Busman’s Honeymoon

Chapter XIII. This Way And That Way

‘And what,’ inquired Lord Peter Wimsey of Bunter the following morning, ‘did the Superintendent want last night?’

‘He wished to ascertain, my lord, whether the hanging cactus could have been removed from its containing pot during the events of last week.’

‘What, again? I thought he’d realised that it couldn’t. The marks of the brass polish should have told him that with half an eye. No need to get the step-ladder and bump round at midnight like a bumble-bee in a bottle.’

‘Quite so, my lord. But I thought it better not to intervene, and your lordship wished him to have every facility.’

‘Oh, quite. His brain works like the mills of God. But he has some other divine qualities; I know him to be magnanimous and suspect him of being merciful. He is trying hard to exonerate Sellon. That’s natural enough. But he’s attacking the strong side instead of the weak side of the case II against him.’

‘What do you think about Sellon yourself, Peter?’

They had breakfasted upstairs. Harriet was dressed, smoking a cigarette in the window. Peter, in the halfway dressing-gown stage, was warming the back of his legs at the fire. The ginger cat had arrived to pay its morning compliment, and had taken up a position on his shoulder.

‘I don’t know what to think. The fact is, we’ve got dashed little material for thinking with. It’s probably too early for thinking.’

‘Sellon doesn’t look like a murderer.’

‘They very often don’t, you know. He didn’t look, either, like the sort of man who would tell me a thundering great lie, except for a very good reason. But people do tell lies when they’re frightened.’

‘I suppose he didn’t notice till after he’d said that about the clock that it implied having been inside the house.’

‘No. You’ve got to be a very sharp-witted person to see ahead when you’re telling half-truths. A story that’s a lie from beginning to end will be consistent. And since he obviously hadn’t meant to tell the story of the quarrel at all, he had to make up his mind on the spur of the moment. The thing that’s bothering me is, how did Sellon get into the house?’

Noakes must have let him in.’

‘Just so. Here’s an elderly man, locked up alone in a house. Up comes a young man, big and strong and in a murderous rage, and quarrels with him, using strong language and possibly threats. The old man tells him to be off, and bangs the window shut. The young man goes on knocking at the doors and trying to get in. The old man has nothing to gain by admitting him; yet be does it, and obligingly turns his back to him, on purpose that the angry young man may attack him with a blunt instrument. It is possible, but, as Aristotle might say, it is an improbable-possible.’

‘Suppose Sellon said he had got the money after all, and Noakes let him in and sat down to write a-no, he wouldn’t write a receipt, of course. Nothing on paper. Unless Sellon threatened him.’

‘If Sellon had the money, Noakes could have told him to hand it in through the window.’

‘Well, suppose he did hand it in-or said he was going to. Then, when Noakes opened the window, Sellon could have climbed in himself. Or could he? Those mullions are pretty narrow.’

‘You can have no idea,’ said Peter, irrelevantly, ‘how refreshing it is to talk to somebody who has a grasp of method.

The police are excellent fellows, but the only principle of detection they have really grasped is that wretched phrase, Cui bono. They will hare off after motive, which is a matter for psychologists. Juries are just the same. If they can see a motive they tend to convict, however often the judge may tell them that there’s no need to prove motive, and that motive by itself will never make a case. You’ve got to show how the thing was done, and then, if you like, bring in motive to back up your proof. If a thing could only have been done one way, and if only one person could have done it that way, then you’ve got your criminal, motive or no motive. There’s How, When, Where, Why and Who-and when you’ve got How. you’ve got Who. Thus spake Zarathustra.’

‘I seem to have married my only intelligent reader. That’s the way you construct it from the other end, of course. Artistically, it’s absolutely right.’

‘I have noticed that what’s right in art is usually right in practice. In fact, nature is a confirmed plagiarist of art, as somebody has observed. Go on with your theory-only do remember that to guess how a job might have been done isn’t the same thing as proving that it was done that way. If you will allow me to say so, that is a distinction which people of your profession are very liable to overlook. They will confuse moral certainty with legal proof.’

‘

‘I shall throw something at you in a minute… I say, do you think something might have been thrown at Noakes?

Through the window? Bother! Now I’ve got two theories at once. No-wait!… Sellon gets Noakes to open the window and then starts to climb in. You didn’t answer about those mullions.’

‘I think I could climb in through them; but then I’m rather narrow in the shoulders compared with Sellon. But on the principle that where your head can go your body can follow I dare say he could manage it. Not very quickly, and not without giving Noakes plenty of warning of his intentions.’

‘That’s where the throwing comes in. Suppose Sellon started to climb and Noakes got alarmed and made for the door. Then Sellon might snatch up something.’

‘What?’

‘That’s true. He would scarcely have brought a stone or anything on purpose. He might have picked one up in the garden before he came back to the window. Or-I know!

That paper-weight on the sill. He could have snatched that up, and chucked it at Noakes’s retreating back. Would that work? I’m not good at trajectories and things.’

‘Very likely it would. I’d have to go and look.’

‘Well then. Oh, yes. Then he’d only have to finish scrambling in, pick up the paper-weight and put it back and go out through the window again.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course not; it was locked inside. No. He’d shut and lock the window, get Noakes’s keys from his pocket, open the front door, put back the keys and-well, then he’d have to go out leaving the door unlocked. And when Noakes came to, he obligingly locked it behind him. We’ve got to allow for that possibility, whoever did the murder.’

‘That’s really brilliant, Harriet. It’s very difficult to find a flaw in it. And I’ll tell you another thing. Sellon was the only person who could, with comparative safety, leave the door unlocked. In fact, it would be an advantage.’

‘You’ve got ahead of me there. Why?’

‘Why, because he was the village policeman. Look what happens next. In the middle of the night, he takes it into his head to go on a round of inspection. His attention, as he would put it in his report, is directed to the house by the circumstances of the candles being still alight in the sittingroom. That’s why he left them burning, which no other murderer would be likely to do. He tries the door and finds it open. He goes in, sees that everything looks nice and natural, and then hurries out to call up the neighbours with the announcement that some tramp or other has been in and knocked Mr Noakes on the head. It’s a nuisance to be the last man to see the deceased alive, but it’s a hell of a good wheeze to be the first to discover the body. It must have been a nasty shock to find that door locked after all.’

‘Yes. I suppose that would make him give up his idea. Especially if he looked in through the window and saw that Noakes wasn’t lying where he’d left him. The curtains weren’t drawn, were they? No-I remember-they were open when we arrived. What would he think?’

‘He’d think Noakes wasn’t killed after all, and would wait for the morning, wondering when-and how-’

‘Poor man!-And then, when nothing happened after all, and Noakes didn’t turn up-why, it was enough to drive him dotty.’

‘If it happened that way.’

‘And then we came and-I suppose he was hanging about here all morning, waiting to hear the worst. He was right on the spot when the body was found, wasn’t he?… I say, Peter, all this is a bit grim.’

‘It’s only a theory, after all. We haven’t proved a word of it. That’s the worst of you mystery-mongers. Anything’s a solution so long as it holds together. Let’s make a theory about somebody else. Whom shall we have? How about Mrs Ruddle? She’s a tough old lady and not an altogether sympathetic character.’

‘Why on earth should Mrs Ruddle-?’

‘Never mind. Why. Why never gets you anywhere. Mrs Ruddle came to borrow a drop of paraffin. Noakes was sniffing round and heard her. He invited her to step in and explain herself. He said he had often had doubts of her honesty. She said he owed her a week’s money. High words passed. He made for her. She snatched up the poker. He ran away and she threw the poker at him and caught him on the back of the head. That’s Why enough, when people lose their tempers. Unless you prefer to believe that Noakes made improper advances to Mrs Ruddle and she dotted him one accordingly.’

Idiot!’

‘Well. I don’t know. Look at old James Fleming and Jessie MacPherson. I shouldn’t fancy Mrs Ruddle myself, but then, my standard is high. Very well. Mrs Ruddle knocks Noakes on the head, and-wait a minute; this is coming rather pretty. She runs over to the cottage in a terrible stew, crying, “Bert! Bert! I’ve killed Mr Noakes!” Bert says, “Oh, nonsense,” and they come back to the house together, just in time to see Noakes go tumbling down the cellar steps. Bert goes down-’

‘Leaving no footprints?’

‘He’d taken off his boots for the night and ran over in his slippers-it’s all grass over the field to the cottage. Bert says, “He’s dead this time, all right” Then Mrs Ruddle goes to fetch a ladder, while Bert locks the door and puts the key back in the dead man’s pockets. He goes upstairs, through the trap-door on to the roof, and Mrs Ruddle holds the ladder while he gets down.’, Do you mean that seriously, Peter?* y»:,;;

‘I can’t mean it seriously till I’ve had a look at the roof. But there’s one thing they remember afterwards-Bert has left the cellar-door open-hoping it will look as though Noakes had had an accident. But when we arrive, they are a bit put out. We were not the people who were intended to discover the body. That was to be Miss Twitterton’s job.

They know she’s easily hoodwinked, but they know nothing about us. First of all, Mrs Ruddle isn’t keen to have us here at all-but when we insist on getting the key and coming in, she makes the best of it. Only-she calls out to Bert, “Shut the cellar-door. Bert! It’s perishing cold.” Thinking to postpone matters a little, you see, and take stock of us first. And, by the way, we’ve only got Mrs Ruddle’s word for it that Noakes died at that particular time, or that he didn’t go to bed, or anything. It might all have happened much later at night, or, better still, when she came in the morning; because then he’d be ready dressed, and she’d only have to make the bed again.’

‘What? In the morning? All that business on the roof?

Suppose anybody came by?’

‘Bert on a ladder, cleaning out the gutters. No ’arm in cleaning out a gutter.’

‘Gutter?… What does that?… Gutter-guttered-the candles! Don’t they prove it happened at night?’

“They don’t prove it; they suggest it. We don’t know how long the candles were to start with. Noakes may have sat listening to the wireless till they burnt themselves out in the sockets. Thrift, thrift, Horatio. It was Mrs Ruddle who said the wireless wasn’t going-who put the time at between 9 and 9.30-just after Sellon and Noakes had been quarrelling. It’s not awfully like Mrs Ruddle to have gone away without hearing the end of the row, when you come to think of it. If you look at the thing in a prejudiced way, all her actions seem odd. And she had it in for Sellon, and sprang it on him il beautifully.’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully. ‘And, you know, she kept on sort of hinting things to me when we were doing the sandwiches for lunch. And she was very artful about refusing to answer Sellon’s questions before the Superintendent came. But, honestly, Peter, do you think she and Bert have brains enough between them to work out that business with the keys? And would they have had the sense and self-restraint to keep their hands off the money?’

‘Now you’re asking something. But one thing I do know. Yesterday afternoon, Bert fetched a long ladder from the out-house and went up on the roof with Puffett.’

‘Oh, Peter! So he did!’

‘Another good clue gone west. We do at least know there was a ladder, but how are we to tell now what marks were made when?’

‘The trap-door.’ Peter laughed ruefully. ‘Puffett informed me when I met them fetching the ladder that Bert had just been up to the roof that way, to see if there was a “sut-lid” anywhere in the chimney for cleaning the flue. He went up by the Privy Stair and through your bedroom when Miss Twitterton was being questioned down here. Didn’t you hear him? You brought Miss Twitterton down, and up he nipped, pronto.’

Harriet lit a fresh cigarette. ‘Now let’s hear the case against Crutchley and the vicar.’

‘Well-they’re a bit more difficult, because of the alibi. Unless one of them was in league with Mrs Ruddle, we’ve got to explain away the silence of the wireless. Take Crutchley first. If he did it, we can’t very well make up a story about his climbing in at the window, because he couldn’t have got there till after Noakes was in bed. He deposited the vicar at the parsonage at 10.30 and was back in Pagford before eleven. There’d be no time for long parleyings at windows and clever business with keys. I’m assuming, of course, that Crutchley’s times at the garage have been confirmed; if he’s guilty, of course, they will be, because they’re part of the plan. If it was Crutchley, it must have been premeditated, which means that he might somehow have stolen a key or had one cut. Very early in the morning is Crutchley’s time, I fancy-taking out a taxi for a non-existent customer or something of that kind. He leaves the car somewhere, walks up to the house and lets himself in-um! yes, it’s awkward after that. Noakes would be upstairs, undressed and in bed. I can’t see the point of it. If he attacked him, it would be to rob him-and he didn’t rob him.’

‘Now it’s you who are asking Why. But suppose Crutchley came to rob the house, and was rummaging in a bureau or something-in the kitchen, where the will was found-and Noakes heard him and came downstairs.’

‘Stopping to put on his collar and tie, and carefully taking all his precious bank-notes with him?’

‘Of course not. In his night-things. He interrupts Crutchley, who goes for him. He runs away, Crutchley hits him, thinks he’s dead, gets the wind up and runs off. locking the door after him from outside. Then Noakes comes to, wonders what he’s doing down there, goes back to his room, dresses, feels queer, goes towards the back door, meaning to fetch Mrs Ruddle, and falls down the stairs.’

‘Excellent. But who made the bed?’

‘Oh, bother! Yes-and we haven’t explained about the wireless.’

‘No. My idea was that Crutchley had put the wireless out of action, meaning to establish his alibi for the night before the murder. I meant it to be a murder-but you put me off with your theory about robbing a bureau.’

‘I’m sorry. I was starting two hares at once. The Crutchley red herring does seem to be rather a mild one. Is the wireless working now, by the way?’

‘We’ll find out. Supposing it isn’t, does that prove anything?’

‘Not unless it looks as though it had been deliberately put out of order. I suppose it works from batteries. Nothing’s easier than to loosen a terminal in an accidental-looking manner.’

‘Old Noakes could easily put a thing like that right for himself.’

‘So he could. Shall I run down and see whether it’s working now or not?’

‘Ask Bunter. He’ll know.’

Harriet called down the stairs to Bunter, and returned to say: ‘Working perfectly. Bunter tried it yesterday evening after we’d gone.’

‘Ah! Then that proves nothing, one way or the other. Noakes may have tried to turn it on, failed to spot the trouble till the news-bulletin was over, put it right and left it at that.’

‘He may have done that in any case.’

‘And so the time-scheme goes west again.’

‘This is very discouraging.’

‘Isn’t it? It now leaves the way open for a murderous attack by the vicar, between 10.30 and 11 o’clock.’

‘Why should the-? Sorry! I keep on asking why.’

‘There’s an awful strain of inquisitiveness on both sides of the family. You’d better reconsider those children, Harriet; they’ll be intolerable pests from the cradle.’

‘So they will. Frightful. All the same, I do think it looks neater to have a comprehensive motive. Murder for the fun of it breaks all the rules of detective fiction.’

‘All right. Well, then. Mr Goodacre shall have a motive. I’ll think of one presently. He walks over from the vicarage at about 10.35 and knocks at the door. Noakes lets him in-there’s no reason why he shouldn’t let in the vicar, who has always appeared mild and friendly. But the vicar, underneath his professional austerity, conceals one of those dreadful repressions so common among clergymen as depicted by our realistic novelists. So, of course, does Noakes. The vicar, under cover of a purity campaign, accuses Noakes of corrupting the village maiden whom subconsciously he wants for himself.’

‘Of course!’ said Harriet, cheerfully. ‘How silly of me not to think of it. Nothing could be more obvious. They have one of those squalid senile rows-and the near ends up with a brain-storm and imagines he’s the hammer of God, like the parson in Chesterton’s story. He lays Noakes out with the poker and departs. Noakes recovers his senses-and we go on from there. That accounts beautifully for the money’s having been left on the body; Mr Goodacre wouldn’t want that.’

‘Exactly. And the reason why the vicar is so pleasant and innocent about it all now, is that the brain-storm has passed, and he has forgotten the whole thing.’

‘Dissociated personality. I think that’s our best effort yet. We only need now to put a name to the village maiden.’

‘It need not even be that. The vicar may have had a morbid fancy for something else-a passion d la Plato for an aspidistra, or a strange, covetous longing for a cactus. He’s a great gardener, you know, and these vegetable and mineral loves can be very sinister indeed. Remember the man in the Eden Phillpotts story who set his heart on an iron pineapple and brained a fellow with it? Believe me or believe me not, the vicar came prowling round for no good, and when old Noakes flung himself on his knees, crying, “Take my life but spare the honour of my cactus!” he upped with the aspidistra-pot.’

‘It’s all very well, Peter-but the poor old thing was really killed.’

‘My heart, I know it. But until we find out how, one theory’s as fanciful as another. We’ve got to laugh or break our hearts in this damnable world. It makes me sick to think that I didn’t go down into the cellar the night we came. We might have made a job of it then, with the place left just as it was, no clues disturbed, no Ruddles and Puffetts and Wimseys tramping round and upsetting everything. My God! that was the worst night’s work I ever put in!’

If he had been wanting to make her laugh, this time he succeeded beyond hope or desire.

‘It’s no good,’ said Harriet, when she had recovered. ‘Never, never, never shall we do anything like other people. We shall always laugh when we ought to cry and love when we ought to work, and make ourselves a scandal and a hissing. Don’t do that! What ever will Bunter say if he sees you with your hair full of ashes? You’d better finish dressing and face the situation.’ She wandered back to the window.

‘Look! There are two men coming up the path, one of them with a camera.’

‘Hell!’

‘I’ll go and entertain them.’

‘Not alone,’ said Peter, chivalrously; and followed her down. Bunter, in the doorway, was fighting a desperate verbal battle.

‘It’s no good,’ said Peter. ‘Murder will in. Hullo! it’s you. Sally, is it? Well, well! Are you sober?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Mr Salcombe Hardy, who was a personal friend, ‘I am. Have you got anything in the place, old man? You owe us something, after the way we were treated on Tuesday.’

‘Whisky for these gentlemen, Bunter; and put some laudanum in it. Now, children, make it snappy, because the inquest’s at eleven and I can’t turn up in a dressing-gown. What are you after? Romance in High Life? Or Mysterious Death in Honeymoon House?’

‘Both,’ said Mr Hardy, with a grin. ‘I suppose we’d better begin by offering our mingled congratulations and condolences. Do we mention that you are both in a state of collapse? Or is the message to the Great British Public that you are marvellously happy in spite of this untoward occurrence?’

‘Be original. Sally. Say we are fighting like cat and dog, and only relieved from irritable boredom by the prospect of a little detective occupation.’

‘That would make a grand story,’ said Salcombe Hardy, with a regretful shake of the head. ‘You’re conducting an investigation in double harness, I take it?’

‘Not at all; the police are doing that. Say when.’

‘Thanks very much. Well, cheerio! The police, of course, officially. But dash it all, you must have some personal angle on the thing. Come on, Wimsey, look at it from our point of view. It’s the story of the century. Famous amateur sleuth weds mystery-writer, finds corpse on bridal night.’

‘We didn’t. That’s the snag.’

Ah! Why, now?’

‘Because we had the sweep in next morning and all the clues got destroyed in the muddle,’ said Harriet. ‘We’d better tell you, I suppose.’

She glanced at Peter, who nodded. ‘Better we than Mrs Ruddle,’ was in both their minds. They told the story as briefly as possible.

‘Can I say you’ve got a theory of the crime?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter. SSS

‘Fine!’ said Salcombe Hardy.

‘My theory is that you put the corpse there yourself. Sally, to make a good headline.’

‘I only wish I’d thought of it. Nothing else?’

‘I tell you,’ said Peter, ‘the evidence is destroyed. You can’t have a theory without evidence to go on.’

‘The fact is,’ said Harriet, ‘he’s completely baffled.’

‘As baffled as a bathroom geyser,’ agreed her husband.

‘My wife’s baffled too. It’s the only point on which we are at one. When we’re tired of heaving crockery about we sit and sneer at one another’s bafflement. The police are baffled too. Or else they confidently expect to make an arrest. One or other. You can take your choice.’

‘Well,’ said Sally,’ it’s a devil of a nuisance for you, and I’m a nuisance too, but I can’t help myself. D’you mind if we take a photograph? Quaint Tudor farmhouse with genuine rafters-bride delightfully workmanlike in tweed costume and bridegroom in full Sherlock Holmes rig-out you ought to have a pipe and an ounce of shag.’

‘Or a fiddle and cocaine? Be quick. Sally, and get it over. And see here, old man-I suppose you’ve got to earn your living, but for God’s sake use a little tact.’

Salcombe Hardy, his violet eyes luminous with sincerity, promised that he would. But Harriet felt that the interview had left both her and Peter badly mauled, and that, of the two, Peter had come off the worse. He had picked his words carefully, and his light tone rang brittle as glass. There was going to be more of this-much more. With sudden determination she followed the pressmen out of the room and shut the door.

‘Mr Hardy-listen! I know one’s absolutely helpless. One has to put up with what newspapers choose to say. I’ve reason to know it. I’ve had it before. But if you put in anything sickening about Peter and me-you know what I mean-any of the sort of things that make one writhe and wish one was dead, it’ll be pretty rotten for us and pretty rotten of you. Peter isn’t exactly a rhinoceros, you know.’

‘My dear Miss Vane-I’m sorry-Lady Peter… Oh, and by the way, I forgot to ask, do you intend to go on writing now you are married?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Under the same name?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Can I say that?’

‘Oh, yes, you can say that. You can say anything except all that awful matrimonial tripe about “said he with a laughing glance at his brand-new wife”, and the rest of the romantic bilge-water. I mean, it’s all quite trying enough; do leave us a little human dignity, if you possibly can. Look here! If you’ll be reasonably restrained, and try and keep the other reporters reasonable, you’ve much more chance of getting stories out of us. After all, we’re both News-and it’s no good offending News, is it? Peter’s been very decent; he’s given you all the facts he can. Don’t make his life a burden to him.’

‘Honestly,’ said Sally, ‘I’ll try not. But editors are editors-’

‘Editors are ghouls and cannibals.’

‘They are. But I’ll really do my best. About this writing story-can you give me anything exclusive on that? Your husband eager you should continue your professional career-that kind of thing? Doesn’t think women should be confined to domestic interests? You look forward to getting hints from his experience for use in your detective novels?’

‘Oh, damn!’ said Harriet. ‘Must you have the personal angle on everything? Well, I’m certainly going on writing, and he certainly doesn’t object-in fact, I think he entirely approves. But don’t make him say it with a proud and tender look, or anything sick-making, will you?’

‘

‘No, no. Are you writing anything now?’

‘

‘No-I’ve only just finished a book. But I’ve got a new one in my head. In fact, it’s just come there.’

‘Good!’ said Salcombe Hardy.

‘It’s about the murder of a journalist-and the title is, Curiosity Killed the Cat.’

‘Fine!’ said Sally, quite unperturbed.

‘And,’ said Harriet, as they passed along the path between the chrysanthemums, ‘we told you that I knew this place when I was a child, but we didn’t mention that a dear old couple lived here who used to ask me in and give me seedy-cake and strawberries. That’s very pretty and human, and they’re dead, so it can’t hurt them.’

‘Splendid!’

‘And all the ugly furniture and aspidistras were put there by Noakes, so don’t blame us for them. And he was a grasping sort of man, who sold the Tudor chimney-pots to make sun-dials.’ Harriet opened the gate and Sally and the photographer walked meekly through.

‘And that,’ continued Harriet, triumphantly, ‘is somebody’s ginger cat. He has adopted us. He sits on Peter’s shoulder at breakfast. Everybody likes an animal story. You can have the ginger eat.’

She shut the gate and smiled over it at them.

Salcombe Hardy reflected that Peter Wimsey’s wife was almost handsome when she was excited. He sympathised with her anxiety about Peter’s feelings. He really thought she must be fond of the old blighter. He was deeply moved, for the whisky had been generously measured. He determined to do all he could to keep the human story dignified.

Halfway down the lane, he remembered that he had somehow omitted to interview the servants. He looked back; but Harriet was still leaning over the gate.

Mr Hector Puncheon of the Morning Star was less lucky. He arrived five minutes after Salcombe Hardy’s departure, and found Lady Peter Wimsey still leaning over the gate. Since he could scarcely force his way past her, he was obliged to take his story then and there, as she chose to give it to him. Halfway through, he felt something blow warmly upon his neck, and turned round with a start. ‘It’s only a bull,’ said Harriet, sweetly.

Mr Puncheon, who was town-bred, turned pale. The bull was accompanied by six cows, all inquisitive. Had he known it, their presence was the best guarantee of the bull’s good conduct; but to him they were all, equally, large beasts with horns. He could not with courtesy drive them away, because Lady Peter was thoughtfully scratching the bull’s forehead while contributing some interesting and exclusive details about her own early life at Great Pagford. Manfully-for a reporter must accept all risks in the execution of his duty he stuck to his post, listening with (he could not help it) a divided attention. ‘You are fond of animals?’ he inquired. ‘Oh, very,’ said Harriet; ‘you must tell your readers that; it’s a sympathetic trait, isn’t it?’

‘Sure thing,’ replied Hector Puncheon. All very well; but the bull was on his side of the gate and she was on the other. A friendly cow all red and white licked his ear-he was astonished to find its tongue so rough.

‘You’ll excuse my not opening the gate,’ said Harriet, with an engaging smile. ‘I love cows-but not in the garden.’ To his embarrassment, she climbed over and escorted him with a firm hand to his car. The interview was over, and he had had very little opportunity of getting a personal angle on the murder. The cows scattered, with lowered heads, from before his moving wheels.

By a remarkable coincidence, no sooner had he gone than the invisible guardian of the cattle rose up from nowhere and began to collect the herd. On seeing Harriet, he grinned and touched his cap. She strolled back to the house, and before she had got there the cows were gathered round the gate again. At the open kitchen window stood Bunter, polishing glasses.

‘Rather convenient,’ said Harriet, ‘all those cows in the lane.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ agreed Bunter demurely. ‘They graze upon the grass verge. I understand. A very satisfactory arrangement, if I may say so.’ Harriet opened her mouth, and shut it again as a thought struck her. She went down the passage and opened the back door. She was not really surprised to see an extraordinarily ugly bull-mastiff tied by a rope to the scraper. Bunter came out of the kitchen and padded softly into the scullery.

‘Is that our dog, Bunter?’

‘The owner brought him this morning, my lady, to inquire whether his lordship might desire to purchase an animal of that description. I understand he is an excellent watchdog. I suggested that he should be left here to…wait his lordship’s convenience.’

Harriet looked at Bunter, who returned her gaze, unmoved.