Wimsey 009 - The Nine Tailors Page 2

  “That will be all right,” said Mrs. Venables, soothingly. “I do hope, Theodore, you have not caught cold.”

  No, no, my dear. I have been well wrapped up. Dear me, yes! Ha! What do I see? Muffins?”

  “I was just wishing for muffins,” said Wimsey.

  “Sit down, sit down and make a good meal. I’m sure you must be famished. I have seldom known such bitter weather. Would you prefer a whisky-and-soda, perhaps?”

  “Tea for me,” said Wimsey. “How jolly all this looks! Really, Mrs. Venables, it’s tremendously good of you to take pity upon us.”

  “I’m only so glad to be able to help,” said Mrs. Venables, smiling cheerfully. “Really, I don’t think there’s anything to equal the dreariness of these fen roads in winter. It’s most fortunate your accident landed you comparatively close to the village.”

  “It is indeed.” Wimsey gratefully took in the cosy sitting-room, with its little tables crowded with ornaments, its fire roaring behind a chaste canopy of velvet overmantel, and the silver tea-vessel winking upon the polished tray. “I feel like Ulysses, come to port after much storm and peril.”

  He bit gratefully into a large and buttery muffin.

  “Tom Tebbutt seems a good deal better today,” observed the Rector. “Very unfortunate that he should be laid up just now, but we must be thankful that it is no worse. I only hope there are no further casualties. Young Pratt will manage very well, I think; he went through two long touches this morning without a single mistake, and he is extremely keen. By the way, we ought, perhaps, to warn our visitor—”

  “I’m sure we ought,” said Mrs. Venables. “My husband has asked you to stay the night. Lord Peter, but he ought to have mentioned that you will probably get very little sleep, being so close to the church. But perhaps you do not mind the sound of bells.”

  “Not at all,” said Wimsey.

  “My husband is a very keen change-ringer,” pursued Mrs. Venables, “and, as this is New Year’s Eve—”

  The Rector, who seldom allowed anybody else to finish a sentence, broke in eagerly.

  “We hope to accomplish a real feat to-night,” he said, “or rather, I should say, to-morrow morning. We intend to ring the New Year in with—you are not, perhaps, aware that we possess here one of the finest rings in the country?”

  “Indeed?” said Wimsey. “Yes, I believe I have heard of the Fenchurch bells.”

  “There are, perhaps, a few heavier rings,” said the Rector, “but I hardly know where you would rival us for fullness and sweetness of tone. Number seven, in particular, is a most noble old bell, and so is the tenor, and the John and Jericho bells are also remarkably fine—in fact, the whole ring is most ‘tuneable and sound,’ as the old motto has it.”

  “It is a full ring of eight?”

  “Oh, yes. If you are interested, I should like to show you a very charming little book, written by my predecessor, giving the whole history of the bells. The tenor, Tailor Paul, was actually cast in a field next the churchyard in the year 1614. You can still see the depression in the earth. where the mould was made, and the field itself is called the Bell-Field to this day.”

  “And have you a good set of ringers?” inquired Wimsey, politely.

  “Very good indeed. Excellent fellows and most enthusiastic. That reminds me. I was about to say that we have arranged to ring the New Year in to-night with no less,” said the Rector, emphatically, “no less than fifteen thousand, eight hundred and forty Kent Treble Bob Majors. What do you think of that? Not bad, eh?”

  “Bless my heart!” said Wimsey. “Fifteen thousand—”

  “Eight hundred and forty,” said the Rector.

  Wimsey made a rapid calculation. “A good many hours’ work there.”

  “Nine hours,” said the Rector, with relish.

  “Well done, sir,” said Wimsey. “Why, that’s equal to the great performance of the College Youths in eighteen hundred and something.”

  “In 1886,” agreed the Rector. “That is what we aim to emulate. And, what’s more, but for the little help I can give, we shall be obliged to do as well as they did, and ring the whole peal with eight ringers only. We had hoped to have twelve, but unhappily, four of our best men have been laid low by this terrible influenza, and we can get no help from Fenchurch St. Stephen (which has a ring of bells, though not equal to ours) because there they have no Treble Bob ringers and confine themselves to Grandsire Triples.”

  Wimsey shook his head, and helped himself to his fourth muffin.

  “Grandsire Triples are most venerable,” he said solemnly, “but you can never get the same music—”

  “That’s what I say,” crowed the Rector. “You never can get the same music when the tenor is rung behind—not even with Stedman’s, though we are very fond here of Stedman’s and ring them, I venture to say, very well. But for interest and variety and for sweetness in the peal, give me Kent Treble Bob every time.”

  “Quite right, sir,” said Wimsey.

  “You will never beat it,” said Mr. Venables, soaring away happily to the heights of the belfry, and waving his muffin in the air, so that the butter ran down his cuff. “Take even Grandsire Major—I cannot help feeling it as a defect that the blows come behind so monotonously at the bobs and singles—particularly at the singles, and the fact that the treble and second are confined to a plain hunting course—”

  The rest of the Rector’s observations on the Grandsire method of change-ringing were unhappily lost, for at that moment Emily made her appearance at the door, with the ominous words:

  “If you please, sir, could James Thoday speak to you for a moment?”

  “James Thoday?” said the Rector. “Why, certainly, of course. Put him in the study, Emily, and I will come in a moment.”

  The Rector was not long gone, and when he returned his face was as long as a fiddle. He let himself drop into his chair in an attitude of utter discouragement.

  “This,” he ejaculated, dramatically, “is an irreparable disaster!”

  “Good gracious, Theodore! What in the world is the matter?”

  “William Thoday! Of all nights in the year! Poor fellow, I ought not to think of myself, but it is a bitter disappointment—a bitter disappointment.”

  “Why, what has happened to Thoday?”

  “Struck down,” said the Rector, “struck down by this wretched scourge of influenza. Quite helpless. Delirious. They have sent for Dr. Baines.”

  “T’chk, t’chk,” said Mrs. Venables.

  “It appears,” went on the Rector, “that he felt unwell this morning, but insisted—most unwisely, poor man—on driving in to Walbeach on some business or other. Foolish fellow! I thought he looked seedy when he came in to see me last night. Most fortunately, George Ashton met him in the town and saw how bad he was and insisted on coming back with him. Poor Thoday must have taken a violent chill in all this bitter cold. He was quite collapsed when they got home and they had to put him to bed instantly, and now he is in a high fever and worrying all the time because he cannot get to the church to-night. I told his brother to make every effort to calm his mind, but I fear it will be difficult. He is so enthusiastic, and the thought that he has been incapacitated at this crisis seems to be preying on his mind.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Venables, “but I expect Dr. Baines will give him something to quiet him down.”

  “I hope so, sincerely. It is a disaster, of course, but it is distressing that he should take it so to heart. Well, well. What can’t be cured must be endured. This is our last hope gone. We shall be reduced to ringing minors.”

  “Is this man one of your ringers, then, padre?”

  “Unfortunately, he is, and there is no one now to take his place. Our grand scheme will have to be abandoned. Even if I were to take a bell myself, I could not possibly ring for nine hours. I am not getting younger, and besides, I have an Early Service at 8 o’clock, in addition to the New Year service which will not release me till after midnight. Ah, well! Ma
n proposes and God disposes—unless”—the Rector turned suddenly and looked at his guest—“you were speaking just now with a good deal of feeling about Treble Bob—you are not, yourself, by any chance, a ringer?”

  “Well,” said Wimsey, “I used at one time to pull quite a pretty rope. But whether, at this time of day—”

  “Treble Bob?” inquired the Rector, eagerly.

  “Treble Bob, certainly. But it’s some time since—”

  It will come back to you,” cried the Rector, feverishly. “It will come back. Half an hour with the handbells—”

  “My dear!” said Mrs. Venables.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” cried the Rector. “Is it not really providential? That just at this moment we should be sent a guest who is actually a ringer and accustomed to ringing Kent Treble Bob?” He rang for the maid. “Hinkins must go round at once and call the lads together for a practice ring on the handbells. My dear, I am afraid we shall have to monopolise the dining-room, if you don’t mind. Emily, tell Hinkins that I have here a gentleman who can ring the peal with us and I want him to go round immediately—”

  “One moment, Emily. Theodore, is it quite fair to ask Lord Peter Wimsey, after a motor accident, and at the end of a tiring day, to stay up ringing bells from midnight to nine o’clock? A short peal, perhaps, if he really does not mind, but even so, are we not demanding rather a lot of his good nature?”

  The Rector’s mouth drooped like the mouth of a hurt child, and Wimsey hastened to his support.

  “Not in the least, Mrs. Venables. Nothing would please me more than to ring bells all day and all night. I am not tired at all. I really don’t need rest. I would far rather ring bells. The only thing that worries me is whether I shall be able to get through the peal without making stupid mistakes.”

  “Of course you will, of course you will,” said the Rector, hurriedly. “But as my wife says—really, I am afraid I am being very thoughtless. Nine hours is too much. We ought to confine ourselves to five thousand changes or—”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Wimsey. “Nine hours or nothing. I insist upon it. Probably, once you have heard my efforts, it will be nothing.”

  “Pooh! nonsense!” cried the Rector. “Emily, tell Hinkins to get the ringers together here by—shall we say half-past six? I think they can all be here by then, except possibly Pratt, who lives up at Tupper’s End, but I can make the eighth myself. How delightful this is! Positively, I cannot get over the amazing coincidence of your arrival. It shows the wonderful way in which Heaven provides even for our pleasures, if they be innocent. I hope. Lord Peter, you will not mind if I make a little reference to it in my sermon to-night? At least, it will hardly be a sermon—only a few thoughts appropriate to the New Year and its opportunities. May I ask where you usually ring?”

  “Nowhere, nowadays; but when I was a boy I used to ring at Duke’s Denver, and when I go home at Christmas and so on, I occasionally lay hand to a rope even now.”

  “Duke’s Denver? Of course—St. John ad-Portam-Latinam—a beautiful little church; I know it quite well. But I think you will admit that our bells are finer. Well, now, if you will excuse me, I will just run and put the dining-room in readiness for our practice.”

  He bustled away.

  “It is very good of you to indulge my husband’s hobby,” said Mrs. Venables; “this occasion has meant so much to him, and he has had so many disappointments about it. But it seems dreadful to offer you hospitality and then keep you hard at work all night.”

  Wimsey again assured her that the pleasure was entirely his.

  “I shall insist on your getting a few hours’ rest at least,” was all Mrs. Venables could say. “Will you come up now and see your room? You will like a wash and brush-up at any rate. We will have supper at 7.30, if we can get my husband to release you by then, and after that, you really must go and lie down for a nap. I have put you in here—I see your man has everything ready for you.”

  “Well, Bunter,” said Wimsey, when Mrs. Venables had departed, leaving him to make himself presentable by the inadequate light of a small oil-lamp and a candle, “that looks a nice bed—but I am not fated to sleep in it.”

  “So I understand from the young woman, my lord.”

  “It’s a pity you can’t relieve me at the rope, Bunter.”

  “I assure your lordship that for the first time in my existence I regret that I have made no practical study of campanology.”

  “I am always so delighted to find that there are things you cannot do. Did you ever try?”

  “Once only, my lord, and on that occasion an accident was only narrowly averted. Owing to my unfortunate lack of manual dexterity I was very nearly hanged in the rope, my lord.”

  “That’s enough about hanging,” said Wimsey, peevishly. “We’re not detecting now, and I don’t want to talk shop.”

  “Certainly not, my lord. Does your lordship desire to be shaved?”

  “Yes—let’s start the New Year with a clean face.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  * * *

  Descending, clean and shaven, to the dining-room, Wimsey found the table moved aside and eight chairs set in a circle. On seven of the chairs sat seven men, varying in age from a gnarled old gnome with a long beard to an embarrassed youth with his hair plastered into a cowlick; in the centre, the Rector stood twittering like an amiable magician.

  “Ah! there you are! Splendid! excellent! Now, lads, this is Lord Peter Wimsey, who has been providentially sent to assist us out of our difficulty. He tells me he is a little out of practice, so I am sure you will not mind putting in a little time to enable him to get his hand in again. Now I must introduce you all. Lord Peter, this is Hezekiah Lavender, who has pulled the Tenor for sixty years and means to pull it for twenty years longer, don’t you, Hezekiah?”

  The little gnarled man grinned toothlessly and extended a knobby hand.

  “Proud to meet you, my lord. Yes, I’ve pulled old Tailor Paul a mort o’ times now. Her and me’s well acquainted, and I means to go on a-pulling of her till she rings the nine tailors for me, that I do.”

  “I hope you will long be spared to do it, Mr. Lavender.”

  “Ezra Wilderspin,” went on the Rector. “He’s our biggest man, and he pulls the smallest bell. That’s often the way of things, isn’t it? He is our blacksmith, by the way, and has promised to get your car put right for you in the morning.”

  The blacksmith laughed sheepishly, engulfed Wimsey’s fingers in an enormous hand and retired to his chair in some confusion.

  “Jack Godfrey,” continued the Rector. “Number Seven. How’s Batty Thomas going now, Jack?”

  “Going fine, thank you, sir, since we had them new gudgeons put in.”

  “Jack has the honour of ringing the oldest bell we have,” added the Rector. “Batty Thomas was cast in 1338 by Thomas Belleyetere of Lynn; but she gets her name from Abbot Thomas who re-cast her in 1380—doesn’t she, Jack?”

  “So she do, sir,” agreed Mr. Godfrey. Bells, it may be noted, like ships and kittens, have a way of being female, whatever names they are given.

  “Mr. Donnington, the landlord of the Red Cow, our churchwarden,” went on the Rector, bringing forward a long, thin man with a squint. “I ought to have mentioned him first of all, by right of his office, but then, you see, though he himself is very distinguished, his bell is not so ancient as Tailor Paul or Batty Thomas. He takes charge of Number Six—Dimity, we call her—a comparative new-comer in her present shape, though her metal is old.”

  “And a sweeter bell we haven’t got in the ring,” averred Mr. Donnington, stoutly. “Pleased to meet you, my lord.”

  “Joe Hinkins, my gardener. You have already met, I think. He pulls Number Five. Harry Gotobed, Number Four; our sexton, and what better name could a sexton have? And Walter Pratt—our youngest recruit, who is going to ring Number Three and do it very well indeed. So glad you were able to get here in time, Walter. That’s all of us. You, Lord Peter, will take
poor William Thoday’s bell. Number Two. She and Number Five were recast in the same year as Dimity—the year of the old Queen’s Jubilee; her name is Sabaoth. Now, let’s get to work. Here is your handbell; come and sit next to Walter Pratt. Our good old friend Hezekiah will be the conductor, and you’ll find he can sing out his calls as loud and clear as the bells, for all he’s seventy-five years past. Can’t you, Grand-dad?”

  “Ay, that I can,” cried the old man, cheerfully. “Now, boys, if you be ready, we’ll ring a little touch of 96, just to put this gentleman in the way of it, like. You’ll remember, my lord, that you starts by making the first snapping lead with the treble and after that you goes into the slow hunt till she comes down to snap with you again.”

  “Right you are,” said Wimsey. “And after that I make the thirds and fourths.”

  “That’s so, my lord. And then it’s three steps forward and one step back till you lay the blows behind.”

  “Carry on, sergeant major.”

  The old man nodded, adding: “And you, Wally Pratt, mind what you’re about, and don’t go a-follerin’ your course bell beyond thirds place. I’ve tolled yew about that time and again. Now, are you ready, lads—go!”

  * * *

  The art of change-ringing is peculiar to the English, and, like most English peculiarities, unintelligible to the rest of the world. To the musical Belgian, for example, it appears that the proper thing to do with a carefully-tuned ring of bells is to play a tune upon it. By the English campanologist, the playing of tunes is considered to be a childish game, only fit for foreigners; the proper use of bells is to work out mathematical permutations and combinations. When he speaks of the music of his bells, he does not mean musicians’ music—still less what the ordinary man calls music. To the ordinary man, in fact, the pealing of bells is a monotonous jangle and a nuisance, tolerable only when mitigated by remote distance and sentimental association. The change-ringer does, indeed, distinguish musical differences between one method of producing his permutations and another; he avers, for instance, that where the hinder bells run 7, 5, 6, or 5, 6, 7, or 5, 7; 6, the music is always prettier, and can detect and approve, where they occur, the consecutive fifths of Tittums and the cascading thirds of the Queen’s change. But what he really means is, that by the English method of ringing with rope and wheel, each several bell gives forth her fullest and her noblest note. His passion—and it is a passion—finds its satisfaction in mathematical completeness and mechanical perfection, and as his bell weaves her way rhythmically up from lead to hinder place and down again, he is filled with the solemn intoxication that comes of intricate ritual faultlessly performed. To any disinterested spectator, peeping in upon the rehearsal, there might have been something a little absurd about the eight absorbed faces; the eight tense bodies poised in a spellbound circle on the edges of eight dining-room chairs; the eight upraised right hands, decorously wagging the handbells upward and downward; but to the performers, everything was serious and important as an afternoon with the Australians at Lord’s.