Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

Emily took out the jug, but returned almost immediately. “Oh, if you please, ma’am, the Rector says, will you all excuse him, please, and he’ll take his breakfast in the study. And oh! if you please, ma’am, poor Lady Thorpe’s gone, ma’am, and if Mr. Lavender’s finished, he’s please to go over to the church at once and ring the passing bell.”

“Gone!” cried Mrs. Venables. “Why, what a terrible thing!”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Johnson says it was dreadful sudden. The Rector hadn’t hardly left her room, ma’am, when it was all over, and they don’t know how they’re to tell Sir Henry.”

Mr. Lavender pushed his chair back and quavered to his ancient feet.

“In the midst of life,” he said solemnly, “we are in death. Terrible true that is, to be sure. If so be as you’ll kindly excuse me, ma’am, I’ll be leaving you now, and thank you kindly. Good mornin’ to you all. That were a fine peal as we rung, none the more for that, and now I’ll be gettin’ to work on old Tailor Paul again.”

He shuffled sturdily out, and within five minutes they heard the deep and melancholy voice of the bell ringing, first the six tailors for a woman and then the quick strokes which announce the age of the dead. Wimsey counted them up to thirty-seven. Then they ceased, and were followed by the slow tolling of single strokes at half-minute intervals. In the dining-room, the silence was only broken by the shy sound of hearty feeders trying to finish their meal inconspicuously.

The party broke up quietly. Mr. Wilderspin drew Wimsey to one side and explained that he had sent round to Mr. Ashton for a couple of farm-horses and a stout rope, and hoped to get the car out of the ditch in a very short time, and would then see what was needed in the way of repairs. If his lordship cared to step along to the smithy in an hour or so they could go into consultation about the matter. His (Mr. Wilderspin’s) son George was a great hand with motors having had considerable experience with farm engines, not to mention his own motor-bike. Mrs. Venables retired into the study to see that her husband had everything he wanted and to administer such consolation as she might for the calamity that had befallen the parish. Wimsey, knowing that his presence at Frog’s Bridge could not help and would probably only hinder the break-down team, begged his hostess not to trouble about him, and wandered out into the garden. At the back of the house, he discovered Joe Hinkins, polishing the Rector’s aged car. Joe accepted a cigarette, passed a few remarks about the ringing of the peal, and thence slid into conversation about the Thorpe family.

“They live in the big red-brick house t’other side the village. A rich family they were once. They do say as they got their land through putting money into draining of the Fen long ago under the Earl of Bedford. You’d know all about that, my lord, I dare say. Anyhow, they reckon to be an old family hereabouts. Sir Charles, he was a fine, generous gentleman; did a lot of good in his time, though he wasn’t what you’d call a rich man, not by no means. They do say his father lost a lot of money up in London, but I don’t know how. But he farmed his land well, and it was a rare trouble to the village when he died along of the burglary.”

“What burglary was that?”

“Why, that was the necklace the mistress was talking about. It was when young Mr. Henry — that’s the present Sir Henry — was married. The year of the War, it was, in the spring — April 1914—I remember it very well. I was a youngster at the time, and their wedding-bells was the first long peal I ever rang. We gave them 5,040 Grandsire Triples, Holt’s Ten-part Peal — you’ll find the record of it in the church yonder, and there was a big supper at the Red House afterwards, and a lot of fine visitors came down for the wedding. The young lady was an orphan, you see, and some sort of connection with the family, and Mr. Henry being the heir they was married down here. Well, there was a lady come to stay in the house, and she had a wonderful fine emerald necklace — worth thousands and thousands of pounds it was — and the very night after the wedding, when Mr. Henry and his lady was just gone off for their honeymoon, the necklace was stole.”

“Good lord!” said Wimsey. He sat down on the running-board of the car and looked as encouraging as he could.

“You may say so,” said Mr. Hinkins, much gratified. “A big sensation it made at the time in the parish. And the worst part of it was, you see, that one of Sir Charles’ own men was concerned in it. Poor gentleman, he never held up his head again. When they took this fellow Deacon and it came out what he’d done—”

“Deacon was—?”

“Deacon, he was the butler. Been with them six years, he had, and married the housemaid, Mary Russell, that’s married to Will Thoday, him as rings Number Two and has got the influenzy so bad.”

“Oh!” said Wimsey. “Then Deacon is dead now, I take it.”

“That’s right, my lord. That’s what I was a-telling you. You see, it ’appened this way. Mrs. Wilbraham woke up in the night and saw a man standing by her bedroom window. So she yelled out, and the fellow jumped out into the garden and dodged into the shrubbery, like. So she screamed again, very loud, and rang her bell and made a to-do, and everybody came running out to see what was the matter. There was Sir Charles and some gentlemen that was staying in the house, and one of them had a shot-gun. And when they got downstairs, there was Deacon in his coat and trousers just running out at the back door, and the footman in pyjamas; and the chauffeur as slept over the garage, he came running out too, because the first thing as Sir Charles did, you see was to pull the house-bell what they had for calling the gardener. The gardener, he came too, of course, and so did I, because you see, I was the gardener’s boy at the time, and wouldn’t never have left Sir Charles, only for him having to cut down his establishment, what with the War and paying Mrs. Wilbraham for the necklace.”

“Paying for the necklace?”

“Yes, my lord. That’s just where it was, you see. It wasn’t insured, and though of course nobody could have held Sir Charles responsible, he had it on his conscience as he ought to pay Mrs. Wilbraham the value of it, though how anybody calling herself a lady could take the money off him I don’t understand. But as I was a-saying, we all came out and then one of the gentlemen see the man a-tearing across the lawn, and Mr. Stanley loosed off the shot-gun at him and hit him, as we found out afterwards, but he got away over the wall, and there was a chap waiting for him on the other side with a motor-car, and he got clear away. And in the middle of it all, out comes Mrs. Wilbraham and her maid, a-hollering that the emerald necklace has been took.”

“And didn’t they catch the man?”

“Not for a bit, they didn’t, my lord. The chauffeur, he gets the car out and goes off after them, but by the time he’d got started up, they was well away. They went up the road past the church, but nobody knew whether they’d gone through Fenchurch St. Peter or up on to the Bank, and even then they might have gone either by Dykesey and Walea or Walbeach way, or over the Thirty-foot to Leamholt or Holport. So the chauffeur went after the police. You see, barring the village constable at Fenchurch St. Peter there’s no police nearer than Leamholt, and in those days they didn’t have a car at the police-station even there, so Sir Charles said to send the car for them would be quicker than telephoning and waiting till they came.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Venables, suddenly popping her head in at the garage door. “So you’ve got Joe on to the Thorpe robbery. He knows a lot more about it than I do. Are you sure you aren’t frozen to death in this place?”