Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘Hold hard,’ said Mr MacBride. ‘He didn’t take you into partnership or anything, I suppose? No? Well, that’s a bit of luck for you, anyway. We can’t come on you for what’s missing. You thank your stars you’re out of it for your forty pounds. It’s all experience, ain’t it?’

‘Curse you!’ said Crutchley. ‘I’ll ’ave my forty pounds out o’ somebody. Here, you, Aggie Twitterton-you know he promised to pay me. I’ll ’ave the law on you! Crooked, swindlin’-’

‘Come, come,’ interposed Mr Goodacre again. ‘It’s not Miss Twitterton’s fault. You must not fly into a passion. We must all try to think calmly.’

‘Quite,’ said Peter. ‘Definitely. Let us beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. And talking of temperance, how about a mild spot? Bunter!-Oh, there you are. Have we any drink in the house?’

‘Certainly, my lord. Hock, sherry, whisky-’

Here Mr Puffett thought well to intervene. Wines and spirits were scarcely in his line. ‘Mr Noakes,’ he observed, in a detached manner ‘always kep’ a good barrel of beer in the ’ouse. I will say that for him.’

‘Excellent. Strictly speaking, I suppose, Mr MacBride, it’s your client’s beer. But if you have no objection-’

‘Well,’ conceded Mr MacBride, ‘a drop of beer’s neither here nor there, is it now?’

‘A jug of beer, then. Bunter, and the whisky. Oh, and sherry for the ladies.’

Bunter departed on this mollifying errand, and the atmosphere seemed to grow calmer. Mr Goodacre seized on the last words to introduce a less controversial topic: ‘Sherry,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘has always appeared to me a most agreeable wine. I was so glad to read in the newspaper that it was coming into its own again. Madeira, too. They tell me that both sherry and madeira are returning to favour in London. And in the Universities. That is a very reassuring sign. I cannot think that these modern cocktails can be either healthful or palatable. Surely not. But I can see no objection to a glass of sound wine now and again-for the stomach’s sake, as the Apostle says. It is undoubtedly restorative in moments of agitation, like the present. I am afraid. Miss Twitterton, this has been a sad shock to you.’

‘I couldn’t have thought it of Uncle,’ said Miss Twitterton, sadly. ‘He has always been so much looked-up to. I simply can’t believe it.’

‘I can-easily,’ said Crutchley, in the sweep’s ear.

‘You never know,’ said Mr Puffett, struggling into his top-coat. ‘I always thought Mr Noakes was a warm man. Seems like he was ’ot stuff.’

‘Gone off with my forty quid!’ Automatically, Crutchley picked up the papers from the floor. ‘And never paid me only 2 per cent, neither, the old thief! I never did like that wireless business.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett. He caught at a loose end of string dangling from among the papers and reeled it out on his fingers, so that they looked absurdly like a stout maiden lady and her companion engaged in winding knitting wool. ‘Safe bind, safe find, Frank Crutchley. You can’t be too careful where you puts your money. Pick it up where you finds it and put it away careful, same as I does this bit of twine, and there it is, ’andy when you wants it.’ He stowed the string away in a remote pocket.

To this piece of sententiousness, Crutchley returned no answer. He went out, giving place to Bunter, who, with an inscrutable face, was balancing upon a tin tray a black bottle, a bottle of whisky, an earthenware jug, the two tumblers of the night before, three cut-glass goblets (one with a chipped foot), a china mug with a handle and two pewter pots of different sizes,

‘Good lord!’ said Peter. (Bunter’s eyes lifted for a moment like those of a scolded spaniel.) ‘These must be the Baker Street Irregulars; the chief thing is that they all have a hole in the top. I am told that Mr Woolworth sells a very good selection of glassware. In the meantime, Miss Twitterton, will you take sherry as a present from Margate or toss off your Haig in a tankard?’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I’m sure there are some in the chiffonier-Oh, thank you so much, but at this time in the morning-and then they would need dusting, because Uncle didn’t use them-Well, I really don’t know-’

‘It’ll do you good.’

*I think you need a little something,’ said Harriet

‘Oh, do you. Lady Peter? Well-if you insist-Only sherry, then, and only a little of that-Of course, it isn’t really so early any longer, is it?-Oh, please, really, I’m sure you’re giving me far too much!’

‘I assure you,’ said Peter, ‘you will find it as mild as you own parsnip wine.’ He handed her the mug gravely, am poured a small quantity of sherry into a tumbler for his wife who accepted it with the remark: ‘You are a master of meiosis.’

‘Thank you, Harriet. What’s your poison, padre?’

‘

‘Sherry, thank you, sherry. Your health, my dear young people.’ He clinked the tumbler solemnly against Miss Twitterton’s mug, taking her by surprise. ‘Take courage. Miss Twitterton. Things mayn’t be as bad as they seem.’

“Thank you,’ said Mr MacBride, waving away the whisky. ‘I’ll wait for the beer if it’s all the same to you. No spirits in office hours is my motto. I’m sure it’s no pleasure to me bringing all this unfortunate disturbance into a family. But business is business, ain’t it, your lordship? And we’ve got our clients to consider.’

‘You’re not to blame,’ said Peter. ‘Miss Twitterton realises that you are only doing your rather unpleasant duty. They also serve who only serve writs, you know.’

‘I’m sure,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘if we could only find Uncle, he would explain everything.’

‘I’m sure,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘if we could only find Uncle, he would explain everything.’

‘ If we could find him,’ agreed Mr MacBride, meaningly.

‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘much virtue in if . If we could find Mr Noakes-’ The door opened, and he dismissed the question with an air of relief. ‘Ah! Beer, glorious beer!’

‘Excuse me, my lord.’ Bunter stood on the threshold empty-handed. ‘I’m afraid we have found Mr Noakes.’

‘Afraid you’ve found him?’ Master and man stared at one another, and Harriet, reading the unspoken message in their eyes, came up to Peter and laid a hand on his arm.

‘For God’s sake, Bunter,’ said Wimsey, with a strained note in his voice, ‘don’t say you’ve found-Where? Down the cellar?’

The voice of Mrs Ruddle broke the tension like the wail of a banshee:

‘Frank, Frank Crutchley! It’s Mr Noakes!’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Bunter.

Miss Twitterton, unexpectedly quick-witted, sprang to her feet. ‘He’s dead! Uncle’s dead!’ The mug rolled from her hands to crash on the hearth-stone.

‘No, no,’ said Harriet, ‘they can’t mean that.’

‘Oh no, impossible,’ said Mr Goodacre, He looked appealingly at Bunter, who bent his head. ‘ I am very much afraid so, sir.’

Crutchley, thrusting him aside, burst in. ‘What’s happened? What’s Ma Ruddle shouting about? Where’s-?’

‘I knew it, I knew it!’ shrieked Miss Twitterton, recklessly. ‘I knew something terrible had happened! Uncle’s dead and all the money’s gone!’

She burst into a fit of hiccupping laughter, made a dart towards Crutchley, who recoiled with a gasp, broke from the vicar’s supporting hand, and flung herself hysterically into Harriet’s arms.

‘Here!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘let’s have a look.’ He made for the door, cannoning into Crutchley. Bunter profited by the confusion to fling the door to and set his back against it.