"Right ho!" said Parker. "Where would you like to begin?"
Peter considered. "I think we'll start from Cathcart's bedroom," he said.
The bedroom was of moderate size, with a single window overlooking the front door. The bed was on the right-hand side, the dressing-table before the window. On the left was the fireplace, with an arm-chair before it, and a small writing-table.
"Everything's as it was," said Parker. "Craikes had that much sense."
"Yes," said Lord Peter. "Very well. Gerald says that when he charged Cathcart with bein' a scamp, Cathcart jumped up, nearly knockin' the table over. That's the writin'-table, then, so Cathcart was sittin' in the arm-chair. Yes, he was-and he pushed it back violently and rumpled up the carpet. See! So far, so good. Now what was he doin' there? He wasn't readin', because there's no book about, and we know that he rushed straight out of the room and never came back. Very good. Was he writin'? No, virgin sheet of blottin'-paper-"
"He might have been writing in pencil," suggested Parker.
"That's true, old Kill-Joy, so he might. Well, if he was he shoved the paper into his pocket when Gerald came in, because it isn't here; but he didn't, because it wasn't found on his body; so he wasn't writing."
"Unless he threw the paper away somewhere else," said Parker. "I haven't been all over the grounds, you know, and at the smallest computation-if we accept the shot heard by Hardraw at 11.50 as the shot-there's an hour and a half unaccounted for."
"Very well. Let's say there is nothing to show he was writing. Will that do? Well, then-"
Lord Peter drew out a lens and scrutinised the surface of the arm-chair carefully before sitting down in it.
"Nothing helpful there," he said. "To proceed, Cathcart sat where I am sitting. He wasn't writing-you're sure this room hasn't been touched?"
"Certain."
"Then he wasn't smoking."
"Why not? He might have chucked the stub of a cigar or cigarette into the fire when Denver came in."
"Not a cigarette," said Peter, "or we should find traces somewhere-on the floor or in the grate. That light ash blows about so. But a cigar-well, he might have smoked a cigar without leaving a sign, I suppose. But I hope he didn't."
"Why?"
"Because, old son, I'd rather Gerald's account had some element of truth in it. A nervy man doesn't sit down to the delicate enjoyment of a cigar before bed, and cherish the ash with such scrupulous care. On the other hand, if Freddy's right, and Cathcart was feelin' unusually sleek and pleased with life, that's just the sort of thing he would do."
"Do you think Mr. Arbuthnot would have invented all that, as a matter of fact?" said Parker thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me that way. He'd have to be imaginative and spiteful to make it up, and I really don't think he's either."
"I know," said Lord Peter. "I've known old Freddy all my life, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, he simply hasn't the wits to make up any sort of a story. But what bothers me is that Gerald most certainly hasn't the wits either to invent that Adelphi drama between him and Cathcart."
"On the other hand," said Parker, "if we allow for a moment that he shot Cathcart, he had an incentive to invent it. He would be trying to get his head out of the-I mean, when anything important is at stake it's wonderful how it sharpens one's wits. And the story being so farfetched does rather suggest an unpractised storyteller."
"True O King. Well, you've sat on all my discoveries so far. Never mind. My head is bloody but unbowed. Cathcart was sitting here-"
"So your brother said."
"Curse you, I say he was; at least, somebody was; he's left the impression of his sit-me-down-upon on the cushion."
"That might have been earlier in the day."
"Rot. They were out all day. You needn't overdo this Sadducee attitude, Charles. I say Cathcart was sitting here, and-hullo! hullo!"
He leaned forward and stared into the grate.
"There's some burnt paper here, Charles."
"I know. I was frightfully excited about that yesterday, but I found it was just the same in several of the rooms. They often let the bedroom fires go out when everybody's out during the day, and relight them about an hour before dinner. There's only the cook, housemaid, and Fleming here, you see, and they've got a lot to do with such a large party."
Lord Peter was picking the charred fragments over.
"I can find nothing to contradict your suggestion," he sadly said, "and this fragment of the Morning Post rather confirms it. Then we can only suppose that Cathcart sat here in a brown study, doing nothing at all. That doesn't get us much further, I'm afraid." He got up and went to the dressing-table.
"I like these tortoiseshell sets," he said, "and the perfume is 'Kaiser du Soir'-very nice too. New to me. "Must draw Bunter's attention to it. A charming manicure set, isn't it? You know, I like being clean and all that, but Cathcart was the kind of man who always impressed you as bein' just a little too well turned out. Poor devil! And he'll be buried at Golders Green after all. I only saw him once or twice, you know. He impressed me as knowin' about everything there was to know. I was rather surprised at Mary's takin' to him, but, then, I know really awfully little about Mary. You see, she's five years younger than me. When the war broke out she'd just left school and gone to a place in Paris, and I joined up, and she came back and did nursing and social work, so I only saw her occasionally. At that time she was rather taken up with new schemes for puttin' the world to rights and hadn't a lot to say to me. And she got hold of some pacifist fellow who was a bit of a stumer, I fancy. Then I was ill, you know, and after I got the chuck from Barbara I didn't feel much like botherin' about other people's heart-to-hearts, and then I got mixed up in the Attenbury diamond case-and the result is I know uncommonly little about my own sister. But it looks as though her taste in men had altered. I know my mother said Cathcart had charm; that means he was attractive to women, I suppose. No man can see what makes that in another man, but mother is usually right. What's become of this fellow's papers?"
"He left very little here," replied Parker. "There's a cheque-book on Cox's Charing Cross branch, but it's a new one and not very helpful. Apparently he only kept a small current account with them for convenience when he was in England. The cheques are mostly to self, with an occasional hotel or tailor."
"Any pass-book?"
"I think all his important papers are in Paris. He has a flat there, near the river somewhere. We're in communication with the Paris police. He had a room in Albany. I've told them to lock it up till I get there. I thought of running up to town tomorrow."
"Yes you'd better. Any pocket-book?"
"Yes; here you are. About £30 in various notes, a wine-merchant's card, and a bill for a pair of riding-breeches."
"No correspondence?"
"Not a line."
"No," said Wimsey, "he was the kind, I imagine, that didn't keep letters. Much too good an instinct of self-preservation."
"Yes. I asked the servants about his letters, as a matter of fact. They said he got a good number, but never left them about. They couldn't tell me much about the ones he wrote, because all the outgoing letters are dropped into the post-bag, which is carried down to the post-office as it is and opened there, or handed over to the postman when-or if-he calls. The general impression was that he didn't write much. The housemaid said she never found anything to speak of in the waste-paper basket."
"Well, that's uncommonly helpful. Wait a moment. Here's his fountain-pen. Very handsome-Onoto with complete gold casing. Dear me! entirely empty. Well, I don't know that one can deduce anything from that, exactly. I don't see any pencil about, by the way. I'm inclined to think you're wrong in supposing that he was writing letters."
"I didn't suppose anything," said Parker mildly. "I daresay you're right."
Lord Peter left the dressing-table, looked through the contents of the wardrobe, and turned over the two or three books on the pedestal beside the bed.