Mr Puffett promised readily that he would. They shook hands with him, and left him standing in the middle of the lane, cheerfully waving his bowler till the car had turned the corner.
They drove for five miles or so in silence. Then Peter said:
‘There’s a little architect who would make a good job of that bathroom extension. His name’s Thipps. He’s a common little blighter, but he has a very real feeling for period stuff. He did the church over at Duke’s Denver, and he and I got really friendly about thirteen years ago, when he was troubled with a corpse in his bathroom. I think I’ll send him a line.’
‘He sounds just right. . . . You haven’t taken what Puffett calls a misliking to Talboys, then? I was afraid you might want to get rid of it.’
‘While I live,’ he said, ‘no owner but ourselves shall ever set foot in it.’
She was satisfied and said no more. They ran into London in time for dinner.
Sir Impey Biggs extricated himself from his debate about midnight. He greeted Harriet with a cheerful friendliness, Peter as the lifelong friend and connection that he was, and both with all proper congratulations on their marriage. Although there had been no further discussion of the subject, it had somehow been taken for granted that there was now no more question of Harriet’s going to sleep with a friend or driving to Denver alone. After dinner, Peter had merely said, ‘It’s no good going down to the House yet,’ and they had turned into a news-cinema and seen a Mickey Mouse and an educational film about the iron and steel industry.
‘Well, well,’ said Sir Impey. ‘So you want me to tackle a defence for you. This business down in Hertfordshire, I suppose.’
‘Yes. I warn you beforehand you haven’t a very good case.’
‘Never mind. We’ve tackled some pretty hopeless jobs before now. With you on our side I know we can put up a good fight.’
‘I’m not, Biggy. I’m a witness for the prosecution.’
The K.C. whistled.
‘The devil you are. Then why are you briefing counsel for the prisoner? Conscience-money?’
‘More or less. It’s rather a rotten show altogether, and we’d like to do our best for the man. I mean to say, don’t you know – there we were, just married and every thing pleasant about us. And then this happens, and the local bobbies can make nothing of it. And we horn in, looking all silk-lined, and fasten the crime on a poor devil who hasn’t got a bean in the world and hasn’t done us any harm except dig the garden – Well, anyway, we’d like you to defend him.’
‘You’d better begin at the beginning.’
Peter began at the beginning, and went on, interrupted only by the older man’s shrewd questions, to the end. It took a long time.
‘Well, Peter, you’re handing me a nice pup. Including the criminal’s own confession.’
‘He didn’t give that on oath. Shock – nerves – frightened into it by my unfair trick with the pot.’
‘Suppose he’s made it again to the police?’
‘Badgered into it by questions. Surely you’re not going to be worried by a little thing like that.’
‘There’s the chain and the hook and the lead in the pot.’
‘Who’s to say Crutchley put them there? They may have been part of one of old Noakes’s little games.’
‘And the watering of the cactus and wiping of the pot?’
‘Bagatelles! We’ve only the vicar’s opinion about the metabolism of cacti.’
‘Can you dispose of the motive, too?’
‘Motive doesn’t make a case.’
‘It does, for nine juries out of ten.’
‘Very well – several other people had motives.’
‘Your Twitterton woman, for instance. Had I better try to hint that she might have done it?’
‘If you fancy she’d have the wits to realise that a pendulum must always pass directly beneath its point of suspension.’
‘H’m! – By the way, supposing you people hadn’t turned up, what would have been the murderer’s next step? What did he think would happen?’
‘If Crutchley was the murderer?’
‘Well, yes. He must have expected the body would be found lying on the sitting-room floor by the next person who entered the house.’
‘I’ve thought that out. The next person to enter would, in the ordinary way, have been Miss Twitterton, who had the key. She was completely under his thumb. Remember, they used to meet in the evenings in Great Pagford churchyard. He’d have no difficulty in finding out whether she intended to go over at any time during the week to see her uncle. If she’d announced any such intention, he’d have taken steps – asked for an hour off from the garage on private business and contrived to run across Miss Twitterton on her way to the house. If Mrs Ruddle had thought to tell Miss Twitterton that old Noakes had disappeared, it would have been easier still. The first person to be consulted would have been dear Frank, who knew all about everything. Best of all would have been what nearly happened – that Mrs Ruddle should have taken the situation for granted and said nothing to anyone. Then Crutchley would have arrived at Talboys as usual on the Wednesday morning, found (to his surprise) he couldn’t get in, gone to fetch the key from Miss Twitterton and discovered the body for himself. In any case, he’d have been the first on the scene, with or without Miss Twitterton. If he was alone; very good. If not, he’d have dispatched her on her bicycle to fetch the police and taken the opportunity while her back was turned to rescue the string, polish the pot, remove the other chain from the chimney and generally see that the whole place presented an innocent appearance. I don’t know why the chain was put up the chimney in the first instance; but I imagine old Noakes came in on him unexpectedly, just as he’d made the exchange, and he had to get rid of it quickly. Probably he thought it would be safe enough there, and didn’t bother too much.’
‘And suppose Noakes had come into the sitting-room between 6.20 and 9 o’clock?’
‘That was the risk. But old Noakes was “reg’lar as clockwork.” He had his supper at 7.30. The sun set at 6.38 and the room is low-windowed and darkish. At any time after 7 the chances were that he would notice nothing. But make what play you like with that.’
‘He must have had a disagreeable morning the day you arrived,’ said Sir Impey. ‘Always supposing, of course, that this prosecution is justified. I wonder he made no efforts, after the crime was discovered, to get the chain removed.’
‘He did,’ said Harriet. ‘He came in three times while the furniture-movers were there; and made a quite determined effort to get me out of the room to investigate some tinned goods. I did go out once, and met him in the passage, making for the sitting-room.’
‘Ah!’ said Sir Impey. ‘And you’d be prepared to go into the box and swear to that. You don’t leave me much chance between you. If you’d had any consideration for me, Peter, you’d have married a less intelligent woman.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been selfish about that. But you’ll take the case, Biggy, and do your best?’
‘To please you, I will. I shall enjoy cross-examining you. If you think of any awkward questions to put to yourself, let me know. Now be off with you. I’m getting old, and bed’s the place for me.’
‘So that’s that,’ said Peter. They stood on the pavement, shivering a little. It was nearly three in the morning and the air was sharp. ‘What now? Do we seek a hotel?’
(What was the right answer to that? He looked at once tired and restless – a state of body in which almost any answer is the wrong one. She decided to risk a bold shot.)
‘How far is it to Duke’s Denver?’
‘Just over ninety miles – say ninety-five. Would you like to drive straight down? We could pick up the car and be out of Town by half-past three. I’d promise not to drive fast – and you might be able to get a bit of sleep on the way.’
Miraculously, the answer had been the right one. She said, ‘Yes; let’s do that.’ They found a taxi. Peter gave it the address of the garage where they
had left the car and they trundled away through the silent streets.
‘Where’s Bunter?’
‘He’s gone on down by train, with a message to say we might be a little late.’
‘Will your mother mind?’
‘No. She’s known me for forty-five years.’
2
DENVER DUCIS: THE POWER AND THE GLORY
‘And the moral of that is,’ said the Duchess. . . .
LEWIS CARROLL: Alice in Wonderland.
THE GREAT NORTH ROAD again, mile upon mile, through Hatfield, Stevenage, Baldock, Biggleswade, north and east to the Hertfordshire border – the same road they had travelled four days earlier, with Bunter sitting behind and two-and-a-half dozen of port stowed under his feet in an eiderdown. Harriet found herself dozing. Once, Peter’s touch on her arm roused her to hear him say, ‘That’s the turn for Pagford. . . .’ Huntingdon, Chatteris, March – still north and east, with the wind blowing keener over the wide flats from the bitter northern sea, and the greyness that heralds the dawn lifting coldly into the sky ahead.
‘Where are we now?’
‘Coming into Downham Market. We’ve just passed through Denver – the original Denver. Duke’s Denver is about fifteen miles further on.’
The car swung through the little town and turned due east.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just upon six. I’ve only averaged thirty-five.’
The fen lay behind them now, and the country was growing more wooded. As the sun rose, they slipped into a tiny village with a church from whose tower a clock struck the quarter.
‘Denver Ducis,’ said Peter. He let the car dawdle down the narrow street. In the cottages, lighted windows showed where men and women were rising to go early to work. A man came out from a gate, stared at the car and touched his hat. Peter acknowledged the salute. Now they were out of the village, and running along beside a low wall, with high forest trees hanging over it.
‘The Dower House is on the other side,’ said Peter. ‘It’ll save time to go through the park.’ They swung into a tall gateway, with a lodge beside it. The growing light showed the stone beasts crouched upon the posts, holding each a shield of arms. At the noise of the horn, a man hurried out of the lodge in his shirt-sleeves and the gates swung back.
‘ ’Morning, Jenkins,’ said Peter, and let the car stop. ‘Sorry to bring you out so early.’
‘No call to be sorry, my lord.’ The lodge-keeper turned to call over his shoulder. ‘Mother! here’s his lordship!’ He was an elderly man, and spoke with the familiarity of long service. ‘We were expecting you any time, and the sooner the better for us. Will this be her new ladyship?’
‘Got it in one, Jenkins.’
A woman appeared wrapping a shawl about her and curtsying. Harriet shook hands with the pair of them.
‘This is no way to bring your bride home, my lord,’ said Jenkins, reprovingly. ‘We had the bells rung for you o’ Tuesday, and we were meaning to give you a good welcome when you came.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Peter, ‘but I never could do anything right from a boy, could I? Talking of that, are the boys all well?’
‘Doing first-rate, my lord, thank you. Bill’s got his sergeant’s stripes last week.’
‘Good luck to it,’ said Peter heartily. He let the clutch in, and they moved on up a wide avenue of beeches.
‘I suppose it’s a mile from your gate to the front door?’
‘Just about.’
‘And do you keep deer in the park?’
‘We do.’
‘And peacocks on the terrace?’
‘I’m afraid so. All the story-book things.’
At the far end of the avenue, the great house loomed grey against the sunlight – a long Palladian front, its windows still asleep, and behind it the chimneys and turrets of rambling wings and odd, fantastic sprouts of architectural fancy.
‘It’s not very old,’ said Peter apologetically, as they turned away, leaving the house on their left. ‘Nothing before Queen Elizabeth. No donjon keep. No moat. The castle fell down a good many years ago, I’m thankful to say. But we’ve got specimens of all the bad periods since then and one or two of the good ones. And the Dower House is impeccable Inigo Jones.’
Harriet, stumbling sleepily up the impeccable Inigo Jones staircase in the wake of a tall footman, was aware of a scurry of high heels on the landing and a cry of delight. The footman flattened himself swiftly against the wall as the Dowager Duchess shot past him in a rose pink dressing-gown, her white plaits flying and Ahasuerus clinging for dear life to her shoulder.
‘My darlings, how lovely to see you! – Morton, go and get Franklin out of bed and send her to her ladyship immediately – You must be tired and famished – How dreadful about that poor young man! – Your hands are frozen, my dear – I do hope Peter hasn’t been driving at a hundred miles an hour this horrid cold morning – Morton, you silly man, can’t you see Ahasuerus is scratching me? Take him off at once – I’ve put you in the Tapestry Room, it’s warmer – Dear me! I feel as though I hadn’t seen either of you for a month – Morton, tell them to bring breakfast up here instantly – and what you want, Peter, is a hot bath.’
‘Baths,’ said Peter, ‘real baths are definitely a good idea.’ They walked along a wide landing, with aquatints along the wall, and two or three tables in Queen Anne Chinoiserie, with Famille Rose jars upon them. At the door of the Tapestry Room was Bunter – who must either have got up very early or never gone to bed, for he was dressed with an impeccability worthy of Inigo Jones. Franklin, also impeccable, but slightly flurried in her manner, arrived almost at the same moment. The grateful sound of running water broke refreshingly upon the ear. The Duchess kissed them both, announcing that they were to do exactly as they liked and that she wasn’t going to bother them; and before the door shut they heard her energetically scolding Morton for not having gone to see the dentist and threatening him with gumboils, pyorrhoea, septic poisoning, indigestion and a complete set of false teeth if he persisted in behaving like a baby.
‘This,’ said Peter, ‘is one of the presentable Wimseys – Lord Roger; he was a friend of Sidney’s and wrote poetry and died young of a wasting fever, and all that kind of thing. That, as you see, is Queen Elizabeth; she slept here in the usual way and nearly bust the family bank. The portrait is said to be by Zucchero, but it’s not. The contemporary duke, on the other hand, really is by Antonio Moro, and that’s the best thing about it. He was one of the tedious Wimseys, and greed was his leading characteristic. This old harridan was his sister, Lady Stavesacre, who slapped Francis Bacon’s face. She’s no business to be here, but the Stavesacres are hard up, so we bought her in. . . .’
The afternoon sun slanted in through the long windows of the gallery, picking out here a blue Garter ribbon, there a scarlet uniform, lighting up a pair of slender hands by Van Dyck, playing among the powdered curls of a Gainsborough, or throwing into sudden startling brilliance some harsh white face set in a sombre black periwig.
‘That awful ill-tempered-looking brute is the – I forget which duke, but his name was Thomas and he died about 1775 – his son made a sad, imprudent marriage with a hosier’s widow – here she is, looking rather fed-up about it. And there’s the prodigal son – rather a look of Jerry about him, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it’s very like him. Who’s this one? He’s got a queer, visionary sort of face, rather nice.’
‘That’s their younger son, Mortimer; he was as mad as a hatter and founded a new religion with himself as its only follower. That’s Dr Gervase Wimsey, Dean of St Paul’s; he was a martyr under Queen Mary. This is his brother, Henry – he raised the standard for Queen Mary in Norfolk at her accession. Our family’s always been very good at having a foot in both camps. That’s my father, like Gerald, but much better looking. . . . That’s a Sargent, which is about its only excuse for existence.’
‘How old were you then, Peter?’
‘Twenty-one; full
of illusions and trying hard to look sophisticated. Sargent saw through that, damn the fellow! Here is Gerald, with a horse, by Furse; and downstairs, in the horrible room he calls his study, you will find a picture of a horse, with Gerald, by Munnings. Here’s my mother, by Laszlo – a first-class portrait of her, a good many years ago, of course. Not that anything but a very rapidly moving picture could really convey her quality.’
‘She fills me with delight. When I came down just before lunch I found her in the hall, putting iodine on Bunter’s nose, where Ahasuerus had scratched him.’
‘That cat scratches everybody. I saw Bunter – he was very self-conscious about it. “I am thankful to say, my lord, that the colour of the application is exceedingly transient.” My mother is rather wasted upon a small household. She was at her best with the staff at the Hall, who all went in mortal terror of her. There is a legend that she personally ironed our old butler’s back for lumbago; but she says it wasn’t a flat-iron but a mustard-plaster. Have you seen enough of this Chamber of Horrors?’
‘I like looking at them, though they make me feel sympathetic to the hosier’s widow. And I’d like to hear some more about their histories.’
‘You’ll have to get hold of Mrs Sweetapple. She’s the housekeeper and knows them all by heart. I’d better show you the library, though it isn’t what it ought to be. It’s full of the most appalling rubbish and the good stuff isn’t properly catalogued. Neither my father nor my grandfather did anything about it, and Gerald’s hopeless. We’ve got an old bird muddling round there now – he’s my third cousin, not the one who’s potty and lives at Nice, his younger brother. He hasn’t got a bean, so it quite suits him to toddle about down here; and he does his best, and really knows quite a lot of antiquarian stuff, only he has very short sight and no method, and never can keep to one subject at a time. This is the great ballroom – it’s rather fine, really, if you don’t object to pomp on principle. You get a good view from here over the terraces down to the water-garden, which would look much more impressive if the fountains were turned on. That silly-looking thing among the trees there is one of Sir William Chambers’s pagodas, and you can just see the roof of the orangery. . . . Oh, look! there you are – you insisted on peacocks; don’t say we didn’t provide them for you.’
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