“What in the world are you thinking of catching with that?” demanded Mr. Blundell. “A whale?”
“Eels,” replied his lordship. He weighed the line in his hand and gravely added another piece of lead. Mr. Blundell, suspecting some kind of mystification, watched him in discreet silence. “That will do,” said Wimsey, “unless eels swim deeper than ever plummet sounded. Now come along. I’ve borrowed the keys of the church from the Rector. He had mislaid them, of course, but they turned up eventually among the Clothing Club accounts.”
He led the way to the cope-chest beneath the tower, and threw it open. “I have been chattin’ with our friend Mr. Jack Godfrey. Very pleasant fellow. He tells me that a complete set of new ropes was put in last December. One or two were a little dicky, and they didn’t want to take any chances over the New Year peal, so they renewed the lot while they were about it. These are the old ones, kept handy in case of sudden catastrophe. Very neatly coiled and stowed. This whopper belongs to Tailor Paul. Lift ’em out carefully—eighty feet or so of rope is apt to be a bit entanglin’ if let loose on the world. Batty Thomas. Dimity. Jubilee. John. Jericho. Sabaoth. But where is little Gaude? Where and oh where is she? With her sallie cut short and her rope cut long, where and oh where can she be? No—there’s nothing else in the chest but the leather buffets and a few rags and oilcans. No rope for Gaude. Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus. The mystery of the missing bell-rope. Et responsum est ab omnibus: Non est inventus— -a or -um.”
The Superintendent scratched his head and gazed vaguely about the church.
“Not in the stove,” said Wimsey. “My first thought, of course. If the burying was done on Saturday, the stoves would be alight, but they’d be banked down for the night, and it would have been awkward if our Mr. Gotobed had raked out anything unusual on Sunday morning with his little scraper. As a matter of fact, he tells me that one of the first things he does on Sunday morning is to open the top thingumajig on the stove and take a look inside to see that the flue-pipe is clear. Then he stirs it up a-top, rakes it out at the bottom door and sets it drawing for the day. I don’t think that was where the rope went. I hope not, anyway. I think the murderer used the rope to carry the body by, and didn’t remove it till he got to the graveside. Hence these salmon-hooks.”
“The well?” said Mr. Blundell, enlightened.
“The well,” replied Wimsey. “What shall we do, or go fishing?”
“I’m on; we can but try.”
“There’s a ladder in the vestry,” said Wimsey. “Bear a hand. Along this way—out through the vestry-door—and here we are. Away, my jolly boys, we’re all bound away. Sorry! I forgot this was consecrated ground. Now then—up with the cover. Half a jiff. We’ll sacrifice half a brick to the water-gods. Splosh!—it’s not so very deep. If we lay the ladder over the mouth of the well, we shall get a straight pull.”
He extended himself on his stomach, took the reel in his left hand and began to pay the line cautiously out over the edge of the ladder, while the Superintendent illumined the proceedings with a torch.
The air came up cold and dank from the surface of the water. Far below a circle of light reflected the pale sky and the beam of the torch showed hooks and line working steadily downwards. Then a tiny break in the reflection marked the moment when the hooks touched the water.
A pause. Then the whirr of the reel as Wimsey rewound the line.
“More water than I thought. Where are those leads? Now then, we’ll try again.”
Another pause. Then:
“A bite. Super, a bite! What’s the betting it’s an old boot? It’s not heavy enough to be the rope. Never mind. Up she comes. Ahoy! up she rises! Sorry, I forgot again. Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo! What’s this? Not a boot, but the next thing to it. A hat! Now then, Super! Did you measure the head of the corpse? You did? Good! then we shan’t need to dig him up again to see if his hat fits. Stand by with the gaff. Got him! Soft felt, rather the worse for wear and water. Mass production. London maker. Exhibit One. Put it aside to dry. Down she goes again.... And up she comes. Another tiddler. Golly! what’s this? Looks like a German sausage. No, it isn’t. No, it isn’t. It’s a sallie. Sallie in our alley. She is the darling of my heart. Little Gaude’s sallie. Take her up tenderly, lift her with care. Where sallie is, the rest will be.... Hoops-a-daisy! ... I’ve got it.... It’s caught somewhere.... No, don’t pull too hard, or the hook may come adrift. Ease her. Hold her.... Damn!... Sorry, undamn! I mean, how very provoking, it’s got away.... Now I’ve got it... Was that the ladder cracking or my breastbone, I wonder? Surprisin’ly sharp edge a ladder has.... There now, there now! there’s your eel—all of a tangle. Catch hold. Hurray!”
“It’s not all here,” said the Superintendent, as the slimy mass of rope was hauled over the edge of the well.
“Probably not,” said Wimsey, “but this is one of the bits that were used to do the tying. He’s cut it loose and left the knots in.”
“Yes. Better not touch the knots, my lord. They might tell us something about who tied ’em.”
“Take care of the knots and the noose will take care of itself. Right you are. Here we go again.”
In process of time, the whole length of the rope—as far as they could judge—lay before them in five sections, including the sallie.
“Arms and ankles tied separately. Then body tied up to something or other and the slack cut off. And he removed the sallie because it got in the way of his knots.
H’m!” said Mr. Blundell. “Not very expert work, but effective, I dare say. Well, my lord, this is a very interesting discovery of yours. But—it’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it? Puts rather a different complexion on the crime, eh?”
“You’re right. Super. Well, one must face up to things, as the lady said when she went to have hers lifted. Hullo! what the—”
A face, perched in a bodiless sort of way on the churchyard wall, bobbed suddenly out of sight as he turned, and then bobbed up again.
“What the devil do you want. Potty?” demanded the Superintendent.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Potty. “I don’t want nothing. Who’ve you goin’ to hang with that there, mister? That’s a rope, that is. They’ve got eight on ’em hanging up the tower there—” he added, confidentially. “Rector don’t let me go up there no more, because they don’t want nobody to know. But Potty Peake knows. One, two, three, four, five, six seven, eight—all hung up by the neck. Old Paul, he’s the biggest—Tailor Paul—but there did ought to be nine tailors by rights. I can count, you see; Potty can count. I’ve counted ’em over time and again on my fingers. Eight. And one is nine. And one is ten—but I ain’t telling you his name. Oh, no. He’s waiting for the nine tailors—one, two, three, four—”
“Here, you, hop it!” cried the Superintendent, exasperated. “And don’t let me catch you hanging round here again.”
“Who’s a-hanging? Listen—you tell me, and I’ll tell you. There’s Number Nine a-coming, and that’s a rope to hang him, ain’t it, mister? Nine of ’em, and eight’s there already. Potty knows. Potty can say. But he won’t. Oh, no! Somebody might be listening.” His face changed to its usual vacant look and he touched his cap. “Good-day, sir. Good-day, mister. I got to feed the pigs, that’s Potty’s work. Yes, that’s right. They pigs did ought to be fed. ’Morning, sir; ’morning, mister.”
He slouched away across the fields towards a group of out-houses some distance away.
“There!” said Mr. Blundell, much vexed. “He’ll go telling everybody about this rope. He’s got hanging on the brain, ever since he found his mother hanging in the cowhouse when he was a kid. Over at Little Dykesey, that was, a matter of thirty year back. Well, it can’t be helped. I’ll get these things taken along to the station, and come back later on for Will Thoday. It’ll be past his lunchtime now.”
“It’s past mine, too,” said Wimsey, as the clock chimed the quarter past one. “I shall have to apologise to Mrs. Venables.”
* * *
&nb
sp; “So you see, Mrs. Thoday,” said Superintendent Blundell, pleasantly, “if anybody can help us over this awkward business it’s you.”
Mary Thoday shook her head. “I’m sure I would if I could, Mr. Blundell, but there I how can I? It’s right enough to say I was up all night with Will. I hardly had my clothes off for a week, he was that bad, and the night after they laid poor Lady Thorpe to rest, he was just as bad as could be. It turned to pneumonia, you know, and we didn’t think as we should ever pull him through. I’m not likely to forget that night, nor the day neither. Sitting here, listening to old Tailor Paul and wondering if he was going to ring for Will before the night was out.”
“There, there!” said her husband, embarrassed, and sprinkling a great quantity of vinegar on his tinned salmon, “it’s all over now, and there’s no call to get talking that way.”
“Of course not,” said the Superintendent. “Not but what you had a pretty stiff time of it, didn’t you, Will? Delirious and all that kind of thing, I’ll lay. I know what pneumonia is, for it carried off my old mother-in-law in 1922. It’s a very trying thing to nurse, is pneumonia.”
“So ’tis,” agreed Mrs. Thoday. “Very bad he was, that night. Kept on trying to get out of his bed and go to church. He thought they was ringing the peal without him, though I kept on telling him that was all rung and finished with New Year’s Day. A terrible job I had with him, and nobody to help me, Jim having left us that very morning. Jim was a great help while he was here, but he had to go back to his ship. He stayed as long as he could, but of course he’s not his own master.”
“No,” said Mr. Blundell. “Mate on a merchantman, isn’t he? How’s he getting along? Have you heard from him lately?”
“We had a postcard last week from Hong Kong,” said Mary, “but he didn’t say much. Only that he was well and love to the children. He hasn’t sent nothing but postcards this voyage, and he must be terrible busy, for he’s such a man for writing letters as a rule.”
“They’ll be a bit shorthanded, maybe,” said Will. “And it’s an anxious time for men in his line of business, freights being very scarce and hard to come by. It’ll be all this depression, I suppose.”
“Yes, of course. When do you expect him back?”
“Not for I don’t know when,” replied Will. The Superintendent looked sharply at him, for he seemed to detect a note almost of satisfaction in the tone. “Not if trade’s decent, that is. You see, his ship don’t make regular trips. She follows cargo, as they call it, tramping round from port to port wherever there’s anything to be picked up.”
“Ah, yes, of course. What’s the name of the ship, again?”
“The Hannah Brown. She belongs to Lampson & Blake of Hull. Jim is doing very well, I’m told, and they set great store by him. If anything happened to Captain Woods, they’d give the ship to Jim. Wouldn’t they, Will?”
“So he says,” replied Thoday uneasily. “But it don’t do to count on anything these days.”
The contrast between the wife’s enthusiasm and the husband’s lack of it was so marked, that Mr. Blundell drew his own conclusions. “So Jim’s been making trouble between ’em, has he?” was his unspoken comment. “That explains a lot. But it doesn’t help me much. Better change the subject.”
“Then you didn’t happen to see anything going on at the church that night?” he said. “No lights moving about? Nothing of that kind?”
“I didn’t move from Will’s bedside all night,” replied Mrs. Thoday, with a hesitating glance at her husband. “You see, he was so ill, and if I left him a minute, he’d be throwing the clothes off and trying to get up. When it wasn’t the peal that was in his mind, it was the old trouble—you know.”
“The old Wilbraham affair?”
“Yes. He was all muddled up in his head, thinking the—the—that dreadful trial was on and he had to stand by me.”
“That’ll do!” cried Thoday, suddenly, pushing his plate away so violently that the knife and fork clattered from the plate upon the table. “I won’t have you fretting yourself about that old business no more. All that’s dead and buried. If-it come up in my mind when I wasn’t rightly in my senses, I can’t help that. God knows, I’d be the last to put you in mind of it if I’d been able to help myself. You did ought to know that.”
“I’m not blaming you, Will.”
“And I won’t have nothing more said about it in my house. What do you want to come worrying her this way, Mr. Blundell? She’s told you as she don’t know a thing about this chap that was buried, and that’s all there is to it. What I may have said and done, when I was ill, don’t matter a hill of beans.”
“Not a scrap,” admitted the Superintendent, “and I’m very sorry such an allusion should have come up, I’m sure. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. You can’t assist me and that’s all there is to it. I’m not saying it isn’t a disappointment, but a policeman’s job’s all disappointments, and one must take the rough with the smooth. Now I’ll be off and let the youngsters come back to their tea. By the way, what’s gone with the parrot?”
“We’ve put him in the other room,” said Will, with a scowl. “He’s taken to shrieking fit to split your head.”
“That’s the worst of parrots,” said Mr. Blundell. “He’s a good talker, though. I’ve never heard a better.”
He bade them a cheerful good evening and went out. The two Thoday children—who had been banished to the woodshed during the discussion of murders and buryings, unsuited to their sex and tender years—ran down to open the gate for him.
“’Evening, Rosie,” said Mr. Blundell, who never forgot anybody’s name, “’evening, Evvie. Are you being good girls at school?”
But the voice of Mrs. Thoday calling them at that moment to their tea, the Superintendent received but a brief answer to his question.
* * *
Mr. Ashton was a farmer of the old school. He might have been fifty years old, or sixty or seventy, or any age. He spoke in a series of gruff barks, and held himself so rigidly that if he had swallowed a poker it could only have produced unseemly curves and flexions in his figure. Wimsey, casting a thoughtful eye upon his hands, with their gnarled and chalky joints, concluded, however, that his unbending aspect was due less to austerity than to chronic arthritis. His wife was considerably younger than himself; plump where he was spare, bounce-about where he was stately, merry where he was grave, and talkative where he was monosyllabic. They made his lordship extremely welcome and offered him a glass of homemade cowslip wine.
“It’s not many that makes it now,” said Mrs. Ashton. “But it was my mother’s recipe, and I say, as long as there’s peggles to be got, I’ll make my peggle wine. I don’t hold by all this nasty stuff you get at the shops. It’s good for nothing but to blow out the stomach and give you gas.”
“Ugh!” said Mr. Ashton, approvingly.
“I quite agree with you, Mrs. Ashton,” said his lordship. “This is excellent.” And so it was. “It is another kindness I have to thank you for.” And he expressed his gratitude for the first-aid given to his car the previous January.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Ashton. “Pleased, I’m sure.”
“But I always hear of Mr. Ashton engaged in some good work or other,” went on his lordship. “I believe he was the good Samaritan who brought poor William Thoday back from Walbeach the day he was taken ill.”
“Ugh!” repeated Mr. Ashton. “Very fortunate we happened to see him. Ugh! Very bad weather for a sick man. Ugh! Dangerous thing, influenza.”
“Dreadful!” said his wife. “Poor man—he was quite reeling with it as he came out of the Bank. I said to Mr. Ashton, ‘How terrible bad poor Will do look, to be sure! I’m sure he’s not fit to go home.’ And sure enough, we hadn’t got but a mile or so out of the town when we saw his car drawn up by the side of the road, and him quite helpless. It was God’s mercy he didn’t drive into the Drain and kill himself. And with all that money on him, too! Dear, dear! What a terrible loss it would have been. Q
uite helpless and out of his head he was, counting them notes over and dropping of them all over the place. ‘Now, Will,’ I said, ‘you just put them notes back in your pocket and keep quiet and we’ll drive you home. And you’ve no call to worry about the car,’ I said, ‘for we’ll stop at Turner’s on the way and get him to bring it over next time he comes to Fenchurch. He’ll do it gladly, and he can go back on the ’bus.’ So he listened to me and we got him into our car and brought him home. And a hard time he had, dear, dear! He was prayed for in church two weeks running.”
“Ugh!” said Mr. Ashton.
“What he ever wanted to come out for in such weather I can’t think,” went on Mrs. Ashton, “for it wasn’t market day, and we wouldn’t have been there ourselves, only for Mr. Ashton having to see his lawyer about Giddings’ lease, and I’m sure if Will had wanted any business done, we’d have been ready to do it for him. Even if it was the Bank, he could have trusted us with it, I should think. It’s not as though Mr. Ashton couldn’t have taken care of two hundred pounds, or two thousand, for that matter. But Will Thoday was always very close about his business.”
“My dear!” said Mr. Ashton, “ugh! It may have been Sir Henry’s business. You wouldn’t have him anything but close about what’s not, rightly speaking, his affair.”
“And since when, Mr. Ashton,” demanded his lady, “has Sir Henry’s family banked at the London and East Anglia? Let alone that Sir Henry was always a deal too considerate to send a sick man out to do business for him in a snowstorm? I’ve told you before that I don’t believe that two hundred pounds had anything to do with Sir Henry and you’ll find out one of these days I’m right, as I always am. Aren’t I, now?”
“Ugh!” said Mr. Ashton. “You make a lot of talk, Maria and some of it’s bound to be right. Funny if it wasn’t, now and again. Ugh! But you’ve no call to be interfering with Will’s money. You leave that to him.”
“That’s true enough,” admitted Mrs. Ashton, amiably. “I do let my tongue run on a bit, I’ll allow. His lordship must excuse me.”
Wimsey 009 - The Nine Tailors Page 15
