Busman’s Honeymoon

  
That will ask some tears in the true performing of it; if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure ... I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split ... a lover is more condoling.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE:
A Midsummer-Night’s Dream.

  DEAR MURIEL, HELEN AND BAR,

  With what extreme of womanly patience you listened to the tale of
Busman’s Honeymoon
while it was being written, THE LORD HE KNOWETH. I do not like to think how many times I tired the sun with talking—and if at any time they had told me you were dead, I should easily have believed that I had talked you into your graves. But you have strangely survived to receive these thanks. You, Muriel, were in some sort a predestined victim, since you wrote with me the play to which this novel is but the limbs and outward flourishes; my debt and your long-suffering are all the greater. You, Helen, and Bar were wantonly sacrificed on the altar of that friendship of which the female sex is said to be incapable; let the lie stick i’ the wall! To all three I humbly bring, I dedicate with tears, this sentimental comedy.

  It has been said, by myself and others, that a love-interest is only an intrusion upon a detective story. But to the characters involved, the detective-interest might well seem an irritating intrusion upon their love-story. This book deals with such a situation. It also provides some sort of answer to many kindly inquiries as to how Lord Peter and his Harriet solved their matrimonial problem. If there is but a ha’porth of detection to an intolerable deal of saccharine, let the occasion be the excuse.

  Yours in all gratitude,

  DOROTHY L. SAYERS.

  WIMSEY–VANE. On the 8th October at St Cross Church Oxford, Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, son of the late Gerald Mortimer Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, to Harriet Vane, daughter of the late Henry Vane, M.D., of Great Pagford, Herts.

  MY DEAR HONORIA,

  So Peter is really married: I have ordered willow-wreaths for half my acquaintance. I understand that it is a deciduous tree; if nothing is available but the bare rods, I shall distribute them all the same, for the better beating of breasts.

  Honestly, as one frank old woman to the other, how do you feel about it? A cynic should have cause to be grateful, since to see your amorous sweet devil of a son wedded to an Oxford-Bloomsbury blue-stocking should add considerably to the gaiety of the season. I am not too blind to see through Peter, with all his affectations, and if I had been hall a century younger I would have married him myself, for the fun of it. But is this girl flesh and blood? You say she is passionately devoted to him, and I know, of course, that she once had a half-baked affair with a poet—but. Heaven deliver us, what’s a poet? Something that can’t go to bed without making a song about it. Peter wants more than a devoted admirer to’ hold his hand and recite verses to him; and he has a foolish, pleasant trick of keeping to one woman at a time, which he may find inconvenient in a permanent relationship. Not that many marriages can be called permanent these days, but I can’t see Peter exhibiting himself in the Divorce Courts for his own amusement, though, no doubt, if asked to oblige, he would carry it through with an air. (Which reminds me that my idiot great-nephew, Hughie, has bungled matters as usual. Having undertaken to do the thing like a gentleman, he sneaked off to Brighton with a hired nobody, and the Judge wouldn’t believe either the hotel bills or the chamber maid—knowing them all too well by sight. So it means starting all over again from the beginning.)

  Well, my dear, we shall see what we shall see, and you may be sure I shall do my best for Peter’s wife, if only to spite Helen, who no will doubtless make everything as unpleasant as possible for her new sister-in-law. Naturally, I pay no attention to her snobbish nonsense about misalliances, which is ridiculous and out-of-date. Compared with the riff-raff we are getting in now from the films and the night-clubs, a country doctor’s daughter, even with a poet in her past, is a miracle of respectability. If the young woman has brains and bowels, she will suit well enough. Do you suppose they intend to have any children? Helen will be furious if they do, as she has always counted on Peter’s money going to Saint George. Denver, if I know anything about him, will be more concerned to secure the succession in case Saint-George breaks his neck in that car of his. Whatever they do, somebody will be indignant, so I imagine they will please themselves. I was sorry I could not come to the reception—you seem to have diddled the Press very neatly—but my asthma has been very bad lately. Still, I must be thankful to have retained my faculties and my sense of humour so long. Felt Peter to bring his Harriet to see me as soon as they return from this mysterious honeymoon of theirs, and believe me, dear Honoria, always (in spite of my venomous old tongue)

  Most affectionately yours,

  MIRABELLE SEVERN AND THAMES.

  ... Well, dear, prepare for a shock! Peter Wimsey is married—yes, actually
married
—to that extraordinary young woman who lived with a Bolshevist or a musician or something, and murdered him, or something—I forget exactly, it was all ages ago, and such odd things happen every day, don’t they? It seems a sad waste, with all that money—but it does rather go to show, doesn’t it, that there is something not quite right about the Wimseys—the third cousin, you know, the one that lives shut up in a little villa at Monte, is
more
than eccentric—and in any case Peter must be forty-five if he’s a day. You know, dear, I always thought you were a little unwise to try to get him for Monica, though of course I didn’t like to say so when you were working so hard to bring it off ...

  ... Of course,
the
sensation is the Wimsey-Vane marriage. It must be a sort of sociological experiment. I should think, because, as you know, darling, he is the world’s chilliest prig and I’m
definitely
sorry for the girl, in spite of the money and the title and everything, because
nothing
would make up for being tied to a chattering icicle in an eyeglass, my dear, too weary-making. Not that it’s likely to last ...

  MY DEAR MARJORIE,

  Thank you for your kind inquiries. Tuesday was indeed a most exhausting day, though I am feeling rather more rested this evening. But it has been a very trying time for all of us. Peter, of course, was just as tiresome as he could be, and that is saying a good deal. First of all, he insisted on being married in church, though, considering everything, I should have thought the Registrar’s Office would have been more appropriate. However, we resigned ourselves to St George’s, Hanover Square, and I was prepared to do everything in my power to see that the thing was done properly, if it had to be done at all. But my mother-in-law took it all out of my hands, though I am sure we were distinctly given to understand that the wedding would take place on the day
I
had suggested, that is, next Wednesday. But this, as you will see, was just one of Peter’s monkey tricks. I feel the slight very much, particularly as we had gone out of our way to be civil to the girl, and had asked her to dinner.

  Well! Last Monday evening, when we were down at Denver, we got a wire from Peter, which coolly said, ‘If you really want to see me married, try St Cross Church, Oxford, tomorrow at two.’ I was furious—all that distance and my frock not ready, and, to make things worse, Gerald, who had asked sixteen people down for the shooting, laughed like an idiot, and said, ‘Good for Peter!’ He insisted on our both going, just like that, leaving all our guests to look after themselves. I strongly suspect Gerald of having known all about it beforehand, though he swears he didn’t. Anyway, Jerry knew all right, and that’s why he stayed in London. I am always telling Jerry that his uncle means more to him than his own parents; and I needn’t tell you that I consider Peter’s influence most pernicious for a boy of his age. Gerald, man-like, said Peter had a right to get married when and where he liked; he never considers the embarrassment and discomfort these eccentricities cause to other people.

  We went to Oxford and found the place—an obscure little church in a side-street, very gloomy and damp-looking. It turned out that the bride (who,
mercifully,
has no living relations) was being married from a Women’s College, of all places. I was relieved to see Peter in proper morning dress; I really had begun to think he meant to get married in a cap and gown. Jerry was there as best man, and my mother-in-law arrived in great state, beaming away as though they had all done something clever. And they had raked out old Uncle Paul Delagardie, creaking with arthritis, poor old p creature, with a gardenia in his buttonhole and trying to look sprightly, which at his age is disgusting.

  There were all kinds of queer people in the church—practically none of our own friends, but that ridiculous old Climpson woman, some hangers-on that Peter had picked up in the course of his ‘cases’, and several policemen. Charles and Mary appeared at the last moment, and Charles pointed out to me a man in a Salvation Army uniform, who he said was a retired burglar; but I can scarcely believe this, even of Peter. The bride came attended by the most incredible assortment of bridesmaids—all female dons!—and an odd, dark woman to give her away, who was supposed to be the Head of the College. I am thankful to say, considering her past history, that Harriet (as I suppose I must now call her) had enough sense of propriety not to get herself up in white satin and orange-blossom; but I could not help thinking that a plain costume would have been more suitable than cloth of gold. I can see that I shall have to speak to her presently about her clothes, but I am afraid she will be difficult. I have never seen anybody look so indecently triumphant—I suppose, in a way, she had a right to; one must admit that she has played her cards very cleverly. Peter was as white as a sheet; I thought he was going to be sick. Probably he was realising what he had let himself in for. Nobody can say that I did not do my best to open his eyes. They were married in the old, coarse Prayer-book form, and the bride said ‘Obey’—I take this to be their idea of humour, for she looks as obstinate as a mule.

  There was a great deal of promiscuous kissing in the vestry, and then all the oddities were bundled into cars (at Peter’s expense, no doubt) and we started back to Town, closely pursued by the local newspaper men. We went to my mother-in-law’s little house—
all
of us, including the policemen and the ex-burglar—and after a wedding-breakfast (which I must admit was very good) Uncle Delagardie made a speech, garnished with flowers of French eloquence. There were a lot of presents, some of them very absurd; the ex-burglar’s was a thick book of ranting and vulgar hymns!

  Presently the bride and bridegroom vanished, and we waited a long time for them, till my mother-in-law came down, all smiles, to announce that they had been gone half an hour, leaving no address. At this moment, I have no idea
where
they are, nor has anybody. The whole business has left us in a most painful and ridiculous position. I consider it a disgraceful ending to a most disastrous affair, and it is no consolation to think that I shall have to produce this appalling young woman as my sister-in-law. Mary’s policeman was bad enough, but at any rate, quiet and well behaved; whereas, with Peter’s wife, we may look for notoriety, if not for open scandal, from one day to another. However, we must put as good a face on it as we can; I wouldn’t say as much as I have said to anybody but you. With all gratitude for your sympathy,

  Yours affectionately,

  HELEN DENVER.

  DEAR MOTHER,

  I write from an ‘unknown destination’ in the country hoping this finds you as it leaves me. Owing to a small domestic catastrophe, I have only a candle to see by, so trust you will excuse my bad writing. Well, Mother, we were happily married this morning, and a very pretty wedding it was. I only wish you could have been present at his lordship’s kind invitation, but as I said to him, at eighty-seven some physical infirmities are only to be, expected. I hope your leg is better.

  As I told you in my last, we were all set to escape Her Grace’s interfering ways, and so we did, everything going off like clockwork. Her new ladyship, Miss Vane that was, went down to Oxford the day before, and his lordship with Lord Saint-George and myself followed in the evening, staying at the Mitre. His lordship spoke very kindly to me indeed, alluding to my twenty years’ service, and trusting that I should find myself comfortable in the new household. I told him I hoped I knew when I was well suited, and would endeavour to give satisfaction. I am afraid I said more than was my place, for his lordship was sincerely affected and told me not to be a bloody fool. I took the liberty to prescribe a dose of bromide and got him to sleep at last, when I could persuade his young lordship to leave him alone. Considerate is not the term I would employ of Lord Saint George, but some of his teasing must be put down to the champagne. His lordship appeared calm and resolute in the morning, which was a great relief to my mind, there being a good deal to do. A number of humble friends arriving by special transport, it was my task to see that they were made comfortable and not permitted to lose themselves.

  Well, dear Mother, we partook of a light and early lunch, and then I had to get their lordships dressed and down to the church. My own gentleman was as quiet as a lamb and gave no trouble, not even his usual joking, but Lord St-G. was in tearing high spirits and I had my hands full with him. He pretended five times that he had lost the ring, and just as we were setting out he mislaid it in earnest; but his lordship, with his customary detective ability, discovered it for him and took charge of it personally. In spite of this misadventure, I had them at the chancel steps dead on time, and I will say they both did me credit. I do not know where you would beat his young lordship for handsome looks, though to my mind there is no comparison which is the finer gentleman. The lady did not keep us waiting, I am thankful to say, and very well she looked, all in gold, with a beautiful bouquet of chrysanthemums. She is not pretty, but what you would call striking-looking, and I am sure she had no eyes for anyone but his lordship. She was attended by four ladies from the College, not dressed as bridesmaids, but all neat and ladylike in appearance. His lordship was very serious all through the ceremony.

  Then we all went back to a reception at Her Grace the Dowager’s Town house. I was very pleased with her new ladyship’s behaviour towards the guests, which was frank and friendly to all stations, but, of course, his lordship would not choose any but a lady in all respects. I do not anticipate any trouble with her.

  After the reception, we got the bride and bridegroom quietly away by the back door, having incarcerated all the newspaper reporters in the little drawing-room.

  And now, dear Mother, I must tell you ...

  DEAR TEDDY,

  Well! We have had our wedding—quite a red-letter day in College history! Miss Lydgate, Miss de Vine, little Chilperic, and yours truly were bridesmaids, with the Warden to give the bride away. No, my dear, we did
not
array ourselves in fancy costumes. Personally, I thought we should have looked more symmetrical in academic dress, but the bride said she thought ‘poor Peter’ would be
quite
sufficiently harrowed by headlines as it was. So we just turned up in our Sunday best, and I wore my new furs. It took all our united efforts to put Miss de Vine’s hair up and
keep
it put.