Clouds of Witness: A Lord Peter Wimsey Mystery (Vintage Classics) - Softcover

Buch 2 von 15: The Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries

Sayers, Dorothy L.

 
9780593466377: Clouds of Witness: A Lord Peter Wimsey Mystery (Vintage Classics)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593466373 ISBN 13: 9780593466377
Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

A witty and clever whodunit by one of the greatest mystery writers of the twentieth century, featuring her dashing amateur sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey.

“Sayers brought to the detective novel originality, intelligence, and wit. She gave it a new style and a new direction, and she did more than almost any other writer of her age to make the genre intellectually respectable.” —P. D. James, bestselling author of the Inspector Adam Dalgliesh series

In Clouds of Witness, when the fiancé of Lord Peter's sister, Mary, is found dead outside the conservatory of the Wimsey family's shooting lodge in Yorkshire, the evidence points in an unfortunate direction. Their older brother, Gerald, the Duke of Denver, appears to be the culprit and is accordingly arrested and put on trial. To clear the family name, Lord Peter and his friend Inspector Charles Parker scour the lodge's grounds, finding tantalizing clues that include mysterious footprints, a piece of jewelry, and a cat-shaped charm. Lord Peter works to unravel a string of apparent coincidences, all the while not knowing whether the truth he seeks will save his brother—or condemn him.
 
A VINTAGE MYSTERY CLASSIC.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

DOROTHY L. SAYERS (1893-1957) was an English poet, writer, and student of classical languages. She was one of the first women to be awarded a degree by Oxford University and later worked as a copywriter at an ad agency. She was best known for her mystery novels and for her translation of Dante's Divine Comedy.

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I

Of His Malice Aforethought

O, who hath done this deed?
Othello

Lord Peter Wimsey stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets provided by the Hôtel Meurice. After his exertions in the unraveling of the Battersea Mystery, he had followed Sir Julian Freke’s advice and taken a holiday. He had felt suddenly weary of breakfasting every morning before his view over the Green Park; he had realized that the picking up of first editions at sales afforded insufficient exercise for a man of thirty-three; the very crimes of London were over-sophisticated. He had abandoned his flat and his friends and fled to the wilds of Corsica. For the last three months he had forsworn letters, newspapers, and telegrams. He had tramped about the mountains, admiring from a cautious distance the wild beauty of Corsican peasant-women, and studying the vendetta in its natural haunt. In such conditions murder seemed not only reasonable, but lovable. Bunter, his confidential man and assistant sleuth, had nobly sacrificed his civilized habits, had let his master go dirty and even unshaven, and had turned his faithful camera from the recording of fingerprints to that of craggy scenery. It had been very refreshing.

Now, however, the call of the blood was upon Lord Peter. They had returned late last night in a vile train to Paris, and had picked up their luggage. The autumn light, filtering through the curtains, touched caressingly the silver-topped bottles on the dressing-table, outlined an electric lamp-shade and the shape of the telephone. A noise of running water near by proclaimed that Bunter had turned on the bath (h. & c.) and was laying out scented soap, bath-salts, the huge bath-sponge, for which there had been no scope in Corsica, and the delightful flesh-brush with the long handle, which rasped you so agreeably all down the spine. “Contrast,” philosophized Lord Peter sleepily, “is life. Corsica—Paris—then London. . . . Good morning, Bunter.”

“Good morning, my lord. Fine morning, my lord. Your lordship’s bath-water is ready.”

“Thanks,” said Lord Peter. He blinked at the sunlight.

It was a glorious bath. He wondered, as he soaked in it, how he could have existed in Corsica. He wallowed happily and sang a few bars of a song. In a soporific interval he heard the valet de chambre bringing in coffee and rolls. Coffee and rolls! He heaved himself out with a splash, toweled himself luxuriously, enveloped his long mortified body in a silken bath-robe, and wandered back.

To his immense surprise he perceived Mr. Bunter calmly replacing all the fittings in his dressing-case. Another astonished glance showed him the bags—scarcely opened the previous night—repacked, relabeled, and standing ready for a journey.

“I say, Bunter, what’s up?” said his lordship. “We’re stayin’ here a fortnight y’know.”

“Excuse me, my lord,” said Mr. Bunter, deferentially, “but, having seen The Times (delivered here every morning by air, my lord; and very expeditious I’m sure, all things considered), I made no doubt your lordship would be wishing to go to Riddlesdale at once.”

“Riddlesdale!” exclaimed Peter. “What’s the matter? Anything wrong with my brother?”

For answer Mr. Bunter handed him the paper, folded open at the heading:

RIDDLESDALE INQUEST.

DUKE OF DENVER ARRESTED

ON MURDER CHARGE.

Lord Peter stared as if hypnotized.

“I thought your lordship wouldn’t wish to miss anything,” said Mr. Bunter, “so I took the liberty—”

Lord Peter pulled himself together.

“When’s the next train?” he asked.

“I beg your lordship’s pardon—I thought your lordship would wish to take the quickest route. I took it on myself to book two seats in the airplane Victoria. She starts at 11:30.”

Lord Peter looked at his watch.

“Ten o’clock,” he said. “Very well. You did quite right. Dear me! Poor old Gerald arrested for murder. Uncommonly worryin’ for him, poor chap. Always hated my bein’ mixed up with police-courts. Now he’s there himself. Lord Peter Wimsey in the witness-box—very distressin’ to feelin’s of a brother. Duke of Denver in the dock—worse still. Dear me! Well, I suppose one must have breakfast.”

“Yes, my lord. Full account of the inquest in the paper, my lord.”

“Yes. Who’s on the case, by the way?”

“Mr. Parker, my lord.”

“Parker? That’s good. Splendid old Parker! Wonder how he managed to get put on to it. How do things look, Bunter?”

“If I may say so, my lord, I fancy the investigations will prove very interesting. There are several extremely suggestive points in the evidence, my lord.”

“From a criminological point of view I daresay it is interesting,” replied his lordship, sitting down cheerfully to his café au lait, “but it’s deuced awkward for my brother, all the same, havin’ no turn for criminology, what?”

“Ah, well!” said Mr. Bunter, “they say, my lord, there’s nothing like having a personal interest.”

“The inquest was held today at Riddlesdale, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, on the body of Captain Denis Cathcart, which was found at three o’clock on Thursday morning lying just outside the conservatory door of the Duke of Denver’s shooting-box. Riddlesdale Lodge. Evidence was given to show that deceased had quarreled with the Duke of Denver on the preceding evening, and was subsequently shot in a small thicket adjoining the house. A pistol belonging to the Duke was found near the scene of the crime. A verdict of murder was returned against the Duke of Denver. Lady Mary Wimsey, sister of the Duke, who was engaged to be married to the deceased, collapsed after giving evidence, and is now lying seriously ill at the Lodge. The Duchess of Denver hastened from town yesterday and was present at the inquest. Full report on p. 12.”

“Poor old Gerald!” thought Lord Peter, as he turned to page 12; “and poor old Mary! I wonder if she really was fond of the fellow. Mother always said not, but Mary never would let on about herself.”

The full report began by describing the little village of Riddlesdale, where the Duke of Denver had recently taken a small shooting-box for the season. When the tragedy occurred the Duke had been staying there with a party of guests. In the Duchess’s absence Lady Mary Wimsey had acted as hostess. The other guests were Colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks, the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot, Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew-Robinson, and the dead man, Denis Cathcart.

The first witness was the Duke of Denver, who claimed to have discovered the body. He gave evidence that he was coming into the house by the conservatory door at three o’clock in the morning of Thursday, October 14th, when his foot struck against something. He had switched on his electric torch and seen the body of Denis Cathcart at his feet. He had at once turned it over, and seen that Cathcart had been shot in the chest. He was quite dead. As Denver was bending over the body, he heard a cry in the conservatory, and, looking up, saw Lady Mary Wimsey gazing out horror-struck. She came out by the conservatory door, and exclaimed at once, “O God, Gerald, you’ve killed him!” (Sensation.)

The Coroner: “Were you surprised by that remark?”

Duke of D.: “Well, I was so shocked and surprised at the whole thing. I think I said to her,...

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Verlag
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593466373
ISBN 13 
9780593466377
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
304
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Friedensallee 273
Hamburg
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Deutschland

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