Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“ In the church? ”

“We found them there on Monday,” explained his lordship, placidly, “tucked away in the roof.”

“In the roof of the church? Why, then, that was what he — The emeralds found? Thank God for that! They’ll not be able to say now as Mary had any hand in it.”

“True,” said Wimsey. “But you were about to say something else, I rather fancy. ‘That was what he—?’ What? ‘That was what he was after when I found him in the church.’ Was that it?”

“No, my lord. I was going to say — I was just going to say, that was what he did with them.” A fresh wave of anger seemed to sweep over him. “The dirty villain! He did double-cross that other fellow after all.”

“Yes,” agreed his lordship. “I’m afraid there’s not much to be said in favour of the late Mr. Deacon. I’m sorry, Mrs. Thoday, but he was really rather an unsatisfactory person. And you’re not the only one to suffer. He married another woman over in France, and she’s left with three small children too.”

“Poor soul!” said Mary.

“The damned scoundrel!” exclaimed Will, “if I’d have known that, I’d—”

“Yes?”

“Never mind,” growled the farmer. “How did he come to be in France? How did he—?”

“That’s a long story,” said Wimsey, “and rather far from the point at issue. Now, let’s get your story clear. You heard that the body of a man who might have been a convict had been found in the churchyard, and though the face was quite unrecognisable, you were — shall we say inspired? — to identify him with Geoffrey Deacon, whom you had supposed to have died in 1918. You said nothing about it till your wife, the other day, saw a bit of Deacon’s handwriting, which might have been written at any time, and was — shall we again say inspired? — with the same idea. Without waiting for any further verification, you both rushed away to town to get remarried, and that’s the only explanation you can give. Is that it?”

“That’s all I can say, my lord.”

“And a damned thin story too,” observed Mr. Blundell, truculently. “Now, get this. Will Thoday. You know where you stand as well as I do. You know you’re not bound to answer any questions now unless you like. But there’s the inquest on the body; we can have that re-opened, and you can tell your story to the coroner. Or you can be charged with the murder and tell it to a judge and jury. Or you can come clean now. Whichever you like. See?”

“I’ve nothing more to say, Mr. Blundell.”

“I tell thee all, I can no more,” observed Wimsey thoughtfully. “That’s a pity, because the public prosecutor may get quite a different sort of story fixed in his mind. He may think, for instance, that you knew Deacon was alive because you had met him in the church on the night of December 30th.”

He waited to see the effect of this, and resumed:

“There’s Potty Peake, you know. I don’t suppose he’s too potty to give evidence about what he saw and heard that night from behind Abbot Thomas’ tomb. The black-bearded man and the voices in the vestry and Will Thoday fetching the rope from the cope-chest. What took you into the church, by the way? You saw a light, perhaps. And went along and found the door open, was that it? And in the vestry, you found a man doing something that looked suspicious. So you challenged him and when he spoke you knew who it was. It was lucky that the fellow didn’t shoot you, but probably you took him unawares. Anyway, you threatened to give him up to justice and then he pointed out that that would put your wife and children in an unpleasant position. So you indulged in a little friendly chat — did you speak? — In the end, you compromised. You said you would keep quiet about it and get him out of the country with £200 in pocket, but you hadn’t got it at the moment and in the meantime you would put him in a place of safety. Then you fetched a rope and tied him up. I don’t know how you kept him quiet while you went to fetch it. Did you give him a straight left to the jaw, or what?… You won’t help me?… Well, never mind. You tied him up and left him in the vestry while you went round to steal Mr. Venables’ keys. It’s a miracle you found them in the right place, by the way. They seldom are. Then you took him up into the belfry, because the bell-chamber was nice and handy and had several locks to it, and it was easier than escorting him out through the village. After that you brought him some food — perhaps Mrs. Thoday could throw some light on that. Did you miss a quart bottle of beer or so about that time, Mrs. Thoday? Some of those you got in for Jim? By the way, Jim is coming home and we’ll have to have a word with him.”

Watching Mary’s face, the Superintendent saw it contract suddenly with alarm, but she said nothing. Wimsey went on remorselessly.

“The next day you went over to Walbeach to get the money. But you weren’t feeling well, and on the way home you broke down completely and couldn’t get back to let Deacon out. That was damned awkward for you, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to confide in your wife. Of course, there was Jim.”

Thoday raised his head.

“I’m not saying anything one way or other, my lord, except this. I’ve never said one word to Jim about Deacon — not one word. Nor he to me. And that’s the truth.”

“Very well,” said Wimsey. “Whatever else happened, in between December 30th and January 4th, somebody killed Deacon. And on the night of the 4th, somebody buried the body. Somebody who knew him and took care to mutilate his face and hands beyond recognition. And what everybody will want to know is, at what moment did Deacon cease to be Deacon and become the body? Because that’s rather the point, isn’t it? We know that you couldn’t very well have buried him yourself, because you were ill, but the killing is a different matter. You see, Thoday, he didn’t starve to death. He died with a full tummy. You couldn’t have fed him after the morning of December 31st. If you didn’t kill him then, who took him his rations in the interval? And who, having fed him and killed him, rolled him down the belfry ladder on the night of the 4th, with a witness sitting in the roof of the tower — a witness who had seen him and recognised him? A witness who—”

“Hold on, my lord,” said the Superintendent. “The woman’s fainted.”

THE FOURTH PART

THE SLOW WORK

Who shut up the sea with doors… and brake up for it my decreed place?

JOB, xxxviii. 8, 10.

“He won’t say anything,” said Superintendent Blundell.

“I know he won’t,” said Wimsey. “Have you arrested him?”

“No, my lord, I haven’t. I’ve sent him home and told him to think it over. Of course, we could easily get him on being an accessory after the fact in both cases. I mean, he was shielding a known murderer — that’s pretty clear, I fancy; and he’s also shielding whoever killed Deacon, if he didn’t do it himself. But I’m taking the view that we’ll be able to handle him better after we’ve interrogated James. And we know James will be back in England at the end of the month. His owners have been very sensible. They’ve given him orders to come home, without saying what he’s wanted for. They’ve arranged for another man to take his place and he’s to report himself by the next boat.”

“Good! It’s a damnable business, the whole thing. If ever a fellow deserved a sticky death, it’s this Deacon brute. If the law had found him the law would have hanged him, with loud applause from all good citizens. Why should we hang a perfectly decent chap for anticipating the law and doing our dirty work for us?”

“Well, it is the law, my lord,” replied Mr. Blundell, “and it’s not my place to argue about it. In any case, we’re going to have a bit of a job to hang Will Thoday, unless it’s as an accessory before the fact. Deacon was killed on a full stomach. If Will did away with him on the 30th, or the 31st, why did he go to collect the £200? If Deacon was dead, he wouldn’t want it. On the other hand, if Deacon wasn’t killed till the 4th, who fed him in the interval? If James killed him, why did he trouble to feed him first? The thing makes no sense.”