I am striving to take into public life what any man gets from his mother.
Lady Astor
On the opening day of the York Assizes, the Grand Jury brought in a true bill, against Gerald, Duke of Denver, for murder. Gerald, Duke of Denver, being accordingly produced in the court, the Judge affected to discover—what, indeed, every newspaper in the country had been announcing to the world for the last fortnight—that he, being but a common or garden judge with a plebeian jury, was incompetent to try a peer of the realm. He added, however, that he would make it his business to inform the Lord Chancellor (who also, for the last fortnight, had been secretly calculating the accommodation in the Royal Gallery and choosing lords to form the Select Committee). Order being taken accordingly, the noble prisoner was led away.
A day or two later, in the gloom of a London afternoon, Mr. Charles Parker rang the bell of a second-floor flat at No. 110 Piccadilly. The door was opened by Bunter, who informed him with a gracious smile that Lord Peter had stepped out for a few minutes but was expecting him, and would he kindly come in and wait.
“We only came up this morning,” added the valet, “and are not quite straight yet, sir, if you will excuse us. Would you feel inclined for a cup of tea?”
Parker accepted the offer, and sank luxuriously into a corner of the Chesterfield. After the extraordinary discomfort of French furniture there was solace in the enervating springiness beneath him, the cushions behind his head, and Wimsey’s excellent cigarettes. What Bunter had meant by saying that things were “not quite straight yet” he could not divine. A leaping wood fire was merrily reflected in the spotless surface of the black baby grand; the mellow calf bindings of Lord Peter’s rare editions glowed softly against the black and primrose walls; the vases were filled with tawny chrysanthemums; the latest editions of all the papers were on the table—as though the owner had never been absent.
Over his tea Mr. Parker drew out the photographs of Lady Mary and Denis Cathcart from his breast pocket. He stood them up against the teapot and stared at them, looking from one to the other as if trying to force a meaning from their faintly smirking, self-conscious gaze. He referred again to his Paris notes, ticking off various points with a pencil. “Damn!” said Mr. Parker, gazing at Lady Mary. “Damn—damn—damn—”
The train of thought he was pursuing was an extraordinarily interesting one. Image after image, each rich in suggestion, crowded into his mind. Of course, one couldn’t think properly in Paris—it was so uncomfortable and the houses were central heated. Here, where so many problems had been unravelled, there was a good fire. Cathcart had been sitting before the fire. Of course, he wanted to think out a problem. When cats sat staring into the fire they were thinking out problems. It was odd he should not have thought of that before. When the green-eyed cat sat before the fire one sank right down into a sort of rich, black, velvety suggestiveness which was most important. It was luxurious to be able to think so lucidly as this, because otherwise it would be a pity to exceed the speed limit—and the black moors were reeling by so fast. But now he had really got the formula he wouldn’t forget it again. The connection was just there—close, thick, richly coherent.
“The glassblower’s cat is bompstable,” said Mr. Parker aloud and distinctly.
“I’m charmed to hear it,” replied Lord Peter, with a friendly grin. “Had a good nap, old man?”
“I—what?” said Mr. Parker. “Hullo! Watcher mean, nap? I had got hold of a most important train of thought, and you’ve put it out of my head. What was it? Cat—cat—cat—” He groped wildly.
“You said ‘The glassblower’s cat is bompstable,’ ” retorted Lord Peter. “It’s a perfectly rippin’ word, but I don’t know what you mean by it.”
“Bompstable?” said Mr. Parker, blushing slightly. “Bomp—oh, well, perhaps you’re right—I may have dozed off. But, you know, I thought I’d just got the clue to the whole thing. I attached the greatest importance to that phrase. Even now—No, now I come to think of it, my train of thought doesn’t seem quite to hold together. What a pity. I thought it was so lucid.”
“Never mind,” said Lord Peter. “Just back?”
“Crossed last night. Any news?”
“Lots.”
“Good?”
“No.”
Parker’s eyes wandered to the photographs.
“I don’t believe it,” he said obstinately. “I’m damned if I’m going to believe a word of it.”
“A word of what?”
“Of whatever it is.”
“You’ll have to believe it, Charles, as far as it goes,” said his friend softly, filling his pipe with decided little digs of the fingers. “I don’t say”—dig—“that Mary”—dig—“shot Cathcart”—dig, dig—“but she has lied”—dig—“again and again.”—Dig, dig—“She knows who did it”—dig—“she was prepared for it”—dig—“she’s malingering and lying to keep the fellow shielded”—dig—“and we shall have to make her speak.” Here he struck a match and lit the pipe in a series of angry little puffs.
“If you can think,” said Mr. Parker, with some heat, “that that woman”—he indicated the photographs—“had any hand in murdering Cathcart, I don’t care what your evidence is, you—hang it all, Wimsey, she’s your own sister.”
“Gerald is my brother,” said Wimsey quietly. “You don’t suppose I’m exactly enjoying this business, do you? But I think we shall get along very much better if we try to keep our tempers.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Parker. “Can’t think why I said that—rotten bad form—beg pardon, old man.”
“The best thing we can do,” said Wimsey, “is to look the evidence in the face, however ugly. And I don’t mind admittin’ that some of it’s a positive gargoyle.
“My mother turned up at Riddlesdale on Friday. She marched upstairs at once and took possession of Mary, while I drooped about in the hall and teased the cat, and generally made a nuisance of myself. You know. Presently old Dr. Thorpe called. I went and sat on
