 Clouds of Witness A Lord Peter Wimsey Mystery by Dorothy L. Sayers Narrated by Ian Carmichael The Solution of the Riddlesdale Mystery with the report of the Trial of the Duke of Denver before the House of Lords for Murder Chapter 1 Of His Malice of Forthort Oh, who hath done this deed? A Fellow Lord Peter Wimsey stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets provided by the Hotel Maurice. After his exertions in the unraveling of the Battersey Mystery, he'd followed Sir Julian Freik's advice and taken a holiday. He'd felt suddenly weary of breakfasting every morning before his view over the Green Park. He'd realised that the picking up of first editions at sales afforded insufficient exercise for a man of 33. The very crimes of London were over-sophisticated. He'd abandoned his flat and his friends and fled to the Wiles of Corsica. For the last three months he had foresworn 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 had nobly sacrificed his civilised habits, had let his master go dirty and even unshaven and had turned his faithful camera from the recording of Pinker Prince 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 lampshade and the shape of the telephone. The noise of running water nearby proclaimed that Bunter had turned on the bath H and 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 Contrast, philosophised 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 we 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... Sample complete. Ready to continue?