The telephone saved Anthony from having to answer this. It was Charlie Roper, speaking from a call-box. It took Anthony a moment to grasp what was being said.
“They’ve dropped the charge,” he said. “Against your son and the other boy. Who’s dropped it?”
“The police, I suppose.”
“Why?”
“Search me. They just dropped it. Lack of evidence was what they said.”
“They can’t do that to us.”
“It means the boy gets off, doesn’t it?”
“He gets off, yes. But what about his reputation? It’s been in all the papers. If they just say, ‘the case was dropped for lack of evidence,’ everyone’s going to say they did it, but it can’t be proved.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Roper. “Look here, I’ve got to get back now. I just slipped out from work for five minutes to tell you.” Anthony thought quickly.
“When do you get out for lunch,” he said, “and where?”
“I usually have it in the canteen. Sometimes I go to the Duke of Clarence.”
“At the top of Leydon Avenue?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you be there at a quarter to one?” said Anthony. “I’ll have a word with the police and find out what’s happening.”
“All right,” said Roper. He sounded doubtful.
Anthony dealt with the rest of his letters as quickly as he could. What he had told his father was quite true. Brydon & Pincott was experiencing one of those little surges of new work which occur from time to time in professional practices. When this happened, it meant overwork at the top; which was better than underwork, but could be difficult just the same.
If Ellis Pincott had pulled his weight in the office the burden would have been tolerable. But Ellis seemed to spend more and more of his time on outside duties. He was Secretary to the Barhaven Chamber of Commerce, Convenor to the Archdeaconry of East Sussex, and clerk to the Foreshore Commissioner. They were posts of much honour and small remuneration. In theory they were a good connection, but in practice they meant that Ellis spent half his working day outside the office, leaving such mundane but necessary duties as conveyancing, litigation and probate to Anthony and two managing clerks.
One of the advantages of having a secretary like Ann had been that he got through his letters much quicker. When she first came he had dictated each answer solemnly through from beginning to end. She had put up with this for a week, and had then said, “If this is just to be a ‘thank-you-very-much-and-I’ll-attend-to-it-as-soon-as-I-can-get-round-to-it’ letter, I can write it. There’s no need to dictate it.” In an increasing number of cases, now, Anthony found himself pushing the letter across to Ann and saying, “The usual, please.” He sometimes suspected that the work would get done even quicker if he wasn’t there at all.
Inspector Ashford was a big man; not tall, but wide through the shoulders, barrel-chested, and with a lowish centre of gravity; a textbook lock forward. He had a thick crop of black hair, which he wore unusually long, partly concealing the ugly scar down the left side of his head.
He said, “And what can we do for the law today, Mr. Brydon?”
“I heard a rumour,” said Anthony, “that the case against Roper and Mason was being dropped.”
“Roper and Mason? Who—oh—those two young tearabouts who made nuisances of themselves in the Pleasuredrome.”
That was nicely done, thought Anthony, but not really convincing. You’d been told I was coming to see you. So you must have known what I wanted to talk about.
“I believe that’s right. What are you planning to do about it? Ask for costs against the prosecution?”
“I might do that,” said Anthony. “But it’s not the real point. What I want to know is, are the police going to take over the case? Even if Pleasuredrome won’t prosecute, the police can.”
“Certainly.”
“Are you going on with it?”
“I think I can set your mind at rest on that score. If the owners of the property don’t wish to proceed, the police aren’t going to fight their battles for them. If the disturbance had taken place in public, it might have been different—”
“Then you won’t go on with it?”
“You must rest on your laurels, Mr. Brydon.”
“I’m not going to do any such thing.”
“If the prosecution won’t prosecute, I hardly see how you can defend.”
“You seem to forget that there’s a counter-charge. Unnecessary brutality by the two chuckers-out. That’s something we want the court to hear about.”
“I don’t fancy you’d find a great deal of sympathy for that sort of action. This town doesn’t like teen-aged rowdies.”
Anthony nearly said, “I don’t want sympathy, I want justice.” It was a good line, too. But it would have been wasted on Inspector Ashford. Instead, he said, “There’s another thing. If we can get the case on its feet, we shall at least find out who owns the Pleasuredrome. And that’s something a lot of people in Barhaven are beginning to be curious about.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If the boys sue the manager, he’ll be bound to join the owners. He’s not going to take the rap personally. Even if he wanted to, we wouldn’t let him. Then we should see who the owner is.”
Whilst Anthony was speaking, Inspector Ashford had sat still. The only change was in his eyes, which had gone opaque, as though he was looking inwards. When he spoke his voice, too, was abstracted.
“Why would a thing like that interest you?”
“Someone must be making a lot of money out of that place if he can keep two whole-time professional bullies on his pay-roll.”
“I still don’t see how you come into it. You were briefed to defend the two boys. Your defence has been successful.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Anthony. “Why aren’t the police taking this matter any further?”
“I’ve told you.”
“Was it your decision?”
“Not entirely.”
“Then whose decision was it?”
Inspector Ashford was getting angry now. The blood was swelling the veins in his neck and engorging his scar so that it showed up scarlet against the white of his skin. He lowered his head as a bull will do when it is going to charge.
“So far as you’re concerned,” he said, “it is my decision.”
“It was a silly question,” agreed Anthony, “because I know the answer. The only people who could give you any orders are the Watch Committee. If I want the truth, I shall have to go to them.”
The Inspector said nothing. His eyes had gone blank again. Anthony went out quickly, and shut the door behind him.
As the third quarter after twelve was striking from the Victoria Memorial Clock tower he squeezed his car alongside a delivery van at the edge of the Duke of Clarence car park. He found Charlie Roper in the Saloon Bar drinking beer and eating bread and cheese and pickled onions.
Anthony accepted a half-pint, said “No” to the pickled onions, which he considered an unattractive form of food, and started to talk. He found himself up against some unexpectedly solid resistance.
“’Tisn’t that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for us, Mr. Brydon. The wife and I both appreciate it a lot. But if this case is dropped, and the boys get an apology, that’ll be in the papers, too, won’t it? And then everyone’ll know they’re in the clear. And that’ll be an end of it.”
“Will it?” said Anthony.
“How d’you mean?”
“An apology won’t mend Terry’s nose for him.”
“The doctor says it isn’t broken. Just bent. And suppose it had been broken—” Mr. Roper speared an enormous onion, balanced it on top of a wedge of cheese, and placed the cheese on a segment of roll and butter—“I’m not sure it wouldn’t have served him right. If he’s going to arse around, he’s got to learn to take the rough with the smooth.”
He added an effecti
ve full stop to this sentence by inserting the whole forkful into his mouth.
“If it’s the expense you’re worrying about,” said Anthony, “forget it. I’ll fight this thing for you free, and enjoy doing it.”
Roper chewed on this for a bit. Then he shook his head.
“It’s not the money,” he said. “Not that I’m keen on throwing my money away, but if I thought it’d do a mite of good, I’d pay up and be glad to do it. The thing is, I’m not keen to make any more trouble. I got my job to think about.”
“How on earth does your job come into it?”
“I’m with Collyers, the transport people – they’re a good firm to work for, too. But they’re sticky. They don’t like trouble. My boy gets involved in a bit of trouble, that’s all right. Boys will be boys. But if I start going to law about it – stir up more trouble – get a lot of publicity, I’ve got a feeling I might be looking for another job.”
“All right,” said Anthony. “If that’s how you feel. I suppose Mrs. Mason doesn’t want to start anything either.”
“You seen her,” said Roper with a grin. “What do you think?”
“She didn’t look like a very willing litigant,” agreed Anthony. “By the way, that firm you work for – Collyers – I’m always seeing their lorries up and down the front. They do a lot of work for the Corporation, don’t they?”
“That’s right,” said Roper. Anthony thought he was avoiding his eye.
When he got outside, a policeman was standing beside his car.
“You’re outside the parking area,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Anthony. “There was a big lorry parked just there, and it must have been obscuring the white line.”
“We’ve had a lot of complaints about obstruction of this street. I’ll have to take your name and address.”
Anthony gave them.
“And might I see your driving licence and insurance certificate?”
“You might if I had them on me. But I haven’t.”
“Then you’ll have to produce them at the police station within twenty-four hours.”
Anthony drove home to lunch.
He found his father finishing his meal, and reading a typewritten sheet which had come to him in the midday post. Looking over his shoulder he saw that it was addressed from the Splash Point Country Club.
“I can’t make head or tail of this,” he said. “A special committee meeting. As an ex-Chairman of the Club my attendance is particularly requested. I can’t get to committee meetings now. Commander Sathwatt must know that.”
“I suppose it’s about the row yesterday evening.”
“What happened?”
Anthony told him. His father said, “Two grown men behaving like children. No need for a special committee meeting. They want their bottoms kicked.”
“It was Crawford who started it.”
“Every stupid quarrel is always started by someone.”
“He was pretty high, too.”
His father said, “Well, I’m not going. But I’ll write a letter to Sathwatt and tell him what I recommend.”
“Which is what?”
“Suspend both memberships for a year. Give them time to cool off.”
“It might be the best thing,” said Anthony. “But don’t forget, they’re both Councillors. And they’re both up for re-election next week. It’s not going to do their chances much good if it gets about they’ve been thrown out of the Country Club for brawling.”
“They might have thought of that before they started. I hope you didn’t get involved.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t, but if it had come to the point I’d have stuck up for Chris. He was absolutely in the right—this time. And anyway, he’s my client.”
“Only in office hours,” said his father. “Ask Mrs. Stebbins to clear away my lunch, and give me the writing paper.”
After lunch Anthony drove out to see Colonel Barrow. Castle House School occupied a broad ledge of ground overlooking the road from the town to Splash Point. The building, originally designed either as a large private residence or a small and superior hotel, was of scarified red brick with a frontage of thrown stucco topped off with curly tiles. Over the years the expanding fortunes of the school had led to additions. From one side straggled a long, low classroom block with a flat roof designed to support extra dormitories which no one had got round to building. At some distance from the other side there had, at some time, been erected a wooden hut of first World War vintage, which the main building had then reached out and engulfed, as a boa constrictor will eat, but not at once succeed in digesting, its prey.
The playing-fields were wonderful. Ten acres of green downland turf, mowed and rolled to perfection, girdled by a belt of trees which had been planted when the building was first put up, and by a much older wall of knapped Sussex flint.
Colonel Barrow, a long, brown, thin, sad, weathered man, was keeping an eye on two games of cricket. He said to Anthony, “Good of you to come out to see me. I’m afraid I’m almost single-handed, as usual. Matron’s taking the third game. I don’t think she knows a lot about cricket. Luckily the third game know even less. Keep your left elbow up, Ferguson.”
“I believe you’ve been having trouble with Macintyre, the Borough Surveyor.”
“He certainly seems to have his knife into me.”
“What’s he been up to?”
“Two years ago it was fire escapes. He made me put up that iron monstrosity – between the fives court and the new games hut. I pointed out at the time – hands, Piatt, hands – there’s no need to fall on the ball to stop it. This isn’t rugby football – I pointed out that there were two internal staircases, one at either end, and it was most improbable that both would be on fire at once. He quoted some regulation to me. Then there was the entrance to the drive. That had to be widened, and the gate-posts set back, in order to expedite the flow of traffic in the road outside. I said that the very last thing I wanted was the traffic outside ray gates going faster—”
“Reasonable,” said Anthony.
“And anyway, why should I pay for it!”
“He made you pay for it?”
“In the end. Yes. There was some bye-law. I didn’t understand it.”
“I wish you’d come to me about it at the time.”
“I wish I had too.” Colonel Barrow stretched out a leathery hand, caught a ball from the second game which had been skied in his direction, and returned it to the small, white-clad fieldsman.
“No. It’s not out. I’m not fielding for your side. All the same, O’Regan, you will get out if you try a straight drive without getting your left foot far enough down the pitch. Ann tells me you’re a cricketer, Brydon.”
“I play when I can,” said Anthony. The boy who was batting in the first game had a good eye, and some natural aptitude, and with a bit of proper coaching could have been a useful cricketer.
“It’s shortage of staff,” said Colonel Barrow, apparently reading his thoughts. “Before the War we had a resident staff of eight – two or three of them useful school and university cricketers – and a professional. Now I have to do the whole thing almost single-handed. It’s getting too much for me. I shall have to give up soon.”
He cast an eye round his green kingdom, the private fortress he had built for himself against a world he disliked and distrusted. It would be slow death to him to give it up.
“Tell me about these drains,” said Anthony.
“Apparently main drainage is being brought down Castle Road. I’ve had a paper about it. I’ve got it somewhere.” Colonel Barrow pulled a wad of papers out of a bulging side pocket and found the one he wanted.
“Order under Section 9 (1) of the Private Street Works Act 1892,” said Anthony. “Being a householder with premises fronting on the said private street—yes—I see. Where’s the new pipe actually coming?”
“Along Castle Road.”
“And you don’t want to join up.”
&n
bsp; “I’m perfectly happy with my existing septic tank.”
“How much will it cost—if you have to join up?”
“About eight hundred pounds. Which is a lot more than I can afford. If they’d wanted to close me down, they couldn’t have chosen a more effective way. Be a good chap, and see if you can do something about it will you? I’ll have to bowl Ferguson out myself. No one else seems capable of doing it.”
The letter was written in a firm, round, boyish hand.
“Dear Mr. Sudderby,
It was very kind of you to suggest that some of our Sunshine Boys Club came down for a week at Barhaven, and forward the money for the fares. Would it be all right if we used the money for camp kit and petrol and stuff like that because we’ve been able to borrow a car and trailer big enough to take all of us and our stuff and now that I have passed my driving test it will be cheaper all round to do it that way. The old Roman Camp should suit us fine. We can get water from the farm at the end of the track.
Yours faithfully (crossed out) Sincerely, Eric.”
The Town Clerk read this twice, smiling at the occasional crudities of grammar and phrasing. He had picked up his pen to answer it, when his buzzer went.
“Who?” he said. “Oh, all right. Send him up.” He folded the letter carefully away, and was studying a report on the new refuse collection system when Anthony was shown in.
“Hullo, Tony. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure,” said Anthony. “And I’m not sure if even you can help me. But I couldn’t think of anyone else.”
“You’ve known me long enough to ask me anything you want.”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “But this is something quite out of the ordinary. Look here – can you forget, for a moment, that you’re the Town Clerk.”
Mr. Sudderby smiled, stroked his short, greying beard, and said, “Try me.”
“I think one of the senior Council employees is a crook.”
“Am I allowed to know his name?”
“If I have your absolute promise that nothing I say will go outside this room.”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 6