It was only very reluctantly that the Venables consented to let their guest go; but Mr. Brownlow and Mr. Wilderspin between them had made such good progress on the car that it was ready for use by two o’clock, and Wimsey was anxious to press on to Walbeach before dusk set in. He started off, therefore, speeded by many handshakes and much earnest solicitation to come again soon and help to ring another peal. The Rector, at parting, thrust into his hands a copy of Venables on the In and Out of Course, while Mrs. Venables insisted on his drinking an amazingly powerful hot whisky-and-water, to keep the cold out. As the car turned right along the Thirty-foot Bank, Wimsey noticed that the wind had changed. It was hauling round to the south, and, though the snow still lay white and even over the Fen, there was a softness in the air.
“Thaw’s coming, Bunter.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ever seen this part of the country when the floods are out?”
“No, my lord.”
“It looks pretty desolate; especially round about the Welney and Mepal Washes, when they let the waters out between the Old and New Bedford Rivers, and across the fen between Over and Earith Bridge. Acres of water, with just a bank running across it here and there or a broken line of willows. Hereabouts I think it’s rather more effectively drained. Ah! look — over to the right — that must be Van Leyden’s Sluice that turns the tide up the Thirty-foot Drain — Denver Sluice again on a smaller scale. Let’s look at the map. Yes, that’s it. See, here’s where the Drain joins the Wale, but it meets it at a higher level; if it wasn’t for the sluice, all the Drain water would turn back up the Wale and flood the whole place. Bad engineering — but the seventeenth-century engineers had to work piecemeal and take things as they found ’em. That’s the Wale, coming down through Potter’s Lode from Fenchurch St. Peter. I shouldn’t care for the sluice-keeper’s job — dashed lonely, I should think.”
They gazed at the ugly little brick house, which stood up quaintly on their right, like a pricked ear, between the two sides of the Sluice. On the one side a weir, with a small lock, spanned the Thirty-foot, where it ran into the Wale six feet above the course of the river. On the other, the upper course of the Wale itself was spanned by a sluice of five gates, which held the Upper Level waters from turning back up the river.
“Not another house within sight — oh, yes — one cottage about two miles further up the bank. Boo! Enough to make one drown one’s self in one’s own lock. Hullo! what happens to the road here? Oh, I see; over the Drain by the bridge and turn sharp right — then follow the river. I do wish everything wasn’t so rectangular in this part of the world. Hoops-a-daisy, over she goes! There’s the sluice-keeper running out to have a look at us. I expect we’re his great event of the day. Let’s wave our hats to him — Hullo’ullo! Cheerio! — I’m all for scattering sunshine as we pass. As Stevenson says, we shall pass this way but once — and I devoutly hope he’s right. Now then, what’s this fellow want?”
Along the bleak white road a solitary figure, plodding towards them, had stopped and extended both arms in appeal. Wimsey slowed the Daimler to a halt.
“Excuse me stopping you, sir,” said the man, civilly enough. “Would you be good enough to tell me if I’m going right for Fenchurch St. Paul?”
“Quite right. Cross the bridge when you come to it and follow the Drain along in the direction you are going till you come to the signpost. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, sir. About how far would it be?”
“About five and a half miles to the signpost and then half a mile to the village.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“You’ve got a cold walk, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, sir — not a nice part of the country. However, I’ll be there before dark, that’s a comfort.”
He spoke rather low, and his voice had a faint London twang; his drab overcoat, though very shabby, was not ill-cut. He wore a short, dark, pointed beard and seemed to be about fifty years old, but kept his face down when talking as if evading close scrutiny.
“Like a fag?”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Wimsey shook a few cigarettes out of his case and handed them over. The palm that opened to receive them was calloused, as though by heavy manual labour, but there was nothing of the countryman about the stranger’s manner or appearance.
“You don’t belong to these parts?”
“No. sir.”
“Looking for work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Labourer?”
“No, sir. Motor mechanic.”
“Oh, I see. Well, good luck to you.”
“Thank you, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon.”
Wimsey drove on in silence for about half a mile. Then he said:
“Motor mechanic possibly, but not recently, I think. Stone-quarrying’s more about the size of it. You can always tell an old lag by his eyes, Bunter. Excellent idea to live down the past, and all that, but I hope our friend doesn’t put anything across the good Rector.”
II.
A FULL PEAL OF GRANDSIRE TRIPLES
(Holt’s Ten-Part Peal)
5040
By the Part Ends
First Half
246375
267453
275634
253746
235476
Second Half
257364
276543
264735
243657
234567
2nd the Observation.
Call her:
1st Half) Out of the hunt, middle, in and out at 5, right, middle, wrong, right, middle and into the hunt (4 times repeated).
2nd Half) Out of the hunt, wrong, right, middle, wrong, right, in and out at 5, wrong and into the hunt (4 times repeated).
The last call in each half is a single; Holt’s Single must be used in ringing this peal.