‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then cut along to bed. I can look after myself for once. The grey suit tomorrow, with your permission and approval.’
‘Entirely appropriate, my lord, if I may say so.’
‘And will you lock up? We must learn to be householders, Bunter. We will presently purchase a cat and put it out.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘That’s all then. Good night, Bunter.’
‘Goodnight my lord, and thank you.’
When Peter knocked at the door, his wife was sitting by the fire, thoughtfully polishing her nails.
‘I say, Harriet, would you rather sleep with me tonight?’
‘Well-’
‘I’m sorry; that sounded a little ambiguous. I mean, do you feel any preference for the other room? I won’t make a nuisance of myself if you’re feeling fagged. Or I’ll change rooms with you if you’d rather.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Peter. But I don’t think you ought to give way to me when I’m merely being foolish. Are you going to turn out one of these indulgent husbands?’
‘Heaven forbid! Arbitrary and tyrannical to the last degree. But I have my softer moments-and my share of human folly.’
Harriet rose up, extinguished the candles and came out to him, shutting the door behind her.
‘Folly seems to be its own reward,’ said he. ‘Very well. Let us be foolish together.’
Chapter XI. Policeman’s Lot
Elbow: What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?
Escalus: Truly officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou know’st what they are.
– William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure.
The distressful Mr Kirk had in the meantime spent a strenuous evening. He was a slow-thinking man and a kindly one, and it was with reluctance and the expenditure of severe mental labour that he hammered out a procedure for himself in this unusual situation.
His sergeant having returned to drive him over to Broxford, he sank back in the passenger’s seat, his hat pulled over his eyes and his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification- One thing he saw clearly: the coroner must be persuaded to take as little evidence as possible at the inquest and adjourn sine die pending further investigation. Fortunately, the law now provided for such a course, and if only Mr Perkins would not be sticky, everything might pass off very well. The wretched Joe Sellon would have, of course, to speak to seeing Mr Noakes alive at nine o’clock; but with luck he would not have to go into details about the conversation. Mrs Ruddle was the stumbling-block: she liked to use her tongue-and then there was that unfortunate business of Aggie Twitterton’s hens, which had left her with a grudge against the police. Also, of course, there was the awkward fact that one or two people in the village had wagged their heads when Mr Noakes lost his pocketbook, and had hinted that Martha Ruddle might know something about it; she would not readily forgive Joe Sellon for that misunderstanding. Could one, without actually uttering threats or using improper methods, suggest that over-informativeness in the witness-box might involve an inquiry into the matter of paraffin? Or was it safer merely to hint to the coroner that too much talk from Martha would tend to hamper the police in the execution of their duty? (‘Half a mo’. Blades,’ said the Superintendent, aloud, at this point in his meditations. ‘What’s that chap doing, obstructing the traffic like that?-Here, you! don’t you know better than to park that lorry of yours on a blind corner? If you want to change your wheel you must go further along and get her on to the verge… All right, my lad, that’s quite enough of that… Let’s have a look at your licence…’)
As for Joe Sellon… This business of parking on bends, now, he wouldn’t have it. A dashed sight more dangerous than fast driving by a man who knew how to drive. The police liked to be fan-; it was the magistrates who were obsessed by miles per hour. All corners should be approached dead slow-all right, because there might be some fool sitting in the middle of the road; but equally, nobody should sit in the middle of the road, because there might be some fool coming round the corner. The thing was fifty-fifty, and-the blame should be distributed fifty-fifty; that was only just. In a routine matter like that, it was easy to see one’s way. But Joe Sellon, now… Well, whatever happened, Joe must be taken off the Noakes case P.D.Q. It wasn’t proper to have him investigating it as things were. Why, come to think of it, Mrs Kirk had been reading a book only the other day in which one of the police in charge of the case turned out actually to have done the murder. He distinctly remembered laughing, and saying, ‘It’s wonderful what these write fellows think of.’ That Lady Peter Wimsey, who wrote these books-she’d be ready enough to believe a tale like that. So, no doubt, would other people.
(‘Was that Bill Skipton getting over the stile. Blades? Seemed a bit anxious to avoid notice. Better keep your eye on him. Mr Raikes has been complaining about his birds-shouldn’t wonder if Bill was up to his old tricks again.’
‘Yes. sir.’)
It all went to show that an officer couldn’t take too much trouble about getting to know his men. A kindly inquiry a word in season-and Sellon wouldn’t have got himself into this jam. How much did Sergeant Foster know about Sellon? One must look into that. Rather a pity, in a way, that Foster was a bachelor and a teetotaller and belonged to a rather strict sect of Plymouth Brethren or something. A most trustworthy officer, but not very easy for a young fellow to confide in. Perhaps one ought to give more attention to these traits of character. Handling men was born in some people-this Lord Peter, for instance. Sellon had never met him before, yet he was readier to explain himself to him than to his own superior officer. One couldn’t resent that, of course; it was only natural What was a gentleman for, except to take your difficulties to? Why, look at the old squire and his lady, when Kirk was a lad-everybody in and out of the big house all day with their troubles. That sort was dying out, more’s the pity. Nobody could go to this new man that had the place now-for one thing, half the time he wasn’t there, and for another, he’d always lived in a town and didn’t understand the way things worked in the country… But how Joe could be such a blamed fool as to tell his lordship a lie-which was the one thing that sort of gentleman would never overlook; you could see his face change when he heard it. You needed a pretty good reason for telling a lie to a gentleman that was taking an interest in you-and, well, the reason you might have didn’t bear thinking of.
The car drew up before Mr Perkins’s house, and Kirk heaved himself out with a deep sigh. Maybe Joe was telling the truth after all; he must look into that. Meanwhile, do the thing that’s nearest-was that Charles Kingsley or Long- fellow?-and, dear, dear, it just showed you what happened when lame dogs were left to get over stiles on their own three legs.
The coroner proved amenable to the suggestion that, in view of investigations now proceeding, based on information received, the inquest should be kept as formal as possible. Kirk was glad Mr Perkins was a lawyer; medical coroners sometimes took the oddest views of their own importance and legal powers. Not that the police were anxious for any curtailing of the coroner’s privileges; there were times when an inquest came in very handy to elicit information which couldn’t be got any other way. The silly public liked to make a fuss about the feelings of witnesses, but that was the public all over-always shouting they wanted to be protected and always getting in your way when you tried to do it for them. Wanting it both ways. No, there was no harm in coroners, only they ought to put themselves under police guidance, that was the way Kirk looked at it. Anyhow, Mr Perkins didn’t seem eager to cause trouble; he had a bad cold, too, and would be all the better pleased to keep things short.