Banker's Draft

by Clive Mullis

  ‘Youse been found with a screwdriver in your pocket, my lad, to me that’s carrying with intent,’ bellowed the sergeant.

  The youngster looked panicky. ‘It’s me dad’s, he sent me for to fetch it like. He’s doing sum work and t’other one broke. Send someone to ask him. Honest, I ain’t dun nuffing.’

  ‘Youse were seen running away, my lad, from what we’re yet to find out, but youse was running with a screwdriver in yer pocket. A spot o’leisure will loosen yer tongue.’ He flipped his hand and the door to the right swung open.

  The feeler accompanying the youngster grabbed hold of his collar and lifted him up. The lad started screaming and tears ran down his face as he struggled to loosen the grip on the back of his jacket.

  ‘I ain’t dun nuffing. Honest. Just asks me dad — please.’

  The door slammed shut and the protests were abruptly cut off.

  ‘Next,’ yelled the sergeant. ‘Oh, it’s you, Cornwallis.’

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant Grinde,’ replied Cornwallis, as he looked up into the big bearded face with rosy red cheeks. He looked like everyone’s favourite uncle, but Cornwallis knew him as an evil malicious bastard. ‘I’d like to see Captain Bough as a matter of some urgency if you please.’

  ‘Captain Bough, you say? And why would you want to see our Captain?’

  ‘I think it’s enough that I want to see him, Sergeant. As to the reason, I will let the Captain tell you should he wish you to know.’

  Sergeant Grinde looked as though he sucked on a lemon as he struggled to find a reason to refuse Cornwallis. Everyone had heard the request; and what if the Captain got to hear that he had turned Cornwallis away?

  ‘I’ll just wait here then, shall I?’ prompted Cornwallis, as he moved to the door beneath the lectern.

  Grinde finally gave a curt nod and flicked his hand. The door swung open and Cornwallis stepped through, thanking the constable on the other side. He looked up to his left and saw Grinde looking down at him. Cornwallis just smiled, one day Grinde would overstep the mark; he just hoped he would be there to see it. Grinde turned his attention back to the miscreants and continued to do what he enjoyed most: spreading misery and injustice in equal measures.

  The young constable led Cornwallis down a short corridor then up a flight of stairs; they went along another corridor then the constable tapped on an office door on the left, he paused a while, and then a strained voice bid him to enter.

  ‘Mr Cornwallis to see you, Captain,’ said the feeler, before scampering back to wait on Grinde’s judgements.

  ‘Ah, thank you. Morning Cornwallis, what can I do for you?’

  Cornwallis stepped into the office and looked at the pile of paperwork on Captain Bough’s desk. There seemed to be an inordinate amount, with more on the floor, covering any clear space. Bough fidgeted and appeared distracted as he struggled to bring it all under control.

  ‘Just need a little information,’ replied Cornwallis, negotiating a stack of papers that had “Felonious Assaults” written on the top in large script.

  ‘Be careful with that lot,’ screamed Bough, with a serious look of panic on his face. ‘I’ve just spent four hours going through it all.’

  ‘Gods, what an exciting life you lead. Life at the top can’t get much better than this.’

  Bough shot Cornwallis a venomous look, staring in silence for a few seconds, before the shoulders collapsed and he seemed to shrink to half his size. ‘At this moment, Cornwallis, I’d give anything to become a feeler on the beat again, anything.’

  Cornwallis pulled at the back of a chair and a cascade of files slid to the floor. ‘Oops. Sorry.’

  Bough sighed. ‘I haven’t touched that lot yet, so you’re lucky. If I had then you would be a corpse by now.’

  Cornwallis sat down and regarded Captain Bough; mid-fifties with grey hair thinning on top, a ruddy clean shaven face with sharp features and a physique which resembled a pipe cleaner. ‘Having problems then?’ he asked, noticing the bags under the captain’s eyes.

  ‘Problems are the least of my problems,’ grumbled Bough, running his fingers through the thin strands of his hair. ‘I haven’t been home since yesterday… no, the day before yesterday; and I won’t get home until all this has been done. The only plus is that I’ve got out of a visit to the wife’s mother, but the downside is that she has now come to us instead. A snap audit from the department and they want all the figures for the last five years. I tell you, Cornwallis, I’m seriously thinking of packing it all in. The only thing stopping me is that Grinde is the senior sergeant, so would become acting captain in my place. Just imagine the damage he would do.’

  ‘Grinde as Captain?’ Cornwallis shuddered at the thought. ‘They wouldn’t, would they?’

  ‘Radstock, the Secretary to the Minister, said only yesterday, and I quote. “Sergeant Grinde is the epitome of good policing. Conscientious, thorough and impartial. A credit to the force.” Yes Cornwallis, they would.’

  ‘Gods, that doesn’t bear thinking about. I take it you’re staying then?’

  Bough nodded. ‘I can’t even think of retiring while he’s still here.’

  ‘In that case I wish you a long and happy life. What’s Radstock doing here anyway? The likes of him don’t normally run the risk of rubbing shoulders with the mere mortals.’

  ‘No, surprised me as well. He just turned up and began issuing orders. He didn’t say why he wanted the figures; just that he did. I can’t argue with him, as you know, so here I am. He ordered me to hand the murder over to you, said I had much more important work to do and that this takes precedence over everything else. He seemed pretty angry to start with though, kept asking if it was a murder or a theft; he calmed down in the end, and that’s when your name came up. I take it the murder is why you’re here?’

  Cornwallis nodded, ‘I’m just curious as to why I got handed it, but if you’re so busy that would explain it. Wonder why he was so angry?’

  ‘He didn’t say, and he wouldn’t answer me even if I asked. To be honest, I didn’t want to hand the job over to you, a good investigation like that sets the men up for the rest of the year. I put MacGillicudy onto it straight away, but then Radstock shoved his nose in. I take it MacGillicudy is being cooperative?’

  Cornwallis nodded again. ‘He’s being most helpful.’

  ‘Good. I know you’re doing the investigating, but you might need all the help you can get.’

  You mean you want to keep a finger in the pie, despite Radstock, thought Cornwallis.

  ‘If he was senior sergeant I would definitely pack it in. Did you see the shower of shit he had with him? I’ve even had recruitment taken out of my hands, all done centrally now at the ministry. If I didn’t know better I’d swear they were trying to destabilise the force.’

  A knock at the door interrupted them and a constable came in with a sheath of papers under his arm. ‘Sorry, Captain, but custody has asked if you could sign these release documents. It’s getting a bit full down there.’

  Bough groaned. ‘Let’s have a look at what our sergeant has done now.’ He took the proffered sheets and began to study them. ‘Charge: Dangerous driving and causing an obstruction: cart driver swerved to avoid oncoming vehicle and overturned, covering street with molasses. Charge: Causing a breach of the peace: barrow boy ran over foot of arrestee, who looked at said barrow boy in a threatening manner. Charge: Wanton destruction: apprehended when burning wood in a brazier on the docks. Charge: Aggravated burglary; why’s he letting this one go?’

  ‘He forgot his key, Captain; it was his own house. Been here since yesterday keeping Psycho Pete company.’

  Bough shut his eyes in despair for a few moments. ‘Is he still intact?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but he’s gibbering a bit.’

  Bough picked up his pencil. ‘Here you are. I’ll just sign the bloody lot and hope that there’s not too much damage done.’

  ‘Plenty more later, I’m afraid, sir; custody officer is tearing his ha
ir out.’

  ‘He’s not the only one, Constable. All right, keep me informed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bough turned back to Cornwallis. ‘See, it never ends.’

  ‘So it would appear. What’s Pete done this time?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it. He said he had a visitation from the god Aumadorn who told him he had to clean up the mines. So he went down Steeple Road Underground armed with a toothbrush and a cloth; an hour later he came up bound hand and foot. Grimwald Stormcraker, one of the mining engineers, said they found him polishing the quartz. In the end, it took five of them to get him to stop. Apparently, it was a good seam too. Three of the dwarfs are out of action for a couple of weeks; a toothbrush can be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.’

  Cornwallis chuckled as the imagined scene played out in his mind, then he reached into his inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a form. ‘If you could sign this, I would be grateful. I have a new investigator, just started this morning.’ He passed it over and let Bough scrutinise it.

  ‘Female? Not like you, Cornwallis. I thought you only worked with Kandalwick.’

  ‘Times change, Bough; got to get modern. It won’t be long and the women will get the vote too.’

  Bough looked aghast. ‘Don’t say things like that, Cornwallis. Can’t imagine what it would be like if I had to employ them. Gods, one at home is enough.’ He scribbled on the form and handed it back. ‘Your life, but you’ll rue the day you asked me to sign this, you mark my words.’

  The form safely back in his pocket Cornwallis stood up and went to leave. ‘Maybe, we’ll see. I might even thank you in the end.’

  Cornwallis closed the door and headed back down. The reception had thinned out a little and he managed to get out without Grinde seeing him, being too busy berating a lady of negotiable virtue to notice. Once outside, he took a deep breath of the morning air and stared up at the cloudless sky. Life felt good, he thought, as he jauntily set off, leaving Scooters Yard behind him.

  The conversation with Bough re-ran through his mind as he walked. Radstock wielded a lot of power in the corridors of the Assembly and used his influence like a sledgehammer. Why, he asked himself, did the secretary become angry when he’d heard that a murder had been committed? He’d queried it, asked if it wasn’t just a theft. Why? Roland Goup’s accountancy practise dealt with a lot of rich men, including his father, as he’d found out yesterday, so a serious crime there could have serious repercussions. Goup’s disappearance seemed to indicate the accountant knowing too much, someone didn’t want him to talk, and someone obviously didn’t want anyone to go through the files, hence the arson attempt. Did that implicate Radstock? He’d prevented the feelers from investigating, which didn’t sit right; he would have had total control over any investigation if he left it in Bough’s hands, and the explanation as to why he got handed it, was very thin. He couldn’t blame Bough for trying to keep a hold on things by giving him MacGillicudy; he would have probably done the same, had he been in the same position. The jigsaw had only just been tipped out of the box, and it looked as if it would be a bugger to put together.

  Cornwallis wondered how Frankie and Rose were doing. He checked his pocket watch and saw that it was nearly mid-day, they should be finished at Goup’s place by now and he briefly thought to call in at the office to see if they had returned. His distracted walking had taken him towards the Assembly, so he decided to wait until later to catch up with them.

  The Assembly opened for business at mid-day, although the members would have been there since morning. They would go straight to the members bar ready for a liquid lunch, and continue until well into the afternoon. He might even be able to catch Radstock, to see what he had to say for himself.

  Tradition had a lot to answer for, he thought, as he wandered up to the red granite monstrosity that was the House of Assembly. A crowd had gathered as they did every day at this time for the opening of the house. The Jig that began the official day was about to commence, so Cornwallis stood at the back of the crowd while he waited for the show to finish.

  The Morris Guard took up their places and waited for the melodeon player to begin. Twelve men faced each other, six on each side of the door. They were dressed in dark waistcoats and trousers with white shirts, each had a wide brimmed black hat with little golden bells. Tied around their legs were more bells, and fancy handkerchiefs were looped around their belts. All of them carried thick sticks of about three feet in length. The melodeon groaned into life and the crowd drew in a collective breath of anticipation.

  The Jig began.

  First, they hopped on one leg, jingle, jingle, jingle, then the other leg, jangle, jangle, jangle, and then alternate legs, jingle, jangle, jingle, jangle, and then the sticks came into play as they arced over towards their opposite dancer’s head and the defender raised his stick for protection. Clack. Then the reverse. Jingle, clack, jangle, clack, jingle, jangle, clack, clack, clack. Gods was it tedious. Then they began to dance around each other and the noise really began to grate on his nerves. He knew it wasn’t going to last long but he still wished he had timed his arrival better. The sticks were being thrown with some venom now, the result being that the jig became ragged. Cornwallis knew that when the Jig finished, and the Morris Guard withdrew, one or two of them would regret the breach in discipline; it would be straight around the back of the barracks and the sticks would be used for another purpose. Eventually the Jig ground to halt with a loud and final CLACK. There followed a pause, and the dancers parted to take up their original positions. The door to the Assembly opened and the Squire of the Morris marched out. He walked between his men, shooting them a withering glance; he’d noticed the raggedness of the display and was going to make sure that someone would pay. He came to stand on the top of the steps and cried out that the Assembly was now open for that day’s business. He turned smartly and strode back through the door, then his men turned, not quite as smartly, and marched after him, leaving two to guard the door. The formal opening had ended, and the crowd, now satisfied, began to disperse.

  Cornwallis mounted the steps and entered into the foyer of the Assembly. The wizened old porter sitting behind the desk welcomed him formally and politely. Behind him were the Guards ready to throw out anyone the Porter didn’t like.

  ‘Ah, the Hon. Mr Cornwallis, sir. I trust you’re keeping well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Perkins; and you?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble, sir, mustn’t grumble. What brings you to the House today, sir? If I may be so bold; we don’t normally see you in this hallowed hall.’

  ‘Just a little business, Perkins,’ replied Cornwallis, tapping his nose and winking conspiratorially. ‘Hopefully, it won’t take long. Tell me, has my father come in yet?’

  ‘Oh, right you are, sir,’ responded Perkins, puffing himself up and returning the wink. He now believed himself to be privy to some secret information, and that was currency in the House. ‘He has indeed, sir, not half an hour ago was I chatting to your good father, great man he is, always got time for us servants of the House.’

  ‘And rightly so, Perkins, you’re the mortar that holds the place together. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  Perkins beamed in pride. ‘Why thank you, Mr Cornwallis, sir, chip off the old block you are, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, chip off the old block.’

  Cornwallis muttered his thanks and turned to go through the filigreed doors to the lobby; another porter pulled on the brass handle and let him through with a brief dip of his head. Cornwallis strode into the cavern like interior with a feeling of dismay. Through the accident of his birth, with no other talent or aptitude involved, membership of this house and the traditions to go with it came to him through just his father’s ability to put his wedding tackle in the right place. He needed nothing else to be a pillar of the establishment. What an archaic system it was.

  The vast lobby spread out before him: the green marble floor stretch
ed out ahead with four rows of tall white pillars rising thirty foot into the air, the roof above ornately painted, from which hung several huge chandeliers, an enormous expanse of decadence, and all for show. Used firstly as a walk through for the members, but secondly as a meeting place for those who were not members. Already reporters from the press hunted in packs: The Gornstock Examiner, The Gornstock Times, The Daily Moonshine, The Tribune and Herald; Cornwallis ignored them to a man. He marched straight across to the far side where a small door led to an antechamber. Here a wide staircase rose up to the floors above, while the corner housed the elevator, a box-like construction which had a chain attached to its roof; the chain rising up to the rafters and back down again to a large room next door, where the mechanism for lifting resided. There were two big wheels, one for going up, the other for going down, and each powered by a bear who would walk for miles without getting anywhere. Inside the elevator, a flunkey fussed and fawned over anyone prepared to risk it. Cornwallis didn’t trust the contraption, so he used the stairs instead.

  Up on the third floor, Cornwallis walked down the long corridor to his office, one of hundreds that filled this area of the House; it overlooked the river, so at least it had a view. He rapped on the door out of politeness before twisting the handle and swinging the door open. Conrad Speckleby sat at the desk going through a small pile of papers; he looked up at the intrusion, and then jumped up in welcome.

  ‘Jocelyn, it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time since you were last here,’ a worried frown crept onto his face. ‘Oh, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’