Peter patted his sister on the shoulder. “Poor kid,” he said.
“I didn’t know what to do,” went on the girl. “I’d so awfully little time, you see. My one idea was that nobody must suspect anybody had been there. So I had quickly to invent an excuse for being there myself. I shoved my suitcase behind the cactus-plants to start with. Jerry was taken up with the body and didn’t notice—you know, Jerry never does notice things till you shove them under his nose. But I knew if there’d been a shot Freddy and the Marchbankses must have heard it. So I pretended I’d heard it too, and rushed down to look for burglars. It was a bit lame, but the best thing I could think of. Gerald sent me up to alarm the house, and I had the story all ready by the time I reached the landing. Oh, and I was quite proud of myself for not forgetting the suitcase!”
“You dumped it into the chest,” said Peter.
“Yes. I had a horrible shock the other morning when I found you looking in.”
“Nothing like the shock I had when I found the silver sand there.”
“Silver sand?”
“Out of the conservatory.”
“Good gracious!” said Mary.
“Well, go on. You knocked up Freddy and the Pettigrew-Robinsons. Then you had to bolt into your room to destroy your farewell letter and take your clothes off.”
“Yes. I’m afraid I didn’t do that very naturally. But I couldn’t expect anybody to believe that I went burglar-hunting in a complete set of silk undies and a carefully knotted tie with a gold safety-pin.”
“No. I see your difficulty.”
“It turned out quite well, too, because they were all quite ready to believe that I wanted to escape from Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson—except Mrs. P. herself, of course.”
“Yes; even Parker swallowed that, didn’t you, old man?”
“Oh, quite, quite so,” said Parker gloomily.
“I made a dreadful mistake about that shot,” resumed Lady Mary. “You see, I explained it all so elaborately—and then I found that nobody had heard a shot at all. And afterwards they discovered that it had all happened in the shrubbery—and the time wasn’t right, either. Then at the inquest I had to stick to my story—and it got to look worse and worse—and then they put the blame on Gerald. In my wildest moments I’d never thought of that. Of course, I see now how my wretched evidence helped.”
“Hence the ipecacuanha,” said Peter.
“I’d got into such a frightful tangle,” said poor Lady Mary, “I thought I had better shut up altogether for fear of making things still worse.”
“And did you still think Goyles had done it?”
“I—I didn’t know what to think,” said the girl. “I don’t know. Peter, who else could have done it?”
“Honestly, old thing,” said his lordship, “if he didn’t do it, I don’t know who did.”
“He ran away, you see,” said Lady Mary.
“He seems rather good at shootin’ and runnin’ away,” said Peter grimly.
“If he hadn’t done that to you,” said Mary slowly, “I’d never have told you. I’d have died first. But of course, with his revolutionary doctrines—and when you think of red Russia and all the blood spilt in riots and insurrections and things—I suppose it does teach a contempt for human life.”
“My dear,” said the Duchess, “it seems to me that Mr. Goyles shows no especial contempt for his own life. You must try to look at the thing fairly. Shooting people and running away is not very heroic—according to our standards.”
“The thing I don’t understand,” struck in Wimsey hurriedly, “is how Gerald’s revolver got into the shrubbery.”
“The thing I should like to know about,” said the Duchess, “is, was Denis really a cardsharper?”
“The thing I should like to know about,” said Parker, “is the green-eyed cat.”
“Denis never gave me a cat,” said Mary. “That was a tarradiddle.”
“Were you ever in a jeweler’s with him in the Rue de la Paix?”
“Oh, yes; heaps of times. And he gave me a diamond and tortoiseshell comb. But never a cat.”
“Then we may disregard the whole of last night’s elaborate confession,” said Lord Peter, looking through Parker’s notes, with a smile. “It’s really not bad, Polly, not bad at all. You’ve quite a talent for romantic fiction—no, I mean it! Just here and there you need more attention to detail. For instance, you couldn’t have dragged that badly wounded man all up the path to the house without getting blood all over your coat, you know. By the way, did Goyles know Cathcart at all?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Because Parker and I had an alternative theory, which would clear Goyles from the worst part of the charge, anyhow. Tell her, old man; it was your idea.”
Thus urged, Parker outlined the blackmail and suicide theory.
“That sounds plausible,” said Mary—“academically speaking, I mean; but it isn’t a bit like George—I mean, blackmail is so beastly, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said Peter, “I think the best thing is to go and see Goyles. Whatever the key to Wednesday night’s riddle is, he holds it. Parker, old man, we’re nearing the end of the chase.”
X
Nothing Abides at the Noon
“Alas!” said Hiya, “the sentiments which this person expressed with irreproachable honorableness, when the sun was high in the heavens and the probability of secretly leaving an undoubtedly well-appointed home was engagingly remote, seem to have an entirely different significance when recalled by night in a damp orchard, and on the eve of their fulfillment.”
The Wallet of Kai-Lung
And his short minute, after noon, is night.
Donne
Mr. Goyles was interviewed the next day at the police station. Mr. Murbles was present, and Mary insisted
