‘With his own key?’ put in Wimsey.
‘The key was in the door. As a rule it’s kept hanging up on a nail under a curtain near the organ, but it was in the lock — where it ought not to have been. And inside the vestry he found Mrs Hancock and her daughter, nearly dead with fright and annoyance.’
‘Great Scott!’
‘Yes, indeed. They had a most extraordinary story to tell. They’d taken over at 2 o’clock from the other pair of watchers, and had knelt down by the coffin in the Lady-chapel, according to plan, to say the proper sort of prayers, whatever they are. They’d been there, to the best of their calculation, about ten minutes, when they heard a noise up by the High Altar, as though somebody was creeping stealthily about Miss Hancock is a very plucky girl, and she got up and walked up the aisle in the dark, with Mrs Hancock following on behind because, as she said, she didn’t want to be left alone. When they’d got as far as the rood-screen, Miss Hancock called out aloud, ‘Who’s there?’ At which they heard a sort of rustling sound, and a noise like something being knocked over. Miss Hancock most courageously snatched up one of the churchwarden’s staffs, which was clipped on to the choir-stalls, and ran forward, thinking, she says, that somebody was trying to steal the ornaments off the altar. There’s a very fine fifteenth-century cross —’
‘Never mind the cross, Tom. That hasn’t been taken, at any rate.’
‘No, it hasn’t, but she thought it might be. Anyhow, just as she got up to the sanctuary steps, with Mrs Hancock coming close after her and begging her to be careful, somebody seemed to rush out of the choir-stalls, and caught her by the arms and frog’s-marched her — that’s her expression — into the vestry. And before she could get breath even to shriek, Mrs Hancock was pushed in beside her, and the door locked on them.’
‘By jove! You do have exciting times in your village.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym, ‘of course they were dreadfully frightened, because they didn’t know but what these wretches would come back and murder them, and, in any case, they thought the church was being robbed. But the vestry windows are very narrow and barred, and they couldn’t do anything except wait. They tried to listen, but they couldn’t hear much. Their only hope was that the four-o’clock watchers might come early and catch the thieves at work. But they waited and waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and nobody came.’
‘What happened to what’s-his-name and Rawlinson then?’
‘They couldn’t make out, and nor could Grinch. However, they had a good look round the church, and nothing seemed to be taken or disturbed in any way. Just then the vicar came along, and they told him all about it. He was very much shocked, naturally, and his first thought — when he found the ornaments were safe and the poor-box all right — was that some Kensitite people had been stealing the wafers from the what d’you call it.’
‘The tabernacle,’ suggested Wimsey.
‘Yes, that’s his name for it. That worried him very much, and he unlocked it and had a look, but the wafers were all there all right, and, as there’s only one key, and that was on his own watch-chain, it wasn’t a case of anyone substituting unconsecrated wafers for consecrated ones, or any practical joke of that kind. So he sent Mrs and Miss Hancock home, and had a look round the church outside, and the first thing he saw, lying in the bushes near the south door, was young Rawlinson’s motor-cycle.’
‘Oho!’
‘So his next idea was to hunt for Rawlinson and Hubbard. However, he didn’t have to look far. He’d got round the church as far as the furnace-house on the north side, when he heard a terrific hullabaloo going on, and people shouting and thumping on the door. So he called Grinch, and they looked through the little window, and there, if you please, were Hubbard and young Rawlinson, bawling and going on and using the most shocking language. It seems they were set upon in exactly the same way, only before they got inside the church. Rawlinson had been passing the evening with Hubbard, I understand, and they had a bit of a sleep downstairs in the back bar, to avoid disturbing the house early — or so they say, though I dare say if the truth was known they were having drinks; and if that’s Hancock’s idea of a suitable preparation for going to church and saying prayers, all I can say is, it isn’t mine. Anyway, they started off just before four, Hubbard going down on the carrier of Rawlinson’s bicycle. They had to get off at the south gate, which was pushed to, and while Rawlinson was wheeling the machine up the path two or three men — they couldn’t see exactly — jumped out from the trees. There was a bit of a scuffle, but what with the bicycle, and it’s being so unexpected, they couldn’t put up a very good fight, and the men dropped blankets over their heads, or something. I don’t know all the details. At any rate, they were bundled into the furnace-house and left there. They may be there still, for all I know, if they haven’t found the key. There should be a spare key, but I don’t know what’s become of it. They sent up for it this morning, but I haven’t seen it about for a long time.’
‘It wasn’t left in the lock this time, then?’
‘No, it wasn’t. They’ve had to send for the locksmith. I’m going down now to see what’s to be done about it. Like to come, if you’re ready?’
Wimsey said he would. Anything in the nature of a problem always fascinated him.
‘You were back pretty late, by the way,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym jovially, as they left the house. ‘Yarning over old times, I suppose.’
‘We were, indeed,’ said Wimsey.
‘Hope the old girl carried you all right. Lonely bit of road, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you saw anybody worse than yourself, as the saying goes?’
‘Only a policeman,’ said Wimsey untruthfully. He had not yet decided about the phantom coach. No doubt Plunkett would be relieved to know that he was not the only person to whom the ‘warning’ had come. But, then, had it really been the phantom coach, or merely a delusion, begotten by whisky upon reminiscence? Wimsey, in the cold light of day, was none too certain.
On arriving at the church, the magistrate and his guest found a little crowd collected, conspicuous among whom were the vicar, in cassock and biretta, gesticulating freely, and the local policeman, his tunic buttoned awry and his dignity ‘much impaired by the small fry of the village, who clustered round his legs. He had just finished taking down the statements of the two men who had been released from the stoke-hole. The younger of these, a fresh-faced, impudent-looking fellow” of twenty-five or so, was in the act of starting up his motor-cycle. He greeted Mr Frobisher-Pym pleasantly. ‘Afraid they’ve made us look a bit small, sir. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I’ll have to be getting back to Herriotting. Mr Graham won’t be any too pleased if I’m late for the office. I think some of the bright lads have been having a joke with us.’ He grinned as he pushed the throttle-lever over and departed in a smother of unnecessary smoke that made Mr Frobisher-Pym sneeze. His fellow-victim, a large, fat man, who looked the sporting publican that he was, grinned shamefacedly at the magistrate.
‘Well, Hubbard,’ said the latter, ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your experience. I must say I’m surprised at a man of your size letting himself be shut up in a coal-hole like a naughty urchin.’
‘Yes, sir, I was surprised myself at the time,’ retorted the publican, good-humouredly enough. ‘When that there blanket came down on my head, I was the most surprised man in this here county. I gave ’em a hack or two on the shins, though, to remember me by,’ he added, with a reminiscent chuckle.
‘How many of them were there?’ asked Wimsey.
Three or four, I should say, sir. But not ’avin’ seen ’em , I can only tell from ’earin’ ’em talk. There was two laid ’old of me, I’m pretty sure, and young Rawlinson thinks there was only one ’ad ’old of ’im, but ’e was a wonderful strong ’un.’
‘We must leave no stone unturned to find out who these people were,’ said the vicar excitedly. ‘Ah, Mr Frobisher-Pym, come and see what they have done in the church. It is as I thought — an anti
-Catholic protest. We must be most thankful that they have done no more than they have.’
He led the way in. Somebody had lit two or three hanging lamps in the gloomy little chancel. By their light Wimsey was able to see that the neck of the eagle lectern was decorated with an enormous red-white-and-blue bow, and bore a large placard — obviously pinched from the local newspaper offices — ‘VATICAN BANS IMMODEST DRESS.’ In each of the choir-stalls a teddy-bear sat, lumpishly amiable, apparently absorbed in reading the choir-books upside-down, while on the ledge before them copies of the Pink ’Un were obtrusively displayed. In the pulpit, a waggish hand had set up a pantomime ass’s head, elegantly arrayed in a nightgown, and crowned with a handsome nimbus, cut from gold paper.
‘Disgraceful, isn’t it?’ said the vicar.
‘Well Hancock,’ replied Mr Frobisher-Pym, ‘I must say I think you have brought it upon yourself — though I quite agree, of course, that this sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed, and the offenders must be discovered and severely punished. But you must see that many of your practices appear to these people to be papistical nonsense at best, and while that is no excuse …’
His reprimanding voice barked on.
‘… what I really can only look upon as this sacriligious business with old Burdock — a man whose life …’
The policeman had by this time shoved away the attendant villagers and was standing beside Lord Peter at the entrance of the rood-screen.
‘Was that you was out on the road this morning, sir? Ah! I thought I reckernised your voice. Did you get home all right, sir? Didn’t meet nothing?’
There seemed to be a shade more than idle questioning in the tone of his voice. Wimsey turned quickly.
‘No, I met nothing — more. Who is it drives a coach with four white horses about this village of a night, sergeant?’
‘Not sergeant, sir — I ain’t due for promotion yet awhile. Well, sir, as to white horses, I don’t altogether like to say. Mr Mortimer over at Abbots Bolton has some nice greys, and he’s the biggest horse-breeder about these parts — but, well, there, sir, he wouldn’t be driving out in all that rain, sir, would he?’
‘It doesn’t seem a sensible thing to do, certainly.’
‘No, sir. And — the constable leaned close to Wimsey and spoke into his ear — ‘and Mr Mortimer is a man that’s got a head on his shoulders — and, what’s more, so have his horses.’
‘Why,’ said Wimsey, a little startled by the aptness of this remark, ‘did you ever know a horse that hadn’t?’
‘No, sir,’ said the policeman, with emphasis, ‘I never knew no livin’ horse that hadn’t. But that’s neether here nor there, as the sayin’ goes. But as to this church business, that’s just a bit of a lark got up among the boys, that’s what that is. They don’t mean no harm, you know, sir; they likes to be up to their tricks. It’s all very well for the vicar to talk, sir, but this ain’t no Kensitites nor anythink of that, as you can see with half an eye. Just a bit of fun, that’s all it is.’
‘I’d come to the same conclusion myself,’ said Wimsey, interested, ‘but I’d rather like to know what makes you think so.’
‘Lord bless you, sir, ain’t it plain as the nose on your face? If it had a-bin these Kensitites, wouldn’t they have gone for the crosses and the images and the lights and — that there?’ He extended a horny finger in the direction of the tabernacle. ‘No, sir, these lads what did this ain’t laid a finger on the things what you might call sacred images — and they ain’t done no harm neether to the communion-table. So I says as it ain’t a case of controversy, but more a bit of fun, like. And they’ve treated Mr Burdock’s corpse respectful, sir, you see, too. That shows they wasn’t meaning anything wrong at heart, don’t you see?’
‘I agree absolutely,’ said Wimsey. ‘In fact, they’ve taken particular care not to touch anything that a churchman holds really sacred. How long have you been on this job, officer?’
‘Three years, sir, come February.’
‘Ever had any idea of going to town or taking up the detective side of the business?’
‘Well, sir — I have — but it isn’t ask and have, as you might say.’
Wimsey took a card from his note-case.
‘If ever you think seriously about it,’ he said, ‘give this card to Chief Inspector Parker, and have a chat with him. Tell him I think you haven’t got opportunities enough down here. He’s a great friend of mine, and he’ll give you a good chance, I know.’
‘I’ve heard of you, my lord,’ said the constable, gratified, ‘and I’m sure it’s very kind of your lordship. Well, I suppose I’d best be getting along now. You leave it to me, Mr Frobisher-Pym, sir, we’ll soon get at the bottom of this here.’
‘I hope you do,’ said the magistrate. ‘Meanwhile, Mr Hancock, I trust you will realise the inadvisability of leaving the church doors open at night. Well, come along, Wimsey, we’ll leave them to get the church straight for the funeral. What have you found there?’
‘Nothing,’ said Wimsey, who had been peering at the floor of the Lady-chapel. ‘I was afraid you’d got the worm in here; but I see it’s only sawdust.’ He dusted his fingers as he spoke, and followed Mr Frobisher-Pym out of the building.
When you are staying in a village, you are expected to take part in the interests and amusements of the community. Accordingly, Lord Peter duly attended the funeral of Squire Burdock, and beheld the coffin safely committed to the ground, in a drizzle, certainly, but not without the attendance of a large and reverent congregation. After this ceremony, he was formally introduced to Mr and Mrs Haviland Burdock, and was able to confirm his previous impression that the lady was well, not to say too well, dressed, as might be expected from one whose wardrobe was based upon silk stockings. She was a handsome woman, in a large, bold style, and the hand that clasped Wimsey’s was quite painfully encrusted with diamonds. Haviland was disposed to be friendly — and, indeed, silk manufacturers have no reason to be otherwise to rich men of noble birth. He seemed to be aware of Wimsey’s reputation as an antiquarian and book-collector, and extended a hearty invitation to him to come and see the old house.
‘My brother Martin is still abroad,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure he would be delighted to have you come and look at the place. I’m told there are some very fine old books in the library. We shall be staying here till Monday — if Mrs Hancock will be good enough to have us. Suppose you come along tomorrow afternoon.’
Wimsey said he would be delighted.
Mrs Hancock interposed and said, wouldn’t Lord Peter come to tea at the vicarage first.
Wimsey said it was very good of her.
‘Then that’s settled,’ said Mrs Burdock. ‘You and Mr Pym come to tea, and then we’ll all go over the house together. I’ve hardly seen it myself yet.’
‘It’s very well worth seeing,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym. ‘The old place, but takes some money to keep up. Has nothing been seen of the will yet, Mr Burdock?’
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Haviland. ‘It’s curious, because Mr Graham — the solicitor, you know, Lord Peter — certainly drew one up, just after poor Martin’s unfortunate difference with our father. He remembers it perfectly.’
‘Can’t he remember what’s in it?’
‘He could, of course, but he doesn’t think it etiquette to say. He’s one of the crusted old type. Poor Martin always called him an old scoundrel — but then, of course, he never approved of Martin, so Martin was not altogether unprejudiced. Besides, as Mr Graham says, all that was some years ago, and it’s quite possible that the governor destroyed the will later, or made a new one in America.’
‘ “Poor Martin” doesn’t seem to have been popular hereabouts,’ said Wimsey to Mr Frobisher-Pym, as they parted from the Burdocks and turned homewards.
‘N-no,’ said the magistrate. ‘Not with Graham, anyway. Personally, I rather liked the lad, though he was a bit harum-scarum. I dare say he’s sobered up with time — and marriage. It’s odd that th
ey can’t find the will. But, if it was made at the time of the rumpus, it’s bound to be in Haviland’s favour.’
‘I think Haviland thinks so,’ said Wimsey. ‘His manner seemed to convey a chastened satisfaction. I expect the discreet Graham made it fairly clear that the advantage was not with the unspeakable Martin.’
The following morning turned out fine, and Wimsey, who was supposed to be enjoying a rest-and-fresh-air cure in Little Doddering, petitioned for a further loan of Polly Flinders. His host consented with pleasure, and only regretted that he could not accompany his guest, being booked to attend a Board of Guardians meeting in connection with the workhouse.
‘But you could go up and get a good blow on the common,’ he suggested. ‘Why not go round by Petering Friars, turn off across the common till you get to Dead Man’s Post, and come back by the Frimpton road? It makes a very pleasant round about nineteen miles. You’ll be back in nice time for lunch if you take it easy.’
Wimsey fell in with the plan — the more readily that it exactly coincided with his own inward purpose. He had a reason for wishing to ride over the Frimpton road by daylight.
‘You’ll be careful about Dead Man’s Post,’ said Mrs Frobisher-Pym a little anxiously. ‘The horses have a way of shying at it. I don’t know why. People say, of course —’
‘All nonsense,’ said her husband. The villagers dislike the place and that makes the horses nervous. It’s remarkable how a rider’s feelings communicate themselves to his mount. I’ve never had any trouble at Dead Man’s Post.’
It was a quiet and pretty road, even on a November day, that led to Petering Friars. Jogging down the winding Essex lanes in the wintry sunshine, Wimsey felt soothed and happy. A good burst across the common raised his spirits to exhilaration pitch. He had entirely forgotten Dead Man’s Post and its uncanny reputation, when a violent start and swerve, so sudden that it nearly unseated him, recalled him to what he was doing. With some difficulty, he controlled Polly Flinders, and brought her to a standstill.