‘His lordship,’ said Mr Bunter, ‘married for love.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Puffett, shifting the jug to his other hand. ‘Ah, well-he can afford it, I dessay.’

At the conclusion of a pleasant and, on the whole, profitable evening, Mr Bunter congratulated himself on a number of things attempted and done. He had ordered the beer; he had put (through Mr Puffett’s Jinny) a nice duck in hand for the following day, and Mr Puffett knew a man who could send round three pound of late peas in the morning. He had also engaged Mr Puffett’s son-in-law to deal with the leak in the copper and mend two broken panes in the scullery.

He had found out the name of a farmer who cured his own bacon and had written and posted to London an order about coffee, potted meats and preserves. Before leaving Talboys he had assisted Mrs Ruddle’s Bert to bring the luggage upstairs, and he now had his lordship’s wardrobe arranged, as fittingly as might be, in the cupboards at his disposal. Mrs Ruddle had made up a bed for him in one of the back rooms, and this, though of minor importance, brought with it a certain satisfaction. He went round stoking all the fires (observing with pleasure that Mrs Ruddle’s friend’s husband, Mr Hodges, had delivered the logs as requested). He laid out his lordship’s pyjamas, gave a stir to the bowl of lavender in her ladyship’s bedroom, and straightened the trifling disorder which she had left on the toilet-table, whisking away a few grains of powder and putting the nail-scissors back in then- case. He noticed, with approval, an absence of lipstick; his lordship had a particular dislike of pink-stained cigarette-ends. Nor, as he had before thankfully observed, did her ladyship enamel her nails to the likeness of bloodstained talons; a bottle of varnish there was, but it was barely tinted. Quite good style, thought Bunter, and gathered up a pair of stout shoes for cleaning. Down below, he heard the car draw up to the door and stand panting. He slipped out by the Privy Stair.

‘Tired, Domina?’

‘Rather tired-but much better for the run. Such a terrific lot seems to have happened lately, hasn’t it?’

‘Like a drink?’

No, thanks. I think I’ll go straight up.’

‘Right you are. I’m only going to put the car away.’

Bunter, however, was already dealing with this. Peter walked round to the shed and listened to what he had to say. ‘Yes; we, saw Crutchley and his young woman in Broxford. When the heart of a man is oppressed with cares, and so on. Have you taken up the hot water?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then cut along to bed. I can look after myself for once. The grey suit tomorrow, with your permission and approval.’

‘Entirely appropriate, my lord, if I may say so.’

‘And will you lock up? We must learn to be householders, Bunter. We will presently purchase a cat and put it out.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

‘That’s all then. Good night, Bunter.’

‘Goodnight my lord, and thank you.’

When Peter knocked at the door, his wife was sitting by the fire, thoughtfully polishing her nails.

‘I say, Harriet, would you rather sleep with me tonight?’

‘Well-’

‘I’m sorry; that sounded a little ambiguous. I mean, do you feel any preference for the other room? I won’t make a nuisance of myself if you’re feeling fagged. Or I’ll change rooms with you if you’d rather.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Peter. But I don’t think you ought to give way to me when I’m merely being foolish. Are you going to turn out one of these indulgent husbands?’

‘Heaven forbid! Arbitrary and tyrannical to the last degree. But I have my softer moments-and my share of human folly.’

Harriet rose up, extinguished the candles and came out to him, shutting the door behind her.

‘Folly seems to be its own reward,’ said he. ‘Very well. Let us be foolish together.’

Chapter XI. Policeman’s Lot

The distressful Mr Kirk had in the meantime spent a strenuous evening. He was a slow-thinking man and a kindly one, and it was with reluctance and the expenditure of severe mental labour that he hammered out a procedure for himself in this unusual situation.

His sergeant having returned to drive him over to Broxford, he sank back in the passenger’s seat, his hat pulled over his eyes and his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification- One thing he saw clearly: the coroner must be persuaded to take as little evidence as possible at the inquest and adjourn sine die pending further investigation. Fortunately, the law now provided for such a course, and if only Mr Perkins would not be sticky, everything might pass off very well. The wretched Joe Sellon would have, of course, to speak to seeing Mr Noakes alive at nine o’clock; but with luck he would not have to go into details about the conversation. Mrs Ruddle was the stumbling-block: she liked to use her tongue-and then there was that unfortunate business of Aggie Twitterton’s hens, which had left her with a grudge against the police. Also, of course, there was the awkward fact that one or two people in the village had wagged their heads when Mr Noakes lost his pocketbook, and had hinted that Martha Ruddle might know something about it; she would not readily forgive Joe Sellon for that misunderstanding. Could one, without actually uttering threats or using improper methods, suggest that over-informativeness in the witness-box might involve an inquiry into the matter of paraffin? Or was it safer merely to hint to the coroner that too much talk from Martha would tend to hamper the police in the execution of their duty? (‘Half a mo’. Blades,’ said the Superintendent, aloud, at this point in his meditations. ‘What’s that chap doing, obstructing the traffic like that?-Here, you! don’t you know better than to park that lorry of yours on a blind corner? If you want to change your wheel you must go further along and get her on to the verge… All right, my lad, that’s quite enough of that… Let’s have a look at your licence…’)

As for Joe Sellon… This business of parking on bends, now, he wouldn’t have it. A dashed sight more dangerous than fast driving by a man who knew how to drive. The police liked to be fan-; it was the magistrates who were obsessed by miles per hour. All corners should be approached dead slow-all right, because there might be some fool sitting in the middle of the road; but equally, nobody should sit in the middle of the road, because there might be some fool coming round the corner. The thing was fifty-fifty, and-the blame should be distributed fifty-fifty; that was only just. In a routine matter like that, it was easy to see one’s way. But Joe Sellon, now… Well, whatever happened, Joe must be taken off the Noakes case P.D.Q. It wasn’t proper to have him investigating it as things were. Why, come to think of it, Mrs Kirk had been reading a book only the other day in which one of the police in charge of the case turned out actually to have done the murder. He distinctly remembered laughing, and saying, ‘It’s wonderful what these write fellows think of.’ That Lady Peter Wimsey, who wrote these books-she’d be ready enough to believe a tale like that. So, no doubt, would other people.

(‘Was that Bill Skipton getting over the stile. Blades? Seemed a bit anxious to avoid notice. Better keep your eye on him. Mr Raikes has been complaining about his birds-shouldn’t wonder if Bill was up to his old tricks again.’