Gibbous House 7

London’s capricious weather had again taken a turn for the worse, but I held to my resolve to quit the Chaste Maiden that day, March 13th 185_ . Clouds had covered the setting sun and no amount of crepuscular carmine could mitigate the gathering gloom. My intention was to inform Thackeray and depart forthwith. On entering the inn, I remarked both the relative paucity of custom - given the hour – and the presence of Sergeant Purewipe and Constable Smackle. The landlord busied himself with cleaning some brass that had not felt the touch of cloth since the Regency. Purewipe fixed me with his hangman’s glare and enquired:

‘Mr Moffat, Mr Alasdair Moffat?’

I allowed that I was, since plainly he knew already.

He cleared his throat, as if uncertain how to begin.

‘Ah… it concerns a time-piece. We… have reason to believe it is yours, since your name is engraved upon it.’

‘Mine is not an uncommon name in some parts of the Commonwealth, Sergeant.’ I said, cool with him, awaiting developments.

‘’s not yours then?’ Smackle sneered.

‘I did not say that, Constable.’

‘Well, is it, Mr Moffat?’ Purewipe was clearly the more dangerous of the two.

‘It might be, Sergeant. I had the misfortune to be relieved of mine earlier today in Hawthorne Street. Not the only crime of which I was the victim today, in truth.’ I smiled at the two brutes.

Purewipe coloured a little, perhaps his collar was a little tight.

‘Might you have a witness to the theft, sir?’ There was gravel in his voice and I felt uneasy.

‘My pocket was picked, Sergeant. No one sees a dip. Surely my word…?’

Smackle gave a snigger. Purewipe held up a hand.

‘Your watch, sir, was but recently found in the hand of a corpse.’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘By you, Sergeant?’

‘As it happens, sir.’

‘Did you find a coat nearby?’

He had the good grace to blanch at this and I surmised that the peelers had been indulging in a little private business to augment their admittedly pitiful income. He straightened his shoulders and leaned his glowering face into mine:

‘Mr Moffat. I have a message for you…’ He looked both ways over his shoulder as if someone were likely to come down the stairs with a billy club. He went on;

‘Don’t go north, Mr Moffat. Don’t go north.’ He tipped me a salute.

They were almost at the door when I asked,

‘Who was it Sergeant? The unfortunate?’

I was hardly surprised when he answered,

‘I believe he was known as Cartwright, sir.’