At 11:40 the constable saw a gentleman wobbling home after having had one too many, his gait unsteady, and his passage attended by a popular music-hall number, sung off-key and interrupted by dyspepsia. Before he caught up the man turned up the path to one of the large homes on Napier Street. A door opened and someone made sure he got inside, so there was no reason for the law’s intervention.
At Host Street he turned toward the mansions of the wealthiest people. Their homes clustered near Jacobus Street, and the constable knew his job was to make sure that they remained safe from any gunns, grafters, tools, or snoozers that might be lurking, but tonight there were no such of riff-raff about.
A housemaid slipped into the servants’ entrance of Balfour House, returning from some assignation, but such domestic matters were no concern of the law, so he passed on.
The constable’s beat led him northward, toward the downtown. The clock struck twelve in the old Presbyterian Church as he passed – the witching hour. He shook the shiver he felt off, and continued on his way. He did not look up to see the figures on broomsticks, overhead.
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