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He hurried out of the pub, relieved to see the thugs still in sight. He gripped the handle of the truncheon and followed at a distance. His heart skipped a beat when one of the thugs looked back over his shoulder, but he kept walking, hoping they wouldn’t consider a man with a pronounced limp a threat.
More houses came in sight as they approached the village of Aust. However, Parker was already sweating and doubted his leg would carry him much further at this pace. He resorted to something he never did. He prayed.
Rounding a corner a few yards further on, he nigh on shoutedAlleluiawhen a tall red structure with a gas lamp atop it came into view—one of the newly installed police call boxes. The key issued to every officer was in his pocket but it was unlikely anyone at the station would answer the telephone, even if the contraption actually worked as it was supposed to. He might have considered the box useless, except for the fact a uniformed officer stood next to it. Parker limped over, noting the lad was a special constable. “Sergeant Cullen, Aust police,” he explained breathlessly, revealing his truncheon. “I’m in pursuit of the men responsible for the bridge disaster.”
The youth squared his shoulders. “Special Constable Whitney, sir. What can I do to help, sir?”
Parker thanked his lucky stars he’d encountered a brave soul. People said you couldn’t trust thespecialslike the old time coppers, but this young man appeared to be the exception. “Call the station. Tell them what I’ve told you. They must send every available officer. Then follow me. I might need your help.”
Satisfied the special constable already had his key in the lock, Parker hurried on with renewed hope. His prayers had been answered. Maybe there was something to this Christmas goodwill thing after all.
His optimism faltered when he entered a back lane. The thugs had attacked; one was kicking his victim who lay curled up on the ground. The other was wrestling with the Weasel. Parker had only two weapons at his disposal—his truncheon and whistle. And, he hoped, the element of surprise. Gripping the whistle between his teeth, he took courage from the ghastly memory of the train plunging into the river. He limped towards the melee, only raising his truncheon and blowing the whistle at the last possible moment.
Surprise registered on the face of the kicker a moment before Parker summoned his remaining strength and backhanded him with the truncheon. There was a satisfying crunch when the lead-lined weapon connected with his face. He crashed to the ground, bloodied hands held to his shattered nose.
The second thug gaped sullenly at his fallen comrade, his hands fisted in the jacket of his victim. Apparently, the sight of Whitney running towards them, his truncheon raised, was enough to deter further brutality. He wrenched a wad of bank notes from the man’s pocket then threw him aside. He helped his cohort to his feet and the two lumbered off.
“You’re pinched,” Parker declared, securing the Weasel with the handcuffs Whitney gave him.
The fellow pulled against him, trying to get to the other man who lay alarmingly still. “Gwilym,” he rasped.
Whitney knelt to check the pulse of the man on the ground. “Still breathing, sir.”
“Did you get through to the station?” Parker asked breathlessly.
“I did, sir,” Whitney replied proudly. “Help is on the way.”
“Gwyddel felltigedig,” his prisoner wailed in Welsh. “If thecursed Irishmanhas killed my son…”
Parker decided to get to the heart of the matter. “He set you up. I assume he wasn’t pleased you bungled the explosion.”
One blackened eye sealed shut, the Welshman nodded. “Hundred quid we was promised. Then he gives us fifty and says we should be happy with it. Wasn’t my fault the dynamite he brought from America didn’t work properly. Now, we’ve got nothing. Just save my son, and I’ll tell you everything. If I’m to face the noose, I’ll take that bleeding Yank with me.”
Reinforcements arrived in time to hear the wretch’s confession. Satisfied he’d done all he could as the prisoner was taken away and a stretcher brought for his injured son, Parker fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He feared his leg might never function properly again.
Looking none too pleased, the chief constable chose that moment to come upon the scene.
THE HERO OF THE HOUR
The day after the disaster, Samantha came downstairs for breakfast.
“You look terrible,” her mother remarked.
“I didn’t sleep much,” Samantha replied with a yawn as she sat at the kitchen table.
“Not surprising,” her mother said, putting a consoling arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be a long while before any of us can forget what we witnessed yesterday. If ever.”
Samantha stared at the boiled egg in the eggcup on her plate. “I don’t think I have the energy to even slice off the top.”
Her mother did the honors. “I’ve cut your toast into little soldiers, just how you like them. You must eat.”
Samantha dipped a strip of toast into the yolk, thankful for loving parents. “I just wish I’d had a chance to tell Brock I wasn’t going to marry him.”
“No use thinking that. He died not knowing you’d changed your mind.”
“But then he might not have gone on the train.”
“You can tie yourself in knots feeling guilty, Samantha, but his death wasn’t your fault. I just hope they catch the monsters who are responsible. Maybe there’ll be something in the paper. Your father has gone to get the early edition from the newsagents.”
