Death on a Branch Line(24)

‘It’s not so big that you couldn’t imagine living in it,’ I said, but the wife made no answer. Looking at the house, she was off in her own world.

In the pasture stood a couple of dozen oak trees, set widely apart. Each looked like a green planet, and each had a white wooden railing around its base as if to say: this tree is special, not like that common lot in the woods. The cattle were all lying down and swishing their tails, worn out after their day of great heat, but the house stood proudly. To the left side of it from our point of view stood a group of buildings like something crossed between churches and farm buildings. As we looked on, a man moved from behind one of the great trees. He had on a light white suit and seemed – even from two hundred yards’ distance – to be under some great strain. He held a book under his arm.

‘What’s he about?’ asked the wife.

‘It’s him,’ I said, as the white-suited man approached.

As he moved closer, I saw that he wore thin wire spectacles, also that the book he held was a Bradshaw, so that I immediately thought of him as a man important enough to require a timetable always to hand. He might have to go anywhere at any time by train. But he was not important-looking in the normal way.

‘Fine evening,’ he said, in a very sad tone that stopped everything in its tracks.

He was well-spoken, of course, but he didn’t look the part of a country squire. He had the same out-of-the-way, almost feminine looks as his brother. He was as pale as Hugh Lambert, but even thinner and more sickly-looking. His close-trimmed beard fitted under the curves of his cheekbones in a way I thought Jesus-like. Unlike his brother, he was inclined to be bald, and such black hair as he did have was rather damp, making him seem feverish; his shirt was disarranged, and his tightly knotted white necker was more like a garrotte, as his brother’s had been. But he was the sort that did not need to be smart. He was from brass, in other words.

‘You are John Lambert,’ I said.

He did not deny it, but touched his spectacles, and looked over to the far edge of the grounds, where a man was cutting grass with a scythe.

‘That man’s been hard at it all day,’ he said, ‘and he hasn’t had a cup of tea since four o’clock. He told me that himself just now.’

We watched the fellow about his work.

‘Rather late to be cutting grass,’ I said.

‘It’s not a job for the middle of the day in weather like this,’ said John Lambert. ‘The temperature touched ninety-five here this afternoon.’

‘Ninety-six in York,’ I said.

‘Well, York’s south of here,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s practically tropical. Who are you?’

And in the moment of asking that question, he did look like the squire of Adenwold. I decided that I would still keep back my occupation.

‘Stringer,’ I said, and he shook my hand, saying nothing.

‘I fell into a conversation with your brother at York station,’ I said. ‘He was changing trains there, being transferred to Durham gaol. I suppose you know he was transferred?’

He looked down at the timetable in his hand, then up at me.

‘How did you come to be speaking to him?’

‘I work at the station,’ I said.

He looked at me, as if to say: that’s no answer, and you know it.

‘Why did he come off the train?’ he asked.

‘There was a delay. The fireman was taken sick.’

‘Where?’

‘Shortly after Retford.’

‘At Doncaster?’ he asked sharply. ‘Selby?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said.

It was time to give him the hard word.

‘He told me there may be people who perhaps … mean to kill you.’

John Lambert suddenly tipped his head up, as though revolving this notion.

‘That may very well be,’ he said.

It was like finding that a dream of your own matched exactly someone else’s. He touched his glasses again, as though a defect in his vision was his main concern of the moment. Here’s a man who’s read too much, I thought. I longed to say the word ‘Ponder’ and see whether he started at it.

‘They may be here already or they may be arriving by train,’ I said.

‘Mmm …’ said Lambert, in a comical sort of tone.

He, like his brother, had a taste for grim humour.

‘Who are they?’ asked the wife from behind me. ‘And why do they want to harm you?’

I turned about. She looked strange saying that with flowers in her hand, and it was as though the man did feel the question impertinent, for he gave answer to me and ignored Lydia.

‘I am not at liberty to say.’