Clouds of Witness

Lord Peter Wimsey stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets provided by the Hôtel Meurice. After his exertions in the unraveling of the Battersea Mystery, he had followed Sir Julian Freke’s advice and taken a holiday. He had felt suddenly weary of breakfasting every morning before his view over the Green Park; he had realized that the picking up of first editions at sales afforded insufficient exercise for a man of thirty-three; the very crimes of London were over-sophisticated. He had abandoned his flat and his friends and fled to the wilds of Corsica. For the last three months he had forsworn letters, newspapers, and telegrams. He had tramped about the mountains, admiring from a cautious distance the wild beauty of Corsican peasant-women, and studying the vendetta in its natural haunt. In such conditions murder seemed not only reasonable, but lovable. Bunter, his confidential man and assistant sleuth, had nobly sacrificed his civilized habits, had let his master go dirty and even unshaven, and had turned his faithful camera from the recording of fingerprints to that of craggy scenery. It had been very refreshing.

Now, however, the call of the blood was upon Lord Peter. They had returned late last night in a vile train to Paris, and had picked up their luggage. The autumn light, filtering through the curtains, touched caressingly the silver-topped bottles on the dressing-table, outlined an electric lampshade and the shape of the telephone. A noise of running water near by proclaimed that Bunter had turned on the bath (h. & c.) and was laying out scented soap, bath-salts, the huge

In the frightful silence which followed this remark, the sound of a walking-stick being clattered into an umbrella-stand was distinctly audible.

“Who’s that, I wonder,” said the Duchess.

The door waltzed open.

“Mornin’, dear old things,” said the newcomer cheerfully. “How are you all? Hullo, Helen! Colonel, you owe me half a crown since last September year. Mornin’, Mrs. Marchbanks, Mornin’, Mrs. P. Well, Mr. Murbles, how d’you like this bili-beastly weather? Don’t trouble to get up, Freddy; I’d simply hate to inconvenience you. Parker, old man, what a damned reliable old bird you are! Always on the spot, like that patent ointment thing. I say, have you all finished? I meant to get up earlier, but I was snorin’ so Bunter hadn’t the heart to wake me. I nearly blew in last night, only we didn’t arrive till 2 a.m. and I thought you wouldn’t half bless me if I did. Eh, what, Colonel? Airplane Victoria from Paris to London⁠—Northeastern to Northallerton⁠—damn bad roads the rest of the way, and a puncture just below Riddlesdale. Damn bad bed at the Lord in Glory; thought I’d blow in for the last sausage here, if I was lucky. What? Sunday morning in an English family and no sausages? God bless my soul, what’s the world coming to, eh, Colonel? I say, Helen, old Gerald’s been an’ gone an’ done it this time, what? You’ve no business to leave him on his own, you know; he always gets into mischief. What’s that? Curry? Thanks, old man. Here, I say, you needn’t be so stingy about it; I’ve been traveling for three days on end. Freddy, pass the toast. Beg pardon, Mrs. Marchbanks? Oh, rather, yes; Corsica was perfectly amazin’⁠—all black-eyed fellows with knives in their belts and jolly fine-looking girls. Old Bunter had a regular affair with the innkeeper’s daughter in one place.

As Lord Peter approached the door of the farm his spirits rose. He enjoyed paying this kind of visit. Although he had taken to detecting as he might, with another conscience or constitution, have taken to Indian hemp⁠—for its exhilarating properties⁠—at a moment when life seemed dust and ashes, he had not primarily the detective temperament. He expected next to nothing from inquiries at Grider’s Hole, and, if he had, he might probably have extracted all the information he wanted by a judicious display of Treasury notes to the glum man at the gate. Parker would in all likelihood have done so; he was paid to detect and to do nothing else, and neither his natural gifts nor his education (at Barrow-in-Furness Grammar School) prompted him to stray into sidetracks at the beck of an ill-regulated imagination. But to Lord Peter the world presented itself as an entertaining labyrinth of side-issues. He was a respectable scholar in five or six languages, a musician of some skill and more understanding, something of an expert in toxicology, a collector of rare editions, an entertaining man-about-town, and a common sensationalist. He had been seen at half-past twelve on a Sunday morning walking in Hyde Park in a top-hat and frock-coat, reading the News of the World. His passion for the unexplored led him to hunt up obscure pamphlets in the British Museum, to unravel the emotional history of income-tax collectors, and to find out where his own drains led to.

His first thought was that Wimsey must have left his latchkey behind, and he was preparing a facetious greeting when the door opened⁠—exactly as in the beginning of a Sherlock Holmes story⁠—to admit a tall and beautiful young woman, in an extreme state of nervous agitation, with a halo of golden hair, violet-blue eyes, and disordered apparel all complete; for as she threw back her heavy traveling-coat he observed that she wore evening dress, with light green silk stockings and heavy brogue shoes thickly covered with mud.

“His lordship has not yet returned, my lady,” said Mr. Bunter, “but Mr. Parker is here waiting for him, and we are expecting him at any minute now. Will your ladyship take anything?”

“No, no,” said the vision hastily, “nothing, thanks. I’ll wait. Good evening, Mr. Parker. Where’s Peter?”

“He has been called out, Lady Mary,” said Parker. “I can’t think why he isn’t back yet. Do sit down.”

“Where did he go?”

“To Scotland Yard⁠—but that was about six o’clock. I can’t imagine⁠—”

Lady Mary made a gesture of despair.

“I knew it. Oh, Mr. Parker, what am I to do?”

Mr. Parker was speechless.

“I must see Peter,” cried Lady Mary. “It’s a matter of life and death. Can’t you send for him?”

“But I don’t know where he is,” said Parker. “Please, Lady Mary⁠—”

“He’s doing something dreadful⁠—he’s all wrong,” cried the young woman, wringing her hands with desperate vehemence. “I must see him⁠—tell him⁠—Oh! did anybody ever get into such dreadful trouble! I⁠—oh!⁠—”

Here the lady laughed loudly and burst into tears.

“Lady Mary⁠—I beg you⁠—please don’t,” cried Mr. Parker anxiously, with a strong feeling that he was being incompetent and rather ridiculous. “Please sit down.

How long that nightmare lasted neither could have said. The world might have died about them. Their own shouts terrified them; when they stopped shouting the dead silence was more terrifying still. They stumbled over tufts of thick heather. It was amazing how, deprived of sight, they exaggerated the inequalities of the ground. It was with very little confidence that they could distinguish uphill from downhill. They were shrammed through with cold, yet the sweat was running from their faces with strain and terror.

Suddenly⁠—from directly before them as it seemed, and only a few yards away⁠—there rose a long, horrible shriek⁠—and another⁠—and another.

“My God! What’s that?”

“It’s a horse, my lord.”

“Of course.” They remembered having heard horses scream like that. There had been a burning stable near Poperinghe⁠—

“Poor devil,” said Peter. He started off impulsively in the direction of the sound, dropping Bunter’s hand.

“Come back, my lord,” cried the man in a sudden agony. And then, with a frightened burst of enlightenment:

“For God’s sake stop, my lord⁠—the bog!”

A sharp shout in the utter blackness.

“Keep away there⁠—don’t move⁠—it’s got me!”

And a dreadful sucking noise.