“Better leave it at that,” said Mr. Murbles. “Makes a good impression, you know. Let him go into the box and behave like a perfect gentleman. They’ll like it.”
Sir Impey, who had sat through the small hours altering his speech, nodded.
The first witness that day came as something of a surprise. She gave her name and address as Eliza Briggs, known as Madame Brigette of New Bond Street, and her occupation as beauty specialist and perfumer. She had a large and aristocratic clientele of both sexes, and a branch in Paris.
Deceased had been a client of hers in both cities for several years. He had massage and manicure. After the war he had come to her about some slight scars caused by grazing with shrapnel. He was extremely particular about his personal appearance, and, if you called that vanity in a man, you might certainly say he was vain. Thank you. Sir Wigmore Wrinching made no attempt to cross-examine the witness, and the noble lords wondered to one another what it was all about.
At this point Sir Impey Biggs leaned forward, and, tapping his brief impressively with his forefinger, began:
“My lords, so strong is our case that we had not thought it necessary to present an alibi—” when an officer of the court rushed up from a little whirlpool of commotion by the door and excitedly thrust a note into his hand. Sir Impey read, colored, glanced down the hall, put down his brief, folded his hands over it, and said in a sudden, loud voice which penetrated even to the deaf ear of the Duke of Wiltshire:
“My lords, I am happy to say that our missing witness is here. I call Lord Peter Wimsey.”
Every neck was at once craned, and every eye focused on the very grubby and oily figure that came amiably trotting up the long room. Sir Impey Biggs passed the note down to Mr. Murbles, and, turning to the witness, who was yawning frightfully in the intervals of grinning at all his acquaintances, demanded that he should be sworn.
The witness’s story was as follows:
“I am Lord Peter Wimsey, brother of the accused. I live at 110 Piccadilly. In consequence of what I read on that bit of blotting-paper which I now identify, I went to Paris to look for a certain lady. The name of the lady is Mademoiselle Simone Vonderaa. I found she had left Paris in company with a man named Van Humperdinck. I followed her, and at length came up with her in New York. I asked her to give me the letter Cathcart wrote on the night of his death. (Sensation.) I produce that letter, with Mademoiselle Vonderaa’s signature on the corner, so that it can be identified if Wiggy there tries to put it over you. (Joyous sensation, in which the indignant protests of prosecuting counsel were drowned.) And I’m sorry I’ve given you such short notice of this, old man, but I only got it the day before yesterday. We came as quick as we could, but we had to come down near Whitehaven with engine trouble, and if we had come down half a mile sooner I shouldn’t be here now.” (Applause, hurriedly checked by the Lord High Steward.)
“My lords,” said Sir Impey, “your lordships are witnesses that I have never seen this letter in my life before. I have no idea of its contents; yet so positive am I that it cannot but assist my noble client’s case, that I am willing—nay, eager—to put in this document immediately, as it stands, without perusal, to stand or fall by the contents.”
“The handwriting must be identified as that of the deceased,” interposed the Lord High Steward.
The ravening pencils of the reporters tore along the paper. The lean young man who worked for the Daily Trumpet scented a scandal in high life and licked his lips, never knowing what a much bigger one had escaped him by a bare minute or so.
Miss Lydia Cathcart was recalled to identify the handwriting, and the letter was handed to the Lord High Steward, who announced:
“The letter is in French. We shall have to swear an interpreter.”
“You will find,” said the witness suddenly, “that those bits of words on the blotting-paper come out of the letter. You’ll ’scuse my mentioning it.”
“Is this person put forward as an expert witness?” inquired Sir Wigmore witheringly.
“Right ho!” said Lord Peter. “Only, you see, it has been rather sprung on Biggy as you might say.
“Biggy and Wiggy
Were two pretty men,
They went into court
When the clock—”
“Sir Impey, I must really ask you to keep your witness in order.”
Lord Peter grinned, and a pause ensued while an interpreter was fetched and sworn. Then, at last, the letter was read, amid a breathless silence:
Riddlesdale Lodge,
Stapley, N.E. Yorks,
Le 13 Octobre, 192—
Simone,
—Je viens de recevoir ta lettre. Que dire? Inutiles, les prières ou les reproches. Tu ne comprendras—tu ne liras même pas.
N’ai-je pas toujours su, d’ailleurs, que tu devais infailliblement me trahir? Depuis huit ans déjà je souffre tous les torments que puisse infliger la jalousie. Je comprends bien que tu n’as jamais voulu me faire de la peine. C’est tout justement cette insouciance, cette légèreté, cette façon séduisante d’être malhonnête, que j’adorais en toi. J’ai tout su, et je t’ai aimée.
Ma foi, non, ma chère, jamais je n’ai eu la moindre illusion. Te rappelles-tu cette première rencontre, un soir au Casino? Tu avais dix-sept ans, et tu étais jolie à ravir. Le lendemain tu fus à moi. Tu m’as dit, si gentiment, que tu m’aimais bien, et que j’étais, moi, le premier. Ma pauvre enfant, tu en as menti. Tu riais, toute seule, de ma naivete—il y avait bien de quoi rire! Dès notre premier baiser, j’ai prévu ce moment.
Mais écoute, Simone. J’ai la faiblesse de vouloir te montrer exactement ce que tu
