‘Do come and sit down,’ said Harriet, recovering herself, and leading Miss Twitterton to a chair. She took the black kid hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
‘Jerusalem, my happy home!’ His lordship surveyed his domain and apostrophised it with some emotion. ‘Is this the city that men call the perfection of beauty? Woe to the spoiler-the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!’
He appeared to be in that rather unreliable mood which is apt to follow upon attendance at funerals and other solemn functions.
Harriet said severely, ‘Peter, behave yourself,’ and turned quickly to ask Mr Goodacre:
‘Were there many people at the funeral?’
‘A very large attendance,’ replied the vicar. ‘Really a remarkable attendance.’
‘It’s most gratifying,’ cried Miss Twitterton, ‘-all this respect for Uncle.’ A pink flush spread over her cheeks-she looked almost pretty. ‘Such a mass of flowers! Sixteen wreaths-including your beautiful tribute, dear Lady Peter.’
‘Sixteen!’ said Harriet. ‘Just fancy!’ She felt as though she had received a sharp jolt over the solar plexus.
‘And fully choral!’ continued Miss Twitterton! ‘Such touching hymns. And dear Mr Goodacre-’
The Reverend’s words,’ pronounced Mr Puffett, ‘if I may say so, sir, went right to the ’eart.’
He pulled out a large red cotton handkerchief with white spots and trumpeted into it briskly.
‘Ow,’ agreed Mrs Ruddle, ‘it was all just beautiful. I never seen a funeral to touch it, and I been to every buryin’ in Paggleham these forty year and more.’
She appealed to Mr Puffett for confirmation, and Harriet seized the opportunity to question Peter:
‘Peter, did we send a wreath?’
‘God knows. Bunter-did we send a wreath?’
‘Yes, my lord. Hothouse lilies and white hyacinths.’
‘How very chaste and appropriate!’ Bunter said he was much obliged.
‘Everybody was there,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘Dr Craven came over, and old Mr and Mrs Sowerton, and the Jenkinses from Broxford and that rather odd young man who came to tell us about Uncle William’s misfortunes, and Miss Grant had all the school-children carrying flowers.’
‘And Fleet Street in full force,’ said Peter. ‘Bunter, I see glasses on the radio cabinet. We could do with some drinks.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘I’m afraid they’ve commandeered the beer-barrel,’ said Harriet, with a glance at Mr Puffett.
‘That’s awkward,’ said Peter. He stripped off his overcoat, and with it his last vestige of sobriety. ‘Well, Puffett, I dare say you can make do for once with the bottled variety. First discovered, so they say, by Izaak Walton, who while fishing one day-’
Into the middle of this harangue there descended unexpectedly from the stairs Bill and George, carrying, the one a dressing-mirror and a wash-basin, and the other, a ewer and a small bouquet of bedroom utensils. They seemed pleased to see the room so full of company, and George advanced gleefully upon Peter.
‘Excuse me, guv’nor,’ said George, flourishing the utensils vaguely in the direction of Miss Twitterton, who was sitting near the staircase. ‘All them razors and silver-mounted brushes up there-’
‘Tush!’ said his lordship, gravely, ‘nothing is gained by coarseness.’ He draped his coat modestly over the offending crockery, added his scarf, crowned the ewer with his top-hat, and completed the effect by hanging his umbrella over George’s extended arm. ‘Trip it featly here and there through the other door and ask my man to come up presently and tell you which things are what.’
‘Right-oh, guv’nor,’ said George, ambling away a trifle awkwardly, for the topper showed a tendency to overbalance. The vicar, surprisingly, relieved the general embarrassment by observing with a reminiscent smile:
‘Now, you might not believe it, but when was up at Oxford I once put one on the Martyrs’ Memorial.’
‘Did you?’ said Peter. ‘I was one of the party that tied an open umbrella over each of the Caesars. They were the Fellows’ umbrellas. Ah! here come the drinks.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Twitterton. She shook her head sadly at the glass. ‘And to think that the last time we partook of Lord Peter’s sherry-’
‘Dear me, dear me!’ said Mr Goodacre. “Thank you. Ah! yes, indeed.’ He turned the wine musingly upon his tongue and appeared to compare its flavour favourably with that of the best sherry in Pagford.
‘Bunter-you’ve got some beer in the kitchen for Puffett.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Mr Puffett, reminded that he was, in a manner of speaking, in the wrong place, picked up his curly bowler and said heartily:
‘That’s very kind of your lordship. Come along, Martha. Get off your bonnet and shawl and we’ll give these lads a and outside.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘Bunter will be wanting you, Mrs Ruddle, to see about getting some lunch of some sort. Will you stay and have something with us. Miss Twitterton?’
‘Oh, no, really. I must be getting home. It’s so good of you.’
‘But you mustn’t hurry,’ said Harriet, as Puffett and Mrs Ruddle vanished. ‘I only said that because Mrs Ruddle though an excellent servant in her way-sometimes needs a reminder. Mr Goodacre, won’t you have a drop more sherry?’
‘No, really-I must be moving homewards.’
‘Not without your plants,’ said Peter. ‘Mr Goodacre has prevailed on Mr MacBride, Harriet, to let the cacti go to a good home.’
‘For a consideration, no doubt?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the vicar. ‘I paid him for them. That was only right. He has to consider his clients. The other person-Solomons, I think his name is-made a slight difficulty, but we managed to get over that.’
‘How did you manage?’
‘Well,’ admitted the vicar, ‘I paid him too. But it was a small sum. Quite a small sum, really. Less than the plants are worth. I did not like to think of their going to a warehouse with no one to care for them. Crutchley has always looked after them so well. He is very knowledgeable with cacti.’
‘Indeed?’ said Miss Twitterton, so sharply that the vicar stared at her in mild astonishment. ‘I am glad to hear that Frank Crutchley fulfilled some of his obligations.’
‘Well, padre,’ said Peter, ‘rather you than me. I don’t like the things.’
‘They are not to everybody’s taste, perhaps. But this one, for instance-you must acknowledge that it is a superb specimen of its kind.’
He shuffled his short-sighted way towards the hanging cactus and peered at it with an anticipatory pride of possession.
‘Uncle William,’ said Miss Twitterton in a quavering voice, ‘always took great pride in that cactus.’
Her eyes filled with tears, and the vicar turned quickly towards her.
‘I know. Indeed, Miss Twitterton, it will be quite happy and safe with me.’
Miss Twitterton nodded, speechlessly; but any further demonstration was cut short by the entrance of Bunter, who said, coming up to her:
‘Excuse me. The furniture removers are about to clear the attics and have desired me to inquire what is to be done with the various trunks and articles labelled “Twitterton”.’
‘Oh! dear me! Yes of course. Oh, dear-yes, please tell them I think I had better come and see to that myself… You see-dear me!-however did I come to forget?-there are quite a lot of my things here.’ She fluttered towards Harriet. ‘I hope you won’t mind-I won’t trespass on your time-but I’d better just see what’s mine and what isn’t. You see, my cottage is so very small, and Uncle very kindly let me store my little belongings-some of dear Mother’s things-’
‘But of course,’ said Harriet. ‘Do go anywhere you like, and if you want any help-’
‘Oh, thank you so much. Oh, Mr Goodacre, thank you.’
The vicar, politely holding open the staircase door, extended his hand.
‘As I shall be going in a very few minutes, I’ll say goodbye now. Just for the moment. I shall of course come and see you. And now, you mustn’t allow yourself to brood, you know. In fact. I’m going to ask you to be very brave and sensible and come and play the organ for us on Sunday as usual. Now, will you? We’ve all come to rely on you so much.’