The Nine Tailors (18 page)

“Mightn’t it have been some of the schoolchildren larking about, ma’am?”

“I could well believe any thing of them,” said Mrs. Gates, “they are always ill-behaved, and I have frequently had to complain to Miss Snoot about them, but in this case the insult was too pointed. It was quite obviously and definitely aimed at myself, by that vulgar woman. Why a small farmer’s wife should give herself such airs, I do not know. When I was a girl, village people knew their place, and kept it.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Blundell, “and I’m sure we were all much happier in those days. And so, ma’am, you never noticed any disturbance except on that one occasion ?”

“And I should think that was quite enough,” replied Mrs. Gates. “I kept a very good look-out after that, and if anything of a similar kind had occurred again, I should have complained to the police.”

“Ah, well,” said the Superintendent, as he rose to go, “you see, it’s come round to us in the end, and I’ll have a word with Mrs. Coppins, ma’am, and you may be assured it won’t happen again. Whew! What an old catamaran!” (this to himself, as he padded down the rather neglected avenue beneath the budding horse-chestnuts). “I suppose I had better see Mrs. Coppins.”

Mrs. Coppins was easily found. She was a small, shrewish woman with light hair and eyes which boded temper.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “Mrs. Gates did have the cheek to say it was me. As if I’d have touched her mean little wreath with a hay-fork. Thinks she’s a lady. No real lady would think twice about where her wreath was or where it wasn’t. Talking that way to me, as if I was dirt! Why shouldn’t we give Lady Thorpe as good a wreath as we could get? Ah! she was a sweet lady—a real lady, she was—and her and Sir Henry were that kind to us when we were a bit put about, like, the year we took this farm. Not that we were in any real difficulty—Mr. Coppins has always been a careful man. But being a question of capital at the right moment, you see, we couldn’t just have laid our hand on it at the moment, if it hadn’t been for Sir Henry. Naturally, it was all paid back—with the proper interest. Sir Henry said he didn’t want interest, but that isn’t Mr. Coppins’ way. Yes—January 5th, it would be—and I’m quite sure none of the children had anything to do with it, for I asked them. Not that my children would go to do such a thing, but you know what children are. And it’s quite true that her wreath was where she said it was, last thing on the evening of the funeral, for I saw Harry Gotobed and the chauffeur put it there with my own eyes, and they’ll tell you the same.”

They did tell the Superintendent so, at some considerable length; after which, the only remaining possibility seemed to be the school-children. Here, Mr. Blundell enlisted the aid of Miss Snoot. Fortunately, Miss Snoot was not only able to reassure him that none of her scholars was in fault (“for I asked them all very carefully at the time, Superintendent, and they assured me they had not, and the only one I might be doubtful of is Tommy West, and he had a broken arm at the time, through falling off a gate”); she was also able to give valuable and unexpected help as regards the time at which the misdemeanour was committed.

“We had a choir-practice that night, and when it was over—that would be about half-past seven—the rain had cleared up a little, and I thought I would just go and give another little look at dear Lady Thorpe’s resting-place; so I went round with my torch, and I quite well remember seeing Mrs. Coppins’ wreath standing up against the side of the grave next the church, and thinking what a beautiful one it was and what a pity the rain should spoil it.”

The Superintendent felt pleased. He found it difficult to believe that Mrs. Coppins or anybody else had gone out to the churchyard on a dark, wet Saturday night to remove Mrs. Gates’ wreath. It was surely much more reasonable to suppose that the burying of the corpse had been the disturbing factor, and that brought the time of the crime down to some hour between 7.30 p.m. on the Saturday and, say, 8.30 on the Sunday morning. He thanked Miss Snoot very much and, looking at his watch, decided that he had just about time to go along to Will Thoday’s. He was pretty sure to find Mary at home, and, with luck, might catch Will himself when he came home to dinner. His way led him past the churchyard. He drove slowly, and, glancing over the churchyard wall as he went, observed Lord Peter Wimsey, seated in a reflective manner and apparently meditating among the tombs.

“’Morning!” cried the Superintendent cheerfully, “’Morning, my lord!”

“Oy!” responded his lordship. “Come along here a minute. You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

Mr. Blundell stopped his car at the lych-gate, clambered out, grunting (for he was growing rather stout) and made his way up the path. Wimsey was sitting on a large, flat tombstone, and in his hands was about the last thing the Superintendent might have expected to see, namely, a large reel of line, to which, in the curious, clumsy-looking but neat and methodical manner of the fisherman, his lordship was affixing a strong cast adorned with three salmon-hooks. “Hullo!” said Mr. Blundell. “Bit of an optimist, aren’t you? Nothing but coarse fishing about here.”

“Very coarse,” said Wimsey. “Hush! While you were interviewing Mrs. Gates, where do you think I was? In the garage, inciting our friend Johnson to theft. From Sir Henry’s study. Hist! not a word!”

“A good many years since he went fishing, poor soul,” said Mr. Blundell, sympathetically.

“Well, he kept his tackle in good order all the same,” said Wimsey, making a complicated knot and pulling it tight with his teeth. “Are you busy, or have you got time to look at something?”

“I was going along to Thoday’s, but there’s no great hurry. And, by the way, I’ve got a bit of news.”

Wimsey listened to the story of the wreath. “Sounds all right,” he said. He searched in his pocket, and produced a handful of lead sinkers, some of which he proceeded to affix to his cast.

“What in the world are you thinking of catching with that?” demanded Mr. Blundell. “A whale?”

“Eels,” replied his lordship. He weighed the line in his hand and gravely added another piece of lead. Mr. Blundell, suspecting some kind of mystification, watched him in discreet silence. “That will do,” said Wimsey, “unless eels swim deeper than ever plummet sounded. Now come along. I’ve borrowed the keys of the church from the Rector. He had mislaid them, of course, but they turned up eventually among the Clothing Club accounts.”

He led the way to the cope-chest beneath the tower, and threw it open. “I have been chattin’ with our friend Mr. Jack Godfrey. Very pleasant fellow. He tells me that a complete set of new ropes was put in last December. One or two were a little dicky, and they didn’t want to take any chances over the New Year peal, so they renewed the lot while they were about it. These are the old ones, kept handy in case of sudden catastrophe. Very neatly coiled and stowed. This whopper belongs to Tailor Paul. Lift ’em out carefully—eighty feet or so of rope is apt to be a bit entanglin’ if let loose on the world. Batty Thomas. Dimity. Jubilee. John. Jericho. Sabaoth. But where is little Gaude? Where and oh where is she? With her sallie cut short and her rope cut long, where and oh where can she be? No—there’s nothing else in the chest but the leather buffets and a few rags and oilcans. No rope for Gaude.
Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus.
The mystery of the missing bell-rope.
Et responsum est ab omnibus: Non est inventus— -a or -um.
”

The Superintendent scratched his head and gazed vaguely about the church.

“Not in the stove,” said Wimsey. “My first thought, of course. If the burying was done on Saturday, the stoves would be alight, but they’d be banked down for the night, and it would have been awkward if our Mr. Gotobed had raked out anything unusual on Sunday morning with his little scraper. As a matter of fact, he tells me that one of the first things he does on Sunday morning is to open the top thingumajig on the stove and take a look inside to see that the flue-pipe is clear. Then he stirs it up a-top, rakes it out at the bottom door and sets it drawing for the day. I don’t
think
that was where the rope went. I hope not, anyway. I think the murderer used the rope to carry the body by, and didn’t remove it till he got to the graveside. Hence these salmon-hooks.”

“The well?” said Mr. Blundell, enlightened.

“The well,” replied Wimsey. “What shall we do, or go fishing?”

“I’m on; we can but try.”

“There’s a ladder in the vestry,” said Wimsey. “Bear a hand. Along this way—out through the vestry-door—and here we are. Away, my jolly boys, we’re all bound away. Sorry! I forgot this was consecrated ground. Now then—up with the cover. Half a jiff. We’ll sacrifice half a brick to the water-gods. Splosh!—it’s not so very deep. If we lay the ladder over the mouth of the well, we shall get a straight pull.”

He extended himself on his stomach, took the reel in his left hand and began to pay the line cautiously out over the edge of the ladder, while the Superintendent illumined the proceedings with a torch.

The air came up cold and dank from the surface of the water. Far below a circle of light reflected the pale sky and the beam of the torch showed hooks and line working steadily downwards. Then a tiny break in the reflection marked the moment when the hooks touched the water.

A pause. Then the whirr of the reel as Wimsey rewound the line.

“More water than I thought. Where are those leads? Now then, we’ll try again.”

Another pause. Then:

“A bite. Super, a bite! What’s the betting it’s an old boot? It’s not heavy enough to be the rope. Never mind. Up she comes. Ahoy! up she rises! Sorry, I forgot again. Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo! What’s this? Not a boot, but the next thing to it. A hat! Now then, Super! Did you measure the head of the corpse? You did? Good! then we shan’t need to dig him up again to see if his hat fits. Stand by with the gaff. Got him! Soft felt, rather the worse for wear and water. Mass production. London maker. Exhibit One. Put it aside to dry. Down she goes again....
And
up she comes. Another tiddler. Golly! what’s this? Looks like a German sausage. No, it isn’t. No, it isn’t. It’s a sallie. Sallie in our alley. She is the darling of my heart. Little Gaude’s sallie. Take her up tenderly, lift her with care. Where sallie is, the rest will be.... Hoops-a-daisy! ... I’ve got it.... It’s caught somewhere.... No, don’t pull too hard, or the hook may come adrift. Ease her. Hold her.... Damn!... Sorry, undamn! I mean, how very provoking, it’s got away....
Now
I’ve got it... Was that the ladder cracking or my breastbone, I wonder? Surprisin’ly sharp edge a ladder has.... There now, there now! there’s your eel—all of a tangle. Catch hold. Hurray!”

“It’s not all here,” said the Superintendent, as the slimy mass of rope was hauled over the edge of the well.

“Probably not,” said Wimsey, “but this is one of the bits that were used to do the tying. He’s cut it loose and left the knots in.”

“Yes. Better not touch the knots, my lord. They might tell us something about who tied ’em.”

“Take care of the knots and the noose will take care of itself. Right you are. Here we go again.”

In process of time, the whole length of the rope—as far as they could judge—lay before them in five sections, including the sallie.

“Arms and ankles tied separately. Then body tied up to something or other and the slack cut off. And he removed the sallie because it got in the way of his knots.

H’m!” said Mr. Blundell. “Not very expert work, but effective, I dare say. Well, my lord, this is a very interesting discovery of yours. But—it’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it? Puts rather a different complexion on the crime, eh?”

“You’re right. Super. Well, one must face up to things, as the lady said when she went to have hers lifted. Hullo! what the—”

A face, perched in a bodiless sort of way on the churchyard wall, bobbed suddenly out of sight as he turned, and then bobbed up again.

“What the devil do you want. Potty?” demanded the Superintendent.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Potty. “I don’t want nothing. Who’ve you goin’ to hang with that there, mister? That’s a rope, that is. They’ve got eight on ’em hanging up the tower there—” he added, confidentially. “Rector don’t let me go up there no more, because they don’t want nobody to know. But Potty Peake knows. One, two, three, four, five, six seven, eight—all hung up by the neck. Old Paul, he’s the biggest—Tailor Paul—but there did ought to be nine tailors by rights. I can count, you see; Potty can count. I’ve counted ’em over time and again on my fingers. Eight. And one is nine. And one is ten—but I ain’t telling you
his
name. Oh, no. He’s waiting for the nine tailors—one, two, three, four—”

“Here, you, hop it!” cried the Superintendent, exasperated. “And don’t let me catch you hanging round here again.”

“Who’s a-hanging? Listen—you tell me, and I’ll tell you. There’s Number Nine a-coming, and that’s a rope to hang him, ain’t it, mister? Nine of ’em, and eight’s there already. Potty knows. Potty can say. But he won’t. Oh, no! Somebody might be listening.” His face changed to its usual vacant look and he touched his cap. “Good-day, sir. Good-day, mister. I got to feed the pigs, that’s Potty’s work. Yes, that’s right. They pigs did ought to be fed. ’Morning, sir; ’morning, mister.”

He slouched away across the fields towards a group of out-houses some distance away.

“There!” said Mr. Blundell, much vexed. “He’ll go telling everybody about this rope. He’s got hanging on the brain, ever since he found his mother hanging in the cowhouse when he was a kid. Over at Little Dykesey, that was, a matter of thirty year back. Well, it can’t be helped. I’ll get these things taken along to the station, and come back later on for Will Thoday. It’ll be past his lunchtime now.”

“It’s past mine, too,” said Wimsey, as the clock chimed the quarter past one. “I shall have to apologise to Mrs. Venables.”

* * *

“So you see, Mrs. Thoday,” said Superintendent Blundell, pleasantly, “if anybody can help us over this awkward business it’s you.”

Mary Thoday shook her head. “I’m sure I would if I could, Mr. Blundell, but there I how can I? It’s right enough to say I was up all night with Will. I hardly had my clothes off for a week, he was that bad, and the night after they laid poor Lady Thorpe to rest, he was just as bad as could be. It turned to pneumonia, you know, and we didn’t think as we should ever pull him through. I’m not likely to forget that night, nor the day neither. Sitting here, listening to old Tailor Paul and wondering if he was going to ring for Will before the night was out.”