As My Wimsey Takes Me: the podcast

I suddenly realized I never shared this blog post I found quite awhile back that some people might find interesting.

“And have you a good set of ringers?” inquired Wimsey, politely.

“Very good indeed. Excellent fellows and most enthusiastic. That reminds me. I was about to say that we have arranged to ring the New Year in tonight with no less,” said the Rector, emphatically, “no less than fifteen thousand, eight hundred and forty Kent Treble Bob Majors. What do you think of that? Not bad, eh?”

“Bless my heart!” said Wimsey. “Fifteen thousand–”

“Eight hundred and forty,” said the Rector.

Wimsey made a rapid calculation.

“A good many hours’ work there.”

And here’s the notation, if you can read it:

“Of course, the angel-roof is our great show-piece—I think myself it’s even lovelier than the ones at March or Needham Market, because it has all the original colouring. At least, we had it touched up here and there about twelve years years back, but we didn’t add anything. It took ten years to persuade the churchwardens that we could put a little fresh gold-leaf on the angels without going straight over to Rome, but they’re proud of it now. We hope to do the chancel roof too, one day. All these ribs ought to be painted, you can still see traces of colour, and the bosses ought to be gilt.”

—Mrs. Venables in Dorothy L. Sayers, The Nine Tailors, “The Second Course: The Bells in Their Courses,” 1934.

The angel roof was a popular church fixture in England from about 1395 to 1530, particularly in the East Anglia region. Because of their relative inaccessibility on the ceiling, the carved and brightly painted wooden angels were able to survive the general destruction of Roman Catholic church iconography during the English Reformation. (x)

Image 1: Double-hammer beam angel roof at St. Wendreda’s Church, March, Cambridgeshire. (x)

Image 2: Double-hammer beam angel roof at St. John the Baptist, Needham Market, Suffolk. (x)

Although The Nine Tailors was published in 1934, rather late in the series, the text suggests that it’s set earlier in the timeline, mostly in 1930. There is a Saturday, January 4 mentioned, and a couple married in 1920 are said to have been together ten years.

This means that the first couple of chapters overlap with the action of Strong Poison, giving an interesting alternate interpretation to this passage from Chapter 16 of that book:

To chronicle Lord Peter Wimsey’s daily life during the ensuing week [after December 30, 1929] would be neither kind nor edifying. An enforced inactivity will produce irritable symptoms in the best of men.

And the events of The Five Red Herrings take place between the third and fourth parts.

Tuesday, December 31, 1929: Chapters 1.1-2

Wednesday, January 1, 1930: Chapter 1.2

Saturday, April 19: Chapter 2.1

Sunday, April 20: Chapter 2.1

Tuesday, April 22: Chapter 2.1

Monday, April 28: Chapter 2.1

Friday, May 2: Chapter 2.1

Saturday, May 3: Chapter 2.2

Sunday, May 4: Chapter 2.2

Monday, May 5: Chapter 2.3

Tuesday, May 6: Chapter 2.4

Wednesday, May 7?: Chapter 2.5 (it’s not completely clear whether it’s the next day or not)

Saturday, May 10?: Chapter 2.6 (it’s said to be around mid-May, but this was the latest date I could manage in order to fit everything in)

Monday, May 11?: Chapter 2.6

Wednesday, May 14?: Chapter 2.7 (assuming that it takes Lord Peter about two days to return from France)

Thursday, May 15?: Chapter 2.8

Friday, May 16?: Chapter 2.9

Sunday, May 18: Chapter 2.10

Monday, May 19: Chapter 2.10

Tuesday, May 20: Chapter 3.1

Thursday, May 22: Chapters 3.1-2

Friday, May 23: Chapters 3.3-4

Saturday, May 24-Friday, May 30: Chapter 3.4 (timeframe of about a week specified)

Saturday, May 31: Chapter 3.4

Early June: Chapters 3.4-5 (presumably—the time frame is vague)

Thursday, December 25: Chapter 4.1

Friday, December 26: Chapter 4.2

Friday, January 9, 1931: Chapter 4.3

“So I understand from the young woman, my lord.”

“It’s a pity you can’t relieve me at the rope, Bunter.”

“I assure your lordship that for the first time in my existence I regret that I have made no practical study of campanology.”

“I am always so delighted to find that there are things you cannot do. Did you ever try?”

“Once only, my lord, and on that occasion an accident was only narrowly averted. Owing to my unfortunate lack of manual dexterity I was very nearly hanged in the rope, my lord.”

“That’s enough about hanging,” said Wimsey, peevishly. “We’re not detecting now, and I don’t want to talk shop.”

“Certainly not, my lord. Does your lordship desire to be shaved?”

“Yes–let’s start the New Year with a clean face.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Accordingly, he looked in at Denver for a day or two, irritated his sister-in-law and her guests as much as, and no more than, usual and thence, on Christmas Eve, made his way across the country to Fenchurch St. Paul.”

The Nine Tailors, Dorothy L. Sayers.

Again. I didn’t really finish the first time. I was driven away by the tintinnabulation of the bells, and I lost track of things. But this time, I was able to actually use Youtube to listen to some of the peals, which allowed me to stop trying to puzzle them out.

I am absolutely going to read Gaudy Night again next, and then Busman’s Honeymoon. There is no excuse for this kind of thing. I just want to feel cozy and learned and vicariously adored.

"And people may say what they like," thought Wimsey again, "about the services of the Church of England, but there was genius in the choosing of these psalms. 'That I may be certified how long I have to live'--what a terrifying prayer! Lord, let me never be certified of anything of the kind. 'A stranger with Thee and a sojourner'--that's a fact, God knows.... 'Thou hast set our misdeeds before Thee' ... very likely, and why should I, Peter Wimsey, busy myself with digging them up? I haven't got so very much to boast about myself, if it comes to that.... Oh, well!... 'world without end, Amen.' Now the lesson. I suppose we sit down for this--I'm not very well up in the book of the words.... Yes.... This is the place where the friends and relations usually begin to cry--but there's nobody here to do it--not a friend, nor a----How do I know that? I don't know it. Where's the man or woman who would have recognised that face, if the murderer hadn't taken all those pains to disfigure it?... That red-haired kid must be Hilary Thorpe ... decent of her to come ... interesting type ... I can see her making a bit of a splash in five years' time.... 'I have fought with beasts at Ephesus' ... what on earth has that got to do with it?... 'raised a spiritual body'--what does old Donne say? 'God knows in what part of the world every grain of every man's dust lies.... He whispers, he hisses, he beckons for the bodies of his saints' ... do all these people believe that? Do I? Does anybody? We all take it pretty placidly, don't we? 'In a flash, at a trumpet crash, this Jack, joke, poor potsherd, patch, matchwood, immortal diamond is--immortal diamond.' Did the old boys who made that amazing roof believe? Or did they just make those wide wings and adoring hands for fun, because they liked the pattern? At any rate, they made them look as though they believed something, and that's where they have us beat. What next? Oh, yes, out again to the grave, of course. Hymn 373 ... there must be some touch of imagination in the good Mr. Russell to have suggested this, though he looks as if he thought of nothing but having tinned salmon to his tea.... 'Man that is born of a woman ...' not very much further to go now; we're coming into the straight.... 'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts....' I knew it, I knew it! Will Thoday's going to faint.... No, he's got hold of himself again. I shall have to have a word with that gentleman before long ... 'for any pains of death, to fall from Thee.' Damn it! that goes home. Why? Mere splendour of rhythm, I expect--there are plenty of worse pains.... 'Our dear brother here departed' ... brother ... we're all dear when we're dead, even if beforehand somebody hated us enough to tie us up and ... Great Scott, yes! What about that rope?"

Psalms 39.

5 Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be certified how long I have to live.

…

14 For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.

15 O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen.

Psalm 90:8 KJV

Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.

1 Corinthians 15:32 KJV

If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not? let us eat and drink; for to morrow we die.

1 Corinthians 15:44 KJV

It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.

Donne’s Sermon LXXXI

One humour of our dead body produces worms, and those worms suck and exhaust all other humour, and then all dies, and all dries, and moulders into dust, and that dust is blown into the river, and that puddled water tumbled into the sea, and that ebbs and flows in infinite revolutions, and still, still God knows in what cabinet every seed-pearl lies, in what part of the world every grain of every man's dust lies; and sibilat populum suum, (as his prophet speaks in another case) he whispers, he hisses, he beckons for the bodies of his saints, and in the twinkling of an eye, that body that was scattered over all the elements, is sat down at[ the right hand of God, in a glorious resurrection.

That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Flesh fade, and mortal trash

Fall to the residuary worm; | world's wildfire, leave but ash:

In a flash, at a trumpet crash,

I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and

This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,

Is immortal diamond.

Job.14

1 Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.

2 He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.

Book of Common Prayer

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts;

Shut not thy merciful ears unto our pray'rs;

But spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty.

O holy and most merciful Saviour,

Thou most worthy Judge eternal,

Suffer us not at our last hour,

-Dorothy L. Sayers, The Nine Tailors

The route the kids and I rode our bicycles along once a week to our homeschool co-op while living in Cambridge had several unexpected sharp curves along it, and eventually I got into the habit of ringing my bicycle bell as I approached each of them just in case any cyclists were approaching from the other direction. Every time I would think of this bit from Nine Tailors and laugh at myself. Re-reading the book this morning I came across this passage and laughed again.

This is the tenth(?) Norfolk book I've read this year - I was hoping to fit in 9 before publication of the 10th - The Running Grave - on 26 September 2023, so I think this is a bonus.

Part of the celebrated Lord Peter Wimsey series, (of which I have read this and Clouds of Witness) and surely must be one of the best.

The mystery is hellish complicated and unfolds like a waterlily, repeatedly and beautifully, until the very last page.

I can't find words to describe the dramatic flooding episode, except that it reminded me of John Wyndham, and there's no higher praise than that in this house.

The final list of my Norfolk reads is:

Waterland/Graham Swift

David Copperfield/Charles Dickens

The Shrieking Pit/Arthur J Rees

The Crossing Places/Elly Griffiths

The House on the Brink/John Gordon

Salt/Jeremy Page

Death on Cromer Beach/Ross Greenwood

The Accidental/Ali Smith

The Elephants of Norwich/Edward Marston

An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”

There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.

A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”

You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”

A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”

Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”

“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.

The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”

The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.

“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”

“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.

“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.

“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.

“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.

“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.

An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”

“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.

“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”

“About Australia.”

“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”

A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.

“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.

There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.

The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”

This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.

You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.

“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.

“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”