Death on a Branch Line(34)

‘Reckon you were half seas over last night,’ Woodcock said, standing over the packages, ‘spoiling for a scrap, you were.’

The train was at last pulling away.

The wooden box, I now saw, was a crate of wine.

‘Who’s this lot for?’ I asked, indicating the goods, and shouting over the roar of the departing engine.

‘Nosey bloke, en’t you?’

I fished in my pocket for a tanner and passed it to him.

‘You’d have had that earlier if you’d carried our bags,’ I said.

‘Well then,’ said Woodcock, looking down at the coin, ‘I’m glad I didn’t bother. This is all for the bloody Hall, of course. Why do you want to know?’

And it came to me that I might put him off with a lie.

‘You asked me last night if I was a journalist,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m hunting up a bit of background for an article on the hanging of Hugh Lambert.’

‘What paper?’

‘Various,’ I said. ‘I’m with a news agency.’

He eyed me.

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me about Hugh Lambert?’ I ran on. ‘Or John, come to that?’

‘There is not,’ he said.

A consignment note was tucked into the leather belt that held the lid of the hamper down. I caught it up before Woodcock could stop me. The delivery came from York, and was marked: ‘Lambert, The Gardener’s Cottage, The Hall, Adenwold, Yorks.’

I looked across the station yard towards the triangular green. The dapper man in field boots was still gazing about. He was a stranger to Adenwold, that much was obvious.

‘Lift the lid,’ I asked the porter, pointing at the hamper.

He made no move.

‘Irregular, that would be,’ he said. ‘Mr Hardy might not like it.’

He nodded towards the urinal, where station master Hardy was making water, the top of his head just visible over the wooden screen.

‘You don’t care a fuck for what he thinks,’ I said.

‘That’s true enough,’ the porter said. ‘Give me a bob and I’ll do it.’

He was a mercenary little bugger. I handed him the coin; he unbuckled the strap and pushed the lid open. ‘Aye,’ he said, looking down, ‘… seems about right.’

Inside the hamper were perhaps fifty railway timetables, all in a jumble. At the top was one of the Great Eastern’s, with a drawing of one of that company’s pretty 2-4-2 engines running along by the sea-side. But in the main, the basket held the highly detailed working timetables that came without decorated covers and were meant for use by railwaymen only.

Woodcock kicked the lid of the basket shut.

‘Timetables,’ he said. ‘Bloke’s mad on ’em.’

As he spoke, I watched the dapper man in field boots striding across the green. He moved with purpose, and I knew I’d better get after him.

‘When’ll they be carried to the Hall?’ I asked Woodcock, indicating the timetables.

‘Carter’ll take ’em up presently.’

‘When?’

‘When it suits him – don’t bloody ask me.’

‘Who’s that bloke just got down?’ I asked Woodcock, pointing towards the man in field boots.

‘Search me.’

‘Well, don’t worry, mate,’ I said, keeping one eye on the bloke. ‘Everything considered, you’ve been surprisingly helpful.’

‘That’s me all over,’ said Woodcock.

‘I’m obliged to you,’ I said.

‘I’m more surprising than I am helpful,’ he said as he made off, ‘so look out.’



The man in field boots was walking amid the cawing of rooks towards the two lanes on the opposite side of the green from the one leading to The Angel. Of this pair, he was aiming towards the lane furthest away from the station, which was bounded by two towering hedges. I made after him, but lagging back a little way.

The hedges made two high walls of green with brambles and flowers entangled within. A ladder stood propped against one of the hedges, and it looked tiny – only went half-way up. But it was a good-sized ladder in fact. The only sounds in the hedge-tunnel were our footfalls and the birdsong, and I thought: It must be very obvious to this bloke that he’s being followed. But he did not appear to have noticed by the time we came into the open again.

Here was a clearing, and another triangular green, this one better kept than the first and with – for all the heat – greener grass. A market cross stood in the centre of it. A terrace of cottages ran along one edge of the green. They looked pretty in the sunshine, and quite deserted. Their owners were having a holiday from them, and they were having a holiday from their owners. A row of three shops ran along another side: a baker’s, a saddle-maker’s and a tobacconist and confectioner’s, this last with the sun kept off by window posters for Rowntrees Cocoa and Player’s Navy Cut that looked as though they belonged in York and not out here in the wilds. Only the baker’s looked to be open, and there was a good smell coming out of it: hot and sweet, to go with the dizzying smell of the hundreds of flowers blooming all around.