The Londum Omnibus Volume One

By Tony Rattigan

The Omnibus edition of the Londum Series containing the first three novels. Collected here for the first time in one volume. Set in an Alternate Victorian England, called Albion.

Rufus Cobb, Adele Curran and Jim Darby are the lead characters in a series of books – The Londum Series. Set in an alternate Victorian Era, they recount the adventures of Rufus Cobb, a private detective, his lady friend, Adele Curran (who just happens to be a witch) and Jim Darby, who is a jewel-thief and conman ... but whose crimes strangely only seem to benefit the poor. Cobb and his friends live in the city of Londum, in the country of Albion, the centre of the British Empire.

This book contains the novels:

Split Infinity: In an alternate Victorian England named Albion, Rufus Cobb, part time private detective, full time drunk, is having a rough time. Once a respected police officer at Caledonia Yard, he is now reduced to tracking lost dogs and unfaithful spouses to make ends meet. And just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.
Hired by his old enemy, Marcus Quist, to find his missing daughter, before the case is through Cobb will have to face witches, immortals, oriental bodyguards, dangerous foreign monks and mythical monsters. Oh yes, and his cat hates him, as well.
Destiny conspires to saddle Cobb with the most important case of his life, well anybody’s life come to that. The fate of the Universe may depend on Cobb. Good job the pubs stay open late.
And who is killing all the clowns?

Hair of the Dog: During a state visit to Albion, the Great Seal of Pils-Holstein is stolen. Private detective Rufus Cobb is called in by Caledonia Yard to recover the Seal and avoid an international incident.
Meanwhile, a werewolf is stalking the East End of Londum, cold bloodedly killing its innocent victims (and some not so innocent ones).
Are the two things connected?
Cobb and Jim Darby are sent to Pils-Holstein by the British Government to put an end to the werewolf menace once and for all but does Darby have his own agenda?
Stuck between the werewolves on one side and the Jim Darby on the other, with no one to watch his back, Cobb finds that things can get decidedly ... hairy!

The Speed of Dark: It’s a pretty risky thing to travel to another Universe and rescue someone that you don’t even like and generally isn’t a recommended course of action.
However, against his better judgement, Rufus Cobb is persuaded to do so by a beautiful woman. (Women eh?) Little does he know what he’s letting himself in for.
Before he’s finished, he will find himself fulfilling someone’s centuries old prophecy in an oppressed country, which may seem somewhat familiar. Captured by the Black Guard and subjected to the Castilian Questioning by the Grand Questioner himself, Torquelauda, Cobb is responsible for igniting a revolution that will lead to the freedom of all Angleland. (Where? I hear you ask. Well, read the book and find out.)
And as if that wasn’t enough, having a showdown with the Gods themselves is enough to keep anyone on their toes. And talking of toes ... did I mention the one-legged man?
It’s all in here ... Love, Death, Sex, Violence, Destiny ... and many other words!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Rattigan
• Release date: Sep 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465886347

Tony Rattigan

After 22 years in the Royal Air Force, 5 years in the National Health Service and 10 years at one of the UK’s largest charities, Tony decided he’d done enough for Queen and Country and he was about due some ‘me’ time.Consequently he took early retirement in 2010 to work on his writing. He lives in Oxfordshire UK with his Albatross and a pet monkey. (No, not really. That’s just a vain attempt to sound interesting.)Rufus Cobb, Adele Curran and Jim Darby are the lead characters in a series of books – The Londum Series - written by Tony Rattigan. Set in an alternate Victorian Era, they recount the adventures of Rufus Cobb a private detective, his lady friend Adele Curran (who just happens to be a witch) and Jim Darby who is a jewel-thief and conman ... but whose crimes strangely only seem to benefit the poor. Cobb and his friends live in the city of Londum, in the country of Albion, the centre of the British Empire.

Book preview

Prologue

Everyone wonders how the Universe started. How it all began.

Before the Beginning there was nothing … well nothing physical that is. Just long endless nights of stygian blackness with no sound, no warmth, no life.

But there exist other realities, other levels of existence (some even with adequate parking).

In one of these realities, the total blackness, the total nothingness coalesced here and there into, well … less than nothingness. In certain spots the darkness became slightly less dark, the emptiness became … slightly less empty. There was a long pause and then, where there had never been any sound before, there was a whisper …

‘What’s the hold up?’

‘I’m just reading the instructions.’

‘It says … light the blue touch paper and retire!’

‘All right, all right, don’t rush me. Okay, who’s got the matches?’

There was a course of muttering before some … er … thing produced a box of matches from its sleeve.

‘Okay, everyone stand well back, it’s meant to be a Big Bang!’

Every … thing present put fingers they didn’t have, into ears they didn’t have, and moved well back.

There was a brief pinpoint of light then everything went BRILLIANT WHITE! There was a huge ear-splitting explosion.

In that moment Existence was created. Life, the Universe and … (oh no, that’s been done hasn’t it?). But, well … basically, Creation as we know it, began. From nothing, the Universe sprang into being. All the matter that was to become the planets and the stars and the comets and asteroids and all the empty bits in between, came into existence in that single nanosecond.

Somewhere in the background, the things that weren’t there, rubbed hands that they didn’t have, together, with satisfaction. But … as the Universe had only just been invented, none of them had heard of Robbie Burns’ saying, ‘The best laid plans of Mice and Men … and er, Things, often go awry’.

No one quite knows why, but suddenly there was a second huge, ear-splitting explosion.

This second explosion caused the newly born Universe and the freshly created Space/Time Continuum that it resided in, to be shattered into countless streams, each one almost identical.

The result was multiple parallel Universes, each one subtly different from the next.

That is what reality is like. There are multiple Universes … a Multiverse, with streams that exist parallel to each other, almost but not quite, the same as the one either side of it. History, as you know it, will have been played out somewhat differently in those alternate Universes, although they may contain the same basic elements that you would recognise.

For example … there are worlds where Elvis really is dead, worlds where England really did win the Second World War and became a prosperous and powerful nation. Worlds where the MAN NEXT DOOR DOESN’T PLAY HIS STEREO LOUDLY AT 2 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING WHEN I’M TRYING TO WRITE! (Sorry … sorry … got carried away there.)

Anyway, the point I’m making is … these multiple Universes exist, they are there, you are living in one now. So are countless other versions of you in countless other Universes. All living out their lives determined by how they react to the multiple chances and choices that are open to them.

In one Universe, a version of you pulls up to the traffic lights in an expensive car, somewhere else; you are the bum washing the windscreen on the expensive car that has just pulled up at the traffic lights. One of you turns left and finds a five-pound note, another one of you turns right and gets arrested for jaywalking. One of you gets married; another one of you lives a happy and purposeful life.

Myriad Universes, myriad possibilities, and you are living all of them. So am I. Even the guy next door with the ster … oh, never mind.

This story takes place in one of them. It may even be your Universe. Who knows? See if you recognise it.

Sausage and Tips

Let’s take a look at one of those Universes. In it there is one particular solar system that we are interested in. Nine planets circling a medium sized sun.

Moving in closer still we focus our attention on the third planet from this sun. In any decent science fiction series it would be called Sol 3 or Terra but here the inhabitants came up with the startlingly unimaginative name … Earth. (Must have taken them weeks to think of that one!)

But, despite the uninspired name, this is an interesting planet. Maybe the walls are thinner between dimensions in this Universe. Maybe this is where all the clean, tidy, sensible Universes dumped all the odd bits they didn’t want from their own Universe, but whatever the reason, this is a place where Magick exists, where supernatural forces have power, where strange beasts live.

Perhaps this is the place that people’s dreams visit when they write stories of elves and dwarves, trolls and vampires. This is the sort of planet where, when the ancient mapmakers wrote Here Be Dragons on the unknown bits of their maps, they weren’t being entirely fanciful.

Let’s take a closer look at this Earth. There is a large continent in the middle, over on the right of that continent is an area known as Asya. Running across Asya, standing proud above the surrounding countryside, there is a range of mountains known as the Hermesetas. It is here that our story begins, high in those mountains, in a secret valley. Hidden for thousands of years, it harbours a deadly secret.

***

It was a clear, cold night in the Hermesetan Mountains. There was not a cloud in the sky and the full moon shone brightly, illuminating the whole valley.

Although it was winter in the Hermesetas, it hadn’t snowed for a couple of days and the surface snow had hardened, so it crunched under the feet of the monk as he made his way up the narrow mountain path. It was a well-trodden path, as it led to a narrow pass through the mountains, the only way in and out of the hidden valley. The outside world was entirely unaware of the secret valley and its inhabitants and they had dwelt there peacefully, undisturbed for thousands of years.

The monk paused at the entrance to the pass, to get his breath. He was standing on a large flat outcrop, jutting out from the cliff face. He pulled his robes tight around him to try and counter the bitter winter cold.

He looked out across the valley. With the covering of snow and the canopy of stars, it looked just like a Christmas card (not that he knew what a Christmas card was, that was a different religion). Down in the valley, the lights of the village gathered around the temple from which the monk had come, as if they were huddling together for warmth.

It was an incredibly calm night, not a breath of wind. It was so quiet you could have heard a Yeti fall down a mountain miles away and the monk fancied he could hear voices floating up from the village on the still night air but that was probably just wishful thinking, a subconscious desire to maintain some contact with the home that he had left for the last time. It had never looked so beautiful to him.

He stood there, drinking in the picture and it wasn’t just the cold that made his eyes sting.

‘Have you got it?’ said a voice behind him.

The monk turned round slowly, ‘Yes, I’ve got it’. He looked at his questioner; the man had a Mediterranean complexion and dark, slicked back hair. He was quite a handsome chap and was dressed in a clown’s costume made out of red and white diamond patches. The jacket he wore had ruffled collar and cuffs, the trousers came down to just below his knees and on his legs he wore long, white stockings. Completing the ensemble was a pair of black, silver buckled shoes. Totally unsuitable clothing for this kind of weather and terrain but the wearer did not seem the slightest bit bothered by the sub-zero temperature.

‘Let me see it.’

The monk noticed that when the man spoke no cloud of vapour came from his mouth, as it did when the monk breathed out. The monk reached into his robes and withdrew an ornately carved, wooden box, some six inches long. He flipped open the lid and held it out.

The man reached out to touch the object contained in the box but hesitated before making contact and then withdrew his hand completely, as if afraid. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

‘Yes … why is it that the most beautiful things are sometimes the most dangerous?’ replied the monk, philosophically. They both stared silently into the box for a while.

Finally the monk broke the silence, ‘You do realise that by stealing this, I am betraying everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever stood for? My good name, my honour will be shattered. I can never go back to the village, so my family will have to bear the shame of my guilt, without ever understanding why I did it.’

‘I know,’ said the other man gently, ‘but you have to believe me, I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was absolutely necessary.’

‘So you said, I just hope you’re telling the truth.’

‘I have a feeling that it won’t be long before you find out the truth for yourself and then you will understand that your sacrifice was not in vain.’

‘Let’s get this over with then,’ said the monk, closing the box and putting it back in its hiding place, inside his robes.

‘I’ve checked, they are waiting at the other end of the pass for you. Don’t forget to get the gold from them.’

‘I’ve already told you, I don’t want the gold, I’m not doing this for the money.’

‘I know, I know,’ said the other man, soothingly, ‘but it’s important that they think you are. Otherwise they may get suspicious.’

‘Very well then, lead on.’

‘I’m not going with you. They may have lookouts and I can’t risk them seeing me. They’re expecting you to be alone.’

‘Okay, I’ll be going then. Will I see you again?’

‘Soon … soon. Good luck!’

The monk took one last look at the village in the valley and headed into the pass. It was about a mile long, just a deep crevasse between two vertical walls. At some point in the distant past, a geological upheaval had split one of the mountains surrounding the valley in two, leaving this narrow passageway between the two halves, barely wide enough to drive two carts through, side by side. Not that you could drive a cart through it, as it was littered with broken rocks and the only way to transport anything in or out of the hidden valley was by the use of pack animals.

He picked his way between the rough, snow-covered rocks until he reached the other end of the pass.

They were waiting there for him, a small group of men gathered around a fire that had been built at the entrance of a large, open-fronted tent. The tent allowed the heat from the fire to build around them but still enabled them to watch the entrance to the pass. The monk could see four men but he reasoned there were probably a few more hiding in the rocks, watching the proceedings. As he approached the tent, the occupants picked up their rifles and casually pointed them in his direction.

The monk could see that three of the group were local mountain men. Their facial characteristics and clothing gave away the fact that they were native to the Hermesetan Mountains, as was the monk. He had seen men like this before on his secret forays into the outside world.

The fourth man, obviously the leader, stood and went forward to meet him. He was only of medium height but a barrel of a man. Wrapped up in the layer of furs that he wore, he was almost as wide as he was tall. He was Cantonese, with a round, moon shaped face. His slit of a mouth was topped off with a small, toothbrush moustache.

‘You have item?’ asked the Cantonese man.

‘Do you have the gold?’ asked the monk.

The Cantonese waved to one of his associates who came forward carrying a leather satchel. He opened it up and the gold coins glittered in the moonlight.

‘Very well then,’ said the monk and withdrew the box from inside his robes. He handed it to the Cantonese then held his hand out to the other man for the leather satchel.

The Cantonese opened the box and checked the contents. Satisfied, he nodded to his associate, who handed over the satchel of gold coins to the monk.

As the Cantonese shouted to his men to pack up the tent and break camp, the monk backed away slowly, wary of treachery.

One of the other members of the group came forward and raised his rifle, drawing a bead on the monk. The Cantonese saw what he was doing, grabbed the rifle and twisted it, forcing the rifleman to his knees in agony, as his index finger was still trapped in the trigger guard. ‘We do deal, he honour deal,’ he said pointing at the monk, ‘you no kill.’

‘But he’s getting away, with the money! We shouldn’t leave any witnesses!’ gasped the man.

A hefty boot caught him in the side of the head and knocked him unconscious. The Cantonese stood over him and although he could not hear, hissed at him, ‘We do deal, he honour deal. You no kill!’

When his men had finished packing up the camp, they came to him and when they looked down at the unconscious man questioningly, he indicated they should load him onto one of the pack animals and take him with them.

The monk made his way slowly back through the pass until he reached the entrance to the valley. He looked around him, the man he had spoken to earlier was nowhere to be seen. With a heavy heart the monk stood on the edge of the outcrop, looking down into the valley. He took in the view of his home village one last time. He had been born and raised there. Apart from occasional visits to the outside world, he had lived his entire life in that valley, protecting a sacred trust. As his father had before him, and his father, and his father, and so on. And now he had betrayed that trust.

When the spring came they would probably find his body, he just hoped that they would have the sense to take the gold and put it to good use. After all, some good might as well come of this shameful episode.

After a few moments spent kneeling in prayer the monk stood up, took a deep breath and then stepped off the edge of the outcrop.

The man in the red and white costume materialised on the outcrop and looked over the edge. ‘Ouch,’ he said to himself, ‘that’s gotta hurt.’ But he wasn’t really as cynical as he sounded, because he knew that very soon now, the monk would be in that place where all questions are answered, where all truths are known. Where all crimes are punished ... and where all debts are re-paid.

The monk would indeed understand the necessity of what had occurred tonight and the importance of his role in it. Hopefully that would be some small consolation for what he had given up, for what he had been asked to do. ‘I guess we owe him one,’ said the man. He took one last look around the valley and then disappeared.

***

Six months later in Londum, the capital of Albion.

Rufus Cobb reached consciousness and opened his eyes. AND IMMEDIATELY SHUT THEM AGAIN!! The pain was unbelievable. He tried to remember what had happened to him. He remembered being in a public house, The Rat and Trumpet, where he had been asking questions about a case he was working on. Now he was lying here in agony.

What had happened? He could only imagine that his questions had annoyed somebody and ruffians had set upon him as he left the bar. They had left him for dead in the alley that ran down the rear of the pub.

His head was lying on something uncomfortable, it was cutting into his neck. Slowly he edged his hand up the side of his head until he felt something metallic. What was it? A dustbin lid perhaps? That must be it. They must have beaten him with a dustbin lid and that accounted for the severe head pains. A fractured skull maybe? His body ached all over.

All round his head, neck and shoulders felt damp. A warm liquid, it felt like his blood, covered the floor around his head.

OOF! Something heavy landed on his chest. His eyes jerked open and he was staring into the eyes of a cat.

He stared back at the cat. It was his cat, Lucifer What was his cat doing in the alley behind the Rat and Trumpet? Now that his eyes were fully open he looked around him. What was his kitchen clock doing hanging in the alley outside the Rat and Trumpet? Come to that, why did the alley have a roof?

Cobb held his wet hand in front of his face and examined it. If it was covered in blood, then the blood must have been lying around for a long time, because all of the colour had drained out of it, it was clear.

He groaned in pain and realisation as the truth about last night slowly began to creep into his mind. He had been in the Rat and Trumpet, he had been asking questions. But they were more of the kind … ‘Can I have another drink?’ … ‘Who are you calling drunk?’ and … ‘What do you mean you won’t serve me anymore??’

After being unceremoniously ejected into the alley behind the Rat and Trumpet, he had staggered home only to pass out on the kitchen floor, with … he checked to make sure … yes … with his head resting in the cat’s water bowl. The contents of the bowl had spilled onto the floor and his body heat had warmed it to room temperature.

What felt like a fractured skull was actually a God-awful hangover. Damn! That meant he was still alive.

He brushed Lucifer off his chest. The cat hissed at him and slunk out of the kitchen. The cat wasn’t really named Lucifer. It was only Cobb’s name for him. It had been his wife’s cat. Cobb and the cat had always hated each other; he’d only tolerated it for the sake of his wife. There had always been a feud between the two of them which, since his wife’s death, had levelled off into an uneasy truce.

Cobb dragged himself painfully into a standing position, staggered out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the bathroom. He ran a basin full of cold water and plunged his face into it. When he could hold his breath no longer, he pulled his head out of the water and gasped lungfuls of air.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Rufus Cobb, one time Metropolitan Police inspector, pride of Caledonia Yard, now private detective and drunk, not necessarily in that order. The face that stared back had seen better days. His eyes looked like two Rissoles in the snow. Still in his early forties, his brown, collar length hair was showing too many grey ones. They were even there in his moustache and sideburns. His eyes, when they were not bloodshot as they were now, were a blue-grey colour.

Cob had one of those hangovers. You know the sort; the one’s where at first you’re afraid you’re going to die. Then later, you’re afraid that you’re not going to. He poured himself a glass of water and poured two packets of Dr. Livingstone’s Pain Relief Powder into it. He gulped it down greedily and rinsed the glass out. He staggered into the bedroom and managed to get his clothes off before collapsing on the bed. He slowly crawled under the bedclothes and laid his head on the pillow. Across the room Lucifer stared at him malevolently from the top of the chest of drawers.

Sometime later Cobb had a dream. He was standing on a cricket pitch. He looked around him, it seemed that he was at Lourdes cricket ground in Londum but it was empty except for, he noticed, someone standing at the far wicket. It was a clown. Red nose, baggy trousers, big boots, all the trappings. The clown was standing there holding a cricket bat. Cobb looked down and realised that he was holding a wicker basket full of eggs. For no other reason than it seemed like a good idea, Cobb began to bowl the eggs to the clown. As each one sailed through the air towards him, the clown would swing the cricket bat and smash the egg. Then he would shout to Cobb, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, you know!’ Cobb bowled until the basket was empty. The clown threw the bat in the air and then ran off laughing. At that point Cobb woke up. This was not the first time he had dreamt that same dream but he had no idea what it meant.

It was probably triggered by the newspaper stories recently. There had been several occurrences of clowns dying in unusual incidents, lately. A few of the tabloid papers were even beginning to suggest that there was some sort of plot against clowns in general. Cobb thought this theory was absurd. Only a fool would suggest that somebody was going around, murdering clowns!

***

The biggest current attraction in Londum for residents and tourists alike was the Great Exposition in Hyde Park. It was a grand celebration of the best the British Empire had to offer. It showcased the countries around the globe, where the British had gone in and stolen the coun- … er, I mean … gone in and liberated the native populations from their oppressive regimes.

Housed in a large glittering building of metal and glass like a huge conservatory, it was lit by one of the exhibits that was being displayed for the first time on a large scale, electric lights. The press dubbed this glorious structure the Glass Palace.

But it didn’t just exhibit the Empire’s finest; Albion’s trade partners had come from all over the world to show off their country’s wares. From the inscrutable, oriental country of Canton came silks and spices, jade carvings and delicate, finely painted furniture and screens.

Also on display was the opulence of the Maharajas of Albion’s Colony of Bharat, the diamonds, the elephant statues, the art, not to mention the foods that were fast becoming a staple of the English diet, curries, tikkas and poppadoms.

There were skins from tigers and lions, ivory and gold, warrior head masks and spears from the mysterious Dark Continent Afreeka, into which the white man was only beginning to make inroads.

From across the ocean there were displays from Amerigo’s finest gun manufacturers such as Winchester, Springfield and Samuel Bolt, inventor of the world famous Bolt 45 (which is where the expression He’s shot his Bolt comes from).

The Great Exposition was open to the general public, rich and poor alike and they flocked to it in their thousands. In and around the Glass Palace swarmed the tourists, taking in the sights. Taking advantage of this captive audience were street vendors selling all manner of fast food, some even recognisable. There were street performers aplenty, jugglers, acrobats, stilt-walkers etc. all cashing in on the crowds drawn to the biggest attraction in the Empire.

Across the other side of Hyde Park was Dingaling’s Circus. Fresh from their triumphant tour of the continent, where they had performed before the Crowned Heads of Europe. (Or so their signs claimed.) They had lion tamers, high-wire acts, acrobats, performing seals; they even had a real, live Werewolf who would transform in the ring and then perform tricks.

(Werewolves were always a big draw as there were none in Albion ((well, not since the big outbreak in Surrey in ‘05 and the quarantine regulations had stopped that from happening again)). They were commonly only native to those obscure, mountainous countries of Europe, whose names usually ended in –stein or -ania.)

And of course … they had clowns!

***

Later that day as Cobb slept, four clowns squeezed into their tiny carriage behind a small steam engine, outside the marquee at Dingaling’s Circus. They were about to go into the main circus ring to re-enact their daily battle with water and custard pies for the entertainment of the paying public.

As they saw the previous act coming out of the main marquee (Wallace and his Amazing Tap Dancing Horses!) Coco, the leader of the troupe, released the brake on the engine gears. This ignited the fuse leading to the sticks of dynamite wired underneath the steam engine.

The resulting explosion was a technicolour delight as hot coals, pieces of engine, brightly coloured flags and bits of garish clown’s costumes and wigs (and clowns) shot in all directions. Unfortunately, the Amazing Horses were less than impressed by this visual extravaganza and panicked. In their frenzy, they managed to tap dance all over Wallace, before bolting across the park with the hapless Wallace in tow.

***

Cobb got up later that afternoon. He saw that Lucifer the cat had left him a little present in one of his shoes (of the sort that they usually bury in the litter tray when they’ve finished). Cobb must have forgotten to feed him before he went out last night and he was making his displeasure known.

After having a bath and something to eat, Cobb wandered into his office. When he had started out as a private detective, he had converted the front room of his house into an office where he could see his clients. It kept down his running costs as it avoided the expense of hiring a separate office.

He sat there for a while in his shirtsleeves, reading the daily paper and sipping a cup of coffee when there was a knock at the front door. He wasn’t really in any mood to entertain visitors but he put the paper down and went to the door.

Standing there was a small, weaselly character that Cobb knew well. His name was Willy Templeton, a small-time pickpocket and thief. Cobb had arrested him on a few occasions during his time on the force. Willy had an amazing ability to steal things. It was as if they were drawn to him by magnetism. He seemed to be able to walk through a room with his hands in his pockets and leave the other side with his pockets bulging. But apart from being an excellent thief, Willy was a harmless soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

‘Willy? What do you want?’ asked Cobb.

‘Afternoon Mr. Cobb. I wondered if I might have a word? Got a little problem.’

‘So tell the Samaritans, what’s it got to do with me?’

‘Well, it’s a kind of private detective, kind of problem. Sort of.’

While Willy was talking, Cobb had been looking up and down the street and had spotted a young woman watching them, twisting her handkerchief nervously in her hands. ‘Who’s your lady friend?’ he asked Willy.

‘That’s my sister, that’s who I want to talk to you about, she’s in trouble and I thought you might be able to help.’

Against his better judgement, Cobb relented and said, ‘Okay then, bring her in. But Willy … you keep your hands in your pockets and touch nothing.’

‘It’s not my fault Mr. Cobb, honest. It’s a medical condition I’ve got, you see. I’ve been studied by doctors and everything. The doctors say I’m a … what did they call it? A Calypsomatic, that’s what I am!’ said Willy, almost proudly.

‘What … you mean you play dance tunes automatically?’

‘No, it means that I can’t help stealing things.’

‘I think you mean a Kleptomaniac, don’t you?’

‘Yes Mr. Cobb, that’s it!’ He waved to his sister and she came across the street, to join them. Cobb ushered them into his office, he made sure he stayed behind Willy all the way so he could watch him.

Cobb offered them two chairs that were in front of the desk then he sat down behind his desk, facing them. ‘Okay, go ahead, what’s this all about?’ he asked them.

‘This is my sister Mary, she’s a good law abiding girl is our Mary, never been in trouble with the police, never been in the business as it were. But she’s got in a bit of trouble with her landlord. Go on Mary, tell Mr. Cobb all about it,’ he urged.

Mary sat there, still twisting her handkerchief. She was a slim, mousey creature but she had done better than Willy in the looks department when the family genes were being handed out. ‘Well Mr. Cobb, you see it’s like this, I work as a seamstress for a nice lady who owns a dress shop, Mrs. Miller. There’s just me and my little girl, the father’s not around anymore and it’s very hard to make a living when you’re an unmarried mother. But Mrs. Miller was very kind to me and gave me a job, she dotes on my little girl she does, as she doesn’t have any children of her own.

‘Anyway, accommodation is hard to find in Londum but I managed to find a place over on Cheapside. It’s expensive despite the name but I could just about afford it and have a little left over for food. Now Mrs. Miller is going to close the shop and retire to some place up north. She wants me to go along with her and be her housekeeper, she’s willing to have me and the child live with her. It would be a great opportunity for my little girl, a chance to get away from all this and have a new start.

‘The problem is with my landlord, Mr. Jarse. I kept my rent payments up to date but when I told him I would be leaving soon, he put the rent up and backdated it by several months. He says the rent went up in July but he’d been letting me off with it. But he says that now I’m going, I’ve got to pay that back rent. And he also says he’s been treating it as a loan so that now I have to pay him the interest on it as well.’

‘He’s a Loan Shark you see Mr. Cobb as well as owning property,’ chipped in Willy.

‘Yes, thank you Willy, I think I get the picture,’ said Cobb. ‘So how much does Mr. Jarse reckon that you owe him?’

‘He says I owe him fifty pounds,’ answered Mary, on the verge of tears now. ‘I can’t raise that sort of money. There’s no one I can borrow the money from. I can’t ask Mrs. Miller, I’m afraid that if she found out about the trouble I’m in, she wouldn’t want me to move away with her.’

‘Well, I sympathise of course but how exactly do you think I might be able to help?’ asked Cobb.

Willy answered for Mary, ‘I was thinking that maybe you could have a word with Mr. Jarse. Persuade him to see reason. Use your influence. I’d pay you.’

‘Willy, I’m not muscle for hire. I’m not going to go round there and threaten him and as for influence, I’m afraid I don’t have any influence since I left the force. I don’t see what I can do. Besides, I’m sure you know some people who would be willing to have a strong word with Mr. Jarse, why come to me?’

‘Please Mr. Cobb; my sister has a chance to have a fresh start in life. The last thing I want to do is get her involved in something criminal. This has to be done all business like and legal. All you have to do is ask Mr. Jarse to forget about the interest. I can probably raise the back rent myself. Will you at least speak to him? If I went myself he’d just throw me out of the office. It’ll be different coming from you, he’ll listen to you.’

Cobb was about to throw Willy out of his office, and then Mary gave a little sob and wiped her eyes. Cobb felt sorry for her and her child. He could appreciate the attraction of having a fresh start. She seemed a decent woman, despite who her brother was, and she deserved a break. ‘All right, tell me where I can find him and I’ll go round and have a word with him. But that’s it. If he says no, then there’s nothing I can do. Okay?’

‘Thank you Mr. Cobb, thank you, His name is Jarse and he has an office in Soho, Wendover Street. There’s a name plaque on the wall outside the building, you can’t miss it.’

‘Very well, I’ll take a trip over there and speak to him but I make no promises.’

‘No, that’s fine. That’s all we want. Like I said, I’ll make it worth your while Mr. Cobb.’

‘Willy, do you really think I would take anything you’d have to offer? It’s almost certainly stolen.’

‘No Mr. Cobb, I mean I can pay you with information.’

‘Go on,’ said Cobb, intrigued.’

‘I know some men who are going to knock over a jewellers. Armed robbery in broad daylight. Interested?’

‘I might be, tell me more.’

‘The jewellers is Winkelhoff in Marcham Street.’

Cobb said, ‘Is that his name or a description of his condition?’ Willy didn’t get the joke but Mary sniggered.

Cobb shoved a pen and paper towards Willy, ‘Write down everything you know about it, I’ll see Jarse and then we’re even. Okay?’

‘Yes Mr. Cobb, thanks.’ He scribbled on the pad for a minute and then slid it back to Cobb.

Cobb stood up to show them out of the house, as they left his office he said, ‘Willy, could I have a moment, please?’

Willy motioned to Mary to go on ahead. She let herself out of the front door and closed it behind her.

Willy looked at Cobb, expectantly.

Cobb held out his upturned hand.

Willy reached into his pocket and removed an ornament, which he placed in Cobb’s open hand. ‘Sorry Mr. Cobb, force of habit, I didn’t mean anything, honest. This won’t stop you helping Mary will it?’

‘No … that’s all right Willy, I’ll still do it.’

Cobb let Willy out and then looked at the ornament he was holding. Cobb had noticed it was missing when he had stood up to let them out. It was one of his wife’s and it sat on the mantelpiece behind where Cobb had been sitting. He would swear that Willy had never crossed the room or even taken his hands out of his pockets except to write down details of the robbery. The guy was incredible.

***

Next day, Cobb slept in until mid-morning. After Willy and his sister had left, Cobb had spent a quiet night in with a bottle of brandy. At first he couldn’t remember what he was meant to be doing that day, after a night on the Milk of Amnesia his memory was a little fuzzy. Then it came back to him, he had an appointment.

After dressing, Cobb fed Lucifer and then let himself out of the house. He decided to walk to his destination to clear his head, it wasn’t that far and he had plenty of time.

Cobb walked along Baker Street and stopped outside 221B. This well-known establishment was visited from people all over Londum in their time of need. He had something to do today and he needed to call in here first to get what he required. He paused for a moment and stared across the street at a new shop then turned back to 221B.

The sign outside the establishment read,

Soames and Woodson

Family Butchers

Cobb didn’t like using this shop. One of the proprietors, Burlock Soames, was a frustrated amateur sleuth and because he knew that Cobb was a detective, always used to bore Cobb with his theories about the latest crimes he had read about in the papers. Cobb hated coming here but he was meeting a friend later and it was Cobb’s turn to buy something for lunch. Besides, it was the best butchers in the neighbourhood.

As Cobb walked through the door, Woodson was asking, ‘What sort of school did you say that your nephew was going to?’

‘Elementary, my dear Woodson,’ replied Soames. ‘Ah, good morning Mr. Cobb always a pleasure to see you and how may we help you today?’

‘Morning Mr. Soames, I’d like a pound of your Venison and Wine sausages please.’

‘Woodson, some sausages for our customer please.’ Turning back to Cobb he asked him, ‘Have you read the papers today Mr. Cobb? Terrible business about those clowns being killed, isn’t it? That makes twelve so far, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m not really sure, I haven’t been following it that closely,’ replied Cobb, trying to avoid getting dragged into a lengthy conversation.

‘I’ve been discussing it with my colleague Mr. Woodson and I’ve developed a theory.’

‘Oh … really?’ said Cobb as uninterestedly as he could.

‘Yes, you see there have been twelve clowns killed so far, in a manner of bizarre fashions, ranging from impaling on an umbrella to choking to death on a rubber chicken. Now, some of these killings were obviously the work of several men, after all, one man couldn’t have forced Mr. Chuckles through that industrial mangle by himself.’

With that awful feeling of dread, not unlike the one that makes you stare at a bad accident even though you don’t want to, Cobb was unable to resist asking, ‘So who do you think did it then?’

‘Well, everybody loves clowns!’ said Soames. Cobb didn’t, he’d always found then rather creepy for some reason. Soames continued expounding his theory. ‘So it would have to be somebody who feels threatened by them. A threat to their livelihood perhaps? A rival group of clowns!’

‘I’m sorry … what?’ said Cobb, astonished.

‘A rival group of clowns, perhaps from another circus. They are eliminating the opposition, leaving them the only game in town.’

‘I think that’s a little far-fetched,’ said Cobb.

‘May I remind you of the murder of The Amazing Lampwick And His Dog Trixie. You know, the one that was found in his lodgings, hanged with his own balloon animals. His fellow lodgers said they heard no unusual noises that night. I would draw your attention to the curious incident of the dog.’

‘Curious incident?’

‘The dog Trixie, didn’t even bark. Now why wouldn’t the dog react to being surrounded by strangers, unless they were the type of people she was used to being around and felt at home with … other clowns. Yet the dog did nothing! That was the curious incident!’ he ended triumphantly.

Cobb stared blankly at Soames for a moment and then asked, ‘Are my sausages ready yet?’

‘Woodson, the sausages if you please!’ snapped Soames, annoyed at Cobb for not appreciating his cleverness.

‘Coming Soames, coming,’ said Woodson as he ambled through from the rear of the shop.

As Cobb paid for his purchase, the shop door opened and Soames’ delivery boy came in. ‘Ah Wiggins,’ said Soames, ‘into the back with you, lad. There’s a pile of deliveries to go out, Woodson will show you what’s to go where.’

‘How’s your new delivery boy working out?’ asked Cobb.

‘He’s a little irregular but we’ll soon teach him the ropes.’

Cobb left the shop, glad to be out of there. He often wondered if Soames was on Cocaine or something, given the nature of the exceedingly bizarre theories that he came out with. Cobb looked across the road at the sign that was being raised above the new shop.

Murriarty’s Fine Meat Emporium

That was going to give Soames and Woodson trouble in days to come, figured Cobb.

***

Cobb walked towards the bookshop, down the narrow, cobbled street called Trenton Mews. It was an old shop, a glass paned door with bay windows either side. The sign above the door read:

Antique Book Shop

Proprietor: Thornton Wells

Cobb had known Thornton Wells as long as he had known his wife Esme; he was Esme’s father, Cobb’s father-in-law. Thornton was also a widower (his wife had passed away before Cobb came on the scene) and he and Cobb had maintained their links since Esme had died. Thornton had no other children, Cobb had no one else, and so they kept in touch, not only through affection and respect but also a combined sense of loss for the same woman, Esme. They also both liked a good drink.

The bell hanging above the door tinkled as Cobb entered the shop. He looked around him at the neatly arranged display of books. As usual, there were no customers. It wasn’t an ordinary bookshop but one devoted to rare antique books and first editions. Very much a rich and exclusive clientele. Not the sort of place where people wandered in off the street and browsed, looking for the latest Charles Pickens novel or the Collected Works of William Shortstraw, Albion’s greatest playwright.

(Charles Pickens was an exceedingly popular novelist of the time. His gritty, realistic, tales of life in contemporary Londum were seen by some as biting social comment on the grinding poverty of the masses, in comparison to the lives of the over privileged and wealthy. Others just bought them for their steamy, salacious adult content, masquerading as criticisms of society’s injustices. Whatever the reason, they sold in the thousands, for Pickens had discovered that marketing truth … Sex Sells!

Amongst his classic bestsellers were: David Cop a’ Feel, Little Dorrit does Dallas, The Old Prophylactic Shop, Hard Times and Cruel Mistresses, Our Mutual Disease, Oliver’s Wrist ((that was a one off)) The Mystery of Edwin’s Droop and his latest, an expose of prostitution, The Sale of Two Titties.)

Thornton Wells had owned the shop as long as Cobb had known him but he hadn’t always been a shop owner. It was apparent from past conversations with Cobb that Thornton had retired from some other occupation to take up running the antique bookshop. Cobb had never been able to find out exactly what that other occupation was. When he had asked Thornton directly about it, he had received a vague reply about Thornton having been, Something in the Foreign Office.

In the early days of Cobb’s relationship with Esme, Cobb had developed an interest in Thornton Wells’ history. (After all, he was beginning to like Esme a lot, and he didn’t want to find out he was falling for the daughter of someone with a dodgy past.) Therefore he had made a few discreet enquiries through his friends in Special Branch at Caledonia Yard. Back had come the reply, ‘We can’t find out anything useful about him. He had worked for the Foreign Office but in what capacity no one admits to knowing. Seems he was some sort of freelancer. However, everyone speaks very highly of him. Say he’s a good man to have around in a tight spot. Whatever that means!’

At this point, Cobb had let the matter drop. He had found out all that he needed to know, the man was trustworthy and reliable, and that was good enough for him. Thornton’s history was his own affair. (However, this point of view hadn’t stopped Cobb from firing off a loaded question or two, from time to time, when they were both shall we say, relaxed after a bottle or six of wine. But Thornton had never opened up; proclaiming instead, ‘Read my memoirs dear boy, read my memoirs.’)

Thornton came through from the back of the shop, in response to the bell. ‘Ah, Cobb my good fellow, welcome.’ Cobb didn’t like being called Rufus, he had only let Esme call him that. Everyone else was told to just call him Cobb.

Thornton was definitely of the old school. Always polite, always charming, always well dressed. A handsome, distinguished man whose silvery-grey hair and beard, although a sign of age, just seemed to add to his presence instead of diminishing it. ‘Ready for lunch?’

‘I’ve brought some sausages,’ said Cobb. ‘Venison and Wine. It meant I had to go to that butchers again but I know they’re your favourites and he’s the only one that does them.’

‘Very considerate of you. What was today’s theory?’

‘Something about some clowns and a dog, I didn’t listen too closely.’

Thornton walked to the front of the shop, locked the door and turned the sign to Closed. Taking the sausages from Cobb he led him through into the room at the rear of the shop. It was a small drawing room with a built in kitchen. Thornton actually had a luxurious apartment several streets away but this was a comfortable enough room to enjoy lunch. Thornton began to prepare the sausages. ‘I’ve opened some wine,’ he said indicating the table, where several bottles of red wine were waiting.

Cobb saw a book lying open on the table; Thornton had obviously been reading it when Cobb had arrived. Out of idle curiosity Cobb turned it over and read the title. He recognised the name of the book but he had never read it himself. It was a famous book by an ancient general from Canton, named Sun-Dae.

(Thousands of years ago, the famous Cantonese general, Sun-Dae had written this book containing all his acquired wisdom about the art of warfare. It was still read in Cobb’s time by military men as a guide on how to conduct war, both on and off the battlefield. Modern day business entrepreneurs had even adopted its tactics as a guide to conducting commercial negotiations. It was entitled How To Win Wars And Influence People.)

Cobb poured himself a glass of wine, took a big swig and grimaced.

‘You’re supposed to let it breathe for a while,’ said Thornton.

‘Never mind breathe … I think this one needs The Kiss Of Life,’ retorted Cobb.

‘Well, you don’t expect me to waste the good stuff on you, do you? You’re an alcoholic.’

‘No I’m not. I’ve told you before … I’m a drunk.’

‘The difference being?’

‘Alcoholics go to meetings.’

‘Well, whatever you call it, don’t you think it’s time you did something about it?’

‘Everybody’s got to have a pastime.’

‘But you’re killing yourself, old boy.’

‘Yep, that’s the plan,’ replied Cobb, amicably. ‘Besides, you’re not on the shy side when it comes to sinking a few bottles of Vino Collapso yourself. You can match me bottle for bottle.’

‘That’s different; I’m an old man, no point in keeping myself healthy. Might as well indulge myself and go out with a smile on my face, that’s what I say. You however, are a young man with a bright future behind you.’

‘Drink, don’t drink … what’s the difference?’

‘It’s the difference between going to sleep at night or passing out. It’s the difference between waking up in the morning instead of just coming to. I’ve seen it happen to some good men. Why do you want to live your life like that?’ Having said his piece, Thornton busied himself serving up the sausages onto plates.

Cobb said nothing and continued to stare at the pictures on the wall. They were mostly of Thornton in various guises, in what appeared to be a number of foreign countries, shaking hands with some Very Famous People. Once again Cobb wondered about Thornton’s past but knew he wouldn’t get anywhere if he asked him, so he put the thought aside and sipped his wine.

‘What are you up to today?’ asked Thornton.

‘I thought I’d go down to the Dancing Ferret, they’ve got a beer drinking contest on today,’ replied Cobb.

‘Do you think you’ll win?’

‘When you take part in a sporting event like that Thornton, it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose … it’s how drunk you get that counts.’

Thornton brought the freshly cooked sausages to the table on two plates accompanied by masses of bread and butter and they both sat down to eat.

Thornton filled up the glasses again and they tucked into their lunch with gusto (or maybe it was relish … it was that thick, dark, chunky stuff, anyway). But they ate in an uneasy silence.

When they had finished, Thornton took the plates away, returned to the table and lit a cigar. Cobb, who didn’t smoke, stared silently into his glass. They sat quietly for a few moments, Thornton stroking his Van Dyke beard as he studied Cobb.

‘Esme wouldn’t like what you’ve become, you know,’ said Thornton, gently.

‘If she was here now, I wouldn’t be like this,’ replied Cobb.

‘Look, Esme was killed in that accident. Okay, it shouldn’t have happened and I curse the Gods that it did but we have to go on,’ said Thornton. ‘I do understand what you are going through, you know. In my life I have lost both my wife and my daughter. No parent should have to bury their children, there is something fundamentally wrong with that in nature. But unfortunately, for those of us who are left behind, life goes on and we have to deal with it, however painful that may be.’

‘So, what are you saying, I should get a hobby?’ said Cobb.

‘No, you should get a life! Or at least get back the one you threw away. If you think giving up the police force and trying to drink yourself to death is the only answer, you should think again.’

‘Depends what the question is, I suppose.’

‘You were one of the brightest stars in the police force, an inspector by the age of thirty-four. Then you just went to pieces after Esme’s death. That’s why they threw you out.’

‘There were differences about policy decisions. I left on principle.’

‘You were thrown out because you started risking your life and the lives of your men on dangerous stunts. Nobody in their right mind leads a charge on a house full of armed men when all you have are truncheons to defend yourselves.’

‘That was a dangerous hostage situation, people’s lives were in danger! The point is we resolved the situation.’

‘Yes but two of your men were injured. And then there was that time you arrested that big fellow in Kensington. Built like a wrestler. It took three of you to bring him down.’

‘He was a dangerous, armed robber,’ responded Cobb.

‘But you didn’t know that until you got him back to the station. You were arresting him for riding a bicycle with no lights!’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I have friends in high places,’ replied Thornton cryptically.

‘Anyway, I got a commendation for that,’ said Cobb, defensively.

‘That was only because it would have been too embarrassing for the force to discipline you.’

Cobb grudgingly asked, ‘What’s your point?’

‘You became too reckless for the force, it got so that none of your men would follow you on your Death-Wish campaign, and so they kicked you out. Then you resolved to drink yourself to death. Not made too much of a success of that either, have you?’

‘These things take time, you know. Roma wasn’t built in a day.’

‘And what are you doing now? Private detective. Lost dogs and divorce cases. You have one of the finest deductive minds I have ever come across and you waste it like this.’

Cobb shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and stared into his glass.

‘I have to say this Cobb, it’s time to pull yourself together, cut down on your drinking and make a proper detective of yourself. Esme has been gone for five years now, it is time to get over it and move on with your life. Even think about finding another woman maybe.’

‘How can you say that? She was your daughter!’ said Cobb, shocked.

‘Yes and that’s how I know it’s what Esme would have wished for you. She wouldn’t expect you to mourn her for the rest of your life. She would want you to be happy.’

‘Happy? … yes, I remember happy. Esme made me happy but I’m sorry I don’t do happy, anymore.’

‘Then I pity you. Esme’s death wasn’t your fault you know, you tried to save her.’

‘Managed to save myself though didn’t I?’ said Cobb, bitterly.

‘But you tried to save her, you can’t be blamed because she made the wrong move.’

Cobb finished his drink and stood up. ‘I should go now.’

As Cobb headed into the shop Thornton called after him, ‘Cobb … wait.’ Cobb stopped but didn’t turn around.

‘Since you married Esme you’ve become like a son to me,’ said Thornton. ‘I don’t want to have to bury you too.’

Cobb didn’t respond, just headed through the shop, unlocked the door and went out into the street.

***

After leaving Thornton’s shop, Cobb wandered round the streets of Londum, not wanting to go home, mulling things over. He found himself sitting on a bench on the Embankment, looking across the River Isis towards the Houses of Parliament. On one of the hoardings along the embankment there was a recruiting poster for the Metropolitan Police, It’s More Than Just a Job, It’s an Adventure! it proclaimed. Cobb thought back to his time in the Met, yes it had been an adventure back then, when life had meant something to him.

The famous 18th century poet and lexicographer Samuel L. Jackson had said, ‘When a man is tired of Londum, he is tired of life’. Boy, Cobb was tired of Londum.

By the Gods, he missed Esme. She had been his life. Cobb was an orphan; both his parents had died tragically during Cobb’s birth. (Don’t ask … it’s a long story.) Esme and Thornton had become his family. So her passing was even more of a loss to him.

When she was killed by that runaway horse and carriage, his life had ended in the same moment. But he knew that he could have saved her.

From an early age, Cobb knew that he had a gift. In this strange Universe some people, even though they were not witches, practitioners of Magick, they could still do things like see the future, divine for water, predict weather, that sort of thing. Cobb was one such person; he had discovered that he had the power to see occasionally into other Universes. There was no pattern to it and it happened spontaneously but from time to time Cobb would find himself turning a corner and staring at a street scene that was not part of the world around him.

He had seen things that defied explanation, carriages that travelled along with no horses pulling them. Of course they had steam trains in Cobb’s world but these carriages were small, four wheeled things that didn’t travel on tracks. He had also seen flying vehicles and strange, tall buildings that reached to the sky. At first he thought he was going mad but occasionally they were actual breakthroughs from these other worlds. There were instances of people and these strange horseless carriages intruding into Cobb’s world. These incursions had been witnessed by many people, even photographed, and the worlds scientists, backed up by the world’s leading Magicians had acknowledged that there were indeed alternate Dimensions or Universes.

And then one day, to Cobb’s horror, he found that he could actually shift between his dimension and other ones. To begin with it was only in times of extreme stress or danger that it would somehow occur; he couldn’t do it at will. The first time was when, as a young policeman on the beat, someone had pointed a gun at him and fired. Something welled up inside Cobb and he just sort of pushed. The next thing he knew, he was standing in a strange street he had never seen before. Without really thinking about it he walked a few paces forward and pushed again. He came back to where he had left but now he was standing behind the gunman, who he clubbed to the floor, with his truncheon.

The next time was when he was chasing a burglar across a roof one dark and rainy night. Cobb had slipped on the wet tiles and as he slid down the roof towards the ground, it had happened again. He found himself in another place, stuck up a tree, on a dry, sunny day. (Which was lucky really as he could have ended up in mid-air.) He had climbed down to the ground and then shifted back to find himself down on the street, watching the criminal escape over the rooftops.

Over time, he found by practising he could sometimes make it happen at will but never consistently enough to rely on it happening when he needed it. Besides, there was no telling where he might end up, so it wasn’t something he wanted to overindulge in.

He had never told anyone about it until he married Esme, then he told her everything.

And then came the fateful day of Esme’s accident. They had been walking together through one of Londum’s parks when a runaway horse and carriage had bolted around the corner behind them. Cobb only had a split second to act. He had grabbed Esme by the shoulder and shifted but Esme had turned to stare at the horse bearing down on them and inadvertently twisted out of Cobb’s grasp. Cobb landed in another park, somewhere else. With a cry of anguish he realised he was alone and shifted back but it was too late. Esme’s broken body lay crumpled on the ground, a group of people gathering around her. He could have saved her! He should have saved her! It was his fault she was dead.

After the funeral he had told Thornton about his ability to jump between dimensions and how he was responsible for Esme’s death but Thornton would have none of it, refusing to accept it was Cobb’s fault. But that did not stop Cobb blaming himself.

Cobb sat on the Embankment watching the barges going up and down the Isis. Eventually, he realised that he was beginning to sober up so he roused himself and went and found a pub.

Cobb sat in the public house staring into his glass of brandy, uneasy about his conversation with Thornton. Thornton was right of course. After Esme’s death Cobb had taken to the bottle and, slowly coming apart at the seams, he had begun to risk his life in a series of dangerous situations. After being invited to leave the police force, he had resolved to sit around drinking himself to death. Unfortunately for his plan, his stamina and recuperative powers had outlasted his meagre savings.

He drew a small pension from the force, which paid for the rent on his house, but he still needed money to survive and pay his drinks bill. So he had