Chapter 7

Thursday came around all too quickly. Cecil was dressed in his finest breeches and whitest shirt. If he was going down, he was going down fighting. He sat outside of the chambers waiting to be called upon. Two other men were sat in line, all with a similar look of dread on their faces. One was wearing a top hat bedecked with flowers and a ruby red sash over each shoulder, the other wore a shirt made up of mainly black and purple rags with a lot of what looked like crow feathers in his well-scuffed hat.

When Cecil was called, the other two wished him luck and gave him a 'rather you than me' look. He followed the clerk into the chamber and took his place before the Morris Ring. Two men and one lady sat behind a large wooden table looking at him over their respective spectacles as though it were a requirement of the process. A large painting of Cecil's namesake, Cecil Sharp, hung on the wall behind them all. His simple grey suit and dark surroundings helped focus the attention on the piercing blue eyes which seemed to be staring into Cecil's very soul. The limited lighting bounced off the well-polished furniture. The man sat in the middle was the first to speak. His voice was clear and slow, no doubt through years of ensuring that he was being heard and understood. He wore his moustache in the traditional handlebar style of the higher echelons of the ring.

"Cecil Bloomsworthy. Do you know why you stand before us?" his voice gave away a strong northern accent yet he was still comprehendible.

"I have a fair idea," replied Cecil, not making eye contact.

"Since the morris dancers have united under the one banner and pooled our resources, we have succeeded in reducing crime to that which is petty and trivial. Those more serious matters are punished, swiftly. The public have come to expect great things from us, and we deliver." Cecil didn't say anything. He had heard this speech before, but never been on the receiving end.

The man with the moustache continued. "Murder is something which we have not witnessed in almost a decade, and I'm not convinced that one was not just an unfortunate accident. We have now seen two incidents in less than a week, on your watch. What do you have to say?"

Cecil straightened his back and looked up, his eyes carried the steel which had so often forced criminals to confess before he had even spoken. "I have my best people on it. We will find the culprit and we will bring them to justice."

"I wish I had your confidence," said the speaker. The other two committee members were both writing and had yet to even look at Cecil. "I fear that justice in this case will not be enough. The public need to know that they can rely on us to protect them. They need to know that they can sleep safely, that their children can play in the street without fear. That trust, that faith has gone."

The look in Cecil's eye wavered. To the untrained eye, he appeared resolute, but to those who appreciate detail, his chin definitely dropped. The man continued to speak. "We have discussed the issue and the conclusion was unanimous. The Shrewsbury Morris Dancers will be withdrawn from service with immediate effect. You will stand down and turn in your stick." Cecil stared in disbelief. He had expected to have a new leader appointed, possibly to receive some assistance to end the killer's run. But this?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Cecil, not quite believing what he had heard. "Are you asking me to withdraw my side?"

"No Mr Bloomsworthy. We are telling you to. There will be a full review of the situation and until such time as you are told otherwise, the Shrewsbury dancers will no longer be required to fulfil their duties."

"But who will keep the peace?" ask Cecil with an amount of despair creeping into his voice. "Who will help makes things right?"

"That is no longer your problem. We will be in touch. Thank you for your time." The two committee members stopped writing, put down their pens and the three of them stood and left the room. The entire hearing had taken less than twenty minutes. Cecil was left standing on his own for a moment before the door which he had entered through opened and he was beckoned once more by the clerk. He hesitated when he was asked for his stick, not wanting to release it as though he was being asked to hand over his first born. The clerk insisted that it would be well looked after. Cecil left the chambers. Although the sky outside was bright and the air was fresh, he felt a chill in his skin which he had not felt for a long time.