“Yes, I see. How did Deacon know where to find the jewels?”
“Well, that was just it, my lord. It came out as Mrs. Wilbraham’s maid had let out something, stupid-like, to Mary Russell — that is, her as had married Deacon, and she, not thinking no harm, had told her husband. Of course, they had them two women up too. All the village was in a dreadful way about it, because Mary was a very decent, respectable girl, and her father was one of our sidesmen. There’s not an honester, better family in the Fenchurches than what the Russells are. This Deacon, he didn’t come from these parts, he was a Kentish man by birth. Sir Charles brought him down from London. But there wasn’t no way of getting him out of it, because the London thief — Cranton, he called himself, but he had other names — he blew the gaff and gave Deacon away.”
“Dirty dog!”
“Ah! but you see, he said as Deacon had done him down and so, if Cranton was telling the truth, he had. Cranton said as Deacon dropped out nothing but the empty jewel-case and kept the necklace for himself. He went for Deacon ’ammer-and-tongs in the dock and tried for to throttle him. But of course, Deacon swore as it was all a pack of lies. His tale was, that he heard a noise and went to see what was the matter, and that when Mrs. Wilbraham saw him in her room, he was just going to give chase to Cranton. He couldn’t deny he’d been in the room, you see, because of the finger-prints and that. But it went against him that he’d told a different story at the beginning, saying as how he’d gone out by the back door, hearing somebody in the garden. Mary supported that, and it’s a fact that the back door was unbolted when the footman got to it. But the lawyer on the other side said that Deacon had unbolted the door himself beforehand, just in case he had to get out by the window, so as to leave himself a way back into the house. But as for the necklace, they never could settle that part of it, for it wasn’t never found. Whether Cranton had it, and was afraid to get rid of it, like, or whether Deacon had it and hid it. I don’t know and no more does nobody. It ain’t never turned up to this day, nor yet the money Cranton said he’d given Deacon, though they turned the place upside-down looking for both on ’em. And the upshot was, they acquitted the two women, thinking as how they’d only been chattering silly-like, the way women do, and they sent Cranton and Deacon to prison for a good long stretch. Old Russell, he couldn’t face the place after that, and he sold up and went off, taking Mary with him. But when Deacon died—”
“How was that?”
“Why, he broke prison and got away after killing a warder. A bad lot, was Deacon. That was in 1918. But he didn’t get much good by it, because he fell into a quarry or some such place over Maidstone way, and they found his body two years later, still in his prison clothes. And as soon as he heard about it, young William Thoday, that had always been sweet on Mary, went after her and married her and brought her back. You see, nobody here ever believed as there was anything against Mary. That was ten year ago, and they’ve got two fine kids and get along first-class. This fellow Cranton got into trouble again after his time was up and was sent back to prison, but he’s out again now, so I’m told, and Jack Priest — that’s the bobby at Fenchurch St. Peter — he says he wouldn’t wonder if we heard something about that necklace again, but I don’t know. Cranton may know where it is, and again he may not, you see.”
“I see. So Sir Charles compensated Mrs. Wilbraham for the loss of it.”
“Not Sir Charles, my lord. That was Sir Henry. He came back at once, poor gentleman, from his honeymoon, and found Sir Charles terrible ill. He’d had a stroke from the shock, when they took Deacon, feeling responsible-like, and being over seventy at the time. After the verdict, Mr. Henry as he was then, told his father he’d see that the thing was put right, and Sir Charles seemed to understand him; and then the War came and Sir Charles never got over it. He had another stroke and passed away, but Mr. Henry didn’t forget and when the police had to confess as they’d almost give up hope of the necklace, then he paid the money, but it came very hard on the family. Sir Henry got badly wounded in the Salient and was invalided home, but he’s never been the same man since, and they say he’s in a pretty bad way now. Lady Thorpe dying so sudden won’t do him no good, neither. She was a very nice lady and very much liked.”
“Is there any family?”
“Yes, my lord; there’s one daughter, Miss Hilary. She’ll be fifteen this month. She’s just home from school for the holidays. It’s been a sad holiday for her, and no mistake.”
“You’re right,” said Lord Peter. “Well, that’s an interesting tale of yours, Hinkins. I shall look out for news of the Wilbraham emeralds. Ah! here’s my friend Mr. Wilderspin. I expect he’s come to say that the car’s on deck again.”
This proved to be the case. The big Daimler stood outside the Rectory gate, forlornly hitched to the back of a farm-waggon. The two stout horses who drew it seemed, judging by their sleek complacency, to have no great opinion of it. Messrs. Wilderspin senior and junior, however, took a hopeful view of the matter. A little work on the front axle, at the point where it had come into collision with a hidden milestone would, they thought, do wonders with it, and, if not, a message could be sent to Mr. Brownlow at Fenchurch St. Peter, who ran a garage, to come and tow it away with his lorry. Mr. Brownlow was a great expert. Of course, he might be at home or he might not. There was a wedding on at Fenchurch St. Stephen, and Mr. Brownlow might be wanted there to take the wedding-party to church, they living a good way out along Digg’s Drove, but if necessary the postmistress could be asked to telephone and find out. She would be the right party to do it, since, leaving out the post-office, there was no other telephone in the village, except at the Red House, which wouldn’t be convenient at a time like the present.
Wimsey, looking dubiously at his front axle, thought it might perhaps be advisable to procure the skilled assistance of Mr. Brownlow and said he would approach the postmistress for that purpose, if Mr. Wilderspin would give him a lift into the village. He scrambled up, therefore, behind Mr. Ashton’s greys, and the procession took its way past the church for the better part of a quarter of a mile, till it reached the centre of the village.
The parish church of Fenchurch St. Paul, like a good many others in that part of the country, stands completely isolated from the village itself, with only the Rectory to neighbour it. The village itself is grouped about a crossroads, one arm of which runs southward to Fenchurch St. Stephen and northwards to join the Fenchurch St. Peter road a little south of the Thirty-foot; while the other, branching off from the same road by the church, degenerates at the western end of the village into a muddy drove by which, if you are not particular about your footing, you may, if you like, emerge once more on to the road by the Thirty-foot at Frog’s Bridge. The three Fenchurches thus form a triangle, with St. Paul to the north, St. Peter to the south, and St. Stephen to the west. The L.N.E.R. line connects St. Peter with St. Stephen, passing north to cross the Thirty-foot at Dykesey Viaduct on its way to Leamholt.
Of the three, Fenchurch St. Peter is the largest and most important, possessing in addition to a railway-station, a river with two bridges. It has, however, but a bare and uninteresting church, built in the latest and worst period of Perpendicular, with a slate spire and no bells to speak of. Fenchurch St. Stephen has a railway-station — though only as it were, by accident, through lying more or less upon the direct line between Leamholt and St. Peter. Still, there the station is; moreover, there is a church with a respectable fourteenth-century tower, a rather remarkable rood-screen, a Norman apse and a ring of eight bells. Fenchurch St. Paul is the smallest village, and has neither river nor railway; it is, however, the oldest; its church is by far the largest and the noblest, and its bells beyond question the finest. This is due to the fact that St. Paul is the original abbey foundation. The remains of the first Norman church and a few stones which mark the site of the old cloisters may still be seen to east and south of the existing chancel. The church itself, with the surrounding glebe, stands on a little mound rising some ten or twelve feet above the level of the village — an elevation which, for the Fens, is considerable and, in ancient times, was sufficient to save church and abbey from inundation during the winter months. As for the river Wale, Fenchurch St. Peter has no right to boast about that, for did not the old course of the Wale run close by St. Paul’s church, until the cutting of Potter’s Lode in King James I’s time drained away its waters by providing them with a shorter and more direct channel? Standing on the roof of the tower at Fenchurch St. Paul, you can still trace the old river bed, as it wanders circuitously across meadow and ploughland, and see where the straight green dyke of Potter’s Lode spans it like a string to a bow. Outside the group of the Fenchurches, the land rises slightly all round, being drained by cross-dyking into the Wale.