It was addressed in a shocking hand, and the nib of the pen had flooded between the words 'Stringer' and 'York Station Police Office.' The postmark was Whitby. I looked back at Wright, who had now set about another bloody orange, the clicking of his ancient jaw in rhythm with the ticking of the clock, and the two together making the sound of a rocking chair. He watched me with eyes fairly bulging.
The letter was one sheet of paper; and it came out backwards, so that I saw the signature first, which was a long word, running across half the page. I turned the leaf over: the address was set down as 'Shunters Cabin, Bog Hall Siding'. It was Company paper, though of an old style. 'Dear Stringer of the Rly Police York', the letter began. 'Mr Mackenzie, Yard Master (Nights) told me what you were about, and I have set my mind to it, and there is one from the Club you were asking after that I have heard of. That was Mr Moody. He was an old man but I heard he went under a train somewear north in summer, and is dead. His son I know is still living. He is in Pickering. He is a gentleman like his farther and deals in chimbeny sweaping eqpt like his farther did to.'
It was signed: 'E. Handley'.
It was good of the fellow to go to the labour of writing.
I wouldn't need a gazetteer to find a man called Moody in a small place like Pickering, but when would I get the chance to go there? It didn't matter. I would go. Meanwhile, I had a telegram to get off: to Mr S. Bowman of The Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London E.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Once again, I sat on a train shaking across the cliffs with Whitby behind me, heading for Ironopolis. It was all Middlesbrough today, for I also had in my pocket two written communications from the iron town. I had collected these from the office before crossing the footbridge and boarding my train from Platform Fourteen. I had read them as I crossed, with all the thunder of the morning peak going on below: the first was from a Detective Sergeant Williams of the Middlesbrough Railway Police, and it was in response to a telegram sent on my behalf by Shillito: 'Confirm suspect Clegg can be brought here for questioning or charge. Holding cell at your disposal.' That second sentence was by way of a joke, perhaps. At any rate, this was Shillito arranging a second bout between me and Clegg.
The other letter was more curious, and no less anxious-making. It was from the secretary to the passenger traffic manager, Middlesbrough District. A search had been made for the file requested: that concerning the subscribers to the Cleveland Travelling Club, and 'It is very regrettable to have to relate that the documents in question appear to be missing. It is possible that the Club subscribers were, or are, registered with us as ordinary First Class Season holders, but we have so many of these listed that we would need the names of the parties in order to be able to provide confirmation.'
My telegram to Stephen Bowman of The Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London E., had so far gone unanswered.
Sandsend came and went, then Staithes, the train crossing over the mighty cliff-gaps by means of the towering viaducts. To the folk below, our engine driver must seem more like an aviator. After the long darkness of the Grinkle Tunnel, the mine workings began to appear once more. We slowed on to the Kilton Viaduct, passing the whirling gauge that was meant to warn of high winds. I looked down towards the Flat Scar mine: the sea beyond was grey, the sky white. Two men were on the jetty of the little harbour, standing thoughtful-like. But there were no ships. In the fields and on the grey slag piles around the mine, the snow remained, though worn away by footsteps, hooves and machinery here and there. It was as though it had overstayed its welcome, the novelty having worn off, and I thought of the pub in York that had started out as the Bay Horse and had gradually become the Grey Horse owing to the quantity of smuts on the sign.
There was no train ascending the zigzag line this time. Instead, one man toiled up the bank towards the viaduct. A dog walked alongside him, and he seemed to have an extra, bright white arm, but it was the neck of a shot goose, carried on his shoulder. I looked to my left and saw the Rectory smoking.
We came into Middlesbrough station dead on time at midday. I hung about on the platform watching some of the gentry climb down from First; all the porters in Middlesbrough were attending those select carriages, offering to carry even the smallest of black leather valises or just holding open doors. One fellow in a silk topper climbed down with a cigar in his hand, and I could have sworn he was about to give it to a porter to hold as he put on his gloves; or perhaps he would content himself with putting it out on the little bloke's cap. But what became of the cigar I never saw because, looking to my right at that moment, I saw the word 'Police' painted in white on a green door.
The Middlesbrough police office was much homelier than the York one. It was long and narrow like the railway carriages that were forever pulling up alongside. The crackling of a good fire mingled pleasantly with the ticking of a good clock, and the men worked at desks behind wooden screens - a very snug-looking arrangement. Even the constables had desks, for two of the men working wore that uniform. There were two others in plain dress, and one of these came towards me with hand extended.
'Detective Sergeant Williams?' I said.
'Ralph,' he said, nodding, 'Ralph Williams.'
He was a pleasant, restful-looking sort of man, with sleepy eyes and sleepy moustache.
'Where's that hardened villain Clegg, then?' he enquired, grinning. 'We have a very comfortable cell waiting for him.' And he pointed towards a stout door at the end of the room, indicating at the same time an old fellow surrounded not by a wooden screen but by a barricade of filing cabinets. I knew him straightaway for the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, the chief clerk.
'Clegg's known to this office, is he?' I said, removing my cap.
Ralph Williams smiled slowly. 'Well, I can't say he is.'
'I'm expecting to run into him come opening time at the Cape of Good Hope,' I said.
'The Cape?' he said, thoughtfully. 'An ironman, is he?'
'Aye,' I said. 'Works at Hudson's.'
'You'll be wanting a constable to go with you,' he said, which was exactly what I'd been hoping he wouldn't say. 'I think we have a man spare, if you'll hold on a moment.'
But before he could turn around and call to one of the uniformed men, I heard myself say, 'No bother. I'm sure I'll manage.'
'You'll have your whistle about you, I suppose?'
Once more that slow smile - which made it very difficult for me to gauge the true level of any danger waiting in the Cape of Good Hope.
Having spared the Middlesbrough office the inconvenience of lending me a constable, I felt entitled to ask a favour.
'I'm curious to know whether a photographer reported a camera stolen about this time last year. It might have happened somewhere on the railway territory.'
'And this is touching on -?'
Williams was making circles with his right hand, as though winding up his memory.
'- Paul Peters,' I said.
'Yes, the body turned up at Stone Farm,' he said, nodding.
'He was a photographer,' I said. 'He generally carried two cameras, but suddenly he had one, and I think he'd been in Middlesbrough in the meantime. I'm told somebody had one of his cameras away while he was up here, just before he copped it in the woods.'
Williams kept silence for a second, before saying:
'They're all luck, some blokes, aren't they? Billy's the man for that,' he added, pointing towards the clerk at the far end. 'We'll ask him to hunt up the crime reports for last year.'
But old Billy was listening with ears cocked, and by the time I'd walked down to his end of the office, he was already at it. He was the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, but he smoked pipes instead of eating oranges. There were two on his desk and one in his mouth as he fished the right file out of a drawer. It was labelled 'Crime Reports, December 1908'.
I looked through 'Stolen Albert', 'Stolen pony', 'Assault', another 'Assault', 'Damaged fencing', 'Trespass' and then about ten 'Drunk' or 'Drunk and Riot
ous', all threaded together with green string. 'Stolen Camera and Assault' came right after, as I'd somehow known it would, in this most obliging office. Complainant: Paul Peters, professional photographer.
In the afternoon of Thursday 3 December, Peters had been set upon by two men at Spring Street, which was evidently close to Middlesbrough station. He had not been badly hurt - that would come later - but one of two cameras he carried had been stolen. It was noted that Peters had been unable to provide a useful description of his assailants except that they wore dirty working men's clothes. The report had been made out by a Constable Robinson. I pointed to the name, and asked Billy if the man was about. He shook his head.
'Patrolling the line just presently,' he said.
Well, at least he wasn't dead, as everybody else connected to the Peters business seemed to be. I thanked Billy and signalled thanks to DS Williams, who was now working the office telephone; I then quit the station bounds for Middlesbrough town centre.
The streets were all at right angles, as though built quickly to the simplest plan, and all carried very honest and straightforward names: Council Street, Corporation Road, New Street. All was new-looking and spruce in the bright winter light, for the sun had emerged at last, but a price had been paid for the forcing of this town, and I saw it in the shape of the giant, red-smoking blast furnaces to the east. It was heaven and hell, with the station and the high-level lines leading in and out the barrier between the two.
As I headed away from the station and its viaducts, the sound of a very majestic arrival made me turn back around.
It crossed the viaduct like bloody royalty: the Gateshead Infant, so called because of its incredible, titanic size. There'd been twenty of the beauties built - V Class Atlantics. You never saw them south of Darlington. For ten seconds in imagination, I was up there on the footplate, closing the regulator for the cruise into the station. I tried to recall from my firing days the braking procedure for an engine of that size, and realised in panic that I could not.
I turned about to face the river wind, the Cape of Good Hope and the man Clegg.
* * *
Chapter Nine
The Cape of Good Hope was a corner house looking over a wide road. On the other side, high metal gates opened on to an empty stretch of scrub that made a clear channel between two congested parts of the ironworks. The scrub led to the docks and the sea, where stood another infant of the north: a mighty, gleaming steamship, backwards-sloping chimneys giving a great impression of sleekness and speed even though it stood stationary.
I pushed through the door of the Cape, which was not at all the smokehole I'd expected but a wide, peaceful place, church-like with a window of red and green painted glass on three sides.
I was closely watched, as I crossed the threshold, by half a dozen blokes who all had their backs to the bar. Three sat on high stools, three stood. They were arranged somewhat like a football team posing for a photograph, and I reckoned this was half of Middlesbrough Vulcan Athletic standing before me. But they looked just as much like hospital patients as footballers: coats worn askew, shirts buttoned up anyhow or not buttoned . . . and the giant in the centre with the bandaged hand was Clegg.
'Here's trouble,' one of the men said, as I stepped over to the bar.
None moved as I fished in my pockets for gold, and for my warrant card. As I held up the card, one of the blokes cut away from the bar, and he was off - out through the front door. I watched him go. Well, I was a sneak and a spy, the enemy of working men.
I asked for a pint, and the barman broke from the gang to serve me. He was friendly enough, but my ale came in a glass where all the other blokes had pewters.
'Donald Clegg,' I said to the centre forward, removing my bowler and holding up my warrant card. 'There's a complaint of aggravated assault laid against you.'
'Aggravated now, is it?' He stood, and walked over to give me his right hand, which was the one bandaged.
'Go easy,' he said, as I gave him my own.
It was not normal to shake hands with a man you were about to arrest.
'How did you come by that, Mr Clegg?' I asked him, and he was unwinding the none-too-clean linen as I spoke. He showed me the wound, as the other blokes drank on thoughtfully behind. The back of Clegg's wide hand was a black mass.
'Boot studs,' he said. 'Football-boot studs. The knuckles are cracked n'all. I was nearly bloody well stood down from work over it.'
'Whose boots, mate?' I enquired, but of course I knew the answer before he spoke.
'Shillito's fucking boots.'
'Turns out he's a copper,' said one of the blokes from the bar - he wore a beard, whereas all the others had moustaches. You didn't reckon to see footballers with beards.
'If it was Shillito came at you,' I said, 'why did you crown his mate?'
Clegg lifted his shirt: more blackness.
'That was courtesy of their number six. So I belted him with my left. If I'd used my right, he'd have known about it.'
'You've put him in hospital any road,' I said.
'Hospital? Is he buggery!'
'His head had to be sewn.'
'Don't believe it.'
'We'll swear to what happened,' said the bearded player, 'every one of us.'
'It'll come to court,' said another, 'and it'll be the fixture all over again, only with swearing in place of ball skills.'
'That's just about what it was before,' said beard, who gave me a grin as I took out my notebook.
'Shillito's a cunt,' said one of the blokes.
I looked up, but couldn't make out which one had spoken. It wasn't Clegg.
I said, 'That's—'
'That's what?' put in beard.
'— That's as maybe.'
A sort of shimmer went through the football team. One of the blokes said, 'Stand you another pint, mister?'
I nodded.
'Won't say no,' I said, and one of the tall stools was pushed my way.
As the pint was poured, I asked, 'Who was the bloke that just bolted?'
It was Clegg who answered.
'Alf Wood.'
'Where's he gone?'
'Don't know, mate,' said Clegg.
I nodded thanks as the second pint was passed over.
'He went just as soon as I held up my warrant card.'
'Happen he doesn't like warrant cards,' said the long-haired bloke.
Clegg was grinning. 'Never mind him,' he said. 'What about the business in hand?'
I had made up my mind not to take Clegg in. The situation did not call for immediate arrest, and Shillito could go hang.
'I'll take statements,' I said, 'starting with you, Mr Clegg.'
With pint and notebook in hand, I removed to a table under the window and Clegg followed me over. He sat down, and told me of the fight. He was about of an age with me, and I liked him, and I believed his account. After Clegg, I took statements from three other blokes, who wandered over one by one. Each man, when speaking to me, was out of earshot of his confederates, and each said the same, or as near as made no difference. As the third man spoke, i reasoned that Shillito might want to make an end to this investigation, for it was becoming obvious that he ought to be the one charged. I was just stowing away my indelible pencil when the pub door opened, bringing a freezing wind, and sight of the bloke who'd scarpered a minute earlier.
'Hi!' I shouted. 'I'd like a word, mate.'
He stood his ground this time, and one of the team said, 'You're all right, Alf. He's white as they come, this lad.'
Alf Wood stepped into the Cape of Good Hope. Judging by the speed with which he'd made off, he was certainly a vagabond - which might prove useful.
'You'll take a pint?' I asked him.
He nodded, and I called for the drink with a flash of anxiety at the amount I was spending. If I made no arrest, Shillito would not permit me expenses. The football group stood in a somewhat looser arrangement now, but they all watched as one man as I turned towards Wood, saying, 'Would you
mind answering a couple of questions?'
'Why me?'
'I think you know this town.'
'I bloody don't.'
'But you've lived in it all your life?'
Long silence on this point.
Presently, Wood said, 'Two questions only?'
'Aye.'
'I'm saying nowt about the business at Langton's place, mind.'
Murder At Deviation Junction Page 7