Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“Here you are! here you are again!” he cried in welcoming accents, as Wimsey got out and came forward to greet him. “How lucky I am to have just caught you. I expect you heard me coming out. I always blow the horn before venturing into the roadway; the entrance is so very abrupt. How are you, my dear fellow, how are you? Just going along to the Red House, I expect. They are eagerly looking forward to your visit. You will come and see us often, I hope, while you’re here. My wife and I are dining with you to-night. She will be so pleased to meet you again. I said to her, I wondered if I should meet you on the road. What terrible weather, is it not? I have to hurry off now to baptise a poor-little baby at the end of Swamp Drove just the other side of Frog’s Bridge. It’s not likely to live, they tell me, and the poor mother is desperately ill, too, so I mustn’t linger, because I expect I shall have to walk up the Drove with all this mud and it’s nearly a mile and I don’t walk as fast as I did. Yes, I am quite well, thank you, except for a slight cold. Oh, nothing at all — I got a little damp the other day taking a funeral for poor Watson at St. Stephen — he’s laid up with shingles, so painful and distressing, though not dangerous, I’m happy to say. Did you come through St. Ives and Chatteris? Oh, you came direct from Denver. I hope your family are all quite well. I hear they’ve got the floods out all over the Bedford Level. There’ll be skating on Bury Fen if we get any frosts after this — though it doesn’t look like it at present, does it? They say a green winter makes a fat churchyard, but I always think the extreme cold is really more trying for the old people. But I really must push on now. I beg your pardon? I didn’t catch what you said. The bells are a little loud. That’s why I blew my horn so energetically; it is difficult sometimes to hear while the ringing is going on. Yes, we’re trying some Stedman’s to-night. You don’t ring Stedman’s, I think. You must come along one day and have a try at them. Most fascinating. Wally Pratt is making great strides. Even Hezekiah says he isn’t doing so badly. Will Thoday is ringing to-night. I turned over in my mind what you told me, but I saw no reason for excluding him. He did wrong, of course, but I feel convinced that he committed no great sin, and it would arouse so much comment in the village if he left the ringers. Gossip is such a wicked thing, don’t you think? Dear me! I am neglecting my duties sadly in the pleasure of seeing you. That poor child! I must go. Oh, dear! I hope my engine won’t give trouble, it is scarcely warmed up. Oh, please don’t trouble. How very good of you. I’m ashamed to trespass on your — Ah! she always responds at once to the starling-handle. Well, au revoir, au revoir! We shall meet this evening.”

He chugged off cheerfully, beaming round at them through the discoloured weather curtains and zigzagging madly across the road in his efforts to drive one way and look another. Wimsey and Bunter went on to the Red House.

THE SECOND PART

THE WATERS ARE CALLED HOME

Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts:

all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.

PSALM xlii. 7.

Christmas was over. Uncle Edward, sourly and reluctantly, had given way, and Hilary Thorpe’s career was decided. Wimsey had exerted himself nobly in other directions. On Christmas Eve, he had gone out with the Rector and the Choir and sung “Good King Wenceslas” in the drenching rain, returning to eat cold roast beef and trifle at the Rectory. He had taken no part in the Stedman’s Triples, but had assisted Mrs. Venables to tie wet bunches of holly and ivy to the font, and attended Church twice on Christmas Day, and helped to bring two women and their infants to be churched and christened from a remote and muddy row of cottages two miles beyond the Drain.

On Boxing Day, the rain ceased, and was followed by what the Rector described as “a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon.” Wimsey, taking advantage of a dry road and a clear sky, ran over to see his friends at Walbeach and stayed the night, hearing great praises of the New Wash Cut and the improvement it had brought to the harbour and the town.

He returned to Fenchurch St. Paul after lunch, skimming merrily along with Euroclydon bowling behind him. Turning across the bridge at Van Leyden’s Sluice, he noticed how swift and angry the river ran through the weir, with flood-water and tide-water meeting the wind. Down by the sluice a gang of men were working on a line of barges, which were moored close against the gates and piled high with sandbags. One of the workmen gave a shout as the car passed over the bridge, and another man, seeing him point and gesticulate, came running from the sluice-head across the road, waving his arms. Lord Peter stopped and waited for him to come up. It was Will Thoday

“My lord!” he cried, “my lord! Thank God you are here! Go and warn them at St. Paul that the sluice-gates are going. We’ve done what we can with sandbags and beams, but we can’t do no more and there’s a message come down from the old Bank Sluice that the water is over the Great Leam at Lympsey, and they’ll have to send it down here or be drowned themselves. She’s held this tide, but she’ll go the next with this wind and the tide at springs. It’ll lay the whole country under water, my lord, and there’s no time to lose.”

“All right,” said Wimsey. “Can I send you more men?”

“A regiment of men couldn’t do nothing now, my lord. They old gates is going, and there won’t be a foot of dry land in the three Fenchurches six hours from now.”

Wimsey glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell ’em, he said, and the car leapt forward.

The Rector was in his study when Wimsey burst in upon him with the news.

“Great Heavens!” cried Mr. Venables. “I’ve been afraid of this. I’ve warned the drainage authorities over and over again about those gates but they wouldn’t listen. But it’s no good crying over spilt milk. We must act quickly. If they open the Old Bank Sluice and Van Leyden’s Sluice blows up, you see what will happen. All the Upper Water will be turned back up the Wale and drown us ten feet deep or more. My poor parishioners — all those outlying farms and cottages! But we mustn’t lose our heads. We have taken our precautions. Two Sundays ago I warned the congregation what might happen and I put a note in the December Parish Magazine. And the Nonconformist minister has co-operated in the most friendly manner with us. Yes, yes. The first thing to do is to ring the alarm. They know what that means, thank God! They learnt it during the War. I never thought I should thank God for the War, but He moves in a mysterious way. Ring the bell for Emily, please. The church will be safe, whatever happens, unless we get a rise of over twelve feet, which is hardly likely. Out of the deep, O Lord, out of the deep. Oh, Emily, run and tell Hinkins that Van Leyden’s Sluice is giving way. Tell him to fetch one of the other men and ring the alarm on Gaude and Tailor Paul at once. Here are the keys of the church and belfry. Warn your mistress and get all the valuables taken over to the church. Carry them up the tower. Now keep cool, there’s a good girl. I don’t think the house will be touched, but one cannot be too careful. Find somebody to help you with this chest — I’ve secured all the parish registers in it — and see that the church plate is taken up the tower as well. Now, where is my hat? We must get on the telephone to St. Peter and St. Stephen and make sure that they are prepared. And we will see what we can do with the people at the Old Bank Sluice. We haven’t a moment to lose. Is your car here?”