John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

Rollison lowered his voice. At intervals during the next five minutes, Ebbutt emitted squeaks of delight and finally managed to part his lips in a smile which showed his discoloured teeth.

Soon afterwards, Rollison left the gymnasium.

He walked to the mission hall, going out of his way to pass 49, Little Lane—named after a benefactor, not because it was any different from a thotisand other long, drab, featureless streets in the East End. Front doors were open, women and old men were talking, children were playing on the cobbles and dirt abounded; but some of the tiny windows looked spotlessly clean and some of the women were as well-dressed as they knew how to be. In spite of every disadvantage, there was an air of prosperity about Little Lane. It revealed itself in new boots on many of the children, in the fact that most of the people were smoking, in the gay splashes of lipstick and rouge on faces which had not known them for years.

A dozen friendly people called out to Rollison, others smiled and nodded and as he went out of earshot there was much earnest chattering. Outside Number 49 were two of Bill’s stalwarts. He was glad to see them on duty.

Kemp was in the mission hall with three other men and a woman.

The place was fairly ship-shape again. Only a dozen chairs out of two hundred were undamaged but the men were hammering and knocking them into shape. The walls had been cleaned but they still bore traces of the paint. The warning remained at the back of the stage—a good touch, thought Rollison. He asked Kemp why he hadn’t removed or covered it.

The curate, dressed in old flannels and an open-necked shirt, which made him look more boyish than ever, grinned widely.

“I’ll take it down when it’s no longer true.”

“Happy thought,” said Rollison. “How are things?”

“There’s nothing fresh to report,” said Kemp. “I told you all about Keller’s offer. I’m a bit worried about that,” he added, frowning. “We could use £500—I mean, the Relief Fund could. I have wondered whether I ought to resign and let—”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Rollison. “You can raise the money if you put your mind to it.”

“I suppose I can,” said Kemp, rather lugubriously. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t leave just now for a fortune. I’m beginning to enjoy myself.”

“Yer don’t know what injoyment means,” said a man from the door in a loud voice.

All six people turned abruptly, to see a giant standing in the doorway, almost filling it. His shoulders were enormous and his chest deep and powerful and he held his knuckly hands in front of him. He was remarkably ugly and the most astonishing thing about him was the likeness of his face to a cow’s. His forehead, although broad, receded. He seemed to have no chin and his lips were very full and wide.

“I don’t think you were invited,” said Kemp, after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t, doncher? ‘Hi don’t think you was hinvited!’ ” mimicked Billy the Bull, with a vast grin—and a shrill burst of laughter came from behind him, the first indication that he was not alone. “Why’nt yer go ‘ome, Kemp?”

Alter a moment’s hesitation, Kemp advanced towards the man. Rollison and the others watched—Rollison was inwardly smiling and the three men and the woman obviously anxious.

“I don’t know who you are,” Kemp said, clearly, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if you know who wrecked the hall. Do you?”

“Supposin’ I do?” growled Billy the Bull.

“If I thought you did it,” said Kemp, softly, I’d smash your silly face in!”

Stupefaction reigned among the church-workers and astonishment showed on Billy the Bull’s bovine countenance.

The silence was broken by a piping voice from behind Billy. A man who did not come up to his shoulder and was thin, bald-headed and dressed in a dirty sweater with a polo collar in spite of the heat, pushed his way in to stand by Billy.

“I wouldn’t let him git away wiv’ that, Billy. I wouldn’t let no one say he’d bash my face in!”

Billy the Bull licked his lips.

“Take that back!” There was menace in his manner.

“If you haven’t the guts to admit that you helped to smash this place up, you’re not worth wasting time on,” said Kemp. “If you did, I’ll—”

“ ’It him, Billy!” urged the little man, indignantly.

“I don’t fight hinfants,” declared Billy, scowling. “But I wouldn’t mind knocking the grin orf yer face, parson. Talk, that’s all you’re good for. Standin’ up in the poolpit an’ shouting yer marf orf—that’s all yer can do. ‘Please Gawd, make me an’ all me flock good lickle boys an’ gels,’ continued Billy, in a fair imitation of the worst type of clerical drawl. “ ‘Please Gawd—’ ”

Kemp said quietly: “Don’t say that again.”

Billy broke off, looking at the curate in surprise. Kemp had gone pale and his fists were clenched.

It was the little man who broke the silence again, piping: “Strewth! Have yer gorn sorft, Billy? “It ‘im.”

“I don’t like knockin’ hinfants about,” repeated Billy. Something in Kemp’s expression had stopped him and he was obviously on edge. It was Rollison’s cue and he moved forward. “You do a bit of boxing, Billy, don’t you?”

“A bit!” squeaked the little man. “Why there ain’t a man in London can stand a round against ‘im!”

“I can use me mitts,” declared Billy the Bull, on safer ground. “But this apology fer a parson only shoots “is mouth orf, that’s all. Cissy-boy!” he added. “You ought to be back ‘ome wiv’ yer muwer!”

“

“I’ll fight you anywhere you like, unilei I lie Oueensberry Rules,” Kemp said, tense-voiced.

“Coo, ‘ear that?” squeaked the little man, dancing up and down. “ ‘E’s ‘eard o’ Lord Queensb’ry. Coo! Ain’t ‘e a proper little man! Why yer don’t know wot fightin’ is!”

“Don’t be rash,” Rollison advised Kemp, looking now as if he wished he had not mentioned boxing. “Billy’s an old campaigner.”

“I’ll fight him anywhere he likes,” Kemp said again.

“You mean that?” demanded the little man, coming forward and peering up into Kemp’s face. “You mean that—no, o’ corse yer don’t! There’s a ring not a hundred miles from ‘ere, I’ll fix yer up a match ‘ere an’ now, for tonight. Pound aside, one quid per man but you don’t mean it.”

“I’m not a—” began Kemp.

“The stakes to go to charity,” Rollison put in hastily.

“Suits me,” said the little man, loftily. “I managed Billy the Bull all his life, I ain’t above doin’ a bit for charity.”

“Does he mean it?” demanded Billy the Bull, incredulously.

“Try to make them understand that I’m not afraid of his size, will you?” Kemp asked Rollison, earnestly.

Rollison nodded and fixed the details quickly.

Billy the Bull and his companion stalked off, the sound of the little man’s squeaky voice drifting back into the hall. The woman helper looked troubled but the three men eyed Kemp with a new respect. Kemp himself seemed unperturbed. One by one, the others left the hall.

“Do you think . . .” Kemp began, when they had gone and talked almost without stopping for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, the grapevine of the East End, that remarkable information system rivalling the drums of Africa, began to work at high pressure. It played one refrain only. “ Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock. Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock.”

News reached many unexpected places. It amazed most who heard it, it alarmed the Whitings, it brought church members post-haste to try to dissuade Kemp from going on with it—all to no purpose—it brought protests from the more influential church members; and it put Kemp’s stock up to undreamed-of heights, although he did not realise it.