with one thing and another, I didn't get off till the night express. By the time I turned up on Friday, Craikes and the Coroner were already as thick as thieves, had fixed the inquest for that morning-which was ridiculous-and arranged to produce their blessed evidence as dramatically as possible. I only had time to skim over the ground (disfigured, I'm sorry to say, by the prints of Craikes and his local ruffians), and really had nothing for the jury."
"Cheer up," said Wimsey. "I'm not blaming you. Besides, it all lends excitement to the chase."
"Fact is," said the Hon. Freddy, "that we ain't popular with respectable Coroners. Giddy aristocrats and immoral Frenchmen. I say, Peter, sorry you've missed Miss Lydia Cathcart. You'd have loved her. She's gone back to Golders Green and taken the body with her."
"Oh, well," said Wimsey. "I don't suppose there was anything abstruse about the body."
"No," said Parker, "the medical evidence was all right as far as it went. He was shot through the lungs, and that's all."
"Though, mind you," said the Hon. Freddy, "he didn't shoot himself. I didn't say anything, not wishin' to upset old Denver's story, but, you know, all that stuff about his bein' so upset and go-to-blazes in his manner was all my whiskers."
"How do you know?" said Peter.
"Why, my dear man, Cathcart'n I toddled up to bed together. I was rather fed up, havin' dropped a lot on some shares, besides missin' everything I shot at in the mornin', an' lost a bet I made with the Colonel about the number of toes on the kitchen cat, an' I said to Cathcart it was a hell of a damn-fool world, or words to that effect. 'Not a bit of it,' he said; 'it's a damn good world. I'm goin' to ask Mary for a date to-morrow, an' then we'll go and live in Paris, where they understand sex.' I said somethin' or other vague, and he went off whistlin'."
Parker looked grave. Colonel Marchbanks cleared his throat.
"Well, well," he said, "there's no accounting for a man like Cathcart, no accounting at all. Brought up in France, you know. Not at all like a straightforward Englishman. Always up and down, up and down! A sad, poor fellow. Well, well, Peter, hope you and Mr. Parker will find out something about it. We mustn't have poor old Denver cooped up in gaol like this, you know. Awfully unpleasant for him, poor chap, and with the birds so good this year. Well, I expect you'll be making a tour of inspection, eh, Mr. Parker? What do you say to shoving the balls about a bit, Freddy?"
"Right you are," said the Hon. Freddy; "you'll have to give me a hundred, though, Colonel."
"Nonsense, nonsense," said that veteran, in high good humour; "you play an excellent game."
Mr. Murbles having withdrawn, Wimsey and Parker faced each other over the remains of the breakfast.
"Peter," said the detective, "I don't know if I've done the right thing by coming. If you feel-"
"Look here, old man," said his friend earnestly, "let's cut out the considerations of delicacy. We're goin' to work this case like any other. If anything unpleasant turns up, I'd rather you saw it than anybody else. It's an uncommonly pretty little case, on its merits, and I'm goin' to put some damn good work into it."
"If you're sure it's all right-"
"My dear man, if you hadn't been here I'd have sent for you. Now let's get to business. Of course, I'm settin' off with the assumption that old Gerald didn't do it."
"I'm sure he didn't," agreed Parker.
"No, no," said Wimsey, "that isn't your line. Nothing rash about you-nothing trustful. You are expected to throw cold water on my hopes and doubt all my conclusions."
"Right ho!" said Parker. "Where would you like to begin?"
Peter considered. "I think we'll start from Cathcart's bedroom," he said.
The bedroom was of moderate size, with a single window overlooking the front door. The bed was on the right-hand side, the dressing-table before the window. On the left was the fireplace, with an arm-chair before it, and a small writing-table.
"Everything's as it was," said Parker. "Craikes had that much sense."
"Yes," said Lord Peter. "Very well. Gerald says that when he charged Cathcart with bein' a scamp, Cathcart jumped up, nearly knockin' the table over. That's the writin'-table, then, so Cathcart was sittin' in the arm-chair. Yes, he was-and he pushed it back violently and rumpled up the carpet. See! So far, so good. Now what was he doin' there? He wasn't readin', because there's no book about, and we know that he rushed straight out of the room and never came back. Very good. Was he writin'? No, virgin sheet of blottin'-paper-"
"He might have been writing in pencil," suggested Parker.
"That's true, old Kill-Joy, so he might. Well, if he was he shoved the paper into his pocket when Gerald came in, because it isn't here; but he didn't, because it wasn't found on his body; so he wasn't writing."
"Unless he threw the paper away somewhere else," said Parker. "I haven't been all over the grounds, you know, and at the smallest computation-if we accept the shot heard by Hardraw at 11.50 as the shot-there's an hour and a half unaccounted for."
"Very well. Let's say there is nothing to show he was writing. Will that do? Well, then-"
Lord Peter drew out a lens and scrutinised the surface of the arm-chair carefully before sitting down in it.
"Nothing helpful there," he said. "To proceed, Cathcart sat where I am sitting. He wasn't writing-you're sure this room hasn't been touched?"
"Certain."
"Then he wasn't smoking."
"Why not? He might have chucked the stub of a cigar or cigarette into the fire when Denver came in."
"Not a cigarette," said Peter, "or we should find traces somewhere-on the floor or in the grate. That light ash blows about so. But a cigar-well, he might have smoked a cigar without leaving a sign, I suppose. But I hope he didn't."
"Why?"
"Because, old son, I'd rather Gerald's account had some element of truth in it. A nervy man doesn't sit down to the delicate enjoyment of a cigar before bed, and cherish the ash with such scrupulous care. On the other hand, if Freddy's right, and Cathcart was feelin' unusually sleek and pleased with life, that's just the sort of thing he would do."
"Do you think Mr. Arbuthnot would have invented all that, as a matter of fact?" said Parker thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me that way. He'd have to be imaginative and spiteful to make it up, and I really don't think he's either."
"I know," said Lord Peter. "I've known old Freddy all my life, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, he simply hasn't the wits to make up any sort of a story. But what bothers me is that Gerald most certainly hasn't the wits either to invent that Adelphi drama between him and Cathcart."
"On the other hand," said Parker, "if we allow for a moment that he shot Cathcart, he had an incentive to invent it. He would be trying to get his head out of the-I mean, when anything important is at stake it's wonderful how it sharpens one's wits. And the story being so farfetched does rather suggest an unpractised storyteller."
"True O King. Well, you've sat on all my discoveries so far. Never mind. My head is bloody but unbowed. Cathcart was sitting here-"
"So your brother said."
"Curse you, I say he was; at least, somebody was; he's left the impression
