SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman by Francis Selwyn
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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the door, since there was only one key, which Verney Dacre had taken possession of as soon as they arrived.
The elegant brass carriage-lamps of the Pilentum threw tawny pools of oil-light, faintly high-lighting the almost catlike mask of Jolie's profile. Dacre slid out his gold hunter and tilted its dial towards the steady flame. He touched the girl's arm, helping her to dismount, and speaking briefly to the boy who, for a few pence a day, held the horses of the "quality" at the gates of the Harbour Pier. Before them, along the curve of the Marine Parade, the gas jets flickered and flared in the breeze which had risen with the night tide.
He gave the girl his left arm, and felt her fingers resting there with the lightness of practised poise. It amused him to think that when it came to self-improvement, no vicarage bluestocking could match a Haymarket doxy with an empty belly. From time to time, she was obliged to ease the gloved fingers a little in movements which had all the furtive intimacy of a caress between strangers.
Alongside the Harbour Pier, a constant funnelling of smoke from the thin stacks of the Lord Warden rose in a black cloud against the paler night sky. Gusts of steam from the paddle-boxes accompanied the rumbling of the finned wheels as they thrashed the harbour waves to a calm, whispering froth. Dacre led the girl close to the railway office, and waited. Somewhere close by, a bell rang to telegraph the down tidal train from London Bridge. Soon, with the screech of a whistle and a gong-like sound, the two red eyes of the brass-domed engine grew steadily larger in a slow and even glide. Then it slid past them, steam snorting from the pistons and sparks breaking in clusters from the tall copper funnel, until it had drawn the first carriages level with the steamer. Bright patches of light broke out as the doors of the post office vans opened and the guards, stooping under the weight of their sacks, moved like a procession of monks, down the harbour steps to the pier's lower level. There the mail was carried directly over the steamer's paddle-box sponsons to the strong room below the main deck. As the first huddle of passengers, and porters bearing hatboxes and portmanteaus, shuffled down the gangway to the shifting deck, Dacre turned to the girl and spoke peremptorily.
"I shall want a few minutes to collect what belongs to me. I don't choose that you should be seen standing around on your own. It's best you should go back to the carriage."
Without waiting to see his instuctions obeyed, he opened the door of the railway office and stepped inside. At the far end of the heavy wooden counter with its chipped black varnish, the clerk sat on his high stool, gazing absent-mindedly at a ledger open on the desk before him. A boy in waistcoat and baize apron watched at his elbow. Dacre rapped the wooden counter with his stick.
"I have a box addressed to me from the Union Bank in Pall Mall. Oblige me by havin' it fetched at once."
"If it's just come down, sir," said the boy in the green apron, "it'll be with the bank boxes at the steamer. They'll fetch it here presently."
Dacre fingered a receipt and his card from his waistcoat pocket. Ignoring the boy, he tossed them on the counter by the clerk.
"It's of no consequence to me where anything may or may not be," he said languidly; "oblige me by havin' my property brought to me at once. I don't care to be kept standin' here like a fool."
The clerk summed up Dacre's silk hat, lined cloak, and silver topped stick. Without even bothering to read the card, he slid from his stool, ducking his head in obsequious acknowledgement, and handed a key to the boy.
"Ain't no cause to keep the gemmen waiting, Chaffey. Look slippy and find the gemmen's box and fetch it here."
The boy took the key and opened a drawer on the far side of the counter. From it, he produced two heavy iron keys on separate rings, then locked the drawer with the original key and returned it to
The elegant brass carriage-lamps of the Pilentum threw tawny pools of oil-light, faintly high-lighting the almost catlike mask of Jolie's profile. Dacre slid out his gold hunter and tilted its dial towards the steady flame. He touched the girl's arm, helping her to dismount, and speaking briefly to the boy who, for a few pence a day, held the horses of the "quality" at the gates of the Harbour Pier. Before them, along the curve of the Marine Parade, the gas jets flickered and flared in the breeze which had risen with the night tide.
He gave the girl his left arm, and felt her fingers resting there with the lightness of practised poise. It amused him to think that when it came to self-improvement, no vicarage bluestocking could match a Haymarket doxy with an empty belly. From time to time, she was obliged to ease the gloved fingers a little in movements which had all the furtive intimacy of a caress between strangers.
Alongside the Harbour Pier, a constant funnelling of smoke from the thin stacks of the Lord Warden rose in a black cloud against the paler night sky. Gusts of steam from the paddle-boxes accompanied the rumbling of the finned wheels as they thrashed the harbour waves to a calm, whispering froth. Dacre led the girl close to the railway office, and waited. Somewhere close by, a bell rang to telegraph the down tidal train from London Bridge. Soon, with the screech of a whistle and a gong-like sound, the two red eyes of the brass-domed engine grew steadily larger in a slow and even glide. Then it slid past them, steam snorting from the pistons and sparks breaking in clusters from the tall copper funnel, until it had drawn the first carriages level with the steamer. Bright patches of light broke out as the doors of the post office vans opened and the guards, stooping under the weight of their sacks, moved like a procession of monks, down the harbour steps to the pier's lower level. There the mail was carried directly over the steamer's paddle-box sponsons to the strong room below the main deck. As the first huddle of passengers, and porters bearing hatboxes and portmanteaus, shuffled down the gangway to the shifting deck, Dacre turned to the girl and spoke peremptorily.
"I shall want a few minutes to collect what belongs to me. I don't choose that you should be seen standing around on your own. It's best you should go back to the carriage."
Without waiting to see his instuctions obeyed, he opened the door of the railway office and stepped inside. At the far end of the heavy wooden counter with its chipped black varnish, the clerk sat on his high stool, gazing absent-mindedly at a ledger open on the desk before him. A boy in waistcoat and baize apron watched at his elbow. Dacre rapped the wooden counter with his stick.
"I have a box addressed to me from the Union Bank in Pall Mall. Oblige me by havin' it fetched at once."
"If it's just come down, sir," said the boy in the green apron, "it'll be with the bank boxes at the steamer. They'll fetch it here presently."
Dacre fingered a receipt and his card from his waistcoat pocket. Ignoring the boy, he tossed them on the counter by the clerk.
"It's of no consequence to me where anything may or may not be," he said languidly; "oblige me by havin' my property brought to me at once. I don't care to be kept standin' here like a fool."
The clerk summed up Dacre's silk hat, lined cloak, and silver topped stick. Without even bothering to read the card, he slid from his stool, ducking his head in obsequious acknowledgement, and handed a key to the boy.
"Ain't no cause to keep the gemmen waiting, Chaffey. Look slippy and find the gemmen's box and fetch it here."
The boy took the key and opened a drawer on the far side of the counter. From it, he produced two heavy iron keys on separate rings, then locked the drawer with the original key and returned it to
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