Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  12

  POT-LUCK

  Why, how now, friends! what saucy mates are you

  That know nor duty nor civility?

  Are we a person fit to be your host;

  Or is our house become your common inn

  To beat our doors at pleasure? What such haste

  Is yours, as that it cannot wait fit times?

  Are you the masters of this commonwealth

  And know no more discretion?

  JOHN FORD: ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.

  SUPERINTENDENT KIRK was spared the greater part of his ordeal; Sellon was in no fit state for undergoing a long interrogation. Sergeant Hart had picked up his trail in Pillington, where he had ridden through on his bicycle about half-past six. Then a girl was found who had seen a policeman following the field path on foot in the direction of Blackraven Wood – a favourite resort of ramblers and children during the summer months. She had particularly noticed him, because it was an unusual place in which to see a uniformed policeman. Following, as he said, this indication, Hart had found Sellon’s bicycle propped against a hedge near the entrance to the path. He had hastened in pursuit – rather uneasy when he remembered that the little wood ran down to the bank of the Pagg. It was darkish by that time, and quite dark among the trees. With the aid of his torch, he had searched about for some time, calling as loudly as he could. After about three-quarters of an hour (he admitted that it had seemed a lot longer) he came upon Sellon, sitting on a fallen tree. He wasn’t doing anything – just sitting. Seemed dazed-like. Hart asked him what on earth he thought he was about, but could get no sense out of him. He told him, pretty sharply, that he must come along at once – the Super was asking for him. Sellon offered no objection, but came without protest. Asked again what brought him there, he said he was ‘trying to think things out’. Hart – who knew no details of the Paggleham affair – could make neither head nor tail of him; he didn’t think he was fit to be trusted to ride back alone, and therefore took him up on the carrier and brought him straight home. Kirk said he couldn’t have done better.

  This explanation took place in the sitting-room. Mrs Sellon had got Joe into the kitchen and was trying to coax him into eating a bit of something. Kirk sent Hart back to Broxford, explaining that Sellon was unwell and in a spot of trouble, and warning him not to say too much about it to the other men. He then went in to tackle his black sheep.

  He soon came to the conclusion that Sellon’s chief trouble, beside worry, was sheer exhaustion and lack of food. (He remembered now that he had had practically no lunch, though ham sandwiches and bread and cheese had been liberally provided at Talboys.) Sellon’s account of himself, when Kirk got it out of him, was that, after interviewing Williams and writing his report, he had gone straight over to Broxford, expecting to find Kirk already there. He hadn’t liked to go back to Talboys, on account of what had happened – seemed to him he was better out of the way. He’d waited about half an hour for Kirk; but the men kept asking him about the murder, and what with one thing and another he couldn’t stick it. So he’d left the station and gone down to the canal and walked about a bit by the gas-works, meaning to come back later. But then it ‘came over him’ how he’d been and gone and done for himself, and even if he could clear himself of the murder charge there were no hopes for him. So he’d taken his bike again and gone off, he couldn’t rightly remember where or why, because he couldn’t get his mind clear, and he thought if he could just go and walk about somewhere, maybe he could think better. He remembered going through Pillington and walking over the fields. He didn’t think he’d had any special reason for going to Blackraven Wood – he’d only wandered about. He might have fallen asleep. He had had a sort of notion about chucking himself into the river, but he was afraid it would upset his wife. And he was very sorry, sir, but he couldn’t say no more than that, only that he didn’t do the murder. But, he added, oddly, if his lordship didn’t believe him, then nobody else would.

  This didn’t seem quite the moment for going into his lordship’s reasons for disbelief. Kirk told Sellon he was a young fool to go rambling away like that, and that everybody was ready to believe him so long as he was telling the truth. And he’d better go to bed and try and wake up more sensible; he’d frightened his wife quite enough as it was, and here it was close on 10 o’clock (Crumbs! and the Chief Constable’s report not written yet!); he would be over in the morning and would see him before the inquest.

  ‘You’ll have to give evidence, you know,’ said Kirk, ‘but I’ve seen the coroner and maybe he won’t press you too hard, on account of the investigation being in progress.’

  Sellon only put his head in his hands, and Kirk, really feeling that there was little to be done with him in this state, left him. As he went out, he said what cheering things he could to Mrs Sellon, and advised her not to fidget her husband with too many questions, but to let him rest and try to keep in good heart.

  All the way back to Broxford, his mind was churning over his new ideas. He couldn’t get out of his head that picture of Sellon, standing at Martha Ruddle’s cottage door, waiting—

  There was only one thing that gave him comfort – a comfort altogether irrational: that one curious sentence, ‘If his lordship won’t believe me, then nobody else will.’ There was no reason why Wimsey should believe Sellon, if it came to that – there was no sense in it at all – but it had sounded, well, genuine. He could hear again Sellon’s desperate cry: ‘Don’t you go, my lord! My lord, you’ll believe me!’ Kirk, rummaging the filing-cabinet of his mind, found words which seemed to him apt. Thou hast appealed unto Caesar; unto Caesar thou shalt go. But Caesar had disallowed the appeal.

  Not till Kirk, weary and patient, was writing out his report to the Chief Constable did the great illumination come upon him. He stopped, pen in hand, staring at the wall. Something like an idea, that was. And he’d been on to it before, as near as nothing, only he hadn’t properly followed it up. But, of course, it explained everything. It explained Sellon’s statement and exonerated him; it explained how he had seen the clock from the window; it explained how Noakes came to be killed behind locked doors; it explained why the body hadn’t been robbed; and it explained the murder – explained it right away. Because, Kirk told himself with triumph, there had never been any murder!

  Wait a bit, thought the Superintendent, figuring the thing out in his careful way; mustn’t go too fast. There’s a big snag at the start. How can we get over that, I wonder?

  The snag was that, to make the theory work, one had to assume that the cactus had been removed from its place. Kirk had already dismissed this idea as silly; but he hadn’t seen then what a lot it would explain. He had gone so far as to have a word with Crutchley, among the chrysanthemums, just as he left Talboys. He had managed the inquiry pretty well, he thought. He had been careful not to ask straight out: ‘Did you put the cactus back before you left?’ That would have drawn attention to a point which was at present a secret between himself and his lordship. He didn’t want any talk about that to get round to Sellon before he himself confronted him with it in his own way. So he had merely pretended to have mis-remembered what Crutchley had said about his final interview with Noakes. It took place in the kitchen? Yes. Had either of them gone back into the sitting-room after that? No. But he thought Crutchley said he was watering them plants at the time. No, he’d finished watering the plants and was putting back the steps. Oh! then Kirk had got that wrong. Sorry. He just really wanted to get at how long the altercation with Noakes had lasted. Had Noakes been there while Crutchley was seeing to the plants? No, he was in the kitchen. But didn’t Crutchley take the plants out to the kitchen to water them? No, he watered them just where they were, and wound the clock and came out with the steps, and it wasn’t till he’d done that that Noakes gave him his day’s money and the argument started. It hadn’t lasted more’n maybe ten minutes or so – not the argument. Well, possibly fifteen. Six o’clock was rightly Crutchley’s time to stop work – he
charged five bob for an eight-hour day, barrin’ time off for lunch. Kirk apologised for his mistake: the step-ladder had confused him; he had thought Crutchley meant he needed the step-ladder to get the hanging plants out of their pots. No; the step-ladder was to get up to water them, same as he’d done this morning – they was above his head – and to wind the clock, like he said. That was all. It was quite ordinary, him using the step-ladder, he always did, and put it back in the kitchen afterwards. ‘You ain’t tryin’ to make out,’ added Crutchley, a little belligerently, ‘as I stood on them steps with a ’ammer to cosh the old bird over the ’ead?’ That was an ingenious idea nobody had yet thought of. Kirk replied that he wasn’t thinking anything particular; only trying to get the times clear in his head. He was glad to have given the impression that his suspicions were directed to the step-ladder.

  Unfortunately, then, he couldn’t begin by substantiating that the cactus had been out of its pot at 6.20. But now – suppose Noakes had taken it out himself for some purpose or the other. What purpose? Well, it was difficult to say. But suppose Noakes had seen something wrong with it – a spot of mildew, maybe, or whatever these ugly things suffered from. He might have taken it down to wipe it or – But he could have done that easy enough, standing on the steps or, as he was so tall, on a chair. Not good enough. What other things could happen to plants? Well, they might become pot-bound. Kirk didn’t know whether that happened to cactuses (or was it cacti?), but suppose you wanted to look and see if its roots were growing out through the bottom of the pot. You’d have to take it out for that. Or tap the pot to see if – no; it had been given water. But wait! Noakes hadn’t seen Crutchley do that. He might have suspected Crutchley was neglecting it. Perhaps he felt at the top and it didn’t seem wet enough, and then – Or, more likely, he thought it was being over-watered. These spiky cactus-affairs didn’t like too much damp. Or did they? It was annoying not to know their habits; Kirk’s own gardening was of the straightforward flowerbed-and-kitchen-stuff variety.

  Anyhow, it wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility that Noakes had removed the cactus for some purpose of his own. You couldn’t prove he hadn’t. Say he did. All right. Then, at 9 o’clock, up comes Sellon, and sees Noakes coming into the parlour. . . . Here Kirk paused to consider again. If Noakes was coming for the 9.30 news as usual, he was before his time. He came in (said Sellon) and looked at the clock. The dead man had worn no watch, and Kirk had taken it for granted that he had come in merely to see how near it was to the news-bulletin time. But he might also have been meaning to put the cactus back and come in a bit early on that account. That was all right. He comes in. He thinks, Now, have I got time to fetch that there plant in from the scullery, or wherever it is, before the news comes on? He looks at the clock. Then Joe Sellon taps at the window and he comes over. They have their talk and Joe goes away. The old boy fetches in his plant and gets up on a chair or something to put it back. Or maybe he gets the steps. Then, while he’s doing that, he sees it’s getting on for half-past nine, and that flurries him a bit. He leans over too far, or the steps slip, or he ain’t careful getting down, and over he goes backwards and gives his head a crack on the floor – or, better still, on the corner of the settle. He’s knocked out. Then presently he comes to, puts away the chair or the steps or whatever it was and after that – well, after that, we know what happened to him. So there you are. Simple as pie. No cutting or stealing keys or hiding blunt instruments or telling lies – nothing at all but a plain accident and everybody telling the truth.

  Kirk was as much overcome by the beauty, simplicity and economy of this solution as Copernicus must have been when he first thought of putting the sun in the centre of the Solar System and saw all the planets, instead of describing complicated and ugly geometrical capers, move onward in orderly and dignified circles. He sat and contemplated it with affection for nearly ten minutes before venturing to examine it. He was afraid of knocking the bloom off it.

  Still, a theory was only a theory; one had got to find evidence to support it. One must at any rate be sure there was no evidence against it. First of all, could a man kill himself like that, simply by falling off a pair of steps?

  Side by side with half-crown editions of English poets and philosophers, flanked on the right by Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations and on the left by that handy police publication which dissects and catalogues crimes according to the method of their commission, stood, tall and menacing, the two blue volumes of Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence, that canon of uncanonical practice and Baedeker of the back doors to death. Kirk had often studied it in a dutiful readiness for the unexpected. Now he took it down and turned the pages of Volume I, till he came to the running head: ‘Inter-cranial Haemorrhage – Violence or Disease’. He was looking for the story of the gentleman who fell out of a chaise. Yes, here he was: he emerged with a kind of personality from the Report of Guy’s Hospital for 1859:

  ‘A gentleman was thrown out of a chaise, and fell upon his head with such violence as to stun him. After a short time he recovered his senses, and felt so much better that he entered the chaise again, and was driven to his father’s house by a companion. He attempted to pass off the accident as of a trivial nature, but he soon began to feel heavy and drowsy, so that he was obliged to go to bed. His symptoms became more alarming, and he died in about an hour from effusion of blood in the brain.’

  Excellent and unfortunate gentleman, his name unknown, his features a blank, his life a mystery; embalmed for ever in a fame outlasting the gilded monuments of princes! He lived in his father’s house, so was presumably unmarried and young – a bit of a swell, perhaps, wearing the fashionable new Inverness cape and the luxuriant silky side-whiskers which were just coming into favour. How did he come to be thrown out of the chaise? Did the horse bolt with him? Had he looked on the wine when it was red? The vehicle, we observe, was undamaged, and his companion at any rate sober enough to drive him home. A courageous gentleman (since he was resolute to enter the chaise again), a considerate gentleman (since he made light of the accident in order to spare his parents anxiety); his premature death must have occasioned much lamentation among the crinolines. No one could have guessed that, nearly eighty years later, a police superintendent in a rural district would be reading his brief epitaph: ‘A gentleman was thrown out of a chaise . . .’

  Not that Superintendent Kirk troubled his head with these biographical conjectures. What exasperated him was that the book did not mention the height of the chaise from the ground or the rate at which the vehicle was proceeding. How would the fall compare in violence with that of an elderly man from a step-ladder on to an oak floor? The next case quoted was even less to the point: this was a youth of eighteen, who was hit on the head in a fight, went about his business for ten days, had a headache on the eleventh day and died in the night. Then came a drunken carter, aged fifty, who fell from the shafts of his cart and was killed. This seemed more hopeful; except that the wretched creature had fallen three or four times, the last time being thrown under the wheels of the cart by the bolting horse. Still, it did seem to show that a short fall would do quite a lot of damage. Kirk pondered a little, and then went to the telephone.

  Dr Craven listened with patience to Kirk’s theory, and agreed that it was an attractive one. ‘Only,’ said he, ‘if you want me to tell the coroner that the man fell on his back, I can’t do it. There is no bruising whatever on the back, or on the left-hand side of the body. If you looked at my report to the coroner you must have seen that all the marks were on the right-hand side and in front, except the actual blow that caused death. I’ll tell you again what they are. The right forearm and elbow show heavy bruises, with considerable extravasation from the surface vessels, showing that they were inflicted some time before death. I should say that when he was hit behind the left ear, he was flung over forwards on to his right side with the force of the blow. The only other marks are bruises and slight abrasions on the shins, hands and forehead. The hands and forehead are ma
rked with dust, and this suggests, I think, that he got the injuries in falling forward down the cellar steps. He died shortly after that, for there is little extravasation from these injuries. I am, of course, excluding the hypostasis produced by his having lain a whole week face downwards in the cellar. That, naturally, is all in the front part of the body.’

  Kirk had forgotten the meaning of ‘hypostasis’, which the doctor pronounced in a very unlikely way; but he gathered that it wasn’t a thing that could be made to support the theory. He asked whether Noakes could have been killed by hitting his head in a fall.

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Dr Craven; ‘but you’ll have to explain how he hit the back of his head in falling and yet came down on his face.’

  With this Kirk had to be content. It looked rather as though a flaw might be developing in his beautiful rounded theory. It is the little rift within the lute, he thought, mournfully, that by and by will make the music mute. But he shook his head angrily. Tennyson or no Tennyson, he wasn’t going to abandon the position without a struggle. He called to his assistance a more robust and comforting poet – one who ‘hold we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better’ – called to his wife that he was going out, and reached for his hat and overcoat. If only he could have another look at the sitting-room, he might be able to see how that fall could have come about.

  At Talboys the sitting-room was dark, though a light still burned in the casement above it and in the kitchen. Kirk knocked at the door, which was presently opened by Bunter in his shirt-sleeves.

  ‘I’m very sorry to disturb his lordship so late,’ began Kirk, only then realising that it was past eleven.

  ‘His lordship,’ said Bunter, ‘is in bed.’

  Kirk explained that, unexpectedly, a necessity had arisen to re-examine the sitting-room, and that he was anxious to get this done before the inquest. There was no need for his lordship to come down in person. Nothing was sought but permission to enter.