Whether the man was moved by this lyric outburst, or whether the failing light was not too dim to strike a pale sheen from the metal in Lord Peter’s palm, at any rate he moved a trifle back from the gate.
“Thanks awfully, old bean,” said Peter, stepping briskly past him. “I take it I shall find Mr. Grimethorpe in the house?”
The man said nothing till Wimsey had proceeded about a dozen yards up the flagged path, then he hailed him, but without turning round.
“Mester!”
“Yes, old thing?” said Peter affably, returning.
“Happen he’ll set dog on tha.”
“You don’t say so?” said Peter. “The faithful hound welcomes the return of the prodigal. Scene of family rejoicing. ‘My own long lost boy!’ Sobs and speeches, beer all round for the delighted tenantry. Glees by the old fireside, till the rafters ring and all the smoked hams tumble down to join in the revelry. Good night, sweet Prince, until the cows come home and the dogs eat Jezebel in the portion of Jezreel when the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces. I suppose,” he added to himself, “they will have finished tea.”
As Lord Peter approached the door of the farm his spirits rose. He enjoyed paying this kind of visit. Although he had taken to detecting as he might, with another conscience or constitution, have taken to Indian hemp—for its exhilarating properties—at a moment when life seemed dust and ashes, he had not primarily the detective temperament. He expected next to nothing from inquiries at Grider’s Hole, and, if he had, he might probably have extracted all the information he wanted by a judicious display of Treasury notes to the glum man at the gate. Parker would in all likelihood have done so; he was paid to detect and to do nothing else, and neither his natural gifts nor his education (at Barrow-in-Furness Grammar School) prompted him to stray into sidetracks at the beck of an ill-regulated imagination. But to Lord Peter the world presented itself as an entertaining labyrinth of side-issues. He was a respectable scholar in five or six languages, a musician of some skill and more understanding, something of an expert in toxicology, a collector of rare editions, an entertaining man-about-town, and a common sensationalist. He had been seen at half-past twelve on a Sunday morning walking in Hyde Park in a top-hat and frock-coat, reading the News of the World. His passion for the unexplored led him to hunt up obscure pamphlets in the British Museum, to unravel the emotional history of income-tax collectors, and to find out where his own drains led to. In this case, the fascinating problem of a Yorkshire farmer who habitually set the dogs on casual visitors imperatively demanded investigation in a personal interview. The result was unexpected.
His first summons was unheeded, and he knocked again. This time there was a movement, and a surly male voice called out:
“Well, let ’un in then, dang ’un—and dang thee,” emphasized by the sound of something falling or thrown across the room.
The door was opened unexpectedly by a little girl of about seven, very dark and pretty, and rubbing her arm as though the missile had caught her there. She stood defensively, blocking the threshold, till the same voice growled impatiently:
“Well, who is it?”
“Good evening,” said Wimsey, removing his hat. “I hope you’ll excuse me droppin’ in like this. I’m livin’ at Riddlesdale Lodge.”
“What of it?” demanded the voice. Above the child’s head Wimsey saw the outline of a big, thickset man smoking in the inglenook of an immense fireplace. There was no light but the firelight, for the window was small, and dusk had already fallen. It seemed to be a large room, but a high oak settle on the farther side of the chimney ran out across it, leaving a cavern of impenetrable blackness beyond.
“May I come in?” said Wimsey.
“If tha must,” said the man ungraciously. “Shoot door, lass; what art starin’ at? Go to thi moother and bid her mend thi manners for thee.”
This seemed a case of the pot lecturing the kettle on cleanliness, but the child vanished hurriedly into the blackness behind the settle, and Peter walked in.
“Are you Mr. Grimethorpe?” he asked politely.
“What if I am?” retorted the farmer. “I’ve no call to be ashamed o’ my name.”
“Rather not,” said Lord Peter, “nor of your farm. Delightful place, what? My name’s Wimsey, by the way—Lord Peter Wimsey, in fact, the Duke of Denver’s brother, y’know. I’m sure I hate interruptin’ you—you must be busy with the sheep and all that—but I thought you wouldn’t mind if I just ran over in a neighborly way. Lonely sort of country, ain’t it? I like to know the people next door, and all that sort of thing. I’m used to London, you see, where people live pretty thick on the ground. I suppose very few strangers ever pass this way?”
“None,” said Mr. Grimethorpe, with decision.
“Well, perhaps it’s as well,” pursued Lord Peter. “Makes one appreciate one’s home circle more, what? Often think one sees too many strangers in town. Nothing like one’s family when all’s said and done—cozy, don’t you know. You a married man, Mr. Grimethorpe?”
“What the
