Chapter 3

Becoming a morris dancer was one of those life skills which was easy to learn but difficult to master. The country was peppered with teams which between them had kept the peace and fought crime for hundreds of years. The teams has always however been disparate, lone entities serving their locality. It wasn't until 1912 that they had amalgamated into one ring, pioneered by the visionary Cecil Sharp.

Part of the duties of the morris dancers was the patrol. They would appear randomly in towns, cities and villages, often without notification, and survey the land. They would frequent the drinking houses and cakeries which were often the scene of disturbances, making their presence felt by demonstrating their combat skills, set to the music of their forefathers. The Shrewsbury side was like many others, ageing. The efficiency with which they dealt with crime had become their greatest curse. As crime was controlled, the civilians had become used to a peaceful way of life. There was no pressure on the young to step up and do something about the problems within their neighbourhoods, so they did not look to learn the craft and enter a life of crime prevention. There had been little to no new recruitment in almost 10 years and those who had joined were doing so after having finished their careers. Spring chickens were sadly missing within the ranks.

Cecil and Brian were on one such patrol in the small hamlet of Wem. The winter had retreated and left a pleasant crispness in the air. The mornings were still a little chilly and the pair walked briskly to keep warm. The two had known each other for a long time and general chit-chat had been used up a long time ago. Brian was the first to mention the elephant in the room, or in this case, in the street.

"This doesn't look good Cecil. We should have been there. People will talk. It could be the end of us."

"Don't be melodramatic," said Cecil in his signature baritone. "Sure it's a set-back but we will get to the bottom of it, justice will be swift. It always is."

"I'm not so sure, I wish I had your confidence," replied Brian who was long enough in the tooth to see the lack of conviction in his friend's words. "We have nothing to go on, no leads. No motive. Have we even identified the deceased yet?"

"I found out this morning," Cecil let on, "he was a local mischief maker known as Slim Tony. We only I.D.'d him from a ruby found in the pile of teeth which matched his records. Someone really went to town on him."

"Slim Tony? I remember him. I brought him in five years ago for canine kidnap. He'd stolen a poodle from Mrs Ashworth and had tried to sell it on. What was he doing back in town?"

"Agnes is looking into it. I told you, justice will be swift, although maybe not as swift as we'd like." The pair arrived at a local ale house. A few horses were tied up outside as was the norm. They received a few glances from the patrons and passers-by which unsettled Cecil. Usually they were perceived with awe and sometimes wonderment. The looks they were getting this morning were more questioning. Eyebrows were definitely being raised.

"We're going to have to give a demonstration to set people's minds at ease. One man jig. Hankies." Cecil swung his melodeon from behind his back whilst Brian grudgingly placed his stick against the wall of the pub and pulled two crisp white hankies from the patent leather pouch suspended on his belt. He slowly walked into a space before the small crowd and brought his hands around so that they were nicely balanced on either side of him. Cecil announced the name of the jig to the on-lookers and played the intro music. Brian burst into life, displaying his prowess with the hankies, twirling and leaping gracefully but with an air of strength and ferocity which would remain with the crowd for a long time. By the end of the show, the crowd had thinned. They had done their job well.  

"Good job Brian," said Cecil, "nice wrist work."

"I still prefer the stick," responded his friend. "Hankies are fine for whipping and snapping but you can't beat a good bit of English oak. We never had to bother with the hankies until those ruddy Cotswold dancers pushed the Ring to make them mandatory."

"Now now, you perform with aplomb. Stop your whining," joked Cecil. They entered the establishment, ordered a couple of ciders and found an empty booth in which to park themselves. The hankies v sticks debate continued for a short while before Brian excused himself to make use of the facilities. Cecil gazed out of the window at the pleasant spring day which was building, only for it to be destroyed by a bloodcurdling scream.