The telephone bell rang, and Parker went to the instrument. A voice came thinly over the wire:
“Is that 110 Piccadilly? This is Charing Cross Hospital. A man was brought in tonight who says he is Lord Peter Wimsey. He was shot in the shoulder, and struck his head in falling. He has only just recovered consciousness. He was brought in at 9:15. No, he will probably do very well now. Yes, come round by all means.”
“Peter has been shot,” said Parker. “Will you come round with me to Charing Cross Hospital? They say he is in no danger; still—”
“Oh, quick!” cried Lady Mary.
Gathering up Mr. Bunter as they hurried through the hall, detective and self-accused rushed hurriedly out into Pall Mall, and, picking up a belated taxi at Hyde Park Corner, drove madly away through the deserted streets.
IX
Goyles
“—and the moral of that is—” said the Duchess.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
A party of four were assembled next morning at a very late breakfast, or very early lunch, in Lord Peter’s flat. Its most cheerful member, despite a throbbing shoulder and a splitting headache, was undoubtedly Lord Peter himself, who lay upon the Chesterfield surrounded with cushions and carousing upon tea and toast. Having been brought home in an ambulance, he had instantly fallen into a healing sleep, and had woken at nine o’clock aggressively clear and active in mind. In consequence, Mr. Parker had been dispatched in a hurry, half-fed and burdened with the secret memory of last night’s disclosures, to Scotland Yard. Here he had set in motion the proper machinery for catching Lord Peter’s assassin. “Only don’t you say anything about the attack on me,” said his lordship. “Tell ’em he’s to be detained in connection with the Riddlesdale case. That’s good enough for them.” It was now eleven, and Mr. Parker had returned, gloomy and hungry, and was consuming a belated omelette and a glass of claret.
Lady Mary Wimsey was hunched up in the window-seat. Her bobbed golden hair made a little blur of light about her in the pale autumn sunshine. She had made an attempt to breakfast earlier, and now sat gazing out into Piccadilly. Her first appearance that morning had been made in Lord Peter’s dressing-gown, but she now wore a serge skirt and jade-green jumper, which had been brought to town for her by the fourth member of the party, now composedly eating a mixed grill and sharing the decanter with Parker.
This was a rather short, rather plump, very brisk elderly lady, with bright black eyes like a bird’s, and very handsome white hair exquisitely dressed. Far from looking as though she had just taken a long night journey, she was easily the most composed and trim of the four. She was, however, annoyed, and said so at considerable length. This was the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
“It is not so much, Mary, that you went off so abruptly last night—just before dinner, too—inconveniencing and alarming us very much—indeed, poor Helen was totally unable to eat her dinner, which was extremely distressing to her feelings, because, you know, she always makes such a point of never being upset about anything—I really don’t know why, for some of the greatest men have not minded showing their feelings, I don’t mean Southerners necessarily, but, as Mr. Chesterton very rightly points out—Nelson, too, who was certainly English if he wasn’t Irish or Scotch, I forget, but United Kingdom, anyway (if that means anything nowadays with a Free State—such a ridiculous title, especially as it always makes one think of the Orange Free State, and I’m sure they wouldn’t care to be mixed up with that, being so very green themselves). And going off without even proper clothes, and taking the car, so that I had to wait till the 1:15 from Northallerton—a ridiculous time to start, and such a bad train, too, not getting up till 10:30. Besides, if you must run off to town, why do it in that unfinished manner? If you had only looked up the trains before starting you would have seen you would have half an hour’s wait at Northallerton, and you could quite easily have packed a bag. It’s so much better to do things neatly and thoroughly—even stupid things. And it was very stupid of you indeed to dash off like that, to embarrass and bore poor Mr. Parker with a lot of twaddle—though I suppose it was Peter you meant to see. You know, Peter, if you will haunt low places full of Russians and sucking Socialists taking themselves seriously, you ought to know better than to encourage them by running after them, however futile, and given to drinking coffee and writing poems with no shape to them, and generally ruining their nerves. And, in any case, it makes not the slightest difference; I could have told Peter all about it myself, if he doesn’t know already, as he probably does.”
Lady Mary turned very white at this and glanced at Parker, who replied rather to her than to the Dowager:
“No, Lord Peter and I haven’t had time to discuss anything yet.”
“Lest it should ruin my shattered nerves and bring a fever to my aching brow,” added that nobleman amiably. “You’re a kind, thoughtful soul, Charles, and I don’t know what I should do without you. I wish that rotten old secondhand dealer had been a bit brisker about takin’ in his stock-in-trade for the night, though. Perfectly ’straor’nary number of knobs there are on a brass bedstead. Saw it comin’, y’know, an’ couldn’t stop myself. However, what’s a mere brass bedstead? The great detective, though at first stunned and dizzy from his brutal treatment by the fifteen veiled assassins all armed with meat-choppers, soon regained his senses, thanks to his sound constitution and healthy manner of life. Despite the severe gassing he had endured in the underground room—eh? A telegram? Oh, thanks, Bunter.”
Lord Peter
