Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments

by Francis Selwyn

  'And where may Lord William's place be appointed?' asked Verity sharply.

  The bully in his tight-fitting jacket stepped round him and led the way to the right-hand box, level with the stage and nearest to it. The vantage-point, Verity thought, was perfect, while the semi-darkness of the box itself effectively concealed him in its shadows.

  The place was the size of a private ballroom, such as lay behind many of the grand facades of Piccadilly and the streets which ran off it. The theatrical structure was no more than wood and plaster painted over, but the effect was significant. The entire auditorium was draped in black with phallic torches upon the pillars, and ornamentation which seemed unremarkable until more closely scrutinized, but which then appeared to be of ingenious obscenity. A hot, musky smell of incense drifted over the velvet and the dark silk.

  Somewhere beyond the screened platform a gong beat three times. Slowly the conversation in the boxes and among the close-packed groups in the carpeted pit dwindled and died. Behind the gauze curtaining of the platform there was a sudden flaring of light as the gas was turned up, illuminating a horned figure upon a throne with attendants surrounding him. Verity snorted with indignation. A cheap 'occult' trick to attract the rich young gulls of the West End. He saw that apart from the horned 'beast' on his high throne, there were several men and half a dozen girls, all naked except for the goat-masks worn by the men. These actors gave a sudden cry. 'Lord Lucifer!'

  The horned figure on the throne raised its head, the face covered by a mask of inexpressible evil, done in bronze which Verity suspected on closer examination would appear to be cheap tinsel. Two of the naked girls turned, took the halves of the gauze curtain and ran them back to the wings.

  'Why!' said Verity softly, 'if it ain't Miss Simona and 'er little baggage!'

  He felt a great exultation in the discovery. And whatever else he had failed in, he had now identified the last of the four glass-plate photographs in the late Lord Henry's bureau. The devil-masks, the auditorium, the faces of the men and women in their evening clothes. This was where it had happened. The camera must have been in the wing on the far side, facing diagonally across the stage, directly towards the box in which Verity was sitting. Very neat. Whoever sat in that box was number one for being a participant in some kind of satanic celebration.

  'O' course,' said Verity softly to himself, 'just to be sitting here watching wouldn't be enough for a real blackmail squeeze, so they had 'im up there, stark naked. To be caught just watching ain't enough, except for a very great man indeed. And for 'im it's more 'n enough.'

  'O Mighty Satan, Lord of the Dead, Master of Night, Prince of Darkness. . . .'

  Verity snorted again, both with distaste and at the tawdriness of it.

  'If they wanted the real fear o' hell,' he muttered, 'they should a-heard some of the old preachers in the great ring on Bodmin Moor!'

  'Master, hear us!'

  The words were coming from a speaking-trumpet held somewhere off-stage. On the platform itself a black-draped altar with black candles and sticks was set before the throned figure of Lord Lucifer. Also off-stage, several voices began to drone an indecipherable liturgy to the light rapid drumming of feet.

  The sounds produced behind the scenes transformed the setting into a great pagan shrine filled with the murmuring of a host of worshippers at the feet of their dark idol. Still intent on the details of the photographic glass-plate which he had seen in Lord Henry's bureau, Verity peered about him in the gloom. Even by the light reflected from the stage he could make out the most obvious inconsistency. In the glass-plate there had been the outline of the box, behind the faces of the spectators. But the two boxes on either side of the stage and level with it were not identical. The one in which Verity sat was a plain opening draped with velvet. The opposite box was the one in the photograph, with an elaborate beading. It was further identified by a crack in the paintwork on one side.

  'Only thing is,' said Verity to himself, 'that box is to the right of the stage and they took the picture looking to the left. So 'ow the mischief can a box walk from one side of the theatre to the other?'

  Then he snorted with derision again.

  'Reversed!' he said contemptuously. 'They couldn't even print it right but got a mirror-image instead. What I don't see, 'owever, is how a man might take a picture in so little light. Why, he'd need to leave a plate exposed for ten minutes at least. They never 'eld still that long!'

  There was a clash of cymbals, and as the reverberations died away into a great silence the lights about the dark throne grew dimmer. As though from a great distance, there was a chanting of many voices and the continued drumming of feet in a communal dance. The well-dressed men and women in the pit looked at one another and smiled reassuringly. It was, after all, no more than a lark.

  The four men with their goat-masks stood about the black altar on which the 'sacrifice' of one of the girls was to be consummated. Then, as though like a snake uncoiling and rising, the girl who squatted, curled and with head lowered, began to rise from the floor with the grace of a dancer. She was petite and dark, her nude body shining like pale gold in the soft light. The almond ellipse of her dark eyes, her neat features and small breasts were unmistakable to Verity.

  'Jolly, right enough,' he said softly.

  She rose upright between the four masked men, her slender dark body twisting and squirming, her trim legs and slim thighs contorting with energy. Her black, sleek hair was piled on her head with the aid of a comb, leaving clear her delicate ears and nape. The gas-light shone on her moving shoulders as on gold satin, while her slim brown back narrowed downwards and then rounded seductively in the paler and softer fullness of hips and bottom. This, Verity thought, was what the gulls had come for, not for the furtive thrill of black arts.

  The four men were closing on her now, dragging her back against the black velvet altar, forcing her back upon it so that although her feet still touched the floor the front of her body was a tight bow with her head lying back on the altar itself. Her arms were spread out, clutching the velvet on either side of her and she made no attempt to shield the triangle of dark hair between her splayed thighs. One of the men took what looked like a large egg and broke it so that thick albumen spread slowly over her belly and ran downwards. The man's fingers aided the diffusion of the substance while another goat-masked figure broke his shell over her breasts and on her mouth.

  Impassively the throned figure of Evil looked down upon the obscene preliminaries to the ritual, while Verity watched with incredulous anger the waste of enough food to give dinner to the starving family of a Spitalfields weaver. The girl was bending forward over the altar, her hands clasped between her legs, furtively examining what had been done to her. She watched the men over her shoulder, the dark eyes in the cat-like beauty of her face urging them on. The last man stepped forward and she held still. The shell cracked and Miss Jolly's behind streamed with the same protoplasmic fluid. The men were dragging her on to the altar as Verity, probing the darkness, saw where the camera lens must be concealed, diagonally opposite him in the curtains on the far side of the platform. There was a slight movement among the hangings. That was it, Verity thought, but how was it done in such semi-darkness?

  The girl was face down on the altar, a silver cup jammed up high between her parted legs to catch the blood of the sacrifice as it ran down her back and between her thighs. Her agile hands were pressed under her loins and she seemed to be tensing and slackening her body rhythmically with impatience. On his black throne, the figure of Lord Lucifer stretched out an arm imperiously and there was a blinding spasm of white 'stage-fire', which made the audience gasp with surprise.

  'So that's it!' said Verity grimly. 'That's the illumination for photographic plates!'

  Satan's 'fire' flashed again, as Simona and Stefania brought on a market-basket with a small squealing pig inside it. On her altar, the perverse and erotically maddened girl watched eagerly as the knives and ritual implements were laid upo
n her and the place for the animal's sacrifice chosen. The stage-fire flashed again, more brilliantly than before.

  'Mr Verity!'

  Momentarily blinded by the glare, Verity looked about him.

  "ere, Mr Samson! Over 'ere!' Then Samson was at his side.

  'Quick as you can, my son! Lord Renfrew and party has given the slip and come through another way. You gotta 'elp now, Mr Verity! If they get in 'ere, I'm done for!'

  'They ain't in yet?'

  'No, but give 'em two more minutes and they will be. They won't take notice of me, Mr Verity.'

  "ow important is it this young Lord Renfrew shouldn't show 'is face in 'ere?'

  'You got no idea, Mr Verity!'

  'Right,' said Verity. 'One sure way he can't get in is if all the rest of 'em is going out fast!'

  To Samson's amazement, Verity clambered on to the ledge of the box and took a crashing jump several feet down on to the stage. He picked himself up at once, strode to the centre and faced the spectators. A complete silence fell upon the actors and audience alike, even the squealing of the pig subsiding to a shrill grizzle. Off-stage, the temple noises died away.

  'Right,' said Verity again, his round face growing redder with the effort of shouting loudly enough to make himself heard throughout the auditorium, 'I'm a police officer from Whitehall office and in a moment more it's going to be my painful duty to take your names and addresses, the lot o' you!'

  There was a nervous shifting among the well-heeled audience.

  'And,' shouted Verity, 'in a moment more the lights is going up and the detective photographer is to take pictures of you all, in case you should have to be identified subsequent.'

  He stepped back and ripped aside the hangings where he had seen movement. A small, spectacled man crouched down, cowering behind the wooden box-camera on its tripod.

  'Stand where you are, the lot of you!' Verity roared. 'There's two constables among you already and a wagonload more on its way. You'll be took for questioning and close search. Gentlemen to Whitehall and ladies to St James!’

  At this promise, the growing horror among the spectators gave way to panic. Those nearest the door turned and bolted, the less fortunate scrambling at their backs in an endeavour to hasten the stampede. On the stage there was pandemonium. Two of the naked men in goat-masks tried to jump Verity. The first he repelled with a fist like a hambone driven with a smash to the nose. The second he got 'in Chancery', swung him round by the head and shot him over the edge of the platform and into the retreating spectators. There was a shriek of terror from several women as the nude figure fell upon them.

  The house bullies watched helplessly from beyond the crowd, unable to force their way through to reach the stage. Samson had joined Verity by this time and began to wreak havoc with immense enthusiasm. The priests and priestesses of Lord Lucifer fought the two detective officers and, in some cases, one another in their enthusiasm to get clear before the police wagon arrived. Samson tripped on a body, crashed into the altar, which proved to be flimsy enough under its velvet, and brought it clattering down. He picked himself from the ruins, almost embracing the nude slippery girl who had been lying on it. In her fury, she flew at him, long nails fencing for his face and eyes. Samson dodged, snatched up a length of double, looped sash-cord from the debris and administered a long-range blow to the slim golden-skinned legs. The demoness yelped, turned about and ran, as Samson delivered a parting stroke to Miss Jolly's rear.

  During this encounter, Verity had struggled through the brawl to reach Lord Lucifer's throne, from which the Ruler of Hell was endeavouring to descend, gingerly since the entire edifice appeared far more precarious close to than it had done at a distance. Attacking the foundation, Verity knocked the orange boxes from under the chair which they supported and brought the whole structure toppling over. The Prince of Hell picked himself from the ruins, still wearing his mask.

  "ere!' he said peevishly, 'wot's all the aggravation about?'

  'You'll find out, my man!' said Verity sternly. He reached out for Lord Lucifer, but the man took to his heels, dodged and ran out through the curtains. Within a few minutes the two sergeants had the stage to themselves.

  'This way!' gasped Samson. 'Out here!'

  In the general scramble for safety, several windows on the premises had been forced open, wealthy young swells and their ladies scrambling through, dropping to the pavement and running for their lives like small boys who had robbed an orchard. As Verity and Samson reached the street by this route, a considerable number of those who had been packed into the building were still wrestling their way out through the doors. The display of 'Royal Arabian Soap', 'Favourite of the Harem's Bouquet', and 'Jordan Water, 10 guineas a bottle', had been wrecked. Tortoiseshell and lacquered fragments were all that remained of the expensive boxes, while the promise of 'Beautiful for Ever' hung at a precipitous angle.

  'You done it now, my son,' said Samson apprehensively.

  'We was detailed to see nothing indecorous 'appened here. Look at this set-to!'

  'Yes,' said Verity, 'and if Lord Renfrew was to be kept out of there, not even be seen in there, 'e must be a very important sort o' cove. There wasn't another way. I ain't so soft I didn't recognize a face or two among all them silk 'ats. And if anyone should come on me for what 'appened, I shall name a few names!'

  'Over 'ere,' said Samson, unimpressed. 'Sharply!'

  Verity caught a glimpse of Lord William Jervis, his hat gone, being borne along in the rush like a cork bobbing in a stream. There was a fair-haired young man close to him and a dark-haired youth with round face and heavy mouth whose appearance seemed distantly familiar.

  'Lord Renfrew!' said Samson. 'Get 'im clear!'

  The two burly sergeants made for the crowd, thrusting their way in resolutely and ignoring the angry cries of, 'Stand aside, fellow!' or 'Throw him back!' from the men and the squeals of 'My cloak, sir!' and 'Oh, the brute!' from the women. Samson reached the dark young man, there was a murmured exchange and they began to struggle out through the crowd followed by Lord William, the fair young man, and Verity bringing up the rear.

  Once clear of the scrimmage, Verity stood at a slight, respectful distance while the others bent their heads together in earnest discussion. Presently they walked, with the two sergeants behind them, down Bond Street towards the house of Mr Poole, the tailor. Verity noticed that the dark young man's coat had been torn open at the seam of the right arm. While Samson and Verity waited outside, the three men were admitted.

  'Still think it was a wasted dooty?' Samson inquired.

  Verity puffed up his moustaches a little.

  'Oh, no, Mr Samson, not for an observant officer!'

  He was peering at the window of the tailor's shop.

  "ere!' he said, 'there's a picture of Lord Renfrew in a gold frame!'

  'Yes,' said Samson, 'I shouldn't concern yourself over that, however.'

  'Only,' said Verity softly, 'it don't say anything about any Lord Renfrew 'ere. It says "God Bless His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales". Cor! 'ere! Wait till Mrs Verity and 'er old father 'ear of this! Blimey! I been within six feet of ’im! I near as anything spoke to 'im! Why, Mr Samson! Now I see why you was so desperate for 'im not to have 'is picture took or even be seen there, grinning at Miss Jolly's bare what's-it!'

  'The less you say about it, my son, the better it may be for us all,' said Samson soberly. 'You stick to duties assigned you, that's my advice.'

  'Much obliged, Mr Samson, and I ain't greatly in need o' your advice. I done a bit o' duty tonight, afore you came on the scene, that makes being escort to 'is 'ighness seem very small beer.'

  'Oh?' said Samson sceptically.

  'Yes,' said Verity. 'I recognized that place as where the fourth glass-plate in poor Lord Henry's bureau was done.' 'You was lucky, my son.'

  'It ain't luck when a man keeps at his duties, Mr Samson. But that ain't the 'alf of it. I 'ad time in there to work out that when they came to do the plate, they must a-
held it the wrong way round. What they got was a reverse image, like in a mirror. Having only seen the plate o' course, I never noticed anything amiss, thinking it was all the right way round. But seeing the place where it was took makes a difference.'

  'Do it? How might that be?'

  'Why, Mr Samson!' said Verity with a faint chuffing noise, 'fancy a detective officer like you having to ask! You got a bit to learn about constabulary deduction, ain't yer? When I didn't know it hadn't been reversed, o' course there was nothing wrong with that plate. But if it was reversed, then only think of that funny fork-shaped scar Lord Henry had. Don't yer see? In that one picture alone, he was wearing it on the wrong leg!'

  9

  The damp walls at the rear of the patched and stained houses enclosed the square grassy plot of the little burial-ground. Here and there the low mounds of paupers' graves were interspersed with carved stones almost lost in tall grass. Elaine hitched up her skirt as she cut across the ground towards Shoreditch High Street, reached by a narrow cobbled tunnel between the buildings on one side. It was almost midnight and soon there would be an easy trade as the gin palaces and the beer shops began to empty.

  Already the foul moisture, which the cooler night drew from the grimy warmth of the stones, glistened upon paving and wall. Even the grass, taller than the girl's knees, was wet, so that she hitched her skirt up almost to her waist to keep it dry. A more distant gas-lamp cast a pale light on Elaine's sturdy young legs and thighs.

  Half-way across the plot, she heard a sound behind her and saw the man's shape following. She had no doubt that he was one of those who gloated over the sight of accidentally-revealed female limbs. Even at fifteen years old, Elaine had a proper sense of values. She made money by her body and a man who derived enjoyment from it without paying was as much a thief as the man who stole from a stall or a shop-window. He began to draw level, his eyes turning to keep her in view as she held up her skirts. Elaine tossed her fair hair and shouted angrily,