Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“How did he know that?” asked Wimsey. “He didn’t get it from Cranton.”

“That was the other scoundrel? No, he told me he’d meant to come after Mary, but hearing from some fellow at Leamholt that she was married, he’d thought he’d better have a scout round first. I couldn’t make out why he’d come back to the place at all, and he wouldn’t tell me. I see now, it was the emeralds. He did say something about me keeping quiet and he’d make it worth my while, but I told him I’d have no truck with him. I asked him where he’d been, but he just laughed and said ‘Never you mind.’ And I asked what he wanted in Fenchurch, and he said he wanted money. So I made out that he’d meant to come blackmailing Mary. Well, that made me see red, and I was in half a mind to give him up to the police and take what was coming to us, but when I thought about Mary and the kids — well, I couldn’t face it. I was wrong, of course, but when I remembered all the talk there’d been — well, I wanted to spare her that. He knew just how I stood, the devil, and he stood there grinning at me.

“So in the end, I made a devil’s bargain with him. I said I’d hide him and give him money to get out of the country, and then I thought what was I to do with him? I’d got his pick-locks all right, but I didn’t trust him none the more for that, and I was afraid to go out of the church with him, where we might run up against somebody. And then I got the idea of putting him up in the bell-chamber. So I told him what I meant to do and he agreed. I thought I could get the keys from Rector all right, so, just for the time being, I pushed him into the cupboard where the surplices hang and locked him in. Then I thought that he might easily break his way out while I was over at the Rectory, so I went down and fetched a rope from the chest and came back and tied him up. You see, I didn’t believe that tale of his about sleeping in the vestry. Robbing the church was what I thought he was after. And besides, if I went away and left him, what was to stop him getting out and hiding somewhere and slugging me over the head when I got back? I’d no key to the church-door, neither, and he might have made off.”

“Good thing for you if he had,” suggested Mr. Blundell.

“Yes — so long as nobody else caught him. Anyhow, I got the keys. I put up some story to the Rector — it must have been a pretty lame one — the old gentlemen was a bit puzzled, I think. He kept on saying how queer I looked, and insisted on getting me a drop of his port. While he was fetching it, I just nipped the keys off the nail by the door. I know what you’re going to say — suppose he’d mislaid them as usual? Well, I’d have had to try the same dodge on Jack Godfrey or else change my plans — but there they were and I didn’t bother with any ‘ifs’. I went back to the church and untied Deacon’s legs and made him walk up the belfry stairs in front of me, like taking a pig to market. It wasn’t difficult: I had the revolver, you see.”

“And you tied him up to a beam in the bell-chamber?”

“Yes, sir, I did. And wouldn’t you a-done? Just think of yourself carrying victuals and stuff up one o’ they ladders in the dark, with a murderer roaming loose at the top all ready to bash your head in the moment you popped it up above floor-level. I tied him up good and proper, though it was a bit of a job with the rope being so thick. ‘Stay you there,’ I said, ‘and I’ll bring you something to eat in the morning and see you out of the country before you’re twenty-four hours older.’ He cursed like a devil, but I paid no attention to him. It was all I could do to keep my hand often him, and I’m often minded to think it’s a wonder I didn’t kill him then and there.”

“But had you made any plans for shipping him off?”

“Yes, I had. I’d been over to Walbeach the day before with Jim here, and we’d had a bit of talk with a pal of his — a queer old skipper on a Dutch cargo boat, that was lying there, taking in some sort of freight — I never rightly gathered what it was — but I got the notion the old boy wouldn’t find much come amiss to him.”

“You’re right there, Will,” put in Jim, grinning.

“So I found. It wasn’t the best plan, maybe, but it was all I could do in the time. I couldn’t think very clear, to tell you the truth. I was terrible put about in my mind and my head was buzzing like a thresher. I suppose ’twas the ’flu coming on. I don’t know how I got through that evening at home, looking at Mary and the kids and knowing what I knew. Fortunately, she knew I was worried over the cow and put it all down to that — at least, I thought so. I tossed and turned all night, and the only thing to comfort me was the blessed snow coming down and hiding all they footprints we’d left round the church.

“Next morning I was damned ill, but I couldn’t stop to think of that. I slipped out well before daybreak, with some bread and cheese and beer in an old tool-bag. Jim heard me and called out to know what was up. So I said I was going over to see the cow — and so I did, only I took the church on the way.

“Deacon was all right, only very bad-tempered and perished wi’ cold, so I left him my old coat — not wanting him to be frozen to death. And I tied him up by his elbows and ankles, leaving his hands free, so as he could help himself to his victuals but not untie himself. Then I went on to see to the cow and found her better. After breakfast I got the old car out and ran her over to Walbeach, feeling worse and worse all the time. I found my skipper, just getting ready to sail. I had a word with him, and he agreed to wait till 10 o’clock that night and carry my passenger, no questions asked. Two hundred and fifty pounds was the price he wanted and I agreed to pay it. I got the money and gave him the fifty then and there, promising him the rest when I got Deacon aboard. I got into the car and started back — and you know what happened afterwards.”

“That’s very clear,” said Parker. “I needn’t tell you that you were compounding a serious felony by helping a convicted murderer to escape from justice. Speaking as a policeman, I am shocked; speaking as a human being, I have every sympathy for you. Now, you.” He turned to Jim. “I imagine your part of it comes in here.”

“Yes, sir. Well, as you know, poor Will was brought back in a terrible state and we thought for a day or two he was pretty well gone. He was out of his head and kept on calling out that he must go down to the church, but we put that down to the bell-ringing business. All the time he kept a sort of control over himself and never let out a word about Deacon, but one day, when Mary had gone out of the room, he clutched my hand and said, ‘Don’t let her know, Jim. Get him away.’ ‘Get who away?’ I said. And he said, ‘In the belfry — bitter cold and starving.’ And then he sat up in bed and said, quite plain and clear, ‘My coat — give me my coat — I must have the keys and the money.’ I said, ‘All right, Will, I’ll see to it’—thinking he was dreaming, and after a bit he seemed to forget about it and go off in a doze. But I thought it was queer, so I had a look in his coat, and there, sure enough, were the Rector’s bunch of keys and a whole wad of money.

“Well, I began to think there might be something behind it, so I took the keys, and I thought, before I took them back, I’d just have a look round the church. I went in there—”

“Which day was this?”

“I reckon it was the 2nd of January. I went up into the belfry — right up to the bell-chamber, and — well! there he was!”

“He must have been pretty fed-up with things by that time.”

“Fed up? He was dead and cold.”

“Starved to death?”