Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘You’ll electrify Paggleham if you do, my lord,’ said Crutchley, with sudden geniality. ‘I’m sure I’d be very willing—’

  ‘Frank,’ said Miss Twitterton brightly, ‘knows everything about machinery!’

  The unfortunate Crutchley, on the verge of an explosion, caught Peter’s eye and smiled in some embarrassment.

  ‘All right,’ said his lordship. ‘We’ll talk it over presently. Meanwhile, carry on with whatever it is you do on Wednesdays.’ Whereupon the gardener thankfully made his escape, leaving Harriet to reflect that school-marming seemed to have got into Miss Twitterton’s blood and that nothing was so exasperating to the male sex in general as an attitude of mingled reproof and showmanship.

  The click of the distant gate and a footfall on the path broke in on the slightly blank pause which followed Crutchley’s exit.

  ‘Perhaps,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘that’s Uncle coming now.’

  ‘I hope to God,’ said Peter, ‘it’s not one of those infernal reporters.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Harriet, running to the window. ‘It’s a vicar – he’s coming to call.’

  ‘Oh, the dear vicar! perhaps he may know something.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett.

  ‘This is magnificent,’ said Peter. ‘I collect vicars.’ He joined Harriet at her observation-post. ‘This is a very well-grown specimen, six foot four or thereabouts, short-sighted, a great gardener, musical, smokes a pipe—’

  ‘Good gracious!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘do you know Mr Goodacre?’

  ‘– untidy, with a wife who does her best on a small stipend; a product of one of our older seats of learning – 1890 vintage – Oxford, at a guess, but not, I fancy, Keble, though as high in his views as the parish allows him to be.’

  ‘He’ll hear you,’ said Harriet, as the reverend gentleman withdrew his nose from the middle of a clump of dahlias and cast a vague glance through his eyeglasses towards the sitting-room window. ‘To the best of my knowledge and belief, you’re right. But why the strictly limited High Church views?’

  ‘The Roman vest and the emblem upon the watch-chain point the upward way. You know my methods, Watson. But a bundle of settings for the Te Deum under the arm suggest sung Matins in the Established way; besides, though we heard the church clock strike eight there was no bell for a daily Celebration.’

  ‘However you think of these things, Peter!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said her husband, flushing faintly. ‘I can’t help taking notice, whatever I’m doing.’

  ‘Worse and worse,’ replied his lady. ‘Mrs Shandy herself would be shocked.’ While Miss Twitterton, completely bewildered, made haste to explain:

  ‘It’s choir practice tonight, of course. Wednesdays, you know. Always Wednesdays. He’ll be taking them up to the church.’

  ‘Of course, as you say,’ agreed Peter with relish. ‘Wednesdays always is choir practice. Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. Nothing ever changes in the English countryside. Harriet, your honeymoon house is a great success. I am feeling twenty years younger.’

  He retired hastily from the window as the vicar approached, and declaimed with considerable emotion:

  ‘Give me just a country cottage, where the soot of ages

  falls,

  And, to crown a perfect morning, look! an English

  vicar calls!

  I, too, Miss Twitterton, though you might not think it, have bawled Maunder and Garrett down the neck of the blacksmith’s daughter singing in the village choir, and have proclaimed the company of the spearmen to be scattered abroad among the beasts of the people, with a little fancy pointing of my own.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s an orkerd one, is the beasts of the people.’

  As though the word ‘soot’ had struck a chord in his mind, he moved tentatively in the direction of the fireplace. The vicar vanished within the porch.

  ‘My dear,’ said Harriet, ‘Miss Twitterton will think we are both quite mad; and Mr Puffett knows it already.’

  ‘Oh, no, me lady,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Not mad. Only ’appy. I knows the feeling.’

  ‘As man to man, Puffett,’ said the bridegroom, ‘I thank you for those kind and sympathetic words. Where, by the way, did you go for your honeymoon?’

  ‘ ’Erne Bay, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett.

  ‘Good God, yes! Where George Joseph Smith murdered his first Bride-in-the-Bath. We never thought of that! Harriet—’

  ‘Monster,’ said Harriet, ‘do your worst! There are only hip-baths here.’

  ‘There!’ cried Miss Twitterton, catching at the only word in this conversation that appeared to make sense. ‘I was always saying to Uncle that he really ought to put in a bathroom.’

  Before Peter could give further proofs of insanity, Bunter mercifully announced:

  ‘The Reverend Simon Goodacre.’

  The vicar, thin, elderly, clean-shaven, his tobacco-pouch bulging from the distended pocket of his suit of ‘clerical grey’ and the left knee of his trousers displaying a large three-cornered tear carefully darned, advanced upon them with that air of mild self-assurance which a consciousness of spiritual dignity bestows upon a naturally modest disposition. His peering glance singled out Miss Twitterton from the group presented to his notice, and he greeted her with a cordial shake of the hand, at the same time acknowledging Mr Puffett’s presence with a nod and a cheerful, ‘Morning, Tom!’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Goodacre,’ replied Miss Twitterton in a mournful chirp. ‘Dear, dear! Did they tell you –?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Well this is a surprise!’ He adjusted his glasses, beamed vaguely about him, and addressed himself to Peter. ‘I fear I am intruding. I understand that Mr Noakes – er—’

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Peter, feeling it better to introduce himself than to wait for Miss Twitterton. ‘Delighted to see you. My name’s Wimsey. My wife.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re all at sixes and sevens,’ said Harriet. Mr Goodacre, she thought, had not changed much in the last seventeen years. He was a little greyer, a little thinner, a little baggier about the knees and shoulders, but in essentials the same Mr Goodacre she and her father had occasionally encountered in the old days, visiting the sick of Paggleham. It was clear that he had not the faintest recollection of her; but, taking soundings as it were in these uncharted seas, his glance encountered something familiar – an ancient dark-blue blazer, with ‘O.U.C.C.’ embroidered on the breast-pocket.

  ‘An Oxford man, I see,’ said the vicar, happily, as though this did away with any necessity for further identification.

  ‘Balliol, sir,’ said Peter.

  ‘Magdalen,’ returned Mr Goodacre, unaware that by merely saying ‘Keble’ he could have shattered a reputation. He grasped Peter’s hand and shook it again. ‘Bless me! Wimsey of Balliol. Now, what is it I –?’

  ‘Cricket, perhaps,’ suggested Peter, helpfully.

  ‘Yes,’ said the vicar, ‘ye – yes. Cricket and – Ah, Frank! Am I in your way?’

  Crutchley, coming briskly in with a step-ladder and a watering-pot, said, ‘No, sir, not at all,’ in the tone of voice which means, ‘Yes, sir, very much.’ The vicar dodged hastily.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’ said Peter, uncovering a corner of the settle.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr Goodacre, as the step-ladder was set down on the exact spot where he had been standing. ‘I really ought not to take up your time. Cricket, of course, and—’

  ‘Getting into the veteran class now, I’m afraid,’ said Peter, shaking his head. But the vicar was not to be diverted.

  ‘Some other connection, I feel sure. Forgive me – I did not precisely catch what your manservant said. Not Lord Peter Wimsey?’

  ‘An ill-favoured title, but my own.’

  ‘Really!’ cried Mr Goodacre. ‘Of course, of course. Lord Peter Wimsey – cricket and crime! Dear me, this is an honour. My wife and I were reading a paragraph in the p
aper only the other day – most interesting – about your detective experiences—’

  ‘Detective!’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton in an agitated squeak.

  ‘He’s quite harmless, really,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I hope,’ continued Mr Goodacre, gently jocose, ‘you haven’t come to detect anything in Paggleham.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Peter. ‘As a matter of fact, we came here with the idea of passing a peaceful honeymoon.’

  ‘Indeed!’ cried the vicar. ‘That is delightful. I hope I may say, God bless you and make you very happy.’

  Miss Twitterton, overcome by the thought of the chimneys and the bed-linen, sighed deeply, and then turned to frown at Frank Crutchley who, from his point of vantage upon the step-ladder, was indulging in what seemed to her to be an unbecoming kind of grimace over the heads of his employers. The young man instantly became unnaturally grave and gave his attention to mopping up the water which, in his momentary distraction, had overflowed the rim of the cactus-pot. Harriet earnestly assured the vicar that they were very happy, and Peter concurred, observing:

  ‘We have been married nearly twenty-four hours, and are still married; which in these days must be considered a record. But then, you see, padre, we are old-fashioned, country-bred people. In fact, my wife used to be a neighbour of yours, so to speak.’

  The vicar, who had seemed doubtful whether to be amused or distressed by the first part of this remark, at once looked all eager interest, and Harriet hastened to explain who she was and what had brought them to Talboys. If Mr Goodacre had ever heard or read anything of the murder trial, he showed no sign of such knowledge; he merely expressed the greatest delight at meeting Dr Vane’s daughter once more and at welcoming two new parishioners to his fold.

  ‘And so you have bought the house! Dear me! I hope, Miss Twitterton, your uncle is not deserting us.’

  Miss Twitterton, who had scarcely known how to contain herself during this prolonged exchange of introductions and courtesies, broke out as though the words had released a spring:

  ‘But you don’t understand, Mr Goodacre. It’s too dreadful. Uncle never let me know a word about it. Not a word. He’s gone off to Broxford or somewhere, and left the house like this!’

  ‘But he’s coming back, no doubt,’ said Mr Goodacre.

  ‘He told Frank he would be here today – didn’t he, Frank?’

  Crutchley, who had descended from the steps and appeared to be occupied in centralising the radio cabinet with great precision beneath the hanging pot, replied:

  ‘So he said, Miss Twitterton.’

  He folded his lips firmly, as though, in the vicar’s presence, he preferred not to make the comments he might have made, and retired into the window with his watering-pot.

  ‘But he isn’t here,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘It’s all a terrible muddle. And poor Lord and Lady Peter—’

  She embarked on an agitated description of the previous night’s events, in which the keys, the chimneys, Crutchley’s new garage, the bed-linen, the ten o’clock bus, and Peter’s intention of putting in an electric plant were jumbled into hopeless confusion. The vicar ejaculated from time to time and looked increasingly bewildered.

  ‘Most trying, most trying,’ he said at length, when Miss Twitterton had talked herself breathless. ‘I am so sorry. If there is anything my wife and I can do, Lady Peter, I hope you will not hesitate to make use of us.’

  ‘It’s awfully good of you,’ said Harriet. ‘But really, we are quite all right. It’s rather fun, picnicking like this. Only, of course, Miss Twitterton is anxious about her uncle.’

  ‘No doubt he has been detained somewhere,’ said the vicar. ‘Or’ – a bright thought occurred to him – ‘a letter may have gone wrong. Depend upon it, that is what has happened. The post-office is a wonderful institution, but even Homer nods. I am sure you will find Mr Noakes at Broxford safe and sound. Pray tell him I am sorry to have missed him. I had called to ask him for a subscription to the concert we are getting up in aid of the Church Music Fund – that explains my intrusion upon you. I fear we parsons are sad mendicants.’

  ‘Is the Choir still going strong?’ inquired Harriet. ‘Do you remember once bringing it over to Great Pagford for a great combined Armistice Thanksgiving? I sat beside you at the Rectory tea, and we discussed Church music very seriously. Do you still do dear old Bunnett in F?’

  She hummed the opening bars. Mr Puffett, who all this time had remained discreetly withdrawn and was, at the moment, assisting Crutchley to sponge the aspidistra leaves, looked up, and joined in the melody with a powerful roar.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Goodacre, gratified; ‘we have made a great deal of progress. We have advanced to Stanford in C. And last Harvest Festival we tackled the Hallelujah Chorus with great success.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ warbled Mr Puffett, in stentorian tones. ‘Hallelujah! Hal-le-lu-jah!’

  ‘Tom,’ said the vicar, apologetically, ‘is one of my most enthusiastic choirmen. And so is Frank.’

  Miss Twitterton glanced at Crutchley, as though to check him if he showed signs of bursting into riotous song. She was relieved to see that he had dissociated himself from Mr Puffett, and was mounting the steps to wind the clock.

  ‘And Miss Twitterton, of course,’ said Mr Goodacre, ‘presides at the organ.’

  Miss Twitterton smiled faintly and looked at her fingers.

  ‘But,’ pursued the vicar, ‘we sadly need new bellows. The old ones are patched past mending, and since we put in that new set of reeds they have become quite inadequate. The Hallelujah Chorus exposed our weaknesses sadly. In fact, the wind gave out altogether.’

  ‘So embarrassing,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Miss Twitterton must be saved embarrassment at all costs,’ said Peter, producing his note-case.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said the vicar. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Really, this is most generous. Too bad, your very first day in the parish. I – really – I am almost ashamed to – so very kind – so large a sum – perhaps you would like to look at the programme of the concert. Dear me!’ His face lit up with a childlike pleasure. ‘Do you know, it is quite a long time since I handled a proper Bank of England note.’

  For the space of a moment, Harriet saw every person in that room struck into a kind of immobility by the magic of a piece of paper as it crackled between the vicar’s fingers. Miss Twitterton awestruck and open-mouthed; Mr Puffett suddenly pausing in mid-action, sponge in hand; Crutchley, on his way out of the room with the step-ladder over his shoulder, jerking his head round to view the miracle; Mr Goodacre himself smiling with excitement and delight; Peter amused and a little self-conscious, like a kind uncle presenting a Teddy bear to the nursery; they might have posed as they stood for the jacket-picture of a thriller: Bank-Notes in the Parish.

  Then Peter said meaninglessly, ‘Oh, not at all.’ He picked up the concert-programme which the vicar had let fall in clutching at the note; and all the arrested motion flowed on again like a film. Miss Twitterton gave a small ladylike cough, Crutchley went out, Mr Puffett dropped the sponge into the watering-can, and the vicar, putting the ten-pound note carefully away in his pocket, inscribed the amount of the subscription in a little black note-book.

  ‘It’s going to be a grand concert,’ said Harriet, peering over her husband’s shoulder. ‘When is it? Shall we be here?’

  ‘October 27th,’ said Peter. ‘Of course we shall come to it. Rather.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Harriet; and smiled at the vicar.

  Whatever fantastic pictures she had from time to time conjured up of married life with Peter, none of them had ever included attendance at village concerts. But of course they would go. She understood now why it was that with all his masquing attitudes, all his cosmopolitan self-adaptations, all his odd spiritual reticences and escapes, he yet carried about with him that permanent atmosphere of security. He belonged to an ordered society, and this was it. More than any of the fr
iends in her own world, he spoke the familiar language of her childhood. In London, anybody, at any moment, might do or become anything. But in a village – no matter what village – they were all immutably themselves: parson, organist, sweep, duke’s son and doctor’s daughter, moving like chessmen upon their allotted squares. She was curiously excited. She thought, ‘I have married England.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm.

  England, serenely unaware of his symbolic importance, acknowledged the squeeze with a pressure of the elbow. ‘Splendid!’ he said, heartily. ‘Piano solo, Miss Twitterton – we mustn’t miss that, on any account. Song by the Reverend Simon Goodacre, “Hybrias the Cretan” – strong, he-man stuff, padre. Folk-songs and Sea-Shanties by the Choir . . .’

  (He took his wife’s caress to indicate that she shared his appreciation of the programme. And indeed, their minds were not far apart, for he was thinking: How these old boys run true to form! ‘Hybrias the Cretan’! When I was a kid, the curate used to sing it – ‘With my good sword I plough, I reap, I sow’ – a gentle creature who wouldn’t have harmed a fly . . . Merton, I think, or was it Corpus? . . . with a baritone bigger than his whole body . . . he fell in love with our governess. . . .)

  ‘Shenandoah’, ‘Rio Grande’, ‘Down in Demerara’. He glanced round the dust-sheeted room. ‘That’s exactly how we feel. That’s the song for us, Harriet.’ He lifted his voice:

  ‘Here we sit like birds in the wilderness—’

  All mad together, thought Harriet, joining in:

  ‘Birds in the wilderness—’

  Mr Puffett could not bear it and exploded with a roar:

  ‘BIRDS in the wilderness—’

  The vicar opened his mouth:

  ‘Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

  Down in Demerara!’

  Even Miss Twitterton added her chirp to the last line.

  ‘Now this old man, he took and died-a-lum,

  Took and died-a-lum,

  Took and died-a-lum,