“Indeed, sir? Well, that’s strange, isn’t it? She was a very kind, nice lady. We heard she’d died, too, of this cancer, was it? That’s a terrible thing, poor soul. And fancy you being connected with her, so to speak. I expect you’d be interested in some of our photographs of the Crofton Hunt. Jim?”
“Hullo!”
“Show these gentlemen the photographs of Miss Whittaker and Miss Dawson. They’re acquainted with some friends of Miss Dawson down in Hampshire. Step this way-if you’re sure you won’t take anything more, sir.”
Mrs. Piggin led the way into a cosy little private bar, where a number of hunt looking gentlemen were enjoying a glass before closing-time. Mr. Piggin, stout and genial as his wife, moved forward to do the honours.
“What’ll you have, gentlemen? -Joe, two pints of the winter ale. And fancy you knowing our Miss Dawson. Dear me, world’s a very small place, as I often says to my wife. Here’s the last group as was ever took of them, when the meet was held at the Manor in 1918. Of course, you’ll understand, it wasn’t a regular meet, owing to the War and the gentlemen being away and the horses too- we couldn’t keep things up regular like in the old days. But what with the foxes gettin’ so terrible many, and the packs all going to the dogs- ha! ha!- that’s what I often used to say in this bar- the ’ounds is going the dogs, I says. Very good, they used to think it. There’s many a gentleman has laughed at me sayin’ that- the ’ounds, I says, is goin’ to the dogs- well, as I was sayin’, Colonel Fletcher and some of the older gentlemen, they says, we must carry on somehow, they says, and so they ’ad one or two scratch meets as you might say, just to keep the pack from fallin’ to pieces, as you might say. And Miss Whittaker, she says, ‘ ’Ave the meet at the Manor, Colonel,’ she says, ‘it’s the last meet I’ll ever see, perhaps,’ she says. And so it was, poor lady, for she ’ad a stroke in the New Year. She died in 1922. That’s ’er, sitting in the pony-carriage and Miss Dawson beside ’er. Of course, Miss Whittaker ’ad ’ad to give up riding to ’ounds some years before. She was gettin’ on, but she always followed in the trap, up to the very last. ’Andsome old lady, ain’t she, sir?”
Lord Peter and Parker looked with considerable interest at the rather grim old woman sitting so uncompromisingly upright with the reins in her hand. A dour, weather-beaten old face, but certainly handsome still, with its large nose and straight, heavy eyebrows. And beside her, smaller, plumper and more feminine, was the Agatha Dawson whose curious death had led them to this quiet country place. She had a sweet, smiling face- less dominating than that of her redoubtable friend, but full of spirit and character. Without doubt they had been a remarkable pair of old ladies.
Lord Peter asked a question or two about the family.
“Well, sir, I can’t say as I knows much about that. We always understood as Miss Whittaker had quarrelled with her people on account of comin’ here and settin’ up for herself. It wasn’t usual in them days for girls to leave home the way it is now. But if you’re particularly interested, sir, there’s an old gentleman here as can tell you all about the Whittakers and the Dawsons too, and that’s Ben Cobling. He was Miss Whittaker’s groom for forty years, and he married Miss Dawson’s maid as come with her from Norfolk. Eighty-six ’e was, last birthday, but a grand old fellow still. We thinks a lot of Ben Cobling in these parts. ’Im and his wife lives in the little cottage what Miss Whittaker left them when she died. If you’d like to go round and see them tomorrow, sir, you’ll find Ben’s memory good as ever it was. Excuse me, sir, but it’s time. I must get ’em out of the bar.- Time, gentlemen, please! Three and eightpence, sir, thank you, sir. Hurry up, gentlemen, please. Now then, Joe, look sharp.”
“Great place, Crofton,” said Lord Peter when he and Parker were left alone in a great, low-ceilinged bedroom, where the sheets smelt of lavender. “Ben Cobling’s sure to know all about Cousin Hallelujah. I’m looking forward to Ben Cobling.”
Chapter 12 A Tale of Two Spinsters
“The power of perpetuating our property in our families is one of the most valuable and interesting circumstances belonging to it.”
BURKE: Reflections on the Revolution
The rainy night was followed by a sun-streaked morning. Lord Peter, having wrapped himself affectionately round an abnormal quantity of bacon and eggs, strolled out to bask at the door of the “Fox-and-Hounds.” He filled a pipe slowly and meditated. Within, a cheerful bustle in the bar announced the near arrival of opening time. Eight ducks crossed the road in Indian file. A cat sprang up upon the bench, stretched herself, tucked her hind legs under her and coiled her tail tightly round them as though to prevent them from accidentally working loose. A groom passed, riding a tall bay horse and leading a chestnut with a hogged mane; a spaniel followed them, running ridiculously, with one ear flopped inside out over his foolish head.
Lord Peter said, “Hah!”
The inn-door was set hospitably open by the barman, who said, “Good morning, sir; fine morning, sir,” and vanished within again.
Lord Peter said, “Umph.” He uncrossed his right foot from over his left and straddled happily across the threshold.
Round the corner by the churchyard wall a little bent figure hove into sight – an aged man with a wrinkled face and legs incredibly bowed, his spare shanks enclosed in leather gaiters. He advanced at a kind of brisk totter and civilly bared his ancient head before lowering himself with an audible creak on to the bench beside the cat.
“Good morning, sir,” said he.
“Good morning,” said Lord Peter. “A beautiful day.”
“That it be, sir, that it be,” said the old man, heartily. “When I sees a beautiful May day like this, I pray the Lord spare me to live in this wonderful world of His a few years longer. I do indeed.”
“You look uncommonly fit,” said his lordship, “I should think there was every chance of it.”
“I’m still very hearty, sir, thank you, though I’m eighty-seven next Michaelmas.”
Lord Peter expressed a proper astonishment.
“Yes, sir, eighty-seven, and if it wasn’t for the rheumatics I’d have nothin’ to complain on. I’m stronger maybe than what I look. I knows I’m a bit bent,sir, but that’s the ’osses, sir, more than age. Regular brought up with ’osses I’ve been all my life. Worked with ’em, slept’ with ’em- lived in a stable, you might say,sir.”
“You couldn’t have better company,” said Lord Peter.
“That’s right, sir, you couldn’t. My wife always used to say she was jealous of the ’osses. Said I preferred their conversation to hers. Well, maybe she was right, sir. A ’oss never talks no foolishness, I says to her, and that’s more than you can always say of women, ain’t it, sir?”
“It is indeed,” said Wimsey. “What are you going to have?”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll have my usual pint of bitter. Jim knows. Jim! Always start the day with a pint of bitter, sir. It’s ’olsomer than tea to my mind and don’t fret the coats of the stomach.”
“I daresay you’re right,” said Wimsey. “Now you mention it, there is something fretful about tea. Mr. Piggin, two pints of bitter, please, and will you join us?”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the landlord. “Joe! Two large bitters and a Guiness. Beautiful morning, my lord- ’morning, Mr. Cobling- I see you’ve made each other’s acquaintance already.”
“By Jove! So this is Mr. Cobling. I’m delighted to see you. I wanted particularly to have a chat with you.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“I was telling this gentleman- Lord Peter Wimsey his name is- as you could tell him all about Miss Whittaker and Miss Dawson. He knows friends of Miss Dawson’s.”