Ben on the Job

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  She paused, rather breathless, and the train began to slacken speed. They sat silent until it had stopped and had started moving again. Then Maudie said:

  ‘I haven’t got out—I’m still here!’

  The young man with the weak chin came along the corridor again, glanced in, and passed on.

  ‘Yus, and so’m I still ’ere,’ grinned Ben. ‘That bloke’s ’avin’ no luck ternight, is ’e?’

  19

  Conference over Coffee

  Roused from fitful sleep by that queer subconscious instinct that makes most of us wake up at the right time, Ben and Maudie opened their eyes as the train began to slacken speed before Applewold.

  The station into which they glided was only just waking itself in the greyness of dawn, and the few passengers who emerged on to the platform after the train had stopped looked like ghosts flitting away before the full daylight caught them. Two of the ghosts, emerging from the coach behind Ben’s and Maudie’s, flitted swiftly into the shadow of a wall, while Ben and Maudie stood to decide the details of the plan they had agreed on in the train.

  ‘I can’t say I’m sold on the idea,’ muttered Maudie.

  ‘We ain’t goin’ orl over it agine, are we?’ begged Ben.

  Maudie had originally objected to the plan, and now looked like renewing her objections. It was that Ben should go from Applewold to Penridge alone, and that she should follow on the next train.

  ‘How long shall I have to wait?’ she demanded.

  ‘I dunno that yet no more’n you do,’ he answered.

  ‘Suppose there are only a couple of trains a day?’

  ‘Then I’ll be on the fust and you’ll be on the second. There’s a porter—we’ll arsk ’im.’

  The porter, after eyeing them with vague curiosity and registering the private opinion that a pretty girl like this might have found a better travelling companion than a queer cove like that, informed them that the connection for Penridge would be along in two hours, and that if they had good pairs of legs they could almost walk it in the time.

  ‘Why, how far is Penridge from here, then?’ inquired Maudie.

  ‘Not more’n fifteen miles,’ the porter told her.

  ‘Fifteen miles! No tha-nk you! That’s beyond my limit for a day! How often do the trains run to Penridge after the next one?’

  ‘There’s another in just over an hour.’

  ‘And I suppose we wait in a cold and cheerless waiting-room?’

  ‘You can get a cup o’ coffee at the Station Hotel just across the road,’ the porter said, ‘unless Bella’s over-sleepin’.’

  ‘If she is we’ll wake her, don’t you worry!’ retorted Maudie. ‘Is there a hotel at Penridge, too?’

  ‘Ay. Station Hotel. They all seem to be called that along the line.’

  Bella undoubtedly looked as though she had overslept when she admitted them. Her eyes were glassy, and her hair sprayed in all directions like a bed of untidy brown grass. ‘Looks as if a cat ’ad sat in it,’ was Ben’s comment as they settled down in a chilly room to two large cups of coffee. But the coffee warmed them, and they were in a mood to be thankful for small mercies. ‘If I took a room here,’ Maudie remarked, ‘I might finish my beauty sleep as I’ve got three hours to wait!’ Then, half-way through her cup, she returned to the attack.

  ‘You know, this waiting’s going to get my goat!’ she frowned.

  ‘It’d git orl our goats if yer came along with me and upset the ’ole apple-cart!’ replied Ben. ‘That’s wot it’d do!’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Ain’t yer?’

  ‘Why should he suspect me, any more than you think he’ll suspect you?’

  ‘’E won’t suspeck yer—’

  ‘There you are!’

  ‘’Cos we ain’t goin’ ter give ’im the charnce! You finish yer beauty sleep, like yer sed. Or wot abart a walk?’

  Maudie turned ironical eyes towards the window. The grey shroud was changing to a white film.

  ‘Hardly the weather for joy-walking!’

  ‘It ain’t. Funny ’ow mist follers me abart.’

  ‘Well, anyhow, it’s cleaner mist up here than what we left in London. I expect this is what they call mountain mist, and we’re getting it being so high up.’

  ‘No, we’re gettin’ it because I’m ’ere,’ insisted Ben. ‘Yer don’t need no other reason.’ He looked at her apprehensively. ‘So that’s fixed, ain’t it? You stay ’ere, and I goes on.’

  ‘Seems so,’ she sighed, grudgingly, ‘and if I haven’t died of gaiety, what do I do when I go on?’

  Ben sighed, also. This was asking a bit much, wasn’t it? How can you work out what you don’t know?

  ‘I reckon yer’ll ’ave ter use yer dissercrashun,’ he said.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Eh? That means when yer does a thing wot yer thinks best at the time wot yer does it. Fer instance, if I ain’t there yer might describe me like and arsk people if they’d seed me. There wouldn’t be two.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘No, me.’

  Maudie gave a short laugh. ‘Looks to me as if, once we’ve separated, we may spend the rest of the day trying to find each other again! How about this? You heard me asking the porter if there was a hotel at Penridge?’

  ‘Tha’s right. Staishun ’Otel, sime as this ’un.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not on the platform I’ll find out if you’re at the hotel, and if you’re not, and there’s no message—you might be able to leave one there if you need to—then I’ll wait till you do turn up, or a message comes along.’

  ‘That’s wot I calls brinework,’ answered Ben appreciatively.

  ‘Thanks for the applause! So for the moment that’s me. Now about you. Have you decided what you’re going to do?’

  ‘Eh? We knows that. I’m goin’ on a’ead—’

  ‘Yes, but what are you going to do when you meet Oscar Blake? Throw your arms round his neck and kiss him?’

  Ben grinned. ‘I ’adn’t thort of it.’

  ‘What have you thought of? You don’t want to get stuck for an idea.’

  ‘Tha’s right, on’y if yer dunno wot’s ter foller the on’y idea yer can git is ’ow ter start! Ain’t it? So wot I gotter do is ter start bein’ friendly so’s ter mike ’im tork.’

  She nodded. ‘And I wonder what he’s going to talk about?’

  ‘Well, one thing’d be ’is plan fer mikin’ a bit, wouldn’t it? That might ’ave nothink ter do with the murder, but my bet is that it ’as, and corse, that’s wot I gotter git ’im onter—’oo did it, if ’e knows, and if ’e didn’t?’

  ‘You still think he might have done it himself then?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t mike me fall dahn in a faint!’

  ‘I hope not! You’ll need to keep your wits—and you’ll need to be careful!’

  ‘Yer needn’t worry abart that, miss,’ Ben assured her. ‘I won’t say nothink abart me wits, but I spends ’arf me life bein’ careful, and helefunts walkin’ on wine-glasses ain’t got nothink on me, miss!’

  She smiled. ‘You’d make a cat laugh. When are you going to call me Maudie, Eric?’

  ‘Eh? Oh! Well, I’ll ’ave a shot at Maudie if you’ll stop the Eric. Ben’s wot they wrote dahn somewhere when I was born, sayin’ they wrote dahn anythink. Is there any more corfee?’

  ‘Yes, let’s fill our cups, and see where we’ve got to. If I’d thought this time yesterday that in twenty-four hours you and me’d be drinking coffee together somewhere in Cumberland I’d have had five fits! Don’t ask me if it’s a scream or a tragedy! Just as well we don’t know what life’s got in store for us sometimes, isn’t it?’ They began their second cups. ‘Where have we got to?’

  ‘Staishun ’Otel, Penridge,’ Ben reminded her. ‘Yer waitin’ there ter find aht where I’ve got ter. That was it, weren’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and I believe I’m getting somewhere, too! Wait a moment—I’m chasing something—’


  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, my God! A thought! Listen. Suppose you bring back some news. Don’t say “Where?” again! To the hotel where I’m waiting.’

  ‘Not this ’un, the other ’un.’

  ‘Of course! Do we pass it on to Mrs Wilby or the police?’

  ‘Lummy, ’ow do we know afore we know wot it is?’ complained Ben. ‘You wanter ’ave the ’ole thing done afore we starts!’

  ‘No, but I want to know where we think we’re going before we start, even if we never get there,’ retorted Maudie. ‘Listen, something may happen like this. You may get hold of some information but not be able to leave. Blake may stick too close to you, or you may want to stay around—either to get some more information, or because you’ll want to keep your eyes on him to see he doesn’t slip away again when he may be wanted. Do you get all that?’

  ‘I git it.’

  ‘Right! Then that’s where I may come in. You’ll know I’ll be at the hotel—most probably—and you must find some way of contacting me—’

  ‘Cong wot?’

  ‘Of getting in touch with me—coming to me or ’phoning to me or sending a message somehow or other—don’t ask me to work out every detail!—and then I could pass on the information to whoever we decided was best.’

  ‘Yer mean, ter Mrs Wilby or the pleece, sayin’ I carn’t do nothink fer some reason we can’t think of, accordin’ ter wot it is and wich we want.’

  Maudie blinked. ‘Half a minute while I work that one out!… Yes, I think that’s about it. He won’t know I’m here—if we start keeping me dark we must go on doing it—so I’ll be free to move where I want to. I could even go back to London to see Mrs Wilby, if it was necessary.’

  Ben looked at her with admiration.

  ‘Yer’d do that?’ he asked.

  ‘You keep on forgetting I’m here to help.’

  ‘Tha’s right. And like you say, I may find I wants a messidger. On’y, corse, if I finds aht ’oo done the murder, it’ll ’ave ter be the pleece, won’t it? No matter ’ow you and me figger like?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘There ain’t no expeck abart it. But, mind yer, if I find aht ’oo done it, that’d mean we ain’t.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine?’

  Ignoring the gentle sarcasm, Ben continued, following his own line of thought: ‘Yes, one carn’t play abart with murder, it’d ’ave ter be the pleece, and if yer want the truth, I’ve ’arf chainged me mind and p’r’aps we orter’ve told ’em the lot in Lunnon. Mrs Wilby was fer it at fust, wasn’t she, even though it might of meant gettin’ ’er boyfriend inter trouble.’ He did not notice Maudie’s eyes suddenly sharpen. ‘It’s goin’ ter be narsty if we find as it was ’im done it, but I reckon she’s ready ter fice up ter that now, if she wasn’t afore, and when yer thinks of it ’e couldn’t be much good, could ’e, if ’e was arter Mrs Wilby afore ’er ’usband was popped orf ter mike ’er free like, that’d be as dirty as yer could git, no matter ’ow Mr Wilby ’iself ’ad be’aved, but—’

  He stopped short, suddenly noticing Maudie’s expression and pulled up by a realisation of what he was saying.

  ‘Would you mind telling me just what you are talking about?’ asked Maudie.

  ‘Eh? Nothink,’ muttered Ben.

  ‘I see. Just something you read in a book!’

  ‘What?’

  She shook her head reprovingly at him.

  ‘Listen, Ben,’ she said seriously, ‘if you’ve said more than you ought it’s too late to draw back now—and I don’t think you have said more than you ought! We’re working together and you’ve got me on the straight path, God knows how, but never mind that, and if we find ourselves in a jam before we’ve finished I’ve got to know as much as you or I won’t be able to help—in fact, I may do something to upset everything. You must see that?’

  Ben frowned. The trouble was he did seem to see it. Maudie’s words sounded disturbingly logical.

  ‘Of course,’ Maudie went on, watching him, ‘if you believe after all we’ve talked about and said to each other that I’m not on the straight path and I’m still up here to cheat—’

  ‘Go on!’ interrupted Ben easily. ‘Yer knows I don’t think that.’

  ‘Honest truth?’

  ‘Corse, Maudie. I knows that ’owever bad yer started, yer comin’ clean nah.’

  Something suddenly made Maudie bite her lip. ‘It wouldn’t be easy not to after a dose of you!’ she said, almost resentfully. ‘You’d turn a hard-boiled egg soft! Very well! As you do trust me—’

  ‘Ain’t I sed so?’

  ‘Then you must act as if you do. Goodness, why, here you suddenly blurt out something damned important and entirely new about a man who’s been making love to Mrs Wilby—’

  ‘Oi, not so quick!’ Ben interrupted again. ‘I dunno abart that! Leastwise, I dunno ’ow much. But—yus, I expeck I gotter tell yer nah, on’y doncher fergit it’s orl privit like—well, any’ow, this bloke fell fer ’er, and arter Mr Wilby be’aved like wot ’e did at the cinema just afore ’e went orf ter git murdered—’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Are you telling me that Mr Wilby was with her that afternoon?’

  ‘Yus, that’s wot I’m tellin’ yer, and ’e be’aved so funny she thort ’e was drunk or somethink, see, ’e’d joined ’er arter it started and chuckled or somethink in the dark, so she got fed up, ’oo wouldn’t, and left ’im there—’

  ‘At the cinema?’

  ‘Lummy, corse at the cinema, they wasn’t at a cricket match …’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘I’m tryin’ ter. She left ’im at the cinema, afore it was over, so ’e must ’ave left jest arter, but ’e didn’t go ’ome, we know that, but she went ’ome, and ’avin’ ’ad enuff like she was goin’ orf with ’im, not Mr Wilby but the other bloke, or leastwise she meant ter, when along I comes and stops ’er gettin’ in the taxi, and arter she ’ears wot I told ’er, see, I told ’er afore the pleece did, ’ave yer got it? Then she chinges ’er mind like, and telerphones to ’im and finds ’e’s gorn away sudden, and so—well, that started ’er wunnerin’, but she ain’t told nothink abart this ter the pleece, nobody knows it bar me, and barrin’ nah you, so if we find aht that it’s ’im and that Blake knows it’s ’im, wot do we do?’

  Maudie needed a few seconds to absorb what she had just been told, and then she answered:

  ‘But I thought you’d decided that we would have to tell the police?’

  ‘Yus,’ replied Ben, ‘on’y I wish I was sure Mrs Wilby wouldn’t wanter know fust. See, she engaiged me fer this job and is payin’ me fer it.’

  ‘Who is this other man?’

  ‘’Oo is ’e?’

  ‘Yes, what’s his name?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘If she ’ad I’d of knowed.’

  ‘Did she say what he was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or where he lived?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how would you know he was the person Blake meant if he mentioned anybody?’

  ‘Arsk me another! But I’ve seed ’is pickcher.’

  ‘What! Did she show it to you?’

  ‘No, I see it on ’er mantelpiece the fust time I called, but it ’ad gorn the second time, so I reckoned she’d ’ad enuff of it.’

  ‘Or didn’t want the police to see it, p’r’aps?’

  ‘Well, that’s an idea, miss.’

  ‘But you saw it, you say?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘You’re sure it was this man? It wasn’t Mr Wilby?’

  ‘It wasn’t Mr Wilby, I’ve seen Mr Wilby, and yer could tell it was the other bloke by the sorter way she sorter kep’ on sorter lookin’ at it.’

  ‘Then you’d recognise him if you came across him?’

  ‘Tha’s right.’

  ‘It might be useful if I could, too. Will you describe him?’
r />   ‘Lummy, ain’t yer arskin’ ’em? I never was no good at discripshuns.’

  ‘Have a shot!’

  ‘Well—’e ’ad a moustache.’

  ‘So have millions of others.’

  ‘That ain’t my fault.’

  ‘A big moustache or a small one? Light or dark?’

  ‘There yer’ve got me.’

  Maudie sighed. ‘Do try and be more helpful! Can’t you rake up a squint or something?’

  ‘Lummy, ’e ’adn’t no squint,’ replied Ben, ‘’e was a good-looker, like some o’ them blokes, yer might say, ’oo sings love-songs on the pickchers. Pity abart this weather, ain’t it?’

  Maudie looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What’s biting you all of a sudden about the weather?’ she inquired.

  ‘Well, it’s bad fer the sheep.’ Her surprise grew as Ben continued with loud vehemence: ‘’Oo’d be a farmer? But, corse, mist ain’t so bad as the snow wot buries ’em.’

  Had the strain of the situation been too much for him and sent him loony? That was Maudie’s thought, but before she could express it she received a violent kick under the table.

  ‘Well, I better find Bella and pay the bill,’ said Ben.

  He left his chair, and she watched him cross the room and open the door. As he closed the door again, after poking his head out into the passage, he remarked loudly: ‘Thort I ’eard ’er ahtside, but I must of bin mistook.’ Then Maudie got on to it.

  ‘But you did hear someone?’ she murmured, keeping her own voice low.

  Ben nodded.

  ‘Yus, and I thort they was stoppin’ and listenin’,’ he replied, ‘but let’s ’ope that was a mistake, too! Any’ow, ain’t we torked long enuff? ’Ow abart that beauty sleep? Yer’ve got a hour and a ’arf, and it may be the larst chance yer’ll ’ave fer a bit, miss.’