Busman’s Honeymoon (14 page)

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I’m sure there are some in the chiffonier—Oh, thank you so much, but at this time in the morning—and then they would need dusting, because Uncle didn’t use them—Well, I really don’t know—’

  ‘It’ll do you good.’

  ‘I think you need a little something,’ said Harriet

  ‘Oh,
do
you. Lady Peter? Well—if you insist—Only sherry, then, and only a
little
of that—Of course, it isn’t really so early any longer, is it?—Oh, please, really, I’m sure you’re giving me
far
too much!’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Peter, ‘you will find it as mild as you own parsnip wine.’ He handed her the mug gravely, am poured a small quantity of sherry into a tumbler for his wife who accepted it with the remark:

  ‘You are a master of meiosis.’

  ‘Thank you, Harriet. What’s your poison, padre?’

  ‘Sherry, thank you, sherry. Your health, my dear young people.’ He clinked the tumbler solemnly against Miss Twitterton’s mug, taking her by surprise. ‘Take courage. Miss Twitterton. Things mayn’t be as bad as they seem.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr MacBride, waving away the whisky. ‘I’ll wait for the beer if it’s all the same to you. No spirits in office hours is my motto. I’m sure it’s no pleasure to me bringing all this unfortunate disturbance into a family. But business is business, ain’t it, your lordship? And we’ve got our clients to consider.’

  ‘You’re not to blame,’ said Peter. ‘Miss Twitterton realises that you are only doing your rather unpleasant duty. They also serve who only serve writs, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘if we could only find Uncle, he would explain
everything.
’

  ‘
If
we could find him,’ agreed Mr MacBride, meaningly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘much virtue in
if.
If we could find Mr Noakes—’ The door opened, and he dismissed the question with an air of relief. ‘Ah! Beer, glorious beer!’

  ‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Bunter stood on the threshold empty-handed. ‘I’m afraid we have found Mr Noakes.’

  ‘
Afraid
you’ve found him?’ Master and man stared at one another, and Harriet, reading the unspoken message in their eyes, came up to Peter and laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bunter,’ said Wimsey, with a strained note in his voice, ‘don’t say you’ve found—Where? Down the cellar?’

  The voice of Mrs Ruddle broke the tension like the wail of a banshee:

  ‘Frank, Frank Crutchley! It’s Mr Noakes!’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Bunter.

  Miss Twitterton, unexpectedly quick-witted, sprang to her feet. ‘He’s dead! Uncle’s dead!’ The mug rolled from her hands to crash on the hearth-stone.

  ‘No, no,’ said Harriet, ‘they can’t mean that.’

  ‘Oh no, impossible,’ said Mr Goodacre, He looked appealingly at Bunter, who bent his head.

  ‘I am very much afraid so, sir.’

  Crutchley, thrusting him aside, burst in. ‘What’s happened? What’s Ma Ruddle shouting about? Where’s—?’

  ‘I knew it, I knew it!’ shrieked Miss Twitterton, recklessly. ‘I knew something terrible had happened! Uncle’s dead and all the money’s gone!’

  She burst into a fit of hiccupping laughter, made a dart towards Crutchley, who recoiled with a gasp, broke from the vicar’s supporting hand, and flung herself hysterically into Harriet’s arms.

  ‘Here!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘let’s have a look.’ He made for the door, cannoning into Crutchley. Bunter profited by the confusion to fling the door to and set his back against it.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Bunter. ‘Better not touch anything.’ As if the words were a signal for which he had been waiting, Peter took up his cold pipe from the table, knocked it out on his palm and flung the crushed ashes upon the tray.

  ‘Perhaps’, said Mr Goodacre, as one who hopes against hope, ‘he has only fainted.’ He rose eagerly. ‘We might be able to assist him—’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘Dead some days’, said Bunter, ‘from the looks of him, sir.’ His eye was still on Peter.

  ‘Has he got the money on him?’ inquired MacBride. The vicar, unheeding, flung another question, like a wave, against the stone wall of Bunter’s impassivity:

  ‘But how did it happen, my man? Did he fall down the stairs in a fit?’

  ‘Cut his throat, more likely,’ said MacBride.

  Bunter, still looking at Peter, said with emphasis: ‘It isn’t
suicide.
’ Feeling the door thrust against his shoulder, he moved aside to admit Mrs Ruddle.

  ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear!’ cried Mrs Ruddle. Her eyes gleamed with a dismal triumph. ’Is pore ’ead’s bashed in something shocking!’

  ‘Bunter!’ said Wimsey, and spoke the word at last: ‘Are you trying to tell us that this is murder?’

  Miss Twitterton slid from Harriet’s arms to the floor.

  ‘I couldn’t say, my lord; but it looks most unpleasantly like it.’

  ‘Get me a glass of water, please,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Yes, my lady. Mrs Ruddle! Glass of water—sharp!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Peter, mechanically pouring water into a goblet and giving it to the charwoman. ‘Leave everything as it is. Crutchley, you’d better go for the police.’

  ‘If,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘if it’s the perlice you’re wanting, there’s young Joe Sellon—that’s the constable, a-standing at my gate this very minit a-yarning with my Albert. I seen ’im not five minutes agone, and if I knows anything o’ them boys when they gits talking—’

  ‘The water,’ said Harriet. Peter stalked over to Crutchley, carrying with him a stiff peg of neat spirits.

  ‘Take this and pull yourself together. Then run over to the cottage and get this chap Sellon or whatever his name is. Quick.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ The young man jerked himself from his daze and swallowed the whisky at a gulp. ‘It’s a bit of a shock.’

  He went out. Mr Puffett followed him.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Mr Puffett, nudging Bunter gently in the ribs, ‘you didn’t manage to get that beer up afore—eh? Oh, well—there’s worse happens in war.’

  ‘She’s better now, pore thing,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Come on, don’t give way now, there’s a dear. What you want is a nice lay-down and a cupper tea. Shall I take ’er upstairs, me lady?’

  ‘Do,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll come in a moment.’

  She let them go and turned to Peter, who stood motionless, staring down at the table. Oh, my God! she thought, startled by his face, he’s a middle-aged man—the half of life gone he mustn’t ‘Peter, my poor dear! And we came here for a quiet honeymoon!’

  He turned at her touch and laughed ruefully.

  ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘And damn! Back to the old grind.
Rigor mortis
and who-saw-him-last, blood-prints, fingerprints, footprints, information received and it-is-my-dooty-to-warn-you.
Quelle scie, mon dieu, quelle scie?
’

  A young man in a blue uniform put his head in at the door.

  ‘Now then.’ said Police-constable Sellon, ‘wot’s all this?’

  I know what is and what has been;

  Not anything to me comes strange,

  Who in so many years have seen

  And lived through every kind of change.

  I know when men are good or bad,

  When well or ill, he slowly said;

  When sad or glad, when sane or mad,

  And when they sleep alive or dead….

  And while the black night nothing saw,

  And till the cold morn came at last,

  The old bed held the room in awe

  With tales of its experience vast.

  It thrilled the gloom; it told such tales

  Of human sorrows and delights,

  Of fever moans and infant wails,

  Of births and deaths and bridal nights.

  JAMES THOMSON:
In the Room.

  Harriet left Miss Twitterton tucked up on the nuptial couch with a hot-water bottle and an aspirin and, passing softly into the next room, discovered her lord in the act of pulling his shirt over his head. She waited for his face to reappear and then said, ‘Hullo!’

  ‘Hullo! All serene?’

  ‘Yes. Better now. What’s happening downstairs?’

  ‘Sellon’s telephoned from the post-office and the Super’s coming over from Broxford with the police-surgeon. So I came up to put on a collar and tie.’

  Of course, thought Harriet, secretly entertained. Someone has died in our house, so we put on a collar and tie. Nothing could be more obvious. How absurd men are! And how clever in devising protective armour for themselves! What kind of tie will it be? Black would surely be excessive. Dull purple or an unobtrusive spot? No. A regimental tie. Nothing could be more proper. Purely official and committing one to nothing. Completely silly and charming.

  She smoothed the smile from her lips and watched the solemn transference of personal property from blazer pockets to appropriate situations about a coat and waistcoat.

  ‘All this,’ observed Peter, ‘is a damned nuisance.’ He sat on the edge of the naked bedstead to exchange his slippers for a pair of brown shoes. ‘It’s not worrying you too much, is it?’ His voice was a little smothered with stooping to fasten the laces.

  ‘No.’

  ‘One thing, it’s nothing to do with us. That is, he wasn’t killed for the money we paid him. He had it all in his pocket. In notes.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘There’s not much doubt he meant to make a bolt of it when somebody intervened. I can’t say I feel any strong personal regret. Do you?’

  ‘Far from it. Only—’

  ‘M’m? ...It
is
worrying you. Blast!’

  ‘Not really. Only when I think about him, lying down there in the cellar all the time. I know it’s perfectly idiotic of me—but I can’t help wishing we hadn’t slept in his bed.’

  ‘I was afraid you might feel like that.’ He got up and stood for a moment looking from the window over the sloping field and woodland that stretched away beyond the lane. ‘And yet, you know, that bed must be pretty nearly as old as the house—the original bits of it, anyhow. It could tell a good many tales of births and deaths and bridal-nights. One can’t escape from these things—except by living in a brand-new villa and buying one’s furniture in the Tottenham Court Road.... All the same, I wish to God it hadn’t happened. I mean, if it’s going to make you uncomfortable every time you think about—’

  ‘Oh, Peter, no. I didn’t mean that. It’s not as though—It would be different if we had come here in another sort of way—’

  ‘That’s the point. Supposing I’d come here to disport myself with somebody who didn’t matter twopence, I should be feeling a complete wart. Quite unreasonably, I dare say, but I can be just as unreasonable as anyone else, if I put my mind to it. But as things are, no! Nothing that you or I have done is any insult to death—unless you think so. Harriet, I should say, if anything could sweeten the atmosphere that wretched old man left behind him, it would be the feeling we—the feeling I have for you, at any rate, and yours for me if you feel like that. I do assure you, so far as I am concerned, there’s nothing trivial about it.’

  ‘I know that. You’re absolutely right. I won’t think about it that way any more. Peter—there weren’t—there weren’t
rats
in the cellar, were there?’

  ‘No, dearest, no rats. And all quite dry. Just a perfectly good cellar.’

  ‘I’m glad. I was sort of imagining rats. Not that I suppose it matters very much after one’s dead, but I don’t seem to mind all the rest nearly so much if I don’t have to think of rats. In fact, I don’t mind at all, not now.’

  ‘We shall have to stick round till after the inquest, I’m afraid, but we could easily get put up somewhere else. That’s one thing I was going to ask you about There’s probably a decent inn at Pagford or Broxford.’

  Harriet considered this. ‘No. I don’t care about that. I think I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. It’s our house. It never was his—not really. And I’m not going to let you think there’s any difference between your feelings and mine. That would be worse than rats even.’

  ‘My dear, I’m not proposing to make staying here a test of your affections. Not love, quoth he, but vanity, sets love a task like that. It’s easy enough for me. I was begotten and born in the bed where twelve generations of my forefathers were born and wedded and died—and some of then made pretty poor ends from the parson’s point of view—so I don’t suffer much from hauntings of that kind. But there’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t feel rather differently.’

  ‘Don’t say another word about it. We’re going to stay here and exorcise the ghosts. I’d rather.’

  ‘Well, if you change your mind, tell me,’ he said, still uneasy.

  ‘I shan’t change my mind. We’d better go down now if you’re ready, because Miss Twitterton ought to get some sleep if she can. Now I come to think of it,
she
didn’t ask for another bedroom, and it’s her own uncle.’

  ‘Country people are very matter-of-fact about life and death. They live so close to reality.’

  ‘So do your sort of people. It’s my sort that go all sanitary and civilised, and get married in hotels and do their births and deaths in nursing-homes where they give offence to nobody. I say, Peter, do we have to feed all these doctors and superintendents and people? And does Bunter carry on all by himself, or ought I to give him some orders?’

  ‘Experience has taught me,’ said Peter, as they moved down the stair, ‘that no situation finds Bunter unprepared. That he should have procured
The Times
this morning by the simple expedient of asking the milkman to request the postmistress to telephone to Broxford and have it handed to the bus-conductor to be dropped at the post-office and brought up by the little girl who delivers the telegrams is a trifling example of his resourceful energy. But he would probably take it as a compliment if you were to refer the difficulty to him and congratulate him when he tells you that everything is provided for.’

  I will.’

  In the short time that they had been upstairs, Mr Puffett had evidently finished his chimney-sweeping, for the sitting-room had been cleared of dust-sheets and a fire kindled upon the hearth. A table had been drawn out into the centre of the room; on it stood a tray filled with plates and cutlery. Passing through into the passage, Harriet was aware of a good deal of activity in progress. Before the shut door of the cellar stood the uniformed figure of P.C. Sellon, like young Harry with his beaver on, prepared to resist any interference with the execution of his duty. In the kitchen, Mrs Ruddle was cutting sandwiches. In the scullery, Crutchley and Mr Puffett were clearing a quantity of pots and pans and old flower-pots from a long deal dresser, preparatory (as appeared from the presence beside them of a steaming pail) to scrubbing it clean to receive the body of its late owner. In the back door stood Bunter, conducting some kind of financial transaction with two men who seemed to have arrived from nowhere in a motor van. Beyond them could be seen Mr MacBride, strolling about the back-yard; he had the air of inventorying its contents with a view to assessing their value. And at that moment there came a heavy knock on the front door.

  ‘That’ll be the police,’ said Peter. He went to let them in, and at the same time Bunter finished paying the men, came in, and shut the back door sharply.

  ‘Oh, Bunter,’ said Harriet, ‘I see you’re giving us something to eat—?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. I succeeded in intercepting the Home & Colonial and procuring some ham for sandwiches. There is also a portion of the
foie gras
and the Cheshire cheese which we brought from Town. The draught beer in the cellar being at the moment not readily available, I took the liberty of instructing Mrs Ruddle to fetch a few bottles of Bass from the village. If anything further should be required, there is a jar of caviar in the hamper, but we have no lemons, I am sorry to say.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think caviar would strike the right note, Bunter, do you?’

  ‘No, my lady. The heavy luggage has just arrived, per Carter Paterson; I instructed that it should be deposited in the oil-shed until we had leisure to attend to it.’

  ‘The luggage! I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Very naturally, my lady, if I may say so.... The scullery,’ went on Bunter, with a touch of hesitation, ‘appeared a more suitable place than the kitchen for—ah—the medical gentlemen to work in.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Harriet, with emphasis.

  ‘Yes, my lady. I inquired of his lordship whether, in view of all the circumstances, he would desire me to order in any coal. He said he would refer the matter to your ladyship.’

  ‘He has. You can order the coal.’

  ‘Very good, my lady. I fancy there will be time between lunch and dinner to effect a clearance of the kitchen chimney, provided there is no interference from the police. Would your ladyship wish me to instruct the sweep accordingly?’

  ‘Yes, please. I don’t know what we should do without your head for detail, Bunter.’

  ‘I am much obliged to your ladyship.’

  The police party had been taken into the sitting-room. Through the half-open door one could hear Peter’s high, fluent voice giving a lucid account of the whole incredible business, with patient pauses for interrogation or to allow a deliberate constabulary pencil to catch up with him.

  Harriet sighed angrily. ‘I do wish he hadn’t to be worried like this! It’s too bad.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Bunter’s face stirred, as though some human emotion were trying to break through. He made no further comment, but something which Harriet recognised as sympathy seemed to waft out of him. She said impulsively: ‘I wonder. Do you think I’m right in ordering the coal?’

  It was scarcely fair to push Bunter on to such delicate ground. He remained impassive: ‘It is not for me to say, my lady.’

  She was determined not to be beaten. ‘You have known him much longer than I have, Bunter. If his lordship had only himself to consider, do you suppose he would go or stay?’

  ‘Under those circumstances, my lady, I fancy his lordship would decide to remain.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to know. You had better order enough coal for a month.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady.’

  The men were coming out of the sitting-room. They were introduced: Dr Craven, Superintendent Kirk, Sergeant Blades. The cellar door was opened; somebody produced an electric torch and they all went down. Harriet, relegated to the woman’s rôle of silence and waiting, went into the kitchen to help with the sandwiches. The rôle, though dull, was not a useless one, for Mrs Ruddle, with a large knife in her hand, was standing at the scullery door as though prepared to carry out a butcherly kind of post-mortem upon whatever might be brought up from the cellar.

  ‘Mrs Ruddle!’

  Mrs Ruddle gave a violent start and dropped the knife.

  ‘Law, m’lady! You did give me a turn.’

  ‘You want to cut the bread thinner. And please shut that door.’

  A slow, heavy shuffling. Then voices. Mrs Ruddle broke off in the middle of a spirited piece of narrative to listen.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Ruddle?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. So I says to him, “You needn’t think you’re going to ketch me that way, Joe Sellon,” I says. “Like to make out you’re somebody, don’t you,” I says. “I wonder you ’as the face, seein’ what a fool you made of yourself over Aggie Twitterton’s ’ens. No,” I says, “when a proper policeman comes, ’e can ask all the questions ’e likes. But don’t you think you can go ordering me about,” I says, “an’ me old enough to be your grandma. You can put away that there notebook,” I says, “go on,” I says, “it’d make me old cat laugh ter see yer,” I says. “I’ll tell ’em all I knows,” I says, “don’t you fret yourself, w’en the time comes.” “You ain’t no right,” ’e says, “to obstruct an orficer of the law.” “Law?” I says. “Call yerself the law? If you’re the law,” I says, “I don’t think much of it.” ’E got that red. “You’ll ’ear about this,” ’e says. And I says, “And you’ll ’ear summink, too. None o’ yer sauce,” I says. “They’ll be glad enough to ’ear what I ’as to tell ’em, I dessay, without you goin’ an’ twistin’ it all up afore they gets it,” I says. So ’e says—’

  There was a peculiar mixture of malice and triumph in Mrs Ruddle’s voice which Harriet felt the episode of the hens did not altogether account for. But at this moment Bunter came in by the passage door.

  ‘His lordship’s compliments, my lady; and Superintendent Kirk would be glad to see you for a moment in the sitting-room if you can spare the time.’

  Superintendent Kirk was a large man with a mild and ruminative expression. He seemed already to have obtained from Peter most of the information he needed, asking only a few questions to confirm such points as the time of the party’s arrival at Talboys and the appearance of the sitting-room and kitchen when they came in. What he really wanted to get from Harriet was a description of the bedroom. All Mr Noakes’s clothes had been there? His toilet articles? No suitcases? No suggestion that he intended to leave the house at once? No? Well, that confirmed the idea that Mr Noakes intended to get away, but was in no immediate hurry. Not, for example, particularly expecting any unpleasant interview that night. The Superintendent was much obliged to her ladyship; he should be sorry to disturb poor Miss Twitterton, and, after all, nothing much was to be gained by examining the bedroom at once, since its contents had already been disturbed. That applied, of course, to the other rooms as well. Unfortunate, but nobody could be blamed for that. They might be a bit further on when they had Dr Craven’s report. He would perhaps be able to tell them whether Noakes had been alive when he fell down the cellar steps or had been killed and thrown there afterwards. No bloodshed, that was the trouble, though the skull had been broken by the blow. And with so many people in and out of the house all night and morning, one could scarcely expect footprints or anything like that. At any rate, nothing had been seen to suggest a struggle? Nothing. Mr Kirk was greatly obliged.