“Did he live in Crofton?”
“No, sir, in Croftover Magna, twelve miles from here. Pointer & Winkin have his business now, but they’re young men, and I don’t know much about them.”
Having by this time heard all the Coblings had to tell, Wimsey and Parker gradually disentangled themselves and took their leave.
“Well, Cousin Hallelujah’s a wash-out,” said Parker.
“Possibly—possibly not. There may be some connection. Still, I certainly think the disgraceful and papistical Mr. Paul is more promising. Obviously Mr. Probyn is the bird to get hold of. You realise who he is?”
“He’s the mysterious solicitor, I suppose.”
“Of course he is. He knows why Miss Dawson ought to have made her will. And we’re going straight off to Croftover Magna to look up Messrs. Pointer & Winkin, and see what they have to say about it.”
Unhappily, Messrs. Pointer & Winkin had nothing to say whatever. Miss Dawson had withdrawn her affairs from Mr. Probyn’s hands and had lodged all the papers with her new solicitor. Messrs. Pointer & Winkin had never had any connection with the Dawson family. They had no objection, however, to furnishing Mr. Probyn’s address—Villa Bianca, Fiesole. They regretted that they could be of no further assistance to Lord Peter Wimsey and Mr. Parker. Good morning.
“Short and sour,” was his lordship’s comment. “Well, well—we’ll have a spot of lunch and write a letter to Mr. Probyn and another to my good friend Bishop Lambert of the Orinoco Mission to get a line on Cousin Hallelujah, Smile, smile, smile. As Ingoldsby says: ‘The breezes are blowing a race, a race! The breezes are blowing—we near the chase!’ Do ye ken John Peel? Likewise, know’st thou the land where blooms the citron-flower? Well, never mind if you don’t—you can always look forward to going there for your honeymoon.”