Nothing Ventured(5)

As they continued on their round, several local people acknowledged Fred, and some even said good morning to William.

When they returned to the nick a couple of hours later, Fred didn’t bother to report young Tomkins to the desk sergeant, as he felt the same way about paperwork as he did about modern police practice.

“Feel like a cuppa?” said Fred, heading toward the canteen.

“Warwick!” shouted a voice from behind them.

William turned round to see the custody sergeant pointing at him. “A prisoner’s collapsed in his cell. Take this prescription to the nearest chemist and have it made up. And be quick about it.”

“Yes, Sarge,” said William. He grabbed the envelope, and ran all the way to Boots on the high street, where he found a small queue waiting patiently at the dispensary counter. He apologized to the woman at the front of the queue before handing the envelope to the pharmacist. “It’s an emergency,” he said.

The young woman opened the envelope and carefully read the instructions before saying, “That will be one pound sixty, constable.”

William fumbled for some change, which he gave to the pharmacist. She rang up the sale, turned around, took a packet of condoms off the shelf, and handed it to him. William’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He was painfully aware that several people in the queue were grinning. He was about to slip away when the pharmacist said, “Don’t forget your prescription, constable.” She passed the envelope back to William.

Several amused pairs of eyes followed him as he slipped out into the street. He waited until he was out of sight before he opened the envelope and read the enclosed note.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am a shy young constable, who’s finally got a girl to come out with me, and I’m hoping to get lucky tonight. But as I don’t want to get her pregnant, can you help?

William burst out laughing, put the packet of condoms in his pocket, and made his way back to the station; his first thought: I only wish I did have a girlfriend.





3


Constable Warwick screwed the top back onto his fountain pen, confident he had passed his detective’s exam with what his father would have called flying colors.

When he returned to his single room in Trenchard House that evening, the flying colors had been lowered to half mast, and by the time he switched off his bedside lamp, he was sure he would remain in uniform and be on the beat for at least another year.

“How did you do?” the station officer asked when he reported back on duty the following morning.

“Failed hopelessly,” said William, as he checked the parade book. He and Fred were down to patrol the Barton estate, if only to remind the local criminals that London still had a few bobbies on the beat.

“Then you’ll have to try again next year,” said the sergeant, unwilling to indulge the young man. If Constable Warwick wanted to wallow in self-doubt, he had no intention of rescuing the lad.



* * *



Sir Julian continued sharpening the carving knife until he was confident blood would run.

“Two slices or one, my boy?” he asked his son.

“Two please, Father.”

Sir Julian sliced the roast with the skill of a seasoned carver.

“So did you pass your detective’s exam?” he asked William as he handed him his plate.

“I won’t know for at least another couple of weeks,” said William, passing his mother a bowl of brussel sprouts. “But I’m not optimistic. However, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m in the final of the station’s snooker championship.”

“Snooker?” said his father, as if it were a game he was unfamiliar with.

“Yes, something else I’ve learned in the last two years.”

“But will you win?” demanded his father.

“Unlikely. I’m up against the favorite, who’s won the cup for the past six years.”

“So you’ve failed your detective’s exam and are about to be runner-up in the—”

“I’ve always wondered why they’re called brussel sprouts, and not just sprouts, like carrots or potatoes,” said Marjorie, trying to head off another duel between father and son.

“They started life as Brussels sprouts,” said Grace, “and over the years the ‘B’ became small, and the ‘s’ disappeared, until finally everyone has come to accept brussel as a word, except the more pedantic among us.”

“Like the OED,” suggested Marjorie, smiling at her daughter.

“And if you have passed,” said Sir Julian, refusing to be distracted by the etymology of the brussel sprout, “how long will it be before you become a detective?”

“Six months, possibly a year. I’ll have to wait for a vacancy to arise in another patch.”

“Perhaps you’ll go straight to Scotland Yard?” said his father, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not possible. You have to prove yourself in another division before you can even apply for a job at the holy grail. Although I will be visiting the Yard tomorrow for the first time.”

Sir Julian stopped carving. “Why?” he demanded.

“I’m not sure myself,” admitted William. “The super called me in on Friday and told me to report to a Commander Hawksby at nine on Monday morning, but he didn’t give any clue why.”