The Nine Tailors (2 page)

The ancient car, shuddering to her marrowbones, lurched away down the straight and narrow road. They passed a cottage, and then, quite suddenly, on their right, there loomed out of the whirling snow a grey, gigantic bulk.

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Wimsey, “is that your church?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the Rector, with pride. “You find it impressive?”

“Impressive!” said Wimsey. “Why, it’s like a young cathedral. I’d no idea. How big is your parish, then?”

“You’ll be surprised when I tell you,” said the Rector, with a chuckle. “Three hundred and forty souls—no more. Astonishing, is it not? But you find the same thing all over the Fens. East Anglia is famous for the size and splendour of its parish churches. Still, we flatter ourselves we are almost unique, even in this part of the world. It was an abbey foundation, and in the old days Fenchurch St. Paul must have been quite an important place. How high should you say our tower was?”

Wimsey gazed up at the great pile. “It’s difficult to tell in this darkness. Not less than a hundred and thirty feet, surely.”

“Not a bad guess. A hundred and twenty-eight, to be exact, to the top of the pinnacles, but it looks more, because of the comparative lowness of the clerestory roof. There aren’t many to beat us. St. Peter Mancroft, of course—but that’s a town church. And St. Michael’s, Coventry, is one hundred and thirty feet without the spire. But I would venture to back Fenchurch St. Paul against them all for beauty of proportion. You will see that better when we turn the corner. Here we are. I always blow my horn here; the wall and the trees make it so very dangerous. I sometimes think we ought to have the churchyard wall set back a little, in the public interest. Ah! now you get a little idea. Very fine, is it not, the piling of the aisle and clerestory? You will be able to judge better in daylight. Here is the Rectory—just opposite the church. I always blow my horn at the gate for fear anybody should be about. The bushes make it so very dark. Ah! safely negotiated. I’m sure you will be glad to get into the warm and have a cup of tea—or possibly something stronger. I always blow my horn at the door, so as to tell my wife I am back. She gets nervous when I am out after lighting-up time; the dykes and drains make these roads so very awkward, and I am not as young as I was. I fear I am already a little late. Ah! here is my wife. Agnes, my dear, I am sorry to be a little behind time, but I have brought a guest back with me. He has had an accident with his car and will stay the night with us. The rug! Allow me! I fear that seat is something of a
res angusta.
Pray be careful of your head. Ah! all is well. My dear—Lord Peter Wimsey.”

Mrs. Venables, a plump and placid figure in the lamplight from the open door, received the invasion with competent tranquillity. “How fortunate that my husband should have met you. An accident? I do hope you are not hurt. I always say these roads are perfect death-traps.”

“Thank you,” said Wimsey. “There is no harm done. We stupidly ran off the road—at Frog’s Bridge, I understand.”

“A very nasty place—quite a mercy you didn’t go into the Thirty-foot Drain. Do come in and sit down and get yourselves warm. Your man? Yes, of course. Emily! Take this gentleman’s manservant into the kitchen and make him comfortable.”

“And tell Hinkins to take the car and go down to Frog’s Bridge for the luggage,” added the Rector. “He will find Lord Peter’s car there. He had better go at once, before the weather gets worse. And, Emily! tell him to send over to Wilderspin and arrange to get the car out of the dyke.”

“To-morrow morning will do for that,” said Wimsey.

“To be sure. First thing to-morrow morning. Wilderspin is the blacksmith—an excellent fellow. He will see to the matter most competently. Dear me, yes! And now, come in, come in! We want our tea. Agnes, my dear, have you explained to Emily that Lord Peter will be staying the night?”

“That will be all right,” said Mrs. Venables, soothingly. “I do hope, Theodore, you have not caught cold.”

No, no, my dear. I have been well wrapped up. Dear me, yes! Ha! What do I see? Muffins?”

“I was just wishing for muffins,” said Wimsey.

“Sit down, sit down and make a good meal. I’m sure you must be famished. I have seldom known such bitter weather. Would you prefer a whisky-and-soda, perhaps?”

“Tea for me,” said Wimsey. “How jolly all this looks! Really, Mrs. Venables, it’s tremendously good of you to take pity upon us.”

“I’m only so glad to be able to help,” said Mrs. Venables, smiling cheerfully. “Really, I don’t think there’s anything to equal the dreariness of these fen roads in winter. It’s most fortunate your accident landed you comparatively close to the village.”

“It is indeed.” Wimsey gratefully took in the cosy sitting-room, with its little tables crowded with ornaments, its fire roaring behind a chaste canopy of velvet overmantel, and the silver tea-vessel winking upon the polished tray. “I feel like Ulysses, come to port after much storm and peril.”

He bit gratefully into a large and buttery muffin.

“Tom Tebbutt seems a good deal better today,” observed the Rector. “Very unfortunate that he should be laid up just now, but we must be thankful that it is no worse. I only hope there are no further casualties. Young Pratt will manage very well, I think; he went through two long touches this morning without a single mistake, and he is extremely keen. By the way, we ought, perhaps, to warn our visitor—”

“I’m sure we ought,” said Mrs. Venables. “My husband has asked you to stay the night. Lord Peter, but he ought to have mentioned that you will probably get very little sleep, being so close to the church. But perhaps you do not mind the sound of bells.”

“Not at all,” said Wimsey.

“My husband is a very keen change-ringer,” pursued Mrs. Venables, “and, as this is New Year’s Eve—”

The Rector, who seldom allowed anybody else to finish a sentence, broke in eagerly.

“We hope to accomplish a real feat to-night,” he said, “or rather, I should say, to-morrow morning. We intend to ring the New Year in with—you are not, perhaps, aware that we possess here one of the finest rings in the country?”

“Indeed?” said Wimsey. “Yes, I believe I have heard of the Fenchurch bells.”

“There are, perhaps, a few heavier rings,” said the Rector, “but I hardly know where you would rival us for fullness and sweetness of tone. Number seven, in particular, is a most noble old bell, and so is the tenor, and the John and Jericho bells are also remarkably fine—in fact, the whole ring is most ‘tuneable and sound,’ as the old motto has it.”

“It is a full ring of eight?”

“Oh, yes. If you are interested, I should like to show you a very charming little book, written by my predecessor, giving the whole history of the bells. The tenor, Tailor Paul, was actually cast in a field next the churchyard in the year 1614. You can still see the depression in the earth. where the mould was made, and the field itself is called the Bell-Field to this day.”

“And have you a good set of ringers?” inquired Wimsey, politely.

“Very good indeed. Excellent fellows and most enthusiastic. That reminds me. I was about to say that we have arranged to ring the New Year in to-night with no less,” said the Rector, emphatically, “no less than fifteen thousand, eight hundred and forty Kent Treble Bob Majors. What do you think of that? Not bad, eh?”

“Bless my heart!” said Wimsey. “Fifteen thousand—”

“Eight hundred and forty,” said the Rector.

Wimsey made a rapid calculation. “A good many hours’ work there.”

“Nine hours,” said the Rector, with relish.

“Well done, sir,” said Wimsey. “Why, that’s equal to the great performance of the College Youths in eighteen hundred and something.”

“In 1886,” agreed the Rector. “That is what we aim to emulate. And, what’s more, but for the little help I can give, we shall be obliged to do as well as they did, and ring the whole peal with eight ringers only. We had hoped to have twelve, but unhappily, four of our best men have been laid low by this terrible influenza, and we can get no help from Fenchurch St. Stephen (which has a ring of bells, though not equal to ours) because there they have no Treble Bob ringers and confine themselves to Grandsire Triples.”

Wimsey shook his head, and helped himself to his fourth muffin.

“Grandsire Triples are most venerable,” he said solemnly, “but you can never get the same music—”

“That’s what I say,” crowed the Rector. “You never can get the same music when the tenor is rung behind—not even with Stedman’s, though we are very fond here of Stedman’s and ring them, I venture to say, very well. But for interest and variety and for sweetness in the peal, give me Kent Treble Bob every time.”

“Quite right, sir,” said Wimsey.

“You will never beat it,” said Mr. Venables, soaring away happily to the heights of the belfry, and waving his muffin in the air, so that the butter ran down his cuff. “Take even Grandsire Major—I cannot help feeling it as a defect that the blows come behind so monotonously at the bobs and singles—particularly at the singles, and the fact that the treble and second are confined to a plain hunting course—”

The rest of the Rector’s observations on the Grandsire method of change-ringing were unhappily lost, for at that moment Emily made her appearance at the door, with the ominous words:

“If you please, sir, could James Thoday speak to you for a moment?”

“
James
Thoday?” said the Rector. “Why, certainly, of course. Put him in the study, Emily, and I will come in a moment.”

The Rector was not long gone, and when he returned his face was as long as a fiddle. He let himself drop into his chair in an attitude of utter discouragement.

“This,” he ejaculated, dramatically, “is an irreparable disaster!”

“Good gracious, Theodore! What in the world is the matter?”

“William Thoday! Of all nights in the year! Poor fellow, I ought not to think of myself, but it is a bitter disappointment—a bitter disappointment.”

“Why, what has happened to Thoday?”

“Struck down,” said the Rector, “struck down by this wretched scourge of influenza. Quite helpless. Delirious. They have sent for Dr. Baines.”

“T’chk, t’chk,” said Mrs. Venables.

“It appears,” went on the Rector, “that he felt unwell this morning, but insisted—most unwisely, poor man—on driving in to Walbeach on some business or other. Foolish fellow! I thought he looked seedy when he came in to see me last night. Most fortunately, George Ashton met him in the town and saw how bad he was and insisted on coming back with him. Poor Thoday must have taken a violent chill in all this bitter cold. He was quite collapsed when they got home and they had to put him to bed instantly, and now he is in a high fever and worrying all the time because he cannot get to the church to-night. I told his brother to make every effort to calm his mind, but I fear it will be difficult. He is so enthusiastic, and the thought that he has been incapacitated at this crisis seems to be preying on his mind.”

“Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Venables, “but I expect Dr. Baines will give him something to quiet him down.”

“I hope so, sincerely. It
is
a disaster, of course, but it is distressing that he should take it so to heart. Well, well. What can’t be cured must be endured. This is our last hope gone. We shall be reduced to ringing minors.”

“Is this man one of your ringers, then, padre?”

“Unfortunately, he is, and there is no one now to take his place. Our grand scheme will have to be abandoned. Even if I were to take a bell myself, I could not possibly ring for nine hours. I am not getting younger, and besides, I have an Early Service at 8 o’clock, in addition to the New Year service which will not release me till after midnight. Ah, well! Man proposes and God disposes—unless”—the Rector turned suddenly and looked at his guest—“you were speaking just now with a good deal of feeling about Treble Bob—you are not, yourself, by any chance, a ringer?”

“Well,” said Wimsey, “I used at one time to pull quite a pretty rope. But whether, at this time of day—”

“Treble Bob?” inquired the Rector, eagerly.

“Treble Bob, certainly. But it’s some time since—”

It will come back to you,” cried the Rector, feverishly. “It will come back. Half an hour with the handbells—”

“My dear!” said Mrs. Venables.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” cried the Rector. “Is it not really providential? That just at this moment we should be sent a guest who is actually a ringer and accustomed to ringing Kent Treble Bob?” He rang for the maid. “Hinkins must go round at once and call the lads together for a practice ring on the handbells. My dear, I am afraid we shall have to monopolise the dining-room, if you don’t mind. Emily, tell Hinkins that I have here a gentleman who can ring the peal with us and I want him to go round immediately—”

“One moment, Emily. Theodore, is it quite fair to ask Lord Peter Wimsey, after a motor accident, and at the end of a tiring day, to stay up ringing bells from midnight to nine o’clock? A short peal, perhaps, if he really does not mind, but even so, are we not demanding rather a lot of his good nature?”

The Rector’s mouth drooped like the mouth of a hurt child, and Wimsey hastened to his support.

“Not in the least, Mrs. Venables. Nothing would please me more than to ring bells all day and all night. I am not tired at all. I really don’t need rest. I would far rather ring bells. The only thing that worries me is whether I shall be able to get through the peal without making stupid mistakes.”

“Of course you will, of course you will,” said the Rector, hurriedly. “But as my wife says—really, I am afraid I am being very thoughtless. Nine hours is too much. We ought to confine ourselves to five thousand changes or—”

“Not a bit of it,” said Wimsey. “Nine hours or nothing. I insist upon it. Probably, once you have heard my efforts, it will be nothing.”

“Pooh! nonsense!” cried the Rector. “Emily, tell Hinkins to get the ringers together here by—shall we say half-past six? I think they can all be here by then, except possibly Pratt, who lives up at Tupper’s End, but I can make the eighth myself. How delightful this is! Positively, I cannot get over the amazing coincidence of your arrival. It shows the wonderful way in which Heaven provides even for our pleasures, if they be innocent. I hope. Lord Peter, you will not mind if I make a little reference to it in my sermon to-night? At least, it will hardly be a sermon—only a few thoughts appropriate to the New Year and its opportunities. May I ask where you usually ring?”