"Yes, sir."
Then to the other two men: "Venables, Ashworth-come!"
He led the girl and the two policemen to a stile in the hedgerow that surrounded the field and climbed over it into the lane beyond. As they proceeded toward nearby Pipers End, three specks appeared in the sky behind them: more rotorchairs arriving from London.
They traipsed on until, forty minutes later, they arrived at the Cat in the Custard and were shown up to the private sitting room.
"Hello, old fellow!" said Burton, shaking Honesty's hand. "I want you to listen to what Trounce has to tell you. It will sound incredible but, believe me, every word is true. We must act fast and we're relying on you."
Honesty nodded curtly and sat in the chair to which Trounce gestured.
Burton guided Sister Raghavendra out of the room and down into the empty parlour.
"Sadhvi," he said, placing his hands on her upper arms. "You said you would like to help. You can. But I may be placing you in harm's way."
"No matter," she replied eagerly. "Tell me what I must do."
Later that morning, a flower seller, wearing a red cloak with a hood, entered Old Ford village and started calling from door to door. It was late in the season and her basket contained only magnolias, hydrangeas, geraniums, a makeup kit, and a pistol.
Business was not good. She made few sales, though all the villagers were friendly. One, a retired soldier who introduced himself as "Old Carter the Lamp-lighter," informed her that she was the most exotic of the blooms.
Eventually, she came to a cottage at the bottom of the hill on the western edge of the village. There were two bobbies standing guard outside and one blocked her path and refused her entry.
She whispered a few words to him.
He nodded, spoke softly to the second constable, then the two men strolled away and didn't come back.
Ignoring the bellpull beside the gate, the flower seller passed through and walked along the short path to the front door. She knocked upon it and, a few moments later, it opened.
A short conversation followed.
The flower seller entered the cottage.
The door closed.
Twenty minutes later, it opened and she stepped out. She walked down the path, out through the gate, and back through the village.
Her basket contained magnolias, hydrangeas, and geraniums.
Old Carter the Lamp-lighter was sweeping the road in front of his house.
"Sold much?" he asked as she passed.
She shook her head and hurried on.
"Funny," he mumbled. "The exotic bloom seems to have faded."
As she exited Old Ford along the south road, a man detached himself from the shadow of a tree and wandered along some distance behind her.
A little while later, the flower seller arrived at the Cat in the Custard in the neighbouring village of Pipers End and sat in the parlour, waiting. The man who'd followed her entered.
"Miss Pipkiss?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered nervously.
"I'm Detective Inspector Trounce. I can assure you that you're quite safe now."
Alicia Pipkiss pulled back her hood. Her dark skin was much paler around the edges of her hairline and behind the ears and back of the neck.
"Can I wash this makeup off?" she asked.
A deep and mellow voice from across the room said, "I'll ask the landlord to heat some water for you."
A man had entered. He was big and had a fierce, scarred face that was bruised and cut.
"Hello, Alicia," he said. "I'm Captain Richard Burton. I'm working with Scotland Yard."
She nodded.
"I have to ask you a rather personal question. I hope you don't mind."
She swallowed and shook her head.
"Alicia, do you happen to have a birthmark? Something shaped like a rainbow?"
Alicia Pipkiss cleared her throat and put down the basket of flowers.
She looked up into Burton's eyes.
"Yes," she said. "As a matter of fact, I do."
Back in the cottage in Old Ford, Mrs. Jane Pipkiss nee Alsop, onetime victim of Spring Heeled Jack, handed her guest a cup of tea.
Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra accepted it with a smile and placed it on the table next to her chair.
She sat and waited, the tea at her side, a pistol in her hand.
The hundred and eleven men of Letty Green village met on the cricket field at lunchtime to discuss the strange state of the sky. It was filled with streamers of white vapour that were coming in from the south, veering to the west over the little settlement, and dropping groundward to the east.
"It's comets, that's what it is!" claimed one.
"You mean meteors!" corrected another. "And they don't turn in the sky like what these 'uns are doing!"
"Maybe these 'uns are a new sort!"
"Maybe you ain't got no brain!"
The discussion went back and forth for half an hour until it was suggested that they head out of the village to see where the trails of vapour ended. This plan was immediately approved and, arming themselves with shovels and garden forks, broom handles and walking sticks, and the occasional blunderbuss and flintlock, the mob swarmed out of Letty Green, climbed the hill to the west, and stopped dead on its brow. The field below them was filled with rotorchairs.
"What in heaven's name is going on here?" muttered the villager who'd somehow emerged as the leader of the crowd.
He led them down the lane until they came to a stile that gave access to the field. A man, standing beside it, smiled at them.
"Good day, gentlemen," he said. "I'm Constable Krishnamurthy of the Metropolitan Police-and I have just become a recruiting officer!"
Old Carter the Lamp-lighter had never seen so many strangers in the village. More particularly, he'd never seen so many well-dressed strangers. And even more particularly, he'd never seen so many well-dressed strangers carrying paper bags in one hand, canes in the other, and with small rucksacks upon their backs.
It occurred to him that the road needed sweeping again.
Five minutes later he nodded his head at a smart, paper-bag-carrying stranger and said, "Good day!"
The man nodded haughtily, flourished his cane, and walked on.
Fifteen minutes later another one appeared.
Old Carter the Lamp-lighter nodded at him and said, "Good day! Fine weather, hey?"
The man looked him up and down, muttered "G'day!" and pushed past.
When the next appeared, Old Carter the Lamp-lighter stood in his path, grinned broadly, raised his cap, and said breezily, "How do you do, sir! Welcome to Old Ford! You've picked a fine day for a stroll! What's in the bag?"
The man stopped and looked at him, taken aback. "I say!" he exclaimed.
"I do too!" agreed Old Carter the Lamp-lighter. "I say it's a lovely day to go for a walk with a paper bag under your arm! What's in it? A picnic, perhaps?"
"Why, yes, that's it-a picnic! What!" exclaimed the stranger, and made to move away.
"Up your arse!" said the bag.
The two men looked at it.
"Sandwiches?" suggested Old Carter the Lamp-lighter.
"Parakeet," mumbled the stranger, sheepishly.
"Ah, yes. Training it, perhaps?"
"Yes, that's right. Training. Seeing how fast it can fly back to London, what!"
"Gas-belcher!" announced the bag.
"Is it a convention?" asked Old Carter the Lamp-lighter.
"A con-con-a what?"
"A convention, old bean. A gathering of the Oft-Spotted Parakeet Trainers of Old London Town? I say, you're not the chaps who teach 'em how to swear, are you?"