Lord Peter Views the Body (14 page)

    ‘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 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 puppyhood 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 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 been done then. No washing.’

    ‘Well, well – something else then – a post, or old Mrs Gidden’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 is 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 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 waggon or something going through to Lymptree or Herriotting.’

    ‘No, sir – ’tweren’t a waggon. 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.’