The Nine Tailors lpw-11

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Lord Peter Wimsey nodded away into dreams.

  * * *

  He was roused by the pealing of bells.

  For a moment, memory eluded him — then he flung the eiderdown aside and sat up, ruffled and reproachful, to encounter the calm gaze of Bunter.

  “Good God! I’ve been asleep! Why didn’t you call me? They’ve begun without me.”

  “Mrs. Venables gave orders, my lord, that you were not to be disturbed until half-past eleven, and the reverend gentleman instructed me to say, my lord, that they would content themselves with ringing six bells as a preliminary to the service.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Nearly five minutes to eleven, my lord.”

  As he spoke, the pealing ceased, and Jubilee began to ring the five-minute bell.

  “Dash it all!” said Wimsey. “This will never do. Must go and hear the old boy’s sermon. Give me a hairbrush. Is it still snowing?”

  “Harder than ever, my lord.”

  Wimsey made a hasty toilet and ran downstairs, Bunter following him decorously. They let themselves out by the front door, and, guided by Bunter’s electric torch, made their way through the shrubbery and across the road to the church, entering just as the organ boomed out its final notes. Choir and parson were in their places and Wimsey, blinking in the yellow lamplight, at length discovered his seven fellow-ringers seated on a row of chairs beneath the tower. He picked his way cautiously over the cocoa-nut matting towards them, while Bunter, who had apparently acquired all the necessary information beforehand, made his unperturbed way to a pew in the north aisle and sat down beside Emily from the Rectory. Old Hezekiah Lavender greeted Wimsey with a welcoming chuckle and thrust a prayer-book under his nose as he knelt down to pray.

  “Dearly beloved brethren—”

  Wimsey scrambled to his feet and looked round. At the first glance he felt himself sobered and awestricken by the noble proportions of the church, in whose vast spaces the congregation — though a good one for so small a parish in the dead of a winter’s night — seemed almost lost. The wide nave and shadowy aisles, the lofty span of the chancel arch — crossed, though not obscured, by the delicate fan-tracery and crenellated moulding of the screen — the intimate and cloistered loveliness of the chancel, with its pointed arcading, graceful ribbed vault and five narrow east lancets, led his attention on and focused it first upon the remote glow of the sanctuary. Then his gaze, returning to the nave, followed the strong yet slender shafting that sprang fountain-like from floor to foliated column-head, spraying into the light, wide arches that carried the clerestory. And there, mounting to the steep pitch of the roof, his eyes were held entranced with wonder and delight. Incredibly aloof, flinging back the light in a dusky shimmer of bright hair and gilded outspread wings, soared the ranked angels, cherubim and seraphim, choir over choir, from corbel and hammerbeam floating face to face uplifted.

  “My God!” muttered Wimsey, not without reverence. And he softly repeated to himself: “He rode upon the cherubims and did fly; He came flying upon the wings of the wind.”

  Mr. Hezekiah Lavender poked his new colleague sharply in the ribs, and Wimsey became aware that the congregation had settled down to the General Confession, leaving him alone and agape upon his feet. Hurriedly he turned the leaves of his prayer-book and applied himself to making the proper responses. Mr. Lavender, who had obviously decided that he was either a half-wit or a heathen, assisted him by finding the Psalms for him and by bawling every verse very loudly in his ear.

  “… Praise Him in the cymbals and dances: praise Him upon the strings and pipe.”

  The shrill voices of the surpliced choir mounted to the roof, and seemed to find their echo in the golden mouths of the angels.

  “Praise Him upon the well-tuned cymbals; praise Him upon the loud cymbals.

  “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.”

  * * *

  The time wore on towards midnight. The Rector, advancing to the chancel steps, delivered, in his mild and scholarly voice, a simple and moving little address, in which he spoke of praising God, not only upon the strings and pipe, but upon the beautiful bells of their beloved church, and alluded, in his gently pious way, to the presence of the passing stranger—“please do not turn round to stare at him; that would be neither courteous nor reverent”—who had been sent “by what men call chance” to assist in this work of devotion. Lord Peter blushed, the Rector pronounced the Benediction, the organ played the opening bars of a hymn and Hezekiah Lavender exclaimed sonorously: “Now, lads!” The ringers, with much subdued shuffling, extricated themselves from their chairs and wound their way up the belfry stair. Coats were pulled off and hung on nails in the ringing-chamber, and Wimsey, observing on a bench near the door an enormous brown jug and nine pewter tankards, understood, with pleasure, that the landlord of the Red Cow had, indeed, provided “the usual” for the refreshment of the ringers. The eight men advanced to their stations, and Hezekiah consulted his watch.

  “Time!” he said.

  He spat upon his hands, grasped the sallie of Tailor Paul, and gently swung the great bell over the balance. Toll-toll-toll; and a pause; toll-toll-toll; and a pause; toll-toll-toll; the nine tailors, or teller-strokes, that mark the passing of a man. The year is dead; toll him out with twelve strokes more, one for every passing month. Then silence. Then, from the faint, sweet tubular chimes of the clock overhead, the four quarters and the twelve strokes of midnight. The ringers grasped their ropes.

  “Go!”

  The bells gave tongue: Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee, Dimity, Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, rioting and exulting high up in the dark tower, wide mouths rising and falling, brazen tongues clamouring, huge wheels turning to the dance of the leaping ropes. Tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo — tan tin din dan bam bim bo bom — tin tan dan din him bam born bo — tan tin dan din bam him bo bom — tan dan tin bam din bo bim bom — every bell in her place striking tuneably, hunting up, hunting down, dodging, snapping, laying her blows behind, making her thirds and fourths, working down to lead the dance again. Out over the flat, white wastes of fen, over the spear-straight, steel-dark dykes and the wind-bent, groaning poplar trees, bursting from the snow-choked louvres of the belfry, whirled away southward and westward in gusty blasts of clamour to the sleeping counties went the music of the bells — little Gaude, silver Sabaoth, strong John and Jericho, glad Jubilee, sweet Dimity and old Batty Thomas, with great Tailor Paul bawling and striding like a giant in the midst of them. Up and down went the shadows of the ringers upon the walls, up and down went the scarlet sallies flickering roofwards and floorwards, and up and down, hunting in their courses, went the bells of Fenchurch St. Paul.

  Wimsey, his eye upon the ropes and his ear pricked for the treble’s shrill tongue speaking at lead, had little attention to give to anything but his task. He was dimly conscious of old Hezekiah, moving with the smooth rhythm of a machine, bowing his ancient back very slightly at each pull to bring Tailor Paul’s great weight over, and of Wally Pratt, his face anxiously contorted and his lips moving in the effort to keep his intricate course in mind. Wally’s bell was moving down now towards his own, dodging Number Six and passing her, dodging Number Seven and passing her, passing Number Five, striking her two blows at lead, working up again, while the treble came down to take her place and make her last snapping lead with Sabaoth. One blow in seconds place and one at lead, and Sabaoth, released from the monotony of the slow hunt, ran out merrily into her plain hunting course. High in the air above them the cock upon the weathervane stared out over the snow and watched the pinnacles of the tower swing to and fro with a slowly widening sweep as the tall stalk of stone gathered momentum and rocked like a windblown tree beneath his golden feet.

  The congregation streamed out from the porch, their lanterns and torches flitting away into the whirling storm like sparks tossed from a bonfire. The Rector, pulling off surplice and stole, climbed in his cassock to the ringing-chamber and-sat d
own upon the bench, ready to give help and counsel. The clock’s chimes came faintly through the voices of the bells. At the end of the first hour the Rector took the rope from the hand of the agitated Wally and released him for an interval of rest and refreshment. A soft glugging sound proclaimed that Mr. Donnington’s “usual” was going where it would do most good. Wimsey, relieved at the end of the third hour, found Mrs. Venables seated among the pewter pots, with Bunter in respectful attendance beside her.

  “I do hope,” said Mrs. Venables, “that you are not feeling exhausted.”

  “Far from it; only rather dry.” Wimsey remedied this condition without further apology, and asked how the peal sounded.

  “Beautiful!” said Mrs. Venables, loyally. She did not really care for bell-music, and felt sleepy; but the Rector would have felt hurt if she had withdrawn her sympathetic presence.

  “It’s surprising, isn’t it?” she added, “how soft and mellow it sounds in here. But of course there’s another floor between us and the bell-chamber.” She yawned desperately. The bells rang on. Wimsey, knowing that the Rector was well set for the next quarter of an hour, was seized with a fancy to listen to the peal from outside. He slipped down the winding stair and groped his way through the south porch. As he emerged into the night, the clamour of the bells smote on his ears like a blow. The snow was falling less heavily now. He turned to his right, knowing that it is unlucky to walk about a church widdershins, and followed the path close beneath the wall till he found himself standing by the west door. Sheltered by the towering bulk of the masonry, he lit a sacrilegious cigarette, and, thus fortified, turned right again. Beyond the foot of the tower, the pathway ended, and he stumbled among grass and tombstones for the whole length of the aisle, which, on this side, was prolonged to the extreme east end of the church. Midway between the last two buttresses on the north side he came upon a path leading to a small door; this he tried, but found it locked, and so passed on, encountering the full violence of the wind as he rounded the east end. Pausing a moment to get his breath, he looked out over the Fen. All was darkness, except for a dim stationary light which might have been shining from some cottage window. Wimsey reckoned that the cottage must lie somewhere along the solitary road by which they had reached the Rectory, and wondered why anybody should be awake at three o’clock on New Year’s morning. But the night was bitter and he was wanted back at his job. He completed his circuit, re-entered by the south porch and returned to the belfry. The Rector resigned the rope to him, warning him that he had now to make his two blows behind and not to forget to dodge back into eighth’s place before hunting down.

  At six o’clock, the ringers were all in pretty good case. Wally Pratt’s cow-lick had fallen into his eyes, and he was sweating freely, but was still moving well within himself. The blacksmith was fresh and cheerful, and looked ready to go on till next Christmas. The publican was grim but determined. Most unperturbed of all was the aged Hezekiah, working grandly as though he were part and parcel of his rope, and calling his bobs without a tremor in his clear old voice.

  At a quarter to eight the Rector left them to prepare for his early service. The beer in the jug had sunk to low tide and Wally Pratt, with an hour and a half to go, was beginning to look a little strained. Through the southern window a faint reflection of the morning light came, glimmering frail and blue.

  At ten minutes past nine the Rector was back in the belfry, standing watch in hand with a beaming smile on his face.

  At thirteen minutes past nine the treble came shrilling triumphantly into her last lead. Tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo.

  Their long courses ended, the bells came faultlessly back into rounds, and the ringers stood.

  “Magnificent, lads, magnificent!” cried Mr. Venables. “You’ve done it, and it couldn’t have been better done.”

  “Eh!” admitted Mr. Lavender, “it was none so bad.” A slow toothless grin overspread his countenance. “Yes, we done it. How did it sound from down below, sir?”

  “Fine,” said the Rector. “As firm and true as any ringing I have ever heard. Now you must all be wanting your breakfasts. It’s all ready for you at the Rectory. Well now, Wally, you can call yourself a real ringer now, can’t you? You came through it with very great credit — didn’t he, Hezekiah?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” said Mr. Lavender, grudgingly. “But you takes too much out o’ yourself, Wally. You’ve no call to be gettin’ yourself all of a muck o’ sweat that way. Still, you ain’t made no mistakes, an’ that’s something, but I see you a mumblin’ and countin’ to yourself all the time. If I’ve telled yew once I’ve tolled yew a hundred times to keep your eye on the ropes and then you don’t need—”

  “There, there!” said the Rector. “Never mind, Wally, you did very well indeed. Where’s Lord Peter — Oh! there you are. I’m sure we owe you a great deal. Not too fatigued, I hope?”

  “No, no,” said Wimsey, extricating himself from the congratulatory handshakes of his companions. He felt, in fact, exhausted to dropping-point. He had not rung a long peal for years, and the effort of keeping alert for so many hours had produced an almost intolerable desire to tumble down in a corner and go to sleep. “I — ah — oh — I’m perfectly all right.”

  He swayed as he walked and would have pitched headlong down the steep stair, but for the blacksmith’s sustaining arm.

  “Breakfast,” said the Rector, much concerned, “breakfast is what we all want. Hot coffee. A very comforting thing. Dear me, yes, I for one am looking forward to it very much. Ha! the snow has ceased falling. Very beautiful, this white world — if only there were not a thaw to follow. This will mean a lot of water down the Thirty-foot, I expect. Are you sure you’re all right? Come along, then, come along! Why, here is my wife — come to chide my tardiness, I expect. We’re just coming, my dear — Why, Johnson, what is it?”

  He addressed a young man in chauffeur’s livery who was standing at Mrs. Venables’ side. Mrs. Venables broke in before he could reply. “My dear Theodore — I have been saying, you can’t go just yet. You must have something to eat—”

  Mr. Venables put the interruption aside with an unexpected, quiet authority.

  “Agnes, my dear, permit me. Am I wanted, Johnson?”

  “Sir Henry sent me to say, sir, that the mistress was very bad this morning, and they’re afraid she’s sinking, sir, and she is very anxious to receive the Sacrament if you could see your way—”

  “Good Heavens!” exclaimed the Rector. “So ill as that? Sinking? I am terribly grieved to hear it. Of course, I will come immediately. I had no idea—”

  “No more hadn’t any of us, sir. It’s this wicked influenza. I’m sure nobody ever thought yesterday—”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear! I hope it’s not as bad as you fear! But I mustn’t delay. You shall tell me about it as you go. I will be with you in one moment. Agnes, my dear, see that the men get their breakfast and explain to them why I cannot join them. Lord Peter, you must excuse me. I shall be with you later. Bless my heart! Lady Thorpe — what a scourge this influenza is!”

  He trotted hurriedly back into the church. Mrs. Venables looked ready to cry, between anxiety and distress.

  “Poor Theodore! After being up all night — of course he has to go, and we ought not to think about ourselves. Poor Sir Henry! An invalid himself! Such a bitter morning, and no breakfast! Johnson, please say to Miss Hilary how sorry I am and ask if there is anything I can do to help Mrs. Gates. The housekeeper, you know, Lord Peter — such a nice woman, and the cook away on holiday, it does seem so hard. Troubles never come singly. Dear me, you must be famished. Do come along and be looked after. You’ll be sure to send round, Johnson, if you want any help. Can Sir Henry’s nurse manage, I wonder? This is such an isolated place for getting any help. Theodore! are you sure you are well wrapped up?”

  The Rector, who now rejoined them, carrying the Communion vessels in a wooden case, assured her that he was well protected. He was bundled into the waiting car by
Johnson, and whirled away westwards towards the village. This untoward incident cast a certain gloom over the breakfast table, though Wimsey, who felt his sides clapping together like an empty portmanteau, was only too thankful to devour his eggs and bacon and coffee in peace. Eight pairs of jaws chumped steadily, while Mrs. Venables dispensed the provisions in a somewhat distracted way, interspersing her hospitable urgings with ejaculations of sympathy for the Thorpe family and anxiety for her husband’s well-being.

  “Such a lot of trouble as the Thorpes have had, too, one way and another,” she remarked. “All that dreadful business about old Sir Charles, and the loss of the necklace, and that unfortunate girl and everything, though it was a merciful thing the man died, after killing a warder and all that, though it upset the whole family very much at the time. Hezekiah, how are you getting on? A bit more bacon? Mr. Donnington? Hinkins, pass Mr. Godfrey the cold ham. And of course, Sir Henry never has been strong since the War, poor man. Are you getting enough to eat down there, Wally? I do hope the Rector won’t be kept too long without his breakfast. Lord Peter, a little more coffee?”