Momentarily Mrs Body seemed confused. ‘What for, Mr Cribb? Why, for their return to the footlights, when they are quite restored. Some of them may never be hired again, but it would be cruel indeed if we denied them their slim hope.’
This somewhat pathetic view of the guests was difficult to reconcile with what was now issuing from next door. A voice, presumably Sam Fagan’s, was endeavouring to articulate a poem by the late Mr Thackeray. Like the song, it was being most oddly received.
‘But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, (recited Mr Fagan)
There’s one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that’s padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom’d chair.’
—at which hoots of indecorous laughter held up the rendition. It was impossible to believe that a familiar parlour-poem could be so received.
‘’Tis a bandy-legg’d, high-shoulder’d, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; (persisted the speaker)
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom’d chair.’
‘Extraordinary!’ declared Cribb, not at the poem, but at the persistent under-current of giggling that accompanied it, women’s voices as prominent as the men’s. Was some unexplained pantomine being performed in accompaniment?
‘If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass’d through your wither’d old arms!
I look’d, and I long’d, and I wish’d in despair;
I wish’d myself turn’d to a cane-bottom’d chair.’
A veritable pandemonium of horse-laughs provoked the expected reaction from Mrs Body. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. They are getting beyond themselves again.’
She had not reached the door when she was halted in her tracks by a shattering explosion from the opposite direction.
‘The Major!’ said Thackeray, and ran to the dining-room door. Dust billowed out as he opened it. For a moment it was impossible to see anything. Then the results of the blast were revealed: ripped floorboards, upturned tables and broken windows. There was no sign of the Major, but an open window gave grounds for hope.
‘Get to the main and turn off the gas!’ ordered Cribb to the first startled face to appear from the room next door. The man had the good sense to obey at once. ‘Look after Mrs Body, will you?’ Cribb asked someone else. The room was rapidly filling with people, blundering into each other in the enveloping dust.
‘I’ve shut the door, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, when he had found the sergeant. ‘The Major seems to have gone. I don’t think it was violent enough to have . . .’
‘Blasted him to bits? I doubt it,’ said Cribb. ‘What’s that under your arm?’
Thackeray rearranged the burden he was carrying. ‘I think it’s Beaconsfield, Sarge. I nearly tripped over him a second ago. The poor brute’s quivering like a jelly.’
‘Damned ridiculous he looks, too, with that pink ribbon tied round his throat. My guess is that he’s shaking with mortification.’
The atmosphere in the room was clearing, though a babble of excited conversation persisted. Two young women in tights were attending to Mrs Body, who lay in her chair in a state of shock.
‘Ain’t that Albert, Sarge, in that group over there?’ said Thackeray.
‘Probably. Best not to recognise him openly. There’s a lot more we can learn with Albert’s help. And watch out for his mother. If she comes this way you’d better drop Beaconsfield and make for the front door. Stupid slobbering animal’s liable to ruin everything. Are you partial to bulldogs or something?’
‘Not particularly, Sarge. He just seemed to lack confidence in all the confusion.’
Cribb gave the dog a withering look. ‘That’s his natural condition.’
On the other side of the room Albert had caught Thackeray’s eye.
‘Albert seems concerned about something, Sarge. D’you think he’s all right? I believe he pointed at me. I say, those are the men who were in the cab with him.’
Cribb regarded the group with interest. Messrs Smee, the Undertakers, were difficult to picture as a comedy turn. Albert was standing between them, easing his collar with his forefinger.
‘Got some dust down his shirt by the look of things,’ said Cribb. ‘Don’t stare. They all know we’re bobbies. Put the dog down and we’ll see if we can recognise anyone. Those must be the Pinkus girls.’
A moment later, Thackeray stubbornly returned to the subject of Albert. ‘Sarge, he’s scratching his neck like a blooming monkey. It ain’t natural. He’s taking off his collar.’
‘His collar?’ Cribb jerked round. ‘Good Lord! What the hell have you done with Beaconsfield?’
‘I set him down as you asked, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, bewildered to the point of despair. The dog was not in sight.
‘Well find him again quick, for God’s sake! Albert’s signalling to us. There’s got to be something hidden under that ribbon round the bulldog’s neck. Where’s the ruddy animal gone now?’
Each detective set off on a different route around the room in the ape-like gait customarily adopted by members of the Force when rounding up strays. One of the young women in tights bending over Mrs Body straightened up and gave Thackeray a long, hard look, but otherwise the prevailing confusion deflected interest from the search.
It was Cribb who located Beaconsfield, panting behind a screen. He put a hand towards the ribbon. ‘Easy, now. Easy.’
Beaconsfield growled. Cribb withdrew his hand. ‘Ah! There you are, Constable! Kindly feel underneath that ribbon at once!’
The dog permitted Thackeray to approach. He removed a scrap of paper from under the ribbon and handed it to Cribb.
‘Well, blast his eyes!’ said the sergeant when he had read it. ‘What do you think of that?’
Thackeray read the message: ‘Everything in perfect order. Thank you for your interest. Albert.’
CHAPTER
8
SCARCELY A CIVIL WORD was exchanged between constables at Paradise Street police station on Monday mornings. You sensed the atmosphere as soon as you passed under the blue lamp and saw the baleful expression of the duty constable at the desk. From the moment when the First Relief paraded shivering in the yard at a quarter to six and the Station Sergeant sized them and marched them off in single file to their beats, the list of duties was enough to draw a tear of pity from a convict’s eye. For by ten o’clock, when the Relief returned complaining at the week-end’s accumulation of orange-peel on the pavements (which every constable was under instruction to remove, ‘frequent accidents having occurred to passengers slipping therefrom’), those on station duty were obliged to have checked the charge-sheets, turned out the occupants of the cells and got them to the magistrates, swept the station floor, studied the Police Gazette, completed the morning reports of crime in time for the despatch-cart, brought their personal diaries up to date and dealt with an unending flow of trivial public inquiries. And it was on Mondays that erring officers learned that their names had been entered in the Divisional Defaulters’ Book.
That was why Sergeant Cribb was surprised to hear a contented humming from his assistant when he found him in the Criminal Investigation room. He soon put a stop to that. ‘Touch of indigestion, Constable?’
Thackeray sat quite still. White crescents appeared on his finger-nails as his grip tightened on his pen. Why should he endure insults? ‘No, Sergeant. Sorry if my singing offends you. It’s my high spirits, I reckon, with the investigation over and my report three-quarters written.’ He wiped the nib carefully and looked up at Cribb. ‘If you want the truth, I’ll be glad to get back to some serious detective work.’
Cribb’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. ‘Good gracious! Caught me off guard! Thackeray, there’s a streak of malice in you I never knew was there. We’ll make a sergeant of you yet.’
