“Steadman, was there anything you had to finish up in the Bricklayers’ Arms?” “I was drinking a pint, sir.” “And you dealt with that, I trust?” “I drank my pint right up.” “Good man.” Bill Steadman, a fifty-year-old pensioner wearing a police-issue vest, explained that he’d been concerned about a heavy flow of people that night and was serving as a volunteer. “I often did so, sir. My heart, it dislikes the damp. Warden Low was always kind enough to let me stay in the booking hall, so I tried to ...be of some use.” “And were you wearing this at the time?” Laurie indicated the vest. “No, sir. I got this after the accident. I’ve become more official at the shelter since the night in question.” “I see. Well, you’re fortunate it’s just your heart dislikes the damp. My whole body is rather indisposed to it,” said Laurie. He expected a chuckle. “Do you often go to the public shelters?” Steadman asked. Steady man, Laurie thought. Earns his name. “Perhaps not,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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