“Lord Peter Wimsey identifies you,” said Mr. Murbles, “as the man who made a murderous attack upon him last night. With remarkable generosity, he has forborne to press the charge. Now we know further that you were present at Riddlesdale Lodge on the night when Captain Cathcart was shot. You will no doubt be called as a witness in the case. But you would greatly assist justice by making a statement to us now. This is a purely friendly and private interview, Mr. Goyles. As you see, no representative of the police is present. We simply ask for your help. I ought, however, to warn you that, whereas it is, of course, fully competent for you to refuse to answer any of our questions, a refusal might lay you open to the gravest imputations.”
“In fact,” said Goyles, “it’s a threat. If I don’t tell you, you’ll have me arrested on suspicion of murder.”
“Dear me, no, Mr. Goyles,” returned the solicitor. “We should merely place what information we hold in the hands of the police, who would then act as they thought fit. God bless my soul, no—anything like a threat would be highly irregular. In the matter of the assault upon Lord Peter, his lordship will, of course, use his own discretion.”
“Well,” said Goyles sullenly, “it’s a threat, call it what you like. However, I don’t mind speaking—especially as you’ll be jolly well disappointed. I suppose you gave me away, Mary.”
Mary flushed indignantly.
“My sister has been extraordinarily loyal to you, Mr. Goyles,” said Lord Peter. “I may tell you, indeed, that she put herself into a position of grave personal inconvenience—not to say danger—on your behalf. You were traced to London in consequence of your having left unequivocal traces in your exceedingly hasty retreat. When my sister accidentally opened a telegram addressed to me at Riddlesdale by my family name she hurried immediately to town, to shield you if she could, at any cost to herself. Fortunately I had already received a duplicate wire at my flat. Even then I was not certain of your identity when I accidentally ran across you at the Soviet Club. Your own energetic efforts, however, to avoid an interview gave me complete certainty, together with an excellent excuse for detaining you. In fact, I’m uncommonly obliged to you for your assistance.”
Mr. Goyles looked resentful.
“I don’t know how you could think, George—” said Mary.
“Never mind what I think,” said the young man, roughly. “I gather you’ve told ’em all about it now, anyhow. Well, I’ll tell you my story as shortly as I can, and you’ll see I know damn all about it. If you don’t believe me I can’t help it. I came along at about a quarter to three, and parked the bus in the lane.”
“Where were you at 11:50?”
“On the road from Northallerton. My meeting didn’t finish till 10:45. I can bring a hundred witnesses to prove it.”
Wimsey made a note of the address where the meeting had been held, and nodded to Goyles to proceed.
“I climbed over the wall and walked through the shrubbery.”
“You saw no person, and no body?”
“Nobody, alive or dead.”
“Did you notice any blood or footprints on the path?”
“No. I didn’t like to use my torch, for fear of being seen from the house. There was just light enough to see the path. I came to the door of the conservatory just before three. As I came up I stumbled over something. I felt it, and it was like a body. I was alarmed. I thought it might be Mary—ill or fainted or something. I ventured to turn on my light. Then I saw it was Cathcart, dead.”
“You are sure he was dead?”
“Stone dead.”
“One moment,” interposed the solicitor. “You say you saw that it was Cathcart. Had you known Cathcart previously?”
“No, never. I meant that I saw it was a dead man, and learnt afterwards that it was Cathcart.”
“In fact, you do not, now, know of your own knowledge, that it was Cathcart?”
“Yes—at least, I recognized the photographs in the papers afterwards.”
“It is very necessary to be accurate in making a statement, Mr. Goyles. A remark such as you made just now might give a most unfortunate impression to the police or to a jury.”
So saying, Mr. Murbles blew his nose, and resettled his pince-nez.
“What next?” inquired Peter.
“I fancied I heard somebody coming up the path. I did not think it wise to be found there with the corpse, so I cleared out.”
“Oh,” said Peter, with an indescribable expression, “that was a very simple solution. You left the girl you were going to marry to make for herself the unpleasant discovery that there was a dead man in the garden and that her gallant wooer had made tracks. What did you expect her to think?”
“Well, I thought she’d keep quiet for her own sake. As a matter of fact, I didn’t think very clearly about anything. I knew I’d broken in where I had no business, and that if I was found with a murdered man it might look jolly queer for me.”
“In fact,” said Mr. Murbles, “you lost your head, young man, and ran away in a very foolish and cowardly manner.”
“You needn’t put it that way,” retorted Mr. Goyles. “I was in a very awkward and stupid situation to start with.”
“Yes,” said Lord Peter ironically, “and 3 a.m. is a nasty, chilly time of day. Next time you arrange an elopement, make it for six o’clock in the evening, or twelve o’clock at night. You seem better at framing conspiracies than carrying them out. A little thing upsets your nerves, Mr. Goyles. I don’t really think, you know, that a person of your temperament should carry firearms. What in the world, you blitherin’ young ass, made you loose off that popgun at me last night? You would have been in a damned awkward situation then, if you’d accidentally hit me
