The Nine Tailors lpw-11

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Well, Jack, we was a-openin’ this here grave, which is Lady Thorpe’s grave what died last New Year’s Day, for to be ready for her ’usband’s body, see, what’s to be buried to-morrow. We begins to shovel away the earth, one at each end, like, and we hadn’t got much more than a foot or so below ground level, as you might say, when Dick drives his spade down a good spit, and he says to me, ‘Dad,’ he says, ‘there’s something in here.’ And I says to him, ‘What’s that?’ I says, ‘what do you mean? Something in here?’ and then I strikes my spade hard down and I feels something sort of between hard and soft, like, and I says, ‘Dick,’ I says, ‘that’s a funny thing, there is something here.’ So I says, ‘Go careful, my boy,’ I says, ‘because it feels funnylike to me,’ I says. So we starts at one end and shovels away gentle, and arter a bit we sees something sticking up like it might be the toe of a boot. So I says, ‘Dick,’ I says, ‘that’s a boot, that is.’ And he says, ‘You’re right, Dad, so ’tis.’ So I says, ‘Looks to me like we begun at the wrong end of this here, so to say.’ So he says, ‘Well, Dad, now we’ve gone so far we may so well have a look at him.’ So we gets a-shovellin’ again, still going very careful, and arter a bit more we sees something lookin’ like ’air. So I says, ‘You put that there shovel away and use your ’ands, because we don’t want to spile it.’ And he says, ‘I don’t like.’ And I says, ‘Don’t you be a fool, my boy. You can wash your ’ands, can’t you, when you’ve done?’ So we clears away very careful, and at last we sees him plain. And I says, ‘Dick, I don’t know who he is nor yet how he got here, but he didn’t ought to be here.’ And Dick says, ‘Shall I go for Jack Priest?’ And I says, ‘No. ’Tis Church ground and we better tell Rector.’ So that’s what we done.”

  “And I said,” put in the Rector, “that we had better send at once for you and for Dr. Baines — and here he is, I see.”

  Dr. Baines, a peremptory-looking little man, with a shrewd Scotch face, came briskly up to them. “Good afternoon, Rector. What’s happened here? I was out when your message came, so I — Good Lord!”

  A few words put him in possession of the facts, and he knelt down by the graveside.

  “He’s terribly mutilated — looks as though somebody had regularly beaten his face in. How long has he been here?”

  “That’s what we’d like you to tell us, Doctor.”

  “Half a minute, half a minute, sir,” interrupted the policeman. “What day was it you said you buried Lady Thorpe, Harry?”

  “January 4th, it were,” said Mr. Gotobed, after a short interval for reflection.

  “And was this here body in the grave when you filled it up?”

  “Now don’t you be a fool. Jack Priest,” retorted Mr. Gotobed. “’Owever can you suppose as we’d fill up a grave with this here corpus in it? It ain’t a thing as a man might drop in careless like, without noticing. If it was a pocket-knife or a penny-piece, that’d be another thing, but when it comes to the corpus of a full-grown man, that there question ain’t reasonable.”

  “Now, Harry, that ain’t a proper answer to my question. I knows my duty.”

  “Oh, all right. Well, then, there weren’t no body in that there grave when I filled it up on January 4th — leavin’ out, of course, Lady Thorpe’s body. That was there, I don’t say it wasn’t, and for all I know it’s there still. Unless him as put this here corpus where it is took the other away with him, coffin and all.”

  “Well,” said the doctor, “it can’t have been here longer than three months, and so far as I can tell, it hasn’t been there much less. But I’ll tell you that better when you get it out.”

  “Three months, eh?” Mr. Hezekiah Lavender had pushed his way to the front. “That ’ud be about the time that stranger chap disappeared — him as was stayin’ at Ezra Wilderspin’s and wanted a job to mend up moty-cars and sich. He had a beard, too, by my recollection.”

  “Why, so he had,” cried Mr. Gotobed. “What a head you have on you, Hezekiah! That’s who it is, sure-lie. To think o’ that, now! I always thought that chap was after no good. But who could have gone for to do a thing like this here?”

  “Well,” said the doctor. “If Jack Priest has finished with his interrogation, you may as well get the body dug out. Where are you going to put it? It won’t be a very nice thing to keep hanging about.”

  “Mr. Ashton have a nice airy shed, sir. If we was to ask him, I dessay he could make shift to move his ploughs out for the time being. And it’s got a decent-sized window and a door with a lock to it.”

  “That’ll do well. Dick, run round and ask Mr. Ashton and get him to lend us a cart and a hurdle. How about getting hold of the coroner. Rector? It’s Mr. Compline, you know, over at Leamholt. Shall I ring him up when I get back?”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you. I should be very grateful.”

  “All right. Can they carry on now. Jack?”

  The constable signified his assent, and the digging was resumed. By this time the entire village seemed to have assembled in the churchyard, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the children were prevented from crowding round the grave, since the grown-ups who should have restrained them were themselves struggling for positions of vantage. The Rector was just turning upon them with the severest rebuke he knew how to utter, when Mr. Lavender approached him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but did I ought to ring Tailor Paul for that there?”

  “Ring Tailor Paul? Well, really, Hezekiah, I hardly know.”

  “We got to ring her for every Christian soul dyin’ in the parish,” persisted Mr. Lavender. “That’s set down for us. And seemin’ly he must a-died in the parish, else why should anybody go for to bury him here?”

  “True, true, Hezekiah.”

  “But as for being’ a Christian soul, who’s to say?”

  “That, I fear, is beyond me, Hezekiah.”

  “As to being’ a bit behindhand with him,” went on the old man, “that ain’t no fault of ours. We only knowed to-day as he’d died, so it stands to reason we couldn’t ring for him earlier. But Christian — well, there! that’s a bit of a puzzle, that is.”

  “We’d better give him the benefit of the doubt, Hezekiah. Ring the bell by all means.”

  The old man looked dubious, and at length approached the doctor. “How old?” said the latter, looking round in some surprise. “Why, I don’t know. It’s hard to say. But I should think he was between forty and fifty. Why do you want to know? The bell? Oh, I see. Well, put it at fifty.”

  So Tailor Paul tolled the mysterious stranger out with nine strokes and fifty and a hundred more, while Alf Donnington at the Red Cow and Tom Tebbutt at the Wheatsheaf did a roaring trade, and the Rector wrote a letter.

  THE SECOND PART

  LORD PETER IS CALLED INTO THE HUNT

  Hunting is the first part of change ringing which it is necessary to understand.

  TROYTE On Change-Ringing.

  “MY DEAR LORD PETER (wrote the Rector),—

  “Since your delightful visit to us in January, I have frequently wondered, with a sense of confusion, what you must have thought of us for not realising how distinguished an exponent of the methods of Sherlock Holmes we were entertaining beneath our roof. Living so very much out of the world, and reading only The Times and the Spectator, we are apt, I fear, to become somewhat narrow in our interests. It was only when my wife wrote to her cousin Mrs. Smith (whom you may know, perhaps, as she lives in Kensington) and mentioned your stay with us, that we were informed, by Mrs. Smith’s reply, what manner of man our guest was.

  “In the hope that you will pardon our lamentable ignorance, I venture to write and ask you to give us some your advice out of your great experience. This afternoon we ‘have been jerked rudely out of the noiseless tenor of our way,’ by a most mysterious and shocking occurrence. On opening the grave of the late Lady Thorpe to receive the body of her husband — whose sad death you no doubt saw in the Obituary columns of the daily press — our sexton was horrified to discover
the dead body of a completely strange man, who appears to have come by his end in some violent and criminal manner. His face has been terribly mutilated, and — what seems even more shocking the poor fellow’s hands have been cut right off at the wrists! Our local police have, of course, the matter in hand, but the sad affair is of peculiar and painful interest to me (being in some sort connected with our parish church), and I am somewhat at a loss to know how I, personally, should proceed. My wife, with her usual great practical ability, suggested that we should seek your aid and advice, and Superintendent Blundell of Leamholt, with whom I have just had an interview, most obligingly says that he will give you every facility for investigation should you care to look into the matter personally. I hardly like to suggest to so busy a man that you should actually come and conduct your investigations on the spot, but, in case you thought of doing so, I need not say how heartily welcome you would be at the Rectory.

  “Forgive me if this letter is somewhat meandering and confused; I am writing in some perturbation of mind. I may add that our Ringers retain a most pleasant and grateful recollection of the help you gave us with our famous peal, and would, I am sure, wish me to remember them to you. “With kindest regards from my wife and myself,

  “Most sincerely yours,

  “THEODORE VENABLES.”

  “P.S. — My wife reminds me to tell you that the inquest is at 2 o’clock on Saturday.”

  This letter, dispatched on the Friday morning, reached Lord Peter by the first post on Saturday. He wired that he would start for Fenchurch St. Paul at once, joyfully cancelled a number of social engagements, and at 2 o’clock was seated in the Parish Room, in company with a larger proportion of the local population than had probably ever gathered beneath one roof since the spoliation of the Abbey.

  The coroner, a florid-faced country lawyer, who seemed to be personally acquainted with everybody present, got to work with the air of an immensely busy person, every moment of whose time was of value.

  “Come now, gentlemen…. No talking over there if you please… all the jury this way…. Sparkes, give out these Testaments to the jury… choose a foreman, please…. Oh! you have chosen Mr. Donnington… very good…. Come along, Alf… take the Book in your right hand… diligently inquire… Sovereign Lord the King… man unknown… body… view… skill and knowledge… help you God… kiss the Book… sit down… table over there… now the rest of you… take the Book in your right hand… your right hand, Mr. Pratt… don’t you know your left hand from your right, Wally?… No laughing, please, we’ve no time to waste… same oath that your foreman… you and each of you severally to keep… help you God… kiss the Book… on that bench by Alf Donnington…. Now then, you know what we’re here for… inquire how this man came by his death… witnesses to identity… understand no witnesses to identity… Yes, Superintendent?… Oh, I see… why didn’t you say so? Very well… this way, please…. I beg your pardon, sir?… Lord Peter… do you mind saying that again… Whimsy?… Oh, no H… just so… Wimsey’ with an E… quite… occupation?… what?… Well, we’d better say, Gentleman… now then, my lord, you say you can offer evidence as to identity?”

  “Not exactly, but I rather think…”

  “One moment, please… take the Book in your right hand… evidence… inquiry… truth, whole truth and nothing but the truth… kiss the Book… yes… name, address, occupation we’ve got all that…. If you can’t keep that baby quiet, Mrs. Leach, you’ll have to take it out.. Yes?”

  “I have been taken to see the body, and, from my observation I think it possible that I saw this man on January 1st last. I do not know who he was, but if it is the same man he stopped my car about half a mile beyond the bridge by the sluice and asked the way to Fenchurch St. Paul. I never saw him again, and had never seen him before to my knowledge.”

  “What makes you think it may be the same man?”

  “The fact that he is dark and bearded and that the man I saw also appeared to be wearing a dark blue suit similar to that worn by deceased. I say ‘appeared,’ because he was wearing an overcoat, and I only saw the legs of his trousers. He seemed to be about fifty years of age, spoke in a low voice with a London accent and was of fairly good address. He told me that he was a motor-mechanic and was looking for work. In my opinion, however…”

  “One moment. You say you recognise the beard and the suit. Can you swear…?”

  “I cannot swear that I definitely recognise them. I say that the man I saw resembled the deceased in these respects.”

  “You cannot identify his features?”

  “No; they are too much mutilated.”

  “Very well. Thank you. Are there any more witnesses to identity?”

  The blacksmith rose up rather sheepishly. “Come right up to the table, please. Take the Book… truth… truth… truth… Name Ezra Wilderspin. Well now, Ezra, what have you got to say?”

  “Well, sir, if I was to say I recognised the deceased, I should be telling a lie. But it’s a fact that he ain’t unlike a chap that come along, same as his lordship here says, last New Year’s Day a-looking for a job along of me. Said he was a motor-mechanic out o’ work. Well, I told him I might do with a man as knowed somethin’ about motors, so I takes him on and gives him a trial. He did his work pretty well, near as I could judge, for three days, livin’ in our place, and then, all of a sudden, off he goes in the middle of the night and we never seen no more of him.”

  “What night was that?”

  “Same day as they buried her ladyship it was…”

  Here a chorus of voices broke in: “January 4th, Ezra! that’s when it were.”

  “That’s right. Saturday, January 4th, so ’twere.”

  “What was the name of this man?”

  “Stephen Driver, he called hisself. Didn’t say much; only that he’d been trampin’ about a goodish time, lookin’ for work. Said he’d been in the Army, and in and out of work ever since.”

  “Did he give you any references?”

  “Why, yes, sir, he did, come to think on it. He give me the name of a garridge in London where he’d been, but he said it had gone bankrupt and shut up. But he said if I was to write to the boss, he’d put in a word for him.”

  “Have you got the name and address he gave you?”

  “Yes, sir. Leastways, I think the missus put it away in the teapot.”

  “Did you take up the reference?”

  “No, sir. I did think of it, but being no great hand at writing I says to myself I’d wait till the Sunday, when I’d have more time, like. Well, you see, before that he was off, so I didn’t think no more about it. He didn’t leave nothing behind him, bar an old toothbrush. We ’ad to lend him a shirt when he came.”

  “You had better see if you can find that address.”

  “That’s right, sir. Liz!” (in a stentorian bellow). “You cut off home and see if you can lay your ’and on that bit o’ paper what Driver give me.”

  Voice from the back of the room: “I got it here, Ezra,” followed by a general upheaval, as the blacksmith’s stout wife forced her way to the front.

  “Thanks, Liz,” said the coroner. “Mr. Tasker, 103 Little James St. London, W.C. Here, Superintendent, you’d better take charge of that. Now, Ezra, is there anything more you can tell us about this man Driver?”

  Mr. Wilderspin explored his stubble with a thick forefinger.

  “I dunno as there is, sir.”

  “Ezra! Ezra! don’t yew remember all them funny questions he asked?”

  “There now,” said the blacksmith, “the missus is quite right. That was a funny thing about them questions, that was. He said he ’adn’t never been in this here village before, but he knowed a friend as had and the friend had told him to ask after Mr. Thomas. ‘Mr. Thomas!’ I says. ‘There ain’t no Mr. Thomas in this here village, nor never has been to my knowledge.’ ‘That’s queer,’ he says, ‘but maybe he’s got another name as well. Far as I can make out,’ he says, ‘this Thomas ain’t quite right in his �
��ead. My friend said as he was potty, like.’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘you can’t mean Potty Peake? Because Orris is his Chrissen name.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘Thomas was the name. Batty Thomas, that’s right. And another name my friend gi’n me,’ he says, ‘was a fellow called Paul — a tailor or some’in o’ that, living next door to him, like.’ ‘Why,’ I says to him, ‘your friend’s been havin’ a game with you. Them ain’t men’s names, them’s the names of bells,’ I says, ‘Bells?’ he says. ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘church bells, that’s what they is. Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, they call ’em.’ And then he went on and asked a sight o’ questions about they bells. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘if you want to know about Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, you better ask Rector,’ I says. ‘He knows all about they old bells.’ I dunno if he ever went to Rector, but he come back one day — that were the Friday — and says he been in the church and see a bell carved on old Batty Thomas’ tomb, like, and what did the writing on it mean. And I says to ask Rector, and he says: ‘Did all bells have writing on ’em,’ and I says, ‘Mostly’; and arter that he didn’t say no more about it.”