The Nine Tailors lpw-11

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Then the murderer couldn’t have thought about it earlier than New Year’s Day when Mother died. I mean, he couldn’t have counted on having a grave handy.”

  “Of course he couldn’t; but it may have happened at any time since.”

  “Surely not at any time. Only within a week or so after Mother died.”

  “Why?” asked Wimsey, quickly.

  “Why, because old Gotobed would be certain to notice if anybody had been digging his grave about after the earth had been firmed up properly. Don’t you think it must have happened quite soon — probably while the wreaths were still on the grave? They stayed there for a week, and then they looked dead and beastly, and I told Gotobed to chuck them away.”

  “That’s an idea,” said Wimsey. “I never thought about that — not having had very much to do with the digging of graves. I must ask Gotobed about it. I say! Can you remember how long the snow lay after your mother died?”

  “Let me see. It stopped snowing on New Year’s Day, and they swept the path up to the south door. But it didn’t start to thaw till — wait! I know! It was during the night of the second, though it had been getting sort of warmer for two days, and the snow was kind of damp. I remember quite well now. They dug the grave on the third, and everything as all sloshy. And on the day of the funeral it rained like billy-oh! It was dreadful. I don’t think I shall ever forget it.”

  “And that took all the snow away, of course.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So it would have been easy enough for anybody to get to the grave without leaving footprints. Yes. I suppose you never noticed yourself that the wreaths had been moved, or anything?”

  “Oh, no! As a matter of fact, I didn’t come here much. Dad was so ill, I had to be with him — and anyway, I didn’t think of Mother as being here, you know. Lord Peter, I think all this business about graves is hateful, don’t you? But I’ll tell you who would have noticed anything, and that’s Mrs. Gates — our housekeeper, you know. She came down every day. She’s a perfect ghoul. She kept on trying to talk to me about it, and I wouldn’t listen to her. She’s quite nice, really, but she ought to live in a Victorian novel, where people wear crêpe and weep into the tea-cups…. Oh, dear! there’s Uncle Edward looking for me. He looks quite dyspeptic with disapproval. I’m going to introduce you to him, just to embarrass the poor dear…. Uncle Edward! This is Lord Peter Wimsey. He’s been so kind. He says I have a creative imagination, and ought to be a writer.”

  “Ah! how do you do?” Mr. Edward Thorpe, forty-four, very correct and formal, presented a bland Civil-Service front to the impact of Wimsey’s personality. “I believe I have met your brother, the Duke of Denver. I hope he is quite well… Quite… quite so…. It is very good of you to take an interest in my niece’s young ambitions. All these young women mean to do great things, don’t they? But I tell her, authorship is a good stick, but a bad crutch. Very distressing business, this. I am so sorry she should be dragged into it, but of course, in her position, the village people expect her to — ah! — enter into their — ah! — their — um—”

  “Amusements?” suggested Wimsey. It came upon him with a shock that Uncle Edward could not be many years older than himself. He felt for him the apprehensive reverence which one feels for a quaint and brittle piece of antiquity.

  “For anything which touches them nearly,” said Mr. Thorpe. Gallant fellow! Deeply disapproving, he yet sought to defend his niece against criticism. “But I am taking her away for a little peace and quietness,” he added. “Her aunt, unhappily, was unable to come to Fenchurch — she suffers sadly from rheumatoid arthritis — but she is looking forward to seeing Hilary at home.”

  Wimsey, glancing at Hilary’s sullen face, saw rebellion rising; he knew exactly the kind of woman who would have married Uncle Edward. “In fact,” said Mr. Thorpe, “we are leaving tomorrow. I am so sorry we cannot ask you to dine, but under the circumstances—”

  “Not at all,” said Wimsey.

  “So I fear it must be a case of Hail and Farewell,” continued Mr. Thorpe, firmly. “Delighted to have met you. I could wish that it were under happier circumstances. Ah — good afternoon. Please remember me to your brother when you see him.”

  * * *

  “Warned off!” said Wimsey, when he had shaken hands with Uncle Edward and bestowed on Hilary Thorpe a grin of understanding sympathy. “Why? Corrupting the morals of youth? Or showing too much zeal about digging up the family mystery? Is Uncle Edward a dark horse or a plain ass, I wonder? Did he go to his brother’s wedding? I must ask Blundell. Where is Blundell? I wonder if he is free to-night?”

  He hastened to catch the Superintendent, who bad dutifully attended the funeral, and arranged to run over to Leamholt after dinner. Gradually the congregation melted Mr. Gotobed and his son Dick removed their official “blacks” and fetched the spades that leaned against the wall near the covered well.

  As the earth thudded heavily upon the coffin lid, Wimsey joined the small group that had gathered to discuss the ceremony and read the cards upon the wreaths. He stooped idly to examine an exceptionally handsome and exotic floral tribute of pink and purple hothouse exhibits, wondering who could have gone to so much expense for the unknown victim. With a slight shock he read, on a visiting card: “With reverent sympathy. Lord Peter Wimsey. St. Luke xii. 6.”

  “Very appropriate,” said his lordship, identifying the text after a little thought (for he had been carefully brought up). “Bunter, you are a great man.”

  * * *

  “What I really want to know,” said Lord Peter, as he stretched comfortable legs upon the Superintendent’s hearth, “is the relation between Deacon and Cranton. How did they get into touch? Because a lot seems to turn on that.”

  “So it does,” agreed Mr. Blundell; “but the trouble is, we have only got their words to go on, and which was the biggest liar, the Lord God only knows, though Mr. Justice Bramhill made a guess. There’s no doubt of one thing, and that is that they knew each other in London. Cranton was one of those smooth-spoken, gentlemanly sort of crooks that you meet hanging about the lounge in cheap-smart restaurants — you know the type. He’d been in trouble before, but he gave out he was a reformed character, and made quite a spot of money writing a book. At least, I suppose somebody wrote it for him, but he had his name put on the cover, and all that. There’ve been several of that sort since the War, but this chap was a smart lad — a bit ahead of his time, really. He was thirty-five in 1914; not educated anything to speak of, but with a kind of natural wit, sharpened by having had to look out for himself, if you take my meaning.”

  “Just so. A graduate in the University of the world.”

  “That’s very well put,” said Mr. Blundell, welcoming the cliché as an inspiration. “Very cleverly put indeed. Yes — that’s just what he was. Deacon, now, he was different. A very superior man indeed, he was, and a great reader. In fact, the chaplain down at Maidstone said he was quite a remarkable scholar in his way, with a poetic imagination, whatever that may be exactly. Sir Charles Thorpe took quite a fancy to the fellow, treated him friendly and all that, and gave him the run of the library. Well, these two met in some dance place or other, some time in 1912, when Sir Charles was staying in London. Cranton’s story is that some girl that Deacon had picked up — Deacon was always after a skirt — pointed him out to Deacon as the author of this book I was telling you about, and that Deacon made out to be tremendously interested in the book and pumped him a lot about crooks and their doings and the way they worked their little games and all that. He said Deacon made a dead set at him and wouldn’t leave him alone, and was always kind of hinting that he was bound to go back to the old life in the end. Deacon said different. He said that what interested him was the literary side of the business, as he called it. Says he thought, if a crook could write a book and make money, why not a butler? According to him, it was Cranton made a dead set at him, and started pumping him about what sort of place he’d got, and suggesting if th
ere was anything to be pinched, they should pinch it together and go shares, Deacon working the inside part of the job and Cranton seeing to the rest — finding a fence and settling the terms and so on. I daresay it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, if you ask me. A pretty pair they were, and no mistake.”

  The Superintendent paused to take a long draught of beer from a pewter mug and then resumed. “You understand,” he said, “this was the story they told after we’d got hold of ’em both for the robbery. At first, naturally, they both lied like Ananias and swore they’d never seen each other before in their lives, but when they found what the prosecution had up against them, they changed their tune. But there was this about it. As soon as Cranton realised that the game was up, he adopted this story and stuck to it. In fact, he pleaded guilty at the trial and his one idea seemed to be to get Deacon into trouble and have him gaoled good and hard. He said Deacon had double-crossed him and he was out to get his own back — though whether there was any truth in that, or whether he thought he would get off easy by making himself out to be the poor unfortunate victim of temptation, or whether it was all pure malice, I don’t know. The jury had their own idea about it, and so had the judge.

  “Well, now. In April 1914 this wedding of Mr. Henry Thorpe’s came along, and it was pretty well known that Mrs. Wilbraham was going to be there with her emerald necklace. There wasn’t a thief in London that didn’t know all about Mrs. Wilbraham. She’s a sort of cousin of the Thorpes, a lot of times removed, and long way back, and she’s got a stack of money and the meanness of fifty thousand Scotch Jews rolled into one. She’ll be about eighty-six or seven now and getting childish, so I’m told; but in those days she was just eccentric. Funny old lady, stiff as a ramrod, and always dressed in black silks and satins — very old-fashioned — with jewels and bangles and brooches and God knows what stuck all over her. That was one of her crazes, you understand. And another was that she didn’t believe in insurance and she didn’t believe a lot in safes, neither. She had a safe in her town house, naturally, and kept her stuff locked up in it, but I don’t suppose she’d have done that if the safe hadn’t been put in by her husband when he was alive. She was too mean to buy as much as a strong-box for herself, and when she went away on a visit, she preferred to trust to her own wits. Mad as a March hare, she must have been,” said the Superintendent, thoughtfully, “but there! you’d be surprised what a lot of these funny old ladies there are going about loose in the world. And of course, nobody ever liked to say anything to her, because she was disgustingly rich and had the full disposal of her own property. The Thorpes were about the only relations she had in the world, so they invited her to Mr. Henry’s wedding, though it’s my belief they all hated the sight of her. If they hadn’t have asked her, she’d have taken offence, and — well, there! You can’t offend your rich relations, can you?”

  Lord Peter, thoughtfully refilled his own beer-mug and said, “Not on any account.”

  “Well, then,” pursued the Superintendent, “here’s where Cranton and Deacon tell different tales again. According to Deacon, he got a letter from Cranton as soon as the wedding-day was announced, asking him to come and meet him at Leamholt and discuss some plan for getting hold of the emeralds. According to Cranton, it was Deacon wrote to him. Neither of ’em could produce a scrap of evidence about it, one way or the other, so, there again, you paid your money and you took your choice. But it was proved that they did meet in Leamholt and that Cranton came along the same day to have a look at the house.

  “Very good. Now Mrs. Wilbraham had a lady’s maid, and if it hadn’t been for her and Mary Thoday, the whole thing might have come to nothing. You’ll remember that Mary Thoday was Mary Deacon then. She was housemaid at the Red House, and she’d got married to Deacon at the end of 1913. Sir Charles was very kind to the young couple. He gave them a nice bedroom to themselves away from the other servants, just off a little back stair that runs up by the butler’s pantry, so that it was quite like a little private home for them. The plate was all kept in the pantry, of course, and it was supposed to be Deacon’s job to look after it.

  “Now, this maid of Mrs. Wilbraham’s — Elsie Bryant was her name — was a quick, smart sort of girl, full of fun and high spirits, and it so happened that she’d found out what Mrs. Wilbraham did with her jewels when she was staying away from home. It seems the old girl wanted to be too clever by half. I think she must have been reading too many detective stories, if you ask me, but anyway, she got it into her head that the best place to keep valuables wasn’t a jewel case or a strong-box or anything of that kind, that would be the first thing a burglar would go for, but some fancy place where nobody would think of looking, and to cut a long story short, the spot she pitched upon was — if you’ll excuse me mentioning it — was underneath one of the bedroom utensils. You may well laugh — so did everybody in court, except the judge, and he happened to get a fit of coughing at the time and his handkerchief was over his face, so nobody could see how he took it. Well, this Elsie, she was a bit inquisitive, as girls are, and one day — not very long before the wedding — she managed to take a peep through a keyhole or something of that kind, and caught the old lady just in the act of putting the stuff away. Naturally, she couldn’t keep a thing like that to herself, and when she and her mistress got to Fenchurch — which they did a couple of days before the wedding — the first thing she had to do was to strike up a bosom friendship with Mary Deacon (as she was then) for the express purpose, as it seems to me, of telling her all about it in confidence. And of course, Mary, being a devoted wife and all that, had to share the joke with her husband. I dare say it’s natural. Anyhow, counsel for the defence made a big point of it, and there’s no doubt it was that utensil kept Elsie and Mary out of quod. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said to the jury, in his speech, ‘I see you all smiling over Mrs. Wilbraham’s novel idea of a safe-deposit, and I we no doubt you’re looking forward to passing the whole story on to your wives when you get home. And that being so, you can very well enter into the feelings of my client Mary Deacon and her friend, and see how — in the most innocent manner in the world — the secret was disclosed to the one man who might have been expected to keep it quiet.’ He was a clever lawyer, he was, and had the jury eating out of his hand by the time he’d done with them.

  “Now we’ve got to guess again. There was a telegram sent off to Cranton from Leamholt — no doubt about that for we traced it. He said it came from Deacon, but Deacon said that if anybody sent it, it must have been Elsie Bryant. She and Deacon were both in Leamholt that afternoon, but we couldn’t get the girl at the post-office to recognise either of them, and the telegram was written in block letters. To my mind, that points to Deacon, because I doubt if the girl would have thought of such a thing, but needless to say, when the two of them were told to show a specimen of their printing, it wasn’t a mite like the writing on the form. Whichever of them it was, either they were pretty clever, or they got somebody else to do it for them.

  “You say you’ve heard already about what happened that night. What you want to know is the stories Cranton and Deacon told about it. Here’s where Cranton, to my mind, shows up better than Deacon, unless he was very deep indeed. He told a perfectly consistent tale from start to finish. It was Deacon’s plan first and last. Cranton was to come down in a car and be under Mrs. Wilbraham’s window at the time mentioned in the telegram. Deacon would then throw out the emerald necklace, and Cranton would go straight off with it to London and get it broken up and sold, dividing the loot fifty-fifty with Deacon, less £350 he’d given him on account. Only he said that what came out of the window was only the jewel-case and not the emeralds, and he accused Deacon of taking the stuff himself and rousing the house on purpose to put the blame on him — on Cranton, that is. And of course, if that was Deacon’s plan, it was a very good one. He would get the stuff and the kudos as well.

  “The trouble was, of course, that none of this came out till some time after Cranton had been arres
ted, so that when Deacon was taken and made his first statement to the police, he didn’t know what story he’d got to meet. The first account he gave was very straightforward and simple, and the only trouble about it was that it obviously wasn’t true. He said he woke up in the night and heard somebody moving about in the garden, and at once said to his wife: ‘I believe there’s somebody after the plate.’ Then, he said, he went downstairs, opened the back door and looked out, in time to see somebody on the terrace under Mrs. Wilbraham’s window. Then (according to him) he rushed back indoors and upstairs, just quick enough to catch a fellow making off through Mrs. Wilbraham’s window.”

  “Hadn’t Mrs. Wilbraham locked her door?”

  “No. She never did, on principle — afraid of fire, or something. He said he shouted loudly to alarm the house, and then the old lady woke up and saw him at the window. In the meantime the thief had climbed down by the ivy and got away. So he rushed off downstairs and found the footman just coming out of the back door. There was a bit of confusion about the back door part of the story, because Deacon didn’t explain, first go-off, how he happened to be in Mrs. Wilbraham’s bedroom at all. His very first tale, to Sir Charles, had been that he went straight out when he heard the noise in the garden, but by the time the police got him, he’d managed to fit the two accounts together, and said that he’d either been too upset at the time to explain himself clearly or else that everybody else had been too upset to understand what he said. Well, that was all right, until they started to unearth all the history of his having met Cranton before, and the telegram and so on. Then Cranton, seeing that the game was up, told his tale in full, and of course, that made it pretty awkward for Deacon. He couldn’t deny it altogether, so he now admitted knowing Cranton, but said it was Cranton who had tried to tempt him into stealing the emeralds, while he had been perfectly sea-green incorruptible. As for the telegram, he denied that altogether, and put it on Elsie. And he denied the £50 altogether, and it’s a fact that they never traced it to him.