The Nine Tailors (27 page)

“What’s the idea? What have you got to charge me with? You can try me for stealing those bloody emeralds all over again. I haven’t got them. Never seen them—”

“No; but we might charge you with the murder of Jean Legros.”

“No—no—no!” cried Cranton. “It’s a lie! I never killed him. I never killed anybody. I never—”

“He’s fainted,” said Wimsey.

“He’s dead,” said Superintendent Blundell, speaking for the first time.

“I hope to goodness not,” said Parker. “No—it’s all right, but he looks pretty queer. Better get hold of that girl. Here, Polly!”

A woman came in. She gave one resentful glance at the three men and hurried across to Cranton.

“If you’ve killed him,” she muttered, “it’s murder. Coming and threatening one that’s as sick as him. You get out, you great bullies. He’s done nobody any harm.”

“I’ll send the doctor along,” said Parker. “And I’ll be coming to see him again. And when I do come, see that I find him here all right. Understand? We shall want him elsewhere, you know, as soon as he’s fit to be moved. He hasn’t reported himself since last September.”

The girl shrugged a disdainful shoulder, and they left her bending over the sick man.

“Well, Superintendent,” said Parker. “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do for you at the moment. The man’s not shamming—he’s really ill. But he’s holding something out on us. All the same, I don’t think it’s murder, somehow. That wouldn’t be like Cranton. He knew that paper all right.”

“Yes,” said Wimsey. “Produced quite a reaction, didn’t it? He’s frightened about something, Charles. What is it?”

“He’s frightened about the murder.”

“Well,” said Blundell, “it looks to me as though he did it. He admits he was there, and that he ran away on the night the body was buried. If he didn’t do it, who did? He could have got the key of the crypt from the sexton all right, we know that.”

“So he could,” said Wimsey, “but he was a stranger to the place. How did he know where the sexton kept his tools? Or where to find the bell-rope? He might have noticed the well, of course, in the day-time, but it’s funny that he should have had the whole scheme so pat. And where does Legros come into it? If Deacon told Cranton in the dock where to find the emeralds, where was the sense of bringing Legros to England? He didn’t want him. And, if he did for some reason need Legros, and killed him to get the emeralds, where are the emeralds? If he sold them, you ought to have found it out by now. If he’s still got them, you’d better have a hunt for them.”

“We’ll search the house,” said Parker, dubiously, “but I don’t somehow think he’s got them. He wasn’t alarmed about the emeralds. It’s a puzzle. But we’ll turn the place upside-down, and if they’re there, we’ll get them.”

“And if you do,” said Blundell, “then you can arrest that chap for the murder. Whoever’s got the emeralds did the murder. I’m sure of that.”

“Where thy treasure is, there shall thy heart be also,” said Wimsey. “The heart of this crime is down at St. Paul. That’s my prophecy, Charles. Will you have a bet on it?”

“No, I won’t,” said the Chief Inspector. “You’re right too often, Peter, and I’ve no money to waste.”

* * *

Wimsey went back to Fenchurch St. Paul and shut himself up with the cipher. He had untwisted cryptograms before, and he felt certain that this would prove to be a simple one. Whether the inventor was Cranton or Jean Legros or Will Thoday or any other person connected with the affair of the Wilbraham emeralds, he was hardly likely to be an expert in the art of secret writing. Yet the thing had the signs of a cunning hand about it. He had never seen a secret message that looked so innocent. Sherlock Holmes’ Little Dancing Men were, by comparison, obviously secretive.

He tried various simple methods, such as taking every second, third or fourth letter, or skipping letters in accordance with a set combination of figures, but without result. He tried assigning a number to each letter and adding the results, word by word and sentence by sentence. This certainly produced enough mathematical problems to satisfy a Senior Wrangler, but none of them seemed to make sense. He took all the bell-inscriptions and added them up also, with and without the dates, but could find nothing significant. He wondered whether the book contained the whole of what was on the bells. Leaving his papers strewn over the table, he went to the Rector to borrow the keys of the belfry. After a slight delay, caused by the keys having been taken downstairs by mistake for the keys of the wine-cellar, he secured them and made his way to the church.

He was still puzzled about the finding of the cryptogram. The keys jingled together in his hand—the two great keys of the west and south doors, all by themselves on a steel chain, and then, in a bunch on a ring together, the keys of the crypt and vestry, the key of the belfry, the key of the ringing-chamber and the key that unlocked the counterpoise of the belfry. How had Cranton known where to find them? He could, of course, have taken them from the sexton’s house—if he had known already. But if “Stephen Driver” had been asking questions about the church keys, somebody would have taken notice of it. The sexton had the key of the west door and of the crypt. Had he the other keys as well? Wimsey suddenly turned back and shot the question through the study window at the Rector, who was struggling with the finances of the Parish Magazine.

Mr. Venables rubbed his forehead.

“No,” he said at last. “Gotobed has the west-door key and the key of the crypt, as you say, and he also has the key of the belfry stair and of the ringing-chamber, because he rings the single bell for Early Service and sometimes deputises for Hezekiah when he’s ill. And Hezekiah has the keys of the south porch and the belfry stair and the ringing-chamber, too. You see, Hezekiah was sexton before Gotobed, and he likes to keep his privilege of ringing the passing-bell, though he’s too old for the other work, and he has the necessary keys. But neither of them has the key to the counterpoise. They don’t need it. The only people who have that are Jack Godfrey and myself. I have a complete set of everything, of course, so that if one of the others is lost or mislaid, I can supply it.”

“Jack Godfrey—has he the key of the crypt as well?”

“Oh, no—he doesn’t need that.”

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Wimsey. If the man who left the paper in the bell-chamber was the same man who buried the body, then either he took all the Rector’s keys, or he had access to two sets, and those two sets had to be Jack Godfrey’s (for the key of the counterpoise) and Gotobed’s (for the key of the crypt). And if the man had been Cranton, then how did he know? Of course, the criminal might have brought his own spade (though that added to the complication). If so, he must have had either the Rector’s keys or Jack Godfrey’s. Wimsey went round to the back and got hold of Emily and Hinkins. They were both quite sure that they had never seen the man who called himself Stephen Driver inside the Rectory gates, much less inside the Rector’s study, which was the proper place for the keys when they were in their proper place.

“But they weren’t there at all, my lord,” said Emily, “because, if you remember, they keys was missing on New Year’s night, and it wasn’t till near a week after we found them in the vestry—bar the key of the church porch and that was in the lock where Rector left it after choir-practice.”

“After choir-practice? On the Saturday?”

“That’s right,” said Hinkins. “Only, don’t you remember, Emily, Rector said it couldn’t have been him as left it, because it was gone a-missing, and he didn’t have it on Saturday and had to wait for Harry Gotobed?”

“Well, I don’t know.” said Emily, “but that’s where it was. Harry Gotobed said he found it there when he went to ring for Early Service.”

More confused than ever, Wimsey trotted back to the study window. Mr. Venables, arrested with a carrying-figure at the tip of his pen, was at first not very clear in his recollection, but said presently that he believed Emily was right.

“I must have left the keys in the vestry the week before,” he suggested, “and whoever left the church last after choir-practice must have found the church key and used it—but who that would be, I don’t know, unless it was Gotobed. Yes, it would be Gotobed, because he would wait behind to make up the stoves. But it was funny that he should leave the key in the lock. Dear me! You don’t think it could have been the murderer, do you?”

“I do, indeed,” said Wimsey.

“There now!” exclaimed the Rector. “But if I left the keys in the vestry, how did he get in to find them? He couldn’t get in without the church key. Unless he came to choir-practice. Surely, nobody belonging to the choir—”

The Rector looked horribly distressed. Wimsey hastened to comfort him.

“The door would be unlocked during choir-practice. He might have slipped in then.”

“Oh, yes—of course! How stupid I am! No doubt that is what occurred. You have relieved my mind very much.”

Wimsey had not, however, relieved his own mind. As he resumed his way to the church, he turned the matter over. If the keys had been taken on New Year’s Eve, then Cranton had not taken them. Cranton had not arrived till New Year’s Day. Will Thoday had come, unnecessarily, to the Rectory on December 30th, and might have taken the keys then, but he had certainly not been in the church on the night of January 4th to restore them. It remained possible that Will Thoday had taken the keys and the mysterious James Thoday had returned them—but in that case, what was Cranton doing in the business? And Wimsey felt sure that Cranton knew something about the paper found in the bell-chamber.

Meditating thus, Wimsey let himself into the church, and, unlocking the door in the tower, made his way up the spiral stair. As he passed through the ringing-chamber, he noticed with a smile that a new board had made its appearance on the wall, announcing that: “On New Year’s morning, 19—, a Peal of 15,840 Kent Treble Bob Major was Rung in 9 Hours and 15 Minutes, the Ringers being: Treble, Ezra Wilderspin; 2, Peter D. B. Wimsey; 3, Walter Pratt; 4, Henry Gotobed; 5, Joseph Hinkins; 6, Alfred Donnington; 7, John P. Godfrey; Tenor, Hezekiah Lavender; Theodore Venables, Rector, assisting. Our Mouths shall shew forth Thy Praise.” He passed up through the great, bare clock-chamber, released the counter-poise and climbed again till he came out beneath the bells. There he stood for a moment, gazing up into their black mouths while his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness. Presently their hooded silence oppressed him. A vague vertigo seized him. He felt as though they were slowly collapsing together and coming down upon him. Spell-bound, he spoke their names: Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee, Dimity, Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul. A soft and whispering echo seemed to start from the walls and die stealthily among the beams. Suddenly he shouted in a great voice: “Tailor Paul!” and he must somehow have hit upon a harmonic of the scale, for a faint brazen note answered him, remote and menacing, from overhead.

“Come!” said Wimsey, pulling himself together, “this won’t do. I’m getting as bad as Potty Peake, coming here and talking to the bells. Let’s find the ladder and get to work.”

He switched on his torch and turned it on the dim corners of the belfry. It showed him the ladder, and it showed him something else also. In the gloomiest and dustiest corner of the floor, there was a patch that was not so dusty. He stepped eagerly forward, the menace of the bells forgotten. Yes, there was no mistake. A portion of the floor had at some fairly recent time been scrubbed, for the dust which m other places lay centuries thick was here only a thin film.

He knelt to examine it, and new thoughts went swooping and turning through his brain like bats. Why should anybody trouble to swab the floor of a belfry, unless to remove some very sinister stain. He saw Cranton and Legros climbing to the belfry, with the cipher in their hands for guidance. He saw the green glint of the jewels, dragged from their old hiding-place in the light of the lantern. He saw the sudden leap, the brutal blow, and the blood gushing to the floor, the cipher fluttering, unheeded, into a corner. And then the murderer, trembling and glancing over his shoulder, as he snatched the emeralds from dead fingers, took up the body and stumbled panting down the creaking ladders. The sexton’s spade from the crypt, the bucket and scrubbing-brush from the vestry, or wherever they were kept, the water from the well—

There he stopped. The well? The well meant the rope, and what had the rope to do with this? Had it been used merely as a convenient means to carry the corpse? But the experts had been so sure that the victim had been bound before he was dead. And besides, there were the blow and the blood. It was all very well making horrible pictures for one’s self, but there had been no blow till the man had been dead too long to leave any pool of blood. And if there was no blood, why scrub the floor?

He sat back on his heels and looked up again to the bells. If their tongues could speak, they could tell him what they had seen, but they had neither speech nor language. Disappointed, he again took up the torch and searched further. Then he broke out into harsh and disgusted laughter. The whole cause of the mystery revealed itself absurdly. An empty quart beer-bottle lay there, rolled into an obscure place behind a quantity of worm-eaten beams that were stacked against the wall. Here was a pretty ending to his dreams! Some unlicensed trespasser on consecrated ground—or possibly some workman legitimately engaged in repairs to the bell-cage—had spilt his beer and had tidily removed the stains, while the bottle, rolling out of sight, had been forgotten. No doubt that was all. Yet a lingering suspicion caused Wimsey to take up the bottle very carefully, by means of a finger inserted into the neck. It was not very dusty. It could not, he thought, have lain there long. It would bear somebody’s finger-prints—perhaps.

He examined the rest of the floor very carefully, but could find only a few jumbled footprints in the dust—large, male prints, he thought. They might be Jack Godfrey’s or Hezekiah Lavender’s, or anybody’s. Then he took the ladder and made an exhaustive search of the bells and timbers. He found nothing. No secret mark. No hiding-place for treasure. And nothing whatever suggestive of fairies or elephants, enchanters or Erebus. After several dirty and fatiguing hours, he descended again, carrying the bottle as his sole reward.