Gibbous House 69

In an effort to reconvene a more correct social order I steered the company into the kitchen; Mrs Gonderthwaite was present, at least in what passed for the flesh; Cullis Vivat was not. The cook-cum-chatelaine was in a distracted state stirring the empty air in front of her with a wooden spoon. I bellowed 'TEA' at a suitably insistent distance from her blank face. She came to herself immediately, although quite unstartled, and busied herself with a large kettle. There were some rustic chairs near to a large table and we all, save Constable Turner and the cook, availed ourselves of the little comfort they offered. No one spoke; not even the reporter.

Believing the policeman's silence a clumsy effort to tempt one or other of us into some rash utterance of use to him, I took the opportunity to study him more closely. He was not young and in common with the men of his age in this area he sported the ruddy flush of the outdoor life. I had been long enough in Northumbria to note the savage winds and it seemed forty years experience of them tinted the cheeks a vibrant red. His whiskers were fairly restrained for a man of his class, I could not see the colour of his hair for the incongruous top-hat, which, I noted, he forbore to remove in my household. I wondered that the policemen themselves did not demand some more practical -and sartorially harmonious- headgear. His uniform fit -as many such garments do – where it might. The dark blue serge of his tail-coat strained in places at the seams and bagged voluminously in others. His trousers were white in colour and still less practical than the hat. The boots had been polished to a high shine but were a little dusty after their journey in the cart.

I had been sure the reporter would have been least able to resist filling the aural void, but he had merely contented himself with running his finger along the lines of his notebook and mouthing the words, occasionally looking up as if startled by the surreal world his note-taking had created. It was Maccabi who proved least able to bear the inscrutable silence of the policeman: clearing his throat he said,

'Constable, ah...' he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Surely you don't think...'

His voice trailed off and I was convinced he was squirming under the gimlet eye of the policeman.

The peeler replied:

'I do think, Mr Maccabi. The detection of crime is a cerebral pursuit.'

This was a veritable feat of oratory from the hitherto taciturn officer. Allan looked up sharply from his notebook:

'Detection? What do you mean?'

He withdrew a pair of spectacles from a pocket of his coat and placed them so that he could peer over them at the policeman. He then, presumably, scribbled the word in his notebook and looked up expectantly. Perhaps vanity had prevented him from using the eye-glasses earlier, although I doubted his notes would be so entertaining thenceforth.

'The work of a detective, Mr Allan. Or more correctly a detective policeman.'

The reporter scrawled again, but looked none the wiser. The Constable went on at some length concerning the collection of clews and evidence, the use of reasoning, corollary and surmise to bring criminals to justice. The very idea of such a person sounded like something from the most outlandish novel. I wished for a little more of his erstwhile brevity. The reporter continued to scribe as though in the rôle of
Jehovah's amanuensis and Maccabi fidgeted like a bored girl. Had it not amused me so, I would have found it uncomfortable to watch.