The last of the old men hobbled out into the sunlight, the walnut colour and complexion of his face just visible in the surrounding bandage which bound his jaw and skull, as if he had been a martyr to toothache. His attendant, a dark young man with a finely-trimmed beard and a tall hat stood behind the invalid carriage as his master climbed in. It was the most elegant of all the Bath chairs, built with the serpentine grace of a Park Phaeton, except that the seat itself was a solid padded chair, covered with a rose and leaf tapestry. To balance the two large wheels at the rear, there was a single small wheel at the front with a long curving handle by which the occupant could direct the carriage as he wished.
With a sigh of contentment, the old man settled back in his padded chair and felt the pressure of his attendant's arms on the handle behind him.
'Push away then, my dear young sir,' said Sealskin Kite genially. 'Push away!'
Stunning Joe leant forward and the carriage moved, slowly at first and then gliding more easily as it picked up speed. Down East Street, towards the sea, the arbiters of summer fashion displayed their dresses and bonnets as elegantly as in Regent Circus. Joe looked briefly at Pocock's Family and Complimentary Mourning, wondering for the first time if anyone was in mourning for him. The Jupon Imperial and the Corsage Venus for Equestriennes were discreetly advertised by Madame Virginie Dawney, 'Artiste en Corsets, Modes et Robes'.
'Why, Joseph,' said Sealskin Kite with a chuckle, 'a man might almost think himself nearer to Paris than London in this sort of a place. Eh?'
Joseph agreed, and Kite chuckled again, as if to reassure him. Mr Kite had laughed and smiled since the moment of their first meeting. Whenever Kite turned his face to Joe, the smile was always there, impassable, impregnable. Once, Joe had come into the room at the end of a conversation. Kite was reminiscing to Old Mole on the subject of a welsher.
'And he don't walk straight again, Mr Mole,' the old man was saying. 'Not quite straight.'
And when Kite turned to Joe he wore the same frozen geniality on his face as when he had given Old Mole his confidence.
They came into view of the sea just where the fishing-smacks had been pulled up on the shingle. The tight, strained rigging ran in indigo relief against blue sky. Men with baskets of turbot on their shoulders walked in groups towards the Market Street stalls. Smells of fresh mackerel, pitch and tar lay heavy in the warm air. Sealskin Kite shifted in his chair, drawing a rug over his knees and lighting one of Milo's best cigars.
'Don't pay no notice to the Bedford Hotel this time, young sir,' said Kite pleasantly. 'We ain't going home there yet. Just push on a little more. You never seen the beauties of Brunswick Square as yet. Mr Mole never took you, did he?'
'No, Mr Kite,' said Joe, a little breathless as the invalid chair bumped over the uneven paving of the promenade. ‘Never did.'
The sun caught the waves with a tinsel glitter and Sealskin Kite chuckled again.
‘You'll like Brunswick Square, Joseph. Ain't it where you're to make your fortune? And ain't a man to love the place that makes him rich?'
'How rich shall I be, Mr Kite? How rich, if I was to find that clasp for you?'
Kite began a teasing, humming sound, like a good-natured uncle who knows that his gift will be far greater than anyone expected.
'What would you say, Joseph? What would you say if I was to tell you this? Fetch me what I ask for and you shall have the entire value of that Shah Jehan clasp. What d'ye say to that? Eh?'
Joe looked westward into the light, where the sea became a deeper blue.
'I'd say I didn't understand it, Mr Kite. I don't see why a man went to so much trouble over me for me to steal him a jewel, and then to give me all the value of it. Where's the sense?'
The old man chuckled.
'Did you ever know, did you ever know, my dear young sir, Sealskin Kite to cheat himself? Eh? That sort of man? Eh? Eh?'
'No,' said Stunning Joe doubtfully.
'Then, Joseph, rest easy. If I give you the value of that clasp, 'tis only because I shall make ten or twenty times what it's worth.'
Joe had heard all this before, and it left him uneasy. To be offered a hundred pounds for stealing the clasp was one thing, but to be offered the full value of the item stolen was against all the rules. Perhaps they meant him harm, as soon as he should have got the jewel for them. He thought at first of setting down all the details, including Kite's name, and leaving the confession in a place where it would be found if he were killed. But the absurdity of the idea was evident. So far as the law was concerned, he was dead already. Dead and buried off Portland. There was no protection for him now, save in the good nature of Sealskin Kite. Joe looked at the back of the old man's head and pictured again the implacable smile.
Presently they passed the little tollbooth, where fees were levied on coals being brought into Brighton. The massive Georgian facade of Brunswick Terrace faced the sea from the far side of the road.
'Attention, then, my dear young sir,' whispered Kite. 'See what it is that must be done.'
On Kite's instructions they avoided Brunswick Square for the time being, turning into Brunswick Street West, which formed a mews running along the backs of the houses in the square. One side of the little street was given up to stables for the houses themselves, the far side to a miscellaneous collection of cottages, livery stables and a tavern. Kite glanced at the upper floor of the tavern as they passed it.
'Jacks,' he said quietly. 'Watching night and day.'
Stunning Joe hardly spared the building a glance. It was one of a dozen such public houses in the area. In the little yard a woman was boiling whelks in a wicker basket. Inside, it was one of the ratting, dog-showing, horse-racing and general sporting houses. Somewhere on the first floor, or in one of the attic rooms, the officers of the law sat patiently, day and night, watching the rear of the big houses in Brunswick Square. Joe could see no way in from that direction.
They came to the top of the narrow street and turned towards Brunswick Place, which ran down into the square itself. Outside the house of the Right Honourable Henry Layard stood a plump self-important man, his red face contracted in a scowl under the tall chimney-pot hat. He was at ease, hands clasped lightly behind his back, like a sentry. If he paid any attention to the elderly invalid and the attendant, his eyes showed no sign of it. As they passed out of earshot, Sealskin Kite began a muttered commentary on the situation for Joe's benefit.
'There's your jack for you, all right? Stood outside that doorway. Day and night likewise. Clear view of the Lansing house. They had two of 'em on duty at one time. Seems they think one's enough now. There's another stood by, though, to follow her wherever she goes.'
Joe's quick little eyes flicked over the Baron Lansing's house in its corner of the square. He took in the front door with its black-railed steps, the way down to the basement, the ledges and window balconies which would carry his nimble feet swiftly to the elegant windows of the upper drawing-room. But the eye of the private-clothes jack was upon them all.
As they were approaching the corner, his attention was taken by the adjoining house. A tall imperious woman, veiled and dressed in black, walked slowly up its steps. Her movements suggested age and authority.
'Madame Rosa,' said Kite. 'Look.'
And Joe caught sight of the printed card which Kite was holding.
Madame Rosa Woolston receives a number of young ladies for board and education at the Brunswick Academy, Brunswick Square. Great attention is paid to the health and comfort of all the pupils. Terms twenty-four guineas per annum. Laundress two guineas. Each young lady is requested to bring a fork and spoon, and six towels, to be returned on removal.
References are kindly permitted to the Reverend J. S. Masham, 18 Norfolk Square.
As though reading Joe's thoughts, Kite said, 'Drop it, young sir. There's nothing there for us.'
'She can't have young ladies there now, being the vacation time.’
'There's her and a maid,' said Kite softly. 'T
he old girl can't be bent or bought. No, Joseph, it's through the front door for you.'
Kite had just finished speaking as they came to the corner of the square. At that moment, from the steps leading down to the basement, a figure darted out on to the pavement. It flashed a quick glare from almond eyes, swung its pink skirts, and set off down the pavement with a tight, purposeful little swagger.
'Law,' said Kite. 'Even the servant girl's a nark. They got their eyes on the front and their eyes on the back. They got their nark in the house itself. And even if you could get in the next house and chloroform Madame Rosa and her servant and break the wall down to get through, it wouldn't do. Them that knows Sealskin Kite knows he's not a man for noise and inconvenience. This whole business got to be quiet as oil and sweet as a nut. No bother and no noise about it. Why, my dear young sir, it's not even you pushing my chair just now. Quite a different party. I don't even know of your existence. Savvy? You and Sealskin Kite have never met.'
Stunning Joe was hardly listening. All his attention was given to the house and its surroundings. His ears were alert for every sound, the tiniest noise of lock or handle turning. His nose drew the air deeply into his lungs, tasting fresh paint, the odours of cooking unattended, soft putty of a window newly sealed. His eyes mapped a dozen ways up the walls of the Georgian mansion. His feet traced every unevenness in the York stone of the pavement. Joe had to admit that the jacks had sealed the crib up tight. A mouse could not enter front or back. There was no hope of smuggling a crowbar into Brunswick Academy and knocking out the bricks of the partition wall. As for the front door, it would be opened to him by the pretty nark in the pink skirts. But Joe looked once more at the tall windows and the white-painted Georgian masonry. He hummed a little tune to himself. Sealskin Kite heard him and chuckled.
'Tell me, then, Joseph, can you fetch my little jewel for me?'
Stunning Joe, with all the arrogance of his youth, leant forward over the old man's shoulder.
'Tonight be soon enough, will it, Mr Kite?'
It was going to be an easy turn. Verity knew that. Indeed, all Brighton knew it. He had come on duty at two in the afternoon and would stand guard outside the Honourable Mr Layard's until midnight. There would be a ten-minute relief at six. A long watch, he thought, but an easy one. It was the evening of the grand summer ball at the Royal Pavilion, given by the regiment stationed in Brighton, the 18th Hussars. Of course Cosima Bremer had been invited and, of course, she would take her maid to attend upon her.
At first Verity had been disgruntled to find that Cosima never allowed Jolly to be in the house alone. Indeed, the sullen little maid was rarely allowed above stairs and had no hope of being able to search her mistress's apartments. On second thoughts, Verity was reassured. Cosima's behaviour was clear evidence that the Shah Jehan clasp remained in her possession, somewhere in the house.
During the fortnight of his surveillance, Verity had found a great sense of tranquillity in the sunlit peace of the square. In the early summer mornings a hazy sun lit the distant sea, which lay calm as a lake under the rising mists. By mid-morning he could feel the heat of the sky on his back, the waves catching its tinsel glitter until they darkened in a horizon strip of azure. At noon, the blue surface deepened until it was bottle-green by the decline of day.
The routine of the square, particularly the Baron Lansing's house, varied little. There was the seven o'clock bread, the eleven o'clock milk, the one o'clock leg of lamb. From time to time the cat's meat cart or a vintner's wagon made deliveries.
This afternoon it was the turn of the vintner, the canvas awning of his cart painted in stark red lettering which promised 'Wines at the Reduced Duty'. Jolly's head appeared briefly above the basement railings as the crate was unloaded. Presently, Piccirillo of St James's Street made his delivery. The van this time was smartly painted in olive green with a pair of black horses. 'Naples and Genoa Macaroni. Brunswick and Westphalia Hams. . .' Verity's mouth watered uncontrollably and his stomach groaned at the unfulfilled promise.
The peace which settled on the warm empty square was ended half an hour later by a shrill warbling. Verity remained almost motionless, only his eyes seeking the cause of the disturbance. It came from a young man who had entered the top of Brunswick Place and was walking slowly down to the square, dragging his feet listlessly. Verity recognised him, a whistling-man, as such beggars now called themselves. His face was long and thin, his cheeks appeared hollowed by hunger and by being habitually drawn in to whistle before the houses where he begged. His thick lips were parted, giving him the look of the simple-minded, until he pursed them to try snatches of a tune. He glanced nervously at Verity but then plucked up his courage again. Standing before one of the upper houses, the ragged man cocked his head at the first floor windows and began to whistle 'The Little House under the Hill' in a plaintive, insinuating manner.
There was no response from the occupants of the building. The little man's shoulders moved in a visible sigh as he turned away and walked further towards the square. Outside Henry Layard's house, he stepped off the pavement to avoid the man who stood guard there. This time, Verity's eyes stared ahead of him, indignant but immobile. It was his lips which moved.
' 'ere! You! 'ook it! Sharp!'
'Pardon?' said the whistling-man.
'Hook it! Hop the wag! Clear out! While you got the chance!'
'Why?' said the little man peevishly. 'What was I doing wrong then?'
'Breaching the peace!' said Verity furiously. 'It been peaceful here all day till you come by. Peace is what parliamentary gentlemen come here for, and they ain't special about having to listen to your noise!'
The little man's thin face reddened, as if to offer defiance. Then it seemed he thought better of it and shuffled away again up Brunswick Place. He turned the corner into Western Road and was seen no more.
Verity chuckled to himself. A whistling-man! It was just the dodge to draw a police officer's attention away from his surveillance. Twenty or thirty seconds spent in seeing off the whistler. Long enough, he thought, for Miss Cosima or her fancy-man to be out and away with a pocketful of heathen clasps.
'Not if I know it, miss!' he said firmly.
During the encounter with the whistling vagrant, Verity's stern gaze had never wavered from its object. He chorded again with self-satisfaction. They must think him green as a leek and soft as new cheese to fall for such a trick.
'Why, miss,' he said to his unseen adversary, 'all the time I could a-seen a fly land on your window and counted his legs for him before he took off again!'
The long afternoon silence continued almost uninterrupted. Where Brunswick Square opened to the sea, Constable Meiklejohn now sat in a plain carriage waiting to take up surveillance of Cosima and her servant when they left for the regimental ball. In their little room above the ratting-pit and the sawdust tavern, Inspector Croaker and Mr Bunker watched the rear of the grand houses, the drab yellow of the London brick. The fashionable grace of the square itself was Verity's alone.
A collier's dray drawn by a lumbering horse came down Brunswick Place, turned into the square and stopped outside Madame Rosa's academy. Verity's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He watched the round iron covers of the coal chutes in the pavement as though they were his personal property. The two draymen clambered down, their hair bound in blackened cloths, their eyes flashing white in the grime of their faces. Haifa dozen sacks were lowered to the pavement beside the iron chute-cover. Verity satisfied himself that it was indeed Madame Rosa's which had been opened, not Cosima's. He heard the rattle of coals from the emptied sacks as they slithered down the chute into the little cellar which extended under the pavement. He watched each sack opened and saw that nothing but loose coal was shot from it. Presently one of the draymen went down the steps and then came up again, holding out his hand to prevent the other man from opening the next sack. The cellar was full. The two remaining sacks were loaded back on to the cart, still bulging with their contents, and the wagon cl
attered away.
Just before eight o'clock a hansom cab drew up outside the corner house. Cosima Bremer, with Jolly in attendance, came out and entered it. As the cab moved off, Meiklejohn's closed carriage pulled out and followed it at a little distance. Verity took a dozen steps down the pavement and resumed his watch on the corner of Brunswick Place and the square itself. He rocked a little on his heels and surveyed the scene with a sense of ownership.
12
Stunning Joe was not in darkness for long. Old Mole and Jack Strap had brought the coal wagon to rest conveniently outside Madame Rosa's academy in Brunswick Square. After that it was simple. The greenest stickman would never have attempted to open the round iron cover of the Baron Lansing's coal chute, while a private-clothes jack watched from Brunswick Place. But this was quite different. At the worst, Madame Rosa would merely find that she had received an unexpected delivery of coal, when the trick was pulled.
Old Mole and Jack Strap were rendered completely anonymous by their disguise, the grimed faces and the soot-blackened headscarves. Strap had undertaken most of the coal-heaving until half a dozen hundredweight sacks stood in a huddle on the pavement, where Madame Rosa's cellar chute had been opened. Stunning Joe's light-boned, childish body was crouched in the last of these, which Jack Strap lowered carefully so that it stood upon the iron chute-cover of the Baron Lansing's cellar.
Thin, strong wire, of the sort used for wiring moss and flowers into a wreath, had given Joe's sack a plausible, bulging outline. When his two accomplices had gone through their pantomime of filling Madame Rosa's cellar and loading the two unwanted sacks of coal on to the wagon again, the shape of this one would remain unaltered.
Joe worked quickly at the first and easiest part of his task. Slipping a razor from the pocket of his dark clothes, he cut open the bottom of the sack which concealed him and stuffed the piece of sacking out of sight. His fingers ran on the smooth iron of the coal-hole lid where it was set in the pavement. He jacked it up easily with a short chisel and began to lower himself carefully into the darkness. It was just large enough to accommodate a man of Joe's build with the head and shoulders of a skinny urchin-boy. From the day that he was full grown it was assumed that nature had formed him to be a thief.
Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. Page 12