He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-path which was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A little way ahead of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at the junction of the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to be a decayed sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-post, and had no arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of inscription on the face that was turned towards him.
He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She took a few hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and shivering.
‘Queer!’ said Wimsey. ‘If this is my state of mind communicating itself to my mount, I’d better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a rotten state. Come up, old lady? What’s the matter with you?’
Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urged gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and he saw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and, putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward. After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neck and treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces, she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on her neck and found it wet with sweat.
‘Damn it all!’ said Wimsey. ‘Look here, I’m jolly well going to read what’s on that post. If you won’t come, will you stand still?’
He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. He left her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see that she showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough, however, only shifting her feet uneasily.
Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak, newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blacked in. It read:
ON THIS SPOT
GEORGE WINTER
WAS FOULLY MURDERED
IN DEFENSE OF
HIS MASTER’S GOODS
BY BLACK RALPH
OF HERRIOTTING
WHO WAS AFTERWARD
HANGED IN CHAINS
ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
9 NOVEMBER 1674
FEAR JUSTICE
‘And very nice too,’ said Wimsey. ‘Dead Man’s Post without a doubt. Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well, Polly, if them’s your sentiments, I won’t do violence to them. But may I ask why, if you’re so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallow a death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened equanimity?’
The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips and mumbled at it.
‘Just so,’ said Wimsey. ‘I perfectly understand. You would if you could, but you really can’t. But those horses, Polly — did they bring with them no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be that they really exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of stables?’
He mounted, and, turning Polly’s head to the right, guided her in a circle, so as to give Dead Man’s Post a wide berth before striking the path again.
‘The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on a priori grounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly’s senses. There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery. Further investigation seems called for.’
He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.
‘Supposing I wanted, for some reason, to scare the neighbourhood with the apparition of a coach and headless horses, I should choose a dark, rainy night. Good! It was that kind of night Now, if I took black horses and painted their bodies white — poor devils! what a state they’d be in. No. How do they do these Maskelyne-and-Devant stunts where they cut off people’s heads? White horses, of course — and black felt clothing over their heads. Right! And luminous paint on the harness, with a touch here and there on their bodies, to make good contrast and ensure that the whole show wasn’t invisible. No difficulty about that. But they must go silently. Well, why not? Four stout black cloth bags filled with bran, drawn well up and tied round the fetlocks would make any horse go quietly enough, especially if there was a bit of a wind going. Rags round the bridle-rings to prevent clinking, and round the ends of the traces to keep ’em from squeaking. Give ’em a coachman in a white coat and black mask, hitch ’em to a rubber-tyred fly, picked out with phosphorus and well-oiled at the joints — and I swear I’d make something quite ghostly enough to startle a rather well-irrigated gentleman on a lonely road at half-past two in the morning.’
He was pleased with this thought, and tapped his boot cheerfully with his whip.
‘But damn it all! They never passed me again. Where did they go? A coach-and-horses can’t vanish into thin air, you know. There must be a side-road after all — or else, Polly Flinders, you’ve been pulling my leg all the time.’
The bridle-path eventually debouched upon the highway at the now familiar fork where Wimsey had met the policeman. As he slowly ambled homewards, his lordship scanned the left-hand hedgerow, looking for the lane which surely must exist. But nothing rewarded his search. Enclosed fields with padlocked gates presented the only breaks in the hedge, till he again found himself looking down the avenue of trees up which the death-coach had come galloping two nights before.
‘Damn!’ said Wimsey.
It occurred to him for the first time that the coach might perhaps have turned round and gone back through Little Doddering. Certainly it had been seen by Little Doddering Church on Wednesday. But on that occasion, also, it had galloped off in the direction of Frimpton. In fact, thinking it over, Wimsey concluded that it had approached from Frimpton, gone round the church — widdershins, naturally — by the Back Lane, and returned by the high-road whence it came. But in that case —
‘Turn again, Whittington,’ said Wimsey, and Polly Flinders rotated obediently in the road. ‘Through one of those fields it went, or I’m a Dutchman.’
He pulled Polly into a slow walk, and passed along the strip of grass at the right-hand side, staring at the ground as though he were an Aberdonian who had lost a sixpence.
The first gate led into a ploughed field, harrowed smooth and sown with autumn wheat. It was clear that no wheeled thing had been across it for many weeks. The second gate looked more promising. It gave upon fallow ground, and the entrance was seamed with innumerable wheel-ruts. On further examination, however, it was clear that this was the one and only gate. It seemed unlikely that the mysterious coach should have been taken into a field from which there was no way out. Wimsey decided to seek further.
The third gate was in bad repair. It sagged heavily from its hinges; the hasp was gone, and the gate and post had been, secured with elaborate twists of wire. Wimsey dismounted and examined these, convincing himself that their rusty surface had not been recently disturbed.
There remained only two more gates before he came to the cross-roads. One led into plough again, where the dark ridge-and-furrow showed no sign of disturbance, but at sight of the last Wimsey’s heart gave a leap.
There was plough-land here also, but round the edge of the field ran a wide, beaten path, rutted and water-logged. The gate was not locked, but opened simply with a spring catch. Wimsey examined the approach. Among the wide ruts made by farm-waggons was the track of four narrow wheels — the unmistakable prints of rubber tyres. He pushed the gate open and passed through.
The path skirted two sides of the plough; then came another gate and another field, containing a long barrow of mangold wurzels and a couple of barns. At the sound of Polly’s hoofs, a man emerged from the nearest barn, with a paint-brush in his hand, and stood watching Wimsey’s approach.
‘ ‘Morning!’ said the latter genially.
‘ ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Fine day after the rain.’
‘Yes, it is, sir.’
‘I hope I’m not trespassing?’
‘Where was you wanting to go, sir?’
‘I thought, as a matter of fact — hullo!’
‘Anything wrong sir?’
&
nbsp; Wimsey shifted in the saddle.
‘I fancy this girth’s slipped a bit. It’s a new one.’ (This was a fact.) ‘Better have a look.’
The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and was tugging at the strap, with his head under the mare’s belly.
‘Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this a short cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?’
‘Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comes out by Mr Mortimer’s stables.’
‘Ah, yes. This his land?’
‘No, sir, it’s Mr Topham’s land, but Mr Mortimer rents this field and the next for fodder.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Wimsey peered across the hedge. ‘Lucerne, I suppose. Or clover.’
‘Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle.’
‘Oh — Mr Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very jolly. Have a gasper?’ Wimsey had sidled across to the barn in his interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. It contained a number of farm implements and a black fly of antique construction, which seemed to be undergoing renovation with black varnish. Wimsey pulled some vestas from his pocket. The box was apparently damp, for, after one or two vain attempts he abandoned it, and struck a match on the wall of the barn. The flame, lighting up the ancient fly, showed it to be incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.
‘Very fine stud, Mr Mortimer’s, I understand,’ said Wimsey carelessly.
‘Yes, sir, very fine indeed.’
‘I suppose he hasn’t any greys, by any chance. My mother — queenly woman, Victorian ideas, and all that — is rather keen on greys. Sports a carriage and pay-ah, don’t you know.’
‘Yes, sir? Well, Mr Mortimer would be able to suit the lady, I think, sir. He has several greys.’
‘No? has he though? I must really go over and see him. Is it far?’
‘Matter of five or six miles by the fields, sir.’
Wimsey looked at his watch.
‘Oh, dear! I’m really afraid it’s too far for this morning. I absolutely promised to get back to lunch. I must come over another day. Thanks so much. Is that girth right now? Oh, really, I’m immensely obliged. Get yourself a drink, won’t you and tell Mr Mortimer not to sell his greys till I’ve seen them. Well, good morning, and many thanks.’
He set Polly Flinders on the homeward path and trotted gently away. Not till he was ought of sight of the barn did he pull up and, stooping from the saddle, thoughtfully examine his boots. They were liberally plastered with bran.
‘I must have picked it up in the barn,’ said Wimsey. ‘Curious, if true. Why should Mr Mortimer be lashing the stuffing out of his greys in an old fly at the dead of night — and with muffled hoofs and no heads, to boot? It’s not a kind thing to do. It frightened Plunkett very much. It made me think I was drunk — a thought I hate to think. Ought I to tell the police? Are Mr Mortimer’s jokes any business of mine? What do you think, Polly?’
The mare, hearing her name, energetically shook her head.
‘You think not? Perhaps you are right. Let us say that Mr Mortimer did it for a wager. Who am I to interfere with his amusements? All the same,’ added his lordship, ‘I’m glad to know it wasn’t Lumsden’s whisky.’
‘This is the library,’ said Haviland, ushering in his guests. A fine room — and a fine collection of books, I’m told, though literature isn’t much in my line. It wasn’t much in the governor’s line, either, I’m afraid. The place wants doing up, as you see. I don’t know whether Martin will take it in hand. It’s a job that’ll cost money, of course.’
Wimsey shivered a little as he gazed round, more from sympathy than from cold, though a white November fog lay curled against the tall windows, and filtered damply through the frames.
A long, mouldering room, in the frigid neo-classical style, the library was melancholy enough in the sunless grey afternoon, even without the signs of neglect which wrung the book-collector’s heart. The walls, panelled to half their height with book-cases, ran up in plaster to the moulded ceiling. Damp had blotched them into grotesque shapes, and here and there were ugly cracks and squamous patches, from which the plaster had fallen in yellowish flakes. A wet chill seemed to ooze from the books, from the calf bindings peeling and perishing, from the stains of greenish mildew which spread horridly from volume to volume. The curious musty odour of decayed leather and damp paper added to the general cheerlessness of the atmosphere.
‘Oh, dear, dear!’ said Wimsey, peering dismally into this sepulchre of forgotten learning. With his shoulders hunched like the neck-feathers of a chilly bird, with his long nose and half-shut eyes, he resembled a dilapidated heron, brooding over the stagnation of a wintry pool.
‘What a freezing-cold place,’ exclaimed Mrs Hancock. ‘You really ought to scold Mrs Lovall, Mr Burdock. When she was put in here as caretaker, I said to my husband — didn’t I, Philip? — that your father had chosen the laziest woman in Little Doddering. She ought to have kept up big fires here, at least twice a week! It’s really shameful, the way she has let things go.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Haviland.
Wimsey said nothing. He was nosing along the shelves, every now and then taking a volume down and glancing at it.
‘It was always rather a depressing room,’ went on Haviland. ‘I remember, when I was a kid, it used to overawe me rather. Martin and I used to browse about among the books, you know, but I think we were always afraid that something or somebody would stalk out upon us from the dark corners. What’s that you’ve got there, Lord Peter? Oh, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Dear me! How those pictures did terrify me in the old days! And there was a Pilgrim’s Progress, with a most alarming picture of Apollyon straddling over the whole breadth of the way, which gave me many nightmares. Let me see. It used to live over in this bay, I think. Yes, here it is. How it does bring it all back, to be sure! Is it valuable, by the way?’
‘No, not really. But this first edition of Burton is worth money; badly spotted, though — you’d better send it to be cleaned. And this is an extremely fine Boccaccio; take care of it.’
‘John Boccace — The Dance of Machabree. It’s a good title, anyhow. Is that the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?’
‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towards Boccaccio.
‘Never read them,’ said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, ‘but I’ve seen ’em in the windows of those surgical shops — so I suppose they’re naughty, eh? The vicar’s looking shocked.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ said Mr Hancock, with a conscientious assumption of broad-mindedness. ‘Et ego in Arcadia — that is to say, one doesn’t enter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and making the acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than Boccaccio. Those woodcuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye.’
‘Very fine indeed,’ said Wimsey.
‘There’s another old book I remember, with jolly pictures,’ said Haviland. ‘A chronicle of some sort — what’s ’is name — place in Germany — you know — where that hangman came from. They published his diary the other day. I read it, but it wasn’t very exciting; not half as gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What’s the name of the place?’
‘Nüremberg?’ suggested Wimsey.
That’s it, of course — the Nüremberg Chronicle. I wonder if that’s still in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I remember rightly.’
He led the way to the end of the bays, which ran up close against a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A pane of glass was broken, and rain had blown in.
‘Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped leather binding. I’d like to see the old Chronicle again. I haven’t set eyes on it for donkey’s years.’
His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with the book-lover’s instinct, was the first to spot the Chronicle, wedged at the extreme end of the she
lf, against the outer wall. He hitched his finger into the top edge of the spine, but finding that the rotting leather was ready to crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neigbouring book and drew the Chronicle gently out, using his whole hand.
‘Here he is — in pretty bad condition, I’m afraid. Hullo!’
As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchment came away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.
‘I say, Burdock — isn’t this what you’ve been looking for?’
Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lower shelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.
‘By jove!’ he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement. ‘Look at this, Winnie. It’s the governor’s will. What an extraordinary thing! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of all places?’
‘Is it really the will?’ cried Mrs Hancock.
‘No doubt about it, I should say,’ observed Wimsey coolly. ‘Last Will and Testament of Simon Burdock.’ He stood, turning the grimy document over and over in his hands, looking from the endorsement to the plain side of the folded parchment.
‘Well, well!’ said Mr Hancock. ‘How strange! It seems almost providential that you should have taken that book down.’
‘What does the will say?’ demanded Mrs Burdock, in some excitement.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Wimsey, handing it over to her. ‘Yes, as you say, Mr Hancock, it does almost seem as if I was meant to find it.’ He glanced down again at the Chronicle, mournfully tracing with his finger the outline of a damp stain which had rotted the cover and spread to the inner pages, almost obliterating the colophon.
Haviland Burdock meanwhile had spread the will out on the nearest table. His wife leaned over his shoulder. The Hancocks, barely controlling their curiosity, stood near, awaiting the result. Wimsey, with an elaborate pretence of noninterference in this family matter, examined the wall against which the Chronicle had stood, feeling its moist surface and examining the damp-stains. They had assumed the appearance of a grinning face. He compared them with the corresponding mark on the book, and shook his head desolately over the damage.