by David Field
Wilde shook his head. ‘It describes Dorian Gray as a man of very corrupt influence, though there is no statement as to the nature of the influence. But as a matter of fact I do not think that one person influences another, nor do I think there is any bad influence in the world.’
‘A man never corrupts a youth?’
‘I think not.’
‘Nothing could corrupt him?’
‘If you are talking of separate ages.’
‘No, sir,’ Carson bellowed, ‘I am talking common sense!’
‘I do not think one person influences another.’
‘You don’t think that flattering a young man, making love to him, in fact, would be likely to corrupt him?’
‘No.’
Carson allowed a look of sheer disbelief to cross his face, which he shared with the jury as he paused for dramatic effect, then continued, ‘Where was Lord Alfred Douglas staying when you wrote that letter to him?’
‘At the Savoy; and I was at Babbacombe, near Torquay.’
‘It was a letter in answer to something he had sent you?’
‘Yes, a poem.’
‘Why should a man of your age address a boy nearly twenty years younger as “My own boy”?’
‘I was fond of him. I have always been fond of him.’
‘Do you adore him?’
‘No, but I have always liked him. I think it is a beautiful letter. It is a poem. I was not writing an ordinary letter. You might as well cross-examine me as to whether King Lear or a sonnet of Shakespeare was proper.’
‘Apart from art, Mr. Wilde?’
‘I cannot answer apart from art.’
‘Suppose a man who was not an artist had written this letter, would you say it was a proper letter?’
‘A man who was not an artist could not have written that letter.’
‘Why?’
‘Because nobody but an artist could write it. He certainly could not write the language unless he were a man of letters.’
‘I can suggest, for the sake of your reputation, that there is nothing very wonderful in this “red rose-leaf lips of yours”?’
‘A great deal depends on the way it is read.’
‘“Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry.” Is that a beautiful phrase?’
‘Not as you read it, Mr. Carson. You read it very badly.’
‘I do not profess to be an artist; and when I hear you give evidence, I am glad I am not.’
Sir Edward Clarke rose abruptly from his seat, red in the face, and addressed the judge. ‘I don’t think my friend should talk like that.’ He turned to face his client and advised him, ‘Pray, do not criticize my friend’s reading again.’
‘Is that not an exceptional letter?’ Carson persevered.
Wilde nodded with a self-satisfied smile. ‘It is unique, I should say.’
‘Was that the ordinary way in which you carried on your correspondence?’
‘No; but I have often written to Lord Alfred Douglas, though I never wrote to another young man in the same way.’
‘Have you often written letters in the same style as this?’
‘I don’t repeat myself in style.’
‘Here is another letter which I believe you also wrote to Lord Alfred Douglas,’ Carson announced with a smile of triumph as he waved the document in the air. ‘Will you read it?’
‘No; I decline. I don’t see why I should.’
‘Then I will.’ Carson announced, and proceeded to do so. ‘Dearest of all Boys, Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me; but I am sad and out of sorts. Bosie, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner — than have you bitter, unjust, hating... I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty; but I don’t know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here, is £49 for a week. I have also got a new sitting-room... Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave-no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. YOUR OWN OSCAR.”
‘Is that an ordinary letter?’ Carson demanded.
Wilde pouted. ‘Everything I write is extraordinary. Ask me any question you like about it.’
‘Is it the kind of letter a man writes to another?’
‘It was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not, like the other, a prose poem.’
Carson stood staring fixedly at Wilde for a long moment, then shook his head sadly as he made a point of transferring his gaze to the clock on the wall, then turning towards the Bench with raised eyebrows.
‘Ten o’clock in the forenoon,’ Mr Justice Collins announced, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapter Fourteen
Percy slipped the cabman five pounds and instructed him to await his return. Glad of the high collar on his overcoat, which he turned up against the strong Spring westerly that was howling around his ears, he walked up to the level crossing, then turned left down the cinder path alongside the double rail track, towards the signal box located by the side of the line that led back towards Crewe.
He climbed the steps to the box and knocked on the glass panel set into the upper half of the door. A red-faced man in his fifties, dressed in a blue serge uniform, turned when he heard the knock and beckoned for Percy to enter. As he did so, the heat from the coal-fired stove in the near corner of the box hit him like a hot flannel and he lowered his coat collar before reaching inside his jacket pocket and producing his police badge.
‘Detective Inspector Enright, Scotland Yard. And you are?’
‘Surprised that I’ve done owt bad enough ter attract the Yard.’ The man grinned as he threw down the rag which he’d been using while pulling down a set of levers set into the frame in front of the windows that overlooked the lines. He indicated for Percy to take one of the two available chairs and continued to look out of a set of side windows to his left while conducting the conversation that followed. ‘What can I do fer yer? Pardon the back o’ me ’ead, only I’m expectin’ the two forty-seven ter Llandudno any minute now on the “down” line. That’s the one furthest away from us.’
‘Could we start with your name?’ Percy said. ‘Clearly your occupation is that of signalman?’
‘That’s me. Ted ’Olmes, Leading Signalman these five years past. I’m responsible fer this section o’ line what runs from a few miles back terwards Calverley, then onter Crewe down ter the left there an’ terwards Tattenhall Box an’ Chester ter the right.’
‘Does your section of line include the sidings that serve the salt workings?’
‘It does now,’ Holmes replied as he continued squinting into the distance off to the left of the box. ‘That’s outta sight along the “down” side there,’ he added as he continued squinting to his left. ‘The “up” trains go in the direction o’ London an’ the “down” come from London. Like that express what’s about ter come past — she’s just cleared them sidin’s yer was talkin’ about. Can yer see ’er?’
‘Only just,’ Percy admitted. ‘My eyes aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Well yer’ll see ’er soon enough,’ Holmes assured him. ‘It’s just a blob in the distance right now, but give it ’alf a minute an’ she’ll be rattlin’ the winders in ’ere on ’er way ter Chester.’
‘There seems to be a curve in the line back towards Crewe,’ Percy observed as he narrowed his eyes to focus on the rapidly approaching train.
‘That’s right,’ Holmes confirmed. ‘That’s where me “Home Signal” is, just past where the bend starts. Then beyond that, well round the bend, yer’ll find me “Distant Signal”. Now ’ang on just a moment.’ His final words were all but drowned out by the rush and roar of the approaching express, which rattled and hissed past the box in a cloud of steam and with a “toot” of warning from its whistle as it sped over the level crossing
at over fifty miles an hour. Holmes watched it disappear to their right, then pushed three levers forward into the frame before reaching up to a shelf above it and tapping twice on a small button set into a polished wooden box. ‘That’ll sound two bells in the Tattenhall Box, ter tell Bert Bellamy that she’s enterin’ ’is section,’ he explained as he moved to a tall desk under a wall clock and made some sort of entry into a register lying on its sloping top. ‘She’s five minutes ahead o’ time, so that’ll please ’em at Chester. Nah, yer was askin’ about the salt sidin’s, wasn’t yer?’
‘Yes,’ Percy confirmed. ‘First of all, am I right in believing, from what you said a moment ago, that you can’t actually see the sidings in question from this box?’
‘Hardly, on account o’ the curve in the line down the end o’ that straight section that yer can see out there.’
‘So how can trains leave the sidings, and what I’m told is the branch line down to the salt mines, without any risk of them causing a hazard for trains using the main line?’
‘That’s what me “Home Signal’s for,’ Holmes replied with a satisfied smile. When Percy looked blank, the signalman was more than happy to reveal the extent of his specialised knowledge. ‘The “Home Signal” is the one just the other side o’ them sidin’s, an’ it can be placed in “danger” settin’, or just “on”, as we calls it. When that ’appens, any train on the main line ’as ter stop afore it actually reaches the signal. That’s company regulations. Then the engine an’ wagons from the sidin’s can move safely onter the “down” main line, an’ ’ead straight terwards Chester. If they needs ter go the other way, towards Crewe, we can cross ’em over ter the “up” line, usin’ another set o’ points which connects the “up” an’ “down” lines. They’re controlled by levers ’ere in this box.’
‘But presumably it’ll be slow moving, like most goods trains?’ Percy queried. ‘Won’t that cause delays for any passenger train that’s held up by the signal?’
‘Bloody right, which is why the company insists that there’s no movement outa them sidin’s durin’ certain hours when the expresses is due through. Nor the local passenger services neither. But around this time o’ day — early afternoon — it’s pretty quiet, so that’s when they can move stuff outta the sidin’s. That Llandudno express were the last past ’ere in either direction until around four o’clock, so this is normally when I ’as me snap. I can toast bread on the fire — would yer like some?’
‘No, thanks all the same,’ Percy assured him with a smile, remembering the two bowls of lamb stew he’d had for dinner in his hotel, ‘but don’t let me stop you. We can talk as you make your toast.’
‘What’s this all about then?’ Holmes said, as he impaled a thick slice of bread onto the end of a toasting fork, opened the fire door and held it out to toast.
‘I’m investigating the possibility that a passenger carriage was hauled into those sidings one evening a few weeks ago.’
‘I don’t see ’ow that coulda ’appened wi’out us knowin’ about it. Anyway, can’t yer just go an’ look forrit down there?’
‘That’s my next port of call,’ Percy explained, ‘but before I go down there I need to be fully informed of how the signals and branch line system work.’
‘Then yer’ve come ter the right bloke,’ Holmes beamed proudly. ‘If they wanna pull owt in or outta them sidin’s, they ’as to come ter me for the Annetts Key.’
‘The what?’
‘The Annetts Key. That’s it down there.’
He pointed down to the end of the line of levers that Percy had seen him working a few moments earlier, and which presumably controlled the signals. Locked into its base was a curious looking metal device, approximately six inches long, with a handle reminiscent of a garden spade, but most of which consisted of a complex looking key barrel.
‘That’s the Annetts Key,’ Holmes explained. ‘When they wants ter move summat outta the sidin’s, they sends a bloke up ’ere fer the key. When it’s pulled outta that socket, it locks all me signal levers, so I can’t let a train approach on the main line. Then the bloke goes back ter the sidin’s junction and puts the key in a slot in what’s called the “ground frame”. That unlocks the levers, so that the points can be switched ter the sidin’. O’ course, me ’ome signal’s already set ter stop any train what’s approachin’ on the main line, along wi’ the distant signal. Like I said, once that key’s taken out’ve its socket in ’ere, it freezes all me signals.’
‘Presumably someone from the salt works brings the key back when they’ve finished with it, and the goods train has moved off?’
‘Yeah, o’ course, ’cos all the system’s frozen while that key’s outta that lock down there on the floor.’
‘And there’s only the one key?’ Percy asked, earning a look of mixed disbelief and sympathy from the man who’d been working the system for a long time.
‘What der you think? If there was more than one, it’d be chaos, an’ likely ter cause a dreadful accident.’
‘Yes, quite. You mentioned that most of the movements out of the sidings occur mid-afternoon. Do you ever have any at night, when I assume that there are less trains on the main line?’
‘None at night, ter the best o’ me knowledge. O’ course, them’s only started back workin’ that mine agin fer the past year or so, an’ I ’ear as ’ow it’s flooded, an’ them’s pumpin’ it dry. So at the moment we only get two or three movements a week from them sidin’s, and always in the afternoons, like I said. They doesn’t work nights down there anyway.’
‘You presumably work shifts in this box?’
Holmes nodded. ‘Yeah, twelve hours at a time, “nights” and “days”, six ’til six. We changes every month.’
‘So — a month of nights, followed by a month of days?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, last month you would have been on night duty, is that right?’
‘Yeah, an’ Fred Butterworth woulda bin on the day shift.’
‘Forgive me if this sounds like another silly question, but do you recall anyone making use of the Annetts Key during your night shifts last month?’
‘Definitely not. Like I said, they don’t work them sidin’s at night.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Holmes, you’ve been a great help. Just one final question, if I may. Assuming for the moment that your Annetts Key remained where it is, so that your system wasn’t locked, is there any other way of moving the points at the junction with the salt works sidings?’
‘None that I can think of. Yer needs the Annetts Key ter work the ground frame, an’ the key can’t be in two places at once, can it?’
‘But what if someone did manage to interfere with the points in some way?’ Percy persisted, to which Holmes responded with a horrified stare.
‘It could lead ter a mighty disaster, if a train were comin’ on the down line. But so long as I ’as the Annetts Key in ’ere, it can’t ’appen, can it, ’cos I can work all me signals.’
‘So any train on that line would just keep coming?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the remainder of your signals would be freed up for you to use in the normal way?’
‘Yeah.’
Percy nodded. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now, thank you very much. I’ll leave you to your toast.’
‘’Ere, take this,’ Holmes invited him as he reached inside a drawer in the desk. ‘It’s the gubbins on ’ow the Annetts Key works. I don’t need it no more, an’ yer can call back an’ return it when yer’ve done wi’ it.’
‘Many thanks.’ Percy smiled as he took the thin instruction booklet and opened the signal box door, exposing himself to another blast of cold air. He walked back down the cinder track towards his waiting coach deep in thought. The next step in his investigation was obviously a trip to the salt workings. But it was already mid afternoon, and hopefully the wind would have dropped by tomorrow. Time for a few pints and something to warm his stomach back at his hotel.<
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‘Any of that brandy left?’ Jack asked grumpily as he threw his overcoat down on the kitchen chair.
‘It’s for medicinal purposes only,’ Esther reminded him, ‘but I can fix you a very strong cup of tea, if that helps. There’s some ginger cake left as well. Bad day?’
‘You could say that,’ Jack muttered as he kissed her absentmindedly on the cheek. ‘How are the children?’
‘Same as usual, according to Alice. She thinks that Miriam may be cutting her first tooth, which explains why she seems to be permanently dribbling. And apparently Alice’s run out of games to keep Lily amused, so we need to think about enrolling her in a local school.’
‘Doesn’t that cost money?’
‘Only a few pence a week, and apparently it’s the law that we have to send her once she reaches five. There’s a school only two streets away, and she could start in September.’
‘I’m not sure I want our oldest daughter exposed to all that local riff-raff.’
‘You obviously didn’t enjoy getting out of bed early this morning,’ Esther commented as she poured his tea. ‘I’d better give you some extra sugar, to sweeten you up again.’
‘It wasn’t just that,’ Jack explained. ‘It was also having to sit through all this drivel about art, the meaning of words, poetry and suchlike.’
