Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob.

by Francis Selwyn

  She turned aside, not noticing him, and jumped on to the wooden groin. Like a diver, she bent forward, swung her arms back behind her and sprang nimbly down on to the far side where the boy was standing. She repeated the exercise a dozen times. On each occasion she paused in the diving position, all the curves of her body accentuated. Her knees were bent, her thighs taut, the white webbed cotton drawn skintight across her broadened seat as her head went down. Old Mole grinned, thinking that this set of plates might sell for a few pounds as stereoscopic views.

  To draw her attention, he moved closer, no longer concealing the fact that he was photographing her in these poses. He was alarmed to hear the boy calling her 'Cosie', as if they were known to one another. But then he saw that the youth had merely read her name where she had traced it in the sand. She bent to dive again. As Mole worked the shutter he heard the boy call out.

  'Look, Cosie! He's been taking pictures of you!'

  Cosima straightened up from her posture, looked over her shoulder, and saw Old Mole with his camera. Her mouth opened in a smile of astonished amusement at his impudence. But then she went forward again, holding the pose quite long enough for him to take a final view.

  Of course, he thought, she had been posing for him all the time! A kept girl looking for a new protector! Accustomed as he was to his dingy appearance, Mole had quite forgotten the impression he must have made with his new duck-egg blue suiting, silk hat and expensive camera. Indeed, the camera was of more value to her than to him. It recorded her stripped to what were virtually the last fragments of her underwear. In this state she had deliberately cavorted in front of the lens, posing to show the sculptural beauty of face and breasts, the agile suntanned legs flashing, Cosima bending cheekily as she dived. She must have known that her admirer would contemplate a score of such portraits in the privacy of his own room. By the next day, their effect would be to bring him back to the beach in earnest.

  'Why,' said Old Mole delightedly, 'you damned little bitch!'

  There was no more to be done while she was in the company of the boy, but Mole was gratified to see that she kept looking back at him from time to time across the groin. He waited on the promenade until she had dressed again and was making her way back to Brunswick Square. He raised his hat politely as she passed and followed at a little distance. Cosima kept ahead of him, laughing once or twice over her shoulder. He doubted that she felt much in a laughing mood. It was part of her professional training, as a young courtesan. When she turned into Brunswick Square, he guessed that she might expect him to accompany her. But that was too risky. Mole contented himself with watching her across the trees and shrubs of the private gardens in the centre of the square.

  He knew better than to enter the square itself. After Stunning Joe's burglary and Jolly's departure as servant, the local constabulary had insisted upon providing some protection for the lonely young woman until the danger of another such intrusion was past. In consequence, a private-clothes jack now stood directly outside the steps of the corner house. The law might conclude that the Shah Jehan clasp had gone, but its interest in Cosima Bremer was by no means extinguished. From the distance of the promenade Old Mole made his survey. Mr Kite would be grateful for the information. Late afternoon sunlight shone like fire in the opposite windows of the Georgian houses. Cosima went up the curve of the stone steps to her black-painted door. Old Mole saw the man outside touch his hat respectfully to the young mistress. Then the private-clothes jack drew a deep breath into his barrel-chest and rocked to and fro upon his heels as if he had not a care in the world.

  Groups of young women with their escorts emerged from the streets converging on to the sea. Like clouds of butterflies the dainty parasols opened against the sun, white, lilac and lavender. By the middle of the morning the promenades from Hove to Kemp Town seemed afloat with crinolines, light bonnets, airy dresses, organdies and brilliantes. Languid young men, their hands thrust into the pockets of peg-top trousers, eyed the expanse of water where the breeze was chopping the wavelets into white spray. A silver band played Rossini on the enclosed lawns.

  Here and there, the groups of less affluent trippers thrust themselves forward, men in shallow-crowned straw hats and fat women eating prawns. They gazed at the two buoys, each carrying a small Union Jack, which marked the start and finish of the regatta. A dozen urchins pushed and struggled against one another on the shingle below, urging the spectators above them to throw coins to be fought over.

  'Make a scramble, gents! Gi' us a scramble!'

  Just then there was a boom from the starting-gun on the lugger-yacht and the little white-sailed boats bucked forward into the waves. Telescopes, single and double Dollands, appeared from the cases of several expensively-suited gentlemen who watched the progress of the Sarah Ann, Prince Consort and Lord of the Isles.

  Bella tugged little Billy Verity's leading reins to check the boy's insistent progress towards the promenade rails. She glanced quickly at her companion. Ruth held the younger child, Vicky, in her arms. Solemn-eyed and wondering, she watched the marine pageant before her.

  Bella glanced again, her mind going back to Verity's stern warnings over Stringfellow's behaviour to the young maidservant. Bella had tried to raise the subject gently with Ruth herself. 'You sure Mr Stringfellow ain't no inconvenience to you, Ruthie?' But sixteen-year-old Ruth had looked back with such pretty solemnity and such an air of innocence under her cropped fair curls that it had been impossible to pursue the conversation. No inconvenience whatsoever, it seemed. After that, Bella was certain Mr Verity was wrong. Having so much to do with the criminal class, she thought, it must give his mind a bit of a turn that way.

  'Ruthie,' she said presently, wearying of Billy's efforts, ' 'itch his reins on your arm for a minute, do.'

  And then, relieved of maternal duties for the time being, she opened an elegant new turquoise parasol and luxuriated in a sense of sunlit indolence.

  She had drifted into a reverie, almost forgetting where she was, when someone touched her arm and there was a voice behind her.

  'Mrs Verity, ma'am?'

  It was a stranger, a sombre-looking man in black with a tall hat and frock-coat. He seemed to her like an undertaker.

  'Yes?' she said, frightened a little by his appearance.

  'Mr Inspector Croaker's compliments, ma'am, and he begs your attendance at his office most urgently.'

  The sunlit afternoon around her was frozen by a sudden chill which struck her heart with the force of a blow.

  'Mr Verity?' she gasped, and then her voice strengthened to a cry. 'Is it Mr Verity?'

  The man inclined his head a little.

  'Best you should come now, ma'am,' he said gently. 'You'll be with Mr Croaker in two minutes. He sent his own cab special-to find you, when you wasn't at home.'

  By now she was terrified at the thoughts which rushed through her mind. The man indicated the dark official-looking cab which stood by the kerb. Bella turned a wild, distraught face to her young servant.

  'Take them home, Ruthie!' she cried. 'Take them home and care for them!'

  And then she blundered through the crowd towards the cab, where the grave-looking man held open the door for her.

  15

  Tranquillity had passed into tedium. Each morning Verity watched the early mist rising from the placid sea like the gauze curtain in the transformation scene of Sinbad the Sailor at the Suffolk Music Hall. Then there was the noon glitter, the bottle-green surges of the afternoon tide, and the crimson ripples before twilight. He was stationed in the corner of the square now, immediately outside the Baron Lansing's house with the curve of stone steps to its front door. They were watching an empty nest, every man of the detail knew as much. Even the girl's own behaviour confirmed that the Shah Jehan clasp had flown of its own mysterious accord on the night of the curious burglary. Now she smiled and inclined her head at the men on duty as she entered or left the building. Verity acknowledged this each time, touching his hat as a matter of forma
lity.

  Mr Croaker was bored as well. No one imagined that Cosima could doubt the true purpose of the guard upon her. Yet the surveillance was to be maintained until orders to the contrary were received from London. The inspector relieved the monotony of his own watch on the rear of the house by reverting to his literal duty of inspecting. The primary task of a uniformed inspector was to tour the beats of his men to catch malingerers or those who associated too freely with the criminal class.

  Two or three times a day, a plain black cab which was as nondescript as one hired from a stand drove slowly down the far side of the square, travelling from Brunswick Place towards the sea. Verity was aware of the thin sour face of Inspector Croaker gazing balefully in his direction. The plump sergeant's jowls lengthened in a slow grimace as he yawned behind closed lips.

  Once, as a diversion, he formed a little sentry-go for himself, marched smartly from the corner railings as far as the other end of the next house, Madame Rosa's academy, stamped about, and marched back again with a rolling military gait. To pass the time he counted out to himself the steps and the turns that he made. Presently he was aware of a door opening and, stamping round, saw Madame Rosa coming down the steps, tall and imperious, one hand gathering the black skins of her dress to hold it from the ground.

  She stood above him, her voice quivering slightly with indignation but her tones those of a woman born to command. 'Stand off!' she said angrily. 'Stand off these premises!'

  Verity, quite taken aback, made the mistake of hesitation.

  'Beg pardon, milady?'

  There was something so innately aristocratic in Madame Rosa's bearing that he responded at once in the manner used when he was a footman at Lady Lineacre's in the Royal Crescent at Bath. Madame Rosa came down the steps in a fury. Standing before him she lifted the black net of her veil and revealed a face crazed by the wrinkles of age and dusty with powder. Her voice was quiet and close but no less angry.

  'Trespass once more,' she hissed, 'and your superiors shall hear of this impudence!'

  Verity's brow furrowed. So far as he knew the law of trespass, it had never applied to a man who walked in front of a house. He sought for conciliatory words, but the old woman turned her back, gathered up her skirts again, and sailed up the steps where the double oak door stood open for her.

  Denied even this modest exercise, Verity drew out a red spotted handkerchief and patted his cheeks with it. Once or twice when Madame Rosa appeared he touched his hat in an attempt to make amends. She ignored him on every occasion. After that he stood forlornly in his corner of the elegant square of houses, fat, embarrassed and warm.

  He had lost count of the hours of duty spent on the surveillance, and there seemed to be no end of it. Then, in the middle of one of the afternoons of bottle-green waves and summer sun, another cab entered the square. Verity looked at it and frowned. The bilious yellow of its paintwork, the driver's emblem on the door in the form of what looked like a dissected bat were familiar enough to him. Stringfellow, in the driving-seat, was belabouring the aged horse, Lightning, and cursing like a lunatic. The ramshackle hackney coach lumbered towards the corner of the square and then Stringfellow dragged desperately on the reins. Verity was vaguely aware that Bella had promised the children that they should one day be driven past to see their father performing his constabulary duty, but this hardly seemed to be the occasion. Indeed, as he glanced into the cab he heard the frightened whimpering of Ruth as the servant-maid clutched to her the bawling figures of the two Verity children. Stringfellow clambered down from his box.

  ‘ 'ere!' said Verity suddenly perturbed.' 'ere, Stringfellow! Draw it mild! You mustn't speak to me now. I ain't allowed! Not on duty! S'posing Mr Croaker comes by?'

  But the old cabman stood lopsidedly on his wooden leg, his mouth stretched open in a howl of toothless consternation.

  ''s Miss Bella!' he wailed. 'She's gone!'

  'Gone?' said Verity stupidly. 'Whatcher mean gone?'

  'Lil Ruwfie!' sobbed Stringfellow, indicating the pretty servant. 'They was on the front! Miss Bella commends the children to her care, sends her home, and goes off with a man in 'ansom cab!'

  Verity shook his head, as if he were recovering from a punch.

  'She can't a-done, Stringfellow! 'ave some sense! Must be a reason.'

  Stringfellow held out a hand. A slip of paper trembled between his fingcrs. The old man's voice broke again as he urged it upon his son-in-law.

  'This come,' he gasped. 'Slipped in the door while I was round the stables in S'ation Street getting the 'orse. It's yours.'

  'What's it say?'

  But even in his misery Stringfellow spared a look of pity for a man who thought learning to read could possibly be of equal importance to the cabman's art.

  Mrs Verity presents her respects to Mr Verity and begs him to believe that she has taken this step as the only means to end her insupportable agony of mind. What Mr Verity has told her of the robbery in Brunswick Square is too much for conscience to bear. Henceforward their destinies must therefore part.

  Verity read it through twice to ensure that he had missed no part of its meaning.

  'This ain't from Miss Bella,' he said quietly. 'Nasty-minded joke is all it is. There's nothing I could a-told her about the robbery here, Stringfellow, a-cos I don't know nothing to tell.'

  Stringfellow paused in his lamentation. Then he remembered the other cause of his grief.

  'Went off in 'ansom cab!' he bawled. 'Commending the future care of her infants to the servant's tender heart!'

  Verity was thoroughly alarmed. From the hackney coach he could hear young Ruth's adolescent fear and misery rising siren-like in a prolonged 'Hoo-hoo-hoo!' It was overlaid by the screams of the two children.

  'Stringfellow,' he said gently, 'take 'em home and stay there. We don't know what Mrs Verity had in her mind. Ten-to-one she'll be back in Tidy Street presently, if she ain't there already. You'll see.'

  'The note!' bawled the old cabman. 'Read the note!'

  'Now, now,' said Verity kindly. 'That's just a piece of nastiness. 'fact I can tell you what it is. Someone wants me flayed and salted by Mr Croaker over that burglary, 'spect he's had a copy hisself. Go 'ome, Stringfellow. If Miss Bella comes back, drive here and tell me. It'll be all right. You'll see.'

  But despite his assurances to the old cabman, Verity's heart was pounding and his stomach had tightened. The summer afternoon was cold as Christmas and the air seemed darker. After much persuasion Stringfellow mounted the box again and the lurching coach with its howling occupants disappeared round the corner of Brunswick Place.

  The truth was that Verity needed time to think. Every word of the note appeared to be in Bella's hand. Her italic dame-school script would be easy enough to imitate. But to what purpose? As for the man with the hansom cab, there must be an innocent explanation. She would not suddenly drive off with a stranger, abandoning the children to Ruth's care. The notion of a secret lover was even more preposterous. The routine of Paddington Green and Tidy Street left her little opportunity for such rendezvous, even if she had been so inclined.

  There was no reason whatever for alarm, he thought, as a sick terror began to engulf him. It was only the slow impact of the shock which prevented him from taking to his heels, deserting his post, and running all the way to Tidy Street to see if she had not come back after all.

  His attention was recalled to his surroundings by the clatter of hooves. A black cab passed slowly down the far side of the square. Like a thin, waning moon the face of Inspector Croaker peered through the glass panel of its window. Further along the line of houses the cab stopped. Mr Croaker dismounted and stood gazing across the central gardens of the square. He watched Verity, the swagger stick tapping against his boot with a mixture of impatience and menace.

  In his growing terror over Bella's fate, Verity felt an urge to run to the inspector, tell him the entire story, and beg his assistance. He braced himself to burst across the square, through the gardens, to
where Mr Croaker stood. But as he gathered the breath into his lungs, Croaker turned smartly about, mounted the foot-board, and the cab moved off with a rattle of harness.

  Verity stared after the swaying vehicle. In his torment he would willingly have deserted his duty to save Bella. But from what was he to save her? Where was he to look? At the back of his mind lingered the knowledge that he must not do the very thing which would deliver him into the hands of his enemies. To remain calm, to move only when he had a certain destination. That must be his path.

  Deliberately he tried to compile a list of the places where Bella might have gone. There was nowhere in Brighton that he could think of, except perhaps the chapel or one of the shops. Would she have returned to London? It was easy enough for her to be there this evening by train. Paddington Green, Stringfellow's little house? There was no reason that he could think of. In her behaviour she had been the same to him on that morning as always.

  Verity was urgently considering these possibilities when the black cab returned to the square again. He pulled himself up to attention for Mr Croaker's benefit. This time, he decided, if the cab should stop he would dash forward and beg the inspector's assistance in finding Bella. The black cab had turned now and was coming towards him, down his own side of the square. For the first time Mr Croaker was going to pay him a visit. Verity stepped smartly forward, ready to open the door, but the cab did not even slow down. In a panic he ran along beside it, shouting,

  'Sir! Sir! Mr Croaker, sir!'

  But the cab was gaining speed and the face which he glimpsed inside was not Inspector Croaker's, nor anyone else that he recognised. Verity dropped back, knowing in his misery that it was not the same cab but one of hundreds of black hansoms which were almost identical in appearance. As if to mock the fat, shouting policeman, the occupant of the cab lowered the window on its strap and threw back a crumpled sheet of paper which fell near Verity's feet. At the same time, the cabman slashed with his whip at the clumsy figure who had been trying to keep pace with the coach. Verity swerved to avoid the razor cut of the whip, lost his footing and fell. The cab turned at speed into the seaside traffic of King's Road.