Mr Frobisher-Pym, who had wandered away some time before and was absorbed in an ancient book of Farriery, now approached, and enquired what the excitement was about.
‘Listen to this!’ cried Haviland. His voice was quiet, but a suppressed triumph throbbed in it and glittered from his eyes.
‘ “I bequeath everything of which I die possessed” — there’s a lot of enumeration of properties here, which doesn’t matter — “to my eldest son, Martin” —’
Mr Frobisher-Pym whistled.
‘Listen! “To my eldest son Martin, for so long as my body shall remain above ground. But so soon as I am buried, I direct that the whole of this property shall revert to my younger son Haviland absolutely” —’
‘Good God!’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym.
‘There’s a lot more,’ said Haviland ‘but that’s the gist of it.’
‘Let me see,’ said the magistrate.
He took the will from Haviland, and read it through with a frowning face.
That’s right,’ he said. ‘No possible doubt about it. Martin has had his property and lost it again. How very curious. Up till yesterday everything belonged to him, though nobody knew it. Now it is all yours, Burdock. This certainly is the strangest will I ever saw. Just fancy that. Martin the heir, up to the time of the funeral. And now — well, Burdock, I must congratulate you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Haviland. ‘It is very unexpected.’ He laughed unsteadily.
‘But what a queer idea!’ cried Mrs Burdock. ‘Suppose Martin had been at home. It almost seems a mercy that he wasn’t, doesn’t it? I mean, it would all have been so awkward. What would have happened if he had tried to stop the funeral, for instance?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hancock. ‘Could he have done anything? Who decides about funerals?’
‘The executors, as a rule,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym.
‘Who are the executors in this case?’ enquired Wimsey.
‘I don’t know. Let me see.’ Mr Frobisher-Pym examined the document again. ‘Ah yes! Here we are. “I appoint my two sons, Martin and Haviland, joint executors of this my will.” What an extraordinary arrangement’
‘I call it a wicked, un-Christian arrangement,’ cried Mrs Hancock. ‘It might have caused dreadful mischief if the will hadn’t been — quite providentially — lost!’
‘Hush, my dear!’ said her husband.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Haviland grimly, ‘that that was my father’s idea. It’s no use my pretending he wasn’t spiteful; he was, and I believe he hated both Martin and me like poison.’
‘Don’t say that,’ pleaded the vicar.
‘I do say it. He made our lives a burden to us, and he obviously wanted to go on making them a burden after he was dead. If he’d seen us cutting each other’s throats, he’d only have been too pleased. Come, vicar, it’s no use pretending. He hated our mother and was jealous of us. Everybody knows that. It probably pleased his unpleasant sense of humour to think of us squabbling over his body. Fortunately, he over-reached himself when he hid the will here. He’s buried now, and the problem settles itself.’
‘Are you quite sure of that?’ said Wimsey,
‘Why, of course,’ said the magistrate. ‘The property goes to Mr Haviland Burdock as soon as his father’s body is underground. Well, his father was buried yesterday.’
‘But are you sure of that,’ repeated Wimsey. He looked from one to the other, quizzically, his long lips curling into something like a grin.
‘Sure of that?’ exclaimed the vicar. ‘My dear Lord Peter, you were present at the funeral. You saw him buried yourself.’
‘I saw his coffin buried,’ said Wimsey mildly. ‘That the body was in it is merely an unverified inference.’
‘I think,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym, ‘this is rather an unseemly kind of jest. There is no reason to imagine that the body was not in the coffin.’
‘I saw it in the coffin,’ said Haviland, ‘and so did my wife.’
‘And so did I,’ said the vicar. ‘I was present when it was transferred from the temporary shell in which it crossed over from the States to a permanent lead-and-oak coffin provided by Joliffe. And, if further witnesses are necessary, you can easily get Joliffe himself and his men, who put the body in and screwed it down.’
‘Just so,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’m not denying that the body was in the coffin when the coffin was placed in the chapel. I only doubt whether it was there when it was put in the ground.’
‘That is a most unheard-of suggestion to make, Lord Peter,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym, with severity. ‘May I ask if you have anything to go upon? And, if the body is not in the grave, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us where you imagine it to be?’
‘Not at all,’ said Wimsey. He perched himself on the edge of the table and sat, swinging his legs and looking down at his own hands, as he ticked his points off on his fingers.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this story begins with young Rawlinson. He is a clerk in the office of Mr Graham, who drew up his will, and I fancy he knows something about its conditions. So, of course, does Mr Graham, but I don’t somehow suspect him of being mixed up in this. From what I can hear, he is not a man to take sides — or not Mr Martin’s side, at any rate.
‘When the news of Mr Burdock’s death was cabled over from the States, I think young Rawlinson remembered the terms of the will, and considered that Mr Martin — being abroad and all that — would be rather at a disadvantage. Rawlinson must be rather attached to your brother, by the way —’
‘Martin always had a way of picking up good-for-nothing youths and wasting his time with them,’ agreed Haviland sulkily.
The vicar seemed to feel that this statement needed some amendment, and murmured that he had always heard how good Martin was with the village lads.
‘Quite so,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, I think young Rawlinson wanted to give Martin an equal chance of securing the legacy, don’t you see. He didn’t like to say anything about the will — which might or might not turn up — and possibly he thought that even if it did turn up there might be difficulties. Well, anyway, he decided that the best thing to do was to steal the body and keep it above-ground till Martin came home to see to things himself.’
‘This is an extraordinary accusation,’ began Mr Frobisher-Pym.
‘I dare say I’m mistaken,’ said Wimsey, ‘but it’s just my idea. It makes a damn good story, anyhow — you see! Well, then, young Rawlinson saw that this was too big a job to carry out alone, so he looked round for somebody to help him. And he pitched on Mr Mortimer.’
‘Mortimer?’
‘I don’t know Mr Mortimer personally, but he seems to be a sportin’ sort of customer from what I can hear, with certain facilities which everybody hasn’t got. Young Rawlinson and Mortimer put their heads together and worked out a plan of action. Of course, Mr Hancock, you helped them enormously with this lying-in-state idea of yours. Without that, I don’t know if they could have worked it.’
Mr Hancock made an embarrassed clucking sound.
‘The idea was this. Mortimer was to provide an antique fly and four white horses, made up with luminous paint and black cloth to represent the Burdock death-coach. The advantage of that idea was that nobody would feel inclined to inspect the turn-out too closely if they saw it hangin’ round the churchyard at unearthly hours. Meanwhile, young Rawlinson had to get himself accepted as a watcher for the chapel, and to find a sporting companion to watch with him and take a hand in the game. He fixed things up with the publican-fellow, and spun a tale for Mr Hancock, so as to get the vigil from four to six. Didn’t it strike you as odd, Mr Hancock, that he should be so keen to come all the way from Herriotting?’
‘I am accustomed to find keenness in my congregation,’ said Mr Hancock stiffly.
‘Yes, but Rawlinson didn’t belong to your congregation. Anyway it was all worked out, and there was a dress-rehearsal on the Wednesday night, which frightened your man Plunkett into fits, sir.’
‘I
f I thought this was true —’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym.
‘On Thursday night,’ pursued Wimsey, ‘the conspirators were ready, hidden in the chancel at two in the morning. They waited till Mrs and Miss Hancock had taken their places, and then made a row to attract their attention. When the ladies courageously advanced to find out what was up, they popped out and bundled ’em into the vestry.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Mrs Hancock.
‘That was when the death-coach affair was timed to drive up to the south door. It came round the Back Lane, I fancy, though I can’t be sure. Then Mortimer and the other two took the embalmed body out of the coffin and filled its place up with bags of sawdust. I know it was sawdust, because I found the remains of it on the Lady-chapel floor in the morning. They put the body in the fly, and Mortimer drove off with it. They passed me on the Herriotting road at half-past two, so they can’t have wasted much time over the job. Mortimer may have been alone, or possibly he had someone with him to see to the body while he himself did the headless coachman business in a black mask. I’m not certain about that. They drove through the last gate before you come to the fork at Frimpton, and went across the fields to Mortimer’s barn. They left the fly there — I know that, because I saw it, and I saw the bran they used to muffle the horses’ hoofs, too. I expect they took it on from there in a car, and fetched the horses up next day — but that’s a detail. I don’t know, either, where they took the body to, but I expect, if you went and asked Mortimer about it, he would be able to assure you that it was still above ground.’
Wimsey paused. Mr Frobisher-Pym and the Hancocks were looking only puzzled and angry, but Haviland’s face was green. Mrs Haviland showed a red, painted spot on each check, and her mouth was haggard. Wimsey picked up the Nüremberg Chronicle and caressed its covers thoughtfully as he went on.
‘Meanwhile, of course, young Rawlinson and his companion were doing the camouflage in the church, to give the idea of a Protestant outrage. Having fixed everything up neat and pretty, all they had to do was to lock themselves up in the furnace-house and chuck the key through the window. You’ll probably find it there. Mr Hancock, if you care to look. Didn’t you think that story of an assault by two or three men was a bit thin? Hubbard is a hefty great fellow, and Rawlinson’s a sturdy lad — and yet, on their own showing, they were bundled into a coalhole like helpless infants, without a scratch on either of ’em. Look for the men in buckram, my dear sir, look for the men in buckram!’
‘Look here, Wimsey, are you sure you’re not romancing?’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym. ‘One would need some very clear proof before —’
‘Certainly,’ said Wimsey. ‘Get a Home Office order. Open the grave. You’ll soon see whether it’s true or whether it’s just my diseased imagination.’
‘I think this whole conversation is disgusting,’ cried Mrs Burdock. ‘Don’t listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day after father’s funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting story I simply can’t imagine. It is not worth paying a moment’s attention to. You will certainly not permit your father’s body to be disturbed. It’s horrible. It’s a desecration.’
‘It is very unpleasant indeed,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym gravely, ‘but if Lord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, which I can scarcely credit —’
Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.
‘— then I feel bound to remind you, Mr Burdock, that your brother, when he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated.’
‘But he can’t, can he?’ said Mrs Burdock.
Of course he can, Winnie,’ snapped her husband savagely. ‘He’s an executor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have to forbid it. Don’t be a fool.’
‘If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too,’ said Mrs Burdock.
‘Oh, well!’ said Mrs Hancock, ‘shocking as it may seem, there’s the money to be considered. Mr Martin might think it a duty to his wife, and his family, if he should ever have any —’
The whole thing is preposterous,’ said Haviland decidedly. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first person to take action in the matter — not only in justice to Martin, but on my own account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man like Mortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church — the thing only has to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable it is. I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, with criminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can only say that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become so blunted to all decent feeling. That’s all. Good afternoon.’
Mr Frobisher-Pym jumped up.
‘Come, come, Burdock, don’t take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peter intended no discourtesy. I must say I think he’s all wrong, but, ’pon my soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last few days, I’m not surprised anybody should think there was something behind it. Now, let’s forget about it — and hadn’t we better be moving out of this terribly cold room? It’s nearly dinner-time. Bless me, what will Agatha think of us?’
Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wimsey. ‘I suffer from hypertrophy of the imagination, y’ know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don’t mind me. I apologise, and all that.’
‘I don’t think, Lord Peter,’ said Mrs Burdock acidly, ‘you ought to exercise your imagination at the expense of good taste.’
Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was so disturbed that he carried away the Nüremberg Chronicle beneath his arm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circumstances.
‘I am gravely distressed,’ said Mr Hancock.
He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon the Frobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed with anxiety.
‘I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been a grievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing a dead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is grave enough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour — the mockery of sacred things — the making use of the holy services of his religion to further worldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr Frobisher-Pym, and exhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems to realise the sinfulness of his conduct I feel it very much, as a priest and as a pastor — very much indeed.’
Oh, well, Hancock,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym, ‘you must make allowances, you know. Hubbard’s not a bad fellow, but you can’t expect refinement of feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to do about it? Mr Burdock must be told, of course. It’s a most awkward situation. Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say? How did he come to do that?’
‘I taxed him with it,’ said the parson. ‘When I came to think over Lord Peter Wimsey’s remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed to me — I cannot say why — that there might be some truth in the story, wild as it appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floor of the Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantity of sawdust among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key of the furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a little distance — in fact, within a stone’s throw — of the furnace-house window. I sought guidance in prayer — and from my wife, whose judgement I greatly respect — and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. It was a great relief to me that he did not present himself at Early Celebration. Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples.’
‘Just so, just so,’ said the magistrate, a little impatiently. ‘Well you taxed him with it, and he confessed?’
‘He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He even laughed. It was a most painful interview.’
‘I am sure it must have been,’ said Mrs Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.
‘We must go and see Mr Burdock,’ said the magistrate, ris
ing. ‘Whatever old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitous will of his, it’s quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinson were entirely in the wrong. Upon my word, I’ve no idea whether it’s an indictable offence to steal a body. I must look it up. But I should say it was. If there is any property in a corpse, it must belong to the family or the executors. And in case, it’s sacrilege, to say nothing of the scandal in the parish. I must say, Hancock, it won’t do us any good in the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt you realise that. Well, it’s an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackle it the better. I’ll run over to the vicarage with you and help you to break it to the Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, after all, and I think Burdock owes you an apology.’
‘Oh, I’ll keep out of it,’ said Wimsey. ‘I shan’t be exactly persona grata, don’t you know. It’s going to mean a deuce of a big financial loss to the Haviland Burdocks.’
‘So it is. Most unpleasant Well, perhaps you’re right. Come along, vicar.’
Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for half an hour or so, when Mr Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:
‘I say, Wimsey — we’re all going over to Mortimer’s. I wish you’d come and drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and I don’t care about driving at night, particularly in this fog.’
‘Right you are,’ said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in a few moments wearing a heavy leather flying-coat, and with a parcel under his arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into the driving-seat, and was soon steering cautiously through the mist along the Herriotting Road.