Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“And never has to argue ahead of His data, as Sherlock Holmes would say? Well, padre, I dare say you’re right. Probably I’m tryin’ to be too clever. That’s me every time. I’m sorry to have made so much unpleasantness, anyhow. And I really would rather go away now. I’ve got that silly modern squeamishness that doesn’t like watchin’ people suffer. Thanks awfully for everything. Goodbye.”

* * *

Before leaving Fenchurch St. Paul, he went and stood in the churchyard. The grave of the unknown victim still stood raw and black amid the grass, but the grave of Sir Henry and Lady Thorpe had been roofed in with green turves. Not far away there was an ancient box tomb; Hezekiah Lavender was seated on the slab, carefully cleaning the letters of the inscription. Wimsey went over and shook hands with the old man.

“Makin’ old Samuel fine and clean for the summer,” said Hezekiah. “Ah! Beaten old Samuel by ten good year, I have. I says to Rector, ‘Lay me aside old Samuel,’ I says, ‘for everybody to see as I beaten him.’ An’ I got Rector’s promise. Ah! so I have. But they don’t write no sech beautiful poetry these here times.”

He laid a gouty finger on the inscription, which ran:

Here lies the Body of SAMUEL SNELL

That for fifty Years pulled the Tenor Bell.

Through Changes of this Mortal Race

He Laid his Blows and Kept his Place

Till Death that Changes all did Come

To Hunt him Down and Call him Home.

His Wheel is broke his Rope is Slackt

His Clapper Mute his Metal Crackt,

Yet when the great Call summons him from Ground

He shall be Raised up Tuneable and Sound.

MDCXCVIII.

Aged 76 years

“Ringing Tailor Paul seems to be a healthy occupation,” said Wimsey. “His servants live to a ripe old age, what?”

“Ah!” said Hezekiah. “So they du, young man, so they du, if so be they’re faithful to ’un an’ don’t go a-angerin’ on ’un. They bells du know well who’s a-haulin’ of ’un. Wunnerful understandin’ they is. They can’t abide a wicked man. They lays in wait to overthrow ’un. But old Tailor Paul can’t say I ain’t done well by her an she allus done well by me. Make righteousness your course bell, my lord, an’ keep a-follerin’ on her an’ she’ll see you through your changes till Death calls you to stand. Yew ain’t no call to be afeard o’ the bells if so be as yew follows righteousness.”

“Oh, quite,” said Wimsey, a little embarrassed.

He left Hezekiah and went into the church, stepping softly as though he feared to rouse up something from its sleep. Abbot Thomas was quiet in his tomb; the cherubims, open-eyed and open-mouthed, were absorbed in their everlasting contemplation; far over him he felt the patient watchfulness of the bells.

THE SECOND PART

NOBBY GOES IN SLOW AND COMES OUT QUICK

It is a frightful plight. Two angels buried him… in Vallombrosa by night; I saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock.

J. SHERIDAN LEFANU: Welder’s Hand.

Mr. Cranton was in an infirmary as the guest of His Majesty the King, and looked better than when they had last seen him. He showed no surprise at being charged with the murder of Geoffrey Deacon, twelve years or so after that gentleman’s reputed decease.

“Right!” said Mr. Cranton. “I rather expected you’d get on to it, but I kept on hoping you mightn’t. I didn’t do it, and I want to make a statement. Do sit down. These quarters aren’t what I could wish for a gentleman, but they seem to be the best the Old Country can offer. I’m told they do it much prettier in Sing Sing. England with all thy faults I love thee still. Where do you want me to begin?”

“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Wimsey, “go on till you get to the end and then stop. May he have a fag, Charles?”

“Well, my lord and — no,” said Mr. Cranton, “I won’t say gentlemen. Seems to go against the grain, somehow. Officers, if you like, but not gentlemen. Well, my lord and officers, I don’t need to tell you that I’m a deeply injured man. I said I never had those shiners, didn’t I? And you see I was right. What you want to know is, how did I first hear that Deacon was still on deck? Well, he wrote me a letter, that’s how. Somewhere about last July, that would be. Sent it to the old crib, and it was forwarded on — never you mind who by.”

“Gammy Pluck,” observed Mr. Parker, distantly.

“I name no names,” said Mr. Cranton. “Honour among — gentlemen. I burnt that letter, being an honourable gentleman, but it was some story, and I don’t know that I can do justice to it. Seems that when Deacon made his getaway, after an unfortunate encounter with a warder, he had to sneak about Kent in a damned uncomfortable sort of way for a day or two. He said the stupidity of the police was almost incredible. Walked right over him twice, he said. One time they trod on him. Said he’d never realised so vividly before why a policeman was called a flattie. Nearly broke his fingers standing on them. Now I,” added Mr. Cranton, “have rather small feet. Small and well-shod. You can always tell a gentleman by his feet.”

“Go on, Nobby,” said Mr. Parker.

“Anyhow, the third night he was out there lying doggo in a wood somewhere, he heard a chap coming along that wasn’t a flattie. Rolling drunk, Deacon said he was. So Deacon pops out from behind a tree and pastes the fellow one. He said he didn’t mean to do him in, only put him out, but he must have struck a bit harder than what he meant. Mind you, that’s only what he said, but Deacon always was a low kind of fellow and he’d laid out one man already and you can’t hang a chap twice. Anyway, he found he’d been and gone and done it, and that was that.

“What he wanted, of course, was duds, and when he came to examine the takings, he found he’d bagged a Tommy in uniform with all his kit. Well, that wasn’t very surprising, come to think of it. There were a lot of those about in 1918, but it sort of took Deacon aback. Of course, he knew there was a war on — they’d been told all about that — but it hadn’t, as you might say, come home to him. This Tommy had some papers and stuff on him and a torch, and from what Deacon could make out, looking into the thing rather hurriedly in a retired spot, he was just coming off his leaf and due to get back to the Front. Well, Deacon thought, any hole’s better than Maidstone Gaol, so here goes. So he changes clothes with the Tommy down to his skin, collars his papers and what not, and tips the body down the hole. Deacon was a Kentish man himself, you see, and knew the place. Of course, he didn’t know the first thing about soldiering — however, needs must and all that. He thought his best way was to get up to Town and maybe he’d find some old pal up there to look after him. So he tramped off — and eventually he got a lift on a lorry or something to a railway station. He did mention the name, but I’ve forgotten it. He picked some town he’d never been in — a small place. Anyway, he found a train going to London and he piled into it. That was all right; but somewhere on the way, in got a whole bunch of soldiers, pretty lit-up and cheery, and from the way they talked. Deacon began to find out what he was up against. It came over him, you see, that here he was, all dressed up as a perfectly good Tommy, and not knowing the first thing about the War, or drill or anything, and he knew if he opened his mouth he’d put his foot in it.”

“Of course,” said Wimsey. “It’d be like dressing up as a Freemason. You couldn’t hope to get away with it.”

“That’s it. Deacon said it was like being among people talking a foreign language. Worse; because Deacon did know a bit about foreign languages. He was an educated sort of bloke. But this Army stuff was beyond him. So all he could do was to pretend to be asleep. He said he just rolled up in his corner and snored, and if anybody spoke to him he swore at them. It worked quite well, he said. There was one very persistent bloke, though, with a bottle of Scotch. He kept on shoving drinks at Deacon and he took a few, and then some more, and by the time he got to London he was pretty genuinely sozzled. You see, he’d had nothing to eat, to speak of, for a coupla days, except some bread he’d managed to scrounge from a cottage.”