"You've had a lot of experience. What tactics d'you think one's
justified in usin' with a blackmailer?"
"Ah!" said the K.C. "There you've put your finger on Society's sore
place, where the Law is helpless. Speaking as a man, I'd say nothing
could be too bad for the brute. It's a crime crueller and infinitely
worse in its results than murder. As a lawyer, I can only say that I
have consistently refused to defend a blackmailer or to prosecute any
poor devil who does away with his tormentor."
"H'm," replied Wimsey. "What do you say, Colonel?"
"A man like that's a filthy pest," said the little warrior stoutly.
"Shootin's too good for him. I knew a man--close personal friend, in
fact--hounded to death--blew his brains out--one of the best. Don't
like to talk about it."
"I want to show you something," said Wimsey.
He picked up the pack which still lay scattered on the table, and
shuffled it together.
"Catch hold of these, Colonel, and lay 'em out face downwards. That's
right. First of all you cut 'em at the twentieth card--you'll see the
seven of diamonds at the bottom. Correct? Now I'll call 'em. Ten of
hearts, ace of spades, three of clubs, five of clubs, king of diamonds,
nine, jack, two of hearts. Right? I could pick 'em all out, you see,
except the ace of hearts, and that's here."
He leaned forward and produced it dexterously from Sir Impey's
breast-pocket.
"I learnt it from a man who shared my dug-out near Ypres," he said.
"You needn't mention to-night's business, you two. There are crimes
which the Law cannot reach."
THE UNDIGNIFIED MELODRAMA OF THE BONE OF CONTENTION
"I am afraid you have brought shocking weather with you, Lord Peter,"
said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, with playful reproof. "If it goes on like this
they will have a bad day for the funeral."
Lord Peter Wimsey glanced out of the morning-room window to the
soaked green lawn and the shrubbery, where the rain streamed down
remorselessly over the laurel leaves, stiff and shiny like mackintoshes.
"Nasty exposed business, standing round at funerals," he agreed.
"Yes, I always think it's such a shame for the old people. In a tiny
village like this it's about the only pleasure they get during the
winter. It makes something for them to talk about for weeks."
"Is it anybody's funeral in particular?"
"My dear Wimsey," said his host, "it is plain that you, coming from
your little village of London, are quite out of the swim. There has
never been a funeral like it in Little Doddering before. It's an event."
"Really?"
"Oh dear, yes. You may possibly remember old Burdock?"
"Burdock? Let me see. Isn't he a sort of local squire, or something?"
"He was," corrected Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "He's dead--died in New York
about three weeks ago, and they're sending him over to be buried. The
Burdocks have lived in the big house for hundreds of years, and they're
all buried in the churchyard, except, of course, the one who was killed
in the War. Burdock's secretary cabled the news of his death across,
and said the body was following as soon as the embalmers had finished
with it. The boat gets in to Southampton this morning, I believe. At
any rate, the body will arrive here by the 6.30 from Town."
"Are you going down to meet it, Tom?"
"No, my dear. I don't think that is called for. There will be a grand
turn-out of the village, of course. Joliffe's people are having the
time of their lives; they borrowed an extra pair of horses from young
Mortimer for the occasion. I only hope they don't kick over the traces
and upset the hearse. Mortimer's horseflesh is generally on the
spirited side."
"But, Tom, we must show some respect to the Burdocks."
"We're attending the funeral to-morrow, and that's quite enough. We
must do that, I suppose, out of consideration for the family, though,
as far as the old man himself goes, respect is the very last thing
anybody would think of paying him."
"Oh, Tom, he's dead."
"And quite time too. No, Agatha, it's no use pretending that old
Burdock was anything but a spiteful, bad-tempered, dirty-living old
blackguard that the world's well rid of. The last scandal he stirred
up made the place too hot to hold him. He had to leave the country and
go to the States, and, even so, if he hadn't had the money to pay the
people off, he'd probably have been put in gaol. That's why I'm so
annoyed with Hancock. I don't mind his calling himself a priest, though
clergyman was always good enough for dear old Weeks--who, after all,
was a canon--and I don't mind his vestments. He can wrap himself up in
a Union Jack if he likes--it doesn't worry _me_. But when it comes to
having old Burdock put on trestles in the south aisle, with candles
round him, and Hubbard from the 'Red Cow' and Duggins's boy praying
over him half the night, I think it's time to draw the line. The people
don't like it, you know--as least, the older generation don't. It's all
right for the young ones, I dare say; they must have their amusement;
but it gives offence to a lot of the farmers. After all, they knew
Burdock a bit too well. Simpson--he's people's warden, you know--came
up quite in distress to speak to me about it last night. You couldn't
have a sounder man than Simpson. I said I would speak to Hancock. I did
speak to him this morning, as a matter of fact, but you might as well
talk to the west door of the church."
"Mr. Hancock is one of those young men who fancy they know everything,"
said his wife. "A sensible man would have listened to you, Tom. You're
a magistrate and have lived here all your life, and it stands to reason
you know considerably more about the parish than he does."
"He took up the ridiculous position," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "that
the more sinful the old man had been the more he needed praying for.
I said, 'I think it would need more praying than you or I could do to
help old Burdock out of the place he's in now.' Ha, ha! So he said,
'I agree with you, Mr. Frobisher-Pym; that is why I am having eight
watchers to pray all through the night for him.' I admit he had me
there."
"Eight people?" exclaimed Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.
"Not all at once, I understand; in relays, two at a time. 'Well,' I
said, 'I think you ought to consider that you will be giving a handle
to the Nonconformists.' Of course, he couldn't deny that."
Wimsey helped himself to marmalade. Nonconformists, it seemed, were
always searching for handles. Though what kind--whether door-handles,
tea-pot handles, pump-handles, or starting-handles--was never
explained, nor what the handles were to be used for when found.
However, having been brought up in the odour of the Establishment, he
was familiar with this odd dissenting peculiarity, and merely said:
"Pity to be extreme in a small parish like this. Disturbs the ideas of
the simple fathers of the hamlet and the village blacksmith, with his
daughter singin' in the choir and the Old Hundredth and all the rest
of it. Don't Burdock's family have anything to say to it? There are
some sons, aren't there?"
"Only the two, now. Aldine was the one that was killed, of course, and
Martin is somewhere abroad. He went off after that row with his father,
and I don't think he has been back in England since."
"What was the row about?"
"Oh, that was a disgraceful business. Martin got a girl into trouble--a
film actress or a typist or somebody of that sort--and insisted on
marrying her."
"Oh?"
"Yes, so dreadful of him," said the lady, taking up the tale, "when he
was practically engaged to the Delaprime girl--the one with glasses,
you know. It made a terrible scandal. Some horribly vulgar people came
down and pushed their way into the house and insisted on seeing old Mr.
Burdock. I will say for him he stood up to them--he wasn't the sort of
person you could intimidate. He told them the girl had only herself
to blame, and they could sue Martin if they liked--_he_ wouldn't be
blackmailed on his son's account. The butler was listening at the door,
naturally, and told the whole village about it. And then Martin Burdock
came home and had a quarrel with his father you could have heard for
miles. He said that the whole thing was a lie, and that he meant to
marry the girl, anyway. I cannot understand how anybody could marry
into a blackmailing family like that."
"My dear," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gently, "I don't think you're
being quite fair to Martin, or his wife's parents, either. From what
Martin told me, they were quite decent people, only not his class, of
course, and they came in a well-meaning way to find out what Martin's
'intentions' were. You would want to do the same yourself, if it were a
daughter of ours. Old Burdock, naturally, thought they meant blackmail.
He was the kind of man who thinks everything can be paid for; and he
considered a son of his had a perfect right to seduce a young woman who
worked for a living. I don't say Martin was altogether in the right----"
"Martin is a chip off the old block, I'm afraid," retorted the lady.
"He married the girl, anyway, and why should he do that, unless he had
to?"
"Well, they've never had any children, you know," said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym.
"That's as may be. I've no doubt the girl was in league with her
parents. And you know the Martin Burdocks have lived in Paris ever
since."
"That's true," admitted her husband. "It was an unfortunate affair
altogether. They've had some difficulty in tracing Martin's address,
too, but no doubt he'll be coming back shortly. He is engaged in
producing some film play, they tell me, so possibly he can't get away
in time for the funeral."
"If he had any natural feeling, he would not let a film play stand in
his way," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.
"My dear, there are such things as contracts, with very heavy monetary
penalties for breaking them. And I don't suppose Martin could afford to
lose a big sum of money. It's not likely that his father will have left
him anything."
"Martin is the younger son, then?" asked Wimsey, politely showing more
interest than he felt in the rather well-worn plot of this village
melodrama.
"No, he is the eldest of the lot. The house is entailed, of course,
and so is the estate, such as it is. But there's no money in the land.
Old Burdock made his fortune in rubber shares during the boom, and the
money will go as he leaves it--wherever that may be, for they haven't
found any will yet. He's probably left it all to Haviland."
"The younger son?"
"Yes. He's something in the City--a director of a company--connected
with silk stockings, I believe. Nobody has seen very much of him. He
came down as soon as he heard of his father's death. He's staying with
the Hancocks. The big house has been shut up since old Burdock went to
the States four years ago. I suppose Haviland thought it wasn't worth
while opening it up till they knew what Martin was going to do about
it. That's why the body is being taken to the church."
"Much less trouble, certainly," said Wimsey.
"Oh, yes--though, mind you, I think Haviland ought to take a more
neighbourly view of it. Considering the position the Burdocks have
always held in the place, the people had a right to expect a proper
reception after the funeral. It's usual. But these business people
think less of tradition than we do down here. And, naturally, since the
Hancocks are putting Haviland up, he can't raise much objection to the
candles and the prayers and things."
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, "but it would have been more
suitable if Haviland had come to us, rather than to the Hancocks, whom
he doesn't even know."
"My dear, you forget the very unpleasant dispute I had with Haviland
Burdock about shooting over my land. After the correspondence that
passed between us, last time he was down here, I could scarcely offer
him hospitality. His father took a perfectly proper view of it, I will
say that for him, but Haviland was exceedingly discourteous to me,
and things were said which I could not possibly overlook. However, we
mustn't bore you, Lord Peter, with our local small-talk. If you've
finished your breakfast, what do you say to a walk round the place?
It's a pity it's raining so hard--and you don't see the garden at
its best this time of the year, of course--but I've got some cocker
span'els you might like to have a look at."
Lord Peter expressed eager anxiety to see the spaniels, and in a few
minutes' time found himself squelching down the gravel path which led
to the kennels.
"Nothing like a healthy country life," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "I
always think London is so depressing in the winter. Nothing to do with
one's self. All right to run up for a day or two and see a theatre now
and again, but how you people stick it week in and week out beats me. I
must speak to Plunkett about this archway," he added. "It's getting out
of trim."
He broke off a dangling branch of ivy as he spoke. The plant shuddered
revengefully, tipping a small shower of water down Wimsey's neck.
The cocker spaniel and her family occupied a comfortable and airy
stall in the stable buildings. A youngish man in breeches and leggings
emerged to greet the visitors, and produced the little bundles of
puppy-hood for their inspection. Wimsey sat down on an upturned bucket
and examined them gravely one by one. The bitch, after cautiously
reviewing his boots and grumbling a little, decided that he was
trustworthy and slobbered genially over his knees.
"Let me see," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "how old are they?"
"Thirteen days, sir."
"Is she feeding them all right?"
"Fine, sir. She's having some of the malt food. Seems to suit her very
well, sir."
"Ah, yes. Plunkett was a little doubtful about it, but I heard it
spoken very well of. Plunkett doesn't care for experiments, and, in a
general way, I agree with him. Where is Plunkett, by the way?"
"He's not very well this morning, sir."
"Sorry to hear that, Merridew. The rheumatics again?"
"No, sir. From what Mrs. Plunkett tells me, he's had a bit of a shock."
"A shock? What sort of a shock? Nothing wrong with Alf or Elsie, I
hope?"
"No, sir. The fact is--I understand he's seen something, sir."
"What do you mean, seen something?"
"Well, sir--something in the nature of a warning, from what he says."
"A warning? Good heavens, Merridew, he mustn't get those sort of ideas
in his head. I'm surprised at Plunkett; I always thought he was a very
level-headed man. What sort of warning did he say it was?"
"I couldn't say, sir."
"Surely he mentioned what he thought he'd seen."
Merridew's face took on a slightly obstinate look.
"I can't say, I'm sure, sir."
"This will never do. I must go and see Plunkett. Is he at the cottage?"
"Yes, sir."
"We'll go down there at once. You don't mind, do you, Wimsey? I can't
allow Plunkett to make himself ill. If he's had a shock he'd better see
a doctor. Well, carry on, Merridew, and be sure you keep her warm and
comfortable. The damp is apt to come up through these brick floors.
I'm thinking of having the whole place re-set with concrete, but it
takes money, of course. I can't imagine," he went on, as he led the way
past the greenhouse towards a trim cottage set in its own square of
kitchen-garden, "what can have happened to have upset Plunkett. I hope
it's nothing serious. He's getting elderly, of course, but he ought to
be above believing in warnings. You wouldn't believe the extraordinary
ideas these people get hold of. Fact is, I expect he's been round at
the 'Weary Traveller,' and caught sight of somebody's washing hung out
on the way home."
"Not washing," corrected Wimsey mechanically. He had a deductive turn
of mind which exposed the folly of the suggestion even while irritably
admitting that the matter was of no importance. "It poured with rain
last night, and, besides, it's Thursday. But Tuesday and Wednesday were
fine, so the drying would have all been done then. No washing."
"Well, well--something else then--a post, or old Mrs. Giddens's white
donkey. Plunkett does occasionally take a drop too much, I'm sorry to
say, but he's a very good kennel-man, so one overlooks it. They're
superstitious round about these parts, and they can tell some queer
tales if once you get into their confidence. You'd be surprised how
far off the main track we are as regards civilisation. Why, not here,
but at Abbotts Bolton, fifteen miles off, it's as much as one's life's
worth to shoot a hare. Witches, you know, and that sort of thing."
"I shouldn't be a bit surprised. They'll still tell you about
werewolves in some parts of Germany."
"Yes, I dare say. Well, here we are." Mr. Frobisher-Pym rapped loudly
with his walking-stick on the door of the cottage and turned the handle
without waiting for permission.
"You there, Mrs. Plunkett? May we come in? Ah! good morning. Hope we're
not disturbing you, but Merridew told me Plunkett was not so well. This
is Lord Peter Wimsey--a very old friend of mine; that is to say, I'm a
very old friend of _his_; ha, ha!"
"Good morning, sir; good morning, your lordship. I'm sure Plunkett will
be very pleased to see you. Please step in. Plunkett, here's Mr. Pym to
see you."
The elderly man who sat crouching over the fire turned a mournful face
towards them, and half rose, touching his forehead.
"Well, now, Plunkett, what's the trouble?" enquired Mr. Frobisher-Pym,
with the hearty bedside manner adopted by country gentlefolk visiting
their dependants. "Sorry not to see you out and about. Touch of the old
complaint, eh?"
"No, sir; no, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm well enough in myself. But I've
had a warning, and I'm not long for this world."
"Not long for this world? Oh, nonsense, Plunkett. You mustn't talk like
that. A touch of indigestion, that's what you've got, I expect. Gives
one the blues, I know. I'm sure I often feel like nothing on earth when
I've got one of my bilious attacks. Try a dose of castor-oil, or a good
old-fashioned blue pill and black draught. Nothing like it. Then you
won't talk about warnings and dying."
"No medicine won't do no good to _my_ complaint, sir. Nobody as see
what I've seed ever got the better of it. But as you and the gentleman
are here, sir, I'm wondering if you'll do me a favour."
"Of course, Plunkett, anything you like. What is it?"
"Why, just to draw up my will, sir. Old Parson, he used to do it. But I
don't fancy this new young man, with his candles and bits of things. It
don't seem as if he'd make it good and legal, sir, and I wouldn't like
it if there was any dispute after I was gone. So as there ain't much
time left me, I'd be grateful if you'd put it down clear for me in pen
and ink that I wants my little bit all to go to Sarah here, and after
her to Alf and Elsie, divided up equal."
"Of course I'll do that for you, Plunkett, any time you like. But it's
all nonsense to be talking about wills. Bless my soul, I shouldn't be
surprised if you were to see us all underground."
"No, sir. I've been a hale and hearty man, I'm not denying. But I've
been called, sir, and I've got to go. It must come to all of us, I know
that. But it's a fearful thing to see the death-coach come for one, and
know that the dead are in it, that cannot rest in the grave."
"Come now, Plunkett, you don't mean to tell me you believe in that old
foolishness about the death-coach. I thought you were an educated man.
What would Alf say if he heard you talking such nonsense?"
"Ah, sir, young people don't know everything, and there's many more
things in God's creation than what you'll find in the printed books."
"Oh, well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, finding this opening irresistible,
"we know there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than
are dreamt of in your philosophy. Quite so. But that doesn't apply
nowadays," he added contradictorily. "There are no ghosts in the
twentieth century. Just you think the matter out quietly, and you'll
find you've made a mistake. There's probably some quite simple
explanation. Dear me! I remember Mrs. Frobisher-Pym waking up one night
and having a terrible fright, because she thought somebody'd been and
hanged himself on our bedroom door. Such a silly idea, because I was
safe in bed beside her--snoring, _she_ said, ha, ha!--and, if anybody
was feeling like hanging himself, he wouldn't come into our bedroom
to do it. Well, she clutched my arm in a great state of mind, and
when I went to see what had alarmed her, what do you think it was? My
trousers, which I'd hung up by the braces, with the socks still in the
legs! My word! and didn't I get a wigging for not having put my things
away tidy!"
Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed, and Mrs. Plunkett said dutifully, "There
now!" Her husband shook his head.
"That may be, sir, but I see the death-coach last night with my own
eyes. Just striking midnight it was, by the church clock, and I see it
come up the lane by the old priory wall."
"And what were you doing out of bed at midnight, eh?"
"Well, sir, I'd been round to my sister's, that's got her boy home on
leaf off of his ship."
"And you'd been drinking his health, I dare say, Plunkett." Mr.
Frobisher-Pym wagged an admonitory forefinger.
"No, sir, I don't deny I'd had a glass or two of ale, but not to fuddle
me. My wife can tell you I was sober enough when I got home."
"That's right, sir. Plunkett hadn't taken too much last night, that
I'll swear to."
"Well, what was it you saw, Plunkett?"
"I see the death-coach, same as I'm telling you, sir. It come up the
lane, all ghostly white, sir, and never making no more sound than the
dead--which it were, sir."
"A wagon or something going through to Lymptree or Herriotting."
"No, sir--tweren't a wagon. I counted the horses--four white horses,
and they went by with never a sound of hoof or bridle. And that
weren't----"
"Four horses! Come, Plunkett, you must have been seeing double. There's
nobody about here would be driving four horses, unless it was Mr.
Mortimer from Abbotts Bolton, and he wouldn't be taking his horseflesh
out at midnight."
"Four horses they was, sir. I see them plain. And it weren't Mr.
Mortimer, neither, for he drives a drag, and this were a big, heavy
coach, with no lights on it, but shinin' all of itself, with a colour
like moonshine."
"Oh, nonsense, man! You couldn't see the moon last night. It was
pitch-dark."
"No, sir, but the coach shone all moony-like, all the same."
"And no lights? I wonder what the police would say to that."
"No mortal police could stop that coach," said Plunkett contemptuously,
"nor no mortal man could abide the sight on it. I tell you, sir, that
ain't the worst of it. The horses----"
"Was it going slowly?"
"No, sir. It were going at a gallop, only the hoofs didn't touch the
ground. There weren't no sound, and I see the black road and the white
hoofs half a foot off of it. And the horses had no heads."
"No heads?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed.
"Come, come, Plunkett, you don't expect us to swallow that. No heads?
How could even a ghost drive horses with no heads? How about the reins,
eh?"
"You may laugh, sir, but we know that with God all things are possible.
Four white horses they was. I see them clearly, but there was neither
head nor neck beyond the collar, sir. I see the reins, shining like
silver, and they ran up to the rings of the hames, and they didn't go
no further. If I was to drop down dead this minute, sir, that's what I
see."
"Was there a driver to this wonderful turn-out?"
"Yes, sir, there was a driver."
"Headless too, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, headless too. At least, I couldn't see nothing of him beyond
his coat, which had them old-fashioned capes at the shoulders."
"Well, I must say, Plunkett, you're very circumstantial. How far off
was this--er--apparition when you saw it?"
"I was passing by the War Memorial, sir, when I see it come up the
lane. It wouldn't be above twenty or thirty yards from where I stood.
It went by at a gallop, and turned off to the left round the churchyard
wall."
"Well, well, it sounds odd, certainly, but it was a dark night, and at
that distance your eyes may have deceived you. Now, if you'll take my
advice you'll think no more about it."
"Ah, sir, it's all very well saying that, but everybody knows the man
who sees the death-coach of the Burdocks is doomed to die within the
week. There's no use rebelling against it, sir; it is so. And if you'll
be so good as to oblige me over that matter of a will, I'd die happier
for knowing as Sarah and the children was sure of their bit of money."