The Toff And The Curate

“I’m glad we think alike. You see where this takes us?”

“If my memory serves me, Mr Cartwright has been ill for nine or ten months and he had been without a curate for some months before that,” Jolly said. “It is just possible that—”

“Stealing thunder,” said Rollison, “but go on.”

“Thank you, sir. I was about to say,” Jolly went on with gentle reproof, “that as I understand your surmise, between the time that Mr Cartwright fell ill and the time that Mr Kemp arrived, some crime, or series of crimes, was planned and put into effect. I do not think that they are necessarily the individual acts of violence. They are more likely to prove something of much greater importance or, perhaps I should say, much greater profit. The arrival of Mr Kemp made it possible that the crimes would be discovered and perhaps prevented, so it was decided to get rid of him. Is that your opinion, sir?”

“You know very well it is.”

“I certainly share it,” said Jolly, warmly. “I must say that I think it a great pity, Mr Kemp—”

“You needn’t worry about Kemp,” said Rollison, with satisfaction.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

Tonight, he lasted nine rounds against Billy the Bull and four thousand people saw him. Forty thousand know about it by now. If you’re thinking of going to St Guy’s on Sunday, you’d better reserve a pew!”

“Mr Kemp—and Billy the Bull?” gasped Jolly.

“So you can be surprised,” said Rollison, cheerfully.

“But I can’t believe it, sir! How could such a contest be arranged? How on earth did Mr Kemp realise the possibilities of such a— oh, I see, sir! You had a hand in it!”

He broke off and they began to laugh. When they sobered up Jolly told his story.

He had made some fruitless inquiries during the morning and had then gone to the dockside pub, The Docker, understanding that one of the men whom Rollison had caught the previous night had said that Keller had once lived there. Jolly had seen the man with the cultured voice coming out and had decided to follow him.

The unknown had gone first to Barking, where he had had lunch in a small coffee-shop, and then made his way by bus to Loughton, where he had paid a visit to an inn, then gone from Loughton to Epping which was not far away. There he had had a drink at another pub and visited two more before he had returned, on the last bus, to London. There the black-out had swallowed him up, near Piccadilly.

“A protracted pub-crawl,” said Rollison. “But you’ve made a note of the names of the pubs and other places he called at, I hope?”

“I noted each one down, sir.”

“Good!” said Rollison, briefly. “Now to bed, Jolly.”

“I hope we are not disturbed, sir,” said Jolly. “But for that coffee, I would have had great difficulty in keeping awake.” He stifled a yawn, apologised, and asked Rollison what he intended to do next day.

“In the evening, I hope to see Joe Craik,” said Rollison. “Two things to ponder, Jolly. The warning to Kemp was misspelt, a ‘here’ without its aspirate and other glaring errors but ‘clear’ spelt correctly and not with the double-ee which might have been expected. Would a man who knew where to put commas fail to know where to put an ‘h’?”

“It isn’t likely, sir. It was a further attempt to confuse, perhaps?”

“As with Joe Craik’s knife,” said Rollison.

He was soon asleep in bed and was woken up by Jolly at a quarter-to eight.

After a long day at the office, without being interrupted by the more pressing affair, he learned from Jolly that no one had telephoned the flat. He went to the East End.

Kemp was in high spirits when he arrived and appeared to regard him as a worker of miracles.

“Because Craik’s been released?” asked Rollison. “Don’t thank me, thank the police. What kind of a day have you had?”

Kemp, his one open eye bright, drew in his breath.

“The whole atmosphere has changed. I haven’t seen so many smiles or been asked how I am so often in all my life! Now that is a miracle, Rolly, and you can’t deny that you’re responsible for it! I know you fixed the fight with Billy the Bull; I wish I could say thanks.”

Rollison eyed him reflectively.

“Odd fellow,” he announced, after a pause. “I don’t work miracles. Nor do you. But they happen. Curious, isn’t it? Now I’m going to see Joe Craik!”

He left Kemp staring with a startled expression and walked along towards Craik’s shop. On the way, a large number of people hailed him.

Outside Craik’s shop, a little woman was tapping at the door. Looking round at Rollison, she said:

“S’funny thing, ‘e said ‘e’d be open until seven o’clock. It’s funny. Joe don’t orfen let yer down.”

She tapped again but got no response. Rollison’s smile faded and he stood back, the better to survey the shop and to see the closed first-floor windows above the weather-beaten facia board across which was written ‘Joe Craik, Groceries, Provisions’. The shop windows were freshly dressed with tins of goods on points, all carefully docketted, and it was impossible to see inside the shop.

“I don’t know that I like this,” said Rollison. “Does he live on his own?”