A Presumption of Death by Dorothy L. Sayers, Jill Paton Walsh Page B

Trapp has a whole side of bacon sent down from the Duke’s farm at Denver last week, and she wishes to repay favours with a few rashers while she has some to spare.’
    ‘Oh, oh!’ cried Miss Twitterton, clasping her hands together in evident delight. ‘Oh, she shouldn’t have, Lady Peter! I only gave her an old hen past its day for laying; just once. I suppose the Duke can get a slaughtering licence any time he wants. But the bacon ration is so mean, isn’t it? Just four ounces for a whole week! I am most grateful.’
    ‘I haven’t asked about licences,’ said Harriet, ‘and I don’t think I will enquire. The Duke raises prize pigs, and I suppose he has to kill one of them now and then.’
    ‘Oh, quite so. Least said soonest mended. I don’t think those people in London making up the regulations have the least idea what usually goes on in the country. And you know, Lady Peter, if they try to stop country people keeping the food they raise themselves, and grow themselves, they won’t have piles of country produce going off into the cities; they’ll just have less food all round. Calling it the black market, when it’s only what has been going on since well before the Kaiser won’t help – it just gets up people’s noses.’
    ‘I suppose you’re right, Miss Twitterton. But before I go I did have something to ask you. Mrs Spright tells me she sees you going past her place late at night. I am sure there is an innocent explanation.’ Harriet saw in astonishment that bright red patches had appeared on Aggie Twitterton’s cheeks. She was wringing her hands in agitation. ‘I was sure I had only to ask . . .’
    ‘I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong!’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘It isn’t any business of that Spright woman, it isn’t anybody’s business, not even yours! It’s completely secret.’ Then she added, more calmly, ‘It’s confidential. I gave my word not to tell anyone, and I won’t. Not anyone . It isn’t against the law to go walking down the lanes and in the woods. I’m not breaking blackout; nobody can tell you they’ve seen me with a torch. I shall keep my counsel, and that’s that.’
    ‘Well of course,’ said Harriet, both surprised and embarrassed. ‘I’m sure you have your reasons. I won’t press you about it.’
    ‘What does that old fool say about me?’ asked Miss Twitterton. ‘Does she say I murdered Wendy Percival? You know that I didn’t, Lady Peter, because we were down the shelter together. I suppose she thinks I’m a German spy. Let her, say I; she’s saying that about anyone and everyone, even the dear vicar. Right off her head, she is.’
    ‘Yes, I rather think she is,’ said Harriet ruefully. If Mrs Spright was obviously potty, what was she doing asking Agnes Twitterton about her allegations? And yet Miss Twitterton had not denied going up to the woods after dark, had indeed confirmed it.
    ‘She used to be a very good dentist,’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘I never went to her myself; I always go to Mr Pargeter at Broxford for my teeth. But so I have been told. You won’t be cross with me, Lady Peter, for keeping a secret from you? I quite hate not being able to tell you, but you see, I did give my word of honour.’
    ‘Of course I won’t be cross,’ said Harriet. ‘A promise is a promise; I do understand that. I’ll see you at choir-practice on Wednesday.’
    And indeed, Harriet was not cross with her friend, just severely puzzled. Could Miss Twitterton have remembered the awful crisis during the investigation of the Noakes murder, when Harriet had told Peter about the Twitters’ involvement with Crutchley, and Peter had told the police? Miss Twitterton had not asked for secrecy on that occasion, but confidentiality had been implied, and the confidence was misplaced. But that was nearly four years ago, and seemed never to have cast a shadow on friendly relations so far. Indeed Miss Twitterton had seemed overjoyed when Harriet arrived in