The Case of the Late Pig

'Done in? Reely?' Lugg returned to the note. 'Oh, well then, this is clear, ain't it? The bloke 'oo wrote this knew you was always anxious to snuff round a bit of blood, doin' the rozzers out of their rightful, and 'e kindly give you the tip to come along 'ere as fast as you could so's you wouldn't miss nothink.'

'Yes, well, you're offensive, muddle-headed, and vulgar,' I said with dignity.

'Vulgar?' he echoed in sudden concern. 'Not vulgar, cock. I may say what I mean, but I'm never vulgar.'

He considered a moment.

'Rozzers,' he announced with triumph. 'You're right, rozzers is common. P'lice officers.'

'You make me sick,' I said truthfully. 'The point you seem to have missed is that Peters died this morning, and that letter was posted to me at this address from central London some time before seven o'clock last night.'

He took in the facts and surprised me by getting up.

''Ere,' he said, 'see what this means? The bloke 'oo wrote you last night knoo Peters was goin' to die today.'

I hesitated. It was the first time I had felt the genuine trickle up the spine. Meanwhile he went on complaining.

'You've done it again,' he mourned. 'In spite of all I've done for you, here you are mixed up in the first bit of cheap mud that comes along. Lumme! You don't 'ave to whistle for it, even. It flies to you.'

I looked at him. 'Lugg,' I said, 'these words are in the nature of a prophecy. The puff paste has a sausage inside it, after all.'

The gong forestalled him, but his comment followed me as I hurried to the door.

'Botulistic, most likely,' he said.

I arrived in the dining-room with half a second to spare, and Pepper regarded me with affection, which was more than Janet did, I was sorry to see.

Leo was talking to a slim black back in a clerical dinner jacket, and I sat down to find myself beside the pleasant-looking person with whom I had chatted at Pig's Tethering funeral.

He recognized me with a pleasing show of warmth, and laughed at me with deep lazy grey eyes.

'Always in at the death?' he murmured.

We introduced ourselves, and I liked his manner. He was a big fellow, older than I was, with a certain shyness which was attractive. We chatted for some moments, and Janet joined us, and it was not until some minutes later that I became aware of someone hating me.

It is one of those odd but unmistakable sensations one experiences sometimes on buses or at private dinners, and I looked across the table to observe a young cleric whom I had never seen before regarding me with honest hostility. He was one of those tall, bony ascetics with high-red cheek and wrist bones, and the humourless round black eyes of the indignant-hearted.

I was so taken aback that I smiled at him foolishly, and Leo introduced us.

He turned out to be the Reverend Philip Smedley Bathwick, newly appointed to the parish of Kepesake. I could not understand his unconcealed hatred, and was rather hurt by it until I saw him glance at Janet. Then I began to follow him. He positively goggled at her, and I might have felt sorry for him had it not been for something personal that there is no need to go into here.

He was doubly unfortunate, as it happened, because Leo monopolized him. As soon as we were safely embarked on the fish the old man bellowed, as he always does when he fancies the subject needs finesse: 'That fellow we were talking about before dinner; where d'you say he's staying?'

'At Mrs Thatcher's, sir. Do you know the woman? She has a little cottage below "The Swan".'

Bathwick had a good voice, but there was a tremor in it which I put down to his suppressed anxiety to listen to the conversation at our end of the table.

Leo was not giving him any respite.

'Oh, I know old Mrs Thatcher,' he said. 'One of the Jepson family on Blucher's Hill. A good woman. What's she doin' with a feller like that in the house? Can't understand it, Bathwick.'

'She lets rooms, sir.' Bathwick's eyes wandered to Janet and away again, as if the sight hurt him. 'This Mr Hayhoe has only been in the village a little under a week.'

'Heigh-ho?' said Leo. 'Idiotic name. Probably false.'

As usual when he is irritated he blared at the unfortunate young man, who gaped at him.

'Hayhoe is a fairly common name, sir,' Bathwick ventured.

'Heigh-ho?' repeated Leo, looking at him as if he were demented. 'I don't believe it. When you're as old as I am, Bathwick, you'll give up trying to be funny. This is a serious time, my dear feller, a serious time.'

Bathwick grew crimson about the ears at the injustice, but he controlled himself and glowered silently. It was a ridiculous incident, but it constituted, I submit, the whole reason why Leo considers Bathwick a facetious ass to this day, which is a pity, of course, for a more serious-minded cove was never born.

At the time I was more interested in the information than the man, however, and I turned to Kingston.

'D'you remember a fantastic old man in a top hat weeping into an immense mourning handkerchief at that funeral at your place last winter?' I said. 'That was Hayhoe.'