Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

Frank Crutchley’s eyes wandered over the room as though seeking counsel from the dust-sheets, the aspidistras, the chimney, the bronze horsemen, Mr Puffett’s bowler, the cactus and the radio cabinet, before at length coming to rest on Peter’s in mute appeal.

‘Let’s start from the right end,’ suggested Wimsey. ‘Mr Noakes was here last Wednesday and went off the same night to catch the ten o’clock bus to Broxford. That was nothing unusual, I gather. But he expected to be back to deal with the matter of our arrival, and you, in fact, expected to find him here today.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

Miss Twitterton gave a little jump and her mouth shaped itself into an anxious O.

‘Is he usually here when you come on Wednesdays?’

‘Well, that depends, sir. Not always.’

‘Frank!’ cried Miss Twitterton, outraged, ‘it’s Lord Peter Wimsey. You ought to say “my lord”.’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Peter, kindly, but irritated by this interference with his witness. Crutchley looked at Miss Twitterton with the expression of a small boy who has been publicly exhorted to wash behind the ears, and said: ‘Some days he’s here, some not. If he ain’t,’ (Miss Twitterton frowned), ‘I gets the key from her’ (he jerked his head at Miss Twitterton) ‘to come in and wind the clock and see to the pot-plants. But I did reckon to see him this morning because I had particular business with him. That’s why I come up to the house first-came, if you like’ (he added crossly, in response to Miss Twitterton’s anxious prompting; ‘it’s all one, I dessay, to my lord.’

‘To his lordship,’ said Miss Twitterton, faintly.

‘Did he actually tell you he’d be here?’

‘Yes-my lord. Leastways he said as he’d let me have back some money I’d put into that business of his. Promised it back today.’

‘Oh, Frank! You’ve been worrying Uncle again. I’ve told you you’re just being silly about your money. I know it’s quite safe with Uncle.’

Peter’s glance crossed Harriet’s over Miss Twitterton’s head. ‘He said he’d let you have it this morning. May I ask whether it was any considerable sum?’

‘Matter o’ forty pound,’ said the gardener, ‘as he got me to put into his wireless business. Mayn’t seem a lot to you,’ he went on a little uncertainly, as though trying to assess the financial relationship between Peter’s title, his ancient and shabby blazer, his manservant and his wife’s non-committal tweeds, ‘but I’ve got a better use for it, and so I told him. I asked for it last week and he palavered as usual, sayin’ he didn’t keep sums like that in the house-puttin’ me off.’

‘But, Frank, of course he didn’t. He might have been robbed. He did lose ten pounds once, in a pocket-book.’

‘But I stuck to it,’ pursued Crutchley, unheeding, ‘sayin’ I must have it, and at last he said he’d let me have it today, as he’d got some money coming in-’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes, sir-my lord-and I says to him, I hope you do, says, and if you don’t, I’ll have the law on you.’

‘Oh, Frank, you shouldn’t have said that!’

‘Well, I did say it. Can’t you let me tell his lordship what he wants to know?’

Harriet’s glance had caught Peter’s again, and he had nodded. The money for the house. But if he had told Crutchley as much as that-‘Did he say where this money of his was coming from?’

‘Not him. He’s not the sort to tell more than he has to. Matter of fact, I never thought he was expecting no money in particular. Making excuses, he was. Never pays out money till the last moment, and not then if he can ’elp it. Might lose ’arf a day’s interest, don’t you see,’ added Crutchley, with a sudden half-reluctant grin.

‘Sound principle, so far as it goes,’ said Wimsey.

‘That’s right; that’s the way he’s made his bit. He’s a warm man, is Mr Noakes. Still, all the same for that, I told him I wanted the forty pound for my new garridge-’

‘Yes, the garahge,’ put in Miss Twitterton, with a corrective little frown and shake of the head. ‘Frank’s been saving up a long time to start his own garahge.’

‘So,’ repeated Crutchley with emphasis, ‘wantin’ the money for the garridge, I said, “I’ll see my money Wednesday,” I said, “or I’ll ’ave the law on you.” That’s what I said. And I went out sharp and I ain’t seen him since.’

‘I see. Well’-Peter glanced from Crutchley to Miss Twitterton and back again-’we’ll run over to Broxford presently and hunt the gentleman up, and then we can get it straight. In the meantime, we shall want the garden kept in order, so perhaps you’d better carry on as usual.’

‘Very good, my lord. Shall I come Wednesday same as before? Five shillings, Mr Noakes give me by the day.’

‘I’ll give you the same. Do you know anything about running an electric light plant, by the way?’

‘Yes, my lord; there’s one at the garridge where I work.’

‘Because,’ said Peter, with a smile at his wife, ‘though candles and oil-stoves have their romantic moments and all that, I think we shall really have to electrify Talboys.’

‘You’ll electrify Paggleham if you do, my lord,’ said Crutchley, with sudden geniality. ‘I’m sure I’d be very willing-’

‘Frank’, said Miss Twitterton brightly, ‘knows everything about machinery!’

The unfortunate Crutchley, on the verge of an explosion, caught Peter’s eye and smiled in some embarrassment.

‘All right,’ said his lordship. ‘We’ll talk it over presently. Meanwhile, carry on with whatever it is you do on Wednesdays.’ Whereupon the gardener thankfully made his escape, leaving Harriet to reflect that school-manning seemed to have got into Miss Twitterton’s blood and that nothing was so exasperating to the male sex in general as an attitude of mingled reproof and showmanship.

The click of the distant gate and a footfall on the path broke in on the slightly blank pause which followed Crutchley’s exit.

‘Perhaps’, cried Miss Twitterton, ‘that’s Uncle coming now.’

‘I hope to God’, said Peter, ‘it’s not one of those infernal reporters.’

‘It’s not,’ said Harriet, running to the window. ‘It’s a vicar-he’s coming to call.’

‘Oh, the dear vicar! perhaps he may know something.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett.

‘This is magnificent,’ said Peter. ‘I collect vicars.’ He joined Harriet at her observation-post. ‘This is a very well-grown specimen, six-foot-four or thereabouts, short-sighted, a great gardener, musical, smokes a pipe-’

‘Good gracious!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘do you know Mr Goodacre?’

‘-untidy, with a wife who does her best on a small stipend; a product of one of our older seats of learning-1890 vintage-Oxford, at a guess, but not, I fancy, Keble, though as high in his views as the parish allows him to be.’

‘He’ll hear you,’ said Harriet, as the reverend gentleman withdrew his nose from the middle of a clump of dahlias and cast a vague glance through his eyeglass towards the sitting-room window. ‘To the best of my knowledge and belief, you’re right. But why the strictly limited High Church views?’

‘The Roman vest and the emblem upon the watch-chain point the upward way. You know my methods, Watson. But a bundle of settings for the Te Deum under the arm suggest sung Matins in the Established way; besides, though we beard the church clock strike eight there was no bell for a daily Celebration.’

‘However you think of these things, Peter!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said her husband, flushing faintly. ‘I can’t help taking notice, whatever I’m doing.’

‘Worse and worse,’ replied his lady. ‘Mrs Shandy herself would be shocked.’ While Miss Twitterton, completely bewildered, made haste to explain: