Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  She could not deny it. In desperation, she broke through to the real issue:

  ‘But must it be your hands—?’

  ‘Ah!’ he said, in a changed voice. ‘Yes. I have given you the right to ask me that. You married into trouble when you married my work and me.’

  He spread out his hands as though challenging her to look at them. It seemed strange that they should be the same hands that only last night . . . Their smooth strength fascinated her. License my roving hands and let them go before, behind, between – His hands, so curiously gentle and experienced. . . . With what sort of experience?

  ‘These hangman’s hands,’ he said, watching her. ‘You knew that, though, didn’t you?’

  Of course she had known it, but – She burst out with the truth:

  ‘I wasn’t married to you then!’

  ‘No. . . . That makes the difference, doesn’t it? . . . Well, Harriet, we are married now. We are bound. I’m afraid the moment has come when something will have to give way – you, or I – or the bond.’

  (So soon? . . . Yours, utterly and for ever – he was hers, or else all faith was mockery.)

  ‘No – no! . . . Oh, my dear, what is happening to us? What has become of our peace?’

  ‘Broken,’ he said. ‘That’s what violence does. Once it starts, there’s no stopping it. It catches us all, sooner or later.’

  ‘But . . . it mustn’t. Can’t we escape?’

  ‘Only by running away.’ He dropped his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘Perhaps it would be better for us to run. I have no right to drag any woman into this mess – least of all, my wife. Forgive me. I have been my own master so long – I think I have forgotten the meaning of an obligation.’ The stricken whiteness of her face startled him. ‘Oh, my dear – don’t upset yourself like this. Say the word, and we’ll go right away. We’ll leave this miserable business and never meddle again.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’ she said, incredulously.

  ‘Of course I mean it. I have said it.’

  His voice was the voice of a beaten man. She was appalled, seeing what she had done.

  ‘Peter, you’re mad. Never dare to suggest such a thing. Whatever marriage is, it isn’t that.’

  ‘Isn’t what, Harriet?’

  ‘Letting your affection corrupt your judgement. What kind of life could we have if I knew that you had become less than yourself by marrying me?’

  He turned away again, and when he spoke, it was in a queerly shaken tone:

  ‘My dear girl, most women would consider it a triumph.’

  ‘I know, I’ve heard them.’ Her own scorn lashed herself – the self she had only just seen. ‘They boast of it – “My husband would do anything for me. . . .” It’s degrading. No human being ought to have such power over another.’

  ‘It’s a very real power, Harriet.’

  ‘Then,’ she flung back passionately, ‘we won’t use it. If we disagree, we’ll fight it out like gentlemen. We won’t stand for matrimonial blackmail.’

  He was silent for a moment, leaning back against the chimney-breast. Then he said, with a lightness that betrayed him:

  ‘Harriet; you have no sense of dramatic values. Do you mean to say we are to play out our domestic comedy without the great bedroom scene?’

  ‘Certainly. We’ll have nothing so vulgar.’

  ‘Well – thank God for that!’

  His strained face broke suddenly into the familiar mischievous smile. But she had been too much frightened to be able to smile back – yet.

  ‘Bunter isn’t the only person with standards. You must do what you think right. Promise me that. What I think doesn’t matter. I swear it shall never make any difference.’

  He took her hand and kissed it gravely.

  ‘Thank you, Harriet. That is love with honour.’

  They stood so for a moment; both conscious that something had been achieved that was of enormous – of over-mastering importance. Then Harriet said, practically:

  ‘In any case, you were right, and I was wrong. The thing has got to be done. By any means, so long as we get to the bottom of it. That’s your job, and it’s worth doing.’

  ‘Always provided I can do it. I don’t feel very brilliant at the moment.’

  ‘You’ll get there in the end. It’s all right, Peter.’

  He laughed – and Bunter came in with the soup.

  ‘I regret that dinner is a little late, my lady.’

  Harriet looked at the clock. It seemed to her that she had lived through interminable ages of emotion. But the hands stood at a quarter past eight. Only an hour and a half had gone by since they had entered the house.

  18

  STRAWS IN THE HAIR

  Follow the knave; and take this drab away.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: II Henry VI. II. I.

  ‘THE REALLY ESSENTIAL THING,’ said Peter, executing a sketch on the table-cloth with the handle of his soup-spoon, ‘is to put in a workable hot-water system and build out a bathroom over the scullery. We can make the furnace-house here, so as to get a straight fall from the cistern there. And that will give us a direct outfall for the bath to the sewer – if I may dignify it by that name. I think there’d be room to make another little bedroom near the bathroom; and when we want more space, we can convert the attics. The electric plant can live in the stable.’

  Harriet agreed and offered her own contribution:

  ‘Bunter speaks none too kindly of the kitchen range. He says he would designate it as a period piece, my lady, but, if I will permit him to say so, of an inferior period. I think it’s mid-Victorian.’

  ‘We will take it a few periods back and have it Tudor. I propose to install an open fire and a roasting-spit and live in the baronial manner.’

  ‘With a scullion to turn the spit? Or one of those bandy-legged period dogs?’

  ‘Well – no; I was going to compromise about that, and have the spit turned by electricity. And an electric cooker for the days when we didn’t feel so period. I like the best of both worlds – I’m quite ready to be picturesque but I draw the line at inconvenience and hard work. I’m sure it would be hard work training a modern dog to turn a spit.’

  ‘Talking of dogs – are we keeping that terrific bullmastiff?’

  ‘We’ve only hired him till after the funeral. Unless you feel a fancy for him. He is almost embarrassingly affectionate and demonstrative; but he’d do to play with the children. The goat, on the other hand, I have sent home. It got loose while we were out and ate a row of cabbages and Mrs Ruddle’s apron.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep it to provide milk for the nursery tea?’

  ‘Quite sure. It’s a billy-goat.’

  ‘Oh! well, that’s very smelly and useless. I’m glad he’s gone. Are we going to keep things?’

  ‘What should you like to keep? Peacocks?’

  ‘Peacocks need a terrace. I was thinking of pigs. They’re comfortable; and when you feel dreamy and indolent you can go and scratch their backs like Mr Baldwin. And ducks make a pleasant noise. But I don’t care much for hens.’

  ‘Hens have peevish faces. By the way, I’m not sure you weren’t right before dinner. On principle, it’s the proper thing to give Kirk information, but I wish one knew how he was going to use it. If once he gets a fixed idea—’

  ‘There’s someone at the door. If that’s Kirk, we’ll have to make up our minds.’

  Bunter entered, bringing with him the fragrance – but only the fragrance – of sage and onion.

  ‘My lord, there is an individual—’

  ‘Oh, send him away. I can’t stand any more individuals.’

  ‘My lord—’

  ‘We’re at dinner. Send him away. Tell him to call again later.’

  There was the noise of swift steps on the gravel outside; and at the same moment a stout, elderly Hebrew burst into the room.

  ‘Very thorry to intrude,’ said this gentleman, in a breathless and hasty manner. ‘No wish t
o cause inconvenience. I,’ he added helpfully, ‘am Moss & Isaacs—’

  ‘You were wrong, Bunter. It’s not an individual – it’s a company.’

  ‘– and here in my hand I have—’

  ‘Bunter; take the company’s hat.’

  ‘Very thorry,’ said the company, whose failure to uncover seemed due rather to oblivion than to want of natural courtesy. ‘No intention to offend. But I have here a bill of thale on the furniture in this house, and I have run—’

  A thunderous knocking on the door caused him to fling up despairing hands. Bunter hurried out.

  ‘A bill of sale?’ cried Harriet.

  The intruder turned eagerly to her:

  ‘For a debt of theventy-three, thickthteen, thickth,’ he said, emotion choking his speech – ‘and I have run all the way from the buth-thtop – all the way – and there ith a man—’

  He was right; there was a man. He pushed his way past Bunter, crying out in reproachful tones:

  ‘Mr Solomons, Mr Solomons! that’s not fair. Everything in this house is the property of my clients, and the executrix has agreed—’

  ‘Good evening, Mr MacBride,’ said the master of the house, politely.

  ‘I can’t help that,’ said Mr Solomons, his voice drowning Mr MacBride’s reply. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘We hold a bill of sale on the furniture – look at the date on this document—’

  Mr MacBride said firmly:

  ‘Ours has been running five years.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ retorted Mr Solomons, ‘if it’s been running as long as Charley’s Aunt!’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ said Peter, in conciliatory accents, ‘cannot this matter be amicably arranged?’

  ‘Our van,’ said Mr Solomons, ‘will call for the goods tomorrow.’

  ‘Our clients’ van,’ replied Mr MacBride, ‘is on the way now.’

  Mr Solomons uttered a loud expostulatory howl, and Peter tried again:

  ‘I implore you, gentlemen, have some consideration for my wife, if not for me. We are in the middle of dinner, and you propose to remove the table and chairs. We have to sleep – will you not leave us so much as a bed to lie on? We also, if it comes to that, have some claim upon the furniture, since we hired it. Pray do not be so precipitate. . . . Mr MacBride, you have known us long and (I hope) loved us well – you will, I am sure, have compassion on our nerves and feelings, and not turn us out dinnerless to sleep under the nearest haystack.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Mr MacBride, somewhat moved by this appeal, but conscious of his duty, ‘in the interests of our clients—’

  ‘In the interests of our firm,’ said Mr Solomons.

  ‘In all our interests,’ said Peter, ‘will you not sit down and share our roast duck with apple sauce and sage and onion stuffing? You, Mr Solomons, have run fast and far – your strength needs sustaining. You, Mr MacBride, spoke feelingly yesterday morning about our English family life – will you not for once consent to see it at its best? Do not break up the happy home! Over a slice of the breast and a glass of the best any little differences may be adjusted.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Harriet. ‘Do join us. Bunter will break his heart if the bird gets dried up in the oven.’

  Mr MacBride hesitated.

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ began Mr Solomons, wistfully. ‘If your ladyship—’

  ‘No, no, Solly,’ said Mr MacBride; ‘it ain’t fair.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Peter, with a polite inclination, ‘you know very well that it is a husband’s incurable habit to invite his business friends to dine under any circumstances and on the shortest possible notice. Without that habit, home life would not be what it is. Therefore I make no apology.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Harriet. ‘Bunter, these gentlemen will dine with us.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’ He laid dexterous hands on Mr Solomons and relieved him of his overcoat. ‘Allow me.’ Mr MacBride, without further argument, valeted himself and then helped Peter to bring two more chairs to the table, observing as he did so: ‘I don’t know what you advanced on these, Solly, but they weren’t worth it.’

  ‘So far as we are concerned,’ said Peter, ‘you may have the whole lot tomorrow and welcome. Now – are we all quite comfortable? Mr Solomons on the right – Mr MacBride on the left. Bunter – the claret!’

  Mr Solomons and Mr MacBride, mellow with Léoville and cigars, departed fraternally at a quarter to ten, having previously made a brief tour of the house, so as to check their inventories together. Peter, who had accompanied them in order to establish his right to his own belongings, returned, bearing in his hand one of the little straw wig-wams in which wine-bottles are housed while travelling.

  ‘What’s that for, Peter?’

  ‘Me,’ said his lordship. He detached the straws methodically, one by one, and began to thread them through his hair. He had succeeded in making a very passable bird’s-nest of himself when Superintendent Kirk was announced.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Kirk,’ said Harriet, with as much warmth of welcome as she could put into the words.

  ‘Good evening,’ said the Superintendent. ‘I’m afraid I’m intruding.’ He looked at Peter, who made a horrible face at him. ‘It’s a bit late for a call.’

  ‘This,’ said Peter, wildly, ‘is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at Curfew and walks till the first cock. Have a straw, Superintendent. You’ll need one before you’ve finished.’

  ‘Have nothing of the sort,’ said Harriet. ‘You look tired. Have a glass of beer or some whisky or something and don’t mind my husband. He sometimes gets taken that way.’

  The Superintendent thanked her absent-mindedly; he seemed to be in travail with an idea. He slowly opened his mouth, and looked at Peter again.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ said the latter, hospitably. ‘I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban.’

  ‘Got it!’ cried Mr Kirk. ‘King Lear! Though their injunction be to bar my doors And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you. Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out.’

  ‘You’re very nearly right about that,’ said Harriet. ‘We really thought we were going to be turned out into the tyrannous night. Hence the distraction and the straws.’

  Mr Kirk inquired how this might be.

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, installing him on one of the settles, ‘there’s a Mr Solomons, of Moss & Isaacs, who holds a bill of sale on the furniture, and your old friend Mr MacBride, who wants to distrain on the furniture for his writ, and they both came in together to take the furniture away. But we gave them dinner and they went peaceably.’

  ‘You may ask,’ added Peter, ‘why they rather choose to have a weight of carrion flesh than to receive three thousand ducats – I cannot tell you, but so it was.’

  Mr Kirk paused so long this time that both Peter and Harriet thought he must have become stricken with aphasia; but at last, and with a wide smile of triumph, he gave tongue:

  ‘He is well paid that is well satisfied! Merchant of Venice!’

  ‘A Daniel come to judgement! Harriet, the Superintendent has caught the hang of our half-witted manner of conversation. He is a man, take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again. Give him his drink – he has deserved it. Say when. Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Superintendent, ‘not too stiff, my lord, if you don’t mind. We’ll have it gentle and the elements so mixed—’

  ‘That a spoon might stand up in it,’ suggested Peter.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Kirk. ‘That bit doesn’t seem to finish up quite right. But thanks all the same. Here’s health.’

  ‘And what have you been doing all afternoon?’ inquired Peter, bringing a stool to the fire and seating himself on it between his wife and Kirk.

  ‘Well, my lord,’ said Kirk, ‘I’ve been up to London.’

  ‘To London?’ said Harriet. ‘That’s right, Peter. Come a little
further this way and let me take the straws out. Il m’aime – un peu – beaucoup—’

  ‘But not to see the Queen,’ pursued the Superintendent. ‘I went to see Frank Crutchley’s young woman. In Clerkenwell.’

  ‘Has he got one there?’

  ‘Passionément – à la folie—’

  ‘He had,’ said Kirk.

  ‘Pas du tout. Il m’aime—’

  ‘I got the address from that chap Williams over at Hancock’s. Seems she’s a good-looking young woman—’

  ‘Un peu – beaucoup—’

  ‘With a bit of money—’

  ‘Passionément—’

  ‘Lived with ’er dad and seemed dead struck on Frank Crutchley. But there—’

  ‘A la folie—’

  ‘You know what girls are. Some other fellow turned up—’

  Harriet paused, with the twelfth straw in her fingers.

  ‘And the long and short of it is, she married the other bloke three months back.’

  ‘Pas du tout!’ said Harriet; and flung the straws into the fire.

  ‘The devil she did!’ said Peter. He caught Harriet’s eye.

  ‘But what got me all worked up,’ said Kirk, ‘was finding out what ’er father was.’

  ‘It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was Alice Brown. Her father was the terror of a small Italian town.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. He’s a – There!’ said Mr Kirk, arresting his glass half way to his mouth, ‘of all the trades and professions open to a man, what should you say he was?’

  ‘From your air,’ replied Peter, ‘of having, so to speak, found the key that cuts the Gordian knot—’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ said Harriet, hastily. ‘We give it up.’

  ‘Well,’ announced Kirk, eyeing Peter a little dubiously, ‘if you give it up, then I’ll tell you. ’Er father is an ironmonger and locksmith as cuts keys when wanted.’

  ‘Good God, you don’t say so!’

  Kirk, putting down a mouthful, nodded emphatically.

  ‘And what’s more,’ he went on, setting the glass down on the table with a smack, ‘what’s more, none so long ago – six months more or less – young Crutchley comes along, bright as you please, and asks him to cut a key for him.’