Enduring Passions Read Online Free PDF

that had brought unity to the whole country. He was a few minutes early.
    He was proud of being a detective constable, albeit a temporary one, and knew that at his age having this position was due to a combination of events. Firstly, the Great War; then the influenza epidemic in the twenties ; and more recently, the retirement of those who had survived those catastrophes.
    Tom Roxham had only just finished checking himself and gone back to the outer room when Sergeant Whelan came in. His hair was parted neatly down the middle of his head, swept equally and exactly away from it just like draped music hall curtains. He had a moustache, waxed andturned up at the ends, steel-blue eyes above pock-marked cheeks and a nose that had seen more action than Tom’s which, in comparison, seemed quite normal.
    He towered over Tom, all six feet four inches of him; his uniform immaculate, with a chrome whistle chain neatly showing, black leather belt exactly horizontal, all befitting a man who had been an Irish Guardsman in the war. Some said he had been with Rudyard Kipling’s son, who had been posted missing, presumed killed in action. They had never found his body.
    ‘Well, so there ye are. What time do you call this?’
    Tom glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes to eight o’clock, Sergeant.’
    ‘What’s that funny thing you’re using, boy?’
    ‘It’s my wrist-watch, Sergeant.’
    ‘Don’t be cheeky with me, son!’
    The booming voice made Tom flinch involuntarily, even though he knew something like that was coming. It was always the way with Sergeant Whelan. He seemed to expect that the world, his little world at any rate, always needed a shake up in the morning, even if there was nothing wrong.
    ‘That’s a timepiece.’
    Tom found a large Victorian pocket watch with its lid open in front of his eyes. He said nothing. Whelan looked at it, then snapped it shut and put it away. The fact no more was said meant that Tom was correct, he had been asked to muster at eight, and eight it was.
    Whelan went smoothly into routine.
    ‘Present your appointments.’
    Tom offered his warrant card and then displayed his short truncheon and his handcuffs.
    Whelan nodded, took a stroll around his constable, checking. In fact he was pleased with the lad, but sniffed. ‘Your shoes could be polished better – see to it next time. And what happened to your eye, boy?’
    ‘Fell over, Sergeant.’
    ‘Hmmm.’ Whelan didn’t believe him for a moment, but it had been New Year and boys would be boys. Whelan turned to the office desk, not seeing the sigh of relief as Tom returned his appointments to their rightful place. Although it was not wise to get on the sergeant’s wrong side, he was well known to have a heart of gold where his men were concerned. He would back and protect them with a fierce loyalty that had no doubt been in his heart at birth in Carlow in Ireland, but had beenseriously tempered in the flames and blood and mud of the Western Front.
    ‘Now then, you are going to Cirencester Watermoor today, staying overnight?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Tomorrow, I want you to get off at Leckhampton on the way back.’
    Surprised, Tom asked, ‘Why’s that, Sergeant?’
    Whelan picked up a folder from his desk. ‘The station master telephoned me. Said there had been an unpleasant incident – a passenger assaulted on the platform.’
    Sergeant Whelan ran the back of his finger along his moustache, first one side, then the other.
    ‘It’s a nice day to have a leisurely journey through the Cotswolds – you’re lucky.’
    Tom didn’t disagree.
    Impatiently Whelan gestured towards the door. It was clear that the orders had been issued and the troops were dismissed.
    The station was busier now, with cars and taxis swinging into the cobbled forecourt to unload hurrying passengers.
    They flooded on to the platform, where the chocolate and cream-coloured coaches of a Great Western Railway Express stood waiting; wisps of steam rising from the