"The footsteps went into the preserve," said Parker. "I lost them there. There is a regular carpet of dead leaves and bracken."
"Well, but we needn't go through all that sleuth grind again," objected his friend. "The fellow went in, and, as he presumably is not there still, he came out again. He didn't come out through the gate or Hardraw would have seen him; he didn't come out the same way he went in or he would have left some traces. Therefore he came out elsewhere. Let's walk round the wall."
"Then we'll turn to the left," said Parker, "since [missing] the side of the preserve, and he apparently went through there."
"True O King! and as this isn't a church, there's no harm in going round it widdershins. Talking of church, there's Helen coming back. Get a move on, old thing."
They crossed the drive, passed the cottage and then, leaving the road, followed the paling across some open grass fields. It was not long before they found, what they sought. From one of the iron spikes above them dangled forlornly a strip of material. With Parker's assistance Wimsey scrambled up in a state of almost lyric excitement.
"Here we are," he cried. "The belt of a Burberry! No sort of precaution here. Here are the toe-prints of a fellow sprinting for his life. He tore off his Burberry! he made desperate leaps-one, two, three-at the palings. At the third leap he hooked it on to the spikes. He scrambled up, scoring long, scrabbling marks on the paling. He reached the top. Oh, here's a bloodstain run into this crack. He tore his hands. He dropped off. He wrenched the coat away, leaving the belt clinging-"
"I wish you'd drop off," grumbled Parker, "You're breaking my collarbone."
Lord Peter dropped off obediently, and stood there holding the belt between his fingers. His narrow grey eyes wandered restlessly over the field. Suddenly he seized Parker's arm and marched briskly in the direction of the wall on the farther side-a low erection of unmortared stone in the fashion of the country. Here he hunted along like a terrier, nose foremost, the tip of his tongue caught absurdly between his teeth, then jumped over, and, turning to Parker, said: "Did you ever read The Lay of the Last Minstrel?"
"I learnt a good deal of it at school," said Parker. "Why?"
"Because there was a goblin page-boy in it," said Lord Peter, "who was always yelling 'Found! Found! Found!' at the most unnecessary moments. I always thought him a terrible nuisance, but now I know how he felt. See here."
Close under the wall, and sunk heavily into the narrow and muddy lane which ran up here at right angles to the main road, was the track of a sidecar combination.
"Very nice too," said Mr. Parker approvingly.
"New Dunlop type on the front wheel. Old tyre on the back. Gaiter on the side-car tyre. Nothing could be better. Tracks come in from the road and go back to the road. Fellow shoved the machine in here in case anybody of an inquisitive turn of mind should pass on the road and make off with it, or take its number. Then he went round on shank's mare to the gap he'd spotted in the daytime and got over. After the Cathcart affair he took fright, bolted into the preserve, and took the shortest way to his bus, regardless. Well, now."
He sat down on the wall, and, drawing out his notebook, began to jot down a description of the man from the data already known.
"Things begin to look a bit more comfortable for old Jerry," said Lord Peter. He leaned on the wall and began whistling softly, but with great accuracy, that elaborate passage of Bach which begins "Let Zion's children."
* * *
"I wonder," said the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, "what damn silly fool invented Sunday afternoon." He shovelled coals on to the library fire with a vicious [missing] waking Colonel Marchbanks, who said, "Eh?"
"Don't you grumble, Freddy," said Lord Peter, who had been occupied for some time in opening and shutting all the drawers of the writing-table in a thoroughly irritating manner, and idly snapping to and fro the catch of the French window. "Think how dull old Jerry must feel. S'pose I'd better write him a line."
He returned to the table and took a sheet of paper.
"Do people use this room much to write letters in, do you know?"
"No idea," said the Hon. Freddy. "Never write 'em myself. Where's the point of writin' when you can wire? Encourages people to write back, that's all. I think Denver writes here when he writes anywhere, and I saw the Colonel wrestlin' with pen and ink a day or two ago, didn't you, Colonel?" (The Colonel grunted, answering to his name like a dog that wags its tail in its sleep.) "What's the matter? Ain't there any ink?"
"I only wondered," replied Peter placidly. He slipped a paper-knife under the top sheet of the blotting-pad and held it up to the light. "Quite right, old man. Give you full marks for observation. Here's Jerry's signature, and the Colonel's, and a big, sprawly hand, which I should judge to be feminine." He looked at the sheet again, shook his head, folded it up, and placed it in his pocket-book. "Doesn't seem to be anything there," he commented, "but you never know. 'Five something of fine something'-grouse, probably. 'oe-is fou'-is found, I suppose. Well, it can't do any harm to keep it." He spread out his paper and began:
" Dear Jerry, – Here I am, the family sleuth on the trail, and it's damned exciting-"
The Colonel snored.
Sunday afternoon. Parker had gone with the car to King's Fenton, with orders to look in at Riddlesdale on the way and inquire for a green-eyed cat, also for a young man, with a side-car. The Duchess was lying down, Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson had taken her husband for a brisk walk. Upstairs, somewhere, Mrs. Marchbanks enjoyed a perfect communion of thought with her husband.
Lord Peter's pen gritted gently over the paper, stopped, moved on again, stopped altogether. He leaned his long chin on his hands and stared out of the window, against which there came sudden little swishes of rain, and from time to time a soft, dead leaf. The Colonel snored; the fire tinkled; the Hon. Freddy began to hum and tap his fingers on the arms of his chair. The clock moved slothfully on to five o'clock, which brought tea-time and the Duchess.
"How's Mary?" asked Lord Peter, coming suddenly into the firelight.
"I'm really worried about her," said the Duchess. "She is giving way to her nerves in the strangest manner. It is so unlike her. She will hardly let anybody come near her. I have sent for Dr. Thorpe again."
"Don't you think she'd be better if she got up an' came downstairs a bit?" suggested Wimsey. "Gets broodin' about things all by herself, I shouldn't wonder. Wants a bit of Freddy's intellectual conversation to cheer her up."
"You forget; poor girl," said the Duchess, "she was engaged to Captain Cathcart. Everybody isn't as callous as you are."
"Any more letters, your grace?" asked the footman, appearing with the post-bag.
"Oh, are you going down now?" said Wimsey. "Yes here you are-and there's one other, if you don't mind waitin' a minute while I write it. Wish I could write at the rate people do on the cinema," he added, scribbling rapidly as he spoke. " 'Dear Lilian, – Your father has killed Mr. William Snooks, and unless you send me £1,000 by bearer, I shall disclose all to your husband.-Sincerely, Earl of Digglesbrake.' That's the style; and all done in one scrape of the pen. Here you are, Fleming."
The letter was addressed to her grace the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
From the Morning Post of Monday, November-, 19-:
" Abandoned Motorcycle
" A singular discovery was made yesterday by a cattle-drover. He is accustomed to water his animals in a certain pond lying a little off the road about twelve miles south of Ripley. On this occasion he saw that one of them appeared to be in difficulties. On going to the rescue, he found the animal entangled in a motor-cycle, which had been driven into the pond and abandoned. With the assistance of a couple of workmen he extricated the machine. It is a Douglas, with dark-grey side-car. The number-plates and licence-holder have been carefully removed. The pond is a deep one, and the outfit was entirely submerged. It seems probable, however, that it could not have been there for more than a week, since the pond is much used on Sundays and Mondays for the watering of cattle. The police are making search for the owner. The front tyre of the bicycle is a new Dunlop, and the side-car tyre has been repaired with gaiter. The machine is a 1914 model, much worn."
"That seems to strike a chord," said Lord Peter musingly. He consulted a time-table for the time of the next train to Ripley, and ordered the car.
"And send Bunter to me," he added.
That gentleman arrived just as his master was struggling into an overcoat.
"What was that thing in last Thursday's paper about a number-plate, Bunter?" inquired his lordship.
Mr. Bunter produced, apparently by legerdemain, a cutting from an evening paper:
" Number-plate Mystery
" The Rev. Nathaniel Foulis, of St. Simon's, North Fellcote, was stopped at six o'clock this morning for riding a motor-cycle without number-plates. The reverend gentleman seemed thunderstruck when his attention was called to the matter. He explained that he had been sent for in great haste at 4 A.M. to administer the Sacrament to a dying parishioner six miles away. He hastened out on his motorcycle, which he confidingly left by the roadside while executing his sacred duties. Mr. Foulis left the house at 5.30 without noticing that anything was wrong. Mr. Foulis is well known in North Fellcote and the surrounding country, and there seems little doubt that he has been the victim of a senseless practical joke. North Fellcote is a small village a couple of miles north of Ripley."
"I'm going to Ripley, Bunter," said Lord Peter.
"Yes, my lord. Does your lordship require me?"
"No," said Lord Peter, "but-who has been lady's maiding my sister, Bunter?"
"Ellen, my lord-the housemaid."
"Then I wish you'd exercise your powers of conversation on Ellen."
"Very good, my lord."
"Does she mend my sister's clothes, and brush her skirts, and all that?"
