The coroner turned interrogatively to Kirk, who, not knowing what was behind the question, shook his head.

Mr Perkins, blowing his nose irritably, dismissed the witness and turned to the jury.

‘Well, gentlemen, I don’t see that we can finish this inquiry today. You see that it is impossible to fix the exact moment when deceased met his death, since he may have been prevented from hearing the news-bulletin by a temporary defect in the wireless apparatus, which he may have subsequently repaired. You have heard that the police are in a considerable difficulty as regards the collecting of evidence, since

(by a most unfortunate accident for which nobody is at all to blame) various possible clues were destroyed. I understand that the police would like an adjournment-is that so?’

Kirk said that it was so; and the coroner adjourned the inquiry to that day fortnight, thus putting a tame end to a very promising affair.

As the audience scrambled from the little court, Kirk caught Peter. ‘That old catamaran!’ he said, angrily. ‘Mr Perkins came down pretty sharp on her, but if he’d listened to me, he wouldn’t have taken any evidence, only to identity.’

‘You think that would have been wise? To let her put her story all round the village, and everybody saying you didn’t dare to let it come out at the inquest? He did at least give her the opportunity for an open display of spite. I think he’s done better for you than you realise.’

‘Maybe you’re right, my lord. I didn’t see it that way. What was the point about that candle?’

‘I wondered how much he really did remember. If he’s not sure about the candle, he may only have imagined the clock.’

‘That’s so,’ said Kirk, slowly. He was not sure about the implications of this. Nor, to tell the truth, was Wimsey.

‘He might,’ Harriet suggested softly in her husband’s ear, ‘have lied about the time.’

‘So he might. The queer thing is that he didn’t. Mrs Ruddle’s clock said the same.’

‘Hawkshaw the Detective, in Who Put Back the Clock?’

‘Here!’ said Kirk, exasperated; ‘look at that!’

Peter looked. Mrs Ruddle, on the doorstep, was holding a kind of court among the reporters.

‘Goodness!’ said Harriet. ‘Peter, can’t you take them away? Who was the chap who leapt into the gulf?’

‘Rome prizes most her citizens-’

‘But every Englishman loves a lord. That’s the idea.’

‘My wife,’ said Peter mournfully, ‘would cheerfully throw me to the lions, if required. Moriturus-very well, we’ll try.’ He advanced resolutely on the group. Mr Puncheon, seeing this noble prey at his mercy, unprotected by fat bulls of Basan, flung himself upon him with a gleeful cry. The other hounds closed in about them.

‘I say,’ said a grumbling voice close by, ‘I ought to ’ave given evidence. The law ought to know about them forty quid. Trying to ’ush it up, that’s what they are.’

‘I don’t suppose it seems so important to them, Frank.’

‘It’s important to me. ’Sides, didn’t ’e tell me as ’e was goin’ to pay me on Wednesday? I reckon the coroner ought to a-been told about it.’

Salcombe Hardy, having had his chance with Peter, had not abandoned his hold on Mrs Ruddle. Mischievously, Harriet determined to pry him loose. ‘Mr Hardy-if you want an inside story, you’d better get hold of the gardener, Frank Crutchley. There he is, over there, talking to Miss Twitterton. He wasn’t called at the inquest, so the others may not realise he’s got anything to tell them.’

Sally bubbled over with gratitude.

‘If you make it worth his while,’ said Harriet, with serpent malice, ‘he might keep it exclusive.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Sally, ‘for the tip.’

‘That’s part of our bargain,’ said Harriet, beaming upon him.

Mr Hardy was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Peter had married a most fascinating woman. He made a rapid dart at Crutchley and in a few moments was seen to depart with him in the direction of the Four-Ale bar. Mrs Ruddle, suddenly deserted, gazed indignantly about her.

‘Oh, there you are, Mrs Ruddle! Where’s Bunter? We’d better let him drive us home and come back for his lordship, or we shall get no lunch. I’m simply starving. What an impertinent, tiresome lot these newspaper men are!’

‘That’s right, m’lady,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘I wouldn’t talk to the likes of them!’

She tossed her head, setting some curious jet ornaments on her bonnet jingling, and followed her mistress to the car. Sitting up in all that grandeur she would feel just like a filmstar herself. Reporters, indeed! As they drove away, six cameras clicked.

‘There now,’ said Harriet. ‘You’ll be in all the papers.’

‘Well, to be sure!’ said Mrs Ruddle.

‘Peter.’

‘Madam?’

‘Funny, after what we said, that suggestion cropping up about Mrs Sellon.’

‘Village matron instead of village maiden. Yes; very odd.’

‘There can’t be anything in it?’

‘You never know.’

‘You didn’t think so when you said it?’

‘I am always trying to say something too silly to be believed; but I never manage it. Have another cutlet?’

“Thanks, I will. Bunter cooks like an angel in the house. I thought Sellon got through his examination surprisingly well.’

‘Nothing like telling the exact official truth and no more. Kirk must have coached him pretty thoroughly. I wonder if Kirk-No, dash it! I won’t wonder. I won’t be bothered with all these people. We seem curiously unable to get any time to ourselves this honeymoon. And that reminds me, the vicar wants us to go round to his place this evening for a sherry-party.’

‘A sherry-party? Good heavens!’

‘We provide the party and he provides the sherry. His wife will be set delighted to see us, and will we excuse her not calling first, as she has a Women’s Institute this afternoon.’

‘Must we?’

‘I think we must. Our example has encouraged him to start a sherry-fashion in these parts, and he has sent for a bottle on purpose.’

Harriet gazed at him in dismay.

‘Where from?’

‘From the best hotel in Pagford… I accepted with pleasure for both of us. Was that wrong?’

‘Peter, you’re not normal. You have a social conscience far in advance of your sex. Public-house sherry at the vicarage! Ordinary, decent men shuffle and lie till their wives drag them out by the ears. There must be something you’ll jib at. Will you refuse to put on a boiled shirt?’

‘Do you think a boiled shirt would please them? I suppose it would. Besides, you’ve got a new frock you want to show me.’

‘You’re definitely too good to live… Of course we’ll go and drink their sherry, if we die of it. But couldn’t we just be selfish and naughty this afternoon?’

‘As how?’

‘Go off somewhere by ourselves.’

‘By god we will!… Is that really your notion of happiness?’

‘To that depth have I fallen. I admit it. Don’t dance on a woman when she’s down. Have some of this-I don’t know what it is-this thing Bunter’s made. It looks absolutely marvellous.’

‘Just how naughty and selfish may I be?… May I drive fast?… I mean, really fast?’

Harriet repressed a shudder. She liked to drive, and even liked being driven, but anything over seventy miles an hour made her feel hollow inside. Still, married people cannot have everything their own way. ‘Yes, really fast, if you feel like that.’

‘Definitely too good to live!’

‘I should say, definitely too good to die… But really fast means the main road.’

‘So it does. Well, we’ll do the main road really fast and get rid of it.’

The ordeal lasted only as far as Great Pagford. Happily they encountered none of Superintendent Kirk’s black sheep parked on bends, though, just outside, they shot past Frank Crutchley driving a taxi and were rewarded by his astonished and admiring stare. Passing the police-station at a demure legal thirty, they turned out westward and took to the side roads. Harriet, who could not distinctly recollect having breathed at all since they left Paggleham, filled her lungs and observed in resolutely steady tones that it was a lovely day for a run.