“That’s a nasty one,” said Wimsey. “But I don’t look on this as a game, and I can’t say I’ll keep out of it, because I know I’m doin’ valuable work. Still, I can—honestly, I can—see your point of view. I’m jolly sorry you find me such an irritatin’ sort of person. I suppose it’s hard for you to believe I feel anything. But I do, and I’m goin’ to get you out of this, if Bunter and I both perish in the attempt. Well, so long—that warder’s just wakin’ up to say, ‘Time, gentlemen.’ Cheer-oh, old thing! Good luck!”
He rejoined Bunter outside.
“Bunter,” he said, as they walked through the streets of the old city, “is my manner really offensive, when I don’t mean it to be?”
“It is possible, my lord, if your lordship will excuse my saying so, that the liveliness of your lordship’s manner may be misleading to persons of limited—”
“Be careful, Bunter!”
“Limited imagination, my lord.”
“Well-bred English people never have imagination, Bunter.”
“Certainly not, my lord. I meant nothing disparaging.”
“Well, Bunter—oh, lord! there’s a reporter! Hide me, quick!”
“In here, my lord.”
Mr. Bunter whisked his master into the cool emptiness of the Cathedral.
“I venture to suggest, my lord,” he urged in a hurried whisper, “that we adopt the attitude and external appearance of prayer, if your lordship will excuse me.”
Peeping through his fingers, Lord Peter saw a verger hastening towards them, rebuke depicted on his face. At that moment, however, the reporter entered in headlong pursuit, tugging a notebook from his pocket. The verger leapt swiftly on this new prey.
“The winder h’under which we stand,” he began in a reverential monotone, “is called the Seven Sisters of York. They say—”
Master and man stole quietly out.
For his visit to the market town of Stapley Lord Peter attired himself in an aged Norfolk suit, stockings with sober tops, an ancient hat turned down all round, stout shoes, and carried a heavy ashplant. It was with regret that he abandoned his favorite stick—a handsome malacca, marked off in inches for detective convenience, and concealing a sword in its belly and a compass in its head. He decided, however, that it would prejudice the natives against him, as having a town-bred, not to say supercilious, air about it. The sequel to this commendable devotion to his art forcibly illustrated the truth of Gertrude Rhead’s observation, “All this self-sacrifice is a sad mistake.”
The little town was sleepy enough as he drove into it in one of the Riddlesdale dogcarts, Bunter beside him, and the under-gardener on the back seat. For choice, he would have come on a market-day, in the hope of meeting Grimethorpe himself, but things were moving fast now, and he dared not lose a day. It was a raw, cold morning, inclined to rain.
“Which is the best inn to put up at, Wilkes?”
“There’s t’Bricklayers’ Arms, my lord—a fine, well-thought-of place, or t’Bridge and Bottle, i’ t’square, or t’Rose and Crown, t’other side o’ square.”
“Where do the folks usually put up on market-days?”
“Mebbe Rose and Crown is most popular, so to say—Tim Watchett, t’landlord, is a rare gossip. Now Greg Smith ower t’way at Bridge and Bottle, he’s nobbut a grimly, surly man, but he keeps good drink.”
“H’m—I fancy, Bunter, our man will be more attracted by surliness and good drink than by a genial host. The Bridge and Bottle for us, I fancy, and, if we draw blank there, we’ll toddle over to the Rose and Crown, and pump the garrulous Watchett.”
Accordingly they turned into the yard of a large, stony-faced house, whose long-unpainted sign bore the dim outline of a “Bridge Embattled,” which local etymology had (by a natural association of ideas) transmogrified into the “Bridge and Bottle.” To the grumpy ostler who took the horse Peter, with his most companionable manner, addressed himself:
“Nasty raw morning, isn’t it?”
“Eea.”
“Give him a good feed. I may be here some time.”
“Ugh!”
“Not many people about today, what?”
“Ugh!”
“But I expect you’re busy enough market-days.”
“Eea.”
“People come in from a long way round, I suppose.”
“Co-oop!” said the ostler. The horse walked three steps forward.
“Wo!” said the ostler. The horse stopped, with the shafts free of the tugs; the man lowered the shafts, to grate viciously on the gravel.
“Coom on oop!” said the ostler, and walked calmly off into the stable, leaving the affable Lord Peter as thoroughly snubbed as that young sprig of the nobility had ever found himself.
“I am more and more convinced,” said his lordship, “that this is Farmer Grimethorpe’s usual house of call. Let’s try the bar. Wilkes, I shan’t want you for a bit. Get yourself lunch if necessary. I don’t know how long we shall be.”
“Very good, my lord.”
In the bar of the Bridge and Bottle they found Mr. Greg Smith gloomily checking a long invoice. Lord Peter ordered drinks for Bunter and himself. The landlord appeared to resent this as a liberty, and jerked his head towards the barmaid. It was only right and proper that Bunter, after respectfully returning thanks to his master for his half-pint, should fall into conversation with the girl, while Lord Peter paid his respects to Mr. Smith.
“Ah!” said his lordship, “good stuff, that, Mr. Smith. I was told to come here for real good beer, and, by Jove! I’ve been sent to the right place.”
“Ugh!” said Mr. Smith, “ ’tisn’t what it was. Nowt’s good these times.”
“Well, I don’t want better. By the way, is Mr. Grimethorpe here today?”
“Eh?”
“Is Mr. Grimethorpe in Stapley this morning, d’you know?”
“How’d I know?”
“I thought he always put up here.”
“Ah!”
“Perhaps I mistook the name. But I fancied he’d be the man to go where the best beer is.”
“Ah!”
“Oh, well, if you haven’t seen him, I don’t suppose he’s come over today.”
“Coom where?”
“Into Stapley.”
“Doosn’t ’e live here? He can go and coom without my knowing.”
“Oh, of course!” Wimsey staggered under the shock, and then grasped the misunderstanding. “I don’t mean Mr. Grimethorpe of Stapley, but Mr. Grimethorpe of Grider’s Hole.”
“Why didn’t
