“But had you made any plans for shipping him off?”
“Yes, I had. I’d been over to Walbeach the day before with Jim here, and we’d had a bit of talk with a pal of his — a queer old skipper on a Dutch cargo boat, that was lying there, taking in some sort of freight — I never rightly gathered what it was — but I got the notion the old boy wouldn’t find much come amiss to him.”
“You’re right there, Will,” put in Jim, grinning.
“So I found. It wasn’t the best plan, maybe, but it was all I could do in the time. I couldn’t think very clear, to tell you the truth. I was terrible put about in my mind and my head was buzzing like a thresher. I suppose ’twas the ’flu coming on. I don’t know how I got through that evening at home, looking at Mary and the kids and knowing what I knew. Fortunately, she knew I was worried over the cow and put it all down to that — at least, I thought so. I tossed and turned all night, and the only thing to comfort me was the blessed snow coming down and hiding all they footprints we’d left round the church.
“Next morning I was damned ill, but I couldn’t stop to think of that. I slipped out well before daybreak, with some bread and cheese and beer in an old tool-bag. Jim heard me and called out to know what was up. So I said I was going over to see the cow — and so I did, only I took the church on the way.
“Deacon was all right, only very bad-tempered and perished wi’ cold, so I left him my old coat — not wanting him to be frozen to death. And I tied him up by his elbows and ankles, leaving his hands free, so as he could help himself to his victuals but not untie himself. Then I went on to see to the cow and found her better. After breakfast I got the old car out and ran her over to Walbeach, feeling worse and worse all the time. I found my skipper, just getting ready to sail. I had a word with him, and he agreed to wait till 10 o’clock that night and carry my passenger, no questions asked. Two hundred and fifty pounds was the price he wanted and I agreed to pay it. I got the money and gave him the fifty then and there, promising him the rest when I got Deacon aboard. I got into the car and started back — and you know what happened afterwards.”
“That’s very clear,” said Parker. “I needn’t tell you that you were compounding a serious felony by helping a convicted murderer to escape from justice. Speaking as a policeman, I am shocked; speaking as a human being, I have every sympathy for you. Now, you.” He turned to Jim. “I imagine your part of it comes in here.”
“Yes, sir. Well, as you know, poor Will was brought back in a terrible state and we thought for a day or two he was pretty well gone. He was out of his head and kept on calling out that he must go down to the church, but we put that down to the bell-ringing business. All the time he kept a sort of control over himself and never let out a word about Deacon, but one day, when Mary had gone out of the room, he clutched my hand and said, ‘Don’t let her know, Jim. Get him away.’ ‘Get who away?’ I said. And he said, ‘In the belfry — bitter cold and starving.’ And then he sat up in bed and said, quite plain and clear, ‘My coat — give me my coat — I must have the keys and the money.’ I said, ‘All right, Will, I’ll see to it’—thinking he was dreaming, and after a bit he seemed to forget about it and go off in a doze. But I thought it was queer, so I had a look in his coat, and there, sure enough, were the Rector’s bunch of keys and a whole wad of money.
“Well, I began to think there might be something behind it, so I took the keys, and I thought, before I took them back, I’d just have a look round the church. I went in there—”
“Which day was this?”
“I reckon it was the 2nd of January. I went up into the belfry — right up to the bell-chamber, and — well! there he was!”
“He must have been pretty fed-up with things by that time.”
“Fed up? He was dead and cold.”
“Starved to death?”
“Not he. There was a big bit of cheese beside him and near half a loaf of bread and two bottles of beer, one empty and one full. And he hadn’t died of cold, neither, as you might expect. I’ve seen men that had died of exposure, and they died peaceful — curled up like kittens, mostly, as if they’d gone out in their sleep. No. He’d died on his feet, and whatever it was, he’d seen it coming to him. He’d struggled like a tiger against the ropes, working at them till he could get upright, and they had cut through the stuff of his jacket and through his socks. And his face! My God, sir, I’ve never seen anything like it. His eyes staring open and a look in them as if he’d looked down into hell. It fair shook me.
“I looked him over — and then I saw Will’s old coat lying on the floor, thrown off, it might be, in his struggles — and that didn’t look like dying of cold, neither. I couldn’t tell what to make of it, for I didn’t recognise him, you see. I had a look in his breast pocket, and found some papers. There was some made out in the name of Taylor and some in a French name that I’ve forgotten. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And then I had a look at his hands.”
“Ah!” said Wimsey, “now we’re coming to it.”
“Yes, my lord. You must remember that I knew Deacon. Not very well, but I knew him. And he carried a big scar on one hand, where he’d fallen down one day, carrying a tray with a glass jug on it. I’d seen that scar, and I’d never forget it. When I saw that, my lord, and knew who ’twas — well, there! I hadn’t much doubt about what’d happened. Forgive me. Will — I thought you’d done him in, and as God’s my witness, I couldn’t blame you. Not that I hold with murder, and it came to me then that things could never be the same betwixt you and me — but I didn’t blame you. Only I wished it had happened in a fair fight.”
“If it had happened, Jim, it would a-been in a fair fight. I might a-killed him, but I wouldn’t a-killed him when he was tied up. You might a-known that.”
“Well, so I might. But it seemed to me at the time as there was no way out of it. I had to think quick what to do. I found some old boards and beams in a corner, and I stood them up in front of him, so as if anybody came in they might not notice him — not unless they were looking for something — and then I came away and thought hard. I kept the keys. I knew I’d be wanting them, and Rector is so absentminded, he’d probably think he’d mislaid them.
“I thought all that day — and then I remembered that Lady Thorpe’s funeral was fixed for the Saturday. It seemed to me that I might put him in her grave and that he need never be found, barring accidents. I was due to leave on Saturday morning, and I thought I could fix things so as to have an alibi.
“I had a bad moment on Friday. Jack Godfrey told me they were going to ring a muffled peal for Lady Thorpe, and I was all of a shake, thinking he’d see him when he went up to put the leathers on the bells. By a big stroke of luck, he didn’t go till after dark, and I suppose he never looked into that dark corner, or he’d have seen the planks had been moved.”
“We know what you did on Saturday,” said Parker. “You needn’t bother with that.”
“No, sir. I had an awful ride with that bike. The acetylene lamp worked none too well, and it was raining like the tropics. Still, I got there — much later than I meant, and I went to work. I cut him down—”
“You needn’t tell us that, either. There was a witness on the top of the bell-chamber ladder all the time.”