The Literary Lord Peter

 

CHAPTER XV

 

Sherry—and Bitters

 

 

Fool, hypocrite, villain-man! Thou canst not call me that.

 

George Lillo: Tragedy of George Barnwell

 

 

 

Harriet was glad they had taken the trouble to dress. The vicar's wife (whom she vaguely remembered to have seen in the old days at bazaars and flower shows, perpetually stout, amiable and a little red in the face) had done honour to the occasion with a black lace dress and a daring little bridge coat in flowered chiffon velvet. She advanced with a beaming face to meet them.

 

"You poor things! What an upset for you! It is so nice of you to come and see us. I hope Simon apologised for my not calling, but what with my house and the parish work and the Women's Institute I was quite busy all day. Do come and sit down by the fire. You, of course, are an old friend, my dear, though I don't suppose you remember me. Let my husband help you off with your coat. What a pretty frock! Such a lovely colour. I hope you don't mind my saying so. I do so love to see bright colours and bright faces about me. Come and sit on the sofa, against this green cushion—you'll make quite a picture.... No, no, Lord Peter, don't sit on that! It's a rocking-chair; it always takes people by surprise. Most men like this one, it's nice and deep. Now, Simon, where did you put those cigarettes?"

 

"Here they are, here they are. I hope they're the kind you like. I'm a pipe-smoker myself and not very knowledgeable, I fear. Oh, thank you, thank you, no—not a pipe just before dinner. I will try a cigarette, just for a change. Now, my dear, will you join us in this little dissipation?"

 

"Well, I don't usually," said Mrs. Goodacre, "because of the parish, you know. It's very absurd, but one has to set an example."

 

"These particular parishioners," said Peter, striking a match persuasively, "are corrupted already beyond hope of repentance."

 

"Very well, then, I will," said the vicar's lady.

 

"Bravo!" said Mr. Goodacre. "That really makes it quite a gay party. Now! It is my prerogative to distribute the sherry. I believe I am right in saying that sherry is the only wine with which the goddess Nicotina does not quarrel."

 

"Quite right, padre."

 

"Ah! you confirm that opinion. I am very glad—very glad indeed to hear you say so. And here—ah, yes! Will you have some of these little biscuits? Dear me, what a remarkable variety! Quite an embarras de richesses!"

 

"They come assorted in boxes," said Mrs. Goodacre, simply. "Cocktail biscuits, they call them. We had them at the last whist drive."

 

"Of course, of course! Now which is the kind that has cheese inside it?"

 

"These, I think," said Harriet, from a plenitude of experience, "and those long ones."

 

"So they are! How clever of you to know. I shall look to you to guide me through this delectable maze. I must say, I think a little social gathering like this before dinner is a most excellent idea."

 

"You are sure you would not like to stay and dine with us?" said Mrs. Goodacre, anxiously. "Or to spend the night? Our spare room is always ready. Are you really comfortable at Talboys, after all this terrible business? I told my husband to tell you that if there was anything at all we could do——"

 

"He faithfully delivered your kind message," said Harriet. "It's ever so good of you. But really and truly we're quite all right."

 

"Well," said the vicar's wife, "I expect you would rather be alone, so I won't be an officious old busybody. In our position one's always interfering with people for their good, you know. I'm sure it's a bad habit. By the way, Simon, poor little Mrs. Sellon's very much upset. She was taken quite ill this morning, and we had to send for the district nurse."

 

"Oh, dear, dear!" said the vicar. "Poor woman! That was a very extraordinary suggestion Martha Ruddle made at the inquest. There can't, surely, be anything in it."

 

"Certainly not. Nonsense. Martha likes to make herself important. She's a spiteful old thing. Though I can't help saying, even now he's dead, that William Noakes was a nasty old creature."

 

"Not in that way, surely, my dear?"

 

"You never know. But I meant, I couldn't blame Martha Ruddle for disliking him. It's all very well for you, Simon. You always think charitably of everyone. And besides, you never talked to him about anything except gardening. Though as a matter of fact, Frank Crutchley did all the work."

 

"Frank is a very clever gardener, indeed," said the vicar. "In fact he is clever all round. He found the defect in my motor-car engine immediately. I'm sure he will go far."

 

"He's going a little too far with that girl Polly, if you ask me," retorted his wife. "It's about time they asked you to put up the banns. Her mother came up to see me the other day. Well, Mrs. Mason, I said, you know what girls are, and I admit it's very difficult to control them these days. If I were you, I should speak to Frank and ask him what his intentions are. However; we mustn't begin talking about parish matters."

 

"I should be sorry," said the vicar, "to think ill of Frank Crutchley. Or of poor William Noakes, either. I expect there is nothing in it but talk. Dear me! To think that when I called at the house last Thursday morning, he was lying there dead! I particularly wanted to see him, I remember. I had a small offering of a Teesdalia nudicaulis for his rock-garden—he was fond of rock-plants. I felt very melancholy when I planted it here, myself, this morning."

 

"You are even fonder of plants than he was," said Harriet, glancing round the shabby room, which was filled with pot-plants on stands and tables.

 

"I am afraid I must admit the soft impeachment. Gardening is an indulgence of mine. My wife tells me it runs away with too much money, and I dare say she is right."

 

"I said he ought to get himself a new cassock," said Mrs. Goodacre, laughing. "But if he prefers rock-plants, that's his business."

 

"I wonder," said the vicar, wistfully, "what will become of William Noakes's plants. I suppose they will belong to Aggie Twitterton."

 

"I don't know," said Peter. "The whole thing may have to be sold, I suppose, for the benefit of the creditors."

 

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the vicar. "Oh, I do hope they will be properly looked after. Especially the cacti. They are delicate creatures, and it is getting rather late in the year. I remember peeping in at the window last Thursday and thinking it was hardly safe for them to be left in that room without a fire. It's time they were put under glass for the winter. Particularly the big one in the hanging pot and that new variety he's got in the window. Of course, you will be keeping up good fires."

 

"We shall, indeed," said Harriet. "Now that we have got the chimneys clear, with your assistance. I hope your shoulder isn't still painful."

 

"I can feel it. I can feel it a little. But nothing to speak of. Just a slight bruise, that is all.... If there is to be a sale, I shall hope to make an offer for the cacti—if Aggie Twitterton doesn't want to buy them in for herself. And with your permission, my dear, of course."

 

"Frankly, Simon, I think them detestably hideous things. But I'm quite ready to offer a home to them. I know you've been coveting those cacti for years."

 

"Not coveting, I hope," said the vicar. "But I fear I must confess to a great weakness for cacti."

 

"It's a morbid passion," said his wife.

 

"Really, my dear, really—you shouldn't use such exaggerated language. Come, Lady Peter—another glass of sherry. Indeed, you mustn't refuse!"

 

"Shall I put them peas on, Mr. Bunter?"

 

Bunter paused in his occupation of tidying the sitting-room and strode with some haste to the door.

 

"I will see to the peas, Mrs. Ruddle, at the proper time." He looked up at the clock, which marked five minutes past six. "His lordship is very particular about peas."

 

"Is he now?" Mrs. Ruddle seemed to take this as a signal for conversation, for she appeared on the threshold. "That's jest like my Bert. 'Ma,' 'e allus says, 'I 'ates peas 'ard.' Funny, 'ow often they is 'ard. Or biled right away outer their shells. One or other."

 

Bunter offered no comment, and she tried again. "Ere's them things you arst me to polish. Come up lovely, ain't they?"

 

She offered for inspection a brass toasting-fork and the fragment of a roasting-jack that had so unexpectedly made its appearance from the chimney.

 

"Thank you," said Bunter. He hung the toasting-fork on a nail by the fireplace and, after a little consideration, set the other specimen upright on the what-not.

 

"Funny," pursued Mrs. Ruddle, "the way the gentry is about them old bits o' things. Curios! Rubbish, if you ask me."

 

"This is a very old piece," replied Bunter, gravely, stepping back to admire the effect.

 

Mrs. Ruddle sniffed. "Reckon them as shoved it up the chimbley knew wot they wos doin'. Give me a nice gas-oven any day. Ah! I'd like that—same as my sister's wot lives in Biggleswade."

 

"People have been found dead in gas-ovens before now," said Bunter, grimly. He took up his master's blazer, shook it, appeared to estimate its contents by their weight, and removed a pipe, a tobacco-pouch and three boxes of matches from one pocket.

 

"Lor' now, Mr. Bunter, don't you talk like that! Ain't we 'ad enough corpusses about the 'ouse already? 'Ow they can go on livin' 'ere I don't know!"

 

"Speaking for his lordship and myself, we are accustomed to corpses." He extracted several more match-boxes and, at the bottom of the nest, discovered a sparking-plug and a corkscrew.

 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Ruddle, with a deep, sentimental sigh. "And w'ere 'e's 'appy, she's 'appy. Ah! It's easy to see she worships the ground 'e treads on."

 

Bunter drew out two handkerchiefs, male and female, from another pocket and compared them indulgently. "That is a very proper sentiment in a young married woman."

 

"'Appy days! But it's early days yet, Mr. Bunter. A man's a man w'en all's said and done. Ruddle, now—'e useter knock me about something shocking w'en 'e'd 'ad a drop—though a good 'usband, and bringin' the money 'ome reg'lar."

 

"I beg," said Bunter, distributing match-boxes about the room, "you will not institute these comparisons, Mrs. Ruddle. I have served his lordship twenty years, and a sweeter-tempered gentleman you could not wish to find."

 

"You ain't married to 'im, Mr. Bunter. You can give 'im a munce warning any day."

 

"I hope I know when I am well situated, Mrs. Ruddle. Twenty years' service, and never a harsh word nor an unjust action in all my knowledge of him." A tinge of emotion crept into his tone. He laid a powder-compact aside on the what-not; then folded the blazer together with loving care and hung it over his arm.

 

"You're lucky," said Mrs. Ruddle. "I couldn't rightly say the same of pore Mr. Noakes, which though he's dead and gone I will say 'e wos a sour-tempered, close-fisted, suspicious brute, pore old gentleman."

 

"Gentleman, Mrs. Ruddle, is what I should designate as an elastic term. His lordship——"

 

"There now!" interrupted Mrs. Ruddle. "If there ain't love's young dream a-comin' up the path."

 

Bunter's brows beetled awfully. "To whom might you be referring, Mrs. Ruddle?" he demanded in a voice like Jupiter Tonans.

 

"W'y, that Frank Crutchley, to be sure."

 

"Oh!" Jupiter was appeased. "Crutchley? Is he your choice for a second?"

 

"Go along with you, Mr. Bunter! Me? No fear! No—Aggie Twitterton. Runs arter 'im like an old cat with one kitten."

 

"Indeed?"

 

"At 'er age! Mutton dressed as lamb. Makes me fair sick. If she knowed wot I knows—but there!"

 

This interesting revelation was cut short by the entrance of Crutchley himself.

 

"'Evenin'," said he, generally, to the company. "Any special orders to-night? I ran over, thinkin' there might be. Mr. 'Ancock don't want me for an hour or two."

 

"His lordship gave instructions that the car was to be cleaned; but now it's out again."

 

"Ah!" said Crutchley, apparently taking this as an intimation that gossip might proceed unchecked. "Well, they've got a nice day for it."

 

He made a tentative motion to seat himself, but caught Bunter's eye and compromised by leaning negligently against the end of the settle.

 

"'Ave you 'eard when they've fixed for the funeral?" inquired Mrs. Ruddle.

 

"'Leven-thirty ter-morrer."

 

"And 'igh time too—with 'im layin' there a week or more. There won't be many wet eyes, neither, if you ask me. There's one or two couldn't abide Mr. Noakes, not countin' 'im wot did away with 'im."

 

"They didn't get much forrader at the inquest, seems to me," observed Crutchley.

 

Bunter opened the what-not, and began to select wine-glasses from among its miscellaneous contents.

 

"'Ushin' it up," said Mrs. Ruddle, "that's wot they wos. Tryin' to make out there wasn't nothing atween Joe Sellon and 'im. That Kirk, 'is face was a treat w'en Ted Puddock got askin' all them questions."

 

"Seemed to me they went a bit quick over all that part of it."

 

"Didn't want nobody to think as a bobby might a-been mixed up in it. See 'ow the crowner shut me up w'en I started to tell 'im? Ah! But them noospaper men wos on to it sharp enough."

 

"Did you communicate your opinion to them, may I ask?"

 

"I might a-done, or I might not, Mr. Bunter, only jest at that instant minnit, out comes me lord, and they wos all on to 'im like wopses round a jam-pot. 'Im and 'is lady'll be in all the papers ter-morrer. They took a photer o' me too, with 'er ladyship. It's nice to see your friends in the papers, ain't it now?"

 

"The laceration of his lordship's most intimate feelings can afford no satisfaction to me," said Bunter, reprovingly.

 

"Ah! if I'd telled 'em all I thinks about Joe Sellon they'd 'ave me on the front page. I wonder they lets that young feller go about at large. We might all be murdered in our beds. The moment I sees pore Mr. Noakes's body, I says to myself, 'Now, wot's Joe Sellon doin' in this 'ere—'im bein' the last to see the pore man alive?'"

 

"Then you were already aware that the crime had bee

been committed on the Wednesday night?"

 

"Well, o'course I—— No, I didn't, not then—— See 'ere, Mr. Bunter, don't you go a-puttin' words in a woman's mouth—I——"

 

"I think," said Bunter, "you had better be careful."

 

"That's right, ma," agreed Crutchley. "You go on imaginin' things, you'll land yourself in Queer Street one o' these days."

 

"Well," retorted Mrs. Ruddle, backing out of the door, "I didn't bear no pertickler grudge against Mr. Noakes. Not like some as I could name—with their forty poundses."

 

Crutchley stared at her retreating form.

 

"Gawdamighty, wot a tongue! I wonder 'er own spit don't poison 'er. I wouldn't 'ang a dog on 'er evidence. Mangy old poll-parrot!"

 

Bunter voiced no opinion, but picked up Peter's blazer and a few other scattered garments and walked upstairs. Crutchley, relieved of his vigilant eye and stern regard for the social proprieties, strolled quietly over to the hearth.

 

"Ho!" said Mrs. Ruddle. She brought in a lighted lamp, set it on a table on the far side of the room and turned on Crutchley with a witch-like smile. "Waitin' for kisses in the gloamin'?"

 

"Wotcher gettin' at?" demanded Crutchley, morosely.

 

"Aggie Twitterton's a-comin' down the 'ill on 'er bicycle."

 

"Gawd!" The young man shot a quick look through the window. "It's 'er all right." He rubbed the back of his head and swore softly.

 

"Wot it is to be the answer to the maiden's prayer!" said Mrs. Ruddle.

 

"Now, see 'ere, ma. Polly's my girl. You know that. There ain't never been nothin' atween me and Aggie Twitterton."

 

"Not between you and 'er—but there might be atween 'er and you," replied Mrs. Ruddle, epigrammatically, and went out before he could reply. Bunter, coming downstairs, found Crutchley thoughtfully picking up the poker.

 

"May I ask why you are loitering about here? Your work is outside. If you want to wait for his lordship, you can do so in the garage."

 

"See 'ere, Mr. Bunter," said Crutchley, earnestly. "Let me bide in here for a bit. Aggie Twitterton's on the prowl, and if she was to catch sight o' me—you get me? She's a bit——"

 

He touched his forehead significantly.

 

"H'm!" said Bunter. He went across to the window and saw Miss Twitterton descend from her bicycle at the gate. She straightened her hat and began to fumble in the basket attached to the handle-bars. Bunter drew the curtains rather sharply. "Well, you can't stop here long. His lordship and her ladyship may be back any minute now. What is it now, Mrs. Ruddle?"

 

"I've put out the plates like you said, Mr. Bunter," announced that lady with meek self-righteousness. Bunter frowned. She had something rolled in the corner of her apron and was rubbing at it as she spoke. He felt that it would take a long time to teach Mrs. Ruddle a good servants'-hall manner.

 

"And I've found the other vegetable-dish—only it's broke."

 

"Very good. You can take these glasses out and wash them. There don't seem to be any decanters."

 

"Never you mind that, Mr. Bunter. I'll soon 'ave them bottles clean."

 

"Bottles?" said Bunter. "What bottles?" A frightful suspicion shot through his brain. "What have you got there?"

 

"Why," said Mrs. Ruddle, "one o' them dirty old bottles you brought along with you." She displayed her booty in triumph. "Sech as state as they're in. All over whitewash."

 

Bunter's world reeled about him and he clutched at the corner of the settle.

 

"My God!"

 

"You couldn't put a thing like that on the table, could you now?"

 

"Woman!" cried Bunter, and snatched the bottle from her, "that's the Cockburn '96!"

 

"Ow, is it?" said Mrs. Ruddle, mystified. "There now! I thought it was summink to drink."

 

Bunter controlled himself with difficulty. The cases had been left in the pantry for safety. The police were in and out of the cellar, but, by all the laws of England, a man's pantry was his own. He said in a trembling voice:

 

"You have not, I trust, handled any of the other bottles?"

 

"Only to unpack 'em and set 'em right side up," Mrs. Ruddle assured him cheerfully. "Them cases'll come in 'andy for kindling."

 

"Gawdstrewth!" cried Bunter. The mask came off him all in one piece, and nature, red in tooth and claw, leapt like a tiger from ambush. "Gawdstrewth! Would you believe it? All his lordship's vintage port!" He lifted shaking hands to heaven. "You lousy old nosy-parking bitch! You ignorant, interfering old bizzom! Who told you to go poking your long nose into my pantry?"

 

"Really, Mr. Bunter!" said Mrs. Ruddle.

 

"Go it," said Crutchley, with relish. "'Ere's someone at the front door."

 

"'Op it out of here!" stormed Bunter, unheeding, "before I take the skin off you!"

 

"Well, I'm sure! 'Ow was I to know?"

 

"Get out!"

 

Mrs. Ruddle retired, but with dignity.

 

"Sech manners!"

 

"Put yer flat foot right into it that time, Ma," observed Crutchley. He grinned. Mrs. Ruddle turned in the doorway.

 

"People can do their own dirty work after this," she remarked, witheringly, and departed.

 

Bunter took up the violated bottle of port and cradled it mournfully in his arm.

 

"All the port! All the port! Two and a half dozen, all shook up to blazes! And his lordship bringing it down in the back of the car, driving as tender and careful as if it was a baby in arms."

 

"Well," said Crutchley, "that's a miracle, judgin' by the way he went into Pagford this afternoon. Nearly blew me and the old taxi off the road."

 

"Not a drop fit to drink for a fortnight!—And him looking forward to his glass after dinner!"

 

"Well," said Crutchley again, with the philosophy we keep for other men's misfortunes, "he's unlucky, that's all."

 

Bunter uttered a Cassandra-like cry:

 

"There's a curse upon this house!"

 

As he turned, the door was flung violently open to admit Miss Twitterton, who shrank back with a small scream, on receiving this blast of eloquence full in the face.

 

"'Ere's Miss Twitterton," said Mrs. Ruddle, unnecessarily, and banged out.

 

"Oh, dear!" gasped the poor lady. "I beg your pardon. Er...is Lady Peter at home?... I've just brought her a... Oh, I suppose they are out.... Mrs. Ruddle is so stupid.... Perhaps..." She looked appealingly from one man to the other. Bunter, pulling himself together, recaptured his mask, and this stony metamorphosis put the finishing touch to Miss Twitterton's discomfort.

 

"If it isn't troubling you too much, Mr. Bunter, would you be so kind as to tell Lady Peter that I've brought her a few eggs from my own hens?"

 

"Certainly, Miss Twitterton." The social solecism had been committed and could not now be redeemed. He received the basket with the condescending kindness due from my lord's butler to a humble dependant of the house.

 

"The Buff Orpingtons," explained Miss Twitterton. "They—they lay such pretty brown eggs, don't they? And I thought, perhaps——"

 

"Her ladyship will greatly appreciate the attention. Would you care to wait?"

 

"Oh, thank you.... I hardly know..."

 

"I am expecting them back very shortly. From the vicarage."

 

"Oh!" said Miss Twitterton. "Yes." She sat down rather helplessly on the proffered chair. "I meant just to hand the basket to Mrs. Ruddle, but she seems very much put about."

 

Crutchley gave a short laugh. He had made one or two attempts at escape; but Bunter and Miss Twitterton were between him and the door, and now he appeared to resign himself. Bunter seemed glad of the opportunity for an explanation.

 

"I have been very much put about, Miss Twitterton. Mrs. Ruddle has violently agitated all his lordship's vintage port, just as it was settling down nicely after the journey."

 

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Miss Twitterton, her sympathetic mind grasping that the disaster, however incomprehensible, was of the first magnitude. "Is it all spoilt? I believe they have some very good port wine at the Pig and Whistle—only it's rather expensive—4s. 6d. a bottle and nothing on the empties."

 

"I fear," said Bunter, "that would scarcely meet the case."

 

"Or if they would like some of my parsnip wine I should be delighted to——"

 

"Huh!" said Crutchley. He jerked his thumb at the bottle in Bunter's arm. "What does that stand his nibs in for?"

 

Bunter could bear no more. He turned to go.

 

"Two hundred and four shillings the dozen!"

 

"Cripes!" said Crutchley. Miss Twitterton could not believe her ears.

 

"The dozen what?"

 

"Bottles!" said Bunter. He went out shattered, with drooping shoulders, and shut the door decisively. Miss Twitterton, reckoning rapidly on her fingers, turned in dismay to Crutchley, who stood with a derisive smile, making no further effort to avoid the interview.

 

"Two hundred and four—seventeen shillings a bottle! Oh, it's impossible! It's...it's wicked!"

 

"Yes. Cut above you and me, ain't it? Bah! There's a chap could give away forty pound out of his pocket and never miss it. But does he? No!"

 

He strolled over to the hearth and spat eloquently into the fire.

 

"Oh, Frank! You mustn't be so bitter. You couldn't expect Lord Peter——"

 

"'Lord Peter'!—who're you to be calling him by his pet name? Think you're somebody, don't you?"

 

"That is the correct way to speak of him," said Miss Twitterton, drawing herself up a little. "I know quite well how to address people of rank."

 

"Oh, yes!" replied the gardener, sarcastically, "I dessay. And you say 'Mister' to his blasted valet. Come off of it, my girl. It's 'me lord' for you, same as for the rest of us.... I know your mother was a school-teacher, all right. And your father was old Ted Baker's cowman. If she married beneath 'er, it ain't nothing to be stuck up about."

 

"I'm sure"—Miss Twitterton's voice trembled—"you're the last person that ought to say such a thing to me."

 

Crutchley's face lowered.

 

"That's it, is it? Tryin' to make out you been lowerin' yourself by associating with me, eh? All right! You go and hobnob with the gentry. Lord Peter!"

 

He thrust his hands deep down in his pockets and strode irritably towards the window. His determination to work up a quarrel was so evident that even Miss Twitterton could not mistake it. It could have only one explanation. With fatal archness, she wagged a reproving finger.

 

"Why, Frank, you silly old thing! I believe you're jealous!"

 

"Jealous!" He looked at her and began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, though it showed all his teeth. "That's good! That's rich, that is! What's the idea? Startin' to make eyes at his lordship now?"

 

"Frank! He's a married man. How can you say such things?"

 

"Oh, he's married all right. Tied up good and proper. 'Ead well in the noose. 'Yes, darling!' 'No, darling!' 'Cuddle me quick, darling.' Pretty, ain't it?"

 

Miss Twitterton thought it was pretty, and said so.

 

"I'm sure it's beautiful to see two people so devoted to one another."

 

"Quite a ro-mance in 'igh life. Like to be in 'er shoes, wouldn't you?"

 

"You don't really think I'd want to change places with anybody?" cried Miss Twitterton. "But oh, Frank! If only you and I could get married at once——"

 

"Ah, yes!" said Crutchley, with a kind of satisfaction. "Your Uncle Noakes has put a bit of a spoke in that wheel, ain't 'e?"

 

"Oh!—I've been trying all day to see you and talk over what we were to do."

 

"What we're going to do?"

 

"It isn't for myself, Frank. I'd work my fingers to the bone for you."

 

"And a fat lot o' good that 'ud do. 'Ow about my garridge? If it 'adn't a-been for your soft soap I'd a-got my forty quid out o' the old devil months ago."

 

Miss Twitterton quailed before his angry eyes.

 

"Oh, please don't be so angry with me. We couldn't either of us know. And oh!—there's another terrible thing——"

 

"What's up now?"

 

"I—I—I'd been saving up a little bit—just a little here and there, you know—and I'd got close on £50 put away in the savings bank——"

 

"Fifty pounds, eh?" said Crutchley, his tone softening a little. "Well, that's a tidy little bit...."

 

"I meant it for the garage. It was to be a surprise for you——"

 

"Well, and what's gone wrong with it?" The sight of her imploring eyes and twitching, bony hands brought back his irritation. "Post-office gone bust?"

 

"I—I—I lent it to Uncle. He said he was short—people hadn't paid their bills——"

 

"Well," said Crutchley, with impatience, "you got a receipt for it, I suppose." Excitement seized him. "That's your money. They can't get at that. You 'ave it out o' them—you got a receipt for it. You give me the receipt and I'll settle with that MacBride. That'll cover my forty quid, anyhow."

 

"But I never thought to ask Uncle for a receipt. Not between relations. How could I?"

 

"You never thought——? Nothing on paper——? Of all the blasted fools——!"

 

"Oh, Frank dear, I'm so sorry. Everything seems to have gone wrong. But you know, you never dreamt, any more than I did——"

 

"No; or I'd 'ave acted a bit different, I can tell you."

 

He ground his teeth savagely and struck a log on the hearth with his heel so that the sparks flew. Miss Twitterton watched him miserably. Then a new hope came to sustain her.

 

"Frank, listen! Perhaps Lord Peter might lend you the money to start the garage. He's ever so rich."

 

Crutchley considered this. Born rich and born soft were to him the same thing. It was possible, if he made a good impression—though it did mean truckling to a blasted title.

 

"That's a fact," he admitted. "He might."

 

In a rosy flush, Miss Twitterton saw the possibility as an accomplished fact. Her eager wishes flew ahead into a brilliant future.

 

"I'm sure he would. We could get married at once, and have that little corner cottage—you know—on the main road, where you said—and there'd be ever so many cars stopping there. And I could help quite a lot with my Buff Orpingtons!"

 

"You and your Buff Orpingtons!"

 

"And I could give piano-lessons again. I know I could get pupils. There's the stationmaster's little Elsie——"

 

"Little Elsie's bottom! Now, see here, Aggie, it's time we got down to brass tacks. You and me getting spliced with the idea of coming into your uncle's money—that was one thing, see! That's business. But if there's no money from you, it's off. You get that?"

 

Miss Twitterton uttered a faint bleat. He went on, brutally:

 

"A man that's starting in life wants a wife, see? A nice little bit to come 'ome to. Some'un he can cuddle—not a skinny old hen with a brood o' Buff Orpingtons."

 

"How can you speak like that?"

 

He caught her roughly by the shoulder and twisted her round to face the mirror with the painted roses.

 

"Look at yourself in the glass, you old fool! Talk about a man marrying his grandmother——"

 

She shrank back and he pushed her from him.

 

"Coming the schoolmarm over me, with yer 'Mind yer manners, Frank,' and 'Mind yer aitches,' and bum-sucking round to his lordship—'Frank's so clever'—t'sha! making me look a blasted fool."

 

"I only wanted to help you get on."

 

"Yes—showing me off, like as if I was your belongings. You'd like to take me up to bed like the silver tea-pot—and a silver tea-pot 'ud be about as much use to you, I reckon."

 

Miss Twitterton put her hands over her ears. "I won't listen to you—you're mad—you're——"

 

"Thought you'd bought me with yer uncle's money, didn't you? Well—where is it?"

 

"How can you be so cruel?—after all I've done for you?"

 

"You've done for me, all right. Made me a laughing-stock and got me into a blasted mess. I suppose you've been blabbing about all over the place as we was only waitin' for vicar to put up the banns——"

 

"I've never said a word—truly, truly I never have."

 

"Oh, ain't you? Well, you should a-heard old Ruddle talk."

 

"And if I had," cried Miss Twitterton, with a last, desperate burst of spirit, "why shouldn't I? You've told me over and over again you were fond of me—you said you were—you said you were——"

 

"Oh, can that row!"

 

"But you did say so. Oh, you can't, you can't be so cruel! You don't know—you don't know—Frank, please! Dear Frank—I know it's been a dreadful disappointment—but you can't mean this—you can't! I—I—I—oh, do be kind to me, Frank—I love you so——"

 

In frantic appeal, she flung herself into his arms; and the contact with her damp cheeks and stringy body drove him to an ugly fury.

 

"Damn you, get off! Take your blasted claws out of my neck. Shut up! I'm sick and tired of the sight of you."

 

He wrenched her loose and flung her heavily upon the settle, bruising her, and knocking her hat grotesquely over one ear. As he looked at her with a sort of delight in her helpless absurdity and her snuffling humiliation, the deep roar of the Daimler's exhaust zoomed up to the gate and stopped. The latch clicked and steps came along the path. Miss Twitterton sobbed and gulped, hunting vaguely for her handkerchief.

 

"Hell's bells!" said Crutchley, "they're comin' in."

 

Above the creak of the gravel came the sound of two voices singing together softly:

 

"Et ma joli' colombe

Qui chante jour et nuit,

Et ma joli' colombe

Qui chante jour et nuit,

Qui chante pour les filles

Qui n'ont pas de mari——

Auprès de ma blonde

Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,

Auprès de ma blonde

Qu'il fait bon dormi."

 

"Get up, you fool!" said Crutchley, hunting in a hurry for his cap.

 

"Qui chante pour les filles

Qui n'ont pas de mari,

Qui chante pour les filles

Qui n'ont pas de mari——"

 

He found the cap on the window-sill and pulled it on with a jerk. "You'd better clear out, sharp. I'm off." The woman's voice rang out, alone and exultant:

 

"Pour moi ne chante guère

Car j'en ai un joli——"

 

The tune, if not the words, stabbed Miss Twitterton into a consciousness of that insolent triumph, and she stirred wretchedly on the hard settle as the duet was joined again:

 

"Auprès de ma blonde

Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,

Auprès de ma blonde

Qu'il fait bon dormi."

 

She lifted a blotched and woebegone face; but Crutchley was gone—and the words of the song came back to her. Her mother, the schoolmistress, had had it in that little book of French songs—though, of course, it was not a thing one could teach the school-children. There were voices in the passage outside.

 

"Oh, Crutchley!"—casual and commanding. "You can put the car away."

 

And Crutchley's, colourless and respectful, as though it did not know how to use cruel words:

 

"Very good, my lord."

 

Which way out? Miss Twitterton dabbed the tears from her face. Not into that passage, among them all—with Frank there—and Bunter perhaps coming out of the kitchen—and what would Lord Peter think?

 

"Anything further to-night, my lord?"

 

"No, thanks. That's all. Good night."

 

The door-knob moved under his hand. Then her ladyship's voice—warm and friendly:

 

"Good night, Crutchley."

 

"Good night, my lord. Good night, my lady."

 

Seized with panic, Miss Twitterton fled blindly up the bedroom stair as the door opened.