THE SECOND STRING
_O, whan he came to broken briggs
He bent his bow and swam,
And whan he came to the green grass growin'
He slacked his shoone and ran._
_O, whan he came to Lord William's gates
He baed na to chap na ca',
But set his bent bow till his breast,
An' lightly lap the wa'._
BALLAD OF LADY MAISRY
Lord Peter peered out through the cold scurry of cloud. The thin
struts of steel, incredibly fragile, swung slowly across the gleam
and glint far below, where the wide country dizzied out and spread
like a revolving map. In front the sleek leather back of his companion
humped stubbornly, sheeted with rain. He hoped that Grant was feeling
confident. The roar of the engine drowned the occasional shout he threw
to his passenger as they lurched from gust to gust.
He withdrew his mind from present discomforts and went over that last,
strange, hurried scene. Fragments of conversation spun through his head.
"Mademoiselle, I have scoured two continents in search of you."
"_Voyons_, then, it is urgent. But be quick for the big bear may come
in and be grumpy, and I do not like _des histoires_."
There had been a lamp on a low table; he remembered the gleam through
the haze of short gold hair. She was a tall girl, but slender, looking
up at him from the huge black-and-gold cushions.
"Mademoiselle, it is incredible to me that you should ever--dine or
dance--with a person called Van Humperdinck."
Now what had possessed him to say that--when there was so little time,
and Jerry's affairs were of such importance?
"Monsieur van Humperdinck does not dance. Did you seek me through two
continents to say that?"
"No, I am serious."
"_Eh bien_, sit down."
She had been quite frank about it.
"Yes, poor soul. But life was very expensive since the war. I refused
several good things. But always _des histoires_. And so little money.
You see, one must be sensible. There is one's old age. It is necessary
to be provident, _hein_?"
"Assuredly." She had a little accent--very familiar. At first he could
not place it. Then it came to him--Vienna before the war, that capital
of incredible follies.
"Yes, yes, I wrote. I was very kind, very sensible. I said, _'Je ne
suis pas femme à supporter de gros ennuis.' Cela se comprend, n'est-ce
pas?_"
That was readily understood. The 'plane dived sickly into a sudden
pocket, the propeller whirring helplessly in the void, then steadied
and began to nose up the opposite spiral.
"I saw it in the papers--yes. Poor boy! Why should anybody have shot
him?"
"Mademoiselle, it is for that I have come to you. My brother, whom I
dearly love, is accused of the murder. He may be hanged."
"Brr!"
"For a murder he did not commit."
"_Mon pauvre enfant_--"
"Mademoiselle, I implore you to be serious. My brother is accused, and
will be standing his trial--"
Once her attention had been caught she had been all sympathy. Her blue
eyes had a curious and attractive trick--a full lower lid that shut
them into glimmering slits.
"Mademoiselle, I implore you, try to remember what was in his letter."
"But, _mon pauvre ami_, how can I? I did not read it. It was very long,
very tedious, full of _histoires_. The thing was finished--I never
bother about what cannot be helped, do you?"
But his real agony at this failure had touched her.
"Listen, then; all is perhaps not lost. It is possible the letter
is still somewhere about. Or we will ask Adèle. She is my maid. She
collects letters to blackmail people--oh, yes, I know! But she is
_habile comme tout pour la toilette_. Wait--we will look first."
Tossing out letters, trinkets, endless perfumed rubbish from the
little gimcrack secretaire, from drawers full of lingerie ("I am so
untidy--I am Adèle's despair") from bags--hundreds of bags--and at last
Adèle, thin-lipped and wary-eyed, denying everything till her mistress
suddenly slapped her face in a fury, and called her ugly little names
in French and German.
"It is useless, then," said Lord Peter. "What a pity that Mademoiselle
Adèle cannot find a thing so valuable to me."
The word "valuable" suggested an idea to Adèle. There was
Mademoiselle's jewel-case which had not been searched. She would fetch
it.
"_C'est cela que cherche monsieur?_"
After that the sudden arrival of Mr. Cornelius van Humperdinck, very
rich and stout and suspicious, and the rewarding of Adèle in a tactful,
unobtrusive fashion by the elevator shaft.
Grant shouted, but the words flipped feebly away into the blackness and
were lost. "What?" bawled Wimsey in his ear. He shouted again, and this
time the word "juice" shot into sound and fluttered away. But whether
the news was good or bad Lord Peter could not tell.
* * * * *
Mr. Murbles was aroused a little after midnight by a thunderous
knocking upon his door. Thrusting his head out of the window in some
alarm, he saw the porter with his lantern steaming through the rain,
and behind him a shapeless figure which for the moment Mr. Murbles
could not make out.
"What's the matter?" said the solicitor.
"Young lady askin' urgently for you, sir."
The shapeless figure looked up, and he caught the spangle of gold hair
in the lantern-light under the little tight hat.
"Mr. Murbles, please come. Bunter rang me up. There's a woman come to
give evidence. Bunter doesn't like to leave her--she's frightened--but
he says it's _frightfully_ important, and Bunter's always right, you
know."
"Did he mention the name?"
"A Mrs. Grimethorpe."
"God bless me! Just a moment, my dear young lady, and I will let you
in."
And, indeed, more quickly than might have been expected, Mr. Murbles
made his appearance in a Jaeger dressing-gown at the front door.
"Come in, my dear. I will get dressed in a very few minutes. It was
quite right of you to come to me. I'm very, very glad you did. What a
terrible night! Perkins, would you kindly wake up Mr. Murphy and ask
him to oblige me with the use of his telephone?"
Mr. Murphy--a noisy Irish barrister with a hearty manner--needed no
waking. He was entertaining a party of friends, and was delighted to be
of service.
"Is that you Biggs? Murbles speaking. That alibi--"
"Yes!"
"Has come along of its own accord."
"My God! You don't say so!"
"Can you come round to 110 Piccadilly?"
"Straight away."
It was a strange little party gathered round Lord Peter's fire--the
white-faced woman, who started at every sound; the men of law, with
their keen, disciplined faces; Lady Mary; Bunter, the efficient. Mrs.
Grimethorpe's story was simple enough. She had suffered the torments
of knowledge ever since Lord Peter had spoken to her. She had seized
an hour when her husband was drunk in the "Lord in Glory," and had
harnessed the horse and driven in to Stapley.
"I couldn't keep silence. It's better my man should kill me, for I'm
unhappy enough, and maybe I couldn't be any worse off in the Lord's
hand--rather than they should hang him for a thing he never done. He
was kind, and I was desperate miserable, that's the truth, and I'm
hoping his lady won't be hard on him when she knows it all."
"No, no," said Mr. Murbles, clearing his throat. "Excuse me a moment,
madam. Sir Impey--"
The lawyers whispered together in the window-seat.
"You see," said Sir Impey, "she has burnt her boats pretty well now
by coming at all. The great question for us is, Is it worth the risk?
After all, we don't know what Wimsey's evidence amounts to."
"No, that is why I feel inclined--in spite of the risk--to put this
evidence in," said Mr. Murbles.
"I am ready to take the risk," interposed Mrs. Grimethorpe starkly.
"We quite appreciate that," replied Sir Impey. "It is the risk to our
client we have to consider first of all."
"Risk?" cried Mary. "But surely this clears him!"
"Will you swear absolutely to the time when his grace of Denver arrived
at Grider's Hole, Mrs. Grimethorpe?" went on the lawyer, as though he
had not heard her.
"It was a quarter past twelve by the kitchen clock--'tis a very good
clock."
"And he left you at--"
"About five minutes past two."
"And how long would it take a man, walking quickly, to get back to
Riddlesdale Lodge?"
"Oh, wellnigh an hour. It's rough walking, and a steep bank up and down
to the beck."
"You mustn't let the other counsel upset you on those points, Mrs.
Grimethorpe, because they will try to prove that he had time to
kill Cathcart either before he started or after he returned, and by
admitting that the Duke had something in his life that he wanted kept
secret we shall be supplying the very thing the prosecution lack--_a
motive for murdering anyone who might have found him out_."
There was a stricken silence.
"If I may ask, madam," said Sir Impey, "has any person any suspicion?"
"My husband guessed," she answered hoarsely. "I am sure of it. He has
always known. But he couldn't prove it. That very night--"
"What night?"
"The night of the murder--he laid a trap for me. He came back from
Stapley in the night, hoping to catch us and do murder. But he drank
too much before he started, and spent the night in the ditch, or it
might be Gerald's death you'd be inquiring into, and mine, as well as
the other."
It gave Mary an odd shock to hear her brother's name spoken like that,
by that speaker and in that company. She asked suddenly, apropos of
nothing, "Isn't Mr. Parker here?"
"No, my dear," said Mr. Murbles reprovingly, "this is not a police
matter."
"The best thing we can do, I think," said Sir Impey, "is to put in the
evidence, and, if necessary, arrange for some kind of protection for
this lady. In the meantime--"
"She is coming round with me to mother," said Lady Mary determinedly.
"My dear lady," expostulated Mr. Murbles, "that would be very
unsuitable in the circumstances. I think you hardly grasp--"
"Mother said so," retorted her ladyship. "Bunter, call a taxi."
Mr. Murbles waved his hands helplessly, but Sir Impey was rather
amused. "It's no good, Murbles," he said. "Time and trouble will tame
an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncontrollable by
any earthly force."
So it was from the Dowager's town house that Lady Mary rang up Mr.
Charles Parker to tell him the news.