Fic: A Rose and a Thief (DW/The Moonstone)
For john_elliott, who requested (in rhyme, no less) that Rose Tyler should meet Sergeant Cuff (from Wilkie Collins' The Moonstone. If you haven't read it, go and find a copy immediately, along with the equally wonderful The Woman in White.)
A Rose and A Thief
(Narrative of George Morhelm, guest at Halloway Grange)
“I haven’t much time to be fond of anything… but when I have a moment’s fondness to bestow, most times… the roses get it…. Show me any two things more opposite one from the other than a rose and a thief; and I’ll correct my tastes accordingly.”
(Sergeant Cuff, The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins)
Is this an account of an intriguing incident or more in the nature of a confession? I am as yet unsure. Suffice it to be said that I had been invited to one of a party at Sir Alan Lydney’s country seat, Halloway Grange; the reader must add to that the fair weather of June and a chance to stroll about the enticing grounds and the opportunity in doing so of avoiding other members of the party. Imagine no dark crimes; merely picture the most tedious military bore of your acquaintance; couple with that the most inane chattering set of females you have encountered and you are in a fair way to envisaging my fellow guests. Small wonder that I wished to hide in the rose garden.
My cowardly retreat, far from being punished by a cruel fate, was by a strange twist rewarded when I had the privilege to witness the following scene. I warned that this might become my confession: here is my own secret. I suffer from that ailment that afflicts such a large proportion of our population - not merely an addiction to the popular press but that particular type of story that engages us as a nation and holds us agog till the terrible answer is revealed. It is quite true; I am one of those unfortunate incurables that suffer from detective fever.
As I passed among the roses, I saw a most improbable figure walking softly down the gravel path, heading past me, his gaze fixed on another of the guests, also away from the main party on the lawn. He was thin to the point of being skeletal with sallow and melancholy features and indeed he was dressed in black as might have become the awful figure of death itself. To one such as myself, who had read many investigations in the tawdry press with their sketches, however, I knew that he owed his allegiance to a different deity; that of the law, or perhaps I should call her Nemesis.
“Miss,” he said, on reaching his prey. Here comes my second confession, but given my first and the dullness of the warm afternoon, it is to be hoped that it may be forgiven me. I altered my path to keep within earshot of the odd pair. “I should like a word with you.”
She swung around and I saw her clearly for the first time. She was a young lady by the name of Tyler who had unexpectedly joined the party on the previous evening. I had not had the chance to address her myself and she had seemed - how may I phrase this without causing offence? She had seemed out of her place. Her dress was a dusky orange and new, but even in my humble male ignorance of female furbelows and frills, I could see that it was also close to five years out of fashion and that it did not entirely match her hat. Her youth and vitality was a striking contrast with the older, shabby figure that had addressed her, a habitually sorrowful note in his tones. “What about then?”
“Gravel,” he said, looking back down the way that he had come and shaking his head with a heavy sigh. “They will use gravel, these gardeners.”
She leaned forward, her surprise clear in her readable features. “You want to talk about gravel? Look, I’ve got matters of life and death to deal with here, mister.”
“Ah! have you now,” he said and a glance at his face caught me with a shiver of alarm. His eyes were a light grey with glints of steel and something in him asked more of the observer than was wanted. I turned away, suddenly uncertain of myself. Had he seen me watching? “There’s an unaccountable thing, Miss. I fancy I have similar business.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, who are you?”
He heaved another lugubrious sigh. “A fair point, Miss, a fair point; I am Sergeant Cuff.”
I had been growing ever more certain of the fact, but even so I found that I had to suppress a thrill at hearing my suspicions confirmed. The young lady gave no such reaction at the reveal of that renowned name. She shrugged. “So you’re a policeman.”
“You have your finger on it, Miss. I am. Now, if you wouldn’t mind being so good as to return the item you stole from Sir Alan -.”
“Are you calling me a thief?”
He merely said, “Ah!”
“What d’you mean, ‘ah’?”
Cuff moved nearer. “I should have thought it was plain, although I would rather it were not. But this is a dirty old world and in my line of work I see the worst of the dusty places. A fact: Someone left the door at the back unlocked sometime before luncheon. Another fact: that Someone must have been one of the party at luncheon. Third fact: said Someone returned to take the Lydney heirloom from its place in the small drawer in the Chinese cabinet. Someone, Miss, who must have knelt on the gravel path outside the long windows, keeping out of sight of Sir Alan when he returned sooner than was expected and who, if you’ll pardon me, still has much of it attached to the skirt of her dress.”
“This stupid outfit,” she said with a brazen lack of remorse at being caught in her crimes. As I had noted she was out of place here and despite owning something close to the confidence that comes naturally to those in the higher echelons of society, her voice and manner betrayed her low origins. A charming and ingenious thief, no doubt. “Very clever, inspector.”
“Sergeant, Miss.”
“Really?”
“What my rank may or not be is an aside. Now, say, if the item in question was to be replaced before any further attention was brought to the fact, I might be at liberty to continue my business with one of the other gentlemen here and take the opportunity to employ more mercy than my profession often allows.”
Miss Tyler pulled out a small metal box and held it out in front of him. “You mean this, right? Does this look like an heirloom to you?”
“There’s no accounting for the things that grow to have value attached to them,” he responded. “Besides, I’m of the opinion that what belongs to someone shouldn’t be taken away without warning by another Someone.”
“It’s part of a space ship,” she said. Those were her words but I could attach no true meaning to them. I only imagine she must have been meaning one of these new vessels that they build nowadays days: I am not familiar with the terms they use for many of them. “One that’s buried right under us now - and if I don’t get it back to the Doctor right now, we’ll all be blown sky high.”
“Now, Miss, there’s no call to go inventing wild stories. Hand that item over -.”
She caught at her skirts and raised her eyes heavenward. “Typical! Everything’s nearly sorted and I go and get trailed by some sort of Victorian Columbus.” (I believe this is what she said, although, again, her reference was unfamiliar to me. The sergeant had nothing in common with the explorer.) “What if you follow me and prove that I’m telling the truth? ‘Cos otherwise, we’re all going to come to a nasty end in about ten minutes from now. Would that do, Mr Nosey Parker Inspector?”
“Sergeant Cuff, Miss. I suppose that would be satisfactory. Perhaps you would be so good as to inform me what your name might be?”
She grinned at him. “Oh, I thought you knew everything. Call me Rose. Now, come on. I meant it about the life and death stuff.”
The corners of the policeman’s sorrowful features curled upwards very slightly. “Ah. Rose, is it?” To himself he added, “Not the damask, I feel, but still a pretty thing.”
“I promise you Sir Alan’s the only thief around here,” said Rose Tyler, “and if you follow me, I’ll show you exactly what I’m talking about, or the Doctor can explain it, and, even better, we’ll all get out of this alive.”
He gave the slightest nod. I had heard it said that he could see if a criminal was lying or not and my one experience of his gaze encouraged me to believe the tales. I would have doubted such a fanciful story, but I bow to the greater knowledge of one of our finest detective minds. “Lead on, then, Miss.”
Then they passed out of my sight and I was left to ponder the curious encounter. Despite the unlikeliness of Miss Tyler’s words, I found myself holding my breath once ten minutes had elapsed, but no dreadful event took place. There was no account of this in the papers, so I am left to conclude, as the celebrated Cuff continues to best the cunning criminals of our age, that the young lady’s tale was proved correct and that the detective not only lived up to his reputation in tracking down a thief he had not yet been hired to catch, but helped to foil some dastardly plot to blow up Sir Alan’s grounds. Possibly it even provides an explanation for Lydney’s baffling death a few days later, a case still shrouded in mystery. One thing is certain, the famous Cuff knows, but I fear he will never tell. Such is the true penalty for falling victim to my own insatiable curiosity. A privilege, nonetheless; a great privilege.
And you'll note that I also fail at a conversation with no backstory. Even the narrator has one. Ah-hem.
A Rose and A Thief
(Narrative of George Morhelm, guest at Halloway Grange)
“I haven’t much time to be fond of anything… but when I have a moment’s fondness to bestow, most times… the roses get it…. Show me any two things more opposite one from the other than a rose and a thief; and I’ll correct my tastes accordingly.”
(Sergeant Cuff, The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins)
Is this an account of an intriguing incident or more in the nature of a confession? I am as yet unsure. Suffice it to be said that I had been invited to one of a party at Sir Alan Lydney’s country seat, Halloway Grange; the reader must add to that the fair weather of June and a chance to stroll about the enticing grounds and the opportunity in doing so of avoiding other members of the party. Imagine no dark crimes; merely picture the most tedious military bore of your acquaintance; couple with that the most inane chattering set of females you have encountered and you are in a fair way to envisaging my fellow guests. Small wonder that I wished to hide in the rose garden.
My cowardly retreat, far from being punished by a cruel fate, was by a strange twist rewarded when I had the privilege to witness the following scene. I warned that this might become my confession: here is my own secret. I suffer from that ailment that afflicts such a large proportion of our population - not merely an addiction to the popular press but that particular type of story that engages us as a nation and holds us agog till the terrible answer is revealed. It is quite true; I am one of those unfortunate incurables that suffer from detective fever.
As I passed among the roses, I saw a most improbable figure walking softly down the gravel path, heading past me, his gaze fixed on another of the guests, also away from the main party on the lawn. He was thin to the point of being skeletal with sallow and melancholy features and indeed he was dressed in black as might have become the awful figure of death itself. To one such as myself, who had read many investigations in the tawdry press with their sketches, however, I knew that he owed his allegiance to a different deity; that of the law, or perhaps I should call her Nemesis.
“Miss,” he said, on reaching his prey. Here comes my second confession, but given my first and the dullness of the warm afternoon, it is to be hoped that it may be forgiven me. I altered my path to keep within earshot of the odd pair. “I should like a word with you.”
She swung around and I saw her clearly for the first time. She was a young lady by the name of Tyler who had unexpectedly joined the party on the previous evening. I had not had the chance to address her myself and she had seemed - how may I phrase this without causing offence? She had seemed out of her place. Her dress was a dusky orange and new, but even in my humble male ignorance of female furbelows and frills, I could see that it was also close to five years out of fashion and that it did not entirely match her hat. Her youth and vitality was a striking contrast with the older, shabby figure that had addressed her, a habitually sorrowful note in his tones. “What about then?”
“Gravel,” he said, looking back down the way that he had come and shaking his head with a heavy sigh. “They will use gravel, these gardeners.”
She leaned forward, her surprise clear in her readable features. “You want to talk about gravel? Look, I’ve got matters of life and death to deal with here, mister.”
“Ah! have you now,” he said and a glance at his face caught me with a shiver of alarm. His eyes were a light grey with glints of steel and something in him asked more of the observer than was wanted. I turned away, suddenly uncertain of myself. Had he seen me watching? “There’s an unaccountable thing, Miss. I fancy I have similar business.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, who are you?”
He heaved another lugubrious sigh. “A fair point, Miss, a fair point; I am Sergeant Cuff.”
I had been growing ever more certain of the fact, but even so I found that I had to suppress a thrill at hearing my suspicions confirmed. The young lady gave no such reaction at the reveal of that renowned name. She shrugged. “So you’re a policeman.”
“You have your finger on it, Miss. I am. Now, if you wouldn’t mind being so good as to return the item you stole from Sir Alan -.”
“Are you calling me a thief?”
He merely said, “Ah!”
“What d’you mean, ‘ah’?”
Cuff moved nearer. “I should have thought it was plain, although I would rather it were not. But this is a dirty old world and in my line of work I see the worst of the dusty places. A fact: Someone left the door at the back unlocked sometime before luncheon. Another fact: that Someone must have been one of the party at luncheon. Third fact: said Someone returned to take the Lydney heirloom from its place in the small drawer in the Chinese cabinet. Someone, Miss, who must have knelt on the gravel path outside the long windows, keeping out of sight of Sir Alan when he returned sooner than was expected and who, if you’ll pardon me, still has much of it attached to the skirt of her dress.”
“This stupid outfit,” she said with a brazen lack of remorse at being caught in her crimes. As I had noted she was out of place here and despite owning something close to the confidence that comes naturally to those in the higher echelons of society, her voice and manner betrayed her low origins. A charming and ingenious thief, no doubt. “Very clever, inspector.”
“Sergeant, Miss.”
“Really?”
“What my rank may or not be is an aside. Now, say, if the item in question was to be replaced before any further attention was brought to the fact, I might be at liberty to continue my business with one of the other gentlemen here and take the opportunity to employ more mercy than my profession often allows.”
Miss Tyler pulled out a small metal box and held it out in front of him. “You mean this, right? Does this look like an heirloom to you?”
“There’s no accounting for the things that grow to have value attached to them,” he responded. “Besides, I’m of the opinion that what belongs to someone shouldn’t be taken away without warning by another Someone.”
“It’s part of a space ship,” she said. Those were her words but I could attach no true meaning to them. I only imagine she must have been meaning one of these new vessels that they build nowadays days: I am not familiar with the terms they use for many of them. “One that’s buried right under us now - and if I don’t get it back to the Doctor right now, we’ll all be blown sky high.”
“Now, Miss, there’s no call to go inventing wild stories. Hand that item over -.”
She caught at her skirts and raised her eyes heavenward. “Typical! Everything’s nearly sorted and I go and get trailed by some sort of Victorian Columbus.” (I believe this is what she said, although, again, her reference was unfamiliar to me. The sergeant had nothing in common with the explorer.) “What if you follow me and prove that I’m telling the truth? ‘Cos otherwise, we’re all going to come to a nasty end in about ten minutes from now. Would that do, Mr Nosey Parker Inspector?”
“Sergeant Cuff, Miss. I suppose that would be satisfactory. Perhaps you would be so good as to inform me what your name might be?”
She grinned at him. “Oh, I thought you knew everything. Call me Rose. Now, come on. I meant it about the life and death stuff.”
The corners of the policeman’s sorrowful features curled upwards very slightly. “Ah. Rose, is it?” To himself he added, “Not the damask, I feel, but still a pretty thing.”
“I promise you Sir Alan’s the only thief around here,” said Rose Tyler, “and if you follow me, I’ll show you exactly what I’m talking about, or the Doctor can explain it, and, even better, we’ll all get out of this alive.”
He gave the slightest nod. I had heard it said that he could see if a criminal was lying or not and my one experience of his gaze encouraged me to believe the tales. I would have doubted such a fanciful story, but I bow to the greater knowledge of one of our finest detective minds. “Lead on, then, Miss.”
Then they passed out of my sight and I was left to ponder the curious encounter. Despite the unlikeliness of Miss Tyler’s words, I found myself holding my breath once ten minutes had elapsed, but no dreadful event took place. There was no account of this in the papers, so I am left to conclude, as the celebrated Cuff continues to best the cunning criminals of our age, that the young lady’s tale was proved correct and that the detective not only lived up to his reputation in tracking down a thief he had not yet been hired to catch, but helped to foil some dastardly plot to blow up Sir Alan’s grounds. Possibly it even provides an explanation for Lydney’s baffling death a few days later, a case still shrouded in mystery. One thing is certain, the famous Cuff knows, but I fear he will never tell. Such is the true penalty for falling victim to my own insatiable curiosity. A privilege, nonetheless; a great privilege.
And you'll note that I also fail at a conversation with no backstory. Even the narrator has one. Ah-hem.