Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

Mrs. Venables, a plump and placid figure in the lamplight from the open door, received the invasion with competent tranquillity. “How fortunate that my husband should have met you. An accident? I do hope you are not hurt. I always say these roads are perfect death-traps.”

“Thank you,” said Wimsey. “There is no harm done. We stupidly ran off the road — at Frog’s Bridge, I understand.”

“A very nasty place — quite a mercy you didn’t go into the Thirty-foot Drain. Do come in and sit down and get yourselves warm. Your man? Yes, of course. Emily! Take this gentleman’s manservant into the kitchen and make him comfortable.”

“And tell Hinkins to take the car and go down to Frog’s Bridge for the luggage,” added the Rector. “He will find Lord Peter’s car there. He had better go at once, before the weather gets worse. And, Emily! tell him to send over to Wilderspin and arrange to get the car out of the dyke.”

“To-morrow morning will do for that,” said Wimsey.

“To be sure. First thing to-morrow morning. Wilderspin is the blacksmith — an excellent fellow. He will see to the matter most competently. Dear me, yes! And now, come in, come in! We want our tea. Agnes, my dear, have you explained to Emily that Lord Peter will be staying the night?”

“That will be all right,” said Mrs. Venables, soothingly. “I do hope, Theodore, you have not caught cold.”

No, no, my dear. I have been well wrapped up. Dear me, yes! Ha! What do I see? Muffins?”

“I was just wishing for muffins,” said Wimsey.

“Sit down, sit down and make a good meal. I’m sure you must be famished. I have seldom known such bitter weather. Would you prefer a whisky-and-soda, perhaps?”

“Tea for me,” said Wimsey. “How jolly all this looks! Really, Mrs. Venables, it’s tremendously good of you to take pity upon us.”

“I’m only so glad to be able to help,” said Mrs. Venables, smiling cheerfully. “Really, I don’t think there’s anything to equal the dreariness of these fen roads in winter. It’s most fortunate your accident landed you comparatively close to the village.”

“It is indeed.” Wimsey gratefully took in the cosy sitting-room, with its little tables crowded with ornaments, its fire roaring behind a chaste canopy of velvet overmantel, and the silver tea-vessel winking upon the polished tray. “I feel like Ulysses, come to port after much storm and peril.”

He bit gratefully into a large and buttery muffin.

“Tom Tebbutt seems a good deal better today,” observed the Rector. “Very unfortunate that he should be laid up just now, but we must be thankful that it is no worse. I only hope there are no further casualties. Young Pratt will manage very well, I think; he went through two long touches this morning without a single mistake, and he is extremely keen. By the way, we ought, perhaps, to warn our visitor—”

“I’m sure we ought,” said Mrs. Venables. “My husband has asked you to stay the night. Lord Peter, but he ought to have mentioned that you will probably get very little sleep, being so close to the church. But perhaps you do not mind the sound of bells.”

“Not at all,” said Wimsey.

“My husband is a very keen change-ringer,” pursued Mrs. Venables, “and, as this is New Year’s Eve—”

The Rector, who seldom allowed anybody else to finish a sentence, broke in eagerly.

“We hope to accomplish a real feat to-night,” he said, “or rather, I should say, to-morrow morning. We intend to ring the New Year in with — you are not, perhaps, aware that we possess here one of the finest rings in the country?”

“Indeed?” said Wimsey. “Yes, I believe I have heard of the Fenchurch bells.”

“There are, perhaps, a few heavier rings,” said the Rector, “but I hardly know where you would rival us for fullness and sweetness of tone. Number seven, in particular, is a most noble old bell, and so is the tenor, and the John and Jericho bells are also remarkably fine — in fact, the whole ring is most ‘tuneable and sound,’ as the old motto has it.”

“It is a full ring of eight?”

“Oh, yes. If you are interested, I should like to show you a very charming little book, written by my predecessor, giving the whole history of the bells. The tenor, Tailor Paul, was actually cast in a field next the churchyard in the year 1614. You can still see the depression in the earth. where the mould was made, and the field itself is called the Bell-Field to this day.”

“And have you a good set of ringers?” inquired Wimsey, politely.

“Very good indeed. Excellent fellows and most enthusiastic. That reminds me. I was about to say that we have arranged to ring the New Year in to-night with no less,” said the Rector, emphatically, “no less than fifteen thousand, eight hundred and forty Kent Treble Bob Majors. What do you think of that? Not bad, eh?”

“Bless my heart!” said Wimsey. “Fifteen thousand—”

“Eight hundred and forty,” said the Rector.

Wimsey made a rapid calculation. “A good many hours’ work there.”

“Nine hours,” said the Rector, with relish.

“Well done, sir,” said Wimsey. “Why, that’s equal to the great performance of the College Youths in eighteen hundred and something.”

“In 1886,” agreed the Rector. “That is what we aim to emulate. And, what’s more, but for the little help I can give, we shall be obliged to do as well as they did, and ring the whole peal with eight ringers only. We had hoped to have twelve, but unhappily, four of our best men have been laid low by this terrible influenza, and we can get no help from Fenchurch St. Stephen (which has a ring of bells, though not equal to ours) because there they have no Treble Bob ringers and confine themselves to Grandsire Triples.”

Wimsey shook his head, and helped himself to his fourth muffin.

“Grandsire Triples are most venerable,” he said solemnly, “but you can never get the same music—”

“That’s what I say,” crowed the Rector. “You never can get the same music when the tenor is rung behind — not even with Stedman’s, though we are very fond here of Stedman’s and ring them, I venture to say, very well. But for interest and variety and for sweetness in the peal, give me Kent Treble Bob every time.”

“Quite right, sir,” said Wimsey.

“You will never beat it,” said Mr. Venables, soaring away happily to the heights of the belfry, and waving his muffin in the air, so that the butter ran down his cuff. “Take even Grandsire Major — I cannot help feeling it as a defect that the blows come behind so monotonously at the bobs and singles — particularly at the singles, and the fact that the treble and second are confined to a plain hunting course—”

The rest of the Rector’s observations on the Grandsire method of change-ringing were unhappily lost, for at that moment Emily made her appearance at the door, with the ominous words:

“If you please, sir, could James Thoday speak to you for a moment?”

“ James Thoday?” said the Rector. “Why, certainly, of course. Put him in the study, Emily, and I will come in a moment.”

The Rector was not long gone, and when he returned his face was as long as a fiddle. He let himself drop into his chair in an attitude of utter discouragement.

“This,” he ejaculated, dramatically, “is an irreparable disaster!”

“Good gracious, Theodore! What in the world is the matter?”

“William Thoday! Of all nights in the year! Poor fellow, I ought not to think of myself, but it is a bitter disappointment — a bitter disappointment.”

“Why, what has happened to Thoday?”

“Struck down,” said the Rector, “struck down by this wretched scourge of influenza. Quite helpless. Delirious. They have sent for Dr. Baines.”