Murder At Deviation Junction (35 page)

    'That
is a very good answer,' she said, grinning again.

    I
followed her upstairs. On the bed, I got the wife's dress up. She wasn't going
to take it off because she had to take some letters across the road to the post
office for the two o'clock collection ... but it did come off eventually, and
we were in the middle of a rather hot tangle, with the church clock striking
two, when I asked:

    'Now,
are your boots upstairs or downstairs? The elastic-sided ones, I mean?'

    'Why
on earth do you ask?' said the wife, stopping what she was about.

    'Well

    'They're
by the stove, I think. I was hoping you'd have a go at them with Melton's
cream.' 'Oh.'

    'I
was going to wait until Christmas Eve,' I said, '. . . only I thought of Uncle Roy,
who would sort of make Christmas come early. About a week before, he'd come
over from Stafford with a couple of pounds' weight of sugar balls, you know,
and it struck me that—'

    'Sugar
what?'
said the wife.

    'Sugar
balls,' I said.

    'But
what have they got to do with boots?'

    A
sudden reversal occurred at that moment, so that she was looking down at me as
she asked:

    'What
have they got to do with
anything?'

    I
couldn't come out with it.

    'Nothing,'
I said. 'Nothing at all - let's just carry on.'

    And
we did; and afterwards, when she was getting dressed, the wife said, 'I'm going
to see Lillian this afternoon. I'm going to ask if you can wear Peter's suit
for the interview. He's about your size.'

    'Not
the suit he digs graves in?' I said.

    The
wife was backing towards me with her hair pulled up. As I fastened the hooks of
her dress, she said, 'Peter Backhouse has three suits. One for digging graves,
one for attending the important funerals and one for getting drunk in the
Fortune of War. The point is that the mourning suit is of quite good
broadcloth, and I think you should wear it on Friday.'

    If
she wanted me to wear it, I would wear it. It wouldn't matter what I thought or
what Peter Backhouse thought. Lillian Backhouse would go along with the wife's
scheme; she would do anything for Lydia and vice versa. They were both New
Women, and that sort came with an uncommon amount of push. The wife was now
'doing up' the bedroom, and the sound of rain beyond the window was fainter, so
that I couldn't tell whether it was falling from the sky, or just trickling
away in the gutters.

    Finding
a comfortable position for sleep, I said, 'You can't really have jam roly-poly
without custard, you know.'

    'Custard
needs lemons and we haven't got any.'

    'Why
not?'

    'Because
I didn't choose to buy any.'

    'I
don't see what you have against custard.'

    'Have
you never tasted a jam roly-poly so good that it didn't need to be drowned in
pints of the flipping stuff?'

    'No.'

    'Well
then, I feel very sorry for you, I really do.'

    But
she really did
not.

    'If
the rain stops,' the wife said as she was quitting the bedroom, 'we'll go for a
walk with Harry after school. We're to give him a turn in the fresh air
whenever possible.'

    Lydia
woke me at four, by which time the rain
had
stopped.

    Harry
was not a bit exhausted by his first day at school in a long while, and once
he'd had his cup of beef tea, a bit of bread and cheese and one of the plums
(which was more than he'd eaten in weeks), he was keen to walk along the river
a little way for a look at the swing bridge that brought the London expresses
over Naburn locks and into York.

    It
was a beautiful blue evening, if cold. We walked along the river towards the
little village of Naburn, which was a strange business. The way took you
through dripping trees, across a couple of silent fields ... and then you
struck the huge iron bridge with signals riding above and flashing lights. As
we stood alongside it, an unruly goods came over - mixed cargo, going on for
ever. It was as if a whole factory had been dismantled and entrained.

    'What
do you reckon to that?' I asked Harry.

    'It's
eeenormous,' he said.

    He
was sitting on my shoulders and kicking my chest - which hurt. We were about to
turn around and go home, when the high signals shifted.

    'Eh
up,' I said, 'another one's coming.'

    It
was a big engine that brought the carriages - the biggest of the lot. I could
scarcely credit it, but it was a V Class Atlantic that was coming riding over
the locks of the Ouse.

    'Now
you don't normally expect to see that on a London run,' I shouted up to Harry,
as the thing came crashing over. 'It's called the Gateshead Infant!'

    'Why,
our dad?'

    'It's
called "Gateshead" because it was
shopped
out of Gateshead,
and "Infant" ... well, because it's
big.'

    'Are
you
trying
to confuse the boy?' said the wife.

    'What
do you think, Harry?' I shouted up, when the last of the carriages and the
brake van had finally gone over.

    No
answer.

    'Better
than an aeroplane any day, wouldn't you say?' I craned around to see his face,
and I could tell he was thinking it over. The question, like many another just
then, was rather in the balance.

    The
next morning I walked through to see the Chief, who waved at me to sit down,
which might have been good or bad. His office was full of cigar smoke. The great
shield his team had won in the shooting match was propped on the mantelpiece,
which was barely wide enough for it.

    'What
do you think this place is?' said the Chief, with the cigar still in his mouth.
'A bloody boxing ring?'

    But
the Chief, having called me in for a rating, had already gone distant. He was
shifting some papers - mostly telegrams - from one side of his desk to another;
he read each one very quickly as he slid it across.

    'I
lost my temper, sir' I said. 'I daresay I ought to apologise.'

    I
would go no further than that. I would not be made to eat dog. That had been
the whole point of striking out, and that was also the reason the Chief had
told
me to strike out. He had done it to bring me on.

    Or
was he about to give me the boot?

    'Where
is
Detective Sergeant Shillito, sir?' I enquired, and for the first time it
struck me that I might have landed the bloke in hospital, for I had not clapped
eyes on him since my return.

    The
Chief looked up from one of the telegrams, saying in a dreamy sort of voice,
'Seems there's a bad lad on the loose.'

    'Sir?'
I said.

    The
Chief always talked in mysterious fragments, and I got hold of his thoughts in
spite of, and not because of, the words he used. I knew of one bad lad on the loose,
of course, and the whole of my difficulty rested in that person, namely Small
David. The departure for France of Richie Marriott - the suicide (if it had really
happened) of his father - I could give these events the go-by. But it was not
possible to keep Small David under my hat. His crimes could not be dodged.

    The
Chief slid two more pieces of paper from one side of his desk to another, but
he fixed on a third. He was now leaning low over his desk in a worrying sort of
fashion. It seemed he was trying to turn his cigar into smoke at the fastest
possible rate; to disappear into a fog of his own making.

    Presently
he looked up, saying:

    'No,
alarm's off.'

    'What,
sir?'

    The Chief
pushed his chair back, put his feet on his desk with a clatter that threatened
to bring down the shooting shield and said, 'Circulars from the Northern
Division. We were to keep an eye out for a mad Scot. Big bloke, not over-keen
on coppers, believed to carry a revolver. Battered his own brother to within an
inch of his life . . . He was seen first thing today at Middlesbrough station
buying a ticket for York.'

    'Is a
name given?'

    The
Chief looked again at the paper in his hand.

    'Briggs.'

    He
dropped his cigar stub to the floor, and lowered one boot from his desk on to
the cigar.

    'Seems
he was dead set on coming to York - you've gone white, lad,' he said, eyeing me
more closely.

    A
beat of silence.

    'Any
road,' the Chief went on, 'they've just sent word to say they've got him.'

    'They've
run him in?'

    The
Chief raised his boot back on to the desk.

    'Now
you've gone red,' he said. 'Aye - they've shot the bugger dead.'

    The Chief
scratched his head, setting his few strands of hairs wriggling. On his face was
a complicated expression. He looked at me for a while from behind his boots -
watched me as I thought on.

    Small
David. He'd returned from Scotland on Monday morning, had his set-to with the
troublesome brother and then he'd tried to come after me. I took a breath, for
I meant to start in on my account of events at Fairy Hillocks. But then I held
the breath.

    The
Chief suddenly pulled a pasteboard envelope from a desk drawer, and swept all
the papers on top of his desk into it.

    'You've
been away from the office for two working days,' he said, 'Friday and Monday.
Do you have anything in your notebook to show for it?'

    'Not
in my notebook, no.'

    'Why
not?'

    'Because
I didn't set anything
down
in my notebook.'

    'Why
not? No pen to hand?'

    'That's
not why.'

    'You
had a pen to hand?'

    'I
carry two at all times.'

    'Indelible?'

    'One
indelible; one - whatever is the opposite of indelible.'

    'Can
you give me one good reason why a young detective should carry any pencil other
than an indelible one?'

    'Trust,
sir,' I said,'. . . that's what it all comes down to. If I was trusted more,
then I could write in normal pencils, but I am not trusted.'

    '"If
I
were
trusted more" I believe is the correct English.'

    'That
proves my point exactly, sir.'

    'To
return to the notebook,' he said, lighting another cigar. 'You didn't make a
note ... because nothing happened?'

    'Because
too much happened.'

    'Do
you want to have been on leave?'

    I
couldn't make him out.

    'It
is not a good idea to frown at me in that way,' said the Chief. 'Do you find
the question unclear?'

    'You're
saying I don't have to tell you what happened.'

    'That's
it.'

    I
thought it better to leave a moment of silence before giving my reply.

    'I
accept.'

    My
difficulties were falling away at a rate of knots, but the fact that I had been
let off the need to explain what I'd been about in Scotland did not mean that I
would be allowed to keep my position.

    'Am I
to be stood down?' I asked.

    'Shillito
means to speak to you about your future,' said the Chief, rising to his feet.

    It was
not the answer I had hoped for.

    I
walked into the main office and Shillito was waiting there, holding a leathern
notecase under his arm. There was a mark on his forehead that I'd made. He
watched me come out of the Chief's door, and motioned me towards my own desk.
Wright was looking on from his corner - the best ringside seat.