The Nine Tailors (20 page)

Superintendent Blundell was not best pleased when this conversation was repeated to him. “Thoday and his wife had better be careful,” he observed.

“They told you the exact truth, you know,” said Wimsey.

“Ah!” said Mr. Blundell. “I don’t like witnesses to be so damned particular about exact truth. They get away with it as often as not, and then where are you? Not but what I did think of speaking to Rosie, but her mother called her away double quick—and no wonder! Besides, I don’t care, somehow, for pumping kids about their parents. I can’t help thinking of my own Betty and Ann.”

And if that was not quite the exact truth, there was a good deal of truth in it; for Mr. Blundell was a kindly man.

TAILOR PAUL IS CALLED BEFORE WITH A SINGLE

The canal has been dangerously ignored. Each year of the Republic, our family have reported to the Capital that there were silted channels and weakened dykes in our neighbourhood. My husband and Maida’s father have just interviewed the present President. They were received politely, but their conclusion is that nothing will be done.

NORA WALN: The House of Exile.

Lord Peter Wimsey sat in the schoolroom at the Rectory, brooding over a set of underclothing. The schoolroom was, in fact, no longer the schoolroom, and had not been so for nearly twenty years. It had retained its name from the time when the Rector’s daughters departed to a real boarding-school. It was now devoted to Parish Business, but a fragrance of long-vanished governesses still clung about it—governesses with straight-fronted corsets and high-necked frocks with bell sleeves, who wore their hair
à la
Pompadour. There was a shelf of battered lesson-books, ranging from
Little Arthur’s England
to Hall & Knight’s
Algebra,
and a bleached-looking Map of Europe still adorned one wall. Of this room, Lord Peter had been made free, “except,” as Mrs. Venables explained, “on Clothing-Club nights, when I am afraid we shall have to turn you out.”

The vest and pants were spread upon the table, as though the Clothing Club, in retiring, had left some forlorn flotsam and jetsam behind. They had been washed, but there were still faint discolorations upon them, like the shadow of corruption, and here and there the fabric had rotted away, as the garments of mortality will, when the grave has had its way with them. Wafted in through the open window came the funeral scent of jonquils.

Wimsey whistled gently as he examined the underclothes, which had been mended with scrupulous and economical care. It puzzled him that Cranton, last seen in London in September, should possess a French vest and pants so much worn and so carefully repaired. His shirt and outer garments—now also clean and folded—lay on a chair close at hand. They, too, were well-worn, but they were English. Why should Cranton be wearing second-hand French underclothes?

Wimsey knew that it would be hopeless to try tracing the garments through the makers. Underwear of this mark and quality was sold by the hundred thousand in Paris and throughout the provinces. It lay stacked up outside the great linen-drapers’ shops, marked “Occasions,” and thrifty housewives bought it there for cash. There was no laundry-mark; the washing had doubtless been done at home by the housewife herself or the
bonne à tout faire.
Holes here and there had been carefully darned; under the armpits, patches of a different material had been neatly let in; the wrists of the vest, frayed with use, had been over-sewn; buttons had been renewed upon the pants. Why not? One must make economies. But they were not garments that anyone would have gone out of his way to purchase, even at a second-hand dealer’s. And it would be hard for even the most active man to reduce his clothes to such a state of senility in four months’ wear.

Lord Peter thrust his fingers into his hair till the sleek yellow locks stood upright. “Bless his heart!” thought Mrs. Venables, looking in upon him through the window. She had conceived a warm maternal affection for her guest. “Would you like a glass of milk, or a whisky-and-soda, or a cup of beef-tea?” she suggested, hospitably. Wimsey laughed and thanked her, but declined.

“I hope you won’t catch anything from those dreadful old clothes,” said Mrs. Venables. “I’m sure they can’t be healthy.”

“Oh I don’t expect to get anything worse than brain-fever,” said Wimsey. “I mean”—seeing Mrs. Venables look concerned—“I can’t quite make out about these underthings. Perhaps you can suggest something.” Mrs. Venables came in, and he laid his problem before her.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Venables, gingerly examining the objects before her. “I’m afraid I’m not a Sherlock Holmes. I should think the man must have had a very good, hard-working wife, but I can’t say more.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why he should get his things in France. Especially as everything else is English. Except, of course, the ten-centime piece, and they’re common enough in this country.”

Mrs. Venables, who had been gardening and was rather hot, sat down to consider the question. “The only thing I can think of,” she said, “is that he got his English clothes as a disguise—you said he came here in disguise, didn’t you? But, of course, as nobody would see his underneaths, he didn’t bother to change them.”

“But that would mean that he came from France.”

“Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was a Frenchman. They often wear beards, don’t they?”

“Yes; but the man I met wasn’t a Frenchman.”

“But you don’t know he was the man you met. He may be somebody quite different.”

“Well, he
may,
” said Wimsey, dubiously.

“He didn’t bring any other clothes with him, I suppose ?”

“No; not a thing. He was just a tramping out-of-work. Or he said he was. All he brought was an old British trenchcoat, which he took with him, and a toothbrush. He left that behind him. Can we wangle a bit of evidence out of that? Can we say that he must have been murdered because, if he had merely wandered away, he would have taken his toothbrush with him? And if he was the corpse, where is his coat? For the corpse had no coat.”

“I can’t imagine,” replied Mrs. Venables, “and that reminds me, do be careful when you go down the bottom of the garden. The rooks are building and they
are
so messy. I should wear a hat if I were you. Or there’s always an old umbrella in the summer-house. Did he leave his hat behind too?”

“In a sense he did,” said Wimsey. “We’ve found that, in rather a queer place. But it doesn’t help us much.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Venables, “how tiresome it all is. I’m sure you’ll wear your brains right out with all these problems. You mustn’t overdo yourself. And the butcher says he has some nice calf’s liver to-day, only I don’t know if you can eat it. Theodore is very fond of liver-and-bacon, though I always think it’s rather rich. And I’ve been meaning to say, it’s very good of that nice manservant of yours to clean the silver and brass so beautifully, but he really shouldn’t have troubled. I’m quite used to giving Emily a hand with it. I hope it isn’t very dull for him here. I understand he’s a great acquisition in the kitchen and extraordinarily good at music-hall imitations. Twice as good as the talkies, Cook says.”

“Is he indeed?” said Wimsey. “I had no idea of it. But what I don’t know about Bunter would fill a book.”

Mrs. Venables bustled away, but her remarks remained in Wimsey’s mind. He put aside the vest and pants, filled a pipe and wandered down the garden, pursued by Mrs. Venables with an ancient and rook-proof linen hat, belonging to the Rector. The hat was considerably too small for him, and the fact that he immediately put it on, with expressions of gratitude, may attest the kind heart which, despite the poet, is frequently found in close alliance with coronets; though the shock to Bunter’s system was severe when his master suddenly appeared before him, wearing this grotesque headgear, and told him to get the car out and accompany him on a short journey.

“Very good, my lord,” said Bunter. “Ahem! there is a fresh breeze, my lord.”

“All the better.”

“Certainly, my lord. If I may venture to say so, the tweed cap or the grey felt would possibly be better suited to the climatic conditions.”

“Eh? Oh! Possibly you are right, Bunter. Pray restore this excellent hat to its proper place, and, if you should see Mrs. Venables, give her my compliments and say that I found its protection invaluable. And, Bunter, I rely upon you to keep a check upon your Don Juan fascinations and not strew the threshold of friendship with the wreckage of broken hearts.”

“Very good, my lord.”

On returning with the grey felt, Bunter found the car already out and his lordship in the driving-seat.

“We are going to try a long shot, Bunter, and we will begin with Leamholt.”

“By all means, my lord.”

They sped away up the Fenchurch Road, turned left along the Drain, switchbacked over Frog’s Bridge without mishap and ran the twelve or thirteen miles to the little town of Leamholt. It was market day, and the Daimler had to push her way decorously through droves of sheep and pigs and through groups of farmers, who stood carelessly in the middle of the street, disdaining to move till the mudguards brushed their thighs. In the centre of one side of the market-place stood the post-office.

“Go in here, Bunter, and ask if there is any letter here for Mr. Stephen Driver, to be left till called for.”

Lord Peter waited for some time, as one always waits when transacting business in rural post-offices, while pigs lurched against his bumpers and bullocks blew down his neck. Presently, Bunter returned, having drawn a blank despite a careful search conducted by three young ladies and the postmaster in person.

“Well, never mind,” said Wimsey. “Leamholt is the post town, so I thought we ought to give it the first chance. The other possibilities are Holport and Walbeach, on this side of the Drain. Holport is a long way off and rather unlikely. I think we will try Walbeach. There’s a direct road from here—at least, as direct as any fen road ever is.... I suppose God could have made a sillier animal than a sheep, but it is very certain that He never did.... Unless it’s cows. Hoop, there, hup! hup! get along with you, Jemima!”

Mile after mile the flat road reeled away behind them. Here a windmill, there a solitary farm-house, there a row of poplars strung along the edge of a reed-grown dyke. Wheat, potatoes, beet, mustard and wheat again, grassland, potatoes, lucerne, wheat, beet and mustard. A long village street with a grey and ancient church tower, a redbrick chapel, and the Vicarage set in a little oasis of elm and horse-chestnut, and then once more dyke and windmill, wheat, mustard and grassland. And as they went, the land flattened more and more, if a flatter flatness were possible, and the windmills became more numerous, and on the right hand the silver streak of the Wale River came back into view, broader now, swollen with the water of the Thirty-foot and of Harper’s Cut and St. Simon’s Eau, and winding and spreading here and there, with a remembrance of its ancient leisure. Then, ahead of the great circle of the horizon, a little bunch of spires and roofs and a tall tree or so, and beyond them the thin masts of shipping. And so, by bridge and bridge the travellers came to Walbeach, once a great port, but stranded now far inland with the silting of the marshes and the choking of the Wale outfall; yet with her maritime tradition written unerringly upon her grey stones and timber warehouses, and the long lines of her half-deserted quays.

Here, at the post-office in the little square. Lord Peter waited in the pleasant hush that falls on country towns where all days but market days are endless sabbaths. Bunter was absent for some time, and, when he emerged, did so with a trifle less than his usual sedateness, while his usually colourless face was very slightly flushed about the cheekbones.

“What luck?” inquired Wimsey, genially. To his surprise, Bunter replied by a hasty gesture enjoining silence and caution. Wimsey waited till he had taken his place in the car and altered his question to:

“What’s up?”

“Better move on quickly, my lord,” said Bunter, “because while the manoeuvre has been attended with a measure of success, it is possible that I have robbed His Majesty’s Mails by obtaining a postal packet under false pretences.”

Long before this handsome period had thundered to its close, the Daimler was running down a quiet street behind the church.

“What
have
you been doing, Bunter?”

“Well, my lord, I inquired, as instructed, for a letter addressed to Mr. Stephen Driver, poste restante, which might have been lying here some time. When the young person inquired how long a time, I replied, according to our previous arrangement, that I had intended to visit Walbeach a few weeks ago, but had been prevented from doing so, and that I understand that an important letter had been forwarded to me at this address under a misapprehension.”

“Very good,” said Wimsey. “All according to Cocker.”

“The young person, my lord, then opened a species of safe or locker, and searched in it, and after the expiration of a considerable period, turned round with a letter in her hand and inquired what name I had said.”

“Yes? These girls are very bird-witted. It would have been more surprising if she hadn’t asked you to repeat the name.”

“Quite so, my lord. I said, as before, that the name was Stephen or Steve Driver, but at the same time I observed from where I was standing that the letter in her hand bore a blue stamp. There was only the counter between us, and, as you are aware, my lord, I am favoured with excellent sight.”

“Let us always be thankful for blessings.”

“I hope I may say that I always am, my lord. On seeing the blue stamp, I added quickly (calling to mind the circumstances of the case) that the letter had been posted in France.”

“Very good, indeed,” said Wimsey, nodding approval.

“The young person, my lord, appeared to be puzzled by this remark. She said, in a doubtful tone, that there was a letter from France which had been lying in the post-office for three weeks, but that it was addressed to another person.”

“Oh, hell!” said Wimsey.

“Yes, my lord; that thought passed through my own mind. I said, ‘Are you quite sure, miss, that you have not mistaken the handwriting?’ I am happy to say, my lord, that the young person—being young, and, no doubt, inexperienced, succumbed to this somewhat elementary strategy. She answered immediately, ‘Oh, no—it’s as plain as print: M. Paul Taylor.’ At that point—”