Part the second, where Dawes descends further along his path of infamy, a public market theft is a subterfuge and the aftermath of the crime of the century becomes meaningful to the demise of Oates and Iveagh.

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Mayer ate Oates
And Dawes ate Oates
And little Lambe ate Iveagh.

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The day that Dawes first encountered Mayer and Lambe was fair and bright. Albert was examining produce at the local market when a cry went up.

"Stop! THIEF!"

The shout came from a stall-holder as a young fox darted past the colt, pushing his way through the milling crowd. Like many others, Albert turned to watch the goings-on, and observed a burly grizzly bear bar the way, his face set in a no-nonsense look of distain. The thief bounced right off the ursine chest, as if he had run straight into a wall. Mayer, for it was he, picked up the shocked fox by the scruff and dangled him helplessly in the air, giving him an occasional shake for effect, while the vulpine protested and screeched to be set down again. The relieved stall-holder puffed and panted his way through the gathering throng and proclaimed his undying gratitude to the brave civil hero, wheezily shaking the bear's free paw. The bear announced to the crowd that he himself would be proud to convey the malfeasant to the gaol. Dawes, somewhat disappointed by the brevity of the chase, turned away from the immediate action and espied the stall-holder's pitch. Lambe was there, his paws dipping into the stocks of watches and money left unguarded. As the stoat moved away with his loot, Dawes noticed with interest the broad wink the fellow cast to the bear, and how Mayer immediately insisted he would be happy to go to the constabulary alone, being 'big enough to deal with a low-life such as this' and giving the miserable fox another shake.

As the bear marched the fox out the eastern laneways of the market to the applause of the crowd, Dawes followed, shadowing them cautiously. Having developed the gift of a crafty and calculating mind, he considered the events and knew instinctively that things were not at all as they seemed. Several hundred yards distance from the market, the bear looked around (not seeing the colt duck into a shop doorway) and released the fox with a laugh, slapped his back heartily and led him into a dark and dingy public house. Dawes waited a moment or two, then entered the inn himself, and little surprised to see the stoat sitting with the others, supping ale and discussing their successful blag.

How Dawes introduced himself to the three thieves was never explained in public, and they hold their council even now. It is yet well-known among the under-classes that the nameless fox had soon disappeared, never to be seen again, while Lambe and Mayer began to be regularly seen in the finer parts of town, 'casing' (as the expression goes) some of the better homes of the elite.

Dawes had, somehow, hooked and landed his henchmen and was ready to gut and fillet the town of his birth.

As time passed, the criminal classes slowly became aware of a new mastermind on the scene, his brooding presence and calculating presence enhanced by a brutal bear and a sadistic stoat. As for the horse, a colt no longer, Dawes's perfectly respectable outward appearance was expertly maintained. Every Sunday, he made a point of attending church with his parents, while discussing matters of the day with the local Chief Inspector (a close friend of his parents) about the growing menace of the criminally minded working classes, and offering thoughtful opinions on how they might be controlled, to preserve the safety of respectable people in these dangerous times. The young Dawes was a magnificent example of a stallion, his chestnut coat as glossy as fresh paint and as brown as a chestnut in October. His double-breasted suit was immaculate, and the felt hat he favoured was both tasteful and fetching.

One very stormy February evening, the tossed sheets of rain dumped floods of miserable wetness upon the roofs, eves and gutters of the town. In the first floor guest room of the Brazen Head, the criminal genius, Albert Dawes, was finishing a superlative meal, washed down by some particularly rare brandy and an after-dinner cigar. The inn straddled the line between the respectable and dangerous sides of town, and served perfectly as Dawes's primary hang-out and first port of call. Here, in the hustle and bustle of a public house that served both vintage fine wines and cheap gut-rot from behind the one bar, Dawes lorded over his expanding fiefdom, accepted tribute from the usurped bosses that shook their fists while envying his abilities, terrorised the lowly into providing him with knowledge that could help him, and forced the respectable into freely providing protection monies -- should they not want trouble. HIs personal reputation, though still outwardly respectable, had calcified in the eyes of some of the gentry. This was a minor irritation, as the Chief Inspector himself was on a comfortable retainer provided by Albert, and in turn fed his secondary employer with many useful tidbits of intelligence that somehow failed to trickle down to the policemen on the beat.

As far as anyone knows, it was the Lambe, the stoat, that imposed on Dawes's meal, blurting out some fantastic news that just happened to come his way. A recent bank job in the City, a most daring and successful endeavour, resulted in a fraternal approach by a number of gentlemen who, by reason of general public outcry, urgently required a safe location where, to lapse into the vernacular, they might 'stash the loot.'

The terms were favourable. Five per cent of the haul, and all reasonable expenses re-embursed. "And," Lambe enthused, "I have just the right place to put it, too!"

In the cold evening twilight of St. Mary's Road several days later, a dark blue lorry with a canvas top came to a stop a hundred yards or so from a forgotten railway viaduct over a derelict canal. A small group of suspiciously coy creatures emerged, mainly rodents and bears dressed as council workers, and unloaded brown-paper packages from the back of their vehicle. With surprising halt, they carried their burdens over to the viaduct and disappeared quickly beneath the bridge. Within ten minutes they were gone, leaving no evidence of their passing. This alone would have alerted any citizen of the borough to the possibility that they were not altogether as they seemed. After all, no self-respecting council worker could be found working out of hours. Or working at all, for that matter. Silent reclaimed the empty street, the old warehouses and the railway. At nine-twenty, right on time, the Express rattled through, its whistle echoing long after the rumble of its wheels on the iron road had faded. And then came a distant sound of singing.

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In the next thrilling installment - "Getting Locked" - discover how Oates and Iveagh end up in the canal, and how a social conscience is simply a means to an end.