Busman's Honeymoon by Dorothy L. Sayers

Author:Dorothy L. Sayers [Sayers, Dorothy L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery, Classics
ISBN: 9781453262320
Publisher: Open Road
Published: 2012-07-05T21:20:00+00:00

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 wouldest discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest 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 expenditure of severe mental labor 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 of 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 onto the verge. … All right my lad, that’s quite enough of that. … Let’s have a look at your license. …”)

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 fair; 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 around the corner.

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