A Presumption of Death by Dorothy L. Sayers

Author:Dorothy L. Sayers [Sayers, Dorothy L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Crime
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2003-05-25T23:00:00+00:00

Ten

‘What’s that, young sirs? Stole a pig?

Where are your licences?’ said the policeman.

Beatrix Potter, The Tale of Pigling Bland, 1913

A household with Bunter in it appeared to run on wheels, even in war-time.

Mrs Trapp could take an afternoon off, leaving supper in capable hands. Sadie could have a break from looking after children, while Bunter firmly whisked Charlie and Polly off to catch rabbits, or construct a look-out post, and Harriet looked after the toddlers. Suddenly her working time was restored to her; at odd hours, it was true, but reliably. Bunter got Rita and Muriel to plough up a plot at the nearer end of the field beyond the outhouses, and planted lettuce and beans and carrots. Harriet could sit down in the afternoon to write an account of the inquest and add it to the piles of unposted letters to Peter. Whatever, she wondered, writing it down, had Mrs Spright meant about not helping spies get in touch with each other? She had thrown another pot-shot at Aggie Twitterton, too. What an unpleasant woman!

When the account was written down as clearly and fully as she could, Harriet wandered into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea, and offered Mrs Trapp a helping hand. Bunter, she understood, was in the village, at the blacksmith’s.

‘What is he doing there?’ asked Harriet, picking up the paring knife she had been offered and sitting down to the task of peeling carrots and turnips.

‘He’s getting a new tyre on one of the wheels of a little cart he found, parked in the garage, m’dear,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘He’s fixing it all up.’

‘Mysteries all around,’ said Harriet. ‘Why do we need a cart? I didn’t know carts had tyres. A tyre goes to a garage, doesn’t it?’

‘There’s no mystery about any of that,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘Now mind you get that peel off very thin; the best bit of the veg is just below the skin. We need a cart to bring sensible amounts of firewood out of his lordship’s wood, to save coal. Cart wheels do have tyres, m’lady, I’m surprised at you for not noticing that. And the tyres they have are bands of iron, so it’s the forge, and not the garage that’s wanted.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Trapp. Is this peeled thinly enough? And while you are putting me right, can you tell me what Miss Twitterton might be doing, wandering around at night and getting that awful Spright woman sniping at her?’

‘No; can’t say as I can,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘But, bless you, it won’t be spying for the Nazis. It’ll be to do with the pig club, more like.’

‘Is Miss Twitterton in the pig club? How can she be? She hasn’t even got space enough for more hens!’

‘She is an honorary member, you might say. She contributes old hens past their laying, and sometimes eggs to help out between pigs. And peelings and kitchen waste for the pigswill, same as everyone else. And she gets a cut of meat in exchange when a pig is killed.

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