Free The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash Page B

‘He’s a lad, eh?’
    He said, guiltily, ‘It’s harmless fun, the dog racing.’ Now, hare coursing’s illegal. It’s been so since the law was passed through Parliament in 1841. It’s pretty grim, if you’ve never seen it. The real hypocrisy is we’ve fine upstanding moralists who enjoy such sports. There’s even an annual Waterloo Cup, real dogs and real hares. Sportsmen (sic) say the hares love it.
    Hare coursing’s done for a bet. Gamblers come from every comer of our creaking old kingdom to run their dogs in East Anglia’s fields. You don’t want to miss seeing some poor harmless creature being brutally exterminated, do you?
    It’s done like this: you catch a hare. Your dogs are the competitors. At a signal, you open your sack and release a hare. You also release dog A. It chases and kills the hare, while you enjoy the grand spectacle. Then you release a second hare, and dog B. Timekeepers clock the killing times, et evil bloodthirsty detestable cetera.
    It’s called rural sport. East Anglia’s riddled with them, each as barbaric as the rest. Within ten miles of my cottage, you can see bare-fisted prize fights of a bright frosty morn. And cockfights, and pitbull terriors savaging one another, God knows what else. I’m not talking of some primitive backwoods (or am I?). I’m speaking of clean, quiet East Anglia. Civilized folk like me - and maybe you - might remember that there’s legal greyhound racing at Romford and Swinton, if you crave seeing your dog running after an electric stuffed toy hare, where you can have a pint and place a bet as well, if you’ve a mind. OK?
    No, not for the barbaric tribes among us, because there’s no blood, no whimpers as the poor prey—
    ‘Here, mate. You all right?’ the driver was saying.
    ‘Fine, ta. I get giddy in cars. Sorry.’
    ‘Just as well we’re here, then. Put your head down,’ he said helpfully. He was a nice bloke. ‘Have a pint. It’s Magee’s Ale, which is a bit grim, but—’
    ‘No, ta. I feel grand. Saumarez House is three furlongs off, you say? Cheers, mate.’ I grinned and strode off into the dusk. I was still trembling at the thought of the hedgerow creatures that would finish up in sacks later tonight, then have to run in terror for their little lives.
    Saumarez House lay along the curved drive. I knocked. A policeman I knew opened the door, smiling.
    ‘Do come in, Lovejoy.’
    ‘Mr Summer.’ I hesitated. ‘Have I got the right place?’
    He beckoned me into the light. ‘You pretend you haven’t, Lovejoy, but that’s your way, isn’t it? Always doing wrong, but accidentally, so it’s never your fault?’
    ‘Now then, Mr Summer.’ My attempt at humour didn’t work.
    ‘Mr Crucifex is to join us in the living room. Go through.’
    The Old Bill always like to follow you - their training, I suppose. I crossed the hall. The modem room was sumptuous. A huge painting occupied the wall beside the fireplace. A hero was dying, red-coated soldiery under fire, crowded streets.
    ‘I thought that was in the Tate, Mr Summer. What’ve you been up to?’
    ‘A copy.’ He smiled. ‘Or a fraud. Like so many things, Lovejoy.’
    ‘If you say. Is this a posh do?’
    ‘You mean tonight?’ asked a man, entering and advancing with outstretched hand. ‘No. Just a glass of something, while we iron out the details.’
    ‘How do. I’m Lovejoy.’
    ‘I’m Martin Crucifex. Welcome to our mainland abode. Yes. The Death of Major Pierson. Very graphic.’ He said with heartfelt candour, ‘I would give anything to possess the original.’
    Summer smiled. I looked from one man to the other. I might not have been there.
    ‘Now, Martin,’ Summer said evenly. ‘That’s totally out of the question.’
    ‘If you say so, Tony.’
    Loudly I cleared my throat. If these two were squaring off for a scrap, I didn’t want to get between.
    ‘Iron out what details, exacdy, Mr Crucifex?’
    ‘Martin, please. We’ll soon be on the very best of