‘

‘No, no. Are you writing anything now?’

‘

‘No-I’ve only just finished a book. But I’ve got a new one in my head. In fact, it’s just come there.’

‘Good!’ said Salcombe Hardy.

‘It’s about the murder of a journalist-and the title is, Curiosity Killed the Cat.’

‘Fine!’ said Sally, quite unperturbed.

‘And,’ said Harriet, as they passed along the path between the chrysanthemums, ‘we told you that I knew this place when I was a child, but we didn’t mention that a dear old couple lived here who used to ask me in and give me seedy-cake and strawberries. That’s very pretty and human, and they’re dead, so it can’t hurt them.’

‘Splendid!’

‘And all the ugly furniture and aspidistras were put there by Noakes, so don’t blame us for them. And he was a grasping sort of man, who sold the Tudor chimney-pots to make sun-dials.’ Harriet opened the gate and Sally and the photographer walked meekly through.

‘And that,’ continued Harriet, triumphantly, ‘is somebody’s ginger cat. He has adopted us. He sits on Peter’s shoulder at breakfast. Everybody likes an animal story. You can have the ginger eat.’

She shut the gate and smiled over it at them.

Salcombe Hardy reflected that Peter Wimsey’s wife was almost handsome when she was excited. He sympathised with her anxiety about Peter’s feelings. He really thought she must be fond of the old blighter. He was deeply moved, for the whisky had been generously measured. He determined to do all he could to keep the human story dignified.

Halfway down the lane, he remembered that he had somehow omitted to interview the servants. He looked back; but Harriet was still leaning over the gate.

Mr Hector Puncheon of the Morning Star was less lucky. He arrived five minutes after Salcombe Hardy’s departure, and found Lady Peter Wimsey still leaning over the gate. Since he could scarcely force his way past her, he was obliged to take his story then and there, as she chose to give it to him. Halfway through, he felt something blow warmly upon his neck, and turned round with a start. ‘It’s only a bull,’ said Harriet, sweetly.

Mr Puncheon, who was town-bred, turned pale. The bull was accompanied by six cows, all inquisitive. Had he known it, their presence was the best guarantee of the bull’s good conduct; but to him they were all, equally, large beasts with horns. He could not with courtesy drive them away, because Lady Peter was thoughtfully scratching the bull’s forehead while contributing some interesting and exclusive details about her own early life at Great Pagford. Manfully-for a reporter must accept all risks in the execution of his duty he stuck to his post, listening with (he could not help it) a divided attention. ‘You are fond of animals?’ he inquired. ‘Oh, very,’ said Harriet; ‘you must tell your readers that; it’s a sympathetic trait, isn’t it?’

‘Sure thing,’ replied Hector Puncheon. All very well; but the bull was on his side of the gate and she was on the other. A friendly cow all red and white licked his ear-he was astonished to find its tongue so rough.

‘You’ll excuse my not opening the gate,’ said Harriet, with an engaging smile. ‘I love cows-but not in the garden.’ To his embarrassment, she climbed over and escorted him with a firm hand to his car. The interview was over, and he had had very little opportunity of getting a personal angle on the murder. The cows scattered, with lowered heads, from before his moving wheels.

By a remarkable coincidence, no sooner had he gone than the invisible guardian of the cattle rose up from nowhere and began to collect the herd. On seeing Harriet, he grinned and touched his cap. She strolled back to the house, and before she had got there the cows were gathered round the gate again. At the open kitchen window stood Bunter, polishing glasses.

‘Rather convenient,’ said Harriet, ‘all those cows in the lane.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ agreed Bunter demurely. ‘They graze upon the grass verge. I understand. A very satisfactory arrangement, if I may say so.’ Harriet opened her mouth, and shut it again as a thought struck her. She went down the passage and opened the back door. She was not really surprised to see an extraordinarily ugly bull-mastiff tied by a rope to the scraper. Bunter came out of the kitchen and padded softly into the scullery.

‘Is that our dog, Bunter?’

‘The owner brought him this morning, my lady, to inquire whether his lordship might desire to purchase an animal of that description. I understand he is an excellent watchdog. I suggested that he should be left here to…wait his lordship’s convenience.’

Harriet looked at Bunter, who returned her gaze, unmoved.

The coroner did not, after all, confine himself to taking evidence of identity; but he showed a laudable discretion in handling his witnesses. Miss Twitterton, in a brand-new black frock, a perky little close-fitting hat and a black coat of old-fashioned cut, clearly resurrected for the occasion, testified, with sniffs, that the body was that of her uncle, William Noakes, and that she had not seen him since the last Sunday week. She explained her uncle’s habit of dividing his time between Broxford and Paggleham, and about the two sets of keys. Her endeavours to explain also about the sale of the house and the astonishing financial situation disclosed were kindly but firmly cut short, and Lord Peter Wimsey, in act more graceful, took her place and gave a brief and rather nonchalant resume of his surprising wedding-night experiences. He handed the coroner various papers concerning the purchase of the house and sat down amid a murmur of sympathetic comment. Then came an accountant from Broxford, with a statement about the moribund condition of the wireless business, as revealed by a preliminary examination of the books. Mervyn Bunter, in well-chosen language, recounted the visit of the sweep and the subsequent discovery of the body. Dr Craven spoke to the cause and probable time of death, described the injuries, and gave it as his opinion that they could not have been self-inflicted or produced by an accidental fall.

Next, Joe Sellon, very white in the face, but in official control of himself. He said he had been summoned to see the dead body, and described how it lay in the cellar.

‘You are the village constable?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When did you last see the deceased alive?’

‘On the Wednesday night, sir, at five minutes past nine,’

‘Will you tell us about that?’

‘Yes, sir. I had a certain matter of a private nature to discuss with the deceased. I proceeded to the house and spoke to him at the sittingroom window for about ten minutes.’

‘Did he then seem just as usual?’

‘Yes, sir; except that words passed between us and he was a little excited. When we had finished our conversation he shut and bolted the window. I tried both doors and found them locked. I then went away.’

‘You did not enter the house?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And you left him at 9.15 p.m., alive and well?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well.’

Joe Sellon turned to go; but the lugubrious man whom Bunter had met in the pub rose up from among the jury and said:

‘We should like to ask the witness, Mr Perkins, what he had words with the deceased about.’