The Great Lavengro sagged. Yet in doing so he brought the chair down gently but firmly. Imprisoned under it in the narrow space, Verity struggled to fight clear. He stepped back against the single pole of the tent and, to his dismay, heard a loud crack. Swathes of canvas began to enfold him until he was kneeling under the mass of it. Those outside, who had gathered when the tent walls began to bulge with the impact of hurtling bodies, now watched the flimsy structure subside like a deflated balloon.
Staggering about in the folds Verity found a tiny gap where the top of the tent should have been. It was too small to escape through, but large enough to give him a view of the Great Lavengro. Blood was trickling from a corner of the clairvoyant's mouth as he scrambled away in his torn clothes, racing across the shingle in the direction of Shoreham.
At last he found the hem of the canvas, struggled under it, threw it clear, and stood up. He was surrounded by a ring of spectators. Looking round for Bella and the others, his eye fell first of all on a stern figure. In its tall hat and long belted tunic, handcuffs and rattle at the side, it was unmistakeable. Worse still, its face was unfamiliar, not one of the uniformed constables of Brighton with whom Verity had so far struck up an acquaintance.
'Well then,' said the figure aggressively. 'What's all this?'
'Quick!' Verity gasped. 'Him! Running away over there! He's the one you want!'
The constable looked at him disdainfully.
'We can find him any time,' he said gruffly. 'It's you I want!'
Verity shook his head.
'I’m police officer,' he panted.
'Oh yes!' said the constable. 'Forget your uniform? Get them hands behind your back! You're a bloody hooligan, that's what!'
Verity was too winded to resist the handcuffs. In any case two stalwart volunteers from the crowd had his arms behind him and the metal cuffs bit into his wrists.
'Listen!' howled Verity. 'I gotta warrant card somewhere! I'm here to keep the peace, same as you!'
The uniformed constable looked round at the crumpled tent and its shattered contents.
'Oh yes?' he said again with the same casual disdain. 'This your idea of peace, is it? Get walking!'
And then, to crown Verity's wretchedness, there was a cry as Bella pushed her way through the crowd with the rest of his little family following sheepishly behind her.
The procession to the Market Street lock-up was a public humiliation which lived long in his mind. Behind him and his captor walked an interested crowd. Bella a few paces away was weeping silently. Billy in his leading-reins and little Vicki in Ruth's arms were bawling in unison, as if divining their father's disgrace by their mother's tears. Ruth, her pretty brown eyes wide with dismay, followed with Stringfellow. Of all the family, it was the old cabman who took the reverse of their fortunes most calmly. From time to time he fetched out the half sovereign and looked at it thirstily as it lay in his palm. Presently he turned to Ruth beside him. Finger and thumb took a soft fold of her face gently and shook it with roguish familiarity. He glanced back for the last time at the ruins of the Great Lavengro's premises. Then he patted Ruth forward again.
'No good do come of these things as a rule,' he said philosophically. 'No good whatsoever!'
5
'Aggravated assault!' Inspector Henry Croaker looked up from the chair in which he sat. With his small dark eyes, his face yellow as a fallen leaf, his leather stock buttoned up tight, he almost laughed in his glee. Verity, bare-headed and red-faced, stood rigidly at attention before the desk. The room, in the police office of Brighton Town Hall was unfamiliar, but the routine was one which he had undergone a dozen times during Croaker's command of the Private-Clothes Detail.
The inspector was swallowing greedily, in anticipation of his triumph. This time, at least, the matter was beyond doubt. The Great Lavengro had been beaten by the fat sergeant before a crowd of witnesses, including a member of the local constabulary.
‘Dismissal!' cried Croaker. 'Proceedings on a charge of felony!' In his total rapture, he almost sang the words to his victim. Verity struggled to retain his composure, though he knew well that his future in the detail had never seemed as black as now.
'Wasn't like that, sir. With respect, sir.'
'No?' said Croaker softly. 'Then tell me how it was, sergeant.'
'He said things about Mrs Verity, sir. Things about her having behaved in a indecent manner before marriage, sir! Dancing in them penny gaffs, sir!'
'Indeed?' The words were almost chuckling from the inspector's lips. 'And was he right, sergeant?'
Verity's flushed cheeks darkened to a port-wine shade.
'Mrs Verity is a pattern of purity and womanhood, sir. And anyone who says or thinks otherwise is a foul-mouthed scoundrel, sir. With respect, sir.'
Croaker paused, with the air of one who has committed a tactical error but for whom victory remains assured.
'As to that, sergeant, the matter will no doubt be fully aired when the public proceedings are brought. And since Mr Lavengro will presently be here, he may enlighten us even before then.'
'He got nothing to enlighten anyone about, sir. And if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay away! Else. . .'
'Or else, sergeant, you will give him another good drubbing, will you? That is what you were about to say, is it not? I strongly advise you, before the charge comes to court, to keep a tight rein on your tongue. Mr Lavengro will be here, have no fear. He is this moment being fetched by two uniformed constables.'
Verity stood at attention, as smartly as on parade. In his mind were the other two items of information which he had received in the clairvoyant's booth on Sunday afternoon. The two crimes to be committed upon the following day. It had first occurred to him that he ought to mention these prophecies to Mr Croaker. But then he thought that Lavengro might now deny having made them. In that case, they would appear merely as his own falsehoods, the last measures of a desperate man.
From outside the room there came a sound of approaching voices. Two of these were the calm insistent tones of the escorting officers. The third, high and shrill, was evidently that of the outraged clairvoyant himself. There was a tap at the door. Croaker barked out a challenge and the door opened. Verity had his back to it but he saw Croaker rise and heard the other men come in.
'Mr Lavengro!' said Croaker unctuously. It is indeed so good of you to come here and assist us in so distressing an affair. Permit me, my dear sir, to offer you the profoundest apologies on behalf of the Private-Clothes Detail for the ruffianly assault to which you have been subjected.'
Like a trusted companion offering assistance to an invalid, Croaker took the Great Lavengro's arm and led him round the desk so that they both faced Verity from the far side.
'There!' said Croaker, gesturing with a finger which would have done credit to the Hoxton melodrama. 'There is your attacker, sir! Lay what charges you please! You shall make no enemies here for doing so!'
In the morning light, Lavengro looked less sallow than he had done in the canvas booth. His hair, released from the black and gold skull cap, now formed a short tumble of dark, oiled curls. He looked malignantly at Verity, and also at the others in the room. Then he shrugged.
‘Never saw him in my life before.'
'Look again!' yapped Croaker. This is the man who brutally assaulted you in the middle of yesterday afternoon and brought down your tent into the bargain!' Lavengro shrugged a second time.
‘I'f you say so. Only thing is, I was out cock-fighting at the Dog and Duck in Preston village, and there's a dozen gents or more that was with me. Bleeding ask 'em!'
Croaker's sickly yellow features were immobile in a moment of terrible realisation. The dark little eyes froze with a deep, unfathomable agony.
' 'nother thing,' said Lavengro irritably. 'There was dancing. That Janet Bond, the Female Hussar. Her with the dark hair done up in a top-knot and that big bum. Split 'er fleshings when she kicked her legs. I was there all right.'
'Your tent!' s
houted Croaker. 'It was destroyed!'
'Nothing wrong with it Monday morning, however. Tents don't destroy easy. They falls down and you puts 'em up again. P'raps someone put mine up again.'
'Why weren't you there on Sunday afternoon?' Croaker's tone was almost pleading in his exasperation.
' 'Cos the watch-committee don't approve of the magical arts being exercised on the sabbath. Even young Janet can only flash about before a audience of private gents. Any case, I likes a day to meself. Me and Janet got a bit of an understanding just now, and that takes up a man's time rather.'
Inspector Croaker's lip quivered, as though he might weep. His voice sank to a softer, imploring tone.
'Then who was telling fortunes in your tent on Sunday afternoon?'
'Dunno, do I? That's your bloody silliness.'
At last Croaker turned on the Great Lavengro.
'Very well, my man,' he breathed. 'You think yourself clever. Yes you do. But let me tell you this. My eye is upon you from this moment. Infringe one by-law, cause one complaint, and I shall be upon you like the wrath of God! I neither know nor care why you practise this present deceit. But you shall hear more of me, sir! Depend upon it!'
'Tell you what,' said Lavengro reasonably, Tm going from here to swear an affadavy of all this. And then, if so much as the shadow of one of your tall hats falls on my tent, I’ll be round the watch-committee with a copy. Saying how I was brought here forcible to perjure meself over things that never happened. They'll have your privates off you and mounted over the Town 'all porch.'
There was an ill-suppressed snort of mirth from one of the uniformed constables behind Verity. The Great Lavengro, with a sense of theatrical dignity, swept from the room. Verity decided that the time had come to disclose the other predictions of the man who had posed as Lavengro on the previous afternoon.
'Sir,' he said smartly, 'there's one thing I gotta say, sir. With respect, sir.'
But Croaker was surveying the room with eyes which seemed blinded by his own interior humiliation. Suddenly aware of the sergeant's voice he brought his gaze into focus on Verity's smug red face. And then his agony became insupportable.
'Get out!' he cried. 'This minute! Get out! Get out!’
Above the glitter of the afternoon sea, the dry summer turf of the downland was covered by fairground tents and canvas booths. Banners fluttered from their tops and a great painted placard in red and blue announced 'Newsome's Alhambra Palace Circus! A Brilliant Assemblage of Equestrian Novelties! Lessons in the Polite Art of Equitation Given Daily by Madame Pauline Newsome!'
Elsewhere, the same information streamed from long strips of printed bills. A single flag proclaiming 'Newsome's Equestrian Novelties!' drooped in the warm air. Newsome himself stood in a wooden box by the entrance, like a saint in a niche, his leather purse ready to receive the coppers. From within a small braying band of brass instruments was playing 'All Among the Barley'.
Verity stood before the entrance with Miss Jolly a few paces behind him. She had equipped herself for whatever might occur, the pink crinoline concealing the riding trousers, in which she could move with improbable speed. Verity surveyed the other young women outside the tent with a red-faced scowl. Jolly watched with an occasional flash of her eyes to right or left, eager for her prey.
Newsome with his broad-brimmed farmer's hat and hoarse voice was haranguing the crowds.
'This way, ladies and gents, for the equestrian novelties, incorporating for the first time in this town Rowley's medieval tournaments! See two fair damsels joust for the love of the same knight! See the winner in her bride attire. . .'
Verity's eyes narrowed. He knew something of Rowley's medieval tournaments and the girls who made up its retinue. A troupe of light-fingered young sluts, he thought. Far and away the most likely to make the bogus Lavengro's prediction come true. He was watching the rear entrance of the tent, where Newsome's 'artistes' assembled. A deep satisfaction filled his heart.
The girl was no more than fifteen years old, but he knew her well enough. She was a sturdy tomboy, one of Newsome's jousting maids. The fair hair was combed from its central parting to lie loose on her shoulders, the snub nose, narrow eyes and thin mouth giving an impression of wilful insolence. Her figure was tightly cased in a white singlet and riding trousers of a smooth lavender blue cotton.
'Who's she, then?'
He was aware of Miss Jolly's high-pitched voice.
'A young person known as Miss Elaine. Made trouble for me and Mr Samson once. Don't take your eyes off her.'
Jolly at once joined the little band of admirers, upon whom the young suspect had turned her back. A tight broad belt at the waist drew in the smooth trousers, so that the robust seat and the swell of Elaine's young hips seemed to form an almost perfect circle. The little knot of men, now realising that a girl had joined them, looked quizzically at Miss Jolly. They were answered by a sharp glare from dark brows and then her profile turned away in sphinx-like imperturbability.
Verity walked in a slow circle round the tent without seeing any of Newsome's other girls. It was absurd, of course. How could the Great Lavengro himself, let alone an imposter, know that a girl would pick a man's pocket at the fairground on this particular afternoon? Trusting Jolly to keep watch on Elaine, he walked slowly among the other tents and booths. But as the moment came for the circus to begin, the customers drifted away. Outside the Punch and Judy box, the proprietor vainly blew his little trumpet to summon public attention. A man with a pair of dancing dogs stood in the shade of his canvas awning, staring malevolently towards the marquee in which Newsome's horse-girls performed.
Alone in his grassy space the Salamander Fire-King was practising his art, dressed in green tights, his green silk tunic embroidered with a gold lion. With head thrown back, he held the lighted link in his hand. Verity watched him, fascinated. The flame on the long wick seemed to dance always an inch or so beyond the man's lips. Yet he fed it slowly into his mouth, the fire sometimes glowing within his cheeks. He tucked the black, extinguished cotton into the side of his mouth, like a monkey storing nuts in his pouch. Suddenly the wick touched the man's moustache and there was a momentary fizzing sound. He gasped, drew the link away, and turned with his hand clapped over his face.
'You got no call to injure yourself for idlers to gape at,' said Verity sternly. 'They only come hoping to see you burnt.'
But he dropped a penny in the man's hand as he walked away.
There was no one who looked remotely like a pickpocket as he walked back to the circus tent. Jolly and the little group of men were still observing Elaine. Presently Elaine tossed back her hair, looked sullenly round at them and shouted belligerently, 'Seen all you want? P'raps you'd like to leave your entrance money in the box now!' And she strode away into the tent, with a final toss of her fair tresses.
Verity glanced about him. The downland outside the marquee was almost deserted. There was not another young woman, let alone a pickpocket, in sight. He took Jolly by the arm as Newsome's trumpeters began a discordant fanfare to announce the commencement of the riding.
'It's that young Elaine I fancy for number one,' he said softly. 'S'posing there is a number one and I ain't simply been made a fool of!'
Her eyes flickered in a silent predatory understanding. Verity led her to the entrance and deposited two coins in the money-box. They passed into the tent.
A rope on iron staves marked out the arena, the grass yellow under the canvas shade and sparse from the hooves of Newsome's ponies. Round the barrier was a crowd of ribboned bonnets, the pot hats and tall hats of the men, while Newsome in his red coat and white collar presided in the ring. A wag shouted, 'Evens the favourite!' above the murmur of the crowd as half a dozen ponies ridden by Elaine and the other girls cantered in from the far entrance. A man in front of Verity roared out 'Elaine on the grey! Let him laugh who wins! Hoo-ray, there! Hoo-ray!' He beat his top-boots with a little whip and clanked his brass spurs.
Verity's eye passed over
the assorted bonnets, searching for the face of a probable thief under each brim. There were bonnets in crepe, bonnets in straw, or silk and satin. Some were garnished with fruit or flowers, others with feathers and beads. But not one of the pretty faces beneath seemed intent upon anything other than the antics in the ring.
Presently the first canter was over and the pony riders had withdrawn. Pauline Newsome herself came out on Rameses, the Dancing Horse, a dappled stallion which pawed the ground in time to the music of the band. Suddenly, Verity felt Miss Jolly's hand tighten on his arm and heard the shrill whisper.
'Look at her! What's she doing?'
He turned to find Elaine, but she was apart from the crowd, standing aggressively over a smaller girl with whom she was arguing.
'No-o-o!' Jolly's voice rose in protest. There!'
He followed the direction of her arm and saw the other young woman. She was seventeen or eighteen years old, dressed like a servant. Her brown hair was combed loose to her shoulders, falling aslant her forehead. Verity watched the narrowed quizzical eyes, the pert features, and the thrusting movements of her robust young figure. The girl was forcing her way through the crowd, as if to regain the entrance. From time to time the press of spectators obliged her to push herself tightly against a man or woman in order to make her way.
'Well, I never!' said Verity contentedly. He made no movement. The girl pushed her way through, coming closer to them. From time to time she seemed conscious of having thrust herself too roughly against a man who stood in her path. On these occasions she would pause and smile an apology. Verity noticed that she was generally forgiven by an answering smile, dismissive or hopeful as the case might be.
A moment later she stepped clear of the throng, reaching the more open ground just within the entrance of the marquee. Verity let her come on, and then he barred her path.
'Why!' he said amiably. 'If it ain't young Vicki Hartle! And what's a frisky young piece like Vicki doing so far from home? You was to pick rope at Mr Dredge's factory down Ratcliffe Highway for five years. Condition o' your release from Brixton Reformatory. . .'
SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. Page 5
