“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.”
“Hawksby … Hawksby…” said Sir Julian, the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced. “Why do I know that name? Ah yes, we once crossed swords on a fraud case when he was a chief inspector. An impressive witness. He’d done his homework and was so well prepared I couldn’t lay a glove on him. Not a man to be underestimated.”
“Tell me more,” said William.
“Unusually short for a policeman. Beware of them; they often have bigger brains. He’s known as the Hawk. Hovers over you before swooping down and carrying all before him.”
“You included, it would seem,” said Marjorie.
“What makes you say that?” asked Sir Julian, as he poured himself a glass of wine.
“You only ever remember witnesses who get the better of you.”
“Touché,” said Sir Julian, raising his glass as Grace and William burst into spontaneous applause.
“Please give Commander Hawksby my best wishes,” added Sir Julian, ignoring the outburst.
“That’s the last thing I’m going to do,” said William. “I’m hoping to make a good impression, not an enemy for life.”
“Is my reputation that bad?” said Sir Julian, with an exasperated sigh worthy of a rejected lover.
“I’m afraid your reputation is that good,” said William. “The mere mention of your name in the nick evokes groans of despair, with the realization that yet another criminal who should be locked up for life will be set free.”
“Who am I to disagree with twelve good men and true?”
“It may have slipped your notice, Father,” said Grace, “but women have been sitting on juries since 1920.”
“More’s the pity,” said Sir Julian. “I would never have given them the vote.”
“Don’t rise, Grace,” said her mother. “He’s only trying to provoke you.”
“So what is the next hopeless cause you will be championing?” Sir Julian asked his daughter, thrusting the knife in deeper.
“Hereditary rights,” said Grace, as she took a sip of wine.
“Whose in particular, dare I ask?”
“Mine. You may well be Sir Julian Warwick Bt, but when you die—”
“Not for some time, I hope,” said Marjorie.
“William will inherit your title,” continued Grace, ignoring the interruption, “despite the fact that I was the firstborn.”
“A disgraceful state of affairs,” mocked Sir Julian.
“It’s no laughing matter, Father, and I predict that you’ll see the law changed in your lifetime.”
“I can’t imagine their lordships will readily fall in with your proposal.”
“And that’s why they’ll be next in line, because once the Commons realizes there are votes in it, another sacred citadel will collapse under the weight of its own absurdity.”
“How will you go about it?” asked Marjorie.
“We’ll start at the top, with the Royal Family. We already have a life peer willing to present a primogeniture bill to the House, which would allow a woman to succeed as monarch if she was the first born, and not be pushed aside by a younger brother. No one has ever suggested that Princess Anne wouldn’t do as good a job as Prince Charles. And we’ll cite Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Victoria, and Queen Elizabeth II to prove our case.”
“It will never happen.”
“In your lifetime, Dad,” Grace repeated.
“But I thought you disapproved of titles, Grace,” said William.
“I do. But in this case it’s a matter of principle.”
“Well, I’ll support you. I’ve never wanted to be Sir William.”
“What if you became commissioner, and earned it in your own right?” said his father. William hesitated for long enough for his father to shrug his shoulders.
“Did that poor young woman you were defending last week manage to get off?” Marjorie asked Grace, hoping for a break in hostilities.
“No, she got six months.”
“And will be out in three,” said her father, “when she will no doubt go straight back on the street.”
“Don’t get me onto that subject, Dad.”
“What about her pimp?” asked William. “He’s the one who should be locked up.”