NOTHING ABIDES AT THE NOON
_"Alas!" said Hiya, "the sentiments which this person expressed
with irreproachable honorableness, when the sun was high in the
heavens and the probability of secretly leaving an undoubtedly
well-appointed home was engagingly remote, seem to have an
entirely different significance when recalled by night in a damp
orchard, and on the eve of their fulfillment."_
THE WALLET OF KAI-LUNG
_And his short minute, after noon, is night._
DONNE
Mr. Goyles was interviewed the next day at the police-station. Mr.
Murbles was present, and Mary insisted on coming. The young man began
by blustering a little, but the solicitor's dry manner made its
impression.
"Lord Peter Wimsey identifies you," said Mr. Murbles, "as the man
who made a murderous attack upon him last night. With remarkable
generosity, he has forborne to press the charge. Now we know further
that you were present at Riddlesdale Lodge on the night when Captain
Cathcart was shot. You will no doubt be called as a witness in the
case. But you would greatly assist justice by making a statement to
us now. This is a purely friendly and private interview, Mr. Goyles.
As you see, no representative of the police is present. We simply ask
for your help. I ought, however, to warn you that, whereas it is,
of course, fully competent for you to refuse to answer any of our
questions, a refusal might lay you open to the gravest imputations."
"In fact," said Goyles, "it's a threat. If I don't tell you, you'll
have me arrested on suspicion of murder."
"Dear me, no, Mr. Goyles," returned the solicitor. "We should merely
place what information we hold in the hands of the police, who would
then act as they thought fit. God bless my soul, no--anything like a
threat would be highly irregular. In the matter of the assault upon
Lord Peter, his lordship will, of course, use his own discretion."
"Well," said Goyles sullenly, "it's a threat, call it what you like.
However, I don't mind speaking--especially as you'll be jolly well
disappointed. I suppose you gave me away, Mary."
Mary flushed indignantly.
"My sister has been extraordinarily loyal to you, Mr. Goyles," said
Lord Peter. "I may tell you, indeed, that she put herself into a
position of grave personal inconvenience--not to say danger--on your
behalf. You were traced to London in consequence of your having left
unequivocal traces in your exceedingly hasty retreat. When my sister
accidentally opened a telegram addressed to me at Riddlesdale by my
family name she hurried immediately to town, to shield you if she
could, at any cost to herself. Fortunately I had already received
a duplicate wire at my flat. Even then I was not certain of your
identity when I accidentally ran across you at the Soviet Club. Your
own energetic efforts, however, to avoid an interview gave me complete
certainty, together with an excellent excuse for detaining you. In
fact, I'm uncommonly obliged to you for your assistance."
Mr. Goyles looked resentful.
"I don't know how you could think, George--" said Mary.
"Never mind what I think," said the young man, roughly. "I gather
you've told 'em all about it now, anyhow. Well, I'll tell you my story
as shortly as I can, and you'll see I know damn all about it. If you
don't believe me I can't help it. I came along at about a quarter to
three, and parked the 'bus in the lane."
"Where were you at 11:50?"
"On the road from Northallerton. My meeting didn't finish till 10:45. I
can bring a hundred witnesses to prove it."
Wimsey made a note of the address where the meeting had been held, and
nodded to Goyles to proceed.
"I climbed over the wall and walked through the shrubbery."
"You saw no person, and no body?"
"Nobody, alive or dead."
"Did you notice any blood or footprints on the path?"
"No. I didn't like to use my torch, for fear of being seen from the
house. There was just light enough to see the path. I came to the door
of the conservatory just before three. As I came up I stumbled over
something. I felt it, and it was like a body. I was alarmed. I thought
it might be Mary--ill or fainted or something. I ventured to turn on my
light. Then I saw it was Cathcart, dead."
"You are sure he was dead?"
"Stone dead."
"One moment," interposed the solicitor. "You say you saw that it was
Cathcart. Had you known Cathcart previously?"
"No, never. I meant that I saw it was a dead man, and learnt afterwards
that it was Cathcart."
"In fact, you do not, now, know of your own knowledge, that it was
Cathcart?"
"Yes--at least, I recognized the photographs in the papers afterwards."
"It is very necessary to be accurate in making a statement, Mr. Goyles.
A remark such as you made just now might give a most unfortunate
impression to the police or to a jury."
So saying, Mr. Murbles blew his nose, and resettled his pince-nez.
"What next?" inquired Peter.
"I fancied I heard somebody coming up the path. I did not think it wise
to be found there with the corpse, so I cleared out."
"Oh," said Peter, with an indescribable expression, "that was a very
simple solution. You left the girl you were going to marry to make for
herself the unpleasant discovery that there was a dead man in the
garden and that her gallant wooer had made tracks. What did you expect
_her_ to think?"
"Well, I thought she'd keep quiet for her own sake. As a matter of
fact, I didn't think very clearly about anything. I knew I'd broken in
where I had no business, and that if I was found with a murdered man it
might look jolly queer for me."
"In fact," said Mr. Murbles, "you lost your head, young man, and ran
away in a very foolish and cowardly manner."
"You needn't put it that way," retorted Mr. Goyles. "I was in a very
awkward and stupid situation to start with."
"Yes," said Lord Peter ironically, "and 3 a.m. is a nasty, chilly
time of day. Next time you arrange an elopement, make it for six
o'clock in the evening, or twelve o'clock at night. You seem better
at framing conspiracies than carrying them out. A little thing upsets
your nerves, Mr. Goyles. I don't really think, you know, that a person
of your temperament should carry fire-arms. What in the world, you
blitherin' young ass, made you loose off that pop-gun at me last
night? You _would_ have been in a damned awkward situation then, if
you'd accidentally hit me in the head or the heart or anywhere that
mattered. If you're so frightened of a dead body, why go about shootin'
at people? Why, why, why? That's what beats me. If you're tellin' the
truth now, you never stood in the slightest danger. Lord! and to think
of the time and trouble we've had to waste catchin' you--you ass! And
poor old Mary, workin' away and half killin' herself, because she
thought at least you wouldn't have run away unless there was somethin'
to run from!"
"You must make allowance for a nervous temperament," said Mary in a
hard voice.
"If you knew what it felt like to be shadowed and followed and
badgered--" began Mr. Goyles.
"But I thought you Soviet Club people enjoyed being suspected of
things," said Lord Peter. "Why, it ought to be the proudest moment of
your life when you're really looked on as a dangerous fellow."
"It's the sneering of men like you," said Goyles passionately, "that
does more to breed hatred between class and class--"
"Never mind about that," interposed Mr. Murbles. "The law's the
law for everybody, and you have managed to put yourself in a very
awkward position, young man." He touched a bell on the table, and
Parker entered with a constable. "We shall be obliged to you," said
Mr. Murbles, "if you will kindly have this young man kept under
observation. We make no charge against him so long as he behaves
himself, but he must not attempt to abscond before the Riddlesdale case
comes up for trial."
"Certainly not, sir," said Mr. Parker.
"One moment," said Mary. "Mr. Goyles, here is the ring you gave me.
Good-bye. When next you make a public speech calling for decisive
action I will come and applaud it. You speak so well about that sort of
thing. But otherwise, I think we had better not meet again."
"Of course," said the young man bitterly, "your people have forced me
into this position, and you turn round and sneer at me too."
"I didn't mind thinking you were a murderer," said Lady Mary
spitefully, "but I _do_ mind your being such an ass."
Before Mr. Goyles could reply, Mr. Parker, bewildered but not wholly
displeased, maneuvered his charge out of the room. Mary walked over to
the window, and stood biting her lips.
Presently Lord Peter came across to her. "I say, Polly, old Murbles
has asked us to lunch. Would you like to come? Sir Impey Biggs will be
there."
"I don't want to meet him today. It's very kind of Mr. Murbles--"
"Oh, come along, old thing. Biggs is some celebrity, you know, and
perfectly toppin' to look at, in a marbly kind of way. He'll tell you
all about his canaries--"
Mary giggled through her obstinate tears.
"It's perfectly sweet of you, Peter, to try and amuse the baby. But I
can't. I'd make a fool of myself. I've been made enough of a fool of
for one day."
"Bosh," said Peter. "Of course, Goyles didn't show up very well this
morning, but, then, he was in an awfully difficult position. _Do_ come."
"I hope Lady Mary consents to adorn my bachelor establishment," said
the solicitor, coming up. "I shall esteem it a very great honor. I
really do not think I have entertained a lady in my chambers for twenty
years--dear me, twenty years indeed it must be."
"In that case," said Lady Mary, "I simply _can't_ refuse."
Mr. Murbles inhabited a delightful old set of rooms in Staple Inn,
with windows looking out upon the formal garden, with its odd little
flower-beds and tinkling fountain. The chambers kept up to a miracle
the old-fashioned law atmosphere which hung about his own prim person.
His dining-room was furnished in mahogany, with a Turkey carpet and
crimson curtains. On his sideboard stood some pieces of handsome
Sheffield plate and a number of decanters with engraved silver labels
round their necks. There was a bookcase full of large volumes bound
in law calf, and an oil-painting of a harsh-featured judge over the
mantelpiece. Lady Mary felt a sudden gratitude for this discreet and
solid Victorianism.
"I fear we may have to wait a few moments for Sir Impey," said Mr.
Murbles, consulting his watch. "He is engaged in Quangle & Hamper v.
_Truth_, but they expect to be through this morning--in fact, Sir Impey
fancied that midday would see the end of it. Brilliant man, Sir Impey.
He is defending _Truth_."
"Astonishin' position for a lawyer, what?" said Peter.
"The newspaper," said Mr. Murbles, acknowledging the pleasantry with
a slight unbending of the lips, "against these people who profess to
cure fifty-nine different diseases with the same pill. Quangle & Hamper
produced some of their patients in court to testify to the benefits
they'd enjoyed from the cure. To hear Sir Impey handling them was an
intellectual treat. His kindly manner goes a long way with old ladies.
When he suggested that one of them should show her leg to the Bench the
sensation in court was really phenomenal."
"And did she show it?" inquired Lord Peter.
"Panting for the opportunity, my dear Lord Peter, panting for the
opportunity."
"I wonder they had the nerve to call her."
"Nerve?" said Mr. Murbles. "The nerve of men like Quangle & Hamper has
not its fellow in the universe, to adopt the expression of the great
Shakespeare. But Sir Impey is not the man to take liberties with. We
are really extremely fortunate to have secured his help.--Ah, I think I
hear him!"
A hurried footstep on the stair indeed announced learned counsel, who
burst in, still in wig and gown, and full of apology.
"Extremely sorry, Murbles," said Sir Impey. "We became excessively
tedious at the end, I regret to say. I really did my best, but dear old
Dowson is getting as deaf as a post, you know, and terribly fumbling in
his movements.--And how are you, Wimsey? You look as if you'd been in
the wars. Can we bring an action for assault against anybody?"
"Much better than that," put in Mr. Murbles; "attempted murder, if you
please."
"Excellent, excellent," said Sir Impey.
"Ah, but we've decided not to prosecute," said Mr. Murbles, shaking his
head.
"Really! Oh, my dear Wimsey, this will never do. Lawyers have to
live, you know. Your sister? I hadn't the pleasure of meeting you at
Riddlesdale, Lady Mary. I trust you are fully recovered."
"Entirely, thank you," said Mary with emphasis.
"Mr. Parker--of course your name is very familiar. Wimsey, here, can't
do a thing without you, I know. Murbles, are these gentlemen full of
valuable information? I am immensely interested in this case."
"Not just this moment, though," put in the solicitor.
"Indeed, no. Nothing but that excellent saddle of mutton has the
slightest attraction for me just now. Forgive my greed."
"Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, beaming mildly, "let's make a start.
I fear, my dear young people, I am old-fashioned enough not to have
adopted the modern practice of cocktail-drinking."
"Quite right too," said Wimsey emphatically. "Ruins the palate and
spoils the digestion. Not an English custom--rank sacrilege in this
old Inn. Came from America--result, prohibition. That's what happens
to people who don't understand how to drink. God bless me, sir, why,
you're giving us the famous claret. It's a sin so much as to mention a
cocktail in its presence."
"Yes," said Mr. Murbles, "yes, that's the Lafite '75. It's very seldom,
very seldom, I bring it out for anybody under fifty years of age--but
you, Lord Peter, have a discrimination which would do honor to one of
twice your years."
"Thanks very much, sir; that's a testimonial I deeply appreciate. May I
circulate the bottle, sir?"
"Do, do--we will wait on ourselves, Simpson, thank you. After lunch,"
continued Mr. Murbles, "I will ask you to try something really curious.
An odd old client of mine died the other day, and left me a dozen of
'47 port."
"Gad!" said Peter. "'47! It'll hardly be drinkable, will it, sir?"
"I very greatly fear," replied Mr. Murbles, "that it will not. A great
pity. But I feel that some kind of homage should be paid to so notable
an antiquity."
"It would be something to say that one had tasted it," said Peter.
"Like goin' to see the divine Sarah, you know. Voice gone, bloom gone,
savor gone--but still a classic."
"Ah," said Mr. Murbles. "I remember her in her great days. We old
fellows have the compensation of some very wonderful memories."
"Quite right, sir," said Peter, "and you'll pile up plenty more yet.
But what was this old gentleman doing to let a vintage like that get
past its prime?"
"Mr. Featherstone was a very singular man," said Mr. Murbles. "And
yet--I don't know. He may have been profoundly wise. He had the
reputation for extreme avarice. Never bought a new suit, never took a
holiday, never married, lived all his life in the same dark, narrow
chambers he occupied as a briefless barrister. Yet he inherited a huge
income from his father, all of which he left to accumulate. The port
was laid down by the old man, who died in 1860, when my client was
thirty-four. He--the son, I mean--was ninety-six when he deceased. He
said no pleasure ever came up to the anticipation, and so he lived like
a hermit--doing nothing, but planning all the things he might have
done. He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record
of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test
of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with
the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the
'47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened,
at the close of his frugal meal. An earnest Christian, he anticipated
great happiness after death, but, as you see, he put the pleasure off
as long as possible. He died with the words, 'He is faithful that
promised'--feeling to the end the need of assurance. A very singular
man, very singular indeed--far removed from the adventurous spirit of
the present generation."
"How curious and pathetic," said Mary.
"Perhaps he had at some time set his heart on something unattainable,"
said Parker.
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Murbles. "People used to say that the
dream-lady had not always been a dream, but that he never could bring
himself to propose."
"Ah," said Sir Impey briskly, "the more I see and hear in the courts
the more I am inclined to feel that Mr. Featherstone chose the better
part."
"And are determined to follow his example--in that respect at any rate?
Eh, Sir Impey!" replied Mr. Murbles, with a mild chuckle.
Mr. Parker glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain.
Truly enough the '47 port was a dead thing; the merest ghost of its
old flame and flavor hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a
moment.
"It is like the taste of a passion that has passed its noon and turned
to weariness," he said, with sudden gravity. "The only thing to do
is to recognize bravely that it is dead, and put it away." With a
determined movement, he flung the remainder of the wine into the fire.
The mocking smile came back to his face:
"What I like about Clive
Is that he is no longer alive--
There is a great deal to be said
For being dead.
"What classic pith and brevity in those four lines! However, in the
matter of this case, we've a good deal to tell you, sir."
With the assistance of Parker, he laid before the two men of law the
whole train of the investigation up to date, Lady Mary coming loyally
up to the scratch with her version of the night's proceedings.
"In fact, you see," said Peter, "this Mr. Goyles has lost a lot by
_not_ being a murderer. We feel he would have cut a fine, sinister
figure as a midnight assassin. But things bein' as they are, you see,
we must make what we can of him as a witness, what?"
"Well, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles slowly, "I congratulate you and
Mr. Parker on a great deal of industry and ingenuity in working the
matter out."
"I think we may say we have made some progress," said Parker.
"If only negatively," added Peter.
"Exactly," said Sir Impey turning on him with staggering abruptness.
"Very negatively indeed. And, having seriously hampered the case for
the defense, what are you going to do next?"
"That's a nice thing to say," cried Peter indignantly, "when we've
cleared up such a lot of points for you!"
"I daresay," said the barrister, "but they're the sorts of points which
are much better left muffled up."
"Damn it all, we want to get at the truth!"
"Do you?" said Sir Impey drily. "I don't. I don't care twopence about
the truth. I want a case. It doesn't matter to me who killed Cathcart,
provided I can prove it wasn't Denver. It's really enough if I can
throw reasonable doubt on its being Denver. Here's a client comes
to me with a story of a quarrel, a suspicious revolver, a refusal
to produce evidence of his statements, and a totally inadequate
and idiotic alibi. I arrange to obfuscate the jury with mysterious
footprints, a discrepancy as to time, a young woman with a secret, and
a general vague suggestion of something between a burglary and a _crime
passionel_. And here you come explaining the footprints, exculpating
the unknown man, abolishing the discrepancies, clearing up the motives
of the young woman, and most carefully throwing back suspicion to where
it rested in the first place. What _do_ you expect?"
"I've always said," growled Peter, "that the professional advocate was
the most immoral fellow on the face of the earth, and now I know for
certain."
"Well, well," said Mr. Murbles, "all this just means that we mustn't
rest upon our oars. You must go on, my dear boy, and get more evidence
of a positive kind. If this Mr. Goyles did not kill Cathcart we must be
able to find the person who did."
"Anyhow," said Biggs, "there's one thing to be thankful for--and that
is, that you were still too unwell to go before the Grand Jury last
Thursday, Lady Mary"--Lady Mary blushed--"and the prosecution will be
building their case on a shot fired at three a.m. Don't answer any
questions if you can help it, and we'll spring it on 'em."
"But will they believe anything she says at the trial after that?"
asked Peter dubiously.
"All the better if they don't. She'll be their witness. You'll get a
nasty heckling, Lady Mary, but you mustn't mind that. It's all in the
game. Just stick to your story and we'll deliver the goods. See!" Sir
Impey wagged a menacing finger.
"I see," said Mary. "And I'll be heckled like anything. Just go on
stubbornly saying, 'I am telling the truth now.' That's the idea, isn't
it?"
"Exactly so," said Biggs. "By the way, Denver still refuses to explain
his movements, I suppose?"
"Cat-e-gori-cally," replied the solicitor. "The Wimseys are a very
determined family," he added, "and I fear that, for the present, it is
useless to pursue that line of investigation. If we could discover the
truth in some other way, and confront the Duke with it, he might then
be persuaded to add his confirmation."
"Well, now," said Parker, "we have, as it seems to me, still three
lines to go upon. First, we must try to establish the Duke's alibi from
external sources. Secondly, we can examine the evidence afresh with a
view to finding the real murderer. And thirdly, the Paris police may
give us some light upon Cathcart's past history."
"And I fancy I know where to go next for information on the second
point," said Wimsey suddenly. "Grider's Hole."
"Whew-w!" Parker whistled. "I was forgetting that. That's where that
bloodthirsty farmer fellow lives, isn't it, who set the dogs on you?"
"With the remarkable wife. Yes. See here, how does this strike you?
This fellow is ferociously jealous of his wife, and inclined to suspect
every man who comes near her. When I went up there that day, and
mentioned that a friend of mine might have been hanging about there the
previous week, he got frightfully excited and threatened to have the
fellow's blood. Seemed to know who I was referrin' to. Now, of course,
with my mind full of No. 10--Goyles, you know--I never thought but what
he was the man. But supposin' it was Cathcart? You see, we know now,
Goyles hadn't even been in the neighborhood til the Wednesday, so you
wouldn't expect what's-his-name--Grimethorpe--to know about him, but
Cathcart might have wandered over to Grider's Hole any day and been
seen. And look here! Here's another thing that fits in. When I went up
there Mrs. Grimethorpe evidently mistook me for somebody she knew, and
hurried down to warn me off. Well, of course, I've been thinkin' all
the time she must have seen my old cap and Burberry from the window and
mistaken me for Goyles, but, now I come to think of it, I told the kid
who came to the door that I was from Riddlesdale Lodge. If the child
told her mother, she must have thought it was Cathcart."
"No, no, Wimsey, that won't do," put in Parker; "she must have known
Cathcart was dead by that time."
"Oh, damn it! Yes, I suppose she must. Unless that surly old devil kept
the news from her. By Jove! that's just what he would do if he'd killed
Cathcart himself. He'd never say a word to her--and I don't suppose
he would let her look at a paper, even if they take one in. It's a
primitive sort of place."
"But didn't you say Grimethorpe had an alibi?"
"Yes, but we didn't really test it."
"And how d'you suppose he knew Cathcart was going to be in the thicket
that night?"
Peter considered.
"Perhaps he sent for him," suggested Mary.
"That's right, that's right," cried Peter eagerly. "You remember
we thought Cathcart must somehow or other have heard from Goyles,
making an appointment--but suppose the message was from Grimethorpe,
threatening to split on Cathcart to Jerry."
"You are suggesting, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles, in a tone
calculated to chill Peter's blithe impetuosity, "that, at the very
time Mr. Cathcart was betrothed to your sister, he was carrying on
a disgraceful intrigue with a married woman very much his social
inferior."
"I beg your pardon, Polly," said Wimsey.
"It's all right," said Mary, "I--as a matter of fact, it wouldn't
surprise me frightfully. Denis was always--I mean, he had rather
Continental ideas about marriage and that sort of thing. I don't think
he'd have thought that mattered very much. He'd probably have said
there was a time and place for everything."
"One of those watertight compartment minds," said Wimsey thoughtfully.
Mr. Parker, despite his long acquaintance with the seamy side of
things in London, had his brows set in a gloomy frown of as fierce a
provincial disapproval as ever came from Barrow-in-Furness.
"If you can upset this Grimethorpe's alibi," said Sir Impey, fitting
his right-hand fingertips neatly between the fingers of his left hand,
"we might make some sort of a case of it. What do you think, Murbles?"
"After all," said the solicitor, "Grimethorpe and the servant both
admit that he, Grimethorpe, was not at Grider's Hole on Wednesday
night. If he can't prove he was at Stapley he may have been at
Riddlesdale."
"By Jove!" cried Wimsey; "driven off alone, stopped somewhere, left the
gee, sneaked back, met Cathcart, done him in, and toddled home next day
with a tale about machinery."
"Or he may even have been to Stapley," put in Parker; "left early or
gone late, and put in the murder on the way. We shall have to check the
precise times very carefully."
"Hurray!" cried Wimsey. "I think I'll be gettin' back to Riddlesdale."
"I'd better stay here," said Parker. "There may be something from
Paris."
"Right you are. Let me know the minute anything comes through. I say,
old thing!"
"Yes?"
"Does it occur to you that what's the matter with this case is that
there are too many clues? Dozens of people with secrets and elopements
bargin' about all over the place--"
"I hate you, Peter," said Lady Mary.