"Sir, there are gurglings going on somewhere."
"What."
"Gurglings, we've heard gurglings and groans."
"I beg your pardon."
"We've traced it up here. Had to come in your door. To investigate of course."
"What are you doing in this house."
"Sir, gurgling and groaning and some cries have been heard out in the garden. By my wife."
"Gurgling."
"Yes, quite. We have come to see by what authority it is being emitted. Sir. Then there were groans, long, long piercing groans."
"I think you must be mistaken."
"O no, there are four of us. This other gentleman came with us. He heard it too. We met him on the street. We wish to know sir, by what authority these groans are being uttered. As it would appear from the sound that some embranglement is afoot. Sir, my God, have regard, you are without any garments, please."
"Pardon. But it is my house and I want to see the rest of you. The light's not awfully good."
"Yes, quite, we wish of course it were better too. On this investigatory mission. I don't think any of us, let me make that point quite clear, will be deterred by hollow answers. We are all here agreed we have heard the groans and moans."
"You are I think trespassing. This is my house."
"Look sir, that may be, but again I must make perfectly clear that we have entered upon the premises on a serious investigatory mission, in the manner, if I may say so, of vigilantes, and we would appreciate not being trifled with. If someone is in distress it is the duty of citizens to demand to know sir."
Millicent sitting upright in shadows, the sheets gathered around. A cow goes on grazing latterly the bull has been in her. Balthazar B bare arsed at the dressing room door, a Welsh traveller in Wales attired in national costume. Urgent whispers from Millicent get those damn people out of my room. Beefy said it was an inclination of Knightsbridge population to have a go. With fans, lorgnettes and furled umbrellas. To put down theft, slow up crime. And stop diabolical secret murder. Betwixt the damp warrens of masonry. The English hide their houses and the French always cut a little window in their trees. But one of those misty London evenings can come with the pavements moist and greasy black as the people thread darkly home through the streets. And the paper sellers' shouts go out. Echoing across the fog. Woman's torso found in Thames. Killer with a surgeon's skill. Floating remains found on foreshore of Wapping Old Stairs. Police search for missing head. A clue to the killer might be given by the expression on the dead person's face. A smile if the victim had long liked the assailant. Surprise and horror if she did not. The torso was well built. Now tarry sir, listen to the gore. The hairy hand, reaching. Cutting. Leaving blood and remains. On the foreshore. What does one answer in all this distress. To keep one's arse unbroken. Or police being called and possible arrest. Only left one thing to say.
"I know that my redeemer liveth."
"That's all very well and proper sir, all of us here I'm sure know that our redeemer liveth. But dash it all, that's exactly why we will not be sidetracked."
"Could we not all sing Abide With Me."
"Certainly not sir, this is not a joke. We demand to see in."
"No."
"Sir, you are asking to get force from us. Isn't that so, I didn't catch your name on the street sir, ah, Whitewang. Is that in one or two words, White Wang, ah two, good. Now isn't that so Mr. White Wang, we are being asked to use force here."
"I must ask you all to go away please. Out of my wife's dressing room.' "We shall not."