Whether, left to themselves, they would have succeeded in emerging from this speechless trance, and might not, in the manner of Donne’s ecstatic couple, have remained like sepulchral statues in the same posture and saying nothing until nightfall, is uncertain. Three-quarters of an hour later an elderly bearded person came creaking up the lane with a horse and waggon. He looked at them with ruminative eyes, showing no particular curiosity; but the spell was broken. Harriet swung herself hurriedly off her husband’s knees and stood up; Peter, who in London would rather have been seen dead than embracing anybody in public, astonishingly showed no embarrassment, but cried out a cordial greeting to the carter.

‘Is my bus in your way?’

‘No. sir, thank’ee. Don’t disturb yourself.’

‘Lovely day it’s been.’ He strolled down to the gate, and the man checked his horse.

‘That it has. A real lovely day.’

‘Pleasant little spot, this. Who put up the seat?’

‘That’s squire done that, sir; Mr Trevor over at the big house. He done it along of the women as likes to come up Sunday arternoons with their flowers and such. The new church ain’t only been built five year, and there’s a sight of folks likes to ’tend to the graves in the old churchyard. It’s closed for buryings now, of course, but squire says, why not make it pleasant and comfor’ble-like. It’s a stiffish pull up the lane and weariful to the children and the old people. So that’s what he done.’

‘We are very much beholden to him. Was the sun-dial here before that?’

The carter chuckled.

‘Lord love you, no, sir. She’s a regular job, is that there sun-dial. Vicar, he found the top of her put away in the rubbish-’ole when they was clearing away the old church, and Bill Muggins he says, “There’s the stone outer the old mill ’ud make a beautiful base for ’er, if so be we ’ad a bit of a drain-pipe or summat to put between ’em.” And Jim Hawtrey, he says, “I know a man,” he says, “over at Paggleham wot ’as ’arf-a-dozen of them ancient old chimbley-pots for sale. What’s the matter with that?” So they tells vicar and he tells squire and they gets the bits together and Joe Dudden and ’Arry Gates, they puts ’em up with a lick o’ mortar in their spare time, vicar puttin’ the top on with ’is watch in ’is ’and and a little book so she’ll tell the time correct. You’ll find ’er middlin’ right now, sir, if you look. ’Course, in summer she’s an hour out, her keepin’ to God’s time an’ us ’aving to go by Gov’ment time. It’s a cur’ous thing you askin’ about that there sun-dial, because why? The very man wot sold vicar the chimbley-pot, ’e wos found dead in his own ’ouse only yesterday, and they do say it was murder.’

‘You don’t say so. It’s a queer world, isn’t it? What’s the name of this village? Lopsley? Thanks very much. Get yourself a drink… By the way, you know you’ve got a loose shoe on your near hind?’

The carter said he had not noticed it and thanked the observant gentleman for his information. The horse lolloped on.

‘Time we were getting back,’ said Peter, with a reluctant note in his voice, ‘if we’re to change in time for the vicar’s sherry. We’ll call on the squire, though, before we’re many days older. I’m determined to have that pot.’

Chapter XV. Sherry-And Bitters

Harriet was glad they had taken the trouble to dress. The vicar’s wife (whom she vaguely remembered to have seen in the old days at bazaars and flower shows, perpetually stout, amiable and a little red in the face) had done honour to the occasion with a black lace dress and a daring little bridge coat in flowered chiffon velvet. She advanced with a beaming face to meet them.

‘You poor things! What an upset for you! It is so nice of you to come and see us. I hope Simon apologised for my not calling, but what with the house and the parish work and the Women’s Institute I was quite busy all day. Do come and sit down by the fire. You, of course, are an old friend, my dear, though I don’t suppose you remember me. Let my husband help you off with your coat. What a pretty frock! Such a lovely colour. I hope you don’t mind my saying so. I do love to see bright colours and bright faces about me. Come and sit on the sofa, against this green cushion-you’ll make quite a picture… No, no. Lord Peter, don’t sit on that! It’s a rocking-chair; it always takes people by surprise. Most men like this one, it’s nice and deep. Now, Simon, where did you put those cigarettes?’

‘Here they are, here they are. I hope they’re the kind you like. I’m a pipe-smoker myself and not very knowledgeable, I fear. Oh, thank you, thank you, no-not a pipe just before dinner. I will try a cigarette, just for a change. Now, my dear, will you join us in this little dissipation?’

‘Well, I don’t usually,’ said Mrs Goodacre, ‘because of the parish, you know. It’s very absurd, but one has to set an example.’

‘These particular parishioners,’ said Peter, striking a match persuasively, ‘are corrupted already beyond hope of repentance.’

‘Very well, then, I will,’ said the vicar’s lady.

‘Bravo!’ said Mr Goodacre. ‘That really makes it quite a gay party. Now! It is my prerogative to distribute the sherry. I believe I am right in saying that sherry is the only wine with which the goddess Nicotina does not quarrel.’

‘Quite right, padre.’

‘Ah! you confirm that opinion. I am very glad-very glad indeed to hear you say so. And here-ah, yes! Will you have i some of these little biscuits? Dear me, what a remarkable variety! Quite an embarras de richesses!’

‘They come assorted in boxes,’ said Mrs Goodacre, simply. ‘Cocktail biscuits, they call them. We had them at the last whist drive.’

‘Of course, of course! Now which is the kind that has cheese inside it?’

‘These, I think,’ said Harriet, from a plenitude of experience, ‘and those long ones.’

‘So they are! How clever of you to know. I shall look to you to guide me through this delectable maze. I must say, I think a little social gathering like this before dinner is a most excellent idea.’

‘You are sure you would not like to stay and dine with us?’ said Mrs Goodacre, anxiously. ‘Or to spend the night? Our spare room is always ready. Are you really comfortable at Talboys, after all this terrible business? I told my husband to tell you that if there was anything at all we could do.’

‘He faithfully delivered your kind message,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s ever so good of you. But really and truly we’re quite all right.’

‘Well,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘I expect you would rather be alone, so I won’t be an officious old busybody. In our position one’s always interfering with people for their good, you know. I’m sure it’s a bad habit. By the way, Simon, poor little Mrs Sellon’s very much upset. She was taken quite ill this morning, and we had to send for the district nurse.’

‘Oh, dear, dear!’ said the vicar. ‘Poor woman! That was a very extraordinary suggestion Martha Ruddle made at the inquest. There can’t surely, be anything in it.’

‘Certainly not. Nonsense. Martha likes to make herself important. She’s a spiteful old thing. Though I can’t help saying, even now he’s dead, that William Noakes was a nasty old creature.’

‘Not in that way, surely, my dear?’

‘You never know. But I meant I couldn’t blame Martha Ruddle for disliking him. It’s all very well for you, Simon. You always think charitably of everyone. And besides, you never talked to him about anything except gardening.

Though as a matter of fact, Frank Crutchley did all the work.’

‘Frank is a very clever gardener, indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘In fact he is clever all round. He found the defect in my motor-car engine immediately. I’m sure he will go far.’