Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“THEODORE VENABLES.”

“P.S. — My wife reminds me to tell you that the inquest is at 2 o’clock on Saturday.”

This letter, dispatched on the Friday morning, reached Lord Peter by the first post on Saturday. He wired that he would start for Fenchurch St. Paul at once, joyfully cancelled a number of social engagements, and at 2 o’clock was seated in the Parish Room, in company with a larger proportion of the local population than had probably ever gathered beneath one roof since the spoliation of the Abbey.

The coroner, a florid-faced country lawyer, who seemed to be personally acquainted with everybody present, got to work with the air of an immensely busy person, every moment of whose time was of value.

“Come now, gentlemen…. No talking over there if you please… all the jury this way…. Sparkes, give out these Testaments to the jury… choose a foreman, please…. Oh! you have chosen Mr. Donnington… very good…. Come along, Alf… take the Book in your right hand… diligently inquire… Sovereign Lord the King… man unknown… body… view… skill and knowledge… help you God… kiss the Book… sit down… table over there… now the rest of you… take the Book in your right hand… your right hand, Mr. Pratt… don’t you know your left hand from your right, Wally?… No laughing, please, we’ve no time to waste… same oath that your foreman… you and each of you severally to keep… help you God… kiss the Book… on that bench by Alf Donnington…. Now then, you know what we’re here for… inquire how this man came by his death… witnesses to identity… understand no witnesses to identity… Yes, Superintendent?… Oh, I see… why didn’t you say so? Very well… this way, please…. I beg your pardon, sir?… Lord Peter… do you mind saying that again… Whimsy?… Oh, no H… just so… Wimsey’ with an E… quite… occupation?… what?… Well, we’d better say, Gentleman… now then, my lord, you say you can offer evidence as to identity?”

“Not exactly, but I rather think…”

“One moment, please… take the Book in your right hand… evidence… inquiry… truth, whole truth and nothing but the truth… kiss the Book… yes… name, address, occupation we’ve got all that…. If you can’t keep that baby quiet, Mrs. Leach, you’ll have to take it out.. Yes?”

“I have been taken to see the body, and, from my observation I think it possible that I saw this man on January 1st last. I do not know who he was, but if it is the same man he stopped my car about half a mile beyond the bridge by the sluice and asked the way to Fenchurch St. Paul. I never saw him again, and had never seen him before to my knowledge.”

“What makes you think it may be the same man?”

“The fact that he is dark and bearded and that the man I saw also appeared to be wearing a dark blue suit similar to that worn by deceased. I say ‘appeared,’ because he was wearing an overcoat, and I only saw the legs of his trousers. He seemed to be about fifty years of age, spoke in a low voice with a London accent and was of fairly good address. He told me that he was a motor-mechanic and was looking for work. In my opinion, however…”

“One moment. You say you recognise the beard and the suit. Can you swear…?”

“I cannot swear that I definitely recognise them. I say that the man I saw resembled the deceased in these respects.”

“You cannot identify his features?”

“No; they are too much mutilated.”

“Very well. Thank you. Are there any more witnesses to identity?”

The blacksmith rose up rather sheepishly. “Come right up to the table, please. Take the Book… truth… truth… truth… Name Ezra Wilderspin. Well now, Ezra, what have you got to say?”

“Well, sir, if I was to say I recognised the deceased, I should be telling a lie. But it’s a fact that he ain’t unlike a chap that come along, same as his lordship here says, last New Year’s Day a-looking for a job along of me. Said he was a motor-mechanic out o’ work. Well, I told him I might do with a man as knowed somethin’ about motors, so I takes him on and gives him a trial. He did his work pretty well, near as I could judge, for three days, livin’ in our place, and then, all of a sudden, off he goes in the middle of the night and we never seen no more of him.”

“What night was that?”

“Same day as they buried her ladyship it was…”

Here a chorus of voices broke in: “January 4th, Ezra! that’s when it were.”

“That’s right. Saturday, January 4th, so ’twere.”

“What was the name of this man?”

“Stephen Driver, he called hisself. Didn’t say much; only that he’d been trampin’ about a goodish time, lookin’ for work. Said he’d been in the Army, and in and out of work ever since.”

“Did he give you any references?”

“Why, yes, sir, he did, come to think on it. He give me the name of a garridge in London where he’d been, but he said it had gone bankrupt and shut up. But he said if I was to write to the boss, he’d put in a word for him.”

“Have you got the name and address he gave you?”

“Yes, sir. Leastways, I think the missus put it away in the teapot.”

“Did you take up the reference?”

“No, sir. I did think of it, but being no great hand at writing I says to myself I’d wait till the Sunday, when I’d have more time, like. Well, you see, before that he was off, so I didn’t think no more about it. He didn’t leave nothing behind him, bar an old toothbrush. We ’ad to lend him a shirt when he came.”

“You had better see if you can find that address.”

“That’s right, sir. Liz!” (in a stentorian bellow). “You cut off home and see if you can lay your ’and on that bit o’ paper what Driver give me.”

Voice from the back of the room: “I got it here, Ezra,” followed by a general upheaval, as the blacksmith’s stout wife forced her way to the front.

“Thanks, Liz,” said the coroner. “Mr. Tasker, 103 Little James St. London, W.C. Here, Superintendent, you’d better take charge of that. Now, Ezra, is there anything more you can tell us about this man Driver?”

Mr. Wilderspin explored his stubble with a thick forefinger.

“I dunno as there is, sir.”

“Ezra! Ezra! don’t yew remember all them funny questions he asked?”

“There now,” said the blacksmith, “the missus is quite right. That was a funny thing about them questions, that was. He said he ’adn’t never been in this here village before, but he knowed a friend as had and the friend had told him to ask after Mr. Thomas. ‘Mr. Thomas!’ I says. ‘There ain’t no Mr. Thomas in this here village, nor never has been to my knowledge.’ ‘That’s queer,’ he says, ‘but maybe he’s got another name as well. Far as I can make out,’ he says, ‘this Thomas ain’t quite right in his ’ead. My friend said as he was potty, like.’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘you can’t mean Potty Peake? Because Orris is his Chrissen name.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘Thomas was the name. Batty Thomas, that’s right. And another name my friend gi’n me,’ he says, ‘was a fellow called Paul — a tailor or some’in o’ that, living next door to him, like.’ ‘Why,’ I says to him, ‘your friend’s been havin’ a game with you. Them ain’t men’s names, them’s the names of bells,’ I says, ‘Bells?’ he says. ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘church bells, that’s what they is. Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, they call ’em.’ And then he went on and asked a sight o’ questions about they bells. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘if you want to know about Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, you better ask Rector,’ I says. ‘He knows all about they old bells.’ I dunno if he ever went to Rector, but he come back one day — that were the Friday — and says he been in the church and see a bell carved on old Batty Thomas’ tomb, like, and what did the writing on it mean. And I says to ask Rector, and he says: ‘Did all bells have writing on ’em,’ and I says, ‘Mostly’; and arter that he didn’t say no more about it.”