Clutch of Constables Read Free Page A

was a tall man but Dr Natouche diminished him. Behind them the river, crinkled by a breeze and dappled with discs of sunlight, played tricks with the two approaching figures. It exaggerated their size, rimmed them in a pulsing nimbus and distorted their movement. As they drew nearer, the pale man and the dark, Troy, bemused by this dazzle, thought: ‘There is no reason in the wide world why I should feel apprehensive. It will be all right unless Mr Pollock is bloody-minded or the Rickerby-Carrick hideously effusive. It must be all right.“ She glanced up the lane and there were the cyclists, stock-still except for their jaws: staring, staring. She held out her hand to Dr Natouche who was formal and bowed slightly over it. His head, uncovered, showed grey close-cut fuzz above the temples. His skin was not perfectly black but warmly dark with grape-coloured shadows. The bone structure of his face was exquisite.
    “Mrs Alleyn,” said Dr Natouche.
    Miss Rickerby-Carrick was, as Troy had feared she would be, excessive. She shook Dr Natouche’s hand up and down and laughed madly: “Oh-ho-ho,” she laughed, “how perfectly splendid.”
    Mr Pollock kept his hands in his pockets and limped aside thus avoiding an introduction.
    Since there seemed to be nothing else to talk about Troy hurriedly asked Dr Natouche if he had come by the London train. He said he had driven up from Liverpool, added a few generalities, gave her a smile and a slight inclination of his head, returned to the river and walked for some little distance along the wharves.
    “Innit marvellous?” Mr Pollock asked of nobody in particular. “They don’t tell you so you can’t complain.”
    “They?” wondered Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Tell you? I don’t understand?”
    “When you book in.” He jerked his head towards Dr Natouche. “What to expect.”
    “Oh, but you
mustn’t
!” she whispered. “You
mustn’t
feel like that. Truly.”
    “Meant to be class, this carry-on? Right? That’s what they tell you. Right? First class. Luxury accommodation. Not my idea of it. Not with that type of company. If I’d known one of that lot was included I wouldn’t have come at it. Straight, I wouldn’t.”
    “How very odd of you,” said Mr Bard lightly.
    “That’s your opinion,” Mr Pollock angrily rejoined. He turned towards Troy, hoping perhaps for an ally. “I reckon it’s an insult to the ladies,” he said.
    “Oh, go along with you,” Troy returned as good-naturedly as she could manage, “it’s nothing of the sort. Is it, Miss Rickerby-Carrick?”
    “Oh
no
. No. Indeed, no.”
    “I know what I’m talking about,” Mr Pollock loudly asserted. Troy looked nervously at the distant figure on the riverage. “I own property. Once that sort settles in a district—look—it’s a slum. Easy as that.”
    “Mr Pollock, this man is a doctor,” Troy said.
    “You’re joking? Doctor? Of what?”
    “Of medicine,” Mr Bard said. “You should consult your passenger-list, my dear fellow. He’s an MD.”
    “You can tell people you’re anything,” Mr Pollock darkly declared. “Anything. I could tell them I was a bloody earl. Pardon the French, I’m sure.” He glared at Troy who was giggling. The shadow of a grin crept into his expression. “Not that they’d credit it,” he added. “But still.”
    The young man on the motor-cycle sounded a derisive call on his siren. “
Taa
t’—ta ta ta.
Ta-Taa
.” He and his girl-friend were looking towards the bend in the river.
    A river-craft had come into view. She was painted a dazzling white. A scarlet and green houseflag was mounted at her bows and the red ensign at her stern. Sunlight splashed her brass-work, red curtains glowed behind her saloon windows. As she drew towards her moorings her name could be seen, painted in gold letters along her bows.
     
    M.V.
Zodiac
.
     
    The clock in a church tower above the river struck twelve.
    “Here she is,” Mr Bard said. “Dead on