Free Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

which really proves that we’ve been on the wrong tack, you’ll let us know, won’t you? We don’t want to make large and ignominious public mistakes.”
    “Well – I’ve just earnestly promised the defence that I’ll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I’ll let you arrest him.”
    “Thanks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Funny for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn’t it?”
    “Very,” said Wimsey. “I’m sorry about it, but it’s your own fault.”
    “You shouldn’t have been out of England. By the way -”
    “Yes?”
    “You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi.”
    “Oh, shut up!” said Wimsey, crossly, and went out.

CHAPTER VI
    The next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. “Mrs. Merdle” the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to “row,” was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits.
    Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o’clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent’s income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead.
    The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey.
    The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated.
    Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently aroused no associations in the mind of this gentle and unworldly parson. He decided not to mention his hobby of criminal investigation, but to represent himself, with equal truth, as a friend of the prisoner’s. That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, with some hesitation:
    “I’m fearfully sorry to trouble you, especially as it’s all so very distressin’ and that, but it’s about the death of your son, and the trial and so on. Please don’t think I’m wanting to make an interfering nuisance of myself, but I’m deeply interested – personally interested. You see, I know Miss Vane – I – in fact I like her very much, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking there’s a mistake somewhere and – and I should like to get it put right if possible.”
    “Oh – oh, yes!” said Mr. Boyes. He carefully polished a pair of pince-nez and balanced them on his nose, where they sat crookedly. He peered at Wimsey and seemed not to dislike what he saw, for he went on:
    “Poor misguided girl! I assure you, I have no vindictive feelings – that is to say, nobody would be more happy than myself to know that she was innocent of this dreadful thing. Indeed, Lord Peter, even if she were guilty, it would give me great pain to see her suffer the penalty. Whatever we do we cannot bring back the dead to life, and one would infinitely prefer to leave all vengeance in the hand of Him to whom it belongs. Certainly, nothing could be more terrible than to take the life of an innocent person. It would haunt me to the end of my days if I thought there were the least likelihood of it. And I confess that, when I saw Miss Vane in court, I had grievous doubts whether the police had done rightly accusing her.”
    “Thank you,” said Wimsey, “it is very kind of you to say that. It makes the job much easier. Excuse me, you say, ‘when you saw her in court.’ You hadn’t met her previously?”
    “No. I knew, of course, that my unhappy son had formed an illicit connection with a young woman, but – I could not