by Lynne Truss
‘Sergeant Brunswick is taking me out to dinner,’ Mrs Thorpe explained, when only one plate of ham salad was delivered to the supper table by the trusty Mrs Browning. ‘It’s his way of apologising for last night.’ Twitten noticed she was wearing her favourite coral-coloured frock with the very full skirt, and a crystal necklace. He wondered how much of this going-out-to-dinner idea had been Brunswick’s. He also wondered why Brunswick owed Mrs Thorpe an apology in any case. After all, he could hardly help missing the dinner last night, could he? He had been tied up.
‘Good luck,’ said Twitten, as he speared some crunchy lettuce with his fork. ‘I think you might have to shoulder the burden of conversation. The last time I saw the sergeant he was so exhausted he could barely string two words together.’
After she had gone, he quickly took his bath and climbed into bed. ‘Peace,’ he said, switching off his lamp, and closing his eyes. ‘A bit of bally peace.’
And then, faintly, he heard a key in the lock downstairs.
At about the same hour, Gerald Winslow, lately governor of Broadmoor, boarded an express for London, jumping on at the last minute and finding himself in a small, dimly lit compartment with three women, all apparently travelling separately and all of them peering intently at their books.
As the train drew out of the station, and rain started to pelt the darkened windows, he took stock. The large woman in the furthest corner was evidently absorbed in Peyton Place. Opposite her was a younger woman with glorious chestnut hair, reading the latest from Daphne du Maurier. And opposite Winslow was a small, rosy-cheeked woman with plaited hair pinned up over her head, making notes in a book by Jung.
‘Carlotta?’ he cried.
She looked up, and he gasped. ‘Oh, it’s you! I can’t believe it, Carlotta. It’s me, Gerald. I’ve looked everywhere for you!’
‘Herr Governor?’ she said. She seemed both surprised and delighted. She clutched her knees and – rather thrillingly, to Winslow’s eyes – wiggled her tiny feet. As Twitten had so sagely remarked, the feminine attractions of Miss Sibert appealed to quite specialised tastes. But when they worked, they worked.
‘Call me Gerald,’ he corrected her. ‘You used to call me—’
‘Jah,’ she said thoughtfully, as she remembered. She reached over and patted his hand. Then she signalled to the others, who both cautiously lowered their books.
‘This is Gerald! It is nice coincidence!’
‘Good evening, ladies,’ he said, tipping his hat.
‘Hello,’ said Miss Lennon flatly.
‘Good evening,’ said Adelaide Vine, with eyes narrowed. She darted a glance at Miss Sibert. Being reunited with this man seemed to make her very happy.
But then Miss Sibert’s mouth turned down. ‘You hear of poor Mr Chow-tza, Gerald?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’
‘Mein Gott!’ She pulled a comical face, as if tempted to laugh. ‘Shoots himself, beng-beng?’
‘Yes, poor man. But not before chopping off two men’s heads, which means I’m on the run, Carlotta. People already blame me for helping you with the escape. Now I’m an accessory to murder! I don’t know what to do.’
She crossed the compartment to sit next to him and took his arm.
‘Let me talk to my friends, jah?’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘We see what we can do. Like you, we are “on the run”, as you say. We have decide to form a geng! Don’t worry, Herr Gerald. Your Carlotta will see to everything. Perheps you join the geng, too?’
Why not? he thought. ‘I long to be with you, Carlotta.’
‘I know, Herr Gerald,’ she said. ‘Und even better, I understand.’
Elsewhere, the events of the day were reverberating. At home in her North Norfolk bedroom, Pandora Holden reached for her diary. Her surroundings pretty fairly represented the split personality of an intellectually precocious but sexually awakened teenager: while a sophisticated jazz LP played on her portable record player and a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses lay on the bed, there was a poster of Tommy Steele pinned to the wall – a free gift from the fourpence-halfpenny girl’s romance comic Mirabelle (‘packed with all-picture love stories’). Opening the diary at the back, she studied the lists of names for the children she intended to have with Peregrine. On the lengthy train ride home, she had rethought Sappho and Caligula three times at least. ‘Andromache’, she wrote; and then ‘Philoctetes’.
Then she shut the diary and looked at the Ovid and the Mirabelle. Which did she feel more like reading? The story of the raped and mutilated Philomela being turned into a nightingale? Or the story of the nicely coiffed Nurse Janet finding love with lantern-jawed Dr Lyle? Without hesitation, she picked up the Mirabelle and was soon happily lost in the long-running saga entitled ‘I’ll Follow My Heart’.
Back in Brighton, Sergeant Baines visited Sergeant Masefield (erstwhile police driving instructor) at his clinic for nervous exhaustion, and told him what he’d missed. The bluff Sergeant Baines was generally very good at cheering people up, and he related the noonday events at the zebra crossing with considerable colour and gusto. But Masefield was – understandably – hard to entertain, especially with anecdotes that involved Constable Twitten at the wheel of a moving vehicle.
‘He wanted me to talk him through the pedals, Alf!’ laughed Sergeant Baines.
‘Promise me he’ll never drive again, John,’ whispered Masefield, grabbing Baines’s arm with an icy, claw-like hand.
Alone in the record department of the darkened store, with Elvis Presley playing over the loudspeakers, Mister Harold kept rehearsing the day’s events and wondering what he could have done differently. He really wanted to say to himself, with a clear conscience, ‘You could not have prevented this terrible state of affairs, Harold!’ But then he would remember the clock-installers insisting on the need for chains and concrete – and the memory made him squirm.
Was this the end for Gosling’s? Had Hannington’s won, without even trying? He looked round at the pegboard record booths; he inhaled the wonderful smell of vinyl. Elvis requested to be his teddy bear. A tear trickled down his face.
What frustrated him most was that his usual mental processes were thwarted. Ordinarily, his thoughts ran along the lines of, How can I turn this latest thing to the store’s commercial advantage? But even that greatest of retailers Harold Gosling was stumped for how to dig a usable sales pitch out of an example of gross negligence resulting in the crushing to death of four French people (not to mention their exotic alliums). Miserably, he tried a few slogans in his head:
Come and Be Flattened by Gosling’s!
Gosling’s – Where We Murder Prices and Occasionally People!
Isn’t It a Crime Not to Shop at Gosling’s?
It Isn’t Only Our Pricing That’s Criminally Negligent!
And with that, miraculously, he stopped feeling miserable. It really helps sometimes to have a shallow personality.
‘That could work!’ he said to himself excitedly. ‘I think it could actually work!’
At English’s fish restaurant in East Street, Mrs Thorpe had ordered half a dozen oysters and the fillet of sole bonne femme with asparagus; Brunswick had requested soupe du jour followed by steak and chips. They were seated in the little bay window, watching the rain bounce off the pavement outside, but their mood was fairly buoyant. After a solid three-hour afternoon nap at his auntie’s flat, Brunswick was definitely beginning to revive. It helped that Mrs Thorpe looked stunning in her coral dress and crystals. He was glad he had worn his blue suit. Reflected in the window, they made a handsome couple.
‘You never mentioned before that you grew up in India, Mrs Thorpe,’ he said, attempting grown-up conversation.
‘Yes, James. I was lucky enough to be born in Simla.’
‘Oh. Really?’ he said. ‘Well, well. Simla. That was flaming lucky.’ She had said the name as if it should mean something to him.
‘But of course our position in the Punjab was much affected by the Amritsar Massacre. And
rightly so.’
He bit his lip and adjusted his tie. The early-twentieth-century history of the Indian subcontinent was a bit of a blank page as far as he was concerned.
She tried once more. ‘But on a brighter note, my grandmother knew Kipling in Lahore in the eighties!’
Again, there was nothing for him to grab onto. He wondered if he should counter with his own favourite claim to fame, ‘Edmundo Ros went to my school’, but thankfully decided against it. This unshakeable delusion of Brunswick’s that the popular bandleader had attended the London Road Academy for Orphans, Waifs and Foundlings in Brighton did not stand up to the slightest scrutiny.
Feeling miserably inadequate, Brunswick took a sip of the martini cocktail Mrs Thorpe had ordered for them both. To taste buds accustomed to Watney’s, it was unspeakable.
‘Look, Mrs Thorpe,’ he said, choking slightly. ‘We need to talk about something a bit closer to home than the flaming Punjab, and God knows, I’d rather not.’
Mrs Thorpe adopted a bright expression, to mask her feelings of dismay. Was this it? Was he choosing this moment to finish with her? Why, oh, why, had she plumped for a famous and expensive seafood restaurant without checking with Sergeant Brunswick first?
‘Go on,’ she said bravely. ‘Tell me. I can take it. Is it because of the fish?’
‘What? No.’ He frowned. ‘No, this is about today, Mrs Thorpe. I don’t think you realise that you put yourself in terrible danger. You keep making light of it.’
‘Is that all?’ She was relieved. ‘But I really didn’t mind, James. I found it very exciting.’
‘No!’ He banged the table, which startled her. Several other diners craned their necks, and a glaring waiter made a very obvious mental note to keep an eye on Mister ruddy Steak-and-Chips.
‘Look,’ Brunswick said, with emotion. ‘I’m no good at this, Mrs Thorpe. Oysters and what have you. Linen serviettes. Everything in French. This knife is so flaming heavy I can hardly pick it up! But I’m doing my best.’
‘Of course you are.’ Mrs Thorpe’s face was all concern. ‘We can leave if you like, James.’
‘No, no. There’s just something I need to say. At the wax museum, I was very frightened. The danger was real. And I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon and I just can’t flaming get over it.’ He lowered his voice and took her hand, which made her gasp. ‘I can’t get over it,’ he repeated quietly, ‘that you, a beautiful posh woman who can do much better than me, would put yourself in danger on my account.’
Tears formed in Mrs Thorpe’s eyes. ‘James,’ she said gently. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
The waiter chose this precise moment to arrive with the main courses. ‘Go away at once!’ she snapped, and he stepped back so violently that a quantity of bonne femme sauce slopped up his sleeve.
‘I’m very fond of you, James,’ she continued, adopting her former cooing tone as if nothing had happened.
‘I know that,’ he moaned, aware of the waiter hovering and muttering. ‘But—’
‘I would like it very much if we were a couple.’
‘I know that, too. But why do you want me? I just don’t understand it. And the more you tell me how dotty you are about me, the worse it gets! I’m flattered, very flattered. But the more you go on about it, the more it feels like – well, like you’re flogging a flaming dead horse!’
‘That’s a horrible expression, James.’
‘I know. But what you did today, well, what am I supposed to think? You love me so much you saved my ruddy life? How does that help?’
‘You’re saying I’m too keen?’
‘Well, yes. Yes.’
‘It puts you off that I express my feelings, even though my words are meant to encourage and reassure you?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You did kiss me, James. Not long ago. And it meant so much to me.’
‘And that’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about!’
‘I see.’
She sat back and signalled to the waiter to approach, which he did with a very bad grace.
‘Ready now?’ he said pointedly, as he set down the dishes.
Back at Mrs Thorpe’s house, the door to Twitten’s bedroom creaked open.
‘You there, Constable?’ said the expected voice in the dark.
Clive Hoskisson was dithering on Inspector Steine’s doorstep with an envelope in his hand when – without warning – the door was yanked open and the inspector appeared, dressed in a royal blue monogrammed dressing-gown, and holding a rinsed-out milk bottle.
‘Hoskisson? Good. Thank you for coming. As you can tell from my informal attire, I’d rather given you up.’
Both men went inside, and Steine showed the reporter to the front sitting-room, waving him to a chair.
‘I just need to ask you some questions,’ said Hoskisson, laying his notebook on a table. ‘But don’t worry, it’s not about what happened at the famous milk bar. It’s about what happened outside the department store today.’
Steine looked at him and shrugged.
‘Your desk sergeant gave me the address. He said you had something you wanted to tell me.’
‘That’s right.’ Steine closed his eyes and gathered his strength. He hated talking to reporters, but this had to be done. ‘Look, Hoskisson, I’ll be brief. It was pointed out to me this afternoon that my actions at the zebra crossing might be open to misconstruction. What I mean is that my saving your life while putting my own at risk might be erroneously construed as “heroic”. I want to make it very clear to you – and to those intensely curious mythical readers of yours, of course – that it was not heroic, I merely acted on instinct, and I’m sorry if that’s less interesting as a story but it’s the truth.’
Hoskisson pulled a face. ‘Why are you being so obtuse, Inspector?’
‘Obtuse? I am not being obtuse. How dare you? I just explained—’
‘But you just said it. You saved my life by putting yourself in danger! That’s what heroism is. I admit, I previously thought less well of you. I had learned some very shocking things about your conduct regarding the shooting of Terence Chambers. But I know what you did today, and it was magnificent. I have half-written my piece already: I just need some quotes from you to complete it. Naturally it will suffer alongside the other sensational stories from today, but the headline will be: “MY LIFE SAVED BY MILK-BAR HERO COPPER”.’
‘Well,’ said Steine quietly, ‘I wish you’d had the courtesy to consult me before you started writing it.’
‘I couldn’t get access to you, Inspector!’ Hoskisson spoke with passion. It had been quite an exhausting day for him, too, what with the sensational bloodbath on Upper North Street to report, not to mention the wildly dramatic crushing-to-death of four heavily disguised members of the Chambers gang from London. His editor back in Fleet Street was pleased to bits with him, especially for the way he had immediately recognised the Soho hoods in question and could personally testify to the way they had met their gruesome end. Until tomorrow morning’s edition of the Mirror hit the news-stands, everyone else would still believe the four victims of death-by-enormous-clock were innocent French onion-sellers.
‘Look, Hoskisson,’ sighed the inspector. ‘I’d like you to kill the story about me saving your life.’
‘Kill it?’
‘On that zebra crossing, I did what needed to be done, and that’s all I’ll ever say on the matter.’
‘But why don’t you want people to know?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Steine exploded. ‘Because I could not bear to be treated like a hero again!’
Hoskisson was bewildered. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said.
‘Look,’ said the inspector, ‘I apologise for the outburst. But I mean it. Being a celebrity was not to my taste at all. I mean, it was wonderful to meet Roy Plomley, and I was overwhelmed to receive the Silver Truncheon. But they made me have my photogr
aph taken with scantily clad women described as “Rank starlets”, Hoskisson! And I sat at dinner with a slimy fellow whose business card called him a “society osteopath”! A society osteopath! What does that even mean?’
He shuddered to remember it all. ‘And then the very Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police sent this woman Miss Lennon down here to be my secretary, and if it hadn’t been for him doing that, none of these zebra-crossing shenanigans would even have come about, and … ah. Hang on. I just need to … ’
Steine frowned, his eyes swivelling. It wasn’t often that he had an epiphany. In fact, he might never have had one before. Perhaps fatigue had something to do with it. But something annoyingly hinted by Constable Twitten earlier in the day had just started to make sense.
‘What is it?’ asked the reporter.
‘Hush a moment, would you?’ said Steine. It had been just a few days ago, but it seemed like a distant memory: him standing with the commissioner in the office at Scotland Yard. What exactly were the words the man had said to him, in that misleadingly genial tone?
‘I hope my Soho chaps haven’t been too hard on you over this Chambers business.’
‘For what?’ Steine had asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Well, for halving their income, in some cases! I mean, I shouldn’t say it, but between you and me, my own lady wife is furious with you. Furious! Chambers flew us out to Torremolinos last year for a fortnight, and she said it was the best holiday she ever had. And then of course there were the cases of spirits at Christmas.’
Hoskisson coughed. ‘Would you like me to go, sir?’
‘No. Wait.’
‘I do have a deadline, and if you really don’t want me to file this story, I shan’t insist—’
‘No! Stay there!’
