Murder At Deviation Junction by Andrew Martin Page B

ever set eyes on any of the Club people?'
        'Don't
reckon so. The carriage was always empty when it left here, remember.'
        'What
about Tom . . . whatsisname?'
        'Coleman.'
        'That's
it - Whitby SM as was. Might it be worth writing to him in Cornwall?'
        'You'd
be writing to a dead man,' he said.
        'When
did he die?'
        'This
summer.' 'Of what?'
        Mackenzie
shrugged.
        'Heart.'
        He
was enjoying this: the back and forth, like a game of tennis.
        'Why
did the Club have the two compartments and the saloon?'
        He
shrugged again, saying, 'Why do some folk have sitting rooms and parlours?
Comes down to brass.'
        The
wind was getting up, and the carriage shivered for a moment like one of the
boats in the harbour, but Mackenzie held his footing.
        'Where
are all the members of this Club?'
        'All
gone,' he said, grinning.
        'Gone
where?'
        He
was shaking his head vigorously now, as though trying to shake off the smile.
        'That,'
he said, 'is not known to any of the blokes along the line.'
    ----

PART TWO
        
    The Gateshead Infant
    ----
        

Chapter Seven
        
        The
great tower of the cathedral, seen from the train, seemed to pin York to the
ground. The city had been about for ever, and would go on in the same way. It
was as cold as the coast but felt safer.
        It
was too safe, and the station police office seemed like a sort of prison
- one building trapped inside another. It stood between Platform Four (the main
down) and Platform Thirteen - a small bay platform used by trains from Hull and
nowhere else. The Chief was in the office on my return from Bog Hall, along
with two of the ten constables, Wright the chief clerk (who was also the only
clerk) and Langbourne the charge sergeant. Detective Sergeant Shillito had not
been present, which suited me, for it meant I could report direct to the Chief,
who took one look at me and ordered me home for a day's sleep, this even though
I had started in on the story of the dead body. Dead bodies were nothing to the
Chief. He had killed men, and not just in war.
        I did
not go home directly, but sent a telegram and wrote a letter. I then biked home
to Thorpe-on-Ouse, where I discovered that Harry had a low fever. There were so
many medicine bottles by his bed that he would play soldiers with them -
cod-liver oil, menthol, camphor - but none seemed to answer. Removal to a
temperate climate was recommended for chronic bronchitis by the Home Doctor. Meanwhile in York, snow threatened, and I biked through an icy wind without
gloves in order to book on at the office for Tuesday 14 December.
        Present
in the cold office at seven-thirty were Wright the chief clerk and two
constables: Crawford, who was at Langbourne's desk, and Baker, who was by the
fire. The constables didn't have desks, and the fact that I did was one of the
few privileges that I, as a detective constable, had over them.
        Wright,
who was pushing seventy, was eating an orange prior to distributing the mail on
to the desks. The orange was the only colourful item in the office, which was
cold and smoky - dirty green in colour. No Christmas cards stood on the
mantelpiece, nor were any likely to. A Hull train was simmering just beyond the
door. Wright ate a few pieces of the orange very noisily. Everyone watched.
After half a minute, he broke off, saying, 'I've got four of these oranges.'
        It
was like a threat.
        'Four
for a penny, they were,' he said.
        'One
for each of us, is it then?' enquired Baker.
        'Eh?'
said Wright, ripping at the fruit with his teeth.
        'I
can't stand oranges of any description,' said Crawford.
        'What
do you mean, "oranges of any description"?' asked Baker. 'All oranges
are the same.'
        'I
hear you struck a dead body on your travels?' said Wright, who might have been
old but was also very