“She’s used soap,” said Mr. Bunter, benzening away resolutely. “Can she boil water in her bedroom?”
“Now, whatever should she do that for, Mr. Bunter?” exclaimed Ellen, amazed. “You don’t think she keeps a kettle? I bring up her morning tea. Ladyships don’t want to boil water.”
“No,” said Mr. Bunter, “and why didn’t she get it from the bathroom?” He scrutinized the stain more carefully still. “Very amateurish,” he said; “distinctly amateurish. Interrupted, I fancy. An energetic young lady, but not ingenious.”
The last remarks were addressed in confidence to the benzene bottle. Ellen had put her head out of the window to talk to the gamekeeper.
The Police Superintendent at Ripley received Lord Peter at first frigidly, and later, when he found out who he was, with a mixture of the official attitude to private detectives and the official attitude to a Duke’s son.
“I’ve come to you,” said Wimsey, “because you can do this combin’-out business a sight better’n an amateur like myself. I suppose your fine organization’s hard at work already, what?”
“Naturally,” said the Superintendent, “but it’s not altogether easy to trace a motorcycle without knowing the number. Look at the Bournemouth Murder.” He shook his head regretfully and accepted a Villar y Villar.
“We didn’t think at first of connecting him with the numberplate business,” the Superintendent went on in a careless tone which somehow conveyed to Lord Peter that his own remarks within the last half-hour had established the connection in the official mind for the first time. “Of course, if he’d been seen going through Ripley without a numberplate he’d have been noticed and stopped, whereas with Mr. Foulis’s he was as safe as—as the Bank of England,” he concluded in a burst of originality.
“Obviously,” said Wimsey. “Very agitatin’ for the parson, poor chap. So early in the mornin’, too. I suppose it was just taken to be a practical joke?”
“Just that,” agreed the Superintendent, “but, after hearing what you have to tell us, we shall use our best efforts to get the man. I expect his grace won’t be any too sorry to hear he’s found. You may rely on us, and if we find the man or the numberplates—”
“Lord bless us and save us, man,” broke in Lord Peter with unexpected vivacity, “you’re not goin’ to waste your time lookin’ for the numberplates. What d’you s’pose he’d pinch the curate’s plates for if he wanted to advertise his own about the neighborhood? Once you drop on them you’ve got his name and address; s’long as they’re in his trousers pocket you’re up a gumtree. Now, forgive me, Superintendent, for shovin’ along with my opinion, but I simply can’t bear to think of you takin’ all that trouble for nothin’—draggin’ ponds an’ turnin’ over rubbish-heaps to look for numberplates that ain’t there. You just scour the railway-stations for a young man six foot one or two with a No. 10 shoe, and dressed in a Burberry that’s lost its belt, and with a deep scratch on one of his hands. And look here, here’s my address, and I’ll be very grateful if you’ll let me know anything that turns up. So awkward for my brother, y’know, all this. Sensitive man; feels it keenly. By the way, I’m a very uncertain bird—always hoppin’ about; you might wire me any news in duplicate, to Riddlesdale and to town—110 Piccadilly. Always delighted to see you, by the way, if ever you’re in town. You’ll forgive me slopin’ off now, won’t you? I’ve got a lot to do.”
Returning to Riddlesdale, Lord Peter found a new visitor seated at the tea-table. At Peter’s entry he rose into towering height, and extended a shapely, expressive hand that would have made an actor’s fortune. He was not an actor, but he found this hand useful, nevertheless, in the exploitation of dramatic moments. His magnificent build and the nobility of his head and mask were impressive; his features were flawless; his eyes ruthless. The Dowager Duchess had once remarked: “Sir Impey Biggs is the handsomest man in England, and no woman will ever care twopence for him.” He was, in fact, thirty-eight, and a bachelor, and was celebrated for his rhetoric and his suave but pitiless dissection of hostile witnesses. The breeding of canaries was his unexpected hobby, and besides their song he could appreciate no music but revue airs. He answered Wimsey’s greeting in his beautiful, resonant, and exquisitely controlled voice. Tragic irony, cutting contempt, or a savage indignation were the emotions by which Sir Impey Biggs swayed court and jury; he prosecuted murderers of the innocent, defended in actions for criminal libel, and, moving others, was himself as stone. Wimsey expressed himself delighted to see him in a voice, by contrast, more husky and hesitant even than usual.
“You just come from Jerry?” he asked. “Fresh toast, please Fleming. How is he? Enjoyin’ it? I never knew a fellow like Jerry for gettin’ the least possible out of any situation. I’d rather like the experience myself, you know; only I’d hate bein’ shut up and watchin’ the other idiots bunglin’ my case. No reflection on Murbles and you, Biggs. I mean myself—I mean the man who’d be me if I was Jerry. You follow me?”
“I was just saying to Sir Impey,” said the Duchess, “that he really must make Gerald say what he was doing in the garden at three in the morning. If only I’d been at Riddlesdale none of this would have happened. Of course, we all know that he wasn’t doing any harm, but we can’t expect the jurymen to understand that. The lower orders are so prejudiced. It is absurd of Gerald not to realize that he must speak out. He has no consideration.”
“I am doing my very best to persuade him, Duchess,” said Sir Impey, “but you must have patience. Lawyers enjoy a little mystery, you know. Why, if everybody came forward and told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth straight out, we should all
