“That,” said the waiter, seriously, “will be very gratifying.”
Not till the port (Tuke Holdsworth ’08) was set upon the table did Wimsey draw the letter from his pocket and gloat upon it. It was addressed in a foreign hand to “M. Paul Taylor, Poste Restante, Walbeach, Lincolnshire, Angleterre.”
“My family,” observed Lord Peter, “have frequently accused me of being unrestrained and wanting in self-control. They little know me. Instead of opening this letter at once, I reserve it for Superintendent Blundell. Instead of rushing off at once to Superintendent Blundell, I remain quietly at Walbeach and eat roast mutton. It is true that the good Blundell is not at Leamholt to-day, so that nothing would be gained if I did rush back, but still — it just shows you. The envelope bears a post-mark which is only half-decipherable, but which I make out to be something ending in y in the department of either Marne or Seine-et-Marne — a district endeared to many by the recollection of mud, blood, shell-holes and trench-feet. The envelope is of slightly worse quality than even the majority of French envelopes, and the writing suggests that it was carried out with what may be called a post-office pen and ink to match, by a hand unaccustomed to the exercise. The ink and pen mean little, for I have never yet encountered in any part of France a pen and ink with which any normal person could write comfortably. But the handwriting is suggestive, because, owing to the system of State education in that country, though all the French write vilely, it is rare to find one who writes very much more vilely than the rest. The date is obscure, but, since we know the time of arrival, we may guess the time of dispatch. Can we deduce anything further from the envelope?”
“If I may be allowed to say so, my lord, it is possibly a little remarkable that the name and address of the sender does not appear on the back.”
“That is well observed. Yes, Bunter, you may have full marks for that. The French, as you have no doubt often noticed, seldom head their letters with an address as we do in England, though they occasionally write at the foot some such useless indication as ‘Paris’ or ‘Lyon,’ without adding the number of the house and the name of the street. They do, however, frequently place these necessary indications on the flap of the envelope, in the hope that they may be thrown into the fire and irrecoverably lost before the letter is answered or even read.”
“It has sometimes occurred to me, my lord, to be surprised at that habit.”
“Not at all, Bunter. It is quite logical. To begin with, it is a fixed idea with the French that the majority of letters tend to be lost in the post. They put no faith in Government departments, and I think they are perfectly right. They hope, however, that, if the post-office fails to deliver the letter to the addressee it may, in time, return it to the sender. It seems a forlorn hope, but they are again perfectly right. One must explore every stone and leave no avenue unturned. The Englishman, in his bluff, hearty way, is content that under such circumstances the post-office should violate his seals, peruse his correspondence, extract his signature and address from the surrounding verbiage, supply a fresh envelope and return the whole to him under the blushing pseudonym of ‘Hubbykins’ or ‘Dogsbody’ for the entertainment of his local postman. But the Frenchman, being decorous, not to say secretive, by nature, thinks it better to preserve his privacy by providing, on the exterior of the missive, all the necessary details for the proper functioning of this transaction. I do not say he is wrong, though I do think it would be better if he wrote the address in both places. But the fact that this particular letter provides no address for return does perhaps suggest that the sender was not precisely out for publicity. And the devil of it is, Bunter, that ten to one there will be no address on the inside, either. No matter. This is very excellent port. Be good enough to finish the bottle, Bunter, because it would be a pity to waste it and if I have any more I shall be too sleepy to drive.”
They took the direct road back from Walbeach to Fenchurch, following the bank of the river.
“If this country had been drained intelligently and all of a piece,” remarked Wimsey, “by running all the canals into the rivers instead of the rivers into the canals, so as to get a good scour of water, Walbeach might still be a port and the landscape would look rather less like a crazy quilt. But what with seven hundred years of greed and graft and laziness, and perpetual quarrelling between one parish and the next, and the mistaken impression that what suits Holland must suit the Fens, the thing’s a mess. It answers the purpose, but it might have been a lot better. Here’s the place where we met Cranton — if it was Cranton. By the way I wonder if that fellow at the sluice saw anything of him. Let’s stop and find out. I love dawdling round locks.”
He twisted the car across the bridge and brought it to a standstill close beside the sluice-keeper’s cottage. The man came out to see what was wanted and was lured, without difficulty, into a desultory conversation, beginning with the weather and the crops and going on to the Wash Cut, the tides and the river. Before very long, Wimsey was standing on the narrow wooden foot-bridge that ran across the sluice, gazing down thoughtfully into the green water. The tide was on the ebb and the gates partly open, so that a slow trickle ran through them as the Wale water discharged itself sluggishly towards the sea.
“Very picturesque and pretty,” said Wimsey. “Do you ever get artists and people along here to paint it?”
The sluice-keeper didn’t know as he did.
“Some of those piers would be none the worse for a bit of stone and mortar,” went on Wimsey; “and the gates look pretty ancient.”
“Ah!” said the sluice-keeper. “I believe you.” He spat into the river. “This here sluice has been needing repairs — Oh! a matter of twenty year, now. And more.”
“Then why don’t they do it?”
“Ah!” said the sluice-keeper. He remained lost in melancholy thought for some minutes, and Wimsey did not interrupt him. Then he spoke, weightily, and with long years of endurance in his voice. “Nobody knows whose job this here sluice is, seemin’ly. The Fen Drainage Board, now — they say as it did oughter be done by the Wale Conservancy Board. And they say the Fen Drainage Board did oughter see to it. And now they’ve agreed to refer it, like, to the East Level Waterways Commission. But they ain’t made their report yet.” He spat again and was silent.
“But,” said Wimsey, “suppose you got a lot of water up this way, would the gates stand it?”
“Well, they might and they mightn’t,” replied the sluice-keeper. “But we don’t get much water up here these days. I have heard tell as it was different in Oliver Cromwell’s time, but we don’t get a great lot now.”
Wimsey was well used to the continual intrusion of the Lord Protector upon the affairs of the Fen, but he felt it to be a little unjustified in the present case.
“It was the Dutchmen built this sluice, wasn’t it?” he said. “Ah!” agreed the sluice-keeper.
“Yes, that’s who built this sluice. To keep the water out. In Oliver Cromwell’s time this country was all drownded every winter, so they say. So they built this sluice. But we don’t get much water up nowadays.”
“You will, though, when they’ve finished the New Wash Cut.”
“Ah! so they say. But I don’t know. Some says it won’t be no different. And some says as it’ll drown the land round about Walbeach. All I know, they’ve spent a sight of money, and where’s it coming from? To my mind, things was all very well as they was.”