“He’s here today?”
“Nay, I knaw nowt about ’un.”
“He comes in on market-days, I expect.”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s a longish way. One can put up for the night, I suppose?”
“Doosta want t’stay t’night?”
“Well, no, I don’t think so. I was thinking about my friend Mr. Grimethorpe. I daresay he often has to stay the night.”
“Happen a does.”
“Doesn’t he stay here, then?”
“Naay.”
“Oh!” said Wimsey, and thought impatiently: “If all these natives are as oyster-like I shall have to stay the night … Well, well,” he added aloud, “next time he drops in say I asked after him.”
“And who mought tha be?” inquired Mr. Smith in a hostile manner.
“Oh, only Brooks of Sheffield,” said Lord Peter, with a happy grin. “Good morning. I won’t forget to recommend your beer.”
Mr. Smith grunted. Lord Peter strolled slowly out, and before long Mr. Bunter joined him, coming out with a brisk step and the lingering remains of what, in anyone else, might have been taken for a smirk.
“Well?” inquired his lordship. “I hope the young lady was more communicative than that fellow.”
“I found the young person” (“Snubbed again,” muttered Lord Peter) “perfectly amiable, my lord, but unhappily ill-informed. Mr. Grimethorpe is not unknown to her, but he does not stay here. She has sometimes seen him in company with a man called Zedekiah Bone.”
“Well,” said his lordship, “suppose you look for Bone, and come and report progress to me in a couple of hours’ time. I’ll try the Rose and Crown. We’ll meet at noon under that thing.”
“That thing,” was a tall erection in pink granite, neatly tooled to represent a craggy rock, and guarded by two petrified infantrymen in trench helmets. A thin stream of water gushed from a bronze knob halfway up, a roll of honor was engraved on the octagonal base, and four gas-lamps on cast-iron standards put the finishing touch to a very monument of incongruity. Mr. Bunter looked carefully at it, to be sure of recognizing it again, and moved respectfully away. Lord Peter walked ten brisk steps in the direction of the Rose and Crown, then a thought struck him.
“Bunter!”
Mr. Bunter hurried back to his side.
“Oh, nothing!” said his lordship. “Only I’ve just thought of a name for it.”
“For—”
“That memorial,” said Lord Peter. “I choose to call it ‘Meribah.’ ”
“Yes, my lord. The waters of strife. Exceedingly apt, my lord. Nothing harmonious about it, if I may say so. Will there be anything further, my lord?”
“No, that’s all.”
Mr. Timothy Watchett of the Rose and Crown was certainly a contrast to Mr. Greg Smith. He was a small, spare, sharp-eyed man of about fifty-five, with so twinkling and humorous an eye and so alert a cock of the head that Lord Peter summed up his origin the moment he set eyes on him.
“Morning, landlord,” said he genially, “and when did you last see Piccadilly Circus?”
“ ’Ard to say, sir. Gettin’ on for thirty-five year, I reckon. Many’s the time I said to my wife, ‘Liz, I’ll tike you ter see the ’Olborn Empire afore I die.’ But, with one thing and another, time slips aw’y. One day’s so like another—blowed if I ever remember ’ow old I’m gettin’, sir.”
“Oh, well, you’ve lots of time yet,” said Lord Peter.
“I ’ope so, sir. I ain’t never wot you may call got used ter these Northerners. That slow, they are, sir—it fair giv’ me the ’ump when I first come. And the w’y they speak—that took some gettin’ used to. Call that English, I useter say, give me the Frenchies in the Chantycleer Restaurong, I ses. But there, sir, custom’s everything. Blowed if I didn’t ketch myself a-syin’ ‘yon side the square’ the other day. Me!”
“I don’t think there’s much fear of your turning into a Yorkshire man,” said Lord Peter, “didn’t I know you the minute I set eyes on you? In Mr. Watchett’s bar I said to myself, ‘My foot is on my native paving-stones.’ ”
“That’s raight, sir. And, bein’ there, sir, what can I ’ave the pleasure of offerin’ you? … Excuse me, sir, but ’aven’t I seen your fice somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” said Peter; “but that reminds me. Do you know one Mr. Grimethorpe?”
“I know five Mr. Grimethorpes. W’ich of ’em was you meanin’, sir?”
“Mr. Grimethorpe of Grider’s Hole.”
The landlord’s cheerful face darkened.
“Friend of yours, sir?”
“Not exactly. An acquaintance.”
“There naow!” cried Mr. Watchett, smacking his hand down upon the counter. “I knowed as I knowed your fice! Don’t you live over at Riddlesdale, sir?”
“I’m stayin’ there.”
“I knowed it,” retorted Mr. Watchett triumphantly. He dived behind the counter and brought up a bundle of newspapers, turning over the sheets excitedly with a well-licked thumb. “There! Riddlesdale! That’s it, of course.”
He smacked open a Daily Mirror of a fortnight or so ago. The front page bore a heavy block headline: The Riddlesdale Mystery. And beneath was a lifelike snapshot entitled, “Lord Peter Wimsey, the Sherlock Holmes of the West End, who is devoting all his time and energies to proving the innocence of his brother, the Duke of Denver.” Mr. Watchett gloated.
“You won’t mind my syin’ ’ow proud I am to ’ave you in my bar, my lord.—’Ere, Jem, you attend ter them gentlemen; don’t you see they’re wytin’?—Follered all yer caises I ’ave, my lord, in the pipers—jest like a book they are. An’ ter think—”
“Look here, old thing,” said Lord Peter, “d’you mind not talkin’ quite so loud. Seein’ dear old Felix is out of the bag, so to speak, do you think you could give me some information and keep your mouth shut, what?”
“Come be’ind into the bar-parlor, my lord. Nobody’ll ’ear us there,” said Mr. Watchett eagerly, lifting up the flap. “Jem, ’ere! Bring a bottle of—what’ll you ’ave, my lord?”
“Well, I don’t know how many places I may have to visit,” said his lordship dubiously.
“Jem, bring a quart of the old ale.—It’s special, that’s wot it is, my lord. I ain’t never found none like it, except it might be once at Oxford. Thanks, Jem. Naow you get
