“That’s good,” said Lord Peter; “that’s very good. But when do you suppose it happened? Gerald found the body at 3 a.m.; the doctor was here at 4:30, and said Cathcart had been dead several hours. Very well. Now, how about that shot my sister heard at three o’clock?”
“Look here, old man,” said Parker, “I don’t want to appear rude to your sister. May I put it like this? I suggest that that shot at 3 a.m. was poachers.”
“Poachers by all means,” said Lord Peter. “Well, really, Parker, I think that hangs together. Let’s adopt that explanation provisionally. The first thing to do is now to find No. 10, since he can bear witness that Cathcart committed suicide; and that, as far as my brother is concerned, is the only thing that matters a rap. But for the satisfaction of my own curiosity I’d like to know: What was No. 10 blackmailing Cathcart about? Who hid a suitcase in the conservatory? And what was Gerald doing in the garden at 3 a.m.?”
“Well,” said Parker, “suppose we begin by tracing where No. 10 came from.”
“Hi, hi!” cried Wimsey, as they returned to the trail. “Here’s something—here’s real treasure-trove, Parker!”
From amid the mud and the fallen leaves he retrieved a tiny, glittering object—a flash of white and green between his fingertips.
It was a little charm such as women hang upon a bracelet—a diminutive diamond cat with eyes of bright emerald.
III
Mudstains and Bloodstains
Other things are all very well in their way, but give me Blood … We say, “There it is! that’s Blood!” It is an actual matter of fact. We point it out. It admits of no doubt … We must have Blood, you know.
David Copperfield
“Hitherto,” said Lord Peter, as they picked their painful way through the little wood on the trail of Gent’s No. 10’s, “I have always maintained that those obliging criminals who strew their tracks with little articles of personal adornment—here he is, on a squashed fungus—were an invention of detective fiction for the benefit of the author. I see that I have still something to learn about my job.”
“Well, you haven’t been at it very long, have you?” said Parker. “Besides, we don’t know that the diamond cat is the criminal’s. It may belong to a member of your own family, and have been lying here for days. It may belong to Mr. What’s-his-name in the States, or to the last tenant but one, and have been lying here for years. This broken branch may be our friend—I think it is.”
“I’ll ask the family,” said Lord Peter, “and we could find out in the village if anyone’s ever inquired for a lost cat. They’re pukka stones. It ain’t the sort of thing one would drop without making a fuss about—I’ve lost him altogether.”
“It’s all right—I’ve got him. He’s tripped over a root.”
“Serve him glad,” said Lord Peter viciously, straightening his back. “I say, I don’t think the human frame is very thoughtfully constructed for this sleuthhound business. If one could go on all-fours, or had eyes in one’s knees, it would be a lot more practical.”
“There are many difficulties inherent in a teleological view of creation,” said Parker placidly. “Ah! here we are at the park palings.”
“And here’s where he got over,” said Lord Peter, pointing to a place where the chevaux de frise on the top was broken away. “Here’s the dent where his heels came down, and here’s where he fell forward on hands and knees. Hum! Give us a back, old man, would you? Thanks. An old break, I see. Mr. Montague-now-in-the-States should keep his palings in better order. No. 10 tore his coat on the spikes all the same; he left a fragment of Burberry behind him. What luck! Here’s a deep, damp ditch on the other side, which I shall now proceed to fall into.”
A slithering crash proclaimed that he had carried out his intention. Parker, thus callously abandoned, looked round, and, seeing that they were only a hundred yards or so from the gate, ran along and was let out, decorously, by Hardraw, the gamekeeper, who happened to be coming out of the lodge.
“By the way,” said Parker to him, “did you ever find any signs of any poachers on Wednesday night after all?”
“Nay,” said the man, “not so much as a dead rabbit. I reckon t’lady wor mistaken, an ’twore the shot I heard as killed t’Captain.”
“Possibly,” said Parker. “Do you know how long the spikes have been broken off the palings over there?”
“A moonth or two, happen. They should ’a’ bin put right, but the man’s sick.”
“The gate’s locked at night, I suppose?”
“Aye.”
“Anybody wishing to get in would have to waken you?”
“Aye, that he would.”
“You didn’t see any suspicious character loitering about outside these palings last Wednesday, I suppose?”
“Nay, sir, but my wife may ha’ done. Hey, lass!”
Mrs. Hardraw, thus summoned, appeared at the door with a small boy clinging to her skirts.
“Wednesday?” said she. “Nay, I saw no loiterin’ folks. I keep a lookout
