The Literary Lord Peter

EPITHALAMION

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

 

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 to-day?"

 

"I'd rather. I rang him up from Broxford. He's in the House to-night, 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. Goodacre 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."

 

Mr. Puffett promised readily that he would. They shook hands with him, and left him standing in the middle of the lane, cheerfully waving his bowler till the car had turned the corner.

 

They drove for five miles or so in silence. Then Peter said:

 

"There's a little architect who would make a good job of that bathroom extension. His name's Thipps. He's a common little blighter, but he has very real feeling for period stuff. He did the church at Duke's Denver, and he and I got really friendly about thirteen years ago, when he was troubled with a corpse in his bathroom. I think I'll send him a line."

 

"He sounds just right.... You haven't taken what Puffett calls a misliking to Talboys, then? I was afraid you might want to get rid of it."

 

"While I live," he said, "no owner but ourselves shall ever set foot in it."

 

She was satisfied and said no more. They ran into London in time for dinner.

 

 

Sir Impey Biggs extricated himself from his debate about midnight. He greeted Harriet with a cheerful friendliness, Peter as the lifelong friend and connection that he was, and both with all proper congratulations on their marriage. Although there had been no further discussion of the subject, it had somehow been taken for granted that there was now no more question of Harriet's going to sleep with a friend or driving to Denver alone. After dinner, Peter had merely said, "It's no good going down to the House yet," and they had turned into a news-cinema and seen a Mickey Mouse and an educational film about the iron and steel industry.

 

"Well, well," said Sir Impey. "So you want me to tackle a defence for you. This business down in Hertfordshire, I suppose."

 

"Yes. I warn you beforehand you haven't a very good case."

 

"Never mind. We've tackled some pretty hopeless jobs before now. With you on our side I know we can put up a good fight."

 

"I'm not, Biggy. I'm a witness for the prosecution."

 

The K.C. whistled.

 

"The devil you are. Then why are you briefing counsel for the prisoner? Conscience-money?"

 

"More or less. It's rather a rotten show altogether, and we'd like to do our best for the man. I mean to say, don't you know—there we were, just married and every thing pleasant about us. And then this happens, and the local bobbies can make nothing of it. And we horn in, looking all silk-lined, and fasten the crime on a poor devil who hasn't got a bean in the world and hasn't done us any harm except dig the garden—— Well, anyway, we'd like you to defend him."

 

"You'd better begin at the beginning."

 

Peter began at the beginning, and went on, interrupted only by the older man's shrewd questions, to the end. It took a long time.

 

"Well, Peter, you're handing me a nice pup. Including the criminal's own confession."

 

"He didn't give that on oath. Shock—nerves—frightened into it by my unfair trick with the pot."

 

"Suppose he's made it again to the police?"

 

"Badgered into it by questions. Surely you're not going to be worried by a little thing like that."

 

"There's the chain and the hook and the lead in the pot."

 

"Who's to say Crutchley put them there? They may have been part of one of old Noakes's little games."

 

"And the watering of the cactus and wiping of the pot?"

 

"Bagatelles! We've only the vicar's opinion about the metabolism of cacti."

 

"Can you dispose of the motive, too?"

 

"Motive doesn't make a case."

 

"It does, for nine juries out of ten."

 

"Very well—several other people had motives."

 

"Your Twitterton woman, for instance. Had I better try to hint that she might have done it?"

 

"If you fancy she'd have the wits to realise that a pendulum must always pass directly beneath its point of suspension."

 

"H'm!—By the way, supposing you people hadn't turned up, what would have been the murderer's next step? What did he think would happen?"

 

"If Crutchley was the murderer?"

 

"Well, yes. He must have expected that the body would be found lying on the sitting-room floor by the next person who entered the house."

 

"I've thought that out. The next person to enter would, in the ordinary way, have been Miss Twitterton, who had the key. She was completely under his thumb. Remember, they used to meet in the evenings in Great Pagford churchyard. He'd have no difficulty in finding out whether she intended to go over at any time during the week to see her uncle. If she'd announced any such intention, he'd have taken steps—asked for an hour off from the garage on private business and contrived to run across Miss Twitterton on her way to the house. If Mrs. Ruddle had thought to tell Miss Twitterton that old Noakes had disappeared, it would have been easier still. The first person to be consulted would have been dear Frank, who knew all about everything. Best of all would have been what nearly happened—that Mrs. Ruddle should have taken the situation for granted and said nothing to anyone. Then Crutchley would have arrived at Talboys as usual on the Wednesday morning, found (to his surprise) he couldn't get in, gone to fetch the key from Miss Twitterton and discovered the body for himself. In any case, he'd have been first on the scene, with or without Miss Twitterton. If he was alone; very good. If not, he'd have dispatched her on her bicycle to fetch the police and taken the opportunity while her back was turned to rescue the string, polish the pot, remove the other chain from the chimney and generally see that the whole place presented an innocent appearance. I don't know why the chain was put up the chimney in the first instance; but I imagine old Noakes came in on him unexpectedly, just as he'd made the exchange, and he had to get rid of it quickly. Probably he thought it would be safe enough there, and didn't bother too much."

 

"And suppose Noakes had come into the sitting-room between 6.20 and 9 o'clock?"

 

"That was the risk. But old Noakes was 'reg'lar as clockwork.' He had his supper at 7.30. The sun set at 6.38 and the room is low-windowed and darkish. At any time after 7 the chances were that he would notice nothing. But make what play you like with that."

 

"He must have had a disagreeable morning the day you arrived," said Sir Impey. "Always supposing, of course, that this prosecution is justified. I wonder he made no efforts, after the crime was discovered, to get the chain removed."

 

"He did," said Harriet. "He came in three times while the furniture-movers were there; and made a quite determined effort to get me out of the room to investigate some tinned goods. I did go out once, and met him in the passage, making for the sitting-room."

 

"Ah!" said Sir Impey. "And you'd be prepared to go into the box and swear to that. You don't leave me much chance between you. If you'd had any consideration for me, Peter, you'd have married a less intelligent woman."

 

"I'm afraid I've been selfish about that. But you'll take the case, Biggy, and do your best?"

 

"To please you, I will. I shall enjoy cross-examining you. If you think of any awkward questions to put to yourself, let me know. Now be off with you. I'm getting old, and bed's the place for me."

 

 

"So that's that," said Peter. They stood on the pavement, shivering a little. It was nearly three in the morning and the air was sharp. "What now? Do we seek a hotel?"

 

(What was the right answer to that? He looked at once tired and restless—a state of body in which almost any answer is the wrong one. She decided to risk a bold shot.)

 

"How far is it to Duke's Denver?"

 

"Just over ninety miles—say ninety-five. Would you like to drive straight down? We could pick up the car and be out of Town by half-past three. I'd promise not to drive fast—and you might be able to get a bit of sleep on the way."

 

Miraculously, the answer had been the right one. She said. "Yes; let's do that." They found a taxi. Peter gave it the address of the garage where they had left the car and they trundled away through the silent streets.

 

"Where's Bunter?"

 

"He's gone on down by train, with a message to say we might be a little late."

 

"Will your mother mind?"

 

"No. She's known me forty-five years."