“Exactly; perhaps it isn’t.”
“Oh! Oh, I see. French?”
“Ah, you’re gettin’ warm.”
“Soeur—oeuvre—oeuf—boeuf—”
“No, no. You were nearer the first time.”
“Soeur—coeur!”
“ ‘Coeur.’ Hold on a moment. Look at the scratch in front of that.”
“Wait a bit—er—cer—”
“How about percer?”
“I believe you’re right. ‘Percer le coeur.’ ”
“Yes. Or ‘perceras le coeur.’ ”
“That’s better. It seems to need another letter or two.”
“And now your ‘is found’ line.”
“Fou!”
“Who?”
“I didn’t say ‘who’; I said ‘fou.’ ”
“I know you did. I said who?”
“Who?”
“Who’s fou?”
“Oh, is. By Jove, ‘suis’! ‘Je suis fou.’ ”
“A la bonne heure! And I suggest that the next words are ‘de douleur,’ or something like it.”
“They might be.”
“Cautious beast! I say they are.”
“Well, and suppose they are?”
“It tells us everything.”
“Nothing!”
“Everything, I say. Think. This was written on the day Cathcart died. Now who in the house would be likely to write these words, ‘perceras le coeur … je suis fou de douleur’? Take everybody. I know it isn’t Jerry’s fist, and he wouldn’t use those expressions. Colonel or Mrs. Marchbanks? Not Pygmalion likely! Freddy? Couldn’t write passionate letters in French to save his life.”
“No, of course not. It would have to be either Cathcart or—Lady Mary.”
“Rot! It couldn’t be Mary.”
“Why not?”
“Not unless she changed her sex, you know.”
“Of course not. It would have to be je suis folle.’ Then Cathcart—”
“Of course. He lived in France all his life. Consider his bankbook. Consider—”
“Lord! Wimsey, we’ve been blind.”
“Yes.”
“And listen! I was going to tell you. The Sûreté write me that they’ve traced one of Cathcart’s banknotes.”
“Where to?”
“To a Mr. François who owns a lot of house property near the Etoile.”
“And lets it out in appartements!”
“No doubt.”
“When’s the next train? Bunter!”
“My lord!”
Mr. Bunter hurried to the door at the call.
“The next boat-train for Paris?”
“Eight-twenty, my lord, from Waterloo.”
“We’re going by it. How long?”
“Twenty minutes, my lord.”
“Pack my toothbrush and call a taxi.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“But, Wimsey, what light does it throw on Cathcart’s murder? Did this woman—”
“I’ve no time,” said Wimsey hurriedly. “But I’ll be back in a day or two. Meanwhile—”
He hunted hastily in the bookshelf.
“Read this.”
He flung the book at his friend and plunged into his bedroom.
At eleven o’clock, as a gap of dirty water disfigured with oil and bits of paper widened between the Normannia and the quay; while hardened passengers fortified their sea-stomachs with cold ham and pickles, and the more nervous studied the Boddy jackets in their cabins; while the harbor lights winked and swam right and left, and Lord Peter scraped acquaintance with a second-rate cinema actor in the bar, Charles Parker sat, with a puzzled frown, before the fire at 110 Piccadilly, making his first acquaintance with the delicate masterpiece of the Abbé Prévost.
XIV
The Edge of the Axe Towards Him
Scene I. Westminster Hall. Enter as to the Parliament, Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitz-water, Surrey, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and another Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot.
King Richard II
Bolingbroke Call forth Bagot.
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;
What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death;
Who wrought it with the king, and who performed
The bloody office of his timeless end.Bagot Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.
The historic trial of the Duke of Denver for murder opened as soon as Parliament reassembled after the Christmas vacation. The papers had leaderettes on “Trial by his Peers,” by a Woman Barrister, and “The Privilege of Peers: should it be abolished?” by a Student of History. The Evening Banner got into trouble for contempt by publishing an article entitled “The Silken Rope” (by an Antiquarian), which was deemed to be prejudicial, and the Daily Trumpet—the Labor organ—inquired sarcastically why, when a peer was tried, the fun of seeing the show should be reserved to the few influential persons who could wangle tickets for the Royal Gallery.
Mr. Murbles and Detective Inspector Parker, in close consultation, went about with preoccupied faces, while Sir Impey Biggs retired into a complete eclipse for three days, revolved about by Mr. Glibbery, K.C., Mr. Brownrigg-Fortescue, K.C., and a number of lesser satellites. The schemes of the Defense were kept dark indeed—the more so that they found themselves on the eve of the struggle deprived of their principal witness, and wholly ignorant whether or not he would be forthcoming with his testimony.
Lord Peter had returned from Paris at the end of four days, and had burst in like a cyclone at Great Ormond Street. “I’ve got it,” he said, “but it’s touch and go. Listen!”
For an hour Parker had listened, feverishly taking notes.
“You can work on that,” said Wimsey. “Tell Murbles. I’m off.”
His next appearance was at the American Embassy. The Ambassador, however, was not there, having received a royal mandate to dine. Wimsey damned the dinner, abandoned the polite, horn-rimmed secretaries, and leapt back into his taxi with a demand to be driven to Buckingham Palace. Here a great deal of insistence with scandalized officials produced first a higher official, then a very high official, and, finally, the American Ambassador and a Royal Personage while the meat was yet in their mouths.
“Oh, yes,” said the Ambassador, “of course it can be done—”
“Surely, surely,” said the Personage genially, “we mustn’t have any delay. Might cause an international misunderstanding, and a lot of paragraphs about Ellis Island. Terrible nuisance to have to adjourn the trial—dreadful fuss, isn’t it? Our secretaries are everlastingly bringing things along to our place to sign about extra policemen and seating accommodation. Good luck to you, Wimsey! Come and have something while they get your papers through. When does your boat go?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir. I’m catching the Liverpool train in an hour—if I can.”
“You surely will,” said the Ambassador cordially, signing a note. “And they
