Wimsey nodded.
“You have the makings of a first-class sleuth, Miss Murchison. Very well. In that case, our little job will have to be undertaken. Now, look here—you quite understand that I’m going to ask you to do something illegal?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“No. I imagine that if I’m taken up you will pay any necessary costs.”
“Certainly.”
“And if I go to prison?”
“I don’t think it will come to that. There’s a slight risk, I admit—that is, if I’m wrong about what I think is happening—that you might be brought up for attempted theft or for being in possession of safebreaking tools, but that is the most that could happen.”
“Oh! well, it’s all in the game, I suppose.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Splendid. Well—you know that deed box you brought in to Mr. Urquhart’s room the day I was there?”
“Yes, the one marked Wrayburn.”
“Where is it kept? In the outer office, where you could get hold of it?”
“Oh, yes—on a shelf with a lot of others.”
“Good. Would it be possible for you to get left alone in the office any day for, say, half an hour?”
“Well—at lunchtime I’m supposed to go out at half past twelve and come back at half past one. Mr. Pond goes out then, but Mr. Urquhart sometimes comes back. I couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t pop out on me. And it would look funny if I wanted to stay on after four thirty, I expect. Unless I pretended I had made a mistake and wanted to stay and put it right. I could do that. I might come extra early in the morning when the charwoman is there—or would it matter her seeing me?”
“It wouldn’t matter very much,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully. “She’d probably think you had legitimate business with the box. I’ll leave it to you to choose the time.”
“But what am I to do? Steal the box?”
“Not quite. Do you know how to pick a lock?”
“Not in the least, I’m afraid.”
“I often wonder what we go to school for,” said Wimsey. “We never seem to learn anything really useful. I can pick quite a pretty lock myself, but, as we haven’t much time and as you’ll need some rather intensive training, I think I’d better take you to an expert. Should you mind putting your coat on and coming round with me to see a friend?”
“Not at all. I should be delighted.”
“He lives in the Whitechapel Road, but he’s a very pleasant fellow, if you can overlook his religious opinions. Personally, I find them rather refreshing. Bunter! Get us a taxi, will you?”
On the way to the East End, Wimsey insisted upon talking music—rather to Miss Murchison’s disquietude; she began to think there was something a little sinister in this pointed refusal to discuss the object of their journey.
“By the way,” she ventured, interrupting something Wimsey was saying about fugal form, “this person we are going to see—has he a name?”
“Now you mention it, I believe he has, but he’s never called by it. It’s Rumm.”
“Not very, perhaps, if he—er—gives lessons in lock picking.”
“I mean, his name’s Rumm.”
“Oh; what is it then?”
“Dash it! I mean, Rumm is his name.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon.”
“But he doesn’t care to use it, now that he is a total abstainer.”
“Then what does one call him?”
“I call him Bill,” said Wimsey, as the taxi drew up at the entrance to a narrow court, “but when he was at the head of his profession, they called him ‘Blindfold Bill.’ He was a very great man in his time.”
Paying off the taxi man (who had obviously taken them for welfare workers till he saw the size of his tip, and now did not know what to make of them), Wimsey steered his companion down the dirty alleyway. At the far end was a small house, from whose lighted windows poured forth the loud strains of a chorus of voices, supported by a harmonium and other instruments.
“Oh, dear!” said Wimsey, “we’ve struck a meeting. It can’t be helped. Here goes.”
Pausing until the strains of “Glory, glory, glory” had been succeeded by a sound as of fervent prayer, he hammered lustily at the door. Presently a small girl put her head out and, seeing Lord Peter, uttered a shrill cry of delight.
“Hullo, Esmeralda Hyacinth,” said Wimsey. “Is Dad in?”
“Yes, sir, please, sir, they’ll be so pleased, will you step in and oh, please?”
“Well?”
“Please, sir, will you sing ‘Nazareth’?”
“No, I will not sing ‘Nazareth’ on any account, Esmeralda; I’m surprised at you.”
“Daddy says ‘Nazareth’ isn’t worldly, and you do sing it so beautiful,” said Esmeralda, her mouth drooping.
Wimsey hid his face in his hands.
“This comes of having done a foolish thing once,” he said. “One never lives it down. I won’t promise, Esmeralda, but we’ll see. But I want to talk business with Dad when the meeting’s over.”
The child nodded; at the same moment, the praying voice within the room ceased, amid ejaculations of “Alleluia!” and Esmeralda, profiting by this momentary pause, pushed open the door and said loudly:
“Here’s Mr. Peter and a lady.”
The room was small, very hot and very full of people. In one corner was the harmonium, with the musicians grouped about it. In the middle, standing by a round table covered with a red cloth, was a stout, square man, with a face like a bulldog. He had a book in his hand, and appeared to be about to announce a hymn, but, seeing Wimsey and Miss Murchison, he came forward, stretching out a large and hearty hand.
“Welcome one and welcome all!” he said. “Brethren, ’ere is a dear brother and sister in the Lord as is come out of the ’aunts of the rich and the riotous living of the Westend to join with us in singing the Songs of Zion. Let us sing and give praise. Alleluia! We know that many shall come from the East and from the West and sit down at the Lord’s feast, while many that thinks theirselves chosen shall be
