Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘And so I would,’ said Polly, with some vigour.

‘Ah! Thinkin’ o’ gettin’ spliced, you two?’

‘No charge for thinkin’,’ said Crutchley.

‘Ow about the young lady in London, Frank?’

‘Which one’s that?’ retorted Crutchley.

‘Ark at ‘m! ‘E’ve got so many ‘e don’t know ‘ow to keep count on ‘em.’

‘You watch your step, Polly. Maybe ‘e’s married three times a’ready.’

‘I should worry,’ said the girl, with a toss of the head.

‘Well, well, after a buryin’ comes a weddin’. Tell us w’en it’s to be, Frank.’

‘I’ll ‘ave ter save up for the parson’s fee,’ said Crutchley, good-temperedly, ‘seem’ me forty pound’s gone west. But it was almost worth it, to see old Aggie Twitterton’s face. “Ow! Uncle’s dead and the money’s gone!” she says. “Ow, and ‘im that rich-’oo’d a-thought it?” Silly old cow!’ Crutchley laughed contemptuously. ‘’Urry up with your port, Polly, if you want us to get over in time for the big picture.’

‘So that’s what you’re after. Ain’t goin’ into no mourning for old Mr Noakes, is yer, from the looks of it?’

‘’Im?’ said Crutchley. ‘No fear, the dirty old twister. There’ll be more pickings out o’ me lord than ever there was out of ‘ im . Pocket full o’ bank-notes and a nose like a cheese-faced rabbit-’

‘Hey!’ said Mr Gudgeon, with a warning glance.

‘His lordship will be much obliged to you, Mr Crutchley,’ said Bunter, emerging from the window-seat.

‘Sorry,’ said Crutchley; ‘didn’t see you was there. No offence meant. A joke’s a joke. What’ll you take, Bunter?’

‘I’ll take no liberties from anyone,’ said that gentleman, with dignity. ‘Mr Bunter to you, if you please. And by the way, Mr Gudgeon, I was to ask you kindly to send up a fresh nine-gallon cask to Talboys, the one that’s there being the property of the creditors, as we understand.’

‘Right you are,’ said the landlord, with alacrity. ‘When would you like it?’

‘First thing tomorrow,’ replied Bunter, ‘and another dozen of Bass while it settles… Ah. Mr Puffett, good evening! I was just thinking of looking you up.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Mr Puffett, heartily. ‘I jest came along to fetch up the supper-ale, George being called out. There’s a cold pie in the ‘ouse and Jinny’ll be glad to see you. Make it a quart, then, Mr Gudgeon, if you please.’

He handed a jug over the counter, which the landlord filled, saying, as he did so, to Bunter: ‘That’s all right, then. It’ll be up at ten o’clock and I’ll step round and tap it for you.’

‘I am much obliged to you, Mr Gudgeon. I shall attend personally to its reception.’

Crutchley had seized the opportunity to go out with his young woman. Mr Puffett shook his head.

‘Off to them pictures again. Wot I says is, they things are unsettlin’ the girls’ minds nowadays. Silk stockin’s and all. You wouldn’t a-seen that in my young days.’

‘Ah! come now,’ said Mrs Hodges. ‘Polly hev’ been walkin’ out wi’ Frank a good while now. Tis time ‘twere settled between ‘em. She’s a good girl, for all she’s saucy in her ways.’

‘Made up ‘is mind. hev’ he?’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Thought ‘e was set on ‘avin’ a wife from London. But there! maybe ‘e thinks she won’t ‘ave ‘im, now ‘e’s lost ‘is forty pound. Ketch ‘em on the rebound, as they say-that’s ‘ow they makes marriages these days. A man may do all ‘e likes, there’s some lass gets ‘im in the end, for all ‘is runnin’ and dodgin’ like a pig in a lane. But I likes to see a bit o’ money into the bargain-there’s more to marriage, as they say, than four bare legs in a bed.’

‘’Ark at ’im!’ said Katie.

‘Or legs in silk stockings, neither,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Well, Tom,’ said Mrs Hodges, comfortably, ‘you’re a widow-man with a bit o’ money, so there’s a chance for some on us yet.’

‘Is there?’ retorted Mr Puffett. ‘Well, I give yer leave to try. Now, Mr Bunter, if you’re ready.’

‘Is Frank Crutchley a native of Paggleham?’ inquired Bunter, as they walked away up the road, slowly, so as not to set the beer all of a froth.

‘No,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘He came here from London. Answered an advertisement of Mr ‘Ancock’s. Been here six or seven year now. I don’t fancy ‘e’s got no parents. But ‘e’s a pushin’ young fellow, only all the girls is arter ‘im, which makes it ‘ard for ‘im to settle. I’d a-thought ‘e’d more sense than to take up with Polly Mason-serious-like, I mean. ‘E was allus set to look for a wife as could bring ‘im a bit. But there! Say what you like before’and, a man proposes and a woman disposes on ‘im for good an’ all, and then it’s too late to be careful. Look at your good gentleman-I dessay, now,’ there was a-many rich young ladies arter ‘im. And maybe he said he didn’t want none on ‘em. And ’ere ’e is on ’is ’oneymoon, and from what they was a-tellin’ the Reverend, not a wealthy young lady neither.’

‘His lordship,’ said Mr Bunter, ‘married for love.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Puffett, shifting the jug to his other hand. ‘Ah, well-he can afford it, I dessay.’

At the conclusion of a pleasant and, on the whole, profitable evening, Mr Bunter congratulated himself on a number of things attempted and done. He had ordered the beer; he had put (through Mr Puffett’s Jinny) a nice duck in hand for the following day, and Mr Puffett knew a man who could send round three pound of late peas in the morning. He had also engaged Mr Puffett’s son-in-law to deal with the leak in the copper and mend two broken panes in the scullery.

He had found out the name of a farmer who cured his own bacon and had written and posted to London an order about coffee, potted meats and preserves. Before leaving Talboys he had assisted Mrs Ruddle’s Bert to bring the luggage upstairs, and he now had his lordship’s wardrobe arranged, as fittingly as might be, in the cupboards at his disposal. Mrs Ruddle had made up a bed for him in one of the back rooms, and this, though of minor importance, brought with it a certain satisfaction. He went round stoking all the fires (observing with pleasure that Mrs Ruddle’s friend’s husband, Mr Hodges, had delivered the logs as requested). He laid out his lordship’s pyjamas, gave a stir to the bowl of lavender in her ladyship’s bedroom, and straightened the trifling disorder which she had left on the toilet-table, whisking away a few grains of powder and putting the nail-scissors back in then- case. He noticed, with approval, an absence of lipstick; his lordship had a particular dislike of pink-stained cigarette-ends. Nor, as he had before thankfully observed, did her ladyship enamel her nails to the likeness of bloodstained talons; a bottle of varnish there was, but it was barely tinted. Quite good style, thought Bunter, and gathered up a pair of stout shoes for cleaning. Down below, he heard the car draw up to the door and stand panting. He slipped out by the Privy Stair.

‘Tired, Domina?’

‘Rather tired-but much better for the run. Such a terrific lot seems to have happened lately, hasn’t it?’

‘Like a drink?’

No, thanks. I think I’ll go straight up.’

‘Right you are. I’m only going to put the car away.’

Bunter, however, was already dealing with this. Peter walked round to the shed and listened to what he had to say. ‘Yes; we, saw Crutchley and his young woman in Broxford. When the heart of a man is oppressed with cares, and so on. Have you taken up the hot water?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then cut along to bed. I can look after myself for once. The grey suit tomorrow, with your permission and approval.’