Busman’s Honeymoon

Chapter V. Fury Of Guns

‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you,’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton anxiously. ‘I felt I must run over and see how you were getting on. I really couldn’t sleep for thinking of you-so strange of Uncle to behave like that-so dreadfully inconsiderate!’

‘Oh, please!’ said Harriet. ‘It was so nice of you to come, won’t you sit down?… Oh, Bunter! Is that the best you can find?’

‘Why!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘you’ve got the Bonzo vase! Uncle won it in a raffle. So amusing, isn’t it, holding the flowers in his mouth like that, and his little pink waistcoat?-Aren’t the chrysanthemums lovely? Frank Crutchley looks after them, he’s such a good gardener… Oh, thank you, thank you so much-I really mustn’t inflict myself on you for more than a moment. But I couldn’t help being anxious. I do hope you passed a comfortable night.’

“Thank you,’ said Peter, gravely. ‘Parts of it were excellent.’

‘I always think the bed is the important thing-’ began Miss Twitterton. Mr Puffett, scandalised and seeing Peter beginning to lose control of his mouth, diverted her attention by digging her gently in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Oh!’ ejaculated Miss Twitterton. The state of the room and Mr Puffett’s presence forced themselves together upon her mind. ‘Oh, dear, what is the matter? Don’t say the chimney has been smoking again? It always was a tiresome chimney.’

‘Now see here,’ said Mr Puffett, who seemed to feel to the chimney much as a tigress might feel to her offspring, ‘that’s a good chimney, that is. I couldn’t build a better chimney meself, allowin’ for them upstairs flues and the ’ighth and pitch of the gable. But when a chimney ain’t never been swep’ through, on account of persons’ cheeseparin’ ’abits, then it ain’t fair on the chimney, nor yet it ain’t fair on the sweep. And you knows it.’

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ cried Miss Twitterton, collapsing upon a chair and immediately bouncing up again. ‘What you must be thinking of us all. Where can Uncle be? I’m sure if I’d known-Oh! there’s Frank Crutchley! I’m so glad. Uncle may have said something to him. He comes every Wednesday to do the garden, you know. A most superior young man. Shall I call him in? I’m sure he could help us. I always send for Frank when anything goes wrong. He’s so clever at finding a way out of a difficulty.’

Miss Twitterton had run to the window without waiting for Harriet’s, ‘Yes, do have him in,’ and now cried in agitated tones: ‘Frank! Frank! Whatever can have happened? We can’t find Uncle!’

‘Can’t find him?’

‘No-he isn’t here, and he’s sold the house to this lady and gentleman, and we don’t know where he is and the chimney’s smoking and everything upside down; what can have become of him?’

Frank Crutchley, peering in at the window and scratching his head, looked bewildered, as well he might.

‘Never said nothing to me. Miss Twitterton. He’ll be over at the shop, most like.’

‘Was he here when you came last Wednesday?’

‘Yes,’ said the gardener, ‘he was here then all right.’ He paused, and a thought seemed to strike him. ‘He did ought to be here today. Can’t find him, did you say? What’s gone of him?’

‘That’s just what we don’t know. Going off like that without telling anyone! What did he say to you?’

‘I thought I’d find him here-leastways-’

‘You’d better come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

‘Right, sir!’ said Crutchley, with some appearance of relief at having a man to deal with. He withdrew in the direction of the back door, where, to judge by the sounds, h was received by Mrs Ruddle with a volume of explanatory narrative.

‘Frank would run over to Broxford, I’m sure,’ said Miss Twitterton, ‘and find out what’s happened to Uncle. He might be ill-though you’d think he’d have sent for me, wouldn’t you? Frank could get a car from the garage-he drives for Mr Hancock at Pagford you know, and I tried to get him this morning before I came, but he was out with a taxi. He’s very clever with cars, and such a good gardener I’m sure you won’t mind my mentioning it, but if you’ve bought the house and want someone to do the garden-’

‘He’s kept it awfully well,’ said Harriet. ‘I thought it looked lovely.’

‘I’m so glad you think so. He works so hard, and he’s so anxious to get on-’

‘Come in, Crutchley,’ said Peter.

The gardener, hesitating now at the door of the room with his face to the light, showed himself as an alert, well-set-up young man of about thirty, neatly dressed in a suit of working clothes and carrying his cap respectfully in his hand. His crisp dark hair, blue eyes and strong white teeth produced a favourable impression, though at the moment he looked slightly put out. From his glance at Miss Twitterton, Harriet gathered that he had overheard her panegyric of him and disapproved of it.

‘This,’ went on Peter, ‘comes a little unexpected, what?’

‘Well, yes, sir.’ The gardener smiled, and sent his quick glance roving over Mr Puffett. ‘I see it’s the chimney.’

‘It ain’t the chimney,’ began the sweep indignantly; when Miss Twitterton broke in: ‘But, Frank, don’t you understand? Uncle’s sold the house and gone away without telling anybody. I can’t make it out, it’s not like him. Nothing done and nothing ready and nobody here last night to let anybody in, and Mrs Ruddle knew nothing except that he’d gone to Broxford-’

‘Well, have you sent over there to look for him?’ inquired the young man in a vain endeavour to stem the tide.

‘No, not yet-unless Lord Peter-did you?-or no, there wouldn’t be time, would there?-no keys, even, and I really was ashamed you should have had to come last night like that, but of course I never dreamt-and you could so easily, have run over this morning, Frank-or I could go myself on my bicycle-but Mr Hancock told me you were out with a taxi, so I thought I’d better just call and see.’

Frank Crutchley’s eyes wandered over the room as though seeking counsel from the dust-sheets, the aspidistras, the chimney, the bronze horsemen, Mr Puffett’s bowler, the cactus and the radio cabinet, before at length coming to rest on Peter’s in mute appeal.

‘Let’s start from the right end,’ suggested Wimsey. ‘Mr Noakes was here last Wednesday and went off the same night to catch the ten o’clock bus to Broxford. That was nothing unusual, I gather. But he expected to be back to deal with the matter of our arrival, and you, in fact, expected to find him here today.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

Miss Twitterton gave a little jump and her mouth shaped itself into an anxious O.

‘Is he usually here when you come on Wednesdays?’

‘Well, that depends, sir. Not always.’

‘Frank!’ cried Miss Twitterton, outraged, ‘it’s Lord Peter Wimsey. You ought to say “my lord”.’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Peter, kindly, but irritated by this interference with his witness. Crutchley looked at Miss Twitterton with the expression of a small boy who has been publicly exhorted to wash behind the ears, and said: ‘Some days he’s here, some not. If he ain’t,’ (Miss Twitterton frowned), ‘I gets the key from her’ (he jerked his head at Miss Twitterton) ‘to come in and wind the clock and see to the pot-plants. But I did reckon to see him this morning because I had particular business with him. That’s why I come up to the house first-came, if you like’ (he added crossly, in response to Miss Twitterton’s anxious prompting; ‘it’s all one, I dessay, to my lord.’

‘To his lordship,’ said Miss Twitterton, faintly.

‘Did he actually tell you he’d be here?’

‘Yes-my lord. Leastways he said as he’d let me have back some money I’d put into that business of his. Promised it back today.’

‘Oh, Frank! You’ve been worrying Uncle again. I’ve told you you’re just being silly about your money. I know it’s quite safe with Uncle.’

Peter’s glance crossed Harriet’s over Miss Twitterton’s head. ‘He said he’d let you have it this morning. May I ask whether it was any considerable sum?’

‘Matter o’ forty pound,’ said the gardener, ‘as he got me to put into his wireless business. Mayn’t seem a lot to you,’ he went on a little uncertainly, as though trying to assess the financial relationship between Peter’s title, his ancient and shabby blazer, his manservant and his wife’s non-committal tweeds, ‘but I’ve got a better use for it, and so I told him. I asked for it last week and he palavered as usual, sayin’ he didn’t keep sums like that in the house-puttin’ me off.’

‘But, Frank, of course he didn’t. He might have been robbed. He did lose ten pounds once, in a pocket-book.’

‘But I stuck to it,’ pursued Crutchley, unheeding, ‘sayin’ I must have it, and at last he said he’d let me have it today, as he’d got some money coming in-’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes, sir-my lord-and I says to him, I hope you do, says, and if you don’t, I’ll have the law on you.’

‘Oh, Frank, you shouldn’t have said that!’

‘Well, I did say it. Can’t you let me tell his lordship what he wants to know?’

Harriet’s glance had caught Peter’s again, and he had nodded. The money for the house. But if he had told Crutchley as much as that-‘Did he say where this money of his was coming from?’

‘Not him. He’s not the sort to tell more than he has to. Matter of fact, I never thought he was expecting no money in particular. Making excuses, he was. Never pays out money till the last moment, and not then if he can ’elp it. Might lose ’arf a day’s interest, don’t you see,’ added Crutchley, with a sudden half-reluctant grin.

‘Sound principle, so far as it goes,’ said Wimsey.

‘That’s right; that’s the way he’s made his bit. He’s a warm man, is Mr Noakes. Still, all the same for that, I told him I wanted the forty pound for my new garridge-’

‘Yes, the garahge,’ put in Miss Twitterton, with a corrective little frown and shake of the head. ‘Frank’s been saving up a long time to start his own garahge.’

‘So,’ repeated Crutchley with emphasis, ‘wantin’ the money for the garridge, I said, “I’ll see my money Wednesday,” I said, “or I’ll ’ave the law on you.” That’s what I said. And I went out sharp and I ain’t seen him since.’

‘I see. Well’-Peter glanced from Crutchley to Miss Twitterton and back again-’we’ll run over to Broxford presently and hunt the gentleman up, and then we can get it straight. In the meantime, we shall want the garden kept in order, so perhaps you’d better carry on as usual.’

‘Very good, my lord. Shall I come Wednesday same as before? Five shillings, Mr Noakes give me by the day.’

‘I’ll give you the same. Do you know anything about running an electric light plant, by the way?’

‘Yes, my lord; there’s one at the garridge where I work.’

‘Because,’ said Peter, with a smile at his wife, ‘though candles and oil-stoves have their romantic moments and all that, I think we shall really have to electrify Talboys.’

‘You’ll electrify Paggleham if you do, my lord,’ said Crutchley, with sudden geniality. ‘I’m sure I’d be very willing-’

‘Frank’, said Miss Twitterton brightly, ‘knows everything about machinery!’

The unfortunate Crutchley, on the verge of an explosion, caught Peter’s eye and smiled in some embarrassment.

‘All right,’ said his lordship. ‘We’ll talk it over presently. Meanwhile, carry on with whatever it is you do on Wednesdays.’ Whereupon the gardener thankfully made his escape, leaving Harriet to reflect that school-manning seemed to have got into Miss Twitterton’s blood and that nothing was so exasperating to the male sex in general as an attitude of mingled reproof and showmanship.

The click of the distant gate and a footfall on the path broke in on the slightly blank pause which followed Crutchley’s exit.

‘Perhaps’, cried Miss Twitterton, ‘that’s Uncle coming now.’

‘I hope to God’, said Peter, ‘it’s not one of those infernal reporters.’

‘It’s not,’ said Harriet, running to the window. ‘It’s a vicar-he’s coming to call.’

‘Oh, the dear vicar! perhaps he may know something.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett.

‘This is magnificent,’ said Peter. ‘I collect vicars.’ He joined Harriet at her observation-post. ‘This is a very well-grown specimen, six-foot-four or thereabouts, short-sighted, a great gardener, musical, smokes a pipe-’

‘Good gracious!’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘do you know Mr Goodacre?’

‘-untidy, with a wife who does her best on a small stipend; a product of one of our older seats of learning-1890 vintage-Oxford, at a guess, but not, I fancy, Keble, though as high in his views as the parish allows him to be.’

‘He’ll hear you,’ said Harriet, as the reverend gentleman withdrew his nose from the middle of a clump of dahlias and cast a vague glance through his eyeglass towards the sitting-room window. ‘To the best of my knowledge and belief, you’re right. But why the strictly limited High Church views?’

‘The Roman vest and the emblem upon the watch-chain point the upward way. You know my methods, Watson. But a bundle of settings for the Te Deum under the arm suggest sung Matins in the Established way; besides, though we beard the church clock strike eight there was no bell for a daily Celebration.’

‘However you think of these things, Peter!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said her husband, flushing faintly. ‘I can’t help taking notice, whatever I’m doing.’

‘Worse and worse,’ replied his lady. ‘Mrs Shandy herself would be shocked.’ While Miss Twitterton, completely bewildered, made haste to explain:

‘It’s choir practice tonight, of course. Wednesdays, you know. Always Wednesdays. He’ll be taking them up to the church.’

‘Of course, as you say,’ agreed Peter with relish. ‘Wednesdays always is choir practice. Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. Nothing ever changes in the English countryside. Harriet, your honeymoon house is a great success. I am feeling twenty years younger.’

He retired hastily from the window as the vicar approached, and declaimed with considerable emotion:

‘Give me just a country cottage, where the soot of ages falls,

And, to crown a perfect morning, look! an English vicar calls!

I, too. Miss Twitterton, though you might not think it, have bawled Maunder and Garrett down the neck of the blacksmith’s daughter singing in the village choir, and have proclaimed the company of the spearmen to be scattered abroad among the beasts of the people, with a little fancy pointing of my own.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘that’s an orkerd one, is the beasts of the people.’ As though the word ‘soot’ had struck a chord in his mind, he moved tentatively in the direction of the fireplace. The car vanished within the porch.

‘‘My dear,’ said Harriet, ‘Miss Twitterton will think we are both quite mad; and Mr Puffett knows it already.’

‘Oh, no, me lady,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Not mad. Only ’appy. I knows the feeling.’

‘As man to man, Puffett,’ said the bridegroom, ‘I thank you for those kind and sympathetic words. Where, by the way, did you go for your honeymoon?’

‘Erne Bay, me lord,’ replied Mr Puffett.

‘Good God, yes! Where George Joseph Smith murdered his first Bride-in-the-Bath. We never thought of that Harriet-’

‘Monster,’ said Harriet, ‘do your worst! There are only hip-baths here.’

‘There!’ cried Miss Twitterton, catching at the only word in this conversation that appeared to make sense. ‘I was always saying to Uncle that he really ought to put in a bathroom.’

Before Peter could give further proofs of insanity, Bunter mercifully announced: ‘The Reverend Simon Goodacre.’

The vicar, thin, elderly, clean-shaven, his tobacco-pouch bulging from the distended pocket of his suit of ‘clerical grey’ and the left knee of his trousers displaying a large three-cornered tear carefully darned, advanced upon their with that air of mild self-assurance which a consciousness of spiritual dignity bestows upon a naturally modern disposition His peering glance singled out Miss Twitterton from the group presented to his notice, and he greeted her with a cordial shake of the hand, at the same time acknowledging Mr Puffett’s presence with a nod and a cheerful, ‘Morning Tom!’

‘Good morning, Mr Goodacre,’ replied Miss Twitterton in a mournful chirp. ‘Dear, dear! Did they tell you-?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Well this is a surprise!’ He adjusted his glasses, beamed vaguely about him, and addressed himself to Peter. ‘I fear I am intruding. I understand that Mr Noakes-er-’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Peter, feeling it better to introduce himself than to wait for Miss Twitterton. ‘Delighted to see you. My name’s Wimsey. My wife.’

‘I’m afraid we’re all at sixes and sevens,’ said Harriet. Mr Goodacre, she thought, had not changed much in the last seventeen years. He was a little greyer, a little thinner, a little baggier about the knees and shoulders, but in essentials the same Mr Goodacre she and her father had occasionally encountered in the old days, visiting the sick of Paggleham. It was clear that he had not the faintest recollection of her; but, taking soundings as it were in these uncharted seas, his glance encountered something familiar-an ancient dark-blue blazer, with ‘O.U.C.C.’ embroidered on the breast pocket.

‘An Oxford man, I see,’ said the vicar, happily, as though this did away with any necessity for further identification.

‘Balliol, sir,’ said Peter.

‘Magdalen,’ returned Mr Goodacre, unaware that by merely saying ‘Keble’ he could have shattered a reputation. He grasped Peter’s hand and shook it again. ‘Bless me! Wimsey of Balliol. Now, what is it I-?’

‘Cricket, perhaps,’ suggested Peter, helpfully.

‘Yes,’ said the vicar, ‘ye-yes. Cricket and-Ah, Frank! Am I in your way?’

Crutchley, coming briskly in with a step-ladder and a watering-pot, said, ‘No, sir, not at all,’ in the tone of voice which means, ‘Yes, sir, very much.’ The vicar dodged hastily.

‘Won’t you sit down, sir?’ said Peter, uncovering a corner of the settle.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr Goodacre, as the stepladder was set down on the exact spot where he had been standing. ‘I really ought not to take up your time. Cricket, of course, and-’

‘Getting into the veteran class now. I’m afraid,’ said Peter, shaking his head. But the vicar was not to be diverted.

‘Some other connection, I feel sure. Forgive me-I did not precisely catch what your manservant said. Not Lord Peter Wimsey?’

‘An ill-favoured title, but my own.’

‘Really!’ cried Mr Goodacre. ‘Of course, of course. Lord Pet- er Wimsey-cricket and crime! Dear me, this is an honour. My wife and I were reading a paragraph in the paper only the other day-most interesting-about your detective experiences-’

‘Detective!’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton in an agitated squeak.

‘He’s quite harmless, really,’ said Harriet.

‘I hope,’ continued Mr Goodacre, gently jocose, ‘you haven’t come to detect anything in Paggleham.’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Peter. ‘As a matter of fact, we came here with the idea of passing a peaceful honeymoon.

‘Indeed!’ cried the vicar. ‘That is delightful. I hope I may say, God bless you and make you very happy.’

Miss Twitterton, overcome by the thought of the chimneys and the bed-linen, sighed deeply, and then turned to frown at Frank Crutchley who, from his point of vantage upon the step-ladder, was indulging in what seemed to her to be an unbecoming kind of grimace over the heads of his employers The young man instantly became unnaturally grave and gave his attention to mopping up the water which, in his momentary distraction, had overflowed the rim of the cactus-pot. Harriet earnestly assured the vicar that they were very happy, and Peter concurred, observing:

‘We have been married nearly twenty-four hours, and are still married; which in these days must be considered a record. But then, you see, padre, we are old-fashioned country-bred people. In fact, my wife used to be a neighbour of yours, so to speak.’

The vicar, who had seemed doubtful whether to be amused or distressed by the first part of this remark, at once looked all eager interest, and Harriet hastened to explain who she was and what had brought them to Talboys. If Mr Goodacre had ever heard or read anything of the murder trial he showed no sign of such knowledge; he merely expressed the greatest delight at meeting Dr Vane’s daughter once more and at welcoming two new parishioners to his fold.

‘And so you have bought the house! Dear me! I hope, Miss Twitterton, your uncle is not deserting us.’

Miss Twitterton, who had scarcely known how to contain herself during this prolonged exchange of introductions and courtesies, broke out as though the words had released a spring:

‘But you don’t understand, Mr Goodacre. It’s too dreadful. Uncle never let me know a word about it. Not a word. He’s gone off to Broxford or somewhere, and left the house like this!’

‘But he’s coming back, no doubt.’ said Mr Goodacre.

‘He told Frank he would be here today-didn’t he, Frank?’

Crutchley, who had descended from the steps and appeared to be occupied in centralising the radio cabinet with great precision beneath the hanging pot, replied:

‘So he said, Miss Twitterton.’

He folded his lips firmly, as though, in the vicar’s presence, he preferred not to make the comments he might have made, and retired into the window with his watering-pot.

‘But he isn’t here,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘It’s all a terrible muddle. And poor Lord and Lady Peter-’

She embarked on an agitated description of the previous night’s events, in which the keys, the chimneys, Crutchley’s new garage, the bed-linen, the ten o’clock bus, and Peter’s intention of putting in an electric plant were jumbled into hopeless confusion. The vicar ejaculated from time to time and looked increasingly bewildered.

‘Most trying, most trying,’ he said at length, when Miss Twitterton had talked herself breathless. ‘I am so sorry. If there is anything my wife and I can do. Lady Peter, I hope you will not hesitate to make use of us.’

‘It’s awfully good of you,’ said Harriet. ‘But really, we are quite all right. It’s rather fun, picnicking like this. Only, of course. Miss Twitterton is anxious about her uncle.’

No doubt he has been detained somewhere,’ said the vicar. ‘Or’-a bright thought occurred to him-‘a letter day have gone wrong. Depend upon it, that is what has happened. The post-office is a wonderful institution, but even Homer nods. I am sure you will find Mr Noakes at Broxford safe and sound. Pray tell him I am sorry to have missed him. I had called to ask him for a subscription to the concert we are getting up in aid of the Church Music Fund; that explains my intrusion upon you. I fear we parsons are sad mendicants.’

‘Is the Choir still going strong?’ inquired Harriet. ‘Do you remember once bringing it over to Great Pagford for a great combined Armistice Thanksgiving? I sat beside you at the Rectory tea, and we discussed Church music very seriously Do you still do dear old Bunnett in F?’

She hummed the opening bars. Mr Puffett, who all this time had remained discreetly withdrawn and was, at the moment, assisting Crutchley to sponge the aspidistra leaves, looked up, and joined in the melody with a powerful roar. ‘Ah!’ said Mr Goodacre, gratified; ‘we have made a great deal of progress. We have advanced to Stanford in C. And last Harvest Festival we tackled the Hallelujah Chorus with great success.’

‘Hallelujah!’ warbled Mr Puffett, in stentorian tones, ‘Hallelujah! Hal-le-lu-jah!’

‘Tom,’ said the vicar, apologetically, ‘is one of my most enthusiastic choirmen. And so is Frank.’

Miss Twitterton glanced at Crutchley, as though to check him if he showed signs of bursting into riotous song. She was relieved to see that he had dissociated himself from Mr Puffett, and was mounting the steps to wind the clock.

‘And Miss Twitterton, of course,’ said Mr Goodacre, ‘presides at the organ.’

Miss Twitterton smiled faintly and looked at her fingers.

‘But,’ pursued the vicar, ‘we sadly need new bellows. The old ones are patched past mending, and since we put in the new set of reeds they have become quite inadequate. The Hallelujah Chorus exposed our weaknesses sadly. In fact the wind gave out altogether.’

‘So embarrassing,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Miss Twitterton must be saved embarrassment at all costs,’ said Peter, producing his note-case.

‘Oh, dear!’ said the vicar. ‘I didn’t mean… Really, this is most generous. Too bad, your very first day in the parish. I-really-I am almost ashamed to-so very kind-so large a sum-perhaps you would like to look at the programme of the concert. Dear me!’ His face lit up with a childlike pleasure. ‘Do you know, it is quite a long time since I handled a proper Bank of England note.’

For the space of a moment, Harriet saw every person in that room struck into a kind of immobility by the magic of a piece of paper as it crackled between the vicar’s fingers. Miss Twitterton awestruck and open-mouthed; Mr Puffett suddenly pausing in mid-action, sponge in hand; Crutchley, on his way out of the room with the step-ladder over his shoulder, jerking his head round to view the miracle; Mr Goodacre himself smiling with excitement and delight; Peter amused and a little self-conscious, like a kind uncle presenting a Teddy bear to the nursery; they might have posed as they stood for the jacket-picture of a thriller: Bank-Notes in the Parish.

Then Peter said meaninglessly, ‘Oh, not at all.’ He picked up the concert-programme which the vicar had let fall in clutching at the note; and all the arrested motion flowed on again like a film. Miss Twitterton gave a small ladylike cough, Crutchley went out, Mr Puffett dropped the sponge into the watering-can, and the vicar, putting the ten-pound note carefully away in his pocket, inscribed the amount of the subscription in a little black notebook.

‘It’s going to be a grand concert,’ said Harriet, peering over her husband’s shoulder. ‘When is it? Shall we be here?’

‘October 27th,’ said Peter. ‘Of course we shall come to it. Rather.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Harriet; and smiled at the vicar. Whatever fantastic pictures she had from time to time conjured up of married life with Peter, none of them had ever included attendance at village concerts. But of course they would go. She understood now why it was that with all his masquing attitudes, all his cosmopolitan self, all his odd spiritual reticences and escapes, he yet carried about with him that permanent atmosphere of security. He belonged to an ordered society, and this was it. More than any of the friends in her own world, he spoke the familiar language of her childhood. In London, anybody, at any moment, might do or become anything. But in a village-no matter what village-they were all immutable themselves: parson, organist, sweep, duke’s son and doctor’s daughter moving like chessmen upon their allotted squares. She was curiously excited. She thought, ‘I have married England.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm.

England, serenely unaware of his symbolic importance, acknowledged the squeeze with a pressure of the elbow. ‘Splendid!’ he said, heartily. ‘Piano solo, Miss Twitterton-we mustn’t miss that, on any account. Song by the Reverend Simon Goodacre, “Hybrias the Cretan”-strong, he-man stuff, padre. Folk-songs and sea-shanties by the choir…’

(He took his wife’s caress to indicate that she shared his appreciation of the programme. And, indeed, their minds were not far apart, for he was thinking: How these old boys run true to form! ‘Hybrias the Cretan’! When I was a kid, the curate used to sing it-‘With my good sword I plough, I reap, I sow’-a gentle creature who wouldn’t have harmed a fly… Merton, I think, or was it Corpus?… with a baritone bigger than his whole body… he fell in love with our governess…)

‘Shenandoah’, ‘Rio Grande’, ‘Down in Demerara’. He glanced round the dust-sheeted room. ‘That’s exactly how we feel. That’s the song for us, Harriet.’ He lifted his voice:

‘Here we sit like birds in the wilderness-’

All mad together, thought Harriet, joining in:

‘Birds in the wilderness-’

Mr Puffett could not bear it and exploded with a roar:

‘birds in the wilderness-’

The vicar opened his mouth:

‘Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

Down in Demerara!’

Even Miss Twitterton added her chirp to the last line.

‘Now this old man, he took and died-a-lum,

Took and died-a-lum,

Took and died-a-lum,

This old man, he took and died-a-lum,

Down in Demerara!’

(It was just like that poem by someone or other: ‘Everyone suddenly burst out singing.’)

‘So here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

Birds in the wilderness,

Birds in the wilderness!

Here we sit like birds in the wilderness,

Down in Demerara!’

‘Bravo!’ said Peter.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Goodacre, ‘we rendered that with great spirit.’ ‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett. ‘Nothing like a good song to take your mind off your troubles. Is there, me lord?’

‘Nothing!’ said Peter. ‘Begone, dull care! Eructavit cor meum.’

‘Come, come,’ protested the vicar, ‘it’s early days to talk about troubles, my dear young people.’

‘When a man’s married,’ said Mr Puffett, sententiously, ‘his troubles begin. Which they may take the form of a family. Or they may take the form of sut.’

‘Soot?’ exclaimed the vicar, as though for the first time he was asking himself what Mr Puffett was doing in the domestic chorus. ‘Why, yes, Tom-you do seem to be having a little trouble with Mr Noakes’s-I should say. Lord Peter’s chimney. What’s the matter with it?’

‘Something catastrophic, I gather,’ said the master of the house.

‘Nothing like that,’ dissented Mr Puffett, reprovingly. ‘Just sut. Corroded sut. Doo to neglect.’

‘I’m sure-’ bleated Miss Twitterton.

‘No call to blame present company,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘I’m sorry for Miss Twitterton, and I’m sorry for his lordship. It’s corroded that ’ard you can’t get the rods through.’

‘That’s bad, that’s bad,’ ejaculated the vicar. He braced himself, as the vicar should, to deal with this emergence occurring in his parish. ‘A friend of mine had sad trouble with corroded soot. But I was able to assist him with an old fashioned remedy. I wonder now-I wonder-is Mrs Ruddle here? The invaluable Mrs Ruddle?’

Harriet, receiving no guidance from Peter’s politely impassive expression, went to summon Mrs Ruddle, of whom the vicar instantly took charge. ‘Ah, good morning, Martha. Now, I wonder if you could borrow your son’s old shot-gun for us. The one he uses for scaring the birds.’

‘I could pop over and see, sir,’ said Mrs Ruddle dubiously.

‘Let Crutchley go for you,’ suggested Peter. He turned abruptly as he spoke and began to fill his pipe. Harriet, studying his face, saw with apprehension that he was brimming over with an awful anticipatory glee. Whatever cataclysm impended, he would not put out a finger to stop it, he would let the heavens fall and tread the antic hay or the ruins.

‘Well,’ conceded Mrs Ruddle, ‘Frank’s quicker on his feet nor what I am.’

‘Loaded, of course,’ cried the vicar after her, as she vanished through the door. ‘There’s nothing,’ he explained to the world at large, ‘like one of these old duck-guns, discharged up the chimney, for clearing corroded soot. This friend of mine-’

‘I don’t ’old with that, sir,’ said Mr Puffett, every bulge in his body expressing righteous resentment and a sturdy independence of judgement. ‘It’s the power be’ind the rods as does it.’

‘I assure you, Tom,’ said Mr Goodacre, ‘the shotgun cleared my friend’s chimney instantly. A most obstinate case.’

That may be, sir,’ replied Mr Puffett, ‘but it ain’t a remedy as I should care to apply.’ He stalked gloomily to the spot where he had piled his cast-off sweaters and picked up the top one. ‘If the rods don’t do it, then it’s ladders you want, not ’igh explosive.’

‘But, Mr Goodacre,’ exclaimed Miss Twitterton anxiously, ‘are you sure it’s quite safe? I’m always very nervous about guns in the house. All these accidents.’

The vicar reassured her. Harriet, perceiving that the owners of the house, at any rate, were to be relieved of all responsibility for their own chimneys, nevertheless thought it well to placate the sweep. ‘Don’t desert us, Mr Puffett,’ she pleaded. ‘One can’t hurt Mr Goodacre’s feelings. But if anything happens-’

‘Have a heart, Puffett,’ said Peter.

Mr Puffett’s little twinkling eyes looked into Peter’s, which were like twin grey lakes of limpid clarity and wholly deceptive depth. ‘Well,’ said Mr Puffett, slowly, ‘anything to oblige; But don’t say I didn’t warn you, m’lord. It’s a thing I don’t ’old with.’

‘It won’t bring the chimney down, will it?’ inquired Harriet.

‘Oh, it won’t bring the chimney down,’ replied Mr Puffett. ‘If you likes to ’umour the old gentleman, on your ’ead be it. In a manner of speaking, m’lady.’

Peter had succeeded in getting his pipe to draw, and, with both hands in his trouser-pockets, was observing the actors in the drama with an air of pleased detachment. At the entrance of Crutchley and Mrs Ruddle with the gun, however, he began to retreat, noiselessly and backwards, like a cat who has accidentally stepped in a pool of spilt perfume. ‘My God!’ he breathed delicately. ‘Waterloo year!’

‘Splendid!’ cried the vicar. ‘Thank you, thank you, Martha. Now we are equipped.’

‘You have been quick, Frank!’ said Miss Twitterton. She eyed the weapon nervously. ‘You’re sure it won’t go off of its own accord?’

‘Will an army mule go off of its own accord? queried Peter, softly.

‘I never like the idea of fire-arms,’ said Miss Twitterton.

‘No, no,’ said the vicar. ‘Trust me; there will be no ill effects.’ He possessed himself of the gun and examined the lock and trigger mechanism with the air of one to whom the theory of ballistics was an open book.

‘It’s all loaded and ready, sir,’ said Mrs Ruddle, proudly conscious of her Bert’s efficiency.

Miss Twitterton gave a faint squeak, and the vicar, thoughtfully turning the muzzle of the gun away from her, found himself covering Bunter, who entered at that moment from the passage.

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ said Bunter, with superb nonchalance but a wary eye, ‘there is a person at the door-’

‘Just a moment, Bunter,’ broke in his master. ‘The fireworks are about to begin. The chimney is to be cleared by the natural expansion of gases.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Bunter appeared to measure the respective forces of the weapon and the vicar. ‘Excuse me, sir. Had you not better permit me-?’

‘No, no,’ cried Mr Goodacre. ‘Thank you. I can manage it perfectly.’ Gun in hand, he plunged head and shoulders beneath the chimney-drape.

‘Humph!’ said Peter. ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’

He removed his pipe from his mouth and with his free hand gathered his wife to him. Miss Twitterton, having no husband to cling to, flung herself upon Crutchley for protection, uttering a plaintive cry: ‘Oh, Frank! I know I shall scream at the noise.’

‘There’s no occasion for alarm,’ said the vicar, popping out his head like a showman from behind the curtain. ‘Now, are we all ready?’

Mr Puffett put on his bowler hat.

‘Ruat coelum!’ said Peter; and the gun went off.

It exploded like the crack of doom, and it kicked (as Peter had well foreseen) like a carthorse. Gun and gunman rolled together upon the hearth, entangled inextricably in the folds of the drape. As Bunter leaped to the rescue, the loosened soot of centuries came plunging in a mad cascade down the chimney; it met the floor with a soft and deadly violence and mushroomed up in a Stygian cloud, while with it rushed, in a clattering shower, masonry and mortar, jackdaws’ nests and the hones of bats and owls, sticks, bricks and metalwork, with fragments of tiles and potsherds. The shrill outcry of Mrs Ruddle and Miss Twitterton was drowned by the eruptive rumble and boom that echoed from bend to bend of the forty-foot flue.

‘Oh, rapture!’ cried Peter, with his lady in his arms. ‘Oh, bountiful Jehovah! Oh, joy for all its former woes a thousand-fold repaid!’

‘There!’ exclaimed Mr Puffett, triumphantly. ‘You can’t say as I didn’t warn yer.’

Peter opened his mouth to reply, when the sight of Bunter, snorting and blind, and black as any Nubian Venus, struck him speechless with ecstasy.

‘Oh, dear!’ cried Miss Twitterton. She fluttered round, making helpless little darts at the swaddled shape that was the vicar. ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear! Oh, Frank! Oh, goodness!’

‘Peter!’ panted Harriet

‘I knew it!’ said Peter. ‘Whoop! I knew it!! You blasphemed the aspidistra and something awful has come down that chimney!’

‘Peter! It’s Mr Goodacre in the sheet!’

‘Whoop!’ said Peter again. He pulled himself together and joined Mr Puffett in unwinding the clerical cocoon; while Mrs Ruddle and Crutchley led away the unfortunate Bunter.

Mr Goodacre emerged in some disorder.

‘Not hurt, sir, I hope?’ inquired Peter with grave concern.

‘Not at all, not at all,’ replied the vicar, rubbing his shoulder. ‘A little arnica will soon put that to rights!’ He smoothed his scanty hair with his hands and fumbled for his glasses. ‘I trust the ladies were not unduly alarmed by the explosion. It appears to have been effective.’

‘Remarkably so,’ said Peter. He pulled a pampas grass from the drain-pipe and poked delicately among the debris, while Harriet, flicking soot from the vicar, was reminded of Alice dusting the White King. ‘It’s surprising the things you find in old chimneys.’

‘No dead bodies, I trust,’ said the vicar.

‘Only ornithological specimens. And two skeleton bats. And eight feet or so of ancient chain, as formerly worn by the mayors of Paggleham.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Goodacre, filled with antiquarian zeal, ‘an old pot-chain, very likely.’

“That’s what it’ll be,’ concurred Mr Puffett. ‘’Ung up on one of them ledges, as like as not. See ’ere! ’Ere’s a bit of one o’ they roasting-jacks wot they used in the old days. Look, see! That’s the cross-bar and the wheel wot the chain went over, like. My grannie had one, the dead spit of this.’

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘we seem to have loosened things up a bit, anyhow. Think you can get your rods through the pot now?’

‘If,’ said Mr Puffett, darkly, ‘the pot’s still there.’ He dived beneath the chimney-breast, whither Peter followed him. ‘Mind your ’ead, me lord-there might be some more loose bricks. I will say as you can see the sky if you looks for it, which is more than you’d see this morning.’

‘Excuse me, my lord!’

‘Hey?’ said Peter. He crawled out and straightened his back, only to find himself nose to nose with Bunter, who appeared to have undergone a rough but effective cleansing. He looked his servitor up and down. ‘By god, Bunter, my Bunter, I’m revenged for the scullery pump.’

The shadow of some powerful emotion passed over Bunter’s face; but his training held good.

“The individual at the door, my lord, is inquiring for Mr Noakes. I have informed him that he is not here, but he refuses to take my word for it.’

‘Did you ask if he would see Miss Twitterton? What does he want?’

‘He says, my lord, that his business is urgent and personal.’ Mr Puffett, feeling his presence a little intrusive, whistled thoughtfully, and began to collect his rods together and secure them with string.

‘What sort of an “individual”, Bunter?’

Mr Bunter lightly shrugged his shoulders and spread forth his palms.

‘A financial individual, my lord, to judge by his appearances.’ said Mr Puffett, sotto voce.

‘Name of Moses?’

‘Name of MacBride, my lord.’

‘A distinction without a difference. Well, Miss Twitterton, will you see this financial Scotsman?’

‘Oh, Lord Peter, I really don’t know what to say. I know nothing about Uncle William’s business. I don’t know if he’d like me to interfere. If only Uncle-’

‘Would you rather I tackled the bloke?’

‘It’s too kind of you. Lord Peter. I’m sure I oughtn’t to bother you. But with Uncle away and everything so awkward-and gentlemen always understand so much better about business, don’t they, Lady Peter? Dear me!’

‘My husband will be delighted,’ said Harriet She was wickedly tempted to add, ‘He knows everything about business,’ but was fortunately forestalled by the gentleman himself.

‘Nothing delights me more,’ pronounced his lordship, ‘than minding other people’s business. Show him in. And, Bunter! Allow me to invest you with the Most Heroic Order of the Chimney, for attempting a rescue against overwhelming odds.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Bunter, woodenly, stooping his neck to the chain and meekly receiving the roasting-jack in his right hand. ‘I am much obliged. Will there be anything further?’

‘Yes. Before you go-take up the bodies. But the soldiers may be excused from shooting. We have had enough of that for one morning.’

Mr Bunter bowed, collected the skeletons in the dustpan and departed. But as he passed behind the settle, Harriet saw him unwind the chain and drop it unobtrusively into the drain-pipe, setting the roasting-jack upright against the wall. A gentleman might have his joke; but a gentleman’s gentleman has his position to keep up. One could not face inquisitive Hebrews in the character of the Mayor of Paggleham and Provincial Grand Master of the Most Heroic Order of the Chimney.