The Toff And The Curate

by John Creasey

  “There are often scuffles,” admitted Isobel.

  “Yes. The easiest way to start a row is for an Englishman to call an Irishman in England a neutral,” went on Rollison. “Our pretty bunch had always tried to draw attention to the wharf and the Irish workers. Today, they had a new idea and tried to cause trouble for Isobel. However, the distraction didn’t work, we went to Craik too quickly.

  “Craik!” exclaimed Isobel.

  Rollison smiled but Grice did the explaining for Rollison was suddenly besieged by members of the club who wanted to know what it was all about.

  * * *

  The whole story, checked and cross-checked, was not known for the better part of a week but the essentials were known before the following day was out.

  Every effort had been made to make it appear that the illicit whisky came in at East Wharf, whereas it was actually made at several depots of Straker Brothers Cartage and Transport Company. The depots were also distribution points throughout the country. Crates of the illicit whisky were delivered with the genuine cases but since the buyers knew where to look for it, there had been no danger of that fact leaking out.

  From the beginning, Craik had been in charge of the Whitechapel district. Gregson’s companion was named Keller but the name had also been used by Craik to cover an imaginary character behind which he could hide and, which had been planned, would help to frame Kemp. Gregson and the real ‘Keller’ had been the managers for the whole of the East End, going further afield in some cases, and also handling the West End sales from the Daisy Club. Craik had used the St Guy’s records to cover his own, thinking that he would not have to show them until Cartwright was better and always putting off making dummy church accounts. The arrival of Kemp had put Craik in danger but Kemp had first been a threat in the West End.

  Straker had believed him to be working on it because he suspected who was behind it—a suggestion which Kemp dismissed airily, on the following morning.

  “I had no idea he was in any kind of racket. He had always impressed me as being a very sound fellow.”

  “As did Craik,” said Rollison.

  Kemp frowned. “Ye-es. Oh, I know they hoodwinked me but Craik always seemed such a sincere little man, timid as they come.”

  “Moral—don’t confuse timidity with humility,” advised Rollison, sitting back in his favourite chair. “The truth was that you prod-nosed to such good effect that you had them badly worried. As you were likely to be much easier to handle in the East End, Straker did a little sales-talk and there you went. The question is—are you sorry you went to St Guy’s?”

  “Great Scott, no!” cried Kemp. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world!”

  “You mean that?”

  “I do,” said Kemp, fervently. “I don’t mind admitting that I decided to go down there feeling something of a martyr and with a great spirit of self-sacrifice but—” he shrugged, “give me people like Billy the Bull, Bill Ebbutt, the Whitings—oh, there are hundreds of them. D’you know, Rolly, since I’ve been down there and seen the conditions under which they live, the marvel is that they are such a decent bunch.”

  “My way of thinking for a long time,” said Rollison.

  “The trouble is, there’s such a gulf between them and the rest of London. I mean—”

  “No gulf that can’t be crossed,” said Rollison. “Our job is to help ‘em bridge it. It’ll be nice to have some help, eh, Isobel?”

  “You don’t need much help,” declared Isobel Crayne.

  “Oh, come! Without Jolly I’d be lost— wouldn’t I, Jolly?”

  “I very much doubt it, sir,” said Jolly coming in with a tea-trolley, “but it is always a great pleasure to work with you on these little excursions—or, one might say, these aberrations from the normal.”

  “Yes, mightn’t one?” murmured Rollison.

  “Oh, did I tell you?” asked Kemp, shortly afterwards, munching a muffin with a great show of nonchalance and carefully avoiding Isobel’s eye, isobel and I have decided that as we’re both rather fond of the district and the people, and two together can probably do much more than one—I mean—well, we’ve decided—”

  “Fast workers, both of you,” smiled Rollison. “I’m delighted. The others will be, too.”

  “Others?” asked Isobel.

  “All your little brothers and sisters East of Aldgate Pump!” said Rollison, grandly.

  On the Sunday morning following the riot, he went to St Guy’s with Jolly and took up a stand at a point of vantage near the entrance to the churchyard. Keeping out of sight behind some shrubs, he watched the cavalcade approaching. Rarely had the narrow streets been so crowded at that hour.

  Children with red and shining faces and shoes newly-cleaned, women heavily made-up and wearing all their finery, men with carefully brushed hats, newly-pressed suits and highly polished shoes, all followed on. Many of them had a self-conscious air but not the Whitings, who were glowing with happiness, nor Owen, who was never likely to feel out of place.

  Jolly nudged Rollison.

  Striding along with his diminutive second was Billy the Bull, wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat with a curly brim, light brown shoes and a bright blue suit. Now and again, he looked over his shoulder, almost furtively. Nearby was Bill Ebbutt, his face now almost normal, with his wife, in ‘Army’ uniform, striding out beside her—she looked as if she would soon burst into huzzahs. Red-haired Irishmen, puny-looking Cockneys, dark-skinned Lascars and almond-eyed Chinese mixed freely with the others.

  Rollison nudged Jolly.

  Walking alone and certainly self-conscious, but putting a bold face on it, was Inspector Chumley.

  Soon afterwards, a taxi drew up and from it alighted the venerable figure of the Rev Martin Anstruther. After him, hurrying with the stragglers, came Isobel in her WVS uniform. She went inside, breathlessly.

  “A good show,” murmured Rollison. “We’ll be lucky to find a pew.”

  They did not find one but chairs from one of the halls had been brought in. The sidesmen were busy, bustling and perspiring, and one hoped Rollison and Jolly would not mind sharing a hymnal. Soon the Rev Ronald Kemp began to take the service. His powerful voice was pitched low, as if he were also self-conscious. His damaged eye was no longer badly swollen but was of many colours. When at last he went into the pulpit and began his sermon, he chose to preach on pride—the deadliest of sins; and he did not pull his punches. As he talked, his voice grew more powerful and he completely lost himself.

  Afterwards, Anstruther caught a glimpse of Rollison and smiled and cocked a thumb, a surprising gesture from the old man. Isobel was beaming. The grande dame of the Whiting family declared audibly, and with a sniff, that he could preach—and she supposed that was something.

  Chumley hung back until he saw Rollison.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t see eye-to-eye, Mr Rollison,” he began.

  “Bygones are really bygones,” declared the Toff. “You and Kemp ought to swap ideas.”

  “He’ll probably force his on me!” said Chumley, wryly. “And so,” said Rollison to Jolly, as they made their way homewards, “everything in the garden is lovely until Old Nick pops his head up again.”

  Jolly smiled, benignly.

  “If I may use the expression, sir, I think that when he does, Kemp will dot him one vigorously. Don’t you agree sir?”

  The End