John Creasey: The Toff And The Curate

On the Sunday morning following the riot, he went to St Guy’s with Jolly and took up a stand at a point of vantage near the entrance to the churchyard. Keeping out of sight behind some shrubs, he watched the cavalcade approaching. Rarely had the narrow streets been so crowded at that hour.

Children with red and shining faces and shoes newly-cleaned, women heavily made-up and wearing all their finery, men with carefully brushed hats, newly-pressed suits and highly polished shoes, all followed on. Many of them had a self-conscious air but not the Whitings, who were glowing with happiness, nor Owen, who was never likely to feel out of place.

Jolly nudged Rollison.

Striding along with his diminutive second was Billy the Bull, wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat with a curly brim, light brown shoes and a bright blue suit. Now and again, he looked over his shoulder, almost furtively. Nearby was Bill Ebbutt, his face now almost normal, with his wife, in ‘Army’ uniform, striding out beside her—she looked as if she would soon burst into huzzahs. Red-haired Irishmen, puny-looking Cockneys, dark-skinned Lascars and almond-eyed Chinese mixed freely with the others.

Rollison nudged Jolly.

Walking alone and certainly self-conscious, but putting a bold face on it, was Inspector Chumley.

Soon afterwards, a taxi drew up and from it alighted the venerable figure of the Rev Martin Anstruther. After him, hurrying with the stragglers, came Isobel in her WVS uniform. She went inside, breathlessly.

“A good show,” murmured Rollison. “We’ll be lucky to find a pew.”

They did not find one but chairs from one of the halls had been brought in. The sidesmen were busy, bustling and perspiring, and one hoped Rollison and Jolly would not mind sharing a hymnal. Soon the Rev Ronald Kemp began to take the service. His powerful voice was pitched low, as if he were also self-conscious. His damaged eye was no longer badly swollen but was of many colours. When at last he went into the pulpit and began his sermon, he chose to preach on pride—the deadliest of sins; and he did not pull his punches. As he talked, his voice grew more powerful and he completely lost himself.

Afterwards, Anstruther caught a glimpse of Rollison and smiled and cocked a thumb, a surprising gesture from the old man. Isobel was beaming. The grande dame of the Whiting family declared audibly, and with a sniff, that he could preach—and she supposed that was something.

Chumley hung back until he saw Rollison.

“I’m sorry we didn’t see eye-to-eye, Mr Rollison,” he began.

“Bygones are really bygones,” declared the Toff. “You and Kemp ought to swap ideas.”

“He’ll probably force his on me!” said Chumley, wryly. “And so,” said Rollison to Jolly, as they made their way homewards, “everything in the garden is lovely until Old Nick pops his head up again.”

Jolly smiled, benignly.

“If I may use the expression, sir, I think that when he does, Kemp will dot him one vigorously. Don’t you agree sir?”

The End