his friend earnestly, “let’s cut out the considerations of delicacy. We’re goin’ to work this case like any other. If anything unpleasant turns up, I’d rather you saw it than anybody else. It’s an uncommonly pretty little case, on its merits, and I’m goin’ to put some damn good work into it.”
“If you’re sure it’s all right—”
“My dear man, if you hadn’t been here I’d have sent for you. Now let’s get to business. Of course, I’m settin’ off with the assumption that old Gerald didn’t do it.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” agreed Parker.
“No, no,” said Wimsey, “that isn’t your line. Nothing rash about you—nothing trustful. You are expected to throw cold water on my hopes and doubt all my conclusions.”
“Right ho!” said Parker. “Where would you like to begin?”
Peter considered. “I think we’ll start from Cathcart’s bedroom,” he said.
His bedroom was of moderate size, with a single window overlooking the front door. The bed was on the right-hand side, the dressing-table before the window. On the left was the fireplace, with an armchair before it, and a small writing-table.
“Everything’s as it was,” said Parker. “Craikes had that much sense.”
“Yes,” said Lord Peter. “Very well. Gerald says that when he charged Cathcart with bein’ a scamp, Cathcart jumped up, nearly knockin’ the table over. That’s the writin’-table, then, so Cathcart was sittin’ in the armchair. Yes, he was—and he pushed it back violently and rumpled up the carpet. See! So far, so good. Now what was he doin’ there? He wasn’t readin’, because there’s no book about, and we know that he rushed straight out of the room and never came back. Very good. Was he writin’? No; virgin sheet of blottin’-paper—”
“He might have been writing in pencil,” suggested Parker.
“That’s true, old Killjoy, so he might. Well, if he was he shoved the paper into his pocket when Gerald came in, because it isn’t here; but he didn’t, because it wasn’t found on his body; so he wasn’t writing.”
“Unless he threw the paper away somewhere else,” said Parker. “I haven’t been all over the grounds, you know, and at the smallest computation—if we accept the shot heard by Hardraw at 11:50 as the shot—there’s an hour and a half unaccounted for.”
“Very well. Let’s say there is nothing to show he was writing. Will that do? Well, then—”
Lord Peter drew out a lens and scrutinized the surface of the armchair carefully before sitting down in it.
“Nothing helpful there,” he said. “To proceed, Cathcart sat where I am sitting. He wasn’t writing; he—you’re sure this room hasn’t been touched?”
“Certain.”
“Then he wasn’t smoking.”
“Why not? He might have chucked the stub of a cigar or cigarette into the fire when Denver came in.”
“Not a cigarette,” said Peter, “or we should find traces somewhere—on the floor or in the grate. That light ash blows about so. But a cigar—well, he might have smoked a cigar without leaving a sign, I suppose. But I hope he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, 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 unpracticed 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
