'That game of yours, Ernest - how did the score stand when the scrap broke out?'
'There was no scrap, Mr Wright,' said Shillito, making great play of the 'Mister'. 'There was simply an aggravated assault, committed by a man who unaccountably remains at large.'
Silence in the police office - for he had not answered the question.
'As to the score - do you mean the score as adjudged by the referee?'
'Well... yes,' said Wright.
'According to the official it was nil-nil,' said Shillito, 'he himself having disallowed two perfectly good goals scored by our own team.'
Somebody would be getting a letter about that. He was still in fits about it: you could tell by the redness rising in his face as he at long last initialled my notebook, returned it to me and swept out of the office with carefully folded topcoat under his arm.
When he'd gone, I set about some flash reports.
My backlog included twelve reported losses, of which only two had come in from York addresses, which was fine because regarding these I was required to pay a visit to the complainant. Otherwise, a letter asking for more particulars was required. Many of these went unanswered, and the more the better as far as the Company was concerned, because then the matter could be dropped.
When Shillito had gone, Wright stepped over and placed a letter on my desk. He smelt of oranges, which somehow didn't sit right with his ancient white face. He sat back and looked on as I picked up the envelope.
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.