Detective Inspector Purbright was well aware that there was no need for him to be bothered with reports of mundane misdemeanours. What the desk sergeant had described softly over the telephone as “a simple case of bishop-flashing, by the sound of it” clearly came into that category. Yet the lady had asked most particularly to see him. It would be discourteous to refuse, so long as she wasn’t plumb crazy. And no, the sergeant assured him, she did not seem to be that: she was Miss Cannon, who used to sing for the Operatic. Ah, yes, said Purbright, of course (dear God, that Indian love call!). He’d come down to her.
In the bare little interviewing room next to the cupboard where the constables’ wet weather capes were stored, Miss Cannon told her tale.
The light-headedness which had been evidenced the previous night by the eruption in her mind of the line from Gray’s Elegy afflicted her no longer. She gave a prosaic, if gaunt-faced, account of the distressing spectacle at “Primrose Mount” and said that she was quite prepared to testify when the police brought the case to court.
Purbright acknowledged at once that Miss Cannon was being very public-spirited in the matter. She would realise, no doubt, that it could be a distressing experience to undergo cross-examination in cases of that kind.
“If,” the inspector added after he had massaged the back of his neck and stared thoughtfully at his finger ends, “a case does, in this instance, exist.”
“I don’t quite see what you mean, inspector. I have told you what I saw. Surely you are not going to suggest that”—she sought the right word—“that exhibitions of that sort are allowed?”
“As exhibitions, no, probably not. But I rather fancy that those responsible were no more eager for you to see what they were doing than you were anxious to be a spectator. Intention, you see—that is important.”
“Someone might not intend to commit murder,” observed Miss Cannon coldly, “but that would be small comfort to the victim.”
“I take your point, Miss Cannon, but the fact remains that homicide and indecency involve differences of definition. You tell me, for instance, that both these men were, as the phrase goes, exposing themselves.”
“They most certainly were!” Miss Cannon’s indignant emphasis dashed whatever hope Purbright might have entertained that she was actuated merely by maidenly delusion.
He nodded sagely. “Yes, well, the law concerning that sort of behaviour contains the words ‘with intent to insult a female’. Two questions arise. One—did you feel insulted, Miss Cannon?”
“Of course I did.”
Purbright raised a hand and tilted his head slightly. “Are you quite sure? Disgusted, perhaps. But insulted? Think.”
Miss Cannon had a suspicion that the wrong answer could be subject to unseemly interpretation. “Both,” she said.
“The second question,” said Purbright, “is this. Did those men intend to insult you? Did they even know you were there?”
“Really, I cannot speak for them.”
“Precisely. You do see, don’t you, that these matters are not always as simple as they might appear.”
She stared at him. “If I didn’t think I knew you better, Mr Purbright, I should suspect that you are trying to make light of what I saw going on last night.”
“Certainly not. Acts of public indecency are still taken very seriously by the courts.”
“As they ought to be.”
There was a pause. Then Purbright said: “Policemen are very fond of saying that their job is to enforce the law, not to justify it. You might think that that is too easy a let-out, but I fancy that life for all of us would become much more unpleasant if every policeman were to be issued with a sort of moral truncheon.”
The Mounties in “Rose Marie”, Miss Cannon reflected, had never talked like this. She sighed. Purbright saw that his argument had merely perplexed her. He hitched his chair nearer and spoke quietly.
“It was a nasty experience for you. I do understand. Look—leave it with us now. We’ll make some more inquiries. But remember that laws are pretty specific things. They’re rather like dog leashes.”
And with this happily conceived simile was Miss Cannon’s faith in authority restored. She went out into Fen Street humming “a policeman’s lot is not a happy one”.
By mid-day, the mysterious irrigation system of Flaxborough gossip was pouring into its main channels descriptions of the Partney Avenue orgy that made Miss Cannon’s account sound like an expurgated extract from Louisa May Alcott.
Of the dozen or more girls said to have taken part, eight at least had been confidently identified. Several were fourth- and fifth-year pupils at Flaxborough High School and included the daughters of prominent local tradespeople. A lady in Jubilee Park Crescent, nearly a quarter of a mile from “Primrose Mount”, was the source of the pungent intelligence that a second batch of girls had been delivered in a car bearing CD plates. Someone else had been vouchsafed a display of nude leapfrog and had heard cries in a foreign tongue, he thought Asiastic, possibly Chinese.
Inspector Purbright, knowing his fellow citizens, inclined to the view that most of the tales were of subjective rather than objective significance.
“Nine-tenths wishful thinking, Sid,” he declared to Detective Sergeant Love, who had been impressed by the volume and sensational nature of the evidence.
Love belonged to that type of cheerful and preternaturally youthful-seeming men who join police forces simply because they want to be with the goodies. In eighteen years’ service, his natural guilelessness, like his rubicund complexion, had remained inviolate. Purbright was very fond of him, and supposed that he would have been revered as a holy man had he been born into one of those societies which equate idiocy with sanctity.
“I don’t see why people should wish things like that to be happening,” said the sergeant. “Not unless”—he tried out a gay dog grin—“they’re hopeful of being invited up.”
Purbright had not the heart to pass on his finding, based on long observation, that the most diligent discoverer of sin in others was the chronic harbourer of a desire to do likewise.
“What do we know about old Hatch?” he asked instead.
Love considered, then began to catalogue.
“He’s a bit of a big noise. He used to be an alderman on the council until they did away with them. Building contracts were what made his money, but they reckon he’s doubled it up in the last three years with that club of his on Hunting’s Lane. We did him for being drunk in charge in, let me see”—Love gazed aloft and sucked air through pouted lips—“aye, 1965. They say he’s still a Mason, but Bill Malley reckons he was unfrocked, or whatever they do to them, when he was caught fiddling the quantity surveys for that memorial chapel he built for them. He owns a racehorse and a yacht...”