Death on a Branch line

Chapter Fifteen

In my dream, Mr Handley’s blurred voice spoke over Adenwold scenes, giving out country-side facts:

‘Here is the hawthorn, the roots are polished black.’

‘Here is our station — the porter has turned on the danger lamp.’ ‘Here are the rabbits running. We kill them at harvest time when they have nowhere to hide.’

‘Here is a field put to grass.’

‘This is not like your place — we are all under the great house.’

Mr Handley seemed to give a cough, and I woke suddenly to a blare of light and heat beyond the open window, and the distant beat of the 8.51 ‘up’ approaching through the woods. It might be over a mile off yet. The wife was lying on her front and looking as though she’d been dropped from a great height. She was asleep, and yet the day was half done. I stood up and looked down at her. Any person asleep always seems better off that way, and there was nothing for it… I had meant to put her on the first train, but I could not wake her.

The counterpane was twisted to one side, her night-dress was up and her brown arse was on full view. What ought a gentleman to do? I pulled the night-dress down; I put on my suit and cap, threw cold water on my face and stowed the warrant card (which was evidently not safe left in the room) and the papers of Hugh Lambert in my inside pocket. The engine gave another long shriek, as if to say, ‘I have given you fair warning! The station is now approached!’ I clattered down the stairs of The Angel. No coffee, no breakfast — fine holiday this was! The long table stood empty before the dusty road, and no breeze moved the wisteria.

Rounding the bend that led towards the station, I ran into a confusion of geese, all flapping to take off, and none succeeding any better than any quantity of madly dashing white-skirted women. Nobody seemed to be attending them, and the green was silent and deserted as before.

I crossed the white dazzle of the station yard, and arrived at the ‘up’ platform just a second after the train. It was a Saturday train — short: two carriages and a guard’s van.

Who had it brought?

I walked along the ‘up’, watching the doors, and as I did so, the vicar, who had departed Adenwold the previous evening, climbed down and moved quickly along the platform before cutting across the station yard and disappearing from view. He had left, and now he had come back, carrying the same bag and wearing the same white suit and flower-like hat. He had perhaps been at a dinner. He was another to be taken into account. Or was he? John Lambert had told Hugh that ‘they’ would be coming for him, and the vicar was not a ‘they’. The same objection could be raised in the case of the bicyclist or the man from Norwood. But either might be an agent of some larger group. Or they might all be in league.

I walked further along the platform, still watching the train. The carriage windows were once again sun-dazzled, but I made out an old man sleeping in Third, and he looked as though he might have been inside that dusty red rattler since it was built, or then again he might have lived and died in it, for he made no stir as I looked on.

Coming up to the station house, I noticed for the first time a public telephone attached to the side of it. Pasted above the instrument were the instructions: ‘How to Use the Telephone’, but these were half-obscured by a notice freshly pasted over: ‘Out of Order’. I looked up and saw the west-leading wires reaching away into the woods. They would meet their doom within half a mile, and I could not believe the ones that led in the other direction remained intact either.

I turned again to the train.

All the doors of the carriages remained closed. The engine simmered and waited for its signal; the clock on the ‘up’ moved to 8.55.

In the gloomy doorway of the booking office, I spied the bulk of station master Hardy. What were those soldiers of his in aid of? Some station masters would spell out the name of the station in white stones on a bank of grass, or they’d have a super-fancy flower display — pansies in an ornamental barrow. But the model soldiers were not laid on for the benefit of the passengers — they were entirely for the benefit of Hardy.

The fellow turned towards me from within his hole, and his mouth made the shape of his habitual ‘Oh’, but he kept silence.

There then came the sound of rough Yorkshire voices from the head of the train — from the locomotive itself. As I looked on, a small figure climbed down from the footplate. It was the porter, Woodcock. He was now saying something to the unseen driver or fireman; he carried a cloth bag that no doubt contained the snap and bottle of tea for his turn.

‘Your lad comes in on the engine, does he?’ I asked Hardy.

He turned in the shadows.

‘He likes a ride up,’ he said.

‘He lives along the line, I suppose?’

‘The lad? He lives at East Adenwold. First train of a Saturday brings him in just nicely for the start of his duty. Well, a little late, but near as makes no odds.’

The idle little bugger ought to have biked in like any country station junior, as I had done myself when I’d had my railway start in the village of Goathland up on the Yorkshire Moors. I looked at Hardy, and my gaze seemed to shame him into further speech.

‘The boy has a crib in the signal box,’ he added, ‘and he sometimes kips up there.’

Hardy then looked down at his boots.

I said, ‘Telephone’s bust.’

‘It is, aye,’ he said, looking up.

I eyed the communicator and receiver dials of the ABC machine behind him, saying, ‘Telegraph’s out too, I suppose?’

Hardy nodded. ‘There’s been a general collapse out in the woods,’ he said. ‘It’s not the first time… It’s all out while they fix it.’

‘When did you hear of this?’

‘Last night.’

‘By company runner?’

He nodded again, and I thought of the silver-haired man I’d seen the night before, hurrying through the station yard. He’d been running, but he hadn’t looked like a railway messenger. He’d looked more important than that.

‘How’s the line being worked then?’

‘Oh,’ said Hardy, ‘by ticket.’

In emergencies, a driver would be given a ticket or token authorising him to proceed even against signals set at danger… But I had no clear understanding of the system.

‘I’ve had a look,’ I said, ‘and I’d say the line’s been cut.’

‘Oh,’ said Hardy, ‘well now…’

Woodcock was now eyeing me from a distance of ten feet — it was always a face-down with him. His head was too compressed for my liking — like an old apple. He pursed his thin lips and gave a tremendous fart, staring at me all the while, so that it was very hard to keep in countenance.

‘Been burning some bad powder,’ he said, just as a carriage door opened behind him, and a man stepped down.

He was a dapper dog, this one: blue lounge jacket, white flannel trousers, stiff collar and stripy tie; and the trousers were tucked into highly polished army field boots. I imagined that he’d been arranging his clothes to a look of perfection in his compartment, and that this accounted for his delay in getting down.

The fellow carried a document case and a biggish carpet bag. He was trim, well set-up — uncommonly blue eyes, sunburnt face and sandy hair. He put me in mind of a prosperous sort of colonial farmer, and he had evidently passed a test that I and the wife had failed, for Woodcock put down his own bag and hurried up to the man. Here was a chance to put the bleed on — carry the two bags at a shilling apiece to some waiting vehicle, for this was certainly the sort of fellow who’d be met, except that I could see clear through to the station yard, and it was empty as before.

The man sent Woodcock packing with a word. He then struck out along the platform and out towards the triangular green where he stood getting his bearings. I watched him from the platform as Woodcock moved alongside me again.

‘Bad luck,’ I said.

No reply from the porter.

‘Do you know him?’ I asked.

‘I know his type,’ said Woodcock.

‘That chap falls into the class of a mean toff,’ I said. ‘Looks a good bet for a tip, but en’t. I was a lad porter myself once, and I always reckoned to be able to spot that sort the minute they climbed down.’

‘Cut the blarney,’ said Woodcock.

I said, ‘You have a ride in on the engine come Saturday, I see,’ and I nodded towards the locomotive.

Woodcock muttered something I couldn’t catch, before asking in a louder voice, ‘You okay today, pal?’

He was moving, as he spoke, towards the end of the train, and the guard’s van. I looked on as he took down from the unseen guard a quantity of newspapers, a wooden box and a hamper tied about with a leather strap. The newspapers were loosely covered in brown paper, but I could make out one of the headings: ‘The Moroccan Sensation: Reports of a Further Grave Incident’.

‘Reckon you were half seas over last night,’ Woodcock said, standing over the packages, ‘spoiling for a scrap, you were.’

The train was at last pulling away.

The wooden box, I now saw, was a crate of wine.

‘Who’s this lot for?’ I asked, indicating the goods, and shouting over the roar of the departing engine.

‘Nosey bloke, en’t you?’

I fished in my pocket for a tanner and passed it to him.

‘You’d have had that earlier if you’d carried our bags,’ I said.

‘Well then,’ said Woodcock, looking down at the coin, ‘I’m glad I didn’t bother. This is all for the bloody Hall, of course. Why do you want to know?’

And it came to me that I might put him off with a lie.

‘You asked me last night if I was a journalist,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m hunting up a bit of background for an article on the hanging of Hugh Lambert.’

‘What paper?’

‘Various,’ I said. ‘I’m with a news agency.’

He eyed me.

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me about Hugh Lambert?’ I ran on. ‘Or John, come to that?’

‘There is not,’ he said.

A consignment note was tucked into the leather belt that held the lid of the hamper down. I caught it up before Woodcock could stop me. The delivery came from York, and was marked: ‘Lambert, The Gardener’s Cottage, The Hall, Adenwold, Yorks.’

I looked across the station yard towards the triangular green. The dapper man in field boots was still gazing about. He was a stranger to Adenwold, that much was obvious.

‘Lift the lid,’ I asked the porter, pointing at the hamper.

He made no move.

‘Irregular, that would be,’ he said. ‘Mr Hardy might not like it.’

He nodded towards the urinal, where station master Hardy was making water, the top of his head just visible over the wooden screen.

‘You don’t care a fuck for what he thinks,’ I said.

‘That’s true enough,’ the porter said. ‘Give me a bob and I’ll do it.’

He was a mercenary little bugger. I handed him the coin; he unbuckled the strap and pushed the lid open. ‘Aye,’ he said, looking down, ‘… seems about right.’

Inside the hamper were perhaps fifty railway timetables, all in a jumble. At the top was one of the Great Eastern’s, with a drawing of one of that company’s pretty 2-4-2 engines running along by the sea-side. But in the main, the basket held the highly detailed working timetables that came without decorated covers and were meant for use by railwaymen only.

Woodcock kicked the lid of the basket shut.

‘Timetables,’ he said. ‘Bloke’s mad on ’em.’

As he spoke, I watched the dapper man in field boots striding across the green. He moved with purpose, and I knew I’d better get after him.

‘When’ll they be carried to the Hall?’ I asked Woodcock, indicating the timetables.

‘Carter’ll take ’em up presently.’

‘When?’

‘When it suits him — don’t bloody ask me.’

‘Who’s that bloke just got down?’ I asked Woodcock, pointing towards the man in field boots.

‘Search me.’

‘Well, don’t worry, mate,’ I said, keeping one eye on the bloke. ‘Everything considered, you’ve been surprisingly helpful.’

‘That’s me all over,’ said Woodcock.

‘I’m obliged to you,’ I said.

‘I’m more surprising than I am helpful,’ he said as he made off, ‘so look out.’

The man in field boots was walking amid the cawing of rooks towards the two lanes on the opposite side of the green from the one leading to The Angel. Of this pair, he was aiming towards the lane furthest away from the station, which was bounded by two towering hedges. I made after him, but lagging back a little way.

The hedges made two high walls of green with brambles and flowers entangled within. A ladder stood propped against one of the hedges, and it looked tiny — only went half-way up. But it was a good-sized ladder in fact. The only sounds in the hedge-tunnel were our footfalls and the birdsong, and I thought: It must be very obvious to this bloke that he’s being followed. But he did not appear to have noticed by the time we came into the open again.

Here was a clearing, and another triangular green, this one better kept than the first and with — for all the heat — greener grass. A market cross stood in the centre of it. A terrace of cottages ran along one edge of the green. They looked pretty in the sunshine, and quite deserted. Their owners were having a holiday from them, and they were having a holiday from their owners. A row of three shops ran along another side: a baker’s, a saddle-maker’s and a tobacconist and confectioner’s, this last with the sun kept off by window posters for Rowntrees Cocoa and Player’s Navy Cut that looked as though they belonged in York and not out here in the wilds. Only the baker’s looked to be open, and there was a good smell coming out of it: hot and sweet, to go with the dizzying smell of the hundreds of flowers blooming all around.

The shops stood opposite to me, the terrace to the left. On the right was Adenwold parish church, which was contained within the half-ruined skeleton of a much larger church, and covered over with ivy. In the graveyard were little enclosures made of thick hedges, like natural rooms, and inside these were clusters of graves — whole families of the dead. Alongside the graveyard was a grand pink house. This must be the vicarage, and I was sure it had claimed the vicar who’d just left the station.

The lately-arrived man in field boots was now examining a finger-post that pointed towards a narrow road running away to the left of the baker’s. I came up behind him and read: ‘TO THE HALL’.

‘You’re for the Hall?’ I asked the man.

He wheeled about, but he hardly looked at me. Rather, he seemed to be looking into the far distance, and I had the idea that he might have learnt that gaze in Africa. But he also had London written all over him — expensive education and five hundred pounds a year. He gave the shortest of nods. He was for the Hall. At this, I gave him my name but again kept back my profession. The man put down his bags and shook my hand, but didn’t introduce himself. His eyes were exactly the same colour as the sky.

He was a tough-looking bloke, and if one of those bags of his held a gun — which seemed to me more than likely — and if he was on his way to shoot John Lambert, I would not be able to stop him by force. All I could do was try to put him off by saying what I knew.

‘There’s a man staying at the gardener’s cottage which is connected to the Hall,’ I said. ‘His name’s John Lambert and I believe him to be in danger of…’

‘Of what?’ asked the man, and it was not sharp, but in the manner of a polite enquiry.

‘In mortal danger,’ I said.

There was a silence. Or rather the air was filled with the sound of bees.

‘How do you know?’ the man eventually asked.

‘He said as much. I spoke to him yesterday.’

The man put down his bags.

‘Did you seek him out, or just come upon him?’

‘I’m here on holiday,’ I said. ‘I was out strolling with my wife, and I just came upon him.’

The man put his hands behind his back, and placed his legs wider apart.

‘Did you not recommend that he summon the police?’

He’d forced my hand.

‘I am the police,’ I said, and I showed him my warrant card, saying, ‘Do you mind my asking your business at the Hall?’

But, still with his hands behind his back, he put a question of his own:

‘You’re here on holiday, you say?’

‘I am.’

‘Who’s your officer commanding?’

And that was sharp.

‘That don’t signify,’ I said, feeling like a lout. ‘I’ve asked about your business at the Hall.’

‘I have an association with John Lambert,’ said the man. ‘I am… a confidant of his. The poor fellow is considerably agitated at present.’

It struck me as I spoke that John Lambert might be a mental case, and that this might be his doctor. He picked up his bags, and said, ‘You can be assured that my visit is in Mr Lambert’s own best interests.’

‘Then you’re not here to do him in?’

By way of answer to this stab, the blue-eyed man merely changed the angle of his head.

‘I’m going to have to ask for your name,’ I said.

‘That’s confidential,’ he said, and he looked at me levelly. ‘Do you mean to arrest me?’

I had never yet arrested a man of a markedly superior class. Anyhow, I had no reasonable cause to suspect him of any crime.

‘Arrest?’ I said. ‘Not a bit of it’ — and I added, by way of a touch of humour, ‘I’m for easy going.’

‘Good day to you, Detective Stringer,’ he said, and I watched him walk off, my head seething with the word ‘ass’ directed at my low-class self.