SAYERS, Dorothy

The Man Born to be King

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I speak for a sorrowful people—for the ignorant and the poor. We rise up to labour and lie down to sleep, and night is only a pause between one burden and another. Fear is our daily companion—the fear of want, the fear of war, the fear of cruel death, and of still more cruel life. But all this we could bear if we knew that we did not suffer in vain; that God was beside us in the struggle, sharing the miseries of His own world. For the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Sorrow and Love be reconciled at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?

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Whose Body?

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The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men’s graves.

The feel of Parker’s old trench-coat beneath your fingers was comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like Brocken spectres.

Take care, gentlemen,” said a toneless voice out of the yellow darkness, “there’s an open grave just hereabouts.”

You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned clay.

“Hold up, old man,” said Parker.

“Where is Lady Levy?”

“In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter.”

“Isn’t she?” said Lord Peter.

A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still.

“Here you are,” said a voice.

Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up.

“Have you finished?” asked somebody.

“Nearly done, sir.” The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks—no, spades.224

Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him.

“Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey. We are sorry to drag you out on such a day, Mr. Levett.”

“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Mr. Levett, hoarsely. He was muffled to the eyes.

The sound of the spades for many minutes. An iron noise of tools thrown down. Demons stooping and straining.

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