Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Six to kill and pluck,’ said Kirk, thoughtfully, as though estimating the time that this would take. Harriet looked at the meek Miss Twitterton in consternation.

  ‘You don’t mean to say you kill them yourself?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Twitterton, brightly. ‘It’s so much easier than you would think, when you’re used to it.’

  Kirk burst into a guffaw, and Peter – seeing that his wife was disposed to attach over much importance to the matter – said in an amused tone:

  ‘My dear girl, wringing necks is only a knack. It doesn’t need strength.’

  He twisted his hands in a quick pantomime, and Kirk, either genuinely forgetting the errand he was on, or of malice prepense, added:

  ‘That’s right.’ He tightened an imaginary noose about his own bull neck. ‘Wring ’em or string ’em up – it’s the sharp jerk that does it.’

  His head flopped sideways suddenly, sickeningly. Miss Twitterton gave a squeak of alarm; for the first time, perhaps, she realised where all this had to end. Harriet was angry, and her face showed it. Men; when they got together they were all alike – even Peter. For a moment he and Kirk stood together on the far side of a chasm, and she hated them both.

  ‘Steady on, Super,’ said Wimsey; ‘we’re alarming the ladies.’

  ‘Dear, dear, that’ll never do.’ Kirk was jovial; but the brown ox-eyes were as watchful as the grey. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Twitterton. I think that’s all for the moment.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Harriet got up. ‘It’s all over. Come along and see how Mr Puffett is getting on with the kitchen chimney.’ She pulled Miss Twitterton to her feet and steered her out of the room. As Peter opened the door for them, she darted a reproachful glance at him, but, as with Lancelot and Guinevere, their eyes met and hers fell.

  ‘Oh, and my lady!’ said the Superintendent, unmoved, ‘would you be so kind as to tell Mrs Ruddle she’s wanted? We must get those times straightened out a bit,’ he went on, addressing himself to Sellon, who grunted and took out a knife to sharpen his pencil.

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, in a tone almost of challenge, ‘she was quite frank about that.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. She knew about it all right. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘Not knowledge – learning!’ Peter corrected him peevishly. ‘A little learning – Alexander Pope.’

  ‘Is that so?’ replied Mr Kirk, not at all perturbed. ‘I must make a note of that. Ah! it don’t look as though anybody else could have got hold of the keys, but you never know.’

  ‘I think she was telling the truth.’

  ‘Reckon there’s several kinds of truth, my lord. There’s truth as far as you knows it; and there’s truth as far as you’re asked for it. But they don’t represent the whole truth – not necessarily. F’rinstance, I never asked that little lady if she locked up the house after someone else, did I? All I said was, When did you last see your fa – your uncle? See?’

  ‘Yes, I see. Personally, I always prefer not to have a key to the house in which they’ve discovered the body.’

  ‘There’s that about it,’ admitted Kirk. ‘But there’s circumstances in which you might rather it was you than somebody else, if you take my meaning. And there’s times when – What do you suppose she meant when she said, what had she done? Eh? Maybe it come to her then as she might have left them keys about, accidental on purpose. Or maybe—’

  ‘That was about the money.’

  ‘So it was. And maybe she thought of something else she’d done as wasn’t much use to her nor anybody, as it turned out. Something she was hiding there, if you ask me. If she’d been a man, I’d a-got it out of her fast enough – but women! They get howling and sniffing and you can’t do nothing with them.’

  ‘True,’ said Peter; and felt in his turn a momentary resentment against the whole sex, including his wife. After all, hadn’t she, more or less, ticked him off in the matter of neck-wringing? And the lady who now entered rubbing her hands on her apron and crying in self-important tones, ‘Did you want me, mister?’ – there was nothing in her to thrill to music the silent string of chivalry. Kirk, however, knew where he was with the Mrs Ruddles of this life and attacked the position confidently.

  ‘Yes. We wanted to fix up a bit more exactly about the time of this murder. Now, Crutchley says he saw Mr Noakes alive and well on Wednesday evening about twenty-past six. You’d gone home by then, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I had. I only came to Mr Noakes mornings. I wasn’t in the ’ouse after dinner-time.’

  ‘And you came up next morning and found the place shut up?’

  ‘That’s right. I knocks ’ard on both doors – ’im bein’ a bit deaf I allus knocks ’ard, and then I gives a shout, like, under ’is bedroom winder, and then I knocks again and nothing come of it, and I says, Drat the man, I says, ’e’s gone off to Broxford. Thinkin’ he’d took the 10 o’clock bus the night before. There! I says, ’e might a-told me, and me not paid for last week, neither.’

  ‘What else did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. There wasn’t nothing to do. Only tell the baker and milkman not to call. And the noospaper. And leave word at the post-office to bring ’is letters down to me. Only there wasn’t no letters, only two, and they was bills, so I didn’t send ’em on.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Peter. ‘That’s the right way with bills. There, as the poet ungrammatically observes, there let them lay, like the goose with the golden eggs.’

  Mr Kirk found this quotation confusing and refused to pursue it.

  ‘Didn’t you think of sending over to Miss Twitterton? She usually came down when Mr Noakes was away. You must have been surprised not to see her.’

  ‘It ain’t my place to go sendin’ for people if they don’t choose to come,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘If Mr Noakes ’ad wanted Aggie Twitterton, he could a-told her. Leastways, that’s how I thought about it. ’Im bein’ dead, I see now, o’ course, he couldn’t, but I wasn’t to know that, was I? And I was inconvenienced enough not ’avin’ ’ad me money – you don’t expect me to go sendin’ two miles for people, as if I ’adn’t enough to do without that. Nor wasting good stamps on ’em, neither. And what’s more,’ said Mrs Ruddle, with some energy, ‘I says to meself, if ’e ain’t said nothing to me about goin’, maybe ’e ain’t told Aggie Twitterton, neither – and I ain’t one to interfere in other folks’ business, and don’t you think it.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Kirk. ‘Mean to say you thought he might have had some reason for wanting to leave the place quiet like?’

  ‘Well, he might and he mightn’t. That’s the way I looked at it. See? Of course, there was my week’s money – but there wasn’t no ’urry for that. Aggie Twitterton ’ud a-paid me if I arst ’er.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kirk. ‘I suppose you didn’t think of asking her on Sunday when she came over to play the organ in church?’

  ‘Me?’ said Mrs Ruddle, quite affronted. ‘I’m chapel. They’re out and gone by the time we finish. Not but what I ’ave been to church now and again, but there ain’t nothing to show for it. Up and down, up and down, as if one’s knees wasn’t wore out with scrubbing on week-days and a pore little bit of a sermon with no ’eart in it. Mr Goodacre’s a very kind gentleman and friendly to all, I ain’t sayin’ a word agin’ ’im, but I’m chapel and always was, and that’s the other end of the village, which by the time I was back here, they’ve all gone ’ome and Aggie Twitterton on ’er bicycle. So you see I couldn’t ketch ’er, not if I wanted ever so.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t,’ said Kirk. ‘All right. Well, you didn’t try to let Miss Twitterton know. I suppose you mentioned in the village that Mr Noakes was away?’

  ‘I dare say I did,’ admitted Mrs Ruddle. ‘It wasn’t nothing out o’ the way.’

  ‘You told us,’ put in Peter, ‘that he’d gone by the bus at 10 o’clock.’

  ‘So I thought ’e ’ad,’ said Mrs Ruddle.

  ‘And that would seem natural, so ther
e would be no inquiries. Did anybody call for Mr Noakes during the week?’

  ‘Only Mr Goodacre. I see him on Thursday morning, poking about the place, and he sees me and hollers out, “Is Mr Noakes away?” “That’s right,” I says, “gone over to Broxford,” I says. And he says, “I’ll call another day,” he says. I don’t remember as nobody come after him.’

  ‘Then last night,’ resumed Kirk, ‘when you let this lady and gentleman in, did you find everything as usual?’

  ‘That’s right. Exceptin’ ’is dirty supper things on the table where ’e’d left them. ’E allus ’ad ’is supper at ’ar-par-seven reg’lar. Then ’e’d set in the kitchen with the paper till ’e came in ’ere for the noos at 9.30. Very reg’lar ’e was, a very reg’lar sort of man.’

  Kirk beamed. This was the kind of information he was looking for.

  ‘So he’d had his supper. But his bed hadn’t been slept in?’

  ‘No, it ’adn’t. But of course I put on clean sheets for the lady and gentleman. I ’ope I knows what’s proper. Them,’ explained Mrs Ruddle, anxious to make things clear, ‘wos the week-before’s sheets, wot wos all dried and ready Wednesday, but I couldn’t take ’em in, along of the ’ouse bein’ shet up. So I ’ad them all put aside neat in me kitchen, and I didn’t ’ave to do more than put them to the fire a minnit and there they wos, all aired and fit for the King and Queen of England.’

  ‘That helps us a lot,’ said Kirk. ‘Mr Noakes ate his supper at 7.30, so presumably he was alive then.’ He glanced at Peter, but Peter was offering no further embarrassing suggestions about murderers who ate their victims’ suppers, and the Superintendent was encouraged to proceed. ‘He didn’t go to bed, so that gives us – When did he usually go to bed, Mrs Ruddle, do you know?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock, Mr Kirk, reg’lar as clockwork, ’e’d switch off the wireless and I’d see ’is candle go upstairs to bed. I can see ’is bedroom from my back winder, plain enough.’

  ‘Ah! now, Mrs Ruddle, just you cast your mind back to Wednesday night. Do you recollect seeing his candle go upstairs to bed?’

  ‘Well, there!’ exclaimed Mrs Ruddle, ‘now you comes to mention of it, Mr Kirk, I did not. Which I remember saying to my Bert only the next day. “There,” I says, “if I’d only kep’ awake, I mighter known ’e’d gone off, alonger seein’ ’is bedroom winder dark. But there!” I says, “I was that wore out, I dropped off the moment me ’ead was on the piller.” ’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Kirk, disappointed, ‘it don’t really matter. Seeing as his bed wasn’t slept in, it’s likely he was downstairs when—’

  (Thank God! thought Peter. Not in my lady’s chamber.)

  Mrs Ruddle interrupted with a sharp screech.

  ‘Oh, lor’ Mr Kirk! There now!’

  ‘Have you thought of something?’

  Mrs Ruddle had, and her expression, as her eyes wandered from Kirk to Sellon and then to Peter, indicated that it was not only important but alarming.

  ‘Why, of course. I dunno how it didn’t come into me ’ead before, but I been that moithered with all these dretful things a-’appenin’. ’Course, come to think of it, if ’e wasn’t off by the ’bus, then ’e must a-been dead afore ’ar-pas’-nine.’

  The constable’s hand paused in its note-taking. Kirk said sharply:

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘W’y, ’is wireless wasn’t a-workin’, and I says to Bert—’

  ‘Just a minute. What’s all this about the wireless?’

  ‘W’y, Mr Kirk, if Mr Noakes ’ad been ’ere alive, ’e wouldn’t a-missed the 9.30 noos, not if it was ever so. ’E set great store by the last noos, pore soul – though wot good it done ’im I don’t know. And I recollects sayin’ to Bert last Wednesday night as ever was, “Funny thing,” I says, “Mr Noakes ain’t got ’is wireless goin’ tonight. That ain’t like ’im,” I says.’

  ‘But you couldn’t hear his wireless from your cottage with all these doors and windows shut?’

  Mrs Ruddle licked her lips.

  ‘Well, I won’t deceive you, Mr Kirk.’ She swallowed, and then went on as volubly as ever; her eye avoided the Superintendent’s and fixed itself on Joe Sellon’s pencil. ‘I did jest run over ’ere a few minutes arter the ’arf-hour to borrer a drop of paraffin from ’is shed. And if the wireless ’ad bin on then I couldn’t a-’elped ’earin’ of it, for them walls at the back ain’t only plaster, and ’e allus ’ad it a-roarin’ powerful ’ard on account of bein’ ’ard of ’earin’.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Kirk.

  ‘No ’arm,’ said Mrs Ruddle, backing away from the table, ‘no ’arm in borrowin’ a drop o’ paraffin.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Kirk, cautiously, ‘that’s neether here nor there. Nine-thirty news. That’s on the National.’

  ‘That’s right. He never troubled with the 6 o’clock.’

  Peter consulted Kirk with a glance, stepped over to the radio cabinet and raised the lid.

  ‘The pointer,’ he observed, ‘is set to Regional.’

  ‘Well, if you ain’t altered it since—’ Peter shook his head, and Kirk continued. ‘Looks like he didn’t have it on – not for the 9.30. H’m. We’re getting there, aren’t we? Whittling the time down. Line upon line, line upon line, here a little and there a little—’

  ‘Isaiah,’ said Peter, shutting down the lid. ‘Or is it, more appropriately, Jeremiah?’

  ‘Isaiah, my lord – and no call for Lamentations that I can see. That’s pretty satisfactory, that is. Dead or unconscious at 9.30 – last seen alive about 6.20 – ate his supper at—’

  ‘Six-twenty?’ cried Mrs Ruddle. ‘Go on! He was alive and kicking at 9 o’clock.’

  ‘What! How do you know? Why didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Well, I thought you knowed it. You didn’t ask. And ’ow do I know? ’Cause I seen ’im, that’s why. ’Ere! wotter you gettin’ at? Tryin’ to put summat on me? You knows as well as I do ’e was alive at nine. Joe Sellon ’ere was a-talkin’ to ’im.’

  Kirk gaped dumbfounded. ‘Eh?’ he said, staring at the constable.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Sellon, dully, ‘that’s right.’

  ‘ ’Course it is,’ said Mrs Ruddle. Her small eyes gleamed with malicious triumph, behind which lurked an uneasy horror. ‘You don’t catch me that way, Joe Sellon. I come in 9 o’clock from fetchin’ a pail o’ water, and I sees you plain as the nose on my face a-talkin’ to him at this very winder. Ah! and I ’eard you, too. Usin’ language – you did oughter be ashamed of yourself – not fit for a decent woman to listen to. I come up the yard – which you know where the pump is, and the only water fit to drink, bar you goes down to the village, Mr Kirk, and always free permission to use the pump in the yard, without it’s for washin’, what I always uses rainwater on account of the woollens, and I ’ears you from the pump – yes, you may look! And I ses to meself, “Lor’,” I ses, “wotever is a-going on?” And I comes round the corner of the ’ouse and I sees you – and your ’elmet, so don’t you go a denying of it.’

  ‘All right, Ma,’ said Kirk, shaken, but sticking loyally by his subordinate. ‘Much obliged. That brings us pretty near the time. Nine o’clock, you say it was?’

  ‘Near as makes no difference. My clock said ten past, but it gains a bit. But you ask Joe Sellon. If yer want to know the time, ask a p’leeceman!’

  ‘Very good,’ replied the Superintendent. ‘We just wanted a bit of confirmation on that there point. Two witnesses are better than one. That’ll do. Now, just you run along and – see here – don’t you get shooting your mouth off.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs Ruddle, bridling, ‘I ain’t one to talk.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Peter. ‘That’s the last thing anybody would accuse you of. But, you see, you’re a very important witness – you and Sellon here – and there might be all sorts of people, reporters and so on, trying to wheedle things out of you. So you must be very discreet – just like Sellon – and come down sharp
on them. Otherwise, you might make things difficult for Mr Kirk.’

  ‘Joe Sellon, indeed!’ said Mrs Ruddle, contemptuously. ‘I can do as well as ’im any day. I ’ope I knows better than to go talking to newspaper fellows. A nasty, vulgar lot.’

  ‘Most unpleasant people,’ said Peter. He made for the door, driving her gently before him like a straying hen. ‘We know we can rely on you, Mrs Ruddle, thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Whatever you do,’ he added earnestly, as he propelled her over the threshold, ‘don’t say anything to Bunter – he’s the world’s worst chatterbox.’

  ‘Certainly not, my lord,’ said Mrs Ruddle. The door closed. Kirk drew himself up in the big chair; his subordinate sat huddled, waiting for the explosion.

  ‘Now, Joe Sellon. What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Joe,’ went on Kirk, with more distress than anger in his puzzled voice. ‘I’m astonished. Mean to say you was there at nine o’clock talking to Mr Noakes and you said nothin’ about it? Ain’t you got no sense of duty?’

  ‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, sir.’

  Lord Peter Wimsey strolled over to the window. One does not interfere with another man ticking off his subordinate. All the same—

  ‘Sorry? That’s a nice word to use. You – a police-officer? With’oldin’ important evidence? And say you’re sorry?’

  (Dereliction of duty. Yes – that was the first way it would strike one.)

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ began Sellon. Then, furiously: ‘I didn’t know that old cat had seen me.’

  ‘What the hell does it matter who saw you?’ cried Kirk, with rising exasperation. ‘You ought to have told me first thing. . . . My God, Joe Sellon, I don’t know what to make of you. Upon my word I don’t. . . . You’re for it, my lad.’

  The wretched Sellon sat twisting his hands together, finding no answer but a miserable mumble:

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Now, look here,’ said Kirk, with a dangerous note in his voice. ‘What were you doing there, that you didn’t want anybody to know about? . . . Speak up! . . . Wait a minute. Wait a minute.’ (He’s seen it, thought Peter, and turned round.) ‘You’re left-handed, ain’t you?’