Wimsey 009 - The Nine Tailors

  “They live in the big red-brick house t’other side the village. A rich family they were once. They do say as they got their land through putting money into draining of the Fen long ago under the Earl of Bedford. You’d know all about that, my lord, I dare say. Anyhow, they reckon to be an old family hereabouts. Sir Charles, he was a fine, generous gentleman; did a lot of good in his time, though he wasn’t what you’d call a rich man, not by no means. They do say his father lost a lot of money up in London, but I don’t know how. But he farmed his land well, and it was a rare trouble to the village when he died along of the burglary.”

  “What burglary was that?”

  “Why, that was the necklace the mistress was talking about. It was when young Mr. Henry—that’s the present Sir Henry—was married. The year of the War, it was, in the spring—April 1914—I remember it very well. I was a youngster at the time, and their wedding-bells was the first long peal I ever rang. We gave them 5,040 Grandsire Triples, Holt’s Ten-part Peal—you’ll find the record of it in the church yonder, and there was a big supper at the Red House afterwards, and a lot of fine visitors came down for the wedding. The young lady was an orphan, you see, and some sort of connection with the family, and Mr. Henry being the heir they was married down here. Well, there was a lady come to stay in the house, and she had a wonderful fine emerald necklace—worth thousands and thousands of pounds it was—and the very night after the wedding, when Mr. Henry and his lady was just gone off for their honeymoon, the necklace was stole.”

  “Good lord!” said Wimsey. He sat down on the running-board of the car and looked as encouraging as he could.

  “You may say so,” said Mr. Hinkins, much gratified. “A big sensation it made at the time in the parish. And the worst part of it was, you see, that one of Sir Charles’ own men was concerned in it. Poor gentleman, he never held up his head again. When they took this fellow Deacon and it came out what he’d done—”

  “Deacon was—?”

  “Deacon, he was the butler. Been with them six years, he had, and married the housemaid, Mary Russell, that’s married to Will Thoday, him as rings Number Two and has got the influenzy so bad.”

  “Oh!” said Wimsey. “Then Deacon is dead now, I take it.”

  “That’s right, my lord. That’s what I was a-telling you. You see, it ’appened this way. Mrs. Wilbraham woke up in the night and saw a man standing by her bedroom window. So she yelled out, and the fellow jumped out into the garden and dodged into the shrubbery, like. So she screamed again, very loud, and rang her bell and made a to-do, and everybody came running out to see what was the matter. There was Sir Charles and some gentlemen that was staying in the house, and one of them had a shot-gun. And when they got downstairs, there was Deacon in his coat and trousers just running out at the back door, and the footman in pyjamas; and the chauffeur as slept over the garage, he came running out too, because the first thing as Sir Charles did, you see was to pull the house-bell what they had for calling the gardener. The gardener, he came too, of course, and so did I, because you see, I was the gardener’s boy at the time, and wouldn’t never have left Sir Charles, only for him having to cut down his establishment, what with the War and paying Mrs. Wilbraham for the necklace.”

  “Paying for the necklace?”

  “Yes, my lord. That’s just where it was, you see. It wasn’t insured, and though of course nobody could have held Sir Charles responsible, he had it on his conscience as he ought to pay Mrs. Wilbraham the value of it, though how anybody calling herself a lady could take the money off him I don’t understand. But as I was a-saying, we all came out and then one of the gentlemen see the man a-tearing across the lawn, and Mr. Stanley loosed off the shot-gun at him and hit him, as we found out afterwards, but he got away over the wall, and there was a chap waiting for him on the other side with a motor-car, and he got clear away. And in the middle of it all, out comes Mrs. Wilbraham and her maid, a-hollering that the emerald necklace has been took.”

  “And didn’t they catch the man?”

  “Not for a bit, they didn’t, my lord. The chauffeur, he gets the car out and goes off after them, but by the time he’d got started up, they was well away. They went up the road past the church, but nobody knew whether they’d gone through Fenchurch St. Peter or up on to the Bank, and even then they might have gone either by Dykesey and Walea or Walbeach way, or over the Thirty-foot to Leamholt or Holport. So the chauffeur went after the police. You see, barring the village constable at Fenchurch St. Peter there’s no police nearer than Leamholt, and in those days they didn’t have a car at the police-station even there, so Sir Charles said to send the car for them would be quicker than telephoning and waiting till they came.”

  “Ah!” said Mrs. Venables, suddenly popping her head in at the garage door. “So you’ve got Joe on to the Thorpe robbery. He knows a lot more about it than I do. Are you sure you aren’t frozen to death in this place?”

  Wimsey said he was quite warm enough, thanks, and he hoped the Rector was none the worse for his exertions.

  “He doesn’t seem to be,” said Mrs. Venables, “but he’s rather upset, naturally. You’ll stay to lunch, of course. No trouble at all. Can you eat shepherd’s pie? You’re sure? The butcher doesn’t call to-day, but there’s always cold ham.”

  She bustled away. Joe Hinkins passed a chamois leather thoughtfully over a headlight.

  “Carry on,” said Wimsey.

  “Well, my lord, the police did come and of course they hunted round a good bit, and didn’t we bless them, the way they morrised over the flower-beds, a-looking for footprints and breaking down the tulips. Anyhow, there ’twas, and they traced the car and got the fellow that had been shot in the leg. A well-known jewel thief he was, from London. But you see, they said it must have been a inside job, because it turned out as the fellow as jumped out o’ the window wasn’t the same as the London man, and the long and the short of it was, they found out as the inside man was this here Deacon. Seems the Londoner had been keeping his eye on that necklace, like, and had got hold of Deacon and got him to go and steal the stuff and drop it out of the window to him. They was pretty sure of their ground—I think they found finger-prints and such like—and they arrested Deacon. I remember it very well, because they took him one Sunday morning, just a-coming out of church, and a terrible job it was to take him; he near killed a constable. The robbery was on the Thursday night, see? and it had took them that time to get on to it.”

  “Yes, I see. How did Deacon know where to find the jewels?”

  “Well, that was just it, my lord. It came out as Mrs. Wilbraham’s maid had let out something, stupid-like, to Mary Russell—that is, her as had married Deacon, and she, not thinking no harm, had told her husband. Of course, they had them two women up too. All the village was in a dreadful way about it, because Mary was a very decent, respectable girl, and her father was one of our sidesmen. There’s not an honester, better family in the Fenchurches than what the Russells are. This Deacon, he didn’t come from these parts, he was a Kentish man by birth. Sir Charles brought him down from London. But there wasn’t no way of getting him out of it, because the London thief—Cranton, he called himself, but he had other names—he blew the gaff and gave Deacon away.”

  “Dirty dog!”

  “Ah! but you see, he said as Deacon had done him down and so, if Cranton was telling the truth, he had. Cranton said as Deacon dropped out nothing but the empty jewel-case and kept the necklace for himself. He went for Deacon ’ammer-and-tongs in the dock and tried for to throttle him. But of course, Deacon swore as it was all a pack of lies. His tale was, that he heard a noise and went to see what was the matter, and that when Mrs. Wilbraham saw him in her room, he was just going to give chase to Cranton. He couldn’t deny he’d been in the room, you see, because of the finger-prints and that. But it went against him that he’d told a different story at the beginning, saying as how he’d gone out by the back door, hearing somebody in the garden. Mary supported that, and it’s
a fact that the back door was unbolted when the footman got to it. But the lawyer on the other side said that Deacon had unbolted the door himself beforehand, just in case he had to get out by the window, so as to leave himself a way back into the house. But as for the necklace, they never could settle that part of it, for it wasn’t never found. Whether Cranton had it, and was afraid to get rid of it, like, or whether Deacon had it and hid it. I don’t know and no more does nobody. It ain’t never turned up to this day, nor yet the money Cranton said he’d given Deacon, though they turned the place upside-down looking for both on ’em. And the upshot was, they acquitted the two women, thinking as how they’d only been chattering silly-like, the way women do, and they sent Cranton and Deacon to prison for a good long stretch. Old Russell, he couldn’t face the place after that, and he sold up and went off, taking Mary with him. But when Deacon died—”

  “How was that?”

  “Why, he broke prison and got away after killing a warder. A bad lot, was Deacon. That was in 1918. But he didn’t get much good by it, because he fell into a quarry or some such place over Maidstone way, and they found his body two years later, still in his prison clothes. And as soon as he heard about it, young William Thoday, that had always been sweet on Mary, went after her and married her and brought her back. You see, nobody here ever believed as there was anything against Mary. That was ten year ago, and they’ve got two fine kids and get along first-class. This fellow Cranton got into trouble again after his time was up and was sent back to prison, but he’s out again now, so I’m told, and Jack Priest—that’s the bobby at Fenchurch St. Peter—he says he wouldn’t wonder if we heard something about that necklace again, but I don’t know. Cranton may know where it is, and again he may not, you see.”

  “I see. So Sir Charles compensated Mrs. Wilbraham for the loss of it.”

  “Not Sir Charles, my lord. That was Sir Henry. He came back at once, poor gentleman, from his honeymoon, and found Sir Charles terrible ill. He’d had a stroke from the shock, when they took Deacon, feeling responsible-like, and being over seventy at the time. After the verdict, Mr. Henry as he was then, told his father he’d see that the thing was put right, and Sir Charles seemed to understand him; and then the War came and Sir Charles never got over it. He had another stroke and passed away, but Mr. Henry didn’t forget and when the police had to confess as they’d almost give up hope of the necklace, then he paid the money, but it came very hard on the family. Sir Henry got badly wounded in the Salient and was invalided home, but he’s never been the same man since, and they say he’s in a pretty bad way now. Lady Thorpe dying so sudden won’t do him no good, neither. She was a very nice lady and very much liked.”

  “Is there any family?”

  “Yes, my lord; there’s one daughter, Miss Hilary. She’ll be fifteen this month. She’s just home from school for the holidays. It’s been a sad holiday for her, and no mistake.”

  “You’re right,” said Lord Peter. “Well, that’s an interesting tale of yours, Hinkins. I shall look out for news of the Wilbraham emeralds. Ah! here’s my friend Mr. Wilderspin. I expect he’s come to say that the car’s on deck again.”

  This proved to be the case. The big Daimler stood outside the Rectory gate, forlornly hitched to the back of a farm-waggon. The two stout horses who drew it seemed, judging by their sleek complacency, to have no great opinion of it. Messrs. Wilderspin senior and junior, however, took a hopeful view of the matter. A little work on the front axle, at the point where it had come into collision with a hidden milestone would, they thought, do wonders with it, and, if not, a message could be sent to Mr. Brownlow at Fenchurch St. Peter, who ran a garage, to come and tow it away with his lorry. Mr. Brownlow was a great expert. Of course, he might be at home or he might not. There was a wedding on at Fenchurch St. Stephen, and Mr. Brownlow might be wanted there to take the wedding-party to church, they living a good way out along Digg’s Drove, but if necessary the postmistress could be asked to telephone and find out. She would be the right party to do it, since, leaving out the post-office, there was no other telephone in the village, except at the Red House, which wouldn’t be convenient at a time like the present.

  Wimsey, looking dubiously at his front axle, thought it might perhaps be advisable to procure the skilled assistance of Mr. Brownlow and said he would approach the postmistress for that purpose, if Mr. Wilderspin would give him a lift into the village. He scrambled up, therefore, behind Mr. Ashton’s greys, and the procession took its way past the church for the better part of a quarter of a mile, till it reached the centre of the village.

  The parish church of Fenchurch St. Paul, like a good many others in that part of the country, stands completely isolated from the village itself, with only the Rectory to neighbour it. The village itself is grouped about a crossroads, one arm of which runs southward to Fenchurch St. Stephen and northwards to join the Fenchurch St. Peter road a little south of the Thirty-foot; while the other, branching off from the same road by the church, degenerates at the western end of the village into a muddy drove by which, if you are not particular about your footing, you may, if you like, emerge once more on to the road by the Thirty-foot at Frog’s Bridge. The three Fenchurches thus form a triangle, with St. Paul to the north, St. Peter to the south, and St. Stephen to the west. The L.N.E.R. line connects St. Peter with St. Stephen, passing north to cross the Thirty-foot at Dykesey Viaduct on its way to Leamholt.

  Of the three, Fenchurch St. Peter is the largest and most important, possessing in addition to a railway-station, a river with two bridges. It has, however, but a bare and uninteresting church, built in the latest and worst period of Perpendicular, with a slate spire and no bells to speak of. Fenchurch St. Stephen has a railway-station—though only as it were, by accident, through lying more or less upon the direct line between Leamholt and St. Peter. Still, there the station is; moreover, there is a church with a respectable fourteenth-century tower, a rather remarkable rood-screen, a Norman apse and a ring of eight bells. Fenchurch St. Paul is the smallest village, and has neither river nor railway; it is, however, the oldest; its church is by far the largest and the noblest, and its bells beyond question the finest. This is due to the fact that St. Paul is the original abbey foundation. The remains of the first Norman church and a few stones which mark the site of the old cloisters may still be seen to east and south of the existing chancel. The church itself, with the surrounding glebe, stands on a little mound rising some ten or twelve feet above the level of the village—an elevation which, for the Fens, is considerable and, in ancient times, was sufficient to save church and abbey from inundation during the winter months. As for the river Wale, Fenchurch St. Peter has no right to boast about that, for did not the old course of the Wale run close by St. Paul’s church, until the cutting of Potter’s Lode in King James I’s time drained away its waters by providing them with a shorter and more direct channel? Standing on the roof of the tower at Fenchurch St. Paul, you can still trace the old river bed, as it wanders circuitously across meadow and ploughland, and see where the straight green dyke of Potter’s Lode spans it like a string to a bow. Outside the group of the Fenchurches, the land rises slightly all round, being drained by cross-dyking into the Wale.

  Lord Peter Wimsey, having seen the front axle of the Daimler taken down and decided that Mr. Brownlow and Mr. Wilderspin could probably fix it up between them, dispatched his message from the post-office, sent a wire to the friends who were expecting him at Walbeach, and then cast about him for some occupation. The village presented nothing of interest, so he determined to go and have a look at the church. The tolling of the bell had ceased and Hezekiah had gone home; the south door was, however, open, and entering, he discovered Mrs. Venables putting fresh water in the altar vases. Catching sight of him as he stood gazing at the exquisite oak tracery of the screen, she came forward to greet him.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Theodore is so proud of his church. And he’s done a lot, since we’ve been here, to keep it loo
king nice. Fortunately the man before us was conscientious and did his repairs properly, but he was very Low and allowed all manner of things that quite shocked us. This beautiful chapel, for instance, would you believe that he allowed it to be used for furnace-coke? Of course, we had all that cleared out. Theodore would like a lady-altar here, but we’re afraid the parishioners would think it popish. Yes—it’s a magnificent window, isn’t it? Later than the rest, of course, but so fortunate that it’s kept its old glass. We were so afraid when the Zeppelins came over. You know, they dropped a bomb at Walbeach, only twenty miles off, and it might just as easily have been here. Isn’t the parclose lovely? Like lace, I always think. The tombs belong to the Gaudy family. They lived here up to Queen Elizabeth’s time, but they’ve all died out now. You’ll find the name on the Treble bell: GAUDE, GAUDY, DOMINI IN LAUDE. There used to be a chantry on the north side, corresponding to this: Abbot Thomas’ chantry, it was, and that’s his tomb. Batty Thomas is named after him—a corruption of ‘Abbot,’ of course. Some vandal in the nineteenth century tore down the screen behind the choir stalls to put the organ in. It’s a hideous thing, isn’t it? We put in a new set of pipes a few years ago, and now the bellows want enlarging. Poor Potty has his work cut out to keep the wind-chest filled when Miss Snoot is using the full organ. They all call him Potty Peake, but he’s not really potty, only a little lacking, you know. Of course, the angel roof is our great show-piece—I think myself it’s even lovelier than the ones at March or Needham Market, because it has all the original colouring. At least, we had it touched up here and there about twelve years back, but we didn’t add anything. It took ten years to persuade the churchwardens that we could put a little fresh gold-leaf on the angels without going straight over to Rome, but they’re proud of it now. We hope to do the chancel roof too, one day. All these ribs ought to be painted, you can still see traces of colour, and the bosses ought to be gilt. The east window is Theodore’s bête noire. That dreadful crude glass—about 1840, I think it is. Quite the worst period, Theodore says. The glass in the nave has all gone, of course—Cromwell’s men. Thank goodness they left part of the clerestory. I suppose it was rather a job to get up there. The pews are modern; Theodore got them done ten years ago. He’d have preferred chairs, but the congregation wouldn’t have liked it, being used to pews, and he had them copied from a nice old design that wasn’t too offensive. The old ones were terrible—like bathrooms—and there was a frightful gallery along both sides, blocking the aisle windows completely and ruining the look of the pillars. We had that taken down at the same time. It wasn’t needed, and the school-children would drop hymn-books and things on people’s heads. Now, the choir-stalls are different. They are the original monks’ stalls, with misereres. Isn’t the carving fine? There’s a piscina in the sanctuary, but not a very exciting one.”