Have His Carcase (49 page)

SMFA. TCMXS, KPVN, PT! UDR. It doesn’t matter. The man who gets it

wil ignore al that. He wil simply break it up into pairs of letters again and read

it with the help of the code diagram. Taking the diagonals as before, and the

next letter
above
, where they come on the same vertical line, and the next to

the
left
where they come on the same horizontal.’

The two policemen pored over the diagram. Then Umpelty said:

‘I see, my lord. It’s very ingenious. You can’t guess it by way of the most

frequent letter, because you get a different letter for it each time, according as

it’s grouped to the next letter. And you can’t guess individual words, because

you don’t know where the words begin and end. Is it at al possible to decode

it without the key-word?’

‘Oh dear, yes,’ said Wimsey. ‘Any code ever coded can be decoded with

pains and patience – except possibly some of the book codes. I know a man

who spent years doing nothing else. The code diagram got so bitten into him

that when he caught measles he came out in checks instead of spots.’

‘Then he could decode this,’ said Glaisher, eagerly.

‘On his head. We’l send him a copy if you like. I don’t know where he is,

but I know those that do. Shal I bung it off? It would save us a lot of time.’

‘I wish you would, my lord.’

Wimsey took a copy of the letter, pushed it into an envelope and enclosed a

brief note.

‘Dear Clumps, – Here’s a cipher message. Probably Playfair, but old Bungo will

know. Can you push it off to him and say I’d be grateful for a construe? Said to hail

from Central Europe, but ten to one it’s in English. How goes?

‘Yours,

‘Wimbles.’

‘Seen anything of Trotters lately?’

He addressed the envelope to an official at the Foreign Office, and picked

up another copy of the cipher.

‘I’l take this if I may. We’l try it out with some of Alexis’ selected words.

It’l be a nice job for Miss Vane, and a healthy change from crosswords. Now,

what’s the next item?’

‘Nothing very much yet, my lord. We haven’t found anybody who saw

Perkins pass through Darley at any time, but we’ve found the chemist who

served him in Wilvercombe. He says Perkins was there at eleven o’clock,

which gives him ample time to be at Darley by 1.15. And Perkins has had a

bad relapse and can’t be interrogated. And we’ve seen Newcombe, the

farmer, who corroborates finding the mare wandering on the shore on Friday

morning. He says, too, that she was in the field O.K. when his man was down

there on the Wednesday, and that he is quite sure she couldn’t have got through

the gap in the hedge by herself. But then, naturaly, nobody ever believes his

own neglect is to blame for anything.’

‘Naturaly not. I think I’l run over and see Farmer Newcombe. In the

meantime, Miss Vane is going to do her damnedest with the cipher – trying out

al the marked words on it. Aren’t you?’

‘If you like.’

‘Noble woman! It would be fun if we got ahead of the official interpreter. I

suppose the Weldons show no signs of moving.’

‘Not the slightest. But I haven’t seen much of them since the funeral. Henry

seems a bit stand-offish – can’t get over the snake episode, I suppose. And his

mother –’

‘Wel?’

‘Oh, nothing. But she seems to be trying to get fresh information out of

Antoine.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. Antoine is being very sympathetic.’

‘Good luck to him. Wel, cheerio!’

Wimsey drove over to Darley, interviewed the farmer and asked for the loan of

the bay mare and a bridle. Mr Newcombe not only granted the loan most

cordialy, but expressed his intention of accompanying Wimsey to watch the

experiment. Wimsey was at first not best pleased; it is perhaps easier to walop

another man’s horse over a four-mile course if the owner is not looking on. On

reflection, however, he thought he saw a use to which he could put Mr

Newcombe. He asked that gentleman to be good enough to precede him to the

Flat Iron, and make a note of the exact moment at which he himself should

come into view, and thence time his progress. The farmer, surmising with a

wink that the loosing of the mare and the tragedy at the Flat-Iron had some

connection with one another, readily agreed, and, himself mounting a sturdy

white nag, took his departure along the shore, while Wimsey, glancing at his

watch, set out in pursuit of the bay mare.

She came up to be caught with remarkable readiness, no doubt connecting

Wimsey in her simple equine mind with oats. The gap in the hedge had been

opened again, by permission, and Wimsey, having bridled her, rode her through

it and stirred her up to a canter.

The mare, though wiling enough, had, as he expected, no exceptional turn of

speed, and since their progress had to be made actualy through the water, it

was a trifle impeded and remarkably noisy. As he rode, Wimsey kept his eye

on the cliffs above. Nobody and nothing was in sight, with the exception of a

few grazing animals. The road was hidden. He made good time to the cottages,

and then began to look about for Ormond’s break in the cliff. He recognised it

when he came to it by the falen rocks and the fragments of broken fence

above, and looked at his watch. He was a little ahead of time. Glancing along

the shore, he saw the Flat-Iron wel in view, with Farmer Newcombe seated

upon it, a little dark lump at a mile’s distance. He left the break in the cliff to be

explored on the return journey, and urged the mare to her best pace. She

responded vigorously, and they made the final mile in fine style, the water

spraying about them. Wimsey could see the farmer clearly now; he had the

white horse tethered to the famous ring-bolt and was standing on the rock,

watch conscientiously in hand, to time them.

It was not til they were within a few score paces of the rock that the bay

mare seemed to realise what was happening. Then she started as if she had

been shot, flung up her head and slewed round so violently that Wimsey, jerked

nearly on to her neck by the plunge, was within an ace of being spun off

altogether. He dug his knees into her bare sides and hauled hard upon the

bridle, but, like many farm nags, she had a mouth of iron, and the snaffle made

little impression upon her. She was off, tearing back in her tracks as if the devil

was after her. Wimsey, cynicaly teling himself that he had under-estimated her

power of speed, clung grimly to her withers and concentrated on shortening his

left-hand rein so as to wrench her head round to the sea. Presently, finding it

hard to go forward against this determined drag, she slacked pace, skirmishing

sideways.

‘Bless and save you, my girl,’ said Wimsey, mildly, ‘what’s the matter with

you?’

The mare panted and shuddered.

‘But this’l never do,’ said Wimsey. He stroked her sweaty shoulder

reassuringly. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you, you know.’

She stood quietly enough, but shook as she stood.

‘There, there,’ said Wimsey.

He turned her head once more in the direction of the Flat-Iron, and was

aware of the hurried approach of Mr Newcombe on the white horse.

‘Lord a’mighty,’ exclaimed Mr Newcombe, ‘what’s come to the mare? I

thought she’d have you off surely. Done a bit of riding, ain’t you?’

‘Something must have frightened her,’ said Wimsey. ‘Has she ever been

there before?’

‘Not as I know on,’ said the farmer.

‘You weren’t waving your arms or anything, were you?’

‘Not I. I was looking at my watch – and there! Dang me if I haven’t clean

forgot what time I made it. I was fair mazed with her taking fright so al of a

sudden.’

‘Is she given to shying?’

‘Never known her take and do such a thing before.’

‘Queer,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’l try her again. Keep behind us, and we’l know it

wasn’t you that startled her.’

He urged the mare back towards the rock at a gentle trot. She moved

forward uneasily, chucking her head about. Then, as before, she stopped dead

and stood trembling.

They tried her half-a-dozen times, cajoling and encouraging her, but to no

purpose. She would not go near the Flat-Iron – not even when Wimsey

dismounted and led her step by step. She flatly refused to budge, standing with

her shaking legs rooted to the sand, and roling white and terrified eyes. Out of

sheer mercy for her they had to give up the attempt.

‘I’l be damned,’ said Mr Newcombe.

‘And so wil I,’ said Wimsey.

‘What can have come over her –’ said Mr Newcombe.

‘I know what’s come over her al right,’ said Wimsey, ‘but – Wel, never

mind, we’d better go back.’

They rode slowly homeward. Wimsey did not stay to examine the break in

the cliff. He did not need to. He knew now exactly what had happened

between Darley and the Flat-Iron Rock. As he went, he put the whole

elaborate structure of his theories together, line by line, and like Euclid, wrote at

the bottom of it:

WHICH IS IMPOSSIBLE

In the meantime, Constable Ormond was also feeling a little blue. He had

suddenly bethought him of the one person in Darley who was likely to have

kept tabs on Mr Perkins. This was old Gaffer Gander who, every day, rain or

shine, sat on the seat of the little shelter built about the vilage oak in the centre

of the green. He had unaccountably overlooked Gaffer Gander the previous

day, owing to the fact that – by a most unusual accident – the Gaffer had not

been in his accustomed seat when Ormond was making his inquiries. It turned

out that Mr Gander had actualy been in Wilvercombe, celebrating his youngest

grandson’s wedding to a young woman of that town, but now he was back

again and ready to be interviewed. The old gentleman was in high spirits. He

was eighty-five come Martinmas, hale and hearty, and boasted that, though he

might perhaps be a trifle hard of hearing, his eyes, thank God, were as good as

ever they were.

Why, yes, he remembered Thursday, 18th. Day as the poor young man was

found dead at the Flat-Iron. A beautiful day, surely, only a bit blowy towards

evening. He always notices any strangers that came through. He remembered

seeing a big open car come past at ten o’clock. A red one it was, and he even

knew the number of it, because his great-grandson, little Johnnie – ah! and a

bright lad he was – had noticed what a funny number it was. OI 0101 – just

like you might be saying Oy, oy, oy. Mr Gander could cal to mind the day

when there wasn’t none o’ them things about, and folks was none the worse for

it, so far as he could see. Not that Mr Gander was agin’ progress. He’d always

voted Radical in his young days, but these here Socialists was going too far, he

reckoned. Too free with other folks’ money, that’s what they were. It was Mr

Lloyd George as give him the Old Age Pension, which was only right, seeing he

had worked hard al his life, but he didn’t hold with no dole for boys of

eighteen. When Mr Gander was eighteen, he was up at four o’clock every

morning and on the land til sunset and after for five shilings a week and it

hadn’t done him no harm as he could see. Married at nineteen he was, and ten

children, seven of them stil alive and hearty. Why, yes, the car had come back

at one o’clock. Mr Gander had just come out from the Feathers after having a

pint to his dinner, and he see the car stop and the gentleman as was camping in

the lane get out of it. There was a lady in the car, very finely rigged out, but

mutton dressed as lamb in Gaffer’s opinion. In his day, women weren’t

ashamed of their age. Not that he minded a female making the best of herself,

he was al for progress, but he thought they were going a bit too far nowadays.

Mr Martin, that was the gentleman’s name, had said good morning to him and

gone into the Feathers, and the car had taken the Heathbury road. Why, yes,

he’d seen Mr Martin leave. Half-past one it were by the church clock. A good

clock, that was. Vicar, he’d had it put in order at his own expense two years

ago and when they turned the wireless on, you might hear Big Ben and the

church clock striking together quite beautiful. There hadn’t been no wireless in

Mr Gander’s day, but he thought it was a great thing and a fine bit of progress.

His grandson Wily, the one that was married on a woman over to Taunton, had

give him a beautiful set. It was that loud, he could hear it beautiful, even though

his hearing was getting a little hard. He’d heard tel as they were going to show

you pictures by wireless soon, and he hoped the Lord might spare him long

enough to see it. He hadn’t nothing against wireless, though some people

thought it was going a bit far to have the Sunday services laid on like gas, as