“It shall be done. Boyes—query pub.” Parker made another note. “Yes?”
“Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district.”
“Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Selfridge’s in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too easy.”
“A bottle is more likely than a paper,” went on Wimsey, ignoring him, “because I think the arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly.”
Parker made no further protest, but noted down “Boyes—Doughty Street—query bottle,” and paused expectantly.
“Yes?”
“That’s all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes.”
“Very well. I’ll do my best. And if you find out anything which really proves that we’ve been on the wrong tack, you’ll let us know, won’t you? We don’t want to make large and ignominious public mistakes.”
“Well—I’ve just earnestly promised the defence that I’ll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I’ll let you arrest him.”
“Thanks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Funny for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Wimsey. “I’m sorry about it, but it’s your own fault.”
“You shouldn’t have been out of England. By the way—”
“Yes?”
“You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Wimsey, crossly, and went out.
VI
The next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. “Mrs. Merdle” the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to “row,” was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits.
Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o’clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent’s income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead.
The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey.
The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated.
Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently aroused no associations in the mind of this gentle and unworldly parson. He decided not to mention his hobby of criminal investigation, but to represent himself, with equal truth, as a friend of the prisoner’s. That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, with some hesitation:
“I’m fearfully sorry to trouble you, especially as it’s all so very distressin’ and all that, but it’s about the death of your son, and the trial and so on. Please don’t think I’m wanting to make an interfering nuisance of myself, but I’m deeply interested—personally interested. You see, I know Miss Vane—I—in fact I like her very much, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking there’s a mistake somewhere and—and I should like to get it put right if possible.”
“Oh—oh, yes!” said Mr. Boyes. He carefully polished a pair of pince-nez and balanced them on his nose, where they sat crookedly. He peered at Wimsey and seemed not to dislike what he saw, for he went on:
“Poor misguided girl! I assure you, I have no vindictive feelings—that is to say, nobody would be more happy than myself to know that she was innocent of this dreadful thing. Indeed, Lord Peter, even if she were guilty, it would give me great pain to see her suffer the penalty. Whatever we do, we cannot bring back the dead to life, and one would infinitely prefer to leave all vengeance in the hand of Him to whom it belongs. Certainly, nothing could be more terrible than to take the life of an innocent person. It would haunt me to the end of my days if I thought there were the least likelihood of it. And I confess that, when I saw Miss Vane in court, I had grievous doubts whether the police had done rightly in accusing her.”
“Thank you,” said Wimsey, “it is very kind of you to say that. It makes the job much easier. Excuse me, you say, ‘when you saw her in court.’ You hadn’t met her previously?”
“No. I knew, of course, that my unhappy son had formed an illicit connection with a young woman, but—I could not bring myself to see her—and indeed, I believe that she, with very proper feeling, refused to allow Philip to bring her into contact with any of his relations. Lord Peter, you are a younger man than I am, you belong to my son’s generation, and you will perhaps understand that—though he was not bad, not depraved, I will never think that—yet somehow there was not that full confidence between us which there should be between father and son. No doubt I was much to blame. If only his mother had lived—”
“My dear sir,” mumbled Wimsey, “I perfectly understand. It often happens. In fact, it’s continually happening. The postwar generation and so on. Lots of people go off the rails a bit—no real harm in ’em at all. Just can’t see eye to eye with the older people. It generally wears off in time. Nobody really to blame. Wild oats and, er, all that sort of thing.”
“I could not approve,” said
