‘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 stepladder 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 Pet- er 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 must 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 today-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 day 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.’

Miss Twitterton glanced at Crutchley, as though to check him if he showed signs of bursting into riotous song. She was relieved to see that he had dissociated himself from Mr Puffett, and was mounting the steps to wind the clock.

‘And Miss Twitterton, of course,’ said Mr Goodacre, ‘presides at the organ.’

Miss Twitterton smiled faintly and looked at her fingers.

‘But,’ pursued the vicar, ‘we sadly need new bellows. The old ones are patched past mending, and since we put in the new set of reeds they have become quite inadequate. The Hallelujah Chorus exposed our weaknesses sadly. In fact the wind gave out altogether.’

‘So embarrassing,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Miss Twitterton must be saved embarrassment at all costs,’ said Peter, producing his note-case.

‘Oh, dear!’ said the vicar. ‘I didn’t mean… Really, this is most generous. Too bad, your very first day in the parish. I-really-I am almost ashamed to-so very kind-so large a sum-perhaps you would like to look at the programme of the concert. Dear me!’ His face lit up with a childlike pleasure. ‘Do you know, it is quite a long time since I handled a proper Bank of England note.’

For the space of a moment, Harriet saw every person in that room struck into a kind of immobility by the magic of a piece of paper as it crackled between the vicar’s fingers. Miss Twitterton awestruck and open-mouthed; Mr Puffett suddenly pausing in mid-action, sponge in hand; Crutchley, on his way out of the room with the step-ladder over his shoulder, jerking his head round to view the miracle; Mr Goodacre himself smiling with excitement and delight; Peter amused and a little self-conscious, like a kind uncle presenting a Teddy bear to the nursery; they might have posed as they stood for the jacket-picture of a thriller: Bank-Notes in the Parish.