Lord Peter Views the Body (15 page)

    ‘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 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.’

    Mr Frobisher-Pym obliged over the will, though much against the grain, 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 tomorrow.’

    ‘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.’

    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 came 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 waggons 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 harness 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 waggons 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 a 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, sound 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 tonight. 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 wish 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 tonight,’ 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 lookout for tomorrow. 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 sympathetially 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.