Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

Mr. Godfrey smiled.

“We’ll need to let the tuckings down a goodish bit for his lordship,” he observed, measuring Wimsey with his eye; “he’s none so tall as Will Thoday, not by a long chalk.”

“Never you mind,” said Wimsey. “In the words of the old bell-motto: I’d have it to be understood that though I’m little, yet I’m good.”

“Of course,” said the Rector, “Jack didn’t mean anything else. But Will Thoday is a very tall man indeed. Now where did I put my hat? Agnes, my dear! Agnes! I can’t find my hat. Oh, here, to be sure. And my muffler — I’m so much obliged to you. Now, let me just get the key of the belfry and we — dear me, now! When did I have that key last?”

“It’s all right, sir,” said Mr. Godfrey. “I have all the keys here, sir.”

“The church-key as well?”

“Yes, sir, and the key of the bell-chamber.”

“Oh, good, good — excellent. Lord Peter will like to go up into the bell-chamber. To my mind, Lord Peter, the sight of a ring of good bells — I beg your pardon, my dear?”

“I said, Do remember dinner-time, and don’t keep poor Lord Peter too long.”

“No, no, my dear, certainly not. But he will like to look at the bells. And the church itself is worth seeing. Lord Peter. We have a very interesting twelfth-century font, and the roof is considered to be one of the finest specimens — yes, yes, my dear, we’re just going.”

The hall-door was opened upon a glimmering world. The snow was still falling fast; even the footprints made less than an hour earlier by the ringers were almost obliterated. They straggled down the drive and crossed the road. Ahead of them, the great bulk of the church loomed dark and gigantic. Mr. Godfrey led the way with an old-fashioned lantern through the lych-gate and along a path bordered with tombstones to the south door of the church, which he opened, with a groaning of the heavy lock. A powerful ecclesiastical odour, compounded of ancient wood, varnish, dry rot, hassocks, hymnbooks, paraffin lamps, flowers and candles, all gently baking in the warmth of slow-combustion stoves, billowed out from the interior. The tiny ray of the lantern picked out here the poppy-head on a pew, here the angle of a stone pillar, here the gleam of brass from a mural tablet. Their footsteps echoed queerly in the great height of the clerestory.

“All Transitional here,” whispered the Rector, “except the Late Perpendicular window at the end of the north aisle, which of course you can’t see. Nothing is left of the original Norman foundation but a couple of drums at the base of the chancel arch, but you can trace the remains of the Norman apse, if you look for it, underneath the Early English sanctuary. When we have more light, you will notice — Oh, yes, Jack, yes, by all means. Jack Godfrey is quite right, Lord Peter — we must not waste time. I am apt to be led away by my enthusiasm.”

He conducted his guest westwards under the tower arch, and thence, in the wake of Jack Godfrey’s lantern, up a steep and winding belfry stair, its stone treads worn shallow with the feet of countless long-dead ringers. After a turn or so, the procession halted; there was a jingling of keys and the lantern moved away to the right through a narrow door. Wimsey, following, found himself in the ringing chamber of the belfry.

It was in no way remarkable, except in being perhaps a little loftier than the average, on account of the exceptional height of the tower. By daylight, it was well lit, having a fine window of three lights on each of its three exterior sides, while low down in the eastern wall, a couple of unglazed openings, defended by iron bars against accident, gave upon the interior of the church, a little above the level of the clerestory windows. As Jack Godfrey set the lantern on the floor, and proceeded to light a paraffin lamp which hung against the wall, Wimsey could see the eight bellropes, their woollen sallies looped neatly to the walls, and their upper ends vanishing mysteriously into the shadows of the chamber roof. Then the light streamed out and the walls took shape and colour. They were plainly plastered, with a painted motto in Gothic lettering running round below the windows: “They Have Neither Speech nor Language but their Voices are Heard Among Them, their Sound is Gone Forth into All Lands.” Above this, various tablets of wood, brass and even stone, commemorated the ringing of remarkable peals in the past.

“We shall hope to put up a new tablet after tonight,” said the Rector’s voice in Wimsey’s ear.

“I only hope I may do nothing to prevent it,” said Wimsey. “I see you have the old regulations for your ringers. Ah! ‘Keep stroak of time and goe not out, Or elles you forfeit out of doubt For every fault a Jugg of beer.’ It doesn’t say how big a jug, but there is something about the double g that suggests size and potency. ‘If a bell you overthrow ’Twill cost you sixpence ere you goe.’ That’s cheap, considering the damage it does. On the other hand, sixpence for every swear or curse is rather on the dear side, I think, don’t you, padre? Where’s this bell of mine?”

“Here, my lord.” Jack Godfrey had unhitched the rope of the second bell, and let down to its full length the portion of rope below the sallie.

“When you’ve got her raised,” he said, “we’ll fix them tuckings proper. Unless you’d like me to raise her for you?”

“Not on your life,” said Wimsey. “It’s a poor ringer that can’t raise his own bell.” He grasped the rope and pulled it gently downwards, gathering the slack in his left hand. Softly, tremulously, high overhead in the tower, Sabaoth began to speak, and her sisters after her as the ringers stood to their ropes. “Tin-tin-tin,” cried Gaude in her silvery treble; “tan-tan,” answered Sabaoth; “din-din-din,” “dan-dan-dan,” said John and Jericho, climbing to their places; “bim, bam, bim, bam,” Jubilee and Dimity followed; “bom,” said Batty Thomas; and Tailor Paul, majestically lifting up her great bronze mouth, bellowed “bo, bo, bo,” as the ropes hauled upon the wheels.

Wimsey brought his bell competently up and set her at backstroke while the tuckings were finally adjusted, after which, at the Rector’s suggestion, a few rounds were rung to let him “get the feel of her.”

“You can leave your bells up, boys,” said Mr. Hezekiah Lavender, graciously, when this last rehearsal was concluded, “but don’t you go a-taking that for what they calls a preceedent, Wally Pratt. And listen here, all on you; don’t make no mistake. You comes here, sharp at the quarter to eleven, see — and you rings same as usual for service, and after Rector has finished his sermon, you comes up here again quiet and decent and takes your places. Then, while they’re a-singin’ their ’ymn, I rings the nine tailors and the ’alf-minute passing-strokes for Old Year, see. Then you takes your ropes in hand and waits for the clock to strike. When she’s finished striking, I says ‘Go!’ and mind as you’re ready to go. And when Rector’s done down below, he’s promised to come up and give a ’and from time to time to any man as needs a rest, and I’m sure it’s very kind of him. And I take leave to suppose, Alt Donnington, as you won’t forget the usual.”

“Not me,” said Mr. Donnington. “Well, so long, boys.”

The lantern led the way from the ringing-chamber, and a great shuffling of feet followed it.

“And now,” said the Rector, “and now. Lord Peter, you will like to come and see — Dear me!” he ejaculated, as they groped upon the dark spiral stair, “where in the world is Jack Godfrey? Jack! He has gone on down with the others. Ah, well, poor fellow, no doubt he wants to get home to his supper. We must not be selfish. Unfortunately he has the key of the bell-chamber, and without it we cannot conduct our researches. However, you will see much better to-morrow. Yes, Joe, yes — we are coming. Do be careful of these stairs — they are very much worn, especially on the inside. Here we are, safe and sound. Excellent! Now, before we go. Lord Peter, I should so much like to show you—”