Never mind the mare; she got back to her own field and stream somehow. The times were tight; the whole thing seemed absurdly elaborate, but it was not an absolute impossibility as he had thought at first. Suppose it had been so. Now, if Harriet had not been there, what would have happened? In a few hours the tide would have covered the body. Pause there, Morocco. If Weldon was the murderer, he would not want the body lost. He would want his mother to know that Alexis was dead. Yes; but under ordinary circumstances the body would have turned up sooner. It was the violent south-west wind and the three hundred sovereigns that had combined to keep the body hidden. And the body had been found, even so. Well, then. If Harriet had not found the body when she did, there would have been nothing to show that the death had not occurred earlier – say between 11 and 1.30 – the period for which there was the alibi. In fact, the victim’s arrival at that early hour at Darley Halt made it look much more likely that the earlier hour was the right one. Why should you tempt your victim to a lonely spot at 11.30 a.m. and then wait two and a half hours before polishing him off – except in order to create a presumption that you had really killed him earlier? And then, too, there was that crusty pair, Pollock and his grandson, with their grudging evidence that they had seen Alexis ‘lying down’ on the Flat-Iron at 1.45. They must be in it too. That was it. That must be it. The murder was meant to look like a morning murder – and that was why there had been that curious insistence on the alibi and the journey to Wilvercombe. ‘Always suspect the man with the cast-iron alibi’ – was not that the very first axiom in the detective’s book of rules? And here it was – the cast-iron alibi which really was cast-iron; meant to be scrutinised; meant to stand every test – as how should it not, for it was truth! It looked queer – because it was intended to look queer. It was asking, clamouring for investigation. It existed simply and solely to distract attention from the crucial hour of two o’clock. And if only Harriet had not come upon that freshly slain corpse, how well the plan might have succeeded. But Harriet had been there, and the whole structure had collapsed under the shock of her evidence. That must have been a blow indeed. No wonder Weldon was doing his best to discredit that awkward testimony as to the time of the death. He knew better than anyone that death at two o’clock was no proof of suicide, whatever it might appear to a coroner’s jury. He was not stupid; he was shamming stupid, and doing it damned well.
Wimsey was vaguely aware that Weldon was bidding him good-bye in some form of words or other. He let him go readily, eagerly. He wanted to think this thing over.
A little concentration in the privacy of his own room brought him to a point from which he could begin to work forward with some assurance.
The original scheme had been smashed to pieces by Harriet’s evidence. What would Weldon do next?
He might do nothing. That would be the safest way of all. He might rely on the coroner’s verdict and trust that the police and Wimsey and Harriet and everybody else would accept it. But would he have the deadly courage to do that? He might – unless he knew of something in that cipher document which might prove the suicide to be murder. If so, or if he lost his head – then he would have to fall back on his second line of defence, which would be, what? Undoubtedly, an alibi for two o’clock – the real time of the murder.
What had he actually said about this? Wimsey looked up his notes, to which he had added considerably of late. Weldon had vaguely mentioned a possible witness, a man unknown who had been passing through Darley and had asked him the time.
Of course, yes. He had suspected this witness already – that stock character of detective fiction – the man who asks the time. Wimsey laughed. Now he felt sure about it. Everything was provided for and the way discreetly paved for the production of this useful witness in case of necessity. Now that the morning alibi had failed to draw the enemy’s fire, the two o’clock alibi would be pushed to the front. Only, this time it would not be cast-iron. It would be a fake. Quite a good fake, very likely, but undoubtedly a fake. And then the shades of the prison-house would begin to close, darkly and coldly over the figure of Mr Henry Weldon.
‘If it were done when it is done, then it were – Weldon,’ said his lordship to himself. ‘If I’m right, then that two o’clock witness will turn up pretty quickly now. And if he does turn up, I’ll know I’m right.’
Which was logic after the manner of Mr Weldon.
XXII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE MANNEQUIN
‘All honest men, good Melchior, like thyself –
For that thou art, I think, upon my life –
Believe thee too.’
Torrismond
Saturday, 27 June Sunday, 28 June
Harriet Vane found herself comfortable enough in the quarters of the late Paul Alexis. A polite letter from her literary agent asking ‘whether the new book would be available for publication in the autumn’ had driven her back to the problem of the town-clock, but she found herself giving it a very divided attention. Compared with the remarkable tangle of the Alexis affair, the plot seemed to be thin and obvious, while the ape-like Robert Templeton began to display a tiresome tendency to talk like Lord Peter Wimsey. Harriet continually found herself putting her work aside – ‘to clear’ (as though it were coffee). Novelists who have struck a snag in the working-out of the plot are rather given to handing the problem over in this way to the clarifying action of the sub-conscious. Unhappily, Harriet’s sub-conscious had other coffee to clear and refused quite definitely to deal with the matter of the town-clock. Under such circumstances it is admittedly useless to ask the conscious to take any further steps. When she ought to have been writing, Harriet would sit comfortably in an armchair, reading a volume taken from Paul Alexis’ bookshelf, with the idea of freeing the sub-conscious for its job. In this way, her conscious imbibed a remarkable amount of miscellaneous information about the Russian Imperial Court and a still more remarkable amount of romantic narrative about love and war in Ruritanian states. Paul Alexis had evidently had a well-defined taste in fiction. He liked stories about young men of lithe and alluring beauty who, blossoming into perfect gentlemen amid the most unpromising surroundings, turned out to be the heirs to monarchies and, in the last chapter, successfully headed the revolts of devoted loyalists, overthrew the machinations of sinister presidents, and appeared on balconies, dressed in blue-and-silver uniforms, to receive the plaudits of their rejoicing and emancipated subjects. Sometimes they were assisted by brave and beautiful English or American heiresses, who placed their wealth at the disposal of the loyalist party; sometimes they remained faithful despite temptation to brides of their own nationality, and rescued them at the last moment from marriages of inconvenience with the sinister presidents or their still more sinister advisers; now and again they were assisted by young Englishmen, Irishmen or Americans with clear-cut profiles and a superabundance of energy, and in every case they went through a series of hair-raising escapes and adventures by land, sea and air. Nobody but the sinister presidents ever thought of anything so sordid as raising money by the usual financial channels or indulging in political intrigue, nor did the greater European powers or the League of Nations ever have anything to say in the matter. The rise and fall of governments appeared to be a private arrangement, comfortably thrashed out among a selection of small Balkan States, vaguely situated and acknowledging no relationships outside the domestic circle. No literature could have been better suited for the release of the sub-conscious; nevertheless, the sub-conscious obstinately refused to work. Harriet groaned in spirit and turned to crosswords, with the aid of Chambers’ Dictionary – that Bible of the crossword fan – which she found wedged between a paper-covered book printed in Russian and A Bid for the Throne.
Lord Peter Wimsey had also found something to read, which was occupying both his conscious and sub-conscious very pleasantly. It was a letter, dated from Leamhurst in Huntingdonshire, and ran thus:
‘My Lord,
‘Agreeably to your lordship’s instructions
I am residing here for a few days pending repairs to my magneto. I have established friendly relations with an individual called Hogben, who owns a reaper-and-binder, and is well acquainted with the principal farmers in this neighbourhood.
‘I understand from him that Mr Henry Weldon’s affairs are considered to be in a somewhat involved condition, and that his farm (Fourways) is heavily mortgaged. He is popularly held to have raised a number of loans locally within the last year or two on the strength of his expectations from his mother’s estate, but, in view of the fact that Mrs Weldon has not visited him of late and that relations are rumoured to be somewhat strained between them, some uneasiness is felt as to the value of this security.
‘The farm management is at present in the hands of a certain Walter Morrison, the head ploughman, a man of no great attainments, and, indeed, little better than an ordinary labourer, though with considerable experience in his own line. It is considered strange that Mr Weldon should have quitted the farm at this particular time. In view of your lordship’s wire of last Wednesday evening, informing me of the identification of Mr Henry Weldon with Mr Haviland Martin, I need not tell your lordship that Mr Weldon left home on Sunday, 14th, returning on Sunday, 21st, only to leave again early the next morning. There have been difficulties and delays of late in the payment of labourers’ wages, and, owing partly to this cause, Morrison is finding it no easy matter to get the hay in.
‘I heard also that there had been some trouble with the mortgagees over the upkeep of the farm-buildings, dykes, hedges, etc. Accordingly, I made an expedition to Fourways, in order to inspect the property with my own eyes. I found the conditions to be as stated. Many of the walls and barns are in considerable disrepair, while the field-boundaries display frequent gaps, due to insufficient attention to proper hedging and ditching. The drainage, also (which, as your lordship knows, is of paramount importance in this part of the country) is, in many places very defective. In particular a large field (known as the 16-acre) was allowed to remain (as I am informed) in a waterlogged condition all winter. Arrangements for the drainage of this piece of arable were commenced last summer, but proceeded no further than the purchase of the necessary quantities of pantiles, the cost of labour interfering with the progress of the work. In consequence, this piece of land (which adjoins the washes of the 100-foot level) is at present useless and sour.
‘Personally, Mr Weldon appears to be fairly well liked in the neighbourhood, except that his manner is said to be somewhat too free with the ladies. He is reckoned as a sportsman, and is frequently seen at Newmarket. It is also rumoured that he supports a lady in a highly desirable little establishment in Cambridge. Mr Weldon is considered to have a very good knowledge of animals, but to be somewhat ignorant or careless of the agricultural aspect of farming.
‘His house is kept by an elderly man and his wife, who exercise the respective functions of cowman and dairymaid. They appear respectable and, from the conversation which I had with the woman when requesting the favour of a glass of milk, honest people with nothing to hide. She informed me that Mr Weldon lived quietly, when at home, keeping himself to himself. He receives few visitors, apart from the local farmers. During the six years that these people have been with him, his mother has visited him on three occasions (all within the first two years of this period). Also, on two occasions he has had a visitor from London, a small gentleman with a beard and said to be an invalid. This gentleman last stayed with him at the end of February this year. The woman (Mrs Sterne) preserved a perfect discretion on the subject of her employer’s financial circumstances, but I have ascertained from Hogben that she and her husband have been privately inquiring after another situation.
‘This is all that I have been able to discover in the short time at my disposal. (I should have mentioned that I proceeded by train to Cambridge, hiring an automobile there to sustain the character allotted to me and arriving here about Thursday noon.) If your lordship so desires, I can remain and pursue my inquiries further. Your lordship will forgive my reminding you that it is advisable to remove the links from the shirtcuffs before dispatching the garment to the laundry. It gives me great anxiety to feel that I may not be at hand to attend to the matter myself on Monday, and I should feel it deeply if there was any repetition of the disagreeable accident which occurred on the occasion of my last absence. I omitted to inform your lordship before leaving that the pin-stripe lounge suit must on no account be worn again until the slit in the right-hand pocket has been attended to. I cannot account for its presence, except by supposing that your lordship has inadvertently used the pocket for the transport of some heavy and sharp-edged article.
‘I trust that your lordship is enjoying favourable climatic conditions and that the investigation is progressing according to expectation. My respectful compliments to Miss Vane, and believe me, my lord,
‘Obediently yours,
‘Mervyn Bunter.’
This document reached Wimsey on the Saturday afternoon, and in the evening he received a visit from Inspector Umpelty, to whom he submitted it.
The Inspector nodded.
‘We’ve received much the same information,’ he observed. ‘There’s a bit more detail in your man’s letter – what the deuce are pantiles? – but I think we may take it for granted that our friend Weldon is a bit up the pole financially. However, that’s not what I came round about. The fact is, we’ve found the original of that photo.’
‘You have? The fair Feodora?’
‘Yes,’ replied the Inspector, with modest triumph, and yet with a kind of mental reservation behind the triumph, ‘the fair Feodora – only she says she isn’t.’
Wimsey raised his eyebrows, or, to be more accurate, the one eyebrow which was not occupied in keeping his monocle in place.
‘Then if she isn’t herself, who is she?’
‘She says she’s Olga Kohn. I’ve got her letter here.’ The Inspector rummaged in his breast pocket. ‘Writes a good letter, and in a very pretty hand, I must say.’
Wimsey took the blue sheet of paper and cocked a knowing eye at it.
‘Very dainty. As supplied by Mr Selfridge’s fancy counter to the nobility and gentry. Ornate initial “O” on royal blue and gilt. A pretty hand, as you say, highly self-conscious. Intensely elegant envelope to match; posted in the Piccadilly district last post on Friday night, and addressed to the Wilvercombe coroner. Well, well. Let us see what the lady has to say for herself.’
‘159 Regent Square,
‘Bloomsbury.
‘Dear Sir,
‘I read the account of the inquest on Paul Alexis in tonight’s paper and was very much surprised to see my photograph. I can assure you that I have nothing to do with the case and I cannot imagine how the photograph came to be on the dead body or signed with a name which is not mine. I never met anybody called Alexis that I know of and it is not my writing on the photograph. I am a mannequin by profession, so there are quite a lot of my photographs about, so I suppose somebody must have got hold of it. I am afraid I know nothing about this poor Mr Alexis so I cannot be of much help to you, but I thought I ought to write and tell you that it was my photograph which was in the paper.
‘I cannot say at all how it can have got mixed up with the case, but of course I shall be glad to tell you anything I can. The photograph was taken about a year ago by Messrs Frith of Wardour Street. I enclose another copy so that you can see it is the same. It is one I used when applying for an engagement as mannequin, and I sent it to a great many heads of big firms, also to some theatrical agents. I am at present engaged as mannequin to Messrs Doré & Cie, of Hanover Square. I have been six months with them and they would give you references as to my character. I should be very glad to find out how the photograph got into Mr Alexis’ hands, as the gentleman to whom I am engaged is very upset about it all. Excuse me for troubling you, but I thought it right to let you know, though I am afraid I cannot be of much help.
‘Yours faithfully,
‘Olga Koh
n.’
‘And what do you make of that, my lord.’
‘God knows. The young woman may be lying, of course, but somehow I don’t think she is. I feel that the bit about the gentleman who is very upset rings true. Olga Kohn – who sounds like a Russian Jewess – is not precisely out of the top-drawer, as my mother would say, and was obviously not educated at Oxford or Cambridge, but though she repeats herself a good deal, she is businesslike, and her letter is full of useful facts. Also, if the photograph resembles her, she is easy to look at. What do you say to running up to Town and interviewing the lady? I will provide the transport, and tomorrow being Sunday, we shall probably find her at leisure. Shall we depart, like two gay bachelors, to find Olga Feodora and take her out to tea?’
The Inspector seemed to think that this was a good idea.
‘We will ask her if she knows Mr Henry Weldon, that squire of dames. Have you a photograph of him, by the way?’
The Inspector had an excellent snapshot, taken at the inquest by a press photographer. A wire was sent to Miss Olga Kohn, warning her of the impending visit and, having made the necessary arrangements at the police-station, the Inspector heaved his large bulk into Wimsey’s Daimler and was transported with perilous swiftness to London. They ran up that night, snatched a few hours of repose at Wimsey’s flat and, in the morning, set out for Regent Square.