Death on a Branch Line (24 page)

The Chief flashed a look to Usher, who sighed and said, ‘It’s highly inconvenient that he was invited here tonight. I suppose he can sign the paper, but it’s up to you – he’s your man, and you know his qualities. By the way, do you think a whisky and soda might help that difficulty of yours, Chief Inspector?’

The Chief rose to his feet, gathering up the revolver; he looked at me, then down at it. He raised the revolver, grinning and levelling it at me, and then with the flourish of a conjuror he made the cylinder swing out and I saw the bullet chambers – saw clean through them, in fact.

It was not loaded.

Chapter Twenty-Six

We were in the very long yellow room. After an interval in one of the sculleries involving the ruin of many clean towels and the emptying of most of a bottle of carbolic (both supplied by a parlourmaid), the Chief and I had stanched our wounds, and were kitted out with new, pressed white shirts, which we wore without collars, so that they looked like military tunics. I somehow hoped that they belonged to the manservant rather than any of the Lamberts. Beyond the windows, dawn was breaking, and the heat rising.

The Chief paced with a whisky glass in his hand, but otherwise looked like a barrister in a courtroom as he indicated Usher, his chief witness or exhibit, and the hero and leader of all men not of the Hugh Lambert kind.

His full name, not very surprisingly, was Captain Joscelin Usher – a girl’s name, in fact. And while he was known as ‘Captain’ in memory of his glorious exploits in the Royal Marines in Africa and elsewhere, he was currently employed as a detective inspector of the Special Police on commission from the Secret Service Bureau, of which accreditations he was evidently happy to carry no proofs whatever. He operated always in secrecy, but I wondered – as the Chief spoke on – whether it wouldn’t have been better for him to have carried some form of identification, instead of just looking put out whenever anyone asked who he was and what he was about. It seemed that the Chief had some connection with the intelligence division of the Army, and in turn with the Secret Service Bureau, and it had been arranged in advance that he, a trusted man, would come to Adenwold to
assist Usher in his mission, which amounted to this: put the frighteners on John Lambert.

That was not quite how the Chief put it, of course, but not far off. The two of them had certainly been willing to go as far as threatening to put John Lambert’s lights out and the matter might very well have (and might
still
) come to a killing, for the highest interests of the state were involved.

John Lambert had been a very clever student indeed at Cambridge University. He had then joined the North Eastern Railway, which was a surprise move, for men of the graduate sort were only just beginning to enter railway careers in numbers. He’d quickly brought himself under notice for quickness of understanding, and by age thirty he was District Superintendent of the Traffic Department of the Eastern Area, whereas the last man in that post had been in the fifties or older.

‘He was then’, said the Chief, ‘taken into a special body of men selected from all the railway companies, and charged with –’

He stopped at this and looked over at Usher, and then the Chief seemed to begin all over again, saying:

‘Men and arms can be carried anywhere on rail –’

‘And they
will
be, Stringer,’ Usher put in from the sofa. ‘Troops, provisions and
matériel
.’

At which – as Usher leant forward and put out his cigarette – I wondered whether this ‘
matériel
’ was the same thing as ‘material’.

‘I make no predictions as to the nature of any European war,’ Usher went on, ‘but the continental railways were laid out with an eye to military considerations and German railways, for example, are owned by the state.’

The thought seemed to agitate him to the point where he had to stand up.

‘They can hurl their army to any given point at a moment’s notice,’ he said, rising, ‘and we must be able to do the same. It is not necessary for you to have the full details, Stringer, but since you’ve thrust yourself forward so far, and on condition of absolute confidentiality …’

He walked over to the nearest mantel-piece and collected his
own glass of whisky which stood next to my empty one. I had downed it in a single draught, and it had been fuelling my headache ever since.

‘A committee was formed,’ Usher continued, ‘and provided with imperial funds to formulate working notices – schemes of transportation – to be employed in the event of an emergency.’

‘Meaning a war with Germany?’ I put in.

‘There are other, equally dangerous possibilities, Stringer.’

‘Such as what, sir?’

There was a beat of silence, and then the fellow coloured up and grinned, looking almost girlish; I liked him for it, and I grinned back at him.

‘Imagine the complexities, Stringer,’ he went on, replacing his glass. ‘Offensive and defensive railway schemes to be created, supply depots to be nominated. The coaling of the home fleet to be accomplished – now how do you suppose
that
is to be managed in time of war?’

‘That’s to be done under heavy guard from Hull,’ said the Chief, lighting up a new cigar.

Usher was checked for a moment by this intervention of the Chief’s, whose nose looked different again with a cigar beneath it.

‘The schemes are constantly tested with practice mobilisations,’ Usher continued, ‘during which ordinary services are to be carried on as far as possible. The committee men work in the offices of their own companies and at a central co-ordinating office in London. They are few in number – kept to a minimum by the requirement of absolute secrecy – and the weight of work is very great. I am told they are all very brilliant, and with intellectual brilliance comes a degree of waywardness, as I’m sure you appreciate, detective sergeant.’

‘Try to picture yourself as intellectually brilliant, lad,’ the Chief cut in. ‘Imagine yourself into that situation.’

Usher caught up his whisky glass again, and sipped at it.

‘That said,’ he ran on, ‘John Lambert had appeared until lately to be a man of impeccable character. But his defect has
been disclosed, and it takes the form of an excessive loyalty to his murdering brother.’

‘I don’t believe he is a murderer,’ I said.

‘Hugh Lambert had a liking for the country-side,’ said Usher, ignoring me, ‘but he would also spend a good deal of time in London making – well, making free.’ Usher replaced the glass once again, adding: ‘… Making free in
Mayfair
.’

He was looking at me, but I had never been to Mayfair.

‘The long and the short of it, Stringer,’ he said, ‘is that John Lambert has tried to black-mail us –
Britain
, I mean. He has proposed to disclose a digest of the mobilisation notices to our enemies unless his brother is reprieved and the sentence commuted.’

‘He means to disclose the information
to the Germans
?’ I said.

‘If you want to put it like that, yes,’ said Usher.

He saw off the remainder of his whisky, and sank back down into the sofa.

‘Has he told you who he thinks did the murder?’ I enquired.

‘He has not been good enough to do that,’ said Usher. ‘The limit of his contention is that his brother did not have the character to do it.’

I nodded.

‘What happened to the man Gifford? Why did the train not stop? Why were the wires cut?’

The two exchanged glances. They would ration their answers.

‘The wires are cut’, said the Chief, ‘because we cut ’em. Had to be done. They were newly connected to the telephone – this place and the station both.’

‘You see, the possibilities are three,’ said Usher. ‘One: John Lambert was merely making an idle threat. Two: he genuinely intends to pass on the scheme of mobilisation but hasn’t yet. Three: he has already done it. We have kept an eye on him here, and removed the danger of a telegram being sent that might direct the recipient to where the data is located. But Lambert has hinted that a message might be conveyed to some intermediary through no action on his part. It might be transmitted by
default
, do you understand?’

I did not.

‘Some bugger down in London might be primed,’ put in the Chief. ‘If you don’t hear from me by such and such a time on so and so date, give the package held in locker number one at Euston station to Mr X.’

‘Or the middleman might have been here in the village,’ said Usher.

‘If that happens, then three years of concentrated brainwork is lost,’ said Usher. ‘On top of that, our enemies may prefer to act quickly, directing an invasion force to those parts appearing from the plans to be less well protected.’

‘You’ll see now’, said the Chief, ‘why I was a little offhand with you at the do last night.’

I looked towards the French windows, which stood open. The heat of day was present, but the light of summer was quite missing.

‘We mean to lay hands on Lambert,’ said Usher. ‘A detachment of ordinary constables is coming here by motor from Malton.’

‘How were they summoned?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘John Lambert believed you meant to kill him,’ I said.

Usher nodded once.

‘It was my own favoured solution,’ he said. ‘It seemed to have the benefit of elegance.’

‘Only trouble being,’ said the Chief, ‘that if we’d put his lights out, then we wouldn’t know whether the documents had been passed on or not.’

‘And my instructions were to employ diplomacy in the first instance,’ said Usher.

I said, ‘Wouldn’t it have been worth reprieving Hugh Lambert to avoid all this bother?’

‘You’re the first person involved in this case to make such a suggestion, Detective Stringer,’ said Usher; and he evidently considered this answer enough, for he sat down again, saying, ‘That’s all, Stringer. In due course you will be required to sign a contract pursuant to a new Act of Parliament. It binds you to secrecy on pain of prosecution.’

‘Do you not want me to give a hand with the search?’ I asked, standing.

Usher shook his head, and I knew why. The constables would be kept in ignorance of the reason for the search, and he thought I might give it away. He wanted me kept well clear of all developments. He’d told me as much as he had in order to satisfy my curiosity, and so remove my need to solve the puzzle of John Lambert.

‘Right then,’ I said, ‘I’ll be off.’

I took the sporting cap out of my pocket, put it on my head and walked under the steady blue gaze of Usher towards the opened French windows.

‘Remember, Detective Sergeant Stringer,’ Usher called out as I left, ‘
absolute
secrecy.’

I stepped through the French windows, and a noise made me look to the right, where the wife crouched just beyond the last of the windows. As I approached her, she stood up and joined me just as though she’d been marketing in Coney Street, York.

‘You heard every word of that, I take it?’ I said.

‘All except the last words Usher spoke,’ she said. ‘But I think he was telling you again that the matter must not go beyond the four walls of that room.’

She turned and gave me a grin. But it didn’t last, for the silver-haired man in the white dust-coat now stepped between us.

‘Back inside with you two,’ he said, in a strong Yorkshire accent that I would never have expected.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The room was in the eaves of the house. There was next to nothing in it besides a truckle bed, a locked cupboard, a table and a hairbrush that could have been a man’s or a woman’s. A photograph of a young woman stood on the tiny window-sill, and she must either have been the occupant of the room – when not in Scarborough – or the sweetheart of the occupant.

Coming upon us late, the dust-coated special policeman – name of Cooper – had got the false idea that we’d both been eavesdropping on the Chief and Usher. But he hardly relented when the true situation was explained. He had found us to be making light of a grave national danger, and there was more than a hint in his arguments that we would try to come to the traitor’s aid. The Chief had put a word in for me, but it counted for nothing. Cooper was junior to Usher, but Usher agreed with his man, and so we were stowed at the top of the house, and the door locked behind us.

The wife hadn’t seemed to mind too much.

‘At least they’re not trying to be gentlemanly,’ she said.

She sat on the bed, and asked for another look at Hugh Lambert’s papers.

‘Now we’re in a cell just like him,’ she muttered, after leafing through them for a while.

A few minutes later, she passed me one of the sheets, saying, ‘This is interesting.’

I read:

Father and the Reverend Ridley hit it off splendidly. The
Reverend never mentioned that father did nothing besides
romp around the estate blasting animals, and father returned
the favour. Father was unsettled to discover that Ridley kept a
model railway in his house but the only other point of antagonism
between the two of them was Emma, my former governess,
who continued to appear at the Hall long after her
efforts had secured my admission into Eton. Her new role,
according to father, was to give him ‘French lessons’. He often
accused me of being too familiar with gutter slang, but some
acquaintanceship with it on his own part might not have come
amiss.

I am sure that the Reverend, however, saw nothing amusing
in the situation, for he liked Emma. She could stop him in his
tracks, even with a cricket game in prospect.

I handed the papers back to the wife, telling her I’d heard something similar from Chandler at the party.

‘Didn’t Mrs Handley tell us that the vicar had a fancy woman at a village near here?’ asked the wife. ‘You don’t suppose it’s this Emma, do you?’