Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘I follow you. Even a Tudor chimney winds somewhere safe to pot.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s just it. If we ’ad the Tooder pot, now, we’d be all right. A Tooder pot is a pot as a practical chimney-sweep might ’andle with pleasure and do justice to ’isself and ’is rods. But Mr Noakes, now, ’e tuk down some of the Tooder pots and sold ’em to make sundials.’

‘Sold them for sundials?’

‘That’s right, me lady. Catchpenny, I calls it. That’s ’im all over. And these ’ere fiddlin’ modern pots wot ’e’s put on ain’t no good for a chimney the ’ighth and width of this chimney wot you’ve got ’ere. It stands to reason they’ll corrode up with sut in a month. Once that there pot’s clear, the rest is easy. There’s loose sut in the bends, of course but that don’t ’urt-not without it was to ketch fire, which is why it didn’t oughter be there and I’ll ’ave it out in no time once we’re done with the pot-but while the sut’s corroded ’ard in the pot, you won’t get no fire to go in this chimney, me lord, and that’s the long and the short of it.’

‘You make it admirably clear,’ said Peter. ‘I see you are an expert. Please go on demonstrating. Don’t mind me-I’m admiring the tools of your trade. What is this affair like a Brobdingnagian corkscrew? There’s a thing to give a man a thirst-what?’

‘Thank you, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett, evidently taking this for an invitation. ‘Work first and pleasure afterwards. W’en the job’s done, I won’t say no.’

He beamed kindly at them, peeled off his green uppermost layer and, arrayed now in a Fair-Isle jumper of complicated pattern, addressed himself once more to the chimney.

‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you,’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton anxiously. ‘I felt I must run over and see how you were getting on. I really couldn’t sleep for thinking of you-so strange of Uncle to behave like that-so dreadfully inconsiderate!’

‘Oh, please!’ said Harriet. ‘It was so nice of you to come, won’t you sit down?… Oh, Bunter! Is that the best you can find?’

‘Why!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘you’ve got the Bonzo vase! Uncle won it in a raffle. So amusing, isn’t it, holding the flowers in his mouth like that, and his little pink waistcoat?-Aren’t the chrysanthemums lovely? Frank Crutchley looks after them, he’s such a good gardener… Oh, thank you, thank you so much-I really mustn’t inflict myself on you for more than a moment. But I couldn’t help being anxious. I do hope you passed a comfortable night.’

“Thank you,’ said Peter, gravely. ‘Parts of it were excellent.’

‘I always think the bed is the important thing-’ began Miss Twitterton. Mr Puffett, scandalised and seeing Peter beginning to lose control of his mouth, diverted her attention by digging her gently in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Oh!’ ejaculated Miss Twitterton. The state of the room and Mr Puffett’s presence forced themselves together upon her mind. ‘Oh, dear, what is the matter? Don’t say the chimney has been smoking again? It always was a tiresome chimney.’

‘Now see here,’ said Mr Puffett, who seemed to feel to the chimney much as a tigress might feel to her offspring, ‘that’s a good chimney, that is. I couldn’t build a better chimney meself, allowin’ for them upstairs flues and the ’ighth and pitch of the gable. But when a chimney ain’t never been swep’ through, on account of persons’ cheeseparin’ ’abits, then it ain’t fair on the chimney, nor yet it ain’t fair on the sweep. And you knows it.’

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ cried Miss Twitterton, collapsing upon a chair and immediately bouncing up again. ‘What you must be thinking of us all. Where can Uncle be? I’m sure if I’d known-Oh! there’s Frank Crutchley! I’m so glad. Uncle may have said something to him. He comes every Wednesday to do the garden, you know. A most superior young man. Shall I call him in? I’m sure he could help us. I always send for Frank when anything goes wrong. He’s so clever at finding a way out of a difficulty.’

Miss Twitterton had run to the window without waiting for Harriet’s, ‘Yes, do have him in,’ and now cried in agitated tones: ‘Frank! Frank! Whatever can have happened? We can’t find Uncle!’

‘Can’t find him?’

‘No-he isn’t here, and he’s sold the house to this lady and gentleman, and we don’t know where he is and the chimney’s smoking and everything upside down; what can have become of him?’

Frank Crutchley, peering in at the window and scratching his head, looked bewildered, as well he might.

‘Never said nothing to me. Miss Twitterton. He’ll be over at the shop, most like.’

‘Was he here when you came last Wednesday?’

‘Yes,’ said the gardener, ‘he was here then all right.’ He paused, and a thought seemed to strike him. ‘He did ought to be here today. Can’t find him, did you say? What’s gone of him?’

‘That’s just what we don’t know. Going off like that without telling anyone! What did he say to you?’

‘I thought I’d find him here-leastways-’

‘You’d better come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

‘Right, sir!’ said Crutchley, with some appearance of relief at having a man to deal with. He withdrew in the direction of the back door, where, to judge by the sounds, h was received by Mrs Ruddle with a volume of explanatory narrative.

‘Frank would run over to Broxford, I’m sure,’ said Miss Twitterton, ‘and find out what’s happened to Uncle. He might be ill-though you’d think he’d have sent for me, wouldn’t you? Frank could get a car from the garage-he drives for Mr Hancock at Pagford you know, and I tried to get him this morning before I came, but he was out with a taxi. He’s very clever with cars, and such a good gardener I’m sure you won’t mind my mentioning it, but if you’ve bought the house and want someone to do the garden-’

‘He’s kept it awfully well,’ said Harriet. ‘I thought it looked lovely.’

‘I’m so glad you think so. He works so hard, and he’s so anxious to get on-’

‘Come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

The gardener, hesitating now at the door of the room with his face to the light, showed himself as an alert, well-set-up young man of about thirty, neatly dressed in a suit of working clothes and carrying his cap respectfully in his hand. His crisp dark hair, blue eyes and strong white teeth produced a favourable impression, though at the moment he looked slightly put out. From his glance at Miss Twitterton, Harriet gathered that he had overheard her panegyric of him and disapproved of it.

‘This,’ went on Peter, ‘comes a little unexpected, what?’

‘Well, yes, sir.’ The gardener smiled, and sent his quick glance roving over Mr Puffett. ‘I see it’s the chimney.’

‘It ain’t the chimney,’ began the sweep indignantly; when Miss Twitterton broke in: ‘But, Frank, don’t you understand? Uncle’s sold the house and gone away without telling anybody. I can’t make it out, it’s not like him. Nothing done and nothing ready and nobody here last night to let anybody in, and Mrs Ruddle knew nothing except that he’d gone to Broxford-’

‘Well, have you sent over there to look for him?’ inquired the young man in a vain endeavour to stem the tide.

‘No, not yet-unless Lord Peter-did you?-or no, there wouldn’t be time, would there?-no keys, even, and I really was ashamed you should have had to come last night like that, but of course I never dreamt-and you could so easily, have run over this morning, Frank-or I could go myself on my bicycle-but Mr Hancock told me you were out with a taxi, so I thought I’d better just call and see.’