Busman’s Honeymoon (28 page)

  ‘You are fond of animals?’ he inquired.

  ‘Oh, very,’ said Harriet; ‘you must tell your readers that; it’s a sympathetic trait, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ replied Hector Puncheon.

  All very well; but the bull was on his side of the gate and she was on the other. A friendly cow all red and white licked his ear—he was astonished to find its tongue so rough.

  ‘You’ll excuse my not opening the gate,’ said Harriet, with an engaging smile. ‘I love cows—but not in the garden.’ To his embarrassment, she climbed over and escorted him with a firm hand to his car. The interview was over, and he had had very little opportunity of getting a personal angle on the murder. The cows scattered, with lowered heads, from before his moving wheels.

  By a remarkable coincidence, no sooner had he gone than the invisible guardian of the cattle rose up from nowhere and began to collect the herd. On seeing Harriet, he grinned and touched his cap. She strolled back to the house, and before she had got there the cows were gathered round the gate again. At the open kitchen window stood Bunter, polishing glasses.

  ‘Rather convenient,’ said Harriet, ‘all those cows in the lane.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ agreed Bunter demurely. ‘They graze upon the grass verge. I understand. A very satisfactory arrangement, if I may say so.’

  Harriet opened her mouth, and shut it again as a thought struck her. She went down the passage and opened the back door. She was not really surprised to see an extraordinarily ugly bull-mastiff tied by a rope to the scraper. Bunter came out of the kitchen and padded softly into the scullery.

  ‘Is that our dog, Bunter?’

  ‘The owner brought him this morning, my lady, to inquire whether his lordship might desire to purchase an animal of that description. I understand he is an excellent watchdog. I suggested that he should be left here to wait his lordship’s convenience.’

  Harriet looked at Bunter, who returned her gaze, unmoved.

  ‘Have you thought of aeroplanes, Bunter? We might put a swan on the roof.’

  ‘I have not been able to hear of a swan, my lady. But there is a person who owns a goat….’

  ‘Mr Hardy was rather fortunate.’

  ‘The cattle-driver,’ said Bunter, with sudden wrath, ‘was late. His instructions were perfectly clear. The lost time will be deducted from his remuneration. We must not be paltered with. His lordship is not accustomed to it. Excuse me, my lady—the goat is just arriving, and I fear there may be a little difficulty with the dog on the doorstep.’

  Harriet left him to it.

  Love? Do I love? I walk

  Within the brilliance of another’s thought,

  As in a glory, I was dark before,

  As Venus’ chapel in the black of night:

  But there was something holy in the darkness,

  Softer and not so thick as other where;

  And as rich moonlight may be to the blind,

  Unconsciously consoling. Then love came,

  Like the out-bursting of a trodden star.

  THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES:
The Second Brother.

  The coroner did not, after all, confine himself to taking evidence of identity; but he showed a laudable discretion in handling his witnesses. Miss Twitterton, in a brand-new black frock, a perky little close-fitting hat and a black coat of old-fashioned cut, clearly resurrected for the occasion, testified, with sniffs, that the body was that of her uncle, William Noakes, and that she had not seen him since the last Sunday week. She explained her uncle’s habit of dividing his time between Broxford and Paggleham, and about the two sets of keys. Her endeavours to explain also about the sale of the house and the astonishing financial situation disclosed were kindly but firmly cut short, and Lord Peter Wimsey, in act more graceful, took her place and gave a brief and rather nonchalant
résumé
of his surprising wedding-night experiences. He handed the coroner various papers concerning the purchase of the house and sat down amid a murmur of sympathetic comment. Then came an accountant from Broxford, with a statement about the moribund condition of the wireless business, as revealed by a preliminary examination of the books. Mervyn Bunter, in well-chosen language, recounted the visit of the sweep and the subsequent discovery of the body. Dr Craven spoke to the cause and probable time of death, described the injuries, and gave it as his opinion that they could not have been self-inflicted or produced by an accidental fall.

  Next, Joe Sellon, very white in the face, but in official control of himself. He said he had been summoned to see the dead body, and described how it lay in the cellar.

  ‘You are the village constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When did you last see the deceased alive?’

  ‘On the Wednesday night, sir, at five minutes past nine,’

  ‘Will you tell us about that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I had a certain matter of a private nature to discuss with the deceased. I proceeded to the house and spoke to him at the sitting-room window for about ten minutes.’

  ‘Did he then seem just as usual?’

  ‘Yes, sir; except that words passed between us and he was a little excited. When we had finished our conversation he shut and bolted the window. I tried both doors and found them locked. I then went away.’

  ‘You did not enter the house?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you left him at 9.15 p.m., alive and well?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Joe Sellon turned to go; but the lugubrious man whom Bunter had met in the pub rose up from among the jury and said:

  ‘We should like to ask the witness, Mr Perkins, what he had words with the deceased about.’

  ‘You hear,’ said the coroner, slightly put out. ‘The jury wish to know the cause of your dispute with the deceased.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The deceased threatened to report me for a breach of duty.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the coroner. ‘Well, we are not here to examine into your official conduct. It was he that threatened you, not you that threatened him?’

  ‘That’s right, sir; though I admit I was annoyed and spoke a bit sharp to him.’

  ‘I see. You did not return to the house that night?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well; that will do. Superintendent Kirk.’

  The little stir of excitement aroused by Sellon’s evidence died down before the enormous impassivity of Mr Kirk, who described, very slowly and at considerable length, the arrangement of the rooms in the house, the nature of the fastenings on the doors and windows and the difficulty of ascertaining the facts due to the (quite fortuitous though very unfortunate) disturbance caused by the arrival of the new occupiers. The next witness was Martha Ruddle. She was in a great state of excitement, and almost excessively ready to assist the law. It was, indeed, her own readiness that undid her.

  ‘... that taken aback,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘you could a-knocked me down with a feather. Driving up to the door in the middle of the night as you might say, in sech a big motor-car as I never did see in all my born days, not without it was on the picturs—Lord what? I says, not believing him, which I’m sure, sir, it ain’t surprising, more like film-stars I says, begging your pardon, and of course I were mistook, but that there car being so big and the lady in a fur coat and the gentleman with a glass in his eye jest like Ralph Lynn, which was all I could see in the—’

  Peter turned the monocle on the witness with so outraged an astonishment that the giggles turned to loud laughter.

  ‘Kindly keep to the question,’ said Mr Perkins, vexed;

  ‘you were surprised to hear that the house was sold. Very well. We have heard how you got in. Will you please describe the condition of the house as you observed it.’

  From a tangle of irrelevancies, the coroner disengaged the facts that the bed had not been slept in, that the supper things were on the table, and that the cellar-door had been found open. With a weary sigh (for his cold was a severe one and he wanted to finish and get home), he took the witness back to the events of the preceding Wednesday.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘I did see Joe Sellon, and a nice sorter pleecemen ’
e
is, usin’ language not fit for a respectable woman to listen to, I don’t wonder Mr Noakes shet the winder in ’is face....’

  ‘You saw him do that?’

  ‘Plain as the nose on your face, I see ’im. Standin’ there ’e was with the candlestick in ’is ’and, same as I couldn’t miss seein’ ’im, and laffin’ fit to bust, and well ’e might, ’earin’ Joe Sellon carryin’ on that ridiculous. Well, I says to meself, a nice pleeceman you are, Joe Sellon, and I oughter know it, seein’ you ’ad ter come ter me to find out ’oo took them ’ens of Miss Twitterton’s....’

  ‘We are not inquiring into that.’ began the coroner, when the lugubrious man again rose up and said:

  ‘The jury would like to know whether the witness heard what the quarrel was about.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said the witness, without waiting for the coroner. ‘They was quarrellin’ about ’is wife, that’s what they was quarrellin’ about, and I say it’s a—’

  ‘Whose wife?’ asked the coroner; while the whole room rustled with expectation.

  ‘Joe’s wife, o’course,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘What ’ave you; done wi’ my wife, you old villain, ’e says, usin’ names wot I wouldn’t put me tongue to.’

  Joe Sellon sprang to his feet

  ‘That’s a lie, sir!’

  ‘Now, Joe,’ said Kirk.

  ‘We’ll hear you in a moment,’ said Mr Perkins. ‘Now, Mrs Ruddle. You’re sure you heard those words?’

  ‘The bad words, sir?’

  ‘The words, “What have you done with my wife”?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir—I heard that, sir.’

  ‘Did any threats pass?’

  ‘N’no, sir,’ admitted Mrs Ruddle, regretfully, ‘only sayin’ as Mr Noakes was bound for the bad place, sir.’

  ‘Quite so. No suggestions about how he was likely to get there?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No mention of killing or murder?’

  ‘Not as I ’eard, sir, but I wouldn’t be surprised if ’e did offer to kill Mr Noakes, Not a bit, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘But actually you heard nothing of the sort?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t rightly say I did, sir.’

  ‘And Mr Noakes was alive and well when he shut the window?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kirk leaned across the table and spoke to the coroner, who asked: ‘Did you hear anything further?’

  ‘I didn’t
want
to ’ear nothing further, sir. All I ’eard was that Joe Sellon a-’ammerin’ on the door.’

  ‘Did you hear Mr Noakes let him in?’

  ‘Let ’im in?’ cried Mrs Ruddle. ‘Wot ’ud Mr Noakes want ter be lettin’ ’im in for? Mr Noakes wouldn’t let nobody in wot used language to ’im like wot Joe used. ’E was a terrible timid man, was Mr Noakes.’

  ‘I see. And the next morning you came to the house and got no answer?’

  ‘That’s right. And I says, lor’, I says, Mr Noakes must a-gone over to Broxford....’

  ‘Yes; you told us that before. And although you had heard this terrible quarrel the night before, it never occurred to you that anything might have happened to Mr Noakes?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t. I thought ’e’d gone off to Broxford, same as’e often did....’

  ‘Quite. In fact. until Mr Noakes was found dead, you thought nothing of this quarrel and attached no importance to it?’

  ‘Well.’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘only w’en I knowed as ’e must a-died afore ’ar-pas’-nine.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  Mrs Ruddle, with many circumlocutions, embarked upon the story of the wireless. Peter Wimsey wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper, which he folded and passed to Kirk. The Superintendent nodded, and passed it on to the coroner, who, at the conclusion of the story, asked:

  ‘Wireless was Mr Noakes’s business?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir?’

  ‘If anything had gone wrong with the set, could he have put it right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. ’E was very clever with them things.’

  ‘But he only cared to listen to the news-bulletin?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘What time did he usually go to bed?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock, sir. Reg’lar as clockwork ’e was, supper at ’ar-pas’-seven, noos at ’ar-pas’-nine, bed at eleven, w’en ’e wos at ’ome, that is.’

  ‘Quite. How did you come to be near enough at half past nine to know whether the wireless was on?’

  Mrs Ruddle hesitated. ‘I jest stepped over to the shed, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jest ter fetch something, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Only a mite o’ paraffin, sir,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘which I’d a-put it back faithful in the morning, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s none of our business. Thank you. Now, Joseph Sellon—you want to make a further statement?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Only this, sir. Them words about Mrs Sellon wasn’t never mentioned at all. I might a-said, “Now, don’t you report me, sir, or I’ll be in trouble, and what’ll become of my wife?” That’s all, sir.’

  ‘The deceased never interfered with your wife in any way?’

  ‘No, sir. Certainly not, sir.’

  ‘I think I had better ask you whether the last witness bears you any grudge, to your knowledge.’

  ‘Well, sir, about then ’ens o’ Miss Twitterton’s. In the execution of my duty I ’ad to interrogate ’er son Albert, and I think she took it amiss, sir.’

  ‘I see. I think that’s—Yes, Superintendent?’

  Mr Kirk had just received another message from his noble colleague. It appeared to perplex him; but he faithfully put the question.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Perkins, ‘I should have thought you could have asked him yourself. However. The Superintendent wishes to know the length of the candle deceased had in his hand when he came to the window.’

  Joe Sellon stared.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said, finally. ‘I never noticed. I don’t think it was special one way or the other.’

  The coroner turned interrogatively to Kirk, who, not knowing what was behind the question, shook his head.

  Mr Perkins, blowing his nose irritably, dismissed the witness and turned to the jury.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I don’t see that we can finish this inquiry today. You see that it is impossible to fix the exact moment when deceased met his death, since he may have been prevented from hearing the news-bulletin by a temporary defect in the wireless apparatus, which he may have subsequently repaired. You have heard that the police are in a considerable difficulty as regards the collecting of evidence, since (by a most unfortunate accident for which nobody is at all to blame) various possible clues were destroyed. I understand that the police would like an adjournment—is that so?’

  Kirk said that it was so; and the coroner adjourned the inquiry to that day fortnight, thus putting a tame end to a very promising affair.

  As the audience scrambled from the little court, Kirk caught Peter.

  ‘That old catamaran!’ he said, angrily. ‘Mr Perkins came down pretty sharp on her, but if he’d listened to me, he wouldn’t have taken any evidence, only to identity.’

  ‘You think that would have been wise? To let her put her story all round the village, and everybody saying you didn’t dare to let it come out at the inquest? He did at least give her the opportunity for an open display of spite. I think he’s done better for you than you realise.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, my lord. I didn’t see it that way. What was the point about that candle?’

  ‘I wondered how much he really did remember. If he’s not sure about the candle, he may only have imagined the clock.’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Kirk, slowly. He was not sure about the implications of this. Nor, to tell the truth, was Wimsey.

  ‘He might,’ Harriet suggested softly in her husband’s ear, ‘have lied about the time.’

  ‘So he might. The queer thing is that he didn’t. Mrs Ruddle’s clock said the same.’

  ‘Hawkshaw the Detective, in
Who Put Back the Clock?
’

  ‘Here!’ said Kirk, exasperated; ‘look at that!’

  Peter looked. Mrs Ruddle, on the doorstep, was holding a kind of court among the reporters.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Harriet. ‘Peter, can’t you take them away? Who was the chap who leapt into the gulf?’

  ‘Rome prizes most her citizens—’