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

only so much you can make into bacon, and people like the fresh pork. So the pig club get together to share the meat out when a pig gets slaughtered and then share in their turn when their own pig is ready. We joined up to it as soon as I heard about it.’
    ‘And very welcome you are,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘You aren’t going to be one what feeds the pig onion skins and such as taints the meat. We have thrown someone out of the club, Lady Peter, before now because they growed the most horrible-tasting meat. Now the vicar’s autumn pigs are always beautiful, because he lets ’em into his orchard to get all the windfall apples and pears. But Mr Puffett’s is best of all. He gives ’em windfall peaches from his kitchen garden, along of all the peelings, and do they taste different! Gorgeous, they are. I had a hand and spring off of Mr Puffett last time we had a share-out what was a real meal to remember . . . I done it with prunes soaked in a little tonic wine, Mrs Trapp, and you couldn’t guess how good that was! Even my Bert was pleased, and he always wants the trotters.’
    ‘Is this part of the war effort?’ asked Harriet.
    ‘Bless you, no!’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Been going on for years and years. The war effort is what’s trying to stop it, making us have a licence to get a pig slaughtered – in your own back yard, too! What next, I says to Bert, whatever next? That stupid Jack Baker what calls hisself a policeman – he isn’t any better than Joe Sellon uster be if you ask me – going all around asking people about who was walking out with that land-girl, and might of done her in, and all the people what he was asking about was down the shelter with about a hundred witnesses to as how they weren’t available to murder anyone. I ask you. It’s just as well you got your finger in that pie, my lady, or it’d be real dog’s dinner. Course, it’s a shame Lord Peter ain’t around to sort it – he’d have it worked out in no time. Well, well, I can’t sit around here all day. I better love you and leave you.’
    Mrs Trapp waited until the door was firmly shut behind the visitor before saying to Harriet, ‘I’m sorry I hadn’t mentioned the pig club, my lady; we seem always to have to discuss the rationing.’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s a bit of a compliment that we’re allowed to join it, since it sounds as if it’s insiders only.’
    ‘I don’t think it’s so much a compliment, my lady, as necessity. It seems that the hoist is in one of our outhouses. They would need us involved.’
    ‘What is a hoist?’ asked Harriet.
    ‘An arrangement of ropes and pulleys, my lady, I understand. I haven’t been to look myself. Can’t say as I’d want to. The butcher at Duke’s Denver used to come up when there was a beast to kill on the home farm, but by the time I saw what he was up to it was all nicely jointed.’
    Just at that point Polly and Charlie burst in through the garden door, panting and hot and asking for drinks. Harriet hastily changed the subject. ‘What can the youngsters drink, Mrs Trapp? Have we got anything for them?’
    ‘The finest drink that man can drink is water from the spring,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘Straight from the tap. Good for your teeth.’
    ‘Can we have it poured from a jug, Mrs Trapp, even if it is just water?’ asked Polly. ‘Then we can pretend it’s something nice.’
    ‘You can have it out of this lovely Staffordshire jug, Miss Polly, as though you were the Queen of Sheba,’ said Mrs Trapp, with a flourish. Harriet saw that she was fetching from the pantry a jug with a strange brown fluid in it the colour of watered beer.
    ‘Wow!’ cried Charlie. ‘Liquorice water! Gosh, Mrs Trapp, I love you!’
    ‘Cupboard love, you young scamp,’ said Mrs Trapp, smiling. ‘It won’t fool me. You won’t get round me that way! Now how’s that thingummyjig that your uncle gave you? Have you got it working yet?’
    ‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘it