SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman by Francis Selwyn Page A
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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said. "There you are, then."
She snuggled up closer to him on the sofa and they sat silently for a moment. It was Bella, unable to contain her admiration any longer, who broke the silence.
"Oh, Mr Verity! " she cried happily. "I'm no end proud of you!"
2 VERNEY DACRE
5
Lieutenant Verney Dacre, cavalry subaltern, now twelve years on the half-pay list, stood tall and narrow as a clock-case with his back to the open windows of the hired dining-room. His hands were cl asped under the tail of his bottl e-green evening coat, as though he were warming himself at a fire. From time to time, he brushed a hand over his limp blond whiskers, or with a silk handkerchief touched the corners of his blue eyes, which seemed to water gently but without respite.
Dacre's beagle sat, alert, at its master's feet, with all its attention trained on his eyes. Very casually, Dacre reached out to the edge of the littered table, at which he had dined alone. Choosing a long spoon which lay between a plate of smoke-grey oyster shells and an empty bottle in a silver ice-bucket, he turned the metal handle over and over in the tall flame of an ornamental candle. Then holding the spoon carefully at the bowl, and without the least change of expression, he tossed it to the far side of the carpet, where it fell with a dull ringing. The dog pounced after it, rebounded with a shrill yelp, and then fretted round it, whimpering with subdued dismay, but not daring to touch the hot metal again with its chops. Presently it left the spoon and ambled back, resuming its obedient scrutiny of its master's face.
"Dogs and women," said Dacre with a laconic drawl, "never teach them any other way, old fellow."
A stocky, shabbily dressed man, who sat at his ease in a wing chair, but who had not shared Dacre's supper, laughed obligingly. Dacre retrieved his glass of brandy and warm water from the mantelpiece.
"Well then, Mr Cazamian, what is it to be?"
The stocky man got to his feet, bringing into full view a dark head of hair cropped almost to stubble."I'm your man, sir. Why, I told Mr Roper. I'm your man for whatever it is."
"Are you now? Are y' really?" Dacre's was the voice of a man who had learned the dandified drawl of a cavalry officer, but who had hardly been born to it. He turned to the window and looked down disapprovingly at the Derby Night crowd, which danced and jostled among the shrubs, iron pagodas, and coloured lights of Cremorne Gardens. As the girls in green and blue silks, with feathered bonnets, hung on the arms of their impoverished swells, the band struck up an American polka. A dark- skinned man was taking up a col lection among the crowd for two Indian boys in turbans, who were showing off a pair of poodles ridden by monkeys in the racing colours of the Earl of Chesterfield and Lord George Bentinck.
Dacre turned round and looked at the shabbily-dressed man again.
"If you're anyone's man, Cazamian, it's the South Eastern Railway Company's. Ain't it?"
Cazamian shook his head and leant forward, gripping the table edge, as if to emphasise his sincerity.
"Not any more, nor for five years past. When Mr George Hudson and his bloody railway scheme went smash, he took my little fortune with him. When it's all a man has saved for his children, he don't forget easy. Two of them then, and only one now. But, I ask you, sir. It didn't harm that bastard Hudson, did it? No, sir. The railway is a monster as eats its own children. It's brought a curse upon the working man who trusted it. The railway ruined me. But now the working man may take back what he's owed. When it's a war, sir, it ain't robbery to take from the enemy."
Dacre nodded.
"All right, old fellow, there really ain't any need to go the whole animal upon the subject. I catch the drift."
"Why do you think I owe Mr Roper that money?" Cazamian protested. "Only a-cos I would've tried to win back by gaming what I lost through Hudson's smash."
"How much do you owe?" Dacre made it sound
She snuggled up closer to him on the sofa and they sat silently for a moment. It was Bella, unable to contain her admiration any longer, who broke the silence.
"Oh, Mr Verity! " she cried happily. "I'm no end proud of you!"
2 VERNEY DACRE
5
Lieutenant Verney Dacre, cavalry subaltern, now twelve years on the half-pay list, stood tall and narrow as a clock-case with his back to the open windows of the hired dining-room. His hands were cl asped under the tail of his bottl e-green evening coat, as though he were warming himself at a fire. From time to time, he brushed a hand over his limp blond whiskers, or with a silk handkerchief touched the corners of his blue eyes, which seemed to water gently but without respite.
Dacre's beagle sat, alert, at its master's feet, with all its attention trained on his eyes. Very casually, Dacre reached out to the edge of the littered table, at which he had dined alone. Choosing a long spoon which lay between a plate of smoke-grey oyster shells and an empty bottle in a silver ice-bucket, he turned the metal handle over and over in the tall flame of an ornamental candle. Then holding the spoon carefully at the bowl, and without the least change of expression, he tossed it to the far side of the carpet, where it fell with a dull ringing. The dog pounced after it, rebounded with a shrill yelp, and then fretted round it, whimpering with subdued dismay, but not daring to touch the hot metal again with its chops. Presently it left the spoon and ambled back, resuming its obedient scrutiny of its master's face.
"Dogs and women," said Dacre with a laconic drawl, "never teach them any other way, old fellow."
A stocky, shabbily dressed man, who sat at his ease in a wing chair, but who had not shared Dacre's supper, laughed obligingly. Dacre retrieved his glass of brandy and warm water from the mantelpiece.
"Well then, Mr Cazamian, what is it to be?"
The stocky man got to his feet, bringing into full view a dark head of hair cropped almost to stubble."I'm your man, sir. Why, I told Mr Roper. I'm your man for whatever it is."
"Are you now? Are y' really?" Dacre's was the voice of a man who had learned the dandified drawl of a cavalry officer, but who had hardly been born to it. He turned to the window and looked down disapprovingly at the Derby Night crowd, which danced and jostled among the shrubs, iron pagodas, and coloured lights of Cremorne Gardens. As the girls in green and blue silks, with feathered bonnets, hung on the arms of their impoverished swells, the band struck up an American polka. A dark- skinned man was taking up a col lection among the crowd for two Indian boys in turbans, who were showing off a pair of poodles ridden by monkeys in the racing colours of the Earl of Chesterfield and Lord George Bentinck.
Dacre turned round and looked at the shabbily-dressed man again.
"If you're anyone's man, Cazamian, it's the South Eastern Railway Company's. Ain't it?"
Cazamian shook his head and leant forward, gripping the table edge, as if to emphasise his sincerity.
"Not any more, nor for five years past. When Mr George Hudson and his bloody railway scheme went smash, he took my little fortune with him. When it's all a man has saved for his children, he don't forget easy. Two of them then, and only one now. But, I ask you, sir. It didn't harm that bastard Hudson, did it? No, sir. The railway is a monster as eats its own children. It's brought a curse upon the working man who trusted it. The railway ruined me. But now the working man may take back what he's owed. When it's a war, sir, it ain't robbery to take from the enemy."
Dacre nodded.
"All right, old fellow, there really ain't any need to go the whole animal upon the subject. I catch the drift."
"Why do you think I owe Mr Roper that money?" Cazamian protested. "Only a-cos I would've tried to win back by gaming what I lost through Hudson's smash."
"How much do you owe?" Dacre made it sound
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