Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“I suppose there’s no doubt he was guilty.”

“Not the slightest. He was a liar from beginning to end, and a clumsy liar at that. For one thing, the ivy on the Red House showed clearly enough that nobody had climbed down by it that night — and in any case, his final story was as full of holes as a sieve. He was a bad lot, and a murderer as well, and the country was well rid of him. As for Cranton, he behaved pretty well for a bit after he came out. Then he got into trouble again for receiving stolen goods, or goods got by false pretences or something, and back he went into quod. He came out again last June, and they kept tabs on him till the beginning of September. Then he disappeared, and they’re still looking for him. Last seen in London — but I shouldn’t be surprised if we’d seen the last of him today. It’s my belief, and always was, that Deacon had the necklace, but what he did with it, I’m damned if I know. Have another spot of beer, my lord. It won’t do you any harm.”

“Where do you think Cranton was, then, between September and January?”

“Goodness knows. But if he’s the corpse, I should say France, at a guess. He knew all the crooks in London, and if anybody could wangle a forged passport, he could.”

“Have you got a photograph of Cranton?”

“Yes, my lord, I have. It’s just come. Like to have a look at it?”

“Rather!”

The Superintendent brought out an official photograph from a bureau which stood, stacked neatly with documents, in a corner of the room.

Wimsey studied it carefully.

“When was this taken?”

“About four years ago, my lord, when he went up for his last sentence. That’s the latest we have.”

“He had no beard then. Had he one in September?”

“No, my lord. But he’d have plenty of time to grow one in four months.”

“Perhaps that’s what he went to France for.”

“Very likely indeed, my lord.”

“Yes — well — I can’t be dead positive, but I think this is the man I saw on New Year’s Day.”

“That’s very interesting,” said the Superintendent. “Have you shown the photograph to any of the people in the village?”

Mr. Blundell grinned ruefully.

“I tried it on the Wilderspins this afternoon, but there! Missus said it was him, Ezra said ’twas nothing like him — and a bunch of neighbours agreed heartily with both of them. The only thing is to get a beard faked on to it and try ’em again. There’s not one person in a hundred can swear to a likeness between a bearded face and one that’s clean-shaven.”

“H’m, too true. Defeat thy favour with an usurped beard… And of course you couldn’t take the body’s fingerprints, since he had no hands.”

“No, my lord, and that’s a sort of an argument, in a way, for it’s being Cranton.”

“If it is Cranton, I suppose he came here to look for the necklace, and grew a beard so that he shouldn’t be recognised by the people that had seen him in court.”

“That’s about it, my lord.”

“And he didn’t come earlier simply because he had to let his beard grow. So much for my bright notion that he might have received some message within the last few months. What I can’t understand is that stuff about Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul. I’ve been trying to make out something from the inscriptions on the bells, but I might as well have left it alone. Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells, — though I’d like to know when church bells were ever made of iron — what a world of solemn thought their monody compels! Was Mr. Edward Thorpe at his brother’s wedding, do you know?”

“Oh yes, my lord. He was there, and a terrible row he made with Mrs. Wilbraham after the theft. It upset poor Sir Charles very much. Mr. Edward as good as told the old lady that it was all her own fault, and he wouldn’t hear a word against Deacon. He was certain Elsie Bryant and Cranton had fixed it all up between them. I don’t believe myself that Mrs. Wilbraham would ever have cut up so rough if it weren’t for the things Mr. Edward said to her, but she was — is — a damned obstinate old girl, and the more he swore it was Elsie, the more she swore it was Deacon. You see, Mr. Edward had recommended Deacon to his father—”

“Oh, had he?”

“Why, yes. Mr. Edward was working in London at the time — quite a lad, he was, only twenty-three — and hearing that Sir Charles was wanting a butler, he sent Deacon down to see him.”

“What did he know about Deacon?”

“Well, only that he did his work well and looked smart. Deacon was a waiter in some club that Mr. Edward belonged to, and it seems he mentioned that he wanted to try private service, and that’s how Mr. Edward came to think of him. And, naturally, having recommended the fellow, he had to stick up for him. I don’t know if you’ve met Mr. Edward Thorpe, but if you have, my lord, you’ll know that anything that belongs to him is always perfect. He’s never been known to make a mistake, Mr. Edward hasn’t — and so, you see, he couldn’t possibly have made a mistake about Deacon.”

“Oh, yes?” said Wimsey. “Yes, I’ve met him. Frightful blithering ass. Handy thing to be, sometimes. Easily cultivated. Five minutes’ practice before the glass every day, and you will soon acquire that vacant look so desirable for all rogues, detectives and Government officials. However, we will not dwell on Uncle Edward. Let us return to our corpse. Because, Blundell, after all, even if it is Cranton come to look for emeralds — who killed him, and why?”

“Why,” returned the policeman, “supposing he found the emeralds all right and somebody lammed him on the head and took them off him. What’s wrong with that?”

“Only that he doesn’t seem to have been lammed on the head.”

“That’s what Dr. Baines says; but we don’t know that he’s right.”

“No — but anyway, the man was killed somehow. Why kill him, when you’d already got him tied up and could take the emeralds without any killing at all?”

“To prevent him squealing. Stop! I know what you’re going to say — Cranton wasn’t in a position to squeal. But he was, don’t you see. He’d already been punished for the theft — they couldn’t do anything more to him for that, and he’d only to come and tell us where the stuff was to do himself quite a lot of good. You see his game. He could have done the sweet injured innocence stunt. He’d say: ‘I always told you Deacon had the stuff, so the minute I could manage it, I went down to Fenchurch to find it, and I did find it — and of course I was going to take it straight along to the police-station like a good boy, when Tom, Dick or Harry came along and took it off me. So I’ve come and told you all about it, and when you lay your hands on Tom, Dick or Harry and get the goods you’ll remember it was me gave you the office.’ Oh, yes — that’s what he could have done, and the only thing we’d have been able to put on him would be failing to report himself, and if he’d put us on to getting the emeralds, he’d be let off light enough, you bet. No! anybody as wanted those emeralds would have to put Cranton where he couldn’t tell any tales. That’s clear enough. But as to who it was, that’s a different thing.”

“But how was this person to know that Cranton knew where the necklace was? And how did he know, if it comes to that? Unless it really was he who had them after all, and he hid them somewhere in Fenchurch instead of taking them to London. It looks to me as though this line of argument was going to make Cranton the black sheep after all.”

“That’s true. How’d he come to know? He can’t have got the tip from anybody down here, or they’d have got the stuff tor themselves, and not waited for him. They’ve had long enough to do it, goodness knows. But why should Cranton have left the stuff behind him?”