“No—unless the doctor’s a fool. Why put a bag inconveniently in a damp and dirty place out of the way when every law of sense and convenience would urge him to pop it down handy by the body? No. Unless Craikes or the gardener has been leaving things about, it was thrust away there on Wednesday night by Gerald, by Cathcart—or, I suppose, by Mary. Nobody else could be supposed to have anything to hide.”
“Yes,” said Parker, “one person.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Person Unknown.”
“Who’s he?”
For answer Mr. Parker proudly stepped to a row of wooden frames, carefully covered with matting. Stripping this away, with the air of a bishop unveiling a memorial, he disclosed a V-shaped line of footprints.
“These,” said Parker, “belong to nobody—to nobody I’ve ever seen or heard of, I mean.”
“Hurray!” said Peter.
“Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge
They tracked the footmarks small
(only they’re largish).”
“No such luck,” said Parker. “It’s more a case of:
They followed from the earthy bank
Those footsteps one by one,Into the middle of the plank;
And farther there were none!”
“Great poet, Wordsworth,” said Lord Peter; “how often I’ve had that feeling. Now let’s see. These footmarks—a man’s No. 10 with worn-down heels and a patch on the left inner side—advance from the hard bit of the path which shows no footmarks; they come to the body—here, where that pool of blood is. I say, that’s rather odd, don’t you think? No? Perhaps not. There are no footmarks under the body? Can’t say, it’s such a mess. Well, the Unknown gets so far—here’s a footmark deeply pressed in. Was he just going to throw Cathcart into the well? He hears a sound; he starts; he turns; he runs on tiptoe—into the shrubbery, by Jove!”
“Yes,” said Parker, “and the tracks come out on one of the grass paths in the wood, and there’s an end of them.”
“H’m! Well, we’ll follow them later. Now where did they come from?”
Together the two friends followed the path away from the house. The gravel, except for the little patch before the conservatory, was old and hard, and afforded but little trace, particularly as the last few days had been rainy. Parker, however, was able to assure Wimsey that there had been definite traces of dragging and bloodstains.
“What sort of bloodstains? Smears?”
“Yes, smears mostly. There were pebbles displaced, too, all the way—and now here is something odd.”
It was the clear impression of the palm of a man’s hand heavily pressed into the earth of a herbaceous border, the fingers pointing towards the house. On the path the gravel had been scraped up in two long furrows. There was blood on the grass border between the path and the bed, and the edge of the grass was broken and trampled.
“I don’t like that,” said Lord Peter.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” agreed Parker.
“Poor devil!” said Peter. “He made a determined effort to hang on here. That explains the blood by the conservatory door. But what kind of a devil drags a corpse that isn’t quite dead?”
A few yards farther the path ran into the main drive. This was bordered with trees, widening into a thicket. At the point of intersection of the two paths were some further indistinct marks, and in another twenty yards or so they turned aside into the thicket. A large tree had fallen at some time and made a little clearing, in the midst of which a tarpaulin had been carefully spread out and pegged down. The air was heavy with the smell of fungus and fallen leaves.
“Scene of the tragedy,” said Parker briefly, rolling back the tarpaulin.
Lord Peter gazed down sadly. Muffled in an overcoat and a thick grey scarf, he looked, with his long, narrow face, like a melancholy adjutant stork. The writhing body of the fallen man had scraped up the dead leaves and left a depression in the sodden ground. At one place the darker earth showed where a great pool of blood had soaked into it, and the yellow leaves of a Spanish poplar were rusted with no autumnal stain.
“That’s where they found the handkerchief and revolver,” said Parker. “I looked for fingermarks, but the rain and mud had messed everything up.”
Wimsey took out his lens, lay down, and conducted a personal tour of the whole space slowly on his stomach, Parker moving mutely after him.
“He paced up and down for some time,” said Lord Peter. “He wasn’t smoking. He was turning something over in his mind, or waiting for somebody. What’s this? Aha! Here’s our No. 10 foot again, coming in through the trees on the farther side. No signs of a struggle. That’s odd! Cathcart was shot close up, wasn’t he?”
“Yes; it singed his shirtfront.”
“Quite so. Why did he stand still to be shot at?”
“I imagine,” said Parker, “that if he had an appointment with No. 10 Boots it was somebody he knew, who could get close to him without arousing suspicion.”
“Then the interview was a friendly one—on Cathcart’s side, anyhow. But the revolver’s a difficulty. How did No. 10 get hold of Gerald’s revolver?”
“The conservatory door was open,” said Parker dubiously.
“Nobody knew about that except Gerald and Fleming,” retorted Lord Peter. “Besides, do you mean to tell me that No. 10 walked in here, went to the study, fetched the revolver, walked back here, and shot Cathcart? It seems a clumsy method. If he wanted to do any shooting, why didn’t he come armed in the first place?”
“It seems more probable that Cathcart brought the revolver,” said Parker.
“Then why no signs of a struggle?”
“Perhaps Cathcart shot himself,” said Parker.
“Then why should No. 10 drag him into a conspicuous position and then run away?”
“Wait a minute,” said Parker. “How’s this? No. 10 has an appointment with Cathcart—to blackmail him, let’s say. He somehow gets word of his intention to him between 9:45 and 10:15. That would account for the alteration in Cathcart’s manner, and allow both Mr. Arbuthnot and the Duke to be telling the truth. Cathcart rushes violently out after his row with your brother. He comes
