The Case of the Late Pig

'He's worried, isn't he?' she said under her breath, and then went on, as though she had suddenly remembered who I was, 'I'm afraid you must go and dress at once. You've only got ten minutes. Leave the car here and I'll send someone to take it round.'

I have known Janet, on and off, for twenty-three years. When I first saw her she was bald and pinkly horrible. I was almost sick at the sight of her, and was sent out into the garden until I had recovered my manners. Her formality both hurt and astonished me, therefore.

'All right,' I said, anxious to be accommodating at all costs. 'I won't wash.'

She looked at me critically. She has very fine eyes, like Leo's, only larger.

'I should,' she said gently. 'You show the dirt, don't you? — like a white fur.'

I took her hand. 'Friends, eh?' I said anxiously.

She laughed, but not very naturally.

'My dear, of course. Oh, by the way, your friend called at about half past six, but didn't stay. I said I expected you for dinner.'

'Lugg,' I said apprehensively, a great light dawning upon me. 'What's he done?'

'Oh, not Lugg.' She spoke with contempt. 'I like Lugg. Your girl-friend.'

The situation was getting out of hand.

'It's all a lie,' I said. 'There is no other woman. Did she leave a name?'

'She did.' There was grimness and I thought spite in Janet's tone. 'Miss Effie Rowlandson.'

'Never heard of her,' I said honestly. 'Was she a nice girl?'

'No,' said Janet explosively, and ran into the house.

I went into Highwaters alone. Old Pepper, pottering about in the hall doing the odd jobs that butlers do do, seemed pleased to see me, and I was glad of that. After a gracious though formal greeting, 'A letter for you, sir,' he said, in the same way as a man might say, 'I am happy to present you with a medal.' 'It came this morning, and I was about to readdress it and send it on to you, when Sir Leo informed me that we were to expect you this evening.'

He retired to his private cubby-hole at the back of the hall and returned with an envelope.

'You are in your usual room, sir, in the east wing,' he said, as he came up. 'I will send George with your cases immediately. It wants but seven minutes before the gong.'

I glanced at the envelope in my hand as he was sauntering off, and I suppose I hiccuped or something, for he glanced round at me with kindly concern.

'I beg your pardon, sir?'

'Nothing, Pepper,' I said, confirming his worst fears, and, tearing open the envelope, I read the second anonymous letter as I went up to my room. It was as neatly typed and precisely punctuated as the first had been, quite a pleasure to read.

'O,' saith the owl. 'Oho,' sobbeth the frog. 'O-oh,' mourneth the worm. 'Where is Peters that was promised us?'

The Angel weepeth behind golden bars. His wings cover his face. 'Piero,' weepeth the Angel.

Why should these things be? Who was he to disturb the heavens?

Consider, o consider the lowly mole. His small hands are sore and his snout bleedeth.

CHAPTER 5. NICE PEOPLE

'It's the nature-note motif I find confusing,' I confided to Lugg as I dressed. 'See any point in it at all?'

He threw the letter aside and smiled at me with unexpected sheepishness. Sentiment glistened all over his face.

'Pore little mole,' he said.

I gaped at him, and he had the grace to look abashed. He recovered his truculence almost at once, however.

'That walk,' he began darkly. 'I'm glad you've come in. I've bin waitin' to talk to you. What do you think I am? A perishin' centipede? Green bus, my old sock!'

'You're getting old,' I said offensively. 'See if your mental faculties have failed as far as your physique has deteriorated. I have four minutes to get down to the dining-room. Does that letter convey anything to you or not? It was sent here. It arrived this morning.'

The dig touched him and his great white face was reproachful as he reread the note, his lips moving soundlessly.

'A owl, a frog, a worm and an angel are all upset because they can't find this 'ere Peters,' he said at last. 'That's clear, ain't it?'

'Dazzlingly,' I agreed. 'And it would suggest that the writer knew Peters was not dead, which is interesting, because he is. The fellow I've been to see in the mortuary is — or rather was — Peters himself. He died this morning.'

Lugg eyed me. ''Avin' a game?' he inquired coldly.

I considered him with disgust as I struggled with my collar, and presently he continued without help, making an obvious effort to get his mind working.

'This mornin'? Reely?' he said. 'Died, did he? What of?'

'Flower pot on the head, with intent.'