After a few weeks had passed, the AC Six was still in the driveway, and Mr and Mrs McCosh were beginning to find it a nuisance.
‘Why doesn’t that fellow come and get the damned thing?’ Mr McCosh demanded frequently.
‘In case Daniel’s here and gives him another thrashing,’ said Ottilie. ‘I wouldn’t come back if I were him.’
‘He’s probably too ashamed,’ said Rosie. ‘I would be.’
‘He might be in prison,’ said Christabel. ‘He’s a murderer, if you think about it.’
‘A manslaughterer, at the very least,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘I hope he’s sewing up mailbags for many years to come. But what are we going to do about the damned AC? The hackney carriages can’t get round the crescent and have to drop us off outside in the road.’
‘It is too humiliating to be dropped outside in the road,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘Just imagine if Their Majesties were to come by, and had to be dropped in the road. It would be too mortifying.’
‘Or the Shah of Persia,’ said Ottilie.
‘Indeed,’ concurred Mrs McCosh.
‘Or the Maharaja of Morvi,’ said Christabel.
‘Or the Grand Panjandrum of Mysorebaksyde,’ said Mr McCosh.
‘Thank you, that’s quite enough,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘What does one have to do to be taken seriously? What are we going to do about the horseless carriage?’
‘One of us should go to the police station and try to find out what’s going on,’ suggested Rosie. ‘We can ask the police to sort it out.’
‘Your idea,’ said Ottilie. ‘You do it.’
‘I’ll do it if you come with me,’ said Rosie.
The two sisters walked to the police station and found a sergeant at the desk, who was not at all interested. ‘Once it’s been there for ten years, I think I’m right in saying that it’s yours,’ he said, ‘but I might have made it up. Better ask a lawyer.’
‘Can’t you give us the man’s name and address?’ asked Rosie. ‘Or ask someone from the station nearest to his house to go and see him and ask him to dispose of it?’
‘I’ll see what I can do, miss’ said the policeman wearily. As the British police, then as now, measure out their lives by the intervals between cups of tea, he resolved to deal with the matter at a quarter past eleven.
Thus it was that one week later Constable Dusty Miller arrived at the house and presented Rosie with a handwritten message stating that the gentleman concerned had jumped bail and apparently absconded abroad in a Vickers Vimy. Furthermore, he had been fined £600 during the war for hoarding. ‘He was an all-round nasty piece of work,’ concluded the constable.
‘Gracious me, what shall we do with the car, then?’ asked Rosie.
‘If I were you, I’d just use it, miss. I don’t think ’e’s coming back.’ E’s probably sipping gin in Rangoon. I’d get it insured, though.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie doubtfully. ‘Oh well, thank you so much, Constable, and do call in at the kitchen. I’m sure Cookie will give you a cup of tea.’
‘Thank you very much, miss, that’s very kind, miss.’ This was something he had been intending to do anyway, but it was certainly congenial to have permission. ‘How are you getting on with the cat, miss?’
‘He’s always climbing the curtains. It drives my mother mad. Then he reverses down with great difficulty. He’s growing terribly quickly.’
‘Ah, a curtain climber. Fluff mostly stops us writing our reports. She likes to sit on the paper and play with the pens. She knocked over a pot of ink last week. And she turned over the milk jug.’
‘We were going to find a home for Caractacus,’ said Rosie, ‘but I don’t think we will.’
‘Well, that’s the trouble with cats, miss,’ said the constable wisely.