Busman's Honeymoon

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  (To think how they had looked on while that pot was wiped clean! . . . The reader, untroubled by this association of ideas, had passed happily on into the next verse – the exciting one, about waves tossing and roaring.)

  ‘For among my people are found wicked men: they lay wait, as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men . . .’

  (Harriet looked up. Had she fancied that slight check in the voice? Peter’s eyes were steadily fixed on the page.)

  ‘. . . and my people love to have it so: and what will ye do in the end thereof?

  ‘Here endeth the First Lesson.’

  ‘Very well read,’ said Mr Wimsey, leaning across Harriet, ‘excellent; I can always hear everything you say.’

  Peter said in Harriet’s ear:

  ‘You ought to hear old Gerald, when he gets in among the Hivites and the Perizzites and the Girgashites.’

  As the Te Deum started, Harriet again thought of Paggleham, and wondered whether Miss Twitterton had found courage to preside at the organ.

  3

  TALBOYS: CROWN CELESTIAL

  So here I’ll watch the night and wait

  To see the morning shine

  When he will hear the stroke of eight

  And not the stroke of nine.

  A. E. HOUSMAN:

  A Shropshire Lad.

  AFTER the magistrates’ court they were free until the Assizes. So they finished their honeymoon in Spain, after all.

  The Dowager Duchess wrote that the furniture had been sent up to Talboys from the Hall and that the painting and plastering were done. It would be better to leave work on the new bathroom until the frosts were over. But the house was habitable.

  And Harriet wrote back that they were coming home in time for the trial, and that no marriage had ever been so happy as theirs – only, Peter was dreaming again.

  Sir Impey Biggs, cross-examining:

  ‘And you expect the jury to believe that this remarkable piece of mechanism went unnoticed by the deceased from 6.20 to 9 o’clock?’

  ‘I expect nothing. I have described the mechanism as we constructed it.’

  Then the judge:

  ‘The witness can only speak to his knowledge of the facts, Sir Impey.’

  ‘Quite so, m’lud.’

  The point made. The suggestion implanted that the witness was a little unreasonable. . . .

  ‘Now, this booby-trap you set for the prisoner. . . .’

  ‘I understood the witness to say that the trap was set by way of experiment, and that the prisoner arrived unexpectedly and sprang it before he could be warned.’

  ‘That is so, my lord.’

  ‘I am obliged to your lordship. . . . What effect did the accidental springing of this booby-trap have upon the prisoner?’

  ‘He seemed very much frightened.’

  ‘We may easily believe that. And astonished?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When suffering under this very natural surprise and alarm, was he able to speak coolly and collectedly?’

  ‘He was anything but cool and collected.’

  ‘Did you think he was aware of what he was saying?’

  ‘I can scarcely be a judge of that. He was agitated.’

  ‘Would you go as far as to call his manner frenzied?’

  ‘Yes; that word describes it very well.’

  ‘He was out of his mind with terror?’

  ‘I am not qualified to say so.’

  ‘Now, Lord Peter. You have explained very clearly that this engine of destruction at the lowest point of its swing was not less than six feet from the ground?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Anybody less than six feet in height would be perfectly safe from it?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We have heard that the prisoner’s height is five feet and ten inches. He was, therefore, not at any time in danger from it?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘If the prisoner himself had arranged the pot and chain as the prosecution suggest, he would know better than anybody else that it could not even touch him?’

  ‘In that case, certainly he must have known it.’

  ‘Yet he was very much alarmed?’

  ‘Very much alarmed indeed.’

  An exact and non-committal witness.

  Agnes Twitterton, an excited and spiteful witness, whose very obvious resentment against the prisoner did him if anything more good than harm. Dr James Craven, a highly technical witness. Martha Ruddle, a talkative and circumlocutory witness. Thomas Puffett, a deliberate and sententious witness. The Rev. Simon Goodacre, a reluctant witness. Lady Peter Wimsey, a very quiet witness. Mervyn Bunter, a deferential witness. P.C. Joseph Sellon, a witness of few words. Superintendent Kirk, an officially impartial witness. A strange ironmonger from Clerkenwell, who had sold the prisoner a quantity of lead shot and an iron chain, a damaging witness.

  Then, the prisoner himself, witness in his own defence: a very bad witness indeed, sullen and impudent by turns.

  Sir Impey Biggs, eloquent on behalf of the prisoner – ‘this industrious and ambitious young man’; hinting at prejudice – ‘a lady who may have some cause to fancy herself ill-used’; indulgently sceptical about ‘the instrument of destruction so picturesquely constructed by a gentleman whose ingenuity is notorious’; virtuously indignant at the construction placed upon ‘words uttered at random by a terrorised man’; astonished to discover in the case for the Prosecution ‘not a scintilla of direct proof’; passionately moving in his appeal to the jury not to sacrifice a young and valuable life on evidence so flimsily put together.

  Counsel for the Prosecution, gathering up the threads of proof that Sir Impey had tossed into disorder, weaving them into a rope as thick as a cable.

  The Judge, undoing the twist again to show the jury exactly what was the strength of each separate strand, and handing the materials back to them, neatly assorted.

  The Jury, absent for an hour.

  Sir Impey Biggs came over. ‘If they hesitate all this time, they may acquit him in spite of himself.’

  ‘You ought to have kept him out of the box.’

  ‘We advised him to stay out. I think he got swollen head.’

  ‘Here they come.’

  ‘Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of the murder of William Noakes?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘You say he is guilty and that is the verdict of you all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Prisoner at the bar, you have been arraigned upon a charge of murder, and have placed yourself upon your country. That country has now found you guilty. Have you anything to say why judgement of death should not be pronounced upon you according to law?’

  ‘I say I don’t care a damn for the lot of you. You’ve proved nothing against me. His lordship’s a rich man and he had a down on me – him and Aggie Twitterton.’

  ‘Prisoner at the bar, the jury, after a careful and patient hearing have found you guilty of murder. In that verdict I entirely concur. The sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from hence to the place from which you came, and thence to a place of execution, and you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead and your body buried in the precincts of the prison in which you shall last have been confined, and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’

  ‘Amen.’

  One of the most admirable features of the English criminal law is said to be its dispatch. You are tried as soon as possible after your arrest, the trial takes three or four days at most, and after your conviction (unless, of course, you appeal), you are executed within three weeks.

  Crutchley refused to appeal, preferring to announce that he done it, that he’d do it again, and let them get on with it, it made no odds to him.

  Harriet, in consequence, was left to form the opinion that three weeks was quite the worst period of waiting in the world
. A prisoner should be executed the morning after his conviction, as after a court-martial, so that one could get all the misery over in a lump and have done with it. Or the business should be left to drag on for months and years, as in America, till one was so weary of it as to have exhausted all emotion.

  The worst feature, she thought, about those three weeks, was Peter’s determined courtesy and cheerfulness. Whenever he was not over at the county gaol, patiently inquiring whether there was anything he could do for the prisoner, he was at Talboys, being considerate, admiring the arrangement of the house and furniture, or putting himself at his wife’s disposal to tour the country in search of the missing chimney-pots or other objects of interest. This heart-breaking courtesy was punctuated by fits of exigent and exhausting passion, which alarmed her not only by their reckless abandonment, but by being apparently automatic and almost impersonal. She welcomed them, because he would sleep afterwards as though stunned. But every day found him more firmly entrenched behind some kind of protective fortification, and herself becoming less and less a person to him. In his present mood, she felt unhappily, almost any woman would have done.

  She was unspeakably grateful to the Duchess, who had forewarned and so, to some extent, forearmed her. She wondered whether her own decision ‘not to be wifely and solicitous’ had been a wise one. She wrote, asking for counsel. The Duchess’s reply, ranging over a variety of subjects amounted to saying ‘Let him find his own way out.’ A postscript added: ‘One thing, my dear – he is still there, and that’s encouraging. It’s so easy for a man to be somewhere else.’

  About a week before the execution, Mrs Goodacre turned up in a state of considerable agitation. ‘That wretched man Crutchley!’ she said. ‘I knew he would get Polly Mason into trouble, and he has! And now what’s to be done? Even supposing he could get leave to marry her and wanted to do it – and I don’t suppose he cares a rap for the girl – is it better for the child to have no father or one who’s been hanged for murder? I’m sure I don’t know! Even Simon doesn’t know – though naturally he says he ought to marry her. I don’t see why he shouldn’t – it won’t make the least difference to him. But now the girl doesn’t want him to, either – says she doesn’t want to be married to a murderer, and I’m sure I can’t blame her. Her mother’s in a great way, of course. She should have kept Polly at home or sent her into good service – I told her she was much too young to go into that drapery shop at Pagford, and not really steady, but it’s too late to say that now.’

  Peter asked whether Crutchley knew anything about this development.

  ‘The girl says not. . . . And goodness me!’ said Mrs Goodacre, suddenly waking up to a whole series of possibilities, ‘suppose old Mr Noakes hadn’t lost his money and Crutchley hadn’t been found out, what would have happened to Polly? He meant to have that money by hook or by crook . . . if you ask me, my dear Lady Peter, Polly’s had a narrower escape than she thought for.’

  ‘Oh, it mightn’t have come to that,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Perhaps not; but one undiscovered murder makes many. However, that isn’t the point. The point is what we’re to do about this baby that’s on the way.’

  Peter said he thought Crutchley ought at least to be told about it. He thought it was only fair that the man should be given the chance to do what he could. He offered to take Mrs Mason over to see the governor of the prison. Mrs Goodacre said it was very good of him.

  Harriet, escorting Mrs Goodacre down the path to the gate, said it would do her husband good to have something definite to do about Crutchley: he worried a good deal.

  ‘Very likely he does,’ said Mrs Goodacre. ‘You can see he’s that sort. Simon’s just the same if he has had to be severe with anybody. But that’s men all over. They want the thing done and then, of course, they don’t like the consequences. Poor dears, they can’t help it. They haven’t got logical minds.’

  Peter reported in the evening that Crutchley had been very angry and refused categorically to have anything further to do with Polly or any more blasted women. He had, in fact, refused to see either Mrs Mason or Peter or anybody else, and had told the governor to damn’ well leave him alone. Peter then began to worry about what ought to be done for the girl. Harriet let him wrestle with this problem (which had at least the merit of being a practical one) and then said:

  ‘Couldn’t you put Miss Climpson on to it? With all her High-Church connections she ought to be able to hear of some job that would do. I’ve been to see the girl, and she doesn’t seem to be a bad sort, really. And you could help with money and that sort of thing.’

  He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time for a fortnight.

  ‘Why, of course. I think my brain must have gone mushy. Miss Climpson is the obvious person. I’ll write to her at once.’

  He got pen and paper, wrote the address and ‘Dear Miss Climpson,’ and sat blankly, pen in hand.

  ‘Look here – I think you could write this better than I could. You’ve been to see the girl. You can explain. . . . Oh, God! I’m so tired.’

  It was the first crack in the defences.

  He made his last effort to see Crutchley on the night before the execution. He was armed with a letter from Miss Climpson containing the outline of some very excellent and sensible arrangements for Polly Mason.

  ‘I don’t know when I shall be back,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

  ‘Oh, Peter—’

  ‘I say, for God’s sake don’t wait up for me.’

  ‘Very well, Peter.’

  Harriet went to look for Bunter, and found him running over the Daimler from bonnet to back axle.

  ‘Is his lordship taking you with him?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, my lady. I have had no instructions.’

  ‘Try and go with him.’

  ‘I will do my best, my lady.’

  ‘Bunter . . . what usually happens?’

  ‘It depends, my lady. If the condemned man is able to display a friendly spirit, the reaction is less painful for all concerned. On the other hand, I have known us take the next boat or aeroplane to a foreign country at a considerable distance. But the circumstances have, of course, been different.’

  ‘Yes. Bunter, his lordship has particularly said he does not wish me to sit up for him. But if he should return tonight, and he doesn’t . . . if he should be very restless . . .’ That sentence did not seem to be ending properly. Harriet began again. ‘I shall go upstairs, but I don’t see how one could possibly sleep. I shall sit by the fire in my room.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Their eyes met with perfect understanding.

  The car was brought round to the door.

  ‘All right. Bunter. That will do.’

  ‘Your lordship does not require my services?’

  ‘Obviously not. You can’t leave her ladyship alone in the house.’

  ‘Her ladyship has been good enough to give me permission to go.’

  ‘Oh!’

  A pause during which Harriet, standing in the porch, had time to think: Suppose he asks me whether I imagine he needs a keeper!

  Then Bunter’s voice, with exactly the right note of dignified injury:

  ‘I had anticipated that your lordship would wish me to accompany you as usual.’

  ‘I see. Very well. Hop in.’

  The old house was Harriet’s companion in her vigil. It waited with her, its evil spirit cast out, itself swept and garnished, ready for the visit of devil or angel.

  It was past two o’clock when she heard the car return. There were steps on the gravel, the opening and shutting of the door, a brief murmur of voices – then silence. Then, unheralded by so much as a shuffle on the stair, came Bunter’s soft tap at the little door.

  ‘Well, Bunter?’

  ‘Everything has been done that could be done, my lady.’ They spoke in hushed tones, as though the doomed man lay already dead. ‘It was some considerable time before he would consent to see his lordshi
p. At length the governor persuaded him, and his lordship was able to deliver the message and acquaint him with the arrangements made for the young woman’s future. I understand that he seemed to take very little interest in the matter; they told me there that he continued to be a sullen and intractable prisoner. His lordship came away very much distressed. It is his custom under such circumstances to ask the condemned man’s forgiveness. From his demeanour, I do not think he had it.’

  ‘Did you come straight back?’

  ‘No, my lady. On leaving the prison at midnight, his lordship drove away in a westerly direction, very fast, for about fifty miles. That is not unusual; I have frequently known him drive all night. Then he stopped the car suddenly at a cross-roads, waited for a few minutes as though he were endeavouring to make up his mind, turned round and came straight back here, driving even faster. He was shivering very much when we came in, but refused to eat or drink anything. He said he could not sleep, so I made up a good fire in the sitting-room. I left him seated on the settle. I came up by the back way, my lady, because I think he might not wish to feel that you were in any anxiety about him.’

  ‘Quite right, Bunter – I’m glad you did that. Where are you going to be?’

  ‘I shall remain in the kitchen, my lady, within call. His lordship is not likely to require me, but if he should do so, he will find me at hand, making myself a little supper.’

  ‘That’s an excellent plan. I expect his lordship will prefer to be left to himself, but if he should ask for me – not on any account unless or until he does – will you tell him—’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Tell him there is still a light in my room, and that you think I am very much concerned about Crutchley.’

  ‘Very good, my lady. Would your ladyship like me to bring you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, Bunter, thank you. Yes, I should.’

  When the tea came, she drank it thirstily, and then sat listening. Everything was silent, except the church clock chiming out the quarters; but when she went into the next room she could hear faintly the beat of restless feet on the floor below.