SV - 03 - Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments (9 page)

There was a scraping of boots and Samson stood rigidly to attention, staring piously ahead of him in his obedience to the demands of duty.

Inspector Swift detailed the men for their various beats, one by one, until all had been accounted for except Verity. He dismissed the others to their tasks.

'Sir?' said Verity hopefully.

'Downstairs, sergeant,' said Swift, half sympathetically. "The ground-floor back, I'm afraid.'

Verity swallowed with visible apprehension. 'Ground-floor back, sir?'

'The hiring-room,' said Inspector Swift sadly. He was a large freckled Irishman who was reputed to love Mr Croaker like a dose of rat-bane. 'Orders of your own Inspector,' he added gently.

Verity turned away slowly, bewildered at the sentence passed upon him. After the death of Charley Wag, he had been prepared to face dismissal from the force or even criminal proceedings, but the ground-floor back was a crueller fate than either. It was the hiring-room, as Swift called it, where detective officers without suitable employment in the division were paraded for hire by members of the public. In practice, their employers came from a very limited class of the wealthy and the noble who had chosen to explore some family mystery, or wished to exercise surveillance over an errant wife or scapegrace son. It was a place generally reserved for officers who had not given quite sufficient pretext for dismissal but whose age or habits made them of little value to the detail. As Mr Croaker well knew, a man who was relegated to the hiring-room had only one path ahead of him, the path of rejection by his peers and superior officers alike.

Verity walked towards the ground-floor back, and for the only time in his police career he felt that he was close to tears. Other officers of the Private-Clothes detail were busily setting out on their beats and assignments. With their departure the building grew silent. Verity opened the scrubbed oak door of the room, which was sparsely furnished with a few wooden benches and painted in a lime-coloured wash which since the eighteenth century had been supposed to render police offices and prison cells proof against typhus and gaol fever. Four other men sat, widely-spaced, on the benches. One, a ruffianly-looking fellow, kept his head lowered and picked his teeth. Another sucked with furious energy on a short clay pipe. There was an emaciated dark-haired sergeant whose breath betrayed the sweet acidity of gin as Verity passed him, and a well-dressed man, neat and clean, who had been sent to the hiring-room merely because of his grey hair and advancing years.

Verity found a space on one of the benches, as far removed from the others as possible, and sat down glumly. From time to time, the duty inspector would enter and call the men to attention. They stood in an irregular line, aware that from some spy-hole they were probably being surveyed by an intending customer. 'Like whores on a fucking pavement,' the cadaverous sergeant remarked in his slurred voice, after each intrusion. The entire morning passed and not one of the customers was inspired to make his choice from the men in the hiring-room. After a time, Verity found a natural empathy with the cleanly, neatly-dressed old man who sought only a tolerant if unresponsive audience for his conversation. He talked of gardens and flowers, of roses he had grown and of roses he proposed to grow. Verity nodded and made acquiescent sounds, which seemed to be all that was required. The ruffianly detective sneered at the old man's gentility and the cadaverous drunkard complained of the noise.

As morning turned to afternoon, the old man unwrapped a spotless 'kingsman' or neckerchief, and cut his bread and cheese. Verity refused the proffered slice. The emaciated sergeant moaned for a pull of crank or sky-blue or mexico, while the two rougher men suggested he might stash his gab.

It was mid-afternoon when they were called to attention again. Shortly afterwards, Inspector Swift returned.

'Mr Cuff,' he said gently. The elderly man got up, turned to Verity with a half-bow, and followed the Inspector out with great jauntiness. Verity and the others waited in a morose and depressed silence. At four o'clock or thereabouts another call to attention came. The four men stood in varying poses of rigidity, the thin drunkard half leaning on Verity's shoulder. There was a pause before Swift reappeared.

'Sergeant!
' he said in an abrupt whisper, and Verity saw that he was looking at him. Swift beckoned and Verity followed him out of the room. In the passageway the Inspector turned to him.

'It's not much, sergeant, but you may work at it. It goes hard to see a good man sitting in that room. Whether you care for the job signifies little so long as it gives you your quittance.'

'Not like it, sir?'

'No,' said Swift. 'Your employer is Mr Richard Jervis.' 'Mr Jervis, sir?'

'Younger brother of Lord Henry Jervis, dec
eased.' 'Oh,' said Verity,' 'im!
'

'Quite,' said Swift. 'There are three brothers, Lord Henry deceased, Lord William, who now holds the title and estate, and Mr Richard, the youngest. A month ago, Lord Henry was killed in a shooting accident. The party was beating for game on the Jervis lands at Bole Warren in Sussex. Lord Henry was following a raised stone path with a ditch below it, when he stumbled and fell. The rifle he was carrying hit the stone, jarred and went off. The bullet passed through his skull on the right-hand side, killing him at once. There was never a doubt that the bullet was fired by his own rifle, and there was no one within thirty yards of him when it happened. There must have been a dozen witnesses. The coroner's jury returned accidental death and the police investigation confirms it. There were rumours - just gossip, you understand - which said that Lord Henry might not have stumbled, that he shot himself deliberately.'

'Destroyed 'isself, sir?'

'Quite, sergeant. There is, of course, no evidence that he did and not the least reason for him to do so. It was never suggested at the inquest.'

'Then why am I sent for, sir? With respect, sir.'

'Mr Richard Jervis is a crippled gentleman,' said Swift softly, 'and as such he mayn't undertake much investigating on his own behalf. The
suggestion of Lord Henry's sui
cide has greatly distressed him. He does not believe that his brother destroyed himself, nor does he believe there was an accident.'

'Don't follow, sir. With respect, sir.'

'Mr Richard Jervis,' said Swift patiently, 'claims that Lord Henry was murdered.'

'Don't see 'ow, sir. Not if he was killed with his own gun and there wasn't no one near him at the time.'

Swift spread out his hands.

'There is no way that the police or the coroner's jury could see, sergeant. But young Mr Jervis is insistent that he will have a new and private investigation into Lord Henry's death. It is his money, sergeant, and his privilege.'

'And the present Lord William, sir?'

'The present Lord William is a captain in the Royal Navy, sergeant. He is at present at sea in HMS
Hero.
He is also the companion in pleasure of some of the highest and - between ourselves, sergeant - some of the lowest in the land. His interest in the family, the estate, his brother dead and his brother living is not intense. It is Mr Richard Jervis who will be your employer.'

"ave the honour to request, sir, do I 'ave to be 'ired for this? There ain't nothing to be investigated, sir!'

'Sergeant Verity,' said Swift gently, 'be a good fellow and do as Mr Jervis asks you. It is not your fault if his belief about Lord Henry proves wrong. Walk smartly and talk sensibly. When you return here, it will not be to the hiring-room. But if
you choose to be troublesome now, be sure that Mr Croaker will give you very little grace in the hiring-room before submitting to the commissioner of police that there is no further employment in the force for which you are suited.'

Verity swallowed again. 'Yessir. Very good, sir.'

He followed Swift into an office furnished with black leather chairs and a satinwood bureau. A young man in his late twenties sat at a fine walnut table. He was, thought Verity, groomed neat as a fashion plate, his fair hair trimly worn and the dundreary whiskers carefully barbered. It was clear at a glance that the young man was prey to some long-established sickness. The wan, pinched face gave the blue eyes with their large pupils a disproportionate size and brightness. The pallor, visible as clearly in the thin elegant hands as in the face itself, was enhanced by a black silk coat, black stock and cravat, and the mourning gloves in black kid which lay folded on the polished walnut. Verity faltered at the prospect of being immersed in the young man's grief and sickness.

'Mr Jervis, sir,' said Swift in his soft Irish voice, 'this is Sergeant Verity, of whom I spoke.'

Richard Jervis looked up slowly and surveyed Verity with a long and careful stare. He nodded, as though in reluctant approval, and addressed all his remarks to Swift.

'He is experienced in the detection of murder? In distinguishing between murder, misadventure and self-destruction? He is, shall we say,
au
fait
with the evidence and the methods?'

'As are all our officers, sir,' said Swift with the merest hint of reproach.

Richard Jervis nodded, as though he had heard all that was necessary. Swift intervened again.

'I trust, sir, you will find no cause for complaint with Sergeant Verity. However, sir, you must know that an officer can only detect what there is to be detected. He cannot make murder where there was none.'

'And he should not convict a poor soul of self-destruction, whose life was robbed from him,' said Jervis sharply. 'But I must be guided by you, Mr Swift, must I not? I am to do as you bid, as all of you bid in the matter. And so I shall. But I will have justice, sir, for all that. I will have justice done!'

'It is to be hoped you will, sir,' said Swift blandly.

Verity looked furtively at Richard Jervis, the brightness of the eyes reflected and intensified the bitterness of the voice.

'As to the matter of a fee,' said the young man more composedly, 'have the goodness to direct to my steward at Upper Berkeley Street, Portman Square. Whatever is customary shall be paid.'

Swift bowed his head a little and Jervis laid his pale hands, side by side, on the table.

'Please to call for my man and leave us,' he said quietly.

Swift motioned Verity
from the room, went to call Jervi
s' servant and then returned to the plump sergeant.

'Remember,' said Swift in a whisper, 'he can't bear to be watched when he's moved.'

Verity turned a little and saw a man of indeterminate middle-age entering the room where Jervis sat. He took in the bull-like shoulders the shabby bottle-green coat, the dark hair and moustaches now dusted with grey against the burnt face, the dark spaniel eyes. He turned to Swift again.

'Captain Ransome, sir,' he said softly, "im as was in with Charley Wag that night! Wot the 'ell's he doing as valet to Mr Jervis?'

'Alack and alas, sergeant,' said Swift, in his gentle, ironic manner, 'that is something which you are not paid to investigate. If a gentleman chooses to employ Honest Jack Ransome as his valet, what of it? Charley Wag knew of some peccadillo and he bled poor Captain Jack even of his miserable half-pay allowance.'

'The person Ransome threw the evidence in the water and destroyed itl' said Verity indignantly.

'Ah,' said Swift, 'and so might you have done in his place, sergeant. What was evidence to us was disgrace and shame to him, stories of Captain Jack and another man's wife, or Honest Ransome and a stable lad or two.'

'Captain Ransome and the thimble-and-pea caper at every fair and race meeting!' said Verity sceptically.

'And so it was once,' said Swift genially, 'when times were hard for an old soldier. But now, like many a rough and tough old warrior, Honest Jack finds shelter in a gentleman's employment.'

Half-turning his head, Verity glimpsed the slight pale figure of Richard Jervis, manoeuvring himself forward with a pair of sticks while Ransome's heavy arms supported him with unexpected gentleness. The gentleman and his valet turned a corner.

"ave the honour to request, sir,' said Verity to Swift, 'if I'm to ride to Portman Square on the box of the gentleman's coach now.'

'No, sergeant,' said Swift. 'Whatever your movements, you may make them on foot or by twopenny bus. Learn thrift, sergeant. There's no end to what a man may do, if he'll only be thrifty.'

'That's very true, sir.'

'First collect your belongings, clothes, accoutrements. Then proceed to Mr Jervis' town house. Upper Berkeley Street, Portman Square. When a man is hired, he lives in. You'll find the servants' quarters comfortable enough. Many a uniformed officer on the beat and living in a station-house might envy you.'

'Then I ain't to live 'ome, sir?'