SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. (18 page)

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. 'The 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 clattered away.