Mr Hockley abandoned his attempt to squint over his left shoulder and looked in the direction indicated by Hoole.
“Those are vests, laddie. Of course they’re mine. Why else do you think I’ve never ailed anything?”
His second made a face expressive of the utmost disapproval. “Never, never, my dear sir, fight a duel with wool next to the skin. The ball will carry half a yard of the wretched stuff into the wound.”
Purbright, while aware that his authority was being disgracefully flouted by the calm continuation of this illicit training session, was strongly tempted to satisfy his personal curiosity on certain points.
“Hence, I presume,” he said to Hoole, with reference to the optician’s assertion, “the loose silk shirts one sees in pictures of duels. They were not favoured simply on account of their romantic aspect?”
“Indeed, no,” declared the expert. “A severely practical precaution. And the looser the shirt, of course, the more difficult for one’s adversary accurately to delineate his target.”
“Ah,” said the inspector, pleasantly enough to encourage Mr Hoole to distil further wisdom.
“I personally tend,” Hoole continued, “to the view of the Bois de Boulogne school. It always favoured the tight, black, high-collared morning coat as presenting the narrowest target possible and the most difficult to sight against a dark background, such as a wood.”
The mayor was showing signs of finding these refinements tiresomely irrelevant to the task in hand. He came up and clapped his second and the inspector on the shoulder and said something about a wee dram.
“One hears,” said Purbright to Hoole, on the way back to the house, “references to ‘paces’ in duelling. At what distance do they...did they, rather...actually fire at each other?”
“Mmm...paces, yes. Ah, well, anything from ten to fourteen paces will answer. A pace being three feet. The poorer one’s marksmanship, the shorter a distance one should choose. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” echoed Purbright.
“That dratted scribbler,” put in Mr Hockley, with devastating contempt, “can choose half a mile, gentlemen. Half a mile. I’m telling you. And listen—I’ll still make him wish he’d never set foot in this little old bailiwick, believe me!” And he blew into the paper barrel of his proxy pistol as zestfully as a moss trooper.
In the mayor’s parlour, whisky and glasses had been placed in readiness—presumably by Mrs Hockley, for a thick woollen sock had been stretched sacrilegiously over the bottle. The mayor whipped it off, looked about him irresolutely for a moment, then stuffed the sock into a jar of candied fruits, lately presented to his lady by Gosby Vale Women’s Institute. The bottle he rubbed hastily with his sleeve before unscrewing the cap and sluicing a generous measure of Glenmochrie into the three tumblers.
Mr Hockley raised his own drink. “Powder and blood!”
Not even his abettor found himself able to respond to this ferocious toast. Mr Hoole murmured diffidently and took the tiniest of token sips at his liquor. For the inspector, it clearly was time to make an unequivocal statement of policy. Sadly, he moved his drink a little aside—into reserve, as it were—and addressed the mayor.
“I’m sorry, Mr Alderman, but this really must not go any further. You know perfectly well—as does Mr Hoole here—that what you propose, or pretend to be proposing, is against the law. Neither the chief constable nor I believe that you have any intention to harm Mr Grail. We appreciate that you are making a gesture—a dramatic gesture—in pursuance of genuinely held principles. But it must stop at that. Now, then, Mr Mayor, if you will give me your assurance to that effect, we can enjoy this friendly drink and go our ways. What do you say, sir?”
For some moments, the mayor appeared to be considering Purbright’s proposition with great solemnity. The inspector, who had been slightly taken aback by his own eloquence, awaited a sign that he might now drink his Glenmochrie with an easy conscience. Mr Hoole said nothing, but continued to smile at his fingers as if they were a class of favourite pupils who had just been subjected to a nonsensical disquisition by a visiting lecturer whom he would shortly discredit.
Mr Hockley, dark with resolution, champed portentously several times and then said: “Aye, I realize that you’re doing what you consider your duty, inspector, but there’s something that I don’t think you realize. The whole town’s up in arms over this Sunday Herald business. I tell you, I’ve not known anything like it in all my years on the council. Hey”—he jabbed the mayoress’s favourite coffee table so hard with his forefinger that whisky from Purbright’s glass jetted forth and began to dissolve its surface polish—“do you know that my telephone has scarcely stopped ringing since yesterday morning? It’s the truth that I’m telling you: the whole town...”
Purbright held up his hand. “Mr Mayor, I am not contesting that the article in the paper has caused resentment. You may well feel that your official position obliges you to lend a voice to that resentment. But this is not a frontier town in nineteenth-century America, Mr Mayor, and you are not a sheriff. If Flaxborough can be said to have such a person, I suppose it’s me. So now let us have no more talk of shooting people. Agreed?”
Mr Hockley shook his head so vehemently that Purbright fancied he could hear his jowls flapping.
“Never!” the mayor declared, and downed his whisky in one. “This has got to go forward to a finish. You can lock me up if you like, inspector” (the thought of so outlandish and embarrassing an expedient had never entered Purbright’s head) “but you cannot stop the ratepayers knowing the truth.” Suddenly he looked slyly pleased with himself. The television people, he confided, were coming along that very afternoon to interview him.
Oh, Christ, the inspector reflected, they bloody would be, wouldn’t they. There would be no holding this maniacal Rob Roy now. He glanced in despair at the optician. Mr Hoole’s pince-nez were reflecting light in such a way that it could not be determined whether his eyes were open or closed. But there was no mistaking his smile.
“Good day, gentlemen.” Purbright had risen and half turned away. He felt a little like the visitor to a closed ward in a psychiatric hospital who notices for the first time that none of the doors has a handle on the inside.
Mr Chubb received the inspector’s report in gloomy silence. Then, “I feared as much,” he said, which was not strictly true because he had not previously given the matter enough thought to feel anything more than mild curiosity.
“We could seek a court injunction, sir.”
“Against our own mayor, Mr Purbright? Oh, come now. There has been enough dreadful publicity already without our inviting more.”
Purbright pursed his lips and rubbed the side of his nose. “Judge in chambers?”
The chief constable shook his head. “The trouble with this chap Hockley is that he sees grievances everywhere. Very Scottish, you know. They haven’t our capacity to reach reasonable settlements.”
“Do I take it, then, sir, that we are to remain officially neutral? The position might be difficult to justify subsequently if somebody does actually get hurt.”