Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

Wimsey puzzled his head for some time over this information, but without very much result. The dates, the weights and the mottoes — was there anything here that could serve as a guide to buried treasure? Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul had been particularly mentioned, but try as he would, for him they had neither speech nor language. After a time he gave up his calculations. Possibly there was something about the bells themselves that did not appear in Mr. Woollcott’s work. Something written or carved on the timbers, possibly. He must go up and look some time. It was Sunday morning. As he lifted his head from his calculations, he heard the bells begin to ring for matins. He hastened out in the hall, where he found his host winding the grandfather clock.

“I always wind it when the bells begin on a Sunday morning,” explained Mr. Venables, “otherwise I might forget. I fear I am none too methodical. I hope you will not feel obliged to come to church, merely because you are our guest. I always make a point of telling our visitors that they are quite free to do as they wish. What time do you make it? Ten thirty-seven — we will put the hands at 10.45. He always loses about a quarter of an hour during the week, you see, and by putting him a little forward each time he is wound, we strike a happy mean. If you will just remember that he is always fast on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays, right on Wednesdays, and slow on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, you will find him a very reliable guide.”

Wimsey said he was sure of it, and turned to find Bunter at his elbow, offering him with one hand his hat and with the other two leather-bound volumes on a small salver. “You see, padre, we have every intention of going to Church; we have, in fact, come prepared. Hymns A & M — I suppose that is the right work?”

“I took the liberty of ascertaining as much beforehand, my lord.”

“Of course you did, Bunter. You always ascertain everything. Why, padre, what’s the trouble? Have you lost anything?”

“I — er — it’s very odd — I could have declared that I laid them down just here. Agnes! Agnes, my dear! Have you seen those banns anywhere?”

“What is it, Theodore?”

“The banns, my dear. Young Flavel’s banns. I know I had them with me. I always write them out on a slip of paper, you see. Lord Peter; it is so very inconvenient to carry the register to the lectern. Now what in the world—?”

“Are they on top of the clock, Theodore?”

“My dear, what a—! Bless me, though, you are quite right. How did that come about, I wonder? I must have put them up there unconsciously when I was picking up the key. Very strange indeed, but the little mishap is now remedied, thanks to my wife. She always knows where I have put things. I believe she knows the workings of my mind better than I do myself. Well, I must go across to the Church now. I go early, because of the choir-boys. My wife will show you the Rectory pew.”

The pew was conveniently situated for observation, towards the rear of the nave on the north side. From it, Mrs. Venables was able to survey the south porch, by which the congregation entered, and also to keep an admonitory eye on the school children who occupied the north aisle, and to frown at those who turned round to stare or make faces. Lord Peter, presenting a placid front to the inquisitive glances of his fellow-worshippers, also watched the south porch. There was a face he was particularly anxious to see. Presently he saw it. William Thoday came in, and with him a thin, quietly dressed woman accompanied by two little girls. He guessed her to be about forty, though, as is frequently the case with country women, she had lost most of her front teeth and looked older. But he could still see in her the shadow of the smart and pretty parlour-maid that she must have been sixteen years before. It was, he thought, an honest face, but its expression was anxious and almost apprehensive — the face of a woman who had been through trouble and awaited, with nervous anticipation, the next shock which fate might hold in store for her. Probably, thought Wimsey, she was worried about her husband. He did not look well; he, too, had the air of being braced in self-defence. His uneasy eyes wandered about the church and then returned, with a curious mingling of wariness and protective affection, to his wife. They took their seats almost immediately opposite the Rectory pew, so that Wimsey, from his corner seat, was able to watch them without any appearance of particularity. He gained the impression, however, that Thoday felt his scrutiny and resented it. He turned his eyes away, therefore, and fixed them on the splendours of the angel roof, lovelier than ever in the soft spring sunshine that streamed through the rich reds and blues of the clerestory windows.

The pew which belonged to the Thorpe family was empty, except for an upright middle-aged gentleman who was pointed out in a whisper by Mrs. Venables as being Hilary Thorpe’s uncle from London. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gates, and the Red House servants sat in the south aisle. In the pew immediately in front of Wimsey was a stout little man in a neat black suit, who, Mrs. Venables further informed him, was Mr. Russell, the village undertaker, and a cousin of Mary Thoday. Mrs. West, the postmistress, arrived with her daughter, and greeted Wimsey, whom she remembered from his last visit, with a smile and something between a nod and a bob. Presently, the bells ceased, with the exception of the five-minutes bell, and the ringers came clattering up to their places. Miss Snoot, the schoolmistress, struck into a voluntary, the choir came in from the vestry with much noise of hobnailed boots, and the Rector entered his stall.

The service was devoid of incident, except that Mr. Venables again mislaid the banns, which had to be fetched from the vestry by the tenor on the cantoris side, and that, in his sermon, he made a solemn little allusion to the unfortunate stranger whose funeral was to take place on the morrow, whereat Mr. Russell nodded, with an air of importance and approbation. The Rector’s progress to the pulpit was marked by a loud and gritty crunching, which caused Mrs. Venables to mutter in an exasperated tone, “That’s the coke again — Gotobed will be so careless with it” At the conclusion, Wimsey found himself stranded with Mrs. Venables in the porch, while handshakings and inquiries passed.

Mr. Russell and Mr. Gotobed came out together, busily talking, and the former was introduced to Lord Peter.

“Where are they a-putting of him, Harry?” asked Mr. Russell eagerly turning from ceremony to business.

“Over on north side, next to old Susan Edwards,” replied the sexton. “We got him dug last night, all very fit and proper. Maybe his lordship would like to come and see.”

Wimsey expressed suitable interest, and they made their way round to the other side of the church.

“We’re giving him a nice bit of elm,” said Mr. Russell, with some satisfaction, when the handsome proportions of the grave had been duly admired. “He did ought by rights to have come on the parish, and that means deal, as you know, but Rector says to me, ‘Poor fellow,’ he says, ‘let’s put him away nice and seemly, and I’ll pay for it,’ he says. And I’ve trued up the boards good and tight, so there won’t be no unpleasantness. Of course, lead would be the right thing for him, but it ain’t a thing as I’m often asked for, and I didn’t think as I could get it in time, and the fact is, the sooner he’s underground again, the better. Besides, lead is cruel ’ard work on the bearers. Six of them we’re giving him — I wouldn’t want to be thought lacking in respect for the dead, however come by, so I says to Rector, ‘No, sir,’ I says, ‘not that old handcart,’ I says, ‘but six bearers just the same as if he was one of ourselves. And Rector, he quite agreed with me. Ah! I daresay there’s be a sight of folk come in from round about, and I wouldn’t like them to see the thing done mean or careless like.”