Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

Wimsey went up to it and tried the door. It was shut, but not locked. He called out, “Anybody about?”

A middle-aged woman emerged from an inner room.

“We’re not open yet,” she began, abruptly.

“I beg your pardon,” said Wimsey. “Our car has come to grief. Can you direct us—?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were some of the men. Your car broke down? That’s bad. Come in. I’m afraid we’re all in a muddle—”

“What’s the trouble, Mrs. Tebbutt?” The voice was gentle and scholarly, and, as Wimsey followed the woman into a small parlour, he saw that the speaker was an elderly parson.

“The gentlemen have had an accident with their car.”

“Oh, dear,” said the clergyman. “Such a terrible day, too! Can I be of any assistance?”

Wimsey explained that the car was in the ditch, and would certainly need ropes and haulage to get it back to the road again.

“Dear, dear,” said the clergyman again. “That would be coming over Frog’s Bridge, I expect. A most dangerous place, especially in the dark. We must see what can be done about it. Let me give you a lift into the village.”

“It’s very good of you, sir.”

“Not at all, not at all. I am just getting back to my tea. I am sure you must be wanting something to warm you up. I trust you are not in a hurry to reach your destination. We should be delighted to put you up for the night.”

Wimsey thanked him very much, but said he did not want to trespass upon his hospitality.

“It will be a great pleasure,” said the clergyman, courteously. “We see so little company here that I assure you you will be doing my wife and myself a great favour.”

“In that case—” said Wimsey.

“Excellent, excellent.”

“I’m really most grateful. Even if we could get the car out to-night, I’m afraid the axle may be bent, and that means a blacksmith’s job. But couldn’t we get rooms at an inn or something? I’m really ashamed—”

“My dear sir, pray don’t think twice about it. Not but what I am sure Mrs. Tebbutt here would be delighted to take you in and would make you very comfortable — very comfortable indeed; but her husband is laid up with this dreadful influenza — we are suffering from quite an epidemic of it, I am sorry to say — and I fear it would not be altogether convenient, would it, Mrs. Tebbutt?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know as how we could manage very well, under the circumstances, and the Red Cow has only one room—”

“Oh, no,” said the clergyman, quickly, “not the Red Cow; Mrs. Donnington has visitors already. Indeed, I will take no denial. You must positively come along to the Rectory. We have ample accommodation — too much, indeed, too much. My name, by the way, is Venables — I should have mentioned it earlier. I am, as you will have gathered, rector of the parish.”

“It’s extremely good of you, Mr. Venables. If we’re really not putting you out, we will accept your invitation with pleasure. My name is Wimsey — here is my card — and this is my man, Bunter.”

The Rector fumbled for his glasses, which, after disentangling the cord, he perched very much askew on his long nose, in order to peer at Wimsey’s card.

“Lord Peter Wimsey — just so. Dear me! The name seems familiar. Have I not heard of it in connection with — ah! I have it! Notes on the Collection of Incunabula, of course. A very scholarly little monograph, if I may say so. Yes. Dear me. It will be charming to exchange impressions with another book-collector. My library is, I fear, limited, but I have an edition of the Gospel of Nicodemus that may interest you. Dear me! Yes, Delightful to have met you like this. Bless my heart, there’s five o’clock striking. We must be off, or I shall get a scolding from my wife. Good afternoon, Mrs. Tebbutt. I hope your good man will be much improved by to-morrow; I really think he is looking better already.”

“Thank you, sir; Tom’s always so pleased to see you. I’m sure you do him a lot of good.”

“Tell him to keep his spirits up. Such a nasty, depressing complaint. But he’s over the worst now. I will send a little bottle of port wine as soon as he is able to take it. Tuke Holdsworth ’08,” added the Rector, in an aside to Wimsey; “couldn’t harm a fly, you know. Yes. Dear me! Well! We really must be going. I’m afraid my car is not much to boast of, but there’s more room in it than one would think. Many’s the christening party we’ve managed to squeeze into it, eh, Mrs. Tebbutt? Will you sit beside me, Lord Peter? Your man and your — dear me! have you any luggage?… Ah! down at Frog’s Bridge?.. I will send my gardener to fetch it. It will be quite safe where it is; we’re all honest people about here, aren’t we, Mrs. Tebbutt? That’s right. You must have this rug about your legs — yes, I insist. No, no, thank you. I can start her up quite well. I am so well accustomed to do it. There, you see! A few good pulls and she comes up as brisk as a bell. All right behind, my man? Good. Excellent. Good afternoon, Mrs. Tebbutt!”

The ancient car, shuddering to her marrowbones, lurched away down the straight and narrow road. They passed a cottage, and then, quite suddenly, on their right, there loomed out of the whirling snow a grey, gigantic bulk.

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Wimsey, “is that your church?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the Rector, with pride. “You find it impressive?”

“Impressive!” said Wimsey. “Why, it’s like a young cathedral. I’d no idea. How big is your parish, then?”

“You’ll be surprised when I tell you,” said the Rector, with a chuckle. “Three hundred and forty souls — no more. Astonishing, is it not? But you find the same thing all over the Fens. East Anglia is famous for the size and splendour of its parish churches. Still, we flatter ourselves we are almost unique, even in this part of the world. It was an abbey foundation, and in the old days Fenchurch St. Paul must have been quite an important place. How high should you say our tower was?”

Wimsey gazed up at the great pile. “It’s difficult to tell in this darkness. Not less than a hundred and thirty feet, surely.”

“Not a bad guess. A hundred and twenty-eight, to be exact, to the top of the pinnacles, but it looks more, because of the comparative lowness of the clerestory roof. There aren’t many to beat us. St. Peter Mancroft, of course — but that’s a town church. And St. Michael’s, Coventry, is one hundred and thirty feet without the spire. But I would venture to back Fenchurch St. Paul against them all for beauty of proportion. You will see that better when we turn the corner. Here we are. I always blow my horn here; the wall and the trees make it so very dangerous. I sometimes think we ought to have the churchyard wall set back a little, in the public interest. Ah! now you get a little idea. Very fine, is it not, the piling of the aisle and clerestory? You will be able to judge better in daylight. Here is the Rectory — just opposite the church. I always blow my horn at the gate for fear anybody should be about. The bushes make it so very dark. Ah! safely negotiated. I’m sure you will be glad to get into the warm and have a cup of tea — or possibly something stronger. I always blow my horn at the door, so as to tell my wife I am back. She gets nervous when I am out after lighting-up time; the dykes and drains make these roads so very awkward, and I am not as young as I was. I fear I am already a little late. Ah! here is my wife. Agnes, my dear, I am sorry to be a little behind time, but I have brought a guest back with me. He has had an accident with his car and will stay the night with us. The rug! Allow me! I fear that seat is something of a res angusta. Pray be careful of your head. Ah! all is well. My dear — Lord Peter Wimsey.”