'Something more in my way' I said, 'might be lifting articles from the goods yards. I know a deal about what goes on there. Done a spot of portering you see, and…'
I looked at Miles, who looked at the Blocker, who said, 'Stop monkeying about, you daft bugger.'
I had no choice. I would never get the goods on this pair otherwise. I walked up to the bar, and formed a tale in my mind. If I bungled the theft of the cigars I would say that the owner had whipped them off me earlier on. I moved next to the man, next to his pocket. I was within range of the smell of his hair oil, and I could feel his breath on my raised left hand. But the fellow was a regular dolly daydream, staring straight ahead towards the barrels at the back of the bar. Looking in the same direction myself, I sank the fingers of my left hand into his pocket, and straightaway my heart beat slower. There seemed a whole world in there – many articles rolling between my fingers in the slowness of the new world I had entered. There was certainly more than just a packet of cigars in there. There was a solid article besides: bone – and I immediately knew it for the handle of a clasp knife, and a good, weighty one at that. I caught it up, and as I swivelled away from the fellow I couldn't help grinning at Miles Hopkins, who was grinning back at me.
'It's a wonder that bloke can live with no nerves at all down one side of his body,' he said, as I walked up to him, with the trophy in my hand.
'You what, mate?' I said, and I realised that I was bathed in sweat.
'When that bloke gets off his perch, you'll probably see that he's immobile all down that half of him.'
He looked at the knife. 'Think I've got the makings?' I said, in a kind of breathless whisper I had not meant to use. 'You've a little ground to travel,' he replied. 'Come on.' We stepped outside with the Blocker in tow. He took up position on one side of the little bridge, with his back to the lamp that sprouted from its low wall. The cold air made my sweat turn colder. I stood with Miles Hopkins on the other. It seemed that Hopkins's opinion of my abilities had slipped a notch, because he said to the Blocker: 'Our friend will never be a hoister as long as he's got a hole in his arse.' 'Might be good for some other business, though?' said the Blocker. No reaction at all from Miles Hopkins. We all three had our hands in our coat pockets. I waited; something was on its way. 'I know all the railway territories around York,' I said. The rain fell; still nothing was said, so I went further: 'Reckon I can put my hands on a goods yard pass, n'all.' At this, a look went between the two. 'I heard you speaking of the Camerons,' I said to the Blocker. 'I've seen those two about… One of 'em's nuts.' The Blocker said: 'That bastard's in the morgue.' 'Which one?' 'The York morgue, you fucking idiot.' 'Which brother?' I said. 'They both caught it from what I heard.' 'They both caught it,' repeated Miles Hopkins. Suddenly, he looked up at me: 'There's a job on,' he said. I nodded back at him. 'I'm on for any mortal thing,' I said. 'There's a fellow you've to meet first' said Hopkins. 'Big Coach, Nessgate. You know it?' 'I do that' I said. 'Quarter to six day after tomorrow suit?' 'OK' I said in a trembling tone, and the two of them walked off back the way we'd all come. Standing there on the bridge, I realised that what had just passed matched firing an express for excitement. The difference was that with this business, you were glad when it was over. I looked back at the door of the Castle Howard, and the man whose knife I'd lifted walked out. He came up the bridge towards me, and it was his fifth step (which went more to the side than forwards) that told me he was canned. 'Evening,' I said, as he walked past. 'You ain't lost a knife, have you?' He turned and looked at me, and kind of sagged. His hand went up to his eye, and he said something that wasn't quite a word. I put my hand up to my own eye. I must look pretty bad. The tipply bloke walked on as best he could, and so I kept the knife. Or Allan Appleby did, at any rate.
Chapter Nine
That night, I hiked back to Thorpe-on-Ouse the long way round: along past the big country houses of Tadcaster Road, and down along Sim Balk Lane, running parallel to the Leeds line. 'Never go home straight,' Weatherhill had said, 'always by a roundabout route', but there were only two routes really, short of riding a horse over the fields. The wife was asleep when I got back, but I stopped up, drinking coffee and writing out my report on the whole evening (making a copy using some of the wife's carbons), and taking care to mention that the name Cameron had come up. I also requested a goods yard pass made out to some made-up name, my intention being to pass it off as something stolen or somehow unfairly come upon by Allan Appleby.
Next morning, the wife was up and at her typewriting first thing, and I stepped out of the house to post the report the moment the village post office opened. My eye was practically healed. In any case, the wife had not remarked on it; and nor had she yet mentioned the stolen knife, which I had placed on the mantelshelf because, for some reason that I preferred not to think about too closely, I wanted it to hand.
It was a white, misty morning as I stood in Thorpe's main street. Amid the distant river sound, the usual things were going on. Kettlewell, the carter, was leaving it from the other end – the Palace end – making for Thorpe-on-Ouse Road, going into town by the sensible way, with two paying customers up on his wagonette. A trap stood outside the chemists: Birchall's, late Pearce and Sons. That was a sad do. Old Pearce had died the year before – heart gave out – and his son had gone soon after, most unexpected. Everybody had liked the Pearces, and nobody liked Birchall. There was only one of him, which made him seem mean somehow, and he didn't give the kiddies fruitdrops with the medicines as the Pearces had done.
We'd had all this from Lillian Backhouse, a skinny woman with shiny black hair that was never worn up, and who went about the village with an airy, high-stepping walk, and looked to me like a female pirate. She'd had seven children, and not one born under the doctor. Yet she was not worn out. In fact, she believed in 'freedom's cause' – votes for women – and had become great pals with the wife as a consequence. They were both liable to fling at you questions, or more often statements, regarding the status of women and so the best thing, I found, was not to be in the same room.
Lillian's husband, Peter, was the verger at St Andrew's, a quiet chap, who in practice lived in the graveyard and the pub, with the balance of his time at present spent in the second because he knew that in the end the balance would be spent in the first.
Major Turnbull came sweeping out of the post office as I approached. He lived in one of the big houses by the river. He would have been sending a telegram, I guessed. He was a nice man who'd been in the Zulu Wars. He was in business now, and all his dealings lay far beyond the village. He wasn't a swell, but more of a practical, hard man – not unfriendly though. He gave me a quick nod as he, too, turned away in the direction of the Palace.
Outside the post office stood a trap. A lady in a white cape sat inside with a white dog on her knee. They made a ghostly pair in the white morning mist. I noticed her gloves. They were trimmed with fur. The wife had been after a new pair of gloves.
I gave the report to Mrs Lazenby, the postmistress, who worked behind the counter under a great clock and a photograph of a man and woman sitting at either end of a long table. There was too much light in the picture, so there was a burst of whiteness in between the pair. As Mrs Lazenby took the envelope she read the address, which vexed me. She was the postmistress, and could not send envelopes without reading the addresses. And she knew me for a railway policeman in any case. As she put on the stamps, I read it as welclass="underline" 'Chief Inspector Weatherill, Police Office, York Station'. It would get there in the afternoon, but I said: 'Can you mark it down as urgent?'