Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“We had a choir-practice that night, and when it was over — that would be about half-past seven — the rain had cleared up a little, and I thought I would just go and give another little look at dear Lady Thorpe’s resting-place; so I went round with my torch, and I quite well remember seeing Mrs. Coppins’ wreath standing up against the side of the grave next the church, and thinking what a beautiful one it was and what a pity the rain should spoil it.”

The Superintendent felt pleased. He found it difficult to believe that Mrs. Coppins or anybody else had gone out to the churchyard on a dark, wet Saturday night to remove Mrs. Gates’ wreath. It was surely much more reasonable to suppose that the burying of the corpse had been the disturbing factor, and that brought the time of the crime down to some hour between 7.30 p.m. on the Saturday and, say, 8.30 on the Sunday morning. He thanked Miss Snoot very much and, looking at his watch, decided that he had just about time to go along to Will Thoday’s. He was pretty sure to find Mary at home, and, with luck, might catch Will himself when he came home to dinner. His way led him past the churchyard. He drove slowly, and, glancing over the churchyard wall as he went, observed Lord Peter Wimsey, seated in a reflective manner and apparently meditating among the tombs.

“’Morning!” cried the Superintendent cheerfully, “’Morning, my lord!”

“Oy!” responded his lordship. “Come along here a minute. You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

Mr. Blundell stopped his car at the lych-gate, clambered out, grunting (for he was growing rather stout) and made his way up the path. Wimsey was sitting on a large, flat tombstone, and in his hands was about the last thing the Superintendent might have expected to see, namely, a large reel of line, to which, in the curious, clumsy-looking but neat and methodical manner of the fisherman, his lordship was affixing a strong cast adorned with three salmon-hooks. “Hullo!” said Mr. Blundell. “Bit of an optimist, aren’t you? Nothing but coarse fishing about here.”

“Very coarse,” said Wimsey. “Hush! While you were interviewing Mrs. Gates, where do you think I was? In the garage, inciting our friend Johnson to theft. From Sir Henry’s study. Hist! not a word!”

“A good many years since he went fishing, poor soul,” said Mr. Blundell, sympathetically.

“Well, he kept his tackle in good order all the same,” said Wimsey, making a complicated knot and pulling it tight with his teeth. “Are you busy, or have you got time to look at something?”

“I was going along to Thoday’s, but there’s no great hurry. And, by the way, I’ve got a bit of news.”

Wimsey listened to the story of the wreath. “Sounds all right,” he said. He searched in his pocket, and produced a handful of lead sinkers, some of which he proceeded to affix to his cast.

“What in the world are you thinking of catching with that?” demanded Mr. Blundell. “A whale?”

“Eels,” replied his lordship. He weighed the line in his hand and gravely added another piece of lead. Mr. Blundell, suspecting some kind of mystification, watched him in discreet silence. “That will do,” said Wimsey, “unless eels swim deeper than ever plummet sounded. Now come along. I’ve borrowed the keys of the church from the Rector. He had mislaid them, of course, but they turned up eventually among the Clothing Club accounts.”

He led the way to the cope-chest beneath the tower, and threw it open. “I have been chattin’ with our friend Mr. Jack Godfrey. Very pleasant fellow. He tells me that a complete set of new ropes was put in last December. One or two were a little dicky, and they didn’t want to take any chances over the New Year peal, so they renewed the lot while they were about it. These are the old ones, kept handy in case of sudden catastrophe. Very neatly coiled and stowed. This whopper belongs to Tailor Paul. Lift ’em out carefully — eighty feet or so of rope is apt to be a bit entanglin’ if let loose on the world. Batty Thomas. Dimity. Jubilee. John. Jericho. Sabaoth. But where is little Gaude? Where and oh where is she? With her sallie cut short and her rope cut long, where and oh where can she be? No — there’s nothing else in the chest but the leather buffets and a few rags and oilcans. No rope for Gaude. Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus. The mystery of the missing bell-rope. Et responsum est ab omnibus: Non est inventus— a or — um. ”

The Superintendent scratched his head and gazed vaguely about the church.

“Not in the stove,” said Wimsey. “My first thought, of course. If the burying was done on Saturday, the stoves would be alight, but they’d be banked down for the night, and it would have been awkward if our Mr. Gotobed had raked out anything unusual on Sunday morning with his little scraper. As a matter of fact, he tells me that one of the first things he does on Sunday morning is to open the top thingumajig on the stove and take a look inside to see that the flue-pipe is clear. Then he stirs it up a-top, rakes it out at the bottom door and sets it drawing for the day. I don’t think that was where the rope went. I hope not, anyway. I think the murderer used the rope to carry the body by, and didn’t remove it till he got to the graveside. Hence these salmon-hooks.”

“The well?” said Mr. Blundell, enlightened.

“The well,” replied Wimsey. “What shall we do, or go fishing?”

“I’m on; we can but try.”

“There’s a ladder in the vestry,” said Wimsey. “Bear a hand. Along this way — out through the vestry-door — and here we are. Away, my jolly boys, we’re all bound away. Sorry! I forgot this was consecrated ground. Now then — up with the cover. Half a jiff. We’ll sacrifice half a brick to the water-gods. Splosh! — it’s not so very deep. If we lay the ladder over the mouth of the well, we shall get a straight pull.”

He extended himself on his stomach, took the reel in his left hand and began to pay the line cautiously out over the edge of the ladder, while the Superintendent illumined the proceedings with a torch.

The air came up cold and dank from the surface of the water. Far below a circle of light reflected the pale sky and the beam of the torch showed hooks and line working steadily downwards. Then a tiny break in the reflection marked the moment when the hooks touched the water.

A pause. Then the whirr of the reel as Wimsey rewound the line.

“More water than I thought. Where are those leads? Now then, we’ll try again.”

Another pause. Then:

“A bite. Super, a bite! What’s the betting it’s an old boot? It’s not heavy enough to be the rope. Never mind. Up she comes. Ahoy! up she rises! Sorry, I forgot again. Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo! What’s this? Not a boot, but the next thing to it. A hat! Now then, Super! Did you measure the head of the corpse? You did? Good! then we shan’t need to dig him up again to see if his hat fits. Stand by with the gaff. Got him! Soft felt, rather the worse for wear and water. Mass production. London maker. Exhibit One. Put it aside to dry. Down she goes again…. And up she comes. Another tiddler. Golly! what’s this? Looks like a German sausage. No, it isn’t. No, it isn’t. It’s a sallie. Sallie in our alley. She is the darling of my heart. Little Gaude’s sallie. Take her up tenderly, lift her with care. Where sallie is, the rest will be…. Hoops-a-daisy!… I’ve got it…. It’s caught somewhere…. No, don’t pull too hard, or the hook may come adrift. Ease her. Hold her…. Damn!… Sorry, undamn! I mean, how very provoking, it’s got away…. Now I’ve got it… Was that the ladder cracking or my breastbone, I wonder? Surprisin’ly sharp edge a ladder has…. There now, there now! there’s your eel — all of a tangle. Catch hold. Hurray!”