Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey ]

by Nine Tailors

  “All right,” said Wimsey. “Can I send you more men?”

  “A regiment of men couldn’t do nothing now, my lord. They old gates is going, and there won’t be a foot of dry land in the three Fenchurches six hours from now.”

  Wimsey glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell ’em,” he said, and the car leapt forward.

  The Rector was in his study when Wimsey burst in upon him with the news.

  “Great Heavens!” cried Mr. Venables. “I’ve been afraid of this. I’ve warned the drainage authorities over and over again about those gates but they wouldn’t listen. But it’s no good crying over spilt milk. We must act quickly. If they open the Old Bank Sluice and Van Leyden’s Sluice blows up, you see what will happen. All the Upper Water will be turned back up the Wale and drown us ten feet deep or more. My poor parishioners—all those outlying farms and cottages! But we mustn’t lose our heads. We have taken our precautions. Two Sundays ago I warned the congregation what might happen and I put a note in the December Parish Magazine. And the Nonconformist minister has cooperated in the most friendly manner with us. Yes, yes. The first thing to do is to ring the alarm. They know what that means, thank God! They learnt it during the War. I never thought I should thank God for the War, but He moves in a mysterious way. Ring the bell for Emily, please. The church will be safe, whatever happens, unless we get a rise of over twelve feet, which is hardly likely. Out of the deep, O Lord, out of the deep. Oh, Emily, run and tell Hinkins that Van Leyden’s Sluice is giving way. Tell him to fetch one of the other men and ring the alarm on Gaude and Tailor Paul at once. Here are the keys of the church and belfry. Warn your mistress and get all the valuables taken over to the church. Carry them up the tower. Now keep cool, there’s a good girl. I don’t think the house will be touched, but one cannot be too careful. Find somebody to help you with this chest—I’ve secured all the parish registers in it—and see that the church plate is taken up the tower as well. Now, where is my hat? We must get on the telephone to St. Peter and St. Stephen and make sure that they are prepared. And we will see what we can do with the people at the Old Bank Sluice. We haven’t a moment to lose. Is your car here?”

  They ran the car up to the village, the Rector leaning out perilously and shouting warnings to everyone they met. At the post-office they called up the other Fenchurches and then communicated with the keeper of the Old Bank Sluice. His report was not encouraging.

  “Very sorry, sir, but we can’t help ourselves. If we don’t let the water through there’ll be the best part of four mile o’ the bank washed away. We’ve got six gangs a-working on it now, but they can’t do a lot with all these thousands o’ tons o’ water coming down. And there’s more to come, so they say.”

  The Rector made a gesture of despair, and turned to the post-mistress.

  “You’d best get down to the church, Mrs. West. You know what to do. Documents and valuables in the tower, personal belongings in the nave. Animals in the churchyard. Cats, rabbits and guinea-pigs in baskets, please—we can’t have them running round loose. Ah! there go the alarm-bells. Good! I am more alarmed for the remote farms than for the village. Now, Lord Peter, we must go and keep order as best we can at the church.”

  The village was already a scene of confusion. Furniture was being stacked on handcarts, pigs were being driven down the street, squealing; hens, squawking and terrified, were being huddled into crates. At the door of the school-house Miss Snoot was peering agitatedly out.

  “When ought we to go, Mr. Venables?”

  “Not yet, not yet—let the people move their heavy things first. I will send you a message when the time comes, and then you will get the children together and march them down in an orderly way. You can rely on me. But keep them cheerful—reassure them and don’t on any account let them go home. They are far safer here. Oh, Miss Thorpe! Miss Thorpe! I see you have heard the news.”

  “Yes, Mr. Venables. Can we do anything?”

  “My dear, you are the very person! Could you and Mrs. Gates see that the school-children are kept amused and happy, and give them tea later on if necessary? The urns are in the parish-room. Just a moment, I must speak to Mr. Hensman. How are we off for stores, Mr. Hensman?”

  “Pretty well stocked, sir,” replied the grocer. “We’re getting ready to move as you suggested, sir.”

  “That’s fine,” said the Rector. “You know where to go. The refreshment room will be in the Lady chapel. Have you the key of the parish-room for the boards and trestles?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. Get a tackle rigged over the church well for your drinking-water, and be sure and remember to boil it first. Or use the Rectory pump, if it is spared to us. Now, Lord Peter, back to the church.”

  Mrs. Venables had already taken charge in the church. Assisted by Emily and some of the women of the parish, she was busily roping off areas—so many pews for the school-children, so many other pews near the stoves for the sick and aged, the area beneath the tower for furniture, a large placard on the parclose screen REFRESHMENTS. Mr. Gotobed and his son, staggering under buckets of coke, were lighting the stoves. In the churchyard, Jack Godfrey and a couple of other farmers were marking out cattle-pens and erecting shelters among the tombs. Just over the wall which separated the consecrated ground from the bell-field, a squad of voluntary diggers were digging out a handsome set of sanitary trenches.

  “Good lord, sir,” said Wimsey, impressed, “anybody would think you’d done this all your life.”

  “I have devoted much prayer and thought to the situation in the last few weeks,” said Mr. Venables. “But my wife is the real manager. She has a marvellous head for organization. Hinkins! right up to the bell-chamber with that plate—it’ll be out of the way there. Alf ! Alf Donnington! How about that beer?”

  “Coming along, sir.”

  “Splendid—into the Lady chapel, please. You’re bringing some of it bottled, I hope. It’ll take two days for the casks to settle.”

  “That’s all right, sir. Tebbutt and me are seeing to that.”

  The Rector nodded, and dodging past some of Mr. Hensman’s contingent, who were staggering in with cases of groceries, he went out to the gates, where he encountered P.C. Priest, stolidly directing the traffic.

  “We’re having all the cars parked along the wall, sir.”

  “That’s right. And we shall want volunteers with cars to run out to outlying places and bring in the women and sick people. Will you see to that?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Lord Peter, will you act as our Mercury between here and Van Leyden’s Sluice? Keep us posted as to what is happening.”

  “Right you are,” said Wimsey. “I hope, by the way, that Bunter—where is Bunter?”

  “Here, my lord. I was about to suggest that I might lend some assistance with the commissariat, if not required elsewhere.”

  “Do, Bunter, do,” said the Rector.

  “I understand, my lord, that no immediate trouble is expected at the Rectory, and I was about to suggest that, with the kind help of the butcher, sir, a sufficiency of hot soup might be prepared in the wash-house copper, and brought over in the wheeled watering tub—after the utensil has been adequately scalded, of course. And if there were such a thing as a paraffin-oil stove anywhere——”

  “By all means—but be careful with the paraffin. We do not want to escape the water to fall into the fire.”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  “You can get paraffin from Wilderspin. Better send some more ringers up to the tower. Let them pull the bells as they like and fire them at intervals. Oh, here are the Chief Constable and Superintendent Blundell—how good of them to come over. We are expecting a little trouble here, Colonel.”

  “Just so, just so. I see you are handling the situation admirably. I fear a lot of valuable property will be destroyed. Would you like any police sent over?”

  “Better patrol the roads between the Fenchurches,” suggested Blundell.

 
“St. Peter is greatly alarmed—they’re afraid for the bridges. We are arranging a service of ferryboats. They lie even lower than you do and are, I fear, not so well prepared as you, sir.”

  “We can offer them shelter here,” said the Rector. “The church will hold nearly a thousand at a pinch, but they must bring what food they can. And their bedding, of course. Mrs. Venables is arranging it all. Men’s sleeping-quarters on the cantoris side, women and children on the decani side. And we can put the sick and aged people in the Rectory in greater comfort, if all goes well. St. Stephen will be safe enough, I imagine, but if not, we must do our best for them too. And, dear me! We shall rely on you, Superintendent, to send us victuals by boat as soon as it can be arranged. The roads will be clear between Leamholt and the Thirty-Foot, and the supplies can be brought from there by water.”

  “I’ll organize a service,” said Mr. Blundell.

  “If the railway embankment goes, you will have to see to St. Stephen as well. Good-day, Mrs. Giddings, good-day to you! We are having quite an adventure, are we not? So glad to see you here in good time. Well, Mrs. Leach! So here you are! How’s Baby? Enjoying himself, I expect. You’ll find Mrs. Venables in the church. Jack! Jackie Holliday! You must put that kitten in a basket. Run and ask Joe Hinkins to find you one. Ah, Mary! I hear your husband is doing fine work down at the Sluice. We must see that he doesn’t come to any harm. Yes, my dear, what is it? I am just coming.”

  For three hours Wimsey worked among the fugitives—fetching and carrying, cheering and exhorting, helping to stall cattle and making himself as useful as he could. At length he remembered his duty as a messenger and extricating his car from the crowd made his way east along the Thirty-Foot. It was growing dark, and the road was thronged with carts and cattle, hurrying to the safety of Church Hill. Pigs and cattle impeded his progress.

  “The animals went in two by two,” sang Wimsey, as he sped through the twilight, “the elephant and the kangaroo. Hurrah!”

  Down at the Sluice, the situation looked dangerous. Barges had been drawn against both sides of the gates and an attempt had been made to buttress the sluice with beams and sandbags, but the piers were bulging dangerously and as fast as material was lowered into the water, it was swept down by the force of the current. The river was foaming over the top of the weir, and from the east, wind and tide were coming up in violent opposition.

  “Can’t hold her much longer, now, my lord,” gasped a man, plunging up the bank and shaking the water from him like a wet dog. “She’s going, God help us!”

  The sluice-keeper was wringing his hands.

  “I told ‘em, I told ‘em! What will become on us?”

  “How long now?” asked Wimsey.

  “An hour, my lord, if that.”

  “You’d better all get away. Have you cars enough?”

  “Yes, my lord, thank you.”

  Will Thoday came up to him, his face white and working.

  “My wife and children—are they safe?”

  “Safe as houses, Will. The Rector’s doing wonders. You’d better come back with me.”

  “I’ll hang on here till the rest go, my lord, thank you. But tell them to lose no time.”

  Wimsey turned the car back again. In the short time that he had been away the organization had almost completed itself. Men, women, children and household goods had been packed into the church. It was nearly seven o’clock and the dusk had fallen. The lamps were lit. Soup and tea were being served in the Lady chapel, babies were crying, the churchyard resounded with the forlorn lowing of cattle and the terrified bleating of sheep. Sides of bacon were being carried in, and thirty waggon-loads of hay and corn were ranged under the church wall. In the only clear space amid the confusion the Rector stood behind the rails of the Sanctuary. And over all, the bells tumbled and wrangled, shouting their alarm across the country. Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee, Dimity, Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul—awake! make haste! save yourselves! The deep waters have gone over us! They call with the noise of the cataracts!

  Wimsey made his way up to the altar-rails and gave his message. The Rector nodded. “Get the men away quickly,” he said, “tell them they must come at once. Brave lads! I know they hate to give in, but they mustn’t sacrifice themselves uselessly. As you go through the village, tell Miss Snoot to bring the school-children down.” And as Wimsey turned to go, he called anxiously after him—“and don’t let them forget the other two tea-urns!”

  The men were already piling into their waiting cars when Lord Peter again arrived at the Sluice. The tide was coming up like a race, and in the froth and flurry of water he could see the barges flung like battering rams against the piers. Somebody shouted: “Get out of it, lads, for your lives!” and was answered by a rending crash. The transverse beams that earned the footway over the weir, rocking and swaying upon the bulging piers, cracked and parted. The river poured over in a tumult to meet the battering force of the tide. There was a cry. A dark figure, stepping hurriedly across the reeling barges, plunged and was gone. Another form dived after it, and a rush was made to the bank. Wimsey, flinging off his coat, hurled himself down to the water’s edge. Somebody caught and held him.

  “No good, my lord, they’re gone! My God! did you see that?”

  Somebody threw the flare of a headlight across the river. “Caught between the barge and the pier—smashed like egg-shells. Who is it? Johnnie Cross? Who went in after him? Will Thoday? That’s bad, and him a married man. Stand back, my lord. We’ll have no more lives lost. Save yourselves, lads, you can do them no good. Christ! the sluice gates are going. Drive like hell, men, it’s all up!”

  Wimsey found himself dragged and hurtled by strong hands to his car. Somebody scrambled in beside him. It was the sluice-keeper, still moaning, “I told ’em, I told ’em!” Another thunderous crash brought down the weir across the Thirty-Foot, in a deluge of tossing timbers. Beams and barges were whirled together like straws, and a great spout of water raged over the bank and flung itself across the road. Then the Sluice, that held the water back from the Old Wale River, yielded, and the roar of the engines as the cars sped away was lost in the thunder of the meeting and over-riding waters.

  The banks of the Thirty-Foot held, but the swollen Wale, receiving the full force of the Upper Waters and the spring tide, gave at every point. Before the cars reached St. Paul, the flood was rising and pursuing them. Wimsey’s car—the last to start—was submerged to the axles. They fled through the dusk, and behind and on their left, the great silver sheet of water spread and spread.

  In the church, the Rector, with the electoral roll-call of the parish in his hand, was numbering his flock. He was robed and stoled, and his anxious old face had taken on a look of great pastoral dignity and serenity.

  “Eliza Giddings.”

  “Here I am, Rector.”

  “Jack Godfrey and his wife and family.”

  “All here, sir.”

  “Henry Gotobed and his family.”

  “All here, sir.”

  “Joseph Hinkins … Louisa Hitchcock … Obadiah Holliday … Miss Evelyn Holliday. …”

  The party from the Sluice gathered awkwardly about the door. Wimsey made his way up to where the Rector stood on the chancel steps, and spoke in his ear.

  “John Gross and Will Thoday? That is terrible. God rest them, poor, brave fellows. Will you be good enough to tell my wife and ask her to break the sad news to their people? Will went to try and rescue Johnnie? That is just what I should have expected of him. A dear, good fellow in spite of everything.”

  Wimsey called Mrs. Venables aside. The Rector’s voice, shaking a little now, went on with his call:

  “Jeremiah Johnson and his family … Arthur and Mary Judd … Luke Judson …”

  Then came a long, wailing cry from the back or the church:

  “Will! Oh, Will! He didn’t want to live! Oh, my poor children—what shall we do?”

  Wimsey did not wait to hear any more. He made his way down to the
belfry door and climbed the stair to the ringing-chamber. The bells were still sounding their frenzied call. He passed the sweating ringers and climbed again—up through the clock-chamber, piled with household goods, and up and on to the bell-chamber itself. As his head rose through the floor, the brazen fury of the bells fell about his ears like the blows from a thousand beating hammers. The whole tower was drenched and drunken with noise. It rocked and reeled with the reeling of the bells, and staggered like a drunken man. Stunned and shaken, Wimsey set his foot on the last ladder.

  Half-way up he stopped, clinging desperately with his hands. He was pierced through and buffeted by the clamour. Through the brazen crash and clatter there went one high note, shrill and sustained, that was like a sword in the brain. All the blood of his body seemed to rush to his head, swelling it to bursting-point. He released his hold of the ladder and tried to shut out the uproar with his fingers, but such a sick giddiness overcame him that he swayed, ready to fall. It was not noise—it was brute pain, a grinding, bludgeoning, ran-dan, crazy, intolerable torment. He felt himself screaming, but could not hear his own cry. His eardrums were cracking; his senses swam away. It was infinitely worse than any roar of heavy artillery. That had beaten and deafened, but his unendurable shrill clangour was a raving madness, an assault of devils. He could move neither forward nor backwards, though his failing wits urged him, “I must get out—I must get out of this.” The belfry heaved and wheeled about him as the bells dipped and swung within the reach of an outstretched hand. Mouth up, mouth down, they brawled with their tongues of bronze, and through it all that shrill, high, sweet, relentless note went stabbing and shivering.

  He could not go down, for his head dizzied and his stomach retched at the thought of it. With a last, desperate sanity, he clutched at the ladder and forced his tottering limbs upward. Foot by foot, rung by rung, he fought his way to the top. Now the trap-door was close above his head. He raised a leaden hand and thrust the bolt aside. Staggering, feeling as though his bones were turned to water, and with blood running from his nose and ears, he fell, rather than stepped, out upon the windy roof. As he flung the door to behind him, the demoniac clamour sank back into the pit, to rise again, transmuted to harmony, through the louvres of the belfry windows.