An Impression in Velvet

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From the day I entered the uniformed police division in Lambeth, a few years ago, I heard stories about Inspector Michael Corravan that verged on myth. Never mind that he’d already departed for Scotland Yard. It was as if his Herculean ghost hung about the place. Every so often, I’d be regaled with yet another tale of his doggedness, by which he solved cases at twice the usual rate; his prowess in wielding a truncheon or his fists; and his skills gleaned from a youth spent in seedy Whitechapel rather than from books, which most men counted as an asset. (Indeed, I quickly learned to keep my education through sixth form at the Royal Grammar School in Guildford tucked under my shiny new Metropolitan Police hat.) When I was granted a transfer to the Yard this past autumn, one constable said to me, “Ah, Mr. Stiles! You’ll be meeting our Mr. Corravan, then.” Another followed this with a dour warning to avoid him until I gathered more experience, for I’d only annoy him to no end. Still another urged me to leap at any opportunity to learn from him. I refrained from stating the absurdly obvious: as a newcomer, I’d hardly be given a choice in the matter.

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