by Carol Hedges
“You can SEE me? Both of you?”
“It would appear so, sir,” Stride says drily.
“But you’re not meant to see me.”
“I’m sure we aren’t. But luckily for you, we do.”
“But the Prophet said that The Lord promised I shall be wrapped in a Cloak of Invisibility!”
Stride and Evans exchange a quick meaningful glance.
“Perhaps it got caught on the railings,” Stride suggests.
“Or fell into the area, with the paintbrush you dropped,” Evans adds.
“So, sir,” Stride says, “in the event that you are NOT invisible, would you like to furnish us with an explanation for why you are out in the middle of the night with a pot of red paint and a brush?”
“And a dog,” Evans adds.
The man lowers his eyes and studies the damp cobbles.
“I was doing The Lord’s work,” he mutters.
“Then I suggest you stop doing it and return home forthwith,” Stride says crisply.
The man hesitates.
“But The Lord says—”
“Look upon it as the lesser of two evils.”
“What’s the other one?”
Stride’s smile is the sort that lurks on sandbanks waiting for unwary swimmers.
“Me,” he says, getting out his official police badge. “I might be tempted to arrest you.”
The man draws himself up.
“For what?”
Stride counts on his fingers. “Let me see now: there’s loitering with intent … not to mention with paint. Travelling with the purpose of committing a crime, obstruction, trespass, malicious lingering, and carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Sir, I don’t think—” Evans interjects.
“I can’t see it, sergeant, can you?”
Stride returns his attention to the man, who is now looking slightly abashed.
“At the end of the day, I could just arrest you on suspicion of being suspicious,” he remarks, adding, “Of course, in some circles, what you and your friends have done over the past few weeks might be interpreted as treason. Do you know what the punishment for treason is?”
The man shakes his head.
“First you’ll be dragged to the place of execution on a hurdle. Then you’ll be hung, drawn and quartered.”
“I know all about hanging and quartering, sir,” Sergeant Evans says thoughtfully. “But I’m never sure how you’re drawn.”
“Depends who’s in charge of the pencil,” Stride replies without a flicker of expression crossing his face.
The man picks up his pot of paint.
“Wait a moment,” Stride says, “before you go, my sergeant here would very much like your full name and current address. Just in case he wants any painting done.”
Evans gets out his notebook and looks expectantly at the man, who mutters a few words.
“Thank you, sir,” the young sergeant says politely. “I shall be checking up on it tomorrow first thing. And should you have given me a false address …” He lets the words hang in the air.
“I haven’t, officer. Honest to God.”
Evans shuts the notebook.
“If you’ll take my advice, sir,” Stride says, “you’ll tell your Lord you’ve decided to jack in this painting lark. Ask Him to find you something else to do. Preferably something that isn’t against the law of the land.”
“Gardening,” Evans suggests. “That’s not against the law, is it? And it’s mentioned in the Bible too – the Garden of Eden.”
“Good suggestion, sergeant. Now, sir, on your way. And don’t let any of my officers catch you or anybody else with tins of red paint after dark ever again. Or I WILL be making arrests, believe me.”
The man touches his dripping cap, whistles to the dog, and hurries off.
“Religious idiots,” Stride says. “I thought that would be the case. No point arresting him – chances are the whole group was in on it. We could spend between here and Christmas trying to find out who exactly painted what when. That’s if any of them will talk to us in the first place. He’s had a good scare, and I don’t think we’ll be plagued by any more slogans.”
He claps the young sergeant on the back. “You’ve done a good job on this, Sergeant Evans, and I’m going to make sure those in authority know about it. Now, let’s get out of this blasted rain before we both catch our deaths.”
***
The following morning, Senior Prophet About is unexpectedly interrupted in his morning’s meditations by a small deputation consisting of four of the flock accompanied by the dog.
Having hammered on his door and been admitted by a weary-looking wife, they settle awkwardly on the sofa and two chairs, shuffle their feet, and stare at the threadbare carpet. They have only ever seen About in his official capacity leading a meeting of the Select Brethren, but desperate times …
About enters, carrying his Bible.
“My dear brothers,” he says raising his eyebrows and looking slowly and intently into each face, a technique usually guaranteed to cow people into silence. “What brings you to my door at this unseasonable hour?”
The flock clear their throats and nudge each other until they run out of nudges and throat-clearing, and the man at the end of the sofa is stared into speech.
“See, it’s like this,” he begins. “We don’t want to do any more writing. Coz the law says it ain’t legal.”
About opens his mouth to interject. Too late.
“And as for the Cloak of Invisibility what you promised us, it don’t work. Leastwise, it didn’t last night, and my missus says I’m not to go out at night any more unless it’s to the Beetle and Jam Jar, and then only on the strict understanding that I’m back by ten sharp or else she’ll lock me out.”
There is a corporate nodding of heads, indicative that similar sentiments are being expressed (sotto voce) by the others.
“And that’s all I want to say – except that I won’t be coming to any more meetings as the wife says she has things for me to do in the house of a Thursday evening.”
“Mine says that too,” the second flock member adds.
The other two, who are both wifeless, say nothing, but try to convey that IF they had wives, this is exactly what their wives would also say.
“So we apologise for coming round so early,” the former painter continues, getting to his feet. “And we bid you good day.”
The flock rises, troops out of the back parlour, and is shown into the street by the weary-looking woman who admitted them in the first instance. She, as soon as she has closed the door on the last of them, rounds on the Senior Prophet.
“Right,” she says grimly, folding her arms. “I heard all that and what I have to say is: that is the last straw. I have had ENOUGH! I can’t be doing with all this God stuff no longer. It’s making us the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. Every time I leave the house, people point at me and laugh behind my back. And I can’t be doing with all the washing any more. It’s wearing me out before my time. It’s got to stop. Do you hear me? Now.”
Senior Prophet About stares at her bemusedly.
“But … God has given me a Vision. You know that. And then there’s the Infant Prophet to consider.”
“He’s not an Infant Prophet, he’s just a naughty little boy. At least that’s what he oughter be. It ain’t healthy for him to be cooped up in the house all day. He should be out in the fresh air playing with the other boys. I’m warning you, either you drop all this religious malarky and go back to being Millbank Tendring again, or, so help me, I shall take the boy and go and stay with my sister in Poplar.”
About sways slightly as if he has been struck a blow.
“I shall seek the Lord in earnest prayer,” he says meekly.
“You do that,” his wife replies tartly. “And while you’re at it, tell Him exactly what I told you. And make sure He listens. Or there will be Consequences. And you can tell Him that from me as well.”
She gives h
im a fearsome glare before she strides to the back kitchen, where behind the closed door the Infant Prophet, a slice of bread and jam in one hand, is presiding over a washtub of hot water.
“Get your jacket and cap, Jo,” she tells him. “We are going to the barber’s. Time all those baby curls were cut off. And then we’re going to buy you some new clothes. And this time, they ain’t going to be white.”
***
It is a cold morning, three days after Detective Inspector Stride and Sergeant Evans put a dramatic stop to the red-paint outrages that had so shocked those shockable members of London society – most of whom worked in Fleet Street.
And here is the hero of the hour, Sergeant Evans, standing outside Stride’s office, whither he has been summoned. It is never a comfortable feeling to be summoned by a higher authority, and the young man is going over the past few weeks to try to work out what he has done that he ought to have left undone, or vice versa.
In his pocket is the latest missive from Megan, another source of anxiety. It is unopened, as yet. He stares at the closed office door and mentally prepares for the worst. On both fronts.
Meanwhile on the other side of the door, Stride and Cully are gleefully flicking through the morning papers. Each one carries some ‘punishing’ variant of The Inquirer’s:
Caught Red-Handed! Artful Anarchists Apprehended!
“I wonder how long it took Dandy to come up with that headline,” Cully says. “It’s not even accurate, is it? We allowed them to go, in the end.”
“I’ll let Dandy off – this time,” Stride says, “given that his rag has fulfilled its obligations. Or is shortly about to. Now, let’s have the young man in and break the good news to him.”
Cully ushers a very nervous Evans into the office.
“Good morning, Sergeant Evans,” Stride says, switching his face to solemn and serious. “I expect you’ve seen the headlines in today’s papers?”
“I heard the newsboys shouting it on my way in, sir,” Evans says, turning the brim of his hat frantically between his hands.
“You’ve checked the address of the man you apprehended?”
“Oh yes, sir. The very next morning. I spoke to his wife. And she promised me that he wouldn’t do it again. Ever. Very adamant, she was.”
“Excellent,” Stride says. “I don’t know if you were aware, sergeant, that our good friends on The Inquirer were offering a reward for any information leading to the capture of the miscreants?”
Evans shakes his head.
“Well, they were. And as you not only discovered the address of the main culprit, organised the surveillance team, and then apprehended one of the group in action, as it were, I have taken the liberty of writing to the editor to inform him of the vital part you played in freeing the City of London from Anarchy and Revolution.” Stride’s mouth twitches. “And here is the reply I received last night.”
He hands Evans a letter.
“As you can see, sergeant, the sum of twenty guineas is waiting for you in The Inquirer’s office. I suggest you jog along now and collect it before they change their minds.”
The expression on Sergeant Evans’ face could light up the night sky.
“Oh sir! It is more than I deserve – I was only doing my job after all.”
“And doing it extremely well,” Stride says. “Now go and claim your reward.”
A beaming Evans is shown out by Jack Cully, who lays a hand on his coat sleeve.
“You’ll have some good news to write to your young lady now,” he says.
“Oh, I WILL, Mr Cully. And maybe she might believe that I am deadly serious about our relationship.”
“I hear on the grapevine that there is an inspector’s job coming up with the Cardiff Police next Spring. Why don’t you apply for it? I know Detective Inspector Stride would be happy to write you a glowing testimonial. So would I.”
Sergeant Evans grabs Cully’s hand and shakes it vigorously. There are tears in his eyes.
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr Cully. No, indeed I can’t. Nor Detective Inspector Stride. You have both been so good to me since I started work here.”
“One thing though – I gather they’d prefer a married man … Would that be a problem?” Cully asks innocently.
A few seconds later Cully returns to Stride’s office, massaging his right hand.
“That young man will go far,” Stride remarks.
He is going to be proved right. Sergeant Evans will rise to the top of his profession, earning the loyalty and respect of all who encounter him. But he will never forget the kindness of the two men from Scotland Yard who made it all possible. And one day, that kindness is going to be repaid. With interest.
***
But all this is yet to be. Let us re-enter the prosaic present, in the form of a quiet public house not far from the City Road. Understand, however, that this is not one of your stuccoed, French-polished, illuminated West End palaces with its marble bars and gilded affluence.
Here the gaslight hangs from the ceiling, and there are long narrow wooden tables with wooden benches, sanded floors and strategically-placed spittoons. People do not come here of an evening to be amused, to stare at painted women, or to gamble their money away at whist.
Oswald Pyle and William Ginster are seated at a table in the far corner, nursing tumblers of brandy. They have a preoccupied air, as of men waiting for something or someone to happen to them.
What happens is that Mark Hawksley enters the public house, accompanied by a small dumpy woman dressed in black, with a heavy veil covering her face.
“Here she is, gentlemen,” he says cheerfully. “Returned into your care once more. Give her a good dinner and then take her back to where she came from. She has served her purpose.”
He gives a purse to Ginster.
“Money for your train tickets. The rest is to be given to her upon parting.”
He motions to the woman to sit down.
“I shall leave you in these two gentlemen’s care. You recognise them? Good. You will be safe with them. They will see you safely back home. You have done well, and you are going to be well rewarded. Just make sure you remember exactly what I told you in the hotel, or it will be the worse for you.”
He nods at Ginster and Pyle.
“I shall see you both when you get back. We have much work to do – but I will tell you all about my latest plans upon your return.”
Hawksley swings on his heel and strides jauntily out of the pub, whistling the latest music hall ditty under his breath as he goes.
***
Gaslight creates a dream world, blurring the uncertain boundaries between the real and imagined. A world of beauty and poetry, danger and disorder, where the heavy lazy mist that overhangs everything makes the lights look brighter and the brilliantly-lit buildings even more splendid by contrast.
Look more closely. Mark Hawksley, top-hatted and in full evening dress, is dismounting from the cab that has brought him back from a select dinner party at the home of Mr and Mrs Osborne. A dinner party where he was the guest of honour.
There were also various banker friends of Osborne at the table. By the end of the evening they were his friends too. It has been a most successful evening. He has eaten lavishly and made several promising contacts.
Hawksley steps down from the cab. He pays the driver, bidding him a cheery goodnight, and is just about to enter the foyer of his hotel when somebody calls his name.
Hawksley stops, turns, and glances round in the direction of the voice. A man steps from the shadows and strides towards him. Hawksley does not recognise him. The man removes his leather gloves and strikes him hard across the face. Hawksley recoils.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he exclaims angrily, rubbing his cheek.
“I am striking a blow for the young woman you wronged,” the stranger declares in a hoarse voice, his eyes blazing hatred. “The young woman you promised to marry and then abandoned. I struck it on behalf of my beloved sis
ter Evelyn.”
Hawksley’s face freezes.
“I do not know what you are talking about. Perchance you have mistaken me for somebody else.”
“Oh, I know who you are alright! I recognised you as soon as you walked into lawyer Undercroft’s office the other day – though you didn’t recognise me, did you? Why should you? I was just the lawyer’s clerk. Too lowly for you to pay attention to me, Godfrey Sharpe.”
At the sound of that name, Hawksley’s face loses its colour.
“Yes – not so confident now, are you?” the man says. “Not so swaggering and full of yourself.”
Hawksley takes a step back.
“It was just like the conniving cunning cur that you are to come back to Bath, pretending you were somebody else,” the man continues. “That was where I saw you again for the first time since you fled the town. I’d been looking hard for you, but I hadn’t found you anywhere. And suddenly, there you were. I sat at the back of the Assembly Rooms and saw you strutting on the stage like a peacock, all airs and graces, all lies and falsehood.”
“I can assure you, there was nothing between your sister and me,” Hawksley interjects. “It was merely a misunderstanding on her part.”
“Oh, was it? You gave her a ring. You swore undying love. And you did that which I will refrain from naming in a public place. You are the lowest of the low – a vile seducer!”
“I have only your word for all of this,” Hawksley exclaims. “Maybe you are lying. You know I am rich – perhaps you and your sister are in league to fleece me of my money. Oh yes – I see it now. Blackmail is a criminal offence, you do know that?”
The man’s face is contorted with rage.
“I care nothing for your money, Godfrey Sharpe. Nothing! And as for my poor sister, she is currently an inmate of Earlswood Asylum, driven mad by your brutal rejection and abandonment.”
The man reaches into his inner pocket and brings out a long official-looking white envelope.
“This is a summons to appear before Marylebone Magistrate Court next Thursday morning. On behalf of my sister, who can no longer speak or act for herself, I am suing you for breach-of-promise. If you fail to attend, Godfrey Sharpe, then I swear that I will go to every newspaper in the land and tell them my sister’s story. I will furnish them with your likeness. I will ruin you. Nobody will ever do business with you again. And if you attempt to cut and run, I will hunt you down like the dog you are. And when I find you, it will be the worse for you.”