“Very proper, I’m sure, ma’am.”
“And consequently,” said Mrs. Gates, “after the funeral, when the grave was filled in. Harry Gotobed took particular notice that the Family’s wreaths (among which I include mine) were placed in suitable positions on the grave itself. I directed Johnson the chauffeur to attend to this — for it was a very rainy day, and it would not have been considerate to ask one of the maids to go — and he assured me that this was done. I have always found Johnson, sober and conscientious in his work, and I believe him to be a perfectly truthful man, as such people go. He described to me exactly where he placed the wreaths, and I have no doubt that he carried out his duty properly. And in any case, I interrogated Gotobed the next day, and he told me the same thing.”
“I daresay he did,” thought Mr. Blundell, “and in his place I’d have done the same. I wouldn’t get a fellow into trouble with this old cat, not if I knew it.” But he merely bowed and said nothing.
“You may judge of my surprise,” went on the lady, when, on going down the next day after Early Service to see that everything was in order, I found Mrs. Coppins’ wreath — not at the side, where it should have been — but on the grave, as if she were somebody of importance, and mine pushed away into an obscure place and actually covered up, so that nobody could see the card at all. I was extremely angry, as you may suppose. Not that I minded in the least where my poor little remembrance was placed, for that can make no difference to anybody, and it is the thought that counts. But I was so much incensed by the woman’s insolence — merely because I had felt it necessary to speak to her one day about the way in which her children behaved in the post-office. Needless to say, I got nothing from her but impertinence.”
“That was on the 5th of January, then?”
“It was the morning after the funeral. That, as you say, would be Sunday the fifth. I did not accuse the woman without proof. I had spoken to Johnson again, and made careful inquiries of Gotobed, and they were both positive of the position in which the wreaths had been left the night before.”
“Mightn’t it have been some of the schoolchildren larking about, ma’am?”
“I could well believe any thing of them,” said Mrs. Gates, “they are always ill-behaved, and I have frequently had to complain to Miss Snoot about them, but in this case the insult was too pointed. It was quite obviously and definitely aimed at myself, by that vulgar woman. Why a small farmer’s wife should give herself such airs, I do not know. When I was a girl, village people knew their place, and kept it.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Blundell, “and I’m sure we were all much happier in those days. And so, ma’am, you never noticed any disturbance except on that one occasion?”
“And I should think that was quite enough,” replied Mrs. Gates. “I kept a very good look-out after that, and if anything of a similar kind had occurred again, I should have complained to the police.”
“Ah, well,” said the Superintendent, as he rose to go, “you see, it’s come round to us in the end, and I’ll have a word with Mrs. Coppins, ma’am, and you may be assured it won’t happen again. Whew! What an old catamaran!” (this to himself, as he padded down the rather neglected avenue beneath the budding horse-chestnuts). “I suppose I had better see Mrs. Coppins.”
Mrs. Coppins was easily found. She was a small, shrewish woman with light hair and eyes which boded temper.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “Mrs. Gates did have the cheek to say it was me. As if I’d have touched her mean little wreath with a hay-fork. Thinks she’s a lady. No real lady would think twice about where her wreath was or where it wasn’t. Talking that way to me, as if I was dirt! Why shouldn’t we give Lady Thorpe as good a wreath as we could get? Ah! she was a sweet lady — a real lady, she was — and her and Sir Henry were that kind to us when we were a bit put about, like, the year we took this farm. Not that we were in any real difficulty — Mr. Coppins has always been a careful man. But being a question of capital at the right moment, you see, we couldn’t just have laid our hand on it at the moment, if it hadn’t been for Sir Henry. Naturally, it was all paid back — with the proper interest. Sir Henry said he didn’t want interest, but that isn’t Mr. Coppins’ way. Yes — January 5th, it would be — and I’m quite sure none of the children had anything to do with it, for I asked them. Not that my children would go to do such a thing, but you know what children are. And it’s quite true that her wreath was where she said it was, last thing on the evening of the funeral, for I saw Harry Gotobed and the chauffeur put it there with my own eyes, and they’ll tell you the same.”
They did tell the Superintendent so, at some considerable length; after which, the only remaining possibility seemed to be the school-children. Here, Mr. Blundell enlisted the aid of Miss Snoot. Fortunately, Miss Snoot was not only able to reassure him that none of her scholars was in fault (“for I asked them all very carefully at the time, Superintendent, and they assured me they had not, and the only one I might be doubtful of is Tommy West, and he had a broken arm at the time, through falling off a gate”); she was also able to give valuable and unexpected help as regards the time at which the misdemeanour was committed.
“We had a choir-practice that night, and when it was over — that would be about half-past seven — the rain had cleared up a little, and I thought I would just go and give another little look at dear Lady Thorpe’s resting-place; so I went round with my torch, and I quite well remember seeing Mrs. Coppins’ wreath standing up against the side of the grave next the church, and thinking what a beautiful one it was and what a pity the rain should spoil it.”
The Superintendent felt pleased. He found it difficult to believe that Mrs. Coppins or anybody else had gone out to the churchyard on a dark, wet Saturday night to remove Mrs. Gates’ wreath. It was surely much more reasonable to suppose that the burying of the corpse had been the disturbing factor, and that brought the time of the crime down to some hour between 7.30 p.m. on the Saturday and, say, 8.30 on the Sunday morning. He thanked Miss Snoot very much and, looking at his watch, decided that he had just about time to go along to Will Thoday’s. He was pretty sure to find Mary at home, and, with luck, might catch Will himself when he came home to dinner. His way led him past the churchyard. He drove slowly, and, glancing over the churchyard wall as he went, observed Lord Peter Wimsey, seated in a reflective manner and apparently meditating among the tombs.
“’Morning!” cried the Superintendent cheerfully, “’Morning, my lord!”
“Oy!” responded his lordship. “Come along here a minute. You’re just the man I wanted to see.”
Mr. Blundell stopped his car at the lych-gate, clambered out, grunting (for he was growing rather stout) and made his way up the path. Wimsey was sitting on a large, flat tombstone, and in his hands was about the last thing the Superintendent might have expected to see, namely, a large reel of line, to which, in the curious, clumsy-looking but neat and methodical manner of the fisherman, his lordship was affixing a strong cast adorned with three salmon-hooks. “Hullo!” said Mr. Blundell. “Bit of an optimist, aren’t you? Nothing but coarse fishing about here.”