“Oh, quite,” said Wimsey, a little embarrassed.
He left Hezekiah and went into the church, stepping softly as though he feared to rouse up something from its sleep. Abbot Thomas was quiet in his tomb; the cherubims, open-eyed and open-mouthed, were absorbed in their everlasting contemplation; far over him he felt the patient watchfulness of the bells.
THE SECOND PART
NOBBY GOES IN SLOW AND COMES OUT QUICK
It is a frightful plight. Two angels buried him… in Vallombrosa by night; I saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock.
J. SHERIDAN LEFANU: Welder’s Hand.
Mr. Cranton was in an infirmary as the guest of His Majesty the King, and looked better than when they had last seen him. He showed no surprise at being charged with the murder of Geoffrey Deacon, twelve years or so after that gentleman’s reputed decease.
“Right!” said Mr. Cranton. “I rather expected you’d get on to it, but I kept on hoping you mightn’t. I didn’t do it, and I want to make a statement. Do sit down. These quarters aren’t what I could wish for a gentleman, but they seem to be the best the Old Country can offer. I’m told they do it much prettier in Sing Sing. England with all thy faults I love thee still. Where do you want me to begin?”
“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Wimsey, “go on till you get to the end and then stop. May he have a fag, Charles?”
“Well, my lord and — no,” said Mr. Cranton, “I won’t say gentlemen. Seems to go against the grain, somehow. Officers, if you like, but not gentlemen. Well, my lord and officers, I don’t need to tell you that I’m a deeply injured man. I said I never had those shiners, didn’t I? And you see I was right. What you want to know is, how did I first hear that Deacon was still on deck? Well, he wrote me a letter, that’s how. Somewhere about last July, that would be. Sent it to the old crib, and it was forwarded on — never you mind who by.”
“Gammy Pluck,” observed Mr. Parker, distantly.
“I name no names,” said Mr. Cranton. “Honour among — gentlemen. I burnt that letter, being an honourable gentleman, but it was some story, and I don’t know that I can do justice to it. Seems that when Deacon made his getaway, after an unfortunate encounter with a warder, he had to sneak about Kent in a damned uncomfortable sort of way for a day or two. He said the stupidity of the police was almost incredible. Walked right over him twice, he said. One time they trod on him. Said he’d never realised so vividly before why a policeman was called a flattie. Nearly broke his fingers standing on them. Now I,” added Mr. Cranton, “have rather small feet. Small and well-shod. You can always tell a gentleman by his feet.”
“Go on, Nobby,” said Mr. Parker.
“Anyhow, the third night he was out there lying doggo in a wood somewhere, he heard a chap coming along that wasn’t a flattie. Rolling drunk, Deacon said he was. So Deacon pops out from behind a tree and pastes the fellow one. He said he didn’t mean to do him in, only put him out, but he must have struck a bit harder than what he meant. Mind you, that’s only what he said, but Deacon always was a low kind of fellow and he’d laid out one man already and you can’t hang a chap twice. Anyway, he found he’d been and gone and done it, and that was that.
“What he wanted, of course, was duds, and when he came to examine the takings, he found he’d bagged a Tommy in uniform with all his kit. Well, that wasn’t very surprising, come to think of it. There were a lot of those about in 1918, but it sort of took Deacon aback. Of course, he knew there was a war on — they’d been told all about that — but it hadn’t, as you might say, come home to him. This Tommy had some papers and stuff on him and a torch, and from what Deacon could make out, looking into the thing rather hurriedly in a retired spot, he was just coming off his leaf and due to get back to the Front. Well, Deacon thought, any hole’s better than Maidstone Gaol, so here goes. So he changes clothes with the Tommy down to his skin, collars his papers and what not, and tips the body down the hole. Deacon was a Kentish man himself, you see, and knew the place. Of course, he didn’t know the first thing about soldiering — however, needs must and all that. He thought his best way was to get up to Town and maybe he’d find some old pal up there to look after him. So he tramped off — and eventually he got a lift on a lorry or something to a railway station. He did mention the name, but I’ve forgotten it. He picked some town he’d never been in — a small place. Anyway, he found a train going to London and he piled into it. That was all right; but somewhere on the way, in got a whole bunch of soldiers, pretty lit-up and cheery, and from the way they talked. Deacon began to find out what he was up against. It came over him, you see, that here he was, all dressed up as a perfectly good Tommy, and not knowing the first thing about the War, or drill or anything, and he knew if he opened his mouth he’d put his foot in it.”
“Of course,” said Wimsey. “It’d be like dressing up as a Freemason. You couldn’t hope to get away with it.”
“That’s it. Deacon said it was like being among people talking a foreign language. Worse; because Deacon did know a bit about foreign languages. He was an educated sort of bloke. But this Army stuff was beyond him. So all he could do was to pretend to be asleep. He said he just rolled up in his corner and snored, and if anybody spoke to him he swore at them. It worked quite well, he said. There was one very persistent bloke, though, with a bottle of Scotch. He kept on shoving drinks at Deacon and he took a few, and then some more, and by the time he got to London he was pretty genuinely sozzled. You see, he’d had nothing to eat, to speak of, for a coupla days, except some bread he’d managed to scrounge from a cottage.”
The policeman who was taking all this down in shorthand scratched stolidly on over the paper. Mr. Cranton took a drink of water and resumed.
“Deacon said he wasn’t very clear what happened to him after that. He wanted to get out of the station and go off somewhere, but he found it wasn’t so easy. The darkened streets confused him, and the persistent fellow with the bottle of Scotch seemed to have taken a fancy to him. This bloke talked all the time, which was lucky for Deacon. He said he remembered having some more drinks and something about a canteen, and tripping over something and a lot of chaps laughing at him. And after that he must really have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew, he was in a train again, with Tommies all round him, and from what he could make out, they were bound for the Front.”
“That’s a very remarkable story,” said Mr. Parker.
“It’s clear enough,” said Wimsey. “Some kindly soul must have examined his papers, found he was due back and shoved him on to the nearest transport, bound for Dover, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Cranton. “Caught in the machine, as you might say. Well, all he could do was to lie doggo again. There were plenty of others who seemed to be dog-tired and fairly well canned and he wasn’t in any way remarkable. He watched what the others did, and produced his papers at the right time and all that. Fortunately, nobody else seemed to belong to his particular unit. So he got across. Mind you,” added Mr. Cranton, “I can’t tell you all the details. I wasn’t in the War myself, being otherwise engaged. You must fill up the blanks for yourself. He said he was damned seasick on the way over, and after that he slept in a sort of cattle-waggon and finally they bundled him out at last in the dark at some ghastly place or other. After a bit he heard somebody asking if there was anyone belonging to his unit. He knew enough to say ‘Yes, sir’ and stand forward — and then he found himself foot-slogging over a filthy road full of holes with a small party of men and an officer. God! he said it went on for hours and he thought they must have done about a hundred miles, but I daresay that was an exaggeration. And he said there was a noise like merry hell going on ahead, and the ground began to shake, and he suddenly grasped what he was in for.”