Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

36

C onstable Abel Nutley knows he has surmounted the foothills of his life’s endeavours when Sir Thomas Harcourt’s manservant calls him “Sir” and prepares to conduct him to the Great Parlour. Sir ! That, he realises, must be bitter manna for the man who usually greets him with, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ or, as he did two minutes ago, ‘What is it this time?’

Well, this time, Abel Nutley has single-handedly solved the dastardly murder of the merchant Goldwoode, and his announcement has wrought so powerfully upon Sir Thomas that he has desired the constable be admitted to his presence forthwith. The constable’s only regret is that he has just been caught in a downpour without his cloak. He drips from hat to heel.

Nevertheless, in recognition of the laurels to come, the courtesies must be observed. Nutley stands unmoving. Realising the constable is not behind him, the manservant turns. He sees the outstretched hand, the staff of office, the expectant look. With a sigh he walks back, takes the staff and claps it on the table. ‘Happy?’ Without waiting for an answer he paces away again. Constable Nutley squelches after him. The manservant opens a door and is swallowed up in a small dark space. Never having been admitted beyond the hall of Woodley Court, the constable is seized with panic. The last thing he wishes is to mar his entry to the great man’s presence by getting lost in a rabbit warren of unlit passages. He hastens forward, bumping up against the man, who turns and elbows him hard before opening the door of the double porch into the parlour.

Sir Thomas sits in his chair at the end of the table, his arm in a sling. If Abel Nutley were capable of reading the signs, he would recognise that Sir Thomas is both tired and in discomfort. But what the constable sees is a Justice who is powerless for the time being to do his job. One who will need a deputy to step up, take command, bring malefactors to punishment. And be honoured accordingly. A saying comes to the constable’s mind. Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them! Serjeant-at-Mace Nutley, enforcing order? In time, a knighthood? How would it go? Sir Constable Abel? The thought takes flight like a bright comet. He sees himself on the path to success and privilege, a sought-after counsellor, revered by the powerful, spoken of in high places. It is a pity that his shirt clings cold under his soaked doublet, that his hat brim has sagged with the weight of water, and the doublet’s peascod belly, well filled by his own flesh, drips from its outer extremity.

‘I have the felon, Sir Thomas!’ he announces.

‘So you said to my man,’ Sir Thomas replies. ‘Who?’

‘By diligent enquiry, and following the information you and I shared, I have laid him by the heels!’

‘Yes. Who?’

‘Not Meredith after all, Sir Thomas.’

‘Clearly not. I’ve just spent a very painful twelve hours as a result of trying to get that one released. Has he been released, by the way?’

‘I know not,’ Nutley says airily, ‘but it hardly matters, given the rumours about him.’

‘I rather think it matters to Meredith.’

‘They all say he’s a felon anyway.’

‘He’s not actually. And I advise you to be chary of slander, Nutley. Written proofs exist of his innocence.’

‘A bit late for him to be producing them now at the rope’s end, eh, Sir Thomas!’ The constable’s ample stomach shakes with mirth, more drips fall, and he realises his host is not sharing the jest. Laugh becomes cough and he shuffles the soggy papers in his hand. ‘Ahem! I have made diligent enquiries, as I said, and I can advise you that the true felon is—’ He pauses.

‘Well?’

‘You’ll never guess, Sir Thomas.’

‘Then stop playing the teasing bloody whore and tell me!’

‘Bartholomew Johnson!’

Sir Thomas rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

‘Indeed Sir Thomas, companions in law enforcement as we are, you and I must wonder at it, but—’

‘Bart Johnson couldn’t tie a knot round a sheaf of corn, let alone round a man’s neck.’

‘He was in the inn that night, Sir Thomas.’

‘As were many others.’

‘And he went outside to, er, to… for his comfort.’

‘For a piss? With Nick’s ale swilling around inside, I guarantee every man there went to piss at some point in the evening.’

‘And he is wearing the hat you described.’

Sir Thomas looks long at Nutley. ‘So. At last, we get to it.’

‘Reddish-blue. Tucked.’

‘When was this?’

‘Earlier today. I happened to be passing the inn and called in on my own business—’

‘For God’s sake man, you stopped by for a pot. And?’

‘And Johnson was there, surrounded by likeminded knockheads, prancing around in the hat.’

‘And you laid him by the heels? With your own bare hands, no doubt? So come on, you have him, you say. Bring him in.’ For the first time in their exchange a muscle twitches at the edge of Sir Thomas’s mouth.

Abel Nutley becomes painfully aware of the inflated nature of his claim. ‘Well, not quite by the heels. I noted the hat and have come straight to yourself, Sir Thomas.’

‘What are you waiting for? Go and arrest him.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re the constable.’

‘But he’s bigger than… I thought you and I would—’

‘Just do it, Nutley.’ He waves dismissal, props his good elbow on the table and drops his head in his hand.