Here, at the post-office in the little square. Lord Peter waited in the pleasant hush that falls on country towns where all days but market days are endless sabbaths. Bunter was absent for some time, and, when he emerged, did so with a trifle less than his usual sedateness, while his usually colourless face was very slightly flushed about the cheekbones.
“What luck?” inquired Wimsey, genially. To his surprise, Bunter replied by a hasty gesture enjoining silence and caution. Wimsey waited till he had taken his place in the car and altered his question to:
“What’s up?”
“Better move on quickly, my lord,” said Bunter, “because while the manoeuvre has been attended with a measure of success, it is possible that I have robbed His Majesty’s Mails by obtaining a postal packet under false pretences.”
Long before this handsome period had thundered to its close, the Daimler was running down a quiet street behind the church.
“What have you been doing, Bunter?”
“Well, my lord, I inquired, as instructed, for a letter addressed to Mr. Stephen Driver, poste restante, which might have been lying here some time. When the young person inquired how long a time, I replied, according to our previous arrangement, that I had intended to visit Walbeach a few weeks ago, but had been prevented from doing so, and that I understand that an important letter had been forwarded to me at this address under a misapprehension.”
“Very good,” said Wimsey. “All according to Cocker.”
“The young person, my lord, then opened a species of safe or locker, and searched in it, and after the expiration of a considerable period, turned round with a letter in her hand and inquired what name I had said.”
“Yes? These girls are very bird-witted. It would have been more surprising if she hadn’t asked you to repeat the name.”
“Quite so, my lord. I said, as before, that the name was Stephen or Steve Driver, but at the same time I observed from where I was standing that the letter in her hand bore a blue stamp. There was only the counter between us, and, as you are aware, my lord, I am favoured with excellent sight.”
“Let us always be thankful for blessings.”
“I hope I may say that I always am, my lord. On seeing the blue stamp, I added quickly (calling to mind the circumstances of the case) that the letter had been posted in France.”
“Very good, indeed,” said Wimsey, nodding approval.
“The young person, my lord, appeared to be puzzled by this remark. She said, in a doubtful tone, that there was a letter from France which had been lying in the post-office for three weeks, but that it was addressed to another person.”
“Oh, hell!” said Wimsey.
“Yes, my lord; that thought passed through my own mind. I said, ‘Are you quite sure, miss, that you have not mistaken the handwriting?’ I am happy to say, my lord, that the young person — being young, and, no doubt, inexperienced, succumbed to this somewhat elementary strategy. She answered immediately, ‘Oh, no — it’s as plain as print: M. Paul Taylor.’ At that point—”
“Paul Taylor!” cried Wimsey, in sudden excitement, “Why, that was the name—”
“Precisely, my lord. As I was about to say, at that point it was necessary to act promptly. I said at once: ‘Paul Taylor? Why, that is the name of my chauffeur.’ You will excuse me, my lord, if the remark should appear to carry any disrespectful implication, seeing that you were at that moment in the car and might conceivably be supposed to be the person alluded to, but in the momentary agitation of my spirits, my lord, I was not in a position to think as quickly or as clearly as I should have wished.”
“Bunter,” said his lordship, “I warn you that I am growing dangerous. Will you say at once, yes or no, did you get that letter?”
“Yes, my lord, I did. I said, of course, that since the letter for my chauffeur was there, I would take it to him, adding some facetious observations to the effect that he must have made a conquest while we were travelling abroad and that he was a great man for the ladies. We were quite merry on the subject, my lord.”
“Oh, were you?”
“Yes my lord. At the same time, I said, it was exceedingly vexatious that my own letter should have gone astray, and I requested the young person to institute another search. She did so, with some reluctance, and in the end I went away, after remarking that the postal system in this country was very undependable and that I should certainly write to The Times about it.”
“Excellent. Well, it’s all very illegal, either way, but we’ll get Blundell to put it right for us — I’d have suggested his doing it himself, but it was such a shot at a venture that I didn’t think he’d cotton to it, and I hadn’t a devil of a lot of faith in it myself. And anyway”—here Wimsey was seized with an uprush of candour to the lips—“anyway, it was my jolly old idea and I wanted us to have the fun of it ourselves. Now, don’t start apologising any more. You were perfectly brilliant in two places and I’m as bucked as hell. What’s that? It mayn’t be the right letter? Rot! It is the right letter. It’s damn well got to be the right letter, and we’re going to go straight along to the Cat and Fiddle, where the port is remarkable and the claret not to be despised, to celebrate our deed of darkness and derring-do.”
Accordingly, within a very short time, Wimsey and his follower found themselves established in a dark old upper room, facing away from the square and looking out upon the squat, square church tower, with the rooks wheeling over it and the seagulls swooping and dipping among the gravestones. Wimsey ordered roast lamb and a bottle of the far from despicable claret and was soon in conversation with the waiter, who agreed with him that things were very quiet.
“But not so quiet as they used to be, sir. The men working on the Wash Cut make a difference to the town. Oh, yes, sir — the Cut’s nearly finished now, and they say it will be opened in June. It will be a good thing, so they say, and improve the draining very much. It’s hoped as it will scour the river out ten feet or more and take the tide up again to the head of the Thirty-foot Drain, like it was in the old days, by what they tell us. Of course, I don’t know about that, sir, for it seems that was in Oliver Cromwell’s time, and I’ve only been here twenty year, but that’s what the Chief Engineer says. They’ve brought the Cut to within a mile of the town now, sir, and there’s to be a great opening in June, with a gala and a cricket match and sports for the young people, sir. And they say as they’re asking the Duke of Denver to come down and open the Cut, but we haven’t heard yet if he’ll come.”
“He’ll come all right,” said Wimsey. “Dash it, he shall come. He does no work and it will do him good.”
“Indeed, sir?” said the waiter, a little dubiously, not knowing the cause of this certainty, but unwilling to offend. “Yes, sir, it would be much appreciated in the town if he was to come. Will you take another potato, sir?”
“Yes, please,” said Wimsey. “I’ll make a point of jogging old Denver up to do his duty. We’ll all come. Great fun. Denver shall present gold cups to all the winners and I will present silver rabbits to all the losers, and with luck somebody will fall into the river.”