by Nine Tailors
“Rather! Shall I run you up there? Save the force a bit of money, you know, on train-fares. And be quicker and more comfortable.”
“Thank you very much, my lord.”
“Bunter, wire to the Rector that we have gone to Town. Hop in, Super. You will now see how safe and swift modern methods of transport are when there is no speed-limit. Oh, wait a moment. While Bunter is wiring, have a look at this. It reached me this morning.”
He handed over Hilary Thorpe’s letter and the enclosure.
“Evil elephants?” said Mr. Blundell. “What in the name of goodness is all this about?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping your friend Cranton can tell us.”
“But it’s potty.”
“I don’t think Potty could rise to such heights. No, I know what you mean—don’t trouble to explain. But the paper, Superintendent, the paper!”
“What about it? Oh, I get you. You think this came from the same place as Suzanne Legros’ letter. I shouldn’t wonder if you’re right. Step in and we’ll have a look. By jove, my lord, and you are right. Might have come out of the same packet. Well, I’ll be——Found in the belfry, you say. What do you think it all means, then?”
“I think this is the paper that Legros sent to his friend in England—the ‘guarantee’ that he composed, shut up in his room for so many hours. And I think it’s the clue to where the emeralds were hidden. A cipher, or something of that sort.”
“Cipher, eh? It’s a queer one, then. Can you read it?”
“No, but I jolly well will. Or find somebody who can. I’m hoping that Cranton will read it for us. I bet he won’t, though,” added his lordship, thoughtfully. “And even if we do read it, it isn’t going to do us much good, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?”
“Why, because you can bet your sweet life that the emeralds were taken away by whoever it was killed Legros—whether it was Cranton or Thoday or somebody else we don’t know about yet.”
“I suppose that’s a fact. Anyhow, my lord, if we read the cipher and find the hiding-place, and the stuff’s gone, that’ll be pretty good proof that we’re working along the right lines.”
“So it will. But,” added Wimsey, as the Superintendent and Bunter piled into the car and were whisked away out of Leamholt at a speed which made the policeman gasp, “if the emeralds are gone, and Cranton says he didn’t take them, and we can’t prove he did, and we can’t find out who Legros really was, or who killed him, why then—where are we?”
“Just where we were before,” said Mr. Blundell.
“Yes,” said Wimsey. “It’s like Looking-Glass Country. Takes all the running we can do to stay in the same place.”
The Superintendent glanced about him. Flat as a chessboard, and squared like a chess-board with intersecting dyke and hedge, the Fen went flashing past them.
“Very like Looking-Glass Country,” he agreed, “same as the picture in the book. But as for staying in the same place—all I can say is, it don’t look like it, my lord—not where you’re concerned.”
THE EIGHTH PART
LORD PETER FOLLOWS HIS COURSE BELL TO LEAD
I will again urge on the young conductor the great advantage that it will be to him to write out touches or even whole peals … whereby he will gain a great insight into the working of the bells.
TROYTE ON CHANGE-RINGING
WELL, OF COURSE,” ADMITTED Mr. Cranton, grinning up ruefully from his pillow into Lord Peter’s face, “if your lordship recognizes me, that’s done it. I’ll have to come clean, as the sheet said to the patent washer. It’s a fact I was in Fenchurch St. Paul on New Year’s Day, and a lovely place it is to start a happy New Year in, I don’t think. And it’s true I failed to report myself as from last September. And if you ask me, I think it’s damned slack of you flatties not to have dug me out earlier. What we pay rates and taxes for I don’t know.”
He stopped and shifted restlessly.
“Don’t waste your breath in giving us lip,” said Chief Inspector Parker of the C.I.D., kindly enough. “When did you start growing that face-fungus? In September? I thought so. What was the idea? You didn’t think it was becoming, did you?”
“I didn’t,” said Mr. Cranton. “Went to my heart, I may say, to disfigure myself. But I thought, ‘They’ll never know Nobby Cranton with his handsome features all hidden in black hair.’ So I made the sacrifice. It’s not so bad now, and I’ve got used to it, but it looked horrible while it was growing. Made me think of those happy times when I lived on His Majesty’s bounty. Ah! and look at my hands. They’ve never got over it. I ask you, how can a gentleman carry on with his profession after all those years of unrefined manual labour? Taking the bread out of a man’s mouth, I call it.”
“So you had some game on, which started last September,” said Parker, patiently. “What was it, now? Anything to do with the Wilbraham emeralds, eh?”
“Well, to be frank, it was,” replied Nobby Cranton. “See here, I’ll tell you the truth about that. I didn’t mind—I never have minded—being put inside for what I did do. But it’s offensive to a gentleman’s feelings when his word isn’t believed. And when I said I never had those emeralds, I meant what I said. I never did have them, and you know it. If I had had them, I wouldn’t be living in a hole like this, you can bet your regulation boots. I’d have been living like a gentleman on the fat of the land. Lord!” added Mr. Cranton, “I’d have had ’em cut up and salted away before you could have said ‘knife.’ Talk about tracing them—you’d never have traced them the way I’d have worked it.”
“So you went to Fenchurch St. Paul to try and find them, I suppose?” suggested Wimsey.
“That’s right, I did. And why? Because I knew they must be there. That swine—you know who I mean——”
“Deacon?”
“Yes, Deacon.” Something that might have been fear and might have been mere anger twisted the sick man’s face. “He never left the place. He couldn’t have got them away before you pinched him. You watched his correspondence, didn’t you? If he’d packed them up and posted them, you’d have known it, eh? No. He had them there—somewhere—I don’t know—but he had them. And I meant to get them, see? I meant to get them, and I meant to bring them along and show ’em to you and make you take back what you said about my having had them. Pretty silly, you’d have looked, wouldn’t you, when you had to own up that I was right?”
“Indeed?” said Parker. “That was the idea, was it? You were going to find the stuff and bring it along like a good little boy?”
“That’s right.”
“No idea of making anything out of them, of course?”
“Oh, dear, no,” replied Mr. Cranton.
“You didn’t come to us in September and suggest that we should help you to find them?”
“Well, I didn’t,” agreed Mr. Cranton. “I didn’t want to be bothered with a lot of clumsy cops. It was my own little game, see? All my own work, as the pavement-artists say.”
“Delightful,” said Parker. “And what made you think you knew where to look for them?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Cranton, cautiously. “Something Deacon once said gave me an idea. But he was a liar about that, too. I never met such a liar as that fellow was. He was so crooked, you could have used his spine for a safety-pin. It serves me right for having to do with menials. A mean, sneaking spirit, that’s what you find in that sort. No sense of honour at all.”
“Very likely,” said the Chief Inspector. “Who is Paul Taylor?”
“There you are!” said Mr. Cranton, triumphantly. “Deacon said to me——”
“When?”
“In the—oh, well!—in the dock, if you will excuse my mentioning such a vulgar place. ‘Want to know where those shiners are?’ he said. ‘Ask Paul Taylor or Batty Thomas’—and grinned all over his face. ‘Who’re they?’ said I. ‘You’ll find ’em in Fenchurch,’ he said, grinning still more. ‘But you aren’t likely to see Fenchurch again in a hurry,’ he said. So
then I biffed him one—excuse the expression—and the blinking warder interfered.”
“Really?” said Parker, incredulously.
“Cross my heart and wish I may die,” said Mr. Cranton. “But when I got down to Fenchurch, you see, I found there were no such people—only some rubbish about bells. So I dismissed the matter from my mind.”
“And sneaked off on the Saturday night. Why?”
“Well, to be frank with you,” replied Mr. Cranton, “there was an individual in that place I didn’t like the looks of. I got the idea that my face struck a chord in her mind, in spite of the exterior decorations. So, not wishing for argument—which is always ungentlemanly—I went quietly away.”
“And who was the penetrating individual?”
“Why, that woman—Deacon’s wife. We had stood shoulder to shoulder, as you might say, under unfortunate circumstances, and I had no wish to renew the acquaintance. I never expected to see her in that village, and, candidly, I thought she showed a lack of taste.”
“She came back when she married a man named Thoday,” said Wimsey.
“Married again, did she?” Cranton’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. I didn’t know that. Well, I’m damned!”
“Why the surprise?”
“Why?—Oh, well—somebody wasn’t too particular, that’s all.”
“See here,” said Parker, “you may as well tell the truth now. Did that woman have anything to do with the theft of the emeralds?”
“How should I know? But to be frank, I don’t believe she did. I think she was just a plain fool. Deacon’s cats-paw. I’m sure the fellow put her on to find out about the stuff, but I don’t think she was wise to what she was doing. Honestly, I don’t think so, because I can’t see that man Deacon giving his game away. But hell! What do I know about it?”
“You don’t think she knows where the stuff is?”
Cranton thought for a moment. Then he laughed.
“I’d pretty well take my oath she doesn’t.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“If she knew and was straight, she’d have told the police, wouldn’t she? If she knew and was crooked, she’d have told me or my pals. No. You won’t get it out of her.”
“H’m! You say you think she recognized you?”
“I got a sort of idea that she was beginning to find my face familiar. Mind you, it was only a kind of hunch I got. I might have been wrong. But I anticipated argument, and I have always considered argument ill-bred. So I went away. In the night. I was working for the blacksmith—an excellent fellow, but crude. I didn’t want any argument with him, neither. I just went quietly home to think things out, and then I got laid up with rheumatic fever, and it’s left my heart dickey, as you see.”
“Quite so. How did you get rheumatic fever?”
“Well, wouldn’t anybody get rheumatic fever, if he’d fallen into one of those cursed dykes? I never saw such a country, never. Country life never did suit me—particularly in the blasted middle of winter, with a thaw going on. I was damn nearly found dead in a ditch, which is no end for a gentleman.”
“You didn’t investigate the matter of Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul any further, then?” said Parker, placidly putting aside the eloquence which Mr. Cranton seemed ready to lavish on any side-issue. “I am referring to the bells. You did not, for instance, visit the belfry, to see if the emeralds were hidden up there?”
“No, of course I didn’t. Besides,” went on Mr. Cranton, much too hastily, “the confounded place was always locked.”
“You tried it, then?”
“Well, to be frank, I may just have laid my hand on the door, so to speak.”
“You never went up into the bell-chamber?”
“Not me.”
“Then how do you account for that?” demanded Parker, suddenly producing the mysterious cipher and thrusting it under the sick man’s eyes.
Mr. Cranton turned extremely white.
“That?” he gasped. “That?—I never——” He fought for breath. “My heart—here, give me some of the stuff in that glass——”
“Give it him,” said Wimsey, “he’s really bad.”
Parker gave him the medicine with a grim face. After a time the blue pallor gave place to a healthier colour, and the breathing became more natural.
“That’s better,” said Cranton. “You startled me. What did you say? That? I never saw that before.”
“You’re lying,” said the Chief Inspector, curtly. “You have seen it. Jean Legros sent it to you, didn’t he?”
“Who’s he? Never heard of him.”
“That’s another lie. How much money did you send him to get him to England?”
“I tell you I never heard of him,” repeated Cranton, sullenly. “For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone? I tell you I’m ill.”
He looked ill enough. Parker swore under his breath.
“Look here, Nobby, why not come across with the truth? It’ll save us bothering you. I know you’re ill. Cough it up and get it over.”
“I know nothing about it. I’ve told you—I went down to Fenchurch and I came away again. I never saw that paper and I never heard of Jean what’s-his-name. Does that satisfy you?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Are you charging me with anything?”
Parker hesitated. “Not as yet,” he said.
“Then you’ve got to take my answer,” said Mr. Cranton, faintly, but as one who is sure of his position.
“I know that,” said Parker, “but, hang it, man! Do you want to be charged? If you’d rather come down with us to the Yard——”
“What’s the idea? What have you got to charge me with? You can’t try me for stealing those bloody emeralds all over again. I haven’t got them. Never seen them——”
“No; but we might charge you with the murder of Jean Legros.”
“No—no—no!” cried Cranton. “It’s a lie! I never killed him. I never killed anybody. I never——”
“He’s fainted,” said Wimsey.
“He’s dead,” said Superintendent Blundell, speaking for the first time.
“I hope to goodness not,” said Parker. “No—it’s all right, but he looks pretty queer. Better get hold of that girl. Here, Polly!”
A woman came in. She gave one resentful glance at the three men and hurried across to Cranton.
“If you’ve killed him,” she muttered, “it’s murder. Coming and threatening one that’s as sick as him. You get out, you great bullies. He’s done nobody any harm.”
“I’ll send the doctor along,” said Parker. “And I’ll be coming to see him again. And when I do come, see that I find him here all right. Understand? We shall want him elsewhere, you know, as soon as he’s fit to be moved. He hasn’t reported himself since last September.”
The girl shrugged a disdainful shoulder, and they left her bending over the sick man.
“Well, Superintendent,” said Parker, “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do for you at the moment. The man’s not shamming—he’s really ill. But he’s holding something out on us. All the same, I don’t think it’s murder, somehow. That wouldn’t be like Cranton. He knew that paper all right.”
“Yes,” said Wimsey. “Produced quite a reaction, didn’t it? He’s frightened about something, Charles. What is it?”
“He’s frightened about the murder.”
“Well,” said Blundell, “it looks to me as though he did it. He admits he was there, and that he ran away on the night the body was buried. If he didn’t do it, who did? He could have got the key of the crypt from the sexton all right, we know that.”
“So he could,” said Wimsey, “but he was a stranger to the place. How did he know where the sexton kept his tools? Or where to find the bell-rope? He might have noticed the well, of course, in the day-time, but it’s funny that he should have had the whole scheme so pat. And where does Legros come into it? If Deacon told Cranton in the dock where to find the emeralds, where was
the sense of bringing Legros to England? He didn’t want him. And, if he did for some reason need Legros, and killed him to get the emeralds, where are the emeralds? If he sold them, you ought to have found it out by now. If he’s still got them, you’d better have a hunt for them.”
“We’ll search the house,” said Parker, dubiously, “but I don’t somehow think he’s got them. He wasn’t alarmed about the emeralds. It’s a puzzle. But we’ll turn the place upside-down, and if they’re there, we’ll get them.”
“And if you do,” said Blundell, “then you can arrest that chap for the murder. Whoever’s got the emeralds did the murder. I’m sure of that.”
“Where thy treasure is, there shall thy heart be also,” said Wimsey. “The heart of this crime is down at St. Paul. That’s my prophecy, Charles. Will you have a bet on it?”
“No, I won’t,” said the Chief Inspector. “You’re right too often, Peter, and I’ve no money to waste.”
Wimsey went back to Fenchurch St. Paul and shut himself up with the cipher. He had untwisted crypto grams before, and he felt certain that this would prove to be a simple one. Whether the inventor was Cranton or Jean Legros or Will Thoday or any other person connected with the affair of the Wilbraham emeralds, he was hardly likely to be an expert in the art of secret writing. Yet the thing had the signs of a cunning hand about it. He had never seen a secret message that looked so innocent. Sherlock Holmes’ Little Dancing Men were, by comparison, obviously secretive.
He tried various simple methods, such as taking every second, third or fourth letter, or skipping letters in accordance with a set combination of figures, but without result. He tried assigning a number to each letter and adding the results, word by word and sentence by sentence. This certainly produced enough mathematical problems to satisfy a Senior Wrangler, but none of them seemed to make sense. He took all the bell-inscriptions and added them up also, with and without the dates, but could find nothing significant. He wondered whether the book contained the whole of what was on the bells. Leaving his papers strewn over the table, he went to the Rector to borrow the keys of the belfry. After a slight delay, caused by the keys having been taken downstairs by mistake for the keys of the wine-cellar, he secured them and made his way to the church.
