exhorting and scolding as he wrote. Wimsey added his own signature as
one of the witnesses, and contributed his own bit of comfort.
"I shouldn't worry too much about the coach, if I were you," he said.
"Depend upon it, if it's the Burdock coach it'll just have come for the
soul of the old squire. It couldn't be expected to go to New York for
him, don't you see? It's just gettin' ready for the funeral to-morrow."
"That's likely enough," agreed Plunkett. "Often and often it's been
seen in these parts when one of the Burdocks was taken. But it's
terrible unlucky to see it."
The thought of the funeral seemed, however, to cheer him a little.
The visitors again begged him not to think about it, and took their
departure.
"Isn't it wonderful," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "what imagination will
do with these people? And they're obstinate. You could argue with them
till you were black in the face."
"Yes. I say, let's go down to the church and have a look at the place.
I'd like to know how much he could really have seen from where he was
standing."
[Illustration: Map of Little Doddering]
The parish church of Little Doddering stands, like so many country
churches, at some distance from the houses. The main road from
Herriotting, Abbotts Bolton, and Frimpton runs past the west gate of
the churchyard--a wide God's acre, crowded with ancient stones. On
the south side is a narrow and gloomy lane, heavily overhung with old
elm-trees, dividing the church from the still more ancient ruins of
Doddering Priory. On the main road, a little beyond the point where Old
Priory Lane enters, stands the War Memorial, and from here the road
runs straight on into Little Doddering. Round the remaining two sides
of the churchyard winds another lane, known to the village simply as
the Back Lane. This branches out from the Herriotting road about a
hundred yards north of the church, connects with the far end of Priory
Lane, and thence proceeds deviously to Shootering Underwood, Hamsey,
Thripsey, and Wyck.
"Whatever it was Plunkett thinks he saw," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "it
must have come from Shootering. The Back Lane only leads round by some
fields and a cottage or two, and it stands to reason anybody coming
from Frimpton would have taken the main road, going and coming. The
lane is in a very bad state with all this rain. I'm afraid even your
detective ability, my dear Wimsey, would not avail to find wheel-marks
on this modern tarmac."
"Hardly," said Wimsey, "especially in the case of a ghostly chariot
which gets along without touching the ground. But your reasoning seems
perfectly sound, sir."
"It was probably a couple of belated wagons going to market," pursued
Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "and the rest of it is superstition and, I am
afraid, the local beer. Plunkett couldn't have seen all those details
about drivers and hames and so on at this distance. And, if it was
making no noise, how did he come to notice it at all, since he'd got
past the turn and was walking in the other direction? Depend upon it,
he heard the wheels and imagined the rest."
"Probably," said Wimsey.
"Of course," went on his host, "if the wagons really were going about
without lights, it ought to be looked into. It is a very dangerous
thing, with all these motor vehicles about, and I've had to speak
severely about it before now. I fined a man only the other day for the
very same thing. Do you care to see the church while we're here?"
Knowing that in country places it is always considered proper to see
the church, Lord Peter expressed his eagerness to do so.
"It's always open nowadays," said the magistrate, leading the way to
the west entrance. "The vicar has an idea that churches should be
always open for private prayer. He comes from a town living, of course.
Round about here the people are always out on the land, and you can't
expect them to come into church in their working clothes and muddy
boots. They wouldn't think it respectful, and they've other things
to do. Besides, I said to him, consider the opportunity it gives for
undesirable conduct. But he's a young man, and he'll have to learn by
experience."
He pushed the door open. A curious, stuffy waft of stale incense, damp,
and stoves rushed out at them as they entered--a kind of concentrated
extract of Church of England. The two altars, bright with flowers and
gilding, and showing as garish splashes among the heavy shadows and
oppressive architecture of the little Norman building, sounded the same
note of contradiction; it was the warm and human that seemed exotic and
unfamiliar; the cold and unwelcoming that seemed native to the place
and people.
"This Lady-chapel, as Hancock calls it, in the south aisle, is new, of
course," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "It aroused a good deal of opposition,
but the Bishop is lenient with the High Church party--too lenient, some
people think--but, after all, what does it matter? I'm sure I can say
my prayers just as well with two communion-tables as with one. And, I
will say for Hancock, he is very good with the young men and the girls.
In these days of motor-cycles, it's something to get them interested
in religion at all. Those trestles in the chapel are for old Burdock's
coffin, I suppose. Ah! Here is the vicar."
A thin man in a cassock emerged from a door beside the high altar and
came down towards them, carrying a tall, oaken candlestick in his hand.
He greeted them with a slightly professional smile of welcome. Wimsey
diagnosed him promptly as earnest, nervous, and not highly intellectual.
"The candlesticks have only just come," he observed after the usual
introductions had been made. "I was afraid they would not be here in
time. However, all is now well."
He set the candlestick beside the coffin-trestles, and proceeded to
decorate its brass spike with a long candle of unbleached wax, which he
took from a parcel in a neighbouring pew.
Mr. Frobisher-Pym said nothing. Wimsey felt it incumbent on him to
express his interest, and did so.
"It is very gratifying," said Mr. Hancock, thus encouraged, "to see the
people beginning to take a real interest in their church. I have really
had very little difficulty in finding watchers for to-night. We are
having eight watchers, two by two, from 10 o'clock this evening--till
which time I shall be myself on duty--till six in the morning, when I
come in to say Mass. The men will carry on till 2 o'clock, then my wife
and daughter will relieve them, and Mr. Hubbard and young Rawlinson
have kindly consented to take the hours from four till six."
"What Rawlinson is that?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym.
"Mr. Graham's clerk from Herriotting. It is true he is not a member of
the parish, but he was born here, and was good enough to wish to take
his turn in watching. He is coming over on his motor-cycle. After all,
Mr. Graham has had charge of Burdock's family affairs for very many
years, and no doubt they wished to show their respect in some way."
"Well, I only hope he'll be awake enough to do his work in the morning,
after gadding about all night," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gruffly. "As for
Hubbard, that's his own look-out, though I must say it seems an odd
occupation for a publican. Still, if he's pleased, and you're pleased,
there's no more to be said about it."
"You've got a very beautiful old church here, Mr. Hancock," said
Wimsey, seeing that controversy seemed imminent.
"Very beautiful indeed," said the vicar. "Have you noticed that apse?
It is rare for a village church to possess such a perfect Norman apse.
Perhaps you would like to come and look at it." He genuflected as they
passed a hanging lamp which burned before a niche. "You see, we are
permitted Reservation. The Bishop----" He prattled cheerfully as they
wandered up the chancel, digressing from time to time to draw attention
to the handsome miserere seats ("Of course, this was the original
Priory Church"), and a beautifully carved piscina and aumbry ("It is
rare to find them so well preserved"). Wimsey assisted him to carry
down the remaining candlesticks from the vestry, and, when these had
been put in position, joined Mr. Frobisher-Pym at the door.
* * * * *
"I think you said you were dining with the Lumsdens to-night," said the
magistrate, as they sat smoking after lunch. "How are you going? Will
you have the car?"
"I'd rather you'd lend me one of the saddle-horses," said Wimsey. "I
get few opportunities of riding in town."
"Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only I'm afraid you'll have rather
a wet ride. Take Polly Flinders; it will do her good to get some
exercise. You are quite sure you would prefer it? Have you got your kit
with you?"
"Yes--I brought an old pair of bags down with me, and, with this
raincoat, I shan't come to any harm. They won't expect me to dress. How
far is it to Frimpton, by the way?"
"Nine miles by the main road, and tarmac all the way, I'm afraid, but
there's a good wide piece of grass each side. And, of course, you can
cut off a mile or so by going across the common. What time will you
want to start?"
"Oh, about seven o'clock, I should think. And, I say, sir--will Mrs.
Frobisher-Pym think it very rude if I'm rather late back? Old Lumsden
and I went through the war together, and if we get yarning over old
times we may go on into the small hours. I don't want to feel I'm
treating your house like a hotel, but----"
"Of course not, of course not! That's absolutely all right. My wife
won't mind in the very least. We want you to enjoy your visit and do
exactly what you like. I'll give you the key, and I'll remember not to
put the chain up. Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing that yourself when
you come in?"
"Rather not. And how about the mare?"
"I'll tell Merridew to look out for you; he sleeps over the stables.
I only wish it were going to be a better night for you. I'm afraid
the glass is going back. Yes. Dear, dear! It's a bad look-out for
to-morrow. By the way, you'll probably pass the funeral procession at
the church. It should be along by about then, if the train is punctual."
The train, presumably, was punctual, for as Lord Peter cantered up
to the west gate of the church he saw a hearse of great funereal
pomp drawn up before it, surrounded by a little crowd of people. Two
mourning coaches were in attendance; the driver of the second seemed
to be having some difficulty with the horses, and Wimsey rightly
inferred that this was the pair which had been borrowed from Mr.
Mortimer. Restraining Polly Flinders as best he might, he sidled into
a respectful position on the edge of the crowd, and watched the coffin
taken from the hearse and carried through the gate, where it was met
by Mr. Hancock, in full pontificals, attended by a thurifer and two
torch-bearers. The effect was a little marred by the rain, which had
extinguished the candles, but the village seemed to look upon it as
an excellent show nevertheless. A massive man, dressed with great
correctness in a black frock coat and tall hat, and accompanied by a
woman in handsome mourning and furs, was sympathetically commented on.
This was Haviland Burdock of silk-stocking fame, the younger son of
the deceased. A vast number of white wreaths were then handed out, and
greeted with murmurs of admiration and approval. The choir struck up a
hymn, rather raggedly, and the procession filed away into the church.
Polly Flinders shook her head vigorously, and Wimsey, taking this as
a signal to be gone, replaced his hat and ambled gently away towards
Frimpton.
He followed the main road for about four miles, winding up through
finely wooded country to the edge of Frimpton Common. Here the road
made a wide sweep, skirting the common and curving gently down into
Frimpton village. Wimsey hesitated for a moment, considering that it
was growing dark and that both the way and the animal he rode were
strange to him. There seemed, however, to be a well-defined bridle-path
across the common, and eventually he decided to take it. Polly Flinders
seemed to know it well enough, and cantered along without hesitation. A
ride of about a mile and a half brought them without adventure into the
main road again. Here a fork in the road presented itself confusingly;
an electric torch, however, and a sign-post solved the problem; after
which ten minutes' ride brought the traveller to his goal.
Major Lumsden was a large, cheerful man--none the less cheerful for
having lost a leg in the War. He had a large, cheerful wife, a large,
cheerful house, and a large, cheerful family. Wimsey soon found
himself seated before a fire as large and cheerful as the rest of the
establishment, exchanging gossip with his hosts over a whisky-and-soda.
He described the Burdock funeral with irreverent gusto, and went on to
tell the story of the phantom coach. Major Lumsden laughed.
"It's a quaint part of the country," he said. "The policeman is just as
bad as the rest of them. Do you remember, dear, the time I had to go
out and lay a ghost, down at Pogson's farm?"
"I do, indeed," said his wife emphatically. "The maids had a wonderful
time. Trivett--that's our local constable--came rushing in here and
fainted in the kitchen, and they all sat round howling and sustaining
him with our best brandy, while Dan went down and investigated."
"Did you find the ghost?"
"Well, not the ghost, exactly, but we found a pair of boots and half a
pork-pie in the empty house, so we put it all down to a tramp. Still, I
must say odd things do happen about here. There were those fires on the
common last year. They were never explained."
"Gipsies, Dan."
"Maybe; but nobody ever saw them, and the fires would start in the most
unexpected way, sometimes in the pouring rain; and, before you could
get near one, it would be out, and only a sodden wet black mark left
behind it. And there's another bit of the common that animals don't
like--near what they call the Dead Man's Post. My dogs won't go near
it. Funny brutes. I've never seen anything there, but even in broad
daylight they don't seem to fancy it. The common's not got a good
reputation. It used to be a great place for highwaymen."
"Is the Burdock coach anything to do with highwaymen?"
"No. I fancy it was some rakehelly dead-and-gone Burdock. Belonged
to the Hell-fire Club or something. The usual sort of story. All the
people round here believe in it, of course. It's rather a good thing.
Keeps the servants indoors at night. Well, let's go and have some grub,
shall we?"
* * * * *
"Do you remember," said Major Lumsden, "that damned old mill, and the
three elms by the pig-sty?"
"Good Lord, yes! You very obligingly blew them out of the landscape for
us, I remember. They made us a damned sight too conspicuous."
"We rather missed them when they were gone."
"Thank heaven you didn't miss them when they were there. I'll tell you
what you did miss, though."
"What's that?"
"The old sow."
"By Jove, yes. Do you remember old Piper fetching her in?"
"I'll say I do. That reminds me. You knew Bunthorne...."
"I'll say good night," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and leave you people to it."
"Do you remember," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "that awkward moment when
Popham went off his rocker?"
"No. I'd been sent back with a batch of prisoners. I heard about it
though. I never knew what became of him."
"I got him sent home. He's married now and living in Lincolnshire."
"Is he? Well, he couldn't help himself, I suppose. He was only a kid.
What's happened to Philpotts?"
"Oh, Philpotts...."
* * * * *
"Where's your glass, old man?"
* * * * *
"Oh, rot, old man. The night is still young...."
* * * * *
"Really? Well, but look here, why not stay the night? My wife will be
delighted. I can fix you up in no time."
"No, thanks most awfully. I must be rolling off home. I said I'd be
back; and I'm booked to put the chain on the door."
"As you like, of course, but it's still raining. Not a good night for a
ride on an open horse."
"I'll bring a saloon next time. We shan't hurt. Rain's good for the
complexion--makes the roses grow. Don't wake your man up. I can saddle
her myself."
"My dear man, it's no trouble."
"No, really, old man."
"Well, I'll come along and lend you a hand."
A gust of rain and wind blew in through the hall door as they struggled
out into the night. It was past one in the morning and pitch-dark.
Major Lumsden again pressed Wimsey to stay.
"No, thanks, really. The old lady's feelings might be hurt. It's not so
bad, really--wet, but not cold. Come up, Polly, stand over, old lady."
He put the saddle on and girthed it, while Lumsden held the lantern.
The mare, fed and rested, came delicately dancing out of the warm
loose-box, head well stretched forward, and nostrils snuffing at the
rain.
"Well, so long, old lad. Come and look us up again. It's been great."
"Rather! By Jove, yes. Best respects to madame. Is the gate open?"
"Yes."
"Well, cheerio!"
"Cheerio!"
Polly Flinders, with her nose turned homewards, settled down to make
short work of the nine miles of high-road. Once outside the gates, the
night seemed lighter, though the rain poured heavily. Somewhere buried
behind the thronging clouds there was a moon, which now and again
showed as a pale stain on the sky, a paler reflection on the black
road. Wimsey, with a mind full of memories and a skin full of whisky,
hummed to himself as he rode.
As he passed the fork, he hesitated for a moment. Should he take the
path over the common or stick to the road? On consideration, he decided
to give the common a miss--not because of its sinister reputation, but
because of ruts and rabbit-holes. He shook the reins, bestowed a word
of encouragement on his mount, and continued by the road, having the
common on his right hand, and, on the left, fields bounded by high
hedges, which gave some shelter from the driving rain.
He had topped the rise, and passed the spot where the bridle-path
again joined the high-road, when a slight start and stumble drew his
attention unpleasantly to Polly Flinders.
"Hold up, mare," he said disapprovingly.
Polly shook her head, moved forward, tried to pick up her easy pace
again. "Hullo!" said Wimsey, alarmed. He pulled her to a standstill.
"Lame in the near fore," he said, dismounting. "If you've been and gone
and strained anything, my girl, four miles from home, father _will_ be
pleased." It occurred to him for the first time how curiously lonely
the road was. He had not seen a single car. They might have been in the
wilds of Africa.
He ran an exploratory hand down the near foreleg. The mare stood
quietly enough, without shrinking or wincing. Wimsey was puzzled.
"If these had been the good old days," he said, "I'd have thought she'd
picked up a stone. But what----"
He lifted the mare's foot, and explored it carefully with fingers and
pocket-torch. His diagnosis had been right, after all. A steel nut,
evidently dropped from a passing car, had wedged itself firmly between
the shoe and the frog. He grunted and felt for his knife. Happily, it
was one of that excellent old-fashioned kind which includes, besides
blades and corkscrews, an ingenious apparatus for removing foreign
bodies from horses' feet.
The mare nuzzled him gently as he stooped over his task. It was a
little awkward getting to work; he had to wedge the torch under his
arm, so as to leave one hand free for the tool and the other to hold
the hoof. He was swearing gently at these difficulties when, happening
to glance down the road ahead, he fancied he caught the gleam of
something moving. It was not easy to see, for at this point the tall
trees stood up on both sides of the road, which dipped abruptly from
the edge of the common. It was not a car; the light was too faint. A
wagon, probably, with a dim lantern. Yet it seemed to move fast. He
puzzled for a moment, then bent to work again.
The nut resisted his efforts, and the mare, touched in a tender spot,
pulled away, trying to get her foot down. He soothed her with his
voice and patted her neck. The torch slipped from his arm. He cursed
it impatiently, set down the hoof, and picked up the torch from the
edge of the grass, into which it had rolled. As he straightened himself
again, he looked along the road and saw.
Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining with
a thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumble
of wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek,
shining shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fiery
ring, enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut ends
slipping back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames.
The feet, that never touched earth, ran swiftly--four times four
noiseless hoofs, bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driver
leaned forward, brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless,
but his whole attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barely
visible through the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinning
wheels and a faint whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. It
went past at a gallop--headless driver and headless horses and silent
coach. Its passing left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than a
vibration--and the wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet of
water blown up out of the south.
"Good God!" said Wimsey. And then: "How many whiskies did we have?"
He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Then
suddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further about
the torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gave
no more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately.
Polly Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.
Wimsey led her forward a few steps. She put her feet down firmly and
strongly. The nut, removed without delay, had left no tenderness.
Wimsey mounted, let her go--then pulled her head round suddenly.
"I'm going to see," he said resolutely. "Come up, mare! We won't let
any headless horses get the better of _us_. Perfectly indecent, goin'
about without heads. Get on, old lady. Over the common with you. We'll
catch 'em at the cross-roads."
Without the slightest consideration for his host or his host's
property, he put the mare to the bridle-path again, and urged her into
a gallop.
At first he thought he could make out a pale, fluttering whiteness,
moving away ahead of him on the road. Presently, as high-road and
bridle-path diverged, he lost it altogether. But he knew there was no
side-road. Bar any accident to his mount, he was bound to catch it
before it came to the fork. Polly Flinders, answering easily to the
touch of his heel, skimmed over the rough track with the indifference
born of familiarity. In less than ten minutes her feet rang out again
on the tarmac. He pulled her up, faced round in the direction of
Little Doddering, and stared down the road. He could see nothing yet.
Either he was well ahead of the coach, or it had already passed at
unbelievable speed, or else----
He waited. Nothing. The violent rain had ceased, and the moon was
struggling out again. The road appeared completely deserted. He glanced
over his shoulder. A small beam of light near the ground moved,
turned, flashed green, and red, and white again, and came towards him.
Presently he made out that it was a policeman wheeling a bicycle.
"A bad night, sir," said the man civilly, but with a faint note of
enquiry in his voice.
"Rotten," said Wimsey.
"Just had to mend a puncture, to make it all the pleasanter," added the
policeman.
Wimsey expressed sympathy. "Have you been here long?" he added.
"Best part o' twenty minutes."
"Did you see anything pass along this way from Little Doddering?"
"Ain't been nothing along while I've been here. What sort of thing did
you mean, sir?"
"I thought I saw----" Wimsey hesitated. He did not care about the idea
of making a fool of himself. "A carriage with four horses," he said
hesitatingly. "It passed me on this road not a quarter of an hour
ago--down at the other end of the common. I--I came back to see. It
seemed unusual----" He became aware that his story sounded very lame.
The policeman spoke rather sharply and rapidly.
"There ain't been nothing past here."
"You're sure?"
"Yes, sir; and, if you don't mind me sayin' so, you'd best be getting
home. It's a lonesome bit o' road."
"Yes, isn't it?" said Wimsey. "Well, good night, sergeant."