“I can’t see anything through the window either.”
“It was a dog, not a blooming horse,” said the boatman.
When he had reached the inescapable conclusion that there was nothing to be salvaged from the adventure by giving up at this stage, Thackeray told the boatman to move alongside the houseboat. As they approached, he was able to see that it was actually a barge some thirty feet in length, with a broad deck on which the “house” was constructed, in fact a diminutive version of the Ark, except that the roof was flat, forming an upper deck with a wrought-iron balustrade around it.
The strains of a concertina from within the boat lifted Thackeray’s confidence as they came alongside. If there was music, the chance was good that more than one person was aboard. The spectre of the irate houseboat owner in his nightshirt ceased troubling him.
Standing in the rowing boat, Thackeray was unable to see through the lighted windows, which was a pity, because there was nothing for it now but to interrupt whatever was going on inside. He signalled to the waiting constables to approach, and then he clambered aboard with ponderous care. With good fortune the concertina would drown any sounds he made on the deck. He could do without Towser announcing his arrival.
The door of the cabin was ahead of him, ornately gilt-panelled. To its right a set of iron stairs painted white led to the upper deck. On an impulse he climbed them and stood aloft, beckoning to his support party to come aboard. With five hefty constables posted at the cabin door, he crouched and passed his hands speculatively over the surface of the deck.
In a moment he located a metal ring about four inches in diameter, inset level with the deck. By stroking his fingertips outwards from the ring, he traced the outline of a trapdoor to the room below.
He sat back on his haunches and rubbed the side of his beard, mentally invoking all the benign influences that ever favoured policemen. He drew a long breath and pulled up the trapdoor.
His first sensation was of dazzling light. Cigar smoke was billowing from the hatchway. The smoke thinned, his eyes adjusted to the light and he looked into the amazed and upturned face of a blonde woman in a black corset standing motionless on a red carpet. To state that she was motionless is not quite accurate, for parts of her were quivering, but all conscious movement had stopped, as if she were petrified by the interruption. The position of her arms suggested she had been performing a dance-and out of sight the concertina continued playing-but what kind of dance was performed in stays Thackeray did not know.
If it were not for the cigar smoke, he would have muttered an apology, put down the hatch, called off his constables and disappeared into the night. The way young women amused themselves on houseboats was no part of his present inquiry. The smoke reminded him that although the prospect through the hatch was enough to occupy one pair of eyes, there were parts of the cabin obscured from view.
The concertina stopped. “What is it?” asked a man’s voice.
The dancer unfroze sufficiently to point above her head and whisper, “Look!”
A suggestion that could only be helpful, Thackeray decided. Anyone curious enough to take it up would be obliged to stand where they could be seen. It saved him risking an accident by dipping his head and shoulders through the hatchway.
Yet the accident nearly happened when he lurched forward in surprise as two more young women appeared in view, one, like the first, in a corset, white in colour with purple trimmings, the other pulling on a silk gown with such unconcern that it was starkly clear she, at least, could not be faulted for wearing stays.
“Lawks! It’s another fellow dropping in on us,” said the one in the gown.
“Well, give him a hand, Meg. He can’t be worse than mine,” said the other. As she tossed back her head to laugh at her own wit, fumes of gin wafted upwards.
“Permit me to see for myself,” said a voice, a thin, clinical voice that Thackeray recognized. The three women were hustled aside by Mr. Lucifer. He was wrapped in a gown like Meg’s. “What the devil …? It’s that blighter with the beard we saw in the Barley Mow.”
“Follows you around, does he?” said one of the women. “A regular peeping Tom! Have you had your eyeful, darling?”
Insults could not touch Edward Thackeray. He was enjoying one of the grander moments of his police career. Almost single-handed, he had caught the three most wanted men in Oxfordshire.
He did not have long to savour it. Without a word, Humberstone, the biggest of the three, arrived beneath the hatch, reached up, caught Thackeray by the collar and jerked him headfirst into the cabin.
His shoulder hit the carpet and saved him from concussion, but his body crashed painfully through a small table. He lay among the splintered wood in an enclosure of legs without a skirt or trouser among them. Somewhere nearby a dog was barking.
He propped himself up on an elbow. Nothing was going to deflect him from his proper duty. “Gentlemen, I am a police officer. A warrant has been issued for your arrest and I am here to take you into custody.” He fainted.
CHAPTER 23
“What are they going to say about this at the Providential?” Cribb asked.
“About what in particular?” Humberstone replied, managing to preserve his loftiness of manner while wearing a silk kimono. He was sitting handcuffed in the charge room at Oxford Police Station facing Cribb across a table. A uniformed constable sat nearby, notebook in hand.
“Why, about three respectable members of its Claims Department visiting a houseboat named, I understand, the
“I can think of no reason why the Providential should hear about it. Is this a threat of some kind? I don’t care for your tone, Sergeant. You may not approve of the ladies on the
“I grant you that,” said Cribb, “but assaulting a police officer isn’t lawful. We regard that very seriously in the Force. Constable Thackeray is going to get an uncommon nasty bruise on his shoulder as the result of your attentions.”
“I merely pulled the man down through the hatch. How could I have known he was a policeman? It’s a sorry state of affairs if a gentleman can’t challenge a fellow who intrudes upon his privacy. If your constable wanted to be treated in a civil fashion, he should have knocked at the door and introduced himself, instead of peering through the skylight.”
“Are you suggesting Thackeray didn’t tell you he was a police officer?”
“Not until I had him on the floor. He was too busy goggling at the girls, old boy. It’s lucky for him I had the dog locked in the galley, or he might have had some more injuries to complain of. Policeman! If he told you he announced himself before I had him helpless on the floor, the bounder’s lying.”
Cribb sniffed. “And I suppose the two officers who attempted to apprehend you as you bolted through the door are just imagining they were hurled into the river-or perhaps you didn’t notice they were wearing uniforms?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic with me, Sergeant. The events aboard that houseboat were very confused, believe me. Between the dog barking and the women screaming and your policeman jabbering something about a warrant, it’s not surprising that we made for the door. And with Gold and Lucifer pushing at my back, I may have met your officers with something of an impact. I’m sixteen stone in weight and once I’m moving it isn’t easy to stop. I’m sorry about the wet uniforms and the man with the broken nose. I’m sorry about Constable Thackeray’s shoulder. But if you burst in upon people as he did, unexpected things are liable to happen. Now perhaps you’ll tell me what it was all about.”
For a man in Humberstone’s situation, it was a polished performance, Cribb had to concede. Anyone who could fell three policemen trying to arrest him and put it down to circumstances beyond his control was a cool customer. It was already past midnight. Here he was, figuratively squaring up like a prize fighter, ready to trade punches by the hour. It would be unwise to mix it with him when there were two others to come. Best take him
