THE SECOND COURSE

THE BELLS IN THEIR COURSES

When mirth and pleasure is on the wing we ring;
At the departure of a soul we toll.

Ringers’ Rules at Southill, Bedfordshire.

After dinner, Mrs. Venables resolutely asserted her authority. She sent Lord Peter up to his room, regardless of the Rector, who was helplessly hunting through a set of untidy bookshelves in search of the Rev. Christopher Woollcott’s History of the Bells of Fenchurch St. Paul.

“I can’t imagine what has become of it,” said the Rector: “I fear I’m sadly unmethodical. But perhaps you would like to look at this—a trifling contribution of my own to campanological lore. I know, my dear, I know—I must not detain Lord Peter—it is thoughtless of me.”

“You must get some rest yourself, Theodore.”

“Yes, yes, my dear. In a moment. I was only—”

Wimsey saw that the one way to quiet the Rector was to desert him without compunction. He retired, accordingly, and was captured at the head of the stairs by Bunter, who tucked him firmly up beneath the eiderdown with a hot-water bottle and shut the door upon him.

A roaring fire burned in the grate. Wimsey drew the lamp closer to him, opened the little brochure presented to him by the Rector, and studied the title-page:

An Inquiry into
the Mathematical Theory
of the
IN AND OUT OF COURSE
together with Directions for
Calling Bells into Rounds
from any position
in all the recognised Methods
upon a
New and Scientific Principle
by
Theodore Venables, M.A.
Rector of Fenchurch St. Paul
sometime Scholar of Caius Coll: Camb:
author of
“Change-ringing for Country Churches,”
“Fifty Short Touches of Grandsire Triples,”
etc.
“God is gone up with a merry noise.”
MCMII

The letter-press was of a soporific tendency; so was the stewed oxtail; the room was warm; the day had been a tiring one; the lines swam before Lord Peter’s eyes. He nodded; a coal tinkled from the grate; he roused himself with a jerk and read: “... if the 5th is in course after the 7th (says Shipway), and 7th after the 6th, they are right, when the small bells, 2, 3, 4, are brought as directed in the preceding peals; but if 6, 7 are together without the 5th, call the 5th into the hunt....”

Lord Peter Wimsey nodded away into dreams.

* * *

He was roused by the pealing of bells.

For a moment, memory eluded him—then he flung the eiderdown aside and sat up, ruffled and reproachful, to encounter the calm gaze of Bunter.

“Good God! I’ve been asleep! Why didn’t you call me? They’ve begun without me.”

“Mrs. Venables gave orders, my lord, that you were not to be disturbed until half-past eleven, and the reverend gentleman instructed me to say, my lord, that they would content themselves with ringing six bells as a preliminary to the service.”

“What time is it now?”

“Nearly five minutes to eleven, my lord.”

As he spoke, the pealing ceased, and Jubilee began to ring the five-minute bell.

“Dash it all!” said Wimsey. “This will never do. Must go and hear the old boy’s sermon. Give me a hairbrush. Is it still snowing?”

“Harder than ever, my lord.”

Wimsey made a hasty toilet and ran downstairs, Bunter following him decorously. They let themselves out by the front door, and, guided by Bunter’s electric torch, made their way through the shrubbery and across the road to the church, entering just as the organ boomed out its final notes. Choir and parson were in their places and Wimsey, blinking in the yellow lamplight, at length discovered his seven fellow-ringers seated on a row of chairs beneath the tower. He picked his way cautiously over the cocoa-nut matting towards them, while Bunter, who had apparently acquired all the necessary information beforehand, made his unperturbed way to a pew in the north aisle and sat down beside Emily from the Rectory. Old Hezekiah Lavender greeted Wimsey with a welcoming chuckle and thrust a prayer-book under his nose as he knelt down to pray.

“Dearly beloved brethren—”

Wimsey scrambled to his feet and looked round. At the first glance he felt himself sobered and awestricken by the noble proportions of the church, in whose vast spaces the congregation—though a good one for so small a parish in the dead of a winter’s night—seemed almost lost. The wide nave and shadowy aisles, the lofty span of the chancel arch—crossed, though not obscured, by the delicate fan-tracery and crenellated moulding of the screen—the intimate and cloistered loveliness of the chancel, with its pointed arcading, graceful ribbed vault and five narrow east lancets, led his attention on and focused it first upon the remote glow of the sanctuary. Then his gaze, returning to the nave, followed the strong yet slender shafting that sprang fountain-like from floor to foliated column-head, spraying into the light, wide arches that carried the clerestory. And there, mounting to the steep pitch of the roof, his eyes were held entranced with wonder and delight. Incredibly aloof, flinging back the light in a dusky shimmer of bright hair and gilded outspread wings, soared the ranked angels, cherubim and seraphim, choir over choir, from corbel and hammerbeam floating face to face uplifted.

“My God!” muttered Wimsey, not without reverence. And he softly repeated to himself: “He rode upon the cherubims and did fly; He came flying upon the wings of the wind.”

Mr. Hezekiah Lavender poked his new colleague sharply in the ribs, and Wimsey became aware that the congregation had settled down to the General Confession, leaving him alone and agape upon his feet. Hurriedly he turned the leaves of his prayer-book and applied himself to making the proper responses. Mr. Lavender, who had obviously decided that he was either a half-wit or a heathen, assisted him by finding the Psalms for him and by bawling every verse very loudly in his ear.

“... Praise Him in the cymbals and dances: praise Him upon the strings and pipe.”

The shrill voices of the surpliced choir mounted to the roof, and seemed to find their echo in the golden mouths of the angels.

“Praise Him upon the well-tuned cymbals; praise Him upon the loud cymbals.

“Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.”

* * *

The time wore on towards midnight. The Rector, advancing to the chancel steps, delivered, in his mild and scholarly voice, a simple and moving little address, in which he spoke of praising God, not only upon the strings and pipe, but upon the beautiful bells of their beloved church, and alluded, in his gently pious way, to the presence of the passing stranger—“please do not turn round to stare at him; that would be neither courteous nor reverent”—who had been sent “by what men call chance” to assist in this work of devotion. Lord Peter blushed, the Rector pronounced the Benediction, the organ played the opening bars of a hymn and Hezekiah Lavender exclaimed sonorously: “Now, lads!” The ringers, with much subdued shuffling, extricated themselves from their chairs and wound their way up the belfry stair. Coats were pulled off and hung on nails in the ringing-chamber, and Wimsey, observing on a bench near the door an enormous brown jug and nine pewter tankards, understood, with pleasure, that the landlord of the Red Cow had, indeed, provided “the usual” for the refreshment of the ringers. The eight men advanced to their stations, and Hezekiah consulted his watch.

“Time!” he said.

He spat upon his hands, grasped the sallie of Tailor Paul, and gently swung the great bell over the balance. Toll-toll-toll; and a pause; toll-toll-toll; and a pause; toll-toll-toll; the nine tailors, or teller-strokes, that mark the passing of a man. The year is dead; toll him out with twelve strokes more, one for every passing month. Then silence. Then, from the faint, sweet tubular chimes of the clock overhead, the four quarters and the twelve strokes of midnight. The ringers grasped their ropes.

“Go!”

The bells gave tongue: Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee, Dimity, Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul, rioting and exulting high up in the dark tower, wide mouths rising and falling, brazen tongues clamouring, huge wheels turning to the dance of the leaping ropes. Tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo—tan tin din dan bam bim bo bom—tin tan dan din him bam born bo—tan tin dan din bam him bo bom—tan dan tin bam din bo bim bom—every bell in her place striking tuneably, hunting up, hunting down, dodging, snapping, laying her blows behind, making her thirds and fourths, working down to lead the dance again. Out over the flat, white wastes of fen, over the spear-straight, steel-dark dykes and the wind-bent, groaning poplar trees, bursting from the snow-choked louvres of the belfry, whirled away southward and westward in gusty blasts of clamour to the sleeping counties went the music of the bells—little Gaude, silver Sabaoth, strong John and Jericho, glad Jubilee, sweet Dimity and old Batty Thomas, with great Tailor Paul bawling and striding like a giant in the midst of them. Up and down went the shadows of the ringers upon the walls, up and down went the scarlet sallies flickering roofwards and floorwards, and up and down, hunting in their courses, went the bells of Fenchurch St. Paul.

Wimsey, his eye upon the ropes and his ear pricked for the treble’s shrill tongue speaking at lead, had little attention to give to anything but his task. He was dimly conscious of old Hezekiah, moving with the smooth rhythm of a machine, bowing his ancient back very slightly at each pull to bring Tailor Paul’s great weight over, and of Wally Pratt, his face anxiously contorted and his lips moving in the effort to keep his intricate course in mind. Wally’s bell was moving down now towards his own, dodging Number Six and passing her, dodging Number Seven and passing her, passing Number Five, striking her two blows at lead, working up again, while the treble came down to take her place and make her last snapping lead with Sabaoth. One blow in seconds place and one at lead, and Sabaoth, released from the monotony of the slow hunt, ran out merrily into her plain hunting course. High in the air above them the cock upon the weathervane stared out over the snow and watched the pinnacles of the tower swing to and fro with a slowly widening sweep as the tall stalk of stone gathered momentum and rocked like a windblown tree beneath his golden feet.

The congregation streamed out from the porch, their lanterns and torches flitting away into the whirling storm like sparks tossed from a bonfire. The Rector, pulling off surplice and stole, climbed in his cassock to the ringing-chamber and-sat down upon the bench, ready to give help and counsel. The clock’s chimes came faintly through the voices of the bells. At the end of the first hour the Rector took the rope from the hand of the agitated Wally and released him for an interval of rest and refreshment. A soft glugging sound proclaimed that Mr. Donnington’s “usual” was going where it would do most good. Wimsey, relieved at the end of the third hour, found Mrs. Venables seated among the pewter pots, with Bunter in respectful attendance beside her.

“I do hope,” said Mrs. Venables, “that you are not feeling exhausted.”

“Far from it; only rather dry.” Wimsey remedied this condition without further apology, and asked how the peal sounded.

“Beautiful!” said Mrs. Venables, loyally. She did not really care for bell-music, and felt sleepy; but the Rector would have felt hurt if she had withdrawn her sympathetic presence.

“It’s surprising, isn’t it?” she added, “how soft and mellow it sounds in here. But of course there’s another floor between us and the bell-chamber.” She yawned desperately. The bells rang on. Wimsey, knowing that the Rector was well set for the next quarter of an hour, was seized with a fancy to listen to the peal from outside. He slipped down the winding stair and groped his way through the south porch. As he emerged into the night, the clamour of the bells smote on his ears like a blow. The snow was falling less heavily now. He turned to his right, knowing that it is unlucky to walk about a church widdershins, and followed the path close beneath the wall till he found himself standing by the west door. Sheltered by the towering bulk of the masonry, he lit a sacrilegious cigarette, and, thus fortified, turned right again. Beyond the foot of the tower, the pathway ended, and he stumbled among grass and tombstones for the whole length of the aisle, which, on this side, was prolonged to the extreme east end of the church. Midway between the last two buttresses on the north side he came upon a path leading to a small door; this he tried, but found it locked, and so passed on, encountering the full violence of the wind as he rounded the east end. Pausing a moment to get his breath, he looked out over the Fen. All was darkness, except for a dim stationary light which might have been shining from some cottage window. Wimsey reckoned that the cottage must lie somewhere along the solitary road by which they had reached the Rectory, and wondered why anybody should be awake at three o’clock on New Year’s morning. But the night was bitter and he was wanted back at his job. He completed his circuit, re-entered by the south porch and returned to the belfry. The Rector resigned the rope to him, warning him that he had now to make his two blows behind and not to forget to dodge back into eighth’s place before hunting down.

At six o’clock, the ringers were all in pretty good case. Wally Pratt’s cow-lick had fallen into his eyes, and he was sweating freely, but was still moving well within himself. The blacksmith was fresh and cheerful, and looked ready to go on till next Christmas. The publican was grim but determined. Most unperturbed of all was the aged Hezekiah, working grandly as though he were part and parcel of his rope, and calling his bobs without a tremor in his clear old voice.

At a quarter to eight the Rector left them to prepare for his early service. The beer in the jug had sunk to low tide and Wally Pratt, with an hour and a half to go, was beginning to look a little strained. Through the southern window a faint reflection of the morning light came, glimmering frail and blue.

At ten minutes past nine the Rector was back in the belfry, standing watch in hand with a beaming smile on his face.

At thirteen minutes past nine the treble came shrilling triumphantly into her last lead. Tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo.

Their long courses ended, the bells came faultlessly back into rounds, and the ringers stood.

“Magnificent, lads, magnificent!” cried Mr. Venables. “You’ve done it, and it couldn’t have been better done.”

“Eh!” admitted Mr. Lavender, “it was none so bad.” A slow toothless grin overspread his countenance. “Yes, we done it. How did it sound from down below, sir?”

“Fine,” said the Rector. “As firm and true as any ringing I have ever heard. Now you must all be wanting your breakfasts. It’s all ready for you at the Rectory. Well now, Wally, you can call yourself a real ringer now, can’t you? You came through it with very great credit—didn’t he, Hezekiah?”

“Fair to middlin’,” said Mr. Lavender, grudgingly. “But you takes too much out o’ yourself, Wally. You’ve no call to be gettin’ yourself all of a muck o’ sweat that way. Still, you ain’t made no mistakes, an’ that’s something, but I see you a mumblin’ and countin’ to yourself all the time. If I’ve telled yew once I’ve tolled yew a hundred times to keep your eye on the ropes and then you don’t need—”

“There, there!” said the Rector. “Never mind, Wally, you did very well indeed. Where’s Lord Peter—Oh! there you are. I’m sure we owe you a great deal. Not too fatigued, I hope?”

“No, no,” said Wimsey, extricating himself from the congratulatory handshakes of his companions. He felt, in fact, exhausted to dropping-point. He had not rung a long peal for years, and the effort of keeping alert for so many hours had produced an almost intolerable desire to tumble down in a corner and go to sleep. “I—ah—oh—I’m perfectly all right.”

He swayed as he walked and would have pitched headlong down the steep stair, but for the blacksmith’s sustaining arm.

“Breakfast,” said the Rector, much concerned, “breakfast is what we all want. Hot coffee. A very comforting thing. Dear me, yes, I for one am looking forward to it very much. Ha! the snow has ceased falling. Very beautiful, this white world—if only there were not a thaw to follow. This will mean a lot of water down the Thirty-foot, I expect. Are you sure you’re all right? Come along, then, come along! Why, here is my wife—come to chide my tardiness, I expect. We’re just coming, my dear—Why, Johnson, what is it?”

He addressed a young man in chauffeur’s livery who was standing at Mrs. Venables’ side. Mrs. Venables broke in before he could reply. “My dear Theodore—I have been saying, you can’t go just yet. You must have something to eat—”

Mr. Venables put the interruption aside with an unexpected, quiet authority.

“Agnes, my dear, permit me. Am I wanted, Johnson?”

“Sir Henry sent me to say, sir, that the mistress was very bad this morning, and they’re afraid she’s sinking, sir, and she is very anxious to receive the Sacrament if you could see your way—”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the Rector. “So ill as that? Sinking? I am terribly grieved to hear it. Of course, I will come immediately. I had no idea—”

“No more hadn’t any of us, sir. It’s this wicked influenza. I’m sure nobody ever thought yesterday—”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear! I hope it’s not as bad as you fear! But I mustn’t delay. You shall tell me about it as you go. I will be with you in one moment. Agnes, my dear, see that the men get their breakfast and explain to them why I cannot join them. Lord Peter, you must excuse me. I shall be with you later. Bless my heart! Lady Thorpe—what a scourge this influenza is!”

He trotted hurriedly back into the church. Mrs. Venables looked ready to cry, between anxiety and distress.

“Poor Theodore! After being up all night—of course he has to go, and we ought not to think about ourselves. Poor Sir Henry! An invalid himself! Such a bitter morning, and no breakfast! Johnson, please say to Miss Hilary how sorry I am and ask if there is anything I can do to help Mrs. Gates. The housekeeper, you know, Lord Peter—such a nice woman, and the cook away on holiday, it does seem so hard. Troubles never come singly. Dear me, you must be famished. Do come along and be looked after. You’ll be sure to send round, Johnson, if you want any help. Can Sir Henry’s nurse manage, I wonder? This is such an isolated place for getting any help. Theodore! are you sure you are well wrapped up?”

The Rector, who now rejoined them, carrying the Communion vessels in a wooden case, assured her that he was well protected. He was bundled into the waiting car by Johnson, and whirled away westwards towards the village. This untoward incident cast a certain gloom over the breakfast table, though Wimsey, who felt his sides clapping together like an empty portmanteau, was only too thankful to devour his eggs and bacon and coffee in peace. Eight pairs of jaws chumped steadily, while Mrs. Venables dispensed the provisions in a somewhat distracted way, interspersing her hospitable urgings with ejaculations of sympathy for the Thorpe family and anxiety for her husband’s well-being.

“Such a lot of trouble as the Thorpes have had, too, one way and another,” she remarked. “All that dreadful business about old Sir Charles, and the loss of the necklace, and that unfortunate girl and everything, though it was a merciful thing the man died, after killing a warder and all that, though it upset the whole family very much at the time. Hezekiah, how are you getting on? A bit more bacon? Mr. Donnington? Hinkins, pass Mr. Godfrey the cold ham. And of course, Sir Henry never has been strong since the War, poor man. Are you getting enough to eat down there, Wally? I do hope the Rector won’t be kept too long without his breakfast. Lord Peter, a little more coffee?”

Wimsey thanked her, and asked what, exactly, was the trouble about old Sir Charles and the necklace. “Oh, of course, you don’t know. So silly of me! Living in this solitary place, one imagines that one’s little local excitements are of world-wide importance. It’s rather a long story, and I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all”—here the good lady lowered her voice—“if William Thoday had been here. I’ll tell you after breakfast. Or ask Hinkins. He knows all about it. How is William Thoday this morning, I wonder? Has anybody heard?”

“He’s mortal bad, ma’am, I’m afeard,” replied Mr. Donnington, taking the question to himself. “I saw my missus after service, and she told me she’d heard from Joe Mullins as he was dreadfully delirious all night, and they couldn’t hardly keep him in his bed, on account of him wanting to get up and ring.”

“Dear, dear! It’s a good thing for Mary that they’ve got James at home.”

“So it is,” agreed Mr. Donnington. “A sailor’s wonderful handy about the house. Not but what his leave’s up in a day or two, but it’s to be hoped as they’ll be over the worst by then.”

Mrs. Venables clucked gently.

“Ah!” said Hezekiah. “’Tis a mortal bad thing, this influenza. And it do take the young and strong cruel often, and leave the old uns be. Seems like old fellers like me is too tough fer it.”

“I hope so, Hezekiah, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Venables. “There! Ten o’clock striking, and the Rector not back. Well, I suppose one couldn’t expect—why, there’s the car coming up the drive! Wally, would you please ring that bell. We want some fresh eggs and bacon for the Rector, Emily, and you’d better take the coffee out and hot it up for him.”

Emily took out the jug, but returned almost immediately. “Oh, if you please, ma’am, the Rector says, will you all excuse him, please, and he’ll take his breakfast in the study. And oh! if you please, ma’am, poor Lady Thorpe’s gone, ma’am, and if Mr. Lavender’s finished, he’s please to go over to the church at once and ring the passing bell.”

“Gone!” cried Mrs. Venables. “Why, what a terrible thing!”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Johnson says it was dreadful sudden. The Rector hadn’t hardly left her room, ma’am, when it was all over, and they don’t know how they’re to tell Sir Henry.”

Mr. Lavender pushed his chair back and quavered to his ancient feet.

“In the midst of life,” he said solemnly, “we are in death. Terrible true that is, to be sure. If so be as you’ll kindly excuse me, ma’am, I’ll be leaving you now, and thank you kindly. Good mornin’ to you all. That were a fine peal as we rung, none the more for that, and now I’ll be gettin’ to work on old Tailor Paul again.”

He shuffled sturdily out, and within five minutes they heard the deep and melancholy voice of the bell ringing, first the six tailors for a woman and then the quick strokes which announce the age of the dead. Wimsey counted them up to thirty-seven. Then they ceased, and were followed by the slow tolling of single strokes at half-minute intervals. In the dining-room, the silence was only broken by the shy sound of hearty feeders trying to finish their meal inconspicuously.

The party broke up quietly. Mr. Wilderspin drew Wimsey to one side and explained that he had sent round to Mr. Ashton for a couple of farm-horses and a stout rope, and hoped to get the car out of the ditch in a very short time, and would then see what was needed in the way of repairs. If his lordship cared to step along to the smithy in an hour or so they could go into consultation about the matter. His (Mr. Wilderspin’s) son George was a great hand with motors having had considerable experience with farm engines, not to mention his own motor-bike. Mrs. Venables retired into the study to see that her husband had everything he wanted and to administer such consolation as she might for the calamity that had befallen the parish. Wimsey, knowing that his presence at Frog’s Bridge could not help and would probably only hinder the break-down team, begged his hostess not to trouble about him, and wandered out into the garden. At the back of the house, he discovered Joe Hinkins, polishing the Rector’s aged car. Joe accepted a cigarette, passed a few remarks about the ringing of the peal, and thence slid into conversation about the Thorpe family.

“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 looking 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.”

Wimsey admitted that he was unable to feel great excitement about piscinas.

“And the altar-rails are very poor, of course—Victorian horrors. We want very much to put up something better in their place when we can find the money. I’m sorry I haven’t the key to the tower. You’d like to go up. It’s a wonderful view, though it’s all ladders above the ringing-chamber. It makes my head swim, especially going over the bells. I think bells are rather frightening, somehow. Oh, the font! You must look at the font. That carving is supposed to be quite remarkable. I forget exactly what it is that’s so special about it—stupid of me. Theodore must show you, but he’s been sent for in a hurry to take a sick woman off to hospital, right away on the other side of the Thirty-foot, across Thorpe’s Bridge. He rushed off almost before he’d finished his breakfast.”

(“And they say,” thought Wimsey, “that Church of England parsons do nothing for their money.”)

“Would you like to stay on and look round? Do you mind locking the door and bringing the key back? It’s Mr. Godfrey’s key—I can’t think where Theodore has put his bunch. It does seem wrong to keep the church locked, but it’s such a solitary place. We can’t keep an eye on it from the Rectory because of the shrubbery and there are sometimes very unpleasant-looking tramps about. I saw a most horrible man go past only the other day, and not so long ago someone broke open the alms-box. That wouldn’t have mattered so much, because there was very little in it, but they did a lot of wanton damage in the sanctuary—out of disappointment, I suppose, and one can’t really allow that, can one?”

Wimsey said, No, one couldn’t, and Yes, he would like to look round the church a little longer and would remember about the key. He spent the first few minutes after the good lady had left him in putting a suitable donation into the alms-box and in examining the font, whose carvings were certainly curious and, to his mind, suggestive of a symbolism neither altogether Christian nor altogether innocent. He noted a heavy old cope-chest beneath the tower, which, on being opened, proved to contain nothing more venerable than a quantity of worn bell-ropes, and passed on into the north aisle, noticing that the corbels supporting the principals of the angel-roof were very appropriately sculptured with cherubs’ heads. He brooded for a little time over the tomb of Abbot Thomas, with its robed and mitred effigy. A stern old boy, he thought, this fourteenth-century cleric, with his strong, harsh face, a ruler rather than a shepherd of his people. Carved panels decorated the sides of the tomb, and showed various scenes in the life of the abbey; one of them depicted the casting of a bell, no doubt of “Batty Thomas,” and it was evident that the Abbot had taken particular pride in his bell, for it appeared again, supporting his feet, in place of the usual cushion. Its decorations and mottoes were realistically rendered: on the shoulder: + NOLI + ESSE + INCREDVLVS + SED + Fidelis +; on the sound-bow: + Abbat Thomas sett mee heare + and bad mee rings both lovd and cleer + 1380 +; and on the waist: O SANCTE THOMA, which inscription, being embellished with an abbot’s mitre, left the spectator in a pleasing uncertainty whether the sanctity was to be attributed to the Apostle or the ecclesiastic. It was as well that Abbot Thomas had died long before the spoliation of his house by King Henry. Thomas would have made a fight for it, and his church might have suffered in the process. His successor, douce man, had meekly acquiesced in the usurpation, leaving his abbey to moulder to decay, and his church to be purified peaceably by the reformers. So, at least, the Rector informed Wimsey over the shepherd’s pie at lunch.

It was only very reluctantly that the Venables consented to let their guest go; but Mr. Brownlow and Mr. Wilderspin between them had made such good progress on the car that it was ready for use by two o’clock, and Wimsey was anxious to press on to Walbeach before dusk set in. He started off, therefore, speeded by many handshakes and much earnest solicitation to come again soon and help to ring another peal. The Rector, at parting, thrust into his hands a copy of Venables on the In and Out of Course, while Mrs. Venables insisted on his drinking an amazingly powerful hot whisky-and-water, to keep the cold out. As the car turned right along the Thirty-foot Bank, Wimsey noticed that the wind had changed. It was hauling round to the south, and, though the snow still lay white and even over the Fen, there was a softness in the air.

“Thaw’s coming, Bunter.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ever seen this part of the country when the floods are out?”

“No, my lord.”

“It looks pretty desolate; especially round about the Welney and Mepal Washes, when they let the waters out between the Old and New Bedford Rivers, and across the fen between Over and Earith Bridge. Acres of water, with just a bank running across it here and there or a broken line of willows. Hereabouts I think it’s rather more effectively drained. Ah! look—over to the right—that must be Van Leyden’s Sluice that turns the tide up the Thirty-foot Drain—Denver Sluice again on a smaller scale. Let’s look at the map. Yes, that’s it. See, here’s where the Drain joins the Wale, but it meets it at a higher level; if it wasn’t for the sluice, all the Drain water would turn back up the Wale and flood the whole place. Bad engineering—but the seventeenth-century engineers had to work piecemeal and take things as they found ’em. That’s the Wale, coming down through Potter’s Lode from Fenchurch St. Peter. I shouldn’t care for the sluice-keeper’s job—dashed lonely, I should think.”

They gazed at the ugly little brick house, which stood up quaintly on their right, like a pricked ear, between the two sides of the Sluice. On the one side a weir, with a small lock, spanned the Thirty-foot, where it ran into the Wale six feet above the course of the river. On the other, the upper course of the Wale itself was spanned by a sluice of five gates, which held the Upper Level waters from turning back up the river.

“Not another house within sight—oh, yes—one cottage about two miles further up the bank. Boo! Enough to make one drown one’s self in one’s own lock. Hullo! what happens to the road here? Oh, I see; over the Drain by the bridge and turn sharp right—then follow the river. I do wish everything wasn’t so rectangular in this part of the world. Hoops-a-daisy, over she goes! There’s the sluice-keeper running out to have a look at us. I expect we’re his great event of the day. Let’s wave our hats to him—Hullo’ullo! Cheerio!—I’m all for scattering sunshine as we pass. As Stevenson says, we shall pass this way but once—and I devoutly hope he’s right. Now then, what’s this fellow want?”

Along the bleak white road a solitary figure, plodding towards them, had stopped and extended both arms in appeal. Wimsey slowed the Daimler to a halt.

“Excuse me stopping you, sir,” said the man, civilly enough. “Would you be good enough to tell me if I’m going right for Fenchurch St. Paul?”

“Quite right. Cross the bridge when you come to it and follow the Drain along in the direction you are going till you come to the signpost. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, sir. About how far would it be?”

“About five and a half miles to the signpost and then half a mile to the village.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“You’ve got a cold walk, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, sir—not a nice part of the country. However, I’ll be there before dark, that’s a comfort.”

He spoke rather low, and his voice had a faint London twang; his drab overcoat, though very shabby, was not ill-cut. He wore a short, dark, pointed beard and seemed to be about fifty years old, but kept his face down when talking as if evading close scrutiny.

“Like a fag?”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

Wimsey shook a few cigarettes out of his case and handed them over. The palm that opened to receive them was calloused, as though by heavy manual labour, but there was nothing of the countryman about the stranger’s manner or appearance.

“You don’t belong to these parts?”

“No. sir.”

“Looking for work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Labourer?”

“No, sir. Motor mechanic.”

“Oh, I see. Well, good luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.”

Wimsey drove on in silence for about half a mile. Then he said:

“Motor mechanic possibly, but not recently, I think. Stone-quarrying’s more about the size of it. You can always tell an old lag by his eyes, Bunter. Excellent idea to live down the past, and all that, but I hope our friend doesn’t put anything across the good Rector.”