Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘It’s choir practice tonight, of course. Wednesdays, you know. Always Wednesdays. He’ll be taking them up to the church.’

‘Of course, as you say,’ agreed Peter with relish. ‘Wednesdays always is choir practice. Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. Nothing ever changes in the English countryside. Harriet, your honeymoon house is a great success. I am feeling twenty years younger.’

He retired hastily from the window as the vicar approached, and declaimed with considerable emotion:

‘Give me just a country cottage, where the soot of ages falls,

And, to crown a perfect morning, look! an English vicar calls!

I, too. Miss Twitterton, though you might not think it, have bawled Maunder and Garrett down the neck of the blacksmith’s daughter singing in the village choir, and have proclaimed the company of the spearmen to be scattered abroad among the beasts of the people, with a little fancy pointing of my own.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s an orkerd one, is the beasts of the people.’ As though the word ‘soot’ had struck a chord in his mind, he moved tentatively in the direction of the fireplace. The car vanished within the porch.

‘‘My dear,’ said Harriet, ‘Miss Twitterton will think we are both quite mad; and Mr Puffett knows it already.’

‘Oh, no, me lady,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Not mad. Only ’appy. I knows the feeling.’

‘As man to man, Puffett,’ said the bridegroom, ‘I thank you for those kind and sympathetic words. Where, by the way, did you go for your honeymoon?’

‘Erne Bay, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett.

‘Good God, yes! Where George Joseph Smith murdered his first Bride-in-the-Bath. We never thought of that Harriet-’

‘Monster,’ said Harriet, ‘do your worst! There are only hip-baths here.’

‘There!’ cried Miss Twitterton, catching at the only word in this conversation that appeared to make sense. ‘I was always saying to Uncle that he really ought to put in a bathroom.’

Before Peter could give further proofs of insanity, Bunter mercifully announced: ‘The Reverend Simon Goodacre.’

The vicar, thin, elderly, clean-shaven, his tobacco-pouch bulging from the distended pocket of his suit of ‘clerical grey’ and the left knee of his trousers displaying a large three-cornered tear carefully darned, advanced upon their with that air of mild self-assurance which a consciousness of spiritual dignity bestows upon a naturally modern disposition His peering glance singled out Miss Twitterton from the group presented to his notice, and he greeted her with a cordial shake of the hand, at the same time acknowledging Mr Puffett’s presence with a nod and a cheerful, ‘Morning Tom!’

‘Good morning, Mr Goodacre,’ replied Miss Twitterton in a mournful chirp. ‘Dear, dear! Did they tell you-?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Well this is a surprise!’ He adjusted his glasses, beamed vaguely about him, and addressed himself to Peter. ‘I fear I am intruding. I understand that Mr Noakes-er-’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Peter, feeling it better to introduce himself than to wait for Miss Twitterton. ‘Delighted to see you. My name’s Wimsey. My wife.’

‘I’m afraid we’re all at sixes and sevens,’ said Harriet. Mr Goodacre, she thought, had not changed much in the last seventeen years. He was a little greyer, a little thinner, a little baggier about the knees and shoulders, but in essentials the same Mr Goodacre she and her father had occasionally encountered in the old days, visiting the sick of Paggleham. It was clear that he had not the faintest recollection of her; but, taking soundings as it were in these uncharted seas, his glance encountered something familiar-an ancient dark-blue blazer, with ‘O.U.C.C.’ embroidered on the breast pocket.

‘An Oxford man, I see,’ said the vicar, happily, as though this did away with any necessity for further identification.

‘Balliol, sir,’ said Peter.

‘Magdalen,’ returned Mr Goodacre, unaware that by merely saying ‘Keble’ he could have shattered a reputation. He grasped Peter’s hand and shook it again. ‘Bless me! Wimsey of Balliol. Now, what is it I-?’

‘Cricket, perhaps,’ suggested Peter, helpfully.

‘Yes,’ said the vicar, ‘ye-yes. Cricket and-Ah, Frank! Am I in your way?’

Crutchley, coming briskly in with a step-ladder and a watering-pot, said, ‘No, sir, not at all,’ in the tone of voice which means, ‘Yes, sir, very much.’ The vicar dodged hastily.

‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’ said Peter, uncovering a corner of the settle.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr Goodacre, as the stepladder was set down on the exact spot where he had been standing. ‘I really ought not to take up your time. Cricket, of course, and-’

‘Getting into the veteran class now. I’m afraid,’ said Peter, shaking his head. But the vicar was not to be diverted.

‘Some other connection, I feel sure. Forgive me-I did not precisely catch what your manservant said. Not Lord Peter Wimsey?’

‘An ill-favoured title, but my own.’

‘Really!’ cried Mr Goodacre. ‘Of course, of course. Lord Pet- er Wimsey-cricket and crime! Dear me, this is an honour. My wife and I were reading a paragraph in the paper only the other day-most interesting-about your detective experiences-’

‘Detective!’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton in an agitated squeak.

‘He’s quite harmless, really,’ said Harriet.

‘I hope,’ continued Mr Goodacre, gently jocose, ‘you haven’t come to detect anything in Paggleham.’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Peter. ‘As a matter of fact, we came here with the idea of passing a peaceful honeymoon.

‘Indeed!’ cried the vicar. ‘That is delightful. I hope I may say, God bless you and make you very happy.’

Miss Twitterton, overcome by the thought of the chimneys and the bed-linen, sighed deeply, and then turned to frown at Frank Crutchley who, from his point of vantage upon the step-ladder, was indulging in what seemed to her to be an unbecoming kind of grimace over the heads of his employers The young man instantly became unnaturally grave and gave his attention to mopping up the water which, in his momentary distraction, had overflowed the rim of the cactus-pot. Harriet earnestly assured the vicar that they were very happy, and Peter concurred, observing:

‘We have been married nearly twenty-four hours, and are still married; which in these days must be considered a record. But then, you see, padre, we are old-fashioned country-bred people. In fact, my wife used to be a neighbour of yours, so to speak.’

The vicar, who had seemed doubtful whether to be amused or distressed by the first part of this remark, at once looked all eager interest, and Harriet hastened to explain who she was and what had brought them to Talboys. If Mr Goodacre had ever heard or read anything of the murder trial he showed no sign of such knowledge; he merely expressed the greatest delight at meeting Dr Vane’s daughter once more and at welcoming two new parishioners to his fold.

‘And so you have bought the house! Dear me! I hope, Miss Twitterton, your uncle is not deserting us.’

Miss Twitterton, who had scarcely known how to contain herself during this prolonged exchange of introductions and courtesies, broke out as though the words had released a spring:

‘But you don’t understand , Mr Goodacre. It’s too dreadful. Uncle never let me know a word about it. Not a word . He’s gone off to Broxford or somewhere, and left the house like this!’

‘But he’s coming back, no doubt.’ said Mr Goodacre.

‘He told Frank he would be here today-didn’t he, Frank?’

Crutchley, who had descended from the steps and appeared to be occupied in centralising the radio cabinet with great precision beneath the hanging pot, replied: