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.”
“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