The Constable.
by Peter Clarke
The constable stood inside the doors of the courthouse. He was shortly to give evidence in a case of petty theft and had arrived early walking across to the court in Druitt Street from Brickfield Hill. It was a pleasant walk, the early morning not too warm, and the breeze not yet too strong, although he could see some storm heads gathering in the south-west. He’d walked down from his rented house in Goulburn Street, crossed over George Street, dodging in and out of the early morning traffic, and walked along the western side of George, crossing Liverpool, Bathurst and Druitt streets. Most of the time the sun was at his right and strong enough to promise another warm autumn day.
The central Sydney watch-house stood on the corner of Druitt and George streets, and he passed it just before turning left into the Court House. No doubt his prisoner would shortly be brought from there by a conductor. Thankfully, giving evidence meant he had no contact with the prisoner and that was to his liking. He was glad to arrive early. The Court would start around 10am, but it wasn’t always punctual. It would give him a chance to cool down. He was always nervous before appearing in court. The law was inevitably on his side, but that didn’t stop him being nervous. The formality, the magistrates’ frequent short temper, and the fact that some poor person would soon face legal punishment on his evidence always contributed to his nervousness.
He felt hot and uncomfortable in his new uniform. He’d only had it about a year, and still felt proud when he put it on. Blue coat with silver buttons, blue pants with a red cord and a blue cap also with a red cord. The police had worn all manner of clothes before the new shipment had arrived, so at least they all now looked the same. It meant that thieves and criminals could spot the police easily enough, so sudden confrontations were less frequent. It was the same uniform worn by the London Metropolitan Police and not in any way suited to Sydney conditions. He’d heard police in the bush where it was hotter in the summer mostly still wore their own clothes and there was trouble brewing between them and the magistrates who wanted police to at least look like police.
The odd assortment of people standing around was always confronting. Police, witnesses, lawyers, conductors and offenders gathered in small groups. Everyone always looked nervous, no matter their side of the law. It was easy to identify the reporters from the papers by their scruffy, badly fitting suits, pencil and paper in hand, moving from group to group, always hopeful but never satisfied.
Fortunately, a policeman standing on his own was of no interest to anyone.
A man came up the few steps, through the doors and into the area before the court room. He was smartly dressed in black and stopped at the top of the stairs, looking completely out of place. He didn’t look nervous, just bewildered, so the constable decided he had nothing to do with the matters at hand, unlike the others gathered in the room. The constable liked watching people, it helped to pass the time. Curiosity getting the better of him, he walked over to the man and asked if he could help.
“I hope so,” said the man. “Is there someone I can talk to about some lost property?”
“Have you lost something?”
“No, quite the opposite. I’ve found something. Well, someone I know has found something.”
“Why have you come to the court?”
“I thought this is the Central Police Office?”
“You’re right, of course,” said the constable, laughing.
“Why is that funny?” said the man, looking serious.
“The building is both, but these people are here for the court. I presumed you would be here for the court, too. I thought it funny that you’re not.”
“I’m in a hurry,” said the man, staring at the constable and obviously not sharing his sense of humour.
“What have you found?”
“This locket,” said the man, taking a gold locket from his coat pocket and passing it to the constable.
“It’s beautiful,” said the constable, holding the locket and in the palm of his hand.
“Yes, it’s a very nice piece of work,” said the man, looking less serious and more thoughtful.
“Where was it found?”
“In the Rocks.”
“Why didn’t you take it to the police there?”
“I’m a jeweller. My shop is across the road in York Street. It was brought to me there in the hope I might recognise it. I don’t, of course. If it should go to the police in the Rocks, perhaps you’ll send it there?”
The constable was about to shake his head. He looked at the man.
“You’re in a hurry, you say?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I’ve left my shop to come here. I should have come earlier. I need to get back.”
“All right,” said the constable. “Leave it with me. I’ll see that it gets to the Rocks.”
“Can I have a receipt for it?”
“A receipt? Why do you want a receipt?”
“If you can’t find the owner, I’d like it back.”
The constable nodded and said, “Of course. I’ll have to have one made up. Come back later. Ask at the office. They’ll have it for you.”
“Can’t I get one now?” said the man, hopefully.
“It’s busy at the moment. Court starts soon, so everyone is busy. There’s a lot to do.”
“Perhaps, when I come back, I can ask for you? If you have one prepared, then you can keep it until I come back.”
“No. I have to go back on street duty. I won’t be here. Like I say, ask at the office.”
“How will they know who I am?”
“Tell them you’re the jeweller from across the street who handed in a lost locket.”
“All right,” said the man, still reluctant. “If that’s the best way.”
The constable held out the locket.
“Perhaps you should take it with you and bring it back later when we’re not so busy.”
The man hesitated and looked at the constable as though assessing his character.
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “I’d have to explain everything again to someone else. You keep it and I’ll come back and get the receipt later.”
The man turned and walked back through the door.
That was easy, thought the constable.
He’d done that sort of thing before. People always wanted to have done with a matter. He’d gambled that the man wouldn’t want to take the locket away and have to come back again. Of course, the man should have hung onto the locket and simply put an advertisement in the paper like most people.
Looking down he admired the locket again and ran it between his fingers.
“What do you have there?” said a voice from behind him. Startled, he dropped the locket and looked before bending to pick it up. It was a constable from the local lock-up. He didn’t know him well, but presumed like most of the police he had little time for honesty.
“It’s a locket,” he said. “A man just handed it in. Said it’s lost.”
He looked at the other constable. There were now two in the conspiracy, or the locket would be handed in as the man had expected.
The matter was now in God’s hands and the outcome would depend on the other constable’s honesty.
“Let me see it,” said the other constable.
Taking it, he ran it between his fingers.
“Nice. Looks new. Found it, you said?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“No. What do you think I should do?” said the constable, shaking his head.
“I’d keep it if I were you. If you don’t want to, I will.”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” said the constable, quietly, but felt like shouting.
“It’s everything to do with me. I know you’ve got it and I know how you came by it. If you keep it, you have me to deal with. On the other hand, if you hand it in, you’re a fool.”
The constable was aghast. He’d dealt easily with the man, but the constable was another matter.
“Be reasonable,” he said. “I don’t know what it’s worth, but I expect not a lot. I’m sure there’s not enough for both of us to share.”
“I think it’s worth a few pounds and that’s a lot when you earn about three bob a day.”
“I don’t care what you think. Give it back, or I’ll take it back.”
The other constable smiled and put the locket in his pocket.
“You will, will you? And how do you propose to do that?”
“Like this!” shouted the first constable, angrier than he could remember. He reached for the other constable’s pocket, but the other constable was too quick and easily stepped to one side. However, in doing so he fell into a group nearby.
“Steady on,” shouted one of the men in the group.
“What’s going on here?” bellowed a huge voice.
Startled and distracted from their confrontation, both constables turned to see a police sergeant moving quickly towards them.
“That man pushed me!” shouted a woman in the group beside the constables, her voice shrill and filled with indignation.
“Did he now?” said the sergeant. “Well, we’ll see about that. My apologies, madam. I trust you are unhurt?”
“I’m all right,” said the woman. “This is a beastly place at the best of times. The behaviour of your men only makes it worse.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it, madam,” said the sergeant, touching his hat lightly with his finger and bowing slightly. “Good day to you all.”
The group moved away, and the sergeant turned to the two constables.
“You. I don’t know you. What your name?” he asked, addressing the constable who had bumped the lady.
“It wasn’t me! He pushed me!” exclaimed the man and pointed at the other constable.
“Pat,” said the sergeant, nodding at the constable. “What’s this about?”
“Sergeant. It’s a private matter.”
“Don’t try my patience, Pat. The public’s opinion of the police is low enough as it is without such rough-house behaviour. Out with it, or I’ll put you both on a charge.”
“I was given a locket for safekeeping. He took it from me,” said Pat, pointing at the other constable. “I was trying to get it back.”
“What’s your name and watch-house?” asked the sergeant, turning to the other constable.
“Joseph Dole. Druitt Street.”
“Is what he says correct?”
Pat watched on helplessly. A few minutes ago, he’d managed to gain a very fine locket. Now, he had lost the locket, he might be on a charge and even lose his job. Once again, everything depended on the other constable.
“It is,” said Joseph, “but I was only having fun.”
“Give me the locket,” said the sergeant, holding out his hand.
As he took the locket, he realised a small group had gathered around them, no doubt more interested as it took their minds of more serious issues. Now, they all had to be careful.
“Who gave it to you, Pat?”
“A man. He said he found it. Thought if he turned it in to us, we’d find the owner.”
The small crowd nodded approvingly.
“I’ll see to it,” said the sergeant. “I’ll make sure it’s restored to its rightful owner.”
Just then, the doors to the court opened.
“I have to go, sergeant,” said Pat.
“Me, too,” said Joseph.
“Fair enough,” said the sergeant. He put the locket in his coat pocket. The constables and the group around them headed for the court.
“Pat,” called the sergeant.
Pat Riddell stopped and looked back.
“We’ll have a talk when we’re both next at Bathurst Street.”
“All right,” said Pat and turned back to the court. It clearly wasn’t over. He wished he’d never seen the locket.