Clous of Witness ch 6 cont

“I haven't come yet to the unpleasantest bit of the lot,” said Peter. “I've only just heard it, and it did give me a nasty jar, I'll admit. Yesterday I got a letter from Lubbock saying he would like to see me, so I trotted up here and dropped in on him this morning. You remember I sent him a stain off one of Mary's skirts which Bunter had cut out for me? I had taken a squint at it myself, and didn't like the look of it, so I sent it up to Lubbock, ex abundantia cautelæ; and I'm sorry to say he confirms me. It's human blood, Charles, and I'm afraid it's Cathcart's.”

Latin for “Out of the abundance”

                “But—I've lost the thread of this a bit.”

                “Well, the skirt must have got stained the day Cathcart—died, as that was the last day on which the party was out on the moors, and if it had been there earlier Ellen would have cleaned it off. Afterwards Mary strenuously resisted Ellen's efforts to take the skirt away, and made an amateurish effort to tidy it up herself with soap. So I think we may conclude that Mary knew the stains were there, and wanted to avoid discovery. She told Ellen that the blood was from a grouse—which must have been a deliberate untruth.”

                “Perhaps,” said Parker, struggling against hope to make out a case for Lady Mary, “she only said, 'Oh! one of the birds must have bled,' or something like that.”

                “I don't believe,” said Peter, “that one could get a great patch of human blood on one's clothes like that and not know what it was. She must have knelt right in it. It was three or four inches across.”

                Parker shook his head dismally, and consoled himself by making a note.

                “Well, now,” went on Peter, “on Wednesday night everybody comes in and dines and goes to bed except Cathcart, who rushes out and stays out. At 11.50 the gamekeeper, Hardraw, hears a shot which may very well have been fired in the clearing where the—well, let's say the accident—took place. The time also agrees with the medical evidence about Cathcart having already been dead three or four hours when he was examined at 4.30. Very well. At 3 a.m. Jerry comes home from somewhere or other and finds the body. As he is bending over it, Mary arrives in the most apropos manner from the house in her coat and cap and walking-shoes. Now what is her story? She says that at three o'clock she was awakened by a shot. Now nobody else heard that shot, and we have the evidence of Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, who slept in the next room to Mary, with her window open according to her immemorial custom, that she lay broad awake from 2 a.m. till a little after 3 a.m., when the alarm was given, and heard no shot. According to Mary, the shot was loud enough to waken her on the other side of the building. It's odd, isn't it, that the person already awake should swear so positively that she heard nothing of a noise loud enough to waken a healthy young sleeper next door? And, in any case, if that was the shot that killed Cathcart, he can barely have been dead when my brother found him—and again, in that case, how was there time for him to be carried up from the shrubbery to the conservatory?”

                “We've been over all this ground,” said Parker, with an expression of distaste. “We agreed that we couldn't attach any importance to the story of the shot.”

                “I'm afraid we've got to attach a great deal of importance to it,” said Lord Peter gravely. “Now, what does Mary do? Either she thought the shot——”

                “There was no shot.”

                “I know that. But I'm examining the discrepancies of her story. She said she did not give the alarm because she thought it was probably only poachers. But, if it was poachers, it would be absurd to go down and investigate. So she explains that she thought it might be burglars. Now how does she dress to go and look for burglars? What would you or I have done? I think we would have taken a dressing-gown, a stealthy kind of pair of slippers, and perhaps a poker or a stout stick—not a pair of walking-shoes, a coat, and a cap, of all things!”

                “It was a wet night,” mumbled Parker.

                “My dear chap, if it's burglars you're looking for you don't expect to go and hunt them round the garden. Your first thought is that they're getting into the house, and your idea is to slip down quietly and survey them from the staircase or behind the dining-room door. Anyhow, fancy a present-day girl, who rushes about bareheaded in all weathers, stopping to embellish herself in a cap for a burglar-hunt—damn it all, Charles, it won't wash, you know! And she walks straight off to the conservatory and comes upon the corpse, exactly as if she knew where to look for it beforehand.”

                Parker shook his head again.

                “Well, now. She sees Gerald stooping over Cathcart's body. What does she say? Does she ask what's the matter? Does she ask who it is? She exclaims: 'O God! Gerald, you've killed him,' and then she says, as if on second thoughts, 'Oh, it's Denis! What has happened? Has there been an accident?' Now, does that strike you as natural?”

                “No. But it rather suggests to me that it wasn't Cathcart she expected to see there, but somebody else.”

                “Does it? It rather sounds to me as if she was pretending not to know who it was. First she says, 'You've killed him!' and then, recollecting that she isn't supposed to know who 'he' is, she says, 'Why, it's Denis!'”

                “In any case, then, if her first exclamation was genuine, she didn't expect to find the man dead.”

                “No—no—we must remember that. The death was a surprise. Very well. Then Gerald sends Mary up for help. And here's where a little bit of evidence comes in that you picked up and sent along. Do you remember what Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson said to you in the train?”

                “About the door slamming on the landing, do you mean?”

                “Yes. Now I'll tell you something that happened to me the other morning. I was burstin' out of the bathroom in my usual breezy way when I caught myself a hell of a whack on that old chest on the landin', and the lid lifted up and shut down, plonk! That gave me an idea, and I thought I'd have a squint inside. I'd got the lid up and was lookin' at some sheets and stuff that were folded up at the bottom, when I heard a sort of gasp, and there was Mary, starin' at me, as white as a ghost. She gave me a turn, by Jove, but nothin' like the turn I'd given her. Well, she wouldn't say anything to me, and got hysterical, and I hauled her back to her room. But I'd seen something on those sheets.”

                “What?”

                “Silver sand.”

                “Silver——”

                “D'you remember those cacti in the greenhouse, and the place where somebody'd put a suit-case or something down?”

                “Yes.”

                “Well, there was a lot of silver sand scattered about—the sort people stick round some kinds of bulbs and things.”

                “And that was inside the chest too?”

                “Yes. Wait a moment. After the noise Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson heard, Mary woke up Freddy and then the Pettigrew-Robinsons—and then what?”

                “She locked herself into her room.”

                “Yes. And shortly afterwards she came down and joined the others in the conservatory, and it was at this point everybody remembered noticing that she was wearing a cap and coat and walking-shoes over pajamas  and bare feet.”

                “You are suggesting,” said Parker, “that Lady Mary was already awake and dressed at three o'clock, that she went out by the conservatory door with her suit-case, expecting to meet the—the murderer of her—damn it, Wimsey!”

“We needn't go so far as that,” said Peter; “we decided that she didn't expect to find Cathcart dead.”

                “No. Well, she went, presumably to meet somebody.”

                “Shall we say, pro tem., she went to meet No. 10?” suggested Wimsey softly.

Pro tempore  abbreviated pro tem or p.t., is a Latin phrase which best translates to "for the time being" in English. This phrase is often used to describe a person who acts as a locum tenens (placeholder) in the absence of a superior, such as the President pro tempore of the United States Senate.

                “I suppose we may as well say so. When she turned on the torch and saw the Duke stooping over Cathcart she thought—by Jove, Wimsey, I was right after all! When she said, 'You've killed him!' she meant No. 10—she thought it was No. 10's body.”

                “Of course!” cried Wimsey. “I'm a fool! Yes. Then she said, 'It's Denis—what has happened?' That's quite clear. And, meanwhile, what did she do with the suit-case?”

                “I see it all now,” cried Parker. “When she saw that the body wasn't the body of No. 10 she realized  that No. 10 must be the murderer. So her game was to prevent anybody knowing that No. 10 had been there. So she shoved the suit-case behind the cacti. Then, when she went upstairs, she pulled it out again, and hid it in the oak chest on the landing. She couldn't take it to her room, of course, because if anybody'd heard her come upstairs it would seem odd that she should run to her room before calling the others. Then she knocked up Arbuthnot and the Pettigrew-Robinsons—she'd be in the dark, and they'd be flustered and wouldn't see exactly what she had on. Then she escaped from Mrs. P., ran into her room, took off the skirt in which she had knelt by Cathcart's side, and the rest of her clothes, and put on her pajamas  and the cap, which someone might have noticed, and the coat, which they must have noticed, and the shoes, which had probably left footmarks already. Then she could go down and show herself. Meantime she'd concocted the burglar story for the Coroner's benefit.”

                “That's about it,” said Peter. “I suppose she was so desperately anxious to throw us off the scent of No. 10 that it never occurred to her that her story was going to help implicate her brother.”

                “She realized it at the inquest,” said Parker eagerly. “Don't you remember how hastily she grasped at the suicide theory?”

                “And when she found that she was simply saving her—well, No. 10—in order to hang her brother, she lost her head, took to her bed, and refused to give any evidence at all. Seems to me there's an extra allowance of fools in my family,” said Peter gloomily.

                “Well, what could she have done, poor girl?” asked Parker. He had been growing almost cheerful again. “Anyway, she's cleared——”

                “After a fashion,” said Peter, “but we're not out of the wood yet by a long way. Why is she hand-in-glove with No. 10, who is at least a blackmailer if not a murderer? How did Gerald's revolver come on the scene? And the green-eyed cat? How much did Mary know of that meeting between No. 10 and                Denis Cathcart? And if she was seeing and meeting the man she might have put the revolver into his hands any time.”

                “No, no,” said Parker. “Wimsey, don't think such ugly things as that.”

                “Hell!” cried Peter, exploding. “I'll have the truth of this beastly business if we all go to the gallows together!”

                At this moment Bunter entered with a telegram addressed to Wimsey. Lord Peter read as follows:

                “Party traced London; seen Marylebone Friday. Further information from Scotland Yard.—Police-Superintendent Gosling, Ripley.”

                “Good egg!” cried Wimsey. “Now we're gettin' down to it. Stay here, there's a good man, in case anything turns up. I'll run round to the Yard now. They'll send you up dinner, and tell Bunter to give you a bottle of the Chateau Yquem—it's rather decent. So long.”

Château d'Yquem is a Premier Cru Supérieur (Fr: "Superior First Growth") wine from the Sauternes, Gironde region in the southern part of the Bordeaux vineyards known as Graves. In the Bordeaux Wine Official Classification of 1855, Château d'Yquem was the only Sauternes given this rating, indicating its perceived superiority and higher prices over all other wines of its type. Yquem's success stems largely from the site's susceptibility to attack by "noble rot" (Botrytis cinerea).
Wines from Château d'Yquem are characterised by their complexity, concentration and sweetness. A relatively high acidity helps to balance the wine's sweetness. Another characteristic for which Château d'Yquem wines are known is their longevity.^[1] With proper care, a bottle will keep for a century or more. During this time, the fruity overtones will gradually fade and integrate with more complex secondary and tertiary flavours.
Since 1959 (though not every year), Château d'Yquem has also produced a dry white wine called Ygrec (Fr: the letter "Y"), made from an equal blend of Sémillon and Sauvignon Blanc

                He leapt out of the flat, and a moment later his taxi buzzed away up Piccadilly.

Clouds of Witness ch 6 cont

“So was Thorpe. All mother said was, that if he wasn't too old a bird yet to be taken in by that hoary trick he'd no business to be gettin' himself up as a grey-haired family practitioner. So then she asked the girl about the sick fits—when they happened, and how often, and was it after meals or before, and so on, and at last she got out of them that it generally happened a bit after breakfast, and occasionally at other  times. Mother said she couldn't make it out at first, because she'd hunted all over the room for bottles and things, till at last she asked who made the bed, thinkin', you see, Mary might have hidden something under the mattress. So Ellen said she usually made it while Mary had her bath. 'When's that?' says mother. 'Just before her breakfast,' bleats the girl. 'God forgive you all for a set of nincompoops,' says my mother. 'Why didn't you say so before?' So away they all trailed to the bathroom, and there, sittin' up quietly on the bathroom shelf among the bath salts and the Elliman's embrocation and the Kruschen feelings and the toothbrushes and things, was the family bottle of ipecacuanha—three-quarters empty! Mother said—well, I told you what she said. By the way, how do you spell ipecacuanha?”

                Mr. Parker spelt it.

                “Damn you!” said Lord Peter. “I did think I'd stumped you that time. I believe you went and looked it up beforehand. No decent-minded person would know how to spell ipecacuanha out of his own head. Anyway, as you were saying, it's easy to see which side of the family has the detective instinct.”

                “I didn't say so——”

                “I know. Why didn't you? I think my mother's talents deserve a little acknowledgment. I said so to her, as a matter of fact, and she replied in these memorable words: 'My dear child, you can give it a long name if you like, but I'm an old-fashioned woman and I call it mother-wit, and it's so rare for a man to have it that if he does you write a book about him and call him Sherlock Holmes.' However, apart from all that, I said to mother (in private, of course), 'It's all very well, but I can't believe that Mary has been going to all this trouble to make herself horribly sick and frighten us all just to show off. Surely she isn't that sort.' Mother looked at me as steady as an owl, and quoted a whole lot of examples of hysteria, ending up with the servant-girl who threw paraffin about all over somebody's house to make them think it was haunted, and finished up—that if all these new-fangled doctors went out of their way to invent subconsciousness and kleptomania, and complexes and other fancy descriptions to explain away when people had done naughty things, she thought one might just as well take advantage of the fact.”

                “Wimsey,” said Parker, much excited, “did she mean she suspected something?”

                “My dear old chap,” replied Lord Peter, “whatever can be known about Mary by putting two and two together my mother knows. I told her all we knew up to that point, and she took it all in, in her funny way, you know, never answering anything directly, and then she put her head on one side and said: 'If Mary had listened to me, and done something useful instead of that V.A.D. work, which never came to much, if you ask me—not that I have anything against V.A.D.'s in a general way, but that silly woman Mary worked under was the most terrible snob on God's earth—and there were very much more sensible things which Mary might really have done well, only that she was so crazy to get to London—I shall always say it was the fault of that ridiculous club—what could you expect of a place where you ate such horrible food, all packed into an underground cellar painted pink and talking away at the tops of their voices, and never any evening dress—only Soviet jumpers and side-whiskers. Anyhow, I've told that silly old man what to say about it, and they'll never be able to think of a better explanation for themselves.' Indeed, you know,” said Peter, “I think if any of them start getting inquisitive, they'll have mother down on them like a ton of bricks.”

The Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD) was a voluntary organisation providing field nursing services, mainly in hospitals, in the United Kingdom and various other countries in the British Empire. The organisation's most important periods of operation were during World War I and World War II.

The organisation was founded in 1909 with the help of the Red Cross and Order of St. John. By the summer of 1914 there were over 2,500 Voluntary Aid Detachments in Britain. Each individual volunteer was called a detachment, or simply a VAD. Of the 74,000 VADs in 1914, two-thirds were women and girls.

At the outbreak of the First World War VADs eagerly offered their service to the war effort. The British Red Cross was reluctant allowing civilian women a role in overseas hospitals: most VADs were of the middle and upper classes and unaccustomed to hardship and traditional hospital discipline. Military authorities would not accept VADs at the front line.

Katharine Furse took two VADs to France in October 1914, restricting them to serve as canteen workers and cooks. Caught under fire in a sudden battle the VADs were pressed into emergency hospital service and acquitted themselves well. The growing shortage of trained nurses opened the door for VADs in overseas military hospitals. Furse was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the VAD and restrictions were removed. Female volunteers over the age of twenty-three and with more than three months' hospital experience were accepted for overseas service.

VADs were an uneasy addition to military hospitals' rank and order. They lacked the advanced skill and discipline of professional trained nurses and were often critical of the nursing profession. Relations improved as the war stretched on: VADs increased their skill and efficiency and trained nurses were more accepting of the VADs' contributions. During four years of war 38,000 VADs worked in hospitals and served as ambulance drivers and cooks. VADs served near the Western Front and in Mesopotamia and Gallipoli. VAD hospitals were also opened in most large towns in Britain.[2] Later, VADs were also sent to the Eastern Front. They provided an invaluable source of bedside aid in the war effort. Many were decorated for distinguished service.     

“What do you really think yourself?” asked Parker.

The fictional view of Scotland Yard

From BBC News:  The fictional view of Scotland Yard

London's Metropolitan Police is planning to sell off its headquarters, New Scotland Yard. It's a name that is embedded in popular fiction, writes crime novelist Andrew Taylor.

Around the world, the words Scotland Yard mean something. Like Wall Street and Westminster, the name summons up a host of associations. It exists in fiction, on the page and on the screen, as much as in fact.
Scotland Yard is the name of the headquarters of London's Metropolitan Police, founded in 1829, one of the oldest modern police forces in the world and arguably the best known. The name comes from the location of the original HQ, with a public entrance in a street called Great Scotland Yard.

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Of the Yard

• Slipper of the Yard: Met Police detective Jack Slipper, pictured, nemesis of Ronald Biggs, one of the perpetrators of the Great Train Robbery
• Fabian of the Yard: 1950s BBC police procedural TV series based on memoirs of Scotland Yard detective Robert Fabian
• Inspector Flying Fox of the Yard: Monty Python character

Within a few decades the name Scotland Yard was almost synonymous with the police force itself. The name migrated with the force to its new and much larger headquarters, New Scotland Yard, first on the Victoria Embankment and, in 1967, in Victoria.

In the mind of the public, however, Scotland Yard became associated with a special sort of police officer - the detective, the professional expert called to investigate crime, especially murder, the greatest crime of all. The Metropolitan Police set up a detective force as early as 1842. London needed it badly - the Victorian city was a hotbed of crime and vice.
Almost immediately, Scotland Yard's detective branch caught the public's imagination. The work of real-life officers such as Inspector Whicher was publicised by contemporary writers. Soon police detectives were appearing in fiction, among them Inspector Bucket in Dickens' Bleak House (1853) and the rose-growing Sergeant Cuff in Wilkie Collins' The Moonstone (1868).
The activities of Inspector Whicher and his colleagues weren't confined to London. Other police forces around the country increasingly summoned detectives from "the Yard" to deal with crimes that baffled their own less experienced officers. Once again, fiction followed fact.

Continue reading the main story

About the author

• Andrew Taylor is a crime fiction writer and author of the forthcoming The Scent of Death
• He has won the Crime Writers Association's Diamond Dagger and is the Spectator's crime fiction reviewer

At first, fictional detectives of the Yard were portrayed as almost superhuman figures, drawing on mysterious powers and capable of solving the most complicated cases. But something happened to change this in 1887.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle published A Study In Scarlet, the first of his Sherlock Holmes stories. One result was that the Yard's reputation in popular culture was no longer quite so flattering.
The Scotland Yard officers in Sherlock Holmes stories are almost always shown as well-meaning but unimaginative - and even rather stupid. They have to be, because otherwise Sherlock Holmes would be out of a job.

Rupert Graves as Inspector Lestrade in the BBC's latest incarnation of Sherlock

As a result, the unfortunate Inspector Lestrade is probably fiction's best-known Scotland Yard detective.
Lestrade has nothing to recommend him but his tenacity. He even looks unappealing - Conan Doyle variously describes him as "a little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow" and "a lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking". He appears in 13 of the stories and regularly features in film, TV and radio adaptations. In a sense, Holmes needs Lestrade as much as Lestrade needs Holmes.
By this time, the public had realised that in real-life Scotland Yard wasn't quite as clever as they had thought - a point rammed home when the still-unsolved Jack the Ripper murders started in 1888.
So, in fictional terms at least, glamorous amateur and private investigators seemed much more attractive than the clearly flawed Scotland Yard detectives of real life.

The original Scotland Yard, pictured left

Scotland Yard's popular reputation also had a tough time after World War I in both novels and films.
In Britain, fiction's detectives tended to be upper-class amateurs like Dorothy L Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey or superior private investigators such as Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot.
Lord Peter bosses about the Scotland Yard detectives he encounters (even Inspector Parker, who becomes his brother-in-law), while Poirot patronises the slightly comical Inspector Japp. In the TV series, Agatha Christie's Poirot, Japp's role (wonderfully played by Philip Jackson) is much more significant than in the original books and becomes a foil to David Suchet's Poirot.

The Met then moved to New Scotland Yard...

After World War II, however, Scotland Yard and its detectives tended to be portrayed a little more realistically.
In a less snobbish era, the professionalism of Scotland Yard has earned more respect. Gideon of the Yard, for example, created by the prolific John Creasey, was a long-running series that made the transition to both film and television.
The BBC's Fabian of the Yard (1954-56) was a series based on the career of the real-life Detective Inspector Robert Fabian, focusing on forensic science. PD James's series hero, Commander Adam Dalgliesh, is another positively portrayed fictional Scotland Yard detective who made the move from page to screen.

... and then into an even newer New Scotland Yard in 1967

Not that Scotland Yard hasn't attracted its share of mockery too - an abiding image for many people remains the Not the Nine O'Clock News sketch in which the commissioner is shown hard at work, laboriously turning the iconic rotating sign of the headquarters building.
Will Scotland Yard still mean something in popular culture if its headquarters is sold?
Of course it will. The Metropolitan Police will find a new home and take its old name with it, just as it did before.
Scotland Yard is more than a place. The name will endure as long as London needs police detectives, whether in fact or fiction.

 

Clouds of Witness Ch 6 continued

Over his tea Mr. Parker drew out the photographs of Lady Mary and Denis Cathcart from his breast pocket. He stood them up against the teapot and stared at them, looking from one to the other as if trying to force a meaning from their faintly smirking, self-conscious gaze. He referred again to his Paris notes, ticking off various points with a pencil. “Damn!” said Mr. Parker, gazing at Lady Mary. “Damn—damn—damn——”

                The train of thought he was pursuing was an extraordinarily interesting one. Image after image, each rich in suggestion, crowded into his mind. Of course, one couldn't think properly in Paris—it was so uncomfortable and the houses were central heated.

Some buildings in the Roman Empire used central heating systems, conducting air heated by furnaces through empty spaces under the floors and out of pipes in the walls—a system known as a hypocaust.  A similar system of central heating was used in ancient Korea, where it is known as ondol. It is thought that the ondol system dates back to the Koguryo or Three Kingdoms (37 BC-AD 668) period when excess heat from stoves were used to warm homes.

In the early medieval Alpine upland, a simpler central heating system where heat travelled through underfloor channels from the furnace room replaced the Roman hypocaust at some places. In Reichenau Abbey a network of interconnected underfloor channels heated the 300 m² large assembly room of the monks during the winter months. The degree of efficiency of the system has been calculated at 90%.

In the 13th century, the Cistercian monks revived central heating in Christian Europe using river diversions combined with indoor wood-fired furnaces. The well-preserved Royal Monastery of Our Lady of the Wheel (founded 1202) on the Ebro River in the Aragon region of Spain provides an excellent example of such an application.

The Roman hypocaust continued to be used on a smaller scale during late Antiquity and by the Umayyad caliphate, while later Muslim builder employed a simpler system of underfloor pipes.

By about 1700 Russian engineers had started designing hydrologically based systems for central heating. The Summer Palace (1710–1714) of Peter the Great in Saint Petersburg provides the best extant example. Slightly later, in 1716, came the first use of water in Sweden to distribute heat in buildings. Martin Triewald, a Swedish engineer, used this method for a greenhouse at Newcastle upon Tyne. Jean Simon Bonnemain (1743–1830), a French architect, introduced the technique to industry on a cooperative, at Château du Pêcq, near Paris.

Angier March Perkins developed and installed some of the earliest steam-heating systems in the 1830s. The first was installed in the home of Governor of the Bank of England John Horley Palmer so that he could grow grapes in England's cold climate.

Franz San Galli, a Polish-born Russian businessman living in St. Petersburg, invented the radiator between 1855–1857, which was a major step in the final shaping of modern central heating.

                Here, where so many problems had been unravelled, there was a good fire. Cathcart had been sitting before the fire. Of course, he wanted to think out a problem. When cats sat staring into the fire they were thinking out problems. It was odd he should not have thought of that before. When the green-eyed cat sat before the fire one sank right down into a sort of rich, black, velvety suggestiveness which was most important. It was luxurious to be able to think so lucidly as this, because otherwise it would be a pity to exceed the speed limit—and the black moors were reeling by so fast. But now he had really got the formula he wouldn't forget it again. The connection was just there—close, thick, richly coherent.

                “The glass-blower's cat is bompstable,” said Mr. Parker aloud and distinctly.

Bompstable is not an actual word…Parker was dreaming and said the first thing that came into his head.

                “I'm charmed to hear it,” replied Lord Peter, with a friendly grin. “Had a good nap, old man?”

                “I—what?” said Mr. Parker. “Hullo! Watcher mean, nap? I had got hold of the most important train of thought, and you've put it out of my head. What was it? Cat—cat—cat——” He groped wildly.

“You said 'The glass-blower's cat is bompstable,'” retorted Lord Peter. “It's a perfectly rippin' word, but I don't know what you mean by it.”

“Bompstable?” said Mr. Parker, blushing slightly. “Bomp—oh, well, perhaps you're right—I may have dozed off. But, you know, I thought I'd just got the clue to the whole thing. I attached the greatest importance to that phrase. Even now—No, now I come to think of it, my train of thought doesn't seem quite to hold together. What a pity. I thought it was so lucid.”

                “Never mind,” said Lord Peter. “Just back?”

                “Crossed last night. Any news?”

Parker crossed the English Channel from France to England.

                “Lots.”

                “Good?”

                “No.”

                Parker's eyes wandered to the photographs.

                “I don't believe it,” he said obstinately. “I'm damned if I'm going to believe a word of it.”

                “A word of what?”

                “Of whatever it is.”

                “You'll have to believe it, Charles, as far as it goes,” said his friend softly, filling his pipe with decided little digs of the fingers. “I don't say”—dig—“that Mary”—dig—“shot Cathcart”—dig, dig—“but she has lied”—dig—“again and again.”—Dig, dig—“She knows who did it”—dig—“she was prepared for it”—dig—“she's malingering and lying to keep the fellow shielded”—dig—“and we shall have to make her speak.” Here he struck a match and lit the pipe in a series of angry little puffs.

                “If you can think,” said Mr. Parker, with some heat, “that that woman”—he indicated the photographs—“had any hand in murdering Cathcart, I don't care what your evidence is, you—hang it all, Wimsey, she's your own sister.”

                “Gerald is my brother,” said Wimsey quietly. “You don't suppose I'm exactly enjoying this business, do you? But I think we shall get along very much better if we try to keep our tempers.”

                “I'm awfully sorry,” said Parker. “Can't think why I said that—rotten bad form—beg pardon, old man.”

                “The best thing we can do,” said Wimsey, “is to look the evidence in the face, however ugly. And I don't mind admittin' that some of it's a positive gargoyle.

                “My mother turned up at Riddlesdale on Friday. She marched upstairs at once and took possession of Mary, while I drooped about in the hall and teased the cat, and generally made a nuisance of myself. You know. Presently old Dr. Thorpe called. I went and sat on the chest on the landing. Presently the bell rings and Ellen comes upstairs. Mother and Thorpe popped out and caught her just outside Mary's room, and they jibber-jabbered a lot, and presently mother came barging down the passage to the bathroom with her heels tapping and her earrings simply dancing with irritation. I sneaked after 'em to the bathroom door, but I couldn't see anything, because they were blocking the doorway, but I heard mother say, 'There, now, what did I tell you'; and Ellen said, 'Lawks! your grace, who'd 'a' thought it?'; and my mother said, 'All I can say is, if I had to depend on you people to save me from being murdered with arsenic or that other stuff with the name like anemones—you know what I mean—that that very attractive-looking man with the preposterous beard used to make away with his wife and mother-in-law (who was vastly the more attractive of the two, poor thing), I might be being cut up and analysed by Dr. Spilsbury now—such a horrid, distasteful job he must have of it, poor man, and the poor little rabbits, too.'” Wimsey paused for breath, and Parker laughed in spite of his anxiety.

                “I won't vouch for the exact words,” said Wimsey, “but it was to that effect—you know my mother's style. Old Thorpe tried to look dignified, but mother ruffled up like a little hen and said, looking beadily at him: 'In my day we called that kind of thing hysterics and naughtiness. We didn't let girls pull the wool over our eyes like that. I suppose you call it a neurosis, or a suppressed desire, or a reflex, and coddle it. You might have let that silly child make herself really ill. You are all perfectly ridiculous, and no more fit to take care of yourselves than a lot of babies!—not but what there are plenty of poor little things in the slums that look after whole families and show more sense than the lot of you put together. I am very angry with Mary, advertising herself in this way, and she's not to be pitied.' You know,” said Wimsey, “I think there's often a great deal in what one's mother says.”

                “I believe you,” said Parker.

                “Well, I got hold of mother afterwards and asked her what it was all about. She said Mary wouldn't tell her anything about herself or her illness; just asked to be let alone. Then Thorpe came along and talked about nervous shock—said he couldn't understand these fits of sickness, or the way Mary's temperature hopped about. Mother listened, and told him to go and see what the temperature was now. Which he did, and in the middle mother called him away to the dressing-table. But, bein' a wily old bird, you see, she kept her eyes on the looking-glass, and nipped round just in time to catch Mary stimulatin' the thermometer to terrific leaps on the hot-water bottle.”

                “Well, I'm damned!” said Parker.

Ken Gruebel: Mystery novels from England and Canada

From Sun Journal:  Ken Gruebel: Mystery novels from England and Canada

Something old and something new this morning. This stems from the reprinting of the Lord Peter Wimsey series by Harper Collins in soft cover. This novel was first copyright in 1932 when I was in the first grade reading the adventures of Dick, Jane and Sally.
The full title to this Lord Peter Wimsey story adds “with Harriet Vane.” It may be Wimsey that solves most of the mystery but it is Harriet Vane, a mystery writer in her own right, who discovers the body and sounds the alarm. The story is written in the first person by Harriet. The setting is the beautiful but rugged coast of England, peopled with farmers, barbers and, of course, policemen.
When Harriet finds a body on a rock at the water’s edge she tries to “assist the police in their enquiries,” as the saying goes. It is only with the arrival of Wimsey that the case outlines begin to clear and the actions of the many suspects can be grouped into possible or impossible capabilities and time lines.
A good read but of course rather dated. When have you last heard someone talk about getting “a new frock for the afternoon tea dance,” or a woman who wore a hat that “was absolutely disappointing.” Dorothy Sayers is full of these rather dated remarks. But a good read, non-the-less. Guessing the culprit becomes very difficult. I was way off the mark. I guess that’s one reason I’m not a detective.