The Hon. Freddy agreed to this.
Sir Impey did not cross-examine as to witness’s account of the quarrel, but went straight to his point.
“Do you recollect anything about the letters that were brought in the night of the death?”
“Yes; I had one from my aunt. The Colonel had some, I fancy, and there was one for Cathcart.”
“Did Captain Cathcart read his letter there and then?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. You see, I opened mine, and then I saw he was shoving his away in his pocket, and I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought,” said Sir Impey. “What did you do?”
“I said, ‘Excuse me, you don’t mind, do you?’ And he said, ‘Not at all’; but he didn’t read his; and I remember thinking—”
“We can’t have that, you know,” said the Lord High Steward.
“But that’s why I’m so sure he didn’t open it,” said the Hon. Freddy, hurt. “You see, I said to myself at the time what a secretive fellow he was, and that’s how I know.”
Sir Wigmore, who had bounced up with his mouth open, sat down again.
“Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot,” said Sir Impey, smiling.
Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks testified to having heard movements in the Duke’s study at 11:30. They had heard no shot or other noise. There was no cross-examination.
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson gave a vivid account of the quarrel, and asserted very positively that there could be no mistaking the sound of the Duke’s bedroom door.
“We were then called up by Mr. Arbuthnot at a little after 3 a.m.,” proceeded witness, “and went down to the conservatory, where I saw the accused and Mr. Arbuthnot washing the face of the deceased. I pointed out to them what an unwise thing it was to do this, as they might be destroying valuable evidence for the police. They paid no attention to me. There were a number of footmarks round about the door which I wanted to examine, because it was my theory that—”
“My lords,” cried Sir Impey, “we really cannot have this witness’s theory.”
“Certainly not!” said the Lord High Steward. “Answer the questions, please, and don’t add anything on your own account.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson. “I don’t mean to imply that there was anything wrong about it, but I considered—”
“Never mind what you considered. Attend to me, please. When you first saw the body, how was it lying?”
“On its back, with Denver and Arbuthnot washing its face. It had evidently been turned over, because—”
“Sir Wigmore,” interposed the Lord High Steward, “you really must control your witness.”
“Kindly confine yourself to the evidence,” said Sir Wigmore, rather heated. “We do not want your deductions from it. You say that when you saw the body it was lying on its back. Is that correct?”
“And Denver and Arbuthnot were washing it.”
“Yes. Now I want to pass to another point. Do you remember an occasion when you lunched at the Royal Automobile Club?”
“I do. I lunched there one day in the middle of last August—I think it was about the sixteenth or seventeenth.”
“Will you tell us what happened on that occasion?”
“I had gone into the smoke-room after lunch, and was reading in a high-backed armchair, when I saw the prisoner at the Bar come in with the late Captain Cathcart. That is to say, I saw them in the big mirror over the mantelpiece. They did not notice there was anyone there, or they would have been a little more careful what they said, I fancy. They sat down near me and started talking, and presently Cathcart leaned over and said something in a low tone which I couldn’t catch. The prisoner leapt up with a horrified face, exclaiming, ‘For God’s sake, don’t give me away, Cathcart—there’d be the devil to pay.’ Cathcart said something reassuring—I didn’t hear what, he had a furtive sort of voice—and the prisoner replied, ‘Well, don’t, that’s all. I couldn’t afford to let anybody get hold of it.’ The prisoner seemed greatly alarmed. Captain Cathcart was laughing. They dropped their voices again, and that was all I heard.”
“Thank you.”
Sir Impey took over the witness with a Belial-like politeness.
“You are gifted with very excellent powers of observation and deduction, Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson,” he began, “and no doubt you like to exercise your sympathetic imagination in a scrutiny of people’s motives and characters?”
“I think I may call myself a student of human nature,” replied Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, much mollified.
“Doubtless, people are inclined to confide in you?”
“Certainly. I may say I am a great repository of human documents.”
“On the night of Captain Cathcart’s death your wide knowledge of the world was doubtless of great comfort and assistance to the family?”
“They did not avail themselves of my experience, sir,” said Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, exploding suddenly. “I was ignored completely. If only my advice had been taken at the time—”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Sir Impey, cutting short an impatient exclamation from the Attorney-General, who thereupon rose and demanded:
“If Captain Cathcart had had any secret or trouble of any kind in his life, you would have expected him to tell you about it?”
“From any right-minded young man I might certainly have expected it,” said Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson blusteringly; “but Captain Cathcart was disagreeably secretive. On the only occasion when I showed a friendly interest in his affairs he was very rude indeed. He called me—”
“That’ll do,” interposed Sir Wigmore hastily, the answer to the question not having turned out as he expected. “What the deceased called you is immaterial.”
Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson retired, leaving behind him the impression of a man with a grudge—an impression which seemed to please Mr. Glibbery and Mr. Brownrigg-Fortescue extremely, for they chuckled continuously through the evidence of the next two witnesses.
Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson had little to add to her previous evidence at the inquest. Miss Cathcart was asked by Sir Impey about Cathcart’s parentage, and explained, with deep disapproval in her voice, that her brother,
