CHAPTER XI

Cross-Roads

“_Patience—and shuffle the cards._”

_Don Quixote_

Lord Peter took Mrs. Cropper down to Christchurch and returned to town

to have a conference with Mr. Parker. The latter had just listened to

his recital of Mrs. Cropper’s story, when the discreet opening and

closing of the flat-door announced the return of Bunter.

“Any luck?” inquired Wimsey.

“I regret exceedingly to have to inform your lordship that I lost track

of the lady. In fact, if your lordship will kindly excuse the

expression, I was completely done in the eye.”

“Thank God, Bunter, you’re human after all. I didn’t know anybody could

do you. Have a drink.”

“I am much obliged to your lordship. According to instructions, I

searched the platform for a lady in a crimson hat and a grey fur, and at

length was fortunate enough to observe her making her way out by the

station entrance towards the big bookstall. She was some way ahead of

me, but the hat was very conspicuous, and, in the words of the poet, if

I may so express myself, I followed the gleam.”

“Stout fellow.”

“Thank you, my lord. The lady walked into the Station Hotel, which, as

you know, has two entrances, one upon the platform, and the other upon

the street. I hurried after her for fear she should give me the slip,

and made my way through the revolving doors just in time to see her back

disappearing into the Ladies’ Retiring Room.”

“Whither, as a modest man, you could not follow her. I quite

understand.”

“Quite so, my lord. I took a seat in the entrance hall, in a position

from which I could watch the door without appearing to do so.”

“And discovered too late that the place had two exits, I suppose.

Unusual and distressin’.”

“No, my lord. That was not the trouble. I sat watching for three

quarters of an hour, but the crimson hat did not reappear. Your lordship

will bear in mind that I had never seen the lady’s face.”

Lord Peter groaned.

“I foresee the end of this story, Bunter. Not your fault. Proceed.”

“At the end of this time, my lord, I felt bound to conclude either that

the lady had been taken ill or that something untoward had occurred. I

summoned a female attendant who happened to cross the hall and informed

her that I had been entrusted with a message for a lady whose dress I

described. I begged her to ascertain from the attendant in the Ladies’

Room whether the lady in question was still there. The girl went away

and presently returned to say that the lady had changed her costume in

the cloak-room and had gone out half an hour previously.”

“Oh, Bunter, Bunter. Didn’t you spot the suitcase or whatever it was

when she came out again?”

“Excuse me, my lord. The lady had come in earlier in the day and had

left an attaché-case in charge of the attendant. On returning, she had

transferred her hat and fur to the attaché-case and put on a small black

felt hat and a light-weight raincoat which she had packed there in

readiness. So that her dress was concealed when she emerged and she was

carrying the attaché-case, whereas, when I first saw her, she had been

empty-handed.”

“Everything foreseen. What a woman!”

“I made immediate inquiries, my lord, in the region of the hotel and the

station, but without result. The black hat and raincoat were entirely

inconspicuous, and no one remembered having seen her. I went to the

Central Station to discover if she had travelled by any train. Several

women answering to the description had taken tickets for various

destinations, but I could get no definite information. I also visited

all the garages in Liverpool, with the same lack of success. I am

greatly distressed to have failed your lordship.”

“Can’t be helped. You did everything you could do. Cheer up. Never say

die. And you must be tired to death. Take the day off and go to bed.”

“I thank your lordship, but I slept excellently in the train on the way

up.”

“Just as you like, Bunter. But I did hope you sometimes got tired like

other people.”

Bunter smiled discreetly and withdrew.

“Well, we’ve gained this much, anyhow,” said Parker. “We know now that

this Miss Whittaker has something to conceal, since she takes such

precautions to avoid being followed.”

“We know more than that. We know that she was desperately anxious to get

hold of the Cropper woman before anybody else could see her, no doubt to

stop her mouth by bribery or by worse means. By the way, how did she

know she was coming by that boat.”

“Mrs. Cropper sent a cable, which was read at the inquest.”

“Damn these inquests. They give away all the information one wants kept

quiet, and produce no evidence worth having.”

“Hear, hear,” said Parker, with emphasis, “not to mention that we had to

sit through a lot of moral punk by the Coroner, about the prevalence of

jazz and the immoral behaviour of modern girls in going off alone with

young men to Epping Forest.”

“It’s a pity these busy-bodies can’t be had up for libel. Never mind.

We’ll get the Whittaker woman yet.”

“Always provided it was the Whittaker woman. After all, Mrs. Cropper may

have been mistaken. Lots of people do change their hats in cloak-rooms

without any criminal intentions.”

“Oh, of course. Miss Whittaker’s supposed to be in the country with Miss

Findlater, isn’t she? We’ll get the invaluable Miss Climpson to pump the

girl when they turn up again. Meanwhile, what do you think of Mrs.

Cropper’s story?”

“There’s no doubt about what happened there. Miss Whittaker was trying

to get the old lady to sign a will without knowing it. She gave it to

her all mixed up with the income-tax papers, hoping she’d put her name

to it without reading it. It must have been a will, I think, because

that’s the only document I know of which is invalid unless it’s

witnessed by two persons in the presence of the testatrix and of each

other.”

“Exactly. And since Miss Whittaker couldn’t be one of the witnesses

herself, but had to get the two maids to sign, the will must have been

in Miss Whittaker’s favour.”

“Obviously. She wouldn’t go to all that trouble to disinherit herself.”

“But that brings us to another difficulty. Miss Whittaker, as next of

kin, would have taken all the old lady had to leave in any case. As a

matter of fact, she did. Why bother about a will?”

“Perhaps, as we said before, she was afraid Miss Dawson would change her

mind, and wanted to get a will made out before—no, that won’t work.”

“No—because, anyhow, any will made later would invalidate the first

will. Besides, the old lady sent for her solicitor some time later, and

Miss Whittaker put no obstacle of any kind in her way.”

“According to Nurse Forbes, she was particularly anxious that every

facility should be given.”

“Seeing how Miss Dawson distrusted her niece, it’s a bit surprising,

really, that she didn’t will the money away. Then it would have been to

Miss Whittaker’s advantage to keep her alive as long as possible.”

“I don’t suppose she really distrusted her—not to the extent of

expecting to be made away with. She was excited and said more than she

meant—we often do.”

“Yes, but she evidently thought there’d be other attempts to get a will

signed.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Don’t you remember the power of attorney? The old girl evidently

thought that out and decided to give Miss Whittaker authority to sign

everything for her so that there couldn’t possibly be any jiggery-pokery

about papers in future.”

“Of course. Cute old lady. How very irritating for Miss Whittaker. And

after that very hopeful visit of the solicitor, too. So disappointing.

Instead of the expected will, a very carefully planted spoke in her

wheel.”

“Yes. But we’re still brought up against the problem, why a will at

all?”

“So we are.”

The two men pulled at their pipes for some time in silence.

“The aunt evidently intended the money to go to Mary Whittaker all

right,” remarked Parker at last. “She promised it so often—besides, I

daresay she was a just-minded old thing, and remembered that it was

really Whittaker money which had come to her over the head of the Rev.

Charles, or whatever his name was.”

“That’s so. Well, there’s only one thing that could prevent that

happening, and that’s—oh, lord! old son. Do you know what it works out

at? The old, old story, beloved of novelists—the missing heir!”

“Good lord, yes, you’re right. Damn it all, what fools we were not to

think of it before. Mary Whittaker possibly found out that there was

some nearer relative left, who would scoop the lot. Maybe she was afraid

that if Miss Dawson got to know about it, she’d divide the money or

disinherit Mary altogether. Or perhaps she just despaired of hammering

the story into the old lady’s head, and so hit on the idea of getting

her to make the will unbeknownst to herself in Mary’s favour.”

“What a brain you’ve got, Charles. Or, see here, Miss Dawson may have

known all about it, sly old thing, and determined to pay Miss Whittaker

out for her indecent urgency in the matter of will-makin’ by just dyin’

intestate in the other chappie’s favour.”

“If she did, she deserved anything she got,” said Parker, rather

viciously. “After taking the poor girl away from her job under promise

of leaving her the dibs.”

“Teach the young woman not to be so mercenary,” retorted Wimsey, with

the cheerful brutality of the man who has never in his life been short

of money.

“If this bright idea is correct,” said Parker, “it rather messes up your

murder theory, doesn’t it? Because Mary would obviously take the line of

keeping her aunt alive as long as possible, in hopes she might make a

will after all.”

“That’s true. Curse you, Charles, I see that bet of mine going west.

What a blow for friend Carr, too. I did hope I was going to vindicate

him and have him played home by the village band under a triumphal arch

with ‘Welcome, Champion of Truth!’ picked out in red-white-and-blue

electric bulbs. Never mind. It’s better to lose a wager and see the

light than walk in ignorance bloated with gold.—Or stop!—why shouldn’t

Carr be right after all? Perhaps it’s just my choice of a murderer

that’s wrong. Aha! I see a new and even more sinister villain step upon

the scene. The new claimant, warned by his minions—”

“What minions?”

“Oh, don’t be so pernickety, Charles. Nurse Forbes, probably. I

shouldn’t wonder if she’s in his pay. Where was I? I wish you wouldn’t

interrupt.”

“Warned by his minions—” prompted Parker.

“Oh, yes—warned by his minions that Miss Dawson is hob-nobbing with

solicitors and being tempted into making wills and things, gets the said

minions to polish her off before she can do any mischief.”

“Yes, but how?”

“Oh, by one of those native poisons which slay in a split second and

defy the skill of the analyst. They are familiar to the meanest writer

of mystery stories. I’m not going to let a trifle like that stand in my

way.”

“And why hasn’t this hypothetical gentleman brought forward any claim to

the property so far?”

“He’s biding his time. The fuss about the death scared him, and he’s

lying low till it’s all blown over.”

“He’ll find it much more awkward to dispossess Miss Whittaker now she’s

taken possession. Possession is nine points of the law, you know.”

“I know, but he’s going to pretend he wasn’t anywhere near at the time

of Miss Dawson’s death. He only read about it a few weeks ago in a sheet

of newspaper wrapped round a salmon-tin, and now he’s rushing home from

his distant farm in thing-ma-jig to proclaim himself as the long-lost

Cousin Tom. . . . Great Scott! that reminds me.”

He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“This came this morning just as I was going out, and I met Freddy

Arbuthnot on the doorstep and shoved it into my pocket before I’d read

it properly. But I do believe there was something in it about a Cousin

Somebody from some god-forsaken spot. Let’s see.”

He unfolded the letter, which was written in Miss Climpson’s

old-fashioned flowing hand, and ornamented with such a variety of

underlinings and exclamation marks as to look like an exercise in

musical notation.

“Oh, lord!” said Parker.

“Yes, it’s worse than usual, isn’t it?—it must be of desperate

importance. Luckily it’s comparatively short.”

My dear Lord Peter,

I heard something this morning which MAY be of _use, so_ I HASTEN to

communicate it!! You remember I _mentioned before_ that Mrs. Budge’s

_maid_ is the SISTER of the _present_ maid at Miss _Whittaker’s_?

Well!!! The AUNT of these two girls came to _pay a visit_ to Mrs.

Budge’s girl this afternoon, and was _introduced to me_—of course, as

_boarder_ at Mrs. Budge’s I am naturally an _object of local

interest_—and, bearing _your instructions_ in mind, I _encourage_ this

to an extent I should not otherwise do!!

It appears that this _aunt_ was well acquainted with a _former

housekeeper_ of Miss Dawson’s—_before_ the time of the Gotobed girls,

I mean. The _aunt_ is a highly _respectable_ person of FORBIDDING

ASPECT!—with a _bonnet_(!) and to my mind, a most _disagreeable_

CENSORIOUS woman. However!—We got to speaking of Miss Dawson’s death,

and this aunt—her name is Timmins—_primmed_ up her mouth and said: “No

unpleasant scandal would surprise me about _that_ family, Miss

Climpson. They were _most_ UNDESIRABLY connected! You recollect, Mrs.

Budge, that I felt _obliged to leave_ after the appearance of that

_most_ EXTRAORDINARY person who announced himself as Miss Dawson’s

cousin.” Naturally, I asked _who_ this _might be_, not having heard of

any _other relations_! She said that this person, whom she described

as a _nasty_, DIRTY NIGGER(!!!) arrived one morning, dressed up as a

CLERGYMAN!!!—and sent her—Miss Timmins—to announce him to Miss Dawson

as her Cousin Hallelujah!!! Miss Timmins showed him up, _much against

her will_, she said, into the _nice_, CLEAN, drawing-room! Miss

Dawson, she said, actually _came down_ to see this “creature” instead

of sending him about his “black business”(!), and as a _crowning

scandal_, asked him to _stay to lunch_!—“with her niece there, too,”

Miss Timmins said, “and this horrible _blackamoor_ ROLLING his

dreadful eyes at her.” Miss Timmins said that it “regularly turned her

stomach”—that was her phrase, and I trust you will excuse it—I

understand that these _parts of the body_ are frequently referred to

in polite(!) society nowadays. In fact, it appears she _refused to

cook the lunch_ for the poor black man—(after all, even _blacks_ are

God’s _creatures_ and we might _all_ be _black_ OURSELVES if He had

not in His infinite kindness seen fit to _favour us_ with _white_

skins!!)—and walked straight out of the house!!! So that unfortunately

she cannot tell us anything _further_ about this _remarkable_

incident! She is _certain_, however, that the “nigger” had a

_visiting-card_, with the name “Rev. H. Dawson” upon it, and an

address in foreign parts. It does seem _strange_, does it not, but I

believe many of these _native preachers_ are called to do _splendid

work_ among their own people, and no doubt a _MINISTER_ is entitled to

have _visiting-card_, even when black!!!

In great haste,

Sincerely yours,

A. K. Climpson.

“God bless my soul,” said Lord Peter, when he had disentangled this

screed—“here’s our claimant ready made.”

“With a hide as black as his heart, apparently,” replied Parker. “I

wonder where the Rev. Hallelujah has got to—and where he came from.

He—er—he wouldn’t be in ‘Crockford,’ I suppose.”

“He would be, probably, if he’s Church of England,” said Lord Peter,

dubiously, going in search of that valuable work of reference.

“Dawson—Rev. George, Rev. Gordon, Rev. Gurney, Rev. Habbakuk, Rev.

Hadrian, Rev. Hammond—no, there’s no Rev. Hallelujah. I was afraid the

name hadn’t altogether an established sound. It would be easier if we

had an idea what part of the world the gentleman came from. ‘Nigger,’ to

a Miss Timmins, may mean anything from a high-caste Brahmin to Sambo and

Raustus at the Coliseum—it may even, at a pinch, be an Argentine or an

Esquimaux.”

“I suppose other religious bodies have their Crockfords,” suggested

Parker, a little hopelessly.

“Yes, no doubt—except perhaps the more exclusive sects—like the

Agapemonites and those people who gather together to say OM. Was it

Voltaire who said that the English had three hundred and sixty-five

religions and only one sauce?”

“Judging from the War Tribunals,” said Parker, “I should say that was an

under-statement. And then there’s America—a country, I understand,

remarkably well supplied with religions.”

“Too true. Hunting for a single dog-collar in the States must be like

the proverbial needle. Still, we could make a few discreet inquiries,

and meanwhile I’m going to totter up to Crofton with the jolly old

’bus.”

“Crofton?”

“Where Miss Clara Whittaker and Miss Dawson used to live. I’m going to

look for the man with the little black bag—the strange, suspicious

solicitor, you remember, who came to see Miss Dawson two years ago, and

was so anxious that she should make a will. I fancy he knows all there

is to know about the Rev. Hallelujah and his claim. Will you come too?”

“Can’t—not without special permission. I’m not officially on this case,

you know.”

“You’re on the Gotobed business. Tell the Chief you think they’re

connected. I shall need your restraining presence. No less ignoble

pressure than that of the regular police force will induce a smoke-dried

family lawyer to spill the beans.”

“Well, I’ll try—if you’ll promise to drive with reasonable precaution.”

“Be thou as chaste as ice and have a license as pure as snow, thou shalt

not escape calumny. I am _not_ a dangerous driver. Buck up and get your

leave. The snow-white horsepower foams and frets and the blue

bonnet—black in this case—is already, in a manner of speaking, over the

border.”

“You’ll drive me over the border one of these days,” grumbled Parker,

and went to the ’phone to call up Sir Andrew Mackenzie at Scotland Yard.

Crofton is a delightful little old-world village tucked away amid the

maze of criss-cross country roads which fills the triangle of which

Coventry, Warwick and Birmingham mark the angles. Through the falling

night, “Mrs. Merdle” purred her way delicately round hedge-blinded

corners and down devious lanes, her quest made no easier by the fact

that the Warwick County Council had pitched upon that particular week

for a grand repainting of signposts and had reached the preliminary

stage of laying a couple of thick coats of gleaming white paint over all

the lettering. At intervals the patient Bunter unpacked himself from the

back seat and climbed one of these uncommunicative guides to peer at its

blank surface with a torch—a process which reminded Parker of Alan

Quartermain trying to trace the features of the departed Kings of the

Kukuanas under their calcareous shrouds of stalactite. One of the posts

turned out to be in the wet-paint stage, which added to the depression

of the party. Finally, after several misdirections, blind alleys, and

reversings back to the main road, they came to a fourways. The signpost

here must have been in extra need of repairs, for its arms had been

removed bodily; it stood, stark and ghastly—a long, livid finger erected

in wild protest to the unsympathetic heavens.

“It’s starting to rain,” observed Parker, conversationally.

“Look here, Charles, if you’re going to bear up cheerfully and be the

life and soul of the expedition, say so and have done with it. I’ve got

a good, heavy spanner handy under the seat, and Bunter can help to bury

the body.”

“I think this must be Brushwood Cross,” resumed Parker, who had the map

on his knee. “If so, and if it’s not Covert Corner, which I thought we

passed half an hour ago, one of those roads leads directly to Crofton.”

“That would be highly encouraging if we only knew which road we were

on.”

“We can always try them in turn, and come back if we find we’re going

wrong.”

“They bury _suicides_ at cross-roads,” replied Wimsey, dangerously.

“There’s a man sitting under that tree,” pursued Parker. “We can ask

him.”

“He’s lost his way too, or he wouldn’t be sitting there,” retorted the

other. “People don’t sit about in the rain for fun.”

At this moment the man observed their approach and, rising, advanced to

meet them with raised, arresting hand.

Wimsey brought the car to a standstill.

“Excuse me,” said the stranger, who turned out to be a youth in

motor-cycling kit, “but could you give me a hand with my ’bus?”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Well, she won’t go.”

“I guessed as much,” said Wimsey. “Though why she should wish to linger

in a place like this beats me.” He got out of the car, and the youth,

diving into the hedge, produced the patient for inspection.

“Did you tumble there or put her there?” inquired Wimsey, eyeing the

machine distastefully.

“I put her there. I’ve been kicking the starter for hours but nothing

happened, so I thought I’d wait till somebody came along.”

“I see. What is the matter, exactly?”

“I don’t know. She was going beautifully and then she conked out

suddenly.”

“Have you run out of petrol?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure there’s plenty in.”

“Plug all right?”

“I don’t know.” The youth looked unhappy. “It’s only my second time out,

you see.”

“Oh! well—there can’t be much wrong. We’ll just make sure about the

petrol first,” said Wimsey, more cheerfully. He unscrewed the filler-cap

and turned his torch upon the interior of the tank. “Seems all right.”

He bent over again, whistling, and replaced the cap. “Let’s give her

another kick for luck and then we’ll look at the plug.”

The young man, thus urged, grasped the handle-bars, and with the energy

of despair delivered a kick which would have done credit to an army

mule. The engine roared into life in a fury of vibration, racing

heart-rendingly.

“Good God!” said the youth, “it’s a miracle.”

Lord Peter laid a gentle hand on the throttle-lever and the shattering

bellow calmed into a grateful purr.

“What did you do to it?” demanded the cyclist.

“Blew through the filler-cap,” said his lordship with a grin. “Air-lock

in the feed, old son, that’s all.”

“I’m frightfully grateful.”

“That’s all right. Look here, can you tell us the way to Crofton?”

“Sure. Straight down here. I’m going there, as a matter of fact.”

“Thank Heaven. Lead and I follow, as Sir Galahad says. How far?”

“Five miles.”

“Decent inn?”

“My governor keeps the ‘Fox-and-Hounds.’ Would that do? We’d give you

awfully decent grub.”

“Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan passed. Buzz off, my lad. No,

Charles, I will _not_ wait while you put on a Burberry. Back and side go

bare, go bare, hand and foot go cold, so belly-god send us good ale

enough, whether it be new or old.”

The starter hummed—the youth mounted his machine and led off down the

lane after one alarming wobble—Wimsey slipped in the clutch and followed

in his wake.

The “Fox-and-Hounds” turned out to be one of those pleasant,

old-fashioned inns where everything is upholstered in horse-hair and it

is never too late to obtain a good meal of cold roast sirloin and

home-grown salad. The landlady, Mrs. Piggin, served the travellers

herself. She wore a decent black satin dress and a front of curls of the

fashion favoured by the Royal Family. Her round, cheerful face glowed in

the firelight, seeming to reflect the radiance of the scarlet-coated

huntsmen who galloped and leapt and fell on every wall through a series

of sporting prints. Lord Peter’s mood softened under the influence of

the atmosphere and the house’s excellent ale, and by a series of

inquiries directed to the hunting-season, just concluded, the

neighbouring families and the price of horseflesh, he dexterously led

the conversation round to the subject of the late Miss Clara Whittaker.

“Oh, dear, yes,” said Mrs. Piggin, “to be sure, we knew Miss Whittaker.

Everybody knew her in these parts. A wonderful old lady she was. There’s

a many of her horses still in the country. Mr. Cleveland, he bought the

best part of the stock, and is doin’ well with them. Fine honest stock

she bred, and they all used to say she was a woman of wonderful judgment

with a horse—or a man either. Nobody ever got the better of her twice,

and very few, once.”

“Ah!” said Lord Peter, sagaciously.

“I remember her well, riding to hounds when she was well over sixty,”

went on Mrs. Piggin, “and she wasn’t one to wait for a gap, neither. Now

Miss Dawson—that was her friend as lived with her—over at the Manor

beyond the stone bridge—she was more timid-like. She’d go by the gates,

and we often used to say she’d never be riding at all, but for bein’

that fond of Miss Whittaker and not wanting to let her out of her sight.

But there, we can’t all be alike, can we, sir?—and Miss Whittaker was

altogether out of the way. They don’t make them like that nowadays. Not

but what these modern girls are good goers, many of them, and does a lot

of things as would have been thought very fast in the old days, but Miss

Whittaker had the knowledge as well. Bought her own horses and physicked

’em and bred ’em, and needed no advice from anybody.”

“She sounds a wonderful old girl,” said Wimsey, heartily. “I’d have

liked to know her. I’ve got some friends who knew Miss Dawson quite

well—when she was living in Hampshire, you know.”

“Indeed, sir? Well, that’s strange, isn’t it? She was a very kind, nice

lady. We heard she’d died, too. Of this cancer, was it? That’s a

terrible thing, poor soul. And fancy you being connected with her, so to

speak. I expect you’d be interested in some of our photographs of the

Crofton Hunt. Jim?”

“Hullo!”

“Show these gentlemen the photographs of Miss Whittaker and Miss Dawson.

They’re acquainted with some friends of Miss Dawson down in Hampshire.

Step this way—if you’re sure you won’t take anything more, sir.”

Mrs. Piggin led the way into a cosy little private bar, where a number

of hunting-looking gentlemen were enjoying a final glass before

closing-time. Piggin, stout and genial as his wife, moved forward to do

the honours.

“What’ll you have, gentlemen?—Joe, two pints of the winter ale. And

fancy you knowing our Miss Dawson. Dear me, the world’s a very small

place, as I often says to my wife. Here’s the last group as was ever

took of them, when the meet was held at the Manor in 1918. Of course,

you’ll understand, it wasn’t a regular meet, like, owing to the War and

the gentlemen being away and the horses too—we couldn’t keep things up

regular like in the old days. But what with the foxes gettin’ so

terrible many, and the packs all going to the dogs—ha! ha!—that’s what I

often used to say in this bar—the ’ounds is going to the dogs, I says.

Very good, they used to think it. There’s many a gentleman has laughed

at me sayin’ that—the ’ounds, I says, is goin’ to the dogs—well, as I

was sayin’, Colonel Fletcher and some of the older gentlemen, they says,

we must carry on somehow, they says, and so they ’ad one or two scratch

meets as you might say, just to keep the pack from fallin’ to pieces, as

you might say. And Miss Whittaker, she says, ‘’Ave the meet at the

Manor, Colonel,’ she says, ‘it’s the last meet I’ll ever see, perhaps,’

she says. And so it was, poor lady, for she ’ad a stroke in the New

Year. She died in 1922. That’s ’er, sitting in the pony-carriage and

Miss Dawson beside ’er. Of course, Miss Whittaker ’ad ’ad to give up

riding to ’ounds some years before. She was gettin’ on, but she always

followed in the trap, up to the very last. ’Andsome old lady, ain’t she,

sir?”

Lord Peter and Parker looked with considerable interest at the rather

grim old woman sitting so uncompromisingly upright with the reins in her

hand. A dour, weather-beaten old face, but certainly handsome still,

with its large nose and straight, heavy eyebrows. And beside her,

smaller, plumper and more feminine, was the Agatha Dawson whose curious

death had led them to this quiet country place. She had a sweet, smiling

face—less dominating than that of her redoubtable friend, but full of

spirit and character. Without doubt they had been a remarkable pair of

old ladies.

Lord Peter asked a question or two about the family.

“Well, sir, I can’t say as I knows much about that. We always understood

as Miss Whittaker had quarrelled with her people on account of comin’

here and settin’ up for herself. It wasn’t usual in them days for girls

to leave home the way it is now. But if you’re particularly interested,

sir, there’s an old gentleman here as can tell you all about the

Whittakers and the Dawsons too, and that’s Ben Cobling. He was Miss

Whittaker’s groom for forty years, and he married Miss Dawson’s maid as

come with her from Norfolk. Eighty-six ’e was, last birthday, but a

grand old fellow still. We thinks a lot of Ben Cobling in these parts.

’Im and his wife lives in the little cottage what Miss Whittaker left

them when she died. If you’d like to go round and see them to-morrow,

sir, you’ll find Ben’s memory as good as ever it was. Excuse me, sir,

but it’s time. I must get ’em out of the bar.—Time, gentlemen, please!

Three and eightpence, sir, thank you, sir. Hurry up, gentlemen, please.

Now then, Joe, look sharp.”

“Great place, Crofton,” said Lord Peter, when he and Parker were left

alone in a great, low-ceilinged bedroom, where the sheets smelt of

lavender. “Ben Cobling’s sure to know all about Cousin Hallelujah. I’m

looking forward to Ben Cobling.”