“Oh, nothin’,” he replied, “only I thought that charmin’ little girl might be yours.”
“And if I thought she weren’t,” said Mr. Grimethorpe, “I’d strangle the bitch and her mother together. What hast got to say to that?”
As a matter of fact, the remark, considered as a conversational formula, seemed to leave so much to be desired that Wimsey’s natural loquacity suffered a severe check. He fell back, however, on the usual resource of the male, and offered Mr. Grimethorpe a cigar, thinking to himself as he did so:
“What a hell of a life the woman must lead.”
The farmer declined the cigar with a single word, and was silent. Wimsey lit a cigarette for himself and became meditative, watching his companion. He was a man of about forty-five, apparently, rough, harsh, and weatherbeaten, with great ridgy shoulders and short, thick thighs—a bull-terrier with a bad temper. Deciding that delicate hints would be wasted on such an organism, Wimsey adopted a franker method.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Grimethorpe,” he said, “I didn’t blow in without any excuse at all. Always best to provide oneself with an excuse for a call, what? Though it’s so perfectly delightful to see you—I mean, no excuse might appear necessary. But fact is, I’m looking for a young man—a—an acquaintance of mine—who said he’d be roamin’ about this neighborhood some time or other about now. Only I’m afraid I may have missed him. You see, I’ve only just got over from Corsica—interestin’ country and all that, Mr. Grimethorpe, but a trifle out of the way—and from what my friend said I think he must have turned up here about a week ago and found me out. Just my luck. But he didn’t leave his card, so I can’t be quite sure, you see. You didn’t happen to come across him by any chance? Tall fellow with big feet on a motorcycle with a sidecar. I thought he might have come rootin’ about here. Hullo! d’you know him?”
The farmer’s face had become swollen and almost black with rage.
“What day sayst tha?” he demanded thickly.
“I should think last Wednesday night or Thursday morning,” said Peter, with a hand on his heavy malacca cane.
“I knew it,” growled Mr. Grimethorpe. “⸻ the slut, and all these dommed women wi’ their dirty ways. Look here, mester. The tyke were a friend o’ thine? Well, I wor at Stapley Wednesday and Thursday—tha knew that, didn’t tha? And so did thi friend, didn’t ’un? An’ if I hadn’t, it’d ’a’ bin the worse for ’un. He’d ’a’ been in Peter’s Pot if I’d ’a’ cot ’un, an’ that’s where tha’ll be thesen in a minute, blast tha! And if I find ’un sneakin’ here again, I’ll blast every boon in a’s body and send ’un to look for thee there.”
And with these surprising words he made for Peter’s throat like a bulldog.
“That won’t do,” said Peter, disengaging himself with an ease which astonished his opponent, and catching his wrist in a grip of mysterious and excruciating agony. “ ’Tisn’t wise, y’know—might murder a fellow like that. Nasty business, murder. Coroner’s inquest and all that sort of thing. Counsel for the Prosecution askin’ all sorts of inquisitive questions, and a feller puttin’ a string round your neck. Besides, your method’s a bit primitive. Stand still, you fool, or you’ll break your arm. Feelin’ better? That’s right. Sit down. You’ll get into trouble one of these days, behavin’ like that when you’re asked a civil question.”
“Get out o’ t’house,” said Mr. Grimethorpe sullenly.
“Certainly,” said Peter. “I have to thank you for a very entertainin’ evenin’, Mr. Grimethorpe. I’m sorry you can give me no news of my friend—”
Mr. Grimethorpe sprang up with a blasphemous ejaculation, and made for the door, shouting “Jabez!” Lord Peter stared after him for a moment, and then stared round the room.
“Something fishy here,” he said. “Fellow knows somethin’. Murderous sort of brute. I wonder—”
He peered round the settle, and came face to face with a woman—a dim patch of whiteness in the thick shadow.
“You?” she said, in a low, hoarse gasp. “You? You are mad to come here. Quick, quick! He has gone for the dogs.”
She placed her two hands on his breast, thrusting him urgently back. Then, as the firelight fell upon his face, she uttered a stifled shriek and stood petrified—a Medusa-head of terror.
Medusa was beautiful, says the tale, and so was this woman; a broad white forehead under massed, dusky hair, black eyes glowing under straight brows, a wide, passionate mouth—a shape so wonderful that even in that strenuous moment sixteen generations of feudal privilege stirred in Lord Peter’s blood. His hands closed over hers instinctively, but she pulled herself hurriedly away and shrank back.
“Madam,” said Wimsey, recovering himself, “I don’t quite—”
A thousand questions surged up in his mind, but before he could frame them a long yell, and another, and then another came from the back of the house.
“Run, run!” she said. “The dogs! My God, my God, what will become of me? Go, if you don’t want to see me killed. Go, go! Have pity!”
“Look here,” said Peter, “can’t I stay and protect—”
“You can stay and murder me,” said the woman. “Go!”
Peter cast Public School tradition to the winds, caught up his stick, and went. The brutes were at his heels as he fled. He struck the foremost with his stick, and it dropped back, snarling. The man was still leaning on the gate, and Grimethorpe’s hoarse voice was heard shouting to him to seize the fugitive. Peter closed with him; there was a scuffle of dogs and men, and suddenly Peter found himself thrown bodily over the gate. As he picked himself up and ran, he heard the farmer cursing the man and the man retorting that he couldn’t help it; then the woman’s voice, uplifted in a frightened wail. He glanced over his
