Busman’s Honeymoon

Chapter II. Goosefeather Bed

The cottage, which had three yellow brick sides and a red-brick front, like the uglier kind of doll’s house, stood rather isolated from the town, so that it was perhaps not unreasonable in Miss Twitterton to interrogate her visitors in sharp and agitated tones from an upper window, as to their intentions and bona fides, before cautiously opening the door to them. She revealed herself as a small, fair am flustered spinster in her forties, wrapped in a pink flannel dressing-gown, and having in one hand a candle and in the other a large dinner-bell. She could not understand what it was all about. Uncle William had said nothing to her. She did not even know he was away. He never went away without letting her know. He would never have sold the house without telling her. She kept the door on the chain while repeating these asseverations, holding the dinner-bell ready to ring in case the odd-looking person in the eye-glass should become violent and oblige her to summon assistance. Eventually, Peter produced Mr Noakes’s last letter from his pocket-book (where he had thoughtfully placed it before starting, in case of any difference of opinion about the arrangements) and passed it in through the partly opened door. Miss Twitterton took it gingerly, as though it were a bomb, shut the door promptly in Peter’s face, and retired with the candle into the front room to examine the document at her leisure. Apparently the perusal was satisfactory, for at the end of it she returned, opened the door wide and begged her visitors to enter.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Twitterton, leading the way into a sittingroom furnished with a suite in green velvet and walnut veneer, and a surprising variety of knickknacks, ‘for receiving you like this-do please sit down. Lady Peter-I do hope you will both forgive my attire-dear me!-but my house is a little lonely and it’s only a short time ago since my hen-roost was robbed-and really, the whole thing is so inexplicable. I scarcely know what to think-it really is most upsetting-so peculiar of uncle-and what you must be thinking of both of us I cannot imagine.’

‘Only that it’s a great shame to knock you up at this time of night,’ said Peter.

‘It’s only a quarter to ten,’ replied Miss Twitterton, with a deprecating glance at a little china clock in the shape of a pansy. ‘Nothing, of course, to you-but you know we keep early hours in the country. I have to be up at five to feed my birds, so I’m rather an early bird myself-except on choir-practice nights, you know-Wednesday, such an awkward day for me with Thursday market-day, but then it’s more convenient for the dear Vicar. But, of course, if I’d had the smallest idea that Uncle William would do such an extraordinary thing, I’d have come over and been there to let you in. If you could wait five-or perhaps ten-minutes while I made a more suitable toilet, I could come now-as I see you have your beautiful car, perhaps-’

‘Please don’t bother, Miss Twitterton,’ said Harriet, a little alarmed at the prospect. ‘We have plenty of supplies with us, and Mrs Ruddle and our man can look after us quite well for tonight. If you could just let us have the keys-’

‘The keys-yes, of course. So dreadful for you not being able to get in, and really such a cold night for the time of year-what Uncle William can have been thinking of-and I did he say-dear me! his letter upset me so I hardly knew what I was reading-your honeymoon didn’t you say? how terrible for you-and I do hope at any rate you’ve had supper? No supper!-I simply can’t understand how Uncle could-but you will take a little bit of cake and a glass of my home-made wine?’

‘Oh, really, we mustn’t trouble you-’ began Harriet, but Miss Twitterton was already hunting in a cupboard. Behind her back, Peter put his hands to his face in a mute gesture of horrified resignation.

‘There!’ said Miss Twitterton, triumphantly. ‘I’m sure you will feel better for a little refreshment. My parsnip wine is really extra good this year. Dr Jellyfield always takes a glass when he comes-which isn’t very often, I’m pleased to say, because my health is always remarkably good.’

‘That will not prevent me from drinking to it,’ said Peter disposing of the parsnip wine with a celerity which might have been due to eagerness but, to Harriet, rather suggested a reluctance to let the draught linger on the palate. ‘May I pour out a glass for yourself?’

‘How kind of you!’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘Well-it’s rather late at night-but I really ought to drink to your wedded happiness, oughtn’t I?-Not too much. Lord Peter, please. The dear Vicar always says my parsnip wine is not nearly so innocent as it looks-dear me!-But you will take just a little more, won’t you? A gentleman always has a stronger head than a lady.

‘Thanks so much,’ said Peter, meekly, ‘but you must remember I’ve got to drive my wife back to Paggleham.’

‘One more I’m sure won’t do any harm.-Well, just half a glass, then-there! Now of course, you want the keys. I’ll run upstairs for them at once-I know I mustn’t keep you-I won’t be a minute. Lady Peter, so please have another slice of cake-it’s home-made-I do all my own baking, and Uncle’s too-whatever can have come over him I can’t think.’ Miss Twitterton ran out, leaving the pair to gaze at one another in the light of the candle.

‘Peter, my poor, long-suffering, heroic lamb-pour it into the aspidistra.’

Wimsey lifted his eyebrows at the plant. ‘It looks rather unwell already, Harriet. I think my constitution is the better of the two. Here goes. But you might kiss me to take the taste away… Our hostess has a certain refinement (I think that’s the word) about her which I had not expected. She got your title right first shot, which is unusual. Her life has had some smatch of honour in it. Who was her father?’

‘I think he was a cowman.’

‘Then he married above his station. His wife, presumably, was a Miss Noakes.’

‘It comes back to me that she was a village schoolmistress over at some place near Broxford.’

‘That explains it… Miss Twitterton is coming down. At this point we rise up, buckle the belt of the old leather coat, grab the gent’s soft hat and make the motions of imminent departure.’

‘The keys,’ said Miss Twitterton, arriving breathless with a second candle. ‘The big one is the back door, but you’ll find that bolted. The little one is the front door-it’s a patent, burglar-proof lock-you may find it a little difficult if you don’t know the way it works. Perhaps, after all, I ought to come over and show you-’

‘Not a bit of it. Miss Twitterton. I know these locks quite well. Really. Thank you ever so much. Good night. And many apologies.’

‘I must apologise for Uncle. I really cannot understand his treating you in this cavalier way. I do hope you’ll find everything all right. Mrs Ruddle is not very intelligent.’

Harriet assured Miss Twitterton that Bunter would see to everything, and they succeeded at length in extricating themselves. Their return to Talboys was remarkable only for Peter’s observing that unforgettable was the epithet for Miss Twitterton’s parsnip wine and that if one was going to be sick on one’s wedding night one might just as well have done it between Southampton and Le Havre.

Bunter and Mrs Ruddle had by now been joined by the dilatory Bert (with his ‘trousis’ but without his gun); yet even thus supported, Mrs Ruddle had a chastened appearance. The door being opened, and Bunter having produced an electric torch, the party stepped into a wide stone passage strongly permeated by an odour of dry-rot and beer. On the right, a door led into a vast, low-ceilinged, stone-paved kitchen, its rafters black with time, its enormous, old fashioned range clean and garnished under the engulfing chimney-breast. On the whitewashed hearth stood a small oil cooking-stove and before it an arm-chair whose seat sagged with age and use. The deal table held the remains of two boiled eggs, the heel of a stale loaf, and a piece of cheese together with a cup which had contained cocoa, and a half-burnt candle in a bedroom candlestick.

‘There!’ exclaimed Mrs Ruddle. ‘If Mr Noakes ’ad let me know, I’d a-cleaned all them things away. That’ll be ’is supper wot ’e ’ad afore ’e caught the ten o’clock. But me not knowing and ’avin’ no key, you see, I couldn’t. But it won’ take me a minnit, m’lady, now we are here. Mr Noakes took all ’is meals in ’ere, but you’ll find it comfortabler in the settin’-room, m’lady, if you’ll come this way-it’s a much brighter room, like, and furnished beautiful, as you’ll see m’lord.’ Here Mrs Ruddle dropped something like a curtsy.

The sittingroom was, indeed, ‘brighter’ than the kitchen. Two ancient oak-settles, flanking the chimney-piece at right angles, and an old-fashioned American eight-day clock on the inner wall, were all that remained of the old farmhouse furniture that Harriet remembered. The flame of the kitchen candle, which Mrs Ruddle had lit, danced flickeringly over a suite of Edwardian chairs with crimson upholstery, a top-heavy sideboard, a round mahogany table with wax fruit on it, a bamboo what-not with mirrors and little shelves sprouting from it in all directions, a row of aspidistras in pots in the window-ledge, with strange hanging plants above them in wire baskets, a large radio cabinet, over which hung an unnaturally distorted cactus in a brass Benares bowl, mirrors with roses painted on the glass, a chesterfield sofa upholstered in electric blue plush, two carpets of violently coloured and mutually intolerant patterns juxtaposed to hide the black oak floor-boards-a collection of objects, in fact, suggesting that Mr Noakes had furnished his house out of auction-sale bargains that he had not been able to resell, together with a few remnants of genuine old stuff and a little borrowing from the stock-in-trade of the wireless business. They were allowed every opportunity to inspect his collection of bric-a-brac, for Mrs Ruddle made the round of the room, candle in hand, to point out all its beauties.

‘Fine!’ said Peter, cutting short Mrs Ruddle’s panegyric on the radio cabinet (‘which you can hear it lovely right over at the cottage if the wind sets that way’). ‘Now, what we want at the moment, Mrs Ruddle, is fire and food. If you’ll get some more candles and let your Bert help Bunter to bring in the provisions out of the back of the car, then we can get the fires lit-’

‘Fires?’ said Mrs Ruddle m doubtful accents. ‘Well, there, sir-m’lord I should say-I ain’t sure as there’s a mite of coal in the place. Mr Noakes, ’e ain’t ’ad no fires this long time. Said these ’ere great chimbleys ate up too much of the ’eat. Oil-stoves, that’s wot Mr Noakes ’ad, for cookin’ an’ for settin’ over of an evenin’. I don’t reckollect w’en there was fires ’ere last-except that young couple we ’ad ’ere August four year, we’n we had sich a cold summer-and they couldn’t get the chimbley to go. Thought there must be a bird’s nest in it or somethink, but Mr Noakes said ’e wasn’t goin’ to spend good money ’aving they chimbleys cleared. Coal, now. There ain’t none in the oil-shed, that I do know-without there might be a bit in the wash-us-but it’ll have been there a long time,’ she concluded dubiously, as though its qualities might have been lost by keeping.

‘I might fetch up a bucket or so of coal from the cottage, mum,’ suggested Bert.

‘So you might, Bert,’ agreed his mother. ‘My Bert’s got a wonderful ’ead. So you might. And a bit o’ kindlin’ with it. You can cut across the back way-and, ’ere, Bert-jest shet that cellar door as you goes by-sech a perishin’ draught as it do send up. And, Bert, I declare if I ain’t forgot the sugar-you’ll find a packet in the cupboard you could put in your pocket. There’ll be tea in the kitchen, but Mr Noakes never took no sugar, only the gran, and that ain’t right for ’er ladyship.’

By this time, the resourceful Bunter had ransacked the kitchen for candles, which he was putting in a couple of tall brass candlesticks (part of Mr Noakes’s more acceptable possessions) which stood on the sideboard, carefully scraping the guttered wax from the sockets with a penknife with the air of one to whom neatness and order came first even in a crisis.

‘And if your ladyship will come this way,’ said Mrs Ruddle, darting to a door in the panelling, ‘I’ll show you the bedrooms. Beautiful rooms they is, but only the one of ’em in use, of course, except for summer visitors. Mind the stair, m’lady, but there-I’m forgettin’ you knows the ’ouse. I’ll jest pop the bed again the fire, w’en we get it lit, though damp it cannot be, ’avin’ been in use till last Wednesday and the sheets is aired beautiful, though linen, which, if folks don’t suffer from the rheumatics, most ladies and gentlemen is partial to. I ’opes as you don’t mind them old fourposters, miss-mum-m’lady. Mr Noakes did want to sell them, but the gentleman as come down to look at there said as ’ow they wasn’t wot ’e called original owing to bein’ mended on account of the worm and wouldn’t give Mr Noakes the price ’e put on ’em. Nasty old things I call ’em-w’en Ruddle and me was to be wedded I says to ’im, “Brass knobs,” I ses, “or nothink”-and, being’ wishful to please, brass knobs it was, beautiful.’

‘How lovely,’ said Harriet, as they passed through a deserted bedroom, with the four-poster stripped naked and the rugs rolled together and emitting a powerful odour of mothballs.

‘That it is, m’lady,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Not but what some o’ the visitors likes these old-fashioned things-quaint, they calls ’em-and the curtains you will find in good order if wanted, Miss Twitterton and me doin’ of ’em up careful at the end of the summer, and I do assure you, m’lady, if you and your good gentleman-your good lord, m’lady-was a-wantin’ a bit of ’elp in the ’ouse you will find Bert an’ me allus ready to oblige, as I was a-sayin’ only jest now to Mr Bunter. Yes, m’lady, thank you. Now, this’-Mrs Ruddle opened the farther door-‘is Mr Noakes’s own room, as you may see, and all ready to okkerpy, barrin’ ’is odds-and-ends, which it won’t take me a minnit to put aside.’

‘He seems to have left all his things behind him,’ said Harriet, looking at an old-fashioned nightshirt laid ready for use on the bed and at the shaving tackle and sponge on the washstand.

‘Oh, yes, m’lady. Kept a spare set of everythink over at Broxford, ’e did, so ’e ’adn’t to do nothing but step into the ’bus. More often at Broxford than not ’e was, lookin’ after the business. But I’ll ’ave everythink straight in no time only jest to change the sheets and run a duster over. Maybe you’d like me to bile yer a kittle of water on the Beetrice, m’lady-and’-Mrs Ruddle’s tone suggested that this consideration had often influenced the wavering decision of prospective summer visitors-‘down this ’ere little stair-mind yer ’ead, mum-everythink is modern, put in by Mr Noakes w’en ’e took to lettin’ for the summer.’

‘A bathroom?’ asked Harriet hopefully.

‘Well, no, m’lady, not a bathroom,’ replied Mrs Ruddle, as though that were too much to expect, ’but everythink else is quite modem as you’ll find-only requirin’ to be pumped up night and morning in the scullery.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Harriet. ’How nice.’ She peered from the lattice. ‘I wonder if they’ve brought in the suitcases.’

‘I’ll run and see this minnit,’ said Mrs Ruddle, gathering all Mr Noakes’s toilet apparatus dexterously into her apron as she passed the dressing-table and whisking his nightgear in after it, ‘and I’ll ’ave it all up before you can look round.’

It was Bunter, however, who brought the luggage. He looked, Harriet thought, a little worn, and she smiled deprecatingly at him. ‘Thank you, Bunter. I’m afraid this is making a lot of work for you. Is his lordship-?’

‘His lordship is with the young man they call Bert, clearing out the woodshed to put the car away, my lady.’ He looked at her and his heart was melted. ‘He is singing songs in the French language, which I have observed to be a token of high spirits with his lordship. It has occurred to me, my lady, that if you and his lordship would kindly overlook any temporary deficiencies in the arrangements, the room adjacent to this might be suitably utilised as a dressing-room for his lordship’s use, so as to leave more accommodation here for your ladyship. Allow me.’

He opened the wardrobe door, inspected Mr Noakes’s garments hanging within, shook his head over them, removed them from the hooks and carried them away over his arm. In five minutes, he had cleared the chest of drawers of all its contents and, in five minutes more, had re-lined all the drawers with sheets of the Morning Post, which he produced from his coat-pocket. From the other pocket he drew out two new candles, which he set in the two empty sticks that flanked the mirror. He took away Mr Noakes’s chunk of yellow soap, his towels and the ewer, and presently returned with fresh towels and water, a virgin tablet of soap wrapped in cellophane, a small kettle and a spirit-lamp, observing, as he applied a match to the spirit, that Mrs Ruddle had placed a ten-pint kettle on the oil-stove, which in his opinion, would take half an hour to boil, and would there be anything further at the moment, as he rather thought they were having a little difficulty with the sittingroom fire and he would like to get his lordship’s suitcase unpacked before going down to give an eye to it.

Under the circumstances, Harriet made no attempt to change her dress. The room, though spacious and beautiful in its half-timbered style, was cold. She wondered whether all things considered, Peter would not have been happier in the Hotel Gigantic somewhere-or-other on the Continent. She hoped that, after his struggles with the woodshed, he would find a good, roaring fire to greet him and be able to eat his belated meal in comfort.

Peter Wimsey rather hoped so, too. It took a long time to clear the woodshed, which contained not very much wood but an infinite quantity of things like dilapidated mangles and wheelbarrows, together with the remains of an old pony-trap, several disused grates, and a galvanised iron boiler with a hole in it. But he had his doubts about the weather, and was indisposed to allow Mrs Merdle (the ninth Daimler of that name) to stand out all night. When he thought of his lady’s expressed preference for haystacks, he sang songs in the French language; but from time to time he stopped singing and wondered whether, after all, she might not have been happier at the Hotel Gigantic somewhere-or-other on the Continent.

The church clock down in the village was chiming the three-quarters before eleven when he finally coaxed Mrs Merdle into her new quarters and re-entered the house, brushing the cobwebs from his hands. As he passed the threshold a thick cloud of smoke caught him by the throat and choked him. Pressing on, nevertheless, he arrived at the door of the kitchen, where a first hasty glance convinced him that the house was on fire. Recoiling into the sittingroom, he found himself enveloped in a kind of London fog, through which he dimly descried dark forms struggling about the hearth like genies of the mist. He said ‘Hallo!’ and was instantly seized by a fit of coughing. Out of the thick rolls of smoke came a figure that he vaguely remembered promising to love and cherish at some earlier period in the day. Her eyes were streaming and her progress blind. He extended an arm, and they coughed convulsively together.

‘Oh, Peter!’ said Harriet. ‘I think all the chimneys are bewitched.’

The windows in the sittingroom had been opened and the draught brought fresh smoke billowing out into the passage. With it came Bunter, staggering but still in possession of his faculties, and flung wide both the front door and the back. Harriet reeled out into the sweet cold air of the porch and sat down on a seat to recover herself. When she could see and breathe again, she made her way back to the sittingroom, only to meet Peter coming out of the kitchen in his shirt-sleeves.

‘It’s no go,’ said his lordship. ‘No can do. Those chimneys are blocked. I’ve been inside both of them and you can’t see a single star and there’s about fifteen bushels of soot in the kitchen chimney-ledges, because I felt it.’ (As indeed his right arm bore witness.) ‘I shouldn’t think they’d been swept for twenty years.’

‘They ain’t been swep’ in my memory,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘and I’ve lived in that cottage eleven year come next Christmas quarter-day.’

‘Then it’s time they were,’ said Peter, briskly. ‘Send for the sweep tomorrow, Bunter. Heat up some of the turtle soup on the oil-stove and give us the foie gras, the quails in aspic and a bottle of hock in the kitchen.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘And I want a wash. Did I see a kettle in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ quavered Mrs Ruddle. ‘Oh, yes-a beautiful kittle as ’ot as ’ot. And if I was jest to put the bed down before the Beetrice in the settin’-room and git the clean sheets on-’

Peter fled with the kettle into the scullery, whither his bride pursued him. ‘Peter, I’m past apologising for my ideal home.’

‘Apologise if you dare-and embrace me at your peril. I am as black as Belloc’s scorpion. He is a most unpleasant brute to find in bed at night.’

‘Among the clean sheets. And, Peter-oh, Peter! the ballad was right. It is a goosefeather bed!’