The Literary Lord Peter

 

CHAPTER V

 

Fury of Guns

 

So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,Goosey-poosey, Turkey-lurkey,

and Foxy-woxyall went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.

 

Joseph Jacobs: English Fairy Tales

 

 

"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' cheese-parin' '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 to-day. 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, he 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 to-day."

 

"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 to-day."

 

"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 to-day, as he'd got some money coming in——"

 

"He said that?"

 

"Yes, sir—my lord—and I says to him, I hope you do, I 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 Wednesdays 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-marming 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 eye-glasses 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 heard 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 to-night, 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. "Wednesday 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 vicar 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 them with that air of mild self-assurance which a consciousness of spiritual dignity bestows upon a naturally modest 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 step-ladder 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 Peter 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 may 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 to-day—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 may 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."

 

 

(Continued)