by Clive Mullis
Maxwell had hold of Rose: the cuffs had given way.
Cornwallis had been right to be worried about them but now it was too late. He limped a few steps forward cursing the dead leg he received.
‘That’s as far as you go, Cornwallis,’ warned Maxwell, reaching down to his leg and whipping out a small four inch knife which Cornwallis had missed in the search. He held it to Rose’s neck and pressed the point into the flesh. ‘Time to negotiate, I reckon.’
A wide gap developed in the throng on the wharf, with just the four of them in the middle. A standoff now occurred and the audience waited with baited breath to see the outcome.
‘No chance of negotiations, Maxwell, let her go,’ ordered Cornwallis.
‘Let her go? No way,’ said Maxwell. ‘She’s coming with me as we have some unfinished business, ain’t that right, my lovely?’ He moved his hand upwards to give one a squeeze.
‘Don’t even think it, Maxwell,’ warned Cornwallis. ‘Because I promise you, I’ll rip your head clean off your shoulders.’
Maxwell laughed. ‘Too late for that, I’m already thinking it.’
‘Then you’re a dead man walking,’ said Frankie menacingly.
Rose felt Maxwell’s hand squeeze and tried to ignore the nausea sweeping over her; she had to keep her mind clear, be able to think quickly when the time came. She determined not to let Maxwell do what he wanted. His grip on her changed again and she felt a lessening of the pressure of the knife at her throat. Ahead she could see the anxiety on the faces of her two friends as they watched, powerless at the moment to do anything. She came to the conclusion that Cornwallis would try and negotiate after all, whatever he had said to Maxwell, and after all this, she wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Maxwell won’t be getting away with it.
The next few moments were going to live with Rose for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, waiting for her muscles to relax. Then without warning, she picked up her leg and stamped as hard as she could down Maxwell’s shin, whilst at the same time striking upwards at the hand holding the knife. Maxwell yelled in pain as his leg burned in agony, but he hardly had time to register that his hand had been pushed away when Rose whipped her elbow back into his ribs. He grunted and then let go as the blow knocked the wind right out of him. Rose spun around, and with Maxwell gasping for breath, she let fly at her preferred target with the toe of her boot. As her boot connected with Maxwell’s bollocks, he cried out in pain and bent double, just as a cry of warning came from the audience. She turned to look and a crate came swinging towards her. She ducked, and felt the draught of air as it passed closely over her head, but Maxwell wasn’t quite so lucky, as just as the crate came swinging by he began to straighten up. There came a thwack, and suddenly Maxwell disappeared backwards in a graceful somersault over the edge of the wharf towards the mast of a small boat. Maxwell flew upside down towards it, hitting the mast and making the boat lurch sideways. As his stomach smacked against the mast his legs curled around it; and then everybody on the wharf watched as he slid down the mast and out of sight.
They heard a crash and a splintering of wood, and Rose, Cornwallis and Frankie rushed to the side to look down. There, below they could see most of Maxwell, his head having smashed through what appeared to be the rotten bottom of the boat. Water poured in through the damage around Maxwell’s neck and his feet jerked as they watched him pushing with his arms, trying to force his head out from the splintered wood.
‘Hey, Chalkie, you gonna do something?’ shouted a man.
Cornwallis turned to see a big polar bear loping towards them, he had his arms shaved and had tattoos in place of hair. He was the driver of the crane whose crate had just smacked Maxwell.
‘Sorry about that,’ he growled. ‘Took me eye off it for a moment.’ He leant over the side and gave a low whistle. ‘Ooh, will you look at that.’
Chalkie jumped off the side and landed expertly on the boat. The jerking’s of Maxwell had now slowed to an almost complete stop, and the boat had let in a great deal of water. Chalkie wrapped his arms around Maxwell’s legs and tried to heave, but nothing happened, so he changed his grip to get a firmer hold just as the last twitch left Maxwell’s body.
‘Reckon you’re too late now, the bastard’s dead,’ shouted another man, just along the wharf.
Chalkie looked up and sniffed defiance. He grabbed hold of Maxwell again and gave an almighty heave; and this time he felt something give a little. Chalkie licked his lips and heaved again and the water around Maxwell’s neck began to bubble. Chalkie, feeling that once more should do it, used all the power he could muster. He heaved, and something gave way.
The crowd looking over the edge of the wharf heaved too. A few vomited as Chalkie held the result of his rescue up towards them; Maxwell dangled by a leg in the strong paw of the bear.
Then a wag shouted down. ‘You left something behind, Chalkie,’ and a peel of laughter rang out.
Chalkie looked down and his grin of success turned to a grimace of disgust. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he whined, as the river turned red.
‘That’s sodding torn it,’ observed Frankie wryly. Maxwell dangled, well most of him dangled, that is. His head had parted company with his body and now it settled in the slime at the bottom of the river. ‘You still want to talk to him, Jack?’
CHAPTER 10
The feelers arrived to sort out the mess, in the guise of a sergeant and two constables. Cornwallis’ face broke into a grin when he saw that one of them was Dewdrop. They arrived with a cart to transport the body of Maxwell and a reluctant Dewdrop looked down onto the headless corpse lying at the edge of the wharf.
‘Where’s the top end?’ he asked with a grimace of distaste. He looked up and then saw Cornwallis, Frankie, and Rose standing in the row of onlookers. ‘Oh,’ he exclaimed in embarrassment.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Lord Cecil Toopins,’ said Frankie grinning. He then turned to Cornwallis and asked. ‘Have you by chance met his Lordship?’
Rose rolled her eyes; for some reason she knew what was coming, but even so, she found it hard to suppress the smile.
‘I must admit that I haven’t,’ replied Cornwallis conversationally. ‘I have met a Constable called Toopins though, are they one and the same?’
‘They are indeed; I would have thought you would have known all about him as you nobby types tend to stick together.’
‘But I’m only an Honourable, you see, a Lord outranks me.’
The sergeant and the other constable looked askance at Dewdrop as they listened to the exchange, the implication being that the whole station would be hearing about this.
The crowd of onlookers took its collective attention away from the corpse and concentrated on the banter going back and forth between Frankie and Cornwallis as they mercilessly took the piss out of the hapless feeler.
‘Does that mean that a Lord lives in a bigger house than you?’
‘Well, he should have a family pile, or possibly even several.’
‘Interesting. Excuse me, Lord Cecil, how are your piles?’
Dewdrop’s face went crimson as the crowd laughed; there were about thirty of them in all, with three polar bears, a gorilla and an orangutan, all tough dock workers and all of them looking straight at him.
Rose found some sympathy in the end and stepped forward, trying to divert the attention away from Dewdrop and back to the corpse. ‘Can you swim?’ she asked, when she had unclamped her teeth from her bottom lip.
Dewdrop nodded.
‘In that case,’ she leant closer so that only he could hear. ‘If I were you I would volunteer to dive in and retrieve the bit that’s missing; and Cecil, when you lie in future, make sure that it’s a lie that can never be found out.’
Dewdrop nodded again and stepped forward to the edge of the wharf to look down into the murky depths of the river, mulling over what he had just agreed to do. He swallowed hard, but it would better than listening to all that piss-taking.
‘Constable Toopins has volunteered to go into the river to retrieve the head,’ announced Rose, turning to face everybody. ‘Now, let’s see what help we can give him. First though, we need to get that boat out of the way.’
The sergeant and the other constable raised their eyes in surprise; this was turning into a really interesting day.
Rose’s request turned into a kind of reflex action from the dockers as they gathered up the equipment they might need. A few ropes appeared and then a small row-boat splashed down on the river below. The arm of a crane swung gently over and a chain clanked down to dangle just above the sunken boat.
‘Right now, Constable,’ intoned the sergeant. ‘I assure you that the Captain will hear about this; now get stripped off and could someone hand me that rope, we don’t want another corpse on our hands, now do we?’
Dewdrop looked worriedly at the sergeant.
‘Come on lad, hurry up, don’t be shy. We’re all lads together here.’
Dewdrop pointed at Rose. ‘But she’s not a lad, Sarge.’
The sergeant regarded Rose and sighed. He could imagine what might happen if he had to strip off in front of her, but as Dewdrop would be doing the stripping, then it didn’t matter. ‘No, but she don’t count as a girl as she is an investigator. Take no notice of her, as I’m sure she’ll take no notice of you.’
‘Aw, Sarge.’
‘Come on, lad, can’t get police property wet, now can we?’ the sergeant leant forward and whipped off Dewdrop’s hat. ‘Let’s get going; we ain’t got all day.’
Reluctantly, Dewdrop took off his jacket and then sort of hopped around as he tried to take off his boots. He eventually sat down on the mooring post and achieved his goal, two big toes stuck out of his threadbare socks and he then stood up as if ready.
‘The rest of it, lad, shirt and kecks please.’
‘Sarge,’ wailed Dewdrop as if pleading for his life.
He couldn’t get away with it; the sergeant wasn’t going to let him. Chalkie, feeling a little guilty, but not guilty enough to dive in, came to stand behind Dewdrop to collect the clothes as he discarded them. The shirt came off next and a ripple of amusement ran through the crowd as the less than manly chest came into view.
‘Could someone give the poor bastard a meal, the last time I saw ribs like that they were on my plate with a dose of sauce on them,’ shouted one of the crowd.
Dewdrop turned his back while trying to cover himself with his arms. He cast a forlorn look to the sergeant who replied with a stern look of disapproval. Dewdrop sighed, and then began to remove his trousers. Two skinny stick-like legs appeared below a pair of very grey underpants. The crowd whooped in delight at the lad’s suffering and someone shouted out, as someone had to with Chalkie standing there. ‘Watch out lad, you have a bear behind!’ The crowd laughed in response as the pale thin Dewdrop stood there trying to cover his lunch box.
Rose took hold of the rope and stepped forward to loop it around his middle.
‘Nooo,’ yelled Dewdrop, grabbing his bits even harder. ‘You do it, Sarge — please.’
A smiling Rose handed the rope over and retreated a few steps; tempted, out of curiosity’s sake, to try and have a peek at what he covered up, but she kindly ignored the devil on her shoulder.
Dewdrop dropped over the side of the wharf and clambered down the iron steps fixed to the wall to where the little row-boat bobbed up and down; he stepped in, and the boat moved away, over to the spot where the dinghy and Maxwell‘s head lay. He found just enough courage to climb over the side and then slide into the water. He looked up and saw a whole load of faces staring down. From somewhere he found a little more backbone and waved, before taking a big gulp of air and disappearing below the surface with the ends of the crane’s chain in hand. The crowd hushed and waited expectantly as the ripples died away. About thirty seconds later, his head broke the surface and he trod water while he caught his breath, he gave the thumbs-up and held onto the boat as it moved over to the side. The crane took the strain and then began to lift. He had attached the hooks to the rails and as it broke the surface, the rails began to bend. With yells of encouragement, the crane’s driver swung the thing over onto the wharf, and it was only just in time as the rails gave way and the dinghy crashed to the ground. The crowd cheered, and then everyone started pointing into the water. The row-boat came back, and to shouts of encouragement, Dewdrop slipped again into the water. He dived down three times, each time a failure and he surfaced panting from the effort. But he persevered and tried again as the crowd waited patiently. It seemed as if he was down an age this fourth time, and the crowd actually began to get anxious. But then something broke the surface: like an ethereal arm from one of the river Gods, a hand gripped Maxwell’s head by the hair. Dewdrop knew how to play to the crowd despite his shortcomings. The young feeler’s head came up shortly after, beaming with satisfaction. The crowd cheered, the sergeant threw a sack down and Maxwell’s head disappeared inside the canvas.
The sergeant pulled on the rope to help Dewdrop as he swam to the steps and climbed up to a round of applause. The dripping Dewdrop stepped onto the wharf and found Rose standing in front of him, holding a bit of cloth for use as a towel, he reached forward for it but found he stared straight down the front of Rose’s open necked shirt. He blinked, but his eyes wouldn’t move. Then he realised that water did something to cloth, especially very thin underpants cloth, and he felt something begin to happen. Worriedly he looked down. In a way it was a mistake, because Rose couldn’t help it either — she looked down too.
*
Cornwallis had a task to do in town, so he left Rose and Frankie at the wharf, agreeing to meet up later at the Stoat for a couple of pints, while he nipped back to the office to pick up a package before heading off.
The brown paper bag tucked beneath his arm contained the suit worn by Freddie the Weasel.
He still chuckled to himself at Dewdrops indiscretion as he pushed open the door and stepped through into the interior of Biggins and Shute, Cavel Row; considered the epitome of luxury tailoring with good quality coming at a price, and Biggins and Shute certainly charged a price.
Refined with quiet respectability, the tailor’s had a plush carpet on the floor with scattered upholstered chairs around a few low tables for customers to relax while they waited. There was no counter, just a curtained door, which twitched aside, as an immaculately dressed assistant came out to greet him.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he intoned gravely. ‘May I be of assistance?’
Cornwallis smiled, he hated the place and all it stood for, but his father used it and insisted that he did too; but he had to admit that when they made a suit, it stayed made. ‘I do hope so. Mr Gillimot usually deals with me; I’m Jocelyn Cornwallis. You must be a new member of staff as I don’t believe I have had the pleasure?’
‘Indeed no, sir, I’ve been here this last six months, sir, and I believe you are right. I am Mr Ollivant. Mr Gillimot is indisposed at the present, sir, but if you will allow me, I will do what I can to help.’ He smiled and tilted his head to the side.
Priggish jumped up little shite, thought Cornwallis, but returned the smile and said instead. ‘Perhaps it might be better for me to wait for Mr Gillimot, nothing personal you understand, but continuity and all that?’
‘And rightly so, sir. If you will excuse me I will just go and see how long he’ll be.’
He dived back through the curtain with a graceful bow of the head and Cornwallis sighed; he wondered where they found these people, whether a tree grew somewhere that produced total stuck up knobheads like Ollivant. He could understand the wealthy and the titled having airs and graces, but Ollivant wasn’t one of them; he imagined that he must have been bullied at school. Another thought crossed his mind though, and at this, he smiled to himself. What did Ollivant think of him? It was very probable that they had a common thought.
Frankie and Rose had gone off with two crates of fish for the cat while he decided that h
e’d better find out whose suit Freddie had been wearing before the Bagman came to collect. So after they had sorted out the headless corpse, they bought the fish and had parted company until later.
As he waited, Cornwallis mulled over the unfortunate event of their afternoon’s endeavours; he really could have done with speaking to Maxwell at length. Though he doubted that Maxwell would have been forthcoming, he might have let something slip. The sight of his headless corpse dangling from the bear’s paw, which looked a bit like a trophy hunters painting in reverse, was going to be the talk of the docks for months to come.
Maxwell’s demise must throw a spanner into the works for Kintersbury. Would he continue now that his henchman had been eradicated? He certainly must be running short of them, as three were incarcerated at the Yard, one had his contract terminated by Gerald in the Brews, another two at Brownlow’s, and now Maxwell, which makes seven. How many did he have left? However many there were, they must be thinking that perhaps their long term employment prospects with the treasury secretary would not be good.
‘Good day, Mr Cornwallis, I’m so sorry to keep you.’ Mr Gillimot flounced through the curtain with a flourish, and then stopped short. ‘Oh. That will not do, Mr Cornwallis, if you don’t mind me saying,’ he said, scrutinising Cornwallis’ suit which had been through the mill in more ways than one over the last few days. ‘A good clean and a press I think.’
Cornwallis grimaced and then brushed himself down a little, he felt like he’d had his wrist slapped. ‘Maybe later, Mr Gillimot, but first I have a request to make.’
‘Request away, Mr Cornwallis, request away.’
‘Good, I appreciate it. I have here something that has turned up during one of my investigations, and I wondered if you would be so kind as to take a look and give me what information you can.’ He pulled the brown paper bag out from under his arm and handed it over.
Mr Gillimot screwed up his face in disgust as he tentatively opened the package. ‘Oh, the smell. Where has it been?’
