Harriet asked a question or two, which her husband answered, but in so abstracted a tone that she realized he was giving only about a quarter of his mind to the virtuous Jew of London and none of it to herself. He was probably mulling over the mysterious behaviour of Mr Noakes. She was quite accustomed to his sudden withdrawals into the recesses of his own mind, and did not resent them. She had known him stop short in the middle of a proposal of marriage to her because some chance sight or sound had offered him a new piece to fit into a criminal jig-saw. His meditations did not last long, for within five minutes they were running into Great Pagford, and he was obliged to rouse himself to ask his companion the way to Miss Twitterton’s cottage.
Chapter II. Goosefeather Bed
But for the Bride-bed, what were fit,
That hath not been talk’d of yet.
– Drayton: Eighth Nimphall
The cottage, which had three yellow brick sides and a red-brick front, like the uglier kind of doll’s house, stood rather isolated from the town, so that it was perhaps not unreasonable in Miss Twitterton to interrogate her visitors in sharp and agitated tones from an upper window, as to their intentions and bona fides, before cautiously opening the door to them. She revealed herself as a small, fair am flustered spinster in her forties, wrapped in a pink flannel dressing-gown, and having in one hand a candle and in the other a large dinner-bell. She could not understand what it was all about. Uncle William had said nothing to her. She did not even know he was away. He never went away without letting her know. He would never have sold the house without telling her. She kept the door on the chain while repeating these asseverations, holding the dinner-bell ready to ring in case the odd-looking person in the eye-glass should become violent and oblige her to summon assistance. Eventually, Peter produced Mr Noakes’s last letter from his pocket-book (where he had thoughtfully placed it before starting, in case of any difference of opinion about the arrangements) and passed it in through the partly opened door. Miss Twitterton took it gingerly, as though it were a bomb, shut the door promptly in Peter’s face, and retired with the candle into the front room to examine the document at her leisure. Apparently the perusal was satisfactory, for at the end of it she returned, opened the door wide and begged her visitors to enter.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Twitterton, leading the way into a sittingroom furnished with a suite in green velvet and walnut veneer, and a surprising variety of knickknacks, ‘for receiving you like this-do please sit down. Lady Peter-I do hope you will both forgive my attire-dear me!-but my house is a little lonely and it’s only a short time ago since my hen-roost was robbed-and really, the whole thing is so inexplicable. I scarcely know what to think-it really is most upsetting-so peculiar of uncle-and what you must be thinking of both of us I cannot imagine.’
‘Only that it’s a great shame to knock you up at this time of night,’ said Peter.
‘It’s only a quarter to ten,’ replied Miss Twitterton, with a deprecating glance at a little china clock in the shape of a pansy. ‘Nothing, of course, to you-but you know we keep early hours in the country. I have to be up at five to feed my birds, so I’m rather an early bird myself-except on choir-practice nights, you know-Wednesday, such an awkward day for me with Thursday market-day, but then it’s more convenient for the dear Vicar. But, of course, if I’d had the smallest idea that Uncle William would do such an extraordinary thing, I’d have come over and been there to let you in. If you could wait five-or perhaps ten-minutes while I made a more suitable toilet, I could come now-as I see you have your beautiful car, perhaps-’
‘Please don’t bother, Miss Twitterton,’ said Harriet, a little alarmed at the prospect. ‘We have plenty of supplies with us, and Mrs Ruddle and our man can look after us quite well for tonight. If you could just let us have the keys-’
‘The keys-yes, of course. So dreadful for you not being able to get in, and really such a cold night for the time of year-what Uncle William can have been thinking of-and I did he say-dear me! his letter upset me so I hardly knew what I was reading-your honeymoon didn’t you say? how terrible for you-and I do hope at any rate you’ve had supper? No supper!-I simply can’t understand how Uncle could-but you will take a little bit of cake and a glass of my home-made wine?’
‘Oh, really, we mustn’t trouble you-’ began Harriet, but Miss Twitterton was already hunting in a cupboard. Behind her back, Peter put his hands to his face in a mute gesture of horrified resignation.
‘There!’ said Miss Twitterton, triumphantly. ‘I’m sure you will feel better for a little refreshment. My parsnip wine is really extra good this year. Dr Jellyfield always takes a glass when he comes-which isn’t very often, I’m pleased to say, because my health is always remarkably good.’
‘That will not prevent me from drinking to it,’ said Peter disposing of the parsnip wine with a celerity which might have been due to eagerness but, to Harriet, rather suggested a reluctance to let the draught linger on the palate. ‘May I pour out a glass for yourself?’
‘How kind of you!’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘Well-it’s rather late at night-but I really ought to drink to your wedded happiness, oughtn’t I?-Not too much. Lord Peter, please. The dear Vicar always says my parsnip wine is not nearly so innocent as it looks-dear me!-But you will take just a little more, won’t you? A gentleman always has a stronger head than a lady.
‘Thanks so much,’ said Peter, meekly, ‘but you must remember I’ve got to drive my wife back to Paggleham.’
‘One more I’m sure won’t do any harm.-Well, just half a glass, then-there! Now of course, you want the keys. I’ll run upstairs for them at once-I know I mustn’t keep you-I won’t be a minute. Lady Peter, so please have another slice of cake-it’s home-made-I do all my own baking, and Uncle’s too-whatever can have come over him I can’t think.’ Miss Twitterton ran out, leaving the pair to gaze at one another in the light of the candle.
‘Peter, my poor, long-suffering, heroic lamb-pour it into the aspidistra.’
Wimsey lifted his eyebrows at the plant. ‘It looks rather unwell already, Harriet. I think my constitution is the better of the two. Here goes. But you might kiss me to take the taste away… Our hostess has a certain refinement (I think that’s the word) about her which I had not expected. She got your title right first shot, which is unusual. Her life has had some smatch of honour in it. Who was her father?’
‘I think he was a cowman.’
‘Then he married above his station. His wife, presumably, was a Miss Noakes.’
‘It comes back to me that she was a village schoolmistress over at some place near Broxford.’
‘That explains it… Miss Twitterton is coming down. At this point we rise up, buckle the belt of the old leather coat, grab the gent’s soft hat and make the motions of imminent departure.’
‘The keys,’ said Miss Twitterton, arriving breathless with a second candle. ‘The big one is the back door, but you’ll find that bolted. The little one is the front door-it’s a patent, burglar-proof lock-you may find it a little difficult if you don’t know the way it works. Perhaps, after all, I ought to come over and show you-’
‘Not a bit of it. Miss Twitterton. I know these locks quite well. Really. Thank you ever so much. Good night. And many apologies.’