As the days passed on French grew very worried. Here was a murder, and on the first and most important question, that of motive, he had drawn a complete blank.
On the second question, that of opportunity, he had done a little better. Carey was a possibility. He was indeed, French believed, the only possibility, though even in his case the evidence was far from satisfactory. Of all others who from a priori reasoning might be guilty, there was either definitely negative evidence or no evidence at all.
Finally he decided to go to town and pursue his inquiries at the contractors’ headquarters. It did not seem a very promising line, but some chance remark might be dropped which would give him the idea for which he was in search.
7
The Day’s Work
While French was engaged thus unprofitably in his researches into the death of Ackerley, work on the Widening was steadily progressing. For Parry indeed these last few days had been outstanding. A great event had happened in his life which, to do him justice, he had neither expected nor foreseen. Marlowe, the chief, had called him to Lydmouth and asked him if he thought he could take Ackerley’s place as resident engineer, and ten minutes later Parry found himself appointed. To replace Parry a new junior had to be taken on, a man named Ashe, fresh from college.
A second event which was to prove of more importance to Parry than at first he realised was his making the acquaintance of Brenda Vane. A couple of days after his appointment he had unexpectedly to work out all night at a slip, and to save his going back to Lydmouth Lowell asked him to dine and spend the evening at ‘Serque’. Parry accepted thankfully.
After dinner in the large first floor sitting-room which the three contractors’ men had in common, Carey and Pole went out, leaving Parry and Lowell alone. They sat on either side of the blazing fire and had just started a desultory discussion on the prospects of that season’s rugger, when the door opened and Brenda Vane entered, a tray in her hand.
She was a pretty girl of about five and twenty. Tall and with a really remarkable carriage, and she had the fair hair and blue eyes of the northern races. Her expression was pleasant and kindly, but her slightly too heavy chin showed that she was one who would get her own way or know the reason why.
Lowell sprang to his feet. ‘Brenda!’ he exclaimed delightedly. ‘This is goo—’ Then remembering his visitor, ‘This is my friend, Parry. Miss Brenda Vane.’
The girl came forward and held out her hand.
‘How do you do, Mr Parry? I’ve often heard your name being—what does Mr Carey say?—miscalled.’
‘Sure what else? That’s what old Carey would say. Yes, I’m afraid Parry’s not been reverenced as you’d expect now you’ve seen him. Has the excellent Kate gone out?’
‘She’s gone to a bun worry, again according to Mr Carey. A social connected with her church.’
‘Good for Kate,’ said Lowell heartily. ‘I say, Brenda, it’s a lovely night,’ He paused and entreaty shone in his eyes. ‘There’s a clinking moon and the roads are dry.’ Another pause. ‘Parry and I were going for a walk, but we want someone to take care of us and hold our hands. What about it, Brenda? A good tramp round Blackness; the three of us?’
Brenda was dubious, but finally agreed, and fifteen minutes later the three young people strode off along the deserted front, their footsteps ringing out sharply above the gentle murmur of the waves. Round the ness the path twisted and turned through the broken rocks, now rising, now falling, now bridging the entrance to a gully or cave in which the water swirled lazily. Of these openings, the biggest was the Whirlpool Cave. The path was no place for a dark night, but the moon gave just enough light for safety. Then the walkers climbed the four hundred odd feet to the top of the cliff, stopping to look at the lights of a steamer far out in the bay and to watch the winking eyes of the lighthouses on the adjoining headlands, east and west.
This walk seemed to draw the three together and when Parry bid the others goodnight on his way to the station, he felt as if he had known Brenda as long as Lowell.
On the Tuesday morning following this meeting with Brenda, Parry set off to work at his usual hour. He had just moved into rooms in Redchurch, Bragg having insisted that Lydmouth as a headquarters was too far off for the Widening resident engineer, while objecting to Whitness on the ground that he didn’t want Parry to see too much of the contractors’ men in the evenings. As Parry paced the platform waiting for the 8.20 a.m. from Lydmouth, he thought how completely he had stepped into Ackerley’s shoes and Ashe into his. Here he was waiting at Redchurch as Ronnie had waited, and Ashe would be in the train, as he himself had formerly been. They would travel together to Whitness as he and Ronnie had travelled, and then he would take the interesting jobs as Ronnie used to do, leaving the measuring and dull calculations to Ashe, who was proud and glad to get them.
They reached the office at Whitness and set to work. Having attended to the correspondence, Parry took out his notebook and considered his plans for the day. If he walked through the Widening he could get lunch at Redchurch and return with Bragg, who was coming down in the afternoon. He had several small things to look at and he saw that if he were to get through his programme he must start at once.
It was a bright sunny morning, though very cold. There had been frost and the ground was still hard. The wind was northerly and the sea, sheltered by land, showed scarcely a ripple. Parry thought he had never seen the horizon so sharp. Right out on it a big steamer was creeping up Channel.
Parry walked smartly, stopping at intervals to inspect the work and talk to the foreman in charge. At one place he came on the contractors’ entire engineering staff.
Some quarter of a mile beyond Downey’s Point the railway bank cut off a small and unclean swamp from the sea. This swamp had been euphemistically named ‘The Lily Pond.’ It was drained by a small bridge through which the sea ebbed and flowed at spring tides. To save the cost of widening the bridge it had been decided to replace it by a three-foot culvert and valve. The putting in of this culvert was in progress.
Instead of shoring the line up on timbers, cutting down through the embankment, building the culvert in the old-fashioned way, and refilling the earth on the top of the work, pipes to form the culvert were being jacked through the bank. The first section of pipe had a steel cutting edge, and the remaining lengths, of reinforced concrete, were added one by one as the pipe lengthened. Inside the pipe, as it slowly advanced, a man cut out the earth core and worked it out in tiny trucks. The job was interesting to Parry, as he had never seen anything like it done before.
Standing watching the work were Carey, Lowell and Pole. Carey hailed Parry.
‘Here’s another of these blessed jacks after giving up on us,’ he complained, pointing to the offending implement. ‘I never saw the equal of the muck that Loco. Department of yours sends out under the name of tools.’
‘Don’t look a loan horse in the mouth, Carey,’ Parry advised, climbing down the embankment. ‘One thing’ll be all right at all events, and that’s the bill you’ll get for breaking it.’
‘Breaking it?’ rejoined Carey. ‘Sure the thing would break if you put it under a tin of biscuits, and it supposed to lift the quarter of an engine. What are you going to do about it?’
‘It’s not my job to do anything,’ Parry returned. ‘But I’ll tell you: I’m going into Redchurch now and I’ll try and borrow you a couple from the Loco people there.’
‘I wish you would. And get them out to us.’
‘How’s the pipe?’ Parry asked as he took his note.
‘As well as can be expected when all it gets to help it on is dud tools,’ Carey returned.
As he spoke Pole came over. ‘Going to Redchurch, Parry? I’ll go with you part of the way.’
They tramped on while Pole poured out a lamentation. ‘They’re a bright pair, Lowell and Carey,’ he complained. ‘They’re just the same; always smelling out some mistake which doesn’t exist. I had to come out with them to check those pegs f
or the retaining wall at Peg 61. I checked them last week and made sure they were right; but, no, that wasn’t good enough. I had used the soft tape. I must check them again with the steel tape. Rot! But I needn’t worry; I got a walk out of it. I was fed up with the office. Been doing concrete costs since I can’t remember.’
‘You needn’t grouse,’ Parry returned. ‘There’s nothing in concrete costs.’
‘That all you know about it?’ replied Pole with disdain. Then with a change of tone, ‘I say, Parry, I promised to go with Lowell and the Vane girls to a show tonight and now I find I want to slip over to Redchurch. I suppose you wouldn’t care to take my place? It’s only fair to tell you you’d be stuck with Mollie Vane, for if Lowell’s about you won’t get a word in with Brenda.’
‘Can’t,’ said Parry. ‘I’m going to a show at Redchurch myself. Wouldn’t Carey go? I thought he was as wax where the Vanes were concerned.’
‘Carey? Do you want to have murder done? You’re a nice little bit of tact, you are, to suggest Carey and Lowell going out with Brenda Vane.’
‘Has Carey really fallen for her?’
‘Sure thing, bo. Carey and Lowell. Interesting situation. As I say, unless she decides between them soon, there’ll be murder done.’
‘Go on, Pole, pile it on. And which does the lady favour?’
‘Personally I’d go nap on Lowell, but you never know.’
For another half mile Pole babbled, then saying, ‘Well, here’s where I get off,’ he stopped to take his measurements.
Parry tramped on alone. He was now approaching the station. The railway ground widened and sidings containing coaching stock appeared at each side of the line. Then came the loop points, and two or three hundred yards farther, the junction with the main line from London. Parry turned off to the left into the locomotive yard.
Parry always enjoyed a visit to a locomotive depot He liked seeing the engines, and though in the approved professional way he pretended to be unconscious of their presence, he was nevertheless excited by their very proximity. He had read something about them and could recognise the types. There was one of those Continental looking machines, a 2-6-0, with the bead round the chimney top instead of a flange and the outside cylinders and Walschaert’s gear. And there was one of those old South Eastern tanks, an 0-4-4, with the driver underneath her packing a valve spindle gland. And here creeping slowly past him, with a little whispered remonstrance from her snifting valves, was a Lord Nelson. Her boiler towered so high above Parry that he cold not see her chimney, but her huge smoke deflection plates—Parry wasn’t sure of their correct name—made up for it. They were designed, he knew, to create an air current which should carry the steam from her chimney high above the cab, and prevent it blowing down and obstructing the men’s view. There was something impressive in her massive coupling and connecting rods, which slowly rose and fell above and below the level of his eyes. Parry felt thrilled, as with a wisp of steam at her injector exhaust, she passed on to the turntable.
He entered the shed. Here it was gloomy and smoky. Engines were standing on many of the roads. Some were being washed out. Men in high boots were watching cascades of water pouring out from firebox shells, while on the brick floor beside these streams were the countless little flakes of brown scale which had been removed from the plates. Other engines were in the hands of the cleaners, having their paintwork rubbed up with oily cloths and the rust taken off their bright parts …
‘Good afternoon, Mr Parry,’ said a voice. It came from a stout good-humoured-looking man, the shed foreman.
‘Oh, I was just looking for you, Mr Floyd,’ Parry answered. ‘I want to know if you can do something for me,’ and he went on to explain the tragedy of the broken jack.
‘Why, certainly,’ Floyd returned. ‘I can let you have a couple of fifteen tonners. Will they do?’
‘First rate, Mr Floyd. Will you send them to Whitness by the 1.40 and I’ll get Blake to take them out to Mr Carey.’
As Parry left the shed he noticed that the Lord Nelson had gone and that a big 0-8-0 goods engine was swinging round on the table. Then he saw the Lord Nelson again. She had stopped at the sand furnace and was getting her sandboxes filled. Her driver, a long oil feeder in his hand, was reverentially probing at one of her bigends as a priest might perform some sacred rite. Parry half envied him.
After a leisurely lunch in the refreshment room Parry walked down to the signal cabin, from which he could ring up Miggs to tell him to call for the jacks. He had a few minutes to kill before his train and after putting through his message stood for some moments watching the life of the box.
This Redchurch Junction Box was of medium size, containing some eighty levers. They stretched in a row along the back of the box, their ordered line being broken by the dozen or so which were pulled forward to the front of the frame. Above them ran a shelf groaning with instruments. Over a number of the levers at the ends were little boxes containing model signals. These were the repeaters which electrically indicated the positions of signals which were too far away from the box to be clearly seen by the signalman. At the ends also were the block instruments, showing whether the line in each direction was clear, was about to be entered upon by a train, or whether the train was actually on the line. These were operated by plungers, and every now and then the signalman plunged, while bells rang, indicators moved, and the times were entered in a book.
In the centre of the frame, stretching across a number of other dials and plungers and indicators, was the illuminated diagram. This was one of the features added recently, when the place was resignalled. It was a huge plan of the yard, the main line portion of which was divided up into small numbered sections, each lit from behind by a small electric lamp. So long as the particular part of the line corresponding to any one of these sections was unoccupied, the light shone. But should a vehicle pass over the rails, the light went out. The passage of trains through the yard was, therefore, indicated by corresponding shadows moving across the diagram, while an engine or vehicle standing at any point was shown by a dark patch.
Parry stood listening to the various sounds inside and out. Puff—puff—puff—puff, while the box trembled and steam floated up before the windows: an engine slowly backing a set of carriages to the platforms. One two, pause, one two three; a bell ringing imperiously, followed by the softer sounds of the plunger repeating the same code. Crash—crash—crash—crash, as levers were pulled over and thrown back. Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle from behind; a rake of goods wagons jingled past. The telephone bell: ‘Hullo? … Into No. 4? Right. Yes, she warned at thirty-eight.’ Puff, puff, puff, puff, loudly and smartly, followed by the heavy rolling sound of coaches; a train going out. The telephone again … So continuously it went on.
‘The Belle,’ said the signalman suddenly.
Parry looked out. Round the curve from London a train was racing towards them. It was the Lydmouth Belle, which daily did the run to and from Waterloo without a stop. Parry could see the engine rolling. It lurched heavily as it slipped through the junction points, rushing on madly towards the station. With a roar like a shipyard it was opposite the box. Parry got a glimpse of the driver looking steadfastly ahead and with his hand on the regulator, then he was gone and the long green smooth-sided coaches were whirling past. In the windows were white-clothed tables and the shadowy suggestion of travellers. Then the van swung its end round towards the box, hurried between the platforms, vanished.
For a moment there seemed to be almost silence, then Parry realised that the signalman was speaking. ‘… fifteen miles to go and sixteen minutes to do it in,’ he was saying, as he threw back his levers and plunged the departure to the next station.
Parry nodded. It was nearly time for his train and with a word to the signalman he left the box and regained the platform. Bragg was in the train and they travelled to Whitness together. That afternoon they had set aside to finish a special report on some joint suggestions for the improvement of the work.
/> ‘I must slip down to the viaduct before we start,’ Parry declared. ‘I forgot to tell Blenkinsop about those concrete samples.’
‘Don’t be long,’ Bragg returned. ‘I want to be done by six as I’m driving over then to Drychester. I brought the car down yesterday.’
‘I’ll hurry.’ Parry had his own reasons for wishing the work finished in good time. He had no objection to waiting till six, but he did not want his entire plans for the evening to be spoilt.
As he was leaving the viaduct, Parry stopped for a moment to inspect the concreting. Shortly before a controversy had arisen with Carey relative to the crushed stones or aggregate of which the concrete was being made. Bragg had objected that the mixture was dirty, that it contained too much dust, which Carey denied.
Standing by the mixers as Parry approached was Carey.
‘Is it dust you’re trying to smell out?’ he grumbled, following the direction of Parry’s gaze. ‘Sure you may save yourself the trouble, for there isn’t any. If you and Bragg want to have the mix full of voids, you can. Are you going back to the yard?’
‘Yes, I’m on my way.’
‘I’m going meself. Come on away from those blessed stones and don’t be after making more trouble.’
Carey, it appeared, was perturbed about many things. Amongst others, the slow rate at which the rock cutting over the tunnel was progressing. He wanted to see Bragg about it and asked where Bragg was.
Death on the Way Page 10