Murder At Deviation Junction

by Andrew Martin

  Whitby West Cliff station appeared out of the darkness; I must change here for the Town station in order to make the connection for York. Sometimes the carriages were shunted down through the streets from West Cliff to Town station, which lay in the middle of Whitby. Whether that was about to happen this time, I did not know, but I climbed down, and made a walk of it in any event.

  Whitby was cold and old: the streets were filled with grimy snow, and the harbour was packed with empty boats, as though everyone had given up on the outdoor world for the present.

  The office of the Whitby Morning Post perched on the harbour wall, and as soon as I hit the waterside, I saw the lights blazing inside. I was in luck, but barely, for there was only one man left in the office at that late hour. Freezing though it was, he worked with the door propped open; seemed to keep open house. I walked straight in and pulled off my cap.

  'Evening,' I said.

  There were three model boats on the low window ledge that overlooked the harbour, and the office was ship-like: low, and with a great deal of well-varnished wood. And it was as if the ship had listed slightly, for all the desks seemed a little out of kilter. The man - a journalist, as I supposed - sat on a revolving chair with his feet up on a desk. He was actually reading the Whitby Morning Post, just as though he was an ordinary citizen who'd had no hand in its making.

  He nodded back, and put down the paper.

  'You looking for work?' he said, eyeing the camera that hung from my shoulder.

  I showed him my warrant card, and said, 'I'm looking into certain events of late last year. To make a long story short, it'd be quite handy to know when you came out with your Complimentary Calendar for 1908.'

  'Early,' said the man immediately, 'so as to beat the competition.'

  He did not rise, but pointed towards a table that ran along one wall, where lay a great mountain of past Morning Posts. The whole purpose of the office was to add to that pile.

  'See for yourself,' said the man; and he went back to reading his own paper.

  The papers were all slightly damp, from being kept so close to the sea, as I supposed. The one at the top of the first pile was dated 12 March of the present year. I pulled it and the ones below aside and kept going until I reached December 1908. I proceeded slowly through these until I came to the edition in which the usual top- corner advertisement for Bermaline Bread gave way to the intertwined Cs of 'Complimentary Calendar inside today'.

  It was dated 3 December. This was the same edition held by the young man in the photograph taken by Peters; Falconer was shown in that photograph, and yet the last sighting of Falconer was supposed to have occurred on 2 December. I brought to mind the dates I knew. I turned to the journalist, saying, 'I'm obliged to you, mate.'

  He barely grunted in response, being still lost in the doings of Whitby and district as described by the Whitby Morning Post. It said a lot for both town and paper, I decided, as I set off for the station and my York connection. But then again, I was in good spirits anyway, for I felt that I'd had a pretty good day of it.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  At York, the police office was closed, but the parcels office was all go with the Christmas traffic, and two great stacks of parcels waited outside for booking. Under the gaslights of the forecourt, delivery vans waited: a dozen horse-drawn and two motors. They all trembled in the cold. I slung the Mentor Reflex over my shoulder, pushed the police papers into my inside coat pocket and pulled the Humber from the bicycle rack. My frozen hands were only good for a certain number of movements, so I did not trouble to light the lamps, but set off directly, half-pushing, half-riding the bike through the snow.

  There was a mile of snowy darkness between the end of York's lights and Thorpe-on-Ouse, but the village itself was a deal livelier than usual. The windows of the church were all lit, and the door stood open. The wife, I knew, had planned to spend the afternoon in there with Harry, Christmassing the nave with holly and mistletoe. The Church and the housewifely socialism practised by the Women's Co-operative Guild were her main interests in life, and I often felt that Harry and me came a poor second. She loved that boy, but I felt on occasion that she'd board him out if she could - just for the odd time or two. Pushing the bike under the lights on the main street, I saw that the snow was on the left side of everything, including the sign of the Fortune of War, the pub that stood over opposite our cottage. Its curtains were closed, but I knew the place was packed, and wondered whether it was share-out night for the goose club. We were not in the goose club; we were to have a chicken, and the bird was to come from the Co-operative Stores.

  I stowed the bike in the woodshed, and walked into the parlour, where the wife had her hair down before the glass. She was trying out new styles for the Co-operative Women's Guild party, which would take place the following evening, and which she had undertaken to organise. She'd been paid a pound on top of her usual part-time wages for doing so, and this had evidently not been enough since - to listen to the wife - the organising of this beano had made the Labours of Hercules seem like a few small errands.

  'You look all in, our Jim,' she said, when I kissed her. 'Did you bring the man in this time?'

  'No,' I said, moving over to the fire. In preparation for the festive season, she had black-leaded half the grate and cleaned the stains off some of the crockery - just the spoons, perhaps. I knew that some sort of mixture was on the go in the kitchen, but no Christmas fare had so far appeared in a finished form.

  'Well,' she said, 'you're keeping the railway in business at any rate, with all your journeys up there. Why did you not fetch him this time?'

  'He's innocent.'

  The wife turned about, both hands holding her hair, and frowned at me. She looked more fetching than a person ought when frowning.

  'How's Harry?' I said, thawing my hands by the fire. 'I'll go up and see him.'

  'Leave him be,' said Lydia. 'He's just nicely got off.'

  Her typewriter had been moved off the top of the strong table, and placed underneath to make way for some sprigs of holly, ribbons and her best bonnet and coat. There were also some papers, including one headed 'Terms for hire of the Ebor Hall'.

  The Co-op ladies' party was to be held at the Ebor Hall, the Cooperative Hall in York having been reserved months since for a lot of men's parties, some completely unconnected - according to the wife - with the high aims of the Co-operative Society, such as York and District Rugby Club.

  'Are you sure the Ebor Hall is big enough?' I said.

  No answer. She continued at the mirror, her back to me. I looked again at the paper.

  'Arr you having a plain tea or a meat tea?' I asked her, looking at the scale of charges. 'A plain tea's half the price, but it is Christmas after all, so I would hope you'd be having a meat tea.'

  'I know perfectly well that you're trying to make me anxious,' she said, 'so I'm ignoring you. I had a run-in with the manager of the hall today,' she ran on. 'A horrible man, and very well named: Hogg.'

  'A row over what?'

  'As you will see from their terms, no charge is made for use of the piano.'

  'I don't see what there is to complain of in that,' I said, taking off my coat, and sitting down in the rocking chair.

  'Today, Mrs Appleyard, who is to play the piano on the evening, came in to test it. She said it is out of tune to the extent of being quite unplayable. I passed on the news to Hogg, who said, "Well, the instrument comes free," and suggested that by discovering the fact of its being out of tune, we were, as he put it, "looking a gift horse in the mouth". I told him that a piano out of tune is worse than none at all, and would he pay for it to be tuned, or at least split the cost of tuning. He said we must bear the cost entirely; that the piano had been tuned only recently, but that the cold weather made it go out. I told him that rather suggested that the room had not been kept properly warmed.'

  'And is that right?'

  'Don't get me on the subject of the heating. It makes me abso
lutely livid. I will not discuss it. . .'

  'The heating,' the wife continued a couple of seconds later, when she was back at the mirror, 'is provided by two radiators, which is not enough; and you can quite clearly see where there used to be a third - just by the door.'

  'Do you suppose they removed it just to spite you?'

  'I brought this up with Hogg, and he said they'd had to remove that radiator in order to fit the piano into its alcove. I said, "So we've lost a heat source in order to accommodate a piano we can't play because of the cold.'"

  'And what did he say to that?'

  I was standing now, lifting the net curtain to look across at the Fortune of War.

  'He said nothing to it, but had the nerve to remind me that proceedings will be stopped by the caretaker if there is any sign of damage to the fixtures and fittings or other violent or disorderly behaviour. I said, "We are the Women's Co-operative Guild - are we likely to behave in a violent or disorderly way?" He said, "I don't know what you get up to, but there'd better not be any rough stuff, that's all.'"

  When she turned round, she was grinning.

  'How's that?'

  'Beautiful,' I said.

  'But you are looking at my hair. It is the skirt that's new.'

  'Oh,' I said, 'that's equally good. I was a bit thrown because you've spent the past five minutes fixing your hair.'

  'I'm only doing that to see how it sets off the skirt.' She glanced at me a little guiltily as she added, 'It's part of a suit, but Lillian Backhouse is making some adjustments to the jacket for me.'

  'You bought it today?'

  'I simply could not settle on an outfit... Look on it as an investment,' she ran on. 'My post is not secure, you know. Some of the ladies on the committee would be very happy to block the appointment if this party doesn't go like clockwork.'

  'But your wearing a new outfit won't make the party go any better,' I said.

  'It will,' she said simply.

  She was looking at the papers I'd put on the tabletop, and now she caught up the photograph of the Travelling Club.

  'Who are these men?' she said.

  'A travelling club.'

  'They look as if they do themselves pretty well,' she said.

  'Yes,' I said, 'but they've very likely all been murdered -'

  'Oh no,' said the wife, but whether this was in connection with the photograph, or the sound of Harry's voice that came at that moment from the room above, I wasn't sure.

  'I'll go up to him,' I said.

  He was sitting up in bed, just as though he'd woken from a good night's sleep. The fire burned low in his bedroom grate - he had a fire in his bedroom for most of the year, which was another expensive going-on.

  He looked better, but coughed a little as I approached, so I gave him another spoonful of compound linseed, which was the cure-all of the moment. After taking it, he coughed some more, saying with a cackle, 'It must be working, Dad.'

  He had the fixed idea that cough medicine was meant to make you cough, about which he was perhaps right. I tried to settle him on his pillows. Then Lydia took his hot bottle, to top it up with boiling water in the kitchen, and I looked at the window to make sure it was not iced. In cases of bronchitis, it is recommended that windows be kept slightly open. The used-up air must be removed.

  He said, 'What's it like out on the moors, Dad?'

  'There's been a great snow,' I said. 'The gales have blown it into huge mounds, and conditions are very dangerous.'

  'Good,' said Harry. 'How high are the mounds?'

  'About as tall as four men - no, taller. Mountainous. Thirty feet, I should say, getting on for.'

  'Thirty feet - get away!' said Harry.

  'At least,' I said. 'Nearer forty.'

  'And how are the trains going on?'

  I thought of a phrase I had heard during my firing days.

  'Some difficulty may be experienced in locomotion,' I said, and Harry liked that, I could tell. He was pretty sleepy, and he'd drifted off again by the time I turned down the night light and left the room. Back in the parlour, a supper of pork pie, pickle and a cup of cocoa waited for me on the strong table. Lydia was stirring the fire. 'You'll be coming straight from work tomorrow, will you?' she asked.

  'Aye,' I said.

  I was required to show my face at the Co-operative women's party.

  'And you will be in your good suit, won't you?'

  'I will.' 'It starts at seven with a spelling bee,' she said, for the umpteenth time.

  '. . . and you mustn't take a drink beforehand,' she added.

  'I know,' I said.

  'That's because I'm going to introduce you to Mrs Gregory- Gresham.'

  'I know,' I said.

  Mrs Avril Gregory-Gresham was the head of the York Co-operative Women. She did not drink.

  '. . . and she might smell it on your breath.'

  'So you keep saying, love,' I said, through a mouthful of pork pie.

  I was contemplating again the photograph of the Travelling Club. The wife hadn't thought it worth pursuing the question of whether or not they'd all been lately and brutally murdered; or perhaps my reference to this likelihood had gone clean out of her mind, what with the big party coming up. It suddenly struck me that Detective Sergeant Williams had also shown very scant interest in it, all things considered, not even asking to keep a negative. Everyone lived in their own little world, and that was all about it.

  'The thing about the spelling bee,' I said, rising to my feet having finished off the pie and pickle, 'is that I'm actually a much better speller after a few drinks. Three or four pints and I come into my own as an intellect -'

  'No, Jim,' she said, 'you are not to.'

  I picked up my coat, kissed her and said, 'I'm just off over to the Fortune. I reckon it might be the night of the goose club share-out.'

  'But we're not in the goose club.'

  'I know,' I said.

  In the pub, I saw Peter Backhouse, with a great heap of holly branches on the table before him. His wife Lillian was the wife's best friend in the village. Backhouse had a ridiculous quantity of children - about nine - and he avoided them by practically living in the smoking room of the Fortune. Outside pub opening hours, he was verger at St Andrew's and dug the graves. He was meant to be distributing the holly about the village, but he'd never got beyond his first drop, the Fortune of War, although he told me as I sat down that he might yet deliver a load to his second drop, which happened to be the other pub in the village, the Grey Mare.

  I asked Backhouse the news, and he said that the boiler had bust in the church school, causing the inkwells to freeze and a half-holiday to be given. But then the vicar, who had wanted the school kept open, had spied Tom Barley, who was the headmaster of the school, walking into the Fortune at two o'clock in the afternoon. Backhouse reckoned there'd be bother over this, but I was thinking of the dead men, and of Shillito, who I had to face the next morning. For the second time, I had failed to arrest Clegg. There was going to be a row all right, and a bigger one than that in prospect between the vicar and Tom Barley.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the police office at nine the next morning, I was in the jakes draining off the remains of the beer from the night before when there came a fearful pounding at the door.

  'Get a move on there!'

  It was Shillito, just arrived in the office. In my agitation, I put the bung in sooner than I ought to have, and consequently pissed a few drops down my leg as I fastened up my fly. This annoyed me particularly, for I had on my good suit, of best blue worsted with turned-up trousers. I was also wearing my stiffest and deepest collar, which had been cricking my neck since seven in the morning. It was all on account of the wife's party to come that evening.

  I glanced in the glass before quitting the jakes. I looked respectable enough, but I was no man for letting Shillito torment me. At any minute, he would want to see my notebook, and hear my account of the second encounter with Clegg.
>
  When I stepped back into the office from the jakes, Shillito was writing at his desk, his big body all bundled up with the effort of it. With him in the office, I could not ask Wright to telephone through to Bowman for me. I had already tried to do so myself at eight-thirty, but the connection had been lost, and I doubted that Bowman would have been in the office at that sort of time in any case. Wright was saying, 'There ought to be a pound of tea maintained at all times.'

  'Yes, but who's to maintain it?' said Constable Crawford, who was lounging at the mantelpiece, watching the fire smoke.