“Impressive!” said Wimsey. “Why, it’s like a young cathedral. I’d no idea. How big is your parish, then?”
“You’ll be surprised when I tell you,” said the Rector, with a chuckle. “Three hundred and forty souls — no more. Astonishing, is it not? But you find the same thing all over the Fens. East Anglia is famous for the size and splendour of its parish churches. Still, we flatter ourselves we are almost unique, even in this part of the world. It was an abbey foundation, and in the old days Fenchurch St. Paul must have been quite an important place. How high should you say our tower was?”
Wimsey gazed up at the great pile. “It’s difficult to tell in this darkness. Not less than a hundred and thirty feet, surely.”
“Not a bad guess. A hundred and twenty-eight, to be exact, to the top of the pinnacles, but it looks more, because of the comparative lowness of the clerestory roof. There aren’t many to beat us. St. Peter Mancroft, of course — but that’s a town church. And St. Michael’s, Coventry, is one hundred and thirty feet without the spire. But I would venture to back Fenchurch St. Paul against them all for beauty of proportion. You will see that better when we turn the corner. Here we are. I always blow my horn here; the wall and the trees make it so very dangerous. I sometimes think we ought to have the churchyard wall set back a little, in the public interest. Ah! now you get a little idea. Very fine, is it not, the piling of the aisle and clerestory? You will be able to judge better in daylight. Here is the Rectory — just opposite the church. I always blow my horn at the gate for fear anybody should be about. The bushes make it so very dark. Ah! safely negotiated. I’m sure you will be glad to get into the warm and have a cup of tea — or possibly something stronger. I always blow my horn at the door, so as to tell my wife I am back. She gets nervous when I am out after lighting-up time; the dykes and drains make these roads so very awkward, and I am not as young as I was. I fear I am already a little late. Ah! here is my wife. Agnes, my dear, I am sorry to be a little behind time, but I have brought a guest back with me. He has had an accident with his car and will stay the night with us. The rug! Allow me! I fear that seat is something of a res angusta. Pray be careful of your head. Ah! all is well. My dear — Lord Peter Wimsey.”
Mrs. Venables, a plump and placid figure in the lamplight from the open door, received the invasion with competent tranquillity. “How fortunate that my husband should have met you. An accident? I do hope you are not hurt. I always say these roads are perfect death-traps.”
“Thank you,” said Wimsey. “There is no harm done. We stupidly ran off the road — at Frog’s Bridge, I understand.”
“A very nasty place — quite a mercy you didn’t go into the Thirty-foot Drain. Do come in and sit down and get yourselves warm. Your man? Yes, of course. Emily! Take this gentleman’s manservant into the kitchen and make him comfortable.”
“And tell Hinkins to take the car and go down to Frog’s Bridge for the luggage,” added the Rector. “He will find Lord Peter’s car there. He had better go at once, before the weather gets worse. And, Emily! tell him to send over to Wilderspin and arrange to get the car out of the dyke.”
“To-morrow morning will do for that,” said Wimsey.
“To be sure. First thing to-morrow morning. Wilderspin is the blacksmith — an excellent fellow. He will see to the matter most competently. Dear me, yes! And now, come in, come in! We want our tea. Agnes, my dear, have you explained to Emily that Lord Peter will be staying the night?”
“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.”