Murder At Deviation Junction (10 page)

    'According
to the official it was nil-nil,' said Shillito, 'he himself having disallowed two
perfectly good goals scored by our own team.'

    Somebody
would be getting a letter about that. He was still in fits about it: you could
tell by the redness rising in his face as he at long last initialled my
notebook, returned it to me and swept out of the office with carefully folded
topcoat under his arm.

    When
he'd gone, I set about some flash reports.

    My
backlog included twelve reported losses, of which only two had come in from
York addresses, which was fine because regarding these I was required to pay a
visit to the complainant. Otherwise, a letter asking for more particulars was
required. Many of these went unanswered, and the more the better as far as the
Company was concerned, because then the matter could be dropped.

    When
Shillito had gone, Wright stepped over and placed a letter on my desk. He smelt
of oranges, which somehow didn't sit right with his ancient white face. He sat
back and looked on as I picked up the envelope.

    It
was addressed in a shocking hand, and the nib of the pen had flooded between
the words 'Stringer' and 'York Station Police Office.' The postmark was Whitby.
I looked back at Wright, who had now set about another bloody orange, the
clicking of his ancient jaw in rhythm with the ticking of the clock, and the
two together making the sound of a rocking chair. He watched me with eyes
fairly bulging.

    The
letter was one sheet of paper; and it came out backwards, so that I saw the
signature first, which was a long word, running across half the page. I turned
the leaf over: the address was set down as 'Shunters Cabin, Bog Hall Siding'.
It was Company paper, though of an old style. 'Dear Stringer of the Rly Police
York', the letter began. 'Mr Mackenzie, Yard Master (Nights) told me what you
were about, and I have set my mind to it, and there is one from the Club you
were asking after that I have heard of. That was Mr Moody. He was an old man
but I heard he went under a train somewear north in summer, and is dead. His
son I know is still living. He is in Pickering. He is a gentleman like his
farther and deals in chimbeny sweaping eqpt like his farther did to.'

    It
was signed: 'E. Handley'.

    It
was good of the fellow to go to the labour of writing.

    I
wouldn't need a gazetteer to find a man called Moody in a small place like
Pickering, but when would I get the chance to go there? It didn't matter. I
would go. Meanwhile, I had a telegram to get off: to Mr S. Bowman of
The
Railway Rover,
Bouverie Street, London E.

    Once
again, I sat on a train shaking across the cliffs with Whitby behind me, heading
for Ironopolis. It was all Middlesbrough today, for I also had in my pocket two
written communications from the iron town. I had collected these from the
office before crossing the footbridge and boarding my train from Platform
Fourteen. I had read them as I crossed, with all the thunder of the morning
peak going on below: the first was from a Detective Sergeant Williams of the
Middlesbrough Railway Police, and it was in response to a telegram sent on my
behalf by Shillito: 'Confirm suspect Clegg can be brought here for questioning
or charge. Holding cell at your disposal.' That second sentence was by way of a
joke, perhaps. At any rate, this was Shillito arranging a second bout between
me and Clegg.

    The
other letter was more curious, and no less anxious-making. It was from the
secretary to the passenger traffic manager, Middlesbrough District. A search
had been made for the file requested: that concerning the subscribers to the
Cleveland Travelling Club, and 'It is very regrettable to have to relate that
the documents in question appear to be missing. It is possible that the Club
subscribers were, or are, registered with us as ordinary First Class Season
holders, but we have so many of these listed that we would need the names of
the parties in order to be able to provide confirmation.'

    My
telegram to Stephen Bowman of
The Railway Rover,
Bouverie Street, London
E., had so far gone unanswered.

    Sandsend
came and went, then Staithes, the train crossing over the mighty cliff-gaps by means
of the towering viaducts. To the folk below, our engine driver must seem more
like an aviator. After the long darkness of the Grinkle Tunnel, the mine
workings began to appear once more. We slowed on to the Kilton Viaduct, passing
the whirling gauge that was meant to warn of high winds. I looked down towards
the Flat Scar mine: the sea beyond was grey, the sky white. Two men were on the
jetty of the little harbour, standing thoughtful-like. But there were no ships.
In the fields and on the grey slag piles around the mine, the snow remained,
though worn away by footsteps, hooves and machinery here and there. It was as
though it had overstayed its welcome, the novelty having worn off, and I
thought of the pub in York that had started out as the Bay Horse and had
gradually become the
Grey
Horse owing to the quantity of smuts on the
sign.

    There
was no train ascending the zigzag line this time. Instead, one man toiled up
the bank towards the viaduct. A dog walked alongside him, and he seemed to have
an extra, bright white arm, but it was the neck of a shot goose, carried on his
shoulder. I looked to my left and saw the Rectory smoking.

    We
came into Middlesbrough station dead on time at midday. I hung about on the
platform watching some of the gentry climb down from First; all the porters in
Middlesbrough were attending those select carriages, offering to carry even the
smallest of black leather valises or just holding open doors. One fellow in a
silk topper climbed down with a cigar in his hand, and I could have sworn he
was about to give it to a porter to hold as he put on his gloves; or perhaps he
would content himself with putting it out on the little bloke's cap. But what
became of the cigar I never saw because, looking to my right at that moment, I
saw the word 'Police' painted in white on a green door.

    The
Middlesbrough police office was much homelier than the York one. It was long
and narrow like the railway carriages that were forever pulling up alongside.
The crackling of a good fire mingled pleasantly with the ticking of a good
clock, and the men worked at desks behind wooden screens - a very snug-looking
arrangement. Even the constables had desks, for two of the men working wore
that uniform. There were two others in plain dress, and one of these came
towards me with hand extended.

    'Detective
Sergeant Williams?' I said.

    'Ralph,'
he said, nodding, 'Ralph Williams.'

    He
was a pleasant, restful-looking sort of man, with sleepy eyes and sleepy
moustache.

    'Where's
that hardened villain Clegg, then?' he enquired, grinning. 'We have a very
comfortable cell waiting for him.' And he pointed towards a stout door at the
end of the room, indicating at the same time an old fellow surrounded not by a
wooden screen but by a barricade of filing cabinets. I knew him straightaway
for the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, the chief clerk.

    'Clegg's
known to this office, is he?' I said, removing my cap.

    Ralph
Williams smiled slowly. 'Well, I can't say he is.'

    'I'm
expecting to run into him come opening time at the Cape of Good Hope,' I said.

    'The
Cape?' he said, thoughtfully. 'An ironman, is he?'

    'Aye,'
I said. 'Works at Hudson's.'

    'You'll
be wanting a constable to go with you,' he said, which was exactly what I'd
been hoping he wouldn't say. 'I think we have a man spare, if you'll hold on a
moment.'

    But
before he could turn around and call to one of the uniformed men, I heard
myself say, 'No bother. I'm sure I'll manage.'

    'You'll
have your whistle about you, I suppose?'

    Once
more that slow smile - which made it very difficult for me to gauge the true
level of any danger waiting in the Cape of Good Hope.

    Having
spared the Middlesbrough office the inconvenience of lending me a constable, I
felt entitled to ask a favour.

    'I'm
curious to know whether a photographer reported a camera stolen about this time
last year. It might have happened somewhere on the railway territory.'

    'And
this is touching on -?'

    Williams
was making circles with his right hand, as though winding up his memory.

    '-
Paul Peters,' I said.

    'Yes,
the body turned up at Stone Farm,' he said, nodding.

    'He
was a photographer,' I said. 'He generally carried two cameras, but suddenly he
had one, and I think he'd been in Middlesbrough in the meantime. I'm told
somebody had one of his cameras away while he was up here, just before he
copped it in the woods.'

    Williams
kept silence for a second, before saying:

    'They're
all luck, some blokes, aren't they? Billy's the man for that,' he added,
pointing towards the clerk at the far end. 'We'll ask him to hunt up the crime
reports for last year.'

    But
old Billy was listening with ears cocked, and by the time I'd walked down to
his end of the office, he was already at it. He was the Middlesbrough
equivalent of Wright, but he smoked pipes instead of eating oranges. There were
two on his desk and one in his mouth as he fished the right file out of a
drawer. It was labelled 'Crime Reports, December 1908'.

    I
looked through 'Stolen Albert', 'Stolen pony', 'Assault', another 'Assault',
'Damaged fencing', 'Trespass' and then about ten 'Drunk' or 'Drunk and
Riotous', all threaded together with green string. 'Stolen Camera and Assault'
came right after, as I'd somehow known it would, in this most obliging office.
Complainant: Paul Peters, professional photographer.

    In
the afternoon of Thursday 3 December, Peters had been set upon by two men at
Spring Street, which was evidently close to Middlesbrough station. He had not been
badly hurt - that would come later - but one of two cameras he carried had been
stolen. It was noted that Peters had been unable to provide a useful
description of his assailants except that they wore dirty working men's
clothes. The report had been made out by a Constable Robinson. I pointed to the
name, and asked Billy if the man was about. He shook his head.

    'Patrolling
the line just presently,' he said.

    Well,
at least he wasn't dead, as everybody else connected to the Peters business
seemed to be. I thanked Billy and signalled thanks to DS Williams, who was now
working the office telephone; I then quit the station bounds for Middlesbrough
town centre.

    The
streets were all at right angles, as though built quickly to the simplest plan,
and all carried very honest and straightforward names: Council Street,
Corporation Road, New Street. All was new-looking and spruce in the bright
winter light, for the sun had emerged at last, but a price had been paid for
the forcing of this town, and I saw it in the shape of the giant, red-smoking
blast furnaces to the east. It was heaven and hell, with the station and the
high-level lines leading in and out the barrier between the two.

    As I
headed away from the station and its viaducts, the sound of a very majestic
arrival made me turn back around.

    It
crossed the viaduct like bloody royalty: the Gateshead Infant, so called
because of its incredible, titanic size. There'd been twenty of the beauties
built - V Class Atlantics. You never saw them south of Darlington. For ten
seconds in imagination, I was up there on the footplate, closing the regulator
for the cruise into the station. I tried to recall from my firing days the
braking procedure for an engine of that size, and realised in panic that I could
not.

    I
turned about to face the river wind, the Cape of Good Hope and the man Clegg.

    The
Cape of Good Hope was a corner house looking over a wide road. On the other
side, high metal gates opened on to an empty stretch of scrub that made a clear
channel between two congested parts of the ironworks. The scrub led to the
docks and the sea, where stood another infant of the north: a mighty, gleaming
steamship, backwards-sloping chimneys giving a great impression of sleekness
and speed even though it stood stationary.

    I
pushed through the door of the Cape, which was not at all the smokehole I'd
expected but a wide, peaceful place, church-like with a window of red and green
painted glass on three sides.