Bob stepped forward. Sir Simon took the dingy cloak from his arm.
“Do you receive the robe and hat of office?”
“I receive the robe and hat of office,” said Herbert. This was not strictly accurate, however, for no sooner had Sir Simon draped the robe round Herbert’s bony shoulders than it fell off again. Herbert made a grab at it, thereby lowering his head at the exact moment when Sir Simon was endeavouring to place the hat on it. The effect was unfortunate. In the end, it was George Riddle who retrieved both robe and hat from under the table. Nobody laughed. For all the idiocy of the proceedings, Berrybridge took its mayor seriously.
When at last Herbert was suitably robed and be-hatted, Sir Simon cleared his throat again. The high spot of the ceremony was clearly at hand. With a sinking heart, Henry saw Colin and Hamish exchange glances. The latter nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“And finally,” declaimed Sir Simon, with a parsonical intonation, “finally, receive the chain, the badge and mark of your—”
He got no further. There was a clatter at the far end of the table as Colin stood up. In a ringing voice, he said, “I object.”
“Oh, God,” muttered Rosemary.
“Bloody fool,” said Alastair, under his breath.
In a stunned silence, Colin strode up to the head of the table. Sir Simon, who had raised the chain in his hands, preparatory to slipping it over Herbert’s head, stood petrified by sheer astonishment. On Herbert’s face, incredulity and fury struggled for supremacy. Colin turned to the assembled company and said, conversationally, “This inauguration is a fake. The election was rigged.”
This was too much for the citizens of Berrybridge. Almost as bad as the implication that the election was fraudulent was the fact that bets had already been paid out. Angry voices broke out. Sir Simon put the chain down on the table, and said, coldly, “That is a very serious accusation, Mr. Street. What do you mean by it?”
Colin was enjoying himself. He appealed for, and got, silence. Then he said, “There are forty-seven registered electors in Berrybridge. Herbert got sixteen votes, Bill got fourteen, Ephraim twelve and Sam eight. That makes fifty. Which means either that three unauthorized people voted, or that three people voted twice, or that somebody managed to slip three extra voting papers into the box. Herbert’s majority is only two. If—and I emphasize the ‘if’—the illegal votes were for Herbert, it brings his total down to thirteen, and Bill wins by one vote.”
“Hear, hear,” said Hamish, loudly.
Herbert had gone pale. “Prove it!” he shouted. “Allegations of dishonesty! Blackenin’ my good name!”
“Disgusting!” said Mrs. Hole, loud
ly. Her large face had gone very red.
“There’s a very easy way of putting matters right, however,” Colin went on pleasantly. “All forty-seven electors are here. If they will indicate by raising their hands which candidate they voted for today, we shall know the truth at once.”
For a moment there was silence. Then everybody started to talk at once.
Sir Simon said: “Most irregular. Can’t have that.”
Mrs. Hole said: “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.”
Ephraim said: “I’m for it. Only proper, like the gentleman says.”
Priscilla said: “This cold beef looks delicious. May we start soon?”
Herbert said: “I’m callin’ the perlice, that’s what I’m doing.”
Bill Hawkes said: “Oh, what the hell. Let’s get on with the grub.”
The general tone of the meeting, however, was against this liberal sentiment. Colin’s lucid explanation and its implications had penetrated the consciousness of the good people of Berrybridge, and, slowly, they became angry. Even Herbert’s supporters, anxious to prove the validity of their winning bets, were disposed to clear the matter up. Eventually, Sir Simon took a vote: the result was forty-one in favour of a show of hands, and six against.
The visitors remained in an unhappy huddle at the end of the room, and cursed Colin quietly. Even Hamish, the instigator of the whole thing, now seemed to share their embarrassment. The villagers, however, had apparently forgotten that it was an outsider who had stirred up the trouble. Their only concern now was to reach the truth of the matter. In an atmosphere of almost unbearable tension, Sir Simon called for the show of hands.
“All those who voted for Sam Riddle,” he said nervously, “please raise your hands.”
Promptly, eight hands went up.
“Those who voted for Ephraim?”
Twelve hands were raised.
“Bill Hawkes?”
There was dead silence as Sir Simon counted the hands. There was no mistake. Fourteen.
“Leaving,” said Sir Simon grimly, “thirteen votes for Mr. Hole.”
At that pandemonium broke loose. Herbert, his cocked hat awry, turned on Colin in a fury.
“I’ll get you for this!” he yelled, beside himself with rage. “I’ll get you! Twenty year I’ve waited and you cheat me out of it! Bloody busybody! Bloody fine Lunnon gentleman, I don’t think! Pity you didn’t go the way of the other flamin’ nosey-parker!”
The situation showed every sign of turning nasty. Only Priscilla, who had quietly started on the cold beef, remained quite unperturbed. For the rest, the general sentiment was, to put it mildly, anti-Herbert. Cries of “Cheat!” “Swindler!” and worse flew about the room, and several private fights showed signs of breaking out.
In the end, it was Sir Simon who, by sheer force of personality, restored order. He climbed onto a chair and stamped on the table with his foot until some semblance of quiet reigned. Then he said, “Now, my friends. Let us consider the situation quietly. Obviously, there has been a mistake. Obviously, illegal votes were cast, and the new Mayor of Berrybridge is, in fact, Bill Hawkes. But that’s no reason for jumping to the conclusion that my friend Mr. Hole had anything to do with it. On the contrary, he deserves our sympathy in his disappointment. Whatever happened, you can depend on it that it was either a genuine mistake, or else a childish prank played by some irresponsible person. In any case, there’s nothing to be gained now by throwing mud. Let us be sensible, and write the whole thing off as one of those mishaps that may occur in any election. The thing to do now is to inaugurate Mr. Bill Hawkes as mayor, and get on with our food.”
A rumble of discontent went round the room, but it was plain that the force of the argument had come across. Somebody said, “It’s true, lads. We don’t know as it was Herbert done it.”
“In fact,” Sir Simon went on, gallantly throwing himself to the wolves, “in fact, the person most likely to have made a mistake is myself. After all, I counted the votes. As many of you know, arithmetic has never been my strong point, even at the dart board.”
This, blessedly, raised a laugh. At that moment, Priscilla looked up from her plate, and remarked loudly, “This beef is really excellent, Simon. Do have some.”
The tension was effectively broken. Everyone laughed, and murmurs of “Poor old Herbert” began to replace the ugly epithets. Sir Simon took advantage of the situation to add, “And we should all be grateful to Mr. Street for having brought the matter to light. Now that we are agreed that no blame can be attached to anybody but myself, let us get on with the business of the evening.”
It was very well done. Miraculously, good humour was restored all round. George Riddle, at a gesture from Sir Simon, quickly divested Herbert of his hat and cloak, leaving the Harbour Master standing, pathetically denuded of his finery, his sparse grey hair sticking up like a halo round his head.
“And now,” said Sir Simon, “I suggest that we give three cheers for Mr. Hole, and wish him luck in next year’s election. Hip, hip—hooray! Hip, hip...”