‘Mr Noakes ’ave left ’im ’is share of liabilities, that’s what it is.’
‘Thought you said your speckilations ’ad gone wrong.’
‘Ah, that’s the way wi’ these ’ere capitalists. Every time they loses a million they orders a case of champagne.’
‘ ’Ere, Polly, don’t you know better ’a to go about with a chap wot speckilates?’
‘She thinks she’ll learn ’im better w’en ’e’s bringin’ the money ’ome to ’er.’
‘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, ‘seein’ 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 their 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.’
‘Entirely appropriate, my lord, if I may say so.’
‘And will you lock up? We must learn to be householders, Bunter. We will presently purchase a cat and put it out.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘That’s all then. Good night, Bunter.’
‘Good night, my lord, and thank you.’
When Peter knocked at the door, his wife was sitting by the fire, thoughtfully polishing her nails.
‘I say, Harriet, would you rather sleep with me tonight?’
‘Well—’
‘I’m sorry; that sounded a little ambiguous. I mean, do you feel any preference for the other room? I won’t make a nuisance of myself if you’re feeling fagged. Or I’ll change rooms with you if you’d rather.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Peter. But I don’t think you ought to give way to me when I’m merely being foolish. Are you going to turn out one of these indulgent husbands?’
‘Heaven forbid! Arbitrary and tyrannical to the last degree. But I have my softer moments – and my share of human folly.’
Harriet rose up, extinguished the candles and came out to him, shutting the door behind her.
‘Folly seems to be its own reward,’ said he. ‘Very well. Let us be foolish together.’
11
POLICEMAN’S LOT
ELBOW: What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?
ESCALUS: Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou know’st what they are.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Measure for Measure.
THE DISTRESSFUL MR KIRK had in the meantime spent a strenuous evening. He was a slow-thinking man and a kindly one, and it was with reluctance and the expenditure of severe mental labour that he hammered out a procedure for himself in this unusual situation.
His sergeant having returned to drive him over to Broxford, he sank back in the passenger’s seat, his hat pulled over his eyes and his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification. One thing he saw clearly: the coroner must be persuaded to take as little evidence as possible at the inquest and adjourn sine die pending further investigation. Fortunately, the law now provided for such a course, and if only Mr Perkins would not be sticky, everything might pass off very well. The wretched Joe Sellon would have, of course, to speak to seeing Mr Noakes alive at nine o’clock; but with luck he would not have to go into details about the conversation. Mrs Ruddle was the stumbling-block: she liked to use her tongue – and then there was that unfortunate business of Aggie Twitterton’s hens, which had left her with a grudge against the police. Also, of course, there was the awkward fact that one or two people in the village had wagged their heads when Mr Noakes lost his pocket-book, and had hinted that Martha Ruddle might know something about it; she would not readily forgive Joe Sellon for that misunderstanding. Could one, without actually uttering threats or using improper methods, suggest that over-informativeness in the witness-box might involve an inquiry into the matter of paraffin? Or was it safer merely to hint to the coroner that too much talk from Martha would tend to hamper the police in the execution of their duty?
(‘Half a mo’, Blades,’ said the Superintendent, aloud, at this point in his meditations. ‘What’s that chap doing, obstructing the traffic like that? – Here, you! don’t you know better than to park that lorry of yours on a blind corner? If you want to change your wheel you must go further along and get her on to the verge. . . . All right, my lad, that’s quite enough of that. . . . Let’s have a look at your licence. . . .’)
As for Joe Sellon . . . This business of parking on bends, now, he wouldn’t have it. A dashed sight more dangerous than fast driving by a man who knew how to drive. The police liked to be fair; it was the magistrates who were obsessed by miles per hour. All corners should be approached dead slow – all right, because there might be some fool sitting in the middle of the road; but equally, nobody should sit in the middle of the road, because there might be some fool coming round the corner. The thing was fifty-fifty, and the blame should be distributed fifty-fifty; that was only just. In a routine matter like that, it was easy to see one’s way. But Joe Sellon, now . . . Well, whatever happened, Joe must be taken off the Noakes case p.d.q. It wasn’t proper to have him investigating it as things were. Why, come to think of it, Mrs Kirk had been reading a book only the other day in which one of the police in charge of the case turned out actually to have done the murder. He distinctly remembered laughing, and saying, ‘It’s wonderful what these writer-fellows think of.’ That Lady Peter Wimsey, who wrote these books – she’d be ready enough to believe a tale like that. So, no doubt, would other people.
(‘Was that Bill Skipton getting over the stile, Blades? Seemed a bit anxious to avoid notice. Better keep your eye on him. Mr Raikes has been complaining about his birds – shouldn’t wonder if Bill was up to his old tricks again.’
‘Yes, sir.’)
It all went to show that an officer couldn’t take too much trouble about getting to know his men. A kindly inquiry – a word in season – and Sellon wouldn’t have got himself into this jam. How much did Sergeant Foster know about Sellon? One must look into that. Rather a pity, in a way, that Foster was a bachelor and a teetotaller and belonged to a rather strict sect of Plymouth Brethren or something. A most trustworthy officer, but not very easy for a young fellow to confide in. Perhaps one ought to give more attention to these traits of character. Handling men was born in some people – this Lord Peter, for instance. Sellon had never met him before, yet he was readier to explain himself to him than to his own superior officer. One couldn’t resent that, of course; it was only natural. What was a gentleman for, except to take your difficulties to? Why, look at the old squire and his lady, when Kirk was a lad – everybody in and out of the big house all day with their troubles. That sort was dying out, more’s the pity. Nobody could go to this new man that had the place now – for one thing, half the time he wasn’t there, and for another, he’d always lived in a town and didn’t understand the way things worked in the country. . . . But how Joe could be such a blamed fool as to tell his lordship a lie – which was the one thing that sort of gentleman would never overlook; you could see his face change when he heard it. You needed a pretty good reason for telling a lie to a gentleman that was taking an interest in you – and, well, the reason you might have didn’t bear thinking of.
The car drew up before Mr Perkins’s house, and Kirk heaved himself out with a deep sigh. Maybe Joe was telling the truth after all; he must look into that. Meanwhile, do the thing that’s nearest – was that Charles Kingsley or Longfellow? – and, dear, dear, it just showed you what happened when lame dogs were left to get over stiles on their own three legs.
The coroner proved amenable to the suggestion that, in view of investigations now proceeding, based on information received, the inquest should be kept as formal as possible. Kirk was glad Mr Perkins was a lawyer; medical coroners sometimes took the oddest views of their own importance and legal powers. Not that the police were anxious for any curtailing of the coroner’s privileges; there were times when an inquest came in very handy to elicit information which couldn’t be got any other way. The silly public liked to make a fuss about the feelings of witnesses, but that was the public all over – always shouting they wanted to be protected and always getting in your way when you tried to do it for them. Wanting it both ways. No, there was no harm in coroners, only they ought to put themselves under police guidance, that was the way Kirk looked at it. Anyhow, Mr Perkins didn’t seem eager to cause trouble; he had a bad cold, too, and would be all the better pleased to keep things short. Well, that was that. Now about Joe Sellon. Better look in at
the station first and see if there was anything special needed attending to.
The first thing handed to him when he got there was Joe Sellon’s own report. He had interviewed the man Williams, who asserted positively that Crutchley had come in to the garage just before eleven and gone immediately to bed. The two men shared a room, and Williams’s bed was between Crutchley’s and the door. Williams said he didn’t think he could have failed to wake up if Crutchley had gone out during the night, because the door squeaked badly on its hinges. He was a light sleeper. As a matter of fact, he had woken up, about 1 o’clock, with a fellow blowing his horn and knocking at the garage door. Turned out to be a commercial vehicle with a leaking feed, called for repairs and petrol. Crutchley had been asleep then, because Williams saw him when he lit his candle and went down to deal with the vehicle. The window was a small dormer – nobody could get out and down that way, and there were no marks of anybody’s having done so.
That seemed all right – but, in any case, it didn’t amount to anything, since Noakes must have been dead before 9.30, as it seemed. Unless Mrs Ruddle was lying. And she had no cause to lie, so far as Kirk could see. She had gone out of her way to mention her presence in the paraffin-shed, and she wouldn’t do that for nothing. Unless she was telling lies on purpose to get Sellon into trouble. Kirk shook his head: that would be a big assumption to make. Still, lies or no lies, it was a good thing to check all alibis as closely as possible, and this one appeared to be sound. Always supposing Joe Sellon wasn’t lying again. Confound it! when it came to not being able to trust your own men . . . No doubt about it, Joe must come off this case. And what was more, for form’s sake he would have to get Williams’s evidence checked again and confirmed – a nuisance, and a waste of time. He asked where Sellon was and learned that, having waited a little in the hope of seeing the Superintendent, he had gone off back to Paggleham about an hour ago. They must have missed him on the road, then, somehow. Why hadn’t he come to Talboys? – oh, drat Joe Sellon!