Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

Cobb walked around both parliament buildings,not forgetting the extensive gardens behind them where enemygrenadiers or sappers (or, more likely, a pair of panting lovers)could be lurking, bombs at the ready. Back out on Front Street, hestrolled west – wholly at ease and very much enjoying the suddenarrival of Venus and its retinue of stars in the south-western sky.On a whim, or perhaps to delay checking out The Sailor’s Arms ablock farther on, he swung north up John Street to Wellington. Awoman smoking a clay pipe on her verandah waved to him, and hewaved back. On Wellington he drifted westward again, thinkingmostly about how well Delia was doing in her studies at MissTyson’s Academy and just how he and Dora might manage hersecond-term fees.

“C-C-Cobb, come quick!”

Cobb snapped out of his reverie in time tocatch young Squealer before the boy tumbled headlong into hisrobust, belted belly.

“Slow down, lad. You’ll injure us both!”

“You gotta come, Cobb, right away,” Squealerpanted as he fought any breath left in his scrawny urchin’s body.He was one of a dozen street kids who hung about the taverns, CourtHouse, City Hall or market in hope of earning a penny runningerrands and delivering messages.

“Come where?” Cobb said patiently. He knewbetter than to take the boy’s excitement at face value.

“To the Sailor’s Arms!” The lad’s voice beganto rise and splinter (the source of his nickname).

God, Cobb thought, fingering his whistle, nota dust-up or a full-scale brawl this early in a fine Indian summerevening. “What’s goin’ on in that dive?”

Squealer’s cry soared into falsetto:“M-murder! Somebody’s gettin’ murdered!”

***

Cobb followed Squealer in his best loping trot,constrained as always by the risk of his thick, muscled pot-bellybecoming overbalanced and pitching the neighbouring parts in anunfriendly direction. They were rushing down Peter Street and werealmost at Front when Squealer wheeled and darted into an alley.With just a second’s hesitation, Cobb loped in after him. It was sodark now that Cobb could see only the thrashing of the boy’s barelegs just ahead of him. Somehow they managed to avoid stumblingover the discarded crates and barrels that littered this and everyother alley in town. Half a minute later Cobb pulled up besideSquealer, and followed his gaze up to a faint light in thesecond-storey window of a large building.

“This ain’t The Sailor’s Arms,” Cobb saidsharply, grabbing the boy’s left wrist. “What’re you tryin’ topull?”

“B-but it is, Cobb. This is the back end ofit.”

“I’ll back-end yer arse if you’re havin’ meon,” Cobb said just as Squealer broke free of his grip.

“Upstairs! In that big room! I c’n still hear‘em!” Squealer had dashed around the west corner of the building -up to what looked like a door.

Cobb was about to put his threat into actionwhen he heard the faint but precise cries of a number ofvoices.

“I think they’re doin’ it!” Squealer sobbed,overcome by it all.

Cobb brushed past him, found a latch, andstepped into a dark stairwell. Looking up, he could see a partiallyopen door with a light of some kind behind it. Taking the stairstwo at a time, he barged his way into what appeared to be ananteroom, lit by two flickering candle-lanterns. The cries weresuddenly vivid in his ears: they were definitely raised in angerand tinged with a strange kind of exultation.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself as he drewout his truncheon, “somethin’ awful’s goin’ on in there.” Where “inthere” was he was not quite certain. He was vaguely aware that TheSailor’s Arms might have such a private upper room, and couldeasily imagine it being used as a gambling or opium den where allkinds of mischief might be hatched. It was this thought that madehim hesitate and wonder if he ought to risk going in alone. Then henoticed along the inner wall of the anteroom a row of neatly hunggentleman’s coats and cloaks, a sight which puzzled himmomentarily, until he remembered that gentlemen were capable ofanything when their interests were at stake.

“Aaaghhhh!”

This cry of utter anguish struck Cobb like acold dagger in the belly. Someone was being murdered! Withno thought for his own safety, he shouldered aside the inner doorand plunged into a large, brightly lit room. Directly before him hesaw a ring of five or six well-dressed men, each uttering some sortof triumphant howl in various keys as they hunched forward oversome object amongst them. In their right hand, several of them wereraising and lowering what appeared to be silver-bladed knives.Others were lifting their hands over their heads, then dipping themdown towards what had to be the target of their violence and sourceof their exaltation. He had interrupted some bloodthirsty, satanicritual!

“Stop where you are!” Cobb shouted. “I am thelaw!”

For a brief moment the hunched andgesticulating ring of assassins froze before Cobb in a grotesquetableau: mouths agape, heads swivelled halfway around to take inthe interloper and his awesome command, eyes stiff with surprise.Several knives clattered to the floor. Then the murderers, if thatis what they were, fell back and aside as Cobb inched slowlyforward, truncheon cocked, towards the victim – now exposed in apathetic heap on a small platform or dais.

Keeping a sideways glance on the perpetratorsof the outrage, Cobb stepped up to the corpse, and as he did so itbegan to show signs of life. It rolled lumpily over onto its backand opened its eyes. No knife-wounds rent the white robe the fellowwas wrapped in, nor was it stained with his blood. He sat up, hiscorpulent bulk propped up by his hands splayed out behind him. Onhis head, slightly askew, sat a somewhat tattered wreath composedof vine leaves. The white robe appeared to be a single linenbedsheet inexpertly folded so as to resemble a Roman toga.

“Jesus,” Cobb hissed, “who in blazes are you ? Banquo’s ghost?”

***

The eight assembled members of the Shakespeare Clubinvited Constable Horatio Cobb to join them in a good laugh overthe misapprehended “murder” of Julius Caesar by Brutus, Cassius andtheir fellow conspirators. While Cobb did not see much humour inthe situation, he was moderately mollified by a tumbler offirst-class Burgundy and several pats on the back for “being asport” about it all. Brodie, embarrassed and apologizing profusely,escorted Cobb into the cloakroom and watched him descend the stairsand disappear into the darkness. A spacious window in the rear wallof the cloakroom overlooked the alley, and Brodie took a moment topeer into the moonlit area immediately below, where Cobb had beenstopped by a skinny ragamuffin whose hand was now stretched out,palm upwards. Cobb made a threatening gesture that had no apparenteffect on the lad, took two steps away, paused, turned back, anddeposited a coin in the boy’s hand.

Brodie smiled to himself and went back in tojoin the others, still buzzing and chuckling over the incident.

***

The topic for discussion on this particularWednesday evening, assigned last week by their chairman – SirPeregrine Shuttleworth, bart. – was “Were Brutus and hisassociates justified in overthrowing the legitimate ruler of Rome?”The normal procedure for these weekly gatherings, as far as Brodiecould tell from his first two sessions, was to begin with a roundof drinks, during which pleasantries and light gossip wereexchanged and everyone got into a relaxed state. This part of theevening (and the last one as well) took place at the east end ofthe room where their hosts, the Budges, had arranged two setteesand several padded chairs around a threadbare carpet – withcigar-stands and spittoons placed at strategic intervals. Then, ateight-thirty or so they all moved to the west end of the room wherea long executive table was set up, with comfortable chairs for adozen or more. Here the serious discussion of the Bard’s works tookplace, punctuated by dramatic renderings of favourite passages toillustrate a point or indulge an ego. But this evening SirPeregrine had suggested that they “get in the mood” for the debateon the ethical implications of tyrannicide by staging theassassination scene from Julius Caesar. No-one had beensurprised that Sir Peregrine had brought along a costume for hisself-appointed role as Caesar, as well as several woodenstage-knives to be plunged hysterically into the bloodied tyrant.It had been their third run-through (the fervour of theconspirators’ “plunging” and ululations being not nearly hystericalenough on the first two tries) that the unwitting Cobb hadinterrupted.