Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s like Maskelyne and Devant. I wish the sergeant could a’ seen it.’

  ‘Lure him down here tomorrow night,’ said Mr O’Halloran. ‘Let him come as my uncle’s bodyguard. You –’ he turned to Peter – ‘you seem to have a way with policemen. Can’t you inveigle the fellow along? Your impersonation of starving and disconsolate Bloomsbury is fully as convincing as mine. How about it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘The costume gives me pain. Besides, is it kind to a p.b. policeman? I give you the R.A., but when it comes to the guardians of the law – Damn it all! I’m a family man, and I must have some sense of responsibility.’

  TALBOYS

  A Lord Peter Wimsey Story

  ‘FATHER!’

  ‘Yes, my son.’

  ‘You know those peaches of Mr Puffett’s, the whacking great big ones you said I wasn’t to take?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I’ve tooken them.’

  Lord Peter Wimsey rolled over on his back and stared at his offspring in consternation. His wife laid down her sewing.

  ‘Oh, Bredon, how naughty! Poor Mr Puffett was going to exhibit them at the Flower-Show.’

  ‘Well, Mummy, I didn’t mean to. It was a dare.’

  Having offered this explanation for what it was worth, Master Bredon Wimsey again turned candid eyes upon his father, who groaned and sat up.

  ‘And must you come and tell me about it? I hope, Bredon, you are not developing into a prig.’

  ‘Well, Father, Mr Puffett saw me. An’ he’s coming up to have a word with you when he’s put on a clean collar.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said his lordship, relieved. ‘And you thought you’d better come and get it over before my temper became further inflamed by hearing his version of the matter?’

  ‘Yes, please, sir.’

  ‘That is rational, at any rate. Very well, Bredon. Go up into my bedroom and prepare for execution. You will find the cane behind the dressing-table.’

  ‘Yes, Father. You won’t be long, will you, sir?’

  ‘I shall allow precisely the right time for apprehension and remorse. Off with you!’

  The culprit vanished hastily in the direction of the house; the executioner heaved himself to his feet and followed at a leisurely pace, rolling up his sleeves as he went with a certain grimness.

  ‘My dear!’ exclaimed Miss Quirk. She gazed in horror through her spectacles at Harriet, who had placidly returned to her patchwork. ‘Surely, surely you don’t allow him to cane that mite of a child.’

  ‘Allow?’ said Harriet, amused. ‘That’s hardly the right word, is it?’

  ‘But Harriet, dear, he oughtn’t to do it. You don’t realise how dangerous it is. He may ruin the boy’s character for life. One must reason with these little people, not break their spirits by brutality. When you inflict pain and humiliation on a child like that, you make him feel helpless and inferior, and all that suppressed resentment will break out later in the most extraordinary and shocking ways.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he resents it,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s devoted to his father.’

  ‘Well, if he is,’ retorted Miss Quirk, ‘it must be a sort of masochism, and it ought to be stopped – I mean, it ought to be led gently into some other direction. It’s unnatural. How could any one feel a healthy devotion for a person who beats him?’

  ‘I can’t think; but it often seems to happen. Peter’s mother used to lay into him with a slipper, and they’ve always been the best of friends.’

  ‘If I had a child belonging to me,’ said Miss Quirk, ‘I would never permit anybody to lay a hand on him. All my little nephews and nieces have been brought up on enlightened modern lines. They never even hear the word, Don’t. Now, you see what happens. Just because your boy was told not to pick the peaches, he picked them. If he hadn’t been forbidden to do it, he wouldn’t have been disobedient.’

  ‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I suppose that’s quite true. He would have picked the peaches just the same, but it wouldn’t have been disobedience.’

  ‘Exactly,’ cried Miss Quirk, triumphantly. ‘You see – you manufacture a crime and then punish the poor child for it. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the prohibition, he’d have left the fruit alone.’

  ‘You don’t know Bredon. He never leaves anything alone.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Miss Quirk, ‘and, he never will, so long as you surround him with prohibitions. His meddling with what doesn’t belong to him is just an act of defiance.’

  ‘He’s not defiant very often,’ said Harriet, ‘but of course it’s very difficult to refuse a dare from a big boy like George Waggett. I expect it was George; it usually is.’

  ‘No doubt,’ observed Miss Quirk, ‘the village children are all brought up in an atmosphere of faultfinding and defiance. That kind of thing is contagious. Democratic principles are all very well, but I should scarcely have thought it wise to expose your little boy to contamination.’

  ‘Would you forbid him to play with George Waggett?’

  ‘I should never forbid anything. I should endeavour to suggest some more suitable companion. Bredon could be encouraged to look after his little brother; that would give him a useful outlet for his energies and allow him to feel himself important.’

  ‘Oh, but he’s really very good with Roger,’ said Harriet, equably. She looked up, to see chastiser and chastised emerging from the house, hand in hand. ‘They seem to be quite good friends. Bredon was rather uplifted when he was promoted to a cane; he thinks it dignified and grown-up … Well, ruffian, how many did you get?’

  ‘Three,’ said Master Bredon, confidentially. ‘Awful hard ones. One for being naughty, an’ one for being young ass enough to be caught, and one for making a ’fernal nuisance of myself on a hot day.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Miss Quirk, appalled by the immorality of all this. ‘And are you sorry for having taken poor Mr. Puffet’s peaches, so that he can’t get a prize at the Show.’

  Bredon looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘We’ve done all that,’ he said, with a touch of indignation. His father thought it well to intervene.

  ‘It’s a rule in this household,’ he announced, ‘that once we’ve been whacked, nothing more can be said. The topic is withdrawn from circulation.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Quirk. She still felt that something ought to be done to compensate the victim of brutality and relieve his repressions. ‘Well, as you’re a good boy, would you like to come and sit on my knee?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Bredon. Training, or natural politeness, prompted him to amplify the refusal. ‘Thank you very much all the same.’

  ‘A more tactless suggestion,’ said Peter, ‘I never heard.’ He dropped into a deck-chair, picked up his son and heir by the waist-belt and slung him face downwards across his knees. ‘You’ll have to eat your tea on all-fours, like Nebuchadnezzar.’

  ‘Who was Nebuchadnezzar?’

  ‘Nebuchadnezzar, the King of the Jews –’ began Peter. His version of that monarch’s inquities was interrupted by the appearance, from behind the house, of a stout figure, unsuitably clad for the season in sweater, corduroy trousers and bowler hat. ‘The curse is come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott.’

  ‘Who was the Lady of Shalott?’

  ‘I’ll tell you at bedtime. Here is Mr. Puffett, breathing out threatenings and slaughter. We must now stand up and face the music. ’Afternoon, Puffett.’

  ‘’Arternoon, me lord and me lady,’ said Mr Puffett. He removed his bowler and mopped his streaming brow. ‘And miss,’ he added, with a vague gesture in Miss Quirk’s direction. ‘I made bold, me lord, to come round –’

  ‘That,’ said Peter, ‘was very kind of you. Otherwise, of course, we should have come to see you and say we were sorry. We were overcome by a sudden irresistible impulse, attributable, we think, to the beauty of the fruit and the exciting nature of the enterprise. We hope very much that we have left eno
ugh for the Flower-Show, and we will be careful not to do it again. We should like to mention that a measure of justice has already been done, in the shape of three of the juiciest, but if there is anything further coming to us, we shall try to receive it in a becoming spirit of penitence.’

  ‘Well, there!’ said Mr Puffett. ‘If I didn’t say to Jinny, “Jinny,” I says, “I ’ope the young gentleman doesn’t tell ’is lordship. He’ll be main angry,” I says, “and I wouldn’t wonder if ’e didn’t wallop ’im.” “Oh Dad,” she says, “run up quick, never mind your Sunday coat, and tell ’is lordship as ’e didn’t take only two peaches and there’s plenty left,” she says. So I comes as quick as I can, only I ’ad ter wash, what with doin’ out the pigstyes, and jest to put on a clean collar; but not bein’ as young as I was, and gettin’ stout-like, I don’t get up the ’ill as quick as I might. There wasn’t no call to thrash the young gentleman, me lord, me ’avin’ caught ’im afore much ’arm was done. Boys will be boys – and I’ll lay what you like it was some of them other young devils put ’im up to it, begging your pardon, me lady.’

  ‘Well, Bredon,’ said his father; ‘it’s very kind of Mr Puffett to take that view of it. Suppose you go with him up to the house and ask Bunter to draw him a glass of beer. And on the way, you may say whatever your good feeling may suggest.’

  He waited till the oddly-assorted couple were half-way across the lawn, and then called ‘Puffett?’

  ‘Me lord?’ said Mr Puffett, returning alone.

  ‘Was there really much damage done?’

  ‘No, me lord. Only two peaches, like I said. I jest popped out from be’ind the potting-shed in time, and ’e was off like one o’clock.’

  ‘Thank heaven! From what he said, I was afraid he had wolfed the lot. And, look here, Puffett. Don’t ask him who put him up to it. I shouldn’t imagine he’d tell, but he might fancy he was a bit of a hero for refusing.’

  ‘I get you,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘’E’s a proper ’igh-sperrited young gentleman, ain’t ’e?’ He winked, and went ponderously to rejoin his penitent robber.

  The episode was considered closed; and everybody (except Miss Quirk) was surprised when Mr Puffett arrived next morning at breakfast-time and announced without preliminary:

  ‘Beg pardon, me lord, but all my peaches ’as bin took in the night, and I’d be glad to know ’oo done it.’

  ‘All your peaches taken, Puffett?’

  ‘Every blessed one on ’em, me lord, practically speakin.’ And the Flower-Show ter-morrer.’

  ‘Coo!’ said Master Bredon. He looked up from his plate, and found Miss Quirk’s eye fixed upon him.

  ‘That’s a dirty trick,’ said his lordship. ‘Have you any idea who it was? Or would you like me to come and look into the matter for you?’

  Mr Puffett turned his bowler hat slowly over between his large hands.

  ‘Not wishin’ yer lordship ter put yerself out,’ he said slowly. ‘But it jest crossed me mind as summun at the ’ouse might be able ter throw light, as it were, upon the subjick.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Peter, ‘but it’s easy to ask. Harriet, do you by any chance know anything about the disappearance of Puffett’s peaches?’

  Harriet shook her head.

  ‘Not a thing. Roger, dear, please eat your egg not quite so splashily. You’ve given yourself a moustache like Mr Billing’s.’

  ‘Can you give us any help, Bredon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, sir. Please, Mummy, may I get down?’

  ‘Just a minute, darling. You haven’t folded up your napkin.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Miss Quirk?’

  Miss Quirk was so much aghast at hearing this flat denial, that she had remained staring at the eldest Master Wimsey, and started on hearing herself addressed.

  ‘Do I know anything? Well!’ She hesitated. ‘Now, Bredon, am I to tell Daddy? Wouldn’t you rather do it yourself?’ Bredon shot a quick look at his father, but made no answer. That was only to be expected. Beat a child, and you make him a liar and a coward. ‘Come now,’ said Miss Quirk, coaxingly, ‘it would be ever so much nicer and better and braver to own up, don’t you think? It’ll make Mummy and Daddy very very sad if you leave it to me to tell them.’

  ‘To tell us what?’ inquired Harriet.

  ‘My dear Harriet,’ said Miss Quirk, annoyed by this foolish question, ‘if I tell you what, then I’ve told you, haven’t I? And I’m quite sure Bredon would much rather tell you himself.’

  ‘Bredon,’ said his father, ‘have you any idea what Miss Quirk thinks you ought to tell us? Because, if so, you could tell us and we could get on.’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t know anything about Mr Puffett’s peaches. May I get down now, Mummy, please?’

  ‘Oh, Bredon!’ cried Miss Quirk, reproachingly. ‘When I saw you, you know, with my own eyes! Ever so early – at five o’clock this morning. Now, won’t you say what you were doing?’

  ‘Oh, that!’ said Bredon; and blushed. Mr Puffett scratched his head.

  ‘What were you doing?’ asked Harriet, gently. ‘Not anything naughty, darling, were you? Or is it a secret?’

  Bredon nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a secret. Something we were doing.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think it’s naughty, Mum.’

  ‘I expect it is though,’ said Peter in a resigned tone. ‘Your secrets so often are. Quite unintentionally, no doubt, but they do have a tendency that way. Be warned in time, Bredon, and undo it, or stop doing it, before I discover it. I understand it had nothing to do with Mr Puffett’s peaches?’

  ‘Oh, no, Father. Please, Mummy, may I –’

  ‘Yes, dear, you may get down. But you must ask Miss Quirk to excuse you.’

  ‘Please, Miss Quirk, will you excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ said Miss Quirk in a mournful tone. Bredon scrambled down hastily, said, ‘I’m very sorry about your peaches, Mr Puffett,’ and made his escape.

  ‘I am sorry to have to say it,’ said Miss Quirk, ‘but I think, Mr Puffett, you will find your peaches in the wood-shed. I woke up early this morning, and I saw Bredon and another little boy crossing the yard, carrying something between them in a bucket. I waved at them from the window, and they hurried off to the woodshed in what I can only call a furtive kind of way.’

  ‘Well, Puffett,’ said his lordship, ‘I’m sorry about this. Shall I come up and take a look at the place? Or do you wish to search the woodshed? I am quite sure you will not find your peaches there, though I should hesitate to say what else you might not find.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ replied Mr Puffett, ‘to ’ave yer advice, me lord, if so be as you could spare the time. What beats me, it’s a wide bed, and yet there ain’t no footprints, in a manner of speaking, except as it might be young master’s, there. Which, footprints bein’ in a manner your lordship’s walk in life, I made bold to come. But, Master Bredon ’avin’ said it weren’t him, I reckon them marks’ll be wot ’e left yesterday, though ’ow a man or a boy either could cross that there bed of damp earth and not leave no sign of ’imself, unless ’e wos a bird, is more than I can make out, nor Jinny neither.’

  Mr Tom Puffett was proud of his walled garden. He had built the wall himself (for he was a builder by trade), and it was a handsome brick structure, ten feet high, and topped on all four sides with a noble parapet of broken bottle-glass. The garden lay on the opposite side of the road from the little house where its owner lived with his daughter and son-in-law, and possessed a solid wooden gate, locked at night with a padlock. On either side of it were flourishing orchards; at the back ran a deeply rutted lane, still muddy – for the summer, up to the last few days, had been a wet one.

  ‘That there gate,’ said Mr Puffett, ‘was locked last night at nine o’clock as ever is, ’an it was still locked when I came in at seven this mornin’; so ’ooever done it ’ad to climb this yer wall.’

  ‘So I see,’ replied Lord Peter. ‘My d
emon child is of tender years; still, I admit that he is capable of almost anything, when suitably inspired and assisted. But I don’t think he would have done it after yesterday’s little incident, and I am positive that if he had done it, he’d have said so.’

  ‘Reckon you’re right,’ agreed Mr Puffett, unlocking the door, ‘though when I was a nipper like ’im, if I’d ’ad that old woman a-joring’ at me, I’d a’said any-think.’

  ‘So’d I,’ said Peter. ‘She’s a friend of my sister-in-law’s, said to need a country holiday. I feel we shall all shortly need a town holiday. Your plums seem to be doing well. H’m. A pebble path isn’t the best medium for showing footprints.’

  ‘That it’s not,’ admitted Mr Puffett. He led the way between the neat flower and vegetable beds to the far end of the garden. Here at the foot of the wall was a border about nine feet wide, the middle section of which was empty except for some rows of late-sown peas. At the back, trained against the wall, stood the peach-tree, on which one great, solitary fruit glowed rosily among the dark leafage. Across the bed ran a double line of small footprints.

  ‘Did you hoe this bed over after my son’s visit yesterday?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then he hasn’t been here since. Those are his marks all right – I ought to know; I see enough of them on my own flower-beds.’ Peter’s mouth twitched a little. ‘Look! He came very softly, trying most honorably not to tread on the peas. He pinched a peach and bolted it where he stood. I enquire, with a parent’s natural anxiety, whether he ejected the stone, and observe, with relief, that he did. He moved on, he took a second peach, you popped out from the potting-shed, he started like a guilty thing and ran off in a hurry – this time, I am sorry to see, trampling on the peas. I hope he deposited the second peach-stone somewhere. Well, Puffett, you’re right; there are no other footprints. Could the thief have put down a plank and walked on that, I wonder?’

  ‘There’s no planks here,’ said Mr Puffett, ‘except the little ’un I uses meself for bedding-out. That’s three feet long or thereabouts. Would yer like ter look at it, me lord?’