‘Did he? That’s very interesting.’
‘Yes. May I have a net, please?’
‘You may.’
‘Oh, thank-you, Father. May I keep him, please, and what does he live on?’
‘Beetles, I think.’ Peter plunged his hand into the bucket, and the snake wound itself about his wrist and slithered along his arm. ‘Come on, Cuthbert. You remind me of when I was at my prep school, and we put one the dead spit of you into –’ He caught himself up, too late.
‘Where, Father?’
‘Well, there was a master we all hated, and we put a snake in his bed. It’s rather frequently done. In fact, I believe it’s what grass-snakes are for.’
‘Is it very naughty to put snakes in people you don’t like’s beds?’
‘Yes. Exceedingly naughty. No nice boy would ever think of doing such a thing … I say, Bredon –’
Harriet Wimsey sometimes found her eldest son disconcerting. ‘You know, Peter, he’s a most unconvincing-looking child. I know he’s yours, because there is nobody else’s he could be. And the colour’s more or less right. But where on earth did he get that square, stolid appearance, and that incredible snub nose?’
But at that instant, in the furnace-room, over the body of the writhing Cuthbert, square-face and hatchet-face stared at one another and grew into an awful, impish likeness.
‘Oh, Father!’
‘I don’t know what your mother will say. We shall get into most frightful trouble. You’d better leave it to me. Cut along now, and ask Bunter if he’s got such a thing as a strong flour-bag and a stout piece of string, because you’ll never make Cuthbert stay in this bucket. And for God’s sake, don’t go about looking like Guy Fawkes and Gunpowder Treason. When you’ve brought the bag, go and wash yourself. I want you to run down with a note to Mr Puffet.’
Mr Puffett made his final appearance just after dinner, explaining that he had not been able to come earlier, ‘along of a job out Lopsley way.’ He was both grateful and astonished.
‘To think of it being old Billy Maggs and that brother of his, and all along o’ them perishin’ old vegetable marrers. You wouldn’t think a chap cud ’arbour a grievance that way, would yer? ’Tain’t even as though ’e wor a’showin’ peaches of his own. It beat me. Said ’e did it for a joke. “Joke?” I says to ’im. “I’d like to ’ear wot the magistrate ’ud say to that there kinder joke.” Owsumdever, I got me peaches back, and the Show being ter-morrer, mebbe they won’t ’ave took no ’arm. Good thing ’im and they boys ’adn’t ’ave ate the lot.’
The household congratulated Mr Puffett on this happy termination to the incident. Mr Puffett chuckled.
‘Ter think o’ Billy Maggs an’ that good-fer-nothin’ brother of ’is a-standin’ on that there ladder a-fishin’ for any peaches with young Joey’s stickle-back net. A proper silly sight they’d a-bin if anybody’d come that way. “Think yerselves clever,” I says to Bill. “W’y, ‘is lordship didn’t only cast one eye over the place afore ’e says, ‘W’y, Puffett,’ ’e says, ‘’ere’s Billy Maggs an’ that there brother of ’is been a-wallerin’ all over your wall like a ’erd of elephants.’ ” Ah! An’ a proper fool ’e looked. ‘Course, I see now it couldn’t only a’been a net, knockin’ the leaves about that way. But that there unripe ‘un got away from ’im all right. “Bill,” I says, “you’ll never make no fisherman, lettin’ ’em get away from you like that.” Pulled ’is leg proper, I did. But see ’ere, me lord, ’ow did you come ter know it was Billy Maggs’s Joey’s net? ’E ain’t the only one.’
‘A little judicious inquiry in the proper quarter,’ replied his lordship. ‘Billy Maggs’s Joe gave the show away, unbeknownst. But see here, Puffett, don’t blame Joe. He knew nothing about it, nor did my boy. Only from something Joe said to Bredon I put two and two together.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett, ‘an’ that reminds me. I’ve got more peaches back nor I wants for the Show, so I made bold to bring ’arf-a-dozen round for Master Bredon. I don’t mind tellin’ you, I did think for about ’arf a minute it might a’ bin ’im. Only ’arf a minute, mind you – but knowin’ wot boys is, I did jest think it might be.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Harriet. ‘Bredon’s in bed now, but we’ll give them to him in the morning. He’ll enjoy them so much and be so pleased to know you’ve quite forgiven him for those other two.’
‘Oh, them? replied Mr Puffett. ‘Don’t you say nothing more about them. Jest a bit o’ fun, that wos. Well, goodnight all, and many thanks to your lordship. Coo!’ said Mr Puffett, as Peter escorted him to the door, ‘ter think o’ Billy Maggs and that there spindle-shanked brother of ’is a-fishin’ for peaches with a kid’s net a-top o’ my wall. I didden ’arf make ’em all laugh round at the Crown.’
Miss Quirk had said nothing, Peter slipped upstairs by the back way, through Harriet’s bedroom into his own. In the big four-poster, one boy was asleep, but the other sat up at his cautious approach.
‘Have you done the deed, Mr Scatterblood?’
‘No, Cap’n Teach, but your orders shall be carried out in one twirl of a marlin spike. In the meantime, the bold Mr Puffett has recovered his lost treasure and has haled the criminals up before him and had them hanged at the yardarm after a drum-head court-martial. He has sent you a share of the loot.’
‘Oh, good egg! what did she say?’
‘Nothing. Mind you, Bredon, if she apologises, we’ll have to call Cuthbert off. A guest is a guest, so long as she behaves like a gentleman.’
‘Yes, I see. Oh, I do hope she won’t apologise!’
‘That’s a very immoral thing to hope. If you bounce like that, you’ll wake your brother.’
‘Father! Do you think she’ll fall down in a fit an’ foam at the mouth?’
‘I sincerely hope not. As it is, I’m taking my life in my hands. If I perish in the attempt, remember I was true to the Jolly Roger. Good night, Cap’n Teach.’
‘Good-night, Mr Scatterblood. I do love you.’
Lord Peter Wimsey embraced his son, assumed the personality of Mr Scatterblood and crept softly down the back way to the furnace-room. Cuthbert, safe in his bag, was drowsing upon a hot-water bottle, and made no demonstration as he was borne upstairs.
Miss Quirk did not apologise, and the subject of peaches was not mentioned again. But she may have sensed a certain constraint in the atmosphere, for she rose rather earlier than usual, saying she was tired and thought she would go to bed.
‘Peter,’ said Harriet, when they were alone: ‘what are you and Bredon up to? You have both been so unnaturally quiet since lunch. You must be in some sort of mischief.’
‘To a Teach or a Scatterblood,’ said Peter with dignity, ‘There is no such word as mischief. We call it piracy on the high seas.’
‘I knew it,’ replied Harriet, resignedly. ‘If I’d realised the disastrous effect sons would have on your character, I’d never have trusted you with any. Oh, dear! I’m thankful that woman’s gone to bed; she’s so in the way.’
‘Isn’t she? I think she must have picked up her infant psychology from the Woman’s page in the Morning Mercury. Harriet, absolve me now from all my sins of the future, so that I may enjoy them without remorse.’
His wife was not unmoved by this appeal, only observing after an interval, ‘There’s something deplorably frivolous about making love to one’s wife after seven years of marriage. Is it my lord’s pleasure to come to bed?’
‘It is your lord’s very great pleasure.’
My lord, who in the uncanonical process of obtaining absolution without confession or penitence, had almost lost sight of the sin, was recalled to himself by his wife’s exclamation as they passed through the outer bedroom:
‘Peter! Where is Bredon?’
He was saved from having to reply by a succession of long and blood-curdling shrieks, followed by a confused outcry.
‘Heavens!’ said Harriet. ‘Something’s happened to Paul!’ She shot through her own room
on to the Privy Stair, which, by a subsidiary flight, communicated with the back bedrooms. Peter followed more slowly.
On the landing stood Miss Quirk in her nightgown. She had Bredon’s head tucked under her arm, and was smacking him with impressive though ill-directed energy. She continued to shriek as she smacked. Bredon, accustomed to a more scientific discipline, was taking the situation stolidly, but the nursemaid, with her head thrust out of an adjacent door, was crying, ‘Lor’, whatever is it?’ Bunter, clattering down from the attic in his pyjamas with a long pair of fire-tongs in his hand, pulled up short in observing his master and mistress, and, with some dim recollection of his military service, brought his weapon to the present.
Peter seized Miss Quirk by the arm and extricated his son’s head from chancery.
‘Dear me!’ he said. ‘I thought you objected to corporal chastisement.’
Miss Quirk was in no mood for ethical discussion.
‘That horrible boy!’ she said, panting. ‘He put a snake in my bed. A disgusting, slimy shake. A snake!’
‘Another erroneous inference,’ said Peter. ‘I put it there myself.’
‘You? You put a snake in my bed?’
‘But I knew all about it,’ put in Bredon, anxious that the honour and blame should be equitably distributed. ‘It was all his idea, but it was my snake.’
His father rounded upon him. ‘I didn’t tell you to come wandering out of your bed.’
‘No, sir: but you didn’t tell me not to.’
‘Well,’ said Peter, with a certain grimness, ‘You got what you came for.’ He rubbed his son’s rump in a comforting manner.
‘Huh!’ said Bredon. ‘She can’t whack for toffee.’
‘May I ask,’ demanded Miss Quirk with trembling dignity, ‘why I should have been subjected to this abominable outrage?’
‘I fancy,’ said Peter, ‘I must have been suffering from in-growing resentment. It’s better to let these impulses have their natural outlet, don’t you agree? Repression is always so dangerous. Bunter, find Master Bredon’s snake for him and return it carefully to the furnace-room. It answers to the name of Cuthbert.’
A Biography of Dorothy L. Sayers
Dorothy L. Sayers (1893–1957) was a playwright, scholar, and acclaimed author of mysteries, best known for her books starring the gentleman sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey. The Los Angeles Times hailed Sayers as “one of the greatest mystery story writers of [the twentieth] century.”
Born in Oxford, England, she was the only child of Reverend Henry Sayers, headmaster of Christ Church Cathedral School and then rector of Bluntisham village. Sayers grew up in the Bluntisham rectory, then won a scholarship to Oxford University, where she studied modern languages and worked at the publishing house Blackwell’s, which in 1916 published Op. 1, Sayers’ first book of poetry.
In 1922 Sayers took a job as a copywriter for London advertising firm S. H. Benson, forerunner to the famous Ogilvy & Mather. There she created several popular slogans and campaigns, including the iconic, animal-theme Guinness advertisements that are still used today.
While working as a copywriter, Sayers began work on Whose Body? (1923), a mystery novel featuring dapper detective Lord Peter Wimsey. Over the next two decades, Sayers published ten more Wimsey novels and several short stories, crafting a character whose complexity was unusual for the mystery novels of the time. Handsome, brave, and charming, Wimsey has a few defining flaws, including his tendency to prattle, fear of responsibility, and perpetual nervousness caused by shell shock inflicted during World War I. Sayers once described him as a cross between Fred Astaire and Bertie Wooster. Her writing was praised by fellow mystery writers Ruth Rendell and P. D. James; James said that Sayers “brought to the detective novel originality, intelligence, energy and wit.”
Set between the two World Wars, the Wimsey novels are more than typical manor-house mysteries. Sayers used her knowledge of various topics—including advertising, women’s education, and veterans’ health—to give her books realistic details. In 1936, she brought Wimsey to the stage in Busman’s Honeymoon, a story which Sayers would publish as a novel the following year. The play was so successful that she gave up mystery writing to focus on the stage, producing a series of religious works culminating in The Man Born to Be King (1941), a radio drama about the life of Jesus.
Sayers continued writing theological essays and criticism during and after World War II. In 1949, she published the first volume of a translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy. She was halfway through the third volume when she died of a heart attack in 1957. Although she considered this translation to be her best work, it is for her elegantly constructed detective fiction that Sayers remains best remembered.
Sayers in the garden of her Oxford home, around 1897. She holds her two toy monkeys, Jocko and Jacko.
An 1899 studio portrait of Sayers, around six years old. (Photo courtesy of I. Palmer Clarke/Cambridge.)
The Sayers family circa 1905. Dorothy (about age twelve) posed with her family outside their home at the Bluntisham rectory. First row, left to right: Gertrude Sayers (aunt), Dorothy. Second row, left to right: Anna Breakey Sayers (grandmother), Mabel Leigh (aunt). Back row, left to right: Reverend Henry Sayers (father), Ivy Shrimpton (cousin), Helen Mary Leigh Sayers (mother).
Seventeen-year-old Sayers wearing a pageant costume in 1908.
Sayers with friends, posing as shipping magnate Sir Hugh Allen, in 1915.
A studio portrait of Sayers taken in 1926.
Sayers’s husband, “Mac” Fleming, at home in 1930 behind overflowing boxes of Sayers’s fan mail. A family friend sits to the right. (Photo courtesy of the Tropical Press Agency.)
Sayers’s husband, “Mac” Fleming, standing in doorway.
Sayers in 1950, at the unveiling of a plaque at the S. H. Benson advertising agency, where she once worked as a copywriter. The plaque was placed at the foot of a spiral staircase in the agency, a tribute to a character in Murder Must Advertise who plunges down a similar staircase.
All images used by permission of the Marion E. Wade Center, Wheaton College, Wheaton, Illinois.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1972 by Dorothy L. Sayers
cover design by Katrina Damkoehler
978-1-4532-5898-9
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
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Dorothy L. Sayers, Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries
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