Rollison was prepared for the rush. He switched off his torch, stepped to one side and shot out his foot. The simple method worked. The thick-set man fell heavily and the other tripped over him, gasping. Rollison drew away, not certain that the worst was over. The night’s silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from both directions.
He slipped into the yard of the house next door and stood by the gate. The men on the ground picked themselves up, muttering, as a newcomer drew up.
“You okay?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Yes,” grunted the thick-set man. “If I come across that man again, I’ll break his neck!” He uttered a stream of expletives as he dusted himself down while Rollison backed further into the yard and other men arrived.
None of the newcomers saw him. He kept close to the wall, trying to estimate the chances of climbing into the next yard if they should start to search for him. In the darkness, climbing would not be easy but there were at least three newcomers and odds of five to one were too heavy.
He crept further away, although he could hear their heavy breathing. There was a furtive air about them all and they spoke in whispers.
“Who was he?” asked the man with the cultured voice.
“Some fool who fancies himself,” muttered the other. “I didn’t think Kemp would ask any of his posh friends to come and help him. We’ll have to put a stop to that.”
“I never see no one,” one of the newcomers said.
“I think I seed him go Jupe Street way,” volunteered another.
“He’s scared stiff,” said the man with the gruff voice. “Let’s get away.”
“Oughtn’t we to look for him?” asked the man with the cultured voice.
“On a night like this? Have some sense!”
They moved off, two of the newcomers going ahead of the couple whom Rollison had met and the third following. Rollison waited until their footsteps had faded then pushed a hand through his hair, looking very thoughtful as he walked to the back door of the Whitings’ house and tapped.
After a long pause, the door opened. A faint glow of light shone from another room. A thin man was outlined against it, but Rollison could not see his face.
“W-what do you want?” His voice was unsteady.
“If you’re Mr Whiting, I want to see you,” said Rollison. He pushed his way past and closed the door. He heard the hissing and popping of a lighted gas-jet and widened the doorway from which the light came. It shone on a weedy-looking young man with thin hair, pale features, a harassed expression.
“Who-who is it, Erny?” asked a woman from another room, in a quavering voice. Are—are they back again?”
“I don’t know,” muttered Erny Whiting. “I — No! They’re not!” His voice rose and his troubled expression cleared. “Why, it’s the—”
“Hush!” urged Rollison.
Whiting stood and gazed at him in silence while a little anxious-and-tired looking woman came from the other room. She stopped abruptly when she saw Rollison, a gleam of recognition in her eyes.
“The others might be listening outside,” said Rollison, “I’ll make sure. You let Mr Kemp in—he’s at the front.”
Mrs Whiting turned to obey after only a moment’s hesitation. Rollison went into the yard again but found no one. He returned to the house and was ushered into the tiny parlour. Kemp was inside, stooping slightly because the ceiling was so low. In an armchair in one corner sat a very old woman, her hair drawn tightly back from her forehead. Her lace was so thin that her skin was a mass of lines and wrinkles. She looked at Rollison with bright, beady eyes—both suspicious and wary.
“Who is he?” she squeaked.
“It—it’s Mr Rollison,” said Whiting, nervously. “I—I somehow didn’t think you would come, Mr Rollison.”
“We can go on from there,” smiled Rollison, leaning against a piano which took up most of one wall. “Why didn’t you open the front door as soon as we knocked?”
Whiting licked his lips.
“They—the men told me not to.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“No, I’ve never seen them before,” answered Whiting. “They came about ten minutes before you—came the back way.” He licked his lips again. “They said we wasn’t to help Mr Kemp or go to the church—if we did, they said, they’d—” he stopped, tongue-tied.
Rollison’s eyes held a steely glint.
“The men who uttered menaces!” he murmured. “Whom did they threaten? Your children?”
“Yes!” Whiting gasped.
“We had to promise we wouldn’t help Mr Kemp!” Mrs Whiting cried, “we don’t want anything to happen to our children, Mr Rollison!”
“Of course you don’t and nothing will,” Rollison assured her. “Why do they want to keep you away from church, Whiting? Do you know?”
“They—they only just told us that,” said Whiting, “but I think I know why. I was—I was with Joe Craik,” he
