Murder At Deviation Junction (30 page)

    'How
do you mean?'

    'The
way they're always kept pulled up.'

    'Well,
he wears garters. There's no mystery there.'

    'But
he tries to cover his traces. Takes a professional pride in -'

    I
held up my hand to silence him.

    I was
listening again to the rushing noise . . . and now distinct sounds of human
voices came with it. We were within sight of what must have been the road: a
smoother run of snow under the changing grey light.

    'The
river's down there,' I said, pointing forwards, 'and the railway line hard by.'

    '...which
won't be operating,' said Bowman, catching his breath. The roaring was coming
closer in the mysterious dawn, and the voices made real words. Then there came
the sound of cartwheels too. It was Small David in the driving seat and I could
make out, even in that explosion of snow, that his revolver was in his hand as
he whipped on the frozen nag. He was alongside us in a moment, making mock of
the three-mile stride we'd just completed.

    'First
ye're a traitor to
hum,'
he said, addressing Bowman and pointing the gun
towards me, 'and then ye're after selling
us
doon the river. Well, it's
awfy cauld, so here's somethin' to warm yer Sassenach guts -'

    The
gun had swung back to Bowman, and the bullet was loosed at that moment, but in
the same instant I fancied that I saw a flash of Marriott in the old-fashioned
boxer pose, and he and his son fell on Small David as he fired. Marriott and
Small David fell to scrapping in the cart; I was right by the horse's head, and
that beast looked at me while the vehicle rocked behind him, as if to say,
'Look what I have to put up with.'

    Marriott
was now standing in the cart, steadying himself like a man riding a raft over
rapids, even though the cart did not move. His face was a wall of blood held up
proudly to the floating snow (for the stuff was coming down again). He held the
revolver in his hand, and Small David rolled in the well of the cart at his
feet.

    Marriott
did not use words. He was beyond that; he spoke with the gun. He waved it to
mean that Bowman and I should climb up; then once again to get Small David back
in the driving seat. Even though he'd lost hold of the revolver, the Scotsman
was in a better way than the lawyer. In fact, he looked just as he had done
before the set-to, with his indestructible country suit, and his great calves
smoothly enclosed in the yellow stockings.

    He
muttered a little to himself as he started us away, but did not seem too
downhearted. He'd lost that particular round of the match, that was all. And we
did not gallop; instead, the horse trotted along the track, as Marriott swabbed
his wounds with a handkerchief, and Richie sat with head in hands, watching the
bags belonging to the three rolling against his boots. There was more of blue
in the Highland greyness now, and the tops of the hills were becoming clearer,
just as though they had lately taken up their habitual place around us.

    It
was an alteration that passed for dawn on that day.

    Bowman
sat over opposite Small David; I in the same relation to Richie. We were going
back the way we'd come the day before. Every turn of the wheels brought us
nearer the railway station, and I was glad of that until I remembered that it
would most likely not be working on such a day, and that it was not manned in
any case. When we'd been riding for ten minutes, the lawyer spoke directly to
his son for the first time in my hearing.

    'Richard,'
he said, 'you have the key, I take it?'

    Richie
removed his gloves and began hunting through the pockets of his topcoat, but he
was shaking his head even as he did so.

    'I
don't believe so,' he said.

    'But
I told you to bring it.'

    Richie
shook his head very sadly.

    'Nothing
was said about it, father.'

    Marriot
was hunting through his pockets as he drove the cart.

    'It's
all right,' he said presently. 'I have it here.'

    As I
wondered what the key was for, Small David turned about, and I saw that he was
grinning, even though the gun was on him.

    We
drove on through that white world, until the stone house with the antlers on
the walls floated into view, and then I understood the talk of a key. The snow
had drifted against the house's walls, and I could not make out the door. It
looked the part of a prison, and that is what it would become.

    Marriott
ordered Small David down from the carriage, and he passed him the key.

    Small
David approached the house with the gun on him. On the way, he kicked a heather
bush, shaking off the snow and disclosing a small yellow flower, which set him
cursing anew.

    He
found the door, and opened it while looking in my direction.

    'Polis!'
he called. 'Dree yer ain weird.'

    That's
what it sounded like at any rate.

    The
gun in the lawyer's hand wavered my way, and I climbed down.

    Small
David called again, 'Ye'll bide here too, bottle man,' and Bowman followed me
through the door, which Small David clapped shut behind us without further
speech. I could not hear the cart rattle away, for the stone of the walls was
too thick.

    'Had
a moment of alarm back there,' said Bowman. I could hear him but not see him in
that freezing tank, for there was no light at all.

    'Came
within half an ace of being shot.'

    'It's
one bloody turn-about after another,' I said, not over- kindly. 'Where are
you?'

    'I
don't know,' he said.

    There
was a strong, sweet smell of old hay - the place was something between a barn
and a house. I crouched down. The floor was made of stone flags, horribly cold
to the touch. As the darkness began to resolve, I made out a low line of
whiteness to my right.

    'Well,
I've found the door again,' I said, making towards it.

    'Always
a useful preliminary to making an exit,' said Bowman, and I could somehow tell
from his voice that he was sitting down. He spoke in a level voice - he was
even amused by the fix we were in. Before, he'd been as nervous as a cat. Now
he was a new man.

    'Are
we "o'er the burran"?' I asked him.

    'No,
no, that was Small David's scheme. This is Marriott's doing.'

    'What
is
"o'er the burran"?'

    'A
stream in Scots is a burn. There's one near the cottage. Beyond it is a black
bog. He meant to put you in there.'

    'I wouldn't
have liked that,' I said.

    'I
hardly think that would have influenced him one way or another - and there'd
have been a bullet in your head in any case.'

    'But
Marriott stopped him, not having the stomach for a murder.'

    'He doesn't
have the stomach for
another
murder. It's a point of pride with him that
he can achieve his ends without further killing.'

    'And
now they're off.'

    'The
object is to go to France. Dieppe. Do you know it? And then on. They have a
passage booked for tomorrow night.'

    'But
first they have to get to Inverness.'

    'You
have found the flaw in the scheme.'

    'Why
doesn't Marriott see it?'

    'He's
living on hope. He thinks there might yet be a train that way today.'

    'I'm
going to have a run at this door,' I said.

    'I
doubt you'll succeed.'

    I
charged, shoulder first. The door barely gave an inch.

    I did
it again; and again.

    I sat
down on the stone flags, nursing a sore shoulder.

    'They
build a good ruin, these Scots,' said Bowman.

    We
sat in silence for a space, listening out for any passing cart or pedestrian.

    'How
do the Club come to have the key to this place?' I said, after a few minutes of
frozen silence.

    Bowman
sighed.

    'I'm
going to tell you everything I know,' he said, and as we listened out for any
passing cart, he disclosed most of the remaining mysteries, the tale beginning
December last in Saltburn, the model seaside town that lies between Whitby and
Middlesbrough. As Bowman began, I pictured the place in winter: the sea wind
blowing through the wide streets; the few people about looking like so many tin
miniatures, positioned about the place to show how the amenities of the town
worked.

    Bowman
and Peters had booked into the Station Hotel - being required by the limited
expenses available to share a double room - in late November 1908. Bowman had
then taken up residence in the hotel bar, made miserable by the weather, and
the failure of some plans he'd entertained to turn novelist. On 1 December Peters
had made his breakaway, darting off in all directions in search of artistic
interpretations of railway scenes. He'd been very taken by Middlesbrough
railway station, and by the passing loop-cum-marshalling yard at Stone Farm,
which had lately been illuminated, creating many interesting effects of light
and shade.

    He
made his first visit to Stone Farm on the 2nd and there met the lad porter,
who'd tipped him off about the Club train. He'd shot back to Middlesbrough, but
missed the Club.

    That
night, back at Saltburn, he'd explained to Bowman the fascination of the lamps
at Stone Farm and mentioned his pursuit of the Travelling Club. He'd discovered
that they would be coming through Saltburn the next morning - the 3rd - and
woke early on that day to take the photograph, about which the Club were quite
happy, for the row over the window lay ten minutes in the future and a couple
of miles down the line.

    Peters
was a dead man after that, for Marriott's story would be that Falconer had
never boarded the train at his customary boarding place of Saltburn or anywhere
else. But the photograph - and the newspaper in Richie Marriott's hand - told a
different story.

    The
lie Marriott attempted was not as wild as it seemed, for Theodore Falconer
generally walked alone from his house to the station, which was all but
deserted on that bitter day. The Club did not use the services of a porter, and
were not troubled by ticket inspections; no steward served their tea or
champagne - they helped themselves from the supplies laid on. It was quite
possible for their journeyings to go unnoticed by any railway servant, or by
anyone save the other Club members.

    That
afternoon Peters was robbed of his camera by two station loungers of
Middlesbrough. They did not want the photographs the camera held; they wanted
to get bread. Peters reported the theft and returned to Saltburn, where he told
Bowman of the day's occurrences.

    The
next day - the 4th - was Peters's last. He left Saltburn at mid-morning with
the expressed intention of returning to Stone Farm and its viewsome siding. At
midday Small David - having been discovered in Middlesbrough or thereabouts by
Marriott - pitched up at the hotel reception asking for Peters. He was directed
to the hotel bar, and to Bowman. A conference occurred.

    At
first, Bowman had refused to give any information about Peters. But Small David
had been given the first of his wages by Marriott, and he was in funds. Bowman
was offered ten pounds for information. He turned it down. He was offered
twenty, and they closed on that. A condition of the deal was that he would let
Small David search the hotel room that Bowman shared with Peters. Small David's
tale was that he wanted to make sure of the identity of Peters with a certain
party to whom he owed money.

    'I
blame Wimbledon,' said Bowman in the gloom of the stone tank. 'The wife had
seen photographs of new villas there in some picture paper. Well, she had to
have one, would not let up on the subject. I'd say, "What's wrong with the
present place?" We were in East London at the time, nicely situated for
walks in Victoria Park. Yes, the Great Eastern Railway ran along the bottom of
the garden, but we had five shillings a week off the rent on that account.
"And I'm a railway journalist," I would remind her, "so it's all
grist to my mill.'"