I’d had visions of walking up to the Hall with the Chief. We’d take the place over. He’d be my authority, but I’d be in the lead. We’d get John Lambert out of the clutches of Usher, force him to say what he knew — the thing that Usher wanted him to keep back — and then we’d lay hands on the true killer, which for preference would be Usher himself.
I was in a stew of sweat; I dragged my handkerchief over my brow, and could think of nothing better to say than, ‘It’s too hot.’
‘You want to get your coat on,’ said the Chief.
‘Well, it’s not as if I’m on duty, is it?’
The Chief made no reply but lit another cigar.
‘Have you come armed?’ I asked.
He eyed me over the flaring Vesta. ‘Are you trying to scare me, sonny?’
Our pint of the day before had been amiable enough, but I had perhaps bested the Chief over the matter of the bank’s man on the platform. I’d pointed out his error, and that might have rankled.
‘The Hall is that way,’ I said, indicating the direction of the second village green. ‘It’s signposted.’
I was buggered if I was going to tell him about The Angel, or offer to take his bag up there.
After the Chief had quit the platform, the station master called across the tracks to me:
‘Was he the one?’
‘Eh?’ I called back. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The one that was at Tamai?’
It was unlike Hardy to be coming forward. He seemed galvanised for the first time since my arrival. He ignored Woodcock, who sat on the bench, smoking.
‘How did you know?’ I asked Hardy, as I cut across the barrow boards.
‘Well,’ he said, as I gained the ‘up’, ‘he looked the part… about the right age…’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I said, challenging him — although to say anything to Hardy was to challenge him.
‘Oh,’ he said, and he took a step back into the booking office.
Somehow emboldened by the Chief’s rejection, I stepped into the booking office after him.
Trapped heat and dust made the place suffocating. The tall desk was still covered with a jumble of papers, but some of the books had now been stacked on the counter where stood the ABC telegraph machine. But that must be dead since the line was down. As before, the arrangement of soldiers had pride of place on the strong table, and it seemed that Hardy was minded to talk about it.
‘The push for Khartoum,’ Hardy said, indicating the soldiers on the table. ‘Thirteenth of March, 1884, east coast of the Sudan. I show the British square,’ he ran on, as he knelt down beside the table, quite heedless of his uniform. His head appeared over the brown-coloured board like a desert moon. As he spoke, he touched the tops of soldiers’ pith helmets with his fingertips, moving from one to another like a kind of blessing.
‘The square was formed against a massing of the Mahdi’s forces…’
‘The dervishes, as they were known?’ I said. ‘The fuzzie-wuzzies? They wanted to kick Egypt — and us — out of the Sudan?’
‘Correct,’ he said, ‘quite correct. In the square there were all sorts: York and Lancasters, Marines and other regiments besides, but I show the York and Lancasters only. You might have brought your friend in for a look,’ he said.
This was a turn-up: a bit of steeliness in his voice, as if I’d let him down.
‘He was in a hurry,’ I said, ‘- business up at the Hall.’
Hardy appeared to show no interest whatsoever in what might or might not be happening at the Hall, but carried on moving his fingers across the ranks of little soldiers. They wore khaki uniforms with white bands on the tunics and pith helmets and white puttees. Some wore moustaches, and these did not come standard but were various in shape and size.
I asked Hardy: ‘Did you paint them yourself?’
‘Sable brush,’ he said briskly.
‘It’s well done.’
This compliment seemed to check him for a second, but he made no acknowledgement of it.
‘We have three poses. First, standing,’ he said, indicating upright soldiers; ‘… then kneeling to repel,’ he went on, indicating others; ‘and finally kneeling to fire. It’s the Winchester rifle, of course,’ he added, standing back, as if for a better view of his own creation.
‘You haven’t modelled the Mahdi’s men,’ I said.
He blew out his cheeks.
‘Leave those chaps to the imagination,’ he said, ‘and they don’t bear thinking about too much. They slashed hands and arms first — then go for the head and body. Wouldn’t take prisoners, mind you, but then nor would we — not at Tamai. It was life or death.’
He advanced on the table again, and shifted a couple of the kneeling figures a few eighths of an inch.
‘The square was broken, you know,’ he said, looking up. ‘I don’t show it broken, but it was, and you saw the character of the British soldier: officers and men risking their lives for each other.’
All I could think to say was ‘Yes,’ for I’d been quite knocked by Hardy’s speech. He lived for this miniature display.
‘I should imagine that if you’d been in that lot,’ he said, indicating the display, ‘then everything that happened next in your life would be of quite minor importance.’
I thought of the Chief. Certainly he was not over-anxious.
‘… quite minor importance,’ repeated Hardy, who then took a deep breath and looked at me. ‘All my paints and all my brushes,’ he said, ‘… all stolen last week.’
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ came a voice from the doorway, and it was Woodcock the porter.
He leant against the door frame, smoking.
‘This is Mr Hardy’s little war,’ he said, addressing me. ‘Nice, en’t it?’
I kept silence.
‘His big war’s summat different,’ said Woodcock. ‘That’s against me. No — joking aside — he wants me stood down, don’t you, Mr Hardy? He’s got his monkey up with me, has Mr Hardy.’
‘Clear off, you,’ said Hardy.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Woodcock said, ‘what with him always acting so friendly like, but he’s plotting against me. You want to be careful that board don’t get kicked over, Mr Hardy.’
‘And why might it?’ asked Hardy, looking down at the floorboards.
‘Somebody might just come in and give it a bit of a fucking boot,’ said Woodcock as he moved away from the doorway.
Chapter Twenty
Mrs Handley was peeling apples in the middle of the trestle table that stood before The Angel. There were a couple of documents in front of her. Mervyn sat at his end with his terrier but without his ferret. His gun was propped against the end of the table.
My silver watch said five to one. Perhaps Hugh Lambert would be taking his second-to-last dinner. It would be brought to him in the condemned cell, and he would eat observed by guards, who would then watch him walk it off in the exercise yard. Later they might watch him smoke a cigarette or even, since he was condemned, a cigar.
As I walked up, the wife came out of the inn, and sat down opposite to Mrs Handley. It seemed that they’d become fast friends in my absence. I didn’t much fancy telling the wife I’d been put off by the Chief.
‘What are these, Mrs Handley?’ the wife asked, indicating the papers, and looking sidelong at me as I stepped up to the table.
‘Oh, pictures of Master Hugh,’ she said, and I saw that she was once again a little teary. She passed two photographs across to the wife, and I stood at Lydia’s shoulder and looked at them. In the first, Master Hugh wore a harlequin outfit and held a frying pan as if it was a banjo. He was in a beautiful garden and he was smiling, but it was a quiet, secret sort of smile, not the jollity you might have expected given his rig-out.
In the next photograph he was more himself, or so I imagined. You’d still say he was smiling but if you looked carefully his mouth was turned down. He wore a dusty black suit. He was in the country-side somewhere — some wild-looking spot — and indicating an object on the ground amid a mass of ferns.