The girl in the bedroom snatched one of her discarded garments from the floor, shielded herself behind it and drew the curtains. In other rooms of the house lights sprang on.
They enabled Constable Burke to identify the great red face of the man who sat on his stomach and gazed in ferocious triumph from one to another of the rest of the ambuscades. He was Joseph O’Shaunessy,
The constable used what breath remained in him to acquaint the O’Shaunessies of his profession and of the heinous nature of the assault they had just committed.
The old man found this recital immensely amusing. He, he responded, was the Pope—as his sons would confirm. The sons did so.
There followed from their father a brief but zestful account of what was proposed to be done with the man who had lurked, night after night, to spy (God forgive him) upon the modesty of good Catholic girls. At tide-time, in two hours, he would be taken aboard the family shrimping boat as far as Cat’s Head Middle, or maybe Yorking Passage, and there unladen to peep at mermaids.
“And now,” called the old man, clambering at last from the policeman’s midriff, “let’s be havin’ ’im inside so’s yer mother can stitch some nice big stones into his pockets.”
In possession once more of the gift of speech, Constable Burke declared again who and what he was. This time, there was more light and his face was no longer overshadowed by the anatomy of Old Dogfish. One of the sons clutched his father’s arm.
“Holy Mother o’ God! He’s tellin’ the truth, Da. It’s a rozzer, all right, and from the station house itself!”
Several of the others relinquished their hold on Burke and peered at him anxiously. One turned to his father and nodded. He looked disappointed, like a sportsman on learning his bird to be out of season.
“Jaisus!” muttered the old man. He cuffed those of his retinue that were within reach, then whipped from beneath his jersey a handkerchief the size and colour of a ketch sail and with it began brushing down the constable’s jacket and trousers.
“No harm done, sor! No harm at all. We can all make a little mistake sometimes, now can’t we, sor?”
He gave one of his sons an affectionate kick. “And what are yous all standin’ there for, ye great gawps? Get inside wid ye and tell yer mother to have a nice cup o’ lay ready for the gentleman.”
And so amends were made—not only with draughts of tea like concentrated wood preservative, but with lacings of ‘the hard stuff’ and genial pledges to the Boys in Blue, and smiles and dimplings from a now dressed and demure Bernadine and, as a finale, a newspaper-enwrapped lobster with compliments to the guest’s Good Lady.
In so jolly an atmosphere, it was hardly to be expected that anybody would notice the rising of a figure from concealment near the front gate and its rapid yet curiously clumsy departure into the darkness.
Chapter Five
At ten o’clock the next morning, while inspector Purbright was hearing details of the first and fruitless watch for the Flaxborough Crab, a bus drew up outside the Trent Street Darby and Joan Club. Thirty-five of the members were waiting to be taken on their annual outing.
This year’s venue was to be the old reservoir at Gosby Vale, a half-hour’s drive distant. There would be a picnic lunch, games, and a competition based on the naming of wild flowers. Lemonade a-plenty (in the terminology of the organizers) was to be available and an optimistic rumour had persisted in the club for some weeks that a crate of light ale for the gentlemen had been donated by the Flaxborough Brewery Company.
This, indeed, was true, but the organizers had thought it politic to hide the crate in the back of the luggage compartment of the bus as a reserve benefaction. It would be withheld if circumstances suggested that undue frivolity might result.
At the moment, no such eventuality seemed likely or even possible. There was an air of sober resignation about the party of old men and women assembled in one corner of the club concert room. Despite the warmth of the day, they were in thick outdoor clothing. All wore hats. Some, with suitcases or parcels at their feet, looked like emigrants awaiting passage to Hudson Bay.
The chief organizer of the treat bustled into the room, rubbing his hands and saying “Fine! Fine!” over and over again. He hosed the Darbys and Joans down with his smile and inflicted a vigorous handshake upon as many as lacked the presence of mind to feign earnest search for something on the floor.
He was Steven Winge, shipping broker, lay preacher, alderman of Flaxborough Town Council, masonic brother, and ever-jocular claimant to being ‘sixty-eight years young’.
Hard behind Alderman Winge came his lieutenant, Miss Bertha Pollock.
She was a short, stout woman, compactly encased in a black silk dress. She had little pointed legs and one felt that if whipped she would spin rather nicely. Her hat, which she wore everywhere, was tight as a lid and the colour of lips in heart failure.
Miss Pollock, too, was armed with a smile.
“Brought your knitting, dear? That’s nice.” She patted, in the manner of a dog-lover, the grey head of old Mrs Crunkinghorn.
These preliminary greetings by Alderman Winge and Miss Pollock signalled the descent of further helpers into the flock of supine treatees. Mostly female, plump, voluble and well-heeled, but inclusive of a couple of lean men with forgiving, other-worldly faces, and hands that seemed always to be distributing invisible hymn books, these people moved among the Darbys and the Joans, shepherding, cajoling, taking away chairs, smiling the obstinate into submission, breaking with cheerfulness the groups of passive resisters, helpfully confiscating luggage—until the last stragglers had been manoeuvred from the room and marshalled into the waiting coach.
The treat had begun.
Alderman Winge and Miss Pollock occupied a double seat at the front of the coach, immediately behind the driver. They took turns throughout the journey to swivel round and review the passengers with “Everybody all right? Goo-oo-ood!” These commending surveys seemed also to have the object of a quick check on numbers, as though
