Dover and the Unkindest Cut of All

by Joyce Porter

  ‘Yessir! ’

  ‘Well, take the weight off your feet and pin your ears back because, if you slip up, laddie, you’ll have me to answer to.’ Dover scowled horribly.

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Now, can you keep your trap shut? Because you’re not to breathe a word to a living soul about what I’m going to ask you to do. Now then, Thursday night – that’s tomorrow night – at 6.35 p.m. on the dot, not a second earlier and not a second later, you’re to take this letter to the Chief Constable and give it to him personally. Got it?’

  ‘Yessir!’ The cadet’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he took the dog-eared-letter which Dover held out to him. ‘Matter of life and death, is it, sir?’

  ‘It may come to that, laddie,’ said Dover solemnly. ‘And it’ll be on your head if anything goes wrong, so just watch it. Make sure you know exactly where the Chief Constable’s going to be on Thursday night.’

  ‘Yessir! I’d already thought of that, sir.’

  ‘Oh, had you? And there’s another thing. Just before you leave here, tip off whoever’s on duty to get every man he can lay his hands on standing by. It’s up to the Chief Constable, of course, but I reckon he’ll be grateful.’

  ‘Going to be a punch-up is there, sir?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they issued firearms,’ said Dover smugly.

  The police cadet whistled. ‘Will you be leading us, sir?’

  Dover looked at him sharply to see if the cheeky young pup was taking the mickey. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t. ‘No, laddie,’ said Dover, ‘ unfortunately I have to go up to London that night. There’s nothing confidential about that, by the way. In fact, you can spread it around as much as you like. And you might mention that Sergeant MacGregor is resuming his holiday on the Continent the following morning.’

  ‘Ooh! I get you, sir,’ The police cadet was a bright lad. ‘That’s to put ’em off the scent, is it, sir?’

  Dover nodded wisely.

  ‘Will you be wanting railway warrants, sir?’

  Dover’s face didn’t so much fall as collapse. Railway warrants! And there’d he been lashing out his hard earned lolly on bloody well buying a ticket! ‘ You can make one out for me, laddie. First class, of course. Never mind about Sergeant MacGregor’s for the moment. I don’t know where he’s going to anyhow. And now, sonnie, here’s a chance for you to show your initiative,’ Dover beamed at the likely lad. ‘Nip back to the railway station and get me my money back on this ticket.’

  ‘Yessir!’ The police cadet thundered smartly to his feet. He put the envelope for the Chief Constable in his pocket, reached for his cap and took the railway ticket, all in one motion. It made Dover ache to watch him. ‘ I expect there’ll be a small deduction, sir.’

  ‘Deduction?’ howled Dover. ‘ There’d better damned well not be! Three pounds seventeen and fourpence I paid for that ticket and three pounds seventeen and fourpence I bloody well want back again.’

  ‘But they always deduct something, sir. It’s the regulations.’

  ‘Look, laddie, if you haven’t learnt how to bend regulations at your age, you’d better hand that uniform in and go back on the farm. Get tough! Lean on ’em! Push ’em around a bit! I don’t give a damn what you do as long as I get my three pounds seventeen and fourpence back. Now, get moving! ’

  The station sergeant appeared diffidently on the scene, a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Is it all right … Here, where’s that kid going?’

  ‘Just running a little errand for me.’

  ‘What am I supposed to tell the Chief Constable, sir? He’ll play merry hell if he finds out you’ve been here and I didn’t let him know.’

  ‘Don’t tell him.’

  ‘You’ll have to see him some time, sir. You can’t go on playing box and cox with him for ever.’

  ‘Don’t have to,’ announced Dover smugly. ‘Thursday night, I’m going back to London.’

  ‘This Thursday, sir?’

  ‘And MacGregor’ll be clearing off on Friday morning.’

  ‘Are you going for good, sir?’

  Dover nodded. ‘Its not my habit to go on flogging a dead horse,’ he said righteously. ‘ We’re getting nowhere fast on this blooming business.’

  ‘But what about Sergeant MacGregor, sir? I thought from what you were saying that he was on to something?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dover, looking sly, ‘I can’t answer for what MacGregor’s going to do. He’s young and keen. He only says he’s going off on Friday morning. It’s not like him to leave a case in mid-air but he says he’s going off on holiday and who are we to say him nay, eh?’

  ‘You mean he might be staying on in Wallerton under cover like?’

  Dover shrugged his shoulders and didn’t answer.

  ‘The Chief Constable’s going to blow his top when he hears,’ said Sergeant Veitch gloomily. ‘He’ll do his nut, I’m telling you. ‘Specially if he hears it second-hand. He likes to think people trust him, you know, and that they aren’t afraid to tell him things. Load of old tripe, of course, because he’s the most bad-tempered bastard I’ve ever clapped eyes on. You are going to see him before you go, aren’t you, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Dover.

  ‘Phone him up, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dover, getting bored with all this. ‘I’ll phone him up. Don’t you worry about it.’ It was a blatant lie but it seemed to satisfy Sergeant Veitch who didn’t relish the prospect of explaining to the Chief Constable that the birds from Scotland Yard had flown without even saying goodbye.

  ‘Here,’ said Dover suddenly, ‘he’s not likely to come back again, is he?’

  ‘Oh my God, I hope not!’ Sergeant Veitch paled. ‘No, I remember now, he said he’d got to get back for some committee meeting or other.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Dover. ‘In that case you can treat me to lunch in the canteen.’

  For the remainder of his time in Wallerton Dover, when he wasn’t eating or sleeping or packing, resumed his peregrinations round the town. By the time he sat down to his high tea on the Thursday evening there can’t have been many people in Wallerton who didn’t know that the Chief Inspector was leaving on the 6.35 and his sergeant some time on the following morning. It had been an exhausting job but Dover felt it had been worth the trouble.

  He had even bestirred himself to the extent of calling, yet again, on Miss ffiske and assuring her that she had nothing to fear now that the lascivious MacGregor was about to leave town. Miss ffiske gave Dover a very odd look. Dover thought this extremely significant. He also trotted round to Mrs Jolliott, the late Constable Cochran’s landlady. He excused the obvious inconvenience of his call – Mrs Jolliott was washing her front steps and wouldn’t have stopped for the Duke of Edinburgh himself – by saying that he had come to say goodbye. Mrs Jolliott, scrubbing brush suspended in mid scrub, also gave him a very peculiar look. Dover was in a seventh heaven of delight. The master plan was swinging into action. The mice were sniffing at the cheese. Soon they would nibble and then … wham! The trap would snap! Congratulations, applause, a place in the annals of Scotland Yard. What more could a detective ask? Dover rubbed his hands in joyous anticipation. He’d show ’em all, by God he would! They’d be green with envy when this little lot was over.

  At six o’clock he was ready and waiting for his taxi. MacGregor brought his suitcase downstairs and helped the Chief Inspector on with his overcoat.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the station with you, sir?’

  ‘You stop here,’ said Dover. ‘You’ve had your instructions. And God help you if you muck ’em up!’

  ‘But are you sure you can manage, sir?’

  ‘Of course I can manage!’ exploded Dover. ‘ What do you think I am? A congenital idiot? I was catching trains when you were still in wet nappies.’

  ‘I’m still not terribly clear about what you’ve got in mind, sir. I mean, are you going away for good, or what? And what am I supposed to be doing?’

  ‘I
t’s all taken care of, laddie,’ said Dover impatiently. ‘Where’s that flaming taxi?’ He looked at MacGregor in alarm, ‘ It won’t be that Armstrong chap driving it, will it?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! I made a point of ringing up the other firm. Oh, that reminds me, sir, the Chief Constable …’

  ‘Here it is!’ Dover fastened up his overcoat. ‘Bring the bag, laddie. There’s no time to waste.’

  The Chief Inspector arrived safely at the station with no more than twenty minutes to wait. He settled himself in a first-class compartment and scowled furiously at any other passenger who dared to approach within twenty yards He pulled a particularly revolting face if the possible intruder was a woman. He didn’t want any of them watching his every move, thank you very much! Just as long as they’d spotted him obviously departing from Wallerton, that was all he wanted.

  Doors slammed, whistles blew. The train jerked off. Dover sat on the edge of his seat, his suitcase on the floor beside him, and grinned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The train didn’t stop at Abbots Brook. It didn’t stop at Abbots Corner, Abbots Gate or Sarah’s Bottom. The tiny deserted stations rushed past Dover’s horrified eyes. After ten minutes of nervously telling himself it would be all right, he was forced to admit that it probably wasn’t. He began to get worried. With a curse he picked up his suitcase and struggled out into the corridor. It took him another ten minutes to track down the guard. He found him at last in an empty compartment at the very end of the train.

  Dover, scarlet in the face from his exertions, dragged back the sliding door.

  The guard looked up, automatically brushing a few crumbs off his tunic. He had a large packet of sandwiches on his lap and his feet were propped up on the opposite seat.

  ‘Why,’ demanded Dover in a strangled voice, ‘didn’t this bloody train stop at Abbots Brook?’

  The guard examined him casually from head to toe and then, obviously unimpressed, opened up a sandwich and inspected the contents. ‘ Never does,’ he said, taking a large bite. ‘ Cheese and pickle! And very nice, too.’

  ‘They told me in Wallerton that it stopped at Abbots Brook.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘They was wrong then, weren’t they? The 5.35 does. The 7.35 does, but not the 6.35. Don’t ask me why. Been like that ever since I come on this route.’

  ‘But that bloody young fool …’

  ‘Ah.’ The guard took another bite. ‘ That’d be Percy. He’s a right casual young burk. You don’t never want to take no notice of what young Percy says. Why, if I had a quid for every passenger he’s dropped in the dirt, I’d be a rich man.’

  Dover heaved his suitcase into the compartment ahead of him and flopped down on the seat opposite the guard. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘I’ve got to get off this train,’ he said.

  The guard was unsympathetic. ‘ Well, there’s the door, mate. If you want to wait till the train stops, though, you’ll have to stick it out to Gibberford.’ He lugged out a heavy silver pocket watch. ‘That’ll be another twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ said Dover.

  The guard had heard this one before, several times in fact. ‘ Well, unfortunately, I’m not God Almighty, mate, or I might be able to help you.’

  ‘You can stop the train, can’t you?’

  ‘I can,’ agreed the guard comfortably, but I’m not going to. I live in Sudley Burbiton and the wife’ll have my supper ready for me. You don’t want always to go thinking of yourself, you know. There’s others on the train besides you.’

  ‘I’m from Scotland Yard,’ said Dover, hunting through his pockets. ‘I’ve got a warrant card here somewhere …’

  The guard shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t bother, mate. It won’t make no difference. The answer’s still no.’ He unwrapped a small meat pie.

  Dover scowled helplessly. ‘It’s a very serious offence,’ he began.

  ‘So’s stopping trains,’ retorted the guard. ‘More than my blooming job’s worth.’

  ‘I’ve got to get off this train!’ yelped Dover.

  The guard nodded his head at the door. ‘Try jumping, mate. They say you don’t hurt yourself if you roll over and over when you land.’

  ‘You’ll live to regret this!’ threatened Dover.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said the guard, wiping his hands fastidiously on his waistcoat.

  ‘I’ll fix you!’ blustered Dover, jowls wobbling. ‘I’ll have you harried from pillar to post! I’ll make you rue the day you were born! I’ll …’

  ‘Why don’t you just belt up?’ asked the guard equably. ‘You’ll be doing yourself an injury, working yourself up like that at your age.’

  Dover clenched his fists in a paroxysm of fustrated fury and, then raising his eyes to heaven, he saw his salvation. The communication cord!

  ‘Save your energy,’ said the guard. ‘It’s disconnected – Tom up front living in Sudley Burbiton too and this being his last run for the night.’

  ‘Oh God!’ moaned Dover and buried his head in his hands.

  But the guard wasn’t made of stone. Dover pathetic was more effective than Dover rampant. ‘Here,’ he offered kindly, ‘have a sandwich. You’ll feel better with something inside you.’

  And Dover did. By the time he’d finished off all the remaining sandwiches and got through a couple of crumbly jam tarts, he felt much better. He was able to regard his predicament with a certain amount of detachment. It was damned hard luck on MacGregor, of course, but even for him you could hardly call it the end of the world, could you? He’d learn to live with it in time. Lots of other people had. Dover sniggered to himself. Why, it might even turn out to be a blessing in disguise. The lad’d be able to concentrate on his job without dissipating his energies on a lot of external distractions. Dover chuckled.

  The guard looked at him curiously. Gawd, you didn’t half meet ’em on his job. One minute they were blubbering all over you, sobbing out some blooming hard-luck story, and the next minute they were laughing their flipping heads off.

  ‘Feeling better, are you, mate?’

  Dover wiped his eyes. ‘Eh? Oh yes!’ He swayed backwards and forwards as he tried to control his mirth. ‘ No good crying over spilt milk, is it? Like I say, there must be hundreds of people in the same boat, if you did but know it. I don’t suppose it even shows …’

  The guard stopped ruminating on the imponderabilia of human nature and pricked up his ears as he caught a change in the rhythm of the train.

  ‘Craig’s Crossing!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘Come on, mate, you’re in luck! Look lively, now, you’ll only have a couple of seconds.’

  Before Dover could say him nay, the guard had seized the suitcase and pulled it over to the door.

  ‘Here – what the blazes?’ squeaked Dover, scrambling to his feet and endeavouring to get his suitcase back again. He finished up in an untidy heap on the opposite seat as the train’s brakes slammed on. When, having floundered around like a stranded whale, he got himself into an upright position, he found that the guard had already got the carriage door open.

  ‘No!’ shrieked Dover.

  He was ignored. As the train juddered to a halt the suitcase was tossed out regardless on to the line.

  ‘You bloody fool!’ screamed Dover, plunging clumsily towards the door in a futile effort to recover his property.

  ‘Come on!’ roared the guard, rejoicing that he was able to help his fellow man at no cost to himself.

  ‘No!’ howled Dover again, seeing what was inevitably coming.

  It was no good. The guard, who did early morning exercises to keep himself fit, caught the Chief Inspector off-balance. Dover was already moving in the direction of the door. His effort to switch into reverse was thwarted by the guard’s grasp on his collar. Dover made the mistake of trying to strike the Good Samaritan in the stomach instead of grabbing hold of some immovable portion of the carriage. The guard laughingly side-stepped the foul blow and, with a cunning thrus
t, got Dover nicely poised in the open doorway. Then, still holding securely on to the collar of Dover’s overcoat, he applied his knee to the small of Dover’s back, and pushed. The bulk of Dover’s body was propelled through the doorway but the restraining grasp on his collar prevented him from being flung forwards on his face. He found himself on the track in a more or less upright position, having scraped his back nastily on the protruding step as he descended.

  There was an ominous clanking from the front end of the train. Dover instinctively leapt clear. Before he had time to turn round and express his heart-felt opinion on the recent happenings, the train was already moving. The guard slammed his door shut and stood waving cheerily from the open window.

  ‘Your lucky day!’ he called.

  Dover made some suitable reply. Then he stood impotently waving his fist at the departing train. When at last it disappeared from view, he turned to contemplate his surroundings.

  ‘’Strewth!’ muttered Dover. He looked round him again. ‘Population explosion!’ he grumbled. ‘Standing room only by 2010! Bloody well looks like it, doesn’t it?’ Some cows in an adjoining field stared moodily at him. He was just on the point of picking up a handy sized lump of stone and chucking it at them when a tiny fragment of civilization caught his eye. A cottage! It lay away in the distance across no less than three fields but, unless Dover’s eyes betrayed him, it was a cottage. Cursing profusely Dover picked up his suitcase and made his way gingerly across the railway line. By God, somebody was going to pay for this!

  William Dibden and his sister, Wilhelmina, made a point of never opening their door to anyone after six o’clock at night. They’d heard too many stories of old-age pensioners being murdered in their beds to be caught napping themselves.