“Who’s responsible for the Wash Cut? The Fen Drainage Board?”
“No, that’s the Wale Conservancy, that is.”
“But it must have occurred to them that it might make a difference to this sluice. Why couldn’t they do it all at the same time?”
The fenman gazed at Wimsey with a slow pity for his bird-witted feebleness of mind.
“Ain’t I telling yew? They don’t rightly know if it did oughter be paid for by the Fen Drainage or the Wale Conservancy. Why,” and a note of pride crept into his tone, “they’ve had five law actions about this here sluice. Ah! they took one on ’em up to Parliament, they did. Cost a heap of money, so they say.”
“Well, it seems ridiculous,” said Wimsey. “And with all this unemployment about, too. Do you get many of the unemployed tramping round this way?”
“Times we do, times we don’t.”
“I remember meeting a chap along the Bank last time I was down here — on New Year’s Day. I thought he looked a bit of a tough nut.”
“Oh, him? Yes. He got took on at Ezra Wilderspin’s place, but he soon had enough o’ that. Didn’t want to do no work. Half on ’em don’t. He came along askin’ for a cup o’ tea, but I told him to get out. It wasn’t tea he was lookin’ for. Not him. I know his sort.”
“I suppose he’d come from Walbeach.”
“I suppose he had. He said so, anyhow. Said he’d been trying to get work on the Wash Cut.”
“Oh? He told me he was a motor mechanic.”
“Ah!” The sluice-keeper spat once more into the tumbling water. “They’d say anything.”
“He looked to me as though he’d worked a good bit with his hands. Why shouldn’t there be work for men on the Cut? That’s what I was saying.”
“Yes, sir, it’s easy to say them things. But with plenty o’ skilled men out of a job, they don’t need to go taking on the like of him. That’s where it is, you see.”
“Well,” said Wimsey, “I still think that the Drainage Board and the Conservancy Board and the Commission between them ought to be able to absorb some of these men and give you a fresh set of gates. However, it’s not my business, and I’ll have to be pushing along.”
“Ah!” said the sluice-keeper. “New gates? Ah!”
He remained hanging on the rail and spitting thoughtfully into the water till Wimsey and Bunter had regained the car. Then he came hobbling after them.
“What I says is,” he observed, leaning so earnestly over the door of the Daimler that Wimsey hurriedly drew back his feet, thinking that the usual expectoration was about to follow, “what I says is. Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? See? Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? Then we might get it, same time as they gets disarmament, see?”
“Ha, ha!” said Wimsey, rightly supposing this to be irony. “Very good! I must tell my friends about that. Good work, what? Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? Ha, ha!”
“That’s right,” said the sluice-keeper, anxious that the point of the jest should not be lost. “Why don’t they refer it to Geneva? See?”
“Splendid!” said Wimsey. “I won’t forget that. Ha, ha, ha!”
He gently released the clutch. As they moved away, he glanced back and saw the sluice-keeper convulsed by the remembrance of his own wit.
* * *
Lord Peter’s misgivings about the letter were duly confirmed. He honourably submitted it, unopened, to Superintendent Blundell, as soon as the latter returned from attendance at the Quarter Sessions where he had been engaged all day. The Superintendent was alarmed by Wimsey’s unorthodox raid on the post-office, but pleased by his subsequent discretion, and readily allowed him full credit for zeal and intelligence. Together they opened the envelope. The letter, which bore no address, was written on thin paper of the same poor quality as the envelope, and began:
“Mon cher mari—”
“Hey!” said Mr. Blundell. “What’s that mean? I’m not much of a French scholar, but doesn’t mari mean ‘husband’?”
“Yes. ‘My dear husband,’ it begins.”
“I never knew that Cranton — dash it!” exclaimed Mr. Blundell. “Where does Cranton come into this? I never heard of his having any wife at all, let alone a French one.”
“We don’t know that Cranton comes into it at all. He came to St. Paul and asked for a Mr. Paul Taylor. This presumably, is addressed to the Paul Taylor he asked for.”
“But they said Paul Taylor was a bell.”
“Tailor Paul is a bell, but Paul Taylor may be a person.”
“Who is he, then?”
“God knows. Somebody with a wife in France.”
“And the other chap, Batty Something — is he a person?”
“No, he’s a bell. But he may be a person, too.”
“They can’t both be persons,” said Mr. Blundell, “it’s not reasonable. And where is this Paul Taylor, anyhow?”
“Perhaps he was the corpse.”
“Then where’s Cranton? They can’t,” added the Superintendent, “both be the corpse. That’s not reasonable, either.”
“Possibly Cranton gave one name to Wilderspin and another to his correspondent.”
“Then what did he mean by asking for Paul Taylor at Fenchurch St. Paul?”
“Perhaps that was the bell, after all.”
“See here,” said Mr. Blundell, “it doesn’t seem reasonable to me. This Paul Taylor or Tailor Paul, can’t be both a bell and a person. At least, not both at once. It sounds kind of, well, kind of batty to me.”
“Why bring Batty into it? Batty is a bell. Tailor Paul is a bell. Paul Taylor is a person, because he gets letters. You can’t send letters to a bell. If you did you’d be batty. Oh, bother!”
“Well, I don’t understand it,” said Mr. Blundell. “Stephen Driver, he’s a person, too. You don’t say he’s a bell, do you? What I want to know is, which of ’em all is Cranton. If he’s been and fixed himself up with a wife in France between this and last September — I mean, between this and January — no, I mean between September and January — I mean — here, dash it all, my lord, let’s read the blooming letter. You might read it out in English would you? My French is a bit off, these days.”
“My dear husband” (Wimsey translated), — You told me not to write to you, without great urgency, but three months are past and I have no news of you. I am very anxious, asking myself if you have not been taken by the military authorities. You have assured me that they could not now have you shot, the War being over so long ago, but it is known that the English are very strict. Write, I beseech you, a little word to say that you are safe. It begins to be very difficult to do the work of the farm alone, and we have had great trouble with the Spring sowing. Also the red cow is dead. I am obliged to carry the fowls to market myself, because Jean is too exigent, and prices are very low. Little Pierre helps me as much as he can, but he is only nine. Little Marie has had the whooping-cough and the Baby also. I beg your pardon if I am indiscreet to write to you, but I am very much troubled. Pierre and Marie send kisses to their papa.