Striding Folly (12 page)

    He waited till the oddly-assorted couple were half-way across the lawn, and then called ‘Puffett?’

    ‘Me lord?’ said Mr Puffett, returning alone.

    ‘Was there really much damage done?’

    ‘No, me lord. Only two peaches, like I said. I jest popped out from be’ind the potting-shed in time, and ’e was off like one o’clock.’

    ‘Thank heaven! From what he said, I was afraid he had wolfed the lot. And, look here, Puffett. Don’t ask him who put him up to it. I shouldn’t imagine he’d tell, but he might fancy he was a bit of a hero for refusing.’

    ‘I get you,’ said Mr Puffett. ‘’E’s a proper ’igh-sperrited young gentleman, ain’t ’e?’ He winked, and went ponderously to rejoin his penitent robber.

The episode was considered closed; and everybody (except Miss Quirk) was surprised when Mr Puffett arrived next morning at breakfast-time and announced without preliminary:

    ‘Beg pardon, me lord, but all my peaches ’as bin took in the night, and I’d be glad to know ’oo done it.’

    ‘All your peaches taken, Puffett?’

    ‘Every blessed one on ’em, me lord, practically speakin’. And the Flower-Show ter-morrer.’

    ‘Coo!’ said Master Bredon. He looked up from his plate, and found Miss Quirk’s eye fixed upon him.

    ‘That’s a dirty trick,’ said his lordship. ‘Have you any idea who it was? Or would you like me to come and look into the matter for you?’

    Mr Puffett turned his bowler hat slowly over between his large hands.

    ‘Not wishin’ yer lordship ter put yerself out,’ he said slowly. ‘But it jest crossed me mind as summun at the ’ouse might be able ter throw light, as it were, upon the subjick.’

    ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Peter, ‘but it’s easy to ask. Harriet, do you by any chance know anything about the disappearance of Puffett’s peaches?’

    Harriet shook her head.

    ‘Not a thing. Roger, dear, please eat your egg not quite so splashily. You’ve given yourself a moustache like Mr Billing’s.’

    ‘Can you give us any help, Bredon?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘No, what?’

    ‘No, sir. Please, Mummy, may I get down?’

    ‘Just a minute, darling. You haven’t folded up your napkin.’

    ‘Oh, sorry.’

    ‘Miss Quirk?’

    Miss Quirk was so much aghast at hearing this flat denial, that she had remained staring at the eldest Master Wimsey, and started on hearing herself addressed.

    ‘Do
I
know anything? Well!’ She hesitated. ‘Now, Bredon, am I to tell Daddy? Wouldn’t you rather do it yourself?’ Bredon shot a quick look at his father, but made no answer. That was only to be expected. Beat a child, and you make him a liar and a coward. ‘Come now,’ said Miss Quirk, coaxingly, ‘it would be
ever
so much nicer and better and braver to own up, don’t you think? It’ll make Mummy and Daddy very very sad if you leave it to
me
to tell them.’

    ‘To tell us what?’ inquired Harriet.

    ‘My dear Harriet,’ said Miss Quirk, annoyed by this foolish question, ‘if I tell you
what
, then I’ve told you, haven’t I? And I’m quite
sure
Bredon would much rather tell you himself.’

    ‘Bredon,’ said his father, ‘have you any idea what Miss Quirk thinks you ought to tell us? Because, if so, you could tell us and we could get on.’

    ‘No, sir. I don’t know anything about Mr Puffett’s peaches. May I get down
now
, Mummy, please?’

    ‘Oh, Bredon!’ cried Miss Quirk, reproachingly. ‘When I saw you, you know, with my own eyes! Ever so early – at five o’clock this morning. Now, won’t you say what you were doing?’

    ‘Oh, that!’ said Bredon; and blushed. Mr Puffett scratched his head.

    ‘What were you doing?’ asked Harriet, gently. ‘Not anything naughty, darling, were you? Or is it a secret?’

    Bredon nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a secret. Something we were doing.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think it’s naughty, Mum.’

    ‘I expect it is though,’ said Peter in a resigned tone. ‘Your secrets so often are. Quite unintentionally, no doubt, but they do have a tendency that way. Be warned in time, Bredon, and undo it, or stop doing it, before I discover it. I understand it had nothing to do with Mr Puffett’s peaches?’

    ‘Oh, no, Father. Please, Mummy, may I—’

    ‘Yes, dear, you may get down. But you must ask Miss Quirk to excuse you.’

    ‘Please, Miss Quirk, will you excuse me?’

    ‘Yes, certainly,’ said Miss Quirk in a mournful tone. Bredon scrambled down hastily, said, ‘I’m
very
sorry about your peaches, Mr Puffett,’ and made his escape.

    ‘I am sorry to have to say it,’ said Miss Quirk, ‘but I think, Mr Puffett, you will find your peaches in the woodshed. I woke up early this morning, and I saw Bredon and another little boy crossing the yard, carrying something between them in a bucket. I waved at them from the window, and they hurried off to the woodshed in what I
can
only call a furtive kind of way.’

    ‘Well, Puffett,’ said his lordship, ‘I’m sorry about this. Shall I come up and take a look at the place? Or do you wish to search the woodshed? I am quite sure you will not find your peaches there, though I should hesitate to say what else you might not find.’

    ‘I’d be grateful,’ replied Mr Puffett, ‘to ’ave yer advice, me lord, if so be as you could spare the time. What beats me, it’s a wide bed, and yet there ain’t no footprints, in a manner of speaking, except as it might be young master’s, there. Which, footprints bein’ in a manner your lordship’s walk in life, I made bold to come. But, Master Bredon ’avin’ said it weren’t him, I reckon them marks ’ll be wot’e left yesterday, though ’ow a man or a boy either could cross that there bed of damp earth and not leave no sign of ’imself, unless ’e wos a bird, is more than I can make out, nor Jinny neither.’

Mr Tom Puffett was proud of his walled garden. He had built the wall himself (for he was a builder by trade), and it was a handsome brick structure, ten feet high, and topped on all four sides with a noble parapet of broken bottle-glass. The garden lay on the opposite side of the road from the little house where its owner lived with his daughter and son-in-law, and possessed a solid wooden gate, locked at night with a padlock. On either side of it were flourishing orchards; at the back ran a deeply rutted lane, still muddy – for the summer, up to the last few days, had been a wet one.

    ‘That there gate,’ said Mr Puffett, ‘was locked last night at nine o’clock as ever is, ’an it was still locked when I came in at seven this mornin’; so ’ooever done it ’ad to climb this yer wall.’

    ‘So I see,’ replied Lord Peter. ‘My demon child is of tender years; still, I admit that he is capable of almost anything, when suitably inspired and assisted. But I don’t think he would have done it after yesterday’s little incident, and I am positive that if he had done it, he’d have said so.’

    ‘Reckon you’re right,’ agreed Mr Puffett, unlocking the door, ‘though when I was a nipper like ’im, if I’d ’ad that old woman a-joring’ at me, I’d a’ said anythink.’

    ‘So’d I,’ said Peter. ‘She’s a friend of my sister-in-law’s, said to need a country holiday. I feel we shall all shortly need a town holiday. Your plums seem to be doing well. H’m. A pebble path isn’t the best medium for showing footprints.’

    ‘That it’s not,’ admitted Mr Puffett. He led the way between the neat flower and vegetable beds to the far end of the garden. Here at the foot of the wall was a border about nine feet wide, the middle section of which was empty except for some rows of late-sown peas. At the back, trained against the wall, stood the peach-tree, on which one great, solitary fruit glowed rosily among the dark leafage. Across the bed ran a double line of small footprints.

    ‘Did you hoe this bed over after my son’s visit yesterday?’

    ‘No, my lord.’

    ‘Then he hasn’t been here since. Those are his marks all right – I ought to know; I see enough of them on my own flower-beds.’ Peter’s mouth twitched a little. ‘Look! He came very softly, trying most honorably not to tread on the peas. He pinched a peach and bolted it where he stood. I enquire, with a parent’s natural anxiety, whether he ejected the stone, and observe, with relief, that he did. He moved on, he took a second peach, you popped out from the potting-shed, he started like a guilty thing and ran off in a hurry – this time, I am sorry to see, trampling on the peas. I hope he deposited the second peach-stone somewhere. Well, Puffett, you’re right; there are no other footprints. Could the thief have put down a plank and walked on that, I wonder?’

    ‘There’s no planks here,’ said Mr Puffett, ‘except the little ’un I uses meself for bedding-out. That’s three feet long or thereabouts. Would yer like ter look at it, me lord?’

    ‘No good. A little reflection shows that one cannot cross a nine-foot bed on a three-foot plank without shifting the plank, and that one cannot at the same time stand on the plank and shift it. You’re sure there’s only one? Yes? Then that’s washed out.’

    ‘Could ’e a’brought one with ’im?’

    ‘The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, even without the additional encumbrance of a nine-foot plank. Besides, I’m almost sure no plank has been used. I think, if it had, the edges would have left some mark. No, Puffett, nobody crossed this bed. By the way, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the thief should have left just one big peach behind? It’s pretty conspicuous. Was that done merely to point the joke? Or – wait a minute, what’s that?’

    Something had caught his eye at the back of the box border, some dozen feet to the right of where they were standing. He picked it up. It was a peach; firm and red and not quite ripe. He stood weighing it thoughtfully in his hand.

    ‘Having picked the peach, he found it wasn’t ripe and chucked it away in a temper. Is that likely, Puffett, do you think? And unless I am mistaken, there are quite a number of green leaves scattered about the foot of the tree. How often, when one picks a peach, does one break off the leaves as well?’

    He looked expectantly at Mr Puffett, who returned no answer.

    ‘I think,’ went on Peter, ‘we will go and have a look in the lane.’

    Immediately behind the wall ran a rough grass verge. Mr Puffett, leading the way to this, was peremptorily waved back, and was thereafter treated to a fine exposition of detective work in the traditional manner; his lordship, extended on his stomach, thrusting his long nose and long fingers delicately through each successive tuft of grass, Mr Puffett himself, stooping with legs well apart and hands on knees, peering anxiously at him from the edge of the lane. Presently the sleuth sat up on his heels and said:

    ‘Here you are, Puffett. There were two men. They came up the lane from the direction of the village, wearing hob-nailed boots and carrying a ladder between them. They set up the ladder
here
; the grass, you see, is still a little bent, and there are two deepish dents in the soil. One man climbed to the top and took the peaches, while the other, I think, stood at the foot to keep guard and receive the fruit in a bag or basket or something. This isn’t a case of larking youngsters, Puffett; from the length of the strides they were grown men. What enemies have you made in your harmless career? Or who are your chief rivals in the peach class?’