Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey ]

by Nine Tailors

  “Thank you, Doctor; that will no doubt be very helpful.”

  The coroner paused, glanced through his notes and then turned to the Superintendent.

  “In the circumstances, Superintendent, it seems to me advisable to adjourn the inquest until you have completed your investigations. Shall we say, till today fortnight? Then, if you should see your way to making any charge against anybody in connection with this crime, or accident, or whatever it is, we may if you like adjourn the inquiry sine die.”

  “I think that would be the best way, Mr. Compline.”

  “Very well. Gentlemen, we will adjourn until today fortnight.”

  The jury, a little puzzled and disappointed at not being asked for any opinion, filed slowly out from behind the long trestle table at which they had been seated—a table dedicated, under happier circumstances, chiefly to parish teas.

  “A beautiful case,” said Lord Peter, enthusiastically, to Mr. Venables. “Quite charming. I am uncommonly grateful to you for drawing my attention to it. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I like your doctor.”

  “We consider him a very able man.”

  “You must introduce me to him; I feel that we should get on well together. The coroner doesn’t like him. Some trifling personal antagonism, no doubt. Why, here is my old friend Hezekiah! How do you do, Mr. Lavender? How’s Tailor Paul?”

  There was general greeting. The Rector caught the arm of a tall, thin man hurrying past their little group.

  “Just a moment, Will. I want to introduce you to Lord Peter Wimsey. Lord Peter, this is Will Thoday, whose bell you rang on your last visit.”

  Hands were shaken.

  “Very sorry I was to miss that peal,” said Thoday. “But I was pretty bad, wasn’t I, Rector?”

  “You were indeed. You don’t look to have quite got over it yet.”

  “I’m all right, sir, except for being troubled by a bit of a cough. But that’ll pass away with the spring weather coming.”

  “Well, you must take care of yourself. How’s Mary?”

  “Fine, sir, thank you. She was for coming to this here inquest, but I said as it wasn’t no place for a woman. I’m thankful I got her to stop at home.”

  “Yes; the doctor’s evidence was very disagreeable. Children all right? That’s splendid. Tell your wife Mrs. Venables will be coming round to see her in a day or two. Yes, she’s very well, thank you—distressed, naturally, by all this sad business. Ah! There’s Dr. Baines. Doctor! Lord Peter Wimsey wants very much to make your acquaintance. You’d better come and have a cup of tea at the Rectory. Good day, Will, good day! … I don’t like the looks of that fellow,” added the Rector, as they turned towards the Rectory. “What do you think of him, Doctor?”

  “He’s looking a bit white and strained today. Last week I thought he was a lot better, but he had a bad bout of it and he’s rather a nervous subject. You don’t expect farm-labourers to have nerves, do you, Lord Peter? But they’re human, like the rest of us.”

  “And Thoday is a very superior man,” said the Rector, as though superiority conveyed a licence to keep a nervous system. “He used to farm his own land till these bad times set in. Now he works for Sir Henry—that is to say, he did. I’m sure I don’t know what will happen now, with only that poor child left at the Red House. I suppose the trustee will let the place, or put in a steward to run it for her. It doesn’t bring in very much these days, I fear.”

  At this point a car overtook them and stopped a little way ahead. It proved to contain Superintendent Blundell and his assistants, and the Rector, apologizing fussily for his remissness, made him and Wimsey acquainted with one another.

  “Pleased to meet you, my lord. I’ve heard of you through my old friend Inspector Sugg. He’s retired now—did you know?—and got a nice little place the other side of Leamholt. He often talks about you. Says you used to pull his leg something cruel. This is a bad job, this is. Between you and me, my lord, what was it you were going to say when the coroner interrupted you—about this chap Driver’s not being a motor-mechanic?”

  “I was going to say that he gave me the impression of having done most of his manual labour lately at Princetown or somewhere like that.”

  “Ah!” said the Superintendent, thoughtfully. “Struck you that way, did he? How was that?”

  “Eyes, voice, attitude—all characteristic, what?”

  “Ah!” said the Superintendent again. “Ever heard of the Wilbraham emeralds, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that Nobby Cranton’s out again? And it seems he ain’t reported himself lately, neither. Last heard of six months ago in London. They’ve been looking for him. Maybe we’ve found him. In any case, I wouldn’t be surprised if we was to hear of those emeralds again before very long.”

  “Loud cheers!” said Wimsey. “I’m all for a treasure-hunt. This is confidential, of course?”

  “If you please, my lord. You see, if somebody thought it worth while to kill Cranton and smash him up and bury him, and cut off his hands, where he keeps his fingerprints, there’s somebody in this village that knows something. And the less they think we guess, the more free they’ll act and speak. And that’s why, my lord, I was rather glad when the reverend gentleman suggested you coming down here. They’ll talk freer to you than to me—see?”

  “Perfectly. I’m a terrific success at pottering round asking sloppy questions. And I can put away quite a lot of beer in a good cause.”

  The Superintendent grinned, begged Wimsey to come and see him at any time, clambered into his car and drove off.

  The great difficulty about any detective inquiry is knowing where to start. After some thought, Lord Peter made out the following list of queries:

  A. Identity of the Corpse.

  1. Was it Cranton?—Wait for report on teeth and police report.

  2. Consider the question of the ten-centime piece and the French underclothing. Has Cranton been in France? When? If not Cranton, is anyone known in the village also known to have been in France at any period since the War?

  3. The destruction of the hands and features after death suggests that the murderer had an interest in making recognition impossible. If the body is Cranton, who knew Cranton (a) by sight? (b) personally?

  (Note: Deacon knew him; but Deacon is dead. Did Mary Thoday know him?) Many people must have seen him at the trial.

  B. The Wilbraham Emeralds.

  1. Resulting from the above: Was Mary Thoday (formerly Mary Deacon, née Russell) really after all concerned in the theft?

  2. Who really had the emeralds—Deacon or Cranton?

  3. Where are the emeralds now? Did Cranton (if it was Cranton) come to Fenchurch St. Paul to look for them?

  4. If the answer to 3 is “Yes,” why did Cranton wait till now to make his search? Because some fresh information had lately reached him? Or merely because he was continuously in prison till just lately? (Ask the Superintendent.)

  5. What is the meaning of “Driver’s” interest in Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul? Is anything to be gained from a study of the bells and/or their mottoes?

  C. The Crime.

  1. What did deceased die of? (Wait for experts’ report.)

  2. Who buried (and presumably also killed) him?

  3. Can any clue to the time of the burial be gained by looking up the weather reports? (Snow? rain? footprints?)

  4. Whereabouts did the murder take place? The churchyard? the church? somewhere in the village?

  5. If the sexton’s tools were used, who had access to them? (“Driver,” apparently, but who else?)

  Quite a lot of questions, thought his lordship, and some of them unanswerable till outside reports came in. The matter of the bell-mottoes could, of course, be looked into at once. He sought the Rector and asked whether he could, without too much trouble, lay his hand on Woollcott’s History of the Bells of Fenchurch St. Paul, which he had once spoken about. The Rector thought he could, and after he had hunted through all his
study shelves and enlisted the aid of Mrs. Venables and Emily, the book was in fact discovered in a small room devoted to the activities of the Clothing Club (“and how it could have got there, I cannot imagine!”). From this work Wimsey distilled the following facts, interesting to archaeologists, but not immediately suggestive of anything in the way of corpses or emeralds:

  Batty Thomas (No. 7. Weight 30½ cwt. Note: D). The oldest bell in the ring in her present form, and older still in her original metal. First cast by Thomas Belleyetere of Lynn in 1338. Re-cast, with additional metal, by Abbot Thomas of Fenchurch (fl: 1356–1392) in 1380. This abbot also built the tower and the greater part of the existing nave, though the aisle windows were enlarged in Perpendicular style by Abbot Martin circ. 1423.)

  Inscriptions:

  Shoulder —NOLI + ESSE + INCREDVLVS +SED + FIDELIS +

  Waist —O SANCTE THOMA.

  Soundbow —ABBAT. THOMAS. SETT. MEE. HEARE. AND. BAD. MEE. RINGE. BOTH. LOVD. AND. CLEER.1380.

  No record of any other bells at this time, though there was probably at least one other. We know, however, that in the reign of Elizabeth there was a ring of five bells in D of which

  John (No. 3. Weight 8 cwt. Note: A) was the original treble. She bears the name of her founder, John Cole, an itinerant founder of the period.

  Inscription:

  Soundbow—JHON. COLE. MAD. MEE. JHON PRESBYTER. PAYD. MEE. JHON. EVAGELIST. AID. MEE. MDLVII.

  Jericho (No. 4. Weight 8½ cwt. Note: G) was the No. 2 of the old peal, and her maker seems to have thought aggressively well of her.

  Inscription:

  Shoulder —FROM. JERICHO. TO. IOHN. AGROAT. YR. IS. NOE. BELLE. CAN. BETTER. MY. NOTE. 1559.

  Of the original No. 4, nothing is known. The original No. 3 (F #) was a poor bell, flat in pitch and weak in quality. In James I’s reign, this bell was further flattened by the grinding away of its inner surface so as to produce some sort of approximation to F #, and the great tenor bell was added to make a ring of six in C.

  Tailor Paul (No. 8. Weight 41 cwt. Note: C)—A very noble bell of superb truth and tone. She was cast in the bell-field by the church. (See parish records.)

  Inscriptions:

  Shoulder —PAVLE + IS + MY + NAME +HONOVR + THAT + SAME +

  Soundbow —NINE + TAYLERS + MAKE + A + MANNE + IN + CHRIST + IS + DETH + ATT + END + IN + ADAM + YAT + BEGANNE + 1614

  The bells survived the tumults of the Great Rebellion, and in the later part of the century, when the fashion for change-ringing set in, a new treble and second were added to bring the number up to eight.

  Gaude (Treble. Weight 7 cwt. Note: C). The gift of the Gaudy family, she bears a “canting” motto.

  Inscription:

  Soundbow—GAVDE. GAUDY. DÑI. IN. LAVDE . MDCLXVI.

  The No. 2 of that period was known as Carolus, having been given in honour of the King’s Restoration. This bell, however, was cracked in the 18th century, as a result of the abominable practice of “clappering” the two smallest bells for occasional services, so that the ring was again reduced to six, of which No. 5 (F #) had always been unsatisfactory. In the first half of the 19th century (that period of ecclesiastical apathy) the worm was allowed to get into the timbers of the bell-cage, as a result of which No. 6 (the Elizabethan No. 4) fell and was broken. Nothing was done until the ’eighties, when an energetic High-Church rector called public attention to the bad state of the bells. Subscriptions were raised, the framework of the bell-cage was repaired and put in order, and three bells were re-cast:

  Sabaoth (No. 2. Weight 714 cwt. Note: B) was the gift of the Rector.

  Inscriptions:

  Shoulder —SANCTUS. SANCTUS. SANCTUS

  Soundbow —RECAST BY JOHN TAYLOR OF LOUGHBOROUGH 1887.

  Dimity (No. 6. Weight 14 cwt. Note: E) was given in memory of Sir Richard Thorpe, who died 1883.

  Inscriptions:

  Shoulder —RECAST BY JOHN TAYLOR OF LOUGHBOROUGH 1887.

  Soundbow —IN. PIAM. MEMORIAM. RICARDI. THORPE. ARMIGERI. NUNC. DIMITTIS. DOMINE. SERVUM. TUUM. IN. PACE.

  Jubilee (No. 5. Weight 9½ cwt. Note: F#). The funds for this bell were raised by public subscription in commemoration of the Queen’s Jubilee.

  Inscriptions:

  Shoulder —JUBILATE. DEO. OMNIS.TERRA.

  Waist —RECAST. IN. THE. YEAR. OF. THE. QUEEN’S. JUBILEE. BY. JOHN TAYLOR. AND. CO. E. HINKINS. AND. B. DONNINGTON. CHURCH-WARDENS.

  Wimsey puzzled his head for some time over this information, but without very much result. The dates, the weights and the mottoes—was there anything here that could serve as a guide to buried treasure? Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul had been particularly mentioned, but try as he would, for him they had neither speech nor language. After a time he gave up his calculations. Possibly there was something about the bells themselves that did not appear in Mr. Woollcott’s work. Something written or carved on the timbers, possibly. He must go up and look some time.

  It was Sunday morning. As he lifted his head from his calculations, he heard the bells begin to ring for matins. He hastened out in the hall, where he found his host winding the grandfather clock.

  “I always wind it when the bells begin on a Sunday morning,” explained Mr. Venables, “otherwise I might forget. I fear I am none too methodical. I hope you will not feel obliged to come to church, merely because you are our guest. I always make a point of telling our visitors that they are quite free to do as they wish. What time do you make it? Ten thirty-seven—we will put the hands at 10.45. He always loses about a quarter of an hour during the week, you see, and by putting him a little forward each time he is wound, we strike a happy mean. If you will just remember that he is always fast on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays, right on Wednesdays, and slow on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, you will find him a very reliable guide.”

  Wimsey said he was sure of it, and turned to find Bunter at his elbow, offering him with one hand his hat and with the other two leather-bound volumes on a small salver.

  “You see, padre, we have every intention of going to Church; we have, in fact, come prepared. Hymns A & M—I suppose that is the right work?”

  “I took the liberty of ascertaining as much beforehand, my lord.”

  “Of course you did, Bunter. You always ascertain everything. Why, padre, what’s the trouble? Have you lost anything?”

  “I—er—it’s very odd—I could have declared that I laid them down just here. Agnes! Agnes, my dear! Have you seen those banns anywhere?”

  “What is it, Theodore?”

  “The banns, my dear. Young Flavel’s banns. I know I had them with me. I always write them out on a slip of paper, you see, Lord Peter; it is so very inconvenient to carry the register to the lectern. Now what in the world——?”

  “Are they on top of the clock, Theodore?”

  “My dear, what a——! Bless me, though, you are quite right. How did that come about, I wonder? I must have put them up there unconsciously when I was picking up the key. Very strange, indeed, but the little mishap is now remedied, thanks to my wife. She always knows where I have put things. I believe she knows the workings of my mind better than I do myself. Well, I must go across to the Church now. I go early, because of the choir-boys. My wife will show you the Rectory pew.”

  The pew was conveniently situated for observation, towards the rear of the nave on the north side. From it, Mrs. Venables was able to survey the south porch, by which the congregation entered, and also to keep an admonitory eye on the school children who occupied the north aisle, and to frown at those who turned round to stare or make faces. Lord Peter, presenting a placid front to the inquisitive glances of his fellow-worshippers, also watched the south porch. There was a face he was particularly anxious to see. Presently he saw it. William Thoday came in, and with him a thin, quietly dressed woman accompanied by two little girls. He guessed her to be about forty, though, as is frequently the case with country women, she had lost most of her front teeth and looked older. But he co
uld still see in her the shadow of the smart and pretty parlour-maid that she must have been sixteen years before. It was, he thought, an honest face, but its expression was anxious and almost apprehensive—the face of a woman who had been through trouble and awaited, with nervous anticipation, the next shock which fate might hold in store for her. Probably, thought Wimsey, she was worried about her husband. He did not look well; he, too, had the air of being braced in self-defence. His uneasy eyes wandered about the church and then returned, with a curious mingling of wariness and protective affection, to his wife. They took their seats almost immediately opposite the Rectory pew, so that Wimsey, from his corner seat, was able to watch them without any appearance of particularity. He gained the impression, however, that Thoday felt his scrutiny and resented it. He turned his eyes away, therefore, and fixed them on the splendours of the angel roof, lovelier than ever in the soft spring sunshine that streamed through the rich reds and blues of the clerestory windows.

  The pew which belonged to the Thorpe family was empty, except for an upright middle-aged gentleman who was pointed out in a whisper by Mrs. Venables as being Hilary Thorpe’s uncle from London. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gates, and the Red House servants sat in the south aisle. In the pew immediately in front of Wimsey was a stout little man in a neat black suit, who, Mrs. Venables further informed him, was Mr. Russell, the village undertaker, and a cousin of Mary Thoday. Mrs. West, the postmistress, arrived with her daughter, and greeted Wimsey, whom she remembered from his last visit, with a smile and something between a nod and a bob. Presently, the bells ceased, with the exception of the five-minutes bell, and the ringers came clattering up to their places. Miss Snoot, the schoolmistress, struck into a voluntary, the choir came in from the vestry with much noise of hobnailed boots, and the Rector entered his stall.