The Nine Tailors (32 page)

“Heaven knows,” said Wimsey. “Anyhow, there’s your hiding-place and there’s the explanation of your hook.”

He thrust the end of his fountain pen into the hole. “It’s quite a deep—no, by Jove, it’s not! it’s only a shallow hole after all, not much longer than the peg. We can’t, surely, have made a mistake. Where’s my torch? Dash it! (Sorry, padre). Is that wood? or is it—? Here, Blundell, find me a mallet and a short, stout rod or stick of some kind—not too thick. We’ll have this hole clear.”

“Run across to the Rectory and ask Hinkins,” suggested Mr. Venables, helpfully.

In a few minutes’ time, Mr. Blundell returned, panting, with a short iron bar and a heavy wheel-spanner. Wimsey had shifted the ladder and was examining the narrow end of the oaken peg on the east side of the beam. He set one end of the bar firmly against the peg and smote lustily with the spanner. An ecclesiastical bat, startled from its resting-place by the jar, swooped out with a shriek, the tapered end of the peg shot smartly through the hole and out at the other side, and something else shot out with it—something that detached itself in falling from its wrapping of brown paper and cascaded in a flash of green and gold to the Rector’s feet.

“Bless my heart!” cried Mr. Venables.

“The emeralds!” yelled Mr. Blundell. “The emeralds, by God! And Deacon’s fifty pounds with them.”

“And we’re wrong, Blundell,” said Lord Peter. “We’ve been wrong from start to finish. Nobody found them. Nobody killed anybody for them. Nobody deciphered the cryptogram. We’re wrong, wrong, out of the hunt and wrong!”

“But we’ve got the emeralds,” said the Superintendent.

A SHORT TOUCH OF STEDMAN’S TRIPLES

THE QUICK WORK

The work of each bell is divided in three parts, viz. the quick work, dodging, and slow work.

TROYTE On Change-Ringing.

Lord Peter Wimsey passed a restless day and night and was very silent the next day at breakfast.

At the earliest possible moment he got his car and went over to Leamholt.

“Superintendent,” he said, “I think I have been the most unmitigated and unconscionable ass that ever brayed in a sleuth-hound’s skin. Now, however, I have solved the entire problem, with one trivial exception. Probably you have done so too.”

“I’ll buy it,” said Mr. Blundell. “I’m like you, my lord, I’m doing no more guessing. What’s the bit you haven’t solved, by the way?”

“Well, the murder,” said his lordship, with an embarrassed cough. “I can’t quite make out who did that, or how. But that, as I say, is a trifle. I know who the dead man was, why he was tied up, where he died, who sent the cryptogram to whom, why Will Thoday drew £200 out of the bank and put it back again, where the Thodays have gone and why and when they will return, why Jim Thoday missed his train, why Cranton came here, what he did and why he is lying about it and how the beer bottle got into the belfry.”

“Anything else?” asked Mr. Blundell.

“Oh! yes. Why Jean Legros was silent about his past, what Arthur Cobbleigh did in the wood at Dartford, what the parrot was talking about and why the Thodays were not at Early Service on Sunday, what Tailor Paul had to do with it and why the face of the corpse was beaten in.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Blundell. “Quite a walking library, aren’t you, my lord? Couldn’t you go just a step further and tell us who we’re to put the handcuffs on?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that. Dash it all, can’t I leave one little tit-bit for a friend?”

“Well,” said Mr. Blundell, “I don’t know that I ought to complain. Let’s have the rest of it and perhaps we’ll be able to do the last bit on our own.”

Lord Peter was silent for a moment. “Look here. Super,” he said at last. “This is going to be a dashed painful sort of story. I think I’d like to test it a bit before I come out with it. Will you do something yourself, first? You’ve got to do it in any case, but I’d rather not say anything till it is done. After that, I’ll say anything you like.”

“Well?”

“Will you get hold of a photograph of Arthur Cobbleigh and send it over to France for Suzanne Legros to identify?”

“That’s got to be done, naturally. Matter of routine.”

“If she identifies it, well and good. But if she’s stubborn and refuses, will you give her this note, just as it is, and watch her when she opens it?”

“Well, I don’t know about doing that personally, my lord, but I’ll see that this Monsieur Rozier does it.”

“That will do. And will you also show her the cryptogram?”

“Yes, why not? Anything else?”

“Yes, said Wimsey, more slowly. “The Thodays. I’m. a little uncomfortable about the Thodays. You’re trailing them, I suppose?”

“What do you think?”

“Exactly. Well, when you’ve put your hands on them, will you let me know before you do anything drastic? I’d rather like to be there when you question them.”

“I’ve no objection to that, my lord. And this time they’ll have to come across with some sort of story, judge’s rules or no judge’s rules, even if it breaks me.”

“You won’t have any difficulty about that,” said Wimsey. “Provided, that is, you catch them within a fortnight. After that, it will be more difficult.”

“Why within a fortnight?”

“Oh, come!” expostulated his lordship, “Isn’t it obvious? I show Mrs. Thoday the cipher. On Sunday morning neither she nor her husband attends Holy Communion. On Monday they depart to London by the first train. My dear Watson, it’s staring you in the face. The only real danger is—”

“Well?”

“The Archbishop of Canterbury. A haughty prelate, Blundell. An arbitrary prince. But I don’t suppose they’ll think about him, somehow. I think you may risk him.”

“Oh, indeed! And how about Mr. Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan?”

“Negligible. Negligible,” replied his lordship, with a wave of the hand. “Likewise the Bishop of Rome. But get on to it, Blundell, get on to it.”

“I mean to,” said Mr. Blundell, with emphasis. “They’ll not get out of the country, that’s a certainty.”

“So it is, so it is. Of course, they’ll be back here by tomorrow fortnight, but that will be too late. How soon do you expect Jim Thoday back? End of the month? Be sure he doesn’t give you the slip. I’ve an idea he may try to.”

“You think he’s our man?”

“I don’t know, I tell you. I don’t want him to be. I rather hope it’s Cranton.”

“Poor old Cranton,” said the Superintendent, perversely, “I rather hope it isn’t. I don’t like to see a perfectly good jewel-thief stepping out of his regular line, so to speak. It’s disconcerting, that’s what it is. Besides, the man’s ill. However, we shall see about that. I’ll get on to this Cobbleigh business and settle it.”

“Right!” said Wimsey. “And I think, after all, I’ll ring up the Archbishop. You never know.”

“Dotty!” said Mr. Blundell to himself. “Or pulling my leg. One or the other.”

* * *

Lord Peter Wimsey communicated with the Archbishop, and appeared to be satisfied with the result. He also wrote to Hilary Thorpe, giving her an account of the finding of the emeralds. “So you see,” he said, “your Sherlocking was very successful. How pleased Uncle Edward will be.”

Hilary’s reply informed him that old Mrs. Wilbraham had taken the necklace and restored the money paid in compensation—all without comment or apology. Lord Peter haunted the Rectory like an unhappy ghost. The Superintendent had gone to town in pursuit of the Thodays. On Thursday things began to happen again.

Telegram from Commissaire Rosier to Superintendent Blundell:

Suzanne Legros no knowledge Cobbleigh identifies photograph in sealed envelope as her husband identification supported by mayor here do you desire further action.

Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:

Suzanne Legros rejects Cobbleigh identifies sealed photograph who is it unable trace Thodays in London.

Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Commissaire Rosier:

Please return papers immediately detain Legros pending further information.

Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:

Surely you know by this time try all churches registrars.

Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:

Vicar St. Andrews Bloomsbury says asked perform marriage by licence William Thoday Mary Deacon both of that parish was it Deacon.

Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:

Yes of course you juggins charge Cranton at once.

Telegram from Superintendent Blundell to Lord Peter Wimsey:

Agree juggins but why charge Granton Thodays found and detained for inquiry.

Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Superintendent Blundell:

Charge Cranton first joining you in town.

After dispatching this wire, Lord Peter summoned Bunter to pack up his belongings and asked for a private interview with Mr. Venables, from which both men emerged looking distressed and uneasy.

“So I think I’d better go,” said Wimsey. “I rather wish I hadn’t come buttin’ into this. Some things may be better left alone, don’t you think? My sympathies are all in the wrong place and I don’t like it. I know all about not doing evil that good may come. It’s doin’ good that evil may come that is so embarrassin’.”

“My dear boy,” said the Rector, “it does not do for us to take too much thought for the morrow. It is better to follow the truth and leave the result in the hand of God. He can foresee where we cannot, because He knows all’ the facts.”

“And never has to argue ahead of His data, as Sherlock Holmes would say? Well, padre, I dare say you’re right. Probably I’m tryin’ to be too clever. That’s me every time. I’m sorry to have made so much unpleasantness, anyhow. And I really would rather go away now. I’ve got that silly modern squeamishness that doesn’t like watchin’ people suffer. Thanks awfully for everything. Goodbye.”

* * *

Before leaving Fenchurch St. Paul, he went and stood in the churchyard. The grave of the unknown victim still stood raw and black amid the grass, but the grave of Sir Henry and Lady Thorpe had been roofed in with green turves. Not far away there was an ancient box tomb; Hezekiah Lavender was seated on the slab, carefully cleaning the letters of the inscription. Wimsey went over and shook hands with the old man.

“Makin’ old Samuel fine and clean for the summer,” said Hezekiah. “Ah! Beaten old Samuel by ten good year, I have. I says to Rector, ‘Lay me aside old Samuel,’ I says, ‘for everybody to see as I beaten him.’ An’ I got Rector’s promise. Ah! so I have. But they don’t write no sech beautiful poetry these here times.”

He laid a gouty finger on the inscription, which ran:

Here lies the Body of SAMUEL SNELL
That for fifty Years pulled the Tenor Bell.
Through Changes of this Mortal Race
He Laid his Blows and Kept his Place
Till Death that Changes all did Come
To Hunt him Down and Call him Home.
His Wheel is broke his Rope is Slackt
His Clapper Mute his Metal Crackt,
Yet when the great Call summons him from Ground
He shall be Raised up Tuneable and Sound.
MDCXCVIII.
Aged 76 years

“Ringing Tailor Paul seems to be a healthy occupation,” said Wimsey. “His servants live to a ripe old age, what?”

“Ah!” said Hezekiah. “So they du, young man, so they du, if so be they’re faithful to ’un an’ don’t go a-angerin’ on ’un. They bells du know well who’s a-haulin’ of ’un. Wunnerful understandin’ they is. They can’t abide a wicked man. They lays in wait to overthrow ’un. But old Tailor Paul can’t say I ain’t done well by her an she allus done well by me. Make righteousness your course bell, my lord, an’ keep a-follerin’ on her an’ she’ll see you through your changes till Death calls you to stand. Yew ain’t no call to be afeard o’ the bells if so be as yew follows righteousness.”

“Oh, quite,” said Wimsey, a little embarrassed.

He left Hezekiah and went into the church, stepping softly as though he feared to rouse up something from its sleep. Abbot Thomas was quiet in his tomb; the cherubims, open-eyed and open-mouthed, were absorbed in their everlasting contemplation; far over him he felt the patient watchfulness of the bells.

NOBBY GOES IN SLOW AND COMES OUT QUICK

It is a frightful plight. Two angels buried him... in Vallombrosa by night; I saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock.

J. SHERIDAN LEFANU: Welder’s Hand.

Mr. Cranton was in an infirmary as the guest of His Majesty the King, and looked better than when they had last seen him. He showed no surprise at being charged with the murder of Geoffrey Deacon, twelve years or so after that gentleman’s reputed decease.

“Right!” said Mr. Cranton. “I rather expected you’d get on to it, but I kept on hoping you mightn’t. I didn’t do it, and I want to make a statement. Do sit down. These quarters aren’t what I could wish for a gentleman, but they seem to be the best the Old Country can offer. I’m told they do it much prettier in Sing Sing. England with all thy faults I love thee still. Where do you want me to begin?”

“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Wimsey, “go on till you get to the end and then stop. May he have a fag, Charles?”

“Well, my lord and—no,” said Mr. Cranton, “I won’t say gentlemen. Seems to go against the grain, somehow. Officers, if you like, but not gentlemen. Well, my lord and officers, I don’t need to tell you that I’m a deeply injured man. I said I never had those shiners, didn’t I? And you see I was right. What you want to know is, how did I first hear that Deacon was still on deck? Well, he wrote me a letter, that’s how. Somewhere about last July, that would be. Sent it to the old crib, and it was forwarded on—never you mind who by.”

“Gammy Pluck,” observed Mr. Parker, distantly.