‘They didn’t get much forrader at the inquest, seems to me,’ observed Crutchley.

Bunter opened the what-not, and began to select wineglasses from among its miscellaneous contents.

‘Ushin’ it up,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘that’s wot they wos. Tryin’ to make out there wasn’t nothing atween Joe Sellon and ’im. That Kirk, ’is face was a treat w’en Ted Puddock got askin’ all them questions.’

‘Seemed to me they went a bit quick over all that part of it.’

‘Didn’t want nobody to think as a bobby might a-been mixed up in it. See ’ow the crowner shut me up w’en I started to tell ’im? Ah! But them noospaper men wos on to it sharp enough.’

‘Did you communicate your opinion to them, may I ask?’

‘I might a-done, or I might not, Mr Bunter, only jest at that instant minnit, out comes me lord, and they wos all on to ’im like wopses round a jam-pot. ’Im and ’is lady’ll be in all the papers ter-morrer. They took a photer o’ me too, with ’er ladyship. It’s nice to see your friends in the papers, I ain’t it now?’

‘The laceration of his lordship’s most intimate feelings can afford no satisfaction to me,’ said Bunter, reprovingly.

‘Ah! if I’d telled ’em all I thinks about Joe Sellon they’d ’ave me on the front page. I wonder they lets that young feller go about at large. We might all be murdered in our beds. The moment I sees pore Mr Noakes’s body, I says to myself, ‘Now, wot’s Joe Sellon doin’ in this ’ere-’im being’ the last to see the pore man alive?’

‘Then you were already aware that the crime had been committed on the Wednesday night?’

‘Well, o’course-No, I didn’t, not then-See ’ere, Mr Bunter, don’t you go a-puttin’ words in a woman’s mouth!’

‘I think,’ said Bunter, ‘you had better be careful.’

‘That’s right, ma,’ agreed Crutchley. ‘You go on imaginin’ things, you’ll land yourself in Queer Street one o’ these days.’

‘Well,’ retorted Mrs Ruddle, backing out of the door, ‘I didn’t bear no pertickler grudge against Mr Noakes. Not like some as I could name-with their forty poundses.’

Crutchley stared at her retreating form. ‘Gawdamighty, wot a tongue! I wonder ’er own spit don’t I poison ’er. I wouldn’t ’ang a dog on ’er evidence. Mangy old poll-parrot!’

Bunter voiced no opinion, but picked up Peter’s blazer and a few other scattered garments and walked upstairs. Crutchley, relieved of his vigilant eye and stem regard for the social proprieties, strolled quietly over to the hearth.

‘Ho!’ said Mrs Ruddle. She brought in a lighted lamp, set it on a table on the far side of the room and turned on Crutchley with a witch-like smile. ‘Waitin’ for kisses in the gloamin’?’

‘Wotcher gettin’ at?’ demanded Crutchley, morosely.

‘Aggie Twitterton’s a-comin’ down the ’ill on ’er bicycle.’

‘Gawd!’ The young man shot a quick look through the window. ‘It’s ’er all right’ He rubbed the back of his head and swore softly.

‘Wot it is to be the answer to the maiden’s prayer!’ said Mrs Ruddle.

‘Now, see ’ere, ma. Polly’s my girl. You know that. There ain’t never been nothin’ atween me and Aggie Twitterton.’

‘Not between you and ’er-but there might be atween ’er and you,’ replied Mrs Ruddle, epigrammatically, and went out before he could reply. Bunter, coming downstairs, found Crutchley thoughtfully picking up the poker.

‘May I ask why you are loitering about here? Your work is outside. If you want to wait for his lordship, you can do so in the garage.’

‘See ’ere. Mr Bunter,’ said Crutchley, earnestly. ‘Let me bide in here for a bit. Aggie Twitterton’s on the prowl, and if she was to catch sight o’ me-you get me? She’s a bit-’ He touched his forehead significantly.

‘H’m!’ said Bunter. He went across to the window and saw Miss Twitterton descend from her bicycle at the gate.

She straightened her hat and began to fumble in the basket attached to the handle-bars. Bunter drew the curtains rather sharply. ‘Well, you can’t stop here long. His lordship and her ladyship may be back any minute now. What is it now, Mrs Ruddle?’

‘I’ve put out the plates like you said, Mr Bunter,’ announced that lady with meek self-righteousness. Bunter frowned. She had something rolled in the corner of her apron and was rubbing at it as she spoke. He felt that it would take a long time to teach Mrs Ruddle a good servants’-hall manner.

‘And I’ve found the other vegetable-dish-only it’s broke.’

‘Very good. You can take these glasses out and wash them. There don’t seem to be any decanters.’

‘Never you mind that, Mr Bunter. I’ll soon ’ave them bottles clean.’

Bottles?’ said Bunter. ‘What bottles?’ A frightful suspicion shot through his brain. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Why,’ said Mrs Ruddle, ‘one o’ them dirty old bottles you brought along with you.’ She displayed her booty in triumph. ‘Sech as state as they’re in. All over whitewash.’

Bunter’s world reeled about him and he clutched at the corner of the settle. ‘My God!’

‘You couldn’t put a thing like that on the table, could you now?’

‘Woman!’ cried Bunter, and snatched the bottle from her, ‘that’s the Cockburn’96!’

‘Ow, is it?’ said Mrs Ruddle, mystified. “There now! I thought it was summink to drink.’

Bunter controlled himself with difficulty. The cases had been left in the pantry for safety. The police were in and out of the cellar, but, by all the laws of England, a man’s pantry was his own. He said in a trembling voice: ‘You have not, I trust, handled any of the other bottles?’

‘Only to unpack ’em and set ’em right side up,’ Mrs Ruddle assured him cheerfully. ‘Them cases’ll come in ’andy for kindling.’

‘Gawdstrewth!’ cried Bunter. The mask came off him all in one piece, and nature, red in tooth and claw, leapt like a tiger from ambush. ‘Gawdstrewth! Would you believe it? All his lordship’s vintage port!’ He lifted shaking hands to heaven. ‘You lousy old nosy-parking bitch! You ignorant, interfering old bizzom! Who told you to go poking your long nose into my pantry?’

‘Really, Mr Bunter!’ said Mrs Ruddle.

‘Go it,’ said Crutchley, with relish. ‘’Ere’s someone at the front door.’

‘’Op it out of here!’ stormed Bunter, unheeding, ‘before I take the skin off you!’

‘Well, I’m sure! ’Ow was I to know?’

‘Get out!’

Mrs Ruddle retired, but with dignity.

‘Sech manners!’

‘Put yer flat foot right into it that time, Ma,’ observed Crutchley. He grinned. Mrs Ruddle turned in the doorway.

‘People can do their own dirty work after this,’ she remarked witheringly, and departed.

Bunter took up the violated bottle of port and cradled it mournfully in his arm. ‘All the port! All the port! Two and a half dozen, all shook up to blazes! And his lordship bringing it down in the back of the car, driving as tender and careful as if it was a baby in arms.’

‘Well,’ said Crutchley, ‘that’s a miracle, judgin’ by the way he went to Pagford this afternoon. Nearly blew me and the old taxi off the road.’

‘Not a drop fit to drink for a fortnight!-And him looking forward to his glass after dinner!’

‘Well,’ said Crutchley again, with the philosophy we keep for other men’s misfortunes, ‘he’s unlucky, that’s all.’

Bunter uttered a Cassandra-like cry: ‘There’s a curse upon this house!’

As he turned, the door was flung violently open to admit Miss Twitterton, who shrank back with a small scream, on receiving this blast of eloquence full in the face.

‘Ere’s Miss Twitterton,’ said Mrs Ruddle, unnecessarily, and banged out

‘Oh, dear!’ gasped the poor lady. ‘I beg your pardon. Er… is Lady Peter at home?… I’ve just brought her a… Oh, I suppose they are out… Mrs Ruddle is so stupid… Perhaps…’ She looked appealingly from one man to the other. Bunter, pulling himself together, recaptured his mask, and this stony metamorphosis put the finishing touch to Miss Twitterton’s discomfort. ‘If it isn’t troubling you too much, Mr Bunter, would you be so kind as to tell Lady Peter that I’ve brought her a few eggs from my own hens?’