profession: Thief.
And an 'MO'.
Steals anything, anytime.
No, I wouldn't need that. Criminals did not exchange record cards like the gentry with their calling cards. Very likely, most didn't know they had an 'MO' but just went about being themselves. I looked through the stack of cards again, and struck a man who had 'Nuisance' written as the entry for 'Offence'. He was the only one of the whole lot pictured smiling, so he was evidently a loony as well as a nuisance. This was the world I was entering: the world of nuts and double crossers.
Well, I was in queer all right.
I sat back on my chair, pictured myself on the high footplate of one of the Lanky's Atlantic engines, the Highflyers, and how, up there, you just soared, receiving the most wonderful return for expenditure of coal that I could think of.
The next bundle on the table before me was stuffed into an envelope that had the words 'Occurrences - Large Theft' scrawled across it. There was another word underneath, but I couldn't make it out. Inside were not more than half a dozen sheets of paper, each one fastened behind a bit of pink pasteboard. At the top of each sheet were the words, 'North Eastern Railway', 'Division', 'Station', 'Date', and 'Log'. It was all written in a quite shocking hand, and I had all on to read the entries. The first recorded 'Attempted (possible actual) burglary at office of Goods Superintendent, York Yard South. Mr Cambridge (Goods Super) will endeavour to ascertain losses. No losses reported at present.' The date given was 1 December 1905. The second concerned the South Yard again: two vans had been entered by persons unauthorised and unknown. Lindsey and Jones, wine and spirit importers of Liverpool, were down three crates of whisky and a quantity I could not make out of claret. The van was not locked, but had been sealed. The seal appeared undisturbed, and yet the goods were gone. So it must have been broken, and replaced by somebody who could put their hands on the Company's seals. On the same night, 14 December 1905, a lock had been smashed on a Company van containing items belonging to the Acetylene Illuminating Company of South Lambeth. Nothing was taken, as far as could be seen.
The next gave details of a robbery at the York Station Hotel, the very spot where Chief Inspector Weatherill was putting away his eggs and bacon at just that moment - the very spot where Mariner, the night porter, had been slashed in the throat, or slashed himself. The robbery had happened on 16 December. A safe had been opened in the housekeeper's office. One hundred and fifty-five pounds, two shillings and ninepence had been removed, and a mysterious 'personal article' belonging to a Mr Davenport, a guest, together with one golden wristwatch belonging to same, and something I couldn't read.
Then came a final piece of pasteboard and a final clip, but no paper. I fretted over this for a moment, then gave it up, tied the two bundles as I'd found them, and put them back on Weatherill's desk. The only thing on the desk was a blotter, and I could read some of the words where the ink had come through. 'Firing catapults from trains,' I read, before the words broke up and faded away. I walked over to the little trophy above the blank mantelpiece, and read the inscription: 'Presented to York Division, Runners-up in Tug of War, Malton Field, 1902'. It bothered me that he should've given pride of place to a runners-up trophy.
I walked back into the main office, set the stove for slow burn, gave my tea cup a wipe and walked out of the Police Office, closing the door firmly behind me just as the Hull fish special rolled in to Platform Three dead on time. I'd heard of this train, which was famous for not being what it was supposed to be. It was mainly a passenger service, but half a dozen boxes of fish - special fish - would come down every morning from the guard's van, and be taken into the hotel. Little local deliveries of goods such as this could
And an 'MO'.
Steals anything, anytime.
No, I wouldn't need that. Criminals did not exchange record cards like the gentry with their calling cards. Very likely, most didn't know they had an 'MO' but just went about being themselves. I looked through the stack of cards again, and struck a man who had 'Nuisance' written as the entry for 'Offence'. He was the only one of the whole lot pictured smiling, so he was evidently a loony as well as a nuisance. This was the world I was entering: the world of nuts and double crossers.
Well, I was in queer all right.
I sat back on my chair, pictured myself on the high footplate of one of the Lanky's Atlantic engines, the Highflyers, and how, up there, you just soared, receiving the most wonderful return for expenditure of coal that I could think of.
The next bundle on the table before me was stuffed into an envelope that had the words 'Occurrences - Large Theft' scrawled across it. There was another word underneath, but I couldn't make it out. Inside were not more than half a dozen sheets of paper, each one fastened behind a bit of pink pasteboard. At the top of each sheet were the words, 'North Eastern Railway', 'Division', 'Station', 'Date', and 'Log'. It was all written in a quite shocking hand, and I had all on to read the entries. The first recorded 'Attempted (possible actual) burglary at office of Goods Superintendent, York Yard South. Mr Cambridge (Goods Super) will endeavour to ascertain losses. No losses reported at present.' The date given was 1 December 1905. The second concerned the South Yard again: two vans had been entered by persons unauthorised and unknown. Lindsey and Jones, wine and spirit importers of Liverpool, were down three crates of whisky and a quantity I could not make out of claret. The van was not locked, but had been sealed. The seal appeared undisturbed, and yet the goods were gone. So it must have been broken, and replaced by somebody who could put their hands on the Company's seals. On the same night, 14 December 1905, a lock had been smashed on a Company van containing items belonging to the Acetylene Illuminating Company of South Lambeth. Nothing was taken, as far as could be seen.
The next gave details of a robbery at the York Station Hotel, the very spot where Chief Inspector Weatherill was putting away his eggs and bacon at just that moment - the very spot where Mariner, the night porter, had been slashed in the throat, or slashed himself. The robbery had happened on 16 December. A safe had been opened in the housekeeper's office. One hundred and fifty-five pounds, two shillings and ninepence had been removed, and a mysterious 'personal article' belonging to a Mr Davenport, a guest, together with one golden wristwatch belonging to same, and something I couldn't read.
Then came a final piece of pasteboard and a final clip, but no paper. I fretted over this for a moment, then gave it up, tied the two bundles as I'd found them, and put them back on Weatherill's desk. The only thing on the desk was a blotter, and I could read some of the words where the ink had come through. 'Firing catapults from trains,' I read, before the words broke up and faded away. I walked over to the little trophy above the blank mantelpiece, and read the inscription: 'Presented to York Division, Runners-up in Tug of War, Malton Field, 1902'. It bothered me that he should've given pride of place to a runners-up trophy.
I walked back into the main office, set the stove for slow burn, gave my tea cup a wipe and walked out of the Police Office, closing the door firmly behind me just as the Hull fish special rolled in to Platform Three dead on time. I'd heard of this train, which was famous for not being what it was supposed to be. It was mainly a passenger service, but half a dozen boxes of fish - special fish - would come down every morning from the guard's van, and be taken into the hotel. Little local deliveries of goods such as this could
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