‘I’ll ask if anyone knows,’ the sergeant continued. ‘I wouldn’t want to send you to Paddington if he’s fixed on Waterloo this time.’
The constable at the desk thought Thackeray had set off in the direction of London Bridge.
‘I’ll try that, then,’ said Cribb, quickly. ‘You wouldn’t know what he does at the main line stations, would you?’
‘I’ve no idea, Sergeant. He don’t talk to nobody about it.’
Cribb thanked them, and took a bus up Jamaica Road and Tooley Street, a mile’s drive along the riverside, past breweries and warehouses. To the left, trains thundered along the viaduct above the chimney-pots of Bermondsey.
He left the bus at a step brisk enough to betray anxiety about the future of London Bridge station. Thackeray was not in the booking-hall. Nor had the man in the cloakroom seen anyone answering his description that morning. His step eased a little.
Eventually he discerned a familiar, bearded figure in bowler hat and ulster at the far end of the Brighton platform. He purchased a platform ticket and strode straight up to his man. Discreet observation be blowed!
Thackeray had not noticed his approach. ‘Good Lord! You, Sarge? Fancy that!’
‘I saw you standing there,’ said Cribb, truthfully, ‘so I came along.’
‘What are you doing, then? Are you off to Brighton for the day?’
‘Not me,’ said Cribb. ‘How about you?’
A tinge of mild embarrassment coloured the constable’s cheeks. ‘Me, Sarge? I-er-well, if you really want to know, I’m here because of this.’ He made a small, limp gesture with his hand.
Cribb’s eyes followed the direction, and then blinked. ‘That, you mean?’
Thackeray nodded.
In his bee-line along the platform, Cribb had quite omitted to notice it: an enormous express locomotive painted in the brilliant golden ochre and dark olive green livery of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Company.
‘Number 214,’ Thackeray said, as if he were making an introduction. ‘The Gladstone. One of William Stroudley’s engines.’
Cribb nodded, avoiding the impulse to lift his hat.
‘Did you ever see such a finish?’ Thackeray went on, with undisguised emotion. ‘Look at that buffer-beam, Sarge. There’s all of five colours in it-red, white, black, yellow and claret. And how about the wheels-ain’t they the handsomest that ever touched a track? What other railway company would paint its wheel-centres bright yellow and keep ’em as clean as that?’ He turned on Cribb, almost challenging him to supply an answer.
The sergeant frowned. ‘Do I understand, Thackeray, that you came here this morning to make the acquaintance of this-er-Number 214? To a railway terminus, on your day off?’
‘I couldn’t have seen her anywhere else, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, simply. ‘And she’s worth a mile walk on a Sunday morning, you must admit. Mr Stroudley hasn’t any rivals as a locomotive-engineer, in my opinion.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Just hadn’t pictured you pacing railway platforms in your spare time. Is this a new enthusiasm?’ Cribb said it rather as a doctor inquires about the onset of an illness.
‘I’ve been going to stations on my days off since the October before last,’ Thackeray admitted. ‘It first gripped me on the Brighton line when we was returning from the Prothero investigation. We was pulled by 328, if you recall, the Sutherland, one of the G class. She was only single-drive, but when I saw her as we came up the platform, standing there so nobby with the steam still rising from her, something happened inside me, Sarge. A kind of fluttering in my stomach. I’ve been unable to pass a station ever since.’
‘Must be inconvenient,’ said Cribb. ‘You weren’t here on the morning they found the infernal machine, I suppose?’
Thackeray shook his head. ‘No, more’s the pity. What a diabolical thing to do, putting a bomb in a station! I saw the damage caused by the one at Victoria. It wrecked half a dozen offices and shattered the glass roof, as well as bursting the gas-pipes and starting a sizeable fire. Someone will have to catch these dynamiters soon. The Special Branch don’t seem to be making much progress, if the talk at Paradise Street can be relied upon. I’d like to know how that lot spend their time.’
Watching you, thought Cribb. He decided to change the topic. ‘Where do you drink these days, Thackeray? Now that we’ve chanced to meet in this way, I’d like to buy you a pint of ale, if you weren’t planning to spend the rest of the day with Number 214, that is.’
The constable grinned sheepishly. ‘She has to be off in a few minutes, as it happens, Sarge. Twelve-thirty to Brighton, via Victoria and East Croydon. She’s the fast.’
‘Ah, then I shall definitely take you for a drink,’ said Cribb. ‘Best to leave the fast ones alone, eh? Which pub did you say?’
‘The Feathers in Rotherhithe, Sarge. Just a halfpenny bus ride away. I’m the only one from Paradise Street that drinks there. The others go to the Spread Eagle. They’re a trifle particular about where they drink in view of all the bother lately. Mine’s an Irish pub, you see.’
It had to be, thought Cribb, inwardly groaning. How many more connexions would Thackeray have with the dynamite campaign? Any minute now he was going to mention the Peep o’Day alarm clock an American friend had given him, and the imitation Remington pistol he kept in a portmanteau under his bed.
‘It ain’t the best time for service,’ Thackeray explained, as they approached The Feathers. ‘We shan’t get near the pump for brats.’ But his substantial form moved like an ironclad through the throng of ragged infants clamouring with jugs for the noonday beer for their families. ‘Two swipes, Michael,’ he called over the cropped heads, and in seconds the Yard was slaking its thirst at a table in the corner.
After a long draught, Cribb cordially asked, ‘How’s the crime in Rotherhithe, then?’
‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep your voice down, Sarge,’ said Thackeray through his teeth. ‘I don’t like to be known here as one of the Force. The crime? Ah, it’s about the same, you know. There ain’t much to talk of-not that you’d cross the road for, so to speak. The usual brawling in the docks. It provides me with a stabbing or a questionable drowning once or twice a week to occupy my time. Otherwise I’m left with fallen women and ferocious dogs. Oh, and opium-smokers. We’ve got as many Chinamen between here and London Bridge as there is in Pekin. What’s the matter with your right arm, Sarge?’
Cribb patted the area of his collar-bone, so sore from rifle-practice that he was drinking left-handed. ‘Too much responsibility,’ he joked. ‘It’s more than I can shoulder.’
‘Do you need some assistance?’ Thackeray spoke in earnest, shaming the sergeant with open-heartedness.
‘No, no. Nothing like that. So this is an Irish house, then. Didn’t know you favoured the Paddies-or is it the hard stuff that you’ve taken a fancy to?’
‘Not me, Sarge. I never was a whisky man. No, I come here for my own reasons-professional reasons, you might say. I’ve never forgotten something you told me the first time we worked together. There’s more useful information to be learned in a public taproom than there is in the Police Gazette.’
‘Did I say that? Must have been feeling low at the time, Thackeray.’
‘Ah, but there’s a deal of truth in it. Provided that you don’t spend your time drinking with bobbies, that is. There’s nothing so certain to put a stop to conversation in a pub as half a dozen pairs of regulation boots crossing the threshold. I think you said that, too, Sarge.’
‘Probably.’ Cribb took another draught. ‘You still haven’t told me why you drink in an Irish pub.’
Thackeray leaned forward confidentially. ‘That’s something I wouldn’t care to go in to this morning, Sarge.’
‘Dangerous company these days, the Irish,’ Cribb persisted. ‘They’ve other things on their minds than Blarney Stones and fairy cobblers. Do you just listen, or do you mix with ’em?’