Last Nocturne by M.J. Trow

Author:M.J. Trow [Trow, M.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2020-10-19T05:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

After a fine spring day, the Cremorne Gardens were doing a brisk trade. The Chinese lanterns bobbed bravely on a little westerly wind, sneaking through the houses from outside the city and bringing some freshness with it. The grass was starred with fallen blossoms, the last to fall as the trees came into full leaf. Around the lake on the eastern side, the swans and geese were beginning to seek the safety of their nests in the reeds and the last carousers were making their way home, before the Underground stopped running. Cabs were lined up at the gates to bear the better-heeled walkers back to their homes. Some gentlemen, looking rather more satiated than might be explained by a simple walk in the park, adjusted their clothing and left the hansom blinds open to dissipate the smell of cheap perfume.

The groundskeepers made their way around the perimeter, starting at one gate and walking round to the next, widdershins, locking it from the outside when they reached it and going home, another long day over and all’s well. The League for the Right to Wander could do their worst – sometimes, safety really did come first. Harry Brownthorne lived just across the road from the lake side of the park, in rooms above a grocer. Although he and his wife didn’t have much money, they were as snug as bugs and he knew he had a lot to be thankful for; a simple job, with no worries, simple pleasures and …

Harry Brownthorne stopped in his measured walk. Somebody had done in one of the swans again; there it was, floating, caught in the branch of a willow leaning over the water. He bet he knew who it was, too. It was those boozy lads who had mistaken a very respectable lady for a lady of the night and had had to be seen off the park. He knew they were trouble, the moment he saw them. He was in a quandary about the swan, though. If he left it, it would have attracted all sorts of vermin by morning. If a dead swan was likely to give the vapours to elderly ladies giving their lapdogs a morning constitutional, that was nothing to the shock which a swan mauled by foxes and displayed in its component parts over the path could provide. He sighed. He didn’t fancy wading in, but he saw no real option. He unlaced his boots, rolled up his trousers and left his jacket on a nearby bench, noting as he did so a bit of lost property to deal with later. The pleasant day had a bit of a sting in its tail.

Late walkers in Cheyne Walk were startled to see a man, barefoot, bare-headed and with his trousers rolled up to the knees, suddenly barrel out of the gates of the Cremorne, his mouth working soundlessly as he waved his hands above his head. Locals had got used to all sorts of things happening in the Gardens, but, thus far, not too much that was untoward had sullied their pavements.

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