THE QUICK WORK
The work of each bell is divided in three parts, viz. the quick work, dodging, and slow work.
TROYTE On Change-Ringing.
Lord Peter Wimsey passed a restless day and night and was very silent the next day at breakfast.
At the earliest possible moment he got his car and went over to Leamholt.
“Superintendent,” he said, “I think I have been the most unmitigated and unconscionable ass that ever brayed in a sleuth-hound’s skin. Now, however, I have solved the entire problem, with one trivial exception. Probably you have done so too.”
“I’ll buy it,” said Mr. Blundell. “I’m like you, my lord, I’m doing no more guessing. What’s the bit you haven’t solved, by the way?”
“Well, the murder,” said his lordship, with an embarrassed cough. “I can’t quite make out who did that, or how. But that, as I say, is a trifle. I know who the dead man was, why he was tied up, where he died, who sent the cryptogram to whom, why Will Thoday drew £200 out of the bank and put it back again, where the Thodays have gone and why and when they will return, why Jim Thoday missed his train, why Cranton came here, what he did and why he is lying about it and how the beer bottle got into the belfry.”
“Anything else?” asked Mr. Blundell.
“Oh! yes. Why Jean Legros was silent about his past, what Arthur Cobbleigh did in the wood at Dartford, what the parrot was talking about and why the Thodays were not at Early Service on Sunday, what Tailor Paul had to do with it and why the face of the corpse was beaten in.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Blundell. “Quite a walking library, aren’t you, my lord? Couldn’t you go just a step further and tell us who we’re to put the handcuffs on?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that. Dash it all, can’t I leave one little tit-bit for a friend?”
“Well,” said Mr. Blundell, “I don’t know that I ought to complain. Let’s have the rest of it and perhaps we’ll be able to do the last bit on our own.”
Lord Peter was silent for a moment. “Look here. Super,” he said at last. “This is going to be a dashed painful sort of story. I think I’d like to test it a bit before I come out with it. Will you do something yourself, first? You’ve got to do it in any case, but I’d rather not say anything till it is done. After that, I’ll say anything you like.”
“Well?”
“Will you get hold of a photograph of Arthur Cobbleigh and send it over to France for Suzanne Legros to identify?”
“That’s got to be done, naturally. Matter of routine.”
“If she identifies it, well and good. But if she’s stubborn and refuses, will you give her this note, just as it is, and watch her when she opens it?”
“Well, I don’t know about doing that personally, my lord, but I’ll see that this Monsieur Rozier does it.”
“That will do. And will you also show her the cryptogram?”
“Yes, why not? Anything else?”
“Yes, said Wimsey, more slowly. “The Thodays. I’m. a little uncomfortable about the Thodays. You’re trailing them, I suppose?”
“What do you think?”
“Exactly. Well, when you’ve put your hands on them, will you let me know before you do anything drastic? I’d rather like to be there when you question them.”
“I’ve no objection to that, my lord. And this time they’ll have to come across with some sort of story, judge’s rules or no judge’s rules, even if it breaks me.”
“You won’t have any difficulty about that,” said Wimsey. “Provided, that is, you catch them within a fortnight. After that, it will be more difficult.”
“Why within a fortnight?”
“Oh, come!” expostulated his lordship, “Isn’t it obvious? I show Mrs. Thoday the cipher. On Sunday morning neither she nor her husband attends Holy Communion. On Monday they depart to London by the first train. My dear Watson, it’s staring you in the face. The only real danger is—”
“Well?”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury. A haughty prelate, Blundell. An arbitrary prince. But I don’t suppose they’ll think about him, somehow. I think you may risk him.”
“Oh, indeed! And how about Mr. Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan?”
“Negligible. Negligible,” replied his lordship, with a wave of the hand. “Likewise the Bishop of Rome. But get on to it, Blundell, get on to it.”
“I mean to,” said Mr. Blundell, with emphasis. “They’ll not get out of the country, that’s a certainty.”
“So it is, so it is. Of course, they’ll be back here by tomorrow fortnight, but that will be too late. How soon do you expect Jim Thoday back? End of the month? Be sure he doesn’t give you the slip. I’ve an idea he may try to.”
“You think he’s our man?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I don’t want him to be. I rather hope it’s Cranton.”
“Poor old Cranton,” said the Superintendent, perversely, “I rather hope it isn’t. I don’t like to see a perfectly good jewel-thief stepping out of his regular line, so to speak. It’s disconcerting, that’s what it is. Besides, the man’s ill. However, we shall see about that. I’ll get on to this Cobbleigh business and settle it.”
“Right!” said Wimsey. “And I think, after all, I’ll ring up the Archbishop. You never know.”
“Dotty!” said Mr. Blundell to himself. “Or pulling my leg. One or the other.”
* * *
Lord Peter Wimsey communicated with the Archbishop, and appeared to be satisfied with the result. He also wrote to Hilary Thorpe, giving her an account of the finding of the emeralds. “So you see,” he said, “your Sherlocking was very successful. How pleased Uncle Edward will be.”
Hilary’s reply informed him that old Mrs. Wilbraham had taken the necklace and restored the money paid in compensation—all without comment or apology. Lord Peter haunted the Rectory like an unhappy ghost. The Superintendent had gone to town in pursuit of the Thodays. On Thursday things began to happen again.
Telegram from Commissaire Rosier to Superintendent Blundell:
Suzanne Legros no knowledge Cobbleigh identifies photograph in sealed envelope as her husband identification supported by mayor here do you desire further action.
Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:
Suzanne Legros rejects Cobbleigh identifies sealed photograph who is it unable trace Thodays in London.
Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Commissaire Rosier:
Please return papers immediately detain Legros pending further information.
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:
Surely you know by this time try all churches registrars.
Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:
Vicar St. Andrews Bloomsbury says asked perform marriage by licence William Thoday Mary Deacon both of that parish was it Deacon.
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:
Yes of course you juggins charge Cranton at once.
Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:
Agree juggins but why charge Granton Thodays found and detained for inquiry.
Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:
Charge Cranton first joining you in town.
After dispatching this wire, Lord Peter summoned Bunter to pack up his belongings and asked for a private interview with Mr. Venables, from which both men emerged looking distressed and uneasy.
“So I think I’d better go,” said Wimsey. “I rather wish I hadn’t come buttin’ into this. Some things may be better left alone, don’t you think? My sympathies are all in the wrong place and I don’t like it. I know all about not doing evil that good may come. It’s doin’ good that evil may come that is so embarrassin’.”
“My dear boy,” said the Rector, “it does not do for us to take too much thought for the morrow. It is better to follow the truth and leave the result in the hand of God. He can foresee
where we cannot, because He knows all’ the facts.”
“And never has to argue ahead of His data, as Sherlock Holmes would say? Well, padre, I dare say you’re right. Probably I’m tryin’ to be too clever. That’s me every time. I’m sorry to have made so much unpleasantness, anyhow. And I really would rather go away now. I’ve got that silly modern squeamishness that doesn’t like watchin’ people suffer. Thanks awfully for everything. Goodbye.”
* * *
Before leaving Fenchurch St. Paul, he went and stood in the churchyard. The grave of the unknown victim still stood raw and black amid the grass, but the grave of Sir Henry and Lady Thorpe had been roofed in with green turves. Not far away there was an ancient box tomb; Hezekiah Lavender was seated on the slab, carefully cleaning the letters of the inscription. Wimsey went over and shook hands with the old man.
“Makin’ old Samuel fine and clean for the summer,” said Hezekiah. “Ah! Beaten old Samuel by ten good year, I have. I says to Rector, ‘Lay me aside old Samuel,’ I says, ‘for everybody to see as I beaten him.’ An’ I got Rector’s promise. Ah! so I have. But they don’t write no sech beautiful poetry these here times.”
He laid a gouty finger on the inscription, which ran:
Here lies the Body of SAMUEL SNELL
That for fifty Years pulled the Tenor Bell.
Through Changes of this Mortal Race
He Laid his Blows and Kept his Place
Till Death that Changes all did Come
To Hunt him Down and Call him Home.
His Wheel is broke his Rope is Slackt
His Clapper Mute his Metal Crackt,
Yet when the great Call summons him from Ground
He shall be Raised up Tuneable and Sound.
MDCXCVIII.
Aged 76 years
“Ringing Tailor Paul seems to be a healthy occupation,” said Wimsey. “His servants live to a ripe old age, what?”
“Ah!” said Hezekiah. “So they du, young man, so they du, if so be they’re faithful to ’un an’ don’t go a-angerin’ on ’un. They bells du know well who’s a-haulin’ of ’un. Wunnerful understandin’ they is. They can’t abide a wicked man. They lays in wait to overthrow ’un. But old Tailor Paul can’t say I ain’t done well by her an she allus done well by me. Make righteousness your course bell, my lord, an’ keep a-follerin’ on her an’ she’ll see you through your changes till Death calls you to stand. Yew ain’t no call to be afeard o’ the bells if so be as yew follows righteousness.”
“Oh, quite,” said Wimsey, a little embarrassed.
He left Hezekiah and went into the church, stepping softly as though he feared to rouse up something from its sleep. Abbot Thomas was quiet in his tomb; the cherubims, open-eyed and open-mouthed, were absorbed in their everlasting contemplation; far over him he felt the patient watchfulness of the bells.
THE SECOND PART
NOBBY GOES IN SLOW AND COMES OUT QUICK
It is a frightful plight. Two angels buried him... in Vallombrosa by night; I saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock.
J. SHERIDAN LEFANU: Welder’s Hand.
Mr. Cranton was in an infirmary as the guest of His Majesty the King, and looked better than when they had last seen him. He showed no surprise at being charged with the murder of Geoffrey Deacon, twelve years or so after that gentleman’s reputed decease.
“Right!” said Mr. Cranton. “I rather expected you’d get on to it, but I kept on hoping you mightn’t. I didn’t do it, and I want to make a statement. Do sit down. These quarters aren’t what I could wish for a gentleman, but they seem to be the best the Old Country can offer. I’m told they do it much prettier in Sing Sing. England with all thy faults I love thee still. Where do you want me to begin?”
“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Wimsey, “go on till you get to the end and then stop. May he have a fag, Charles?”
“Well, my lord and—no,” said Mr. Cranton, “I won’t say gentlemen. Seems to go against the grain, somehow. Officers, if you like, but not gentlemen. Well, my lord and officers, I don’t need to tell you that I’m a deeply injured man. I said I never had those shiners, didn’t I? And you see I was right. What you want to know is, how did I first hear that Deacon was still on deck? Well, he wrote me a letter, that’s how. Somewhere about last July, that would be. Sent it to the old crib, and it was forwarded on—never you mind who by.”
“Gammy Pluck,” observed Mr. Parker, distantly.
“I name no names,” said Mr. Cranton. “Honour among—gentlemen. I burnt that letter, being an honourable gentleman, but it was some story, and I don’t know that I can do justice to it. Seems that when Deacon made his getaway, after an unfortunate encounter with a warder, he had to sneak about Kent in a damned uncomfortable sort of way for a day or two. He said the stupidity of the police was almost incredible. Walked right over him twice, he said. One time they trod on him. Said he’d never realised so vividly before why a policeman was called a flattie. Nearly broke his fingers standing on them. Now I,” added Mr. Cranton, “have rather small feet. Small and well-shod. You can always tell a gentleman by his feet.”
“Go on, Nobby,” said Mr. Parker.
“Anyhow, the third night he was out there lying doggo in a wood somewhere, he heard a chap coming along that wasn’t a flattie. Rolling drunk, Deacon said he was. So Deacon pops out from behind a tree and pastes the fellow one. He said he didn’t mean to do him in, only put him out, but he must have struck a bit harder than what he meant. Mind you, that’s only what he said, but Deacon always was a low kind of fellow and he’d laid out one man already and you can’t hang a chap twice. Anyway, he found he’d been and gone and done it, and that was that.
“What he wanted, of course, was duds, and when he came to examine the takings, he found he’d bagged a Tommy in uniform with all his kit. Well, that wasn’t very surprising, come to think of it. There were a lot of those about in 1918, but it sort of took Deacon aback. Of course, he knew there was a war on—they’d been told all about that—but it hadn’t, as you might say, come home to him. This Tommy had some papers and stuff on him and a torch, and from what Deacon could make out, looking into the thing rather hurriedly in a retired spot, he was just coming off his leaf and due to get back to the Front. Well, Deacon thought, any hole’s better than Maidstone Gaol, so here goes. So he changes clothes with the Tommy down to his skin, collars his papers and what not, and tips the body down the hole. Deacon was a Kentish man himself, you see, and knew the place. Of course, he didn’t know the first thing about soldiering—however, needs must and all that. He thought his best way was to get up to Town and maybe he’d find some old pal up there to look after him. So he tramped off—and eventually he got a lift on a lorry or something to a railway station. He did mention the name, but I’ve forgotten it. He picked some town he’d never been in—a small place. Anyway, he found a train going to London and he piled into it. That was all right; but somewhere on the way, in got a whole bunch of soldiers, pretty lit-up and cheery, and from the way they talked. Deacon began to find out what he was up against. It came over him, you see, that here he was, all dressed up as a perfectly good Tommy, and not knowing the first thing about the War, or drill or anything, and he knew if he opened his mouth he’d put his foot in it.”
“Of course,” said Wimsey. “It’d be like dressing up as a Freemason. You couldn’t hope to get away with it.”
“That’s it. Deacon said it was like being among people talking a foreign language. Worse; because Deacon did know a bit about foreign languages. He was an educated sort of bloke. But this Army stuff was beyond him. So all he could do was to pretend to be asleep. He said he just rolled up in his corner and snored, and if anybody spoke to him he swore at them. It worked quite well, he said. There was one very persistent bloke, though, with a bottle of Scotch. He kept on shoving drinks at Deacon and he took a few, and then some more, and by the time he got to London he was pretty genuinely sozzled. You see, he’d had nothing to eat, to speak of, for a
coupla days, except some bread he’d managed to scrounge from a cottage.”
The policeman who was taking all this down in shorthand scratched stolidly on over the paper. Mr. Cranton took a drink of water and resumed.
“Deacon said he wasn’t very clear what happened to him after that. He wanted to get out of the station and go off somewhere, but he found it wasn’t so easy. The darkened streets confused him, and the persistent fellow with the bottle of Scotch seemed to have taken a fancy to him. This bloke talked all the time, which was lucky for Deacon. He said he remembered having some more drinks and something about a canteen, and tripping over something and a lot of chaps laughing at him. And after that he must really have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew, he was in a train again, with Tommies all round him, and from what he could make out, they were bound for the Front.”
“That’s a very remarkable story,” said Mr. Parker.
“It’s clear enough,” said Wimsey. “Some kindly soul must have examined his papers, found he was due back and shoved him on to the nearest transport, bound for Dover, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Cranton. “Caught in the machine, as you might say. Well, all he could do was to lie doggo again. There were plenty of others who seemed to be dog-tired and fairly well canned and he wasn’t in any way remarkable. He watched what the others did, and produced his papers at the right time and all that. Fortunately, nobody else seemed to belong to his particular unit. So he got across. Mind you,” added Mr. Cranton, “I can’t tell you all the details. I wasn’t in the War myself, being otherwise engaged. You must fill up the blanks for yourself. He said he was damned seasick on the way over, and after that he slept in a sort of cattle-waggon and finally they bundled him out at last in the dark at some ghastly place or other. After a bit he heard somebody asking if there was anyone belonging to his unit. He knew enough to say ‘Yes, sir’ and stand forward—and then he found himself foot-slogging over a filthy road full of holes with a small party of men and an officer. God! he said it went on for hours and he thought they must have done about a hundred miles, but I daresay that was an exaggeration. And he said there was a noise like merry hell going on ahead, and the ground began to shake, and he suddenly grasped what he was in for.”
Wimsey 009 - The Nine Tailors Page 26