In fact, according to the fitter, Blackburn had done half a dozen Leeds-Scarborough turns before his final run. These were always on a Saturday, and they'd been Saturdays in the season when extra Scarborough trains were laid on from all the main towns of Yorkshire. The ledgers - when the Super handed them to me - confirmed the fitter's recollections, much to his own quiet satisfaction: Blackburn had fired into Scarborough on the final two Saturdays of August, and on all four in September. He hadn't worked into the town again until Sunday, 19 October, which had proved his final trip. The other coppers who'd investigated his disappearance must have known about these earlier trips, but had evidently thought them of no account. Had the Chief known of them? If so, why had he not told me? To my way of thinking, these earlier trips changed the whole picture.
In that little office, which was like something between an office and a coal bunker, the fitter and the Shed Super had gone back to eyeing me with arms folded, as if to say, 'Now what do you mean to do with this data?'
I put them off, for I didn't quite know, as I told Tommy when we came out of the shed. I would just keep it in mind when I went back to Paradise that someone in the house might have had dealings with Blackburn before he pitched up on that final Sunday.
It was raining hard now and sea, town and sky seemed in the process of merging. We came off the Scarborough railway lands by a new route that took us through a black yard full of wagon bogies and out onto a street of biggish villas, getting on for half of which were guest houses. The window sign 'Vacancies' came up over and again, and I imagined dozens of lonely landladies watching Tommy and me from behind their net curtains and hoping we'd turn in at the gate. How did they last from back-end of one year to May of the next?
There came the long scream of an engine whistle as we walked down the street, and it sounded like a cry of alarm on behalf of the whole town. I'd meant to get shot of Tommy as soon as possible and head directly back to the house, but it was still only eleven, and the sight of him limping in the rain while carrying the two kit bags made me think I ought to find a gentler way to put him off.
We came out onto a wide road that curved down towards the Prom between two great walls. It was as though the real purpose of this road was to channel tons of water into the sea. Huge, rusted iron plates were set into the bricks, and they too seemed part of a secret drainage system. We followed it down, and when we hit the Prom the wind hit us. The sea was black and white and crazed, with the waves all smashing into each other, and exploding against the sea wall. A tram came up, and passed by with clanging bell, and it seemed to be floating along, such was the quantity of water swirling over the lines.
There was a refuge close to hand, however, in the shape of a very pretty little ale house. The name 'Mallinson's' was written in a curve on the window, going over lace curtains that blocked out the lower part of the glass. How thick was the glass of that window? Quarter of an inch, but once Tommy and I were inside, we found that it held off the German Sea very nicely.
It was a cosy little place - dainty for a pub, with lace curtains, upholstered chairs, tables covered with white cloths, and knick-knacks on the mantel-shelves of the two fireplaces. It was the sort of sea-side place that ought not to be open in winter, and ghostly somehow as a result, but there were a fair few in. The drill was that you were served ale from jugs by good- looking serving girls who toured the room carrying trays. I bought glasses of beer for Tommy and myself, and then left him to warm himself by the fire as I stood steaming in my great-coat while reading the Paradise witness statements, stopping only to look at the water falling against the windows, which was now coming more like silent waves than rain.
On the top-most piece of paper, someone had written the word 'Blackburn' and underlined it twice. The other papers, attached by a pin, were the statements. Everyone in Paradise sounded different - higher class - in their statements. All save Fielding.
Amanda Rickerby's was first. She said: I make it my business to see that my guests are not only well catered for in their ordinary wants, but also that they should be happy and really enjoy their time in Paradise. However, I can only go so far as regards the latter. Mr Blackburn seemed to me shy and reserved. He was perhaps rather low about something. He was what I call 'deep'.
He had apparently knocked on the door of the house at eight o'clock, and enquired about a room, having seen the advertisement for the house at what Amanda Rickerby called 'the engine hall' at Scarborough station. Miss Rickerby herself had answered the door to him. He had by her account 'preferred' the small room at the very top of the house: I think on account of the sea view from there, which is a particularly charming one, and you have the benefit even at night, the harbour being so prettily lit up. He had remained in the room until Adam Rickerby had rung the hand bell for supper at 'about eight- twenty or so'.
She said that he'd sat quietly at supper, gone for a walk with 'one of our residents, Mr Vaughan -1 think to a public house.' While sitting in the kitchen, she'd heard them return: They were admitted to the house by Mr Fielding, I believe, but I only heard them coming in. I did not see them. To the best of her knowledge, Vaughan and Fielding had then sat talking in the sitting room, and Ray Blackburn had gone up to his room at the top, which was now mine. She understood that he'd later brought his boots down to the kitchen, but she'd left the kitchen by then, and had gone to bed. She had not seen him again; she had nothing further to add.
Howard Fielding 'had found Mr Blackburn a very thoughtful and pleasant gentleman, but no conversationalist'. He went on: Having lately had a business connection with the North Eastern Railway, and having some knowledge of the Company, I tried to draw him out over supper on railway topics. We touched, as I remember, on locomotive boiler capacities, the role of the fireman as compared to that of the driver, and the railway speed records. But Mr Blackburn only responded to the degree compatible with ordinary politeness. After supper, at about nine-thirty, my friend and fellow resident, Mr Vaughan, then invited Mr Blackburn to take a stroll with him. I believe they walked to a public house. They returned to the boarding house perhaps forty- five minutes later -1 admitted them myself - and Mr Blackburn, looking perhaps rather out-of-sorts, went directly upstairs. Mr Vaughan and I then took a nightcap in the sitting room.
I thought: That's quaint - 'nightcap'.
Fielding's statement continued: At eleven-thirty, I took my boots downstairs to the kitchen for cleaning. Adam Rickerby is generally on hand to clean boots between eleven and midnight. After giving my boots to the boy, I returned to my room, passing Mr Blackburn on the stairs. He was taking his boots down. I said, 'Good night', and he merely grunted by way of reply. I never saw Mr Blackburn again.
I turned over the leaf, and came to the words: 'Adam Rickerby, co-proprietor of Paradise Guest House, saith...' and saw that the lad had been magically given the powers of speech by the Leeds coppers: Mr Blackburn was at all times a quiet gentleman. I noticed he was quiet when he first came into the house, and he continued in that way. Quiet, I mean. I cooked the supper on the evening in question, as I generally do in the winter time. It was a hot supper. Mr Blackburn ate all his food. He went for a drink with Mr Vaughan. These gentlemen came back at I don't know what time. At half past eleven or so I was cleaning the boots in the kitchen, and sitting with my sister. She was reading to me from the papers. I am not educated up to reading. Mr Fielding came in, late on, with his boots. Mr Blackburn came after with his. I cleaned the boots and went to bed. I sleep on the ground floor, in the room that used to be the wash room next to the scullery. I heard nothing in the night. On waking, at half past five, I did my early chores until six-thirty. No-one else was about. I then took Mr Fielding up his boots and early cup of tea. I returned to the kitchen, and collected Mr Blackburn's boots and tea. I took these up to his room with hot water. He was not there.
I turned over the page, and read, 'Theodore Vaughan, resident of Paradise Guest House, saith ..And there were two pages for him as against one for everyone else: I
found him a pleasant enough chap, rather thoughtful. Over supper, I formed the distinct idea that he was happy with his own company. But it is my custom of a Sunday evening to take a walk; I was putting my cape on in the hall when Mr Blackburn happened to come by. I asked whether he would like to come along with me, and he agreed. In the course of our strolling we passed the Two Mariners, a pleasant public house. I suggested that we take a glass of beer. Again, Mr Blackburn agreed. I can't recall our conversation in detail - something of Scarborough history, something of railways. We were back at the house soon after ten o'clock, less than an hour after our departure. Mr Fielding let us in, since I'd forgotten my key. Mr Blackburn then went up to his room, and I went into the sitting room, where I smoked a cigar and drank some sherry with Mr Fielding. I went up to bed not long after eleven. I believe that Mr Fielding went up later. I occupy the room directly beneath the one used by Mr Blackburn. At first I was busy about my own preparations for sleep and going between my room and the bathroom on the landing opposite, and so was not paying attention to the noises from overhead. I am led to believe that Mr Blackburn carried his boots downstairs before midnight, and there were perhaps some noises that indicated that activity, but I could not say for certain. I was very tired, and fell asleep shortly after.
That statement carried the date '7 November, 1913'
The second sheet was a second statement by Vaughan, dated 9 November: I would like to add to my earlier statement as follows: Having repaired to the public house called the Two Mariners with Mr Blackburn I presented for his inspection certain post cards of a nature rather 'saucy', as some might say. Not to mince words they showed young female persons in various states of what is known as déshabillé...
This was all meant in fun, the statement ran on. Post cards of this sort are commonly seen in the sea-side towns and are by no means - as I understand it - outside the law. I happen to have come by a few cards of this sort having once been in the post card business. They are really just the 'old masters' brought up to date and I will quite often produce them in male company for a bit of a 'laugh' with the boys. However, Mr Blackburn made it clear to me that they were not his 'cup of tea', and so our conversation resumed its earlier course.
This was Vaughan in a corner. The coppers had put the screws on him, having discovered the cards and confronted him over them. I passed the papers over to Nugent, saying, 'Complicated shunting.'
'Eh?'
'Have a read,' I said, handing him the papers.
Who was lying? Was anyone? Vaughan's evidence had been the most interesting. You were limited about what you could say in a police statement; you were only supposed to speak about what you knew, and what might have a bearing on the crime. But Vaughan had tried to throw a bit of doubt on Fielding's evidence ... And had he heard any noise from overhead when he was in his room, or not? Also, it was not quite clear whether Amanda Rickerby had been in the kitchen when
Blackburn came down with his boots... But what significance could that have either way?
I drank my beer and looked about the pub. The more booze that went down, the more I was looking forward to going back to Paradise and seeing Amanda Rickerby. I wanted to take her on, one way or another.
'What about those cards?' I asked Tommy after a while. 'Why do you suppose Vaughan showed them to me when he'd already got into bother for showing them to Blackburn?'
'I've an idea about that,' said Tommy.
'Same here,' I said, and as Tommy stopped one of the serving girls and bought us another couple of glasses of ale, I gave him the benefit of my idea:
'I reckon Vaughan showed me the cards for a reason, and it was nothing to do with selling them on to me and making money. He knew he was on the spot. He knew there was suspicion about what had happened as a result of him showing them to Blackburn, who was a very straight bit of goods, remember. Vaughan wanted to make out that he was free and easy with the cards; that he might show them to anyone and nothing would come of it - that it really was all a bit of a laugh.'
(I suddenly recalled Mr Ellis, the old boy who'd sold galoshes, and had just quit the guest house. Vaughan had perhaps held off from showing him the cards on account of his age, and the fact that he was never likely to be interested.)
Tommy Nugent was nodding his head.
'That's it,' he said. 'If the coppers came at him again, he'd be able to say, "I showed this other bloke the cards as well. Why would I do that if it had caused any trouble with the first one?'"
'Right,' I said, stepping aside to let a bloke come by. 'That's exactly...'
Theo Vaughan was standing immediately to my right. He had his cape over his arm, and held a glass of ale half drunk and a cigar half smoked, which meant he'd been in for a while. Cramming the witness statements into my suit-coat pocket, I turned towards him. He gave a start when he saw me, then he grinned and I thought: Either he's a bloody good actor or he's only just this minute clocked me, in which case he would not have heard what I'd said.
He said, 'How do, Jim!'
I introduced Tommy Nugent as my driver and Vaughan shook his hand warmly.
'Where've you been?' I asked him, and he looked at me as if, just for once, I'd been over-familiar instead of him.
'Around and about,' he said. 'Errands,' he added, swaying slightly on his boot heels. 'Meant to tell you about this place, Jim ... Pub run entirely by women, and you don't see that often. Decent looking fillies into the bargain,' and he practically winked at us both. 'What about your engine?'
'It isn't quite right,' I said, 'so it looks like I'll be staying another night.'
'Good-o,' he said.
Tommy Nugent didn't know where to look, for of course he'd only just been reading about Vaughan and his very particular line of business. I think it was to cover up his embarrassment that he muttered something about fetching some more beers and wandered off in search of a waitress. I too was feeling rather knocked, so I said, 'I'm just off to the gents, Theo.'
But he said, 'I'll come with you, Jim.'
He set down his glass and followed me, cigar in hand, out into a white-washed back yard - where the rain flew, and the roaring sea echoed - and into a tiny gentlemen's lavatories with two stalls for pissing. Vaughan stood close enough for me to hear his breathing, which he did loudly, through both his nose and his moustache. I wondered what he'd been doing all morning. Evidently, he'd been drinking for a good part of it. Well, his money had arrived by the post from Streatham; he was in funds. As he started to piss, he had the cigar in his mouth; he then lowered the cigar and when he turned away from the stall I saw that it was extinguished. He was stowing the remnant of it in his waistcoat pocket as I asked, 'How d'you put that cigar out?'
'Private method, Jim,' he said.
'All right then,' I said. 'Why did you put it out?'
'Can't smoke in the rain, and I'm off back to the house, Jim,' he said. 'Shall I tell them you're expected for luncheon?'
I did not answer immediately. My life, I knew, would be a good deal simpler if I did not go back, and it might be a good deal longer.
'All right,' I said. 'What time?'
'It's generally about one-ish, Jim.'
'Right you are,' I said, in as light a tone as I could. 'Yes,' I said, 'tell Miss Rickerby I'll be in for one.'
I looked at my watch: midday. I did not care for the constant march of the second hand. It wouldn't take Vaughan an hour to reach Paradise, but he went off directly, and when I regained the bar I found out from Tommy that he'd done it in double quick time as well - hadn't even finished his drink. None of this was at all like him, and his behaviour had increased my state of nerves, so that I was fairly short with Tommy as he quizzed me about Vaughan: short to the point that he gave up talking, and just fell to watching the rain and the serving girls with a hopeless sort of expression that made me feel guilty.
It was Amanda Rickerby - she brought out the worst in me. Half the reason I wanted rid of Tommy was so that I could have her glances to myself. I couldn't help
thinking that I had a clear run at Paradise, what with Vaughan being such an off- putting sort of bloke, and Fielding being... well, was he queer? What was my intention? I did not mean to try and ride the lady exactly, but I certainly meant to do something with her: to arrest her, for instance; have it out with her about Blackburn. I would tangle with her somehow, and I wondered whether my real intention was to get revenge for the way Lydia had tried to push me about. But I knew that I ought not to think this way. If my wife pushed me about, it was because I let her.
I said to Tommy, 'When I go off, will you send a wire to my wife? You might go back to the station, or do it anywhere. The address is the post office, Thorpe-on-Ouse.'
'Saying what?' he asked, and I thought: Saying kind things in general.
'Tell her I'll see her tomorrow,' I said.
He nodded.
'I'm off, Tommy,' I said, and it was surprisingly easy to get away from him, and without even making an arrangement for the next day. Or perhaps not exactly surprising, I thought, as I walked along the Prom, with head down and coat collar up, trying hard to keep a straight course against the battering of the wind. After all, he'd seen that the situation at Paradise was pretty involved, and he was back there, warm and dry in the women's pub with a glass of beer in his hand and the guns at his feet should any trouble arise. But it didn't seem likely to - not where Tommy was, anyhow.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The iron wall of the chain locker cracked and the grey Mate stood in the gloom of the companionway holding the pocket revolver.
'How are you, my friend?'
'We've anchored,' I said.
'Come along with me,' he said, and he was holding the outer door open.
'What became of the kid?' I asked. 'Did he jump?'
The Last Train to Scarborough Page 18
