‘Lord knows,’ said Mr MacBride, frankly. ‘I came by train to Great Pagford and took the bus on. If there’s no bus handy I’ll have to get a lift. I wouldn’t have believed there were places like this, within fifty miles of London. Beats me how people can live in ’em. But it’s all a matter of taste, ain’t it?’
‘Bunter can take you in the car to Pagford,’ said Peter. ‘They won’t want him again for a bit. Sorry you should have been dumped into all this.’
Mr MacBride was grateful, and said so. ‘It’s all in the day’s work,’ he added. ‘You’re the ones that come off worst, in one way, you and her ladyship. I never saw much to fancy in these three-by-four villages myself. Think it’s the little woman, do you? Well, you can’t be sure; but in our way of business we do have to keep our eyes peeled when it comes to relations, particularly if there’s money in it. There’s some people won’t ever make a will – say it’s like signing their own death-warrant. And they ain’t so far out. But look here! This chap Noakes was pretty well up against it, wasn’t he? He may have been doing some funny stuff on the side. I’ve known men get bumped off for other things besides money. Well, so long. My respects to her ladyship, and much obliged.’
Bunter brought round the car and he hopped in, waving a friendly gesture. Peter caught Harriet, and explained what was wanted.
‘Poor little Twitters,’ said Harriet. ‘Are you going to be there?’
‘No. I’m going out for a breath of air. I’ll come back presently.’
‘What’s the matter? Kirk hasn’t been unpleasant, surely?’
‘Oh, no. He handled me with kid gloves on. Showed all the proper consideration for my rank and refinement and other inferiorities. My own fault, I asked for it. Oh, golly, here’s the vicar. What does he want?’
‘They asked him to come back. Go on out the back way, Peter. I’ll tackle him.’
Kirk and Sellon, from the window, had watched Mr MacBride’s departure.
‘Hadn’t I ought to fetch Aggie Twitterton down myself?’ suggested Sellon. ‘His lordship will maybe tell his wife to give her the tip.’
‘The trouble with you, Joe,’ replied the Superintendent, ‘is, you ain’t got no pussychology, as they call it. They wouldn’t do a thing like that, neither of them. They ain’t compounding no felonies nor yet obstructing the law. All that’s the matter is, he don’t like ’urting women and she don’t like ’urting him. But they won’t either on ’em put out a finger to stop it, because that sort of thing ain’t done. And when things ain’t done, they won’t do ’em – and that’s the long and the short of it.’
Having thus laid down the code of behaviour for the nobility and gentry, Mr Kirk blew his nose, and resumed his seat; whereupon the door opened to admit Harriet and Mr Goodacre.
9
TIMES AND SEASONS
Dost thou know what reputation is?
I’ll tell thee – to small purpose, since the instruction
Comes now too late. . . .
You have shook hands with Reputation,
And made him invisible.
JOHN WEBSTER: The Duchess of Malfi.
THE REV. SIMON GOODACRE blinked nervously when confronted by the two officers drawn up, as it were, in battle-array, and Harriet’s brief announcement on her way upstairs that he had ‘something to say to you, Superintendent’, did little to set him at ease.
‘Dear me! Well. Yes. I came back to see if you wanted me for anything. As you suggested, you know, as you suggested. And to tell Miss Twitterton – but I see she is not here – Well, only that I had seen Lugg about the – er, dear me, the coffin. There must be a coffin, of course – I am not acquainted with the official procedure in such circumstances, but no doubt a coffin will have to be provided?’
‘Certainly,’ said Kirk.
‘Oh, yes, thank you. I had supposed so. I have referred Lugg to you, because I imagine the – the body is no longer in the house.’
‘It’s over at the Crown,’ said the Superintendent. ‘The inquest will have to be held there.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Mr Goodacre. ‘The inquest – oh, yes.’
‘The coroner’s officer will give all the usual facilities.’
‘Yes, thank you, thank you. Er – Crutchley spoke to me as I came up the path.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Well – I think he thinks he might be suspected.’
‘What makes him think that?’
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Goodacre. ‘I fear I am putting my foot in it. He didn’t say he did think it. I only thought he might think it from what he said. But I assure you, Superintendent, that I can confirm his alibi in every particular. He was at choir practice from 6.30 to 7.30, and then he took me over to Pagford for the whist-drive and brought me back here at 10.30. So, you see—’
‘That’s all right, sir. If an alibi’s wanted for them times, you and him’s out of it.’
‘I’m out of it?’ exclaimed Mr Goodacre. ‘Bless my soul, Superintendent—’
‘Only my joke, sir.’
Mr Goodacre seemed to find the joke in but poor taste. He replied, however, mildly:
‘Yes, yes. Well, I hope I may assure Crutchley that it’s all right. He’s a young man of whom I have a very high opinion. So keen and industrious. You mustn’t attach too much importance to his chagrin about the forty pounds. It’s a considerable sum for a man in his position.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir,’ said Kirk. ‘Very glad to have your confirmation of those times.’
‘Yes, yes. I thought I’d better mention it. Now, is there anything else I can do to help?’
‘Thank you very much, sir; I don’t know as there is. You spent Wednesday night at home, I take it, after 10.30?’
‘Why, of course,’ said the vicar, not at all relishing this tendency to harp upon his movements. ‘My wife and my servant can substantiate my statement. But you scarcely suppose—’
‘We ain’t got to supposing things yet, sir. That comes later. This is all rowtine. You didn’t call here at any time during the last week, by any chance?’
‘Oh, no. Mr Noakes was away.’
‘Oh! you knew he was away, did you, sir?’
‘No, no. At least, I supposed so. That is to say, yes. I called here on the Thursday morning, but got no answer, so I supposed he was away, as he sometimes was. In fact I fancy Mrs Ruddle told me so. Yes, that was it.’
‘That the only time you called?’
‘Dear me, yes. It was only a little matter of a subscription – in fact, that was what I came about today. I was passing by, and saw a notice on the gate asking for bread and milk to be delivered, so I supposed he had returned.’
‘Ah, yes. When you came on Thursday, you didn’t notice anything funny about the house?’
‘Goodness me, no. Nothing unusual at all. What would there be to notice?’
‘Well—’ began Kirk; but, after all, what could he expect this short-sighted old gentleman to notice? Signs of a struggle? Finger-prints on a door? Footmarks on the path? Scarcely. Mr Goodacre would possibly have noticed a full-sized corpse, if he had happened to trip over it, but probably nothing smaller.
He accordingly thanked and dismissed the vicar, who, once more observing that he could fully account for Crutchley’s movements and his own after half-past six, blundered vaguely out again, murmuring a series of agitated ‘Good afternoons’ as he went.
‘Well, well,’ said Kirk. He frowned. ‘What makes the old gentleman so sure those are the essential times. We don’t know they are.’
‘No, sir,’ said Sellon.
‘Seems very excited about it. It can’t ’ardly be him, though, come to think of it, he’s tall enough. He’s taller nor what you are – pretty well as tall as Mr Noakes was, I reckon.’
‘I’m sure,’ said the constable, ‘it couldn’t be vicar, sir.’
‘Isn’t that just what I’m saying? I suppose Crutchley must a-got the idea of the times being important from us questioning so
close about them. It’s a hard life,’ added Mr Kirk, plaintively. ‘If you ask questions, you tell the witness what you’re after; if you don’t ask ’em, you can’t find out anything. And just when you think you’re getting on to something you come slap up against the Judges’ Rules.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sellon, respectfully. He rose as Harriet led Miss Twitterton in, and brought forward another chair.
‘Oh, please!’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton, faintly. ‘Please don’t leave me, Lady Peter.’
‘No, no,’ said Harriet. Mr Kirk hastened to reassure the witness.
‘Sit down, Miss Twitterton; there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Now, first of all, I understand you know nothing about your uncle’s arrangements with Lord Peter Wimsey – selling the house, I mean, and so on. No. Just so. Now, when had you seen him last?’
‘Oh! not for’ – Miss Twitterton paused and counted the fingers of both hands carefully – ‘not for about ten days. I looked in last Sunday after morning service. I mean, of course, last Sunday week. I come over, you see, to play the organ for the dear vicar. It’s a tiny church, of course, and not many people – nobody in Paggleham plays the organ, and of course I’m delighted to help in any way – and I called on Uncle then and he seemed quite as usual, and – and that’s the – the last time I saw him. Oh, dear!’
‘Were you aware that he was absent from home ever since last Wednesday?’
‘But he wasn’t absent!’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton. ‘He was here all the time.’
‘Quite so,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Did you know he was here, and not absent?’
‘Of course not. He often goes away. He usually tells – I mean, told me. But it was quite an ordinary thing for him to be at Broxford. I mean, if I had known, I shouldn’t have thought anything of it. But I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Anything about what?’
‘About anything. I mean, nobody told me he wasn’t here, so I thought he was here – and so he was, of course.’
‘If you’d been told the house was shut up and Mrs Ruddle couldn’t get in, you wouldn’t have been surprised or uneasy?’
‘Oh, no. It often happened. I should have thought he was at Broxford.’
‘You have a key for the front door, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. And the back door, too.’ Miss Twitterton fumbled in a capacious pocket of the old-fashioned sort. ‘But I never use the back-door key because it’s always bolted – the door, I mean.’ She pulled out a large key-ring. ‘I gave them both to Lord Peter last night – off this bunch. I always keep them on the ring with my own. They never leave me. Except last night, of course, when Lord Peter had them.’
‘H’m!’ said Kirk. He produced Peter’s two keys. ‘Are these the ones?’
‘Well, they must be, mustn’t they, if Lord Peter gave them to you.’
‘You haven’t ever lent the front-door key to anybody?’
‘Oh, dear no!’ protested Miss Twitterton. ‘Not anybody. If Uncle was away and Frank Crutchley wanted to get in on Wednesday morning, he always came to me and I went over with him and unlocked the door for him. Uncle was ever so particular. And besides, I should want to go myself and see that the rooms were all right. In fact, if Uncle William was at Broxford I used to come over most days.’
‘But on this occasion, you didn’t know he was away?’
‘No, I didn’t. That’s what I keep on telling you. I didn’t know. So of course I didn’t come. And he wasn’t away.’
‘Exactly. Now, you’re sure you’ve never left these keys about where they might be pinched or borrowed?’
‘No, never,’ replied Miss Twitterton, earnestly – as though, thought Harriet, she asked nothing better than to twist a rope for her own neck. Surely she must see that the key to the house was the key to the problem; was it possible for any innocent person to be quite as innocent as that? The Superintendent ploughed on with his questions, unmoved.
‘Where do you keep them at night?’
‘Always in my bedroom. The keys, and dear Mother’s silver tea-pot and Aunt Sophy’s cruet that was a wedding-present to grandpa and grandma. I take them up with me every night and put them on the little table by my bed, with the dinner-bell handy in case of fire. And I’m sure nobody could come in when I was asleep, because I always put a deck-chair across the head of the staircase.’
‘You brought the dinner-bell down when you came to let us in,’ said Harriet, vaguely corroborative. Her attention was distracted by the sight of Peter’s face, peering in through the diamond panes of the lattice. She waved him a friendly gesture. Presumably he had walked off his attack of self-consciousness and was getting interested again.
‘A deck-chair?’ Kirk was asking.
‘To trip up a burglar,’ explained Miss Twitterton, very seriously. ‘It’s a splendid thing. You see, while he was getting all tangled up and making a noise, I should hear him and ring the dinner-bell out of the window for the police.’
‘Dear me!’ said Harriet. (Peter’s face had vanished – perhaps he was coming in.) ‘How dreadfully ruthless of you, Miss Twitterton. The poor man might have fallen over it and broken his neck.’
‘What man?’
‘The burglar.’
‘But, dear Lady Peter, I’m trying to explain – there never was a burglar.’
‘Well,’ said Kirk, ‘it doesn’t look as if anybody else could have got at the keys. Now, Miss Twitterton – about these money difficulties of your uncle’s—’
‘Oh, dear, oh dear!’ broke in Miss Twitterton, with unfeigned emotion. ‘I knew nothing about those. It’s terrible. It gave me such a shock. I thought – we all thought – Uncle was ever so well off.’
Peter had come in so quietly that only Harriet noticed him. He remained near the door, winding his watch and setting it by the clock on the wall. Obviously he had come back to normal, for his face expressed only an alert intelligence.
‘Did he make a will, do you know?’ Kirk dropped the question out casually; the tell-tale sheet of paper lay concealed under his note-book.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Twitterton, ‘I’m sure he made a will. Not that it would have mattered, I suppose, because I’m the only one of the family left. But I’m certain he told me he’d made one. He always said, when I was worried about things – of course I’m not very well off – he always said, Now, don’t you be in a hurry, Aggie. I can’t help you now, because it’s all tied up in the business, but it’ll come to you after I’m dead.’
‘I see. You never thought he might change his mind?’
‘Why, no. Who else should he leave it to? I’m the only one. I suppose now there won’t be anything?’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look like it.’
‘Oh, dear! Was that what he meant when he said it was tied up in the business? That there wasn’t any?’
‘That’s what it very often does mean,’ said Harriet.
‘Then that’s what—’ began Miss Twitterton, and stopped.
‘That’s what, what?’ prompted the Superintendent.
‘Nothing,’ said Miss Twitterton, miserably. ‘Only something I thought of. Something private. But he said once something about being short and people not paying their bills. . . . Oh, what have I done? How ever can I explain –?’
‘What?’ demanded Kirk again.
‘Nothing,’ repeated Miss Twitterton, hastily. ‘Only it sounds so silly of me.’ Harriet received the impression that this was not what Miss Twitterton had originally meant to say. ‘He borrowed a little sum of me once – not much – but of course I hadn’t got much. Oh, dear! I’m afraid it looks dreadful to be thinking about money just now, but . . . I did think I’d have a little for my old age . . . and times are so hard . . . and . . . and . . . there’s the rent of my cottage . . . and . . .’
She quavered on the verge of tears. Harriet said, confusedly:
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure something will turn up.’
Kirk could not resist it. ‘Mr Micawb
er!’ he said, with a sort of relief. A faint echo behind him drew his attention to Peter, and he glanced round. Miss Twitterton hunted wildly for a handkerchief amid a pocketful of bast, pencils and celluloid rings for chickens’ legs, which came popping out in a shower.
‘I’d counted on it – rather specially,’ sobbed Miss Twitterton. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Please don’t pay any attention.’
Kirk cleared his throat. Harriet, who was as a rule good at handkerchiefs, discovered to her annoyance that on this particular morning she had provided herself only with an elegant square of linen, suitable for receiving such rare and joyful drops as might be expected on one’s honeymoon. Peter came to the rescue with what might have been a young flag of truce.
‘It’s quite clean,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I always carry a spare.’
(The devil you do, said Harriet to herself; you are too well trained by half.)
Miss Twitterton buried her face in the silk and snuffled in a dismal manner, while Joe Sellon studiously consulted the back pages of his shorthand notes. The situation threatened to prolong itself.
‘Shall you want Miss Twitterton any more, Mr Kirk?’ Harriet ventured, at length. ‘Because I really think—’
‘Er – well,’ said the Superintendent. ‘If Miss Twitterton wouldn’t mind telling us – just as a matter of form, you understand – where she was last Wednesday evening.’
Miss Twitterton came quite briskly out of the handkerchief.
‘But Wednesday is always choir practice,’ she announced, with an air of astonishment that anyone should ask so simple a question.
‘Ah, yes,’ agreed Kirk. ‘And I suppose you’d quite naturally pop in on your uncle when that was over?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘Indeed I didn’t. I went home to supper. Wednesday’s my busy night, you know.’
‘That so?’ said Kirk.
‘Yes, of course – because of market on Thursday. Why, I had half a dozen fowls to kill and pluck before I went to bed. It made me ever so late. Mr Goodacre – he’s always so kind – he’s often said he knew it was inconvenient having the practice on Wednesday, but it happens to suit some of the men better, and so you see—’