Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments

by Francis Selwyn

  High up in the blank grim wall of Newgate Gaol was a tiny door, never used except on a Monday morning, and only on such Monday mornings as this. A black-draped platform had been built out from it, carts with posts and planks still rattling up Snow Hill as late as four in the morning to conclude the work. The final clatter and hammering died away as the carpenters completed the erection of two black-painted posts on the platform with a stout cross-beam between them and a dark iron chain dangling from its centre. Long before the arrival of Samson and Verity, the coach carrying the sheriffs had made its way through the crowd and the doors of the great prison had closed behind it. Now the hands on St Sepulchre's clock stood at ten to eight. Verity shivered in the chill of the summer morning.

  It seemed an age until the minute hand rose to a perfect vertical and the bell of the tower tolled out eight times. A silence fell upon the crowd.

  'They'd have knocked the irons off his legs in the press-yard by now,' said Samson doubtfully. 'Surely he never been respited nor done away with himself in his cell?'

  But the little door opened and a man's head appeared briefly and vanished. He reappeared, a single figure dressed all in black. A group of young men in the crowd set up a hissing, but it soon faded into silence. Four more men followed in a close group, the first on to the platform was black-suited but with his shirt open. His hands were strapped together in front of him and, as he stood there, he opened his palms once or twice in a helpless little gesture. The voice of the man behind him carried faintly across the multitude of onlookers.

  'I am the resurrection and the life. . . .'

  'Hurrah for Honest Jack Ransome!'

  The voice of a gaudily-dressed young swell at one of the upper windows of the 'Magpie and Stump' echoed across the street, provoking a mutter among those below, which swiftly fell to silence again. The condemned man placed himself quietly beneath the beam. Then the other man, who had come alone on to the platform, pulled him round to face the crowd, took from his pocket a white night-cap and drew it down firmly to cover the victim's head. There was not a sound from the crowd as the hangman stepped back and gave a signal to his assistant below the platform. The bolts of the trap were drawn away and the hooded figure seemed to stumble, rather than fall, into the dark well which opened under him. As he dropped to waist-level in the opening, the rope which connected the noose and the black chain shuddered taut. It seemed that the pinioned body twitched but those watching from the upper windows and balconies were able to see the last refinement of humane execution, the hands of Jack Ketch's apprentice reaching upwards to pull with vigorous jerks on the legs of the hanged man until the choking and the twitching ceased.

  Samson let out the breath which he had been holding in the tension of the moment. He turned to his companion.

  'Yer eyes is closed!’ he said incredulously.

  Verity nodded.

  'Never thought I'd feel for Jack Ransome,' he said throatily. 'He never did much actual harm to me, though. Funny enough, he once spoke up for me, to Mr Richard, and I could a-thanked him.'

  'The villain would have coopered us both, if he'd had his way!'

  Verity nodded again. There was a resurgence of noise and movement in the crowd. Captain Jack's body was required by law to hang for a full hour. But the excitement and the spectacle which had drawn men and women in their thousands was now over.

  Samson nudged Verity, as though to cheer him up.

  'Breakfast! I know where there's hot breakfast kept for us!'

  He led the way to Ludgate and London Bridge, Verity walking in silence beside him. Samson said conversationally,

  'Your Mr Richard was lucky, though. If he hadn't been mad as a hatter, he'd a-swung with Honest Jack. Now he'll end his days in Broadmoor Asylum. A cove told me that it's all new built, a real palace. It's on a hill, so you look clean over the walls and see the countryside around you, just as you might be at home on your own estate.'

  'What good's it to a man, if it ain't his own estate?' asked Verity with uncharacteristic bitterness. 'Poor young Mr Richard might a-bin better off going down with the Lady Flora or keeping Jack Ransome company on that trap just now. No, Mr Samson, I only got one thing to shout about, and that's what I got Dr Jamieson to do for that mistreated young fellow Wilson Rust, who swore to us he was sane in the asylum near Acton. There's a man that was wrongly held prisoner and is set free at last. And there ain't another thing I should wish to remember from this whole sorry business.'

  'You'll come round, however. See if you don't!'

  And Samson was right, at least to the extent that the gloom of witnessing the execution seemed to be passing from Verity's mind by the time they marched through the gates of Mrs Rouncewell's converted workhouse. The ruddy-faced and muscular proprietress greeted them with enthusiasm.

  'There's breakfast awaiting for two brave officers!' she said jubilantly. 'Sich devilled kidneys as you never dreamed of.'

  'Much obliged, Mrs Rouncewell,' said Verity softly, 'and I ain't particular about much breakfast just now.'

  'Gammon!' said Mrs Rouncewell sharply, and she sat the two sergeants at the parlour table with her. 'Take a mug o' porter with it. That's all you need.'

  Samson ate with gusto, and Verity took a mouthful or two in order to oblige the former police-matron who had been of assistance to him several times in the past.

  Samson munched at a kidney impaled on a fork. He said,

  'Pity about that Miss Elaine of yours. It didn't quite suit Mr Croaker and the Division to have her brought back here, else you might have apprenticed her hot and strong.'

  'Apprentices!' Mrs Rouncewell's solid bosom heaved with mirth. 'I ain't complaining of apprentices, not after what some of the officers in the Division done for me!'

  She stood up, pulled back the curtain on the glass door of the little parlour, and beckoned Verity with an impatient wave of her arm.

  Beyond the glass was an open lobby, which broadened into the steamy vista of the washing room. Two scrubbed wooden benches with a dozen tubs let into each ran the length of the room. A score of women, their ages between fourteen and forty, stooped in varying states of undress over the tubs. Simona and Stefania, blouses discarded and smocks peeled down to hang loose from their waists, pummelled and snatched in frantic rivalry at the contents of the same steaming tub. Not a yard away, one of Mrs Rouncewell's brawny lieutenants watched them in stem disapproval. And then Verity saw the other girl. She was working at a tub on the second bench, her dark hair pushed up in a tall coiffure, the pale gold of her bare back and shoulders glistening with the heat of the room. Once she paused, straightening up, her sharp features turning and her almond eyes flashing a look of spite and loathing over her shoulders, just as Verity had seen when the sailors hauled her into the Hero's cutter. As on that occasion, she was naked but for bodice and pants. Now she stood furtively, wiping her hands against herself, hands whose caresses, Verity knew, had given infinite pleasure to a great number of men, and even a few chosen girls. There was a sudden shout from the powerfully-built woman who watched over the scene from a desk on a horseshoe dais. Spite and loathing vanished from the girl's face, her lip quivered and she plunged her hands back again into the frothing water.

  Mrs Rouncewell let the curtain fall and drew back into the parlour.

  'Apprenticed to righteousness,' she said piously. 'That's how I see them frail fallen creatures when they're in my 'ouse. The wholesome gospel of honest work is what they're sent to learn. And you can rest easy, Mr Verity, that when I'm finished with 'em, they can recite it backwards in their sleep! Six months more and them three little sluts might be fit for class-leaders at Paddington Chapel. More a work of mercy than anything else, that's what I'm doing here.'

  And Mrs Rouncewell opened her cavernous mouth, leering in appreciation of her own wit.

  As he marched smartly across the room to Superintendent Gowry's desk, and came to attention before it, Verity was disconcerted to see Inspector Croaker standing at ease on one side. Now tha
t the affair of Captain Ransome and the Jervis family was over, he had no idea what his fate might be. Clearly, he had been summoned before Superintendent Gowry in order that he should find out, but the sight of Croaker standing there did nothing to reassure him.

  Gowry looked up from his chair at Verity, the bleak eyes and the careful set of his moustache betraying nothing of his intention.

  'Before I say anything by way of comment on the events in which the men of the Private-Clothes detail have involved themselves,' he said smoothly, 'I am instructed to read the following passage from a letter received this morning by the Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis. The letter is signed by the Honourable Sir Charles Phipps, Secretary to His Royal Highness Prince Albert.'

  At the mention of the Prince Consort's name, Inspector Croaker, who was still standing at ease, sprang quiveringly to attention. Gowry unfolded a sheet of stiff blue notepaper, heavily embossed, and read the passage in question.

  His Royal Highness is obliged to the Commissioner for his long letter in which certain matters relating to the recent visit of the Prince of Wales to HMS Hero are set forth. His Highness has heard some account of these from the Prince himself, but is indebted to the Commissioner for other details, including the part played in guarding the Prince of Wales by officers of the Private-Clothes detail, Metropolitan Police.

  It would not be appropriate for His Royal Highness to comment on events which have been made the subject of criminal proceedings. None the less, he is instructed by the Queen to convey the deep appreciation felt by Her Majesty and His Royal Highness himself to those officers whose personal courage and resource contributed so greatly to the safety of the Prince of Wales. It is the wish of Her Majesty that these sentiments should be made known to the individuals concerned.

  Verity stood breathless at attention, flushed with pride, his eyes bulging and gleaming with the exhilaration of the moment. He wondered why Samson, too, had not been informed of the royal 'sentiments' at the same time, but he was almost overwhelmed with emotion and quite unable to consider such things systematically. Superintendent Gowry cleared his throat and read on.

  As the Commissioner will be aware, the Prince of Wales is shortly to embark on HMS Hero to undertake a tour of Canada and the United States of America as Her Majesty's personal representative. His Highness will be accompanied by the members of his household and, on this occasion, by a group of officers responsible for the safety of His Highness. It is the wish of Her Majesty and of His Royal Highness Prince Albert that the officer responsible for defeating the late attempt on the life of the Prince of Wales should be attached to the royal bodyguard for the forthcoming tour.

  With that, Superintendent Gowry laid the sheet of paper down and Verity, his eyes furtively downcast, made out the signature of Sir Charles Phipps and, to one side, the single and magisterial word of endorsement: 'Albert'.

  Inspector Croaker slackened his stance in order to snap to attention again, his voice cracking out across the room as though on the square at Woolwich.

  'Sir! As officer commanding the Private-Clothes detail and, therefore, responsible for ordering the warning to HMS Hero, I should deem it the greatest privilege to serve His Royal Highness in any capacity that might be chosen for me, sir!'

  The breath went from Verity's body, as though he had been struck by a mighty fist. Superintendent Gowry shuffled his hands together awkwardly.

  'Mr Croaker, I understand - the Commissioner understands - that the duties anticipated for an additional officer of the Prince's bodyguard would hardly be of a dignity to match such a rank as your own. . . .'

  'Sir!' said Croaker, swallowing greedily, 'there is no duty I would consider beneath me in the service of Her Majesty and His Highness!'

  He looked, as Verity later remarked to Samson, as though he might be about to fetch up his dinner all over the Superintendent's carpet. Gowry shook his head.

  'Commendable though your sense of duty is, Mr Croaker,

  I fear the private instructions from the Prince Consort are very plain. It is the officer who reached the Wolf Rock buoy and shone the red light there who is wanted as part of the bodyguard. He will, of course, be subordinate to the other officers and will mess with the royal servants. But it is Sergeant Verity who has been asked for.'

  Croaker's porcine little eyes went very round and bright, as though expressing unfathomable agony.

  'Sir!' he said, exhaling the word protractedly and investing it with all the submission and hate, obedience to duty and loathing of the fat complacent sergeant, which surged and mingled in his tormented mind.

  'Why?' asked Bella, with a scepticism which almost bordered on resentment, 'I don't see why it should be a reward to take you from home and a wife that loves you, and send you off to foreign parts again. You only just got back from Portman Square and Plymouth, and all that!'

  The moonlight streamed through the thin curtains of the open window, while scents of the summer street, distantly obnoxious, lingered in the warm air. In the cradle at Bella's side, the infant Verity snuffled, woke and began to shift about protestingly at the sound of voices.

  'A man gotta take such duty as its own reward,' said Verity firmly.

  'Eye-wash!' she said, determinedly turning her back.

  'No it ain't, Mrs Verity. It's the truth, and you know it is! Your father brought you up to know that all right.'

  Her voice was half muffled by the pillow when she replied.

  'Pa says there's some duties ain't as bad as you make out. He says. . . .'

  'Yes, Mrs Verity?'

  "e says,' she blurted, 'when you was hauling that unfortunate young person about in that rowing-boat . . . 'e says he bets you gave her a good touch-up in the right places!'

  Appalled at such a repetition from Bella, it took him a moment to regain his composure.

  'Yes,' he said at length. 'Well, I got a great respect for your old father as, in course, I'm obliged to have. But there ain't no question that Mr Stringfellow's mind stands in need of a bit of refinement.'

  They lay apart, in careful isolation from one another, for several minutes. Then Verity turned caressingly towards her.

  'After all,' he said softly, 'it ain't for long, Bella. Only a month or so. Nothing like going off to 'indoostan that time!'

  'But why've you got to be a bodyguard, Mr Verity?'

  'Well,' said Verity, as though no less puzzled than his wife, 'there's Canadians that don't like belonging to us, a-cos of being Frenchies. And there's Yankees wot don't much like us neither. Some do, some don't. But it's a secret that he's going to such places as New York. He's going under an alias, and you ain't to say a word about it, not even to Mr Stringfellow. You wouldn't want 'is 'ighness foully murdered, would you?'

  'No,' she said meekly.

  Verity's hand patted Bella's plump little thigh consolingly.

  'Well, then,' he said. 'It'll be all right, you see if it ain't. And I'll be back in no time at all. And we gotta behave a bit more special now, being members of the royal 'ousehold, in a manner of speaking.'

  Bella gasped.

  'Are we? Members of'is 'ighness' household?'

  'In a manner o' speaking,' said Verity hastily. 'But it means behaving very proper and setting an example round here.'

  'You and me and Mr Stringfellow?' she whispered wonderingly.

  'Well,' said Verity doubtfully, 'Mr Stringfellow might have to be a bit more genteel first.'

  Bella began to giggle. Verity held out at first, and then emitted a snorting guffaw. The bed shook violently under their mirth and there was an angry wail from the cradle. Bella ignored it as they wrestled softly together.

  'I 'ope,' she gasped presently, 'I 'ope that when the poor young Prince comes back safe ... I 'ope, Mr Verity, that you're sent to live home for always and always!'

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on Archive.