They turned the corner beneath the great grey tower and passed by the Rectory wall. As they neared the gate a blast of familiar toots smote upon their ears, and Wimsey slackened speed as the Rector’s car came cautiously nosing its way into the road. Mr. Venables recognised the Daimler immediately, and stopped his engine with the Morris halfway across the road. His hand waved cheerfully to them through the side-curtains.
“Here you are! here you are again!” he cried in welcoming accents, as Wimsey got out and came forward to greet him. “How lucky I am to have just caught you. I expect you heard me coming out. I always blow the horn before venturing into the roadway; the entrance is so very abrupt. How are you, my dear fellow, how are you? Just going along to the Red House, I expect. They are eagerly looking forward to your visit. You will come and see us often, I hope, while you’re here. My wife and I are dining with you to-night. She will be so pleased to meet you again. I said to her, I wondered if I should meet you on the road. What terrible weather, is it not? I have to hurry off now to baptise a poor-little baby at the end of Swamp Drove just the other side of Frog’s Bridge. It’s not likely to live, they tell me, and the poor mother is desperately ill, too, so I mustn’t linger, because I expect I shall have to walk up the Drove with all this mud and it’s nearly a mile and I don’t walk as fast as I did. Yes, I am quite well, thank you, except for a slight cold. Oh, nothing at all—I got a little damp the other day taking a funeral for poor Watson at St. Stephen—he’s laid up with shingles, so painful and distressing, though not dangerous, I’m happy to say. Did you come through St. Ives and Chatteris? Oh, you came direct from Denver. I hope your family are all quite well. I hear they’ve got the floods out all over the Bedford Level. There’ll be skating on Bury Fen if we get any frosts after this—though it doesn’t look like it at present, does it? They say a green winter makes a fat churchyard, but I always think the extreme cold is really more trying for the old people. But I really must push on now. I beg your pardon? I didn’t catch what you said. The bells are a little loud. That’s why I blew my horn so energetically; it is difficult sometimes to hear while the ringing is going on. Yes, we’re trying some Stedman’s to-night. You don’t ring Stedman’s, I think. You must come along one day and have a try at them. Most fascinating. Wally Pratt is making great strides. Even Hezekiah says he isn’t doing so badly. Will Thoday is ringing to-night. I turned over in my mind what you told me, but I saw no reason for excluding him. He did wrong, of course, but I feel convinced that he committed no great sin, and it would arouse so much comment in the village if he left the ringers. Gossip is such a wicked thing, don’t you think? Dear me! I am neglecting my duties sadly in the pleasure of seeing you. That poor child! I must go. Oh, dear! I hope my engine won’t give trouble, it is scarcely warmed up. Oh, please don’t trouble. How very good of you. I’m ashamed to trespass on your—Ah! she always responds at once to the starling-handle. Well, au revoir, au revoir! We shall meet this evening.”
He chugged off cheerfully, beaming round at them through the discoloured weather curtains and zigzagging madly across the road in his efforts to drive one way and look another. Wimsey and Bunter went on to the Red House.
THE SECOND PART
THE WATERS ARE CALLED HOME
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts:
all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
PSALM xlii. 7.
Christmas was over. Uncle Edward, sourly and reluctantly, had given way, and Hilary Thorpe’s career was decided. Wimsey had exerted himself nobly in other directions. On Christmas Eve, he had gone out with the Rector and the Choir and sung “Good King Wenceslas” in the drenching rain, returning to eat cold roast beef and trifle at the Rectory. He had taken no part in the Stedman’s Triples, but had assisted Mrs. Venables to tie wet bunches of holly and ivy to the font, and attended Church twice on Christmas Day, and helped to bring two women and their infants to be churched and christened from a remote and muddy row of cottages two miles beyond the Drain.
On Boxing Day, the rain ceased, and was followed by what the Rector described as “a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon.” Wimsey, taking advantage of a dry road and a clear sky, ran over to see his friends at Walbeach and stayed the night, hearing great praises of the New Wash Cut and the improvement it had brought to the harbour and the town.
He returned to Fenchurch St. Paul after lunch, skimming merrily along with Euroclydon bowling behind him. Turning across the bridge at Van Leyden’s Sluice, he noticed how swift and angry the river ran through the weir, with flood-water and tide-water meeting the wind. Down by the sluice a gang of men were working on a line of barges, which were moored close against the gates and piled high with sandbags. One of the workmen gave a shout as the car passed over the bridge, and another man, seeing him point and gesticulate, came running from the sluice-head across the road, waving his arms. Lord Peter stopped and waited for him to come up. It was Will Thoday
“My lord!” he cried, “my lord! Thank God you are here! Go and warn them at St. Paul that the sluice-gates are going. We’ve done what we can with sandbags and beams, but we can’t do no more and there’s a message come down from the old Bank Sluice that the water is over the Great Leam at Lympsey, and they’ll have to send it down here or be drowned themselves. She’s held this tide, but she’ll go the next with this wind and the tide at springs. It’ll lay the whole country under water, my lord, and there’s no time to lose.”
“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 co-operated 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 mi
le 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 postmistress.
“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 then 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 schoolhouse 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 Miss 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 volunteer 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 organisation. 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. Tabbitt 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 organise 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 wr
inging 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 organisation 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!
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