SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. Read online

  The six men of the Private-Clothes Detail on summer detachment were paraded in the little yard to one side of the Town Hall with its pillared Grecian facade. Inspector Swift, their senior officer, addressed them as they stood at attention in tall hats and long belted tunics. Swift was a large Irishman, the favourite senior man.

  It is my pleasant task,' he said, 'to pass on to you a message forwarded to me by His Worship the Mayor, on behalf of the shopkeepers of Brighton. These gentlemen wish to express their admiration and gratitude for the manner in which you men of the detail have dealt with the enemies of law. The arrest of the youthful conspirators in Trafalgar Street and the apprehension of a notorious coiner are dramatic examples of your success. In consequence of the posting of your detachment in Brighton for the summer season, the incidence of crime committed is now lower than at any time in the past five years.'

  Verity felt his face glow with the pleasure of hearing his achievements recognised at last. But he was soon aware that the Inspector had passed on to another topic.

  'Following certain arrangements to be made for the Volunteer Review in Hyde Park,' said Swift carefully, 'I shall be returning to London in a day or two. I shall be replaced as your commanding officer by Inspector Croaker, with whom you are all familiar.'

  Even in the silence it was possible to sense the gloom which settled upon the six men.

  'Rot his bloody liver!' gasped Meiklejohn from the corner of his mouth.

  'Silence on parade!' said Swift sharply. 'You will, I know, extend to Mr Croaker that same sense of duty and obedience which you have shown to me. I am confident that by your diligence and application, under the command of so experienced an officer, you will continue to bring credit to the detail. Parade dismissed!'

  4

  'Come down, O Love Divine!' sang Verity lustily. 'Seek Thou this so-o-ul of mine! And visit it with Thine own ardour glo-o-wing!'

  He stood in the gallery of the Countess of Huntingdon's chapel in North Street, among the superior servants. Below, in the main body of the building, was gathered Brighton nonconformity in its Sunday morning silks and suitings.

  'O let it freely burn! Till earthly passions turn, to dust and ashes in its heat consu-u-ming!'

  Around him several of the other occupants of the wooden gallery glanced at the bull-necked, red-faced figure, a scowl of determination on his brow as he thundered out the old Methodist tune. The power of his lungs was sufficient to cause one or two of the well-dressed figures below to look up apprehensively at the din overhead.

  In a row, along the wooden bench, were the other members of his little family. By common agreement they had exchanged the shabby house in Paddington Green for lodgings in Tidy Street during his Brighton detachment. At the far end was old Cabman Stringfellow, his toothless mouth opening and closing in imitation of the tune as he supported himself on the wooden leg which had served him since the loss of his own at the siege of Bhurtpore in 1823. As he protested, he was not really a church-going man. But his son-in-law's righteous insistence had driven the old man into compliance.

  Next to Verity was the plump blonde figure of his beloved wife Bella, the only child of widower Stringfellow. Between them stood little Ruth, a sixteen-year-old maid-of-all-work. The softness of her figure and her crop of fair curls made her seem almost like Bella's younger sister. Her attractively solemn little face with its wide brown eyes was cast bashfully down to the hymn book. Neither of the women sang. Bella held four-year-old William Verity against her knees while Ruth nursed his two-year-old sister Vicky.

  Verity himself needed no hymn book. The great Wesleyan hymns of his Cornish childhood were secure in his memory. Even the Calvinism of the Huntingdon connection was falling before them. This one was what his father used to call a strong man's tune, and Verity loved every note of it. 'Let holy charity, mine outward vesture be!' he bawled. 'And lowliness become mine inner clothing!'

  Presently it was over and the preaching of the Reverend Mr Figgis took its place. Verity listened with a frown of honest perplexity. Cabman Stringfellow fidgeted briefly until nudged by his daughter. Then he leant forward with an expression of open-mouthed anticipation, as though he had been in the balcony of Mr Asdey's circus awaiting the entrance of the tumblers and acrobats.

  Then they were standing again, and Verity launched himself into the final hymn.

  'Away with our sorrow and fear! We soon shall recover our home!'

  The necks of those in front seemed to incline forward, as if in anticipation of the coming blast.

  The city of saints shall appear! The day of eternity come!'

  For his own day of eternity he would have been quite content to thunder out the great hymns of the Whitsuntide revival with Bella and the others at his side. Beyond that, his expectations were of a city walled with jasper and gold where those who were now lost to one another would be reunited in something like a great wedding breakfast. It never occurred to him that it could be otherwise.

  For the moment, he luxuriated in righteousness. If he pitied more earthly comrades like Sergeant Samson with their flash-tails and shady acquaintances, it was because they never knew such joy and satisfaction as his. As he looked about him it seemed absurd that men should make such bother over their rights to choose gentlemen for parliament. He saw instead a great crusade with Methodism for its banner and the majestic hymns of the Wesleys as its marching songs. Before it, surely the power of the squirearchy and the established church would be broken at last.

  When it was all over for another week, he stood outside in the noon sunlight. As he shepherded Bella and the others through the crowd on the pavement, his hand in his pocket touched a pasteboard card and he frowned.

  The card had come to the Tidy Street lodgings two days before, in an envelope addressed to him.

  THE GREAT LAVENGRO Clairvoyant and Astrologer Royal to the Crowned Heads of Europe has the honour to request the presence of:

  William Clarence Verity, Esq. for a complimentary consultation Sunday the 14th of July at 3.

  Signor Lavengro's parlour stands twenty yards west of the Chain Pier. NB A prompt attendance will oblige.

  Verity's first impulse had been to tear up the invitation with a sense of disapproval that such pastimes should be permitted upon a Sunday afternoon. It was Bella who had urged him to accept.

  'Don't be so narrow, Mr Verity! Go on! 's only fun!'

  But when he had yielded to her argument, it was not out of any desire for fun. Sunday or not, his curiosity was prompted. Why should the Great Lavengro, from his tented booth by the pier, bother to send such an invitation to him? He would go, he told himself, not with any genial sense of sport but with the trained suspicion of a detective policeman.

  The Verity family turned out of Black Lion Street and walked ceremoniously along the flagstones above the shingle beach. At their head strode Verity himself, his rusty frock-coat brightened by a new red cravat. His plump face glowing under the brim of the tall hat, he walked as if on parade. Beside him, in her blue crinoline, was Bella, endeavouring to restrain young Billy Verity. Behind her was Ruth, the round little face under the crop of fair curls seeming solemn as ever. She was carrying little Vicky, though starting from time to time as though touched about the waist and neck. At the rear lolloped Stringfellow on his wooden leg. Verity noticed that from time to time Bella glanced back at Ruth's sudden movements. He himself had deep moral misgivings as to the precise feelings of old Stringfellow for the sixteen-year-old maid-of-all-work. Indeed, he had already tasted Bella's anger at his first attempt to suggest the undesirability of allowing her father and Ruth to occupy adjoining attic rooms.

  The bright green sea stretched glassily away in the still, languorous afternoon. Hardly a ripple seemed to break upon the shingle below them. Gulls hovered and dipped, as if to frustrate the aim of young men in boats whose guns pop-popped at them. On Sunday the bathing machines were deserted and most of the yachts drawn up on the shingle, like fish on a slab. Only the Victoria and Albert an
d the Honeymoon were afloat with their white sails hoisted and their groups of giggling passengers. A party of young women on bay and piebald hacks cantered along the firm sand below the shingle. The girls wore gold and silver beaded nets over their shining hair, with multi-coloured feathers in their jaunty little hats.

  Despite the width of the promenade, the ballooning crinolines made it seem as impassable as the Haymarket or Regent Circus. The men in peg-top trousers and coloured coats appeared dowdy by contrast with the majestic shape of their women under full sail. Presently, Verity became aware that the tit-tupping of Stringfellow's wooden leg had stopped. He turned and saw the old cabman some way behind them. Stringfellow, open-mouthed and intent, was engaged in conversation with a plump, expensively-dressed man. Verity noticed the cabman's face set in an expectant grin. His hand came up, palm uppermost, and the expensive gentle-man dropped a small gold coin into it. Stringfellow ducked politely and touched his forehead. Then he caught up the others.

  ‘Pa!' said Bella furiously. 'How could you?'

  'Asked if I was a sojer,' said Stringfellow defensively. 'Asked what me reg'ment was. Where I lorst me leg. Told 'im how we rode at Bhurtpore. Give me 'alf a sov! Look!'

  It don't excuse!' said Bella haughtily. She turned her back and they walked on. Stringfellow hummed to himself, as if to show how trivial the misunderstanding had been.

  At five minutes to three the Great Lavengro's booth looked forlorn and deserted. It stood upon the bare stretch of sand by the long suspension-work of the Chain Pier, tall and narrow like a tent from a medieval crusade. Its canvas striped vertically in yellow and red, the booth seemed hardly large enough for the clairvoyant, his client and the crystal ball.

  The rest of the family stood back uncertainly while Verity approached. At first he thought there was some mistake, that he had been invited on the wrong day. Finding the narrow entrance in the canvas he stood outside and listened.

  1 'ello?' he said hopefully, ' 's me! Verity!'

  There was a movement inside and the flap was pulled open. A small sallow man appeared. His cranium was tighdy bound in a black scarf bearing the signs of the zodiac in gold, like a skull-cap. He bowed to Verity with hands pressed together in an almost oriental gesture of courtesy. Then he ushered his visitor into the tent.

  There was just room for a small folding table with a chair either side, one for the Great Lavengro and one for his guest. On the green baize stood a glass ball in a black holder. The clairvoyant ignored it for a moment and gestured Verity to his seat.

  'You honour me, my dear sir, by accepting my invitation!' the breath whistled slightly between his ill-fitting teeth. 'Useless to pretend that I know nothing of your public fame. Why, the world knows of your hairbreadth escapes in America and India, your skill in bringing criminals to justice!'

  'Do it?' said Verity, frankly puzzled. 'You never invited me 'cos of that, Mr Lavengro. Did yer?'

  The clairvoyant permitted himself a faint smile.

  'No, my dear sir.' The thin hands washed together unctuously. 'You are here because I believe I can help you. And help the cause of justice.'

  'You mean you been robbed or something,' said Verity cynically.

  Lavengro shook his head.

  'I mean, sir, that the public takes me as an entertainment, perhaps a fraud. I am no such thing. Sometimes in the depths of my crystal ball I see too clearly what time must bring. I see crimes committed which, as yet, are unknown in the minds of their perpetrators. Do you understand me?'

  'Go on,' said Verity quietly.

  'I ask nothing of you,' said Lavengro with the same sibilant breath. 'No reward and no thanks. Only that you will speak for my art in the future when you hear it maligned.'

  'Course I would,' said Verity scowling. 'If it's right.'

  Lavengro put a hand to each side of his face, as if to cut out the sunlight in the woven fabric of the tent. He bowed towards the glass ball.

  'Close your eyes, Mr Verity. Think of nothing but what I say and the image which rises behind your closed lids. I see a time soon to come. It grows close. No more than the day after tomorrow. As the sun declines I see a grassy place, not five miles from here. Tents and booths in abundance. There is a girl who acts in a charade. I see a medieval joust. But see! Now she is among the crowds. She walks against a man and stuns him. A hand enters his pocket where his watch might be. She has a notecase in her hand. The glass is cloudy. I can see no more.'

  Verity opened his eyes.

  'All you got is a flash-tail hoisting watches at a fair.'

  'Close your eyes again, my dear, dear, sir. I see a darker place. Just before midnight of the same day. It is close to here — so close. Not half a mile. There is a shop, full of the treasures of Asia. Sparkling stones and glowing jewels. There is a man. So dark I cannot see. I see him with an implement cutting a hole. A round hole in a wooden board. . .'

  ' 'ere, Mr Lavengro!' said Verity suddenly. 'Now that's something like! Keep on about it! Anything yer can see! Exact place and time!'

  'It is so dark,' moaned the clairvoyant. 'So dark! The hour is near midnight, before or after. I can make out little else. Only. . .'

  'Yes, Mr Lavengro? Anything you can!'

  'German,' said Lavengro, as though with a great effort. 'German. . . Duke. . . German Duke. . . Alas, the shadows come upon me. . . I can see no more. . .'

  He sagged back in his chair, as if with total exhaustion.

  'Right,' said Verity briskly. 'Greatly obliged. And if I should apprehend such villains on Tuesday, you may hear to your advantage.'

  But the sallow little man raised both hands as if to ward off a blow. 'No, my dear sir! No! I take no reward or thanks for such things.'

  Verity shook his head slowly.

  'Still, if such persons should be took, this’ll be a story for the Whitehall police office! They'll never believe it! Caught by a magician's art!'

  'No!' It came almost as a shout. 'You must tell no one of this, my dear sir. No one. For they will not believe you. You will do harm both to yourself and to me.'

  'Yes,' said Verity reluctantly. 'I s'pose I would.'

  Despite his scepticism, he was impressed. There was no earthly reason why the clairvoyant should seek to deceive him. If there was no female pickpocket at a fairground on Tuesday, no attempt to rob a jeweller's, he would have wasted a little time but no worse. To catch two such thieves, however, would advance his reputation even further. Added to the apprehending of the Trafalgar Street gang and Mary Ann it would give the lie to Inspector Croaker's vindictive reports on his conduct. As for the Great Lavengro, he had absolutely nothing to gain from a string of falsehoods.

  Verity sat quiet for a moment longer, as if to let the clairvoyant recover. He hardly liked to speak what was on his mind.

  'Mr Lavengro, sir. Can you see anything in that crystal ball? What might you be able to see about me, sir?'

  Lavengro seemed visibly displeased by the request. But he shaded his eyes again and bowed towards the glass.

  'Gold,' he said presently. 'Gold being carried at great speed. A masked man at a safe. . . India, a great diamond, a heathen fortress. Beauties of the harem. . . The high seas, a mighty warship, death by water and sudden deliverance. . . The great cataract of Niagara. . .'

  'Yes, yes,' said Verity impatiently. 'Not that. About me, I mean. At home!'

  'Ah!' The Great Lavengro looked up, then glanced down at the ball again. 'You have a companion of great loveliness. Fair of feature and graceful of limb.'

  Verity basked in this tribute to Bella's charms.

  'You alone,' droned Lavengro, 'are now the happy master of those beauties which she once displayed to all the world. . .'

  'All the world!' said Verity thunderstruck.

  'No longer,' said Lavengro hastily. 'No longer does she flaunt her pretty legs and comely thighs before her expectant admirers. . .'

  Verity was on his feet, face reddening still further with anger.

  'Now, you see 'ere, my man. . .'<
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  'No longer!’ insisted Lavengro desperately. 'No longer does the fair charmer waggle her voluptuous hips before an audience of costers. . .'

  Verity's incoherent roar of rage on Bella's behalf filled the confines of the canvas booth. All his gratitude for the hints of robbery to come was now forgotten. He could think only of the foulnesses about his beloved wife which were spouting from the mouth of the obscene little man with his black and gold headscarf. The table was between them, but Verity smashed it aside, wrenching the clairvoyant to his feet with two ham-like fists grasping the man's lapels. Terror filled Lavengro's dark little eyes.

  'Flashing her arse in a penny gaff!' he squealed desperately.

  'Oh gawd! You must a-known! Haymarket! Regent Circus! Ma Hamilton's Night 'ouse!'

  Verity withdrew a right hand in order to deal vengeance. But the Great Lavengro, awakening suddenly to the inevitability of suffering, kicked him sharply on the shins. A dull agony invaded the bone. Verity lost his footing and blundered back against the canvas wall of the little tent. It bulged under his weight but held firm.

  He lunged away from it, clawing for the elusive Lavengro. His foot trod on the fallen crystal ball and he felt the cheap glass crunch to powder under his boot.

  'I’ll bleedin' have you in the infirmary for this!' he roared. Never in all his dealings with the most hardened criminals had he felt such a degree of fury. To hear his pure and beloved Bella — the mother of his children — spoken of in such a manner drove him almost demented.

  The cheap furniture and the two men's bodies seemed to fill almost every available space in the booth. But Lavengro, in his frenzy to avoid serious injury, was scrambling for the door. Verity blocked the way. The scrawny clairvoyant snatched a chair and raised it in an attempt to smash the frame down on his antagonist's head. Verity's tall hat had long ago vanished into the debris and he was now unprotected against such a blow. But as Lavengro raised the chair with both hands, Verity bunched his right hand into a hamlike fist again and delivered a meaty smack to the clairvoyant's jaw.