I have put all these things down for you without any comment. You will be able to draw your own inferences as well as I can—better, I hope, for my own are perplexing and worrying me no end. They may be all rubbish—I hope they are; I daresay something will turn up at your end to put quite a different interpretation upon the facts. But I do feel that they must be cleared up. I would offer to hand over the job, but another man might jump at conclusions even faster than I do, and make a mess of it. But of course, if you say so, I will be taken suddenly ill at any moment. Let me know. If you think I’d better go on grubbing about over here, can you get hold of a photograph of Lady Mary Wimsey, and find out if possible about the diamond comb and the green-eyed cat—also at exactly what date Lady Mary was in Paris in February. Does she speak French as well as you do? Let me know how you are getting on.
He reread the letter and report carefully and sealed them up. Then he wrote to his sister, did up his parcel neatly, and rang for the valet de chambre.
“I want this letter sent off at once, registered,” he said, “and the parcel is to go tomorrow as a colis postal.”
After which he went to bed, and read himself to sleep with a commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.
Lord Peter’s reply arrived by return:
Dear Charles—Don’t worry. I don’t like the look of things myself frightfully, but I’d rather you tackled the business than anyone else. As you say, the ordinary police bloke doesn’t mind whom he arrests, provided he arrests someone, and is altogether a most damnable fellow to have poking into one’s affairs. I’m putting my mind to getting my brother cleared—that is the first consideration, after all, and really anything else would be better than having Jerry hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. Whoever did it, it’s better the right person should suffer than the wrong. So go ahead.
I enclose two photographs—all I can lay hands on for the moment. The one in nursing-kit is rather rotten, and the other’s all smothered up in a big hat.
I had a damn’ queer little adventure here on Wednesday, which I’ll tell you about when we meet. I’ve found a woman who obviously knows more than she ought, and a most promising ruffian—only I’m afraid he’s got an alibi. Also I’ve got a faint suggestion of a clue about No. 10. Nothing much happened at Northallerton, except that Jerry was of course committed for trial. My mother is here, thank God! and I’m hoping she’ll get some sense out of Mary, but she’s been worse the last two days—Mary, I mean, not my mother—beastly sick and all that sort of thing. Dr. Thingummy—who is an ass—can’t make it out. Mother says it’s as clear as noonday, and she’ll stop it if I have patience a day or two. I made her ask about the comb and the cat. M. denies the cat altogether, but admits to a diamond comb bought in Paris—says she bought it herself. It’s in town—I’ll get it and send it on. She says she can’t remember where she bought it, has lost the bill, but it didn’t cost anything like 7,500 francs. She was in Paris from February 2nd to February 20th. My chief business now is to see Lubbock and clear up a little matter concerning silver sand.
The Assizes will be the first week in November—in fact, the end of next week. This rushes things a bit, but it doesn’t matter, because they can’t try him there; nothing will matter but the Grand Jury, who are bound to find a true bill on the face of it. After that we can hang matters up as long as we like. It’s going to be a deuce of a business, Parliament sitting and all. Old Biggs is fearfully perturbed under that marble outside of his. I hadn’t really grasped what a fuss it was to try peers. It’s only happened about once in every sixty years, and the procedure’s about as old as Queen Elizabeth. They have to appoint a Lord High Steward for the occasion, and God knows what. They have to make it frightfully clear in the Commission that it is only for the occasion, because, somewhere about Richard III’s time, the L.H.S. was such a terrifically big pot that he got to ruling the roost. So when Henry IV came to the throne, and the office came into the hands of the Crown, he jolly well kept it there, and now they only appoint a man pro tem. for the Coronation and shows like Jerry’s. The King always pretends not to know there isn’t a L.H.S. till the time comes, and is no end surprised at having to think of somebody to take on the job. Did you know all this? I didn’t. I got it out of Biggy.
Cheer up. Pretend you don’t know that any of these people are relations of mine. My mother sends you her kindest regards and whatnot, and hopes she’ll see you again soon. Bunter sends something correct and respectful; I forget what.
It may as well be said at once that the evidence from the photographs was wholly inconclusive.
