He chugged off cheerfully, beaming round at them through the discoloured weather curtains and zigzagging madly across the road in his efforts to drive one way and look another. Wimsey and Bunter went on to the Red House.
THE SECOND PART
THE WATERS ARE CALLED HOME
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts:
all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
PSALM xlii. 7.
Christmas was over. Uncle Edward, sourly and reluctantly, had given way, and Hilary Thorpe’s career was decided. Wimsey had exerted himself nobly in other directions. On Christmas Eve, he had gone out with the Rector and the Choir and sung “Good King Wenceslas” in the drenching rain, returning to eat cold roast beef and trifle at the Rectory. He had taken no part in the Stedman’s Triples, but had assisted Mrs. Venables to tie wet bunches of holly and ivy to the font, and attended Church twice on Christmas Day, and helped to bring two women and their infants to be churched and christened from a remote and muddy row of cottages two miles beyond the Drain.
On Boxing Day, the rain ceased, and was followed by what the Rector described as “a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon.” Wimsey, taking advantage of a dry road and a clear sky, ran over to see his friends at Walbeach and stayed the night, hearing great praises of the New Wash Cut and the improvement it had brought to the harbour and the town.
He returned to Fenchurch St. Paul after lunch, skimming merrily along with Euroclydon bowling behind him. Turning across the bridge at Van Leyden’s Sluice, he noticed how swift and angry the river ran through the weir, with flood-water and tide-water meeting the wind. Down by the sluice a gang of men were working on a line of barges, which were moored close against the gates and piled high with sandbags. One of the workmen gave a shout as the car passed over the bridge, and another man, seeing him point and gesticulate, came running from the sluice-head across the road, waving his arms. Lord Peter stopped and waited for him to come up. It was Will Thoday
“My lord!” he cried, “my lord! Thank God you are here! Go and warn them at St. Paul that the sluice-gates are going. We’ve done what we can with sandbags and beams, but we can’t do no more and there’s a message come down from the old Bank Sluice that the water is over the Great Leam at Lympsey, and they’ll have to send it down here or be drowned themselves. She’s held this tide, but she’ll go the next with this wind and the tide at springs. It’ll lay the whole country under water, my lord, and there’s no time to lose.”
“All right,” said Wimsey. “Can I send you more men?”
“A regiment of men couldn’t do nothing now, my lord. They old gates is going, and there won’t be a foot of dry land in the three Fenchurches six hours from now.”
Wimsey glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell ’em, he said, and the car leapt forward.
The Rector was in his study when Wimsey burst in upon him with the news.
“Great Heavens!” cried Mr. Venables. “I’ve been afraid of this. I’ve warned the drainage authorities over and over again about those gates but they wouldn’t listen. But it’s no good crying over spilt milk. We must act quickly. If they open the Old Bank Sluice and Van Leyden’s Sluice blows up, you see what will happen. All the Upper Water will be turned back up the Wale and drown us ten feet deep or more. My poor parishioners — all those outlying farms and cottages! But we mustn’t lose our heads. We have taken our precautions. Two Sundays ago I warned the congregation what might happen and I put a note in the December Parish Magazine. And the Nonconformist minister has co-operated in the most friendly manner with us. Yes, yes. The first thing to do is to ring the alarm. They know what that means, thank God! They learnt it during the War. I never thought I should thank God for the War, but He moves in a mysterious way. Ring the bell for Emily, please. The church will be safe, whatever happens, unless we get a rise of over twelve feet, which is hardly likely. Out of the deep, O Lord, out of the deep. Oh, Emily, run and tell Hinkins that Van Leyden’s Sluice is giving way. Tell him to fetch one of the other men and ring the alarm on Gaude and Tailor Paul at once. Here are the keys of the church and belfry. Warn your mistress and get all the valuables taken over to the church. Carry them up the tower. Now keep cool, there’s a good girl. I don’t think the house will be touched, but one cannot be too careful. Find somebody to help you with this chest — I’ve secured all the parish registers in it — and see that the church plate is taken up the tower as well. Now, where is my hat? We must get on the telephone to St. Peter and St. Stephen and make sure that they are prepared. And we will see what we can do with the people at the Old Bank Sluice. We haven’t a moment to lose. Is your car here?”
They ran the car up to the village, the Rector leaning out perilously and shouting warnings to everyone they met. At the post-office they called up the other Fenchurches and then communicated with the keeper of the Old Bank Sluice. His report was not encouraging.
“Very sorry, sir, but we can’t help ourselves. If we don’t let the water through there’ll be the best part of four mile o’ the bank washed away. We’ve got six gangs a-working on it now, but they can’t do a lot with all these thousands o’ tons o’ water coming down. And there’s more to come, so they say.”
The Rector made a gesture of despair, and turned to the postmistress.
“You’d best get down to the church, Mrs. West. You know what to do. Documents and valuables in the tower, personal belongings in the nave. Animals in the churchyard. Cats, rabbits and guinea-pigs in baskets, please—we can’t have then running round loose. Ah! there go the alarm-bells. Good! I am more alarmed for the remote farms than for the village. Now, Lord Peter, we must go and keep order as best we can at the church.”
The village was already a scene of confusion. Furniture was being stacked on handcarts, pigs were being driven down the street, squealing; hens, squawking and terrified, were being huddled into crates. At the door of the schoolhouse Miss Snoot was peering agitatedly out.
“When ought we to go, Mr. Venables?”
“Not yet, not yet — let the people move their heavy things first. I will send you a message when the time comes, and then you will get the children together and march them down in an orderly way. You can rely on me. But keep them cheerful — reassure them and don’t on any account let them go home. They are far safer here. Oh, Miss Thorpe! Miss Thorpe! I see you have heard the news.”