The rain had started to come down even harder, becoming all that could be heard in the otherwise still night.
Samuel Brocklesby pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck in the vain hope tha it might keep the water out.
He had been hidden amongst these crates now for hours and guessed that Angorus' men must have given up looking for him.
Not throwing all caution to the wind however he slowly made his way to the edge of the balcony peering down into the dark sodden alleyway.
So much water was collected in the guttering that it gushed out of the down-pipes under pressure, flowing out across the cobbled alleyway.
It rippled across the cobbles in mini rivers to collect in the central channel becoming a raging torrent as it surged down towards the main sewer, spraying up like a fountain as the water struck the iron grille.
Despite the black night and rain Sam could just about see enough into the alley with the glow from the street lamps to tell that the alley was clear.
In this weather even the rats were staying in doors.
Nerves were getting the better of him now and he feared that if he stayed up here any longer it would be even harder for him to leave the balcony's relative safety.
After a few more moments hesitation Sam took the plunge, grabbing his pack and moving lightly down onto street level.
At the end of the alley he stopped, checking the street for any of Angorus' men. It was totally empty. Even the late night pub trade, which often spilt out into the street had called it a night and gone home to get out of the rain.
Pressing on, his collar up as protection from wind, rain and prying eyes he didn't notice the figures that come around the corner of a street that he had just crossed.
They, however had noticed him and upped their pace.
They were on Brocklesby before he knew it.
The hand upon his shoulder made him jump and he spun on the men aggressively.
It was only a chance glint of the buttons of the man's jacket under his cape that revealed him to be a policeman.
“Easy there sonny!”the older of the two said backing off a little and his hand going to his truncheon. Sam couldn't quite place his accent. Welsh?
The younger of the two constables held up a small lantern so that they could better see Sam's face, and at the same time Sam saw his and recognised him.
“What's your name there boy?” the older copper asked.
“Sam Brocklesby,” the younger bobby replied for Sam.
“Brocklesby, eh? One of the clan are you?”
Sam just nodded silently. If he behaved himself and wasn't a bother to these two then they were likely to send him on his way with no further hassle.
“Why does Sam Brocklesby sound so damned familiar?” the Welshman asked.
The younger man smiled. Sam couldn't place his name.
“It's cos he's the bloke Mr Angorus told us about earlier.”
The older copper squinted at Sam.
“Mr Angorus?” Sam thought suspiciously. The way the policeman said his sounded too respectful, almost reverent. Not the normal reaction from a policeman towards a known criminal, unless....
“Is he now?” the Welshman asked, pulling the truncheon free of the loop at his belt.
…...unless these two coppers were as bent as a nine bob note!
Sam reacted fast, shoulder barging the Taff and sending him stumbling into his companion.
Instantly Sam was running again.
“You all right there Taffy?” Sam heard the skinny one ask his colleague.
“Aye boyo, let's be avin im then!” and the two policemen gave chase.
Sam's pack was slowing him down, he knew, yet he couldn't leave it. All he owned was in there and life without those few precious things would be that much more difficult. If he ever got away from Plymouth, that was.
He ran out across a junction without looking and in the torrential rain he didn't see the steam-car until the last second, leaping to throw himself up onto the bonnet. He was lucky that the car had been coming to a halt.
That's when his luck ran out. He was staring through the the windscreen beyond the driver, at the occupants of the rear passenger compartment. He looked first into the face of Marcus Angorus and then Terry Morehouse. Sam's heart was in his mouth.
Then the younger constable was on him, grabbing his sodden coat and hauling him backwards.
Jabbing back with all him might Sam swung his elbow into the copper's chin, the blow knocking him out instantly.
The policeman fell to the street the rain hammering on the steel of the car and evertything else drowned out the sound but Sam saw the man's head bounce off the hard surface like a football.
Sam's instant reaction was to check that the man was alive, but the shadowy bulk of Taffy was bearing down on him and Terry was getting out of the car.
Once more Sam took to his feet.
A Chance Encounter
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Re: A Chance Encounter
The policeman and Morehouse chased Sam down the dark street and Sam was increasing his lead.
But then Sam stepped off the curb, his foot slipped in a dark almost invisible pile of dung that the manure collectors had missed and despite his best efforts he couldn't regain his balance skidded on his front across the tarmac.
Morehouse was right on him, kicking out hard as he ran in, the toe of his boot catching the back of Sam's knee as he tried to stand.
He'd also brought his cosh into action but it had struck impotently against Sam's pack.
Limping badly, his leg suddenly a numb dead weight beneath him Sam turned on Morehouse, his face a visage of pure anger. He screamed a Royal Marine battle cry and lunged in at his adversary.
Although Terry Morehouse wanted to fight, he normally even relished the experience, a little bit at the back of his mind was warning him not to get carried away. He'd already seen this man take down three of his men.
Rather than enter into a full scrap with the ex-marine, Morehouse backed off, letting the copper and hopefully more reinforcements arrive.
Sam saw the trick as it was being played out and was wary of his blind spots, which was why he saw the burly welsh policeman barrelling down on him.
However Morehouse played the situation well, forcing Sam into moving side on to the copper's attack and it was all Sam could do to brace himself.
The bobby slammed full bodied into him and both he and Sam crashed sideways straight through the front window of Pilgrim's Bakery.
Morehouse froze as the sound of shattering glass and collapsing shelves echoed up the street.
Within moments a light came on in an upstairs window of the tall building.
Heavy footfalls behind him warned Terry of approaching people. Instantly ready for a fight he eased off when he saw more of Mr Angorus' men, at least half a dozen of them, all puffing and panting from their high speed dash here.
Suddenly a rectangle of light appeared at the back of the shop as a man of some fifty years threw open the door. He carried with him a lantern that cast a poor light about the room, but which illuminated his own swarthy face framed with bushy white mutton-chops that matched the now unkempt white mop of hair upon his head.
“What in the blue blazes is going on here?” he bellowed into the gloom.
From out of the darkness emerged a wet and filthy figure who came at him so quickly he didn't even have time to react as the figure bundled past almost knocking him from his feet.
“Oi!” he complained noisily as the figure darted through the door and up the stairs.
Terry Morehouse also saw the figure. “There e is! After im!” he yelled, leaping through the broken window.
Up and up and up and up again Sam ran, eventually coming to an attic room. He went to the window and threw it open, clambering out onto the wet slippery tiles. The rain had stopped.
As had happened earlier this evening his heavy pack threatened to drag him over but he managed to cling to the window sill and steady himself.
From inside the house came a shrill scream.
Sam had somehow managed to get passed the baker's wife unobserved, however Morehouse and his cronies weren't so discreet.
Sam could hear their heavy steps thundering on the stairs and wasted no time heading for the edge of the roof.
Down in the shop Edward Hall had recovered from his fright and was in a full rage.
Having turned on the lights he had found the policeman with a deep cut across his abdomen and blood pouring from the wound. A thin shard of glass still jutted obscenely from the end of the gash.
Torn between rushing upstairs for his shotgun and chasing off the trespassers and his sense of duty towards the copper, he spotted the bobby's whistle. Snatching it up he blew the whistle as hard as he could, shrill blast after shrill blast.
His note carried high and far and Sam could hear them clearly up on the roof. He knew other policemen in the vicinity would hear it too and right enough the whistle blasts were repeated summoning the boys in blue to the aid of their colleague.
At the edge of the roof Sam stopped and looked across the gap.
The next roof was maybe six feet down and fifteen to eighteen feet away.
At ground level there was a small courtyard behind the bakery and the adjacent shops, served by the gated alley between this building and the next.
The opposite roof was surrounded by a low parapet which Sam figured he could use to stop his sliding off and plunging to the flag steps beneath.
He took off his pack knowing full well that he couldn't make the jump with it.
There was nothing breakable in it, just a few treasured photos and clothing and what little money he had saved and a rare book that he had been given years ago and now intended to sell once he got to London.
He dropped it off the side and it landed with a dull whumph in the courtyard below.
“Brocklesby!” came an angry cry from the window behind him.
Sam looked back to see Terry Morehouse climbing out onto the tiles.
Wasting no more time Sam backed up several paces before sprinting for the edge.
Despite his anger, his desire to hurt Sam Brocklesby, prove himself against the ex-marine who owed his boss a lot of money, Terry's estimation of Sam had gone up greatly.
Yes, he hated him, and yes, he was going to beat the life out of him, but he grudgingly afforded the man a modicum of respect.
Like now, even as Terry got within an arm's length of Sam, he was impressed at Sam's determination. “Crazy fucker!” he said aloud as Sam leapt into the air.
Sam's plan was to hit the roof and crumple, take most of the force of his landing out through his own body. From there he would slide or roll down the tiles stopping at the parapet.
It didn't get to that.
But then Sam stepped off the curb, his foot slipped in a dark almost invisible pile of dung that the manure collectors had missed and despite his best efforts he couldn't regain his balance skidded on his front across the tarmac.
Morehouse was right on him, kicking out hard as he ran in, the toe of his boot catching the back of Sam's knee as he tried to stand.
He'd also brought his cosh into action but it had struck impotently against Sam's pack.
Limping badly, his leg suddenly a numb dead weight beneath him Sam turned on Morehouse, his face a visage of pure anger. He screamed a Royal Marine battle cry and lunged in at his adversary.
Although Terry Morehouse wanted to fight, he normally even relished the experience, a little bit at the back of his mind was warning him not to get carried away. He'd already seen this man take down three of his men.
Rather than enter into a full scrap with the ex-marine, Morehouse backed off, letting the copper and hopefully more reinforcements arrive.
Sam saw the trick as it was being played out and was wary of his blind spots, which was why he saw the burly welsh policeman barrelling down on him.
However Morehouse played the situation well, forcing Sam into moving side on to the copper's attack and it was all Sam could do to brace himself.
The bobby slammed full bodied into him and both he and Sam crashed sideways straight through the front window of Pilgrim's Bakery.
Morehouse froze as the sound of shattering glass and collapsing shelves echoed up the street.
Within moments a light came on in an upstairs window of the tall building.
Heavy footfalls behind him warned Terry of approaching people. Instantly ready for a fight he eased off when he saw more of Mr Angorus' men, at least half a dozen of them, all puffing and panting from their high speed dash here.
Suddenly a rectangle of light appeared at the back of the shop as a man of some fifty years threw open the door. He carried with him a lantern that cast a poor light about the room, but which illuminated his own swarthy face framed with bushy white mutton-chops that matched the now unkempt white mop of hair upon his head.
“What in the blue blazes is going on here?” he bellowed into the gloom.
From out of the darkness emerged a wet and filthy figure who came at him so quickly he didn't even have time to react as the figure bundled past almost knocking him from his feet.
“Oi!” he complained noisily as the figure darted through the door and up the stairs.
Terry Morehouse also saw the figure. “There e is! After im!” he yelled, leaping through the broken window.
Up and up and up and up again Sam ran, eventually coming to an attic room. He went to the window and threw it open, clambering out onto the wet slippery tiles. The rain had stopped.
As had happened earlier this evening his heavy pack threatened to drag him over but he managed to cling to the window sill and steady himself.
From inside the house came a shrill scream.
Sam had somehow managed to get passed the baker's wife unobserved, however Morehouse and his cronies weren't so discreet.
Sam could hear their heavy steps thundering on the stairs and wasted no time heading for the edge of the roof.
Down in the shop Edward Hall had recovered from his fright and was in a full rage.
Having turned on the lights he had found the policeman with a deep cut across his abdomen and blood pouring from the wound. A thin shard of glass still jutted obscenely from the end of the gash.
Torn between rushing upstairs for his shotgun and chasing off the trespassers and his sense of duty towards the copper, he spotted the bobby's whistle. Snatching it up he blew the whistle as hard as he could, shrill blast after shrill blast.
His note carried high and far and Sam could hear them clearly up on the roof. He knew other policemen in the vicinity would hear it too and right enough the whistle blasts were repeated summoning the boys in blue to the aid of their colleague.
At the edge of the roof Sam stopped and looked across the gap.
The next roof was maybe six feet down and fifteen to eighteen feet away.
At ground level there was a small courtyard behind the bakery and the adjacent shops, served by the gated alley between this building and the next.
The opposite roof was surrounded by a low parapet which Sam figured he could use to stop his sliding off and plunging to the flag steps beneath.
He took off his pack knowing full well that he couldn't make the jump with it.
There was nothing breakable in it, just a few treasured photos and clothing and what little money he had saved and a rare book that he had been given years ago and now intended to sell once he got to London.
He dropped it off the side and it landed with a dull whumph in the courtyard below.
“Brocklesby!” came an angry cry from the window behind him.
Sam looked back to see Terry Morehouse climbing out onto the tiles.
Wasting no more time Sam backed up several paces before sprinting for the edge.
Despite his anger, his desire to hurt Sam Brocklesby, prove himself against the ex-marine who owed his boss a lot of money, Terry's estimation of Sam had gone up greatly.
Yes, he hated him, and yes, he was going to beat the life out of him, but he grudgingly afforded the man a modicum of respect.
Like now, even as Terry got within an arm's length of Sam, he was impressed at Sam's determination. “Crazy fucker!” he said aloud as Sam leapt into the air.
Sam's plan was to hit the roof and crumple, take most of the force of his landing out through his own body. From there he would slide or roll down the tiles stopping at the parapet.
It didn't get to that.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Sam hit the roof tiles and smashed right through, luckily missing the sturdy trusses completely.
Then again, missing the joists and hitting only the lathe and plaster he crashed through them finally coming to rest on the plush carpet of the office of Leonard Blake, of Portman, Portman & Blake Solicitors.
Unbeknownst to Sam he had crashed into the back of Mr Blake's chair knocking it over and ejecting it's occupant onto the floor.
In the process the ether portal cable connecting the occupant to the office scope point had been yanked from the cybernaughtic socket in the back of the man's head.
On the roof of Pilgrim's Bakery one bearded man with a broad flat nose spoke on behalf of the others gathering at the edge. “Shit!”
“Hmm,” Terry Morehouse hummed bemused. “Come on, we'll go down and meet him coming out the bottom”.
The men cautiously picked their way back across the wet tiles and climbed in through the window.
Disorientation and nausea wore off slowly and in the light of the small lamp sat upon the desk, Sebastian Reynolds saw naught but dust as he climbed to his feet. Somehow a wind swirled the white fog about the room thinning it out.
Reynolds could see the hole in the ceiling and the jagged edge of one in the roof beyond that.
Then he saw the body on the floor. A groan came from it and it began to move.
Crouching down, not really thinking clearly else he would have gotten out of there quickly, Reynolds touched the man's shoulder.
The man jumped at the contact and rolled over, his eyes fearful until they focussed on the blond haired man in the dark clothing and tweed flat cap. Then his expression became one of surprise.
“Reynolds?” he said in a mixture of question and statement.
Sam remembered the toff from his childhood, his parents and uncles would go over to visit the Reynolds family on their estate near Lopwell.
Sebastian the eldest child of Lord Roborough had always been the quiet, serious one of the two Reynolds brothers, and his unwillingness to join in with some of Jonathan's crazy schemes had always led Sam to believe that he was a bid of a nerd and a softy.
“Brocklesby?” Reynolds said with equal incredulity.
Then again, missing the joists and hitting only the lathe and plaster he crashed through them finally coming to rest on the plush carpet of the office of Leonard Blake, of Portman, Portman & Blake Solicitors.
Unbeknownst to Sam he had crashed into the back of Mr Blake's chair knocking it over and ejecting it's occupant onto the floor.
In the process the ether portal cable connecting the occupant to the office scope point had been yanked from the cybernaughtic socket in the back of the man's head.
On the roof of Pilgrim's Bakery one bearded man with a broad flat nose spoke on behalf of the others gathering at the edge. “Shit!”
“Hmm,” Terry Morehouse hummed bemused. “Come on, we'll go down and meet him coming out the bottom”.
The men cautiously picked their way back across the wet tiles and climbed in through the window.
Disorientation and nausea wore off slowly and in the light of the small lamp sat upon the desk, Sebastian Reynolds saw naught but dust as he climbed to his feet. Somehow a wind swirled the white fog about the room thinning it out.
Reynolds could see the hole in the ceiling and the jagged edge of one in the roof beyond that.
Then he saw the body on the floor. A groan came from it and it began to move.
Crouching down, not really thinking clearly else he would have gotten out of there quickly, Reynolds touched the man's shoulder.
The man jumped at the contact and rolled over, his eyes fearful until they focussed on the blond haired man in the dark clothing and tweed flat cap. Then his expression became one of surprise.
“Reynolds?” he said in a mixture of question and statement.
Sam remembered the toff from his childhood, his parents and uncles would go over to visit the Reynolds family on their estate near Lopwell.
Sebastian the eldest child of Lord Roborough had always been the quiet, serious one of the two Reynolds brothers, and his unwillingness to join in with some of Jonathan's crazy schemes had always led Sam to believe that he was a bid of a nerd and a softy.
“Brocklesby?” Reynolds said with equal incredulity.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Sam tried to stand but winced as soon as he moved his right leg. Reynolds grabbed Brocklesby's arm and helped him up.
“Ow!” Sam hissed through gritted teeth as he perched on the edge of the desk.
“Where did you come …..” Sam never finished the question as his eyes came to rest on the open safe. He looked accusingly at Reynolds who shrugged.
“We all have our secrets, Sam,” he said as he moved to the safe, an annoyed frown upon his forehead.
“You want to tell me what you were doing on the roof?” Reynolds asked as he began carefully removing the items from the safe.
“You want to tell me what the hell it is you think you're doing?” Brocklesby countered accusingly.
“Taking care of family business,” Reynolds replied matter-of-factly.
“Not looking out for yourself then?” again Brocklesby's voice held an accusing tone.
“In this instance Samuel they are one in the same.”
Taking a small, soft brush from his bag Reynolds carefully brushed the dust and debris from the inside of the safe, then from each of the items removed from it before placing them exactly as they were, back inside the safe.
“What are you doing?” Brocklesby hissed the question as pain shot through his injured limb.
“Getting rid of evidence that the safe was ever open.” Reynolds replied.
“But you're putting everything back in.”
“Sam, I was never here to take anything away with me, just putting something in.” it wasn't totally the truth but Brocklesby didn't need to know more than that.
Brocklesby winced in pain and nearly collapsed.
“Damn! I think my leg's broken.”
Closing the safe door Reynolds gathered up his tools, including the scope jack cable. “So,” he said almost like a command. “Why were you on the roof?”
he slung is bag on his shoulder and then helped Brocklesby up onto his uninjured leg.
“I wasn't on this roof. I was on the one next door. I jumped over on to this one,” Brocklesby forcedd the words out amidst grunts of pain.
“And why, pray tell, were you on that roof?” Reynolds asked congenially as he took Sam's arm across his shoulders bearing most of the man's weight.
So Brocklesby explained about his encounter with Morehouse after work and then his flight from home to here.
“You mean they'll be down in the street now?” Reynolds asked of Morehouse and his men.
Brocklesby nodded. “Front and Back, no doubt.”
“Did you actually kill any of them?”
“Don't think so. Maybe.”
“I ought to leave you here then, if you think me breaking in was such a bad thing yet you'll overlook yourself murdering someone!”
Brocklesby glared at Reynolds.
“Just a joke to lighten the atmosphere dear boy, calm down.”
They struggled down the stairs the the first floor, then they heard several loud bangs from below as the main door was battered in.
**
“Come on Mark, wait for Terry, Yeh?” came a nervous voice at the bottom of the stairs.
“Terry?” Reynolds whispered.
Brocklesby nodded. “Angorus' chief thug.”
A torch beam shone up the stairs illuminating the end of the passageway.
“Shut up, you prick,” came the terse reply to the nervous man.
“Sorry Sam!” Reynolds said extracting himself from Brocklesby.
Brocklesby wobbled, his injured leg instinctively going out to steady him. The pain was incredible.
He yelped, stumbling and falling noisily to the floor with yet another cry of pain to punctuate the event.
“'E's up here!” the voice of Mark called and he could be heard storming up the stairs.
“You spineless bastard!” Brocklesby cursed, looking into the darkness for Reynolds.
“Spineless, hey?” came the menacing voice from the stairs as Mark's big frame came into view, his torch shining it's beam onto Brocklesby's sweating form. “I'll show you spineless after I rip your fuckin' head off. Not going to let Morehouse have all the fun.”
Mark stomped down the passage towards his prey.
He stopped suddenly and Brocklesby couldn't see why beyond the bright disk of the torch head.
There seemed to be a struggle, the torch light dancing around the walls dementedly. Someone slammed into a wall and a hoarse voice let out an “oof!”
“Basterd, fokker, fokkin cont.”
The words seemed forced, a struggle to say, then one final scuffle and the torch dropped to the floor followed moments later by something much heavier.
Brocklesby could hear someone not far away breathing heavily but couldn't make out who it was beyond the bright torchlight that was still shining into his face.
Finally after many more long drawn out moments Reynolds was beside Brocklesby again.
“Sorry Samuel, I had very little time to plan there, all a bit spur of the moment,” Reynolds gave him an apologetic grin as he helped him up.
Now that he was out of the direct beam Brocklesby could see the figure of Mark slumped on the plush carpet.
“Is he...?”
Reynolds shook his head. “Just unconscious.”
The nervous voice called up the stairs from the floor below. “Mark? Mark? You there mate?”
There was no answer, just the pitch black silence.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” the quavering voice said to itself.
“Oi! No bloody blaspheming,” barked another voice, this one loud and authorative. “What are you doing in here then sonny?”
“Err, noffing constable. Just Mark, Bainsey. He's gone in lookin for that bloke Mr Morehouse is after.”
Up a floor Reynolds looked at Brocklesby. “Not looking good this!” he commented quietly.
“All right, boy. Clear off,” said the authoritative voice. “Woah, there! Where'd you think you're going Morehouse? No not in there you're not. You can call off your dogs now, we'll take it from here. I said we've got it. Well you take it to your Mr Angorus then, Terry. But it won't get you in here, and won't stop us getting this Brocklesby off to nick either.”
“Jonesy!” the voice bellowed even louder.
“Yes, Sarge?” came a reply that was almost as loud but much deeper.
“Keep an eye on this lot. Any of them does anything more heinous than dropping litter you get the irons on them.”
“Sarge!” Jonesy replied eagerly.
“Right then, Patterson stay by the door, you other three can come with me. We're going to go through this place floor by floor.”
“Ow!” Sam hissed through gritted teeth as he perched on the edge of the desk.
“Where did you come …..” Sam never finished the question as his eyes came to rest on the open safe. He looked accusingly at Reynolds who shrugged.
“We all have our secrets, Sam,” he said as he moved to the safe, an annoyed frown upon his forehead.
“You want to tell me what you were doing on the roof?” Reynolds asked as he began carefully removing the items from the safe.
“You want to tell me what the hell it is you think you're doing?” Brocklesby countered accusingly.
“Taking care of family business,” Reynolds replied matter-of-factly.
“Not looking out for yourself then?” again Brocklesby's voice held an accusing tone.
“In this instance Samuel they are one in the same.”
Taking a small, soft brush from his bag Reynolds carefully brushed the dust and debris from the inside of the safe, then from each of the items removed from it before placing them exactly as they were, back inside the safe.
“What are you doing?” Brocklesby hissed the question as pain shot through his injured limb.
“Getting rid of evidence that the safe was ever open.” Reynolds replied.
“But you're putting everything back in.”
“Sam, I was never here to take anything away with me, just putting something in.” it wasn't totally the truth but Brocklesby didn't need to know more than that.
Brocklesby winced in pain and nearly collapsed.
“Damn! I think my leg's broken.”
Closing the safe door Reynolds gathered up his tools, including the scope jack cable. “So,” he said almost like a command. “Why were you on the roof?”
he slung is bag on his shoulder and then helped Brocklesby up onto his uninjured leg.
“I wasn't on this roof. I was on the one next door. I jumped over on to this one,” Brocklesby forcedd the words out amidst grunts of pain.
“And why, pray tell, were you on that roof?” Reynolds asked congenially as he took Sam's arm across his shoulders bearing most of the man's weight.
So Brocklesby explained about his encounter with Morehouse after work and then his flight from home to here.
“You mean they'll be down in the street now?” Reynolds asked of Morehouse and his men.
Brocklesby nodded. “Front and Back, no doubt.”
“Did you actually kill any of them?”
“Don't think so. Maybe.”
“I ought to leave you here then, if you think me breaking in was such a bad thing yet you'll overlook yourself murdering someone!”
Brocklesby glared at Reynolds.
“Just a joke to lighten the atmosphere dear boy, calm down.”
They struggled down the stairs the the first floor, then they heard several loud bangs from below as the main door was battered in.
**
“Come on Mark, wait for Terry, Yeh?” came a nervous voice at the bottom of the stairs.
“Terry?” Reynolds whispered.
Brocklesby nodded. “Angorus' chief thug.”
A torch beam shone up the stairs illuminating the end of the passageway.
“Shut up, you prick,” came the terse reply to the nervous man.
“Sorry Sam!” Reynolds said extracting himself from Brocklesby.
Brocklesby wobbled, his injured leg instinctively going out to steady him. The pain was incredible.
He yelped, stumbling and falling noisily to the floor with yet another cry of pain to punctuate the event.
“'E's up here!” the voice of Mark called and he could be heard storming up the stairs.
“You spineless bastard!” Brocklesby cursed, looking into the darkness for Reynolds.
“Spineless, hey?” came the menacing voice from the stairs as Mark's big frame came into view, his torch shining it's beam onto Brocklesby's sweating form. “I'll show you spineless after I rip your fuckin' head off. Not going to let Morehouse have all the fun.”
Mark stomped down the passage towards his prey.
He stopped suddenly and Brocklesby couldn't see why beyond the bright disk of the torch head.
There seemed to be a struggle, the torch light dancing around the walls dementedly. Someone slammed into a wall and a hoarse voice let out an “oof!”
“Basterd, fokker, fokkin cont.”
The words seemed forced, a struggle to say, then one final scuffle and the torch dropped to the floor followed moments later by something much heavier.
Brocklesby could hear someone not far away breathing heavily but couldn't make out who it was beyond the bright torchlight that was still shining into his face.
Finally after many more long drawn out moments Reynolds was beside Brocklesby again.
“Sorry Samuel, I had very little time to plan there, all a bit spur of the moment,” Reynolds gave him an apologetic grin as he helped him up.
Now that he was out of the direct beam Brocklesby could see the figure of Mark slumped on the plush carpet.
“Is he...?”
Reynolds shook his head. “Just unconscious.”
The nervous voice called up the stairs from the floor below. “Mark? Mark? You there mate?”
There was no answer, just the pitch black silence.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” the quavering voice said to itself.
“Oi! No bloody blaspheming,” barked another voice, this one loud and authorative. “What are you doing in here then sonny?”
“Err, noffing constable. Just Mark, Bainsey. He's gone in lookin for that bloke Mr Morehouse is after.”
Up a floor Reynolds looked at Brocklesby. “Not looking good this!” he commented quietly.
“All right, boy. Clear off,” said the authoritative voice. “Woah, there! Where'd you think you're going Morehouse? No not in there you're not. You can call off your dogs now, we'll take it from here. I said we've got it. Well you take it to your Mr Angorus then, Terry. But it won't get you in here, and won't stop us getting this Brocklesby off to nick either.”
“Jonesy!” the voice bellowed even louder.
“Yes, Sarge?” came a reply that was almost as loud but much deeper.
“Keep an eye on this lot. Any of them does anything more heinous than dropping litter you get the irons on them.”
“Sarge!” Jonesy replied eagerly.
“Right then, Patterson stay by the door, you other three can come with me. We're going to go through this place floor by floor.”
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Re: A Chance Encounter
“Damn,” Reynolds cursed. “Sorry Sam, I can't get caught here. But I believe you should be safe in the hands of the peelers!”
“You're running?” Brocklesby felt betrayed and let it show in his voice.
“Not my fight this, Sam,” Reynolds shrugged as he lowered his friend carefully onto the stairs. “No choice. But I won't leave you out in the cold for long. In the mean time, say nothing.”
Brocklesby's gritted teeth and flared nostrils told Reynolds that he might not stick to that plan.
“Besides,” Reynolds added, “Rebecca always had a soft spot for you. She'd never forgive me.”
Hope that Reynolds might not desert him sprang up as Brocklesby remembered young Miss Reynolds.
She was a slender girl with mousey brown hair that cascaded about her shoulders in manicured waves. Many years younger than Sam, she had always been friendly and helpful, and Sam recalled with a little regret that he and Jonathan would often send her on tedious errands or persuade her to do Jonathan's chores so that they could go and play, taking full advantage of the devoted puppy that followed Sam around.
She had been a pretty thing back then and Brocklesby wondered what sort of a woman she had turned into.
“Really?” he asked, but Reynolds had already disappeared into the blackness.
More torchlight flooded the stairs down to the ground floor and with his heart in his mouth Samuel Brocklesby waited for the police to arrive.
“You're running?” Brocklesby felt betrayed and let it show in his voice.
“Not my fight this, Sam,” Reynolds shrugged as he lowered his friend carefully onto the stairs. “No choice. But I won't leave you out in the cold for long. In the mean time, say nothing.”
Brocklesby's gritted teeth and flared nostrils told Reynolds that he might not stick to that plan.
“Besides,” Reynolds added, “Rebecca always had a soft spot for you. She'd never forgive me.”
Hope that Reynolds might not desert him sprang up as Brocklesby remembered young Miss Reynolds.
She was a slender girl with mousey brown hair that cascaded about her shoulders in manicured waves. Many years younger than Sam, she had always been friendly and helpful, and Sam recalled with a little regret that he and Jonathan would often send her on tedious errands or persuade her to do Jonathan's chores so that they could go and play, taking full advantage of the devoted puppy that followed Sam around.
She had been a pretty thing back then and Brocklesby wondered what sort of a woman she had turned into.
“Really?” he asked, but Reynolds had already disappeared into the blackness.
More torchlight flooded the stairs down to the ground floor and with his heart in his mouth Samuel Brocklesby waited for the police to arrive.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Bright sunshine glared in through the narrow barred window near the top of the cell wall.
Samuel Brocklesby groaned loudly, his leg on fire and the pain almost unbearable.
**
It was half past seven in the morning outside Charles Street Police Station, a small building with a half dozen cells and about twenty uniformed officers.
The sky was a clear, pale blue and the sun was already warm despite the early hour, although it remained chilly out of the sun.
Detective Sergeant Andrew Pendennis was the senior police officer at the station and he was arriving by push-bike after having popped home to clean up. He had been called to work in the early hours of the morning as one of his men had gone through a window and ended up with a serious injury.
He chained his bike to the railing outside and watched as a horse drawn cab and a steam car pulled up from opposite directions.
A single person alighted from each vehicle and made towards the main entrance to the station.
DS Pendennis observed them both.
The first man, from the cab, wore a cheap suit, his hair was a muddy brown colour and cut very short under his bowler hat, and his chin was unshaven.
Pendennis felt he knew the man's face but couldn't put a name to it.
The other man also wore a suit, this one a modern style and obviously expensive. His hair was fair and immaculate, he carried himself with confidence, and walked with a cane mad of a black wood with a silver hand shaped like a snarling panther.
Definitely a toff, Pendennis thought with an inward sigh.
Both Pendennis and the second man reached the door together, the first man having already gone through.
“After you,” the toff said politely, holding the door open.
“I'm not bothered about all that!” the man was say gruffly to the constable behind the desk. “I just want to know what's happening to him.”
“A doctor has been called,” the officer replied flatly, “and Mr Brocklesby will be dealt with in accordance with the law. Good morning, sir.”
This last was spoken over the shoulder of the man in the bowler had and aimed at the detective.
“Good morning Wilkes, who's this?”
“Er, Mr Morehouse, sir. Says he's an interest in the case against the Brocklesby fellow brought in last night.”
“Really?” Pendennis wasn't overly convinced now that he had a name to go with the cheap suit. The name Morehouse and his employer were known well enough by the police of this city.
With a sigh he bid the man follow him through to his office.
“Take a seat Mr Morehouse,” Pendennis instructed, deliberately taking his time hanging up his coat and hat before sitting in his high backed swivel chair.
“What is it I can do for you then?” Pendennis asked as cheerfully as he could manage.
Morehouse rummaged around in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a handful of crumpled papers.
“I've got written and signed statements from my lads what were wiv me last night. They all swears that Brocklesby was doin' your copper in and that we tried to stop it but he got to running and then he threw you man through the window of that bakery.”
“Written statements? In their own hand?” Pendennis' voice showed he was dubious.
“Well not exactly. One of Mr Angorus' men did the writing on account of the boys not being so good with their words, but they all put their mark on it, best they could.”
Pendennis sighed again, and gave a small shrug.
Before he could say any more there was a knock at the door.
Constable Wilkes poked his head in. “Begging you pardon sir?”
“Yes Wilkes?”
“The honourable Mr Sebastian Reynolds to see you about Brocklesby, sir.”
Pendennis frowned. “Bloody popular this morning aint he?” he commented waving his hand for the constable to show Reynolds in.
DS Pendennis knew the name Reynolds too. He assumed this must be the son of Lord Reynolds, the Baron Roborough.
He stood and took the hand offered to him when the well dressed gentleman entered the room.
“Mr Reynolds,” the detective said in greeting and ignoring the scowl upon Morehouse's face. “You wish to see me about Brocklesby?”
“I do,” Reynolds replied. “And as you were about to engage in a similar conversation with Mr Morehouse here I suggested to the constable that it might be an idea for both to occur simultaneously, save you having to repeat yourself.”
Morehouse screwed up his face. “How'd you know my name?” he was suspicious but also wondered if his name and reputation had made it's way into the attention of the likes of a son of a lord.
“The constable introduced you as such to the detective here as he and I entered the building.”
A little deflated at that Morehouse merely grunted.
“Come on then Morehouse, up you get, give the gentleman a seat,” Pendennis gave Morehouse a little kick to his foot to encourage him.
“No, no, don't trouble yourself, I'll stand and we can get straight to business. May I ask what the charges are against Mr Brocklesby?”
“Erm, yes, well, from what I'm informed he has assaulted two of my officers.” Pendennis gave Morehouse a sideways glance.
“Yeah,” Morehouse confirmed nodding his head vigorously. “Giving them a right going over he was too.”
Reynolds looked at Morehouse, fixing him with electric blue eyes. “I'm sorry Mr Morehouse, but what exactly is your involvement with all this?”
Morehouse looked offended, just as Reynolds had planned. He twisted in his seat pushing it away from the detective's desk, his fists clenched and his chest puffed up.
Ready to start throwing punches, Reynolds thought silently as he eyed the thug.
“Cos, like I said to the sergeant here,” Morehouse spoke the words slowly, almost as though he was talking to a small child, “me an my boys seen him doin' over them coppers. We tried to step in an break it up but knocked one out and threw the big one through the window of that bakery and scarpered inside. So being riche, richus, … upstanding citizens we went after im.” He ignored the wide eyed look of incredulity on Pendennis' face.
“You sure it was Brocklesby you saw fighting the officers?”
“Yeah!” Morehouse glared at Reynolds.
The baron's son kept the smile from his face but was pleased that the man was getting annoyed. All he had to do was keep prodding.
“It was dark?” Reynolds pointed out condescendingly.
“Yes,” Morehouse said sternly. “I saw him, I recognised him, I even told the lads that Brock was over doin' in some rozza's.”
“I see.” Reynolds said with a smile. “Out of interest, why should it concern you? That someone was in a fight with the police, I mean?”
“The boss don't like it when people get into fights with the law.”
“The boss?” Reynolds already knew about Angorus, but was feigning ignorance.
DS Pendennis piped in now. “Marcus Angorus.”
“That's right,” Morehouse said. “That's who I work for, Mr Angorus.”
Reynolds noted that the name was spoken as though it were a title and that he should both know and fear it.”
Reynolds nodded sagely, but remained silent for a while as though contemplating.
“What does Mr Brocklesby have to say about this?” he said at length.
“Nothing yet sir,” Pendennis replied. “He's refused to say anything.”
Guilty as sin, that's why,” Morehouse put in.
“Right, let's go and ask him then shall we?” Reynolds didn't so much ask as instruct them.
Pendennis was a little flustered but agreed and had one of the constables go ahead and unlock the cell.
“Begging your pardon, Mr Reynolds,” Pendennis said almost apologetically as the three of them walked towards the jail. “What involvement do you have with this case?”
“Quite right to ask, old fellow!” Reynolds responded cheerfully to show he had taken no offence to the police detective's question. “I am a potential employer for Mr Brocklesby and I want to know what's going on. Last thing I want to do is employ someone wanted by the law. Of course I know of Mr Brocklesby's previous conviction, but I am a believer in the British justice system. He has served his time and his slate is clean.”
“Well, not always, sir.” Pendennis countered. “Sometimes a fellow is just a bad sort.” Without trying to hide it, Pendennis glanced over his shoulder at Morehouse.
Morehouse clenched his teeth and shot the detective an icy stare.
Samuel Brocklesby groaned loudly, his leg on fire and the pain almost unbearable.
**
It was half past seven in the morning outside Charles Street Police Station, a small building with a half dozen cells and about twenty uniformed officers.
The sky was a clear, pale blue and the sun was already warm despite the early hour, although it remained chilly out of the sun.
Detective Sergeant Andrew Pendennis was the senior police officer at the station and he was arriving by push-bike after having popped home to clean up. He had been called to work in the early hours of the morning as one of his men had gone through a window and ended up with a serious injury.
He chained his bike to the railing outside and watched as a horse drawn cab and a steam car pulled up from opposite directions.
A single person alighted from each vehicle and made towards the main entrance to the station.
DS Pendennis observed them both.
The first man, from the cab, wore a cheap suit, his hair was a muddy brown colour and cut very short under his bowler hat, and his chin was unshaven.
Pendennis felt he knew the man's face but couldn't put a name to it.
The other man also wore a suit, this one a modern style and obviously expensive. His hair was fair and immaculate, he carried himself with confidence, and walked with a cane mad of a black wood with a silver hand shaped like a snarling panther.
Definitely a toff, Pendennis thought with an inward sigh.
Both Pendennis and the second man reached the door together, the first man having already gone through.
“After you,” the toff said politely, holding the door open.
“I'm not bothered about all that!” the man was say gruffly to the constable behind the desk. “I just want to know what's happening to him.”
“A doctor has been called,” the officer replied flatly, “and Mr Brocklesby will be dealt with in accordance with the law. Good morning, sir.”
This last was spoken over the shoulder of the man in the bowler had and aimed at the detective.
“Good morning Wilkes, who's this?”
“Er, Mr Morehouse, sir. Says he's an interest in the case against the Brocklesby fellow brought in last night.”
“Really?” Pendennis wasn't overly convinced now that he had a name to go with the cheap suit. The name Morehouse and his employer were known well enough by the police of this city.
With a sigh he bid the man follow him through to his office.
“Take a seat Mr Morehouse,” Pendennis instructed, deliberately taking his time hanging up his coat and hat before sitting in his high backed swivel chair.
“What is it I can do for you then?” Pendennis asked as cheerfully as he could manage.
Morehouse rummaged around in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a handful of crumpled papers.
“I've got written and signed statements from my lads what were wiv me last night. They all swears that Brocklesby was doin' your copper in and that we tried to stop it but he got to running and then he threw you man through the window of that bakery.”
“Written statements? In their own hand?” Pendennis' voice showed he was dubious.
“Well not exactly. One of Mr Angorus' men did the writing on account of the boys not being so good with their words, but they all put their mark on it, best they could.”
Pendennis sighed again, and gave a small shrug.
Before he could say any more there was a knock at the door.
Constable Wilkes poked his head in. “Begging you pardon sir?”
“Yes Wilkes?”
“The honourable Mr Sebastian Reynolds to see you about Brocklesby, sir.”
Pendennis frowned. “Bloody popular this morning aint he?” he commented waving his hand for the constable to show Reynolds in.
DS Pendennis knew the name Reynolds too. He assumed this must be the son of Lord Reynolds, the Baron Roborough.
He stood and took the hand offered to him when the well dressed gentleman entered the room.
“Mr Reynolds,” the detective said in greeting and ignoring the scowl upon Morehouse's face. “You wish to see me about Brocklesby?”
“I do,” Reynolds replied. “And as you were about to engage in a similar conversation with Mr Morehouse here I suggested to the constable that it might be an idea for both to occur simultaneously, save you having to repeat yourself.”
Morehouse screwed up his face. “How'd you know my name?” he was suspicious but also wondered if his name and reputation had made it's way into the attention of the likes of a son of a lord.
“The constable introduced you as such to the detective here as he and I entered the building.”
A little deflated at that Morehouse merely grunted.
“Come on then Morehouse, up you get, give the gentleman a seat,” Pendennis gave Morehouse a little kick to his foot to encourage him.
“No, no, don't trouble yourself, I'll stand and we can get straight to business. May I ask what the charges are against Mr Brocklesby?”
“Erm, yes, well, from what I'm informed he has assaulted two of my officers.” Pendennis gave Morehouse a sideways glance.
“Yeah,” Morehouse confirmed nodding his head vigorously. “Giving them a right going over he was too.”
Reynolds looked at Morehouse, fixing him with electric blue eyes. “I'm sorry Mr Morehouse, but what exactly is your involvement with all this?”
Morehouse looked offended, just as Reynolds had planned. He twisted in his seat pushing it away from the detective's desk, his fists clenched and his chest puffed up.
Ready to start throwing punches, Reynolds thought silently as he eyed the thug.
“Cos, like I said to the sergeant here,” Morehouse spoke the words slowly, almost as though he was talking to a small child, “me an my boys seen him doin' over them coppers. We tried to step in an break it up but knocked one out and threw the big one through the window of that bakery and scarpered inside. So being riche, richus, … upstanding citizens we went after im.” He ignored the wide eyed look of incredulity on Pendennis' face.
“You sure it was Brocklesby you saw fighting the officers?”
“Yeah!” Morehouse glared at Reynolds.
The baron's son kept the smile from his face but was pleased that the man was getting annoyed. All he had to do was keep prodding.
“It was dark?” Reynolds pointed out condescendingly.
“Yes,” Morehouse said sternly. “I saw him, I recognised him, I even told the lads that Brock was over doin' in some rozza's.”
“I see.” Reynolds said with a smile. “Out of interest, why should it concern you? That someone was in a fight with the police, I mean?”
“The boss don't like it when people get into fights with the law.”
“The boss?” Reynolds already knew about Angorus, but was feigning ignorance.
DS Pendennis piped in now. “Marcus Angorus.”
“That's right,” Morehouse said. “That's who I work for, Mr Angorus.”
Reynolds noted that the name was spoken as though it were a title and that he should both know and fear it.”
Reynolds nodded sagely, but remained silent for a while as though contemplating.
“What does Mr Brocklesby have to say about this?” he said at length.
“Nothing yet sir,” Pendennis replied. “He's refused to say anything.”
Guilty as sin, that's why,” Morehouse put in.
“Right, let's go and ask him then shall we?” Reynolds didn't so much ask as instruct them.
Pendennis was a little flustered but agreed and had one of the constables go ahead and unlock the cell.
“Begging your pardon, Mr Reynolds,” Pendennis said almost apologetically as the three of them walked towards the jail. “What involvement do you have with this case?”
“Quite right to ask, old fellow!” Reynolds responded cheerfully to show he had taken no offence to the police detective's question. “I am a potential employer for Mr Brocklesby and I want to know what's going on. Last thing I want to do is employ someone wanted by the law. Of course I know of Mr Brocklesby's previous conviction, but I am a believer in the British justice system. He has served his time and his slate is clean.”
“Well, not always, sir.” Pendennis countered. “Sometimes a fellow is just a bad sort.” Without trying to hide it, Pendennis glanced over his shoulder at Morehouse.
Morehouse clenched his teeth and shot the detective an icy stare.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
When they entered the cell Brocklesby was as white as a ghost, his black, swollen leg propped up on the bed beside him.
“Good morning Mr Brocklesby,” Reynolds said sombrely. “Good Lord! That damned painful!” Reynolds blurted at the sight of Sam's leg.
Brocklesby whose eyes had been closed looked on in surprise. “Looks worse than it feels. They gave me a shot of morphine.”
Reynolds nodded. “This is Detective Sergeant Pendennis of the police and this is Mr Morehouse who works for Mr Angorus,” he introduced the others.
“Yes,” Brocklesby spoke quietly, “I know Terry Morehouse.”
“Do you?” Reynolds was ensuring that he kept command of the conversation so that he could steer it where he wanted.
“That's right,” Reynolds went on. “Mr Morehouse mentioned that he already knew you.”
“No I didn't.” Morehouse said defensively. Even Pendennis looked uncertain.
“You said that you recognised him and that you told you lads that you saw Brock doing in some...” Reynolds paused. “Ah yes, rozza's I believe is the term you used. How could you both recognise him and tell your companions his name if you didn't already know him?”
Morehouse' face screwed up in a scowl.
Although Pendennis said nothing and tried to remain impassive, he couldn't help a little smile. Although he'd never met Morehouse in person before, he was well aware of the tactic of the locals hoodlums using the law against some of their victims. A frame-up was the usual M.O.
“Sorry Mr Brocklesby,” Reynolds smiled, “you were about to answer my question.”
obviously in pain but bolstered by Reynolds' appearance, Brocklesby tried to sound firm. “He's an enforcer for Angorus.”
“Enforcer?”
“Yes, someone who enforces Angorus' will in the community.”
“Then you know Mr Angorus too?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I owe him two hundred pounds.”
Pendennis whistled. That was a years wages to some people.
“And how is it that you come to owe him such a large sum of money? Behind in the rent? Bought a yacht from him?”
“No sir,” Brocklesby tried to sound embarrassed. “I had been down on my luck since coming out of the marines so I went to him to borrow a ton.”
“You just said two hundred pounds,” Pendennis pointed out.
“No, I only borrowed one hundred, but I have to pay back two.”
Reynolds raised his eye brows in mock surprise. “Are you telling me that Angorus is some kind of loan shark?”
Brocklesby nodded.
“And when must you pay him by?”
“Last month.”
Reynolds looked at Morehouse who looked a little uncomfortable, and then turned to Pendennis.
“May I just run this past you detective, just to be sure I have grasped al the fact correctly?”
Pendennis nodded, “By all means, sir!” The policeman was beginning to enjoy this. He was a very proud policeman and hated it whenever one of the 'bad guys' managed to score a point. The way Reynolds was leading the conversation, he had an inkling that there wasn't going to be any points scored here today.
Reynolds gave a little cough, clearing his throat. “I have Mr Brocklesby dropped home at nine o'clock last night,” he began. “Then, by the early hours of this morning he has been arrested for assaulting a couple of police officers, and the only witnesses, other than said officers are a half dozen men who work for Mr Morehouse, who in turn works for Mr Angorus, who happens to be a loan shark.”
“Oh, yes, amongst other things too, sir,” Pendennis quickly put in.
“Amongst other things, as you say, sergeant. And the accused? A man who owes Mr Angorus a considerable amount of money? Do I have things clear so far detective?”
Pendennis nodded vigorously. “As I understand it, yes.”
“Odd behaviour, wouldn't you say, for a man who had just been offered a job with a considerable salary? Had he been drinking?”
“No, sir. I asked the same question to the arresting officer and he stated flatly that there was no smell of alcohol on the man. But begging your pardon sir, may I ask what job?”
“I had offered Mr Brocklesby a job as my,” Reynolds paused looking for the rights description, “I suppose butler-come-aide is the best way of putting it. He accepted and I informed him that I would need him to start the next day, that would be today now. I had one of father's drivers drop him back to his rooms so that he could gather his things and he asked if he could have time to visit his brothers and inform them of his good fortune. I had no issue with that and informed Mr Brocklesby to meet me at Plymouth station by five this morning. He never arrived, and so I went to his rooms to find them empty, and in some disarray. Next I came here to inquire if there had been some kind of accident involving Mr Brocklesby, only to hear Mr Morehouse asking about him.”
“So as you can see, sergeant, this situation surprises me as I would not expect someone offered such an opportunity to behave that way.”
“Well he did it!” Morehouse spat like a petulant child. “He done those coppers, like we say he did.”
Reynolds shrugged. “And the constables, what have they to say on the matter?”
Pendennis looked to the police sergeant stood in the doorway to the cell. “Sergeant Meadows?”
The man looked embarrassed and worried at the end of his bush moustache. “Well, sir, there was two of them involved, sir. Well one of them was injured bad when he went through Pilgrim's window, sir. That was Taffy. He's been in hospital since and not in a position to talk, sir. But we did hear him say he was only doing what he was told. Kept repeating it to us right up until the doctor put him under.”
Reynolds turned to Pendennis. “Was there a call out for the arrest or at least detainment of Mr Brocklesby?”
With a slow shake of his head the detective sergeant said, “No.”
“Curious. I wonder who it was that had given him the order? And the other fellow, Sergeant Meadows, was it?”
Again the policeman looked embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Erm...Well he took a knock to the head, sir. Can't even remember what year it is, let alone what happened to him.”
“That's inconvenient, don't you think detective?”
It was Pendennis' turn to feel uncomfortable as his case against Brocklesby was unravelling. That wasn't really a concern, but what was being revealed behind it, a possible corruption case against some of his own officers, was something that he both despised and dreaded. The paperwork would be horrendous.
There was a lengthy silence which Reynolds at last broke. “I'm sorry Detective Sergeant Pendennis, but I'm not convinced at all by all this. I believe that it was in fact Mr Morehouse and his mob who were more likely the aggressors here.” He was looking to push Morehouse's button again, see if he couldn't get the red mist to explode. So he pressed on with his accusations. “it is most likely that he came upon Mr Brocklesby as he says by chance, or maybe not, but one thing led to another. Perhaps Mr Brocklesby may even have goaded him, but I think in the end Morehouse resorted to what he does best – violence. I understand that to be the forte for those folks calling themselves enforcers. It is likely that your two constables came upon an altercation between Brocklesby and Morehouse's mob. Seven against one is hardly likely to have the police standing up for the seven, so it is probable that they intervened on Mr Brocklesby's behalf and ended up as victims of Morehouse's blood-lust themselves.”
Pendennis smiled politely. With a few choice words Reynolds had turned what looked like a messy internal affairs case against his men into one where they were the gallant heroes, injured in the line of duty, and more over, their discipline would be left to Pendennis. His wrath would know no bounds.
“Sounds very plausible,” the detective stated.
“That's fokin' rubbish!” Morehouse seethed.
“Watch your language!” the police sergeant growled, hand on the pommel of his truncheon.
“We dint do them bloody coppers, 'e did, just like 'e done them other three blokes behind the Duke of York.”
“Duke of York?” Pendennis asked angrily.
“Yeah, 'e done over three blokes out back of the hotel.”
“When?”
“About six o'clock.”
“These men, acquaintances of yours are they?” Reynolds inquired.
“Yeah!”
“And this incident was reported to the police?”
“No.”
“Then I doubt very much it happened at all,” Reynolds snapped irritably.
“It did.” Morehouse was puffing up his chest, taking deep breaths as though trying to curtail his anger.
“I can't see how,” Reynolds voice was stern, almost sinister now. “As Mr Brocklesby was on his way to an interview with me about the job at that time.” It was a lie and both men would know it, but who would the police believe now? It was unlikely to be Morehouse.
“That's bollocks!” Morehouse accused.
“Oi!” the police sergeant warned again.
“No, Morehouse,” Reynolds said calmly, a sickly condescending tone to his voice, “I think you are the one talking bollocks, and have been all night. I think you found Brocklesby, tried to give him a going over with a lot of help from your pals, and it all went wrong when you injured those two constables. I think you weren't able to get your money from Brocklesby, nor as I guess you would have preferred, beat the living daylights out of him, so you and your boss came up with this cock and bull story to frame Samuel and manipulate the law to get your revenge that way. And given his previous conviction, which I am well aware of, then he'd be looking at the rope for sure. Am I right?”
“You're a cunt!” Morehouse spat and launched himself at Reynolds, landing a solid punch on his chin.
Reynolds, of course, had made no attempt to block or dodge the attack. His lip exploded, blood flooding over his chin and into his mouth.
Initially stunned at Morehouse's actions Pendennis finally grabbed the man just after he'd laid a gut punch into Reynolds who doubled over with a pained grunt.
Morehouse battered Pendennis aside, wanting to beat the life out of the honourable Sebastian Reynolds and his toffee-nosed, stuck up, holier-than-thou attitude.
Before he could land another solid blow though the bushy moustached sergeant grabbed his collar and hauled him back with one hand and swung his thick truncheon into the backs of Morehouse's knees, making him fall to the floor.
The truncheon appeared under Terry's chin, held tight against his throat by a thick meaty hand at either end, pulling hi hard against the sergeant's torso. It was all Morehouse could do to breathe.
Pendennis recovered his wits and stood before the choking man. The detective seethed with such anger that he couldn't bring himself to speak.
“Right you are, sir,” the sergeant nodded, despite Pendennis having said nothing.
The big policeman dragged Morehouse backwards out of the cell. Morehouse struggled, punching and scratching but two more constables joined the sergeant.
Once they were out of sight Reynolds heard dull thuds, as of wood on flesh, accompanied each time by a pained cry from Morehouse.
Ignoring the beating that Morehouse was getting, Reynolds stood fully, the blood now soaking into the collar of his shirt.
“I'm so sorry Mr Reynolds,” Pendennis said removing his handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to the gentleman.
Reynolds waved it away. “The actions of a guilty man, detective sergeant,” he stated flatly.
“So it would seem sir. Reckon you about hit the nail on the head.”
“Then you'll not detain Mr Brocklesby any longer?”
“Good morning Mr Brocklesby,” Reynolds said sombrely. “Good Lord! That damned painful!” Reynolds blurted at the sight of Sam's leg.
Brocklesby whose eyes had been closed looked on in surprise. “Looks worse than it feels. They gave me a shot of morphine.”
Reynolds nodded. “This is Detective Sergeant Pendennis of the police and this is Mr Morehouse who works for Mr Angorus,” he introduced the others.
“Yes,” Brocklesby spoke quietly, “I know Terry Morehouse.”
“Do you?” Reynolds was ensuring that he kept command of the conversation so that he could steer it where he wanted.
“That's right,” Reynolds went on. “Mr Morehouse mentioned that he already knew you.”
“No I didn't.” Morehouse said defensively. Even Pendennis looked uncertain.
“You said that you recognised him and that you told you lads that you saw Brock doing in some...” Reynolds paused. “Ah yes, rozza's I believe is the term you used. How could you both recognise him and tell your companions his name if you didn't already know him?”
Morehouse' face screwed up in a scowl.
Although Pendennis said nothing and tried to remain impassive, he couldn't help a little smile. Although he'd never met Morehouse in person before, he was well aware of the tactic of the locals hoodlums using the law against some of their victims. A frame-up was the usual M.O.
“Sorry Mr Brocklesby,” Reynolds smiled, “you were about to answer my question.”
obviously in pain but bolstered by Reynolds' appearance, Brocklesby tried to sound firm. “He's an enforcer for Angorus.”
“Enforcer?”
“Yes, someone who enforces Angorus' will in the community.”
“Then you know Mr Angorus too?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I owe him two hundred pounds.”
Pendennis whistled. That was a years wages to some people.
“And how is it that you come to owe him such a large sum of money? Behind in the rent? Bought a yacht from him?”
“No sir,” Brocklesby tried to sound embarrassed. “I had been down on my luck since coming out of the marines so I went to him to borrow a ton.”
“You just said two hundred pounds,” Pendennis pointed out.
“No, I only borrowed one hundred, but I have to pay back two.”
Reynolds raised his eye brows in mock surprise. “Are you telling me that Angorus is some kind of loan shark?”
Brocklesby nodded.
“And when must you pay him by?”
“Last month.”
Reynolds looked at Morehouse who looked a little uncomfortable, and then turned to Pendennis.
“May I just run this past you detective, just to be sure I have grasped al the fact correctly?”
Pendennis nodded, “By all means, sir!” The policeman was beginning to enjoy this. He was a very proud policeman and hated it whenever one of the 'bad guys' managed to score a point. The way Reynolds was leading the conversation, he had an inkling that there wasn't going to be any points scored here today.
Reynolds gave a little cough, clearing his throat. “I have Mr Brocklesby dropped home at nine o'clock last night,” he began. “Then, by the early hours of this morning he has been arrested for assaulting a couple of police officers, and the only witnesses, other than said officers are a half dozen men who work for Mr Morehouse, who in turn works for Mr Angorus, who happens to be a loan shark.”
“Oh, yes, amongst other things too, sir,” Pendennis quickly put in.
“Amongst other things, as you say, sergeant. And the accused? A man who owes Mr Angorus a considerable amount of money? Do I have things clear so far detective?”
Pendennis nodded vigorously. “As I understand it, yes.”
“Odd behaviour, wouldn't you say, for a man who had just been offered a job with a considerable salary? Had he been drinking?”
“No, sir. I asked the same question to the arresting officer and he stated flatly that there was no smell of alcohol on the man. But begging your pardon sir, may I ask what job?”
“I had offered Mr Brocklesby a job as my,” Reynolds paused looking for the rights description, “I suppose butler-come-aide is the best way of putting it. He accepted and I informed him that I would need him to start the next day, that would be today now. I had one of father's drivers drop him back to his rooms so that he could gather his things and he asked if he could have time to visit his brothers and inform them of his good fortune. I had no issue with that and informed Mr Brocklesby to meet me at Plymouth station by five this morning. He never arrived, and so I went to his rooms to find them empty, and in some disarray. Next I came here to inquire if there had been some kind of accident involving Mr Brocklesby, only to hear Mr Morehouse asking about him.”
“So as you can see, sergeant, this situation surprises me as I would not expect someone offered such an opportunity to behave that way.”
“Well he did it!” Morehouse spat like a petulant child. “He done those coppers, like we say he did.”
Reynolds shrugged. “And the constables, what have they to say on the matter?”
Pendennis looked to the police sergeant stood in the doorway to the cell. “Sergeant Meadows?”
The man looked embarrassed and worried at the end of his bush moustache. “Well, sir, there was two of them involved, sir. Well one of them was injured bad when he went through Pilgrim's window, sir. That was Taffy. He's been in hospital since and not in a position to talk, sir. But we did hear him say he was only doing what he was told. Kept repeating it to us right up until the doctor put him under.”
Reynolds turned to Pendennis. “Was there a call out for the arrest or at least detainment of Mr Brocklesby?”
With a slow shake of his head the detective sergeant said, “No.”
“Curious. I wonder who it was that had given him the order? And the other fellow, Sergeant Meadows, was it?”
Again the policeman looked embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Erm...Well he took a knock to the head, sir. Can't even remember what year it is, let alone what happened to him.”
“That's inconvenient, don't you think detective?”
It was Pendennis' turn to feel uncomfortable as his case against Brocklesby was unravelling. That wasn't really a concern, but what was being revealed behind it, a possible corruption case against some of his own officers, was something that he both despised and dreaded. The paperwork would be horrendous.
There was a lengthy silence which Reynolds at last broke. “I'm sorry Detective Sergeant Pendennis, but I'm not convinced at all by all this. I believe that it was in fact Mr Morehouse and his mob who were more likely the aggressors here.” He was looking to push Morehouse's button again, see if he couldn't get the red mist to explode. So he pressed on with his accusations. “it is most likely that he came upon Mr Brocklesby as he says by chance, or maybe not, but one thing led to another. Perhaps Mr Brocklesby may even have goaded him, but I think in the end Morehouse resorted to what he does best – violence. I understand that to be the forte for those folks calling themselves enforcers. It is likely that your two constables came upon an altercation between Brocklesby and Morehouse's mob. Seven against one is hardly likely to have the police standing up for the seven, so it is probable that they intervened on Mr Brocklesby's behalf and ended up as victims of Morehouse's blood-lust themselves.”
Pendennis smiled politely. With a few choice words Reynolds had turned what looked like a messy internal affairs case against his men into one where they were the gallant heroes, injured in the line of duty, and more over, their discipline would be left to Pendennis. His wrath would know no bounds.
“Sounds very plausible,” the detective stated.
“That's fokin' rubbish!” Morehouse seethed.
“Watch your language!” the police sergeant growled, hand on the pommel of his truncheon.
“We dint do them bloody coppers, 'e did, just like 'e done them other three blokes behind the Duke of York.”
“Duke of York?” Pendennis asked angrily.
“Yeah, 'e done over three blokes out back of the hotel.”
“When?”
“About six o'clock.”
“These men, acquaintances of yours are they?” Reynolds inquired.
“Yeah!”
“And this incident was reported to the police?”
“No.”
“Then I doubt very much it happened at all,” Reynolds snapped irritably.
“It did.” Morehouse was puffing up his chest, taking deep breaths as though trying to curtail his anger.
“I can't see how,” Reynolds voice was stern, almost sinister now. “As Mr Brocklesby was on his way to an interview with me about the job at that time.” It was a lie and both men would know it, but who would the police believe now? It was unlikely to be Morehouse.
“That's bollocks!” Morehouse accused.
“Oi!” the police sergeant warned again.
“No, Morehouse,” Reynolds said calmly, a sickly condescending tone to his voice, “I think you are the one talking bollocks, and have been all night. I think you found Brocklesby, tried to give him a going over with a lot of help from your pals, and it all went wrong when you injured those two constables. I think you weren't able to get your money from Brocklesby, nor as I guess you would have preferred, beat the living daylights out of him, so you and your boss came up with this cock and bull story to frame Samuel and manipulate the law to get your revenge that way. And given his previous conviction, which I am well aware of, then he'd be looking at the rope for sure. Am I right?”
“You're a cunt!” Morehouse spat and launched himself at Reynolds, landing a solid punch on his chin.
Reynolds, of course, had made no attempt to block or dodge the attack. His lip exploded, blood flooding over his chin and into his mouth.
Initially stunned at Morehouse's actions Pendennis finally grabbed the man just after he'd laid a gut punch into Reynolds who doubled over with a pained grunt.
Morehouse battered Pendennis aside, wanting to beat the life out of the honourable Sebastian Reynolds and his toffee-nosed, stuck up, holier-than-thou attitude.
Before he could land another solid blow though the bushy moustached sergeant grabbed his collar and hauled him back with one hand and swung his thick truncheon into the backs of Morehouse's knees, making him fall to the floor.
The truncheon appeared under Terry's chin, held tight against his throat by a thick meaty hand at either end, pulling hi hard against the sergeant's torso. It was all Morehouse could do to breathe.
Pendennis recovered his wits and stood before the choking man. The detective seethed with such anger that he couldn't bring himself to speak.
“Right you are, sir,” the sergeant nodded, despite Pendennis having said nothing.
The big policeman dragged Morehouse backwards out of the cell. Morehouse struggled, punching and scratching but two more constables joined the sergeant.
Once they were out of sight Reynolds heard dull thuds, as of wood on flesh, accompanied each time by a pained cry from Morehouse.
Ignoring the beating that Morehouse was getting, Reynolds stood fully, the blood now soaking into the collar of his shirt.
“I'm so sorry Mr Reynolds,” Pendennis said removing his handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to the gentleman.
Reynolds waved it away. “The actions of a guilty man, detective sergeant,” he stated flatly.
“So it would seem sir. Reckon you about hit the nail on the head.”
“Then you'll not detain Mr Brocklesby any longer?”
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Within an hour a hospital wagon arrived.
“I have a friend over in the Royal Navy hospital who'll sort that leg out for you,” Reynolds informed Brocklesby as he was carefully wheeled from the station.
Both men were silent for the first part of the journey.
Reynolds winced as he pressed gingerly at his swollen lip.
“Wimp!” Brocklesby said with a sly grin.
Reynolds cast him a withering look, but couldn't help smiling.
“Thanks, Seb,” Sam said gratefully. “What next?”
“Well get that leg sorted out. I don't think it's the best idea for you to stay here in Plymouth. I'd warn Angorus off, but I don't suppose he'd pass up the opportunity for revenge if it presented itself. Where were you planning to go?”
“London.”
“Convenient. I can give you a lift, I'm heading back up in a few days.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay, thanks.”
“And you'll need a place to stay,” Reynolds added. “And a job.”
Brocklesby looked at Reynolds suspiciously. “Yes, I will, once the leg's better.”
“I can wait,” Reynolds said. “So how about it?”
“How about what?”
“According to the conversation I had earlier, I offered you a job last night. Do you want it or not?”
Brocklesby laughed. “Me? Butler for you?”
“You could do worse work and the pay will be good.”
“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Listen, you'd be more than just a butler, that would be the impression I'd want everyone else to get. But, you beat four men in a fight, then another two later. You've got the training and attitude I need in someone, and I need it to be someone I can trust. How long have we known each other? If I can't trust my brother's best friend, who can I trust?”
“What about old Truman?”
“Exactly that. He's old, and besides, he's dad's butler and I wouldn't want to drag him away from Maristow. I've bought a place up in Knightsbridge and need staff. But I won't lie to you Sam. It won't be without risk. There are certain activities that I undertake from time to time that might involve a certain element of danger, and well, you already have an idea where my talents lay. Having you as backup would make things a whole lot easier.”
Brocklesby's mouth turned up at the corner and he shook his head, then winced as the ambulance bounced over a pot hole in the road. “You put your neck on the line for me today. If I had got the wrong judge then I think you would be right, I'd swing for sure. So I guess I owe you at least a year or two, see how things work out.”
Reynolds extended his hand, shaking Sam's. “Welcome aboard!”
“I have a friend over in the Royal Navy hospital who'll sort that leg out for you,” Reynolds informed Brocklesby as he was carefully wheeled from the station.
Both men were silent for the first part of the journey.
Reynolds winced as he pressed gingerly at his swollen lip.
“Wimp!” Brocklesby said with a sly grin.
Reynolds cast him a withering look, but couldn't help smiling.
“Thanks, Seb,” Sam said gratefully. “What next?”
“Well get that leg sorted out. I don't think it's the best idea for you to stay here in Plymouth. I'd warn Angorus off, but I don't suppose he'd pass up the opportunity for revenge if it presented itself. Where were you planning to go?”
“London.”
“Convenient. I can give you a lift, I'm heading back up in a few days.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay, thanks.”
“And you'll need a place to stay,” Reynolds added. “And a job.”
Brocklesby looked at Reynolds suspiciously. “Yes, I will, once the leg's better.”
“I can wait,” Reynolds said. “So how about it?”
“How about what?”
“According to the conversation I had earlier, I offered you a job last night. Do you want it or not?”
Brocklesby laughed. “Me? Butler for you?”
“You could do worse work and the pay will be good.”
“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Listen, you'd be more than just a butler, that would be the impression I'd want everyone else to get. But, you beat four men in a fight, then another two later. You've got the training and attitude I need in someone, and I need it to be someone I can trust. How long have we known each other? If I can't trust my brother's best friend, who can I trust?”
“What about old Truman?”
“Exactly that. He's old, and besides, he's dad's butler and I wouldn't want to drag him away from Maristow. I've bought a place up in Knightsbridge and need staff. But I won't lie to you Sam. It won't be without risk. There are certain activities that I undertake from time to time that might involve a certain element of danger, and well, you already have an idea where my talents lay. Having you as backup would make things a whole lot easier.”
Brocklesby's mouth turned up at the corner and he shook his head, then winced as the ambulance bounced over a pot hole in the road. “You put your neck on the line for me today. If I had got the wrong judge then I think you would be right, I'd swing for sure. So I guess I owe you at least a year or two, see how things work out.”
Reynolds extended his hand, shaking Sam's. “Welcome aboard!”