The Coroner: “Did you hear anything further that night?”
Hon. Frederick: “Not till poor little Mary knocked me up. Then I toddled down and found Denver in the conservatory, bathing Cathcart’s head. We thought we ought to clean the gravel and mud off his face, you know.”
The Coroner: “You heard no shot?”
Hon. Frederick: “Not a sound. But I sleep pretty heavily.”
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks slept in the room over what was called the study—more a sort of smoking-room really. They both gave the same account of a conversation which they had had at 11:30. Mrs. Marchbanks had sat up to write some letters after the Colonel was in bed. They had heard voices and someone running about, but had paid no attention. It was not unusual for members of the party to shout and run about. At last the Colonel had said, “Come to bed, my dear, it’s half-past eleven, and we’re making an early start tomorrow. You won’t be fit for anything.” He said this because Mrs. Marchbanks was a keen sportswoman and always carried her gun with the rest. She replied, “I’m just coming.” The Colonel said, “You’re the only sinner burning the midnight oil—everybody’s turned in.” Mrs. Marchbanks replied, “No, the Duke’s still up; I can hear him moving about in the study.” Colonel Marchbanks listened and heard it too. Neither of them heard the Duke come up again. They had heard no noise of any kind in the night.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson appeared to give evidence with extreme reluctance. He and his wife had gone to bed at ten. They had heard the quarrel with Cathcart. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, fearing that something might be going to happen, opened his door in time to hear the Duke say, “If you dare to speak to my sister again I’ll break every bone in your body,” or words to that effect. Cathcart had rushed downstairs. The Duke was scarlet in the face. He had not seen Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, but had spoken a few words to Mr. Arbuthnot, and rushed into his own bedroom. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had run out, and said to Mr. Arbuthnot, “I say, Arbuthnot,” and Mr. Arbuthnot had very rudely slammed the door in his face. He had then gone to the Duke’s door and said, “I say, Denver.” The Duke had come out, pushing past him, without even noticing him, and gone to the head of the stairs. He had heard him tell Fleming to leave the conservatory door open, as Mr. Cathcart had gone out. The Duke had then returned. Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had tried to catch him as he passed, and had said again, “I say, Denver, what’s up?” The Duke had said nothing, and had shut his bedroom door with great decision. Later on, however, at 11:30 to be precise, Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had heard the Duke’s door open, and stealthy feet moving about the passage. He could not hear whether they had gone downstairs. The bathroom and lavatory were at his end of the passage, and, if anybody had entered either of them, he thought he should have heard. He had not heard the footsteps return. He had heard his traveling clock strike twelve before falling asleep. There was no mistaking the Duke’s bedroom door, as the hinge creaked in a peculiar manner.
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson confirmed her husband’s evidence. She had fallen asleep before midnight, and had slept heavily. She was a heavy sleeper at the beginning of the night, but slept lightly in the early morning. She had been annoyed by all the disturbance in the house that evening, as it had prevented her from getting off. In fact, she had dropped off about 10:30, and Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson had had to wake her an hour after to tell her about the footsteps. What with one thing and another she only got a couple of hours’ good sleep. She woke up again at two, and remained broad awake till the alarm was given by Lady Mary. She could swear positively that she heard no shot in the night. Her window was next to Lady Mary’s, on the opposite side from the conservatory. She had always been accustomed from a child to sleep with her window open. In reply to a question from the Coroner, Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson said she had never felt there was a real, true affection between Lady Mary Wimsey and deceased. They seemed very offhand, but that sort of thing was the fashion nowadays. She had never heard of any disagreement.
Miss Lydia Cathcart, who had been hurriedly summoned from town, then gave evidence about the deceased man. She told the Coroner that she was the Captain’s aunt and his only surviving relative. She had seen very little of him since he came into possession of his father’s money. He had always lived with his own friends in Paris, and they were such as she could not approve of.
“My brother and I never got on very well,” said Miss Cathcart, “and he had my nephew educated abroad till he was eighteen. I fear Denis’s notions were always quite French. After my brother’s death Denis went to Cambridge, by his father’s desire. I was left executrix of the will, and guardian till Denis came of age. I do not know why, after neglecting me all his life, my brother should have chosen to put such a responsibility
