Peter made a movement to go back, but a strong conviction that he could only make matters worse for her arrested him. He stood still, and waited till she had picked herself up and gone in, wiping the blood and dirt from her face with her shawl. The farmer looked round, shook his fist at him, and followed her into the house. Jabez collected the dogs and drove them back, and Peter’s friend returned to lean over the gate.
Peter waited till the door had closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Grimethorpe; then he pulled out his handkerchief and, in the half-darkness, signaled cautiously to the man, who slipped through the gate and came slowly down to him.
“Thanks very much,” said Wimsey, putting money into his hand. “I’m afraid I’ve done unintentional mischief.”
The man looked at the money and at him.
“ ’Tes t’master’s way wi’ them as cooms t’look at t’missus,” he said. “Tha’s best keep away if so be tha wutna’ have her blood on tha heid.”
“See here,” said Peter, “did you by any chance meet a young man with a motorcycle wanderin’ round here last Wednesday or thereabouts?”
“Naay. Wednesday? T’wod be day t’mester went to Stapley, Ah reckon, after machines. Naay, Ah seed nowt.”
“All right. If you find anybody who did, let me know. Here’s my name, and I’m staying at Riddlesdale Lodge. Good night; many thanks.”
The man took the card from him and slouched back without a word of farewell.
Lord Peter walked slowly, his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled over his eyes. This cinematographic episode had troubled his logical faculty. With an effort he sorted out his ideas and arranged them in some kind of order.
“First item,” said he, “Mr. Grimethorpe. A gentleman who will stick at nothing. Hefty. Unamiable. Inhospitable. Dominant characteristic—jealousy of his very astonishing wife. Was at Stapley last Wednesday and Thursday buying machinery. (Helpful gentleman at the gate corroborates this, by the way, so that at this stage of the proceedings one may allow it to be a sound alibi.) Did not, therefore, see our mysterious friend with the sidecar, if he was there. But is disposed to think he was there, and has very little doubt about what he came for. Which raises an interestin’ point. Why the sidecar? Awkward thing to tour about with. Very good. But if our friend came after Mrs. G. he obviously didn’t take her. Good again.
“Second item, Mrs. Grimethorpe. Very singular item. By Jove!” He paused meditatively to reconstruct a thrilling moment. “Let us at once admit that if No. 10 came for the purpose suspected he had every excuse for it. Well! Mrs. G. goes in terror of her husband, who thinks nothing of knocking her down on suspicion. I wish to God—but I’d only have made things worse. Only thing you can do for the wife of a brute like that is to keep away from her. Hope there won’t be murder done. One’s enough at a time. Where was I?”
“Yes—well, Mrs. Grimethorpe knows something—and she knows somebody. She took me for somebody who had every reason for not coming to Grider’s Hole. Where was she, I wonder, while I was talking to Grimethorpe? She wasn’t in the room. Perhaps the child warned her. No, that won’t wash; I told the child who I was. Aha! wait a minute. Do I see light? She looked out of the window and saw a bloke in an aged Burberry. No. 10 is a bloke in an aged Burberry. Now, let’s suppose for a moment she takes me for No. 10. What does she do? She sensibly keeps out of the way—can’t think why I’m such a fool as to turn up. Then, when Grimethorpe runs out shoutin’ for the kennel-man, she nips down with her life in her hands to warn her—her—shall we say boldly her lover?—to get away. She finds it isn’t her lover, but only a gaping ass of (I fear) a very comin’-on disposition. New compromisin’ position. She tells the ass to save himself and herself by clearin’ out. Ass clears—not too gracefully. The next installment of this enthrallin’ drama will be shown in this theater—when? I’d jolly well like to know.”
He tramped on for some time.
“All the same,” he retorted upon himself, “all this throws no light on what No. 10 was doing at Riddlesdale Lodge.”
At the end of his walk he had reached no conclusion.
“Whatever happens,” he said to himself, “and if it can be done without danger to her life, I must see Mrs. Grimethorpe again.”
V
The Rue St. Honoré and the Rue de la Paix
I think it was the cat.
H.M.S. Pinafore
Mr. Parker sat disconsolate in a small appartement in the Rue St. Honoré. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Paris was full of a subdued but cheerful autumn sunlight, but the room faced north, and was depressing, with its plain, dark furniture and its deserted air. It was a man’s room, well appointed after the manner of a discreet club; a room that kept its dead owner’s counsel imperturbably. Two large saddlebag chairs in crimson leather stood by the cold hearth. On the mantelpiece was a bronze clock, flanked by two polished German shells, a stone tobacco-jar, and an Oriental brass bowl containing a long-cold pipe. There were several excellent engravings in narrow pearwood frames, and the portrait in oils of a rather florid lady of the period of Charles II. The window-curtains were crimson, and the floor covered with a solid Turkey carpet. Opposite the fireplace
