Clouds of Witness

The gale had blown itself out into a wonderful fresh day, with clear spaces of sky, and a high wind rolling boulders of cumulus down the blue slopes of air.

The prisoner had been wrangling for an hour with his advisers when finally they came into court, and even Sir Impey's classical face showed flushed between the wings of his wig.

"I'm not going to say anything," said the Duke obstinately. "Rotten thing to do. I suppose I can't prevent you callin' her if she insists on comin'-damn' good of her-makes me feel no end of a beast."

"Better leave it at that," said Mr. Murbles. "Makes a good impression, you know. Let him go into the box and behave like a perfect gentleman. They'll like it."

Sir Impey, who had sat through the small hours altering his speech, nodded.

The first witness that day came as something of a surprise. She gave her name and address as Eliza Briggs, known as Madame Brigette of New Bond Street, and her occupation as beauty specialist and perfumer. She had a large and aristocratic clientele of both sexes, and a branch in Paris.

Deceased had been a client of hers in both cities for several years. He had massage and manicure. After the war he had come to her about some slight scars caused by grazing with shrapnel. He was extremely particular about his personal appearance, and, if you called that vanity in a man, you might certainly say he was vain. Thank you. Sir Wigmore Wrinching made no attempt to cross-examine the witness, and the noble lords wondered to one another what it was all about.

At this point Sir Impey Biggs leaned forward, and, tapping his brief impressively with his forefinger, began:

"My lords, so strong is our case that we had not thought it necessary to present an alibi-" when an officer of the court rushed up from a little whirlpool of commotion by the door and excitedly thrust a note into his hand. Sir Impey read, coloured, glanced down the hall, put down his brief, folded his hands over it, and said in a sudden, loud voice which penetrated even to the deaf ear of the Duke of Wiltshire: "My lords, I am happy to say that our missing witness is here. I call Lord Peter Wimsey."

Every neck was at once craned, and every eye focused on the very grubby and oily figure that came amiably trotting up the long room. Sir Impey Biggs passed the note down to Mr. Murbles, and, turning to the witness, who was yawning frightfully in the intervals of grinning at all his acquaintances, demanded that he should be sworn.

The witness's story was as follows:

"I am Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, brother of the accused. I live at 110a Piccadilly. In consequence of what I read on that bit of blotting-paper which I now identify I went to Paris to look for a certain lady. The name of the lady is Mademoiselle Simone Vonderaa. I found she had left Paris in company with a man named Van Humperdinck. I followed her, and at length came up with her in New York. I asked her to give me the letter Cathcart wrote on the night of his death. (Sensation.) I produce that letter, with Mademoiselle Vonderaa's signature on the corner, so that it can be identified if Wiggy there tries to put it over you. (Joyous sensation, in which the indignant protests of prosecuting counsel were drowned.) And I'm sorry I've given you such short notice of this, old man, but I only got it the day before yesterday. We came as quick as we could, but we had to come down near Whitehaven with engine trouble, and if we had come down half a mile sooner I shouldn't be here now." (Applause, hurriedly checked by the Lord High Steward.)

"My lords," said Sir Impey, "your lordships are witnesses that I have never seen this letter in my life before. I have no idea of its contents; yet so positive am I that it cannot but assist my noble client's case, that I am willing-nay, eager-to put in this document immediately, as it stands, without perusal, to stand or fall by the contents."

"The handwriting must be identified as that of the deceased," interposed the Lord High Steward.

The ravening pencils of the reporters tore along the paper. The lean young man who worked for the Daily Trumpet scented a scandal in high life and licked his lips, never knowing what a much bigger one had escaped him by a bare minute or so.

Miss Lydia Cathcart was recalled to identify the handwriting, and the letter was handed to the Lord High Steward, who announced: "The letter is in French. We shall have to swear an interpreter."

"You will find," said the witness suddenly, "that those bits of words on the blotting-paper come out of the letter. You'll 'scuse my mentioning it."

"Is this person put forward as an expert witness?" inquired Sir Wigmore witheringly.

"Right ho!" said Lord Peter. "Only, you see, it has been rather sprung on Biggy as you might say.

"Biggy and Wiggy

Were two pretty men,

They went into court,

When the clock-"

"Sir Impey, I must really ask you to keep your witness in order."

Lord Peter grinned, and a pause ensued while an interpreter was fetched and sworn. Then, at last, the letter was read, amid a breathless silence:

"Riddlesdale Lodge,

"Stapley,

"N.E. Yorks.

"Le 13 Octobre, 1923.

"Simone,-Je viens de recevoir ta lettre. Que dire? Inutiles, les prieres ou les reproches. Tu ne comprendras-tu ne liras meme pas.

"N'ai-je pas toujours su, d'ailleurs, que tu devais infailliblement me trahir? Depuis dix, ans deja je souffre tous les tourments que puisse infliger la jalousie. Je comprends bien que to n'as jamais voulu me faire de la peine. C'est tout justement cette insouciance, cette legereté, cette façon seduisante d'etre malhonneté, que j'adorais en toi. J'ai tout su, et je t'ai aimée.

"Ma foi, non, ma chere, jamais je n'ai eu la moindre illusion. Te rappelles-tu cette premiere rencontre, un soir au Casino? Tu avais dix-sept ans, et tu etais jolie a ravir. Le lendemain tu fus a moi. Tu m'as dit, si gentiment, que to m'aimais bien, et que j'etais, moi, le premier. Ma pauvre enfant, tu en as menti. Tu rials, toute seule, de ma naiveté-il y avait bien de quoi rire! Des notre premier baiser, j'ai prevu ce moment.

"Mais ecoute, Simone. J'ai la faiblesse de vouloir te montrer exactement ce que tu as fait de moi. Tu regretteras peut-etre en peu. Mais, non-si tu pouvais regretter quoi que ce fut, tu ne serais plus Simone.

"Il y a dix ans, la veille de la guerre, j'etais riche-moins riche que ton Americain, mais assez riche pour te donner l'etablissement qu'il te fallait. Tu etais moins exigeante avant le guerre, Simone-qui est-ce qui, pendant mon absence, t'a enseigne le gout du luxe? Charmante discretion de ma part de ne jamais te le demander! Eh bien, une grande partie de ma fortune se trouvant placee en Russie et en Allemagne, j'en ai perdu plus des trois-quarts. Ce que m'en restait en France a beaucoup diminue en valeur. Il est vrai que j'avais mon traitement de capitaine dans l'armée britannique, mais c'est peu de chose, tu sais. Avant meme la fin de la guerre, tu m'avais mangé toutes mes economies. C'etait idiot, quoi? Un jeune homme que à perdu les trois-quarts de ses rentes ne se permet plus une maitresse et un appartement Avenue Kleber. Ou il congedie madame, ou bien il lui demande quelques sacrifices. Je n'ai rien osé demander. Si j'etais venu un jour te dire, 'Simone je suis pauvre'-que m'aurais-tu repondu?

"Sais-tu ce que j'ai fait? Non-tu n'as jamais pensé a demander d'ou venait cet argent. Qu'est-ce que cela pouvait te faire que j'ai tout jeté-fortune, honneur, bonheur-pour te posseder? J'ai joue desesperement, eperdument-j'ai fait pis: j'ai triché au jeu. Je te vois hausser les epaules-tu ris-tu dis, 'Tiens, c'est malin, ça!' Out, mais cela ne se fait pas. On m'aurait chasse du regiment. Je devenais le dernier des hommes.

"D'ailleurs, cela ne pouvait durer. Deja un soir a Paris on m'a fait une scene desagreable, bien qu'on n'ait rien pu prouver. C'est alors que je me suis fiancé avec cette demoiselle dont je t'ai parlé, la fille du duc anglais. Le beau projet, quoi! Entretenir ma maitresse avec 1'argent de ma femme! Et je l'aurais fait-et je le ferais encore demain, si c'etait pour te reposseder.

"Mais tu me quittes. Cet Americain est riche-archi-riche. Depuis longtemps tu me repetes que ton appartement est trop petit et que tu t'ennuies a mourir. Cet ami bienveillant t'offre les autos, les diamants, les mille-et-une nuits, la lune! Aupres de ces merveilles, evidemment, que valent 1'amour et l'honneur?

"Enfin, le bon duc est d'une stupidité très commode. Il laisse trainer son revolver dans le tiroir de son bureau. D'ailleurs, il vient de me demander une explication à propos de cette histoire de cartes. Tu vois qu'en tout cas la partie etait finie. Pourquoi t'en vouloir? On mettra sans doute mon suicide au compte de cet exposé. Tant mieux; je ne veux pas qu'on affiche mon histoire amoureuse dans les journaux.

"Adieu, ma bien-aimée-mon adorée, mon adorée, ma Simone. Sois heureuse avec ton nouvel amant. Ne pense plus a moi. Qu'est-ce tout cela peut bien te faire? Mon Dieu, comme je t'ai aimée-comme je t'aime toujours, malgré moi. Mais c'en est fini. Jamais plus tu ne me perceras le coeur. Oh! J'enrage-je suis fou de douleur! Adieu.

"Denis Cathcart."