Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  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 them 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 gentleman 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 wi
ll 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.

  Harriet said, Not at all, and murmured something about lunch. The Superintendent said he saw no objection to that; he had finished with the sitting-room for the moment. He would just like a word with this fellow MacBride about the financial side of the business, but he would send him in as soon as he had done with him. He tactfully refused to join the party, but he accepted the offer of a mouthful of bread and cheese in the kitchen. When the doctor had finished, he would finish the interrogations in the light of whatever the medical examination might reveal.

  Years afterwards, Lady Peter Wimsey was accustomed to say that the first few days of her honeymoon remained in her memory as a long series of assorted surprises, punctuated by the most incredible meals. Her husband’s impressions were even less coherent; he said he had had, all the time, the sensation of being slightly drunk and tossed in a blanket. The freakish and arbitrary fates must have given the blanket an especially energetic tweak, to have tossed him, towards the end of that strange, embarrassed luncheon, so high over the top of the world. He stood at the window, whistling. Bunter, hovering about the room, handing sandwiches and straightening out the last traces of disorder left after the sweep’s departure, recognised the tune. It was the one he had heard the night before in the woodshed. Nothing could have been less suited to the occasion, nothing should more deeply have offended his inborn sense of propriety; yet, like the poet Wordsworth, he heard it and rejoiced.

  ‘Another sandwich, Mr MacBride?’

  (The newly-wedded lady doing the honours at her own table for the first time. Curious, but true.)

  ‘No more, thanks; much obliged to you.’ Mr MacBride swallowed the last drop of his beer and polished his mouth and fingers politely with his handkerchief. Bunter swept down upon the empty plate and glass.

  ‘I hope you’ve had something to eat, Bunter?’

  (One must consider the servants. Only two fixed points in the universe: death, and the servants’ dinner; and there they both were.)

  ‘Yes, thank you, my lady.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll be wanting this room in a minute. Is the doctor still there?’

  ‘I believe he has concluded his examination, my lady.’

  ‘Nice job, I don’t think,’ said Mr MacBride.

  ‘La caill’, la tourterelle

  Et la joli’ perdrix –

  Auprès de ma blonde

  Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,

  Auprès de ma blonde—’

  Mr MacBride looked round, scandalised. He had his own notions of propriety. Bunter darted hastily across the room and attracted the singer’s wandering attention.

  ‘Yes, Bunter?’<
br />
  ‘Your lordship will excuse me. But in view of the melancholy occasion—’

  ‘Eh, what? Oh, sorry. Was I making a noise?’

  ‘My dear—’ His swift, secret, reminiscent smile was a challenge; she beat it down, and achieved the right tone of wifely rebuke. ‘Poor Miss Twitterton’s trying to get to sleep.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Dashed thoughtless of me. And in a house of bereavement and all that.’ His face darkened with a sudden odd impatience. ‘Though, if you ask me, I doubt whether anybody – I say, anybody feels particularly bereft.’

  ‘Except,’ said Mr MacBride, ‘that chap Crutchley with his forty pound. I fancy that grief’s genuine.’

  ‘From that point of view,’ said his lordship, ‘you should be the chief mourner.’

  ‘It won’t keep me awake at night,’ retorted Mr MacBride. ‘It ain’t my money, you see,’ he added frankly. He rose, opened the door and glanced out into the passage. ‘I only hope they’re getting a move on out there. I’ve got to toddle back to Town and see Mr Abrahams. Pity you ain’t on the telephone.’ He paused. ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t let it worry me. Seems to me, deceased was a dashed unpleasant old gink and well out of the way.’

  He went out, leaving the atmosphere clearer, as though by the removal of funeral flowers.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Just as well, isn’t it?’ Wimsey’s tone was studiously light. ‘When I’m investigating a murder, I hate to have too much sympathy with the corpse. Personal feelings cramp the style.’

  ‘But, Peter – need you investigate this? It’s rather rotten for you.’

  Bunter, piling plates on a tray, made for the door. This, of course, was bound to happen. Let them fight it out for themselves. He had delivered his own warning.