Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Puffett, mollified by finding himself appreciated, ‘the pot’s where your trouble is.’ He stripped off another sweater to reveal himself in emerald green. ‘I’m a-goin’ to try it with the rods alone, without the brush. Maybe, with my power be’ind it, we’ll be able to get the rod through the sut. If not, then we’ll ’ave to get the ladders.’

  ‘Ladders?’

  ‘Access by the roof, my lady,’ explained Bunter.

  ‘What fun!’ said Harriet. ‘I’m sure Mr Puffett will manage it somehow. Can you find me a vase or something for these flowers, Bunter?’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  (Nothing, thought Mr Bunter, not even an Oxford education, would prevent a woman’s mind from straying away after inessentials; but he was pleased to note that the temper was, so far, admirably controlled. A vase of water was a small price to pay for harmony.)

  ‘Peter!’ cried Harriet up the staircase. (Bunter, had he remained to witness it, might after all have conceded her an instinct for essentials.) ‘Peter darling! the sweep’s here!’

  ‘Oh, frabjous day! I am coming, my own, my sweep.’ He pattered down briskly. ‘What a genius you have for saying the right thing! All my life I have waited to hear those exquisite words, Peter darling, the sweep’s come. We are married by God! we are married. I thought so once, but now I know it.’

  ‘Some people take a lot of convincing.’

  ‘One is afraid to believe in good fortune. The sweep! I crushed down my rising hopes. I said, No – it is a thunderstorm, a small earthquake, or at most a destitute cow dying by inches in the chimney. I dared not court disappointment. It is so long since I was taken into anybody’s confidence about a sweep. As a rule, Bunter smuggles him in when I am out of the house, for fear my lordship should be inconvenienced. Only a wife would treat me with the disrespect I deserve and summon me to look upon the – good lord!’

  He turned, as he spoke, to look upon Mr Puffett, only the soles of whose boots were visible. At this moment a bellow so loud and prolonged issued from the fireplace that Peter turned quite pale.

  ‘He hasn’t got stuck, has he?’

  ‘No – it’s the power he’s putting behind it. There’s corroded soot in the pot or something, which makes it very hard work. . . . Peter, I do wish you could have seen the place before Noakes filled it up with bronze horsemen and bamboo what-nots and aspidistras.’

  ‘Hush! Never blaspheme the aspidistra. It’s very unlucky. Something frightful will come down that chimney and get you – boo! . . . Oh, my God! look at that bristling horror over the wireless set!’

  ‘Some people would pay pounds for a fine cactus like that.’

  ‘They must have very little imagination. It’s not a plant – it’s a morbid growth – something lingering happening to your kidneys. Besides, it makes me wonder whether I’ve shaved. Have I?’

  ‘M’m – yes – like satin – no, that’ll do! I suppose, if we shot the beastly thing out, it’d die to spite us. They’re delicate, though you mightn’t think it, and Mr Noakes would demand its weight in gold. How long did we hire this grisly furniture for?’

  ‘A month, but we might get rid of it sooner. It’s a damn’ shame spoiling this noble old place with that muck.’

  ‘Do you like the house, Peter?’

  ‘It’s beautiful. It’s like a lovely body inhabited by an evil spirit. And I don’t mean only the furniture. I’ve taken a dislike to our landlord, or tenant, or whatever he is. I’ve a fancy he’s up to no good and that the house will be glad to be rid of him.’

  ‘I believe it hates him. I’m sure he’s starved and insulted and ill-treated it. Why, even the chimneys—’

  ‘Yes, of course, the chimneys. Do you think I could bring myself to the notice of our household god, our little Lar? . . . Er – excuse me one moment, Mr – er—’

  ‘Puffett is the name.’

  ‘Mr Puffett – hey, Puffett! Just a second, would you?’

  ‘Now then!’ expostulated Mr Puffett, swivelling round on his knees. ‘Who’re you a-poking of in the back with a man’s own rods? It ain’t fair to a man nor his rods.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Peter. ‘I did shout but failed to attract your attention.’

  ‘No offence,’ said Mr Puffett, evidently conceding something to the honeymoon spirit. ‘You’ll be his lordship, I take it. Hope I sees you well.’

  ‘Thank you, we are in the pink. But this chimney seems to be a little unwell. Shortness of wind or something.’

  ‘There ain’t no call to abuse the chimney,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘The fault’s in the pot, like I was saying to your lady. The pot, you see, ain’t reconcilable to the size of the chimney, and it’s corroded that ’ard with sut as you couldn’t ’ardly get a bristle through, let alone a brush. It don’t matter ’ow wide you builds the chimney, all the smoke’s got to go through the pot in the end, and that – if you foller my meaning – is where the fault is, see?’

  ‘I follow you. Even a Tudor chimney winds somewhere safe to pot.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s just it. If we ’ad the Tooder pot, now, we’d be all right. A Tooder pot is a pot as any practical chimney-sweep might ’andle with pleasure and do justice to ’isself and ’is rods. But Mr Noakes, now ’e tuk down some of the Tooder pots and sold ’em to make sundials.’

  ‘Sold them for sundials?’

  ‘That’s right, me lady. Catchpenny, I calls it. That’s ’im all over. And these ’ere fiddlin’ modern pots wot ’e’s put on ain’t no good for a chimney the ’ighth and width of this chimney wot you’ve got ’ere. It stands to reason they’ll corrode up with sut in a month. Once that there pot’s clear, the rest is easy. There’s loose sut in the bends, of course – but that don’t ’urt – not without it was to ketch fire, which is why it didn’t oughter be there and I’ll ’ave it out in no time once we’re done with the pot – but while the sut’s corroded ’ard in the pot, you won’t get no fire to go in this chimney, me lord, and that’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘You make it admirably clear,’ said Peter. ‘I see you are an expert. Please go on demonstrating. Don’t mind me – I’m admiring the tools of your trade. What is this affair like a Brobdingnagian corkscrew? There’s a thing to give a man a thirst – what?’

  ‘Thank-you, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett, evidently taking this for an invitation. ‘Work first and pleasure afterwards. W’en the job’s done, I won’t say no.’

  He beamed kindly at them, peeled off his green upper-most layer and, arrayed now in a Fair-Isle jumper of complicated pattern, addressed himself once more to the chimney.

  5

  FURY OF GUNS

  So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,

  Goosey-poosey, Turkey-lurkey, and Foxy-woxy

  all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.

  JOSEPH JACOBS: English Fairy Tales.

  ‘I DO hope I’m not disturbing you,’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton anxiously. ‘I felt I must run over and see how you were getting on. I really couldn’t sleep for thinking of you – so strange of Uncle to behave like that – so dreadfully inconsiderate!’

  ‘Oh, please!’ said Harriet. ‘It was so nice of you to come, won’t you sit down? . . . Oh, Bunter! Is that the best you can find?’

  ‘Why!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘you’ve got the Bonzo vase! Uncle won it in a raffle. So amusing, isn’t it, holding the flowers in his mouth like that, and his little pink waistcoat? – Aren’t the chrysanthemums lovely? Frank Crutchley looks after them, he’s such a good gardener. . . . Oh, thank you, thank you so much – I really mustn’t inflict myself on you for more than a moment. But I couldn’t help being anxious. I do hope you passed a comfortable night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter, gravely. ‘Parts of it were excellent.’

  ‘I always think the bed is the important thing—’ began Miss Twitterton. Mr Puffett, scandalised and seeing Peter beginning to lose control of his mouth, diver
ted her attention by digging her gently in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘Oh!’ ejaculated Miss Twitterton. The state of the room and Mr Puffett’s presence forced themselves together upon her mind. ‘Oh, dear, what is the matter? Don’t say the chimney has been smoking again? It always was a tiresome chimney.’

  ‘Now see here,’ said Mr Puffett, who seemed to feel to the chimney much as a tigress might feel to her offspring, ‘that’s a good chimney, that is. I couldn’t build a better chimney meself, allowin’ for them upstairs flues and the ’ighth and pitch of the gable. But when a chimney ain’t never been swep’ through, on account of persons’ cheese-parin’ ’abits, then it ain’t fair on the chimney, nor yet it ain’t fair on the sweep. And you knows it.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ cried Miss Twitterton, collapsing upon a chair and immediately bouncing up again. ‘What you must be thinking of us all. Where can Uncle be? I’m sure if I’d known – Oh! there’s Frank Crutchley! I’m so glad. Uncle may have said something to him. He comes every Wednesday to do the garden, you know. A most superior young man. Shall I call him in? I’m sure he could help us. I always send for Frank when anything goes wrong. He’s so clever at finding a way out of a difficulty.’

  Miss Twitterton had run to the window without waiting for Harriet’s, ‘Yes, do have him in,’ and now cried in agitated tones:

  ‘Frank! Frank! Whatever can have happened? We can’t find Uncle!’

  ‘Can’t find him?’

  ‘No – he isn’t here, and he’s sold the house to this lady and gentleman, and we don’t know where he is and the chimney’s smoking and everything upside down; what can have become of him?’

  Frank Crutchley, peering in at the window and scratching his head, looked bewildered, as well he might.

  ‘Never said nothing to me, Miss Twitterton. He’ll be over at the shop, most like.’

  ‘Was he here when you came last Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the gardener, ‘he was here then all right.’ He paused, and a thought seemed to strike him. ‘He did ought to be here today. Can’t find him, did you say? What’s gone of him?’

  ‘That’s just what we don’t know. Going off like that without telling anyone! What did he say to you?’

  ‘I thought I’d find him here – leastways—’

  ‘You’d better come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

  ‘Right, sir!’ said Crutchley, with some appearance of relief at having a man to deal with. He withdrew in the direction of the back door, where, to judge by the sounds, he was received by Mrs Ruddle with a volume of explanatory narrative.

  ‘Frank would run over to Broxford, I’m sure,’ said Miss Twitterton, ‘and find out what’s happened to Uncle. He might be ill – though you’d think he’d have sent for me, wouldn’t you? Frank could get a car from the garage – he drives for Mr Hancock at Pagford you know, and I tried to get him this morning before I came, but he was out with a taxi. He’s very clever with cars, and such a good gardener. I’m sure you won’t mind my mentioning it, but if you’ve bought the house and want someone to do the garden—’

  ‘He’s kept it awfully well,’ said Harriet. ‘I thought it looked lovely.’

  ‘I’m so glad you think so. He works so hard, and he’s so anxious to get on—’

  ‘Come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

  The gardener, hesitating now at the door of the room with his face to the light, showed himself as an alert, well-set-up young man of about thirty, neatly dressed in a suit of working clothes and carrying his cap respectfully in his hand. His crisp dark hair, blue eyes and strong white teeth produced a favourable impression, though at the moment he looked slightly put out. From his glance at Miss Twitterton, Harriet gathered that he had overheard her panegyric of him and disapproved of it.

  ‘This,’ went on Peter, ‘comes a little unexpected, what?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir.’ The gardener smiled, and sent his quick glance roving over Mr Puffett. ‘I see it’s the chimney.’

  ‘It ain’t the chimney,’ began the sweep indignantly; when Miss Twitterton broke in:

  ‘But, Frank, don’t you understand? Uncle’s sold the house and gone away without telling anybody. I can’t make it out, it’s not like him. Nothing done and nothing ready and nobody here last night to let anybody in, and Mrs Ruddle knew nothing except that he’d gone to Broxford—’

  ‘Well, have you sent over there to look for him?’ inquired the young man in a vain endeavour to stem the tide.

  ‘No, not yet – unless Lord Peter – did you? – or no, there wouldn’t be time, would there? – no keys, even, and I really was ashamed you should have had to come last night like that, but of course I never dreamt – and you could so easily have run over this morning, Frank – or I could go myself on my bicycle – but Mr Hancock told me you were out with a taxi, so I thought I’d better just call and see.’

  Frank Crutchley’s eyes wandered over the room as though seeking counsel from the dust-sheets, the aspidistras, the chimney, the bronze horsemen, Mr Puffett’s bowler, the cactus and the radio cabinet, before at length coming to rest on Peter’s in mute appeal.

  ‘Let’s start from the right end,’ suggested Wimsey. ‘Mr Noakes was here last Wednesday and went off the same night to catch the ten o’clock bus to Broxford. That was nothing unusual, I gather. But he expected to be back to deal with the matter of our arrival, and you, in fact, expected to find him here today.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  Miss Twitterton gave a little jump and her mouth shaped itself into an anxious O.

  ‘Is he usually here when you come on Wednesdays?’

  ‘Well, that depends, sir. Not always.’

  ‘Frank!’ cried Miss Twitterton, outraged, ‘it’s Lord Peter Wimsey. You ought to say “my lord”.’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said Peter, kindly, but irritated by this interference with his witness. Crutchley looked at Miss Twitterton with the expression of a small boy who has been publicly exhorted to wash behind the ears, and said:

  ‘Some days he’s here, some not. If he ain’t,’ (Miss Twitterton frowned), ‘I gets the key from her’ (he jerked his head at Miss Twitterton) ‘to come in and wind the clock and see to the pot-plants. But I did reckon to see him this morning, because I had particular business with him. That’s why I come up to the house first – came, if you like,’ (he added, crossly, in response to Miss Twitterton’s anxious prompting) ‘it’s all one, I dessay, to my lord.’

  ‘To his lordship,’ said Miss Twitterton, faintly.

  ‘Did he actually tell you he’d be here?’

  ‘Yes – my lord. Leastways he said as he’d let me have back some money I’d put into that business of his. Promised it back today.’

  ‘Oh, Frank! You’ve been worrying Uncle again. I’ve told you you’re just being silly about your money. I know it’s quite safe with Uncle.’

  Peter’s glance crossed Harriet’s over Miss Twitterton’s head.

  ‘He said he’d let you have it this morning. May I ask whether it was any considerable sum?’

  ‘Matter o’ forty pound,’ said the gardener, ‘as he got me to put into his wireless business. Mayn’t seem a lot to you,’ he went on a little uncertainly, as though trying to assess the financial relationship between Peter’s title, his ancient and shabby blazer, his manservant and his wife’s non-committal tweeds, ‘but I’ve got a better use for it, and so I told him. I asked for it last week and he palavered as usual, sayin’ he didn’t keep sums like that in the house – puttin’ me off—’

  ‘But, Frank, of course he didn’t. He might have been robbed. He did lose ten pounds once, in a pocket-book—’

  ‘But I stuck to it,’ pursued Crutchley, unheeding, ‘sayin’ I must have it, and at last he said he’d let me have it today, as he’d got some money coming in—’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes, sir – my lord – and I says to him, I hope you do, I says, and if you don’t, I’ll have the law on
you.’

  ‘Oh, Frank, you shouldn’t have said that!’

  ‘Well I did say it. Can’t you let me tell his lordship what he wants to know?’

  Harriet’s glance had caught Peter’s again, and he had nodded. The money for the house. But if he had told Crutchley as much as that—

  ‘Did he say where this money of his was coming from?’

  ‘Not him. He’s not the sort to tell more than he has to. Matter of fact, I never thought he was expecting no money in particular. Making excuses, he was. Never pays out money till the last moment, and not then if he can ’elp it. Might lose ’arf a day’s interest, don’t you see,’ added Crutchley, with a sudden half-reluctant grin.

  ‘Sound principle, so far as it goes,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘That’s right; that’s the way he’s made his bit. He’s a warm man, is Mr Noakes. Still, all the same for that, I told him I wanted the forty pound for my new garridge—’

  ‘Yes, the garahge,’ put in Miss Twitterton, with a corrective little frown and shake of the head. ‘Frank’s been saving up a long time to start his own garahge.’

  ‘So,’ repeated Crutchley with emphasis, ‘wantin’ the money for the garridge, I said, “I’ll see my money Wednesday,” I said, “or I’ll ’ave the law on you.” That’s what I said. And I went out sharp and I ain’t seen him since.’

  ‘I see. Well’ – Peter glanced from Crutchley to Miss Twitterton and back again – ‘we’ll run over to Broxford presently and hunt the gentleman up, and then we can get it straight. In the meantime, we shall want the garden kept in order, so perhaps you’d better carry on as usual.’

  ‘Very good, my lord. Shall I come Wednesday same as before? Five shillings, Mr Noakes give me by the day.’

  ‘I’ll give you the same. Do you know anything about running an electric light plant, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, my lord; there’s one at the garridge where I work.’

  ‘Because,’ said Peter, with a smile at his wife, ‘though candles and oil-stoves have their romantic moments and all that, I think we shall really have to electrify Talboys.’