Stationmaster. 'It's the third letter I've had about this bag. Now,' he continued, shuffling the papers in his hand, 'listen to this.'
'Might we stand under the portico?' said Parkinson.
'It will only take a minute,' said the assistant Station- master, who began reading from a second sheet. 'The undermentioned luggage is missing. Large-sized wooden suitcase, brass studded, two side clips, centre lock, bearing label addressed "Williams, 60 Forest Walk, Scarborough." It may also carry labels for Chatham and Newhaven. Contents . . .
Japanese gown, nightgown, tweed golf coat, black blouse and slip, felt hat, black straw hat, woollen hat, girl's dress, four pair stockings, grey silk scarf, black crepe scarf, comb, sponge, silver-backed brush, skunk fur for neck, opossum ditto, white circular jade pendant, tiger claw and chain ...'
The rain redoubled, and Parkinson gave a sigh.
'Am I boring you, Mr Parkinson?' asked the assistant Sta- tionmaster.
'Not at all, sir,' said Parkinson.
'Two pair trousers,' the assistant Stationmaster continued, 'three petticoats, boy's shirts and vest, two nightdresses, child's war game, belt, leggings, Burberry, tennis shoes, walking boots, and toilet articles to wit toothbrush, face flannel, nail clippers, tweezers, soap times three, tube of Euthy- mol, hand cream . .. Have you seen this luggage?'
'No,' said Parkinson.
'Will you have the porter make a special search?'
'I will.'
Parkinson trudged on towards the Lost Luggage Office, and I watched him go, wondering: did he return my magazines to me? It was possible, since I'd come upon him standing so near to them. Set against that, though, was the thought that returning my magazines would have involved work, something Parkinson was evidently not over-keen on. And he had not acknowledged me or even looked in my direction while being lectured by the assistant Stationmaster.
I cycled off legs akimbo, with the portmanteau balanced on the crossbar of the Humber, for I could see my way clear to using it at the Garden Gate. If anyone had returned them to me, I thought, pedalling away in the direction of town, it had surely been Lund - making, perhaps, his early round of lost-property collections - rather than his governor, Parkinson.
I knocked about York all morning, fretting about the Camerons, Lund, the sharps at the station, and my prospects at the Garden Gate. At midday, I bought an Evening Press in Museum Street, and there were precious few details added to the story, only that the bodies might have been lying on the cinder track for a day or more before discovery. Otherwise it was all windy stuff: the case appeared to contain features of strong dramatic interest... a certain vicar meant to make mention of it in a sermon to be given in the Minster on the following Sunday. It was also pointed out that this was the first year in living memory in which two murders had occurred in the city. The previous year, there'd been none at all.I turned around and saw the West towers of the Minster, the great bull horns, black against the grey sky. The shilling novels on the station bookstall had three-colour wrappers, but there were only two colours in central York at that moment. I folded my paper into the pocket of my new suit. A metal panel was nailed to the scrap of city wall that overlooked Museum Street: it said 'Uzit: The Ointment for All Occasions'. Beneath it stood a rough-looking bloke, smoking a cigar in the rain, watching me. I turned tail and rode the Humber along past the rattling carts of Coney Street, turning at the end into High Ousegate, where I propped the bike beneath a board that stuck out from a tobacconists reading 'CIGARS', the letters going round almost in a circle. I was not interested in baccy but the sign signified the start of an alleyway at the bottom of which was the office of a coal merchant, and a tiny rag shop that was half underground. The sign above the window read 'Clark' in very small letters -
'Might we stand under the portico?' said Parkinson.
'It will only take a minute,' said the assistant Station- master, who began reading from a second sheet. 'The undermentioned luggage is missing. Large-sized wooden suitcase, brass studded, two side clips, centre lock, bearing label addressed "Williams, 60 Forest Walk, Scarborough." It may also carry labels for Chatham and Newhaven. Contents . . .
Japanese gown, nightgown, tweed golf coat, black blouse and slip, felt hat, black straw hat, woollen hat, girl's dress, four pair stockings, grey silk scarf, black crepe scarf, comb, sponge, silver-backed brush, skunk fur for neck, opossum ditto, white circular jade pendant, tiger claw and chain ...'
The rain redoubled, and Parkinson gave a sigh.
'Am I boring you, Mr Parkinson?' asked the assistant Sta- tionmaster.
'Not at all, sir,' said Parkinson.
'Two pair trousers,' the assistant Stationmaster continued, 'three petticoats, boy's shirts and vest, two nightdresses, child's war game, belt, leggings, Burberry, tennis shoes, walking boots, and toilet articles to wit toothbrush, face flannel, nail clippers, tweezers, soap times three, tube of Euthy- mol, hand cream . .. Have you seen this luggage?'
'No,' said Parkinson.
'Will you have the porter make a special search?'
'I will.'
Parkinson trudged on towards the Lost Luggage Office, and I watched him go, wondering: did he return my magazines to me? It was possible, since I'd come upon him standing so near to them. Set against that, though, was the thought that returning my magazines would have involved work, something Parkinson was evidently not over-keen on. And he had not acknowledged me or even looked in my direction while being lectured by the assistant Stationmaster.
I cycled off legs akimbo, with the portmanteau balanced on the crossbar of the Humber, for I could see my way clear to using it at the Garden Gate. If anyone had returned them to me, I thought, pedalling away in the direction of town, it had surely been Lund - making, perhaps, his early round of lost-property collections - rather than his governor, Parkinson.
I knocked about York all morning, fretting about the Camerons, Lund, the sharps at the station, and my prospects at the Garden Gate. At midday, I bought an Evening Press in Museum Street, and there were precious few details added to the story, only that the bodies might have been lying on the cinder track for a day or more before discovery. Otherwise it was all windy stuff: the case appeared to contain features of strong dramatic interest... a certain vicar meant to make mention of it in a sermon to be given in the Minster on the following Sunday. It was also pointed out that this was the first year in living memory in which two murders had occurred in the city. The previous year, there'd been none at all.I turned around and saw the West towers of the Minster, the great bull horns, black against the grey sky. The shilling novels on the station bookstall had three-colour wrappers, but there were only two colours in central York at that moment. I folded my paper into the pocket of my new suit. A metal panel was nailed to the scrap of city wall that overlooked Museum Street: it said 'Uzit: The Ointment for All Occasions'. Beneath it stood a rough-looking bloke, smoking a cigar in the rain, watching me. I turned tail and rode the Humber along past the rattling carts of Coney Street, turning at the end into High Ousegate, where I propped the bike beneath a board that stuck out from a tobacconists reading 'CIGARS', the letters going round almost in a circle. I was not interested in baccy but the sign signified the start of an alleyway at the bottom of which was the office of a coal merchant, and a tiny rag shop that was half underground. The sign above the window read 'Clark' in very small letters -
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