The Nine Tailors lpw-11

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “How did he know that?” asked Wimsey. “He didn’t get it from Cranton.”

  “That was the other scoundrel? No, he told me he’d meant to come after Mary, but hearing from some fellow at Leamholt that she was married, he’d thought he’d better have a scout round first. I couldn’t make out why he’d come back to the place at all, and he wouldn’t tell me. I see now, it was the emeralds. He did say something about me keeping quiet and he’d make it worth my while, but I told him I’d have no truck with him. I asked him where he’d been, but he just laughed and said ‘Never you mind.’ And I asked what he wanted in Fenchurch, and he said he wanted money. So I made out that he’d meant to come blackmailing Mary. Well, that made me see red, and I was in half a mind to give him up to the police and take what was coming to us, but when I thought about Mary and the kids — well, I couldn’t face it. I was wrong, of course, but when I remembered all the talk there’d been — well, I wanted to spare her that. He knew just how I stood, the devil, and he stood there grinning at me.

  “So in the end, I made a devil’s bargain with him. I said I’d hide him and give him money to get out of the country, and then I thought what was I to do with him? I’d got his pick-locks all right, but I didn’t trust him none the more for that, and I was afraid to go out of the church with him, where we might run up against somebody. And then I got the idea of putting him up in the bell-chamber. So I told him what I meant to do and he agreed. I thought I could get the keys from Rector all right, so, just for the time being, I pushed him into the cupboard where the surplices hang and locked him in. Then I thought that he might easily break his way out while I was over at the Rectory, so I went down and fetched a rope from the chest and came back and tied him up. You see, I didn’t believe that tale of his about sleeping in the vestry. Robbing the church was what I thought he was after. And besides, if I went away and left him, what was to stop him getting out and hiding somewhere and slugging me over the head when I got back? I’d no key to the church-door, neither, and he might have made off.”

  “Good thing for you if he had,” suggested Mr. Blundell.

  “Yes — so long as nobody else caught him. Anyhow, I got the keys. I put up some story to the Rector — it must have been a pretty lame one — the old gentlemen was a bit puzzled, I think. He kept on saying how queer I looked, and insisted on getting me a drop of his port. While he was fetching it, I just nipped the keys off the nail by the door. I know what you’re going to say — suppose he’d mislaid them as usual? Well, I’d have had to try the same dodge on Jack Godfrey or else change my plans — but there they were and I didn’t bother with any ‘ifs’. I went back to the church and untied Deacon’s legs and made him walk up the belfry stairs in front of me, like taking a pig to market. It wasn’t difficult: I had the revolver, you see.”

  “And you tied him up to a beam in the bell-chamber?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. And wouldn’t you a-done? Just think of yourself carrying victuals and stuff up one o’ they ladders in the dark, with a murderer roaming loose at the top all ready to bash your head in the moment you popped it up above floor-level. I tied him up good and proper, though it was a bit of a job with the rope being so thick. ‘Stay you there,’ I said, ‘and I’ll bring you something to eat in the morning and see you out of the country before you’re twenty-four hours older.’ He cursed like a devil, but I paid no attention to him. It was all I could do to keep my hand often him, and I’m often minded to think it’s a wonder I didn’t kill him then and there.”

  “But had you made any plans for shipping him off?”

  “Yes, I had. I’d been over to Walbeach the day before with Jim here, and we’d had a bit of talk with a pal of his — a queer old skipper on a Dutch cargo boat, that was lying there, taking in some sort of freight — I never rightly gathered what it was — but I got the notion the old boy wouldn’t find much come amiss to him.”

  “You’re right there, Will,” put in Jim, grinning.

  “So I found. It wasn’t the best plan, maybe, but it was all I could do in the time. I couldn’t think very clear, to tell you the truth. I was terrible put about in my mind and my head was buzzing like a thresher. I suppose ’twas the ’flu coming on. I don’t know how I got through that evening at home, looking at Mary and the kids and knowing what I knew. Fortunately, she knew I was worried over the cow and put it all down to that — at least, I thought so. I tossed and turned all night, and the only thing to comfort me was the blessed snow coming down and hiding all they footprints we’d left round the church.

  “Next morning I was damned ill, but I couldn’t stop to think of that. I slipped out well before daybreak, with some bread and cheese and beer in an old tool-bag. Jim heard me and called out to know what was up. So I said I was going over to see the cow — and so I did, only I took the church on the way.

  “Deacon was all right, only very bad-tempered and perished wi’ cold, so I left him my old coat — not wanting him to be frozen to death. And I tied him up by his elbows and ankles, leaving his hands free, so as he could help himself to his victuals but not untie himself. Then I went on to see to the cow and found her better. After breakfast I got the old car out and ran her over to Walbeach, feeling worse and worse all the time. I found my skipper, just getting ready to sail. I had a word with him, and he agreed to wait till 10 o’clock that night and carry my passenger, no questions asked. Two hundred and fifty pounds was the price he wanted and I agreed to pay it. I got the money and gave him the fifty then and there, promising him the rest when I got Deacon aboard. I got into the car and started back — and you know what happened afterwards.”

  “That’s very clear,” said Parker. “I needn’t tell you that you were compounding a serious felony by helping a convicted murderer to escape from justice. Speaking as a policeman, I am shocked; speaking as a human being, I have every sympathy for you. Now, you.” He turned to Jim. “I imagine your part of it comes in here.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, as you know, poor Will was brought back in a terrible state and we thought for a day or two he was pretty well gone. He was out of his head and kept on calling out that he must go down to the church, but we put that down to the bell-ringing business. All the time he kept a sort of control over himself and never let out a word about Deacon, but one day, when Mary had gone out of the room, he clutched my hand and said, ‘Don’t let her know, Jim. Get him away.’ ‘Get who away?’ I said. And he said, ‘In the belfry — bitter cold and starving.’ And then he sat up in bed and said, quite plain and clear, ‘My coat — give me my coat — I must have the keys and the money.’ I said, ‘All right, Will, I’ll see to it’—thinking he was dreaming, and after a bit he seemed to forget about it and go off in a doze. But I thought it was queer, so I had a look in his coat, and there, sure enough, were the Rector’s bunch of keys and a whole wad of money.

  “Well, I began to think there might be something behind it, so I took the keys, and I thought, before I took them back, I’d just have a look round the church. I went in there—”

  “Which day was this?”

  “I reckon it was the 2nd of January. I went up into the belfry — right up to the bell-chamber, and — well! there he was!”

  “He must have been pretty fed-up with things by that time.”

  “Fed up? He was dead and cold.”

  “Starved to death?”

  “Not he. There was a big bit of cheese beside him and near half a loaf of bread and two bottles of beer, one empty and one full. And he hadn’t died of cold, neither, as you might expect. I’ve seen men that had died of exposure, and they died peaceful — curled up like kittens, mostly, as if they’d gone out in their sleep. No. He’d died on his feet, and whatever it was, he’d seen it coming to him. He’d struggled like a tiger against the ropes, working at them till he could get upright, and they had cut through the stuff of his jacket and through his socks. And his face! My God, sir, I’ve never seen anything like it. His eyes staring open and a look in them as if he’d looked d
own into hell. It fair shook me.

  “I looked him over — and then I saw Will’s old coat lying on the floor, thrown off, it might be, in his struggles — and that didn’t look like dying of cold, neither. I couldn’t tell what to make of it, for I didn’t recognise him, you see. I had a look in his breast pocket, and found some papers. There was some made out in the name of Taylor and some in a French name that I’ve forgotten. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And then I had a look at his hands.”

  “Ah!” said Wimsey, “now we’re coming to it.”

  “Yes, my lord. You must remember that I knew Deacon. Not very well, but I knew him. And he carried a big scar on one hand, where he’d fallen down one day, carrying a tray with a glass jug on it. I’d seen that scar, and I’d never forget it. When I saw that, my lord, and knew who ’twas — well, there! I hadn’t much doubt about what’d happened. Forgive me. Will — I thought you’d done him in, and as God’s my witness, I couldn’t blame you. Not that I hold with murder, and it came to me then that things could never be the same betwixt you and me — but I didn’t blame you. Only I wished it had happened in a fair fight.”

  “If it had happened, Jim, it would a-been in a fair fight. I might a-killed him, but I wouldn’t a-killed him when he was tied up. You might a-known that.”

  “Well, so I might. But it seemed to me at the time as there was no way out of it. I had to think quick what to do. I found some old boards and beams in a corner, and I stood them up in front of him, so as if anybody came in they might not notice him — not unless they were looking for something — and then I came away and thought hard. I kept the keys. I knew I’d be wanting them, and Rector is so absentminded, he’d probably think he’d mislaid them.

  “I thought all that day — and then I remembered that Lady Thorpe’s funeral was fixed for the Saturday. It seemed to me that I might put him in her grave and that he need never be found, barring accidents. I was due to leave on Saturday morning, and I thought I could fix things so as to have an alibi.

  “I had a bad moment on Friday. Jack Godfrey told me they were going to ring a muffled peal for Lady Thorpe, and I was all of a shake, thinking he’d see him when he went up to put the leathers on the bells. By a big stroke of luck, he didn’t go till after dark, and I suppose he never looked into that dark corner, or he’d have seen the planks had been moved.”

  “We know what you did on Saturday,” said Parker. “You needn’t bother with that.”

  “No, sir. I had an awful ride with that bike. The acetylene lamp worked none too well, and it was raining like the tropics. Still, I got there — much later than I meant, and I went to work. I cut him down—”

  “You needn’t tell us that, either. There was a witness on the top of the bell-chamber ladder all the time.”

  “A witness?”

  “Yes — and lucky for you, my lad, he was a highly respectable and gentlemanly burglar with the heart of a rabbit and a wholesome fear of bloodshed — otherwise you might be paying blackmail through the nose. But I will say for Nobby,” added Parker reflectively, “that he would consider blackmail beneath him. You got the body down into the churchyard?”

  “And glad I was to get it there. Rolling it down the ladders — it gave me the heebie-jeebies. And those bells! I was expecting all the time to hear them speak. I never have liked the sound of bells. There’s something — you’d think they were alive, sometimes, and could talk. When I was a boy, I read a story in an old magazine about a bell that called out after a murderer. You’ll think I’m soft, talking that way, but it made an impression on me and I can’t forget it.”

  “The Rosamonde—I know the story,” said Wimsey, gently. “It called, ‘Help, Jehan! Help, Jehan!’ It gave me the grues, too.”

  “That’s the one, my lord. Anyhow, I got the body down, as I said. I opened the grave and was just going to put him in—”

  “You used the sexton’s spade, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir. The key of the crypt was on Rector’s bunch. As I was saying, I was going to put it in, when I remembered that the grave might be opened and the body recognised. So I gave it some good, hard blows with the spade across the face—”

  He shuddered. “That was a bad bit, sir. And the hands. I’d recognised them, and so might other people. I got out my jack-knife, and I — well, there!”

  “‘With the big sugar-nippers they nipped off his flippers,’” quoted Wimsey, flippantly.

  “Yes, my lord. I made them into a parcel with his papers and slipped it all in my pocket. But I put the ropes and his hat down the old well. Then I filled up the grave and put the wreaths back as tidily as I could, and cleaned the tools. But I can tell you, I didn’t care about taking them back into the church. All those gold angels with their eyes open in the darkness — and old Abbot Thomas lying there on his tomb. When my foot crunched on a bit of coke behind the screen, my heart was in my mouth.”

  “Harry Gotobed really ought to be more careful with the coke,” said Wimsey. “It’s not for want of telling.”

  “That damned parcel of stuff was burning my pocket, too. I went up and had a look at the stoves, but they were all stoked up for the night, and the top nowhere near burnt through. I didn’t dare put anything in there. Then I had to go up and clean down the belfry. There’d been beer spilt on the floor. Fortunately, Harry Gotobed had left a bucket of water in the coke-house, so I didn’t have to draw any from the well, though I’ve often wondered if he noticed next day that the water was gone. I made everything as clean as I could, and stacked the planks up where I’d found them, and I took away the beer-bottles—”

  “Two of them,” said Wimsey. “There were three.”

  “Were there? I couldn’t see but the two. I locked up everything tight, and then I wondered what I’d better do with the keys. Finally, I thought I’d best leave them in the vestry, as though Rector had forgotten them — all but the key of the porch, and I left that in the lock. It was the best I could think of.”

  “And the parcel?”

  “Ah! that. I kept the papers and a lot of money that was with them, but the — those other things — I threw into the Thirty-Foot, twelve miles off from Fenchurch, and the bottles with them. The papers and notes I burnt when I–I got back to London. There was a good fire — for a wonder — in the waiting-room at King’s Cross and nobody much about. I didn’t think anybody would look for them there. I didn’t quite know what to do with Will’s coat, but in the end I posted it back to him with a note. I just said, ‘many thanks for loan. I’ve put away what you left in the belfry.’ I couldn’t be more open you see, for fear Mary might undo the parcel and read the letter.”

  “I couldn’t write much to you, for same reason,” said Will. “I thought, you see, you had somehow got Deacon away. It never entered my head that he was dead. And Mary usually reads my letters through before they go, sometimes adding a bit of her own. So I just said: ‘Many thanks for all you’ve done for me’—which might a-been took to refer to you nursing me when I was ill. I see you hadn’t took the £200, but I supposed you’d managed some fashion, so I just put that back in the bank where it came from. It was a queer thing to me that your letters had grown so short all of a sudden, but I understand it now.”