Unnatural death
“Five miles.”
“Decent inn?”
“My governor keeps the ‘Fox-and-Hounds.’ Would that do? We’d give you
awfully decent grub.”
“Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan passed. Buzz off, my lad. No,
Charles, I will _not_ wait while you put on a Burberry. Back and side go
bare, go bare, hand and foot go cold, so belly-god send us good ale
enough, whether it be new or old.”
The starter hummed—the youth mounted his machine and led off down the
lane after one alarming wobble—Wimsey slipped in the clutch and followed
in his wake.
The “Fox-and-Hounds” turned out to be one of those pleasant,
old-fashioned inns where everything is upholstered in horse-hair and it
is never too late to obtain a good meal of cold roast sirloin and
home-grown salad. The landlady, Mrs. Piggin, served the travellers
herself. She wore a decent black satin dress and a front of curls of the
fashion favoured by the Royal Family. Her round, cheerful face glowed in
the firelight, seeming to reflect the radiance of the scarlet-coated
huntsmen who galloped and leapt and fell on every wall through a series
of sporting prints. Lord Peter’s mood softened under the influence of
the atmosphere and the house’s excellent ale, and by a series of
inquiries directed to the hunting-season, just concluded, the
neighbouring families and the price of horseflesh, he dexterously led
the conversation round to the subject of the late Miss Clara Whittaker.
“Oh, dear, yes,” said Mrs. Piggin, “to be sure, we knew Miss Whittaker.
Everybody knew her in these parts. A wonderful old lady she was. There’s
a many of her horses still in the country. Mr. Cleveland, he bought the
best part of the stock, and is doin’ well with them. Fine honest stock
she bred, and they all used to say she was a woman of wonderful judgment
with a horse—or a man either. Nobody ever got the better of her twice,
and very few, once.”
“Ah!” said Lord Peter, sagaciously.
“I remember her well, riding to hounds when she was well over sixty,”
went on Mrs. Piggin, “and she wasn’t one to wait for a gap, neither. Now
Miss Dawson—that was her friend as lived with her—over at the Manor
beyond the stone bridge—she was more timid-like. She’d go by the gates,
and we often used to say she’d never be riding at all, but for bein’
that fond of Miss Whittaker and not wanting to let her out of her sight.
But there, we can’t all be alike, can we, sir?—and Miss Whittaker was
altogether out of the way. They don’t make them like that nowadays. Not
but what these modern girls are good goers, many of them, and does a lot
of things as would have been thought very fast in the old days, but Miss
Whittaker had the knowledge as well. Bought her own horses and physicked
’em and bred ’em, and needed no advice from anybody.”
“She sounds a wonderful old girl,” said Wimsey, heartily. “I’d have
liked to know her. I’ve got some friends who knew Miss Dawson quite
well—when she was living in Hampshire, you know.”
“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 hunting-looking gentlemen were enjoying a final glass before
closing-time. 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, the 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, like, 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 to 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 to-morrow,
sir, you’ll find Ben’s memory as 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 XII
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 church-yard 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 He’ll 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 am 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 ’olesomer than tea
to my mind and don’t fret the coats of the stomach.”
“I dare say 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
Guinness. 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.”
“Indeed? Ah! There ain’t much I _couldn’t_ tell you about them ladies.
And proud I’d be to do it. Fifty years I was with Miss Whittaker. I come
to her as under-groom in old Johnny Blackthorne’s time, and stayed on as
headgroom after he died. A rare young lady she was in them days. Deary
me. Straight as a switch, with a fine, high colour in her cheeks and
shiny black hair—just like a beautiful two-year-old filly she was. And
very sperrited. Wonnerful sperrited. There was a many gentlemen as would
have been glad to hitch up with her, but she was never broke to harness.
Like dirt, she treated ’em. Wouldn’t look at ’em, except it might be the
grooms and stablehands in a matter of ’osses. And in the way of
business, of course. Well, there is some creatures like that. I ’ad a
terrier-bitch that way. Great ratter she was. But a business
woman—nothin’ else. I tried ’er with all the dogs I could lay ’and to,
but it weren’t no good. Bloodshed there was an’ sich a row—you never