very quietly. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and passed nothing. The
night was brighter now, and, as he rode back, he verified the entire
absence of side-roads. Whatever the thing was which he had seen, it had
vanished somewhere along the edge of the common; it had not gone by the
main road, nor by any other.
* * * * *
Wimsey came down rather late for breakfast in the morning, to find his
hosts in a state of some excitement.
"The most extraordinary thing has happened," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.
"Outrageous!" added her husband. "I warned Hancock--he can't say
I didn't warn him. Still, however much one may disapprove of his
goings-on, there is no excuse whatever for such abominable conduct.
Once let me get hold of the beggars, whoever they are----"
"What's up?" said Wimsey, helping himself to broiled kidneys at the
sideboard.
"A most scandalous thing," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym. "The vicar came up
to Tom at once--I hope we didn't disturb you, by the way, with all the
excitement. It appears that when Mr. Hancock got to the church this
morning at 6 o'clock to take the early service----"
"No, no, my dear, you've got it wrong. Let _me_ tell it. When Joe
Grinch--that's the sexton, you know, and he has to get there first to
ring the bell--when he arrived, he found the south door wide open and
nobody in the chapel, where they should have been, beside the coffin.
He was very much perplexed, of course, but he supposed that Hubbard and
young Rawlinson had got sick of it and gone off home. So he went on to
the vestry to get the vestments and things ready, and to his amazement
he heard women's voices, calling out to him from inside. He was so
astonished, didn't know where he was, but he went on and unlocked the
door----"
"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
that 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
they waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and nobody came."
"What had 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 in 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 on 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 its 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 quite
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 quite
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 country. 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. Someone 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
obstrusively 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 sacrilegious 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
Abbotts 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 con_trou_versy, 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 just ask and have, as you might say."
Wimsey took a card from his note-case.
"If you ever 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 to-morrow 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. "Fine 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 they 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.
He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-path
which was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A little
way ahead of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at the
junction of the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to be
a decayed sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-post,
and had no arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of inscription
on the face that was turned towards him.
He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She took a
few hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and shivering.
"Queer!" said Wimsey. "If this is my state of mind communicating itself
to my mount, I'd better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a rotten
state. Come up, old lady! What's the matter with you?"
Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urged
her gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and he
saw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and,
putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward.
After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neck
and treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces,
she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on her
neck and found it wet with sweat.
"Damn it all!" said Wimsey. "Look here, I'm jolly well going to read
what's on that post. If you won't come, will you stand still?"
He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. He
left her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see that
she showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough, however,
only shifting her feet uneasily.
Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak,
newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blacked
in. It read:
ON THIS SPOT
GEORGE WINTER
WAS FOULLY MURTHERED
IN DEFENSE OF
HIS MASTER'S GOODS
BY BLACK RALPH
OF HERRIOTTING
WHO WAS AFTERWARD
HANGED IN CHAINS
ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
9 NOVEMBER 1674
FEAR JUSTICE
"And very nice, too," said Wimsey. "Dead Man's Post without a doubt.
Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well,
Polly, if them's your sentiments, I won't do violence to them. But may
I ask why, if you're so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallow
a death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened equanimity?"
The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips and
mumbled at it.
"Just so," said Wimsey. "I perfectly understand. You would if you
could, but you really can't. But those horses, Polly--did they bring
with them no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be that
they really exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of stables?"
He mounted, and, turning Polly's head to the right, guided her in a
circle, so as to give Dead Man's Post a wide berth before striking the
path again.
"The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on _a priori_
grounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly's senses.
There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery. Further
investigation seems called for."
He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.