Clouds of Witness

Lord Peter, “whatever can be known about Mary by putting two and two together my mother knows. I told her all we knew up to that point, and she took it all in, in her funny way, you know, never answering anything directly, and then she put her head on one side and said: ‘If Mary had listened to me, and done something useful instead of that V.A.D. work, which never came to much, if you ask me⁠—not that I have anything against V.A.D.’s in a general way, but that silly woman Mary worked under was the most terrible snob on God’s earth⁠—and there were very much more sensible things which Mary might really have done well, only that she was so crazy to get to London⁠—I shall always say it was the fault of that ridiculous club⁠—what could you expect of a place where you ate such horrible food, all packed into an underground cellar painted pink and talking away at the tops of their voices, and never any evening dress⁠—only Soviet jumpers and side-whiskers. Anyhow, I’ve told that silly old man what to say about it, and they’ll never be able to think of a better explanation for themselves.’ Indeed, you know,” said Peter, “I think if any of them start getting inquisitive, they’ll have mother down on them like a ton of bricks.”

“What do you really think yourself?” asked Parker.

“I haven’t come yet to the unpleasantest bit of the lot,” said Peter. “I’ve only just heard it, and it did give me a nasty jar, I’ll admit. Yesterday I got a letter from Lubbock saying he would like to see me, so I trotted up here and dropped in on him this morning. You remember I sent him a stain off one of Mary’s skirts which Bunter had cut out for me? I had taken a squint at it myself, and didn’t like the look of it, so I sent it up to Lubbock, ex abundantia cautelae; and I’m sorry to say he confirms me. It’s human blood, Charles, and I’m afraid it’s Cathcart’s.”

“But⁠—I’ve lost the thread of this a bit.”

“Well, the skirt must have got stained the day Cathcart⁠—died, as that was the last day on which the party was out on the moors, and if it had been there earlier Ellen would have cleaned it off. Afterwards Mary strenuously resisted Ellen’s efforts to take the skirt away, and made an amateurish effort to tidy it up herself with soap. So I think we may conclude that Mary knew the stains were there, and wanted to avoid discovery. She told Ellen that the blood was from a grouse⁠—which must have been a deliberate untruth.”

“Perhaps,” said Parker, struggling against hope to make out a case for Lady Mary, “she only said, ‘Oh! one of the birds must have bled,’ or something like that.”

“I don’t believe,” said Peter, “that one could get a great patch of human blood on one’s clothes like that and not know what it was. She must have knelt right in it. It was three or four inches across.”

Parker shook his head dismally, and consoled himself by making a note.

“Well, now,” went on Peter, “on Wednesday night everybody comes in and dines and goes to bed except Cathcart, who rushes out and stays out. At 11:50 the gamekeeper, Hardraw, hears a shot which may very well have been fired in the clearing where the⁠—well, let’s say the accident⁠—took place. The time also agrees with the medical evidence about Cathcart having already been dead three or four hours when he was examined at 4:30. Very well. At 3 a.m. Jerry comes home from somewhere or other and finds the body. As he is bending over it, Mary arrives in the most apropos manner from the house in her coat and cap and walking shoes. Now what is her story? She says that at three o’clock she was awakened by a shot. Now nobody else heard that shot, and we have the evidence of Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, who slept in the next room to Mary, with her window open according to her immemorial custom, that she lay broad awake from 2 a.m. till a little after 3 a.m., when the alarm was given, and heard no shot. According to Mary, the shot was loud enough to waken her on the other side of the building. It’s odd, isn’t it, that the person already awake should swear so positively that she heard nothing of a noise loud enough to waken a healthy young sleeper next door? And, in any case, if that was the shot that killed Cathcart, he can barely have been dead when my brother found him⁠—and again, in that case, how was there time for him to be carried up from the shrubbery to the conservatory?”

“We’ve been over all this ground,” said Parker, with an expression of distaste. “We agreed that we couldn’t attach any importance to the story of the shot.”

“I’m afraid we’ve got to attach a great deal of importance to it,” said Lord Peter gravely. “Now, what does Mary do? Either she thought the shot⁠—”

“There was no shot.”

“I know that. But I’m examining the discrepancies of her story. She said she did not give the alarm because she thought it was probably only poachers. But, if it was poachers, it would be absurd to go down and investigate. So she explains that she thought it might be burglars. Now how does she dress to go and look for burglars? What would you or I have done? I think we would have taken a dressing-gown, a stealthy kind of pair of slippers, and perhaps a poker or a stout stick⁠—not a pair of walking shoes, a coat, and a cap, of all things!”

“It was a wet night,” mumbled Parker.

“My dear chap, if it’s burglars you’re looking for you don’t expect to go and hunt them round the garden. Your first thought is that they’re getting into the house, and your idea is