The lawyer stumbled out. Wimsey returned to the library and rang the bell.
“I think, Bunter, Mr. Parker may require some assistance in the bathroom.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Bunter departed and Wimsey waited. Presently there were sounds of a scuffle in the distance. A group appeared at the door. Urquhart, very white, his hair and clothes disordered, flanked by Parker and Bunter, who held him firmly by the arms.
“Was he sick?” asked Wimsey, with interest.
“No, he wasn’t,” said Parker, grimly, snapping the handcuffs on his prey. “He cursed you fluently for five minutes, then tried to get out of the window, saw it was a three-story drop, charged in through the dressing-room door and ran straight into me. Now don’t struggle, my lad, you’ll only hurt yourself.”
“And he still doesn’t know whether he’s poisoned or not?”
“He doesn’t seem to think he is. At any rate, he made no effort about it. His one idea was to hop it.”
“That’s feeble,” said Wimsey, “if I wanted people to think I’d been poisoned I’d put up a better show than that.”
“Stop talking, for God’s sake,” said the prisoner. “You’ve got me, by a vile, damnable trick. Isn’t that enough? You can shut up about it.”
“Oh,” said Parker, “we’ve got you, have we? Well, I warned you not to talk, and if you will do it, it’s not my fault. By the way, Peter, I don’t suppose you did actually poison him, did you? It doesn’t seem to have hurt him, but it’ll affect the doctor’s report.”
“No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact,” said Wimsey. “I only wanted to see how he’d react to the suggestion. Well, cheerio! I can leave it to you now.”
“We’ll look after him,” said Parker. “But you might let Bunter ring up a taxi.”
When the prisoner and his escort had departed, Wimsey turned thoughtfully to Bunter, glass in hand.
“Mithridates he died old , says the poet. But I doubt it, Bunter. In this case I very much doubt it.”
Chapter XXIII
THERE were golden chrysanthemums on the judge’s bench; they looked like burning banners.
The prisoner, too, had a look in her eyes that was a challenge to the crowded court, as the clerk read the indictment. The judge, a plump, elderly man with an eighteenth-century face, looked expectantly at the Attorney-General.
“My lord—I am instructed that the Crown offers no evidence against this prisoner.” The gasp that went round the room sounded like the rustle of trees in a rising wind.
“Do I understand that the charge against the prisoner is withdrawn?”
“Those are my instructions, my lord.”
“In that case,” said the judge, impassively, turning to the jury, “there is nothing left for you but to return a verdict of ‘Not Guilty.’ Usher, keep those people quiet in the gallery.”
“One moment, my lord.” Sir Impey Biggs rose up, large and majestic.
“On my client’s behalf—on Miss Vane’s behalf, my lord, I beg your lordship’s indulgence for a few words. A charge has been brought against her, my lord, the very awful charge of murder, and I should like it to be made clear, my lord, that my client leaves this court without a stain upon her character. As I am informed, my lord, this is not a case of the charge being withdrawn in default of evidence. I understand, my lord, that further information has come to the police which definitely proves the entire innocence of my client. I also understand, my lord, that a further arrest has been made and that an inquiry will follow, my lord, in due course. My lord, this lady must go forth into the world acquitted, not only at this bar, but at the bar of public opinion. Any ambiguity would be intolerable, and I am sure, my lord, that I have the support of the learned Attorney General for what I say.”
“By all means,” said the Attorney. “I am instructed to say, my lord, that in withdrawing the charge against the prisoner, the Crown proceeds from complete conviction of her absolute innocence.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said the judge. “Prisoner at the bar, the Crown, by unreservedly withdrawing this dreadful charge against you, has demonstrated your innocence in the clearest possible way. After this, nobody will be able to suppose that the slightest imputation rests upon you, and I most heartily congratulate you on this very satisfactory ending to your long ordeal. Now, please—I sympathise very much with the people who are cheering, but this is not a theatre or a football match, and if they are not quiet, they will have to be put out. Members of the jury, do you find the Prisoner Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Not Guilty, my lord.”
“Very good. The prisoner is discharged without a stain upon her character. Next case.”
So ended, sensational to the last, one of the most sensational murder trials of the century.
* * *
Harriet Vane, a free woman, found Eiluned Price and Sylvia Mariott waiting for her as she descended the stairs.
“Darling!” said Sylvia.
“Three loud cheers!” said Eiluned.
Harriet greeted them a little vaguely. “Where is Lord Peter Wimsey?” she enquired. “I must thank him.”
“You won’t,” said Eiluned, bluntly. “I saw him drive off the moment the verdict was given.”
“Oh!” said Miss Vane.
“He’ll come and see you,” said Sylvia.
“No, he won’t,” said Eiluned.
“Why not?” said Sylvia.
“Too decent,” said Eiluned.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Harriet.
“I like that young man,” said Eiluned. “You needn’t grin. I do like him. He’s not going to do the King Cophetua stunt, and I take off my hat to him. If you want him, you’ll have to send for him.”
“I won’t do that,” said Harriet.
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Sylvia. “I was right about who did the murder, and I’m going to be right about this.”
* * *
Lord Peter Wimsey went down to Duke’s Denver that same evening. He found the family in a state of perturbation, all except the dowager, who sat placidly making a rug in the midst of the uproar.
“Look here, Peter,” said the Duke, “you’re the only person with an influence over Mary. You’ve got to do something. She wants to marry your policeman friend.”
“I know,” said Wimsey. “Why shouldn’t she?”
“It’s ridiculous,” said the Duke.
“Not at all,” said Lord Peter. “Charles is one of the best.”
“Very likely,” said the duke, “but Mary can’t marry a policeman.”
“Now, look here,” said Wimsey, tucking his sister’s arm in his, “you leave Polly alone. Charles made a bit of a mistake at the beginning of this murder case, but he doesn’t make many, and one of these days he’ll be a big man, with a title, I shouldn’t wonder, and everything handsome about him. If you want to have a row with somebody, have it with me.”
“My God!” said the Duke, “you’re not going to marry a policewoman?”
“Not quite,” said Wimsey. “I intend to marry the prisoner.”
“What?” said the Duke. “God lord, what what?”
“If she’ll have me,” said Lord Peter
The End
Dorothy L. Sayers, Strong Poison
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