‘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 Quick, appalled by the immorality of all this. ‘And are you sorry for having taken poor Mr. Puffett’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 The topic is withdrawn from circulation.’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 enough 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 i
t’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 woodshed. 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 demon 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 anythink.’
‘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?’
‘No good. A little reflection shows that one cannot cross a nine-foot bed on a three-foot plank without shifting the plank, and that one cannot at the same time stand on the plank and shift it. You’re sure there’s only one? Yes? Then that’s washed out.’
‘Could ’e a’brought one with ’im?’
‘The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, even without the additional encumbrance of a nine-foot plank. Besides, I’m almost sure no plank has been used. I think, if it had, the edges would have left some mark. No, Puffett, nobody crossed this bed. By the way, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the thief should have left just one big peach behind? It’s pretty conspicuous. Was that done merely to point the joke? Or – wait a minute, what’s that?’
Something had caught his eye at the back of the box border, some dozen feet to the right of where they were standing. He picked it up. It was a peach; firm and red and not quite ripe. He stood weighing it thoughtfully in his hand.
‘Having picked the peach, he found it wasn’t ripe and chucked it away in a temper. Is that likely, Puffett, do you think? And unless I am mistaken, there are quite a number of green leaves scattered about the foot of the tree. How often, when one picks a peach, does one break off the leaves as well?’
He looked expectantly at Mr Puffett, who returned no answer.
‘I think,’ went on Peter, ‘we will go and have a look in the lane.’
Immediately behind the wall ran a rough grass verge. Mr Puffett, leading the way to this, was peremptorily waved back, and was thereafter treated to a fine exposition of detective work in the traditional manner; his lordship, extended on his stomach, thrusting his long nose and long fingers delicately through each successive tuft of grass, Mr Puffett himself, stooping with legs well apart and hands on knees, peering anxiously at him from the edge of the lane. Presently the sleuth sat up on his heels and said:
‘Here you are, Puffett. There were two men. They came up the lane from the direction of the village, wearing hob-nailed boots and carrying a ladder between them. They set up the ladder here; the grass, you see, is still a little bent, and there are two deepish dents in the soil. One man climbed to the top and took the peaches, while the other, I think, stood at the foot to keep guard and receive the fruit in a bag or basket or something. This isn’t a case of larking youngsters, Puffett; from the length of the strides they were grown men. What enemies have you made in your harmless career? Or who are your chief rivals in the peach class?’
‘Well, there,’ said Mr Puffett, slowly. ‘There’s the Vicar shows peaches, and Dr Jellyband from Great Pagford, and Jack Baker – he’s the policeman, you know, came when Joe Sellon went off to Canada. And there’s old Critch; him and me had a dispute about a chimbley. And Maggs the blacksmith – ’e didn’t ’arf like it w’en I wiped ’is eye last year with me vegetable marrers. Oh, and Waggett the butcher, ’e shows peaches. But I dunno as any o’ them ’ud do me a turn like this ’ere. But ’ere, me lord, ’ow did they get the peaches? They couldn’t reach ’em from the top of the ladder, nor yet off the wall, let alone sitting on them there bottles. The top o’ the tree’s five foot below the top o’ the wall.’
‘That’s simple,�
� said Peter. ‘Think of the broken leaves and the peach in the box border, and consider how you would have done it. By the way, if you want proof that the robbing was done from this side, get a ladder and look over. I’ll lay you anything you like, you’ll find that the one peach that was left is hidden by the leaves from anybody looking down on it, though it’s clearly enough seen from the garden. No, there’s no difficulty about how it was done; the difficulty is to put one’s hand on the culprits. Unfortunately, there’s no footprints clear enough to show the complete pattern of the hob-nails.’
He considered a moment, while Mr Puffett watched him with the air of one confidently expecting a good conjuring trick.
‘One could make a house-to-house visitation,’ went on his lordship, ‘and ask questions, or search. But it’s surprising how things disappear, and how people dry up when asked direct questions. Children especially. Look here, Puffett, I’m not at all sure my prodigal son mightn’t be able to throw some light on this, after all. But leave me to conduct the examination, it may need delicate handling.’
There is one drawback about retreating to a really small place in the country and leaving behind you the stately publicity of town life in a house with ten servants. When you have tucked in yourselves, and your three children, and your indispensable man and your one equally indispensable and devoted maid, both time and space become rather fully occupied. You may, by taking your husband into your own room and accommodating the two elder boys in his dressing-room, squeeze in an extra person who, like Miss Quirk, has been wished upon you; but it is scarcely possible to run after her all day to see that she is not getting into mischief. This is more particularly the case if you are a novelist by profession, and if moreover, your idea of a happy holiday is to dispose as completely and briskly as possible of children, book, servants and visitor, so as to snatch all the available moments for playing the fool with a congenial, but admittedly distracting, husband. Harriet Wimsey, writing for dear life in the sitting-room, kept one eye on her paper and the other on Master Paul Wimsey, who was disembowelling his old stuffed rabbit in the window-seat. Her ears were open for a yell from young Roger, whose rough-and-tumble with the puppy on the lawn might at any moment end in disaster. Her consciousness was occupied with her plot, her sub-consciousness with the fact that she was three months behind on her contract. If she gave an occasional vague thought to her first-born, it was only to wonder whether he was hindering Bunter at his work, or merely concocting, in his own quiet way, some more than usually hideous shock for his parents. Himself was the last person he ever damaged; he was a child with a singular talent for falling on his feet. She had no attention to spare for Miss Quirk.
Striding Folly Page 8
