Читать книгу An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London - J. Durham J. - Страница 6

‘Can’t beat a splendid piece of beef. And the bloodier the better, eh? Builds up the constitution.’

The chunk of flesh quivered so rare on the silver platter that it looked as if it had trotted to the table straight from Smithfield, without detouring to a kitchen.

‘So I understand, Mr Phillips.’ The Guest of Honour, who much preferred his beef brown, masked his dismay with a smile. Charles Dickens was nothing if not a social creature, and prided himself on his manners.

‘Don’t mind if I carve it meself, do you?’ asked Phillips. ‘The servants always make a bloody hash of it.’

‘Language, John.’ The rebuke from Mrs Phillips was mild, for the guests of her late supper party were used to her husband’s eccentricities. She nodded as the footman replenished her wine glass.

The dining room was panelled from floor to ceiling: a surfeit of mahogany and scagliola columns. The gentlemen, wearing white waistcoats, uniformly red-faced and bewhiskered, were indistinguishable from each other. The women, on the other hand, had gone out of their way to be as individual as possible, resulting in a visual cacophony of multicoloured silks, feathers, and paisley shawls. Lady Harcourt-Brown rustled as she leaned towards Dickens, offering a generous view of crepey bosom.

‘We have been reading in Household Words, Mr Dickens, about the new detective police who have been appointed.’

He kept his eyes fixed on the beef that was yielding to the enthusiasm of his host’s carving knife. But the Lady was not to be similarly distracted.

‘Do you think they will put an end to the lawlessness on our streets?’ she prompted.

‘Ha!’ It was not Dickens, but her husband, Sir Harold, who responded.

‘You do not think so, sir?’ They’d caught his attention at last.

‘Indeed I do not. In my experience, these so-called detectives are very ordinary people, with delusions of cleverness, who are worth nothing when taken beyond their usual routine.’

‘I’m afraid I must disagree with you,’ Dickens began. ‘The rate of …’

‘It will all come to nothing.’ Sir Harold dismissed Dickens, the detectives, and the improved conviction rates of the capital with a wave. As Justice of the Peace for Clerkenwell East, he was well known for being ‘down on’ anyone unlucky enough to appear before him, and prided himself on that reputation. ‘It is never a wise or safe proceeding to put authority in the hands of the lower classes.’

Dickens’s gaze flicked to the footmen lining the room. They remained granite-faced, as good servants should.

‘If you ask me,’ continued Sir Harold, ‘there’s something underhand about these detectives of yours. All that sneaking about and lurking in corners. It isn’t …,’ he cast around for a suitable word, ‘English.’

‘Nonsense, Harold,’ snorted Lady Harcourt-Brown. ‘I, for one, feel safer with these gentlemen on our streets.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Phillips.

‘I imagine they must possess very specific qualities?’ Mr Phillips surrendered the beef to a footman to distribute among the guests.

‘Indeed.’ Dickens understood his host’s question for what it was: his cue to earn his supper. He took a breath. ‘You might think that a detective, having been recruited from the ranks, would inevitably betray some evidence of his lowly beginnings, but you would be wrong!’ He wagged a finger at his audience. ‘A good detective must blend in as easily in the upper echelons of society as among the criminal classes. He must be well mannered and respectable looking, with good deportment – nothing lounging or slinking in his manner. And, of course, he must possess keen observational skills and a quick perception.’

Sir Harold harrumphed.

Dickens continued. ‘In my opinion, this city needs an effective police force, in the same way a child needs the guidance of a wise and impartial parent. It offers protection to the vulnerable elements of the population. Which is why I am determined to do all I can for it.’

As he finished, he wondered whether Harry Pilgrim had acted on the anonymous note he had given him earlier in the evening. The detective had received the tip-off with his usual sangfroid, giving him no indication whether he intended to do anything about it. Pilgrim would certainly be able to give some of his acquaintances a run for their money at the cribbage table.

‘I understand there is one detective who is particularly successful,’ said Mrs Phillips, apparently picking up on his thoughts. ‘Sergeant Pilchem, I believe he is called?’

‘His real name is Pilgrim. Henry Pilgrim. A veritable prince of detectives.’

Lady Harcourt-Brown’s gaze slid mischievously to her husband. ‘In that case, perhaps we should invite Sergeant Pilgrim to our next supper party, Harold?’

Sir Harold’s face suffused with blood, and his eyes bulged. For a moment – one brief, glorious moment – Dickens thought he might be choking on the beef. But no. It was indignation.

‘Over my dead body!’