Busman's Honeymoon

  ‘Or anybody,’ said Peter, ‘who didn’t happen to be there at the time. Anyone with a cast-iron alibi. God makes power, padre, and man makes engines.’

  He brought the two ends of the line to the edge of the cabinet, to which they reached exactly. He lifted the lid and slipped them under; then brought the lid down upon them. The spring catch stood up to the strain, and the sinkers held firm against the flange, though Harriet noticed that the pull of the heavy pot had raised the near side of the cabinet slightly from the ground. But it could not lift far; since its feet were jammed close against the end of the settle, over which the thin black line stretched taut and nearly invisible to the hook in the beam.

  A sharp knock on the window made them all start. Kirk and Sellon stood outside, beckoning excitedly. Peter walked quickly across and opened the lattice, while Bunter came down from the steps, folded them and set them quietly back against the wall.

  ‘Yes?’ said Peter.

  ‘My lord!’ Sellon’s voice was quick and eager. ‘My lord, I never told you no lie. You can see the clock from the window. Mr Kirk, he’s just told me—’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kirk. ‘Half-past twelve, plain as a pike-staff. . . . Hullo!’ he added, able to see better now that the window was open. ‘They’ve took the cactus down.’

  ‘No, they haven’t,’ said Peter. ‘The cactus is still there. You’d better come along in. The front door’s locked. Take the keys and lock it again behind you. . . . It’s all right,’ he added, speaking into Kirk’s ear. ‘But come in quietly – you may have to make an arrest.’

  The two policemen vanished with surprising speed. Mr Puffett, who had been scratching his head in a contemplative manner, accosted Peter.

  ‘That’s an orkerd-looking arrangement of yours, me lord. Are you dead sure it won’t come down?’

  As some safeguard against this possibility, he clapped on his bowler.

  ‘Not unless somebody opens the cabinet for the 12.30 gramophone orgy. . . . For God’s sake, padre, stand away from that lid!’

  The vicar, who had advanced towards the cabinet, started away guiltily at the peremptory tone.

  ‘I was only looking more closely at the string,’ he explained. ‘You can’t see it at all against the panelling, you know. Most remarkable. It’s being so black and so fine, I suppose.’

  ‘That,’ said Peter, ‘is the idea of fishing-line. I’m sorry I shouted, but do keep back in case of accident. Do you realise you’re the one person in this room who isn’t safe?’

  The vicar retired into a corner to work this out. The door was flung open, and Mrs Ruddle, uncalled and unwanted, announced in loud tones:

  ‘ ’Ere’s the p’leece!’

  ‘There!’ said Mr Puffett. He tried to urge her out, but Mrs Ruddle was determined to know what all this long conference was about. She planted herself firmly beside the door with arms akimbo.

  Kirk’s ox-like eyes went to Peter and then followed his glance up to the ceiling, where they encountered the astonishing phenomenon of the cactus, floating Houdini-fashion, without visible means of support.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘That’s where it is. But don’t touch that cabinet, or I won’t answer for the consequences. I fancy that’s where that cactus was at 9.5 p.m. last Wednesday week, and that’s why Sellon was able to see the clock. This is what’s called reconstructing the crime.’

  ‘The crime, eh?’ said Kirk.

  ‘You wanted a blunt instrument that could strike a tall man from behind and above. There it is. That would break the skull of an ox – with the power we’ve put behind it.’

  Kirk looked at the pot again.

  ‘H’m,’ he said slowly. ‘Pretty – but I’d like a bit o’ proof. There weren’t no blood nor ’air on that there pot w’en I last see it.’

  ‘Of course not!’ cried Harriet. ‘It was wiped.’

  ‘When and how?’ said Peter, slewing round on her sharply.

  ‘Why, not till last Wednesday morning. The day before yesterday. You reminded us only just now. On Wednesday morning, under our very eyes, while we all sat round and watched. That’s How, Peter, that’s How!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling at her excitement. ‘That’s How. And now we know How, we know Who.’

  ‘Thank God, we know something at last,’ said Harriet. At the moment she cared little for How or Who. Her jubilee was for the alert cock of Peter’s head, as he stood and smiled at her, balancing himself lightly and swaying a little on his toes. A job finished – and, after all, no failure – no more frustrated dreams about chained and defeated men seeking a lost memory among hot deserts horrid with prickly cactus.

  But the vicar, not being Peter’s wife, took the thing otherwise.

  ‘You mean,’ he said, in a shocked voice, ‘that when Frank Crutchley watered the cactus and wiped the pot – oh! but that is a dreadful conclusion to come to! Frank Crutchley – one of my own choirmen!’

  Kirk was better satisfied.

  ‘Crutchley?’ said he. ‘Ah! now we’re getting at it. He had his grudge about the forty pound – and ’e thought he’d get even with the old man and marry the heiress – two birds with one blunt instrument, eh?’

  ‘The heiress?’ exclaimed the vicar, in fresh bewilderment. ‘But he’s marrying Polly Mason – he came round about the banns this morning.’

  ‘That’s rather a sad story, Mr Goodacre,’ said Harriet. ‘He was secretly engaged to Miss Twitterton and he – hush!’

  ‘D’you think they were in it together?’ began Kirk – and then suddenly woke up to the fact that Miss Twitterton was in the room with them.

  ‘I couldn’t find your fountain-pen anywhere,’ said Miss Twitterton, earnest and apologetic. ‘I do hope –’ She became aware of something odd and strained in the atmosphere, and of Joe Sellon, who was stupidly gaping in the one direction that everybody else was avoiding.

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘What an extraordinary thing! How ever did Uncle’s cactus get up there?’

  She made a bee-line for the cabinet. Peter caught her and pulled her back.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, cryptically, to Kirk over his shoulder; and led Miss Twitterton away to where the vicar still stood petrified with astonishment.

  ‘Now,’ said Kirk, ‘let’s get this clear. How exactly do you make out he worked it?’

  ‘If that trap was set like that on the night of the murder when Crutchley left at 6.20’ (Miss Twitterton uttered a faint squeak) ‘then, when Noakes came in, as he always did at half-past nine, to turn on the wireless for the news-bulletin—’

  ‘Which he did,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘reg’lar as clockwork—’

  ‘Why, then—’

  But Harriet had thought of an objection, and whatever Peter thought of her she must put it.

  ‘But, Peter – could anybody – even by candlelight, walk right up to that cabinet without noticing that the cactus wasn’t there?’

  ‘I think – ’ said Peter.

  The door opened so quickly that it caught Mrs Ruddle sharply on the elbow – and Crutchley walked in. In one hand he carried the standard lamp, and had, apparently, come in to fetch something on his way to the van outside, for he called back to some invisible person behind him.

  ‘All right – I’ll get it and lock it up for you.’

  He was abreast of the cabinet before Peter could say:

  ‘What do you want, Crutchley?’

  His tone made Crutchley turn his head.

  ‘Key o’ the radio, my lord,’ he said briefly and, still looking at Peter, lifted the lid.

  For the millionth part of a second, the world stood still. Then the heavy pot threshed down like a flail. It flashed as it came. It skimmed within an inch over Crutchley’s head, striking white terror into his face with its passing, and shattered the globe of the lamp into a thousand tinkling fragments.

  Then, and only then, Harriet realised that they had all cried out, and she among them. And, after that, there was s
ilence for several seconds, while the great pendulum swung over them in a gleaming arc.

  Peter spoke, warningly:

  ‘Stand back, padre.’

  His voice broke the tension. Crutchley turned on him with a face like the face of a beast.

  ‘You devil! You damned cunning devil! How did you know? Curse you – how did you know I done it? I’ll have the throat out of you!’

  He leapt, and Harriet saw Peter brace himself; but Kirk and Sellon caught him as he sprang from under the death-swing of the pot. He wrestled with them, panting and snarling.

  ‘Let me go, blast you! Let me get at him! So you set a trap for me, did you? Well, I killed him. The old brute cheated me. So did you, Aggie Twitterton, blast you! I been done out o’ my rights. I killed him, I tell you, and all for nothing.’

  Bunter went quietly up, caught the pot as it swung and brought it to a standstill.

  Kirk was saying:

  ‘Frank Crutchley. I arrest you . . .’

  The rest of the words were lost in the prisoner’s frenzied shouting. Harriet went over and stood by the window. Peter had not moved. He left Bunter and Puffett to help the police. Even with this assistance, they had their work cut out to drag Crutchley from the room.

  ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Goodacre. ‘This is a most shocking thing!’ He picked up his surplice and stole.

  ‘Keep him off!’ shrieked Miss Twitterton, as the struggling group surged past her. ‘How horrible! Keep him off! To think that I ever let him come near me!’ Her small face was distorted with fury. She ran after them, shaking her clenched fists and crying out grotesquely: ‘Beast! beast! how dare you kill poor Uncle!’

  The vicar turned to Harriet.

  ‘Forgive me, Lady Peter. My duty is with that unhappy young man.’

  She nodded, and he followed the rest out of the room. Mrs Ruddle, arrested on her way to the door by the sight of the fishing-line dangling from the pot, was illuminated with sudden understanding.

  ‘Why, there!’ she cried, triumphantly. ‘That’s a funny thing, that is. That’s the way it was when I come in ’ere Wednesday morning to clear for the sweep. I took it off meself and throwed it down on the floor.’

  She looked about her for approbation, but Harriet was past all power of comment and Peter still stood unmoving. Gradually, Mrs Ruddle realised that the moment for applause had gone by, and shuffled out. Then from the group in the doorway Sellon detached himself and came back, his helmet askew and his tunic torn open at the throat.

  ‘My lord – I don’t rightly know how to thank you. This clears me.’

  ‘All right, Sellon. That’ll do. Buzz off now like a good chap.’

  Sellon went out; and there was a pause.

  ‘Peter,’ said Harriet.

  He looked round, in time to see Crutchley hauled past the window, still struggling in the four men’s hands.

  ‘Come and hold my hand,’ he said. ‘This part of the business always gets me down.’

  EPITHALAMION

  1

  LONDON: AMENDE HONORABLE

  VERGES: You have always been called a merciful man, partner.

  DOGBERRY: Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE:

  Much Ado About Nothing.

  MISS HARRIET VANE, in those admirable detective novels with which she was accustomed to delight the hearts of murder-fans (see blurb), usually made a point of finishing off on a top-note. Mr Robert Templeton, that famous though eccentric sleuth, would unmask his murderer with a flourish of panache in the last chapter and retire promptly from the stage amid a thunder of applause, leaving somebody else to cope with the trivial details of putting the case together.

  What happened in real life, she discovered, was that the famous sleuth, after cramming down a hasty lunch of bread and cheese, which he was almost too pre-occupied to eat, spent the rest of the afternoon at the police station, making an interminable statement. The sleuth’s wife and servant also made statements, and all three were then bundled unceremoniously out while statements were taken from the sweep, the charwoman and the vicar; after which, the police were prepared, if the going looked good, to sit up all night taking a statement from the prisoner. A further agreeable feature was a warning that neither the sleuth nor any of his belongings was to leave the country, or indeed go anywhere, without previously informing the police, since the next part of the procedure might take the form of a batch of summonses to appear before the magistrates. Returning home from the police-station, the sleuth family found the house occupied by a couple of constables taking photographs and measurements, preparatory to removing the wireless cabinet, the brass chain, the hook and the cactus to figure as Exhibits A to D. These were by now the only portable objects left in the house, other than the owners’ personal property; since George and Bill had finished the job and left with their van. There had been difficulty and delay in persuading them to leave without the wireless set; but here the arm of the law at length prevailed. At last the police went away and left them alone.

  Harriet looked round the empty sitting-room with a curiously blank sensation. There was nothing to sit on except the window-sill, so she sat on that. Bunter was upstairs, locking trunks and suit-cases. Peter walked aimlessly up and down the room.

  ‘I’m going up to Town,’ he said abruptly. He looked vaguely at Harriet. ‘I don’t know what you’d care to do.’

  This was disconcerting, because she could not tell from his tone whether he wanted her in London or not. She asked:

  ‘Shall you be staying the night in Town?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I must see Impey Biggs.’

  So that was the difficulty. Sir Impey Biggs had been her own counsel when she had stood her trial, and Peter was wondering how she would take the mention of his name.

  ‘Do they want him for the prosecution?’

  ‘No; I want him for the defence.’

  Naturally – what a stupid question.

  ‘Crutchley must be defended, of course,’ pursued Peter, ‘though at the moment he’s in no state to discuss anything. But they’ve persuaded him to let a solicitor act for him. I’ve seen the man and offered to get Biggy for them. Crutchley needn’t know we’ve had anything to do with it. He probably won’t ask.’

  ‘Must you see Sir Impey today?’

  ‘I’d rather. I rang him up from Broxford. He’s in the House tonight, but he can see me if I go round after the debate on some Bill or other he’s concerned in. That will make it rather late for you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, resolved to be reasonable whatever happened, ‘I think you had better run me up to Town. Then we can sleep at an hotel, if you like, or in your mother’s house, if the servants are there; or if you’d rather stay at your club, there’s a friend I can always ring up; or I can get out my own car and run down to Denver ahead of you.’

  ‘Resourceful woman! We’ll go to Town, then, and wait upon the event.’

  He seemed relieved by her readiness to accommodate herself, and presently went out to do something or other to the car. Bunter came down, looking worried.

  ‘My lady, what would you wish to have done with the heavy luggage?’

  ‘I don’t know, Bunter. We can’t very well take it to the Dower House, and if we take it to Town, there’s nowhere much to put it, except the new house – and I don’t suppose we shall be going there, yet awhile. And I don’t care to leave it here, with no one to see to it, since we can’t possibly come back for some time. Even if his lordship – that is to say, we should have to get some furniture in.’

  ‘Precisely, my lady.’

  ‘I suppose you have no idea what his lordship is likely to decide?’

  ‘No, my lady, I regret to say I have not.’

  For nearly twenty years, Bunter had known no plans which did not include the Piccadilly flat; and he was for once at a loss.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Harriet. ‘Go up to the vicarage and ask Mrs Goo
dacre from me whether we may leave it with her for a few days till we have made our plans. She can then send it on, carriage forward. Make some excuse for my not going myself. Or find me a piece of paper and I will write a note. I would rather his lordship could find me here when he wants me.’

  ‘I understand perfectly, my lady. If I may say so, I think that will be an excellent arrangement.’

  One felt rather shabby, perhaps, for not going to say au revoir to the Goodacres. But, quite apart from what Peter might or might not want, the thought of Mrs Goodacre’s questions and Mr Goodacre’s lamentations was a daunting one. When Bunter returned, bringing a cordial note of assent from the vicar’s wife, he reported that Miss Twitterton was also at the parsonage, and Harriet was more than ever thankful to have escaped.

  Mrs Ruddle seemed to have disappeared. (She and Bert were, indeed, having a sumptuous six o’clock tea with Mrs Hodges and a few neighbours, eager to have their news served up piping hot.) The only person who lingered to bid them farewell was Mr Puffett. He did not intrude; only, as the car moved out into the lane, he popped into ken from the top of a neighbouring gate, where he seemed to have been enjoying a peaceful smoke.

  ‘Jest,’ said Mr Puffett, ‘to wish you luck, me lord and me lady, and ’ope as we shall be seein’ you ’ere again afore long. You ain’t ’ad things so comfortable as you might ’ave ’oped, but there’s more than one ’ud be sorry if you wos to take a misliking to Paggleham on that account. And if you’d like them chimneys given a thorough over’aul, or any other little job in the sweepin’ or buildin’ line, you’ve only to mention it and I’d be ’appy to oblige.’

  Harriet thanked him very much.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ said Peter. ‘Over at Lopsley there’s a sun-dial in the old churchyard, made from one of our chimney-pots. I’m writing to the squire to offer him a new sun-dial in exchange. May I tell him that you will call for the old one and see to getting it put back?’

  ‘I’ll do that and welcome,’ said Mr Puffett.

  ‘And if you know where any of the others have gone, you might let me know.’