The Nine Tailors (13 page)

Tailor Paul
(No. 8. Weight 41 cwt. Note: C).

A very noble bell of superb truth and tone. She was cast in the Bellfield by the church. (See parish records.)

Inscriptions:

Shoulder—PAVLE + IS + MY + NAME + HONOVR + THAT + SAME +

Soundbow—NINE + TAYLERS + MAKE + A + MANNE + IN + CHRIST + IS + DETH + ATT + END + IN + ADAM + YAT + BEGANNE + 1614

The bells survived the tumults of the Great Rebellion, and in the later part of the century, when the fashion for change-ringing set in, a new treble and second were added to bring the number up to eight.

Gaude
(Treble. Weight 7 cwt. Note: C). The gift of the Gaudy family, she bears a “canting” motto.

Inscription:

Soundbow—GAVDE . GAUDY . DNI . IN . LAVDE . MDCLXVI.

The No. 2 of that period was known as
Carolus,
having been given in honour of the King’s Restoration. This bell, however, was cracked in the 18th century, as a result of the abominable practice of “clappering” the two smallest bells for occasional services, so that the ring was again reduced to six, of which No. 5 (F natural) had always been unsatisfactory. In the first half of the 18th century (that period of ecclesiastical apathy) the worm was allowed to get into the timbers of the bell-cage, as a result of which No. 6 (the Elizabethan No. 4) fell and was broken. Nothing was done until the ’eighties, when an energetic High-Church rector called public attention to the bad state of the bells. Subscriptions were raised, the framework of the bell-cage was repaired and put in order, and three bells were re-cast:

Sabaoth
(No. 2. Weight 7¼ cwt. Note: B) was the gift of the Rector.

Inscriptions:

Shoulder—SANCTUS . SANCTUS . SANCTUS . DOMINUS . DEUS . SABAOTH.

Soundbow—RECAST BY JOHN TAYLOR OF LOUGHBOROUGH 1887.

Dimity
(No. 6. Weight 14 cwt. Note: E) was given in memory of Sir Richard Thorpe, who died in 1883.

Inscriptions:

Shoulder—RECAST BY JOHN TAYLOR OF LOUGHBOROUGH 1887.

Soundbow—IN . PIAM . MEMORIAM . RICARDI . THORPE . ARMIGERI . NUNC . DIMITTIS . DOMINE . SERVUM . TUUM . IN . PACE.

Jubilee
(No. 5. Weight 9½ cwt. Note: F natural). The funds for this bell were raised by public subscription in commemoration of the Queen’s Jubilee,
Inscriptions:

Shoulder—JUBILATE . DEO . OMNIS . TERRA.

Waist—RECAST . IN . THE . YEAR . OF . THE . QUEEN’S. JUBILEE . BY. JOHN . TAYLOR . AND . CO. E . HINKINS . AND . B. DONNINGTON . CHURCHWARDENS.

Wimsey puzzled his head for some time over this information, but without very much result. The dates, the weights and the mottoes—was there anything here that could serve as a guide to buried treasure? Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul had been particularly mentioned, but try as he would, for him they had neither speech nor language. After a time he gave up his calculations. Possibly there was something about the bells themselves that did not appear in Mr. Woollcott’s work. Something written or carved on the timbers, possibly. He must go up and look some time. It was Sunday morning. As he lifted his head from his calculations, he heard the bells begin to ring for matins. He hastened out in the hall, where he found his host winding the grandfather clock.

“I always wind it when the bells begin on a Sunday morning,” explained Mr. Venables, “otherwise I might forget. I fear I am none too methodical. I hope you will not feel obliged to come to church, merely because you are our guest. I always make a point of telling our visitors that they are quite free to do as they wish. What time do you make it? Ten thirty-seven—we will put the hands at 10.45. He always loses about a quarter of an hour during the week, you see, and by putting him a little forward each time he is wound, we strike a happy mean. If you will just remember that he is always
fast
on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays,
right
on Wednesdays, and
slow
on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, you will find him a very reliable guide.”

Wimsey said he was sure of it, and turned to find Bunter at his elbow, offering him with one hand his hat and with the other two leather-bound volumes on a small salver. “You see, padre, we have every intention of going to Church; we have, in fact, come prepared. Hymns A & M—I suppose that is the right work?”

“I took the liberty of ascertaining as much beforehand, my lord.”

“Of course you did, Bunter. You always ascertain everything. Why, padre, what’s the trouble? Have you lost anything?”

“I—er—it’s very odd—I could have declared that I laid them down just here. Agnes! Agnes, my dear! Have you seen those banns anywhere?”

“What is it, Theodore?”

“The banns, my dear. Young Flavel’s banns. I know I had them with me. I always write them out on a slip of paper, you see. Lord Peter; it is so very inconvenient to carry the register to the lectern. Now what in the world—?”

“Are they on top of the clock, Theodore?”

“My dear, what a—! Bless me, though, you are quite right. How did that come about, I wonder? I must have put them up there unconsciously when I was picking up the key. Very strange indeed, but the little mishap is now remedied, thanks to my wife. She always knows where I have put things. I believe she knows the workings of my mind better than I do myself. Well, I must go across to the Church now. I go early, because of the choir-boys. My wife will show you the Rectory pew.”

The pew was conveniently situated for observation, towards the rear of the nave on the north side. From it, Mrs. Venables was able to survey the south porch, by which the congregation entered, and also to keep an admonitory eye on the school children who occupied the north aisle, and to frown at those who turned round to stare or make faces. Lord Peter, presenting a placid front to the inquisitive glances of his fellow-worshippers, also watched the south porch. There was a face he was particularly anxious to see. Presently he saw it. William Thoday came in, and with him a thin, quietly dressed woman accompanied by two little girls. He guessed her to be about forty, though, as is frequently the case with country women, she had lost most of her front teeth and looked older. But he could still see in her the shadow of the smart and pretty parlour-maid that she must have been sixteen years before. It was, he thought, an honest face, but its expression was anxious and almost apprehensive—the face of a woman who had been through trouble and awaited, with nervous anticipation, the next shock which fate might hold in store for her. Probably, thought Wimsey, she was worried about her husband. He did not look well; he, too, had the air of being braced in self-defence. His uneasy eyes wandered about the church and then returned, with a curious mingling of wariness and protective affection, to his wife. They took their seats almost immediately opposite the Rectory pew, so that Wimsey, from his corner seat, was able to watch them without any appearance of particularity. He gained the impression, however, that Thoday felt his scrutiny and resented it. He turned his eyes away, therefore, and fixed them on the splendours of the angel roof, lovelier than ever in the soft spring sunshine that streamed through the rich reds and blues of the clerestory windows.

The pew which belonged to the Thorpe family was empty, except for an upright middle-aged gentleman who was pointed out in a whisper by Mrs. Venables as being Hilary Thorpe’s uncle from London. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gates, and the Red House servants sat in the south aisle. In the pew immediately in front of Wimsey was a stout little man in a neat black suit, who, Mrs. Venables further informed him, was Mr. Russell, the village undertaker, and a cousin of Mary Thoday. Mrs. West, the postmistress, arrived with her daughter, and greeted Wimsey, whom she remembered from his last visit, with a smile and something between a nod and a bob. Presently, the bells ceased, with the exception of the five-minutes bell, and the ringers came clattering up to their places. Miss Snoot, the schoolmistress, struck into a voluntary, the choir came in from the vestry with much noise of hobnailed boots, and the Rector entered his stall.

The service was devoid of incident, except that Mr. Venables again mislaid the banns, which had to be fetched from the vestry by the tenor on the cantoris side, and that, in his sermon, he made a solemn little allusion to the unfortunate stranger whose funeral was to take place on the morrow, whereat Mr. Russell nodded, with an air of importance and approbation. The Rector’s progress to the pulpit was marked by a loud and gritty crunching, which caused Mrs. Venables to mutter in an exasperated tone, “That’s the coke again—Gotobed
will
be so careless with it” At the conclusion, Wimsey found himself stranded with Mrs. Venables in the porch, while handshakings and inquiries passed.

Mr. Russell and Mr. Gotobed came out together, busily talking, and the former was introduced to Lord Peter.

“Where are they a-putting of him, Harry?” asked Mr. Russell eagerly turning from ceremony to business.

“Over on north side, next to old Susan Edwards,” replied the sexton. “We got him dug last night, all very fit and proper. Maybe his lordship would like to come and see.”

Wimsey expressed suitable interest, and they made their way round to the other side of the church.

“We’re giving him a nice bit of elm,” said Mr. Russell, with some satisfaction, when the handsome proportions of the grave had been duly admired. “He did ought by rights to have come on the parish, and that means deal, as you know, but Rector says to me, ‘Poor fellow,’ he says, ‘let’s put him away nice and seemly, and I’ll pay for it,’ he says. And I’ve trued up the boards good and tight, so there won’t be no unpleasantness. Of course, lead would be the right thing for him, but it ain’t a thing as I’m often asked for, and I didn’t think as I could get it in time, and the fact is, the sooner he’s underground again, the better. Besides, lead is cruel ’ard work on the bearers. Six of them we’re giving him—I wouldn’t want to be thought lacking in respect for the dead, however come by, so I says to Rector, ‘No, sir,’ I says, ‘not that old handcart,’ I says, ‘but six bearers just the same as if he was one of ourselves. And Rector, he quite agreed with me. Ah! I daresay there’s be a sight of folk come in from round about, and I wouldn’t like them to see the thing done mean or careless like.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Gotobed. “I’ve heerd as there’s a reglar party comin’ from St. Stephen in Jack Brownlow’s sharrer. It’ll be a rare frolic for ’em.”

“Rector’s giving a wreath, too,” pursued Mr. Russell, “and Miss Thorpe’s sending another. And there’ll be a nice bunch o’ flowers from the school-children and a wreath from the Women’s Institute. My missus was round collecting the pennies just as soon as we knowed we’d have the buryin’ of him.”

“Ah! she’s a quick worker and no mistake,” said the sexton, admiringly.

“Ah! and Mrs. Venables, she made the money up to a guinea so it’ll be a real good one. I like to see a nice lot of flowers at a funeral. Gives it tone, like.”

“Is it to be choral?”

“Well, not what you might call fully choral, but just a ’ymn at the graveside. Rector says, ‘Not too much about parted friends,’ he says, ‘’Twouldn’t be suitable, seeing we don’t know who his friends was.’ So I says, ‘What about
God moves in a mysterious way?
’ I says. ‘That’s a good solemnlike, mournful ’ymn, as we all knows the tune on, and if anything can be said to be myster’ous, it’s this here death,’ I says. So that’s what was settled.”

“Ah!” said the voice of Mr. Lavender, “you’re right there, Bob Russell. When I was a lad, there wasn’t none o’ this myster’ousness about. Everything was straightforward an’ proper. But ever since eddication come in, it’s been nothing but puzzlement, and fillin’ up forms and ’ospital papers and sustificates and such, before you can even get as much as your Lord George pension.”

“That may be, Hezekiah,” replied the sexton, “but to my mind it all started with that business of Jeff Deacon at the Red House, bringin’ strangers into the place. First thing as ’appened arter that was the War, and since then we been all topsy-turvy, like.”

“As to the War,” said Mr. Russell, “I daresay we’d a had that anyhow, Jeff Deacon or no Jeff Deacon. But in a general way you’re quite right. He was a bad ’un, was Jeff, though even now, poor Mary won’t hear a word again him.”

“That’s the way with women,” said Mr. Lavender, sourly. “The wusser a man is, the more they dotes on him. Too soft-spoken he were, to my liking, were that Deacon. I don’t trust these London folk, if you’ll excuse me, sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Wimsey.

“Why, Hezekiah,” remonstrated Mr. Russell, “you “ought a sight o’Jeff Deacon yourself at one time. Said he, “the quickest chap at learning Kent Treble Bob as you ever had to do with “

“That’s a different thing,” retorted the old gentleman. “Quick he was, there ain’t no denyin’, and he pulled a very good rope. But quickness in the ’ed don’t mean a good ’eart. There’s many evil men is as quick as monkeys. Didn’t the good Lord say as much? The children o’ this world is wiser in their generation than the children o’ light. He commended the unjust steward, no doubt, but he give the fellow the sack just the same, none the more for that.”

“Ah, well,” said the sexton, “Jeff Deacon ’ull be put in his proper place where he’ve gone, and the same with this poor chap, whoever he be. We ain’t got nothing to meddle wi’ that, only to do our dooties in the station whereto we are called. That’s Scripture, that is, and so I says, Give him a proper funeral, for we don’t know when it may be our turn next.”

“That’s very true. Harry; very true, that is. It may be you or me to be ’it on the ’ed one o’ these days—though who can be going about to do such things beats me. Now then. Potty, what do you want here?”

“Nothing, nothing, Bob. Only to see where you was a-putting of the dead ’un. Ah! he were reglar smashed up, he were, weren’t he? Beat all to a pulp, eh? Whack! whack! I a-liked to a-seen that, I would.”

“Clear off,” said the undertaker. “I’m disgusted wi’ you. Potty. Fair disgusted. Don’t you get talkin’ that away, or I’ll tell Rector on you, and he won’t let you blow the organ no more. See? What you mean by it?”