Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Damnation! Think what I’ve missed.’

  ‘Me too. At this moment I could have been tramping at your heels with five babies and a black eye, and saying to a sympathetic bobby, “You leave ’im be – ’e’s my man, ain’t ’e? – ’E’ve a right to knock me abaht”.’

  ‘You seem,’ said her husband, reprovingly, ‘to regret the black eye more than the five babies.’

  ‘Naturally. You’ll never give me the black eye.’

  ‘Nothing so easily healed, I’m afraid. Harriet – I wonder what sort of shot I’m going to make at being decent to you.’

  ‘My dear Peter—’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I’ve never – now I come to think of it – inflicted myself on anyone for very long together. Except Bunter, of course. Have you consulted Bunter? Do you think he would give me a good character?’

  ‘It sounds to me,’ said Harriet, ‘as though Bunter had picked up a girl friend.’

  The footsteps of two people were, in fact, approaching from behind the house. Somebody was expostulating with Bunter in high-pitched tones:

  ‘I’ll believe it w’en I sees it, and not before. Mr Noakes is at Broxford, I tell you, and has been ever since last Wednesday night as ever is, and he ain’t never said nothing to me nor nobody, not about sellin’ no ’ouse nor about no lords nor ladies neither.’

  The speaker, now emerging into the blaze of the head-lights, was a hard-faced angular lady of uncertain age, dressed in a mackintosh, a knitted shawl, and a man’s cap secured rakishly to her head with knobbed and shiny hat-pins. Neither the size of the car, the polish of its chromium plating nor the brilliance of its lamps appeared to impress her, for advancing with a snort to Harriet’s side she said, belligerently:

  ‘Now then, ’oo are you and wot d’you want, kicking up all this noise? Let’s ’ave a look at yer!’

  ‘By all means,’ said Peter. He switched on the dashboard light. His yellow hair and his eye-glass seemed to produce an unfortunate impression.

  ‘H’mph!’ said the lady. ‘Film-actors, by the look of yer. And’ (with a withering glance at Harriet’s furs) ‘no better than you should be, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘We are very sorry to have disturbed you,’ began Peter, ‘Mrs – er—’

  ‘Ruddle is my name,’ said the lady of the cap. ‘Mrs Ruddle, and a respectable married woman with a grown son of her own. He’s a-coming over from the cottage now with his gun, as soon as he’s put his trousis on, which he had just took ’em off to go to bed in good time, ’aving to be up early to ’is work. Now then! Mr Noakes is over at Broxford, same as I was sayin’ to this other chap of yours, and you can’t get nothing out of me, for it ain’t no business of mine, except that I obliges ’im in the cleaning way.’

  ‘Ruddle?’ said Harriet. ‘Didn’t he work at one time for Mr Vickey at Five Elms?’

  ‘Yes, ’e did,’ said Mrs Ruddle, quickly, ‘but that’s fifteen year agone. I lost Ruddle last Michaelmas five year, and a good ’usband ’e was, when he was himself, that is. ’Ow do you come to know Ruddle?’

  ‘I’m Dr Vane’s daughter, that used to live at Great Pagford. Don’t you remember him? I know your name, and I think I remember your face. But you didn’t live here then. The Batesons had the farm, and there was a woman called Sweeting at the cottage who kept pigs and had a niece who wasn’t quite right in the head.’

  ‘Lor’ now!’ cried Mrs Ruddle. ‘To think o’ that! Dr Vane’s daughter, is you, miss? Now I come to look at you, you ’ave got a look of ’er. But it’s gettin’ on for seventeen years since you and the doctor left Pagford. I did ’ear as ’e’d passed away, and sorry I was – ’e was a wonderful clever doctor, was your dad, miss – I ’ad ’im for my Bert, and I’m sure it’s a mercy I did, ’im comin’ into the world wrong end up as you might say, which is a sad trial for a woman. And how are you, miss, after all this time? We did ’ear as you’d been in trouble with the perlice, but as I said to Bert, you can’t believe the stuff they puts into them papers.’

  ‘It was quite true, Mrs Ruddle – but they’d got hold of the wrong person.’

  ‘Just like ’em!’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘There’s that Joe Sellon. Tried to make out as my Bert ’ad been stealin’ Aggie Twitterton’s ’ens. “ ’Ens,” I said. “You’ll be making out next as ’e took that there pocket-book of Mr Noakes’s, wot ’e made all the fuss about. You look for your ’ens in George Withers’s back kitchen,” I says, and sure enough, there they was. “Call yourself a perliceman,” I ses. “I’d make a better perliceman than you any day, Joe Sellon.” That’s what I ses to ’im. I’d never believe nothing none of them perlicemen said, not if I was to be paid for it, so don’t you think it, miss. I’m sure I’m very pleased to see you miss, looking so well, but if you and the gentleman was wanting Mr Noakes—’

  ‘We did want him, but I expect you can help us. This is my husband and we’ve bought Talboys and we arranged with Mr Noakes to come here for our honeymoon.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ ejaculated Mrs Ruddle. ‘I’m sure I congratulate you, miss – mum, and sir.’ She wiped a bony hand on the mackintosh and extended it to bride and groom in turn. ‘ ’Oneymoon – well, there! – it won’t take me a minnit to put on clean sheets, which is all laying aired and ready at the cottage, so if you’ll let me ’ave the keys—’

  ‘But,’ said Peter, ‘that’s just the trouble. We haven’t got the keys. Mr Noakes said he’d make all the preparations and be here to let us in.’

  ‘Ho!’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Well, ’e never told me nothing about it. Off to Broxford ’e was, by the ten o’clock bus Wednesday night, and never said nothing to nobody, not to mention leave me my week’s money.’

  ‘But,’ said Harriet, ‘if you do his cleaning, haven’t you got a key to the house?’

  ‘No, I have not,’ replied Mrs Ruddle. ‘You don’t ketch ’im givin’ me no keys. Afraid I’ll pinch sommink, I suppose. Not that ’e leaves much as ’ud be worth pinchin’. But there you are, that’s ’im all over. And burglar-proof bolts on all the winders. Many’s the time I’ve said to Bert, supposin’ the ’ouse was to go on fire with ’im away an’ no keys nearer than Pagford.’

  ‘Pagford?’ said Peter. ‘I thought you said he was at Broxford.’

  ‘So ’e is – sleeps over the wireless business. But you’d ’ave a job ter get him, I reckon, ’im bein’ a bit deaf and the bell ringin’ inter the shop. Your best way’ll be ter run over ter Pagford an’ git Aggie Twitterton.’

  ‘The lady who keeps hens?’

  ‘That’s ’er. You mind the little cottage down by the river, miss – mum, I should say – where old Blunt useter live? Well, that’s it, an’ she’s got a key to the ’ouse – comes over ter see ter things w’en ’e’s away, though, come ter think of it, I ain’t seen ’er this last week. Maybe she’s poorly, because, come ter think of it, if ’e knowed you was coming it’s Aggie Twitterton ’e’d a-told about it.’

  ‘I expect that’s it,’ said Harriet. ‘Perhaps she meant to let you know, and got ill and couldn’t see to it. We’ll go over. Thank you very much. Do you think she could let us have a loaf of bread and some butter?’

  ‘Bless you, miss – mum – I can do that. I got a nice loafer bread, ’ardly touched, and ’arf a pound er butter at ’ome this minnit. And,’ said Mrs Ruddle, not for an instant losing her grasp upon essentials, ‘the clean sheets, like I was sayin’. I’ll run and fetch them directly, and it won’t take no time to get straight w’en you and your good gentleman comes back with the keys. Excuse me, mum, wot might your married name be?’

  ‘Lady Peter Wimsey,’ said Harriet, feeling not at all sure that it was her name.

  ‘I never!’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘That’s wot ’e said’ – she jerked her head at Bunter – ‘but I didn’t pay no ’eed to ’im. Begging your pardon, mum, but there’s some of these commercial fellers ’ud say anythink, wouldn’t they, sir?’

  ‘Oh, we all hav
e to pay heed to Bunter,’ said Wimsey. ‘He’s the only really reliable person in the party. Now, Mrs Ruddle, we’ll run over to get the keys from Miss Twitterton and be back in twenty minutes. Bunter, you’d better stay here and give Mrs Ruddle a hand with the things. Is there room to turn?’

  ‘Very good, my lord. No, my lord. I fancy there is not room to turn. I will open the gate for your lordship. Allow me, my lord. Your lordship’s hat.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Harriet, Peter’s hands being occupied with the ignition switch and the self-starter.

  ‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘After which,’ said Peter, when they had reversed through the gate and were once again headed for Great Pagford, ‘Bunter will proceed to make it quite plain to Mrs Ruddle – in case she hasn’t grasped the idea – that Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey are my lord and lady. Poor old Bunter! Never have his feelings been so harrowed. Film-actors, by the look of you! No better than you should be! These commercial fellers will say anythink!’

  ‘Oh, Peter! I wish I could have married Bunter. I do love him so.’

  ‘Bride’s Wedding-Night Confession; Titled Clubman Slays Valet and Self. I’m glad you take to Bunter – I owe him a lot. . . . Do you know anything about this Twitterton woman we’re going to see?’

  ‘No – but I’ve an idea there was an elderly labourer of that name in Pagford Parva who used to beat his wife or something. They weren’t Dad’s patients. It’s funny, even if she’s ill, that she shouldn’t have sent Mrs Ruddle a message.’

  ‘Dashed funny. I’ve got my own ideas about Mr Noakes. Simcox—’

  ‘Simcox? Oh, the agent, yes?’

  ‘He was surprised to find the place going so cheap. It’s true it was only the house and a couple of fields – Noakes seems to have sold part of the property. I paid Noakes last Monday, and the cheque was cleared in London on Thursday, I shouldn’t wonder if another bit of clearing was done at the same time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Friend Noakes. It doesn’t affect our purchase of the house – the title is all right and there’s no mortgage; I made sure of that. The fact that there was no mortgage cuts both ways. If he was in difficulties, you’d expect a mortgage; but if he was in great difficulties, he might have kept the property free for a quick sale. He kept a bicycle shop in your day. Was he ever in difficulties with that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he sold it and the man who bought it said he’d been cheated. Noakes was supposed to be pretty sharp over a bargain.’

  ‘Yes. He got Talboys dirt cheap, I fancy, from what Simcox said. Got some kind of squeeze on the old people and put the brokers in. I’ve an idea he was fond of buying and selling things as a speculation.’

  ‘He used to be spoken of as a warm man. Always up to something.’

  ‘All sorts of little enterprises, h’m? Picking things up cheap on the chance of patching ’em up for resale at a profit – that sort?’

  ‘Rather that sort.’

  ‘Um. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. There’s a London tenant of mine who started twenty years ago with a few second-hand oddments in a cellar. I’ve just built him a very handsome block of flats with sunshine balconies and vita-glass and things. He’ll do very well with them. But then he’s a Jew, and knows exactly what he’s doing. I shall get my money back and so will he. He’s got the knack of making money turn over. We’ll have him to dinner one day and he’ll tell you how he did it. He started in the War, with the double handicap of a slight deformity and a German name, but before he dies he’ll be a damn’ sight richer than I am.’

  Harriet asked a question or two, which her husband answered, but in so abstracted a tone that she realised he was giving only about a quarter of his mind to the virtuous Jew of London and none of it to herself. He was probably mulling over the mysterious behaviour of Mr Noakes. She was quite accustomed to his sudden withdrawals into the recesses of his own mind, and did not resent them. She had known him stop short in the middle of a proposal of marriage to her because some chance sight or sound had offered him a new piece to fit into a criminal jig-saw. His meditations did not last long, for within five minutes they were running into Great Pagford, and he was obliged to rouse himself to ask his companion the way to Miss Twitterton’s cottage.

  2

  GOOSEFEATHER BED

  But for the Bride-bed, what were fit,

  That hath not been talk’d of yet.

  DRAYTON: Eighth Nimphall

  THE COTTAGE, which had three yellow-brick sides and a red-brick front, like the uglier kind of doll’s house, stood rather isolated from the town, so that it was perhaps not unreasonable in Miss Twitterton to interrogate her visitors, in sharp and agitated tones from an upper window, as to their intentions and bona fides, before cautiously opening the door to them. She revealed herself as a small, fair and flustered spinster in her forties, wrapped in a pink flannel dressing-gown, and having in one hand a candle and in the other a large dinner-bell. She could not understand what it was all about. Uncle William had said nothing to her. She did not even know he was away. He never went away without letting her know. He would never have sold the house without telling her. She kept the door on the chain while repeating these asseverations, holding the dinner-bell ready to ring in case the odd-looking person in the eye-glass should become violent and oblige her to summon assistance. Eventually, Peter produced Mr Noakes’s last letter from his pocket-book (where he had thoughtfully placed it before starting, in case of any difference of opinion about the arrangements) and passed it in through the partly opened door. Miss Twitterton took it gingerly, as though it were a bomb, shut the door promptly in Peter’s face, and retired with the candle into the front room to examine the document at her leisure. Apparently the perusal was satisfactory, for at the end of it she returned, opened the door wide and begged her visitors to enter.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Twitterton, leading the way into a sitting-room furnished with a suite in green velvet and walnut veneer, and a surprising variety of knick-knacks, ‘for receiving you like this – do please sit down, Lady Peter – I do hope you will both forgive my attire – dear me! – but my house is a little lonely and it’s only a short time ago since my hen-roost was robbed – and really, the whole thing is so inexplicable, I scarcely know what to think – it really is most upsetting – so peculiar of uncle – and what you must be thinking of both of us I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Only that it’s a great shame to knock you up at this time of night,’ said Peter.

  ‘It’s only a quarter to ten,’ replied Miss Twitterton, with a deprecating glance at a little china clock in the shape of a pansy. ‘Nothing, of course, to you – but you know we keep early hours in the country. I have to be up at five to feed my birds, so I’m rather an early bird myself – except on choir-practice nights, you know – Wednesday, such an awkward day for me with Thursday market-day, but then it’s more convenient for the dear Vicar. But, of course, if I’d had the smallest idea that Uncle William would do such an extraordinary thing, I’d have come over and been there to let you in. If you could wait five – or perhaps ten – minutes while I made a more suitable toilet, I could come now – as I see you have your beautiful car, perhaps—’

  ‘Please don’t bother, Miss Twitterton,’ said Harriet, a little alarmed at the prospect. ‘We have plenty of supplies with us and Mrs Ruddle and our man can look after us quite well for tonight. If you could just let us have the keys—’

  ‘The keys – yes, of course. So dreadful for you not being able to get in, and really such a cold night for the time of year – what Uncle William can have been thinking of – and did he say – dear me! his letter upset me so I hardly knew what I was reading – your honeymoon didn’t you say? – how terrible for you – and I do hope at any rate you’ve had supper? No supper? – I simply can’t understand how Uncle could – but you will take a little bit of cake and a glass of my home-made wine?’

  ‘Oh, really, we mustn’t trouble you �
��’ began Harriet, but Miss Twitterton was already hunting in a cupboard. Behind her back, Peter put his hands to his face in a mute gesture of horrified resignation.

  ‘There!’ said Miss Twitterton, triumphantly. ‘I’m sure you will feel better for a little refreshment. My parsnip wine is really extra good this year. Dr Jellyfield always takes a glass when he comes – which isn’t very often, I’m pleased to say, because my health is always remarkably good.’

  ‘That will not prevent me from drinking to it,’ said Peter, disposing of the parsnip wine with a celerity which might have been due to eagerness but, to Harriet, rather suggested a reluctance to let the draught linger on the palate. ‘May I pour out a glass for yourself?’

  ‘How kind of you!’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘Well – it’s rather late at night – but I really ought to drink to your wedded happiness, oughtn’t I? – Not too much, Lord Peter, please. The dear Vicar always says my parsnip wine is not nearly so innocent as it looks – dear me! – But you will take just a little more, won’t you? A gentleman always has a stronger head than a lady.’

  ‘Thanks so much,’ said Peter, meekly, ‘but you must remember I’ve got to drive my wife back to Paggleham.’

  ‘One more I’m sure won’t do any harm. – Well, just half a glass, then – there! Now of course, you want the keys. I’ll run upstairs for them at once – I know I mustn’t keep you – I won’t be a minute, Lady Peter, so please have another slice of cake – it’s home-made – I do all my own baking, and Uncle’s too – whatever can have come over him I can’t think!’

  Miss Twitterton ran out, leaving the pair to gaze at one another in the light of the candle.

  ‘Peter, my poor, long-suffering, heroic lamb – pour it into the aspidistra.’